Knowing all too well what it was like to work under the Colonel, Angelo considered whether it was time to cut the ties between his son and his father and, at the very same moment, knew he could not. Marco had his head raised, arms crossed over his chest, as if waiting for Angelo to make a big protest out of this news.
“Well, that would be unfortunate,” Angelo finally said. “You’re doing a fine job on this trip and I’d like it if you came to the ministry. Once you’re in the government, you would have a secure job. It’s a good future. But it will be your decision.”
Marco relaxed visibly. “It’s nice. I’m sixteen with lots of options.” He flashed him a wry grin. “Tell you what, Father. Keep this reservoir a state-run thing, and I’ll come work for you. But only if I get to do something important, something significant.”
“Done.” Satisfied, Angelo pushed himself from the table, but stopped when his son groaned.
“It’s that freak again,” Marco whispered.
The innkeeper’s son waddled up to them, his spectacles smeared so thick it was a wonder he saw anything at all.
“Don’t talk like that,” Angelo whispered back, but he had to smile at the memory of the mongoloid’s Italian. It was horrible despite the obvious efforts.
The man-boy had come to collect the dishes and stopped at the plate to Marco’s left. “Won’t you finish your cheese?” he said, patting Marco’s back with his free hand.
Marco jerked forward at the touch. “I don’t want the damned cheese. It smells like goat’s butt.”
“Marco,” Angelo warned, though he could hardly suppress the grin, for the man-boy was hard to offend and was now looking at Marco with an open and friendly face, as if he were laughing soundlessly.
“Finish your breakfast,” Angelo said, grinning. “Or I’ll tell your mother.”
“I don’t need any mothering,” Marco hissed.
“Such a good boy. Eat the goat’s butt cheese,” the innkeeper’s son said.
Angelo coughed into his hand to cover up his laughter as Marco stuffed the last slice of cheese into his mouth, then stalked out of the dining room.
Angelo gathered his things as the mongoloid finished clearing the plates. “What’s your name?” he asked, friendly enough. Friendlier than the woman innkeeper, at any rate.
“Alois.”
“Alois what?”
“Alois Hanny.”
Angelo froze. So that was why the innkeeper had refused to share her name. “And your mother? What’s she called?”
“Mother.” Alois shrugged.
“Of course.”
Absorbed by the revelation, Angelo left the dining room to where Marco stood in the hall.
“I’ll see you tonight,” Marco said.
“’Til supper then. Be on time. And, Marco, be careful.”
“Of what? What could possibly happen in this place?”
Getting stabbed, Angelo thought, for one.
***
S tefano was already standing on the steps to the prefect’s office, checking his pocket watch. Here in the valley, Stefano looked more Tyrolean than ever. He wore clothing that resembled the fashion of the locals and had grown a beard since returning to the province. In either case, Angelo mused, not even an Italian pair of shoes would help at this point. But the pocket watch looked new to Angelo, and expensive.
He jogged up the stairs of the building, clapping Stefano on the shoulder before leading him inside.
“Sorry about the delay,” Angelo said. “Had a little translation trouble at breakfast.”
“I still don’t know why you didn’t let me take a room at the Post Inn. Or did you just want to agitate the locals?”
“One day I will stop learning from hindsight and begin applying some foresight. I thought I was being gallant.” Then again, Angelo appreciated the coincidence involved in all of this. After all, the innkeeper—Mrs Hanny—must somehow be related to the man who had attacked him seventeen years ago.
Their steps echoed on the parquet floorboards as they made their way down the narrow hallway. They knocked on the door and waited.
“You know this prefect, Rioba?” Stefano asked.
“He was the police captain when I first visited the valley.” Since Stefano knew nothing of what had happened then, had joined the ministry some time afterwards, Angelo left it at that.
A man’s voice from behind the door called for them to come in. Angelo recognised Rioba immediately. He was a head shorter than Angelo, had curly dark-grey hair under the fez he wore. The eagle-head pin further identified his singular authority in the Reschen Valley. Despite his sixty-some years, Rioba seemed as if he took to the outdoors quite a bit, the skin on his face a healthy brown glow. The wide smile worked more solicitous than genuine.
Angelo could understand why the Colonel had taken an interest in the man, enough to graduate him from police captain to prefect in either case. How exactly the Colonel had managed it from Bolzano, Angelo did not yet know, and he meant to keep his guard with this man.
“Minister Grimani,” Rioba said, hand outstretched. “The last time I saw you, you were trying out Pietro d’Oro’s desk in his study. We were then calling each other ‘Captain.’”
Angelo smiled. “Prefect Rioba, my congratulations on the job you are doing in this valley.” He glanced at Stefano. “The Italian quarter here looks comparably vibrant.”
Rioba beamed. “Doing our duty in spreading the culture.”
“How are the locals treating you?” Stefano asked with a hint of a smirk.
“Eh.” The prefect flipped a dismissive hand. “We have a love-hate relationship. They still think they can buy my men off with honey and Speck, and they can, except
