Bertram chuckled and squeezed his friend’s shoulder.
They resumed their march, intentionally avoiding talk of what would happen to the traitor once they handed him over to Dara’s people.
The guards at the palace entrance allowed them entry without a second glance.
“How do you want to handle it, then?” Bertram asked as they mounted the stairs.
“I think I’ll try and convince him we’re going to give him a chance to run. Play it like I needed convincing he was spying on us and might be convinced to let him go.”
“Just let me know when you want me to step in. If he does not want to come with us, I don’t have anything less lethal than my knife. You?”
“Just this,” Gervais said, pulling what looked like an elongated leather pouch from his sword belt. The fat end of the cosh looked heavy, and bulged as if loaded with stones. He smacked it into his off hand and said, “Lead shot. Good for stunning guards and the like, should work well enough on an unarmored man. I suppose we can use a sash or something to tie him up.”
Bertram pulled a pair of up-timer handcuffs from inside his robes. “I’ve got these, a parting gift from Don Nasi,” he said, intentionally leaving out the caveat his kinsman had offered when presenting them: In case one of the Vieuxponts does something to risk the mission.
Gervais looked sidelong at him. “Interesting. I had wondered how you got them.”
“You don’t pretend you didn’t know I had them?”
A crooked smile. “A good swindler knows what tools are at his disposal at all times.”
“At your disposal? They were in my baggage!”
“What’s yours is ours and what’s mine is mine,” Gervais said, grinning.
Bertram chuckled and put the cuffs away, then added, “Just so you know, I’ll likely fumble around a bit putting them on.”
“Come to that, I’ll enjoy beating him into submission.”
Bertram began to chuckle, then thought better of it. If the traitor decided to flee, there was no telling to what lengths he might go to get away.
By unspoken agreement the pair stopped talking as they entered the hall fronting the chamber they sought. In seconds they were at the door and Bertram was producing the key Monique had supplied. Gervais tickled the lock with quiet finesse and, pausing only to fix a smile on his face, entered.
“Angelo! I need you to see something!” Gervais shouted, striding into the room as the door banged against the wall.
Bertram closed the door behind himself and stepped a little behind and to Gervais’ right. Content to let the older man take the lead, he looked around for avenues of escape or weapons.
The chamber was poorly lit, a lone oil lamp beyond a red silk hanging casting a dim, red-hued light on floor cushions. There was a scattering of low brass tables covered in the various paraphernalia of everyday life, and a water pipe with enough stems for four people to partake at once.
A light breeze from the open windows flanking the balcony opposite the entrance made the hangings sway and shift. It also carried the residual odor of recently smoked opium from the pipe’s grill.
There was a clatter and grunt from behind the partition, followed by a sleepy, “Who—er, Gervais, why are you here?”
“I thought we might talk for a bit. For old times’ sake,” he said, angling toward the center of the room.
“Old times—What are you on about, Gervais?” Gradinego asked.
“Good times, Angelo. Good times,” Gervais answered.
Angelo walked barefoot from behind the hangings wearing a thin set of trousers drawn at the waist with a silk cord and nothing more. The Venetian ran one hand through salt-and-pepper hair and had a sleepy—or perhaps drug-fogged—expression. He smiled when he saw Gervais but it slipped a bit when Angelo saw his old friend was not alone.
“You say that like the good times won’t come again, my friend,” Gradinego said, gesturing for his guests to take seats as he came to a stop beside the hookah.
“Did I?” Gervais asked, ignoring, like Bertram, the implied invitation to sit.
Angelo shrugged hairy shoulders. “Perhaps tired ears misinterpret.”
Bertram watched as Angelo’s gaze flicked between Gervais, Bertram, the door, and the balcony.
“Perhaps that’s because I worry,” Gervais said.
“Worry about what?”
“There’s word that you sold us out, Angelo.”
“Sold you—” Angelo began, voice rising.
“Don’t act so indignant. Just tell me the truth and I can see what I can do for you.” He gestured at Bertram. “That’s why it’s just me and Bertram here, so we can get you out of here if that’s what you want to do.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Angelo said the words calmly, but Bertram, watching him closely, saw the weight shift onto the balls of his feet.
“Please don’t, Angelo.”
“Don’t what?”
“Try and play me.”
Angelo spread his hands. “I am not playing.”
“No, I suppose not.” Gervais sighed. “You stopped playing games when you decided to sell us out.”
Angelo hung his head, but Bertram could see the tension in his shoulders and neck. Not surrendering, then, just acting.
“How could you, Angelo? My daughter. She deserves better.”
“Deserves?” Angelo snorted. “You and your precious up-timers were going to get us all killed. I did what I had to do to save us!”
“Save us from what?” Gervais asked.
“From falling for the swindle.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Angelo’s hands balled into fists. “Jesus Christ in heaven! What happened to you? These people you so blindly follow, they manufacture a few works of literature, some ‘records’ of supposed future events, and you believe them?”
Gervais grunted like a gut-punched man. Such was his skill at acting, Bertram wasn’t sure if the sound was a legitimate result of anger and pain. The thought was sobering. Gervais claimed Gradinego was nearly as skilled a player as he.
Angelo wasn’t done: “No, not just any fool, but a true believer, so
