This was all very complicated.
Well, that sure as hell explains the Badoero connection, if nothing else, Marco thought to himself, as he hurried to reach Della Elmo's before the lunch-time crowd did. But it surely doesn't explain this. There's a connection here I'm missing, and it's a Family connection, or politics, maybe. It's not enough to give Caesare--yet--
He scampered in at the back entrance; Michelo Viero, one of the barman's helpers, had agreed to let Marco take his place at noon for the next several days. It hadn't been hard to persuade him, not when Marco had offered to split the tips for the privilege of doing his work for him. Michelo had no notion who or what Marco was; Marco let him think he was a student with some gambling debts to pay and a short time to pay them in. And Lord and Saints knew that a few of the patrons of the Della Elmo's Trattoria were quite good tippers. It was close to the San Marco, and it was fashionable right now.
Marco joined the milling lot of a half-dozen other boys in the shabby back hall, claiming Michelo's apron from its wooden hook and bobbing awkwardly to the burly owner. "Michelo still got th' bad ankle?" the square-faced man asked gruffly.
"Yes, milord," Marco replied, scuffing his bare feet in the sawdust on the wooden floor. "Says he's mortal sorry, milord, but it's still swole up."
The man actually cracked a smile. "I ain't, boy. You lookin' for a job, you check by here regular. I get an opening, you got a place."
Marco contrived to look grateful. "M-my thanks, milord," he stammered, and slipped past him onto the floor of the tavern proper.
After that it was nothing but scurry and scramble and keep his head down so that nobody could see his face long enough to recognize him later; bringing orders of food and drink to tables, clearing away the dishes after, bringing more drink when called for--and keeping his ears open.
For Elmo's Trattoria was where the second sons of the Families met--and where they met, there was gossip aplenty. And where there was gossip--
Lord, it was wearing him down, though. He leaned around a patron's bulk to snag the empty plates before the man could yell for them to be taken away. He was beginning to be very grateful for his sit-down job at Ventuccio's. He was so tired when he got home at night that he was bolting a little dinner, going straight to bed, and sleeping like a stone. Aldanto had been worried enough by this anomalous behavior that he'd actually asked Marco if he was all right--which surprised him. He'd explained--he thought; his mind wasn't too clear on anything after sundown anymore. At least Aldanto seemed satisfied.
Two days ago he'd learned that Count Badoero was one of Lucrezia Brunelli's more ardent suitors, and as such, was not popular at Elmo's. He was certainly the target of enough gossip.
From Luciano Delmi's idle comment yesterday, had come the news that Accademia must be awash with new gold the way Bishop Capuletti was spending it. And someone had said suspiciously, cattishly, that they wondered where it was being minted. That was the problem with subversion here in Venice. Venice ducats. Unpunched winged-lion-faced ducats were just not freely available outside the city. The gold refined and smelted here was definably, noticeably purer than coin from Florence or Milan. The magical blessing of the molds gave the coins a faint but delicate bouquet . . . cinnamony lavender. A fake coin was not worth passing.
Any attempt at subversion here in the Republic of Venice was expensive. There were just too many noble families you'd have to buy. Anyone spending that kind of gold was due a visit from the Council of Ten's agents.
Then somebody asked if the Casa Badoero was still courting the Milanese. The scar-seamed merchant considered the question thoughtfully before replying with the carefully worded bit of information that no, it was too late for courting.
And just as Marco was hauling a load of dishes to the back, he got the final key piece from Mario Pellagio. Marco overheard mention that the Signori Di Notte were looking for some ideas on who had killed Veronica Mantelli. And Delmi's unknown companion had said they need look no further than whoever was bringing the new supply of black lotos into the city. It was just an unrelated comment . . . except the rich and beautiful Signorina Mantelli had been prominent among Lucrezia Brunelli's set.
If there was one thing that could get you into real trouble with the Doge and the Signori di Notte and their Schiopettieri it was black lotos from Turkey. When they'd collected the tiny blue lotos in the marshes for Sophia's concoctions, Chiano had explained. From the magical lotos that had stolen the wits of Ulysses' men in Libya had come the two strains. The blue lotos was a rare, wild plant in the marshes of the Mediterranean coast--doubtless spread by sailors over the years. The blue was a mild hallucinogenic and soporific, and difficult to harvest in quantity. But somewhere within the Pontus mountains the plant had been bred, and magically altered. Black lotos. Twenty times as powerful . . . before refining. The magically refined drug had become a plague not twenty years back. Then it had been freely for sale. Doge Marco Gradenigo had utterly banned its import and sale, and agents of the Council of Ten had quietly killed importers. So. It was back. And back in the wealthiest circles. People who went a-spice-buying on Murano. People who had ample Venice ducats.
Ducats to buy support . . . inside the Accademia where the sons of Venice's nobles were an available target.
Marco's head buzzed, and his gut went tight with excitement. So--Accademia might be involved in this new Milanese policy!
Or part of the Accademia was. Marco was no longer so naive as to figure that what one priest wanted, the rest did too. Assuming, of course--which those at Elmo's did--that the bishop's superiors were aware of his loyalties. Which might, or might not, have been the truth. In either case, it was something Caesare Aldanto would find fascinating indeed.
Marco hustled the last of the dishes into the kitchen, took off his apron, and hung it up for the last time. He had what he needed; time to give Michelo his job back. Now only one thing remained; for Marco to verify with his own eyes exactly what was going on down at the Ventuccio warehouse and how it was being conducted.
* * *
Aldanto was beginning to have a feeling of deja vu every time he looked up from dinner to see Marco hovering like a shadow around the kitchen door.
"Something wrong, Marco?" he asked, beginning to have that too-familiar sinking feeling. The last time the boy had had that look on his face, that--watcher--had moved in across the canal. And the time before--
The time before was what had gotten them all into this mess.
"Caesare--" the boy hesitated, then brought his hands out from behind his back. "This is for you."