"I don't believe there's any reason to fear. Is there, boy?"
The very large hand squeezed a bit more. Benito's head-nodding became very eager.
* * *
The next two hours were sheer joy. Benito accompanied Lord Dorma and his entourage as they went through every room--every closet--of Casa Dandelo. Those locks on slave pens for which Angelo had keys in his possession were unlocked. Those which he didn't, were smashed open.
Every slave was inspected. Then, records demanded.
Every slave for whom Dandelo had no records was immediately freed and escorted away by Schiopettieri. Then, Lord Dorma made a notation of the fine. In every instance, he fined Casa Dandelo the maximum permitted by Venetian law.
Every slave for whom Dandelo had inadequate records was also freed--with the same maximum fine.
Lord Dorma's concept of "adequate records" was . . . strict.
Manfred's was . . . Teutonic. Erik's was . . . Viking.
"The ink is smudged here," announced Dorma. "Can't be read at all," snorted Manfred. "I say she's a free woman," growled Erik.
Dorma hesitated a moment, then nodded. Scribble, scribble. Maximum fine.
"He doesn't quite resemble the description," mused Dorma. "To say the least!" boomed Manfred. "An inch too short," sneered Erik. "No resemblance at all. He's a free man."
Scribble, scribble. Maximum fine.
"Does that hair look black to you, Ritters?" queried Dorma. Half a dozen helmeted heads shook back and forth in firm disavowal. "Brown," stated Manfred firmly. "Practically blond!" barked Erik.
Dorma nodded again. "He's free, then." Scribble, scribble. Maximum fine.
* * *
Angelo Dandelo stopped even trying to protest, halfway through the process. Partly because of the split lip he had from his first--and very profane--protest. The blond knight had been no more gentle with his (armored) backhand than he'd been earlier with his boot. You'll show respect for the Lord of the Nightwatch, damn you. Next time you'll spit teeth. The time after that you'll spit guts. Try me, you fucking slaver bastard.
But, mostly, because Dandelo was not a fool. Protest was pointless. The Dandelos had misgauged the political situation, and misgauged it badly. Lord Dorma's place in it, most of all. And they were now going to pay the heavy price which Venice's often ruthless politics exacted from losers. Dorma would leave them just enough slaves--the ones who were incontrovertibly legal--to keep them from outright bankruptcy. But by the end of day, Casa Dandelo would be almost penniless and politically humbled.
* * *
It was late afternoon before Benito emerged from Casa Dandelo. He came out at the very end, with Lord Dorma and the knights. The very large one's hand was still on his shoulder, but it had long since stopped squeezing.
By now it seemed that half of Venice must have gathered to watch. Quite a bit more than half, probably, of the canalers and Arsenalotti. The roar of the mob was almost deafening. No one had any doubts any longer--not after seeing the procession of freed slaves who had emerged from Casa Dandelo for the past hour or so, and been escorted by the Schiopettieri into the waiting empty barges.
Dorma led the way onto the last barge. Unsure what to do now, Benito let the large knight propel him into the barge also.
"Better come with us, Knight-Squire Crazykid," he said. "You don't want to be left alone on Casa Dandelo's wharf tonight."
"My name's Benito."
The very large knight grinned. The square blocky teeth were visible even under the helmet. "Benito, then. It was still a crazy thing to do."