But in the end it had been Angelina, not Rosanna, who had outfitted him. Petro's mother, Rosanna, was indisposed, and Marco had yet to actually see her except at meals. She seemed ill, and looked as frail as a creature of lace and spun glass. He much doubted she'd seen him, not really; he'd kept his head down and his eyes fixed on his plate, and he never spoke. That wasn't because Dorma cousins were unfriendly; mostly it was because he didn't know what to say. The intricacies of polite social conversation were still a mystery to him. And what could he talk about, anyway? How to survive in the marshes? The best ways to break into a house?
So he kept his mouth shut, and let the Dorma cousins steer him though the maze of dancing, religion, and etiquette lessons; let Angelina guide him through what it meant to be a House scion; let Caesare Aldanto try to show him how to keep himself alive with that Valdosta steel--
And let Angelina outfit him. In leather, silk, wool, and finest linen. Clothing he hadn't worn since that long ago childhood in Ferrara, the kind where the cost of one pair of boots would outfit a canaler for years.
The silk of a sleeve slid caressingly along his arm as he adjusted the positioning of the basse taille enameled sword-rest by a fraction of an inch. The stand itself was adequate--the best Petro could do on short notice. The cabinet maker had been given a more exact design, and instructions to paint the stand with no fewer than twenty coats of varnish. That kind of work took time, and Marco was content to wait for it.
The walnut half-moon table it stood on, though, was perfect. Rescued from the Dorma attics, its neat marquetry could have come from the hand of a master craftsman. Perhaps it had come from Ferrara too--Rosanna Dorma had brought some furnishings with her from their estates outside Vicenza. Iron from Vicenza went to the forges of Ferrara and the Dell'este craftsmen marked only their steel.
Marco looked again at the old sword and shivered. The second sword of Dell'este, that he'd last seen on its own rest just below the first sword. It brought with it levels of meaning as intricate and interleaved as the folded and refolded steel that made up the blade.
* * *
"The sword of Duke Dell'este is the soul of House Dell'este," the old duke had said, with Marco kneeling attentively beside him.
"This sword--" Marco had turned wide eyes on his grandfather--"is as old as Ferrara?!" He could not imagine it: the tally of years made him dizzy to contemplate.
"Not Ferrara and not this sword," Grandfather had sighed. "The Dell'este were swordsmiths . . . back when the Etruscans first came across the mountains to the flatlands of the east. The first soul of Dell'este was forged in Felsina. The second in hiding in Motena. The third was made in the marshes we reclaimed to make Ferrara's wealth. Each time we have made two. As strong and with the new skills that the Dell'este alone can give to the great blades. Some call it magic . . ." The old man had smiled, dryly. "The witchfinders suspect us. But if there is magic, it is in the blood and bone and steel of the Dell'este. Sometimes . . . when the House Dell'este is threatened--in uncertain times--it is sometimes wise to send a second soul out with an heir to seek a new home, so that the Dell'este line will continue. This is the third blade that--"
Beside him, Benito wriggled and yawned audibly.
"Father, this is boring me to tears." Lorendana had complained. "I can hardly imagine the boys--"
"Exactly," Grandfather had snapped. "You can hardly imagine anything. Exercising your mind is evidently beyond you." He rose to his feet, his face gone cold with anger, and pointed to the door behind her. "Go, get out of here, and take your impertinence with you."
* * *
That was what Grandfather had meant, sending the sword. That things were deteriorating in Ferrara. That he feared for the House Dell'este, and was taking steps to ensure its survival. But he, Marco Valdosta, was merely the child of a daughter of the house. Things must be dire indeed . . . that he, Marco, was now a recognized heir.
Dell'este honor. The Dell'este soul-sword. He wanted to heal people, not cut them down. But honor demanded he must do as the House Dell'este needed.
Petro Dorma couldn't know these things, but he had evidently understood that the coming of the sword meant far, far more than mere courtesy to a new ally, a new powerful trade partner, or even the Family that had assumed guardianship of his grandsons.
"You realize--we've had to change our original plans about you." Petro spoke reluctantly, as if he regretted having to tell this to Marco. "We were going to sponsor you into the Accademia in anticipation that you would eventually replace Doctor Rigannio. He's getting old, he's been hinting for some time that we should start thinking about finding an 'assistant.' But now--"
Petro shrugged, helplessly.
"I'm sorry, Marco, but it's really out of the question. It simply isn't done, having a son of one Family serving another Family, even in so honored a position as Family physician. Oh, I see no reason why you can't study medicine, so go right ahead, and we'll go through with our sponsorship and support. But--"
Marco nodded. "I understand, milord," he'd said quietly. "That's just the way it is."
Dell'este honor.
Dell'este responsibilities.
There was no running away from this. And he had learned, finally, the folly of running. Even Caesare didn't run from problems--because he had taken on responsibilities. So there would be no "Doctor Marco" living canalside, helping the canalers and the poorest of the canalsiders.
Still . . . Doctor Rigannio, a kindly man, had been letting him be something of an assistant, in the past month or so that he'd been visiting Dorma. Now that he was here he spent more time with him, so long as it was within the House. And Rigannio'd been listening, carefully, to what Marco had poured out to him about Sophia's cures. That information--slowly, carefully, and with no clues as to the source--was something Doctor Rigannio had taken to leaking back into the Accademia. It wasn't heretical; and Marco had already seen evidence that it was coming back down to canalside, as the herb-hunters were pointed to new plants, and the results coming into the apothecaries. So he'd done that much good.