Marco did indeed remember that name--it went all the way back to their being exiled to Venice, an exile that Grandfather Dell'este thought would take them out of the reach of Mama's pro-Milanese friends and of her lover. Caesare Aldanto had been one of the Milanese agents in Ferrara--a friend of Mama's lover Carlo Sforza. Carlo was (presumably) Benito's father--that was probably why the name 'Aldanto' had stuck so fortuitously in Benito's memory.
"You can never forget anything, brother. What's the Aldanto you saw look like?"
Marco closed his eyes and rocked back and forth a little, letting his mind drift back--Lord and Saints, he'd been a seven, maybe, eight-year-old boy--
"Blond. Pretty guy. Moved like a cat, or a dancer. Blue eyes--tall, dressed really well."
"Dunno about the eyes, but the rest is him. It's the same man. Appears to me he'd have reason to help us. Appears to me you'd want to get Mama's message to him, no?"
"Lord--" Marco said, not quite believing this turn of events. "It's--"
"Like that story you used to tell me? Yeah, well, maybe. I'm more interested in seeing you safe, and I think this Caesare Aldanto can do that. Right then, we'll go find him. Now. Tonight."
Marco started to scramble up, but Benito forestalled him. "No way you're going to pass in the town, brother. Not dressed like that."
"Oh. Yes."
"You wait here--I won't be long."
* * *
Benito thought he'd managed that rather cleverly; he thought he'd remembered Caesare Aldanto's name when he'd first heard it, and he had just been biding his time, waiting for the opportunity to get Marco to take the bait he was going to offer. The marshes were no place for Marco--sooner or later someone or something would get him. Venice was safer, by far. Besides, since he'd been thrown out from Theodoro's family, Benito had been getting lonelier and lonelier. He had friends--Lola, for instance. Well, she was sort of a friend. Mercutio, he was fun, and he looked out for Benito. But it wasn't the same as having Marco around. He wanted his big brother back!
Well, now--first things first; a set of clothing that wouldn't stand out in the Solstice crowds. Benito took to the rooftops and thought while he climbed. Nearest secondhand clothing store was close to the Palazzo Mastelli. That was the area he was hanging out in at present--no go. Off limits. He could hear Valentina now, cracking him over the ear for even thinking about it. "Never soil your own nest, boy. Rule one."
The air up here was fresher, the breeze carrying away a lot of the stink. Benito slipped around chimneypots and skylights as easily as if he'd been on a level walkway. So: the next closest was over toward the Ca' d'Oro. Old man Mirko was a stingy bastardo, too cheap to put good shutters in his windows. And the Dalmatian wouldn't miss the loss. Mirko's place it was.
He crossed the bridges on the support beams below, keeping a sharp eye out for watchers, finally getting himself up on the supports of the high-level bridge that crossed the Rio Malpaga. Mirko had a second-story window just below and to one side of it. Benito unwound the light rope and grapnel from his waist, spied a sturdy cornice, and made his cast.
Solid. He pulled three times. ("Always three times, no matter how rushed you are," came Claudia's voice from memory.) Then he swung himself over, in the shadows all the way.
Within a few minutes Mirko's shop was lighter by a pair of breeches, a shirt, and a cotte, all sized for someone thin and not over-tall, along with some other small items. And Benito was most of the way back to the wharf, dancing across the rooftops and bridge-beams like a half-grown cat.
* * *
"Huh-uh," Benito said, keeping his grip tight on the bundle he carried and handing something small to Marco instead. It shone white in the starlight. "I sto--found some soap, too. Down, brother; in the harbor. Get clean first, or they'll know you, by the smell, for marsh scum."
Marco flushed with embarrassment--living in the swamp was changing him, and in ways he didn't like. He used to be so fastidious. . . .
He grabbed the proffered soap and dropped straight down into the water next to the wharf--trying not to remember the twitching thing that had so lately floated there. He was so used to being chilled that the cold water wasn't much of a shock to his system. He soaped and rinsed and scrubbed until he thought his skin would peel off, then washed his hair three times for good measure. Benito had shinnied down to his raft and handed him back up onto it with a sniff that held approval. "Better. You smell better than a lot of canal-dwellers now. Here--"
A piece of sacking to use for a towel, and a comb. Getting the tangles out of his hair was a job--Marco had to be content with just getting most of the major knots out, and smoothing down the rest, tying it back with the piece of ribbon (Lord--ribbon!) Benito handed him. Then into the clothing--oh, heaven, clean, and warm, and not ripped in a dozen places--and even the right size. The precious Message went into his shirt pocket.
Marco stood up straight with one hand steadying himself on the piling, and felt like a human being again for the first time in years.
Benito grinned at him, teeth flashing white in his shadowed face. "Know what, brother? You clean up really pretty. I can think of a couple of girls just might like to share a blanket with you."
Marco blushed hotly, and was glad the dark hid it.