"Valdosta. Well . . . well . . ." Aldanto pointed at the paper. "Nothing here for me," he said. His mouth was amused but his eyes were hard. "What you've got is an out-of-date infiltration schedule. Useless. And worthless."
* * *
Marco's mind went blank. All the hope--the plans--all in ruins; and the man Aldanto didn't seem the least bit interested in helping, much less being the shining rescuer Marco had prayed for.
"But--somebody must think I know something," he said desperately, "or why try to kill me? And why send an assassin? They could have hired one of the marsh-gangs, easy." Now all he wanted was to be able to think of something useful to Aldanto; something worth the cost of protecting both himself and Benito. It was far too late now to go back to the Jesolo marsh. "Maybe--maybe I know something someone doesn't want out--like a name, or a face--can't you use that?"
"Absolutely--Marco never forgets anything," Benito chimed in. "That's why Mama took him everywhere with her. He knows all kinds of things--things maybe still worth knowing."
"Like I remember you, milord. You were with Mama's man, Carlo Sforza--it was--around the beginning of October, I think, about nine years ago. You were wearing brown velvet, and you and Carlo talked about the bribes your father'd been paying . . ." Marco trailed off at the grim set of Aldanto's mouth.
"Besides--damned Milanese are out after us along with you," Benito interrupted, stepping hard on Marco's foot. "Mama would have sold us to slavers if they'd told her to. Duke Visconti never got us anything but trouble, and I bet it's him as sent the assassin. You need something, well, I can get it, or I know who can; I can get things done, too--get people disappeared--get you disappeared too, only less permanent. We've got connections you can't get from the Case Vecchie or the boatpeople. You need us, milord--about as much as we need you."
"Interesting. Valdosta . . ." Aldanto said, then said nothing more, obviously thinking hard. Marco turned on Benito, and tugged him into a corner of the little room.
"What the hell--"
"Truth, damn it!" Benito whispered harshly. "It's all true and you know it! Mama used you--why do you think she never paid me any attention? Theodoro's folks knew what was going on; told me too. Told me it was probably Duke Visconti's people that got Mama."
"Uh--"
"That's why they turned me out, couple of years ago. They were afraid, and I don't blame 'em. Lucky I ran into Claudia and Valentina."
"They're thieves! I know thieves cant when I hear it!"
" 'Course they're thieves! How d'you think I came by all that stuff for you? Where'd you think it came from? The Moon? I've been living in bloody attics for two years now! Look, brother--I've mostly given up thieving--the odds aren't in it. I'm a messenger now. But I couldn't get stuff for you, and feed me, on what I make running, and I wouldn't leave you without. So I stole. And I still steal. And I'll keep doin' it. 'Cause you're worth it--like Mama wasn't. Tell you what else. This Aldanto may have been Montagnard before, but he damn sure ain't now! Or didn't you notice him have a fit when you hit him with the password? Our best bet is to figure something he needs bad."
The fog began to clear from Marco's head, as Benito's words and his memory started to come together. Certain things were becoming a lot clearer than they'd ever been before.
Item: Chiano and Sophia had been trying to tell him--in gentler terms--exactly what Benito was telling him now. If three so very different people--one of them his own flesh and blood--were saying the same things about Duke Visconti and the Montagnard cause, and Mama's involvement with it, well it followed that he had probably been dead wrong and dreaming all these years.
Item: stripped of the fairy-tale glamour Mama had decked them in, Montagnards were not in the least attractive. Take the rhetoric of united Christian Empire away, and they became little more than highly trained, professional killers.
Item: they were now alone with this unhappy professional assassin, who was probably thinking that no one would miss them.
Marco looked over Benito's shoulder at Aldanto, who was contemplating them with a face of stone. Marco's blood ran colder than the spring-melt water that the Brenta carried down from the Alps.
Item: they were a liability. And Aldanto was looking at them like someone who couldn't afford liabilities.
* * *
Benito suddenly broke off, seeing Marco's face turn pale and still. "Brother--you all right?" he whispered, unable to fathom why Marco should suddenly look as if the great Lion of San Marco had come to life and confronted him. He knew that some of what he'd said was bound to come as a shock to Marco, but he hadn't thought any of it was enough to turn him white to the ears!
He shook Marco a little, beginning to feel worried. The way Marco was staring at Aldanto, sort of glassy-eyed--it wasn't like him. Marco was always the quick one, the alert one--except--
Benito went cold all over. Except when Marco had been sick . . .
* * *