Burdens of the Dead Page 29

  It was still a vast distance to cross. After a time, Benito started doing some calculations in his head. If they were doing seven leagues an hour…an unimaginable speed, but looking at the land below, perhaps a good estimate…It would still take even this magical creature eighteen hours to fly to Venice. That was a far cry from the six weeks it might have taken by sea, but it was still a long time for his daughter.

  He began to worry about her all over again.

  Chapter 37

  Venice

  Venice was an angry city, precipitously close to mob violence. Anyone who had ever had any linkage with Poulo the second hand dealer, or the priest, or the woman, was in hiding. If they weren’t hiding and had any common sense, they were with the crowd outside the Piombi calling for the woman and the other two of Poulo’s gang who had been caught to be released—so the mob could kill them.

  They were only quieted by the chief justice—coming out onto the roof with two masked executioners next to him. The crowd stilled, expecting to hear of their death.

  “We do not just want these three. We want all of them. And that means that they need to be questioned very closely until we have all the answers. We cannot question dead people. Believe me, they will answer us and when we do…you, the people, will likely be asked to join the hunters.”

  There was a rumble of agreement. Angry agreement, but agreement still. The chief justice nodded. “Now go away. You are disturbing the Doge and he is still not well.”

  * * *

  Marco, having flown with the Lion over the lagoon and to the small village of Giare had found that his erstwhile teacher had hired a horse—a bag of bones, the hostler disdainfully called it, and set off along the trail to Adria. But Marco, flying overhead, could find no sign of any riders. It must have been a feint. He returned to Venice to see what, if any, progress had been made there, and, rather guiltily, to check on the Doge.

  The news there was both good and bad. Good in that Petro had not suffered any form of relapse. Bad in that, in Marco’s judgment, Petro was going to take several weeks if not months before he was fit to take on the full weight of governance again. And here it looked like Venice was plunging toward war.

  Matters were not helped by Lord Calmi, who waylaid him on his way out of Petro’s chambers. “I have not seen fit to disturb Doge Dorma about this, and I realize you have quite a lot of worries of your own right now,” said the man who Marco believed controlled most of Venice’s spies. He was, Marco noted, a little more deferent and…wary than he’d been in the past.

  “What is it?” said Marco politely.

  “The poisoning. You were quite correct about it, or rather that fellow Francisco you had assisting you was. Um. What more did you know of the man?”

  “Not much, except I am looking for him. I think he was a soldier once. I thought that I liked and trusted him.”

  “We did an investigation on his background when he came into contact with you. We do that as a matter of course,” said the man hastily. “Anyway, it appears that we were mislead. There was another itinerant teacher, a man of blameless background, that we were led to believe was this man. We were mistaken. Well, deceived. He was vouched for, that is our normal practice, by two independent men from Padua who were trusted, which was where he claimed to be from last. I had my men do a second check…once he had come close to the Doge, you understand…and it appears a similar man does still teach there.”

  “So: who is this Francisco?”

  Lord Calmi bit his lip. “We have found his real family name. And we know who he is now, M’Lord. He is one of Carlo Sforza’s most trusted lieutenants. Sforza played a part in gaining him his freedom, it appears.”

  “Do you think he poisoned Petro? He could have killed him while I slept.”

  “No. We know he had no direct role in the poisoning. We have established who arranged and paid for that. It did come from Milan, from one of the duke of Milan’s closest confidantes. Count Augustino Di Lamis. But…that is not the same as Sforza, M’Lord. You probably don’t know, but Carlo Sforza has been in secret negotiation with Florence and Pisa. He and Duke Fillipo Maria Visconti are said to be distant these days. So…this Francisco was a spy. Perhaps had a part in this kidnaping. But I cannot say he was part of the poisoning.”

  Somehow that felt better, even if it did still leave his friend, or former friend, as the agent of the man who had possibly had his mother killed.

  Marco had tried to put all of that behind him. All the hatred and all the vendettas. It appeared though that they had not put him behind them. That left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  He went back to the Casa Montescue in the winter dark, hurt, angry, tired and desperately worried. He was not going to get much more of the rest he needed so badly, until, somehow, Alessia was found.

  And there was Kat, folding him in her arms, and holding him tightly. Saying things that could not be said with words. He was still worried, desperate; they both were. But he now that he was with her—he was also very, very grateful.

  Verona

  Francisco Turner knew he had more than six leagues of hard riding ahead. He’d have to change horses, which would be a relief as this one was not much good. He pushed it into as much of canter as it could manage, and was grateful when he arrived in the little town of Vigonovo in the last of the afternoon light and was able to get some food and a good horse. Food, he told himself, was common sense. So was the beer. Beer was always common sense, except when you had too much of it, and when you had to stop to relieve yourself. He was glad to know which road he had to follow, and that the clouds seemed to be clinging to the coast this evening, giving him at least the benefit of moonlight. It was still a long hard ride, although he did manage to get a fresh horse along the way. One thing you could say about Carlo Sforza: he did his staff work well. He made a great deal of money at his trade, but he spent sensibly on things like friendly farmers with exceptionally good horses for his agents.

  That didn’t help the poor beast a few miles out of Carlo Sforza’s current base of operations. Verona was in some disarray because of the way it had been dismembered. And anywhere near Carlo Sforza was almost bound to be patrolled. The cross-roads just beyond Borgo San Marco village was.

  In the small hours of the morning a solitary horseman was going to be challenged. And very probably shot and robbed.

  Francisco didn’t wait. He put his spurs to the horse and kept his head as low as possible. The result was him somersaulting out of the saddle and somehow getting to his feet and running into the vines. Ducking and crawling between them, and then running head low, and thankful for the scudding clouds, Francisco fled. Cross country running was something the little patrol after him gave up on quite soon.

  Francisco didn’t have that option, though his shoulder hurt like hell. He ran on. Fortunately it was flat farming country, and he soon found another lane. He had more than two miles to run through the darkness to the walls of the Palazzo Bevilaqua. He ran into one of his condottiere’s mounted patrols before that, but his ability to recognize them and swear at them prevented them from shooting at him.

  Ten minutes later he was before Carlo Sforza. Carlo looked his physician up and down. “Get him some beer,” he said, sharp eyes alert despite the hour. He rubbed a hand through his still-curly dark hair. “What brings you here at this time of morning, Francisco?”

  Francisco wasted no time. “Fillipo Maria Visconti’s new Venetian agent has kidnapped Benito Valdosta’s daughter.”

  “What?” Sforza was on his feet, staring into Francisco’s face. “When?”

  “Yesterday morning, I am fairly sure. And I am sure this means war. Marco Valdosta is less soft than some assessments make him.”

  Carlo Sforza’s eyes’s narrowed. “She is also my grand-daughter, Francisco. That’s why you were there. What more do you know?”

  “I think I may know where they plan to meet. Borgo—that’s the Visconti bully-boy—said he’d met you there before. I think however he may
have meant he met Count Augustino Di Lamis.”

  “Fillipo Maria’s current favorite. Where is this place?”

  “Casale di Scodosia, or rather a villa just outside it.”

  “Hell’s teeth. That’s in my back orchard, virtually. It’s over in Veneto though. An act of war against the state of Venice.” He sucked in through his teeth. “Alto! Alto! I’ll want a troop ready and in the saddle in twenty minutes. And I’ll want another two thousand men moving before dawn. Get Captain Melino, and Di Galdi.”

  “I have, I hope, a precise address. The fool thought he was buttering me up, as your emissary.” Tiredly, Francisco drained his beer. “Or rather, as Di Lamis’ emissary. Villa Parvitto.”

  “There is always someone from anywhere in a mercenary company. Alto! Find me someone from Casale di Scodoisa.”

  He patted Francisco on the shoulder. “Ouch. That’s…very painful.” said his physician.

  “Physician heal thyself. What can I do for you, Francisco? I was going to ask you to come with me, but…”

  “Nothing. I’ll get someone to clean it up. And yes, I’ll ride, M’Lord. I owe this much to Marco Valdosta. Of course, they may have caught up with the kidnappers already. In which case, M’Lord, they’re probably blaming you.”

  Carlo Sforza pulled a face. “I once made a mistake about my child. My son. I will not risk making another. Ah. Captain Di Galdi. Go now, Francisco. Get that shoulder looked at, and get some fresh clothes. If you’re fit to ride…”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Chapter 38

  Venice

  Marco had told Kat about Francisco, about the vetting process the Council of Ten’s spies had used, and how they’d been misled. And then he’d fallen asleep in her arms on the seat in the salon they’d sat down in.

  In the small hours he’d been in a deep sleep when Katerina shook him awake. “Marco. Marco. Wake up. I’ve thought of something.”

  He blinked at her owlishly. At the branch of candles, the blanket, and the tray of now cold food. He wanted that food now, cold or not! He reached, she forestalled him and fed him little bits as she talked.

  “Marco, how did the Council of Ten find out where to ask for someone to provide a background on Francisco?”

  He chewed, and thought. “I imagine they asked him. Not directly, but someone would have fished for his background.”

  Kat nodded. “Surely if they do that for anyone who comes into contact with you, they’d have done it for Marissa too? I would think they do that for anyone in this household. Francisco fed them lies that were hard to verify because they were from outside Venice. But she is local, and she must have given them a local contact.”

  “Maybe the priest,” said Marco, helping himself to a piece of proscuitto.

  She nodded again. “And someone else. There must have been someone else. It’s the Council of Ten, and they never do things halfway. They must have asked more than one person. And I don’t think the word of that second-hand dealer would have counted for anything, except against her, so…it had to be more than one.”

  Marco sat up. “You’re right, love. Saints, I am stiff.”

  “You should try my shoulder,” said Katerina, pulling him to his feet. “Come. We need M’Lord Calmi.”

  And they got him. He was not actually asleep. He nodded when Marco explained Kat’s idea to him. “It would have been done. Wait. I will get someone to find out.”

  It took a few more hours, but they had names. “The priest said she came of a good family. And the references bear that out. We got them from him,” explained the yawning agent. “Lord Paletto, and the trading family Di Faravelli. They’re curti, but rich. And clean.”

  “Get me the Signor di Notte,” said Calmi. “We are going to ask some hard questions of these gentlemen. Of course, it could prove that she is exactly who she claimed to be. But once the black lotos gets a deep grip on someone…”

  Lord Paletto was closest, so Kat, and Marco and Lord Calmi went to visit him. His major domo said that His Lordship was at home. He started to say something about not disturbing his master, but then changed his mind. Or had it changed for him. Sooner or later Katerina was going to accidentally kill someone with that wheel-lock pistol of hers, thought Marco.

  But it would not be Lord Paletto. He was absent from his bed—yet so far as anyone knew he not left the house. But there was a side door, and… the major domo was becoming very nervous and more talkative..

  It seemed that His Lordship was a little odd at times…

  “Did he like young girls?” asked Kat dangerously. The major domo went ghost-white.

  “Search this place,” said Calmi. “Search it from cellar to roof.”

  The haughty major domo stuck a finger in his collar. “There is a place in the attics he might be.”

  He was. He was also already cold.

  And there was a silver button.

  Alessia’s little dress had had silver buttons.

  The Di Farvelli clan did not get the benefit of a knock on their door after that. Marco smashed it in and went in hard—full with the Lion now—and Kat came close behind him.

  She finally got to use those pistols. Some people got hurt and Signor Di Farvalli, who had a warehouse on the quayside, sang quite loudly. His role, it turned out, had been smuggling cargos for Poulo the second hand dealer. He had never had any idea what it was, he swore on his mother’s grave.

  Someone else might have believed it, but Marco doubted Venice’s judges would. The fact that the house was being packed for immanent departure would not help his hopes of being taken for a mere smuggler.

  “We’re about five hours behind them, and this Casale di Scodosia is beyond the marshes of old Etruria,” said Marco. “I think, Lord Calmi…I need some soldiery and fast horses.”

  Calmi sucked his teeth. “There is one thing you need to know, Marco Valdosta. You know I mentioned Carlo Sforza? Well, he’s based at the moment at the Palazzo Bevilacqua. That’s very close to this place. I will grant you an order for two hundred of the Swiss guard and I will convene the Council. This could be some kind of trap. And this does point to his guilt in this matter.”

  “Sooner or later, if he is involved, we’ll deal with him,” said Marco.

  “He had better hope that it is me that catches up with him, and not Benito.”

  Calmi looked at him. “I had thought you were a quiet, loving and forgiving healer, M’Lord Valdosta. I am…I have re-assessed my ideas.”

  Marco paused a moment, and passed his hand wearily over his face. “I am. But I am also the Lion. And it is not wise to arouse the Lion.”

  “I believe you, Marco Valdosta,” said the spymaster. “But there is more. I wonder if Carlo Sforza knows.”

  Marco closed his eyes as old, old memories flooded through him. “I remember him, you know. I don’t think Benito does much. He and my mother…Lord and saints. The fights. He was always ice-cool away from her. Good to me and Benito, to be honest. But my mother seemed to get to him, somehow. I always hated those fights.”

  * * *

  Maria watched, helpless and angry and fearful, as her baby girl was transported to the hidden room in Lord Paletto’s palazzo. And then how the sleeping child was smuggled onto the vessel heading for the coast. Benito was still so far off. True, he was making dizzying speed, but it was a great distance. And it was not natural that Alessia should sleep like that! She must be drugged. One yell from her near to water and the undines would have come looking. But the one positive thing she had seen was that there was every sign that the kidnapper had no intention of killing ‘Lessi—or at least, would not while he thought he could use her for whatever reason he’d taken her. And while she was alive, Marco and Kat and Benito would not stop.

  Benito had not even let Hades stop him for her. And she’d not put it past him to go further for his daughter. She hugged herself, and that thought, very tightly.

  * * *

  Poulo Borgo was not one for thinking deeply or questioning
why he did things. Or for any sort of morality—and that had been before Chernobog had twisted his mind. The Dandelo’s normal trade had been enough to make sure that kind of human was largely excluded. The trade required people who, at the very least, were free of any form of empathy; a fair number of them derived active pleasure from the work.

  Yet, simply from the business point of view, the Casa Dandelo had not wanted merchandise damaged. He did his work for money. The Di Farvelli were of a similar ilk, and as far as Poulo’s now twisted rationality was concerned, that made them better to work with than the likes of Paletto.

  Fortunately, he had a lot of money. The trade in lotos and suitable slaves was very lucrative. It made money, more than he had ever dreamed of once.

  That had become unimportant to him, though. Just doing as he had been instructed was all that mattered. Right now, it seemed that it was as well he had arranged to have seven of his men waiting for him at the warehouse.

  “Don’t come back,” said Emilio Di Farvelli, with finality. “Do you hear me, Borgo? Nothing you can do will get us to transport anything for you again. Venice will be too hot for you anyway; it’s too hot now for anyone who might be remotely connected with you. Get out. We’re moving out while we can. Tomorrow, there’ll be nothing left here.”

  He’d heard all of that once before. It was like a pus-riddled wound. Unless you scrubbed it out and poured raw grappa into it, the infection would start up again from the fragments that were left. But they could be useful, so he held his tongue.

  From the warehouse to the low night boat with its flattened profile and muffled oars, to a landing in the marshes on the southern end of the lagoon-swamps, and then to the enclosed carriage, with outriders in case of trouble, down back-lane ways. And then to the Villa Parvitto.