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  Marco was the son of an undutiful younger daughter of the House of Dell'este. But the Dell'este honor was legendary. It ran as deep as the heavens were wide. No trading family would want such an enemy. Marco would no longer be the object of charity, and the Dorma would actually wind up owing Aldanto for bringing the boy to their attention. Altogether a nice little turn of events--especially considering that he was being paid by Dell'este to watch over the boys.

  "He says," Marco continued, looking a little relieved but still plainly under strain, "it's by way of a bribe, milord, for you to keep Benito. He says he doesn't think we better let Dorma know about Benito at all, not that he's my brother."

  Aldanto thought about young Milord Lightfingers loose in Dorma and shuddered. "I think he's right." Besides, the boy might just be a main chance.

  * * *

  Marco carefully calculated his day off to coincide with the day that the Badoero hirelings picked up their consignment from the Ventuccio warehouse. By dawn he was down at the warehouse dock, ready and willing to run just about any errand for anybody. This wasn't the first time he'd been here--he'd played runner before, when he wasn't playing waiter's helper at Elmo's. He wanted his face to be a familiar one on the dock, so that he wouldn't stand out if Capi Tiepolo became suspicious. He even had Ventuccio permission to be out here; they thought he was strapped for cash, and he was supposedly earning the extra odd penny by running on his day off.

  He'd run enough of those errands by noon that no one thought or looked at him twice when he settled into a bit of shade and looked to be taking a rest break. The sun was hot down here on the dock; there wasn't a bit of breeze to be had, and Marco was sweating freely. One friendly fellow offered Marco the last of his wine as he went back on shift, and Marco accepted gratefully. He wasn't having to feign near-exhaustion; he was exhausted. He was mortally glad that the remainder of his self-imposed assignment was going to allow him to sit out here, in the shade of a barrel, and pretend to get splinters out of his hands while he watched the Badoero barge being loaded twenty feet away.

  The barge was a neat little thing; newly painted and prosperous looking. The boatman who manned her did not, however, look like the run-of-the-mill canaler.

  In point of fact, that carefully dirtied cotte looked far too new; the man's complexion was something less than weathered--and those hands pushed pencils far more often than the pole of a skip. Marco would be willing to bet money on it. This was no canaler, hired or permanent retainer. This was likely one of the younger members of the Family.

  This notion was confirmed when Capi Tiepolo put in his appearance. There was something very similar about the cast of the nose and the shape of the ears of both the good father and the boatman. Even in inbred Venice, features that similar usually spelled a blood-relationship.

  It didn't take long to load the tiny casks onto the small barge; Marco didn't bother to get any closer than he was. He wasn't planning on trying to see if the articles were stamped or not. He was doing what only he could, with his perfect memory.

  Even amid the bustle of the dock, he was keeping absolute track of exactly how many spice casks--and only the spice casks, nothing else--were going into the bottom of that barge.

  Three days later, when the bundle of tax stamps came in, Marco had his answer. Three more casks had gone into the barge than there were stamps for.

  * * *

  That night he intended to give Caesare Aldanto his full report--but that afternoon he got an unexpected surprise.

  A creamy white and carefully calligraphied note from the House of Dorma.

  * * *

  Marco finished his report to Aldanto, given while he was finishing his dinner in the kitchen, and Caesare was both impressed and surprised. The lad had handled himself like a professional--

  Like an adult. He'd thought out what he needed to know, he'd planned how to get it without blowing his cover, and he'd executed that plan carefully, coolly, and patiently. Aldanto pondered the boy's information, and concluded that no matter how you looked at it, it was going to be worth a great deal to both sides of this messy and treacherous game he played. He nodded to himself, then looked up to see that the boy was still standing in the doorway, looking vaguely distressed.

  Aldanto's approval did nothing to ease the boy's agitation; if anything, it seemed worse. "Marco, is there something wrong?"

  "Caesare--" The boy looked absolutely desperate. "I--got this today--"

  He handed a square of creamy vellum to Aldanto; feeling a terrible foreboding, Caesare opened it.

  It proved to be nothing more than a simple invitation for Marco--and a friend, if he chose--to come to dinner at Dorma, to be introduced to the Family.

  Aldanto heaved a sigh of relief. "One may guess," he said, handing the invitation back to Marco, "That Milord Petro Dorma has received your grandfather's letter." The boy's expression didn't change. "So what on earth is wrong?"

  "It's--it's me, Caesare," the boy blurted unhappily. "I was a child the last time I was in a noble's household. I don't know . . . how to act, what to say, what to wear . . ."

  He looked at Caesare with a pleading panic he hadn't shown even when he'd known his life hung in the balance. "Please, Caesare," he whispered, "I don't know how to do this!"

  Caesare restrained his urge to laugh with a control he hadn't suspected he had. "You want me to help coach you, is that it?"

  Marco nodded so hard Caesare thought his head was going to come off. He sighed.

  "All right, young milord--let's see if we can create a gentleman out of you." He smiled dryly. "You may wish yourself back in the swamp before this is over!" Inwardly he smiled. This might be tedious, but it would be valuable.

  Chapter 50 ==========

  "I don't believe we've met before, Father Lopez, although I've seen you several times at the Doge's soirees." Francesca glanced at Pierre and Diego, who were sitting in their own chairs in her salon not far from the Basque priest. "I'm acquainted with your two companions, somewhat, from the last such event." She pointed at Diego, and then Pierre. "He has an excellent wit, and the other laughs quite nicely. But I suspect you didn't come here to engage in humorous repartee. Nor, I'm quite sure, for the other reason gentlemen pay me a visit."

  Lopez smiled. "Call me Eneko, if you would. The first thing I'd like to dispense with is formality."

  "Good enough. Call me Francesca. The name 'de Chevreuse' is a false one, anyway--as I'm sure you are already aware."

  Diego cocked his head. "Why are you sure of that? You've gone to considerable trouble to establish the name."

  Francesca snorted. "Please! Father Lop--Eneko, rather, is a special envoy from the Grand Metropolitan in Rome. No one seems quite sure what he--and the two of you--are doing here in Venice, although I suspect Metropolitan Michael knows. You seem to spend most of your time in the Ghetto, which is largely terra incognita to the Venetian haut monde. Charitable work, it's said."

  "That is, indeed, what we have been mostly doing," interjected Pierre.

  " 'Mostly,' " mused Francesca, arching an eyebrow. "That leaves--?" She answered her own question almost at once. "Investigation. That's what it leaves. Most people think you're trying to ferret out Strega witchcraft."

  "And you don't?" asked Eneko.

  "The idea's nonsense," replied Francesca. "First, why bother? The Strega have been in Venice for centuries, with no one any the worse for it. Second, you've been here for many months now. 'Ferreting out' Strega so-called witches in the Ghetto wouldn't take more than a few weeks, for any but the most incompetent of clerical magic-workers. Which you are--don't deny it--and I don't think the Grand Metropolitan chose to send fumblers."

  Eneko nodded, accepting the compliment. "I thank you for that. Although I must admit I've wondered at our own 'competence.' The saints know we've had a difficult time ferreting out what we did come to find."

  Francesca sighed. "Which, I suppose, was not my true identity."

  Diego cleared his throat. "Ah . . .
no. As it happens, Francesca--Marie-Francoise de Guemadeuc, to use the name you were born with--we uncovered that little secret within a few weeks of learning of your existence."

  "My condolences," murmured Eneko. "I can't say I approved of your family, but I would not wish such cruelty and destruction on anyone."

  Francesca stared at him. She was a little shaken. "You learned that quickly?"

  Diego began to say something but Eneko waved him silent with a little motion of his hand. "It is time for a full introduction, I think. Francesca, let me explain who we really are." He nodded toward Pierre and Diego. "By 'we' I include more than just the three of us. There are some others sworn to our cause. Most of them--which is not many; a half-dozen--still in Toulouse or Orleans. Another, Francis, now resides in Mainz. All of us, at one time, were students at the University in Orleans. That is where we first met, and forged our brotherhood. Which explains, of course, our intimate knowledge of Aquitainian affairs."

  Francesca's lips twisted into a wry little grimace. "I wouldn't have thought Orleans--anywhere in Aquitaine--would make a good breeding ground for the creation of brotherhoods and the forging of causes. Except those leading to personal advancement, which--" She gave all three of them a quick inspection. "--does not seem to be the case here."

  Pierre chuckled harshly. Diego's chuckle was a softer and warmer thing. Eneko simply smiled, a bit grimly.

  "To the contrary, Francesca, Aquitaine explains much. It was there that all of us finally realized--and accepted--the extent of the rot within the Church. By which I mean the Petrine branch."

  For a moment, Francesca's jaws tightened. "Do tell," she murmured. "I believe it took the Metropolitan of Orleans five seconds to decide to excommunicate my father. As much time as it took to fill both his hands with gold coin."

  Her ensuing chuckle was even harsher than Pierre's. "I must say it's refreshing to hear this from a Petrine cleric. At least, I assume you consider yourself such. Difficult to imagine the Grand Metropolitan of Rome sending a Pauline envoy to Venice."

  "Petrine through-and-through," agreed Eneko. "In fact, we have a close relationship with the Hypatian Order."

  Hearing that, Francesca's eyes widened. In the complex welter of Church institutions, the Hypatian Order was considered--certainly by Paulines--the most extreme of the organized Petrine currents. Although they were generally regarded as ineffective and relatively harmless--

  "Oh, God," she croaked. "Don't tell me." She sighed again, and this time far more deeply. "I was afraid you weren't really all that interested in my personal identity."

  She rose abruptly, walked to the doors opening on to the balcony, and began to open them. She had a sudden need for fresh air.

  "Don't," commanded Eneko. "Please, Francesca. We took great pains not to have our visit here noticed by anyone. If you open those doors--at night, with this room well lit--"

  She closed her eyes, lowered her head, still clutching the door handles. "Please," she whispered. "All of that is behind me."

  "Don't be stupid," said the Basque. "That's simply cowardice speaking. You are not a coward--far from it. And you don't even mean it, anyway."

  She turned her head, staring at him. "Yes, I do," she insisted. In a very soft voice; which, she realized, didn't sound as if she really meant it.

  The Basque's grin, when it came, was astonishing in its sheer charisma. Francesca got her first real glimpse of the personality which had forged this little band of . . . brothers.

  "You adore the world of politics, Francesca," continued Lopez, still grinning. "All this--" He made a little circling motion with his finger, indicating the plush surroundings. "--is really fraud and fakery. You enjoy wealth, I'm sure, but is that really why you chose this life?"

  "I didn't 'choose'--"

  "Of course, you did! A woman as beautiful and intelligent and charming as yourself could have easily--long since--settled yourself into a nice comfortable situation."

  "In fact, the Comte du Roure," added Diego, "asked you to marry him--the night before you fled with your mother to Avignon."

  Francesca almost spat. "He was forty years old--and looked seventy--and almost as stupid as the hogs on his estates. He would have shut me up in that great ugly castle of his until he died. Which couldn't possibly have been soon enough."

  Suddenly, she burst into laughter. "You're a shrewd bastard, Eneko. Pardon the expression. The Saints know, I've met few enough priests in my life who can see past the harlotry."

  Again, she sighed heavily. But she found it easy enough to release the door handles and walk back to her chaise. "Yes, you're right," she admitted. "My fondest memories, as a girl, were the times I spent at the dinner table discussing the political affairs of the world with my father and his friends. I didn't realize at the time, of course, how deadly those affairs could become."

  She plumped herself back in the chaise, making no effort to maintain her usual languid and seductive manner of sitting. "God help us all. You--that's what you're doing here, isn't it? You intend to organize a new Petrine order. The equivalent of the Servants of the Holy Trinity--say better, a challenge to the Sots."

  "I prefer to think of it as a challenge to the Petrines, Francesca." All traces of humor left Eneko's face. "Who have grown soft, lazy--even corrupt, and not just in Aquitaine. The accusations leveled by the Servants of the Holy Trinity have far too much truth in them, as you well know. I leave aside their frenzied gibberish about heathens. I speak of the rest."

  "I'll still take the Petrines over the Paulines," growled Francesca. "Any day of the month."

  Eneko shook his head. "If things continue as they have, you will eventually not have a choice. The Paulines have been gaining in strength for a century, at least. Soon enough--if nothing is done--they will dominate the entire Church." Seeing the courtesan's little frown of protest, he pressed on. "It is inevitable, Francesca. For centuries, now, the Paulines have been the shield of Christendom. Their power and influence ultimately derives from that simple fact. So long as the Petrine church is willing to loll about in comfort, here in the soft and summery south, and allow the Paulines to wage the battle against the Evil One, the Paulines will continue to wax in strength."

  He shrugged. "And deserve to, in all truth. Or would, except . . . their own theological errors leave them prone to a different kind of corruption. One which is, in the end, far more dangerous than simple avarice and sloth." Eneko paused, for a moment. "Indeed, I fear they have already fallen into that pit. The Servants, at least--leading elements within them, I should say--if not yet the Knights. But the Knights have become, more and more, simply the tools of the Servants."

  Francesca stared at him for a moment, her hands making little movements on her thighs. Like caresses, only firmer--as if she were drying her hands before lifting a heavy weight.

  "What do you want from me?" she asked abruptly. "I'm a whore, Eneko, not a theologian or a paladin."

  "I did not use that term," he said mildly.

  "Use it, then!" she snapped. "If you want something from me, speak plainly."

  "I will not use the term, Francesca, for the simple reason that if I believed it I would not be here at all. Neither that term nor the term 'harlot.' " He smiled thinly. "I can accept a 'lady of easy virtue.' Easy virtue is still virtue, after all."

  Again, Francesca burst into laughter. "God, I'd hate to argue theology with you! The Grand Metropolitan must tremble at the sight of you coming."

  Eneko winced. "It is true, I suspect, that the Grand Metropolitan . . . Well. I seem to make him a bit nervous."

  "I can imagine!"

  "Which is why he sent me here, of course," continued Eneko. "You might think of this as something of a test."

  Diego cleared his throat. "Probably best not to ask whether the Grand Metropolitan hopes we succeed or fail. I'm not sure he knows himself."

  Francesca smiled. "I could guess . . ." The smile went away and she sat up straight. "All right, Eneko. But the 'lady of easy virtue' sti
ll needs to know what you want from her."

  "You must understand the severe limits we are working within, Francesca. There are only three of us here in Venice. The Grand Metropolitan has provided us with some funds, but . . . nothing extravagant, I assure you." For a moment, his face grew pinched. "Which is why, to my regret, I was at first forced to accept the hospitality of Casa Brunelli. Diego and Pierre were not invited, so they found lodgings in a poor hostel, as I have now."