Benito recognized the man as one of those who'd overseen his previous stay in the dungeons. "Thank goodness somebody recognizes me. Please tell them who I am and get me the hell out of here. I've rushed to get news here—only to find myself put in jail by these . . . people."
The day-warder looked at his relief and at the prisoner. And then back at the relief. "You know this young man?" he asked his coworker, warily.
The night-warder nodded. "He's Benito Valdosta. We had him in here just after the big Valdosta-Montescue wedding."
The day-warder took a deep breath. "You mean the one who . . . on the Rialto Bridge?"
The night-warder chuckled. "That's him. What's he up for this time?"
"Attempted assassination of the Doge. Assaulting members of the Swiss Guard."
"Saints!" The warder shook his head in amazement. "Couldn't you just have stuck to public indecency, young Valdosta?"
Benito sighed. "It's a complete misunderstanding. I asked to be taken to see the Doge, as I have important news for him. I've been traveling in disguise from Corfu. The matter is urgent so I came straight here still dressed as a seaman. And then that
testa di cazzo
of a guard commander decided I was an assassin. As if I'm going to march up to the Swiss Guards on the steps and demand to be taken to the guy I want to kill! The 'concealed weapon' they're going on about is a rapier as you might see on the hip of any
Casa Vecchie
gentleman walking into the Doge's Palace. It's my father's sword, sent by the Doge to be repaired in Ferrara. I picked it up there."
"But, signor. You claimed to have come from Corfu."
"I
did
. I came around Italy and across the Apennines, because the Adriatic is blockaded. I came through Ferrara as a result, and tried to see my grandfather. I didn't, because he is in Verona, but I got my sword. I couldn't put it on my hip, as I would normally, because a sailor wandering around with a sword would be picked up by the Schiopettieri. So instead I got thrown in jail by some officious idiots who won't even believe who I am. Now can you get me out of here?"
The warders looked at each other. And then at Benito. At last the day-warder said: "No, Signor. But we can take you to one of the Justices. He can order you freed."
Benito sighed at the bureaucratic pettiness of it all. "Well, let's do that."
"But Milord Valdosta . . . they have all gone home."
Benito closed his eyes, begging for patience. "Then get one of them back here. Please. Or at the very least send for my brother Marco. We need to start preparing to break the siege on Corfu, and every day more people will die. The Citadel is secure, but the Hungarians are raping the country."
The night-warder pulled a face. "But, signor. Your brother Marco . . . has gone to Verona."
Benito felt like pulling his hair out. "And I suppose his wife has gone too?
The jailor nodded.
"Well, can you get me one of the Justices? Please. I know. They've gone home. But this is urgent."
The night-warder nodded. "I will go and ask the chief night-warder."
He returned a little while later. "I am very sorry, signor. The chief says no. It is not in the rules."
"
Testa di cazzo!
Rules! I'll have his guts for a skipping-rope, when I get out of here," said Benito savagely. He shook the bars in frustration. And had an inspiration. "Listen. Can I at least see a priest?"
The warder nodded. "Brother Umbriel comes to see the prisoners every evening anyway."
"I need to see someone specific. Either Brother Mascoli of St. Raphaella or Sister Evangelina of St. Hypatia di Hagia Sophia."
The night-warder looked thoughtful. "You could ask Brother Umbriel. He is Hypatian."
And Benito had to content himself with that.
Brother Umbriel, when he came, proved to be willing to help. "Benito Valdosta needing to see Evangelina or Mascoli . . . on a matter of some urgency concerning Eneko Lopez." He smiled. "You certainly know how to inflame a poor Sibling's curiosity, don't you? Very well, my son. I will interrupt my work and go to old Mascoli now."
Brother Mascoli came a few minutes later. "Ah. Benito Valdosta. You are very unlike your brother! You wish to see me in connection with Eneko Lopez. I'm afraid Eneko has gone to Holy Jerusalem . . ."
"He's on Corfu. I'm afraid Brother Umbriel got the wrong end of the stick. I have messages from Eneko Lopez, too. For the Grand Metropolitan—and you."
Mascoli raised his eyebrows. "Which are?"
"What Eneko wanted me to tell you is that they have hit magical problems on Corfu, where they are besieged. He says that the archangel Uriel, the guardian of the creatures of the earth, cannot be raised. They are unable to raise wards. There appears to be some malign force preventing them from contact by scrying with other sacred magicians. He wants help from the Church. He wants help from Rome."
Mascoli gnawed his knuckle thoughtfully. "Well, these things can be confirmed. I will go now to Sister Evangelina. The Siblings will attempt to contact Eneko magically. And should we fail, we will try Rome. There are magical ways of establishing authenticity."
"Great. At least I will have succeeded in part of my mission," said Benito.
Mascoli looked at the bars. "I'm afraid I don't know if I can get you out of here, my son. I'll talk to Evangelina, and perhaps we can approach the Patriarch Michael . . ."
Benito yawned. "Don't worry about it. The Justices can spring me in the morning. I suppose there is not much that could be done tonight anyway."
Odd. Unsettled. That was how Katerina would have described this meeting in Verona. Petro had insisted that Marco come with him, along with part of the Venetian Council of Ten. Marco had not wanted to go, but had been persuaded against his better judgment because of all of the strange and contradictory rumors that were now spreading about the likely intentions of the Holy Roman Emperor should Charles Fredrik die. More of these were coming out now that the meeting was in full session—and it occurred to her that if their Great Enemy wanted to eliminate most of the thorns in his side in one swoop, he would have had only to arrange for a human agent to pack the cellar of the palace in which they were meeting with gunpowder . . .
Which might explain who was spreading all these rumors, and why.
Fortunately, that seemed to have occurred to more than one of their allies as well; you couldn't move without bumping into a very alert-looking guard.
She couldn't make heads or tails of it. Some rumors had it that Prince Manfred had open designs on Corfu, and after that outpost, presumably Venice as well. Others claimed that he had quarreled with his uncle the Emperor over the
Emperor's
designs on Venice. Some said Manfred had quarreled with his cousin Conrad, the heir presumptive, over the same thing—with half the rumors ascribing evil designs on Venice to Manfred; the other half, to Conrad. Still others swore that nothing of the sort had happened, that, in fact, Manfred had never left Corfu and that so far as intelligence
out
of Corfu was concerned, there wasn't any.
Certainly ships were not coming from that direction, which was . . . odd.
"Tension" was not even close to describing what the atmosphere in this room was like.
And Marco was in knots. He'd told Kat yesterday that he knew there was something terribly, horribly wrong, but he was too far from the Lion to tell what it was, and too far from the Lion's protection to dare try to scry for it, either. Finally he'd gone out last night in search of the largest Hypatian establishment in Verona to ask them to find out what they could for him.
But if anything, this morning he was in worse case. Even the Old Fox had been forced to take notice.
"What's wrong? You look like you've been drinking the water out of your own canals." The tension underlying his words made the attempted jest fall flat.
Marco shook his head. "There's something wrong about all this—these rumors aren't spreading accidentally—and there's still more wrong back home—"
At just that moment, there was a commotion at the door. A burly man who looked more warrior than Hypatian Sibling shoved his way inside.
"Brother Ancetti!" Marco called, recognition and welcome in his voice, forestalling the guards who were going to shove the Sibling back outside again.
The Sibling bowed, in a curt manner. "Marco Valdosta, I have that word from Venice that you asked me for, and your instincts were correct," he said grimly. "Only this morning I have news from Sibling Mascoli, and from the Grand Metropolitan as well, and I believe it is something that everyone at this council needs to hear."
The Sibling proceeded to relate a tale that, had it not been vouched for by the most powerful Christian magician in Verona and, by his word, verified by the Grand Metropolitan's own magicians in Rome, would have sounded more incredible than any of the tales of Manfred of Brittany's supposed treachery.
Stunned silence greeted most of it, until the priest came to the end—and the fact that Benito Valdosta was at that very moment on trial for treason, and possibly worse.
Three men rose from the table at an instant, all three roaring the same incredulous word.
"What?"
It was Marco who recovered first. "Horses," he said decisively, looking at Petro. "Fast ones."
"Can't you—"
Marco shook his head. "The Lion's powers only hold within the boundaries of Venice. Once I reach the boundaries—then I can call on him, but not before."
Petro nodded, though it was clear to Kat that the Old Fox was utterly baffled. "Right, then. You and that hideous bodyguard of yours, on my bay and Giovanni's roan. We'll come behind you as fast as our horses can manage."
Marco didn't waste a word, and spared not more than a glance at Kat—not that she was going to complain, not when Benito might find himself facing execution before the sun set! He ran out the door, calling to his scarred shadow, Bespi, that strange, silent man with the haunted eyes.
And it was left to Petro and her to explain, as well as they could, what that abbreviated conversation had been about.
But
they
did it on the trot, because it was altogether possible that even Marco and the Lion would not be enough to do more than delay things until the Doge himself arrived.
Having his identity known did move Benito's case up the slate to head the morning list. Which was something positive . . . Benito thought. For the first moment. Until he saw the facial expression of the Justice assigned to the case. It would have curdled vinegar, never mind milk.
"What are the charges?"
"It's a misunderstanding," said Benito.
The Justice turned grimly to look at him. "Speak when you're permitted to. The clerk will now read the charges."
The clerk did so. Benito had in the meantime been struggling to place the sour face in front of him. When he did, he realized that his troubles almost certainly weren't over. The man was a Capuletti. A cousin of the man he was supposed to have murdered. A house that had fallen from grace along with Ricardo Brunelli. A man, by the looks of him, who held grudges.
The Justice turned to stare at Benito. "Are you Benito Valdosta?"
Benito nodded. "Yes."
The Justice looked at his clerk. "You may prefix that list with the breaking of exile. It is a charge which carries the maximum penalty."
"But I came to bring warning . . ."
"Silence!"
thundered the Justice. He beckoned to the two Schiopettieri. "If the prisoner speaks without my express orders again, you will silence him. And Valdosta, if you speak out of turn again, I'll have you gagged. Is that clear?"
Benito said nothing. He knew if he did he'd explode. Fury was building up in him. And, because the jailors had been convinced by now that this was all a mistake . . . they hadn't shackled him when they'd sent him up.
"I said: Is that clear?"
Benito said nothing.
"The prisoner will answer or be held in contempt of the court. Is this clear?"
Benito leaned forward, gauging the distance to the door. "If I say something you'll gag me. If I don't say anything you'll hold me in contempt. This is a farce."
"Add contempt of court to the charge list. Now. We have the prisoner's own admission that he is Benito Valdosta, a person proscribed from the city and environs of Venice. The second charge relates to an attempt to carry a concealed weapon into the Doge's palace. Is that the weapon in question?"
"It is, Your Honor," said the reedy-voiced clerk. He drew the rapier from the scabbard and placed it on the desk. "It was hidden inside a roll of cowhide, your honor."
"Doubtless he wanted to avenge himself for being banished. And now to the assault charges. Call the first witne—"
Benito jumped up onto the rails of the dock that held him, and then feinted as if to leap for the doorway. Instead he sprang out into the room, knocked aside the little clerk and seized the rapier.
And Justice Capuletti. The man gave a terrified squeak as the blade touched his throat.
"Back off or I'll kill him," said Benito to the two Schiopettieri assigned to the court.
They looked doubtfully at each other. The Swiss mercenary guard commander who had been about to be first witness intervened. "Do what he says. That man is a professional, boys. He'll kill the Justice and chop you into dogmeat if you try and rush him. And if you try to shoot him you'll as likely kill the Justice."
"Listen to the man. This sword—you all see it? It's the sword of my father, The Wolf of the North. Do you want me to prove I can use it just as well as he could? If you do, just push me. I've come a few hundred leagues, by sea, foot, and bedamned horse, and nearly been drowned, caught or killed a couple of times to bring word about the attack on Corfu. I'm not going to be stopped by some small-minded petty bureaucrat. Now, if you do things my way, we can clear up this little misunderstanding and no one needs to get hurt. Isn't that so, Justice?"
The man squirmed. "Yes. Just do what he says. You can go free Valdosta. I . . . I meant no harm. Just let me go."