So: Where did he go? Getting into the governor's palace like this was not going to be easy. Tiredly, his mind turned automatically to Maria. She wouldn't mind if he turned up half dead on her doorstep. And then . . . well, maybe that husband of hers—or a note to Manfred. Or Francesca . . . or . . .
He was too tired to think coherently. He stumbled through the narrow lanes, the dawn bell competing with the Hungarian cannon. He passed a few soldiers, coming off duty, yawning. One of them made a comment, but Benito simply wandered on. He obviously looked mad or drunk, but harmless, because they didn't follow after him.
He got there. The door was closed—a drift of sand across the doorsill. The shutters were still tight, closed although the other houses were now coming to life. He knocked.
There was no reply.
He peered down the narrow passage that led to the back yard. That goat of hers had harassed passers-by from here. There was no goat, today. The place had that "nobody-lives-here" look.
Benito sat down on the steps. The doorknob was unpolished. The steps were full of wind-blown debris. Maria would never have allowed them to look like that.
A gray-haired old woman peered at him. "Who are you?"
"Uh. Benito. I'm looking for Maria and . . . and Umberto." Here he was, without even a shirt, in salt-stained breeches, his body and face muddy. He wished he'd thought to wash when he'd been in the sea. Some of it obviously had washed away, but he'd chosen that fine-grained clay that needed hard rubbing. She'd think he was some kind of lunatic. However, looking at the old woman, he could see she really didn't seem to be all there herself. She'd made up half her face. The effect was a little odd, especially when added to the unfocused-looking eyes.
She sniffed, looking about to cry. "They've gone. The young man was shot. They've gone with that gorgeous baby. Like my baby. Babies always go . . ." She wandered off, seemingly having forgotten all about him.
Benito took a deep breath and pulled himself together. First things first. He needed to get off the street. He'd been plain lucky so far, but that couldn't last. Besides, the old woman's rambling had worried him. Upset him even more than finding the person he'd always relied on, known would be there as a last resort, wasn't. Could Maria and the baby Alessia be . . . dead? He swallowed and vaulted the gate into the tiny yard.
Definitely no one had been here for a while.
Benito sat on the back step and formulated plans as best he could. The worry had pushed back exhaustion. If there was no Maria he'd have to turn to his other friend.
The roofs.
Francesca got up early. In a relative sense, anyway. When she'd had the misfortune to have to survive life in the Red Cat she'd thought she got up early. Then along had come Manfred, and with him, Erik, and she'd finally understood that all things are relative. "Early" to a hooker meant before noon. To a knight in training it meant before dawn.
With Erik away she'd thought Manfred might ease back on the predawn training. But he seemed to treat it as an act of faith.
Now, with the sun peeping through the shutters in long golden streamers, was a far better time. She swung the shutters open. And screamed.
It was a perfectly natural reaction to seeing someone dropping from the eaves and into her bedroom. It took her a moment of hasty retreat to recognize the dirty, half-naked stocky man, who simply sat down on the floor.
"Benito!"
"Yep. Why do you get up so late? I've been waiting for you to open up for hours."
"Why didn't you knock?"
"And get shot through the shutters? I tried calling quietly but you obviously didn't hear. Where's Prince Manfred?"
"Over at the exercise yard. I'll send someone for him. No, I'll go myself. Is Erik—?"
"Fine." Benito yawned. "Got any food?"
"In the next room. Look, help yourself. I'm going to fetch Manfred. I haven't even done my hair!"
She left at a run. Francesca never ran.
Benito got wearily to his feet, went into the next room, and found a bottle of wine and a small loaf. He didn't bother to try any further. Just flopped down in a chair in the far corner and drank wine straight from the bottle with a few hunks of bread to keep it company.
"He just dropped in through the window," said Francesca, unlocking the door. "I nearly died of fright."
Manfred grinned. "Made your hair stand on end, did he?"
She looked dangerously at him. "I came straight out to call you without even thinking of brushing it, Manfred."
"You're beautiful even with all your hair standing on end, Francesca. Now where is the boy?"
"I left him here . . . oh."
She'd spotted Benito, fast asleep, curled into the seat.
Manfred surveyed the boy. Mud. Bruises, scratches. And a pair of tired breeches. A three-quarters-full wine bottle still clutched and half of a dropped loaf on the floor beside him.
"I suppose he had to choose one of the good bottles," said Manfred, looking at it wryly. "The kid must be all in. He normally sleeps like a cat."
"Should we let him sleep?"
Manfred shook his head. "I'm afraid not. He can sleep once he's told us what is happening." He stepped over to the chair and began shaking Benito. The boy's skin was clammy to the touch. He was shivering faintly. "Here, Francesca. Get him a shirt and one of my cottes."
Benito woke with a start. An eyes-unfocused start, reaching for a knife. "It's all right, Benito," said Falkenberg, beaming at him. "You're with us."
Benito shook his head, obviously trying to clear it. "Sorry. Wine on an empty stomach. And I was a bit tired. Thanks." The latter was addressed to Francesca, who handed him a shirt and cotte.
He stood up. Manfred noticed he was swaying. "Come on, Falkenberg, let's get him into those and he can sit down again."
"I can dress myself."
"Shut up," said Manfred, his big fingers struggling with buttons. "Or rather, tell us news. Francesca said you said Erik was all right?"
Benito nodded. "Yeah. Fine. He's looking like the cat that ate the cream. He's got his Vinlander, and he's got his insurgents, and he's making the Hungarians bleed."
"We've seen some of it from the walls, but I'm damned glad to hear it for certain." Manfred sat Benito down. "You've grown, boy. But my clothes are still a little big for you." That was something of an understatement. But at least he should be warmer. For an autumn day, it was warm. Benito wasn't.
"So: What happened to the plans for getting you over to Italy? Is the blockade just too tight? Or are there just no fishing boats?"
"I've been there and back. I came back with a hundred and fifty men to help Erik and news that the Arsenal is building a new fleet. As soon as they have the ships, Dorma will put to sea. There's a new war levy. They're recruiting mercenaries and calling for volunteers. The Old Fox himself has put up a thousand men."
Manfred blinked. "There and back . . . and back inside?" He looked at the wine standing on the floor. "And to think I begrudged you that. You deserve the entire bottle! In fact, make it a hogshead."
"I'd rather have some brandy. Listen—do you know what happened to Maria? My . . . my friend who told Erik. I went there first. It's all shut up."
Francesca smiled knowingly. "She's fine, Benito. She's down at the Little Arsenal. Her husband got himself shot by the Libri d'Oro traitors. But he's recovering slowly. Look . . . is there anything else you really must ask him immediately, Manfred? Is there anything you really have to tell us, Benito?"
Benito shook his head. "Just was told to bring the news that relief was coming. It might be four, five more months though. And I left a prisoner at the southern postern. Oh. And to ask that you hoist the Knots banner at the inner wall north tower at sundown. Tell Erik he's getting a saltcellar after all." Benito stood up on this cryptic utterance. "I'm going to the Little Arsenal."
"Sit down. You need to rest," said Francesca firmly. "I'll go down and tell her."
Benito shook his head. "You'd frighten her silly. Besides," he added, grinning in a pale shadow of his usual impishness, "I've got to tell her that Kat wants to know why she hasn't written. And I have to check on the baby for her god-mama. Heh. If you'd met the god-mama, you'd know I don't dare delay."
Francesca shook her head disapprovingly, "I know men well enough to know I'd be wasting my time arguing. But Manfred, I think he needs an escort."
Manfred nodded. "And his own clothes. Everyone would think a fair had come to town, otherwise."
"I'm going
now
." There was a determined tilt to that chin and a feverish glint in Benito's eyes.
"Fine, fine," said Falkenberg soothingly. "We'll just get you a horse."
Benito closed his eyes momentarily. "Not a horse. Please!"
"Well, at least wash your face!"
Maria was working on the looms on the upper tier, keeping a weather eye on the carpenters working on the next level down. The gates opened. Maria blinked at the sunlight on armor, then rubbed her eyes unbelievingly.
She got up slowly and deliberately, took Alessia from her crib in the shade, and walked down the stairs—being very careful not to stumble. Her knees felt a little weak.
Benito was grinning at Umberto, trying not to show his shock. The master-caulker had never been a big man. Now he looked as if a puff of wind would blow him away. He was gaunt and pale, and he looked at least twenty years older. "I hear you got in the way of a bullet, Umberto."
"The master is a hero!" said one of the other
scuolo
, affronted by this familiarity. "He saved the Citadel!"
Umberto's eyes narrowed, focusing on Benito. "Signor Valdosta?"
Benito nodded. "Just Benito Valdosta. Or as your wife would have it, just trouble."
"You got out? Maria told me you had been successful in getting out, that someone had signaled from the main island. Raftopo," he pointed to Benito, "this is the young man who bought your coracle, remember?"
The fellow nodded. "
Si.
I remember. Umberto wouldn't say what you wanted it for."
"We went over the wall to the island," said Benito. "How's Maria, Umberto?"
The former coracle-owner shook his head. A stolid oxlike thinker, he plainly ground everything to its finest. "If you got out, how come you're here?"
Manfred patted Benito on the shoulder. "Because he came back, of course. After he went all the way to Venice."
"In my coracle? Ha." The former owner looked as if people had all too often tried to put one over him.
"Hell, no—that sank about a mile away," said Benito. "Fishing boat to Italy. Small trader up the west coast and then a damned horse over the Apennines to Ferrara. Barge to Venice."
The
scuolo
wrestled with the implications of this. "You mean . . ."
"Back again, I see," said Maria. "You know, Benito, you're the original bad penny." But she was smiling broadly as she said it, and her eyes seemed a little moist.
He was looking like . . . Benito. At first she thought he had shrunk. The she realized it was just outsize clothes. Good clothes but enormous. The cotte hung like a dress on him, which was maybe just as well. The breeches he wore were muddy and salt-stained. His feet were bare and filthy. And his face . . .
She looked at it, remembering. It had lost a little of the youthfulness, and he was as pale as a nocturnal
Case Vecchie
gentleman. He was smiling at her, very oddly. "How's Alessia?" he asked. "Her godmother wanted me to ask."
She put a hand on his forehead. It was clammy but hot. "You can find out when you get out of the hospital, you idiot! He's feverish, Prince. Take him there before he falls over on us."
Benito obliged her by doing just that.
Manfred walked over to the commander's offices after they'd deposited Benito in the care of the monks. There were times for subtlety and quiet contact. This wasn't one of them.
"Commander Leopoldo's over at the south wall, sir. There's a bit of a situation there. We had explosions there early this morning."
Manfred laughed.
Benito!
"I'll go and see him there."
He went by horse, with Von Gherens, having had a sudden thought. He dispatched Falkenberg to go and keep a watch over Benito. The boy could easily be the target of whoever the spies in the Citadel were. The morale boost to the Citadel of having news from Venice was huge. That was why Manfred had told the men at the Little Arsenal what Benito had done. It would run like wildfire around the fortress. It would get to whoever was spying, too. Emeric wouldn't enjoy hearing that news.
"We think he may be some sort of trap," said Leopoldo, pointing to the man at the foot of the tower. "He's alive. We've seen him move. So why is he tied up? Who is he? And there are those barrels of what is probably gunpowder over there."
Manfred looked at the bound, trouserless man, and at the shingle strip with four haphazardly lying barrels on the beach. "Nope," he said with a grin and in a good carrying voice. "That's Benito's work. You can go out and collect the prisoner. I'll go out and fetch him if you like."
"That's a lot of black powder. If there is shrapnel in it and it goes off, Prince, you'll be mincemeat."
"I told you, Commander. My agent, Benito Valdosta, caught that saboteur last night, when my man was coming in from the Venetian forces. You should come up to the hospital and hear all the details."
"
Venetian
forces?"
"Hadn't I told you yet? The scouts for the Venetian relief force have arrived."
If the black powder in the barrels on the shingle had suddenly gone off, it could scarcely have caused a bigger explosion.
Hidden in some Aleppo pines in a rocky little defile, Erik surveyed the Citadel gloomily. It was still defiant, bathed in the last of the evening light, but he didn't see what he hoped to see. On the first day after the young tearaway left, he actually expected to see the banner of the Knights in that corner tower. When it wasn't hoisted, he'd given orders to move from all the localities Benito knew. Torture got information out of anyone. So did black magic. And Emeric used both.