Maria held Alessia and rocked her. "Who was he? Why did he kill my husband?" Her voice was hard, bitter.
"His name is Zanari. A mercenary from Apulia who's been working for Fianelli."
Benito looked down, and bit his lip. "He shot Umberto by accident. His orders were to shoot me. Only I moved, imitating Caesare. That bolt was meant for me. I'm sorry, Maria. I'm really sorry. All I ever seem to bring you is sadness."
Her eyes were luminous with tears. "No, Benito. I still believe this is that woman's hatred. I'm learning that here on Corfu, magic goes further than the chants and words and symbols that Eneko believes in." She closed her eyes briefly. "I'm scared for Alessia, 'Nito."
Benito patted her awkwardly. "We'll do what we can, Maria. Francesca is hunting. She always finds, eventually." He cleared his throat. "We, um, I've been down to the Little Arsenal, talking to the
scuolo
and the workers. They want to arrange the funeral. Your husband was a much-respected man, Maria."
Maria stood there, tears now pouring from her eyes. Slowly, as if her head was too heavy to move, she nodded. "He wasn't . . . like you. Bravura. Just solid. Good. Not clever, but wise; he used every little bit of intelligence he had, and used it like—like the artisan he was. And he was kind, so kind; you would never believe how kind. I wish . . . he could have seen his fireboats used. He put so much into that project."
Benito squeezed her shoulder. "He was a damn fine man. I started out intending to hate his guts. Only . . . well, I couldn't."
Maria nodded again. "His fussing used to drive me mad at first. I wasn't used to being a 'good little
scuolo
wife.' " She gave out a half-sob. "I guess I'm not any more."
"Well, there is a pension. And I know you won't take money from me, but for Alessia . . ."
She shook her head firmly. "No, Benito. Anyway, right now what we need is food—and all the money in Christendom can't buy much in the Citadel right now. Thanks to old Grisini, Alessia and I have a place to stay. It was a kindness that has repaid itself already, I suppose."
Alessia squirmed and grumbled in Maria's arms.
"Is something wrong?" asked Benito anxiously.
Maria shook her head. "According to Stella—who should know—she's starting with teething pains."
Alessia gave a niggly bellow. Maria rocked her to try and soothe.
"Can I hel—"
Both Benito and Alessia cut off their vocal output on the instant. And both of them seemed to be staring right through Maria.
Then Benito shook himself, like a wet dog. "Weh! What an experience!" He took a deep breath. "Marco and Kat send their love and their condolences, Maria."
"What?!"
"I've just had a magical communication with my brother," he said, absently. He looked—not dazed, exactly, but certainly deeply preoccupied. Obsessed, even; there was, of a sudden, a strange look in his eyes, a fire that was nothing like that crazy look he used to get whenever he was about to go off on some wild excursion.
A magical communication from his brother?
"But—" she began. "Benito, how—"
He shook his head violently. "Look Maria, I must go. I need to see Manfred and Eneko straight away. I'll be back later to see if there is anything you need. I'll come and baby-sit for a while, maybe, if you need to go out."
There was a furious knock at the door. It was a panting Alberto. "Maria. Come down to the workshops quickly! There's a fight between the Illyrians and the Corfiotes again."
"Me?"
"They listen to you, Maria. They're used to it. Oh, Jesu, Maria, if you don't come someone is going to get knifed!"
She swore a sailor's oath, halfway between anger and weeping. "Oh God's Teeth—I'll come! Go on, Benito."
Benito went. But he was privately certain that Maria would be spending a fair amount of her time at the Little Arsenal, even if Umberto was dead. And that would be no bad thing. She would need something to keep her mind off her grief for a while.
And maybe that would keep her from blaming
him
for Umberto's murder.
"Rome must hear of this!" said Mascoli excitedly.
Evangelina shrugged. "The requirement is a powerful magician, with a nonhuman, demideity in support, who has a blood relation on Corfu. I don't think it will help Eneko much."
Marco blinked. "You know, the strangest thing was that I was talking not just to Benito, but to someone else as well. A sort of person."
"Human?"
"I think so . . . although its thoughts seemed somehow formless. It was sore, hurting; just an annoying ache. I soothed it."
Eneko Lopez stared intently at Benito. "A blood bond! And with such a one as Marco Valdosta. Powerful indeed."
"Yeah. And the news was pretty powerful too, even if none of it was good. The Atlantic fleet still being held outside the pillars. The fire in the Arsenal. The heavy snows in Bohemia, so the imperial forces have made poor headway into Slovenia and Hungary."
"To say nothing of the Church failing to prevail on either the magical defenses or the earthly authorities of Aragon and Genoa." Lopez shook his head. "We never did have much influence with Barbary."
"Anyway. What I wanted to say was—if crisis struck—or if we found out something, could I contact him?"
Eneko shrugged. "Magical ability tends to run in families. The Valdosta—given their long association with the Lion—are known for it. And with the working of metals . . . so are the Dell'este. Sforza? Well, not that I know of. But we could try, with us supporting you. It might be dangerous because of the warding problem. We could try. If the need was great."
"Signor Valdosta," said Alberto, diffidently. "It would mean a great deal to all of the
scuolo
from the Little Arsenal if you'd say a few words at the funeral. We . . . well, Umberto derived a great deal of pride and pleasure from having his family associated with the
Casa
Valdosta. It would be a mark of respect."
Benito found the last part of that statement compelling. He found the rest of it an alarming burden. "I don't think I've ever met a man I came to respect more than Umberto Verrier," he said quietly. "And I've met all sorts from priests to princes. But . . . well, me? Alberto, the honor of the
Casa
Valdosta belongs with my older brother. He got all the honor and I got all the wildness."
Alberto shrugged. "Everybody expects a young
Case Vecchie
to run amok," he said tolerantly. "But what counts with us is that when the real trouble came, you were there. We've heard from one of the Venetian sailors who fought their way back with you, how you worked in the Arsenal." He took Benito's hand, turned it over, looked at the calluses and smiled.
"That's not the hand of an idle nobleman, signor. We
scuolo
, we're guildsmen. We respect a man who labors, we respect the fact that you've been first in the fight for us, and we like it that you can work and drink just like us. We're proud that the
Casa
Valdosta chose to be the friend of one of the
scuolo
. It would be a good thing for his widow, too. It will do no harm that some people see the mantle of the Valdosta is there to protect her."
Benito raised his eyes to heaven. "It's a pretty thin mantle. And don't say that to Maria. She doesn't believe she needs any protecting. Tell you what, Alberto. I'll ask her."
"I'm sure she'll agree."
Benito was certain she wouldn't.
He was wrong. Maria nodded, when he said that they'd asked him to do a eulogy. "It would have meant a lot to him, 'Nito. He really liked you. He was very proud of you, you know." She sniffed. "He even asked me to be nicer to you."
Benito found his reply had got stuck behind the lump in his throat. But he nodded.
The little Hypatian chapel was full to the wall-bulging point. The Little Arsenal's
scuolo
, the Corfiotes, the Illyrians, men, women and children . . . Today there was no fighting among them. Today they'd come to pay their last respects, to commit to God and the earth one of their own. To show to his widow, whom they'd come to respect, and love too, how much they'd valued her man.
Sibling Eleni conducted the service, giving comfort with the old words. The air was full of incense. It was getting in his eyes. After the homily, Benito had to stand up and speak. Facing the court had been easier. He swallowed.
"Umberto Verrier . . . When I was asked give this eulogy, I struggled to get the words I wanted to say about this man. So: I came here last night. It's not a place I come to often enough. My head stayed empty. I knew what I wanted to say about Umberto, but not how to say it. And my eyes wandered to the icons. Then I saw a face that had something in it that reminded me of Umberto. I saw the same look as I have often seen on the face of the man I was proud to call my friend, in the face of the Holy Saint Peter. The face of man that you know is as solid and reliable as the rock beneath your feet.
"When I first met Umberto, we hauled baulks of timber together at the gate where our ships landed. It took me very little time to realize that here was a man who spoke not with his mouth but with his hands, and that those hands knew exactly what they were doing. Umberto wasn't a great talker. He was a man who did, instead. And like the rock, he was a man you could rely on and trust. Because he was what he was. As good and solid as a rock."
Benito had struggled to start speaking. Now the words came easily, painting a deep and full picture of Umberto, of the treasure that this husband had been to Maria. Benito had not realized what effect the quiet, small
scuolo
master craftsman had had on him. He was always just there when Maria was. Solid. You almost didn't notice him, until he wasn't there.
If Benito felt like this now, how then was Maria bearing it?
The pallbearers were all
scuolo
. Alberto had been polite but firm in his refusal of Benito's offer. "You can speak for him. But we carry our own."
They laid him in the grave and gave him into the embrace of the earth. And the world seemed a poorer place, full of dust and ashes.
Maria stood white-faced and weeping at the graveside. Work-roughened hands touched her, awkwardly, gently. Hands trying to say what the
scuolo
, the Corfiotes, the women and Illyrians could find no words for.
Benito did it himself. Words were too inadequate.
She turned to him. "Thank you," she said, quietly. "You said the right things about him."
"I wish that bolt had hit me instead," he said. "I'm worth less than he was. Maria, if you need anything, or need help with 'Lessi . . . I'll be there."
She nodded.
He was not too sure what she was agreeing with.
Erik opened his eyes at the end of what seemed like a long, long tunnel of grayness. He looked up into Manfred's face.
"Are you dead as well? Did I fail you, too?" The voice was a dry, cracked whisper.
"No. You're alive thanks to that mad scamp Benito. I must talk to Uncle about a barony for the boy, at the very least. Maybe on the border of Aquitaine. It'll do him and the Aquitaines good."
Erik blinked. "Where am I?"
"In the hospital, in the Citadel."
Then the despair washed over him. "She's dead, Manfred. She's dead. I promised I would never leave her. I must go to her."
A firm hand pushed him down onto the bed. "She's dead. You're alive and you're going to stay that way. Because you are my hearthman. I need you here. I order it."
Manfred knew the Icelander was still on the border between life and death . . . And the direction he took now was very uncertain. But he had never seen Erik cry. Tears welled up in those gray eyes, drowning them. Then Erik swallowed, tightened his jaw and said in a quiet voice:
"Very well. Duty remains, Manfred." He paused. "To every life there comes a season of happiness. I have had mine."
The baby wailed, and Maria tucked sweat-damp strands of hair behind her ears, then bounced Alessia in an attempt to soothe her. She might as well have tried to stop the tide; she got no more result than when she'd tried to feed the poor mite a moment ago. Maria felt her own irritation building to an irrational anger, and did her best to control it.
"I know you're teething, child," she told the youngest member of the Verrier family wearily, "and I know your poor mouth is hurting. But you've been so good up to now, can't you suffer in silence?"
She heard a familiar step at the door. It was Benito. "I tried knocking but the competition was drowning it out," he said with a smile. "I was down at the Little Arsenal and Alberto's wife was there. She told me Alessia's teething and giving you a hard time."
Maria nodded tiredly. "I'm nearly at my wit's end with it."
Benito produced a jar from his pocket. "I came here via the monks at the hospital. Brother Selmi said this might help."
"What is it?"
Benito grinned. "I don't even look like Marco, Maria. It's no use asking me. I told him what it was for, I told him how old she was, and I told him that if it did her any harm I'd feed him his own cassock. He seemed a bit taken aback that I'd offer a man of the cloth violence."
Maria raised her eyes to heaven. "You're impossible, Benito."
"Well, he seemed to think his cassock was safe. Let's try it anyway. It's in a honey base and it has cloves in it, but that is all I know." He opened Alessia's mouth and rubbed a fingerful onto the sore gums. "I wish I had ice for her. But the nearest is over in Illyria."
"Which you are not to fetch!" He was quite capable of deciding to do that.
Benito chuckled. "Only if this doesn't work, which it seems to be." He held out his arms. "Alberto's wife said you've been trying to quiet her half the night. I'll be glad to take her for a bit until she falls asleep. Which probably won't be long; I bet she's tired herself out to nothing, with all that crying."
"She's tired me out, if nothing else," Maria admitted, letting Benito take the baby from her arms.
"It'll pass, according to the brother at the hospital. The truth to tell, I think he was glad of a teething baby problem that he could help with, rather than malnutrition and siege wounds he can't."