“What?”
“That I’m not that man anymore!” he said angrily, gazing up at her.
She returned the look for a moment, through a fall of auburn hair. And then she squatted in front of him in a pool of velvet, dignity forgotten. “What man?”
He waved a hand, suddenly too tired to think up the words for all that he had been, or was supposed to have been: the heir that secured his father’s dynasty, the hedge for his people against the Turks, the husband of a loving woman, maybe someday the father. . . .
Too many things to count.
All of which he’d managed to disappoint.
Like he had Sanuito, tonight.
“The man you described,” he said wearily. “The one trained to lead. You were right; I was trained—from birth. But now . . .”
She cocked her head, watching him. “But now? What happened?”
“You know what happened,” he said, lip curling in disgust. “This—” He waved a hand again, this time at himself.
“You mean the Change? Do you really think that matters?”
He stared at her. “Of course it matters!”
“Does it? In our world, you’re an infant, barely two years old. If you were in a normal family, you wouldn’t even be let out of the house at your age. Much less be jumping through fiery hoops and diving into canals and almost getting blown up. Yet you did it, without a thought. Just as I . . . stood there.
“Power is more than strength, Mircea. It takes more than that to be a leader. More of . . . whatever it is you have, and I don’t.”
“I think you underestimate yourself.”
“And I think you would have done the same thing tonight, if you’d had a year to think about it. It’s in the moments when we don’t have time to think, that we show who we really are.”
She laughed suddenly, and it looked strange, considering the tears still glistening on her cheeks. “Sanuito told me you were the strangest man he ever met. And I can’t say he was wrong, Mircea Basarab. But don’t blame the Change for that!”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“You survived.” Mircea looked up to see Bezio’s head sticking out of the salon on the ground floor, where a wedge of candlelight was flooding the area in front of the stairs. He appeared surprised.
He motioned Mircea into the room, where he found Paulo, Jerome, and Danieli passing a decanter around the table. Mircea drew up a stool and joined them. The place was almost frighteningly clean, to the point that he hesitated to put his elbows on the gleaming surface of the table, for fear they might soil it.
But he was tired enough that he did it, anyway.
“All right, that’s one point established,” Danieli said. “And he has all his limbs, so that’s number two. Now for the big one—”
“Don’t,” Bezio said, looking at Mircea’s face. “I’ll concede.”
He tossed a silver soldino into the air, and Danieli caught it without looking up from his drink. It vanished into his purse, but he wasn’t to be deterred. “So how was she?” he demanded.
“She’s upset.” Mircea took a sip of wine. And judging by the smell, was happy he couldn’t taste it. “What would you expect?”
“No, I mean, how was she?”
Mircea looked up.
“Danieli—” Paulo said.
“Oh, like you don’t want to know. She must command those kinds of fees for some reason, and it’s not like the rest of us have ever gotten close enough for a taste—”
“And you never will,” Paulo assured him.
“—except for the man who just spent an hour with the most expensive whore in Venice. So, we all want to know: how was she?” he asked again, with an exaggerated leer.
Which turned to an expression of surprise when his back hit the nearest wall, hard enough to knock a pot off its nail.
“Hey! What are you—” The voice cut off abruptly.
Mircea made a note: Collapsing a windpipe seemed to be a good way to shut someone up.
Someone else appeared at his shoulder, not touching him, but close enough that Mircea could feel the warmth through his wet clothes. “His comment was tasteless and crude,” Bezio’s voice said softly. “But he was rattled. We all are.”
Mircea turned his head. “I suppose you want me to let him go.”
“It’ll be hard to drink your wine otherwise.”
“It’s lousy wine.”
Bezio’s lips quirked. “True. But your arm will get tired eventually.”
That was also true. In fact, it was already starting to shake slightly. Mircea scowled and let the vamp go.
And immediately regretted it.
“You’re defending her honor?” Danieli spat, scrambling up from the floor. “She’s a whore. For that matter, so are you! What the hell—”
Of course, Mircea thought, knocking someone through a door worked pretty well, too.
He looked at Bezio, who was massaging his hand ruefully. “That hurt.”
Considering the blacksmith’s muscles under the thin linen shirt, Mircea thought it might have hurt Danieli more.
Good.
He sat back down.
Paulo sighed, looking at the ruined door to the hallway. He pulled out the small book he used to record their extravagance and made a note. Mircea waited for the inevitable, but tonight seemed determined to break all the rules.
“You aren’t going to tell me off?” he asked, after Paulo finished and put the book away.
The blond drank the lousy wine. “No.”
“Why?”
“Because Bezio was right. It was crude. And because it’s Auria. If you hadn’t done it, I would have.”
Bezio sat back down. “I always thought you had a soft spot for her.”
“She’s high-strung, avaricious, pushy, and conniving.” Paulo shrugged. “And a pretty good person, once you get past the acerbic tongue.”
“I heard her master was the worst,” Jerome said, topping up his glass.
Paulo frowned. “Where did you hear that?”
“From her. I was telling her about mine, and how his masters threw me out after he died—”
“I thought they reluctantly let you go,” Bezio said, lifting an eyebrow.
Jerome rolled his eyes. “Oh, who are we kidding? I wasn’t strong enough or smart enough or whatever enough, so I got the boot.”
“And you had this epiphany when?”
Jerome shrugged. “I guess I’ve always known it, but I didn’t want to admit it.”
“Why? It’s no reflection on you—”
“Isn’t it?”
“No,” Bezio said staunchly. “If they couldn’t see quality, that’s their loss.”
Jerome smiled at him. “You’re going to be proposing next.”
“You’re too ugly.”
“Coming from the man the girls call ‘the great bear’?”
“The great bear?” Bezio thought it over. “I like it.”
“You would. Anyway, that wasn’t why.” He passed the decanter around. “I didn’t want to admit it because . . . well, then you have to do things, don’t you?”
“Things?”
Jerome waved a hand around. “Life things. Once you admit the real situation you’re in, then you have to deal with it, to build a new life. Somehow. And that’s a daunting prospect when you’re all on your own and nobody gives a damn and you’re about as powerless as a kitten surrounded by snarling dogs—”
“Not dealing with it doesn’t change that, though,” Bezio pointed out.
“No, but it makes you feel better. More in control. As long as I kept telling myself that this whole thing was just temporary, that my old family was coming to get me any day, that they’d realize their mistake once some of them got settled and reconsider . . . well, it helped me get up in the morning. Or, you know, our morning.”