"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.
Chapter 88
"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."