It wasn't long. Some twenty yards down, after a single sharp bend, Sophia found herself in front of a grating looking out onto an alley. The grating was old too, the iron coated in rust. From the outside, to anyone passing by in the narrow and—she had no doubt, though she couldn't really see it in the dim light thrown by the oil lamp—filthy, garbage-strewn alleyway, the grating would attract no notice at all. A town as old as Kerkira had a multitude of such architectural oddities.
Inspecting with her fingers, she discovered that, here also, Morando had taken care to oil the hinges on the inside of the grating. He hadn't grown that careless. When and if the time came, the grating could be opened—where most such would be rusted shut.
So. All that remained was to examine the latch. It was a simple bolt on the inside—her side—of the grating, tucked out of sight of anyone in the alley. She experimented a bit and satisfied herself that she could reach through the grating and pry it open, when the time came.
A good night's work. Now moving quickly, Bianca retraced her steps and, soon enough, was silently lowering the flagstone over the secret entrance to the cellar. She returned the oil lamp to the kitchen; then, made a quick inspection of her body to make sure there were no tell-tale traces of her activities. Beyond cleaning the soles of her feet and wiping her hands on a rag, there was nothing. Bianca, unlike Morando, had not grown careless with the passage of time.
She returned to the bedroom and eased her way back into the bed. Morando grunted faintly, as her weight depressed the mattress, but didn't wake up.
Bianca started to sneer, in the darkness. Sloppy oaf! But she removed the expression almost instantly. First, reminding herself that she had a powerful motive for always remaining careful which Morando lacked—her quest for immortality. And, secondly, reminding herself that too many sneers would eventually disfigure her face. Eternity was . . . forever.
Chapter 26
Benito was frog-marched onto the galley, still with leg irons on. The Justices were making absolutely sure he didn't escape, he thought grumpily.
As if he'd want to while he was still here in Venice! He'd spent a number of days in prison, any one of which was a day too many. It had brought home to him just how valuable being able to do things really was—especially being able to come and to go at times of your own choosing. Reluctantly, Benito came to acknowledge that maybe Marco knew him better than he knew himself. Staring at those walls for a solid year would indeed have driven him crazy. And if the food wasn't quite as bad as the swill the Casa Dandelo had fed their slaves, it was pretty close. Even the water was vile. Wine was a vain dream.
So: He kept his head down, he kept his mouth shut, and he behaved himself, irons and all.
It was only when he saw Erik Hakkonsen, with Manfred, staring down at him that he realized they'd played yet another trick on him.
Erik had the keys to his manacles. They dangled loosely, but obviously, from his left hand. "I have been given the duration of the voyage to Corfu to drill some sense into you," said Erik coldly. "I have nine days, perhaps, so we will start right now. You will address me as 'Sir.' You will speak only when you are spoken to. And if you aren't quick enough to do as you are told I will beat you."
"What the hell am I doing on board ship with you?" Bonito blurted, more in surprise than anger.
He got a sharp slap about the ear from Erik. "Have you already forgotten what I have told you? Sir. Speak when you are spoken to. Do everything as fast as your flesh will allow."
Benito found himself fiery mad clear through to the core. Why the hell should he put up with this? It wasn't as if he'd been alone in his carousing. Manfred had been there too. He stuck his chin out. "Make me."
In later years he would say that this proved the wise proposition that stupidity provides its own punishment. Erik proceeded, coldly and methodically, to prove that yes, he could make Benito do what he was told to do. Or, at least, regret that he had failed to do it.
As he lay against the bulkhead later, groaning, he looked up when Manfred leaned over. The prince's grin was cheerful, but sympathetic. "Best just do it, Benito-boy. Erik is mad with both of us for partying when he thought I was tucked up in my little bed. What's even worse, he's crossed in love. He's in the vilest temper I've ever seen him. Most of the knights are creeping around on tiptoes. Me too."
Benito heard Erik's ominous voice. "Manfred, I think it is time that you and I had a little more drill together."
Manfred's big shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. "Not again, Erik! You beat up Benito for a while, that should do. You've got all the way to Jerusalem to take it out on me. And my ribs are still sore from yesterday."
Erik's face loomed over him, his chill eyes back on Benito. "Up," he said. "You aren't nearly as damaged as you think you are. And once you've warmed up properly, most of your bruises will stop hurting."
* * *
Benito was engaged in Erik's idea of warming-up exercises, which he suspected would have him dead on the deck, when relief in the shape of Marco and Kat arrived to bid him farewell. And, to his surprise, Petro Dorma was with them.
Petro had brought with him Benito's rapier, main gauche, and also several porters with the rest of Benito's clothing. "You sail within the hour, and it may be some years, five perhaps, before I see you again. I have taken one liberty. I have given to your grandfather the broken sword that was in the armoire in your room. The duke requested it. He says he will have it reforged, since one day you may wish to give it back to Sforza. In which case, he says, it will be more useful if has a point with which you can drive it home. I will have it sent to you."
Somehow that polite civility made it all worse. "Thank you. And Petro . . ."
"Yes?"
"I'm really sorry I made all this trouble. It's just . . ."
Petro smiled. "That is behind us. You understand that as the Doge I have to be seen to be fair, dispensing justice, rewards and punishments, with an impartial hand. Even to my wards; perhaps especially to my wards. Now. Go well. Enjoy Corfu. Report to my senior factor there."
"Couldn't I go somewhere else?" begged Benito. "Please?"
"No." Petro shook his head emphatically. "You will just have to learn to live with her there, too. I suggest you go and see her, make your peace. If, after a year or two I hear good reports from my factor, you will be transferred elsewhere to learn more of how the Dorma business is conducted. Now, farewell, Godspeed, and try to stay out of trouble, boy."
Benito swallowed. "I'll do my best, Petro."
The farewell to Marco was harder. He wouldn't be seeing his brother for years. They'd never been apart for more than a month. Even when Marco was hiding out in the Jesolo marshes, at least Benito had always known where he could try to find him if he needed to. Now it would be a long time before they saw each other again. "Good-bye, Marco. I'm sorry I've been such a fool."
Marco was as gracious as Petro, and more understanding, perhaps. After all, he'd done stupid things for love, too. "We've both done that, Benito. Please take care. I know you usually ended up looking after me, but I won't be there to help. Remember to write to us."