The first familiar face he saw, also at the town's fountain, belonged to neither Erik nor Thalia. The Corfiote sailor no longer had his black eye. The sailor looked at Benito. Blinked. Looked again.
Benito hoped that this wouldn't get unpleasant. He was fairly sure he could deal with the man's inept knife-skills. What he didn't want was the trouble that would inevitably follow. He also didn't want his identity nosed about. It might not cause trouble—but there could be ears out here in the street that it shouldn't come to. Benito glanced about. There was no one in earshot, at least.
The sailor shook his head. "I'll be damned! Just what are you doing here, Case Vecchie?"
He didn't say it too loudly, or with any malice. Benito decided to chance friendliness. If he remembered rightly, the sailor from Bari had called him "Spiro."
"Trying not to give away that I am a Case Vecchie, Spiro. Do me a favor. Don't shout or call any attention to it or I might have to remind you how we last met. And I don't want to do that; I've got plenty of trouble as it is."
The man didn't really seem to have heard. Instead he was studying Benito intently. "You are him!" he said unbelievingly. "You really are him!"
"I really don't want everyone to know, Spiro," Benito repeated, fixing him with a stare.
The sailor grinned widely. "Safe enough with me, milord. I owe you."
Benito noticed that a couple of people were staring at them. He clapped Spiro on the shoulder, and turned the gesture into an arm around the sailor's shoulders, as if they were old friends. Which, at the moment, Benito really hoped was the case. "Let's go and find some wine. I was going to drink some of the water, but I've decided that I'm really not that thirsty."
Spiro looked skeptical. "Right now, wine in Paleokastritsa is damn near as expensive as wine in Venice. And I'm afraid I'm broke again, milord, even if I owe you a drink or two."
"For heaven's sake, call me Benito. Forget the 'milord.' And the wine is on me, and something to eat, if you can forget that fact. Venetian Case Vecchie are not popular right now. Out there, the Hungarians want to kill us for protecting the island. From what I can work out, the Corfiotes in here want to kill us for not protecting the island."
Spiro shrugged. "As you're buying the wine, I wouldn't dream of killing you, m . . . Benito."
"Afterwards is a different story," said Benito wryly.
Spiro chuckled. "After a few glasses of wine even the stupidest idea can sound like a good one. But I did learn that that was a really, really insanely stupid one. So what are you doing here, m . . . Benito?"
"I'll tell you about it over that cup of wine. Where do we find one?"
Spiro pointed across the square at dark doorway. "Papavanakis'. His taverna is dirty, it smells, his wife's face would curdle milk and I think he waters his wine."
Benito grinned. "So why are we drinking there?"
Spiro shrugged and grinned back. "At least what he's putting in the wine is water. And he is less of a thief than most of them."
They strolled over and went into the dim coolness out of the already bright day. Benito blinked, adjusting his eyes to the lack of direct sunlight. The taverna was clean and smelled of food and wine. Fresh bread and meaty smells, and the wine wasn't slightly used by prior customers. The pretty young woman behind the counter scowled at them. "Not you again, Spiro! Go away. Not another cup will I give you until you pay."
Spiro nodded to Benito. "See what I mean," he said mournfully. "Curdle milk, that face would."
She snorted and pretended to throw a wine cup at him. It was obviously an old joke. "Go away, Spiro. Papas will kill me if I give you any more credit."
Spiro gestured expansively. "It's all right, Anna. Beni here is paying."
The woman raised her eyebrows. "With the same coin as you pay? Or real money?"
Benito produced a silver penny.
"You shouldn't show her that much!" said Spiro. "She'll faint and we'll never see any wine. Or that food you promised me. It's been a while since I ate."
The taverna's keeper clicked her tongue. "He's impossible. How did he talk you into wasting good money on him?" She said it with perfect amiability, while filling two wine cups.
Benito realized that Spiro had addressed her in Italian Frankish . . . and that she'd replied in the same way. Plainly, by her accent and rapidity of speech, it was her mother-tongue. He'd been keeping his own mouth shut to play down his origins but it now seemed safe enough. "He borrowed money from me. He's had it for a year. So now he says I owe him interest," said Benito, earnestly.
The young woman snorted with laughter and handed them the wine. "And you'll keep owing him interest until the day he dies." She pointed to the tables. "Sit. I'll go and find you some food."
They sat. Spiro took a pull at his wine cup. "More water than wine."
It tasted pretty good to Benito. "So, what are you doing here, Spiro. Is this home?"
The Corfiote gestured expansively. "This dump? Ha. Liapadhes is a great metropolis. Broad streets, wonderful tavernas. Wine like a young lion. As far from this place as the sun is from the earth."
Benito was beginning to get the hang of Spiro by now. "So it is just like this, is it?"
Spiro gave him a conspiratorial wink and took another pull of his wine. "Two peas in a pod, really, except this has got a good defensive position. It's about a mile and half south."
"How did you get home from Venice?"
Spiro raised his cup. "A Dorma ship, thanks to you. I was with her all the way to Constantinople. I'd have stayed with her too, but when I got back to Corfu, on the return trip, there was a bit of family business I had to settle. A fellow had taken some liberties with my sister." He swallowed half the contents of his cup at a go. "So after I had thanked him very politely, I went back to Kerkira, but the ship had left. I couldn't come back to Liapadhes for a while. So I took a job with a fisherman. Taki drinks too much but he's a good skipper. Then this lot blew up. So I thought I'd come home. Only home seemed to be full of Hungarians. And you, Benito?"
Benito's ears had pricked up with the mention of the fisherman. "Got sent out here to be a factor for Dorma. And then this war blew up. Look, this fisherman friend of yours. He wouldn't like to earn a bit of money? I really want out of here back to the Italian mainland."
At this point, Anna the taverna keeper arrived with two earthenware platters, fragrant steam curling up from them. "I had some of last night's stifado still. I've just made it hot. That one," she pointed an elbow at Spiro, "didn't eat last night. So I thought he might as well eat this morning, and you looked hungry."
Spiro looked suspiciously at the plate of pearl onion-laced stew that she put in front of him. "It hasn't got quinces in it again, has it? You know I hate quinces."
She shook her head as she wiped her hands on her apron. Then she held out a hand to Benito. "And that's why he ate three helpings."