Swords From the Sea (26 page)

"Ah, Signor," Zorzi remarked in broken French, "Iny nephew Paulo he relate to me that you serve me, perhaps, this night. Is it so?"

Donald looked at the younger Bragora expectantly.

"It is," Paulo vouchsafed, "that you should carry a letter. Now listen to the reason. We of the Bragora family are not men of warfare, yet in Venice we have enemies. They are powerful-even the names in the Golden Book of nobility are not above their reach. You do not understand? Eh-enough that we are afraid. I say it without shame. I know a dagger slits the hide of a Bragora as quickly as that of a boatman. I am not a fool.

"Now my uncle has written a letter of warning to a friend. It must go this night to the Ca' Cornaro, that is to say the castle of the Cornaro family, which lies distant a half hour by water-an island in the lagoon beyond Canareggio."

He picked up the hourglass with the tally stick that kept count of the hours. "See, the third hour is half ended, and the letter must go very soon. If I carried it, or a servant, we would be watched-followed. But no one in Venice except that flower wench knows your face. No one at all saw you enter this house. I do not hide the danger from you, but I believe you will reach the Ca' Cornaro with a whole hide. When you have handed in the letter at the door, wait for the package they will give you, and bring it to this house at once."

"And what then?" Donald asked.

"Eh, we will then weigh out and put into your hands two silver pounds. After that you are a free man. We trust you to keep your tongue between your teeth."

Donald considered. It seemed clear enough. If he brought back the package they expected, the Bragoras would know that he had delivered the letter. If he did not he would have no pay.

"Well," he responded, "I will do it. Much talk have I heard of brigands and the like. But I have yet to see one who will stand up to an honest sword."

"Par Dex," Zorzi muttered, "you may see even that, Signor. Know you the bra vi of our city? Or the Signor del Notte, the Lord of the Night, who rules the boatmen and cutpurses and hath his spies even i' the great council-"

At an exclamation from Paulo he fell silent. Then he drew out a letter, tied and sealed. "You will take this?"

Donald nodded.

"There is a condition. The letter explains itself to the Cornaro people, our friends. Do not speak my name or my nephew's, or tell any soul of this house. Do you swear, Signor?"

The Scot grunted impatiently, disliking oaths, which were needless if men kept faith, and worthless otherwise. "Aye-aye."

Thrusting the letter through his belt, he followed Bragora to the postern door, where the Venetian handed him two silver shillings to pay a boatman, explaining that any man on the canals would know the Ca' Cor naro, and advising Donald to retrace his way past the church to the canal beyond before hailing a skiff.

Then the Scot heard the door close behind him and heavy bolts click home. It occurred to him as he turned away that he knew nothing of the face of this house, which might be one of the palaces on the outer canal. He could find his way back to the door, however, and that would suffice.

As for his mission, he had no liking for either Paulo or Zorzi Bragora, and he wondered why they chose to pay two silver pounds to the bearer of a missive that any beggar could take for a shilling-although perhaps a beggar could not be trusted.

"Signeur Donal'-wait!"

The whisper came, soft as the lapping of water against stones, out of the darkness. He had passed the shrine, and was walking along the edge of the canal looking for a boat. Donald wondered who could know his name and face, and he turned, setting his back against a wall. Presently he made out a slender figure no higher than his shoulder, with a dark object held against its hip. The flower girl-she must have listened to the talk between him and Bragora when they left the church square. "Nay," he muttered, "is not one stealing enough for thee this night?"

"I did not!" the girl whispered indignantly. "Ah, I thought in truth you knew that. Seigneur Donal', please-I had only seven piccoli all day, and I waited, praying to Our Lady, and you came-the flowers would have wilted by morning."

"And now you have a blind mother or a grandsire who starves; but I have no more money."

"I have no one at all, and I am not hungry because I bought bread with three of the piccoli, and ate it while I waited for you."

She came so close to him that her shawl touched his shield. "Ah, my lord, you must listen just a little. You went with Bragora, and he never does good work. He is a spy."

"Faith, meseems he lacks not company."

Peering up at him, she tried to read his face-no easy matter at any time. "Are you going forth upon this business of Bragora's?"

When Donald said nothing she whispered anxiously.

"My lord, I feared you would. I heard the one with the scar say to him, 'By the blood'-it was a terrible word he spoke-'here is the man for your hand, my Paulo, and he hath no more wit than a blind ass!...

The Scot grinned, and then rubbed his beard thoughtfully. Well, he had no such wit as these Venetians, but at least he would not be trapped by a girl's tongue. Why should she take thought for him unless she wished to learn his business?

"They send you to strike a dirty blow," she nodded gravely, "so that their own hands may be hidden. Do not go."

When he tried to thrust her aside she clung to his arm, and he could feel the rapid throbbing of her heart.

"My lord, you are not the sort of these braves. Listen to Marie-the one with the scar takes tribute from the beggars of San Marco, and Bragora dogs ladies at night. Once they stole a child from a contessa and demanded gold for it. May good Saint Michael let his anger fall on them! Please, Seigneur Donal'-"

Dark eyes fluttered under the shadow of the hood, and a wisp of hair brushed his cheek. She would not let go his arm, and under her touch the blood warmed in his veins as if with wine. He pressed his lips to the tangle of hair, and then swiftly kissed the warm mouth so near his own. And now the girl Marie had naught to say. She looked up at him, dimly seen as some vagrant elf of darkness.

"So, it is much better," she observed calmly. "You come with me, and forget Bragora's business."

"Nay, little Marie," the Scot objected. "Bide a bit, and I will find thee tomorrow."

No doubt, he thought, she was a girl of the streets, but she had a way with her.

"Not tomorrow. Now-you must come away now."

Donald shook his head. Strange that she should have waited for him at the square.

"Then give me a little silver," she demanded.

So that was it. Donald felt cautiously in his belt to make sure that the letter and the two shillings were safe. He did not mean to be robbed twice, not he.

"Get thee gone, Marie," he grumbled.

"Please!"

At that moment a skiff came drifting along the edge of the canal, and Donald hailed the boatman, who stopped abreast him.

"I will show you the way," Marie ventured eagerly. "And I will be quiet, not troubling you at all."

"Ye'll bide here," said Donald grimly. He stepped into the skiff, thrust ing it from the shore. When he had seated himself in the stern he saw her standing on the stone embankment, her basket in her arms, her head turned toward him anxiously. Then she laughed like an excited child.

His boatman was gabbling, waving his arms, to ask where to go. Donald rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Someone had been lying to him-either the two Bragoras or the flower girl. Still, he had promised to carry the letter, and there could be no harm in that. A bargain was a bargain, and Donald needed those two silver pounds.

"Ca' Cornaro," he told the boatman, who nodded, gestured at the canal ahead of them, and stood up to the long oar. They lurched forward under the light of a bridge. Donald felt again to make certain his letter was secure, at first carelessly, then anxiously. The letter with its seals was there under his belt, but one of the two shillings had vanished.

"Now why did she do that?" he wondered. Marie must have taken it in that last moment-the Scot had never lost coins so heedlessly before coming to Venice-yet why did she take only one coin?

The boatman weighed his oar and turned to listen, saying something that Donald could not grasp. After pointing behind them and shrugging his shoulders, the man leaned against the oar again, and they entered the darkness of a lagoon.

In the mist of the lagoon nothing could be seen. Once Donald thought that he heard the clug-cluck of an oar laboring over the water, but no other boat approached. Guided apparently by a sixth sense of direction, his own skiff pierced the fog until the blur of lights appeared, and it drifted in, by mooring stakes, to a stone landing.

The Ca' Cornaro was a square marble palazzo rising sheer from the water except for the small landing before the door. The embrasures of the lower floor were barred by heavy gratings and were curtained, but lighted windows showed above. Donald climbed from his skiff unchallenged, and rapped with his sword hilt on the heavy door. A face appeared at the lookout opening and a voice questioned him in harsh Italian. The Scot held up his letter.

Slowly the door swung open and he walked into a lofty, tapestried hall. An armed porter scrutinized him with surprise and held out his hand for the letter.

"It is for the Seigneur of the Cornaro," Donald explained, unwilling to give up the missive to a servant.

The porter shook his head at the Norman-French words, but a gentle man appeared and stared at the Scot. "There is no Seigneur," the newcomer observed, "but there is a Contessa of the Cornaro, and no doubt the letter will be for her. Will you tell me your name?"

"Aye-Donald Ban, it is, of the Clan Arran."

"Mordie! Well, you will wait."

He left with the letter, and Donald heard a woman's light laugh as he opened the door into an adjoining chamber. A moment of silence, and then voices exclaimed angrily. The porter dropped the candle he was holding and caught out his dagger as several men ran into the hall, tugging at their sword hilts.

"A mort!" one shouted. "Strike him down!"

"Nay," panted another. "Take the dog-bind him-let him feel the hot irons!"

It seemed to Donald that the letter had worked him mischief with these gentlemen. But it was not the first time he had faced an angry crowd. When the porter, who was nearest, struck at him, the Scot stepped back, drawing the round shield over his arm in time to parry the first wild slash of a sword. He drew his own straight blade and stepped back again into a niche of the wall, where two columns under a pointed arch shut him in on either side.

One of the gentlemen lunged at him viciously, and he cut down at the blade, knocking it aside and driving his assailant back with a wide cut at the head. The man stumbled, letting fall his sword, and the others drew away, seeing him helpless under Donald's blade, which swept back and forth over his head without harming him.

"Bide ye so!" the Scot cried. "I seek no quarrel here."

The men of the palace muttered, but a woman's voice shrilled at them and Donald from the corner of his eye saw the Contessa of the Cor- naro-white shoulders gleaming in the candlelight above a long blue gown. Henna-red hair she had, and eyes that blazed with wrath.

"Dog!" She lifted the letter and tore it in two. "Hound of the Lord of the Night! To come here to my house demanding gold or the death of my boy. Name of a Name-'tis no quarrel thou wilt find here, but a death that is fit for such a dog! "

Out of the flood of words Donald grasped the fact that the letter had threatened this woman of the flaming hair. "Faith," he thought, "there will be no quieting her now if she hath a child in peril-"

"Take him and bind him," the contessa urged her gentlemen. "So we can learn from him who sent him."

There were four Venetians besides the porter still on their feet; but they hesitated to rush in upon the Scot, who could slay the one stretched on the floor. Three Donald might have fought off, but he could not stop five. And he glanced sidewise at the door, which was a little open, thinking to risk a leap for it while he was still unhurt.

As he looked the heavy door swung wide. The men of the Cornaro drew back, startled, expecting, perhaps, the appearance of other creatures of the night. Into the hall walked Marie, the flower basket still on her hip, the shawl thrown back from her dark head. Slight and ragged she looked beside the very brightly clad Venetians.

An instant she caught her breath, then laughed so cheerily that a moment of astonished silence followed.

"My lady, Giulia," she cried. "You have bought my flowers at San Marco's arch, and you too, Messer Carlo." Resting the basket on the floor, she surveyed them, her brown eyes amused. "May the good saints aid us-how foolish it is to fight. At the door I heard talk of the Lord of the Night. That is stupid. Would he send a witless soldier such as this with a letter? Nay, he would burn this palazzo, but he would not threaten for a mere little gold."

"Back, child," muttered one of the gentlemen. "'Tis the son of the contessa they mean to take."

"Messer Vital," she retorted, "often have I seen you in the garden of the Arsenal with a young lady who was not your wife. But what do you know of the braves of the streets? Now you are all frightened, and this soldier-he does not understand why."

"Girl," exclaimed the Contessa Giulia, "he brought this letter demanding five pounds of gold to be given him wrapped in a cloth, or my boy would not live to go twice to mass. And the name-it is signed by the Signor del Notte." Impatiently she turned to her gentlemen.

"Vital-Carlo-how long will you let this rogue stand with drawn sword in my hall?"

"Get thee hence, little Marie," Donald grumbled. "'Tis no matter of yours, this."

"Witless!" she scoffed, and cried out at the woman in blue. "My lady, it is a great sin you would do. How easy it is to write the words 'Lord of the Night'! And to make good people into fools! The one who wrote that let ter is a briber and betrayer, who fears the Cornaro more than I. He found this Signor Donal', who is an Inglisman, a stray in the streets, and offered him payment to bear a letter to honest people. Look! He is only a thickskulled man of the wars."