Maria had taken to joining the Corfiote women in the weaving. After the incident in which she'd been arrested and hidden among them, she was accepted. And, she had to admit, now that Alessia was slightly older and sleeping through the night, staying indoors and being the good scuolo wife, shopping, gossiping, cleaning house, caring for the child . . . was far less active than she liked. It wasn't as if the house took much cleaning. Yes, Alessia did take a lot of time, and generate mountains of washing, but with Umberto working all hours and Alessia being a relatively easy baby—by comparison to Stella's children, who didn't sleep through the night until they were about four—Maria found herself wanting to be out, doing something.
Doing something to fight back. Weaving sailcloth would do.
Besides, she got on well with the Corfiote women. Most of the colonial Venetian women, even the scuolo wives, employed one or even several Corfiote girls in their homes. It was the largest difference in the way a Venetian scuolo wife lived in Venice and here. It also kept a gap between them and the local people. Working with them, Maria found she was absorbing the language in equal proportion to their respect. Here she wasn't a canal-girl who'd married a scuolo husband and gone up in the world. Here she was someone who they looked up to and who had earned their respect.
One of the women tickled Alessia. She gurgled. "She is a lovely child, Maria," said the woman wistfully. "I lost my first baby. The fever took him. I go to the temple to hope for another. But it may be better to only be blessed after this siege is over."
Maria lifted an eyebrow. "I think keeping your Spiro sober would be more worthwhile than the church."
The woman laughed. "Church, yes. But not the temple."
Maria was slightly puzzled. She'd seen them all at the chapel, at the Sunday communion. But she said no more.
"I accept that what you say is true, signorina," said Commander Leopoldo, a wry smile plucking at his lips. "But while it is true that a single young man like myself would seek you out and flirt with you . . . most people would assume that the prince would not take kindly to it."
Francesca lowered her lashes, smiling slightly. "Which is why you are cautious about it. Meeting me only occasionally and then keeping a safe physical distance, and well in sight of multiple witnesses. Believe me, I know men well. Not one of those watching will think anything more of these meetings than that you are brave philanderer."
The commander raised his eyes heavenward. "A stupid philanderer, more likely. Anyway. Just what does the prince want to tell me about?"
"The storekeeper. And a small coterie of clerks and guards. At first I thought it was just two of the guards, but we've pinpointed six now. They're running a black-market ring, selling extra rations to the Libri d'Oro families. Keep walking. You're supposed to be flirting with me."
His face was pleasant, but his voice was grim. "It's a hanging offense. I need names, Francesca."
"You need to go into this like a bull at a gate as much as a tavern keeper needs to give a drunkard a spare key to his cellar," she said sharply. "Eberhard pointed this out to us: If there is one thing we need even less than a shortage in the supplies, it's panic. Emeric has spies inside the Citadel, too. We don't need him to know, either. We want this quietly and efficiently done."
The young commander blinked. "I see I am in the hands of true professionals here. That sort of intrigue is not my forte, to put it charitably. All right. What do you want done? And can you walk a little slower? This hill is playing hell with my knee."
"Very well." She laughed—a musical sound, one that she had, admittedly, practiced. "This is my daily exercise too, Commander. In my former line of work, I could not afford to get fat and unfit. I probably still can't, for that matter! But even if I could, I've developed certain ingrained habits. One of them is walking a lot, and the other is walking fast. I apologize."
Again, the commander blinked. Like many people, she thought, Leopoldo found Francesca's bluntness about her former status as a courtesan—even a whore—more than a little disconcerting. Especially coming from a woman with such a close personal relationship with an imperial prince. But—also like many people—that same straightforwardness produced a certain level of trust and confidence.
She smiled faintly, watching the quick interplay of expressions on his face. "Now, today at about Vespers a cart will be taking extra food to various buyers. It will be going to Count Dentico's lodging—among others. The Count is the head of the pro-Byzantine faction of the Libri d'Oro. Among other things, his 'volunteers' have been making their way onto the guard on the north postern, by the Little Arsenal gates. No, we don't think it is a problem yet. But it would be a good idea if they were unobtrusively split up. Anyway, that's another matter. For now I think you want to work on catching the count's staff, and the troopers, red-handed. If you play things right you should be able to get the clerks, too. I doubt very much if that will net the real traitors—these things usually have layers within layers, like an onion—but at least it'll put a stop to one immediate and major problem."
She paused. "Falkenberg wants to know why you haven't established a curfew, and night patrols. I agree with him about this one. It makes dark doings much more difficult, if not impossible."
The commander took a deep breath. "I tried. The captain-general said they were unnecessary. However, while he is on the back foot with this, we'll institute them."
"That's a good boy. Let me have passwords and chits or whatever system you use, please. And I think you'd better leave the Knights as above challenge except for a password. When they're in full armor, that is, since it will be rather difficult to counterfeit or steal that armor. I think Falkenberg wants a patrol or two of them. He's worried about mines. And now, farewell, my admirer. That same sergeant will bring you word when I need my exercise disturbed again."
"They're going to be cracking down soon on the black-marketeering, I hope you understand," Bianca said to Saluzzo, stroking his chin. "And there's never any guarantee that treason will work."
The Florentine thug, lying next to her in the bed, smiled lazily. The feline smile had a very self-satisfied air about it. Saluzzo was firmly convinced that he'd just enjoyed an hour of sweaty, energetic and very enjoyable sex.
"Don't worry your pretty head about it, Bianca. Fianelli's about as charming a guy to work for as a slug, but there's a good brain under that ugly exterior. He's had it set for quite a while that if the black-market business goes sour, somebody else will take the blame. Nachelli and his two little cousins have been the go-between with the greedy Libri d'Oro, instead of us directly. Besides, not even Nachelli's dumb enough to get caught in a black-market sweep. He'll still be around afterward, to take the blame if the betrayal of the north postern doesn't work."
She frowned slightly, still stroking his chin. "What's to keep them from fingering you, if they're caught? Us, I should say."
Saluzzo's smile shifted from lazy to something equally feline, but far more savage. For a moment, Bianca felt the muscles in his arms and chest moving. The Florentine was quite a powerful man.
"Like I said, don't worry about it. I'll take care of the problem. Might have Papeti give me a hand. Won't take more than that, not dealing with Nachelli. The rent collector and his two goons-in-name-only won't be talking to anyone, trust me."
"Still . . ." Her hand moved down, beginning to stroke his chest. "There's Fianelli himself. I really don't trust him, Paulo—and neither do you, don't try to pretend."
The Florentine's eyes rolled sideways, to examine her face. The look in his eyes was not suspicious, so much as simply cautious.
"Ambition's a dangerous beast, woman. If I learned nothing else in Florence and Naples, I learned that much. That's why I'm living here, on this misbegotten little island in the middle of nowhere."
She chuckled throatily. "It's not that misbegotten, Paulo. Lots of potential here, actually—especially once the Byzantines or Hungarians are running the place. Their notions of accounting are a lot sloppier than Venetian ones, to put it mildly. In the right hands, run by somebody less narrow-minded than Fianelli . . ."
"It is a both a civil and a military matter, your honors," said Commander Leopoldo. "Which is why I asked if both of you could come. I am sorry to summon you so late and so urgently, but it is I think of importance that this be dealt with quickly—and as quietly as possible."
"You can't do this!" protested a stout, florid-faced man. "I am one of the Libri d'Oro! Governor, this man"—Count Dentico pointed an accusing finger at Commander Leopoldo—"charged his troopers into my home and seized me. All for some imaginary infringement about some goods my staff—without my knowledge—bought in good faith."
The commander's face was bleak. "We have a cartload of grain from the Republic's granaries. In bags labeled 'property of the Republic of Venice.' We have seven ducats in gold seized in the act of changing hands between Count Dentico's steward and the soldiers from the granary. The steward confessed to doing this on the count's express orders—and, besides, such amounts of money can only have come from Dentico himself. Pursuant to these findings, my men took trooper Dorte at gunpoint and drove the empty cart back to the granary. Storemaster Capi Tapani demanded the money. We have arrested him, too. My men have seized the records and are examining the stores of grain and other foodstuffs. As a preventative measure, we have kept all the capi's staff in custody."
He looked at the captain-general and the governor. "This is treason. Both buyer and seller endanger the fortress. But we don't want to create panic."
Captain-General Tomaselli looked excessively uncomfortable. Count Dentico was something of a friend of his. "These soldiers need to be dealt with harshly, according to military law. But the Count . . . well, my dear Commander. He's a nobleman and a loyal friend of Venice. One of the Libri d'Oro, as he says. We simply can't hold him accountable for the actions of his servants. Nor can you trust their testimony."
"He was feeding his horses and his hogs on it!" snapped the commander angrily. "Food that was meant to keep us safe from starvation during this siege turned into pig-shit."
The old governor sighed. "He's right, Tomaselli. If we let him off . . . if word gets out, and word will . . ."
"How?" the captain-general said, in disbelief.
The governor looked at him as if he had failed to be able to write his own name. "The commander has used men, not waxwork dolls, to arrest these criminals. So when the word gets out, the commoners who have been battling along on the siege-ration will riot, for certain. As likely as not, even the troops would join in. Then we have riots within and war without. The Citadel's fall is certain." He gave Tomaselli a weary look. "Besides, as the Count is a civilian, I believe I have the final say. I will examine the evidence, and question the steward and the servants of the Count's household."
He turned to the commander. "Do you have them in custody? Good. If the evidence is as compelling as it seems, we have little option but to apply the ultimate sanction to all the guilty parties, equally."