States of Grace by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page A

every month, and my captains are beginning to accept the notion of having soldiers aboard.” Di Santo-Germano regarded Fosian narrowly. “What about pilferage here, at the docks and wharves?”
    “It is a constant, as you must know for yourself,” said Fosian. “A terrible situation, but what can anyone do?”
    “Hire guards for the cargos once they’re off-loaded,” said di Santo-Germano at once. “Give your ships’ soldiers something to do ashore beyond whoring and drinking.”
    “They’re apt to be the most light-fingered of all,” said Fosian miserably. “But you’re right: cargos must be guarded, and emporia, as well, just as we guard the Arsenal. So many things must be protected.” He heaved a heavy sigh. “All of which costs money.”
    “That it does,” said di Santo-Germano, and reached into the tooled black-leather wallet that hung from his narrow belt. “Which is why I have brought this with me.” He held out a small purse that jingled. “My contribution to the protection of all docks, wharves, and emporia.”
    Fosian took the purse and untied its knotted thongs, then turned out the contents onto his work-table; he stifled a gasp at what fell out. “Fiorini d’or,” he marveled as the golden Florentine coins poured onto the wood. “So much! How many?”
    “Seventy,” said di Santo-Germano as if this staggering amount was nothing more than a few silver Turkish sequins; he had made the gold in his own athanor in his private laboratory, and used genuine Florentine molds and stamps to cast the precious metal.
    “A princely sum,” said Fosian, recovering himself enough to scoop up the gleaming trove and slip it into a small drawer in the chest under the table. “I will, naturally, inform I Savii of your contribution.”
    “And I thank you for that consideration,” said di Santo-Germano. “This is a hard time for trading.”
    “So it is,” said Fosian. “I can see the trouble everywhere.”
    The city was flourishing, and Venezia was rich beyond imagining, but di Santo-Germano knew this made her as much a target as an example to other ports. “The jealousy of rivals is the price of achievement.”
    Fosian held up one palm to show he was helpless to stop such envy. “This will help us; I know the Minor Consiglio will be grateful.” He coughed gently. “Your taxes will not be lessened.”
    “I realize that,” said di Santo-Germano. “That would be possible only if I were a citizen of La Serenissima.”
    “You could be,” Fosian suggested.
    “It is impractical, I regret to say,” he responded with a slight, self-effacing bow. “As an exile, I fear I would not be able to sustain my obligations to Venezia—”
    “—If your exile should end,” Fosian finished for him. “I do understand you. And I see your point. Ah, well. If you should change your mind, I would be pleased to speak on your behalf.”
    Di Santo-Germano spoke quietly. “I am deeply obliged to you, Consiglier Fosian.”
    Fosian waved this away. “You have no reason for such obligation, not after so lavish a gift as you have provided. I would be a fool not to sponsor such a man as you.”
    “Nevertheless, I am obliged to you,” said di Santo-Germano.
    “If you insist,” said Fosian, and came up to his guest to touch cheeks with him. “You are a most gracious fellow, Conte, and I thank you on behalf of the Doge and his Consiglii, and Savii.”
    Di Santo-Germano accepted the courtesy, saying, “I will do myself the honor of calling upon you within the next fortnight. I would like to present you with a copy of my press’ latest books.”
    “Generous and perspicacious,” approved Fosian. “For if I have copies of the books, how can I protest your publications?” He laughed, and started toward the door. “I am sorry you cannot join us for prandium, but as you have other business to attend to—”
    “I thank you for your invitation; I am sorry I must decline. I wish you good appetite, glad companions, and