States of Grace by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page B

a pleasant repose when the meal is done,” said di Santo-Germano, preceding his host through the door. “I have been told you keep an excellent table.”
    “As any man in my position must, as he must dress and equip himself,” said Fosian. “Well, do not trouble yourself. We will dine together another time.”
    “When it is appropriate,” said di Santo-Germano, politely avoiding the necessity of refusing another invitation.
    “As you say.” They descended the broad staircase to the main floor, and the loggia that fronted on the canal. “Your gondola is here.”
    “Yes,” said di Santo-Germano.
    “You do well to keep a gondola of your own. It is safer to do so,” said Fosian as he signaled for the boat to approach the loading step.
    “Yes; it is,” said di Santo-Germano, whose native earth provided the weight of the shallow keel he had had built into the gondola, along with certain other modifications of his own design. He stepped into the craft and bowed slightly to Fosian. “Grazie per tutti, Consiglier Fosian.”
    “San Marco show you favor,” Fosian replied, and waved as the gondola pulled away from his palazzo.
    The gondola slid in among the tangle of other gondolas, boats, and barges, the rear oar plying the waters expertly. As they reached the middle of the canal, the gondolier, Milano da Costaga, spoke up, taking care not to be overheard by any other boatmen. “Conte, there is a man following you.”
    Di Santo-Germano looked around, shading his eyes against the twin glint of sky and water. “Are you certain?”
    “I am. I have observed him for the last three days. I believe he is a nephew of one of the Savii, or someone close to them, but I am not sure. A young foppish sort, a bit too good-looking and eager; you know the breed.” Milano skillfully avoided a small rowboat filled with loaves of new bread, then swerved around another boat drawn up at the side entrance to a small palazzo.
    “Tell me more,” said di Santo-Germano.
    “I first noticed him three days since. He was on the bridge at San Barnaba, trying to appear disinterested, but I saw him try to keep up with us as we went toward the Bacino di San Marco. Had he not started running, I would have paid no attention to him, but …”
    When Milano said nothing more, di Santo-Germano asked, “Is that all?”
    “No. I observed him outside San Luca yesterday, and this morning I saw him at the Campo San Angelo.”
    “Venezia is a small place,” said di Santo-Germano. “Are you sure he is following me, and not simply moving in places that I move? If he is a relative of one of the Savii, he might be about any number of duties for them.”
    “I know a man bent on proper business, and one seeking to do harm.” Milano steered toward the smaller canal that would lead to the side of di Santo-Germano’s elegant house.
    “I have no doubt you do,” said di Santo-Germano as the gondola slipped up against the marble steps. “You must not think I doubt you, but it may not be as bad as you suspect.” He tossed Milano a pair of silver coins. “Keep watch for him, but do not follow him yourself, only notice when you see him about, and in two days tell me what you find.”
    Milano snatched the coins out of the air. “That I will, Conte.”
    Di Santo-Germano got carefully out of the gondola, and stepped into the small side loggia of his house; at once Niccola came running, a sealed letter in his hand and a worried expression on his young face as he thrust the envelope forward. “Conte! Conte! This came for you.”
    As Milano busied himself securing the gondola to the marble pillars in its mooring spot next to the loggia steps, di Santo-Germano reached for the letter, noticing it had an impression of the Ambrogio arms in the wax sealing it. “When did this arrive?”
    “Not two hours ago. A servant from the Arsenal brought it,” said Niccola, impressed in spite of himself.
    “Very good,” said di Santo-Germano. “I’ll have a look at it