trying

little thing;

less than weathered—and those hands pushed pencils far more often than the pole of a skip. Marco would be willing to bet money on it. This was no canaler, hired or permanent retainer. This was likely one of the younger members of the Family.
This notion was confirmed when Capi Tiepolo put in his ­appearance. There was something very similar about the cast of the nose and the shape of the ears of both the good father and the boatman. Even in inbred Venice, features that similar usually spelled a blood-relationship.
It didn’t take long to load the tiny casks onto the small barge; Marco didn’t bother to get any closer than he was. He wasn’t planning on trying to see if the articles were stamped or not. He was doing what only he could, with his perfect memory.
Even amid the bustle of the dock, he was keeping absolute track of exactly how many spice casks—and only the spice casks, nothing else—were going into the bottom of that barge.
Three days later, when the bundle of tax stamps came in, Marco had his answer. Three more casks had gone into the barge than there were stamps for.

That night he intended to give Caesare Aldanto his full report—but that afternoon he got an unexpected surprise.
A creamy white and carefully calligraphied note from the House of Dorma.

Marco finished his report to Aldanto, given while he was finishing his dinner in the kitchen, and Caesare was both impressed and surprised. The lad had handled himself like a professional—
Like an adult. He’d thought out what he needed to know, he’d planned how to get it without blowing his cover, and he’d executed that plan carefully, coolly, and patiently. Aldanto pondered the boy’s information, and concluded that no matter how you looked at it, it was going to be worth a great deal to both sides of this messy and treacherous game he played. He nodded to himself, then o