The Thief Lord Part 4

Prosper opened the door of the emergency exit and shuddered as the cold air a.s.saulted him. It was a starlit night and the moon shimmered on the ca.n.a.l behind the movie theater. The houses on the opposite side were dark -- except for one window, where a light still shined. Someone else who can't sleep, Prosper thought. A few broad, worn steps led down to the water. They looked as if they led all the way to the bottom of the ca.n.a.l. Deeper and deeper, and into another world. Once he had sat by the ca.n.a.l with Bo and Mosca, and Bo had claimed that mermen and mermaids had built those steps. Mosca had asked him how they used them with their slippery fishtails. Prosper smiled as he remembered. He sat down on the topmost step and looked across the moonlit surface of the water. The ca.n.a.l showed the blurred reflections of the houses, just as it had done long before Prosper had been born, before his parents and even his grandparents had been born. Often, as he walked through the city, Prosper ran his fingers along the walls. The stones in Venice felt very different, everything was different from anything he had known before.

Prosper tried not to think about it. He wasn't homesick -- he hadn't been for a long time, not even at night. This was his home now. The city had welcomed Bo and him like a great, gentle animal. It had hidden them in its winding alleys and had enchanted them with its exotic sounds and strange smells. It had even provided them with friends. Prosper didn't ever want to leave again. Never. He had grown so used to hearing the water smack and slurp against wood and stone.

But what if they had to run again? Just because of that man with the walrus mustache? Prosper and Riccio still hadn't told the others about their pursuer. But they were all in danger, for if the detective got on to Prosper and Bo's trail, then he would also find the Star-Palace and the others. The others...Mosca, who didn't want to go back to his family because they didn't even miss him; for Riccio, there was only the children's home; Hornet, who never told them anything about her old life because it just made her too sad; and -- Scipio. Prosper shivered. He wrapped his arms around his knees. What if the detective also got onto the trail of the Thief Lord while he searched for Prosper and Bo? A fine thank you that would be to Scipio for taking them under his wing.

On the wet steps lay a torn vaporetto vaporetto ticket. Prosper let it flutter down into the ca.n.a.l and watched it drift out of sight. ticket. Prosper let it flutter down into the ca.n.a.l and watched it drift out of sight.

It's no good; I have to tell them about the detective, Prosper thought. But how could he do that without Bo finding out? Bo, who felt so safe, and who believed that Esther would never follow them to Venice, because that's what his big brother had told him.

A shadow moved behind the lit window in the house opposite. Then the light went off. Prosper got up. The stone steps were cold and wet and he was freezing. He would tell the others about the walrus mustache, right now, while Bo was still asleep. Perhaps then Scipio would forget about Barbarossa's offer. But maybe -- Prosper could hardly bear the thought -- maybe Scipio would send him and Bo away. And what then?

Prosper returned to the movie theater with a heavy heart.

"Hornet, wake up!" Prosper shook her very gently by the shoulder, but Hornet shot up so fast that the kitten rolled off her pillow like a ball. "What is it?" she mumbled, rubbing sleep out of her eyes.

"Nothing, I just have to tell you all something."

"In the middle of the night?"

"Yes." Prosper went to wake Mosca, but Hornet held him back. "Wait, tell me first, before you wake the others."

Prosper looked across at Mosca who had crawled so deep into his blanket that only his short, frizzy hair could be seen. "OK, Riccio knows about it anyway."

They sat down next to each other on the folding seats, two blankets wrapped around their shoulders. The movie theater's heating, just like the lights, didn't work and the heaters that Scipio had brought them did little to drive the cold from the large auditorium.

Hornet lit two candles. "So?" she asked, giving Prosper an expectant look.

"When Riccio and I were walking back from Barbarossa's," Prosper tucked his chin under the blanket, "I b.u.mped into a man. First he just stared at me in a strange way, but then he started following me. We gave him the slip -- and ran toward the Grand Ca.n.a.l and took a vaporetto vaporetto to the opposite side to get away. But Riccio recognized him. He says the man is a detective. And it looks like he's after me -- after me and Bo." to the opposite side to get away. But Riccio recognized him. He says the man is a detective. And it looks like he's after me -- after me and Bo."

"A real detective?" Hornet shook her head in disbelief. "And Riccio's sure?"

Prosper nodded.

"Yes, but perhaps it's Riccio he's after. You know he can't stop stealing things."

"No." Prosper sighed and looked up toward the ceiling where the darkness hung over them like a black cloud. "He was after me. The way he looked at me...he's going to find us. And my aunt and uncle will probably put me into a boarding school and I'll get to see Bo once a month, or during the summer and at Christmas." He felt a sudden wave of sickness clawing at his stomach. He closed his eyes, as if he could keep his fears out of his head that way, but of course it didn't work.

"That's nonsense! How is he going to find you here?" Hornet put a comforting hand on Prosper's shoulder. "Come on, don't drive yourself crazy."

Prosper buried his face in his hands. From the back of the auditorium, Riccio muttered something in his sleep.

Prosper pulled himself together. "Just don't say anything to Bo, OK? Let him go on believing that we're perfectly safe here. We'll have to tell Mosca and Scipio, though. After all, you could all get into a lot of trouble if that snoop finds us here ..."

"No way!" Hornet rubbed her nose. "This is a perfect hiding place. The very best! Oh rats, I think I've caught another cold. Why can't Scipio steal a better heater for a change, instead of sugar tongs and silver spoons?"

Prosper handed his crumpled handkerchief to her and she gratefully blew her nose.

"Riccio wants to dye Bo's hair and I'm supposed to paint my face black so that the snoop won't recognize us," Prosper said.

Hornet gave a quiet laugh. "I think it'll be enough if I cut your hair really short, but that's a good idea about Bo's hair. We'll just tell him that the old ladies won't pat his head anymore when his hair is black."

"Do you think he'll believe that?"

"Well, if he doesn't, then Scipio will just have to tell him that he'll never be a famous thief with his blonde hair. Bo would fly if Scipio asked him to."

"That's true." Prosper smiled, although he felt a small stab of jealousy.

"Scipio will just love the whole detective business." Hornet shivered and rubbed her arms. "He'll probably just be disappointed that the man's not after him. That would be quite an interesting job for a detective, discovering where the Thief Lord sleeps. Maybe he rappels at dawn from the Palazzo Ducale, after having spent the night in some cozy dungeon? Does he sleep in the old piombi piombi prisons, where they let the enemies of Venice die from heat and fear, or down in the prisons, where they let the enemies of Venice die from heat and fear, or down in the ponti, ponti, where they let them rot? You see, I even got a smile out of you!" Looking pleased, Hornet got up and tousled Prosper's hair. "Tomorrow you'll get a new hairdo," she said, "and now stop worrying about that detective." where they let them rot? You see, I even got a smile out of you!" Looking pleased, Hornet got up and tousled Prosper's hair. "Tomorrow you'll get a new hairdo," she said, "and now stop worrying about that detective."

Prosper nodded. "So you don't think ..." he asked hesitantly, "that we should leave, Bo and I?"

"Pigeon p.o.o.p!" Hornet shook her head impatiently. "Why should you? The police have been looking for Riccio forever, and have we thrown him out? No. And what about Scipio? Doesn't he put us in danger, with his evermore crazy raids?" Hornet pulled Prosper from his seat. "Come on, let's go to sleep," she said. "G.o.d, the noise Mosca makes with his snoring!"

Prosper undressed again and crawled underneath the blanket, next to Bo. But it took a while before he finally fell asleep.

10 The Message

The next morning Riccio went to Barbarossa to give him the Thief Lord's answer, just like Scipio had told him.

"He accepts? Good, that will please my customer," the red-beard said with a self-satisfied smile. "But you will have to be patient. It won't be easy to get a message to him. He hasn't even got a telephone."

For the next two days Riccio returned to Barbarossa's shop in vain, but on the third day the redbeard finally had the news they had been waiting for.

"My customer wants to meet you in the Basilica, the Basilica San Marco," Barbarossa explained. He was standing in front of the mirror in his office, snipping away at his beard with a tiny pair of scissors. "The Conte likes to be mysterious, but there are never any problems business-wise. He's already sold me some very nice pieces, and always at a fair price. Just don't ask him any nosy questions, understood?" He swapped the scissors for a pair of tweezers.

"The Conte?" Riccio asked, impressed. "Does that mean he's a real count or something?"

"Indeed it does. I just hope the Thief Lord behaves accordingly." Barbarossa looked very self-important before plucking a hair from his nostril. "Once you meet the Conte in person you will see that there can be no doubt as to his distinguished ancestry. To this day he hasn't told me his name but my guess is he's a Valaresso. Some members of this venerable family have not been blessed by fate. There has even been talk of a curse. Anyway." The redbeard moved a little closer to the mirror and tugged at a particularly stubborn hair. "Be that as it may, they are still one of the old families -- well, you know, like the Correr, Vendramin, Contarini, Venier, Loredan, Barbarigo, and countless others. They've ruled this city for centuries without anyone of us ever really knowing what was going on. Isn't that right?"

Riccio nodded respectfully. Of course he had heard all the names the redbeard had just so pompously strung out. He knew the palaces and museums that bore their names, but about the people themselves, he knew nothing.

Barbarossa took a step back and smugly inspected his reflection. "So, as I said, just address him as Conte and he'll be pleased. The Thief Lord will probably get along fine with him. After all, your leader also likes to shroud himself in mystery. Probably quite a good idea in his line of work, right?"

Riccio nodded once more. He couldn't wait for the fat man to get back to the point so that he could deliver the news to the others. He shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. "When? When are we supposed to meet him in the Basilica?" he asked as Barbarossa stepped up to the mirror again -- this time to pluck his eyebrows.

"Tomorrow afternoon. Three o'clock sharp. The Conte will wait for you in the first confessional on the left. And don't be late. The man is always very punctual."

"Fine," Riccio mumbled. "Three o'clock. Confessional. First left. Three o'clock sharp." He turned to leave.

"Hold on, hold on, Hedgehog!" Barbarossa waved Riccio back once more. "Tell the Thief Lord the Conte wants to meet him in person. He can bring any companions he likes. Apes, elephants, or even his little children. But he has to come in person. The Conte wants to judge for himself before he tells him anything more about the job. After all," his face took on a rather hurt expression, "he hasn't even told me anymore about it."

That didn't really surprise Riccio, but the Conte's condition to meet Scipio made his heart beat faster. "That, that..."he stammered, "...Sci...the Thief Lord won't like that at all."

"Well," Barbarossa shrugged his fat shoulders, "then he won't get the job. Have a nice day, boy."

"Same to you," Riccio muttered, poking out his tongue at Barbarossa's back before making his uneasy way home.

11 Victor Waits

Victor sat in St. Mark's Square, surrounded by hundreds of tables and thousands of chairs, and drank his third espresso. Black, with three cubes of sugar. Difficult to stir in the tiny cup, and so expensive that he'd rather not think about it. For more than an hour he had been sitting on the cold, hard chair, scrutinizing the faces of the people pa.s.sing by his table. Victor was not wearing the mustache that he had worn when Prosper had stumbled into him. This time he had refrained from wearing any fake whiskers at all. On his nose sat a thick pair of gla.s.ses with plain lenses that made him look slightly dim-witted and completely harmless. He looked down at himself and felt very satisfied. Perfect, he thought, the perfect look: Victor the tourist. A baseball cap and a big camera hanging in front of his chest -- this was one of his favorite disguises. As a tourist he could take as many pictures as he liked without anyone thinking anything of it. He could mingle with the big groups that stumbled off the boats and raced through town for a few hours, photographing everything that looked old with a bit of gold on its gable.

Now this is how I like my work, Victor thought as he blinked into the low sun, while he stirred his coffee with a spoon that was far too small for his fingers. A large crowd of people started to swarm into the square. He eyed them patiently, one by one. But the two faces he was looking for were not among them. Well, maybe I'm relying too heavily on chance, Victor thought. He blew his nose, which had begun to feel seriously cold, and ordered another coffee from the waiter rushing past him.

Victor sighed and looked at his watch. Just before three. About time I filled my stomach with something other than coffee, he thought, and blew his icy nose again. Suddenly he spotted six children on the far side of the square, by the tables of the cafe opposite. Victor noticed them because they were obviously in quite a hurry and because one of the boys, clearly their leader, wore a mask that made him look like a bird of prey. They were walking toward the Basilica. There was also a girl and a little boy, but he wasn't blonde. Victor picked up his newspaper and watched the children from behind it. The scrawny one with the spiky hair, the one who walked right behind the leader -- looked familiar. But before Victor could take a closer look, the six children disappeared, swallowed by a big group of Canadian tourists with bright red backpacks. You could have filled a whole vaporetto vaporetto with these people. Out of the way, you backpackers, Victor grumbled to himself as he tried to crane his short neck. There. There they were again: four boys and a girl, not counting their masked leader. And there was the skinny fellow who had seemed so familiar. Darn, the hedgehog hairdo ... of course! Victor got up. He had already paid for his four coffees. A detective always pays right away, in case he loses a suspect due to a busy waiter. Victor sauntered toward the Basilica and picked another table nearer the children, keeping a close eye on them all the time. with these people. Out of the way, you backpackers, Victor grumbled to himself as he tried to crane his short neck. There. There they were again: four boys and a girl, not counting their masked leader. And there was the skinny fellow who had seemed so familiar. Darn, the hedgehog hairdo ... of course! Victor got up. He had already paid for his four coffees. A detective always pays right away, in case he loses a suspect due to a busy waiter. Victor sauntered toward the Basilica and picked another table nearer the children, keeping a close eye on them all the time.

Yes, that's him, Victor thought as he adjusted his fake gla.s.ses. That's the boy who was with Prosper. And that one..."Turn around!" Victor muttered, keeping the lens of his camera on the dark-haired boy who had now fallen behind a little. How protective he was, his arm around the little boy's shoulders. Yes, that just had to be Prosper. "Look over here!" Victor hissed. "Please, look here, Prosper!"

The lady at the table to his right turned around and eyed him suspiciously. Victor gave her a coy smile. Why couldn't he stop talking to himself all the time?

There. Finally! The dark-haired boy looked around.

"Darn it, it's him!" Victor drummed the table triumphantly. "Prosper, the Fortunate One. Well, my dear boy, your good fortune is about to desert you, and Victor is going to have it instead. You cut your hair? I am sorry, but Victor Getz is not fooled that easily. And what about the little one, the one with your brotherly arm around his shoulder? His hair is so black, he might have fallen into a barrel of ink."

Ink. Of course.

Victor hummed to himself while he took one picture after another of the Basilica, the winged lion, and the two brothers.

Everyone in Venice comes to St. Mark's Square at least once a day. You just have to be patient. Patience. Staying power. And luck. A whole barrel full of luck. And of course a pair of very sharp eyes.

Not much longer and Victor would have started to purr like a satisfied tomcat.

12 Meeting in the Confessional

Move along, Bo!" Prosper urged. "It's nearly three o'clock."

But Bo was standing in front of the ma.s.sive portal of the Basilica, looking up at the horses. Whenever he came to St. Mark's Square, he stopped and tipped his head back to stare up at them. Four horses -- ma.s.sive golden horses -- stood frozen there, stomping and neighing. Every time Bo wondered again why they hadn't jumped down yet. They looked so alive.

"Bo!"

Impatiently, Prosper dragged him along through the throngs of people, waiting eagerly at the entrance to the huge church, to see the gilded walls and ceilings.

"They're angry," said Bo, looking back.

"Who are?"

"The golden horses."

"Angry?" Prosper frowned as he dragged him along. "About what?"

"Because someone stole them and carried them off here," Bo whispered. "Hornet told me." He held on tight to Prosper's hand so he wouldn't lose his big brother in the crowd as they circled the Basilica. Back in the narrow alleys he wasn't usually afraid, but it was different here on the wide-open square. Bo called it the Lion Square. He knew that it had a proper name really, but he called it that anyway. During the day every cobblestone here belonged to the pigeons and the tourists. But at night when the pigeons slept on the roofs and the people lay in their hotel beds, the square belonged to the horses and the winged lion that stood among the stars. Bo was certain about that.

"It is a thousand, or even a hundred years ago that they brought them here," Bo said.

"Who?" Prosper pushed his brother past a bride and groom who were having their picture taken in front of the Basilica.

"The horses!" Bo turned around again but he couldn't see them anymore.

Scipio and the others were already standing by the lion fountain at the side entrance of the Basilica, waiting for them. Scipio had taken off his mask and was fiddling with it anxiously.

"At last!" Scipio said when Bo sat down next to him on the edge of the fountain. "Were you looking at the horses again?"

Embarra.s.sed, Bo stared at his feet. Hornet had bought him a new pair of shoes. They were quite big but they were really nice -- and warm.

"Listen!" Scipio waved the others toward him and lowered his voice, as if he was afraid that one of the bystanders could overhear what he was about to say. "I don't want to turn up at this meeting with my whole entourage, so this is how we are going to do it: Prosper and Mosca are coming inside with me. The others will wait here by the fountain."

Bo and Riccio exchanged disappointed looks.

"But I don't want to wait here!" Bo's bottom lip began to tremble dangerously. Hornet stroked his hair comfortingly, but Bo pulled his head away.

"Bo's right!" Riccio called out. "Why can't we all go? Why only Prosper and Mosca?"

Hornet answered before Scipio could say anything, "Because we three are not good enough to be in the Thief Lord's crew! Bo is too small, you look hardly any older than eight, and I'm a girl, which simply isn't good enough! No, we three would make you look foolish, wouldn't we, oh Thief Lord?"

Scipio pressed his lips together. Without another word he stalked off down the steps leading away from the fountain. "Come," he said to Mosca and Prosper. The two boys, however, hesitated. Only when Hornet said, "Oh, go on," did they follow him.

Riccio just stood there, trying to swallow tears of disappointment as he stared after the others. But Bo started sobbing so violently that Prosper came running back to him in spite of Scipio's angry glare. "But you don't even like the Basilica!" he whispered to Bo. "It's scary in there so don't be silly. You stay here at the fountain and look after Hornet. And don't move."

"But that's boring," Bo gulped, stroking the paw of one of the fountain's lions.

"Come on now, Prosper!" Scipio called angrily from the side entrance.

"See you later," Prosper said, and then he followed Mosca and the Thief Lord into the big church.

When Prosper first took him there, Bo had called the Basilica "The Golden Cave." The gilded mosaics of angels, kings, and saints, which decorated the walls and ceilings, only shined at certain times when the sunlight fell through the church windows. Right now everything was dark.

The three boys moved hesitantly down the wide center aisle, their steps ringing out on the flagstone floor. The golden domes that arched above their heads kept their splendor hidden in the gloom, and in between the tall marble pillars that supported them the boys felt as small as insects. Instinctively, they moved closer together.

"Where are the confessionals?" Mosca whispered, looking uneasily around him. "I haven't been in here very often. I don't like churches. They're creepy."

"I know where they are," Scipio replied. He pushed the mask back onto his face and led the way as purposefully as one of the Basilica's tourist guides. The confessionals were tucked away in one of the side aisles. The first one on the left looked no different from the others. It was a tall box made from black wood, draped with dark red curtains and with a door in the middle, which the priest used for slipping into the tiny s.p.a.ce behind. Inside, he would sit down on a narrow bench, put his ear to a small window, and listen to all who wanted to tell him their sins and clear their conscience.

Of course there was also a curtain on the side of the confessional to protect the sinners from curious eyes. Scipio now pushed this curtain aside, adjusting his mask one last time and clearing his throat nervously. The Thief Lord tried very hard to pretend that he was coolness itself, but Prosper and Mosca, as they followed him behind the curtain, sensed that his heart was beating just as fast as theirs.

Scipio hesitated as his eye fell on the low bench half hidden in the darkness, but then he kneeled down on it. The small window was now level with his eyes and he could be seen by whoever sat on the other side. Prosper and Mosca stood behind him like bodyguards. Scipio just knelt there, waiting.

"Perhaps he's not here yet. Should we have a look?" Mosca whispered cautiously.