No one obliged him. Even in the clothes of the Case Vecchie, walking where no sane Case Vecchie gentleman would go, the watchers-he could feel them, if not see them-knew who he was. These days he had a reputation, totally out of keeping with his age or size. Well, he would find a tavern. Not Barducci's. Too many memories there.

And then, in the shape of two sailors, some relief came in sight. They were, in their clumsy fashion, trying to box him in.

He let them.

The one with the cudgel tossed it from hand to hand. A mistake, Benito knew. It meant, as Caesare had taught him, in what seemed a different world, that for a few instants you were not actually holding the weapon. The cudgel-wielder obviously hadn't been taught this. He was amazingly stupid, part of Benito's mind thought. When he spoke to his companion with the knife, he actually looked away from the victim!

"Well, Spiro. Venice takes away… and she gives back to us. With interest." He laughed coarsely.

Benito judged that the one with the knife was the more dangerous of the two, if the smaller. He showed signs of a recent beating-up, sporting a black eye and torn cloak. "Yeah. I suppose so. Give us your money, rich kid. Hand it over, and you won't get hurt."

Amateurs, thought Benito, wryly. Came in on the last tide. Got drunk. Maybe got rolled. Maybe just ran out of money and got thrown out of some tavern. Still at least half-drunk. Benito cringed, stepping back, to make sure neither could get behind him. "Please sirs, you're not going hurt me?"

"Just give us your money," repeated the knife-man, "and get out of here. This is no part of town for-what do they call noblemen around here?-yeah, a Case Vecchie."