The Thief Lord

"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 passing 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 glasses 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 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 glasses. 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 massive 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 -- massive golden horses -- stood frozen there, stomping and neighing. Every time Bo wondered again why they hadn't jumped down yet. They looked so alive.