Fabbro was frequently offsite sourcing materials, and when the first barges docked, he struck up conversations with their captains, but Vettori didn’t complain. Luck had reunited them, and he was conscious that he’d done little to keep their partnership alive over the years, while Fabbro had been tenacious.
Escorting Giovanni to and from the bridge, Sofia noticed Fabbro’s absence too and told the Doctor.
“Bombelli’s got plenty of sons. Tell him to delegate.”
The Doctor grinned. “Why throw away an opportunity?” He wrote to remind the gonfaloniere that the truce stipulated that they each have a man on-site at all times.
Sofia couldn’t understand why the Doctor picked Secondo Borselinno to take Fabbro’s place. Secondo had been agitating for payback since the ear incident.
“You said the bridge is an opportunity, Doc,” she started.
“Yes, and Secondo will help things along. Trust me.”
Sofia knew Doc too well for that. She decided to avoid the bridge while Secondo was on it until she knew what Doc was after. The truce was fragile enough.
Giovanni didn’t understand the Doctor’s methods either. “A straight line is shortest.”
Vettori shrugged. “Not in Rasenna.” He was frustrated with Fabbro for giving the Doctor an excuse to interfere, but he quickly saw that if it hadn’t been that, it would just have been something else. “Don’t fight it, Captain,” he advised, “in the interests of safety.”
The Doctor’s man proved to be not just useless but divisive. Secondo didn’t know construction, nor did he care to learn, but he arbitrarily decided that the southsiders were working too slowly and wasting money. It was pointless to argue. Secondo had other goals in mind.
Toward the end of the second week, the rains got heavier. Seeing clouds coming in from the north, Giovanni ordered the carpenters working on the floating platforms to come in while the storm lasted. They reached the bank just as the central platform broke loose. It was left hanging by a corner.
“Thank the Virgin no one was on it,” said Vettori.
“That raft is worth something,” Secondo shouted.
“Don’t be stupid; it’s too dangerous!”
“What did you call me?” Secondo grabbed Vettori by his collar. “I don’t take that from a Morello stooge.”
“Let him go,” Giovanni said.
Secondo pushed Vettori away and glared at the engineer.
Giovanni had to shout to make himself heard over the wind. “Concord’s got deep pockets. We can replace equipment, but Rasenna can’t spare men.”
Secondo gave Giovanni a slow blink, shook his head disgustedly, and turned back to the river.
The crew huddled in the craftsmen’s tents in Piazza Luna, and as lightning dispelled the gathering gloom for an instant, Giovanni looked over them. By now he knew every face. The boy who had asked for a sacrifice on the first day wasn’t among them.
“Where’s Little Frog?”
“Secondo was talking to him,” said a voice.
“Where’s he now?”
When no one answered, Giovanni ran out into the slashing rain, cursing.
Secondo was crouched on the bottom level of the abutment, holding his combat banner into the darkness. On the other end, Little Frog crawled toward the wildly bobbing platform.
“Get back in!” Giovanni cried.
Frog looked back uncertainly as Secondo shouted that he almost had it.
“I don’t give a damn! Come back—that’s an order!”
Frog crawled back to the abutment—
—just as the platform broke free, pulling with it the section he’d been on a moment earlier.
Secondo had the decency to look embarrassed as Pedro took the shivering boy back to the tent. Everyone inside watched Giovanni berating Secondo outside in the rain.
“Take your banner and get the hell off my site!”
“The Doc’ll hear about this.”
“So? I’m not frightened.”
The Captain surely did not understand: Secondo was more than a bandieratoro. Bardini capodecini intimidated even seasoned fighters. The crew waited to see what Secondo would do.
None of them understood why he backed down and, after a lull in the storm, slunk back north.
After Giovanni sent everyone home for the day, he stayed in the tent. Frog, shivering in a towel, was trying to drink a glass of spirits he’d been given.
“It’s my fault,” the engineer said. “The platforms should have been secured better.”
Frog’s hands trembled, but he shook his head firmly. “Nothing you could have done. The river hates us. What can you expect from something the Devil set loose?”
Giovanni looked back at the Irenicon, seeing it like a Rasenneisi: something impious, unnatural, unwelcome. The wind pulled up sheets of spray, ghosts that briefly soared before they were torn apart by other winds.
“Quitting?” he said quietly.
Warily, Frog looked up. Giovanni knew he was debating the most prudent lie to tell a Concordian. He was surprised to hear the truth.
“Yes. Tonight’s my last night in Rasenna, and I’m going to get drunk!” The boy held up his glass. “Cincin!”
“You’re going to join the Hawk’s Company, right?”
Frog, pale already, became paler. “Who told you?”
“No one. If I wasn’t Concordian, I’d fight us too.”
Frog laughed and handed Giovanni the glass while he drank from the bottle. “Then let’s drink to being someone else!”