"I can explain everything."

The Guardian shook his head. "You will explain to Signore Zorzi and no one else."

"That's precisely what I won't do. I-"

"Be still!" The Guardian indicated the mask and bauta. "Drop them both to the deck. Now!"

As Rule dropped the bauta, he flicked the mask hard and fast. It spun into the Guardian, its sharp edge laying open the bridge of his nose. As the Guardian reared back, Rule moved forward. One hand wrested the gun out of the Guardian's hand while the other struck him in the solar plexus. He doubled over and Rule drove his balled fist into the side of his neck. The Guardian went down and stayed down.

Quickly and with an economy of motion, Rule stripped the Guardian of his clothes and, throwing off his voluminous cloak, pulled them on over his own.

"You don't want to show me the cipher." Zorzi shrugged, poured espresso from a small metal pot set above a flame. "Fair enough, you're the Keeper, it's your decision." He smiled broadly as he pushed one of the tiny cups over to Bravo. "Your father was tight-lipped just like you. In fact, I am struck by how similar you two are. He and I were close, when he was abroad I supplied him with whatever he needed-men, materials, you understand."

Bravo understood more than Zorzi knew. It was time to go on the offense, he thought. "He relied on you."

"Yes, of course. Absolutely. We confided in one another."

Bravo knew he was lying. For the first time since he'd found Jenny's bloody knife beside the corpse of Father Mosto, he felt on solid ground again. He knew where he and Zorzi stood. Carnevale was over, the masks had come off, good and evil were restored to their proper corners in the Voire Dei. Satisfied, he said, "Have you had any word on Jenny?"

Zorzi drank his espresso straight and in one shot, as if it were a macchiato. "We have discovered where she is."

All at once, Bravo had no interest in Jenny or in her fate. She had made her bed, now she could lie in it. She had gulled him, in much the same way, he imagined, that she had gulled his father. The traitor's identity had shook Dexter to his core, Father Mosto had said. "It was someone he knew well and trusted completely." Bravo felt suddenly sick to his stomach and wanted nothing so much as to rid himself of the rich food Zorzi had fed him. They were both traitors-Jenny and Zorzi, collaborating together to undermine the Order and bring it down.

"There is something I must ask you." Zorzi frowned. "I am wondering whether you have had any contact with Anthony Rule."

"Why do you ask?"

"Ah, then you have seen him recently."

"As a matter of fact I haven't seen Uncle Tony in more than a year." With his hatred as a catalyst, Bravo found that it wasn't difficult to lie to this man.

Zorzi shrugged, and Bravo now understood. The gesture of indifference masked what was important to Zorzi.

"I'm not prying, you understand." Zorzi licked his lips. "I simply ask because I don't trust this man. In fact, I believe he's the traitor in our midst."

"What makes you say that?"

"I hear the sharpness in your tone. I understand, of course-he's your 'Uncle Tony.' Perhaps it was a mistake to bring this up with you, but it was for your own good, and after all I had assumed you were sufficiently mature to be able to separate your personal feelings from the objective truth."

"The cipher," Bravo said shortly. "I'd like the work on it now." It was becoming more of an effort to keep his anger under control. He was finding Zorzi tedious and sinister. "I'd like to see those books."

"Of course." Zorzi could not keep the excitement out of his voice. He rose. "I'll only be a moment."

Was this the time to make his escape? Bravo wondered. He turned in his chair. But no, a Guardian stood in the open doorway, regarding him as if he were a sea bream newly drawn from the lagoon and set out for feasting. His fingertips touched the butt of the SIG Sauer. Of course, he could draw the gun, but then everything would change. He would be instantly pitted against all the Guardians. Worst of all, it would bring him and Paolo Zorzi into direct conflict, on Zorzi's own ground with his people all around him. Bravo did not care for those odds. No, the SIG Sauer was an instrument of last resort.

"What's your name?" Bravo asked at length.

"Anzolo," the Guardian said laconically. His eyes were hard as Istrian stone.

"Do you know where Signore Zorzi has gone?" He rose. "I'd like to ask him a question."

"You are to wait here until Signore Zorzi returns."

The Guardian stood against the door, blocking his way. There was no question: despite Paolo Zorzi's protestations to the contrary, Bravo was a prisoner.

Through a stand of willowy trees, Rule spotted the two Guardians flanking the monastery door like a pair of sphinxes. One had a white scar under his chin, the other, taller, had eyes as gray as the Venetian mist. They looked implacable-also a little restless. Well, that would soon change, thought Rule, as he broke through the trees and strode purposefully toward them.

The moment they saw him, he knew something was wrong. Though they smiled and offered him a silent hail, he could see their feet spread out slightly, their legs flexed, their shoulders rounded as the muscles tensed. They had heard something-from one of the Guardians who'd boarded the boat? That seemed the only possibility. Rule imagined one of them reaching his cell phone before he died.

The element of surprise ruined, he sprinted straight at them. The thing was to get them moving. They came at him, challenging him, as he knew they would. Turning his back on them, he darted back toward the stand of trees. They might have guns, but like the Guardians on the boat, they wouldn't use them, for fear of alerting the Franciscan monks on the other side of the island.

In the trees, he engaged them, using the blade of the sword-cane as an offensive weapon, darting in and out, using the trees for defense against their short, slightly curved Byzantine fighting knives. He knew these weapons well-they could be thrown as well as thrust. The curved blade had a purpose-it would open up a wide swath of flesh even on a partially deflected slash. He had no room for error, which was just the way he liked it. Living on the edge was Rule's reason for being in the Voire Dei in the first place. It was better than tightrope walking, more intoxicating than mountain climbing, more addictive than skydiving.

Lunging forward on one flexed leg, he deliberately exposed himself to the Guardian with the scar. Grinning fiercely, the Guardian swung his fighter with an evil whistling sound. Rule ducked, felt the blade whir past the crown of his head and embed itself in the trunk of the tree. He came up, leading with his left shoulder, his elbow cocked. But the Scar had anticipated him, had let go of the Byzantine fighter and slammed his fists into the side of Rule's head.

Rule staggered back, felt rather than saw the approach of the Guardian with the gray eyes. He grabbed a handful of Gray Eyes's garment and swung him around. White Scar had by this time wrenched his fighter free and now was swinging it in a swift, shallow arc toward Rule. The crescent blade buried itself in Gray Eyes's chest, and immediately Rule shoved him away, came after White Scar in a direct attack.

White Scar's eyes opened wide with the shock of wounding his own compatriot. That was all the time Rule needed. He stabbed outward, driving the blade of his sword-cane in from an extreme low angle. Scar coughed once, and blood bubbled out of his mouth. He looked down in astonishment and fell to his knees, his hands cupping his abdomen. He had forgotten all about Rule, who took the opportunity to kick him hard in the side of the head. The Guardian toppled over, unconscious.