“Now that Juan and Xavier are here, we all could,” Michael suggested. “I’m not sure I need twelve hours cooped up either.”

“I’ll go off alone if it’s okay. Meet you later,” Streak said.

“Sure, but-”

“Unless you really want to meet some ladies with highly nuyen-soluble virtue,” the elf said bluntly.

“Oh, right, well, no I don’t think so,” Michael spluttered. “Thanks for the offer, I suppose.”

“We could take Serrin and Kristen down to the Rialto, Geraint suggested. That’ll be the liveliest part of the city right now.”

“Sounds good to me. Let’s hire a gondola and just do the Rialto for a couple of hours.”

“If you don’t sink it,” Geraint said to Juan, laughing The ork had enough metal to sink something less fragile than the gondolas appeared to be.

“If you’d seen those Texans loading up this morning,” Michael recalled from observing a tourist group heading out of the piazza, you wouldn’t worry. They had to be two hundred kilos each, and that was without all the vids and cameras.”

They spent the whole afternoon sampling the city from their vessel, and if anyone was watching or following, they caught no sign of it. Even the Spanish mercenaries apparently unused to leisurely sightseeing, seemed to impressed by some of the sights. The cafes and Street theaters were in full swing as they sailed past the House Desdemona, the palatial dwelling named after Shakespeare’s character, past the monumental baroque church of Santa Maria with its vast dome and million-timber supports, past the royal gardens built by Napoleon, beneath bridges both tiny and magnificent, until they had gorged themselves on the colors and textures and shapes of Venice. It was after six in the evening when they returned, hungry for dinner, having resisted the dubious pleasures of canalside stalls that all offered an extensive range of remarkably poor fare.

“We’ll take a corner table,” Michael said diplomatically. “Juan’s arm will be less obvious in such shadows as there are.”

“Bad news for you, having to eat with an ork, huh?” Juan growled.

“No problem with that. It’s all that metal that’s the problem. Scares the customers, old chap,” Michael grinned.

Streak didn’t share the general good humor.

“Raoul’s been here,” he told them.

“Huctzlipochtli?” Juan asked. It was more of a teeth-baring snarl than a question.

“The very same, large as frag and twice as ugly.”

“We know him,” Xavier said, his tone leaving no doubt at previous meetings hadn’t involved sipping cocktails and discussing the latest developments in modem theater.

You guys will wear body armor underneath those costumes,” Streak told Geraint and friends.

“A fat lot of good that will be against the head shot any sensible hitman will want to take,” Juan observed.

“Yeah, so let’s reduce the size of the target,” Streak replied.

You could fit them with head shields if they wear the cowls with their cloaks. I saw lots of people doing that,” Xavier suggested.

“Good one. Then we can’t see much because of the masks and we’ll be able to hear bugger all. Then they can sneak up behind us and give us an APDS enema from five fragging meters,” Streak said. “I seem to remember discussing this with you guys somewhere else. Was it Swazi?”

“Yeah,” Xavier said in a bored voice.

Kristen’s ears pricked up. It wasn’t that far from her homeland, though the bandit- and warlord-infested petty fiefdoms of the Trans-Swazi Federation were a very different place from Cape Town. She’d known some escapees from the Swazi, as most people called it, and they’d been hard, mean souls.

“So we’ll skip the headgear, right?” Streak said.

“No, man. Better if they wear it and we keep watch from different angles,” Juan offered. “Then we can cover them.”

“What do you reckon, Your Lordship?” Streak appealed to a higher authority.

“I think” Geraint said, that Kristen should wear headware. She was the one shot at this morning. I’ll take my chances. I can use a Predator. Not as well as you chaps, of course, but I can use one.”

“I can’t,” Serrin said. “And I won’t use headware. I’ll have to see and hear if there’s any need for magic.”

They debated the pros and cons and finally decided that, of all of them, only Kristen needed the additional protection. Juan had brought the appropriate item with him, though it was far too large for her.

“It’s too heavy and I look ridiculous,” she complained.

“If it saves your life you’re not going to bloody care.” Listen to your Uncle Streak,” Streak said playfully. “He stopped you getting your bonce shot off this morning. He knows what he’s doing. He says the little girl should wear the funny thing on her head.”

He dodged her punch easily.

“Come on,” he said. “Really, you should. No bollocks now. We’ll take our chances, this is our profession. You’re not like us. You’ve got to take care now.”

There seemed to be genuine concern in his voice he looked a little embarrassed for a split-second before quickly resuming his normal sarcasm.

“And as for you, gray-head, you’d better make sure you’ve got us covered magically. If Raoul’s in town he bound to have some poxy combat mage or two in tow, and what those guys can do isn’t pretty. I’ve seen a blood spirit, and you don’t want to get one of those fraggers your face. One of us will stick real close to catch you you drain-and-drop, but you give any heavy spell you need every ounce of juice or we could be fragged senseless.”

“We’ve been there before,” Serrin reminded him. “On the hill.”

“This is different,” Streak insisted. “Blood magic. It’s like, I don’t know, it’s like biological weapons. Below the belt, right? Good clean firefight, that we like. Biokillers stink. Combat mages, they treat blood magic like its bio.”

“I get the picture,” Serrin said. “So let’s go eat”

The hours before midnight passed easily. They ate well, and avoided drink, but the throng of customers packed around them drank themselves silly, Everyone was resplendent in the costumes of the carnival, with silk and satin and velvet and gold threading, masks of silver and gold and bronze, cowls and capes and cloaks, everything whirl of color and texture and the mystery of it all, with everyone masked and few who they appealed to be. “Just don’t chat up the women, Michael,” Streak advised him: “Half of ‘em will be transvestites with a sausage surprise you don’t want to get your teeth into, know what I mean?” he leered.

“It hadn’t occurred to me to do so,” Michael replied evenly.

“You should have come out with me this afternoon,” elf said cheerfully.

“Perhaps not,” Michael said.

“God, you’re a joyless bugger sometimes,” Streak groaned.

“I enjoy myself in different ways,” Michael informed him.

“You’re about the only person you will enjoy,” the elf said tartly.

“It’s ten before twelve. Let’s go,” Juan told them. “What are our positions?”

“I’ll cover left, you behind, Xavier goes right,” Streak said. He leant over to Kristen and lowered his voice. “Now, little lady, go powder your nose and put your hard on,”

Kristen disappeared into the ladies’ room and returned three minutes later, looking distinctly large-headed.

“I don’t think it’s going to make the runways of Paris this season, but it'll do the job. Come on, everybody, I’m dying to see what our man has arranged for us at midnight,” Michael said. They pushed their way slowly out into the crowd.

Trumpets were already giving periodic fanfares to announce the imminent arrival of the Doge and his wife as they stood among the multitudes. Their watches showed five minutes to midnight.

At four minutes to the hour, as the crowd began to hush slightly in expectation, a slim and lithe, dark-haired South American man and half a dozen servitors idled toward the basilica from the south, pushing past indignant people in the piazzetta to get where they wanted to go. Xavier, his line of sight partly blocked by the campanile, did not see them. They had covering magic anyway.