' "The average man don't like trouble and danger." '

- Mark Twain, 'The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.'

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Chapter Seven: The Average Man

"She's still at it?"

Nagira looked up from where he was lounging, on a couch situated on the landing outside of the office which had once belonged to the director of SOLOMON's intelligence agency. Marco was glowering at the door which led into that office, which was currently shut in an unmistakable attempt by the woman inside to ignore the outside world. Really, it was a little bit unnerving. He had never seen this level of dedication from Doujima, not even when they had been working to rescue Karasuma and bring down the Factory. "Yes."

His succinct answer only made Marco scowl harder. "I don't know what good she thinks it's going to do. Codes are nigh impossible to break unless you have the code's key and, whatever else she might be, she's no cryptographer. We don't even know if there's anything useful in that little book of hers, and she's been at it for, what, three days now?" He rubbed a hand over his thinning salt-and-pepper hair, and turned narrowed eyes towards Nagira. "Your Yurika is a very stubborn woman."

Well, there was really no denying that, Nagira thought ruefully. "She's not really mine. I think it's safe to say that the only person that she belongs to -- or listens to -- is herself."

The scowl disappeared as Marco's lips twisted upwards, forming a cynical sort of smile. "You're probably right. An admirable quality, but not exactly a safe one to possess, not when one is working for SOLOMON." There was an unmistakably edge to his voice, so bitter that only a deaf man or an idiot would be able to miss it. Nagira would have liked to pursue it, but Marco hurried on, as though he had realized that he had shared more than he intended to. "Then again, Yurika has always thumbed her nose at SOLOMON, and gotten away with it. She has people who can pull the strings for her and make SOLOMON dance to her tune."

That alone was enough to catch Nagira's interest. "Yeah, you've both mentioned that."

Marco made a very rude sound, as though he was sneezing up a toad. "A mention is all you're going to get, my friend. She wouldn't thank me for giving you more than that. Suffice it to say, Mr. Doujima is high up in the organization, and will go higher before he's through. I've only met him once in passing, but the man is so slick that water won't stick to him. You spend five minutes talking to him, and you're convinced that up is really down and that the sky is not blue, but a charming shade of puce." Nagira didn't bother to point out that this was considerably more than a 'mention.' In the past few days, Marco had become more relaxed, seeming to forget that Nagira was not a member of the syndicate. He was much more forthcoming than closed-mouthed Charlie, or even Doujima, who had become even more secretive since returning to Venice. Of course, that was, in part, because she had spent the better part of their time in Italy holed up in the office of her dead mentor, pouring over the cryptic nonsense which filled the pages of the book that she had found in his desk.

As though he had sensed the thought, Marco looked once again at the door of the office, then back to Nagira. "You look like a man with a lot of time on his hands," the Sicilian said, with a sort of forced cheer. "I'm going to wander the streets of Venice for a while, talk to a few people, maybe see if I can drum up some sort of useful information. Would you like to come?"

It seemed like a very roundabout way of saying that he was going to ask his contacts about Alfonso's death, but Nagira had noticed that none of the members of SOLOMON Intelligence, not even Marco, would say things directly when they could veil their words in at least three layers of euphemisms and hedging. All the same, it wasn't an offer that he was about to pass up. The whole time he had been in Venice, Nagira had been hoping for a way to ask the same questions he would at home, where he had his own little network of people who were willing to reveal things they shouldn't, for a fair price. This seemed like the opportunity he had been waiting for. "Sure. Why not?"

"Oh, I can think of plenty of answers for that," Marco replied, his face relaxing into its usual scowl. "But Yurika trusts you, and seems to have carte blanche from the Assembly, so I suppose it will be fine." Nagira perked up immediately at the mention of SOLOMON's shadowy ruling body, but once again forced himself not to press. Sticking his nose into things that didn't strictly concern him would be the fastest way to make Marco suspicious and lose what little ground he had gained with the spy.

He followed Marco down the stairs, but they did not walk out onto the street. Instead, Marco led the way out onto the little square dock behind the house. In the past few days, the weather had turned dark, combining low, heavy clouds with July heat to form a sort of chill mugginess. It hadn't rained yet, that would have been a relief. Instead, the air was stagnant, cold and thick, in the lungs and against the skin. The canal before them was still and smooth as glass.

"Che brutto tempo," Marco muttered, and he cast such a dark look at the sky that Nagira almost expected the clouds to part, simply to appease the man. They didn't, and Marco muttered something much less mild than a comment on the weather before sidling to the edge of the dock and lowering himself carefully into the powerboat tethered there. Nagira hopped in, and was favored with a glare from his companion as the boat rocked uneasily under the sudden weight. Unable to help himself, he smirked and bounced violently on his seat, making little waves on the previously still surface of the water. Marco gripped the edge of the boat with one hand and crossed himself with the other, his darkly tanned skin going a little pale.

Taking pity on the man, Nagira untethered the boat and started the engine. As he had told Doujima, traveling by water did not bother him the way that flying did, and he had quickly adjusted to the necessity of using a boat in Venice, where there were easily as many waterways as roadways. Once they had pulled away from the dock and Nagira had stopped jostling the boat, Marco's color returned to normal and he took charge of navigating them through the tangle of canals and out into the open lagoon.

"Easier this way," Marco explained over the sound of the engine. "I'm not as familiar with Venizia as our lady-spy is, and I don't wish to become lost. Better to go around the city than through it." He pulled his coat a little closer to him. "Cristo, I am so ready to go home."

"You don't enjoy Venice?" Nagira asked, but it wasn't really a question, because nothing that Marco had said since the two had met indicated that he liked anything about the city. The canals stank, the weather was awful, and the food was atrocious. Doujima said many of the same things, but she said them with affection. Marco would say them in a voice thick with disgust, before spitting into the nearest canal, as if to cleanse his mouth of the taste of Venice.

There was a minute pause, before Marco shrugged his sloped shoulders. His face was turned away from Nagira, towards the green-gray expanse of the lagoon. "I miss my family," he said simply. "My eldest daughter, she is going to give me my first grandchild in a few weeks. I had wanted to return home in time for the baptism, but this..." He waved a hand, but did not seem to be indicating either the city or the lagoon. "...this, SOLOMON, must take priority. I worry, sometimes, that I won't return at all, because of the dangers of this job. I am getting too old to ward off all of them, and much, much too old to get any thrill out of doing so." He smiled brightly, but the expression was so foreign to Marco's face that it instantly seemed false to Nagira. "There's no use complaining, though. That is the way things are."

"'The way things are' is stupid," Nagira said bluntly. He knew immediately that he shouldn't have. He had been so careful up until now, making sure that nothing he said or did gave away his true feelings about SOLOMON. He was smart enough to know that the wrong word could get not only himself but Yurika into trouble. He didn't want to risk the network that he had so carefully set up to help the witches, and he didn't want to risk her. Even if she was the one putting herself at risk in the first place, working for the witch-hunters and dating a witch sympathizer, he didn't want to risk her.

Marco looked surprised for a moment. When he smiled again, it was wan and held very little in the way of humor, but much more sincerity. "That may be true, my friend." He shrugged once again, and there was a world of defeat and hopelessness in that one little gesture. "But what are we to do about it?" He didn't seem to expect an answer, and Nagira didn't offer one but, somewhere in the depths of his mind, a vague sort of idea formed. Not yet a plan, so he carefully turned away from it, content to let it ferment in the back of his brain. It was just as well that he did, because only a few short minutes had passed before Marco guided the boat up to another weathered wooden dock and said, "We're here."

A glance around told Nagira that they were nowhere within the limited area of Venice that he was familiar with. A glance behind them showed only an expanse of murky blue-gray lagoon water. "Where is here?"

"Murano," grunted Marco, who was by no means as adept a tour guide as Doujima. "It's an island," he added helpfully. He looked around quickly, his dark eyes skimming carelessly over the people on the dock, until they landed on a scruffy boy in an oversized t-shirt and jeans who was cleaning something that didn't bear thinking about out of a tethered gondola. He looked up, as though he felt Marco's glare on the back of his neck.

A broad grin flashed across the boy's face, gamine and full of mischief. "Salve, Marco."

Marco bobbed his head in a short nod. "Dov'e sono Claudio?"

"Chi?" the boy asked, with such feigned innocence that it crossed even language barriers. The sound of Marco's teeth grinding together was audible even from three feet away.

"Clau-di-o?" Marco repeated, with such exaggerated care that the three-syllable name was drawn out to a full six.

This time, the boy waved off the question, and pretended an wide yawn. "Non lo so.E troppo presto. Ho sonno. Lasciami in pace."

Marco made a noise like a tea kettle about to boil over. When the boy's grin only widened, the older man gave a shrug that seemed to signify defeat. He riffled through his pockets for a moment, then leaned daringly over the patch of empty water between the two boats, and turned an even deeper shade of green in the process, as the boat that he and Nagira were sharing tipped precariously to one side. He caught the boy's hand, and pressed something into it ཤྭ most likely a bribe. The boy confirmed this by shoving his hand and its contents into his pocket, and nodding his head in a manner which was clearly a mockery of Marco's earlier greeting.

Then he pointed to one of the shops along the waterfront, and went back to cleaning out the gondola.

"Venice," Marco muttered, and he seemed to feel that was an adequate summary of his exchange with the boy. In Nagira's experience, however, Marco felt that the fact that they were in Venice was an adequate explanation for anything bad that happened to him. So instead of responding, Nagira climbed out of the boat and up onto the dock, and started towards the shop that the boy had indicated. All of the shops here seemed to deal in much the same merchandise; one shop had a cut-glass chandelier hanging on display in the front window; another had blown-glass vases and bowls. The store that they had been directed to had a life-sized clear glass swan at the center of its window, surrounded by smaller glass animals in various colors... everything from cats to elephants, and one tiny piece which looked distinctly like a small blue glass ferret.

Nagira had his hand on the door of the shop when Marco caught up with him, huffing a little with the effort of forcing limbs that were neither young nor spry into a trot. He had his habitual scowl in place, and he yanked the door open and stepped inside without a word.

The windows had been left open inside the shop, which let in the thin, clouded light and displayed the merchandise to its best advantage, but also kept the air as humid and unpleasant as it had been outside. The interior was crowded with shelves full of glassware, but curiously devoid of people. There was a lean, dark young man toying with a glass paperweight near the front of the store, and a bored looking salesman behind the counter, but otherwise the shop was empty.

The man behind the counter straightened when Nagira and Marco entered the shop. Recognition lit his face as he looked at Marco, and he opened his mouth and said one simple word: "No."

"No," Marco repeated.

Broad hands swept through shockingly white-blond hair in what was undoubtedly a nervous motion, and the man shook his head rapidly. "No. Not today, Bianchi. I don't have anything to sell to you."

"You always have something to sell, Claudio," Marco said tiredly. "That is why I come to you."

The blond man cast a conspiratorial glance around the shop, but found it empty; the young man who had been browsing the shelves had taken one look at Nagira and Marco, and slipped out almost immediately after they had entered. "If you want to buy something, you can pick out a nice vase, or a paperweight. I'll even give you a discount. Merda, do you know how much trouble I could get into for talking to you SOLOMON workers right now?" He drew two fingers across his throat in an unmistakable gesture.

The grin on Nagira's face drew Marco's formidable glare away from the shopkeeper and onto him. "Do you find this funny, signore?"

"Not funny, but yeah, pretty damn entertaining." When Marco continued to glare, Nagira shrugged. "It seems kind of familiar."

That seemed to satisfy Marco, because he grunted and returned his attention to the reluctant Claudio. Claudio, however, seemed more concerned with Nagira. "Who," he asked, his eyes narrowed in suspicion, "is this?"

"Nobody," both men answered in tandem, and exchanged a look. "Nobody that you need to concern yourself with," Marco continued. "All you need to concern yourself with is telling me whatever you've heard about The Spaniard's death. You know that I'll pay you well for the information; it can't be the money that's bothering you."

"It's not the money that's bothering me," Claudio agreed, "it's the fact that I value my life. Leave it alone, Marco. Too many people wanted that old bastard dead. Does it really matter who got to him in the end?"

"Yes."

Unable to argue with such an unshakable affirmative, Claudio could only sigh. "I wasn't really lying when I told you that I had nothing to sell," he said finally. "The witches in Venice have been very quiet recently. No major incidents, no information coming to me either from the source or through gossip. All I can tell you is that they're sitting on some kind of secret over there. They have been ever since your boss got the ax. I tried to find out more about it, and that's when I got warned off. I know better that to mess with the self-proclaimed Witch Queen of Venice and her people when they've told me to mind my own business. I'm a Seed, but they know that I'll sell what I know, and they didn't want me to know anything about this." He gave Marco a sharp-eyed look. "You really should follow my example, Bianchi, and keep your nose out of it."

Marco's glare had gone soft and thoughtful, and he didn't seem inclined to push for more information, but something had caught Nagira's attention. "Witch Queen of Venice?"

A shrug and a roll of the eyes seemed to summarize Claudio's feeling on the matter. "That's a quaint presumption, isn't it? Her name is Fiametta Ganza. She's powerful, and she polices her own so that The Spaniard never had to worry about it, so no one complains that she has a pretty ego to match her pretty face." He laughed a little harshly. "Some days it seemed that he ran half the city, and she ran the other half."

"You're saying that she wasn't happy just running half of the city?" Nagira demanded.

"Oh, no, it's not for me to say," Claudio said, waving his hand in a disclaimer. He dropped the hand to finger the glass pendant around his neck, which was engraved with some kind of witch symbol. It looked something like a stick-figure with three legs and without either a head or arms. Amon might have known what it was, but Nagira didn't know much about the technical workings of the Craft. From the way that the man was pawing at it, Nagira guessed that it was intended to protect the wearer in some way. "It's not like she had any love for the old bastard. She's a witch, he was SOLOMON, you do the math."

This assertion made Nagira a little uncomfortable, because again and again he found himself running up against that same wall. Witches and witch sympathizers simply did not mix well with SOLOMON, and that was more than enough of a difference to justify murder. If that was the case, it sure as hell didn't bode well for a budding romance, just as it had never boded particularly well for his relationship with his brother. 'Doesn't that make him your enemy?' Robin had asked. He hadn't had a real answer then, and he still didn't now.

A neat stack of euros discreetly exchanged hands, and Marco turned to leave, Nagira trailing a pace behind him. Claudio's worried gaze followed them until the shop door had swung closed, and left them once again standing on the street near the docks. Nagira fished out a cigarette, and moved to light it.

There was no warning. In the space between one moment and the next, the time that it took Nagira to light his cigarette and take the first drag of thick sweet smoke, a solid wall of water rose from the lagoon. It towered a good twenty-five feet above the street, casting a dark shadow over the storefronts and blocking out the sky completely. Then it came crashing down.

For a moment, there was no air to breathe, only water, and Nagira found himself attempting to breathe that instead. Then his brain caught up with his panicked body, and he closed his mouth. The unnatural current swept him out towards the lagoon, and he would have ended up in deeper water had his back not smacked suddenly and painfully into one of the dock's wooden support beams.

It was over as quickly as it had started, and Nagira was left sputtering in the shallows near the dock, up to his chest in water and soaking wet. He was relieved to find Marco similarly unharmed, save that the water which reached Nagira's chest was around the Sicilian's neck, and ever tiny wave left him to spit out even more of the murky lagoon water.

Nagira recovered and rose first, moving to help Marco back onto the shore.

"What," Marco gasped, once he finally had enough breath to gasp with, "was that?"

"Offhand, I'd say that was the warning that your pal Claudio told us about." The cigarette that Nagira had lit had been washed away, and predictably, both the half-empty pack of cigarettes in his pocket and his lighter were ruined. He sighed. "Someone doesn't like us asking about your boss's death."

This time, when Marco spat, Nagira had the distinct impression that he was doing it to express his feelings on the matter, and not to get the water out of his mouth. "Madre del Dio," he growled. "This job really is going to get me killed."

Just like that, as though the frigid water had cleared his head, the idea that had formed in Nagira's mind earlier that morning crystallized, and became the rough outline of a plan. Marco didn't want to work for SOLOMON anymore, that much was clear. It was equally clear that SOLOMON wasn't about to let Marco go, at least not willingly... but hadn't Nagira spent the last few years getting people away from the syndicate?

He pounded Marco's back with a companionable hand, and stepped further away from the shore. "C'mon, buddy, let's go find somewhere to dry off. You and I need to have a little talk."

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Disclaimer: In spite of the fact that I've gone eight months without updating this story, I still don't own Witch Hunter Robin. Darn.

Notes: auntie-mom is a wonderful beta-reader, who is much more of a stickler for commas than I am. She can be thanked for making this chapter remotely readable. Next chapter: Troubles, in which Doujima doesn't make a discovery and our two lovebirds aren't. And now, on to my further butchering on the Italian language:

Che brutto tempo - What awful weather

Salve - Hello

Dov'e sono Claudio - Where is Claudio?

Chi? - Who?

Non lo so - I don't know

E troppo presto - It's too early

Ho sonno - I'm tired

Lasciami in pace - Leave me alone

Merda - Shit