by Mary Hoffman
‘Yes,’ said Silvia. ‘He is not going to university in Fortezza until the New Year. He had some business with his brother to settle first here in the city.’
‘Then send for him, if you will, my dear,’ said Rodolfo. ‘Impress upon him the need for secrecy and put young Marco in his hands for lessons in the use of weapons. In some ways it might be better to send one of the palace guards to Padavia with the Duchessa, but I would like to keep this secret known to as few people as possible.’
He paced the length of the small room.
‘A duchessa is never more at risk than when she uses a substitute and her enemy knows it,’ he said. ‘It was in this very room that I saw Arianna’s mother in a state of shock after Cavaliere Luciano saved her from an attempt on her life, while another woman posed as Duchessa.’
He did not say that the would-be assassin had been the same Guido Parola who would train Marco. Or that Arianna’s mother was again in this room with him. Neither Barbara nor Marco knew that the previous Duchessa had survived the second attempt on her life and now lived as Rodolfo’s second wife.
‘But because we must not expose Barbara to any unnecessary risk,’ he went on, ‘I would also suggest that these impersonations never take place again on days when there are formal engagements. We don’t want the palace too full of people at such times.’
‘And these young people must be rewarded for their extra duties,’ said Silvia.
‘Indeed,’ said Rodolfo. He went to a wooden chest on a table near the window and took out a velvet bag that chinked. He handed it to Barbara. ‘This is for you both, for what you did yesterday. I believe you are soon to be married? Perhaps this will be useful towards your marriage expenses. There will be as much again for any further occasions when the Duchessa visits Padavia in disguise. But you must think carefully before you accept. Every such expedition puts you both in danger.’
*
When Matt found himself in the Scriptorium again, he was already in his Talian clothes. But he was in Constantin’s ‘studio’ and on his own. Cautiously, he opened the door. Work in the Scriptorium was in full swing, with all the machines being used. Something about the quality of the light made him think it was earlier in the day than the last time, perhaps because he had fallen asleep so much earlier in his own world.
In spite of his disguise, Matt felt very exposed. He didn’t know a soul in Padavia, except for the man called Constantin. He plucked up courage to ask one of the burly men operating a printing press if he knew where the Professor was.
‘Lecturing,’ said the man briefly. ‘Won’t be back for an hour or so.’
Matt wandered over to the main door; no one took the slightest notice of him. He pulled the dusty velvet hat over his forehead and pushed open the door to the street. And stepped out into the sixteenth century.
The streets were cobbled, the houses built close together, with lines of washing strung across the streets from one side to the other. The roofs were of terracotta tiles and the bright blue sky convinced him that he was indeed in a country well south of England.
There were no cars or buses but Matt could see there had been horses passing by and as he looked around him a fine-looking horse came trotting up. A young man about his own age swung lightly down from the saddle and tied the horse’s reins to a wooden post – just like the cowboys in every Western Matt had seen.
But this was no cowboy. He wore elegant clothes and had long black curly hair tied back with a velvet ribbon. If Matt had met him in his own world, he would have thought he was a bit girly, but in Padavia, the horseman looked confident and at home. In spite of his easy grace and slight build, he seemed as if he could take care of himself. And he had a wicked-looking dagger in his belt.
Matt expected him to walk past and go about whatever his business was but, instead, he stopped and looked closely at him. Too late Matt realised he had forgotten about not having a shadow.
The newcomer grabbed his arm and pulled him back into the shade of a nearby building.
‘Careful,’ he said. ‘You don’t want just anyone to know you are a Stravagante.’
Matt had the strangest feeling that he knew this boy, at least by sight, but he couldn’t think where he could have seen him before.
‘Matteo?’ said the boy. ‘Matt? Professor Constantin asked me to look out for you.’
‘But how did you . . . ?’ Matt began, and then said, ‘Oh I get it, the shadow thing. I thought for a minute we knew each other.’
‘Not exactly – it’s a bit complicated. I’m Luciano, sometimes called Cavaliere Crinamorte. I’m at university here, but my home is in Bellezza.’
Matt stared at him even harder.
‘You’re the one Constantin told me about – the boy from my school, who . . .’
‘Died? Yes, that’s me,’ said Luciano. ‘It’s a long story. Look, Constantin’s tied up in a lecture. Why don’t we go for a drink?’
He led Matt along the street and out into a square, carefully keeping to the shade. They stopped outside what looked like an ordinary house but it had a sign outside painted with the image of a black horse. Luciano ducked in under the lintel and Matt, who was several inches taller, had to stoop even more.
Inside was dark and a bit smoky from the log fire, even though it was broad daylight outside. No need to worry about shadows inside the Black Horse. Matt sat down at a crude wooden table and Luciano bought them tankards of a thin ale, which made him pull a face at first but which became more palatable with every mouthful.
‘Be careful,’ said Luciano, grinning. ‘It’s got more of a kick than you’d think.’
‘It seems to be your job to tell me to be careful,’ said Matt.
‘That’s right,’ said Luciano. ‘Mine and Constantin’s. A new Stravagante is always a bit like a newborn foal in Talia. We old hands have to watch over you till you’re up on your feet and not too wobbly.’
Even if Matt hadn’t already decided to believe in Talia if he went back there a second time, meeting Luciano would have convinced him. He had remembered where he had seen him now. When Harry played trumpet in the school orchestra at Barnsbury, the family always went to hear his concerts. This Luciano had been a violinist and the son of one of Jan’s best friends. Matt could just remember the school assembly when the Head had announced that Lucien Mulholland had died. It was about three years before.
‘How old are you?’ he suddenly asked.
‘Nearly eighteen,’ said Luciano. ‘You?’
‘Seventeen – just. But you’ve been here three years, haven’t you? I thought you’d be older.’
‘There was a lurch in time in your world about a year ago here,’ said Luciano. ‘It happened when Falco translated. You know who he is?’
‘Nick Duke,’ said Matt. ‘He told me he killed his father.’
Luciano sighed. ‘Actually, it was me. But there’s a lot to tell you,’ he said. ‘I’d better get us another drink.
*
Enrico Poggi was in a sorry state. He hadn’t had more than some casual work as an ostler over the last six months and his money had run out. He had only himself to blame, in a sense, since he had killed the golden goose when he gave Luciano the poisoned foil in the duel with Niccolò di Chimici. That act of revenge against his then employer had put paid to any more work for the di Chimici family.
So he had been drifting from city to city, avoiding ones where the di Chimici ruled. Padavia was one such independent city-state, though it had a close relationship with Bellezza. And Enrico still felt drawn to Bellezza, even though it would have been dangerous for him to go back there. Independent of the di Chimici it might be, but he had killed its ruler, the old Duchessa.
At least, he had been paid to do it and had believed he had done it – until six months ago, in the course of the duel, he had seen her alive and well. That was the moment he realised that the woman he had killed had been his own fiancée, Giuliana, who had been impersonating the Duchessa in her glass-lined audience chamber.
Enrico now had some very cheap lodgings in the south of Padavia, near the unhealthy great swamp that had drowned the old Reman amphitheatre. He had been idling through the city the day before when he had spotted Luciano going into the basilica with a peasant boy. A few enquiries told him that the black-haired Bellezzan was now studying at the University. But no one knew who the other boy was; he was a stranger in Padavia.
Luciano had been friends with peasants before – there were those two stable-boys in Remora, for instance – and this was probably another one of those. Enrico was tossing up whether to make himself known to the Bellezzan. On the debit side, Luciano would remember:
Enrico had kidnapped him in Bellezza.
He had killed the Duchessa, mother of Luciano’s girlfriend, Arianna. (Or tried to.)
He had worked for the di Chimici and against the Stravaganti in Bellezza, Remora and Giglia.
He had kidnapped Luciano’s friend Cesare in Remora.
He had stolen the flying horse.
He had helped Carlo di Chimici kill Davide Nucci in Giglia (though perhaps Luciano didn’t know that?).
He had got hold of the poison to smear on the foils, in order for the Grand Duke to kill Luciano.
It was quite a list. On the other hand, on the plus side was a really big favour. He had saved Luciano from being killed and enabled him to kill the Grand Duke. Would that count enough against his other crimes? Enrico was seriously thinking of throwing in his lot with the Stravaganti, even though he didn’t know quite what they were or what they could do.
*
It was a lot for Matt to get his head round and it took many mugs of ale for Luciano to finish the explanations. By the time they left the Black Horse to find Constantin, Matt was as unsteady on his feet as the newborn foal Luciano had compared him to. The older boy seemed to hold his liquor better, in spite of his slighter frame. They stopped outside the Scriptorium and Luciano retrieved his horse.
‘I’ve got lectures to go to myself now,’ he said, ‘but you can find me in the Refectory at lunchtime.’
‘Pity I can’t just text you,’ said Matt.
‘You have to forget all about the twenty-first century when you’re in Talia,’ said Luciano, smiling. ‘You’ll get used to the slower pace quite soon. But don’t take it for granted. There are times when things can move quite fast in Talia too.’ He shuddered, thinking of the bloody quarter of an hour in Giglia six months before.
He vaulted back up on to the horse and waved as he left. Matt let himself back into the Scriptorium, where he was relieved to see Constantin checking a printed page.
‘Ah, Matteo,’ he said, greeting him warmly. ‘Everyone! This is Matteo Bosco, my new apprentice. He knows nothing at all about printing, so we’ll all have to teach him.’
There was a round of applause and Matt felt absurdly pleased. He had been a bit alarmed by Constantin’s public announcement. He had so much trouble with getting letters round the right way that he didn’t think he’d be very good at the reversed bits of movable type. Then he remembered that he had been able to read easily the last time he was in Talia.
The men had gone back to their work and Constantin clapped his arm round Matt’s broad shoulders.
‘Come this way,’ he said. ‘There’s something I want to show you.’
He led Matt to the far end of the room and looked quickly round before putting his hand into a cupboard and pulling a switch. The cupboard swung open noiselessly and the two stepped through into a hidden room. There were no windows and the Professor had to light several candles before Matt could see anything. And then he was a bit disappointed. After the dramatic hidden entrance, all it contained was one more wooden printing press and the other paraphernalia, with no one working at it.
Professor Constantin looked at him expectantly.
‘This,’ he said proudly, ‘is my Secret Scriptorium.’
Chapter 5
Spellbound
‘Er,’ said Matt. ‘What’s secret about it?’
‘This is where I print the books that are not officially published by the University,’ said Constantin. ‘That one you are still holding, for example.’
Matt looked at his talisman.
‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Why is it a secret?’
‘It’s what I think you’d call a book of spells,’ said Constantin. ‘And such things are dangerous in Talia at present.’
I should never have listened to all those Harry Potter tapes when I was a kid, thought Matt. Books of spells – what next? Was Constantin going to pull out a wand and reveal himself as a powerful wizard?
But he found himself unwinding the leather straps round his book, curious to see if he could read it in Padavia. The fuzzy black type stared back at him, still impenetrable.
‘May I?’ asked Constantin. He took the book, opened it at random and intoned:
‘“Remedium contra fascinum, sive oculum malum.”
That’s old Talic for “Cure for the evil eye”. Or rather the results of it.’
‘What is it?’ asked Matt.
‘The cure? Oh, a vessel of water placed on the forehead of the victim. Pour in oil and if it forms into the shape of an eye, then he really has experienced the Jettatura – the evil eye. You can then, as it were, ‘blind’ the eye with grains of salt and that takes the curse off.’
‘No,’ said Matt, a bit thrown by the seriousness with which the Professor had given the explanation. ‘What I meant was – what is the evil eye?’
‘You don’t have it in Anglia?’ said Constantin, surprised. ‘It’s a kind of negative energy. Some people have the power to curse crops or animals or other people just by looking at them.’
‘Cool!’ said Matt. He found himself immediately thinking of Jago Jones.
‘You approve?’ said Constantin.
‘Well, it could be useful, I suppose.’
‘You can’t make yourself have it, Matteo. You either have the power or you don’t.’
‘But how do you know if you’ve got it?’
‘You find out by accident, usually, when you cast an envious – or even an admiring look – at something or someone and then crops die or people get sick. Then you have to choose.’
‘Choose?’
‘Whether you will learn the discipline to control it. Or whether you will use it to curse. Either way you have power.’
Matt was silent, thinking about different kinds of power. He knew he was supposed to think the better kind was not using the evil eye but he was still attracted by the thought of zapping people. One person.
‘So is my book full of cures?’
‘Yes. And curses. Blessings too, of course. Potions, incantations, enchantments, hexes, charms – spells, in fact.’
‘So is there magic here in Talia?’ asked Matt, feeling foolish as he did so.
‘Some people call it that,’ said Constantin. ‘I think it’s time I told you about the di Chimici.’
*
Grand Duke Fabrizio was getting nowhere in tracking down Luciano. He was pretty sure that he was not in Giglia. Fabrizio had sent soldiers to scour every palace, house, shop, bottega, church, farm and monastery in the city. No one knew anything of the young Bellezzan’s whereabouts and in the end, Fabrizio had to accept that he had escaped.
The arrest warrant was valid throughout Tuschia, so he had sent messengers to Moresco, Fortezza and Remora, where other members of his family ruled. If Luciano had left the region, he would be arrested if he ever set foot back inside di Chimici territory in the north.
But that wasn’t enough for Fabrizio. He also sent spies to Bellezza to find out what they could there about the black-haired Cavaliere.
The only thing that had happened to make him take his mind off vengeance for his father’s death was an unexpected visit from Caterina. She had come to him in his office in the Palazzo Ducale one day in early August. He was surprised when a footman announced the Grand Duchessa; she had not entered the palazzo since the celebrations
in the week before their wedding. And why would she do so when she could talk to him at any time in their own palace?
It had taken his breath away to see her in this unaccustomed setting and to realise afresh how beautiful she was. It was a bright summer’s day and she had been more simply dressed than befitted her rank but he couldn’t regret it when he saw how blooming she looked – her hair a shining aureole and her face glowing like a country girl’s. Only the expensive cut of her pale blue dress and the priceless necklace of pearls had marked her out as a ruler’s wife.
‘Rizio,’ she said fondly, as soon as the footman had left. ‘Must you stay indoors on such a day? Would you not like to walk back to the palace with me and stroll in the grounds? It seems hard to have gardens that people come from all over Talia to admire and yet never walk in them ourselves.’
‘Did you walk here alone to see me?’ he had asked, pulling her on to his lap and winding one of her gold curls round his finger.
‘No,’ she sighed. ‘I had a guard with me. He’s waiting outside. And we came across the corridor, not through the streets. I know you don’t like me to go out on my own but I’d much rather walk with you than have a guard for company.’
‘I’m glad you are being careful,’ he said. ‘No di Chimici is safe any more, not even in our own city.’
‘So will you come?’ she said, snuggling her head under his chin.
Fabrizio had inhaled the scent of her hair – honeysuckle and something muskier that reminded him of the pharmacy at Saint-Mary-among-the-Vines. He had more diplomatic and economic business left to do than he could bear to think of but he was also young and in love. What was the point of being Grand Duke if he couldn’t sometimes ignore his duties and go for a walk in his own gardens with his lovely wife?