“You were lucky once, sir,” Niccolo countered. “Very lucky with me. But someday you’re going to wind up with your throat cut. I have a bad feeling about this one—”
“Shall I tell you what that bad feeling is, young man? Jealousy. Pure and simple jealousy.”
Niccolo sputtered, then managed a disgusted, “Please! I’m thinking of you, Abramo, not myself.”
“Lorenzo and Lucrezia—and I—trust him, and that’s all you need to know,” Abramo replied firmly. “You have a job to do.”
“But if he managed to fool them—”
Ser Abramo’s tone turned dark. “These days, some would say I ought to distrust you. But I never will, because I know your heart.” He paused. When he spoke again, he tried and failed to keep emotion from creeping into his voice. “Just as I know this lad’s heart now. You must trust him.”
“Your heart’s too open, old man,” Niccolo said, with a trace of sad affection. “I only pray it won’t be your downfall.”
“It won’t,” Abramo retorted confidently. “Don’t worry, you’ll only have to work with the boy this once. He’ll stay in my care once this is over.”
A long pause followed. I hurried silently back toward the stairs, but not without first hearing Niccolo say:
“I’ll do as I’m told. Just don’t expect me to like or trust him. And don’t be surprised when he betrays us all.”
* * *
The third floor of Ser Abramo’s house was one massive, sunny room devoid of furniture or decoration save for large mirrors and weaponry hung on the walls. All manner of weaponry: daggers, long swords, short swords, staffs, scimitars, shields, belts, and mail vests. One corner held a small stack of wood cut into pieces the length and breadth of daggers and swords; another, padded floor mats and a man-sized dummy of stuffed burlap stuck on a pole.
I looked at them all with a sinking feeling. I was a small female—wiry and strong for my size, true, but as Niccolo had pointed out, barely capable of hefting a long sword. When it came to combat, my greatest talent was running.
This once, Ser Abramo had said. He wanted me to survive because he wanted a clever apprentice. But the original plan had been to use me in more violent work—me, a thoroughly expendable street thief. And the Medici were insisting on sticking with the original plan, at least this once, which meant I wasn’t long for this world.
And Niccolo was on their side. Which made me hate him all the more.
He arrived less than a minute after I did, and like me, made no effort at pleasantries.
“Stand there,” he ordered, pointing to a pane of sunlight in the middle of the bare sweep of wooden floor. He fetched a belt with a sheath from a hook on one of the walls and brought it back. I stood motionless while he went down on one knee and fastened the broad, heavy leather belt tightly around my waist. His movements were brisk and rough enough to make it clear that the last thing he wanted to do was touch me.
“God,” he muttered with disgust. “You’re as small as a girl. I don’t see how this will work.”
I stared at my reflection in a mirror on the opposite wall. The broad belt fell from mid-ribcage all the way to my hipbones. It was made for a man Ser Abramo’s size. “How am I supposed to move?” I asked.
“Do your best,” he answered curtly. “It’s the smallest baldric we’ve got.” He rose, took a step back, and caught sight of my expression. I’d been thinking about convincing Ser Abramo to take Tommaso and Cecilia in after I died or at least make sure they got my earnings.
“Don’t look so terrified,” he said, irritated. “I’m not here to make a scrawny urchin like you into a master of the dagger. We’re here to practice playacting, that’s all. Your employer isn’t so stupid as to rely on a weakling like you for real fighting or protection.”
Insulted and relieved, I cast about for a proper retort, but was too slow.
“You and I are going to have a mock battle in front of an audience of sorts,” he continued. “You need to look as though you’ve been formally trained—”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because if our audience doesn’t believe our performance, they’ll kill us.”
“But why are we doing this in the first place?” I persisted. “Why are we trying to fool people?”
“To save my neck,” Niccolo snapped. “Now stop asking stupid questions I’m never going to answer. You’re in the business of secrecy now, and the fewer questions you ask, the safer we’ll all be.” He paused. “I hope you learn as quickly as Abramo says you can, because we haven’t much time. So, the fighting stance is your first task.” He took two steps back from me.
“Put your legs a hip’s breadth apart. Now, left foot forward.” He demonstrated; I aped him carefully. “Well done,” he said. “Now the right foot goes back…” He pivoted on said foot until it was fully pointed to the right side. “And out from the body close to ninety degrees.”
“Perpendicular?” I asked as I mimicked the stance, partly to show off my vocabulary, partly because I wasn’t sure what ninety degrees looked like.
“Bend your knees, bend your knees.” Impatient, he pointed at his own. “Don’t ever lock them. Think loose, loose, loose.” He bounced a bit on his feet to emphasize the point and put his hands out in front of his body as if preparing to wrestle with me.
I bent my knees and bounced a bit in imitation.
He nodded, content. “It’s all about the feet. And the hips and shoulders, of course. But the feet come first. So your left foot is forward, but now shift the bulk of your weight onto your back foot. And lift the heel up…” He turned sideways to me so I could better see him demonstrate.
I did as ordered and realized that the move allowed me to spring forward quickly. I tested it with a lunge; Niccolo nodded again.
“You see?” he said. “You have more speed, more power moving forward. Now, back in position.”
I practiced the stance for what seemed a thousand times. Halfway through the exercise, Niccolo began pushing against me to test my balance.
“Good,” he said finally. “A strong foundation keeps you able to retaliate or move out of harm’s way faster; you’re less likely to fall from a blow. Once you lose your footing and fall, you’re dead.”
He moved over to the stacks of wooden blocks and picked up two. “Now a bit of practice with the dagger,” he said, and threw a block at me. It was the same length and width as the weapon, about the length of my forearm.
Living on the street teaches good reflexes. I caught it easily—it was of lightweight cork oak—and returned promptly to my fighting stance.
He frowned. “Don’t hold it underhanded, like a girl,” he snapped. “It’s not your pathetic little razor.”
At the word razor, an image flashed in my mind: Niccolo’s face, framed by long straight red hair.
“Officer Handsome,” I blurted, and felt warmth rush from my heart to my cheeks.
At the words, he gave a quizzical half smile. “What?”
“You,” I said. “You’re from the Eight of the Watch.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You were there outside the Buco Tavern when I nicked Ser Abramo’s purse. But you must have been wearing a red wig.”
His smile vanished. “You’re insane,” he said. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do,” I insisted. He was lying; I knew I was right. He and Ser Abramo had been playacting that night in order to trap me. Just as I was now playacting with Niccolo to fool some other poor sod.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said pointedly, in a manner that neither confirmed nor denied my assertion. “Now, hold the dagger overhanded, like this.” He displayed the proper overhand grip on the hilt, then raised the stick above his head and whipped it up and down through the air, stabbing an invisible foe.
“Now I’m going to try to kill you,” he said. “Stop me.”
He raised the pretend knife and came at me. Although his motions were intentionally
slow and mine fast, he’d landed several gentle killing blows by the time I realized I had to drop my own dagger in order to grab his weapon-wielding arm.
“So you see that doesn’t work,” Niccolo said cheerfully, forgetting his disdain for me in his enthusiasm for teaching. “Now you come at me, and I’ll show you what does.”
I raised my pretend dagger, intending to pelt him with less-than-tender blows, but before I could land even one, he reached out with his left hand and caught the inside of my forearm below the wrist so firmly that, try as I might, I couldn’t plunge my weapon forward toward his chest, which remained a tantalizing hand’s length out of reach.
As I struggled, he explained, “It’s not so much the amount of strength you have—although that definitely helps—but the overhand grip. And if you keep trying to push forward, I can step backward while holding on to your arm so your dagger can’t reach me.”
We repeated this move in slow steps, with Niccolo explaining each. I assumed fighting stance—“Not quite Boar’s Tooth,” he said mysteriously—and lifted my dagger above my head. I began to bring it down, aiming for his heart, and Niccolo seized my forearm with his overhand grip and held my weapon at bay. I brought all my strength to bear, but couldn’t push the mock dagger far enough to hurt him.
“Fiore de’ Liberi was a master at hand-to-hand combat, particularly with the dagger. This is his first master of the dagger, first play. It’s not my favorite defense, really—one clumsy move, or a Fiore-trained opponent who anticipated it, and my hand would be sliced to ribbons. But it’s simple to learn, and with enough practice, you won’t get hurt. Once more, now.”
We repeated the move again—and again, until I grew frustrated over having my wrist caught and yearned to be able to swat Niccolo with my wooden knife until he pled for mercy.
Just as I felt myself losing patience, he stopped and said, “Now we reverse positions. Put your dagger in your belt and leave it there; you won’t need it. I’ll come at you, and you stop me.”
Without pausing, he lifted his piece of oak and rushed me. For the first five tries, I was too late with my left hand, but managed to grab his right forearm on the sixth. It worked; although my strength was no match for his, when he pushed forward, I was able to step backward while keeping his weapon from touching my chest.
We practiced it over and over and over again, but this time, I enjoyed it even though I grew hot and thoroughly soaked with sweat, despite the chill.
On my last try, Niccolo twisted his wrist to move his blade to the outside of my forearm; in a blink, his weapon-bearing hand moved under my arm and pushed oak right against my heart. Our faces were close enough that mine could feel the heat of his, feel his breath, see the irises of his eyes: light, clear celery with one golden fleck, the whole ringed by evergreen. A sudden melting warmth stirred deep inside me, on my cheeks, on the flesh over my heart.
Too damned handsome. No good ever came of a pretty boy.
He stared steadily back into my eyes, his features slack with surprise at his own reaction, and his cheeks coloring like mine surely were.
“Fiore second play,” he said softly, with faint embarrassment. “I win.” He drew away.
I came to myself, cursing myself for my unwanted response, cursing him for his virile beauty. I hated him in that moment. I wanted to plant my piece of oak against his heart and pummel it to mash.
“But the grip is supposed to work,” I protested hotly. “Why else did you teach it to me?”
“It does work,” Niccolo agreed, “if your opponent doesn’t know the countermove. Our audience has to believe I’ve killed you.”
He regained his disinterested manner, and our session ended with his giving me a real dagger, if a blunted one, and demanding I unsheathe it a few dozen times. He shook his head at my clumsiness and made me promise that I’d draw it no fewer than one hundred times before he came again the next morning.
I followed him down the narrow stairs to the sitting room, where Ser Abramo sat in a chair close to the fire, the little table at his side bearing a jar of ink. He was bent over a folio, scribbling madly with his quill, so absorbed in his writing that he started when we entered.
His lips unsmiling, his thick dark brows raised in a question, he glanced up at Niccolo, who responded noncommittally:
“He’ll do.”
Ser Abramo nodded and returned to his papers. Niccolo hesitated where he stood for a moment, apparently awaiting a warmer dismissal; when it failed to come, his lips grew taut. He turned away from us and strode out of the room silently, without looking back.
I was glad to see the tension between them—glad that Ser Abramo had little to say to him, glad that Niccolo had been rude in not saying a proper good-bye to us—because it reminded me how very much I hated him.
* * *
After the morning’s strenuous activities, Ser Abramo presented me with a roasted gamecock and demanded I eat my fill. I did, and then some, leaving nothing behind but a clean-picked skeleton.
“I don’t want to become a street fighter,” I said, and belched. “I knew there would be danger, but I never guessed that I would be crossing swords with an enemy. I don’t like drawing blood.” Or having it drawn.
“You won’t have to,” Abramo said softly. “You’re just to give a little performance. Once it’s done, I’ll make sure you never have to do the like again.”
I wanted to believe him, I really did—but he would have to do whatever the Medici told him to, just as he was doing now, and he knew it. Which meant he was lying.
Afterward, we sat together in front of the fire with the yellowed, falling-apart paper that contained the diagram of stars. As instructed, I’d begun memorizing how to make them for east, south, west, and north, but could make no sense of the words written below them. Ser Abramo stood and showed me how to carve the invisible stars with a finger—sweeping and large, almost the size of a man—and pronounced the four Holy Names, one for each quarter. It was the first time I’d ever heard the ancient Hebrew language. He repeated the names several times for me. I parroted them as best I could.
“Now,” he said, “I’m going pretend to create a circle. Mark how I connect the stars, and how I vibrate the Names rather than speaking them. It comes from the very core of the chest; you should feel it with your whole body.”
And he did so, facing east first. Once he made the great star, he stabbed its center while vibrating the Name for the eastern quarter. Yod heh vav heh.
His voice was very deep and low enough that someone standing in the next room might not have heard it, yet it rumbled like thunder. He drew each word out as long as possible, and when he finished, the very air itself seemed changed.
When he had finished the circle, he turned to me. “You must realize,” he said, “that when you vibrate the Names, you’re touching the hem of God’s very garment.”
“But you don’t even pray before you eat,” I said. “I’ve never seen you cross yourself.”
“We’ve had this discussion before,” he countered with faint weariness. “I don’t believe in the dogma created by men. But I have experienced an interesting power in my life. And I know that for me, magic works when approached with reverence. Not the magic of telling God what to do, but the magic of opening a channel for His will. So if you want to be a magician someday, you have to find that place of reverence within you. It doesn’t come from anyone’s teachings, not from a priest or pope or anyone, anything outside you. It comes from what you allow yourself to know. Fear kills it; trusting that there is something greater than you, something good, fuels it.”
I kept my mouth shut, trying to keep the fury I felt from showing. It was easy for him to believe in a kindly God. He was outrageously wealthy; he’d had a good life. He hadn’t suffered as much as I had. He’d had parents who loved him. He didn’t know the cruelty of the streets. That’s why he could speak about fear and compassion so easily; he didn’t really know the former at all.
I decided then that my
magic, if I lived long enough to become good at it, would come from sheer will and street smarts.
Like Niccolo, Ser Abramo insisted I practice what he’d shown me again, and again, and again, until I was sick of it.
When we finished, he must have been disappointed in my performance, because he said, “For now, learning by rote will do. But at some point, you’ll need to find that place inside you in order to vibrate the Names properly.” He paused. “Take my seat, and practice writing the symbols for the seven planets and the four elements. Test tomorrow.”
* * *
I spent the whole of the afternoon learning the magical symbols for the planets. There were really only five to study, since I recognized the ones for Mars and Venus—the same used to represent male and female. I learned the rest quickly, including their attributed metals: lead for Saturn, gold for the Sun, copper for Venus, and so on. Triangles represented the alchemist’s elements—earth, air, fire, and water—the difference being whether the triangle was upside down or not, and whether it had a line through it or not. It was fun drawing them again and again; I’d always wished for a life where I had ample time to take up a quill.
In the early evening, I practiced unsheathing my dagger, counting each draw until I reached one hundred. I’d thought that if I came to work for Ser Abramo, my life would become one of leisure, punctuated by an errand here and there, but I’d never been so busy in my life.
That night, I practiced drawing the circle and vibrating the Holy Names in the privacy of my bedroom. I didn’t know how to do a proper magical spell, so I sent up an awkwardly agnostic prayer for God to protect Tommaso and Cecilia while I was gone.
* * *
Ser Abramo’s test came first thing in the morning; I eagerly wrote out the symbols for him.
“You have an artist’s hand,” he remarked with faint amazement, looking on my scrawls with admiration, and promptly handed me the symbols of the zodiac to memorize. “You’re already ripe for the furnace.”
The Orphan of Florence Page 12