by Nancy Holder
The entire world, it seemed, was nothing but a huge chessboard to be mastered for his pleasure.
All the Immortals could fight, and some well, but for the majority, their hearts were not in their swords. They only played at dueling. There was no blood to their practicing, and it soon became clear to MacLeod that they had no sense of training for any purpose save that they lived in a society based upon the defense of honor. MacLeod could not fathom it, having been trained by his kinsman, Connor, that danger in the form of another Immortal could strike you at any moment.
That danger came in three forms on the island of Murano: the first was Machiavelli, who seemed capable of turning upon his closest friend—if he had any—with the deadly suddenness of a serpent.
The second danger was the Court of Beauties, who would, MacLeod had no doubt, rip him to shreds with their bare hands should Machiavelli order it.
The third was Ruffio Mocenigo.
He was a tall man, very young when he had died the first death, very agile, and very cruel. A fashion plate, his ribbons and buckles only masked the savage brute that he was, fond of whipping peasants and forcing their women. He reveled in his special position as Machiavelli’s right-hand man, and lorded it over the other Immortals, who were afraid of him. His special skill was his ability to execute fully the wishes and whims of his master, to whom he was utterly devoted. He made no secret of the fact that he viewed MacLeod as a potential usurper, and that he would be glad of the day the Scot was gone—in whatever form that leave-taking was made manifest.
To allay Machiavelli and to keep Ruffio at bay, MacLeod pretended that he counted himself among the angels to be a Beauty, and endured Ruffio’s bad humor with feigned good grace. His soul suffered for it, and at night he stole into Machiavelli’s fabulous gardens and trained his body and mind for the inevitable confrontation with Mocenigo.
After a few days that alternately flew and dragged, he befriended Antonio, a page in the employ of the Cardinal. He reminded MacLeod of himself as a boy, eager to learn how to become a man. ‘Tonio must have sensed MacLeod’s pleasure in his company, for he came to regard the tall foreigner as something of a mentor.
As a result, MacLeod received news regularly from the mainland, including the situation at the prisons. Granted, it came from the eyes and mouth of a child, but together with what he gleaned from the other visitors, he was able to piece together what was happening. He learned that both Burlingame and Ali had been condemned to die as spies, the sentence to be delayed until after Carnival. It was only early November, so there was some time to hatch an escape plan.
That would have comforted MacLeod more if he had not also learned the manner of their executions: beheading, the corpses to be burned immediately after. The heads would be preserved in wax and displayed in a macabre museum behind the Chapel of St. Ursula. Perhaps it was the Italian lust for relics that prompted the bizarre collection. MacLeod only knew that the very thought of the museum made him seethe.
“Signor Mackio.” ‘Tonio approached quietly. His youth was more fortunate than his childhood had been. Poor diet had left his legs bent from rickets, and he bore scars from beatings, and a crooked nose. His hunger for affection touched MacLeod. “It’s a letter, sir.” He shyly pushed his reddish brown hair away from his face as he held out a sealed envelope in MacLeod’s direction, not quite daring to touch his hero.
There was a coat of arms, a shield with a crown above and diagonal stripes of blue and white, but he couldn’t place it.
He opened the thick paper and scanned it, able to read sufficient Italian for that. It was an invitation to a banquet at the house of the Calegri. The Calegri were an influential family who counted Doges among their ancestors, a good family. Powerful. He cast back, realizing he had been introduced to one of them briefly the day before on the chessboard floor, and was surprised at this quick display of friendship to a man short on credentials. He could not remember having met them when he’d been in Venice before.
“Va bene,” he said to ‘Tonio. “I’ll draft an answer later.” He had no idea how to respond.
“Can we have a fencing lesson?” ‘Tonio asked, his brows shooting up hopefully.
MacLeod hid his smile. “Aye, lad. I’ll get me loose of these infernal ribbons and then we’ll have some sport.”
“Friend Duncan.” Machiavelli came up behind him and clapped him on the back. “You’ve gotten a love note, perhaps?”
“Secret information from my spies,” MacLeod retorted, just to needle him.
Machiavelli chuckled. “Your eyes miss nothing, Scotsman.” He took up the page with a flourish. “May I? An invitation to the Calegri. You must know that the Doge hates them passionately.”
“That’s naught to do with me.”
“Come with me. We’ll walk together.” He put his arm around MacLeod’s shoulders. To their left, Ruffio lounged against a column, picking his fingernails with a jeweled stiletto. He was dressed fashionably in white and purple and long sausage curls of unnatural blue-black. Despite his fussy clothes, his bearing was sinister. His features were cast in darkness, but it was clear he was watching carefully.
“My chevalier, I have been a friend to you, have I not’.’”
Chevalier was French for knight. Feeling a change in the tide, MacLeod answered simply, “Si, signor. You’ve treated me well.” He was aware that ’Tonio was silently trailing them, and gave his head a surreptitious shake to warn him off. But the boy appeared not to understand, and kept following.
“You know that I treasure your presence here. That I would be bereft without you. I hope this engenders within you in return an appreciation for my patronage.”
“Oh, aye,” MacLeod replied, sliding his glance toward Ruffio, who had detached himself from the column and glided along the perimeter of the room, keeping pace with them.
Machiavelli chuckled as if at the lack of conviction in MacLeod’s tone. “I have chosen you well. You have leadership potential beyond anyone here. Save myself. You are a true warrior. For you, a sword stroke rights things.”
“Not always,” MacLeod answered honestly, a lesson hard-won.
Machiavelli tapped the invitation. “As I have mentioned, this family is not fond of the Doge. And the Doge is a great friend to the house of Machiavelli. And as you are now of my house, well…” He inclined his head. “A certain young man, one Giovanni Calegri, tried to assassinate our beloved prince. He has gone unpunished only because no evidence has convicted him. We’re practically at war. Our previous Doge lasted only a year. We cannot withstand the turmoil such petty and shortsighted politics would deal us.”
MacLeod only looked at him. Machiavelli huffed as if irritated at the necessity to state the obvious. “The Doge would favor highly the man who dealt with this Calegri for him. He would give to him a boon.”
MacLeod narrowed his eyes. “I’m no’ an errand boy to do your dirty business.”
Machiavelli looked taken aback. It was clear he wasn’t used to being refused. “It’s not dirty business, man. It’s necessary business. And it is my belief you could make use of a favor.”
Such as a pardon for Ali? MacLeod kept his face from showing his apprehension. He said, “I’m no’ a man who kills to advance himself.”
“No?” Machiavelli shrugged. “I think otherwise. You’re too good at chess for that to be true. You know you can’t move forward without clearing the board of the pieces that are in your way. In our game, you are a knight. I’m the king. Advancing me advances you. We can’t allow me to lose.”
MacLeod said flatly, “No.”
Machiavelli flared. “Think twice on that answer, signor.”
He snapped his fingers and moved away from MacLeod. As MacLeod watched, the Immortal was approached by a reedy, unsmiling man in a cast-off coat and worn bucket-top boots. Machiavelli walked apart with the man, taking with him MacLeod’s invitation from the Calegri.
Ruffio turned, stared at MacLeod, and joined them.
’Tonio
crept to the right, hurrying to catch up with Machiavelli and the others.
“No,” MacLeod whispered fiercely, but the boy moved forward. The men’s heads lowered together as they murmured at each other. ‘Tonio tiptoed closer, straining to hear.
MacLeod shook his head sharply, catching the boy’s eye. Reluctantly, the boy returned to MacLeod’s side.
“Is it true you will murder someone tonight?” he asked excitedly.
MacLeod was alarmed. “Did you hear about that, then?”
“Aye,” the little boy replied, imitating him. “And the man gave Signor some sticks of metal and told him something about the well with the unicorn on it.”
“Pay no mind. Get out of here.” He walked the boy the length of the hall. “I’ll take you to the gondola traghetto and—”
“Can’t we fence?” ‘Tonio asked in a small voice.
“Next time. Now come, lad. I wouldn’t have anything happen to ye.”
‘Tonio’s face shone. It was a wonderful thing, MacLeod mused, to know that someone cared about you. “But what will happen to me?”
“Say nothing about what you heard to anyone. I will not be killing anyone, do you understand? But it’s best that you don’t know of any of this. Don’t tell your master the Cardinal.”
“Si, signor.” He bobbed his head. “Signor approaches.”
MacLeod gritted his teeth as Machiavelli and the man in the bucket-top boots came toward them. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“I will run all the way to the gondola,” ’Tonio said, and before MacLeod realized what was happening, the boy had scampered away.
“Wait,” MacLeod called.
“Duncan.”
Machiavelli rejoined MacLeod. The man in the boots broke from him, touching his hat in a respectful salute.
“We dine now,” Machiavelli said, putting an arm around MacLeod’s shoulders. “This beehive will buzz along without us.”
MacLeod darted a glance in the direction ‘Tonio had left. There was no sign of the boy. Troubled, he nevertheless allowed himself to be shepherded by Machiavelli through the cavernous room, past Grecian statues and Roman busts that might or might not be forgeries. Ancient crossbows and sabers formed a huge cross on one wall. Machiavelli claimed to be a thousand years old. Perhaps he had merely secured the loyalty of an Immortal who was that ancient.
“You’re a very tense man,” Machiavelli observed, his grip on MacLeod’s shoulder tightening. “Is someone following you?”
“Is not someone always following the likes of us?” MacLeod replied. He didn’t add that he disliked being touched so much.
Machiavelli laughed. “Touché! You have me there, caro Highlander. Come, let us feast in case we are challenged within the hour. Or,” he added, patting MacLeod’s cheek, “we challenge one another.”
MacLeod’s smile faded. “Is that your intention?”
“No, no. We play the same game. We are friends.”
“According to you, there’s no such thing.” MacLeod watched him carefully. “There’s only commerce in men’s souls.”
Machiavelli looked pleased. “I have said that, haven’t I.”
They came to a row of ornately carved doors shaped like portcullises, which were set in the middle of a fresco of the Virgin with the Holy Child. Machiavelli opened them with a flourish and stood back to let MacLeod enter first.
At once a claustrophobic frisson shot up MacLeod’s spine, his fighter’s reflexes shackled. The hall was so dark he couldn’t see his own hand, the walls too narrow to draw his sword. He was acutely aware that Machiavelli glided quietly behind him. The hair on the back of MacLeod’s neck rose as he listened for Machiavelli’s every movement
“Relax, hello signor, for the love of God,” Machiavelli said, sighing. “Donna Maria, you’re more suspicious than I. Tell me truly, you did come to me to join me and not to betray me?”
“I’ve said so.” MacLeod relaxed slightly as light streamed into the tunnel and the sound of laughter and music filtered through the gloom.
“Then it must be true.” Machiavelli was obviously amused.
MacLeod walked into the oblong banquet hall, where the Immortals were gathering for a sumptuous feast. Feeling the approaching presence, a few looked in his direction, acknowledged him and Machiavelli. Most, however, continued their conversations and drank their wine.
Ruffio had managed to beat them there. There must be another entrance to the hall. His eyes were an icy blue as he approached and made obeisance to Machiavelli. MacLeod he ignored. His charming yet calculating smile was reserved for Machiavelli alone. “May I sit with you?”
“Of course, Ruffio. And Duncan will sit at my left hand.”
The young man glared daggers in MacLeod’s direction. He would be a more likely candidate to murder one of Machiavelli’s enemies.
“A centesimo for your ponderings,” Machiavelli said to him.
“They’re not worth that much,” MacLeod countered.
“I’m not so sure.” Machiavelli guided them toward the head of the table. They took their places. The rest of the company stopped speaking and waited until Machiavelli sat with elaborate dignity. The man on MacLeod’s left was an unbelievable bird of paradise dressed in riotous colors. On Ruffio’s right sat the lovely Giuletta, whose bodice plunged almost to her navel.
Machiavelli raised his glass. “To all my Beauties,” he said. “My lovely women and my handsome young men. To a life eternal of pleasure and joy. To you all!”
“Here, here,” they chorused, and all drank.
MacLeod sipped and put down his cup. The others avidly watched the procession of dishes as the servers, dressed in silver and black, marched from the kitchen to display the meal. The scents of rosemary, thyme, basil, and tomatoes filled the hall. He was filled with a sense of doom and waste: these Immortals were not well served by their service to Machiavelli, if he did not prepare them for the Game.
He turned to Machiavelli and said, “There is more to our lives than eternal pleasure, is there not?”
Machiavelli half-looked at him. “What more could one require?”
“What of the Gathering?”
Machiavelli laughed. “That old wives” tale? Surely you don’t believe it.”
“What is the Gathering?” The bird of paradise piped in a shrill voice. He glanced shyly at MacLeod. “What are you speaking of?”
“Jean-Pierre, it’s nothing.” Machiavelli waved his hand. “A child’s fairy story.”
Jean-Pierre opened his mouth to speak. Ruffio glared at him, and he closed it abruptly and picked up his fork.
In that moment, the first of the dishes reached the head of the table. The server removed the gilt cover, displaying a succulent boar’s head. Machiavelli inclined his head and breathed in the fragrance of cooked meat and spice. “Superb.”
“We fight one another in the Gathering,” MacLeod said to Jean-Pierre. “One-on-one, dueling with our swords. We kill one another.”
“What?” Jean-Pierre was astonished. “Why?”
“It’s a terrible Game we must play.” MacLeod put his wine glass to his lips.
“A game?”
“Signor,” Machiavelli said warningly.
“One of us must win. One must be the last.” MacLeod drank deeply.
Machiavelli gestured for a servant to refill Jean-Pierre’s wine goblet. “An absurd notion, is it not?”
MacLeod gazed levelly at Jean-Pierre. “An honorable man told me of it.”
“And many honorable men have believed many absurd things,” Machiavelli finished, admiring a towering confection of pastry crust shaped into a medieval castle. “Excellent,” he said to the server, who inclined his head. “Enough of this chatter. It’s dull and uninspired. I will not have tedious conversation before such exquisite food.”
MacLeod surveyed the Immortals, who were applauding the presentation of the banquet dishes and toasting one another. There were a number of very beautiful Immortal women flirting
outrageously with the men. Perhaps the members of this band would meet each other in battle. Did they not know it?
“Does no one here know of the Game?” he pressed.
“No one here needs to, since it is not true, signor.” Machiavelli narrowed his foxlike eyes at him. Perhaps another man would be cowed by their angry darkness. MacLeod met his gaze and held it. “How different you are of late, Sir Chameleon. Not at all respectful.” He set his mouth. “Not at all obedient.”
“My apologies,” MacLeod said flatly. “My understanding was that you and I had spoken of challenges. I assumed you spoke of the challenge one Immortal makes to another.”
“Men duel.” He waved a hand. “There is nothing mystical about that.”
MacLeod picked up his wine. Machiavelli said, “And now, of that other matter. Of the house of Calegri. They have bothered us long enough, have they not, Ruffio?”
Ruffio turned his head and spat on the floor. “Bastards,” he grumbled. “I’d like to see them all dead.”
Machiavelli turned to MacLeod. “Do you see, signor? A man of your experience has killed, surely.”
MacLeod remained silent.
“And you are from a nation that comprehends the necessity of lords and subjects.”
Still he said nothing.
Machiavelli turned to Ruffio. “My dear friend, if I asked you to kill someone, what would you do?”
Ruffio laughed. “Have I ever hesitated before, maestro?”
“Never. You’ve always proven your loyalty.” Machiavelli peered at MacLeod. “There is a price for the life you’re leading here, young Immortal.”
MacLeod set down his wine. “’Tis time I left you, sir. I canna kill for you. I’m no use to you.” He rose. Jean-Pierre was so stunned he dropped his fork. The other Beauties stopped talking and stared at him in silence. Protocol demanded that everyone stay until the lord and master left.