Free Short Stories 2013

by Baen Books

  The duke was followed by same huge dog that had thwarted the assassin’s killing knife-stroke. Antimo wondered if the duke realized the animal was no defense against him, but had saved his master simply because the assassin could not bring himself to kill the dog first. The dog walked closer, and sniffed at him, curiously. “Yes, Duke Enrico,” said Antimo. He knew what he had coming to him: torture, questioning and then death. That was the captured assassin’s lot. He weighed his chances of escape through the open door, or his chances of success in killing the Duke. Neither were good. The best would be to play for time. “I am conscious, Your Grace. Forgive me for not getting up to show my respects, but I am very weak.”

  “You are fortunate to be alive, Signor Bartelozzi,” said the Duke, with just faintest of smiles.

  The duke intended to discomfort him, to frighten him. And he did. How did the Duke of Ferrara know his name? “What am I doing here?” asked Antimo. There was not much chance that a pretence of amnesia would fool anyone, but he might win some more time.

  “At the moment, recovering from being knocked senseless by a glancing blow from my set-hammer,” said the Duke. “I was correct it seems. It appears my daughter’s dog does like you. How odd.”

  Antimo realized that, without thinking, he’d been gently scratching the spot behind the dog’s ear. He stopped, and the big mastiff nudged his hand again with its large nose. “Dogs like me, Your Grace.”

  “That must be useful in your trade,” it was neutrally said, with no hint of animosity.

  Antimo began to wonder what this led to. Was this man hinting that instead of torture and death… he might be spared? Not "must have been" useful. Maybe he needed an assassin himself. All the Italian lords used them, some, like Venice, more than others. It would take a very cool and calculating man to employ someone who had barely failed to kill himself for such work. But it was an opening. Except of course… “Your dog caused me to fail this time, Your Grace. I like him too.”

  “So he did,” said the Duke. “Old Molto is actually my daughter’s dog, and she was the one that insisted he be allowed everywhere with her. He has merely transferred that habit to me, in her absence.”

  Antimo did not say that if he had known that, the duke would have been dead, or that he knew, now, that the duke was wrong, and the dog knew its master and loved him. He was silent. So the duke continued.

  “By the way, you are quite a skilled artist. My men found your hiding place, and I have been to see it. Had you chosen another profession, you could have had great success as a cartographer. You could have drawn my tower larger though. It is the most important building in the city. Not the basilica.”

  Anitmo had the feeling he was being played – not quite as a cat might with a mouse, but as a professional player of dice did with a green novice he planned to fleece. And while tact might have suggested he admit that he got it wrong, he had a feeling that too could be a trap of some kind. “I counted the paces, Your Grace. Artists need to get the scale right.”

  That was definitely a slight, tigerish smile on the duke’s face. “Artists are not so precise, Bartelozzi. They flatter. But you were apprenticed as a scribe, not an artist... or an assassin.”

  There was no point in denying it. Antimo had no idea what the duke knew, or quite where he’d got the information from. It was fishing he was sure… well, almost sure. “I suppose scribes are required to be more precise. We only copy, much of the time, Your Grace.”

  “Still, it is an unusual profession for a young man who has developed such a propensity for knives and their use. But I gather you had that from your father.”

  He was definitely being played, and skillfully at that. And perhaps there was an element of cat-and-mouse toying there. “Yes, Your Grace. I was something of a disappointment to him.”

  “One often is. But rarely to one’s mother, it would seem. That was something I never got to experience.”

  Antimo, like most of Northern Italy, knew the story of Enrico’s parentage. It fitted too, with Marquis Benzoni’s claim on the city. He was surprised to hear the duke speak of it though. But there was no further avoiding of his deeper fear: “Your Grace. How long have I been insensible?”

  “Oh, you have been awake before. But your wits were begging the first twice, and not much better the last time,” said the duke. “But it has been something over two weeks, Signor Bartelozzi.”

  Antimo knew his face betrayed him. He swallowed. And then said, “So long.” He swallowed again. There was nothing he could do then. He had his life to play for, and that was all. The five weeks had passed. There was no point in going back, except to mourn.

  “Yes,” said the duke, “but you’ve come and gone from us. I believe you once killed three soldiers in Breno before the priest hit you over the head.”

  Was there anything this man did not know? Had he told them himself? People did such things when their wits were wandering. “They had killed my master, and they followed my mother into the Chapel of St. Philip to rape her and kill me,” said Antimo, as calmly as he could. “We thought to find sanctuary in the church. My mother was already injured. It was a mistake to trust the priest.”

  “I had wondered just what had happened to your master,” said the Duke. “He was a spy, you know.”

  “It’s a lie. He was a good, kindly old man. They thought he was magician because he could write,” said Antimo, surprised that he could still be angry about it, even now. “The marquis' mercenaries tortured him. Called him a Jew and tortured him to find his treasure.” Antimo had killed four of them too. They had not seen him coming.

  “Oddly, they were right, but I am sure, it was merely by accident,” said the duke, calmly. “I should know that he was a spy. He was one of mine. I paid him, read his reports. I believe he was Jew too, but had somewhat lapsed in the observance of his beliefs. Neither of these things mean that he was not a good man. He even suggested that you might have potential, when you were older.”

  Antimo was silenced. He just stared.

  “It happens to spies, boy. And to assassins,” said Duke Enrico Dell’ Este. “You called out to him a number of times while your wits were wandering. One of my agents was watching you, in case you said something useful. He was… surprised.”

  So was Antimo, although, thinking about it, he should not have been. The old scribe he’d been apprenticed to after his father’s death had had his round of villages and small towns, travelling far, by the standards of the Italian peasantry. Antimo had loved the travel, the seeing new places. The scribe could write, number, and was privy to all sorts of contracts and agreements. He would not have been sitting in at the councils of the rich and powerful – they had scribes of their own, or could read and write themselves, or used their priests. But even in his role as a copyist, Antimo had learned there were few big secrets well-hidden in the country. And one could often join the disparate facts. “I killed the men who had tortured him, Your Grace. Even if he had told them anything… they could not have passed it on. He died bravely.” Antimo did not say, "in my arms, and I kissed the old man’s face and closed his eyes, before I ran to find my mother to protect her. And if I had not stayed with him… I might have been in time for her." But not for the first time, he thought it.

  “I had assumed he’d killed those who attacked him,” said the Duke. “I did get informed, after the sack of Breno, that he was dead, and had been found with the bodies. So: it was seven, not three. Still, it surprises me that my cousin, Marquis Benzoni, was that astute that he saw the value in you, Antimo Bartelozzi.”

  “My mother pleaded for my life, Your Grace. She was a merchant’s daughter before she ran off with my father. She… bargains.” Antimo could not bring himself to say "bargained." She would be dead by now. He could only hope that it had been quick. That had been his bargain. That had been the bastard testa di cazzo Marquis’s hold over him and the price. Her safety. Her life, in exchange for the lives of the targets. She’d given so much for Antimo, and he knew it. If
he ever got free… and he had to admit there seemed a small chance of it now, even with this strange nobleman. Duke Enrico was odd, a noble who worked iron as a commoner might. Perhaps that was why he seemed so calm and knew far too much. Perhaps he would understand and allow Antimo Bartelozzi to call on the marquis with deadly intent. It was a faint hope, small fuel for that spark of vengeance.

  “Aha,” said the duke, nodding. “I like things explained. If you understand how they work… you can predict, sometimes, what will happen in future, and how prevent it. For example, I gathered from your ramblings when you were not with your wits that you’d noticed when we use coal that has been burned without air, much as one does for charcoal burning, merely by the smoke and realized that it meant I might be working there. That is a secret that my forge-masters need to hide better, and I would have you be silent about. It is not something we need our enemies or competitors discovering. You’re observant, and I like explanations. They are useful in war, and in statecraft. I had wondered if I had missed something in my cousin. I am glad to have that, too, explained.” He tilted his head slightly. “It may interest you to know that Marquis Michael Benzoni, who I believe stood second in the line of the heritors to my demesne, had a tragic accident recently. He fell off a balcony, poor man,” said Enrico Dell’este, his expression and tone in sharp contrast to his words. “I think he was rather surprised to see me, at that time of night, and took a careless step backwards. There was a sharp spiked iron-work fence below the balcony. Ferrara wrought-iron work. It did seem... appropriate.”

  “My mother…” blurted Antimo.

  Now the duke smiled, properly. “I quite understand how she talked that fool into it. Your mother is very eloquent in your defense and in pleading for you too. She values you very highly, young man. I know a great deal about your intelligence, ability and courage. And about your upbringing. In the light of what I have seen, some of it may even be true.”

  “You… you were in time to stop him from killing her? Your Grace, she had nothing to do with all of this. She was just a hostage. Punish me, not her.”

  “I am aware of that, Antimo Bartelozzi. That is why I brought her back here with me. She’s been fussing over you, and defending you, vocally and often. It was pure chance that Leopoldo was watching you when you came to your senses, and not your mother. She has spent many hours with you. She is asleep now, but I will send her down later.” The duke gave him the benefit of a twisted smile. “It will stop her worry and her bargaining, which was not needed. Both you and she do not understand that it is not a sword, a knife or a harquebus that is dangerous. It is the man using it and his purpose that make it deadly. You were Benzoni’s blade, and he is dead now.” Leaning down Duke Enrico took the misericorde out of his boot, and handed it, hilt first to Antimo.

  Antimo nearly dropped it. “Your Grace… what do you mean by this?” he asked warily, holding the long thin-bladed knife, as if it were possibly a trap, or about to magically transform into a snake. “And… my my mother, what do you plan to do with her?”

  The duke shrugged. “Nothing. I do not make war on women. I would scorn to use such a lever.” Antimo could see a slight straightening of the iron-working duke’s spine as he said this, with a twist of his lips. “Actually, some money was owing to your old master. I am perpetually short of funds, but as it happens there is a silversmith’s house and shop which, owing to its previous owner’s attempt to debase my coin, is in my gift. I believe she was your master’s leman, her bargain to get him to take you as an apprentice. He died in my service, and I would think that some recompense for it. What do you think?”

  Antimo thought the man was possibly mad, but did not say so, in case he changed his mind. Instead he took a deep breath and asked the question directly. “Do you mean me to be your assassin, Your Grace?” If that was what it took, he could do it, as little as he wanted to.

  Duke Enrico shook his head. “I have very little use for assassins. If that is your chosen trade, try Venice or Milan. I cannot do that better than they do, and rather than try to beat them at their own game I work in my own way. For that I do, however, value loyalty, and the ability to make maps that are correct and to scale. It appears to me that you can be very loyal, and I was impressed by the map you had drawn. You paid fine attention to details other miss. You understand how to mislead and go to hostile places. And you can write and think. Those could all be useful to me.

  Antimo struggled out of the bed, using, without thinking, the big mastiff as a leaning post. The dog did not appear to mind. Antimo knelt in front of the Duke. “Your Grace… I would be your man. If you can trust me. I tried to kill you.”

  “Put the knife away before you fall over onto it,” said the Duke, helping him up. “I do not wish to explain that to your mother. Lie down, before you fall down. The dog trusts you, and he is a better judge than most. Oddly, it stopped me from killing you in the heat of the moment. He stood over you, almost as if he was guarding you, not me. I took it as a sign of sorts. Now, I must go. I have work to do, reports from my spies to read. A summer campaign to plan. I’ll send your mother with some food and drink. When you are stronger, my people will bring you to me.”

  Antimo’s mind was in a turmoil. And getting up had made him very giddy. But he knew that sparing the dog had been its own reward, many times over. “The knife… they will not like me having that in the dungeon.”

  “Dungeon?” asked the Duke, pausing.

  “Er. This place… where murderers and assassins are kept.”

  The Duke gave a crack of laughter. “My dungeons are reported to be cleaner and drier than some others. But this is merely a room in the tower di Leone. I wonder if you will make a good spy after all. I had believed you have an eye for detail, Antimo Bartelozzi. Few dungeons have a bar on the inside of the door.”

  Dave Freer is the author or coauthor of a host of books, novellas and short stories for Baen and beyond. His latest is high fantasy Dog and Dragon . Dave is also the coauthor of books in several series with Eric Flint and Mercedes Lackey, including the Heirs of Alexandria series, with newest entry, Burdens of the Dead [LINK]. This story is part of the Heirs of Alexandria universe.

  Pittsburgh Backyard and Garden

  by Wen Spencer

  "Welcome to Pittsburgh Backyard and Garden. Today, we're tackling a common garden pest, the strangle vine." Hal Rogers grinned at Jane Kryskill's camera and motioned for her to pan right with the slightest tilt of his pith helmet.

  "No way in hell," Jane murmured. She did not need five years experience of filming in Pittsburgh to know that a half-eaten deer did not make good ratings. It might be sensational news on Earth. It was, however, a fairly typical outcome when an Earth animal met any number of Elfhome carnivorous plants. Eighty percent of their Pittsburgh viewers would not be impressed, and the other twenty would call the studio the next day, pissed off that their dinner had been ruined by the sight.

  Hal's grin tightened slightly as he continued. "The strangle vine is a dangerous plant to deal with as it’s a master of disguise. It can produce up to five different types of foliage, depending on the type of anchor it attaches itself to. It makes safely identifying this plant very tricky. Thus, it's best to investigate any possible outbreak with weapon in hand. Some people like a machete. Others: an axe. Personally, I like a flamethrower."

  He whipped up the wand and gave his signature evil laugh. The cackle inspired the rumors that he had accidentally killed someone on his previous show and thus his backslide to obscurity. She'd seen the videos. The only thing he'd killed was the ratings; he'd been bored silly doing curbside appeal remodels and it showed.

  "This is a Red Dragon Flamethrower. You can get it at Wollertons on the South Side." Other places in town sold the same flamethrower, but they weren't sponsors of the show. "It comes with this wand with a squeeze trigger and this propane tank backpack."

  Hal turned around to show off the ten-pound tank strapped to his back. "Simply turn this valve to on." He turned
back, his grin widening with glee. "And apply a spark!"

  Others might see Pittsburgh as a demotion, but Jane knew that Hal truly loved any excuse to wreak massive destruction. Where else could he routinely play with sticks of dynamite? Of course there was the small matter that his judgment was poor, hence the reason Jane had her job. She had been hired on originally to be nothing more than a glorified gofer. Hal had ignored, shot, or run over (figuratively and literally) everyone else assigned to the show until it was just Jane and her elfhound, Chesty.

  Hal nearly took off his eyebrows applying the spark and blackened the rim of his pith helmet. It smoldered as he continued. "The six types of anchor plants that the strangle vine uses are the Elfhome Maple and Beech, the Wind Oak, the Silver Ash, Iron Wood saplings, and root-bound Black Willows. For this reason, we advise viewers to clear these native trees from their yards if possible. Strangle vines will use Earth trees for anchors but can't mimic their leaves, which makes them easier to spot."

  The yard was filled with native plants, thus Jane didn't notice the vine creeping closer to Hal until Chesty growled a warning.

  "Check." Jane silenced the big dog by acknowledging the threat. She pointed at the vine attempting to snag Hal's ankle. "Careful."

  "See you!" Hal cried and let loose an arc of flame at the tendril. It recoiled at stunning speed. He laughed again, sounding slightly demented.

  Jane's camera chimed quietly as Hal chased the retreating vine across the yard. Locking the focus and the microphone on Hal, she tapped the phone icon. "Hm?"

  "You do remember what happens after every Shutdown?" Dmitri Vassiliev, station manager of WQED, asked dryly.

  "We all waste our time in a staff meeting as Hal derails brainstorming for new story ideas with suggestions on blowing things up."