Voice of the Falconer

by David Blixt

  “Which you don’t,” said Passerino Bonaccolsi.

  “True,” replied Bail happily.

  Castelbarco was determined to share his learning. “It’s worse than that. If I’ve learned my Greek right, Paris actually means ‘married to death,’ doesn’t it?”

  Cangrande laughed. “It does indeed! Well, if it must come true, let’s hope young Paride marries several women, all of great appetite, who eventually wear him to death.”

  “Hear him,” said Petruchio, slapping his wife’s backside. A moment later he grimaced, a look of extreme discomfort on his face. Pietro didn’t want to know how she’d retaliated. Both her hands were in plain view.

  Young Paride arrived to make a leg, allowing Pietro his first view of the boy. Not pretty, not ugly, not happy, not sad. He was a perfect neutral. Well-spoken for a ten year-old, his manners were impeccable, making him Cesco’s complete opposite. Pietro found himself liking Paride, because there the boy lacked of anything not to like.

  The feast continued, course after course. Eventually Cangrande and Antony left the table to make politic visits to the revelers on lower floors, and soon the noise was increased by music. Pricking up his ears, Pietro smiled at Castelbarco. “Manuel?”

  “He had to arrive sometime.” They referred to Emmanuele di Salamone dei Sifoni, also called Manuel the Jew, the Master of Revels at Cangrande’s court. He and Pietro were old friends. Now he was somewhere below, his arrival heralding the end of the feasting portion of the evening and a start to the dancing.

  “I hear he’s not well.”

  “Well or no,” replied Castelbarco, “there’s nothing in God’s Creation that can keep Manuel from a feast. When does the boy arrive?”

  Pietro put a finger to the side of his nose. “Soon, I hope.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  It had been decided that Cesco would arrive mounted. “You’re too small for men to see, little dancer,” the Moor had said. “It will give you dignity, and keep you from exerting yourself.” Thus he rode the short distance to the feast while Morsicato, Tharwat, and the boys flanked him on foot.

  Cesco fidgeted in the saddle. “This is ridiculous. He won’t respect this.”

  “He knows about your health,” said Morsicato. “There is no shame in this.”

  “You can put on the masque,” said Tharwat.

  Reaching into the saddlebag, Cesco produced the masque Pietro had given him. He stared at it. “He’ll be expecting something more.”

  “Then flout his expectations,” said Morsicato tartly. “You excel at that.”

  By now they could hear the echoing music and laughter. Looking up, Cesco said casually, “That building must back onto the Capulletto yard.”

  “Why, so it must!” agreed Detto, grinning. He knew the real plan.

  Suddenly Cesco started to cough. Tharwat stopped the horse as the boy doubled up, knees to his chest. The three-faced masque fell to the cobbled street.

  “He’s having a relapse!” Morsicato fumbled for a wineskin at his hip. He got it unstoppered and turned to pour some down Cesco’s gullet.

  But Cesco wasn’t there.

  Looking up, Morsicato saw the boy dangling from a leather-shop’s massive sign. “Cesco!” His reaching hands were instantly pinned to his sides by Detto, the wineskin falling to burst at their feet, creating a crimson pool about the masque.

  “All better now, thank you, doctor!” A kick out, a twist, and Cesco was standing atop the sign. “Detto, my visage!”

  Releasing the doctor, Detto retrieved the wine-covered masque and flung it upwards. Val was hopping with sudden excitement.

  “Tharwat! Get him!” roared Morsicato. But the Moor stood placidly holding the reins.

  “The sign wouldn’t hold him. Shall he shoot me?” Deftly slipping the masque into place, Cesco probed the wall. The building was frescoed with the image of a horseshoe, but there were patches where the plaster had broken away. Finding a fingerhold, he began to climb.

  “This wasn’t the plan,” rumbled Tharwat.

  “Correction – this wasn’t your plan.”

  “What should we do?” Valentino hadn’t been told the plan, for fear he’d tattle.

  Cesco reached the rooftop. “More horses are a start.” With that he vanished.

  Morsicato turned to berate the Moor. But the horse’s reins dangled idly – Tharwat had vanished as well. The doctor turned to yell at Detto, but the two brothers were bolting away to procure more horses. Morsicato was left sputtering in the middle of the street, alone, wondering what to do.

  Twenty-Five

  Masqued, Cesco slithered on his belly like a serpent across the tiled roof. Through the eye-slits he was able to see the lights on the top floor of the Capulletto house. The feast seemed to be a smashing success, with music and laughter and the barking of happy hounds. The festivities had spilled into the courtyard, where couples danced and talked and flirted and drank.

  Watching, Cesco sighed theatrically. “If you must trail me, do it in the open.”

  The Moor stepped into view, arms folded. Behind the masque, Cesco grimaced. “You could respond once in awhile. It won’t kill you.”

  “It might,” said the Moor.

  “Ah-ha! It has a tongue! Excellent. Now get down before they see you and declare a Crusade.”

  Reluctantly, Tharwat knelt. “This was not part of the plan you told Ser Alaghieri.”

  “Oh please! As if he expected me to tell him what I really had in mind!”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  Cesco slithered further. “I want to see what we’re walking into, that’s all.”

  “No foolishness. You’re still —”

  “You drip drip drip, old man, but you won’t wear me down.”

  “You have to learn your limitations.”

  “For a man who doesn’t like speaking, you spend an insane amount of time repeating yourself. Now hush. And keep lower!”

  This rooftop sloped steeply down, and two tiles slid past Cesco as the Moor navigated the descent. “Don’t move. The roof might collapse under us.” Of the pair, Cesco was far lighter, especially since the illness. The roof barely acknowledged his presence as he crept to its edge, overlooking a flat rooftop extending right up to the Capulletto yard. The L-shaped rooftop was over Capulletto’s office and guest house, across from the main house. It held a dovecote, and the gentle cooing was a happy, soothing sound.

  Resting on his haunches, Tharwat rasped, “Seen enough?”

  “Back in a moment.” Before the Moor could stop him, Cesco rolled over the edge to the roof below. Landing lightly, he was now only one floor up from the ground. At his back, two sets of steps led up to well-barred doorways – Capulletto shared this roof with his neighbours.

  Cesco crept slowly past the dovecote, meaning to scout the layout of the courtyard and perhaps eavesdrop a bit on the party. Hearing the crunch of a step behind him, he knew it couldn’t be the Moor – never in his life had he heard Tharwat’s step. Someone had been hiding in the shadow of the dovecote wall and was coming up fast, too fast for anything but an attack. Dropping and rolling, Cesco felt something glance off his ribs. One blow was closely followed by another, and Cesco realized he was being kicked.

  He continued his roll to the very edge of the flat rooftop. He nearly rolled too far, and flung himself desperately onto his back. Masque knocked askew, he could only half-see out the eyeholes.

  Looking up, the stars outlined his attacker. Who was almost the same size as Cesco. Another boy?

  Cesco threw a wild kick. It was dodged, and a foot descended to stomp at Cesco’s face. He grasped the heel and twisted, throwing his assailant stumbling backwards.

  Cesco took a moment to fix his masque. Eyeholes in place, Cesco now saw that his dancing partner had ice-blond hair and a thin, angry face. That was all he could make out before he was attacked again.

  Above the oblivious revelers, the two boys traded blows, Cesco laughing as he ducked and dodged, every few
seconds hitting the other boy with his open palm. This only enraged the blond boy further. Though strong for his age, it was painfully obvious he hadn’t had any real training.

  “Come on,” hissed the lean blond boy. “Fight!”

  “If you insist,” replied Cesco.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  In Capulletto’s upper gallery, Bailardino’s ears pricked up. “Does that sound like a fight?”

  “Where?” demanded Nico.

  “Some of the revelers must be wrestling,” said Castelbarco.

  Passerino rubbed his hands together. “That’s more like it!”

  “Anyone taking bets?” asked Petruchio.

  “Darling, no more betting, you promised,” said Kate.

  “Sounds like birds flapping to me,” said Antony dismissively. “Maybe a cat near the dovecote.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Cesco was growing annoyed by the other boy’s insistence on continuing a losing fight. When a fist came winging at his head, Cesco caught it at the wrist. Stepping his right leg around his attacker’s, he struck the boy on the left shoulder while hitting the right knee from behind. They went down, Cesco quickly pinning the boy. “Another gate-crasher? Or a young watchdog?”

  The boy stared at Cesco’s masque. “What are you?”

  “I am the night, the bringer of evils. I am – Beelzebub!”

  The mockery made the blond boy hiss. “Get off me!”

  “Since you asked so nicely.” Cesco rolled away, easily ducking the wild swing that followed him. The other boy retreated into one of the arches under the nearest stair, disappearing into the shadows. There was a pause. “Oh. It’s a masque.”

  “Of course it’s a masque. What, did you think it was my face?”

  “I thought you were a demon. My uncle says I’m going to Hell.”

  “We’re all going to Hell,” replied Cesco lightly.

  “Why are you wearing a masque?”

  “It’s comfortable, and oh so fashionable. Everyone will be wearing them next year.” He began to stroll towards edge, looking down at the yard.

  The other boy reached out urgently. “Don’t let them see you!” Amused, Cesco crouched down in the shadow of the dovecote as his attacker continued. “My uncle doesn’t take well to intruders. He’ll have half the hide off your backside if he finds you.”

  “Is that why you tried to do his job for him?”

  “I’ll never help him!” hissed the boy fiercely.

  “So-ho! Such passion! Not admirers of our uncle, I take it. Are you exiled from the party? Or are you trying to get in?”

  “If I wanted in, I could go through there,” he said, pointing to the nearby wall where crumbling bricks made handholds to climb level with the long balcony a floor higher.

  “I see. Then what are you about, that you don’t want to be discovered?”

  The blond boy puffed out his chest. “If you’ve come to ruin the feast, don’t worry. That’s my job.”

  “Your dislike of your uncle must reach Mount Olympus. How did you plan to topple Chronos, O mighty Zeus?”

  The boy frowned. “What?”

  “How were you going to ruin the party?”

  The blond boy nearly jumped out of his skin as a rasping voice provided the answer. “Fire. There are two buckets of pitch here.”

  Not acknowledging Tharwat’s sudden appearance, Cesco whistled in admiration. “Fire?”

  The icy boy recovered from his fright. “My uncle has all sorts of important papers in his office over there. I’m going to burn it down in front of everyone. He’s a law-breaker. He’ll lose a fortune and never be able to admit it!”

  “You mean to both expose and ruin him at the same time. Daring. They’ll hang you, but it’s daring.”

  “Hang me? He’ll only beat me. I’m used to it.”

  “No, I mean the city will hang you. Arson and horse-theft are the greatest crimes a body can commit this side of sacrilege. Even treason comes in third. Murder is usually next, then dueling, then spitting in public—”

  Flustered, the boy demanded, “Who are you? And who is he?”

  “Just a monkey and his master.” Cesco jerked a thumb at the Moor. “He plays the fife and I dance.”

  Tharwat said, “Your friends are waiting.”

  “The doctor won’t go into a real snit for another minute or so.” Cesco turned to his assailant. “My name is Francesco, and this little festival is for me, so I’d rather you didn’t ruin it completely. Still, it is a little boring. How about helping me liven it up?”

  “Cesco…” said Tharwat warningly.

  He ignored the Moor. “What’s your name?”

  “I – I’m called Thibault.”

  Cesco winced. “Of course. Only a cat could take a piece from my poor hide. Well, my fine feline friend, tell me – is that the Capitano’s horse down there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are there any other horses around here?”

  “They’re kept down the street.”

  “Perfection, divinity, serenity. Come along. Bring those buckets of pitch.”

  Thibault hesitated. Cesco clapped his hands once, sharply, and the blond boy scampered off to obey.

  Tharwat was stern. “When I said no foolishness—”

  “See you soon!” Saluting, Cesco dropped off the roof’s edge, landing in the corner of the yard behind a tall screen. From the continued revelry, no one had noticed.

  Returning with the buckets, Thibault saw Cesco down below unhooking a torch from its bracket.

  “Don’t get mixed up with him, boy,” rasped the Moor.

  Though frightened of the huge dark man with the broken voice, Thibault couldn’t abide being told what to do. Recklessly, he dropped down with the buckets of pitch to where Cesco waited, torch in hand.

  For an instant Al-Dhaamin considered warning the crowd. But if he spoiled Cesco’s design, the boy would only do something wilder.

  And already it was too late.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  “Fire! Fire!”

  The shouts brought Pietro and the others out to the balcony, looking down to where guests and servants spilled into the yard to battle smoke on the far side.

  Suddenly there was a commotion as Cangrande’s unsaddled snow charger was freed of its tethers. On its back was a boy in a grotesque leather masque with three mad faces. “Cangrande della Scala!” called the little lunatic. “Won’t you come out and play?”

  More shouts and confusion as a second boy came running to leap up behind the masqued Cesco, who kicked the mount. Men jumped back as the lovely horse galloped into the tunnel leading to Verona’s street.

  “The Capitano’s horse! He’s stolen Cangrande’s horse.”

  “Of course he has,” muttered Pietro angrily. A fire? That wasn’t the plan!

  Emerging into the yard, Antony shouted, “Andriolo! Andriolo! My horse!” A burly groom dashed down the tunnel towards the stables.

  “A chase! A chase!” Half drunk, Nico, Petruchio, Bailardino, Passerino, and many more went gleefully pounding down the stairs in pursuit, Cangrande in the lead.

  In Pietro’s ear, Antonia said, “I think I’ll have the friars escort me back to the house.”

  “You’re leaving?” asked Pietro incredulously.

  “Borachio hasn’t recognized anyone. Best get him out of here before he’s discovered.” She bussed his cheek. “Go, join the chase. Make sure he isn’t harmed. And tell Ser Capulletto it was a lovely meal.”

  Nodding grimly, Pietro started for the stairs.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Two streets away the young horse-thieves met Cesco’s confederates, now also mounted. The doctor was scowling. “What have you done this time, you little maniac! What are those shouts?”

  “We got horses,” said Valentino proudly.

  Detto pointed at Thibault. “Who’s he?”

  “ ‘The fox and the cat, two saints indeed, to make a pilgrimage agreed.’ ” Cesco jerked his thumb. “Another exile from the part
y.”

  Morsicato saw the sigil on the blanket under Cesco’s rump. “Is that Cangrande’s horse?”

  “Yes. Arson and horse-theft. It’s a hanging matter now.”

  Thibault was grinning, and Detto let out a whoop of laughter. “Are they chasing?”

  “I’ll be very disappointed if they aren’t. Hold on, kitty!” Kicking at the fine white mount, Cesco led the way, Detto and Valentino right behind.

  Watching them go, the doctor let out a yelp as the Moor landed on the road beside him. Without a word, Tharwat leapt into the saddle of the remaining horse and turned its head to follow his charges. “Get on.”

  Morsicato clambered up and locked his knees in place as Al-Dhaamin whipped the reins. “What in the name of a merciful God are we doing?” moaned Morsicato through his bouncing teeth.

  “Seeing he lives.”

  “Give me one good reason why.”

  “A shame to waste all your hard work, doctor”

  Morsicato buried his face in the Moor’s back. “It’s not good. But it’s a reason.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Somehow in the press of men and horses in the street outside Capulletto’s house, Cangrande found Pietro. “He was wearing a masque.”

  “I wonder where he got the idea.”

  Cangrande laughed. “Any notion where he’s headed?”

  “None at all,” lied Pietro. “He’s trying to make an impression.”

  “He’s succeeded. Now he just has to live through the night. Capulletto is livid. His precious Giotto fresco is ruined.”

  “Good,” snapped Pietro. “Besides, everyone else sees it as a romp.”

  “Not everyone.” Cangrande jerked his head towards a pair of horses already racing away. Mastino, in the company of his German friend, Fuchs.

  Swearing, Pietro grabbed at the saddle of the nearest horse, tearing it away from another knight. Cangrande quelled the offended man with a firm grip. “Leave him be, Ser Bellinzona. He’s a man worried about his son. Myself, I have plenty of heirs.”