Voice of the Falconer

by David Blixt

  “Well summed! But what matters most is that the city of Ferrara is marrying the city of Mantua. We’re due there tomorrow to take part in the obverse and reverse of life – wedding and warring. Now, show me what you learned today.”

  Cesco kept his sigh within his breast. So tired. I should fly. At the wedding, when he’s not looking, I should slip away and run to Venice, or Ravenna, or Rome, or Paris, or even London. After all, red hawks get aired, and have the choice of flying off or returning to the falconer.

  But the master only airs a bird when he’s sure it will come back. Cangrande won’t let me out of his sight until he’s broken me. Which means I haven’t broken yet.

  Nor shall I. Opening his eyes, Cesco picked up his sword.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Venice

  Midnight. Pietro could hear the tolling of church bells, the only way he had to mark time. His cell had no window, not even a slat in the door to see light by. Total darkness.

  Not that he was alone. There was a barred opening in the center of the floor, the canal’s water flowing just a hand span beneath. Too small to admit a man, the gaps in the grating were just large enough for rats to squeeze through. They swam along in the water and came up to visit several times a day. Pietro wondered if it was the same set of rats, or new ones every time.

  The bells were the only sound he could hear above the lap of the water, echoing around the small stone chamber. Worst of all, the sucking and rushing sounds just below him gave rise to horrible imaginings. In his mind’s eye he pictured the city’s water rising, flooding his cell and drowning him. He wondered if that was what Dandolo was waiting for.

  He’d been in this eternal darkness for – what, fifteen days? Sixteen? Ever since his rash attempt to surprise Dandolo in flagrante. He hadn’t known the lady had her own set of guards, nor that he’d been seen watching the house on the first day.

  What was I thinking? What I should have done was write a letter to Antonia. To Cangrande, even.

  His interview with Dandolo had been brief. The day of his arrest, the Venetian ambassador had asked if anyone knew where Pietro was. Pietro had lied, saying that soon it would be all over the Feltro. Immediately Dandolo had ordered Pietro clapped in irons and smuggled into the prison beneath the Doge’s palace in San Marco’s square.

  Solitude gave him time to think. At first he had wrestled with the problems at hand, and the greater question of betrayals and politics. Huddled in cool darkness, he had considered every fact he knew about the poisoning, turning each one over in his mind like pieces of a puzzle. And he had made some startling shapes out of those pieces, until something like a mosaic appeared before mind’s eye. The mosaic was of a human face, a man that Pietro knew and liked. He had no proof, of course, only inference. But he was certain he was right.

  And there was nothing he could do about it.

  Worse, there was time to consider his own part in the drama of the last few months. Slowly, inexorably, his disgust in himself grew. Thinking of the threat to Fra Lorenzo, he felt shame. Remembering his dealings with Borachio, he wanted to weep. His part in the Paduan uprising, viewed in hindsight, was wholly contemptible.

  Cangrande often mocked Pietro for his unerring morality. But that morality seemed to have left him. Or else, been perverted.

  I am my own man, thought Pietro bitterly. And I do not like the man I have become. Nor can I blame Cangrande. If he opened the door, I did not have to walk through it. A man is responsible for his actions, if not his stars.

  The most damning part was the attempt to surprise Dandolo. Ill-conceived, impulsive, foolish, yes. But worse was that, when looking for a model of behavior, he’d chosen to emulate a man he reviled.

  And why do I revile him? What was it Abbot Gualpertino said? ‘No man is just one thing.’ Maybe the truest words I’ve ever heard. Cangrande is not a monster – he is a man. With flaws, yes, but also strengths. And I? I am hardly the ideal knight everyone says I am. I became so obsessed with the Scaliger, I started to behave as he does, think as he thinks. Would a true knight behave as I have? The answer was as painful as it was certain. So long I've been told how honourable I am, how noble, I began to believe all I had to do was make a choice and it would be the correct one. The definition of hubris. What is worse? Being immoral, or doing immoral things and thinking yourself incapable of immorality?

  Cangrande sees himself clearly. Only now can I say the same.

  Startled by the sound of a heavy bolt being slipped, Pietro heard his cell door swing on its creaky metal hinges. He was ushered out, blinking even at the dim light of the stone corridor. Hands shackled before him, Pietro was marched between four of the Doge’s guards out of the basement prison, up the stairs to the palace proper, and shoved to his knees in the middle of a richly paneled room.

  Eyesight returned, he looked about. The carved panels were not only decorative, they deadened sound. This well-appointed room was for secrets and interrogation. There wasn’t a stick of furniture by him, not even a stool. He was meant to answer questions from his knees.

  Across the room, the occupant of the Doge’s high-backed wooden throne ordered the guards to depart. Francesco Dandolo had forsaken the doublet for this interview, wearing instead the long rust-coloured gonella of the senator, with his gold senator’s ring flashing in the candlelight.

  Dandolo waited for the doors to close before speaking. “Ser Alaghieri, the Doge has consented that I be the one to interrogate you.”

  Pietro tested the waters. “I would prefer to speak to the Doge himself.”

  The Venetian shook his head sadly. “Impossible, I’m afraid. He is otherwise engaged.”

  “Does that mean the Doge doesn’t know you ordered the death of a child? Or does he not care?”

  “Do not bait me, Ser Alaghieri,” said Dandolo with an air of resigned patience, as if speaking to a disobedient dog. “We are already off to a poor start, you and I. You lied to me. No one knows where you are.”

  “Of course they do,” said Pietro, too quickly.

  “It has been two weeks. No one has come for you. No, please do not continue to lie. Truly, it is not to your benefit.”

  At that, Pietro winced, though not for any reason Dandolo might think. Continue to lie. Is that how a knight behaves? Still, he forced himself to speak. “Why is that?”

  “Because I have issued orders that the moment inquiries are made about Pietro Alaghieri, you are to be executed. So you see, it is far better for you if no one comes.”

  Pietro raised his head defiantly. “I’ve been charged with no crime, let alone been accorded a trial.”

  “Oh,” said Dandolo airily, “there was a trial. Guilty, in absentia.”

  The lawyer in Pietro was appalled. “You have no authority to charge me – especially without representation!”

  “But we do. You’ve heard, perhaps, of our newest governing body? The Council of Ten? Established to, and I quote, ‘preserve the liberty and peace of the subjects of the Republic and to protect them from the abuses of personal power.’ Only fifteen years old, yet infinitely more capable than either the Maggior Consiglio or the Pregadi, by which I mean the Senate. Those bodies are good for making the people feel a part of their government. Sadly, it is difficult for a body of fifteen hundred men to move at more than a tortoise pace. Even the Senate with six score men has trouble deliberating. Whereas ten men – well, seventeen, really, because the Doge and six signoria sit in, but you take my point – they move like the wind! Such an efficient little body.”

  Pietro’s chill of fear turned to rage at this glib recitation. “What was the charge?”

  “Heresy.” Dandolo said the word slowly, letting the elegance of Pietro’s plight sink it. “You are an excommunicant. Venice has a long memory, and our own communal excommunication is too recent to cherish the idea of keeping a heretic alive.” The ambassador leaned forward in the throne, fingers steepled. “Please understand, I bear you no ill will. In fact, I feel I owe you a debt for the way y
our father perished.”

  “Free me and we’ll be quits,” said Pietro at once.

  “Amusing. But then the son of a poet should be adept at wordplay.”

  “I wasn’t the recipient of that gift. That went to the boy you tried to murder.”

  Dandolo’s face became momentarily pinched. “As I indicated before, I did not have you brought here so that I might be baited.”

  “Give me an unbated weapon, I’ll use that instead.”

  The ambassador sighed heavily, wearied by this conversation. “No, Ser Alaghieri, you will not. Nor will you batter me with your blunt wits. Nor will you insult me further. I have explained to my fellow council members that you are marginally more valuable to us alive than dead. You are known to be a partisan of the lord of Verona. You raised his son in secrecy. You may know more of his secrets. Which, by the by, is what they believe we are speaking of at this moment. I am pressuring you to betray your master, the Scaliger.”

  First Shalakh, now Dandolo. It was beginning to rankle, and Pietro said so. “He’s not my master.”

  The elegant eyebrow arched. “No? You are his knight, his champion, entrusted with his most valuable possession – his heir.”

  “I have no love for Cangrande della Scala.” Pietro’s declaration bore the unmistakable ring of truth.

  “Indeed? Then perhaps you actually are willing to betray his secrets? If I were able to show the council you were cooperating, they might consent to better accommodations, perhaps even a servant to tend to you.”

  “You misunderstand me. I am not Cangrande’s creature. But I will never betray Verona. And I will certainly never help you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Ambassador, you ordered the death of the one person I hold dearer than any other. Cangrande may be his sire, but make no mistake, it is an enraged father you are facing.”

  “Yes, I see. The heir. Forgive me, I was indeed being obtuse. Of course you will not betray Verona’s secrets, for those very secrets may matter at some future date. It also explains your brash and headstrong behavior that led to your apprehension. Whatever the cause, I am grateful for it. It means no awkward questions. You were living under an assumed identity. No one knew you were here. There will be no questions if you simply vanish. Which, for all intents and purposes, you have.”

  Pietro allowed Dandolo his feeling of superiority. Truth be told, he wasn’t feeling too much concern for his own skin. He was more interested in exposing Dandolo as the would-be child-killer that he was. Even more than that, he wanted to confirm the conclusion he’d come to. “I have one question. Did Passerino come to you, or did you seek him out?”

  It was well done. That Dandolo hadn’t been expecting the question was obvious, for he blinked. His recovery was instantaneous, but in that moment Pietro knew he’d guessed right. Damn. Passerino.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” said Dandolo in his best ambassadorial tones.

  “But you do. You hired Borachio days before the rumour of Cangrande’s death. Someone had to have passed that information to you. Fool that I am, I believed it was Cangrande himself. If not, then only one other man could have done it. Lord Bonaccolsi. Cangrande must have explained the raw facts to Bonaccolsi – that his heir had been secretly fostered out, and that only his death could lure the boy out of hiding. Bonaccolsi was entrusted with disseminating the rumour. Before he did, he came to you with one vital piece of information – that there was an heir.”

  “Even if what you say is so, and I’m speculating just as you are, why would Lord Bonaccolsi wish Cangrande’s heir dead?”

  “He’s been eclipsed.” Pietro was guessing, but it was an easy guess. “Cangrande shines like the sun, blotting out other men. Perhaps Bonaccolsi could bear it when he saw that it would end someday. He’s had years to get the measure of Mastino and Alberto, he knows he could run roughshod over them. All he had to do was wait for Cangrande’s death. Verona would be thrown into chaos, and Mantua would step into the void.”

  “For a lawyer, you are assuming a great deal of evidence not entered into fact.”

  Pietro shrugged. “You’re right, I may be wildly off the mark. Perhaps Passerino doesn’t want Cesco dead at all. Maybe he just wanted your help with something. What could you give him that he couldn’t get from Cangrande?” Pietro let the question hang in the air. Then he saw the answer. “The marriage. He’s marrying into a rival family, thus solidifying his power. And if that family is an enemy of Cangrande’s, well, it’s always good to have a foot in both camps.” Pietro smiled thinly. “It doesn’t matter why he did it, really. It’s enough that he’s the only one who could have done it.”

  Pietro watched Dandolo for a reaction, but the diplomat had firm control over his features. The Venetian merely examined a curve in the polished wooden arm of the throne. “You have no evidence of any of this.”

  “Of Passerino’s involvement, no. But I have more than enough to hang you, my lord. I don’t think your exalted position could protect you from a charge of hiring an assassin to poison a child.”

  Dandolo was amused. “Because I visit a courtesan, you think you can connect me to such an act? Trust me, Ser Alaghieri, there are few in Venice who do not indulge.”

  Pietro saw the riposte, the perfect reply. I have Borachio. But it was another lie. Thus the lawyer in Pietro changed the words so they did not contradict his honour. “We caught Borachio. How else did I find the house?”

  Dandolo said nothing. There was nothing to say, really. He could protest that there was no way Borachio could identify him, but then he’d be admitting he was indeed the man behind the screen. Dandolo could deny knowing Borachio, but as there was no other audience to posture for, he didn’t bother. Instead he rose and crossed to a sideboard laden with fruit and sweets, popped a date into his mouth, and chewed. Pietro’s mouth begin to move as he imagined tasting that date.

  “Ser Alaghieri,” said Dandolo, filling a small dish with a variety of treats, “this situation distresses me more than I can express. I respect and admire you, for both your family and for yourself. But you have chosen to ally yourself with Verona, which puts us at odds. Verona is a threat to Venice. One we take quite seriously. Here.” Dandolo placed the dish in on the floor in front of Pietro.

  With real regret, Pietro ignored it. “Ambassador, as far as I am concerned, you may threaten and chastise the Scaliger as much as you please. But do anything that threatens Cesco’s future and you will answer to me.”

  “You forget, the boy is also a Scaliger, not an Alaghieri.”

  “He is both,” declared Pietro. “I will do whatever I can to ensure his future.”

  “At the present moment, there is nothing you can achieve. Do try the candied figs, at least. They are a rare treat.”

  Pietro looked down at the bowl offered him, then up into Dandolo’s face. “You first.”

  Dandolo chose to be amused. He bent over and pointed to a fig. Pietro nodded, and Dandolo popped the fruit into his own mouth. For an instant Dandolo was close enough that Pietro could try some desperate move. But he was weak, and the guards were just outside. You’ve done enough stupid things already.

  “Actually, the stars favoured you more than you know,” said Dandolo, seemingly agreeable to confessing his sins. “There was also a trap laid for you on the road to Vicenza. But the retreating Paduan army confused matters, allowing you to slip by.”

  Pietro recalled Tharwat saying he’d found tracks of a smaller party. “Saved by the Paduans. Carrara will be furious.”

  Dandolo smiled at the irony. “If we had known you were in Ravenna, rest assured, things would not have been handled in such a slipshod manner. But that was a fact Passerino did not possess.”

  “I’m right about the rest of it?” asked Pietro.

  “For the most part.” Dandolo resumed his seat, steepling his fingers and leaning against the throne’s high back as if discussing nothing of consequence. “Lord Bonaccolsi has long wished to step out of the Scaliger’s shadow
. We’ve had an arrangement with him for nearly a year wherein, if the opportunity arose to betray the Scaliger, he would do so, provided no suspicion would alight on him. It is my understanding that once, some years ago, he tried to remove the Greyhound. Perhaps you’ve heard about Ponte Corbo, where Cangrande was wounded and fled, leaving behind fourteen of Verona’s standards. What the Scaliger did not know, does not know to this day, is that the men who fell on him so viciously were not Paduan. They were mercenaries in the employ of none other than Cangrande’s best friend in the world, Lord Passerino Bonaccolsi.”

  Ponte Corbo. The event had changed Cangrande, shaken his confidence, dimmed the light of his valour. All because of Passerino, privy to Cangrande’s plans and so able to place the perfect ambush. Damn.

  Dandolo continued on to more recent events. “This summer, when Cangrande began his little charade and took refuge with the friars, he told Passerino to go spread the rumour of his untimely death. As you surmised, he explained about his son, but only in the vaguest details, and without mentioning where the boy had been reared. Passerino took horse straight to me. We then put in motion several plans. The first was to waylay the child before he reached Vicenza, which Passerino was certain would be his first stop. The second was Borachio.”

  “How did you choose him?”

  “The Council of Ten routinely collects evidence against men, even when we have no intention of prosecuting. We have often found it useful to have leverage over those who come to the Serenissima. The drunkard was chosen because he had no conceivable connection to either the Senate of Venice or Lord Bonaccolsi. He was dispatched to Verona in the event the child did not go to Vicenza. And the final plot was a band of loyal soldiers sent to the monastery where Cangrande was hiding.”

  “You tried to murder Cangrande?” Pietro wasn’t surprised at the idea, only that he hadn’t heard about it.

  Dandolo smiled. “That would have been the real coup – while the Scaliger pretends to die, we oblige him with a real demise. Alas, he did not remain at the monastery, choosing instead to play the woman and ride along the road to see his son. Passerino told me of it afterwards. We’d sent him back to Cangrande, of course, to lull any suspicions the Scaliger might have had. Bonaccolsi did his level best, but he was unable to convince your master – forgive me, the Scaliger – to remain at the monastery long enough to die in truth.” Dandolo favoured Pietro with a wry look. “As I said, slipshod. It was all arranged in a matter of hours. I’m astonished that of all our plans, Borachio came the closest to succeeding.”