Voice of the Falconer

by David Blixt

  Tamping down his fury, a new question occurred to Pietro. “Why send Borachio to Mantua to acquire the poison?”

  “Quite the lawyer’s mind! It occurred to me that, should Borachio’s connection with Venice be exposed, it behooved us to tie him to Mantua as well. That way Lord Bonaccolsi had as much reason to protect – or silence – Borachio as we did. A little insurance.”

  “What did Bonaccolsi get in return?”

  “Several things.” That Dandolo had lost any vestige of reluctance made Pietro worry. “Money, of course. Some trade rights. And, most important, we were able to help the Este family with some longstanding debts. Your beloved lord of Verona has kept them impoverished ever since he helped them regain control of their city. Not overtly, but he calls upon them to field a larger army than they can maintain, and so they are forced to borrow money from him to pay the mercenaries he demands of them. It is a simple, common, and effective means of keeping vassals in line. Thanks to us, Ferrara is solvent for the first time in eight years. We bought their debts, then lost them. Shoddy book-keeping. But it was done in Lord Bonaccolsi’s name, which opened up the way to his coming marriage.”

  “No wonder Cangrande looked unhappy about the match,” observed Pietro. “Tell me, did you actually burn the debts, or are you holding on to them?”

  Dandolo’s smile was extravagant. “It is a long game, and as I have already said, it is prudent to have insurance for all contingencies.”

  Pietro was growing tired of politeness. “So what happens to me?”

  “Well, I clearly cannot allow you to leave here with ruinous information.”

  “Ruinous for whom?”

  “For me. Doge Soranzo is old. I intend to be the next Doge. You can expose me. Even without evidence, you can damage my standing, my dignitas. That, I cannot allow. I owe your family a debt of honour, but not so great a debt that I am willing to dash myself on the shoals of personal ruin. Here is what I will do. I will keep you alive, incommunicado with the outside world, until I am elected Doge. After that, nothing you could say can harm me. Doge is a lifetime appointment. So you will remain under lock and key until such time as Doge Soranzo resigns or leaves behind our mortal cares. Be it a month of days, a month of weeks, or a month of months. If you attempt to escape or communicate with the outside world, I will have the order for execution carried out.” Dandolo picked an imaginary piece of lint from his gonella. “Or, if I choose not to be accused of murdering the son as well as causing the death of the father, I can simply hand you over to the Florentines. There is a man named Donati who has been quite vocal of late in demanding your death. Is something funny?”

  “Nothing.” Oh Cesco. Whatever would I do without you to keep life interesting?

  “Well, those are my plans for you, Ser Alaghieri. However, if you give me your word of honour you won’t try to escape or contact your friends, your confinement could be of greater comfort than you are presently afforded. I could even hold you in my own palace. You could write, study, play music, however you wish to pass the time. Continue your study of Law, perhaps? I might even be convinced to allow you a feminine visitor or two. And, let me add, I would take great pleasure in your company. O, the debates we could have! You could lead me through your father’s works with an eye towards his original intent! I promise, I would be a most willing pupil.”

  Pietro had stopped listening. The lawyer in him saw a chance. Dandolo had been careless in his wording. According to the oath, if Pietro swore, he couldn’t contact his friends. But there was nothing in the vow to stop him from contacting an enemy. And, as he had already told Dandolo, Cangrande was no friend to Pietro.

  But the knight in him saw the dishonour in quibbling over the details to an oath. Dandolo’s intent was clear. If Pietro were to swear, he would be honour-bound to refrain from contacting anyone. A knight obeys the spirit as well as the letter of the law.

  “Well, Ser Alaghieri,” pressed Dandolo, “what do you say? May I have your word of honour?” Pietro shook his head, and Dandolo heaved a great sigh. “Alas. Then we have nothing left to discuss.”

  Before Dandolo could ring his bell to summon the guards, Pietro said, “I have a counter-offer. Let me expose Passerino. In return, I give you my word that Venice will not be implicated.”

  Dandolo looked pained. “I must sadly decline. Bonaccolsi may do the thing himself, which would be as ruinous as if you shouted it from the rooftops.”

  “Then I won’t expose him,” said Pietro. “I’ll kill him. Pick a duel.”

  “You could lose,” said Dandolo.

  “True. But Cesco would know to be wary of Bonaccolsi. It would be enough.”

  “Your paternal devotion is touching.” Dandolo was thoughtful for a time. “What about dear Borachio?”

  “He cannot identify you.”

  “You said he could.”

  “I implied it,” corrected Pietro.

  Dandolo gave him a wispy smile. “Ever the lawyer. Either you were lying then or you are now. I choose not to take the risk. Besides, even if you mean what you say, he provided you with the means to find me out. He could do so again, to others who have not given their word.”

  Dandolo was trying to close the interview. Pietro grew desperate. “So publish the information you have on him, but hold off on pronouncing a sentence. I’ll see to it that he flees Italy.”

  Dandolo sat in state, considering. “No. It is more to my liking to have the Scaligeri wiped out, Verona crippled, and the triumphant Bonaccolsi in my debt. I understand your feelings for the boy, but my grief at your father’s death extends only to your family, and Cangrande’s heir is not, strictly speaking, an Alaghieri.”

  “Wait,” said Pietro, again forestalling the ringing of the bell. “You sound very sure. This isn’t some hypothetical threat. You know something.”

  Dandolo paused, then shrugged lightly. “It will make no difference. It is my understanding that one of the Scaligeri has joined with Lord Bonaccolsi against the rest of the family. I do not know which. Could it possibly be your young squire?”

  “No,” said Pietro with certainty. “Even if it was in his nature, which it isn’t, Cangrande keeps him close. Passerino couldn’t have subverted his loyalty without Cangrande knowing.”

  “Then alas, he will most likely not survive. There will be a battle soon between the forces of Verona, Mantua, and Ferrara on one side, and Bologna and Pisa on the other. The object will be the city of Modena, which has always been contested land between Ferrara and Bologna. During the battle a signal will be given, and certain Veronese lords who have been bribed or blackmailed into aiding Bonaccolsi will turn their swords away from the Bolognese and lodge them in the backs of the Scaligeri.”

  “Not just Cangrande,” said Pietro, voice leaden.

  “No. Mastino will fall, and his brother. And sadly I am certain that your foster-son will meet his end, as well as Lord Nogarola and his elder son, who are Scaligeri by marriage and sympathy. No one will be left to inherit except the traitor within the Scaligeri ranks. Before you ask, no, I don’t know who. But Cangrande’s father was particularly concupiscent, resulting in a score of Scaligeri bastards occupying places in Cangrande’s court, from clergy to clerks. And Verona has just recently shown its willingness to be led by a child from the wrong side of the sheets.”

  “Do the Estensi know what Passerino intends?”

  “I doubt it,” said Dandolo. “Rainaldo d’Este may be chafing under the penury imposed by Cangrande, but he is an honourable man and owes his lordship of Ferrara to the Scaliger. No, I believe Lord Bonaccolsi is gripping the dice quite tightly. If he didn’t require our financial aid to bribe certain Veronese, I doubt we would know anything of this.”

  Sick at heart, Pietro rapidly turned these facts over in his mind. Cesco was in Mantuan lands, with Cangrande, Mastino, Alberto, Detto, Bailardino and the rest. Paride was probably there, too, though Dandolo hadn’t mentioned him. One of them was a traitor, plotting the deaths of his kin. Someone
who didn’t believe in the family curse. Someone who would see Cangrande dead, and Cesco with him.

  Pietro threw his dignity to the wind. “Lord Dandolo, I beg of you, do not let this happen! Whatever you may think of Cangrande, his son matters. Not just to me and mine, but to the future! There is a secret – so important, even, that the boy himself doesn’t know it!”

  “I take it you will share this secret with me, so that I will spare his life? Please. I am all agog.”

  “Moments ago you referred to Cangrande as the Greyhound. It’s a title that fits with his name, and certainly my father had him in mind when he made reference to the Greyhound in L’Inferno. But Cangrande is not the Greyhound of legend. That title belongs to Cesco. If you let Cesco die, then Italy will be denied a new golden age, a renewed greatness.”

  Pietro waited expectantly while Dandolo digested this revelation. Surely he sees that this is more important than Verona or Venice. This is about ushering in a new age, a rebirth of greatness in this land! He must see it!

  Looking down his long patrician nose, Dandolo said levelly, “Ser Alaghieri, there is nothing you could have said that would have made me more firm in my resolve. Verona cannot become preeminent. If your Cesco is indeed the Greyhound, it is all the more reason to see him destroyed.”

  Pietro threw out his hands in supplication. “Please! Surely you see—!”

  Dandolo rang the small bell, and the guards came in to lift Pietro off the ground. Pietro kept pleading all the way to the door, shouting the names of Bonaccolsi and Borachio in the hopes of betraying to some random auditor some details of the plot. But Dandolo had arranged it so there was no one in the palace at this hour who was not his creature.

  Pietro was thrown sprawling into his cell. The door was barred and bolted, leaving him once again in darkness.

  Rubbing his bruised shoulder, Pietro couldn’t help thinking that Cesco would have pulled the interview off with more style. Or at least eaten the offered food.

  Forty-Two

  Venice

  Friday, 8 November

  1325

  Giuseppe Morsicato wrapped his cloak more tightly about him. It was a chilly evening, foggy, with that sense of moisture in the air that makes a body believe one is drinking rather than breathing. It misted his forked beard, making it damp and limp.

  The fog also added to an annoyance that grew with each minute he spent navigating the walkways of Venice. Like Mantua, there were no names to any of the streets! Oh, there was an occasional sign pointing to this church or that palace, but Pietro’s letter to Antonia had named a street. He kept having to ask natives for directions, both frustrating and dangerous.

  Morsicato wasn’t actually concerned for Pietro’s well-being. The lad was capable enough. But he hadn’t written to his sister in over three weeks. That, combined with the revelation that Cangrande was behind Pietro being condemned by Paduan law, was distressing. They’d expected some kind of trick, but damn if the Scaliger hadn’t placed them in check anyway.

  Antonia had been insistent about accompanying the doctor to Venice, and he’d spent over an hour talking her out of it. Stubborn girl, that Alaghieri. Just like her father. It had taken pure good sense, laid out in the frankest terms, to get her to agree to stay behind.

  “If you come to Venice, you’ll be abandoning your post. With me, Pietro, and that damned Moor all out of the way, Cesco has to have you to run to. Not that he will, of course, but you’ve got to be there.” At last she’d consented to remain in Verona, extracting a series of promises from him to write the moment he found her brother.

  It wasn’t just concern for Pietro that made the doctor journey to Venice. Part of him was shamefully glad to get away from his wife’s sickroom, if only for a day. Esta’s condition was only made worse by his frustrating inability to diagnose it. During August she had lost weight in her face and limbs with horrible rapidity, while her belly had become bloated and sore. In September she’d recovered a little, gaining back some of the weight, but she was still not wholly well. Maddening! All those years in Ravenna she had longed to return home, and this was her reward?

  In truth, the return held little reward for any of them. Damn Cangrande, damn him straight to Hell.

  Finding the boarding house at last, Morsicato knocked and was received with a wary look. His jourdan had that effect. No one liked to see a doctor at their door, often the prelude to bad news. “There’s a pest going around, you’ve probably got it already, either you’ll die or lose all your hair or both.” There were times he hated his brethren. So many were fools.

  Still, there were some advantages to the common fear of medicos, and he was not averse to exploiting them. “Madam, I am looking for a patient of mine. It is my understanding he’s staying here.”

  “I don’t have any lodgers at the moment,” she replied, trying to close the door on him.

  “A little taller than me, thinner, with brown hair and a slight hook to his nose. Crooked smile. He looks a little like that poet fellow, Dante,” he added, as if in afterthought.

  “Oh him! He was staying here, but right in the middle of the month he left.”

  “Left the city?”

  “No idea. Just went out in the middle of the afternoon and never came back. My guess? He was robbed and murdered. Poor fellow.” She crossed herself.

  “I see.” Morsicato chewed his lower lip, feeling his first real stab of concern. Antonia was right, something had happened to Pietro.

  “He was a patient, you say?”

  “Mmm? Oh, yes.”

  “What he had – is it catching?”

  Loath to frighten her further, Morsicato still needed more information. “It could be. May I see his room?”

  “He was only here a couple of days,” she explained as she led him upstairs, “though he paid to the end of the week. Quiet. Had a good appetite.” She opened the door to her guest room. It was small and tidy. “He just spent his time sitting in that window, reading and watching the boats go by.”

  Morsicato went to the window. Yes, there was the courtesan’s house, the three-faced stone head, pink flowers and all. “He went out, you say? Did he leave anything behind?”

  “Oh, yes. I still have his belongings,” said the landlady. “Shall I fetch them?”

  She was gone only a moment, hardly enough time for Morsicato to gather his thoughts. She came back with a wrapped bundle. It was remarkable she had held onto these things, though, truth be told, they were not likely to demand a high price. The clothes were fairly non-descript, probably bought here in Venice. There was one book, a play. “Did he have any papers?”

  “Blank sheets, and some ink.” She opened a drawer in the small desk in the corner. “Could they carry his disease?”

  “Maybe,” said Morsicato. “I should take them.”

  “Do! Get them out of here, please! I don’t want to be holding onto a sick man’s things!”

  “Did he have a sword?”

  “Aye, but it wasn’t here. He must’ve been wearing it when he left.”

  She might have been lying, but there was no use pressing it. “I need a place to stay while I look for him.”

  The landlady shook her head vehemently. “Not here! I don’t want any sickies coming in and out of here. I run a clean house! No, I mean it! Get out, and don’t come back! My neighbours will already be talking! Go!”

  Back on the street, Pietro’s things under his arm, Morsicato fretted about what to do next. His hackles were up – Antonia was correct, something had happened to Pietro. Feminine intuition. Never discount it. Night was falling and he had to find a place to sleep. But he decided to first find the local constable and make inquiries.

  It took another hour of wandering the fog-shrouded streets before he found the constable’s house. Poised to knock, he was framing his questions when suddenly a large hand clamped down over his mouth. He struggled, but his assailant was powerful, dragging Morsicato away from the misty light of the burning torch beside the door, into th
e shadows of the underside of a nearby bridge.

  “Don’t cry out,” rasped a familiar voice. “You will endanger Ser Alaghieri more than you already have.”

  Tharwat! A horrible suspicion came over the doctor. The Assassin had killed Pietro to keep his secret, and now the bastard was about to murder him too!

  As the grip on Morsicato’s jaw was released, the doctor shoved himself away from the tall shadow amongst shadows. He wanted to shout, cry for help. Before he could do either he was enveloped in the folds of a cloak and thrown hard against the ground. Something struck him a mighty blow and he lost all sense.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  He awakened in a dingy little room filled with litter and very little furniture. Touching his aching head, he blinked in the dim candlelight.

  The Moor was seated across the room, between himself and the door, idly going through Pietro’s belongings. Sitting up, Morsicato gently caressed his scalp. “Why are people always hitting me on the head?”

  “The exposed skin makes an excellent target,” said the Moor.

  “Quips? From you? Now I know I’m going to die.”

  “Someday, doctor. But not at my hand, nor by my will.” Tharwat laid aside the satchel and fixed the doctor with his gaze. “I apologize for striking you. It was necessary, as you will learn.”

  “Is Pietro alive?”

  “He is, but in grave danger.”

  “Where are we?”

  “My rooms, not far from the Yellow Crescent.”

  “What the devil are you doing in Venice? And how did you know I was here?”