Voice of the Falconer

by David Blixt

  Entangled and breathing hard, they heard the door close and were stunned to see Tharwat appear as if from nowhere.

  “Gah!” Detto pointed. “What’s he doing here?”

  Feigning unsurprise, Cesco strode to pick up his lute from the dark corner. In Arabic he said, “If thou didst not come bearing gifts, thou should depart again unwelcomed.”

  “Thou hadst means sufficient to last months. If it is gone, thou wast incautious.”

  “I used as needed,” protested Cesco.

  “As wanted,” corrected Tharwat. “First lesson of the drug – master it, or be mastered.”

  Cesco bowed in the Arabic fashion. “O, very wise! I bow to thy wisdom! Surely thou knowst what mine body requires better than I, its humble inhabitant.” He let his hands drop with scorn.

  Looking back and forth between them, Detto repeated his cry of old. “Speak a language I know!”

  Tharwat was studying Cesco. “I see he has not broken you.”

  “Not for lack of trying. If you don’t mind, I was ordered to play, and that’s an order I plan to obey.” Cesco started for the door.

  Tharwat blocked his path. “Dress for the road. We leave at once.”

  Cesco stared, probing. “Who is in danger? Me or Detto?”

  “Danger?” demanded Detto. “What are you talking about?”

  Gazing at Cesco, Tharwat gave him a careful answer, once again in Arabic. “Thy foster-father.”

  Mocking demeanor vanished, Cesco turned. “Pack a bag, Detto. We’re leaving.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Sneaking away was not difficult. Tharwat had horses waiting a short distance from the palace, and a forged pass ordering him every consideration, including the opening of the city gates after nightfall.

  On the road, Cesco said, “You had three horses. You knew I’d bring Detto?”

  “I considered it possible. Better to have three and need two than to have two and need three.”

  “You’re rather intelligent for a heathen blackamoor. Now tell us, what’s wrong with Pietro?”

  Tharwat explained as much as he knew, speaking in clear Occitan so Detto could follow along. He was rewarded by that young man’s expression of horrified concern. Cesco’s only expression, however, was furrowed brow. “So they don’t want him dead, but they’ve sentenced him to die. That makes sense.”

  “It does?” asked Detto.

  “No,” replied Cesco. “What are they really after?”

  Tharwat said, “You are the lover of puzzles. Solve it.”

  “A puzzle usually has pieces.”

  “As does this. We just cannot see them. Until we do, we ride in silence. Come.” They kicked their horses into a gallop.

  Forty-Four

  Venice

  Sunday, 10 November

  1325

  The fog had returned, hanging miasmatically in the air. Morsicato was grateful, but it felt strange on his naked face. Approaching the Doge’s palace with Tharwat and the boys, he once again reached up a hand to stroke the unfamiliar territory of his chin.

  “Stop that,” murmured the Moor.

  “I’m not used to it,” growled the doctor.

  “By persisting, you are telling the world this is unusual, thus depriving the disguise of its value.”

  “Fine!” Morsicato dropped his hand, grumbling. “Don’t see why I had to shave in the first place.”

  “You are a recognizable figure,” said Tharwat, devoid of amusement. This could not be said of Cesco and Detto, sniggering at the doctor behind their hands. The Moor ignored them. “It is possible, even likely, Ambassador Dandolo would recognize you.”

  Morsicato eyed al-Dhaamin’s fine robes suspiciously. “Won’t he recognize you?”

  “He is supposed to.”

  “But didn’t he see you in Verona as well, standing with Cesco?”

  “That is easily explained. I am known to work for Donna Nogarola, the Scaliger’s sister. She employed me to take the auspices of that day. He will not know I am Ser Alaghieri’s partisan. But if we two arrive together, as ourselves, he would grow suspicious. A disguise is your price of admission to our little drama.”

  The original plan was for the Moor and the boys to go in alone. But Morsicato had argued persuasively that, if something went wrong, it was good to have an extra pair of hands to fight. Hence the disguise. It was the first time in twenty years that he’d bared his face to the world, and Morsicato couldn’t resist running the back of his hand across his jaw one more time.

  “He’s doing it again!” cried Detto.

  “Tattletale,” retorted Morsicato.

  Cesco nudged Detto. “Watch out! He’s as touchy as a new hatched viper.”

  “He looks like the egg, not the snake,” snickered Detto.

  “You two stop as well,” warned Tharwat as they drew near the palace. “If he doesn’t expose himself, we can’t have you doing it for him.”

  “I certainly hope he doesn’t expose himself,” said Cesco. “Unless he shaved down there as well.” Again the boys fell about laughing.

  Free from Cangrande’s watchful eye, Cesco’s spirit was light as air. He had slept, he had eaten, and there was a game to play. That the stakes were mortal only made the game more delightful.

  Tharwat stopped to give the boys an evil glare, and Cesco threw up his hands. “No, no! We’ll be good. We promise.”

  “We need one of you,” said Tharwat. “I could leave the other outside, with the doctor.”

  “We’re all going,” said Cesco.

  “I certainly am,” said Morsicato, refusing to be left behind after making such a sacrifice. “Though why we’re putting Cesco at risk, I don’t know. He must have seen Cesco the day we came to Verona.”

  “At a distance,” said the Moor. “And he hardly looks the same boy.”

  That was true. Never fat, Cesco was now positively skeletal, all sinew and no meat. His shorn hair was so short that none of the curls showed. “As long as he hides his dubious wit under a bushel, we should be well.”

  Morsicato decided to add a warning of his own. “You boys remember to be careful with that phial—”

  “We know!” said Cesco in exasperation. “Don’t get it on our fingers, don’t breathe it in, don’t add it to anything that hasn’t already been cooked, heat ruins its efficacy, burble burble burble!”

  “I don’t know about burble burble,” said the doctor, ruffled. “But at least you’ve got the rest of it down. I only ask because you seem to have a problem with rules.”

  “Arbitrary rules,” replied Cesco. “Nature’s rules I am much more interested in. Having been poisoned once, I don’t mean to dose myself by accident.”

  “We are here,” said the Moor, bringing all conversation to a halt.

  Having written ahead, Tharwat was expected. Barely concealing their dislike, the palace guards escorted the quartet to the Doge’s receiving room. Before entering, Tharwat addressed the chief guard. “I doubt the Doge wishes to receive my pages. They must wait outside.”

  Cesco and Detto made a show of looking disappointed, shuffling their feet as they took up their servile stance outside the double doors while Tharwat and Morsicato entered.

  Inside, the Doge was seated in his throne of state. An old man, jowl upon jowl hung loosely from his face. Morsicato’s medical eye perceived the broken veins and the rosacea that spoke of several illnesses – none fatal, all debilitating.

  Behind the throne stood Francesco Dandolo, ambassador and statesman. His gaze was as probing as the Doge’s was placid. Morsicato followed al-Dhaamin’s lead, lowering his head and bowing deeply.

  “Your magnificence, Doge Soranzo,” rumbled the Moor. “I am your humble servant.”

  Soranzo clapped in pleasure. “Theodoro of Cadiz, it is you! Praise be to God you’ve come! We’ve been bereft of anyone with skill since you and your master left us!” The Doge’s face grew grave. “I understand that Maestro Ignazzio is no longer with us?”

  “This is so
. He died nine years ago, in Sicily. Murdered.”

  “I suppose it was too much to expect him to foresee that,” observed Dandolo wryly.

  “All his arts could not prevent the hour of his passing,” intoned Tharwat. “Nor can any man deny his stars.”

  “We heard you were in Verona,” said the Doge petulantly. “Why has it taken you so long to call on us?”

  “My deepest regrets,” replied Tharwat in a servile tone. “I have been engaged in study, unaware of your desire to converse with my humble self.”

  “I had asked Mastino della Scala to find you. Alas, it must have slipped his mind.” Dandolo nodded to Morsicato. “And who is this?”

  “Allow me to present my new master, Focarile da Trento. Maestro,” he said to Morsicato, “allow me to present il Serenissimo Principe, Giovanni Soranzo, Doge of Venice.”

  Morsicato made another leg. “Your highness.”

  The Doge gave Morsicato a phlegmatic smile. “Maestro Focarile, you are most welcome. Are you an astrologer as well?”

  “I hope to be, my lord,” said Morsicato, bowing humbly. “I have bought this slave in the hopes of furthering my art.”

  “Enough,” chided Dandolo, stepping out from behind the Doge’s throne. “Please, I deplore disguises.”

  Paling, Morsicato made to bite his beard hairs, remembering too late they weren’t there.

  Tharwat seemed unperturbed. “Disguises? Whatever do you mean, my lord?”

  “It has not escaped the Doge’s notice, Maestro Theodoro, that your broken throat is always the source of the true predictions. He understands why, in traveling our world, you might feel the need to play the role of a servant. But here, within these walls, you are safe. So admit to us the truth – you are the true astrologer. You hire men to play your masters, while you take on the role of slave. Ingenious, but hardly necessary among friends.”

  Tharwat bowed his head. “The noble Doge is most perspicacious. He has seen through our charade. Here, within these walls, I confess that I am the author of our predictions.”

  Looking immensely pleased, the Doge beckoned Tharwat and Morsicato closer. “Come, come, sit with us and crush a cup of wine! Then we shall have a candid discussion, and you can display your art as you would among friends.”

  Tharwat bowed again. “You honour me, my lord.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Outside the heavy doors, as Detto knelt to make friends with one of the palace hounds, Cesco sidled up beside the chief palace guard. “Please,” he began, eyes pleading, “the devil, my master – he does not let us eat but once a day, and only to taste his food for him. I beg you, while he is engaged – might we have a bite to eat? Some gruel, something small? Please! Oh, he’s a cruel master, the Moor!”

  There was no mistaking the lad’s skeletal looks, though the other boy seemed well-fed enough. Feeling a dint of pity, the guard glanced at the closed double door at his shoulder.

  “They’ll be hours,” said Cesco. “He’s planning to give them a full reading in hopes of gaining a permanent post. You and I know there’s no chance the noble and wise Doge Soranzo would ever keep a Moorish magician in the palace! So my master will be in a foul mood tonight, which he’ll take out upon us!”

  “We’re willing to work for our food,” added Detto, his voice even more plaintive as he scruffed the hound’s neck. “We’ll scrub the plates, fetch and carry, anything!”

  The temptation to help fellow Christians outwit a heathen blackamoor was too strong. “Off to the kitchens with you,” said the head guard. “Tell them Nardo sent you, and they’ll see you fed.” He gave directions and they went running off with a look of gratitude that warmed the guards’ hearts.

  “That was the right thing to do,” said one of his fellows.

  “Damn Moor,” said the head guard, shaking his head. “How does he end up owning decent Christian lads like that?”

  Around the corner, Cesco was palming the small phial of powder, having already passed an identical one to Detto. The only trouble was that the dog was following them.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  The reading did indeed go on for hours. Tharwat used every trapping of his art, from incense to pendulum, from charts to knucklebones with sigils carved in them. He performed palmistry and phrenology, feeling the bumps on the Doge’s head with great care.

  For his part, the Doge was excitedly fascinated. Dandolo, too, looked interested, particularly in how long Soranzo might have to live.

  Morsicato sat in relative silence, grateful that Tharwat had been named the astrologer, thereby relieving him of the need to play anything more than what he was, an imposter. He did manage not to touch his face more than once, but he couldn’t keep himself from glancing at the door and wondering. Had the boys made it as far as the kitchens? Had they used the powders? Would the dishes even reach the gaol below? How long could the Moor drag this out? Would it be long enough?

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Crouched in darkness, blocking out the sounds of rats and water, Pietro listened for footfalls outside the door, determined to escape. Cesco’s life depended on it!

  Each time footsteps echoed in the stone corridor, he would rise to his haunches and ready himself to pounce on the opening door. But the door never opened. Twice a day a slat in the bottom would open, a bowl of slop shoved through it, followed by a cup of water. But they never opened the door to remove the bowls. He had quite a collection now, and he’d started using them to trap and kill the rats. Not that it did any good. There were always more rats.

  He was growing faint from hunger. The slop kept him alive, but barely. If he was going to escape he would need strength. He wondered how long he would last before he tasted raw rat. He kept putting off that adventure until tomorrow. And tomorrow, and tomorrow. I’m not that desperate yet.

  He’d caught one rat the other day as it gnawed his heel. He’d torn it apart, hoping to find a bone that he could either dig with or use as a weapon. But there was no bone large enough. At least he’d been able to wash himself clean of the blood through the grating in the floor.

  Footsteps! I’ve already had my supper tonight – what could this mean? Another interview with Dandolo? He’d relived the last one often enough. Wincing, Pietro crept from his corner and took up a position just in front of the door. It opened outwards, so the moment he heard the hitch of the latch he would throw himself against it, praying to catch his gaoler off-balance.

  There was only one set of steps, which was good. And they were lighter than usual. If it was a small fellow, even better.

  The steps came near, then stopped. A pause, then the sliding bolt echoed around the cell.

  Pulse pounding, Pietro launched himself forward, hitting the door hard. It sprung wide, striking the body behind it and knocking it to the ground. Pietro dove around the door and leapt on top of the prone figure.

  His hands were on the throat before he saw whose it was. “Cesco!?” Releasing his grip, he fell sideways off the boy. “Are you all right?”

  “No, Nuncle.” Cesco coughed, ruefully lifting himself from the stone floor. “But I’m glad to see you so eager.”

  Amazement and joy battled for dominance. “Thank God! But how—?”

  “No time.” Cesco glanced down the corridor. Detto was there, keeping watch, a hound by his side. “No telling how devoted the gaoler is. Once he’s done vomiting up his shoes, he may come back. Come on.”

  Pietro didn’t need telling twice. In the tattered remains of his hose and shirt, he followed Cesco down the hall, wincing as he left bloody footprints behind him. “You’ve lost weight.”

  “You and I are on the same diet,” replied Cesco, inspecting Pietro’s lean figure. Suddenly the boy’s mouth broke into a wide grin. “I’m betting the guards are all wishing they could say the same. We dosed their food with Dog’s Mercury, and for good measure their drinks as well.”

  “Dog’s Mercury? What, is Fra Lorenzo with you?”

  “Should he be?” asked Cesco quizzically.


  “Someone’s coming,” hissed Detto.

  Ducking back around the corner, the trio listened. There were a few quick footfalls down the steps leading to the cells, then two slower ones before the sound stopped altogether. There followed an odd noise, like the low rumble of a geyser, and a groan of, “O dear lord!” Running now, the footsteps came closer. Pietro tensed, but before the guard turned the corner they heard the opening of a cell door and the quick removal of clothes. Then an outpouring of liquid, drowned out by the sigh of relief. The man was using the grate in an empty cell as an emergency latrine.

  With a twinkle in his eye, Cesco edged past Detto. Peeking around the corner, he darted and threw the cell door closed, slipping the bolt in place. From within a voice cried, “Oi! Oi, don’t play the fool! It’s me! Let me out!”

  “Hope you feel better soon!” said Cesco. “Because in a couple hours, you’ll have another reason to shit yourself!”

  Detto laughed, and even Pietro was grinning as they headed for the end of the hall and began edging up the stairs into the main palace. Here there were many windows, unbarred but so heavily shuttered they might as well be walls. The only difference was that bars could not be opened from within, while shutters could.

  Opening the one set, Cesco motioned for Pietro and Detto to drop out. They obeyed, Detto patting the hound farewell. “Wish you could come with us, but you wouldn’t like the water.”

  Pietro winced as he landed on the stones, then crouched low between the wall and the water. Detto was beside him in a moment, and Cesco began closing the shutters. “Detto, get him to the boat. I’ll give the signal.”

  Boat? Clearly there was a plan in place. Not wasting time, Pietro allowed himself to be led down an alley, away from the Doge’s palace to vanish into the foggy evening.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Morsicato was beginning to wonder if the wine he was drinking had been dosed with Dog’s Mercury by mistake. His bowels were certainly fluid, and he kept burping up little bubbles of gas. Nerves. How could it be taking this long?