The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  Laughter proved dangerous, as a fist came at him, attracted by the sound. Head erupting with lights, Detto staggered back. The rope was both help and hindrance. Used correctly, it blocked attacks and could even be a weapon. But when one of his attackers grabbed and pulled, it was dangerous.

  “Detto!” Suddenly there was light. Cesco was standing over the unshuttered candle, hands held low, shaped like a cup. “Up!”

  Running forward at once, Detto stepped and Cesco heaved. Catching the edge of the high window, Detto wriggled through even as he felt the line at his waist shiver – Cesco was being attacked again.

  Detto slid onto the tiles of the roof, scraping his whole body from shin to shoulder. He grasped the rope and began to pull. “Come on!”

  Cesco must have jumped, because the line went slack before snapping taut again. The rope digging into his hands, Detto heaved. After several long seconds, Cesco emerged from the cupola, scrambling hand over hand. He slithered out onto the slick open roof and helped Detto pull the rope up between them. “Is the rope intact? No rope, no win.”

  Detto had to laugh. “I thought you wanted to quit.”

  Standing, Cesco touched his neck. “That was before someone tried to stop us winning. Who are they?”

  “What, not friends of yours?” The way Cesco looked at his fingers, Detto knew his friend was bleeding. “How bad?”

  Cesco let the falling rain wash the blood away. “I'll live. Come on, they'll be-” He broke off to stomp on fingers gripping the windowsill. They heard a curse as the climber fell on the person below him.

  “Fight, or win the race?” asked Detto.

  Under the falling rain, Cesco cocked his head. “Is there any reason we can't do both?”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  CANGRANDE'S WORDS HUNG in the air, too horrible to contemplate. Pietro blanched, then gagged, clutching the table behind him. The Scaliger shot him a pitying smile. “See? A weak stomach. Though I think I've finally cured the good Count of his unrequited smit.”

  Lia said, “You're not serious.”

  “Aren't I? Perhaps not. I thought it might goad you into pulling that trigger. Isn't that why you're holding it? To shoot me?”

  “To protect myself,” countered Lia. “And my child.”

  “At least you're breathing a little faster. Maybe if I upset you enough you'll miscarry. Wouldn't that be better for everyone? I can live a little longer without the title of nonno. Though it might make a good playmate for Cesco's wife. All in the family.”

  Pietro's head was reeling. “Stop it.”

  “Stop?” Cangrande's eyes never left his daughter. “I've never spoken to this girl before tonight. Yet she's tried to kill me on two separate occasions.”

  “Three,” corrected Lia. She was breathing fast. “Once while you were hunting. I planned to shoot you dead, but you ran off to Mantua. Which left my brother instead.”

  “I told you, girl, don't call him that.” Cangrande inclined his head. “I remember that day well. Cesco was airing his little red hawk. And you were out to kill me, why?”

  “My father – rather, my mother's husband – hates you, though I cannot imagine why. He sowed that hate into us, Adamo and me. I thought your death would cure him of his drinking and his rage.”

  “How very Greek! To avenge your foster-father's honour, you murder your real father, all unknowing. The Furies would have come for you.”

  “Instead they gave me Cesco.”

  “Gave? I thought you took him. An older woman, dressed as a man. I've wondered if he does not incline that way. Did he have you dress in man's attire during your lovemaking?” Her silence made him laugh. “O, he did! How amusing. I had the feeling his whoring was a little too much protesting.”

  “Like yours? Is that why you bedded my mother, to prove you weren't attracted to her husband?”

  Cangrande sputtered his wine. “I see why Cesco fell into your clutches! I suppose I should not cast the first stone. No, your mother was one of the loveliest women in the Feltro, with enormous breasts and the most marvelous dimples in her buttocks. Like a peach. Yum.” Cangrande smacked his lips.

  Lia took some time to answer. “Cesco said you were a brute.”

  “I hope you didn't talk about me during the act.”

  “Foreplay,” retorted Lia. “He told me what a drunken vainglorious ponce you were, and I got wet for him.”

  Cangrande's smile dimmed not at all, but Pietro knew from the wrinkle in his brow that the girl had scored. He wanted to cheer, but the talk was too awful to breathe, let alone utter a sound.

  “Is that when you fell in love with him? As he abused me? Or was it was at first sight, when you held a dagger to his throat? Better your wrist had slipped then than to let him suffer as he suffers now.”

  Now the crossbow was quivering. “Whose fault is that?”

  “Not mine,” stated Cangrande confidently. “I wasn't the one sneaking around and giving away my chaste treasure to a fickle prince. Your father knows whose child it is, and what such a union means. Does your husband? Will he accept a child born with three heads? You could name it Cerberus.”

  “He will accept it. He is a better man than you.”

  “Absolutely true,” agreed Cangrande. “But if I am such a monster, and your mother was a slut, what kind of child could we have created but a monstrous whore?”

  “Stop it.” Pietro had finally realized what Cangrande was doing. “It wasn't her. You can see that. If she hasn't killed you by now, it wasn't her.”

  Back-lit by the fire, Lia looked between them, then sighed in anger. “You were goading me?”

  Cangrande poured more wine. “I told you so.”

  “He's also trying to focus your hate on him,” said Pietro. “Like father, like son.”

  “What?” It was said by both Cangrande and Lia. Even their inflection was the same.

  “Earlier tonight Cesco confronted your husband, and baited him. He wanted to focus all Tiberio's ire on him, lest any of it land on you. Cangrande is doing the same. If you hate him, you may forgive Cesco.”

  “So altruistic!” cried Cangrande. “Doesn't sound like me at all. Well, daughter, the race will be over soon, and I must be there when it ends. People might talk. I don't expect to meet you again. Would you like a fatherly kiss before we part?”

  “I want nothing from you,” she told him.

  “But I want something from you. Never contact him, never see him. He rages now, and that gives him strength. But he may weaken. Especially when he hears of the child. Be it a month from now, or a month of months, he'll hear, and he'll come for you. Do not see him. Let him be what he is destined to be. Let him alone.” Lia was silent. “Promise me.”

  “I swear I will never let him see me,” answered Lia stoically. “Or this child I carry. Is that all, father?”

  “Almost. Just one thing more. I'd like to see your face.”

  Rosalia hesitated before rising. On her feet, Pietro could see how much the pregnancy had progressed since December. Her hair was coifed and covered, but her cheeks glowed with blossoming life.

  Setting down his cup, Cangrande approached her and placed his hands on her shoulders. She did not back away, but the crossbow in her grip quivered a moment before lowering.

  Looking into his daughter's eyes, Cangrande allowed her to look into his. Then he kissed her under each eye. “It's not much. But every daughter should feel her father kiss her tears away at least once.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  SLIPPING, MONTAGU CAUGHT himself at the expense of one of the clay roof tiles, which shattered under his knee.

  Aiello hauled him to his feet. “Clumsy bastard, aren't you, bastard? Don't go dying on me now. Not when I plan to murder you in such a pretty, drawn-out way.”

  Montagu shoved him away with his shoulder and continued to follow Mastino and Carrara across the rooftop, hiding the thing in his hand.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  IT WAS NOW just three short city blocks to the palace. Sliding
down the angled rooftop, Detto and Cesco used their momentum to propel themselves across the gap to the next building. They landed just as the first head poked through the muleteer's cupola.

  The two young knights would have been free and clear but for the rope. They passed a small chimney without noticing it, but seconds later the slack rope caught, yanking both hard. Their feet slid from under them and Detto's head struck the wet clay tiles, shattering a few.

  “Jesus,” said Detto dazedly.

  “Hear him,” said Cesco, echoing his cousin's prayer as he gasped for breath. The fall had dropped him on his back.

  Hearing footfalls, they rolled just in time to dodge the kicks and blows from their pursuers.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  ON THE SCALIGER'S LOGGIA, Gianozza Montecchio was sonorously reciting one of Petrarch's poems:

  There are creatures in the world with such other

  vision that it is protected from the full sun:

  yet others, because the great light offends them

  cannot move around until the evening falls:

  and others with mad desire, that hope

  perhaps to delight in fire, because it gleams,

  prove the other power, that which burns:

  alas, and my place is with these last.

  I am not strong enough to gaze at the light

  of that lady, and do not know how to make a screen

  from shadowy places, or the late hour:

  yet, with weeping and infirm eyes, my fate

  leads me to look on her: and well I know

  I wish to go beyond the fire that burns me.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  THEIR NAKED BODIES slick from the still-falling rain, Cesco and Detto were able to slip from their opponents' grasping fingers. Cesco leapt this way and that, lifting tiles to use as shields and missiles.

  The rope, which had been their foe, now turned ally again, anchoring them to the chimney and freeing them from fear of falling. Detto retreated a few steps, then launched himself feet first towards the nearest shape. Struck, the man hurtled backwards, his feet skimming the tiles until there were no more to skim. He plummeted three stories into the street, screaming all the way until a wet crunching thud stopped his voice forever.

  The helpful rope prevented Detto from following to a similar fate. But suddenly it jerked – another attacker had discovered it in the downpour and was now reeling Detto in. “Cesco!”

  Cesco dropped his next missile to scuttle sideways across the roof, feeling his way almost blind in the falling rain. He crossed Detto's path and kept going, tugging on his end of the rope. Caught, the man pulling Detto flipped face-first onto the roof.

  Released, Detto slipped backwards until the rope again went taut. A body collided with his legs and fingers grasped at him, dragging him down to grapple.

  Cesco was close by, struggling with the other man who was trying to find a stranglehold about the prince's neck. “Where the hell are the others?”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  BACK IN THE TORRENTIAL downpour, Cangrande paused under a canopy. “Poor Pietro. The eternal witness. When I die, I'll have to wait for San Pietro to come and recount all my sins.”

  Pietro was glad his hood hid his face. “There are times I forget what a bastard you are.”

  “It's as well to remember. Especially for the Count of San Bonifacio.”

  “You were kind at the end.”

  “Which I'm sure I'll come to regret. I have always found my regrets come from not being ruthless enough. But she is sanguis meus – blood of my blood. Quick, now. Back to the palace. We hardly want to be discovered here.”

  “I'll go my own way,” said Pietro. “Antonia talked of taking Maddelena home. I want to be sure they arrived.”

  “Of course. There is a history of kidnapping on this night, and she's the perfect age for it.”

  Pietro had not considered that. He had only wanted to remove himself from the Scaliger's company. Now he hurried towards the via Pigna, a thunder in his ear that had nothing to do with rain.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  ONE OF THE CLUES Cesco and Detto had skipped led the other racers to the very edge of city walls, to the tower above the Ponte Pietra. Here, at the stone bridge dating back to the Roman Republic, was the clue that would lead to the final message at the muleteer's shop.

  Antony and Mari were departing when Mastino and Carrara arrived, with Aiello and Montagu directly upon their heels. Montagu lagged behind.

  “Come on, come on, you bastardly canker-blossom,” urged Aiello, “sneck up!”

  Ahead, Carrara said, “English is a musical language, is it not?” Mastino laughed, only to turn at the sound of a long wailing shout as someone toppled off the corner of the roof. Instantly both men lunged for the nearest figure, expecting him to be dragged off the edge as well.

  But the nearer man didn't fall. Instead there was a splash as a body hit the icy waters four stories below.

  “At least he missed the bridge,” said Carrara.

  “Won't make a difference,” said Mastino. “Water's low this time of year. And there are rocks all around. How did it happen?”

  “I don't know,” said the survivor nervously. “He just – fell.”

  Mastino pulled up the slack rope. Had the knot slipped? He couldn't see it in the rain, but when his fingers reached the end of the braided cord he could feel frayed ends, unevenly severed. “This was cut.”

  “What?” demanded Aiello the Scot, pulling the rope from Mastino's fingers. “No. What? It can't be.” His head came up. “You have to believe me. I didn't – I didn't!”

  Carrara was grave. “We must give up the race and search for the body. There's a chance Montagu's still alive.”

  “And we have to bring this one to Cangrande,” said Mastino darkly.

  “No!” Shoving past them, Aiello leapt to the next building. They gave chase, but quickly lost him in the rain. Whatever else Aiello the Scot might be, he was an accomplished bounty hunter, and used to disappearing from sight.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  PIETRO FOUND ALL WELL at Cesco's house on the via Pigna. One look at his face had Antonia worrying, but he promised he would tell her everything on the morrow. “Tonight, I just can't.” Antonia chose not to press. Tomorrow would do.

  He had no desire to return to the palace, did not want to see Cangrande being jovial and bright. In one night the Scaliger had made an enormously generous gift and also planted a seed that would only fester over time. He wasn't serious, was he? He hadn't actually…

  Even if Cangrande were lying about that, the scene he had witnessed brought back the worst moment of Pietro's life – Cangrande fighting Katerina on the rooftop in Vicenza, their words sharper than any blades.

  The streets were not crowded, so Pietro was surprised when a cloaked figure jostled him, hitting him hard in the side and bowling him over. Instinctively Pietro reached for his sword, but the fellow staggered off, clearly the worse for wine.

  Clambering to his feet, Pietro winced – he might have cracked a rib. Another reason to go home.

  But no. He had to see if Cesco made it back in one piece. And be certain Mari and Antony hadn't hanged each other with their rope. Feeling the weight of obligation, Pietro trudged back to the palace.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  WRESTING FURIOUSLY, Detto heard Cesco gasp and saw a hand around his cousin's throat. “No!” Heaving wildly, he kicked out. His heel caught the arm pressing Cesco down. But the move opened him up to a violent blow that left him dazed.

  Then, through the rain, came voices from across the roof.

  “Do you hear something?” said Montecchio.

  “Sounds like a fight,” replied Capulletto. “Oi! What goes on there!”

  It was all the distraction the two young knights required. Detto got underneath his foe's legs and, using the anchoring rope to pull himself upright, bodily lifted the man and tossed him over the roof's edge.

  Throwing his elbow forward, Cesco clubbed his attacker i
n the throat, then used his knees to flip the man up and over the roof's edge. Another scream was followed by a dull smacking sound from below.

  “What's going on over there?” demanded Capulletto.

  “Answer us, dammit!” echoed Montecchio.

  “Help!” gasped Cesco, clearing his aching throat.

  “Very funny, whoever you are!” called Montecchio. “But we're going to win! Come on, Antony – in here.”

  Panting, bruised and bleeding, Cesco grasped at Detto. “Hurt?”

  “No!” He was, but not seriously.

  “Then let's win!” Scrambling up, they unlooped the frayed rope from the chimney and started on their way again. But Detto grasped his cousin's shoulder. “Cesco – wait.”

  “Apologize later. We can win!”

  “It isn't – I mean, there's something else.” He paused. “Lia is in Verona.”

  It was his imagination. Through the rain, he certainly could not have heard his friend's heart stop. “Lia.”

  “She wants to see you. Tonight, after the race. She's arranged a place. San Zeno's.”

  The rain continued to fall, and Detto continued to shiver under it.

  “Does she hate me so much?”

  “She says hate makes it easier.” There was more, but it was not his place to say it.

  A whoop from the next building told them that Montecchio and Capulletto had emerged with the final message. Shaking himself like a dog, Cesco punched Detto lightly on the shoulder. “Thank you. I will see her after we win.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  AT THE PALACE GATE, Pietro was greeted by Signor Salvatore, the only Rakehell not racing tonight. Noting his still-soaking cloak, Pietro said, “I hear you walked my sister and the princess home. Thank you for your assistance.”

  Salvatore took the proffered arm and shook it heartily. “Not that it was needed. Still, now I can say I've been of service to the Count of San Bonifacio.” His eyes narrowed as Pietro winced. “Are you unwell?”

  “Some drunk knocked me over,” said Pietro shortly, retrieving his hand. “I'll be fine. Come on, the race must be almost done.”