Voice of the Falconer

by David Blixt

  Dismounting, Cesco stared at the palace doors with a concentrated frown. “I know this place.”

  “You should,” answered Morsicato. “You spent your first couple of years here.”

  Detto’s head-stutter was comical. “But – this is my house!”

  “All in the fullness of time.” The Moor was gazing around the street. “Let the grooms take the horses. We should get inside.”

  “Yes, all of us, inside,” said, Pietro ushering them towards the shaded entryway.

  Though fortified outside, the interior of the three-story building was built in the old Roman style, with a central garden and balconies looking down into it. It was eerie for Pietro to be back in this place. The proudest memories of his life were alive in this building. As were the worst.

  Cesco walked slowly, staring in utter bemusement. “I’ve been here...” Suddenly he bolted around a corner into the inner courtyard, Detto in his wake.

  “Stay inside the palace!” The Nogarola guards were chuckling, and Pietro gave them a boys-will-be-boys shrug. “Tharwat, Morsicato, can you make sure they don’t slip off to the markets or something?”

  The Moor was already moving in a light run. Morsicato bussed his wife’s cheek before he stalked off, refusing to run, muttering as he went. “Put a leash on him, teach him to heel...”

  The steward arrived, greeting Pietro and the women warmly. Antonia had only ever been to the palace once, but the steward remembered Esta and Pietro well. “The master is away, Ser Alaghieri, as well you can imagine.”

  “Chasing Paduans or on his way to Verona?”

  “The former, I believe. He hoped to catch them while they were still on this side of the border.”

  “Thank Heaven they didn’t reach the city,” said Esta.

  “Indeed, madonna. We thank God for it with every breath. With the Greyhound gone—”

  “Yes,” said Pietro briskly. “Just so. Now, if you could arrange some refreshment and show the ladies to the baths. I believe they could use a rest after our long ride. I have to thank our companions and send word back to Lord Novello that we arrived safely.”

  “Of course, Ser Alaghieri. Shall I unpack your baggage in the guest suite?”

  “Thank you, but we’re not staying more than a night or two.” As the steward gave orders to his waiting staff, Pietro touched his shoulder lightly. “That last is not to be published. Just let people know that Detto has come to be with his father in this time of crisis.”

  “Shall I say that business requires you to travel back to Ravenna as soon as the lady is rested?” No stranger to intrigue, he.

  “That’s just right. And please send a messenger to Lord Nogarola to inform him I’ve arrived with Detto.”

  “Immediately. Do you wish to see his lady wife?”

  From the moment he saw the city walls, Pietro had been steeling himself to do just that. “If it is convenient.”

  Minutes later he was climbing the stairs to the top floor of the palace, listening to Novello’s soldiers clatter away on the street outside. Reaching the top floor, he paused beside a door that led to the roof. Banishing evil memories, Pietro allowed himself to be directed down the corridor to the chatelaine’s chamber. The steward knocked, then opened the heavy wooden portal without pause. She was expecting him.

  Bracing himself, Pietro stepped within.

  The room smelled too sweet, a peculiar mixture of humanity, drugs, and incense that indicated a sickroom. Rays from the setting sun slanted through shuttered windows. Once there had been thin and delicate curtains in this room, but shutters were better able to block out light. Light was no longer this lady’s friend.

  In the unwanted illumination of the open door, Pietro saw an elderly woman sitting beside a massive bed, a book in hand. In the bed a second figure was propped with pillows, her hands folded in her lap. There was just light enough to show that the beautiful chestnut hair had developed streaks of grey. Just light enough to see the skin sagging on one side of her face. Just light enough to see the fire of intelligence and passion still blazing in her eyes.

  “Ser Pietro Alaghieri,” slurred Katerina della Scala slowly. “Tell me – how is my boy?”

  Eight

  Verona

  “My lord ambassador,” said Mastino, rising to kiss the Venetian on both cheeks.

  Dandolo was equally demonstrative to both brothers before settling into the chair set for him. Notably, the chairs of state were set at the same level as his own. Cangrande had always met with Venetians from up on the dais. Meant as flattery, the change was taken as weakness.

  “A sad time.” Dandolo voice was heavy with diplomatic grief. For himself, he couldn’t have been much troubled by Cangrande’s passing.

  “Indeed,” answered Mastino. “He went before his time.”

  “We must not question the wisdom of God’s plan. Perhaps it was Fate that put you in that chair. If so, you must shoulder the burden. To aid you, I have a gift.” He waved to a servant by the door, and an object was placed in Mastino’s hands.

  It was a silver globe engraved with all the constellations. Not caring much for astrology, Mastino nonetheless made a show of admiring it. “Thank you.”

  “No great man should be without a guide to the stars. Your uncle once employed a most remarkable man, an astrologer. Ignazzio, that was his name. Whatever became of him?”

  “If I’m remembering the man you mean, he also met an untimely fate. In a foreign land.”

  “A shame. He was a singular astrologer – practical, if you can call any astrologer that. And he had an apprentice, a Moor that served as his bodyguard. Do you know where he is now?”

  “I do not,” said Mastino apologetically. “I’ve never had time for dabbling in mysticism. But if it interests you, I will make inquiries.”

  “You are very kind.”

  Mastino passed several more compliments with the Venetian, admiring the smooth and disarming way the older man behaved. He seemed bored by everything. Mastino tried to act the same. If he remembered it, he made no reference to the last pope’s nickname for this particular Dandolo.

  On the other hand, he was ready to lob the gifted silver orb at his brother’s head. As joint-captain, Alberto had to be present, but he apparently couldn’t even take a lesson three hours old. When Dandolo made the subtle, genteel allusion to Verona’s tariffs on Venetian land exports, Alberto bluntly offered to lower them. Mastino revised that sentiment at once, mentioning their ongoing mourning for their dear late uncle who had been such a good friend to Venice as well as Verona. “Rest assured, my lord ambassador, when we are past our grief, we’ll do whatever we are able for our good friends and neighbours.”

  “Oh, I would not presume to intrude state matters upon you at such a time. It would be inexcusable. Though, if I may be candid, Lord Mastino – you are not what I expected. A sixteen year-old, thrust into power, one might expect posturing or incivility, stemming from insecurity. You show none of that. The office of Capitano seems to suit you.”

  A smile cracked Mastino’s veneer of boredom. “Or I suit it.”

  “Perhaps that is indeed the answer.”

  “Yet I am young, and have much to learn. Especially from august councilors like yourself.”

  Alberto was still a few words behind, focusing on something Dandolo had said. “If you aren’t here to discuss matters of state, then why are you here at all?”

  The ambassador had not said the office suited Alblivious. But Dandolo was a skilled statesman, and not everyone he dealt with was a cultured game-player. “Why, for the reading of the will. We are often asked to arbitrate in these matters, and in such a case as this, it is best to have an impartial party as witness.”

  “Is there a will?” asked Mastino, feeling a slight prickling sensation. “Do you know its contents?”

  Dandolo rose, preparing to take his leave. “I have absolutely no knowledge of what it might contain. But there is certain to be one. Your uncle was a man of surprising parts. Veni
ce is quite interested in hearing his final wishes.”

  Damn. Maybe he should have handed over the trade rights at once. “Lord Ambassador, if you have some warning, the whole of Verona will be in your debt.”

  “Sadly, Lord Mastino, I have no direct knowledge of your uncle’s will. I refuse to speculate as to whom it might have been entrusted. This is, after all, an internal Veronese matter.” He paused, then lowered his voice. “I will offer this word of advice. This office does suit you. If I were in your shoes, I would be certain no one was in a position, legal or otherwise, to take it away from me.”

  Mastino rose to take Dandolo’s hand. “Thank you, lord ambassador, for your advice. I appreciate it. Truly.”

  Satisfied, the Venetian departed for his lavish rented house a block away. Alberto began to talk before the door was even closed, but Mastino sent him off to join that fool Jacopo Alaghieri. Alone, he sat thinking for a long time. Then he called for d’Isola. “Send for Guglielmo del Castelbarco.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Vicenza, the Nogarola Palace

  Cesco emerged into an open atrium filled with flowers and statuary, a single tall fountain at the center. Atop the flowing fountain, three stone women poured water into the basin. The muses Calliope, Clio, and Melpomene, pouring inspiration and life into the world.

  “This is the garden!” said Detto. “I used to play here when I was little.”

  “Me too,” murmured Cesco in wonderment, his eyes roaming the columns and shrubs. “I’ve dreamed of this garden – and this fountain!” Running his fingers below the fountain’s rim, his hands paused just out of sight, and he laughed in astonishment.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” Cesco leapt up onto the fountain’s lip and performed a series of spinning steps along the edge, occasionally dipping his foot into the water.

  Normally Detto would have followed, but this once he remained earth-bound, a look of hard concentration etched across his face. Cesco paused. “Am I defiling your sacred home?”

  “What? No, no. It’s just – Cesco, are we brothers?”

  “To the death.”

  “No, I mean are we brothers?”

  Dropping to sit on the fountain’s edge, Cesco pursed his lips. “I think we’d know it.”

  “I wish we were. Not like stupid Valentino.”

  “Why not, then?” Producing a knife from his dripping boot, Cesco made a small cut on his palm. Grasping the meaning, Detto did the same then clasped Cesco’s hand. For a moment their blood mingled. Then Cesco doubled over in mock pain. “O, it burns, it burns!”

  Detto gave Cesco the fig, looking quickly around afterwards to see if any adults were watching. Turning back to Cesco, his face clouded. “Aren’t you mad at them? They lied to you.”

  Placing his hand in the fountain, Cesco watched his blood leave him to form a small cloud. “Very mad. But not for the reason you think. They lied to protect me, I see that. I’m mad because they thought I couldn’t figure it out. I mean, really, I – look out!”

  Cesco rolled deliberately into the water, and Detto immediately splashed down beside him. Peering out over the fountain’s lip, Detto hissed, “What?”

  “He’s found us.” Cesco pointed to where the Moor stood behind some gauzy curtains, watching them.

  “He’s not the only one,” said Detto as a little boy of seven years came thundering into the atrium from an inner chamber.

  “Detto!” shouted Valentino, Detto’s little brother. “Detto, where are you? They said you were back! Detto! Where are you?”

  Cesco pressed his mouth close to Detto’s ear. “He looks awfully dry, doesn’t he?”

  Grinning, Detto flexed his shoulders. “He does.”

  Waiting until their prey drew near, they pounced, their splashes and shouts echoing up the open atrium, through the shuttered windows, and into the room where Pietro was standing, the weight of a hundred years on his shoulders. “Bongiorno, Madonna.”

  “You must pardon me if I don’t rise.” The words were slow and slurred, emerging as they did from only one side of her mouth.

  “How is it?”

  “There is progress.” The last syllable gave Donna Katerina tremendous difficulty. She raised her left arm a fraction. It was doubly injured – first horrible burns, then the stroke. She had taken to wearing a glove of supple leather stitched all the way to her elbow. “As for the rest, I endure. But what brings you? Surely not a romantic visit. Though my husband is away, I am not so alluring.”

  Her disingenuousness did not amuse, but still Pietro smiled. “Your beauty is merely more delicate now, my lady.” That made her laugh, which in turn made her cough. The nurse leaned in with a bowl of water for her to sip. As she drank, Pietro slipped to her other side to sit on a vacant stool. Her mouth wiped dry, she turned her head to him. “Your sense of humour is coming along nicely.”

  “With Cesco in my house, how could it not?”

  The intelligent blue eyes flashed, and Pietro saw the ugly thing living in her mind, closer to the surface than it had ever been. The stroke had weakened her defenses. Or else she had ceased to care about dissembling in front of him.

  “He’s here.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Downstairs,” said Pietro, wondering if she truly failed to hear the noise below. “Would you like to see him?”

  Again the hunger leapt to the fore, but this time it dueled with her pride. Clearly she longed to see him, but had no desire to be seen by him – not in her present state. “Perhaps. First, tell me everything. My husband reads me your letters, and Detto’s, but there is still two years worth of growing I have missed.”

  “Time is a little short.”

  “Nonsense. Bailardino isn’t here. You and he can make your war plans when he returns.”

  “War plans?”

  The lady smiled for the first time, and Pietro perceived why she refrained. The right side of her face curled into life while the left remained sagged, turning that smile into a twisted grimace. Her smile was now more lop-sided than Pietro’s, his natural, hers enforced. “You haven’t heard? Mastino has taken over the palace, with both his brother and cousin Federigo at his back. They won’t be shifted without force of arms. And by now my beloved sister-in-law is surely on her way. So many claimants.”

  Unwelcome news, but not entirely unexpected. “Your husband will support Cesco?”

  “As will da Lozzo and Castelbarco, and probably Bonaventura. You must bring in Montecchio and Capulletto.”

  “One or the other,” said Pietro bitterly. “If one joins, the other will oppose us to the death.”

  “You underestimate their loyalty to you. Now, tell me about my boy.”

  Pietro glanced at the nurse, then realized secrecy no longer mattered. He began with the recent business with Cianfa Donati, then moved on to other tales: the impromptu trip to Venice, the incident with the shipwright, the ill-fated bear-baiting. All tales of Cesco’s flamboyance, his genius and daring. He did not mention the nightmares, nor the long hours staring at the same page of a book. He left out the nervous recurring illness that Morsicato attributed only to “an excess of energy in so small a frame.” He omitted the bouts of tears, or the sudden flights of meaningless rage that could overtake the boy.

  He concluded with the boy’s own analysis of his parentage, the inadvertent clues he had pounced upon. Her answer was a wry look. “Did you really think we’d fool him?”

  “I only wonder he hasn’t guessed it all,” said Pietro ruefully. That reminded him, and he bowed his head. “Lady, I am sorry for your loss.”

  Katerina was less grave in acknowledgement. “Not so great a loss as you might think. He has not been the man you knew. Perhaps you find that gratifying.”

  Side-stepping the barb, Pietro plowed on. “Lady, I need to know who Cesco’s mother is. She must be sent for.”

  Donna Katerina’s eyes became veiled. “I think the more pertinent question is, who is his father? Don’t you think he wants that answere
d?”

  Pietro had no desire to play these games. “Who is the lady Maria? Where is she?”

  The sound she produced could have been a laboured breath, or else a soulfelt sigh. “How boring you’ve become, Pietro.” His name as she pronounced it sounded like the Spanish Pedro. “She has already been summoned. I do not know if she will come.” Donna Katerina had trouble swallowing, and her nurse came forward again to give her water.

  When she was well, Pietro said, “Would you like to see him now?”

  She gave a minute shake of her head. “Tonight. When he is asleep.”

  “What about Detto?”

  “I’ll see him soon enough. When Cesco is in power, Detto will come to visit.”

  “Your son is turning into a fine young man.”

  “I know. His brother is much the same. They are Bailardino’s, through and through.” She arched her right eyebrow. “Doubtless you think that a good thing?”

  Pietro was saved from answering by a shout of laughter from the atrium. “Is that them?” Pietro told her it was. She considered for a moment. “Perhaps I will see them. If you don’t find it too distasteful.”

  It was a long process. Picking her up was difficult because of his weak leg. Eventually he had her in his arms and carried her through the door to the gallery above the atrium.

  Looking down, Pietro saw that Detto and Cesco had been joined by Katerina’s other son, Valentino. They were playing some game which involved Cesco touching every pillar in the gallery in sequence, all the while singing and dodging the attacks of the other two. On a bench far below sat the doctor, sipping a goblet of wine and watching thoughtfully. Off to one side, unobtrusive, stood Tharwat, half his attention on their boyish antics, half looking for threats.