Voice of the Falconer

by David Blixt

  “Whoreson brat,” Fuchs hissed in German, his long dagger flashing down.

  Cesco’s face swayed inches from the horse’s testicles – this was no gelding. Impressive. But it will make this more difficult. Groping out with a desperate hand, Cesco swung to the horse’s left side, snatching at the opposite foot. Thank heavens Fuchs isn’t wearing spurs. Cesco longed to taunt, but he would only swallow mud. His fingers were already slipping. The masque had shifted down to half-blind him. It’s possible this was a bad idea. Taking a shallow breath, Cesco let go with his right hand and cast back with his left. Here goes!

  Above, Fuchs glimpsed the disappearing hand and laughed, waiting to feel the brat’s body under the hooves.

  Below, Cesco hung in the air for a terrifying moment, floating face-up between the thundering legs of the horse, brushing its massive penis and grazing the inside of its thighs. Then Cesco found the lifeline he was grasping for – the braided tail. Gripping it tight, he put all of his weight on it. Hanging upside-down by the tail, he braced his feet against the horse’s backside and pulled with all his might.

  The steed reacted to the yanking on its tail in the only sensible manner. It reared, Cesco’s head brushing the ground as the horse stood tall on its hind legs.

  An excellent horseman, the sudden rearing failed to unseat Fuchs. But for that moment the horse was no longer running. Having survived this insane stunt, it would have been simple for Cesco to touch his feet down and leap up behind the rider. But Cesco was determined not to touch the earth at all. As the horse descended, he stepped on the horse’s rear legs, turned his right shoulder, and rolled up over the horse’s rump. An inelegant move, it left Cesco lying sideways behind saddle.

  Fuchs felt the bump at his back and, even as he sawed the reins with one hand, he flipped his long dagger into a stabbing position and swung backwards blindly. Cesco’s knee blocked the blow at Fuchs’ elbow. Right hand darting to his belt, Cesco retrieved the object he’d borrowed from Montecchio’s stable. Like the dagger, it glinted in the moonlight.

  Ducking another backwards stab of the dagger, Cesco brushed the object against the strap to Fuchs’ saddle. Then he flopped onto his back and aimed a sideways kick at the German’s head.

  Half-turned, Fuchs easily caught the childish kick on his forearm. As he brought the knife up again, he suddenly he felt himself slipping, falling, the saddle rolling off the horse’s back, taking him with it, and Fuchs landed hard in the muddy grass and pebbles.

  More horsemen were thundering down the riverbank towards them. Grasping the reins, Cesco turned the horse about, careful to keep the horse from stepping on the sputtering German. “Sorry, no time to stay!” Galloping off, he tossed aside the instrument he’d used to cut the saddle strap, a sickle-shaped blade used for trimming manes, curved like the waxing moon above.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  “He rides well enough,” mused Cangrande. “But what does he have against saddles?”

  The masqued boy waved up at the watchers on the road as he passed them by. Seeing Cesco riding away unhurt, Pietro told his heart to start beating again.

  “Amazing,” said Petruchio, having arrived in time to see the acrobatic marvel.

  “Never seen anything like it,” said Mariotto.

  Unable to disagree, Antony grunted. “Where’s he going now?”

  “Back to the feast, I hope.” Cangrande sounded bored. “I’ve not had my dessert yet.”

  “No!” cried Mariotto. “Look!”

  Cesco had disappeared about a quarter of a mile south, hidden by the curving riverside wall. The pursuing horsemen on the bank pulled up sharply at the same spot, gazing upwards. A moment later Pietro saw why.

  Clambering over the wall, Cesco dusted himself off, wiped the mud from his masque, then turned to face them. It was a clear night, brightly lit by stars and partial moon, and the hand gesture the masqued filthy child gave them was startlingly clear. “Khan Grande, Don Worm, you fashion-mongering poor inch of nature, you cowardly, bowelless, wrathful mouse! Do you always let your men fight in your place? I had thought better of the Greyhound! Greyhind is more like it!”

  With a roar of either rage or laughter, Cangrande lurched forward, spurring his horse into a run. Pietro swallowed and joined the others as the chase began anew.

  Only this chase was to be vertical. Cesco had already leapt from a barrel onto a balcony, and was proceeding to scale the side of a three-story building.

  Reaching the edge of the same building, Cangrande didn’t hesitate. From his horse’s back, he leapt to grasp the edge of the balcony. Hauling himself upwards, he glanced down. “Surround the building. Pietro, bring my horse.” He grabbed at a window frame just as Cesco disappeared over the roof’s edge. A few dislodged clay tiles came slipping down.

  Pietro called after the Scaliger. “Remember, he’s just a boy!”

  “Not tonight,” replied Cangrande, stepping onto a windowsill and grasping the roof’s edge. “He chose to play a devil. Now he’ll collect the Devil’s due!”

  Twenty-Seven

  Heaving his six-foot frame over the lip of the roof, Cangrande studied his surroundings. His weight was far more than a child’s. Yet the incline of the clay tiles wasn’t impossible, especially if taken quickly. He pushed off and dashed to the peak of the roof where he halted, looking about.

  The boy was perched on a stone gargoyle the next roof over, his masque’s three faces all mocking.

  “You’d be wiser to run,” said Cangrande.

  “Oh? Is that how we justify cowardice? As wisdom?”

  Cangrande took a step but the large curved tiles slipped underfoot, cascading down to shatter on the street below. He sprang back and Cesco laughed. “I must have taken out a few too many on my leap. Sorry.”

  Cangrande examined the boy through narrowed eyes. “I’d have thought you’d be taller.”

  “I hope I manage more surprises than that.”

  “So far, just a poor copy. The masque – it’s been done.”

  “An homage, my lord. Flattery. Are you susceptible?”

  “As much as any man. But perhaps less, by you.”

  Cesco cocked his head theatrically. “However shall I gain your admiration?”

  “You’ve begun with theft, assault, and insult,” said the Scaliger.

  “Don’t forget arson. And there’s a minor sacrilege you don’t yet know about.”

  “When you arrive at murder, you will garner my full attention.”

  Cesco clicked his tongue. “I don’t have it yet? I suppose this rooftop is a favoured locale.”

  “I came to see if you were at all interesting. So far you may colour me unimpressed.”

  Cesco switched to Arabic. “God shall not charge any soul save to its ability.”

  Cangrande answered in kind. “No soul shall be wronged at all, nor shall ye be rewarded for aught but that which ye have done. Thou dost disappoint. Before he was thy tutor, the noble bridegroom was mine.”

  “I can tell by the accent.” Cesco’s voice was lazy but his eyes were bright within the central, screaming face. “Well, if words will not suffice, shall we dance?”

  “Let’s.” Cangrande lunged. Tiles fell away under his feet, but he was already airborne, spanning the gap to the next building.

  Cesco rolled backwards off the gargoyle, falling out of view. By the time the Scaliger had his feet under him, Cesco was already leaping to another roof. Shouldering through a balcony door, the boy vanished inside. There was a moment of surprised silence, then a woman’s screams.

  Cangrande reached the balcony scant seconds later to find pandemonium within. In the dim light two naked figures could be seen. The woman was trying to cover herself while her lover grasped a chamber pot to strike at this second intruder.

  “Coitus interruptus,” said a voice in Cangrande’s ear. “Apologize for me.”

  Shoved forward into the room, Cangrande was forced to duck the pot, smelling its contents as they sprayed the wall to his right.
He lashed out with his fist, knocking the naked man to the floor. “Dreadfully sorry. The culprit will have a lesson in manners, you have my word.” Giving the woman an appreciative glance, the Scaliger bowed and exited the way he’d come.

  Outside, Cesco was nowhere in sight. Smiling to himself, Cangrande began to climb.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Below, Morsicato rode beside Pietro, having mounted Cangrande’s horse. “Well, he threw the plan out the window. Unless this something else you decided not to tell me?”

  “This was his alone.” The plan had been for Cesco to arrive at Capulletto’s house and start singing, showing his talent for invention. He would then lead his Capulletto host to Montecchio’s house, hoping to effect some sort of public reconciliation. “I should have known. He was far too obliging.”

  “In his defense, he did go to Montecchio’s house,” noted Tharwat from Pietro’s other side.

  “Was he supposed to?” demanded Capulletto. “Why?”

  “Maybe he was hoping for a meal that wouldn’t turn his stomach,” said Mari.

  “I have the best cooks in the Feltro!”

  “I know. You hired them away from me!”

  Pietro sighed. It had been Cesco’s idea to bring Mari and Antony together, make them put aside old wounds. But already they were sniping. Pietro told Mari to go with the Moor and the doctor to the north side of the building. “Antony and I will circle around to the south.”

  “Yes, do go on,” said Antony in a scathing tone. “Pietro and I have more important—”

  “Antony!” Pietro cut across him in exasperation. “Stuff it, or I’ll go with Mari instead.”

  There were nasty stares between the rivals as they separated. Pietro and Antony turned the corner in time to witness a cursing man wrapped in a blanket, standing on a balcony and shaking a fist at the rooftop. “Which way did they go?”

  “To the Devil for all I care!” shouted the naked fellow as he slammed the broken balcony door shut.

  Antony chortled. “So much for the boy getting hurt! He’s remarkable.”

  “Yes, he is.” Pietro was torn between laughter and tears. Where Cesco was concerned, it was a familiar sensation. “The problem is, he knows it.”

  “Just like his father. Where did he learn to ride like that?”

  Pietro shook his head. “I have no idea. From Tharwat, maybe?”

  “Who?” Antony had never known Tharwat’s true name.

  “Theodoro. The Moor.” So many secrets.

  “Remarkable,” repeated Antony.

  Pietro’s eyes were trained upwards. A moving shape overhead caught his eye as it soared over the narrow street and onto the building opposite. Cupping his hands to his mouth, Pietro shouted, “Cesco!” But the boy was already flying across the next roof. “Dammit!”

  “He’ll be fine,” consoled Antony. “He moves like a cat.”

  “Don’t tell him that.”

  A second figure hurtled overhead. “Look out below!” cried Cangrande as he dislodged a row of tiles. Pietro and Antony shielded themselves from the shattering clay. They calmed their horses, dusted themselves off, and were about to follow when they heard a patter of footfalls behind them. “Ser Capulletto! Ser Capulletto!”

  “Andriolo, what’s the matter?”

  Capulletto’s groom was a hulking fellow with a bright genial face. He wore an unaccustomed look of worry as he breathlessly related his news. Turning his horse about, Antony raced back to his home, leaving Pietro alone.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Three roofs away, Cesco hid in the shadow of an overhang, the drying mud making him nigh invisible. His sat, eyes closed, posture erect, the perfect mirror of Tharwat’s posture ten days earlier.

  A single footstep. Cesco could almost feel the nearness of the hunter. “Atropos, is that you?”

  “With my shears.” Cangrande leapt off the overhang. Cesco twisted away, but his ankle was caught. He kicked uselessly as Cangrande lifted him bodily, dangling him inverted in the air.

  “A quick lesson in keeping a civil tongue.” With his free hand, the Scaliger struck five times across the masque. “One for each accusation of cowardice.”

  Cesco curled, hands deflecting the worst of the open-handed blows. When they were done he went slack, unfurling upside-down. His lip was split, and he hawked bloody bile to the tiles. “I’m sorry...”

  “That’s a start.”

  “…sorry you ever learned to count. My, you’re big.”

  Cangrande shook the boy. “And you’re lighter than you should be. Have you lost weight?”

  “I’ve been starving myself out of fear. I didn’t want to vomit on sight of you.”

  “Am I so hideous? You’re the one under the masque.”

  “For fear of every soul in the city falling to my charms. I’m such a beautiful boy, you see. It’s why your soldiers like me.”

  “Hah! Competition I don’t need. Perhaps I should throw you back, little fish.”

  Cangrande drew his outstretched arm a trifle closer to shake the dangling boy again. Serpent-quick, Cesco’s hand shot out and twisted the nipple under the Scaliger’s loose shirt, hard.

  Surprise caused Cangrande to drop him. Cesco landed on his shoulder, rolled over backward, and stood with his back to the wall of the next building over. “Why, Atty, you’ve lost your bubbies!”

  Rubbing at his sore chest, Cangrande’s smile was thin. “I feel no need to suckle you at my teat.” A swipe, a duck, a roll.

  “Is this the milk of your kindness?” asked Cesco, on all fours. “I’ll take wine.”

  “All you do is whine,” said Cangrande, advancing.

  Cesco winced. “He who puns would purloin a purse. Grandfather would be appalled.”

  “You never met your grandfather.” Cangrande dove forward, hands outstretched.

  Cesco darted right, kicking off a carved saint for redirection. Using Cangrande’s shoulder as a step, he hopped neatly onto the lowest edge of a roof. “Join me, dear lout! Qui m’aime me suive.”

  With that Cesco turned and ran, Cangrande hot on his heels.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  “He’s going to kill himself,” moaned Morsicato, riding along with Montecchio and the Moor. “He wants to die, that has to be it. He’s got a death-wish.”

  “He’ll be fine,” said Mariotto. “I’m sure the Capitano will look after him.”

  “Hmm. Well, if he doesn’t die himself, he’ll be the death of me.”

  “He is a wild one,” laughed Mariotto.

  “And reckless! Only a dozen days after—” The doctor found his horse bumped by al-Dhaamin’s. “—ah, after coming to the city, and he’s running around the rooftops, scaring the citizens?”

  “Worse, he frightened my son,” said Mariotto. “I can’t say he doesn’t deserve a fright himself.”

  The Moor grunted. “He’ll get one.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  Slipping through a window, Cesco dropped into a storehouse. He landed on pipes of tallow, then a crate, finally coming to rest atop a barrel. He laughed softly. He would give his hunter another ten minutes of fruitless searching, then sneak back to the party and wait. In the meantime, he opened a pouch and removed a small metal tin with blueberries inside.

  “Hungry?”

  Cesco whirled about to face the figure on the far side of the room. The voice alone told him who it was. “I’m impressed. Not even the Arûs could have slipped in that quietly.”

  “I have a secret to tell.” Striking a taper, the Scaliger lit a candle. It cast a dim flickering light over stacks of goods. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Much as he tried, Cesco couldn’t hide his surprise. “You knew I’d come?”

  Cangrande made a shrugging motion. “I don’t often sleep, you see. I find myself awake in the small hours with nothing to do but deflower virgins.”

  Cesco sighed. “Or trail young hounds.”

  “I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed your nocturnal wanderings this last we
ek.”

  “I came here thrice. That’s how you knew.”

  “You wanted to be sure you could find it, even turned around. Perfectly sensible.”

  “Perfectly asinine.” Scowling, Cesco slapped each of the masque’s varnished foreheads for effect. “Detto’s the one with the perfect sense of direction, you see.”

  “I thought you’d spotted me two nights ago.”

  “I took you for the Moor,” explained Cesco. “I’ve given up losing him for any length of time.”

  “I made certain the Moor was detained.” Sitting atop a wooden box with chalk scrawlings across it, Cangrande made no move to approach. “He used to dog me the same way.”

  Cesco held out his clasped hands. “I beg, no more puns.”

  “Unintentional,” waved Cangrande.

  “You couldn’t be unintentional if you tried.”

  “Interesting. Only an hour of acquaintance and already I’m a liar and coward.”

  “While I’m a tiny upstart thief of no family.”

  “We have yet to determine your parentage.”

  “Ap neb, as the barbarians say. A mere mule. The wrong side of the sheets. Il veltro.”

  Cangrande was silent.

  “I notice you haven’t tried to corral me,” said Cesco. “I could dance up these crates and out the way I came before you reached me.”

  “I thought we might pass a few words before you traipsed off into the aether.”

  Cesco squatted on the barrel, tucking his knees under him. “So?”

  “So.” Cangrande leaned back in his improvised seat. “Do you wish to shoulder the burden of being my heir?”

  “Post equitum sedet atra cura!” Cesco’s words dripped with feigned surprise. “You mean there’s a choice?”

  “There is,” replied the Scaliger levelly. “You can’t return to Ravenna, but I have friends in many places. My enemies would never smoke you out. If you wish, you may lead a fruitful, uneventful life.”

  “You have enemies? I find that hard to believe. Such a very gracious host.”