Voice of the Falconer

by David Blixt

  “At least I’d be away from you.”

  “Is that any way to talk to your loving brother?”

  “I’d rather be sister to a cur!” She struggled to her feet, muttering curses at her voluminous layers. Despite nearing her fourteenth birthday, and despite flowering a year before, she was still unused to the layers and layers of formal feminine gear. But her father liked to have her dress as his pretty angel, and Lia strove to be obedient. “At least go with him!” she urged.

  “No,” he said. “I will obey father’s wishes.”

  “Why start now?”

  “It frees me to do other things.” Chucking her under the chin, Adamo strode away.

  Concerned, Lia knocked on her father’s door, hoping to cheer him up. But the old man refused her entrance, demanding to be left alone. Shoulders sagging, Lia returned to her room to discard her many layers. She had gotten all bound up for nothing.

  Damn the Greyhound, she thought. Him, and his heir.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  25 March 1326

  Snow stirred, performing effortless pirouettes just above the ground as two horses halted before a spectacular view. The burgeoning sun on their right cast an almost blinding reflection off the river. Across the shimmering water, the ground climbed steeply, rising from nearby hills to become the monumental Alps, the boundary of the Feltro, the northernmost region of Italy.

  So cold, to breathe was to be bitten in the throat. Yet Cangrande della Scala, master of Verona, ruler of the Feltro, took in a lungful of brisk winter air and expelled it with gusto. With a flick of the reins in his fur-covered gloves, the horse under him turned away from the sun’s glare. In truth, the dappled charger was too well-bred for simple rides such as this, but the Scaliger had a yen for fancy beasts as well as fancy clothes. And fancy games.

  The second horse was a young palfrey, not fancy but a little wild for its small stature. The same could be said of his rider. Francesco della Scala, master of himself, ruler of his wits, sat upright in his saddle, forcing himself to take in the eternal greys and purples of the land. Looking out at the snow-covered trees, the ice-crusted river, and mountainous peaks, a poem suggested itself, but the lump of wet ashes that had replaced his brains couldn’t form it. It was happening more and more, this lack of words – a dreadful prospect for one who loved language more dearly than life.

  Say something! Cesco’s mind cried out. At once his mouth obliged. “What, Alexander, not weeping?”

  Cangrande had been enjoying the boy’s silence. His famous smile had a cutting edge. “It is not the breadth of the domain, but the fertility that matters.” Removing an apple from his saddlebag, he bit deliberately into it.

  Cesco kept his eyes off the apple, but that didn’t stop his stomach from roiling with lust. “Why must you always retreat into ribaldry?”

  “You’ll understand once your balls drop. Now be silent, I’m enjoying the view.”

  It was indeed magnificent, but Cesco’s eyes clouded, his ears full of each crunchy bite of apple. Closing his mind to sound, he employed numbers to distract him. 237 days, precisely. Grandfather Dante had always said to be specific. 237 days equals 34 weeks equals 8 months.

  Eight months of stolen sleep. Thirty-four weeks of eating scraps. Two hundred thirty-seven days of humiliation. A fifteenth of his life spent for a mouthful of dust. Three quarters of a year without breaking.

  For that was the game – breaking him. Last summer Cangrande had welcomed his heir back to Verona by taking him on as squire, claiming a desire to better know the eleven year-old after so many years apart. The true reason was to break this willful, insolent, daredevil child. Cesco was being treated as one of the Scaliger’s hawks – starved, tasked, deprived of sleep or comfort – all to bend him to his master’s will. It was a miracle that Cesco had lasted so long.

  Of course, I’ve been cheating. All unwilling, his thoughts drifted to the small wafers hidden in his boot. He couldn’t help imagining the sensation of energy and confidence he would feel once one passed his lips. He couldn’t indulge now, not in front of his tasker. He would have to endure until the opportunity presented itself.

  Cesco filled the time guessing why they had come. Usually his days were spent learning some new fighting technique or bending under some grueling physical labour – riding, running, climbing, hunting, swimming. On rare occasions he was allowed the great pleasure of a book, and then only to recite it verbatim on the next ride for his master’s amusement. Success in all these was met with indifference, whereas failure was greeted by severe punishment. At least he doesn’t blindfold me, or sew my eyelids shut. A common practice with birds. Best not mention it, though. It would give him ideas.

  Often Cangrande would farm out a day’s training to one of his lords or retainers, but today’s pre-dawn exodus from the hunting retreat at Garda had been made without pages, guards, or friends. Just a knight and his squire. The path hadn’t been marked, meaning they’d come to a secret place. This was enough to cause Cesco a little paranoia, a perversely welcome sensation. Mystery made his blood flow faster. Tired as he was, any stimulant was to be treasured.

  What is in that churning violence you call a mind, my lord? Where are you taking me? Somewhere along the river, certainly. Perhaps a swim? That would wake me up, at least. And while we’re undressing I could sneak a wafer…

  Cangrande cocked his head at Cesco, and the boy realized he’d missed the sound of horses. Damn. “My lord. Horses.”

  Cangrande tossed his half-eaten apple into the snow. “Don’t be afraid. We are expected.”

  Once, Cesco would have bristled at the implied hint of cowardice. But now it rolled off his back as a battle not worth fighting. Realizing this meant he had indeed been altered by the hawking, he deliberately set about being mulish. “Finally giving up? Selling me into slavery?”

  “You’ll be dead long before I give up. If I cannot tame you, no one else will be allowed to try.”

  “That’s rather like burning down your city so the enemy cannot claim they seized it.”

  “Exactly. Bear it in mind. Now hush.”

  It was not a novel exchange, nor particularly clever on either part. But the fact that it had taken place meant Cesco had won a victory. Not broken yet!

  Pleased, he trained his eyes on the small party approaching them. Like Cangrande, all five riders were wrapped in furs and leathers, denoting their wealth. Whereas Cesco was dressed in itchy homespun, with only the leather he had cured himself to protect him. Looking like a patchwork vagabond, he felt like one too, and had to constantly refrain from scratching.

  The leader was on the best horse, his place in the group obviously due to deference, not saddle skill. A pudgy old man, more fit for a coach or carriage. Cesco couldn’t see much of his face, swaddled as it was, but something in the man’s demeanor made Cesco’s fingers itch.

  The fatty reined in just short of sword’s reach. “Capitano. You look in health.”

  “Thank you, Gaspardo! It’s true, I have never been so robust. A winter without wars, only good meals and better company. The exception is this dolt of a squire. But he has a family claim on me, so…” Cangrande shrugged to suggest his helplessness.

  All eyes turned to Cesco, and for the millionth time he felt himself being measured. Despite Cangrande’s light words, they knew this was the bastard Heir of Verona, and they scrutinized his features for any similarity between him and his lord.

  In height, there was none. Cangrande was a near giant, towering over other men both in the saddle and on foot. Whereas Cesco was lacking in stature even for one just shy of his twelfth birthday. Nor did they share a frame, Cangrande large and just a little too well-fleshed, Cesco leaner than one of the great man’s hounds.

  Yet there were echoes in the lines of the face, the arc of the chin, and the wryness of the smile. Similar too were the curls of chestnut hair that in summer were turned blond by the sun. Both wore their hair shorter than was the fashion, and both were dressed in the same
colours, emphasizing the sameness of their skin tones. Naturally, Cangrande’s garments were superior.

  The chief difference lay in the eyes. Cangrande’s were of a rich blue that might have come from Maestro Giotto’s own palette, whereas Cesco’s were changeable – or so he’d been told. Some days a muddy blue-grey, mostly they were green. Grown women loved to tell him how magnificent a green it was, with gold flecks and a pale ring around them, resembling nothing so much as a lush isle in the midst of a turbulent and stormy sea. Himself, he’d never seen them but by reflection, and even the finest mirrors failed to show him what other people saw. To him, they looked like the eyes of an animal trapped in the body of a boy. But that was a fancy born of circumstance.

  Bruised, tired, and hungry, Cesco contrived to smile brightly. “I hope, masters, you find my company less irksome than does my lord. If I have any virtue, it is a knowledge of all my faults. He has catalogued them for me.”

  “King among them is impudence,” agreed Cangrande. “Gaspardo, allow me to introduce my heir, Francesco. Infant, this great man is Monsignor Gaspardo Rienzi, master of the river and all its fruits and labours.”

  “Neptune, Poseidon, and Rienzi – a god among us. I am in awe.” Up close, Cesco could make out the broken veins of the sot and the pale yellowness of a dying liver. Doffing his cap to the old man, Cesco’s numbed fingers almost dropped it. He managed to make the mistake appear an extra touch of foppishness.

  Rienzi was far from amused. In fact, the man looked downright venomous. What did I ever do to you, Lord Rienzi? Did I steal your daughter? Burn your lands? Fish your pond? Or am I merely condemned by association? But the old man found a polite reply. “You are fortunate in having a son so quick-witted, my lord.”

  “Wait until you know him. You’ll see it’s only his tongue that’s quick. Still, it’s true that I’m lucky in all my bastards. But there are so many, how could I not be? Now if we could, let’s away. And please, not a word of our destination. It’s a surprise.”

  Under his layers of furs and hoods, Rienzi made a noise Cesco couldn’t decipher. Then the old man turned his horse’s head back the way he had come. Cangrande and Cesco followed, surrounded by Rienzi’s men.

  There was no speech for the next half mile until, cresting a hill, Cesco spied a structure that had to be their destination. A mass of stone spanning the water, marring the sun’s reflection. A solid bridge led to a huge building perched above the river’s center, with two brick chimneys belching forth black smoke. Attached to the building was the largest waterwheel Cesco had ever seen.

  Cangrande watched his squire’s reaction. “You know what it is?”

  Cesco turned, wide-eyed. “You mean you don’t?”

  Cangrande clucked his tongue. “That’s another meal you’ll have to forego. Really, I’m surprised you haven’t wasted away to nothing. Answer the question.”

  Cesco squinted at the structure. “It’s your famous water-forge.”

  “Now that’s a shame! I was hoping you hadn’t heard about it.”

  “Is it supposed to be a secret?”

  “Oh, everyone knows it exists,” said Cangrande easily. “But not its location.”

  “You’re joking.” Cesco was genuinely perplexed. “Everyone knows where the forge is.”

  “Ah, they only think they do. I had another waterwheel built several miles from here, and there’s smoke rising from it, too. However, rather than stoke the fires, that wheel grinds wheat. This is the true forge.”

  “And it goes unnoticed?”

  “Who goes looking for something when they already know where it is?” A typical piece of Scaligeri subterfuge – allow your foes to see what they expect, while the truth remains hidden.

  Yet Cesco was intrigued. “Why secrecy at all? A water-forge is not novel, not in this day and age.”

  “I suppose not,” said Cangrande tartly. “So tell me, O master of modernity, what is the purpose of a water-forge?”

  “Making weapons out of water?”

  “Amusing. Keep on and I’ll have you turning that wheel by hand.”

  Cesco bowed his head in mock subservience. “But my lord Capitano, it’s technically true! The water turns the wheel, which powers the bellows, which stokes the fires, which allows the blacksmith to work with hotter flames than the average forge. And you can use the river to cool the metal. So the water makes the weapons stronger.”

  “Oh, but that’s only half the genius! Rienzi? Can you illuminate my young know-it-all as to the other advantage of our treasure?”

  Despite his cold demeanor, Rienzi couldn’t disguise his pride. “The wheel also powers trip-hammers to beat the metal. Raw ore can be shaped into wrought iron in less than half the time it takes a common smith.”

  “As an experiment,” added the Scaliger, “it has paid for itself time and again, allowing me to equip men twice as fast as my enemies.”

  Hearing this, the famished Cesco forgot his stomach, hungering instead to explore the forge. He made a show of yawning. “And why are we here? Am I to learn a trade?”

  “Now why didn’t I think of that? A good way to put some muscle on your frame.”

  “So would letting me eat.”

  The lord of Verona laughed. “True at that. But if you can curb your appetite, we will enter and have a look around. Then we can leave poor Rienzi in peace.”

  Rienzi glanced up out of his swaddling. “You’re not supping with us, lord?”

  “Thank you, no. I wouldn’t dream of imposing upon your household – not with this little monster in tow. His manner at table is worthy of a kennel. No, Cesco can snare us some game for supper. As he points out, he lacks employment.”

  Reaching the bridge, Cesco noticed an image painted on the wall of the forge. An amusing emblem, a beaver racing through flames. “Is that your crest, Lord Rienzi?”

  “Yes,” grunted Rienzi. “Granted us by the Capitano.”

  Cesco studied the flaming beaver. “There’s a joke in there somewhere.”

  Reins in hand, Cangrande grinned. “No dammed jokes. It burns me up.”

  “O!” In mock pain, Cesco urged his horse forward.

  Cangrande kept pace. “That’s you, always forging ahead.”

  “I cry a foul! For there’s nothing fouler than a pun.”

  Cangrande wagged a finger. “You know, I’d willingly let you share in the meat you catch if you’d only laugh at my jokes.”

  “I’d rather starve,” said Cesco bitterly.

  The seven riders dismounted, hobbled their horses on the metal rings at the bridge’s end, and entered the structure.

  From the edge of the treeline, they were observed.

  Books by David Blixt

  The Star-Cross’d Series

  The Master Of Verona

  Voice Of The Falconer

  Fortune’s Fool

  The Prince’s Doom

  Varnish’d Faces: Star-Cross’d Short Stories

  The Colossus Series

  Colossus: Stone & Steel

  Colossus: The Four Emperors

  and coming 2016

  Colossus: Wail of the Fallen

  Her Majesty’s Will

  a novel of Wit & Kit

  Eve of Ides

  a play of Caesar & Brutus