The Prince's Doom

by David Blixt

  How fast did this water run? Eighty quarti a minute, the priest had said. Faster now, probably. The rain was making the water rise swiftly, something his enemy could not have counted on. Whoever his enemy was…

  Later. Focus. Passing her the torch, he removed his cloak from his shoulders and, after filling his lungs with air, plunged into the water. At once his fingers found the stone channel in the floor and he traced it forward, past her. When he ran out of air, he put his foot in the trough and rose. “Almost,” he reassured her, then submerged again.

  This time he found it, the little gap in the floor where the ancient pipe provided the water nymphs with the source of their power. Taking his sodden cloak, he jammed it into the pipe's mouth, tucking the corners to wedge it deeply.

  Rising, he returned to her. “That will stop the water.” It was only half true – it would slow the rise. There might be another pipe further along the tunnel, or his cloak might not be as waterproof as he hoped.

  Still, the statement had the desired effect, the girl was calmer. He reached out to hold her for a moment, kissing her cheek. But when her mouth sought his, he pulled the torch from her grip and retreated. “I need my sword to get you free. I'll be back in no time at all. Be brave, Buthayna.”

  He left her there while he returned to the teaching chamber for his sword and bag.

  Both of which were gone.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  ADAMO SLAPPED DETTO'S face again. “Where is she?”

  “I don't know!” repeated Detto through gritted teeth, straining against the ropes about his wrists. “If I knew, why did I come here to find her?”

  That checked him, and Detto used the respite to roll his tongue around his mouth, exploring. A tooth was loose. “Bastard.”

  “We're not the bastards!” shouted Adamo, hitting Detto again.

  One eye closing, Detto squinted up. “Do you really want to be caught beating the son of Bailardino Nogarola?”

  “He's right,” said old Bramo Tiberio. “About all of it. He wouldn't be here if he knew where she was.” Pushing Adamo aside, the huge man knelt in front of his captive. “But he probably knows where his cousin is. Find the Greyhound's Heir, find my wife.” The man's breath was atrocious. “Where is he, Ser Bailardetto? Where is the bastard?”

  Detto's honest answer would not help him. “I left him at the Giurisconsulti. Ser Alaghieri was attacked tonight, and Cesco is interrogating two captured men.”

  “Then why were you here?”

  “To tell Donna Tiberio—” Detto broke off.

  “Tell her what?”

  “Tell her that Cesco could not keep their appointment.”

  Adamo punched a wall in a fury, and old Rienzi swore repeatedly. Only Tiberio remained calm. “So she's gone to meet him, not knowing he's abandoned her again. How very like him. Let me tell you this, young man. If my wife comes to any mischief, I will kill him, and you, with my bare hands.”

  Seeing the power in those hands, Detto believed it. Still he said nothing of San Zeno.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  BENEDICK AND BEATRICE laughed with joy in a private chamber in the Scaliger's palace. The room was set aside for visiting dignitaries, but as it contained no luggage or waiting servants, they had invaded it, Beatrice leading Benedick by the hand. For once their tongues were not shaping insults, being otherwise occupied. Indeed, there was nothing between them now, not even the sheets of the bed as they slipped into it, joyful, scared, excited, and hopeful all at once.

  The candle remained lit, and she took the time to marvel at his hair. “I thought you wore a wig, or coloured it.”

  “Peace,” said Benedick, pressing his mouth to hers once more.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  THE NEWLY-MINTED Count of San Bonifacio awoke terrified. He was back in the sweltering room full of sawed limbs and maggots. The sweet stink of herbs burning, the bitter taste in his mouth, the feel of sweat on his naked skin, it all conspired to transport him back fifteen years to his injury in the First Battle of Vicenza.

  Pietro sat up – or tried to. Barely had his stomach muscles clenched than he was gasping in pain. O God! O God, what has happened?

  Hands were on him immediately, and voices he knew, but distant. Something sweet and sticky was poured into his mouth and he spat it out. Poison! They're poisoning me!

  “Dammit! He's torn his stitches! Get his sister, someone!”

  “Pietro? Pietro. It's Antonia. Shhh. Relax. Relax. You're going to get through this.”

  Opening his eyes was like swimming up from the bottom of a river that was attempting to sweep him away. “'Tonia?”

  “Yes! Pietro, yes, it's me! Shhh. You're hurt, but they're helping you. You have to drink this. Please, drink this!”

  He was impossibly thirsty, but could only take a shallow sip. “What—I—”

  He drifted away again, only to find himself back on that balcony, with a hundred centaurs battling below. This time, Cesco didn't come. Pietro was alone, watching the struggle from on high, through a haze of smoke that slowly became wafting clouds. His head was impossibly light, and for the first time he could remember he was free of care…

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  CESCO CURSED. He'd left the sword and saddlebags tied to the two ends of the rope as an anchor. Had he been thinking at all, he'd have seen how easy it would be for a malefactor above to haul them up. Not only was he without tools, he was trapped.

  Though it wasted time, he stepped to just below the hole in the ceiling and raised his voice. “I don't suppose you want to give me a name! Or perhaps a cause?”

  Not expecting an answer, he was not disappointed when none came. He retraced his steps to the low tunnel and Buthayna. He still had the dagger at his waist. It would have to do.

  “The water is rising,” she said plaintively, keeping her chin above the waterline.

  “You'll be free before it gets too high,” he assured her, waggling the dagger. “I need you to hold the torch again.” Seeing her frightened eyes, he switched to Arabic. “Smile, love. 'Dead yesterdays and unborn tomorrows, why fret about it if today be sweet?' Besides, you're certainly used to me going down.”

  She was too scared to laugh. He put the torch in her manacled hands, pressed her arm, then dove.

  The first course was to trace the chain holding her neck in place. Though bound, her hands were not anchored. Once her neck was free, she could move.

  The links ended in a metal plate, anchored by massive bolts driven into the ancient stones. Cesco tried to find purchase for his dagger, but there was no gap anywhere in which to start work. He tried digging at the stone itself, but the Romans had known better than to use a soft stone here, where it would erode.

  He came up for air, shaking his head to clear it. The water droplets hissed as they struck the torch. Buthayna whimpered, and he apologized. “Sorry. Here, let me get behind you. You're used to that too.” He grinned.

  She did not. “You cannot save me. Say so.”

  “I just want to look at the collar. As someone told me earlier this evening, I make things too hard. This might be a simpler way.”

  It wasn't, but it was the best chance she had. Using the tip of his dagger, he started prising the two metal halves apart. It was steady work, but only engaged part of his mind.

  The other part was grappling with Lia's absence. It could still be Lia. She could be mocking me, using the woman I now profess to love to show my hypocrisy, my faithlessness.

  But other pieces were coming together. The attack on Detto – Lia could not have arranged that. She had been with Nuncle Pietro just then. Unless she had the help of her husband, father, and brother… Tracing that line of thinking to its end, he rejected it. If Adamo had a plan, he would not be so impulsive as to attack Cesco in the street. If Rienzi wanted to ruin Cangrande, why attack Detto? And if Tiberio had married the girl, he'd want her affair with Cesco to remain secret, or else be mocked for taking another man's leavings.

  No, they had cause to hate, but no ca
use for this. Or to attack Detto. Or cut the goose free to injure Benedick. Or attack Carrara. Or disgrace Rupert…

  Or stab Pietro.

  Taken together for the first time, it was a breathtaking swath of destruction. None of which had borne fruit. Not even the poisoning of Cangrande's cup, which had missed its intended target.

  That begged the question, was the person behind these deeds incompetent? Or were the failures by design?

  Whoever it was, they had known about this place. About Cesco's mother. About Buthayna – but not Lia. That excused Mastino. Of these crimes, he reminded himself. The long game remained.

  Lia was not here. Even as his numbed hands worked the dagger into the metal collar, creating a gap, Cesco felt a wave of relief. Lia was safe, free, not a part of whatever plots were swirling around him. He doubted he could be so calm were it her neck in this metal band, her chin just touching the still-rising water. He would be frantic, tearing at the metal with his nails and teeth. And Lia would have to calm him by mocking him, as she always did.

  But Lia is not here. She is safe.

  His relief did nothing to dull the accusing ache growing within him. When the villain had said his true love, Cesco had never even thought of Buthayna.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  “YOU TALKED TO HER tonight,” accused Tiberio. “The servants told me she had three visitors. You, and two cloaked men. Was one of them the Heir?”

  “No,” said Detto. “I came before the race, and since it started we were together until I came here. He didn't even know she was in the city.”

  “Then how did they have an appointment?” challenged Adamo, certain he had caught Detto in a lie.

  “I told him. During the race, I told him…” Again Detto trailed off.

  Tiberio finished his sentence for him. “…told him she wanted to see him. So it was her notion, not his. Who were the other men?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “And you don't know where they were to meet?”

  “No,” said Detto again, too forcefully.

  Tiberio shook his head. “You're a poor liar, lad.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  IN THE BASILICA San Zeno, lights burned. The lay brothers were all abed, but a few monks wandered the cloister, observing the hours and the rain. One was a visiting brother, come to tend the garden in the storm. He had brought Lord Montecchio's heir with him, and the lad worked hard, no doubt to distract himself from the events of the evening. That news had spread like Noah's flood, reaching the brothers her in short order. Little wonder the boy was red-eyed and sullen.

  No one objected when, after a half-hour's labour, Fra Lorenzo took young Romeo to shelter in the main body of the church. There were a few knowing looks. Well, they thought privately, if the Pope himself had affixed a price to it…

  But that was not Lorenzo's sin. Inside, he closed the door and, instructing Romeo to wait, made his way to the confessionals. Leaning his mouth close to the wooden door, he whispered, “My dear? Has he come?”

  A momentary pause. “No.”

  Lorenzo sighed. “As I told you when I arrived, Ser Alaghieri has been injured this night. Even a man so wild will feel the filial pull to his foster-father.”

  “Francesco will come,” said Lia through the confessional door. “I know it.”

  “He cannot see you,” warned Lorenzo.

  “Fra Lorenzo,” called Romeo from the far side of the great basilica. “To whom are you talking?”

  “A penitent,” answered Lorenzo, before confiding in the girl. “The son and heir of Lord Montecchio. He's here due to a family quarrel.”

  “Cesco's little protégé,” mused Lia.

  “I'll fix him a bed in the vestry and return.”

  “Why not let him stay? We can console each other while we wait.”

  And, fool that he was, Lorenzo agreed.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  CESCO'S HAND SLIPPED, and the dagger skidded across Buthayna's shoulder, causing her to gasp and cry out. The torch rose, striking the ceiling, sending sparks everywhere, before it dipped. It hissed as it started to cross the waterline, and she quickly raised it again to preserve it. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry!”

  “It's for me to be sorry,” he answered in a flatter voice than he intended. “You've been dragged here to torture me. Seems we should have been more discreet. Tch. This poor dagger. I'm afraid it will never be useful again. But I've almost gotten these two pieces to separate.” It wasn't true, he had only managed to create the tiniest of gaps.

  “The water is still rising.” It was lapping her chin now, and his hands were below the surface as he worked.

  “I think our foe got more than he bargained for in this. He could not have anticipated the rain.” She whimpered, and he clicked his tongue. “No, I mean that's good. He meant for me to get here and have enough time to save you. If the water's rising faster than he intended, he'll have to do something to help us both survive.” Cesco did not mention the other possibility, that their intended slow death would merely be hastened. It was best to offer hope. “I don't suppose you know who abducted you?”

  “Men. Two men. I didn't know them. They said they had a message from you.”

  “For me, morelike. I am sorry, Buthayna, that you are in this atrocious mess because the world contains people who bear me ill.” He worked at the gap for a bit before saying, “They didn't mention a woman, did they?”

  “A woman?”

  “I was attacked tonight too. They were instructed to bring me here and, I suppose, chain me up as well. Questioned, they said they were hired by a Paduan woman in her middle years. You haven't seen such a one? Ah well. So many women despise me, it was only a matter of time…”

  Still she said nothing. Lia would have laughed.

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  “YOU KNOW CESCO?” Romeo sounded dubious.

  “I know how highly he speaks of you,” answered Lia through the confessional wall. “Once he took me to see your house. He told me about the Death Door, and the brave young fellow who dared to open it and admit a daemon.”

  Romeo was delighted. “You do know him!”

  “Yes. He's coming here to meet me. How much happier will he be to find you here as well.”

  Romeo looked to Fra Lorenzo for confirmation. “Cesco's coming here?”

  The friar temporized. “He meant to, but it is a busy night.” Spoken to Romeo, the words were meant for the woman within the wooden walls.

  Romeo returned to Lia. “When did you last see him?”

  “Several months now.”

  “So you haven't heard about the hunt we had?”

  “Tell me,” said Lia, trying to be bright in spite of her fear.

  Romeo launched into a detailed description of the day, starting at the river and ending in their successful eluding of their hunters. He had to circle back several times as he recalled little bits of jest or poetry or song, all of which he shared.

  Hearing a familiar snuffling sound, Romeo paused in his tale to ask, “Are you crying?”

  “I don't mean to,” came the answer through the door. “I just missed these stories. Exciting tales of adventure.”

  “Adventurous tales of excitement,” answered Romeo. “Like a playful dog.”

  “Tails of excitement,” laughed Lia through her tears. “He told me you were good with words.”

  “I am a weakish speller,” admitted Romeo.

  “Nobody's perfect.”

  “Fra Lorenzo is! Cesco said so.”

  “No—” said Lorenzo quickly.

  “He did,” insisted Romeo. “He said you trained to be perfect, just like your father. How can you train to be perfect? May I train, too?”

  “You wouldn't want to. And besides, I failed. I am far from perfect.”

  “But your father was perfect. Cesco said it.”

  “Prince Francesco says lots of things. And none of them are to be heeded.”

  At once Lorenzo knew he had erred. Not only did the boy's face become mulish,
but the silence from the confessional was deafening. If he had not protested so much, the import of his words might have gone unnoticed. As ever, his own fear had trapped him.

  “Romeo,” said Lia, “I think I understand what the good brother means when he speaks of his father. He was not perfect, as you and I know the word. It was his title. Was it not, Fra Lorenzo?”

  There it was. She knew. But, damned as she was by her own secret, she could not reveal his. And Romeo was too young to understand.

  “That's correct,” said Lorenzo, before clarifying for the boy. “Cesco was making a joke, that's all. My father was a city prefect – it's a Latin word for officer or magistrate. That's all. He was making a joke. Like your wordplay.”

  Thinking he understood, Romeo subsided, returning his attentions to the lady inside the wooden box. “You didn't tell me your name.”

  “I'm Rosalia,” came the answer, surprisingly truthful. “It's Latin. It means Rose.”

  “So you're Cesco's Rose.” Romeo said it in all innocence. And yet it was enough to send the lady into a fresh bout of quiet tears.

  Romeo had thought he was being kind. Self-judging as ever, he began welling up. He hated his own failings far more than those of others, and always held himself accountable. His father always told him, 'It's not the spill, it's the cleaning up after.' Yet if he spilled something, he could not help wishing he had never been born.

  Romeo recalled the hugs he always got from his mother when he cried at home. Hugging made the sadness better, because it was shared. It had been awful to cry and not be hugged at the palace. A crying person needed a hug! And since both Rosalia and Romeo were crying—

  Before anyone could stop him, Romeo had thrown open the confessional door and held out his arms. The friar's shout of “Romeo!” and the lady's gasp halted him.

  Romeo's eyes went wide. In the light from nearby candles he could see her state, even through the muffling cloak. “You're pregnant!”

  “Romeo, come away!” Yanking the child aside, Lorenzo closed the door quickly.

  Rubbing his arm, Romeo demanded, “Why?”