by David Blixt
Cesco offered a weak laugh. “As I told Signor Benedick, I am no one's bardasso.”
Salvatore shook his head. “Always coarse. Like a toddler obsessed with scatological humour. They say you have a great mind. I have yet to see it.”
“Was that the cause of the blow? You want to see my brains?”
“You forced my hand. I must leave tonight. I have business in Padua.”
“Padua,” repeated Cesco, connecting stars into a sensible constellation.
“Aye. But before I go, I have to finish splitting your skull in twain.”
“May the condemned man ask why?”
“Of course,” said Salvatore, relishing the words. “Because it is the will of the Count of San Bonifacio.”
With that dire pronouncement, Salvatore charged.
Thirty-Eight
SWORD FLASHING in the starlight, Salvatore flicked his blade left and right in a series of feints. Cesco didn't watch him coming, but rather lunged low. Salvatore beat the thrust aside then leapt as Cesco's leg came arcing around. Instead of catching his foe's ankle, Cesco's kick met only air. He rolled and desperately parried a hard downward stroke that would have ended him had it met his flesh.
“I've spent months watching you fight,” said Salvatore, pushing down hard. “Always so eager to show off your tricks.”
Flat on his back, Cesco's right hand held his sword's grip while his left was on the blade itself, reinforcing the parry to hold off Salvatore's pressure. A wise move would have him twist left, sliding his opponent's blade down his. Cesco rolled his shoulders right, ignoring the other's man's blade as he stabbed upwards.
Salvatore was quick, spinning lightly away. Before Cesco could rise further than his knees the blade was back, angling towards Cesco's ribs. Still dazed, Cesco parried it but stumbled. The stumble saved him, as Salvatore used the momentum of his checked blow to bring his sword around his head and hiss the air where Cesco had been.
Reversing his grip, Cesco used his sword's tip to push off the ground and regain his feet. His sword was still upside-down when he caught Salvatore's point, warding it away from first his shoulder, then his knee, then his head. Using the crossguard to beat away this final blow, Cesco slashed with all his reach, forcing Salvatore back.
Only now did he have time to wonder. The Count of San Bonifacio? He didn't believe it. Of all the betrayals, that one was unimaginable.
Blinking to clear his head, Cesco purchased time with words. “It's about damn time.”
“That I reveal myself? Well, you weren't going to figure it out.”
Cesco let that pass. “Once you've killed me, will you run back to Padua? Is this all for patavinitas?”
Salvatore circled slowly around Cesco, enjoying words before blows. “The hell with that. But yes, first to Padua to finish the Moor, then Pistoia where I'll prevent a wedding. Poor Pietro di Dante, to die so soon after finding his heart's desire.”
“Forgive me, I thought it was Nuncle Pietro who sent you.”
Salvatore shook his head. “Not that pretender. The true Count of San Bonifacio.”
Cesco thought he knew, but still he asked, “And where is he?”
Salvatore spread his arms wide. “He stands before you.”
Though there were more questions to ask, the opening was too inviting. Cesco stabbed, but checked and windmilled his blade up past his own shoulder to descend on Salvatore's head.
The Paduan was just enough fooled by the feint to make him dodge sideways, desperately slapping aside Cesco's blade with the flat of his hand. He swung his own blade and Cesco leaned back, feeling the steel pass just an inch from his throat. He lunged again, and so they danced for the next minute, Cesco pressing his attack and Salvatore giving ground.
At last Cesco stumbled, and Salvatore laughed. “Head hurting? Wanted to finish this fast, did you? I rather thought I'd let you wear yourself out. No one's coming to help.”
Cesco sank to one knee, his blade ready to parry should Salvatore attack again. But his foe leaned his back against a tree. “Go on, catch your breath. If you tell me what the clue was, I'll even let you try again.”
“Clue?”
“The promising clue Alaghieri and the Moor are hunting. What is it? I thought we left no trace.”
“What are you talking about?”
“At supper you said they were following a clue that would lead them to the people who hired the swords to attack your little bride. I want to know what we missed.”
“We?”
“Stop fishing,” said Salvatore with obvious amusement. “You're here to give answers, not get them.”
Cesco thought his mind might be bursting, and not just from the blow. How was Salvatore possibly connected to the ship that brought Cesco's mother to Italy?
He wasn't. Slowly Cesco began fitting pieces together. When caught, what had Pathino told Pietro? 'The Count of San Bonifacio isn't done with you, boy!' He and the old Count had once been partners, unlikely allies in the attempt to unseat the Scaliger. No one had ever answered the question of what brought them together…
“A woman hired the kidnappers,” said Cesco. “An older woman. Your mother, I presume.”
“Yes,” said Salvatore, listening intently.
There it was. “Allow me to hazard a guess at her surname. Is it Pathino?”
Salvatore's grin did not reach his eyes. “This is like watching a blind man discover fire. No light, but at least some heat. Go on.”
“Another Scaligeri bastard. There are so many of us. But this one's a girl. Alberto della Scala kept on seeing your grandmother, even after she was hidden from view.” That was something Abbess Verdiana had kept from them. “She was Pathino's full sister?”
“Was and is,” said Salvatore, enjoying himself.
“So your mother was the link between Bonifacio and Pathino. Was she Vinciguerra's wife? Or are you yet another link in the chain of bastardy?”
“They met during my father's exile, and were wed in secret,” said Salvatore. “I imagine father was amused at taking a Scaligeri to wife, even one born out of wedlock. In her veins ran old Alberto's blood. In time, he meant to introduce his family to Verona. What better way to seal the title and power of two warring families than by uniting them into a single line?” Salvatore's smile dimmed. “He died before he got the chance. Your dear Nuncle impersonated him at Vicenza, causing Carrara to murder him for his seeming betrayal. I was barely five years old when my father was taken from me.”
“Pity you didn't say something before. We could have traded – my lost mother for your lost father. Is your name even Salvatore?”
Salvatore came off the tree, holding himself proudly in the starlight. “I am Salvatore da San Bonifacio, the legitimate son and heir to Count Vinciguerra da San Bonifacio. That title belongs to me. How foolish you must feel, having shared your table and your friendship with the son of your father's greatest foe, the nephew of the man your beloved Nuncle Pietro murdered.”
“And how proud you must be, following in his murderous footsteps. You hired the men who attacked Detto, and had Rupert blamed. Detto I understand, his father fought yours, but what had Rupert done?”
“A proxy for the Emperor, whose predecessor chose the della Scala clan over ours. Besides, Rupert was close to you, almost as close as Detto. My aim was to remove all your allies, so I might take their place.”
“The better to usurp me when the time came. Is that why you cut the cord during the goose-pull? To kill Benedick?”
Salvatore sounded hurt. “Do you think so little of me? If I wanted him dead, there are surer ways. Death is too easy. Benedick stole my father's horse, so I dragged him from his saddle.”
“And the attack on Carrara before the Palio—”
“—was me as well, yes.” Salvatore's implacably cheerful features were unable to disguise his relish. Or his rage. “He murdered my father. He must die. But not too soon! No, Marsilio will be losing his hair with paranoia before he falls. My father lingered
in his death, ranting and raving with fever. The suffering of those responsible must last in direct proportion to their crime.”
“Then why try to poison Cangrande? I take it you're the one who doctored his drink? That must have hurt, missing the target and removing your fiancée's father instead.”
“Ah, Vittoria,” said Salvatore with a sigh. “What a shame we weren't wed before this came to light. At least I was able to taste the peach. No decent man will have her once that becomes known. But I was so looking to turn her whole family against you, in time.”
“The Bonaventura clan?” Cesco shook his head. “Wouldn't have happened.”
“It would if they thought you'd killed their beloved lout of a father. You've been a great help – your antics these last months undermined both you and the Greyhound. You went from daring darling to unstable liability, while proving your father both arrogant and ineffectual. How easy it would have been to turn the city against you both. Especially when they found out about your filthy secret habit. No, I don't mean your Arab whore. The hashish.”
Feeling his cheeks flushing, Cesco hoped his head wouldn't bleed faster. “You knew?”
“Of course. In fact, it was Rupert who told me. He knew of it from your time with the Emperor. So your cook was paid to make your hunger for it grow. I was sad to hear he had been dismissed. He thought he was working for the Scaliger's wife, but the money came from my mother, in Giovanna's name. I had no fear of discovery.”
“Giovanna's innocent? I don't think I can forgive you for that. I hate owing apologies.”
“Your good fortune, then, that you won't have to tender it.” Salvatore drew a regretful breath. “I do wish you hadn't forced my hand. I hadn't planned on killing you for months and months. Not until everything was in place.”
There was a crackling of some brush in the middle distance. Salvatore turned to listen intently. But the sound was not repeated. Most likely an animal lurking in the trees.
Rather than call out, Cesco returned to his earlier question. “Why try to kill Cangrande?”
Salvatore grimaced. “Poison? A woman's weapon. I want the Greyhound to know who brought him low. I'll certainly enjoy telling him how I murdered his heir.”
“Your mother was Scaligeri. Which makes us kinsmen. Didn't dear uncle Gregorio ever tell you about grandfather's curse?”
“His great mistake, believing in it. Which is why he didn't kill you when he had the chance.”
Salvatore was about to lift his blade. Cesco forestalled him by saying, “Detto, Benedick, Carrara. And then your mother hired men to kidnap both me and Buthayna.”
Salvatore relaxed, enjoying himself. “Your great love. I listened, you know. The walls are not so thick. I made sure I was in the next room each time you dipped your quill in that dark ink. I heard you profess your love.”
“Then why bring Barto and Berto to rescue her?” Salvatore made a pitying noise. “Ah, I see. You were the hero who defended my love. You brought my brothers in case it looked too suspicious, you just appearing from nowhere. But did she live or die, I would owe you a debt for trying.”
“Oh, I wanted her to live. Your link to her was another stain in the gloss of your reputation. In love with an infidel whore? It was too perfect. By the way, speaking of apologies, I feel I owe you one. I meant to be there far earlier, especially with the heavy rain.” Salvatore frowned. “What I did not anticipate was Cangrande giving your beloved Uncle Pietro my title that very night. The man who had caused my father's death and chopped off my uncle's head, usurping what was mine by rights? I'm afraid passion got the better of me. I played drunk, and in the darkness no one could see the knife I slid into his ribs. Then I raced around to meet him at the palace door. Such a pity he survived. I'll remedy that as soon as I've dealt with you. Unless Florence does it for me. Was Cianfa Donati not persuasive enough? From Detto's tale of your meeting I thought he'd be more competent. But at least he inconvenienced the imposter Count. Now, before you die, tell me – what clue is the Moor following? How did we give ourselves away?”
Cesco began to laugh, murmuring softly to himself, “This family. This family. No one else can touch us. It's always from within.” He laughed harder. “And you! You're such a fool!”
“What do you mean?” demanded Salvatore sharply.
“The clue had nothing to do with you!” Cesco's laugh became more real with each second, and there were tears in his eyes. “All those pretty plans spoiled. I'm so sorry, Salvatore – you were barely important enough for us to bother with. Frankly, I thought it was Benedick.”
“What?”
“His tales of being raised by his uncle, of needing to prove himself. I thought he was the one related to Pathino.” Salvatore was silent as Cesco went doggedly on. “See, I knew these attacks were linked, but I thought they were from a different corner. But the night of the Palio you made two errors. Your mother couldn't resist boasting to the men she hired that they were working for the Count of San Bonifacio. So we at least suspected someone from Padua. And then you made an enormous blunder. You chose the wrong love.”
“What do you mean?”
“Whatever you heard me say, Buthayna is not my true love. I came racing only to find my foe doesn't know me half as well as he thinks. It spoke volumes, eliminating a host of suspects. It could really be only one of the Rakehells. Not any of the ones whose parents we knew. Which really left only four. Yuri and Fabio were easy enough to clear. Being Paduan, suspicion fell on you and Signor Benedick. He was my first choice. He has red hair, as did the late Count, or so I hear. He is ambidextrous, and based on the angle of the wound, whoever stabbed Pietro used their left hand. And he was so conveniently bedding his Beatrice when all the trouble happened. I thought he was creating an alibi. But no, he truly does love her, poor sod. Instead it's you. And rather than making me force the issue, here you've confessed everything. I repeat, you're a fool.” He turned his head to call over his shoulder, “Detto!”
Another crackling of brush as the familiar voice called back, “We're here!”
“You suspected me?” pouted Benedick from the darkness.
“You'd be more hurt if I didn't,” answered Cesco. “Are the rest close by?”
“Yuri's company is just behind the hill!”
“You see, my dear Salvatore, you slipped again tonight when you called Buthayna my great love. I soiled my shirt so I could draw Detto aside and tell him to play drunk. You did very well, by the way!”
“I've had months to watch you!” called Detto. “Shall we arrest him now?”
“I think friend Salvatore would prefer the court of swords. We are not in Verona, dueling is permitted. What do you say, Count of Nothing?”
Imperturbable as ever, Salvatore didn't snarl or curse. Instead he came forward in silence, his blade speaking for him.
Letting the blow slide off a hanging parry, Cesco rolled across the silted earth and found his feet, easing himself into a loose fighting stance. “Come, shall we dance?”
They engaged, hacking, stabbing, shoving, kicking. Cesco caught the flat of Salvatore's blade against his foot, trapping it on the ground. Salvatore used his free forearm to block Cesco's next stroke at the wrist and bashed his head against Cesco's shoulder, sending him staggering. Blade free, Salvatore came whirling at Cesco, who dodged around a feeble tree and lunged. Stopping the blade against his own, Salvatore snaked his foot out and hooked Cesco's extended leg at the knee. Instead of falling, Cesco dived in the same direction, just missing the steel that buried itself in the soft earth.
They clashed again and again in the moonlight. Salvatore was older and stronger. To play up his advantages, Salvatore began striking harder, each blow shocking Cesco's wrists and elbows. In answer, Cesco slipped more of them, allowing them to slide off his blade to left and right while he danced around Salvatore, looking for an opening.
Cesco's head had cleared somewhat, though he knew that the moment his pulse stopped pounding he would be a wreck. His head was a b
loody mess, but he ignored the pain in favour of survival. Salvatore pressed his attack again and again, and Cesco found himself backed towards their horses, standing uncertain and skittish.
Salvatore launched himself forward. Cesco parried and stepped sideways to avoid the swipe that followed. Quick as lightning, Salvatore pulled his blade back and lunged beneath Cesco's guard towards his breast. Cesco dodged, but Salvatore's sword managed to slice the flesh along Cesco's left shoulder, cutting deep.
Cesco rolled away and rose, knocking away the follow-up strike with all his strength. He glanced at the wound and spat at the Paduan's feet. “Second blood to you, you posturing Paduan ponce.”
Salvatore's smile creased his face. “Third's the charm.”
“Come and show me, you botched poseur.”
By now Detto and Benedick had lit torches, the better to see by. Cesco had barely noticed the brands until he was half-blinded by the reflection on Salvatore's sword. He stepped back and to the side, that the torches were not directly behind him.
Both combatants were on their guard, both looking for an opening. Salvatore favoured the German style, sword held high, right hand tight below the crossguard, left hand guiding the pommel at the end. This was the ochs, the Ox Guard. Cesco held his own sword low in the porta di ferro, the Iron Gate, leaving his chest open.
Salvatore accepted the invitation, thrusting forward and down, aiming for Cesco's wounded shoulder. Cesco's blade whipped up and over as he side-stepped right, beating Salvatore's sword away in an arc. His left foot kicked out at his enemy's knee, but Salvatore was already clear, dragging his blade to give Cesco a ringing backswing that sent shocks up and down Cesco's parrying arm.
“Not enough, you dull-witted gruel-monger!” Cesco's arm was in an awkward position, his tip pointed at the ground and his right wrist over his head. Ducking low, he pivoted, turning to his right and leaping forward as he slashed at Salvatore's belly. Salvatore evaded, beating the point aside to be certain, then brought his sword around and down to cleave Cesco's skull. On his knees Cesco caught the blow on the true edge of his sword, his arm twisted so his right hand was by his left ear. Salvatore didn't withdraw, pressuring the blade to hold Cesco in place.
