The Master of Verona (2 page)

But the only smells were common night scents. The only sounds were crickets and the occasional goose or dog. There were no tents or firebrands, no bristling spears. The city wasn't under siege. So where the devil was everyone?

Ciolo's skin went cold with a horrible notion.
A pest
. A pest had come and even now the Paduans were hiding in their homes scratching at scabs and vomiting blood. He glanced at Girolamo but kept his mouth shut. Thinking of the money, he put his dirty hand over his mouth to keep out the bad air and rode slowly on.

They approached the city's north gate, crossing the Ponte Molino, an old Roman bridge the length of fourteen horses whose triple arches spanned the Bacchiglione River. The center arch was supported by two massive stone columns rising from the rippling water. Nearby mills creaked and groaned. Padua depended on the Bacchiglione for everything.

The bridge ended right at the lip of the fortified gate. Ciolo squinted hard. No bodies piled up outside. A good sign. But still there was no one in sight. Ciolo nudged his horse onto the bridge and began to cross it. Girolamo followed.

Halfway across, Ciolo could make out that the gates into the city were open, but dark.

Girolamo said, "I've got a bad feeling about this job."

Suddenly a flame appeared high on the tower before them. A torch. Two more joined it. At the same moment Ciolo heard a human noise. Thousands of voices, cheering. Men, women, children. Bells pealed and musicians played. All the people were inside the city walls, watching for sunset and the lighting of torches.

Sagging in his saddle, Ciolo mopped his brow. "See, it's nothing. A celebr—"

Then he heard thunder as an army of horses poured out of the gate right in front of them. Plumed helmets and shining breastplates reflected light from the brands held high as countless Paduan knights emerged from the city, riding furiously across the Ponte Molino.

Riding right at Ciolo and Girolamo.

Abandoning his horse, Ciolo threw himself from his saddle and ran, arms pumping, to the edge of the bridge. He didn't hesitate, but threw himself into space. For a moment his arms flapped at the air, then he hit the water feet-first, plunging below the surface.

The sound of hooves vanished as the river swallowed him. He didn't know how to swim. He lunged in the water, using his arms and legs as if he were running, flailing towards the bridge. His shoulder hit hard against something and he grabbed onto it as best he could. His fingers recognized the feel of stone. Whatever it was he grasped it and pulled himself along. It was slimy and slippery, hard to hold. He dug in with his fingernails. His lungs were beginning to burn. Then his hand emerged from the water and he pushed his head up and through and sucked down sweet air.

He was holding onto one of the arches of the old Roman bridge. Above him he heard the continued cascade of mounted soldiers. Idiots. Wherever their enemy was, it wasn't here. Why charge, then — in darkness, when a horse was likely to trip and fall? Ciolo had nearly been killed in a night charge once. The horse in front snapped a leg, killing not only its rider but the two riders behind him.

He could still hear the cheering in the city, and he knew that he had almost been killed for the sake of a parade. A show of honour, of skill.
Fools
. Sputtering and shivering, Ciolo mouthed a string of curses against whoever had come up with the notion of chivalry.

Hand over hand he dragged himself to the edge of the support. He was lucky that the Bacchiglione wasn't flowing hard, and luckier that what current there was had been dulled by the mills. Otherwise he would have been swept clean away. For the first time he wondered what had happened to Girolamo. But it was useless to call. If he'd survived, he'd meet Ciolo at the house.

It took Ciolo ten minutes to reach the river's edge. Though the riverbank was solid, there was no way to reach the high gate from below. The only way was from the bridge. Ciolo took a breath and began to scale the cracked stone walls carefully. His wet fingers made it difficult. Muttering and cursing, he pulled himself onto a carving of some old god just below the lip of the bridge. There he stayed, waiting for the horsemen to pass. He squirmed until he found a position that freed his arms so he could wrap them around himself. He was cold, teeth chattering. Damn all Paduans and their stupid
patavinitas
.

The final horseman passed, with the citizens chasing after, cheering their fool lungs out. Twisting, he pulled himself up onto the bridge proper. No one stopped to help him. In fact, he was almost knocked over again by the press of the people. God, did he hate Paduans.

Dry land under him, he was swept along by a different kind of current as the mob wept with joy and pride. Blending in, he tried to cheer through his chattering teeth. The crowd was warming him up, and he was pleased when he realized how easy it would be to get into the city now. He simply had to play the part of happy citizen watching his army go off to glory. He wondered vaguely where they were off to, but didn't truly care.

"Fall in, did you?" asked someone with a grin.

"Y-y-yes," replied Ciolo with a shrug. "Quite the fool." He'd been to this city three or four times before. He'd even once been defended on some petty-theft charge by the famous Bellario. So Ciolo was able to fake the accent.

The thrill eventually passed and slowly the Paduans began returning to their homes. Recrossing the Ponte Molino with them, Ciolo made jokes and slapped backs, joining in the laughter at his obvious misfortune.

Halfway along the bridge he found the body of Girolamo. Ciolo recognized him from his vest, since his face had been crushed. Ciolo bent down quickly, but it was no use. He'd already been robbed.

Ciolo entered Padua with a smile on his face and joined a group of men heading for a tavern. He held himself to one bottle of wine, but sang with gusto and thumped the table for as long as it took for his clothes to dry. Then he told his new best friends that there was a wench waiting and took his leave.

He had a job to get on with.

A life to end.

He found the house, right where it was supposed to be. There was the hanging garden. There was the juniper bush. There was the fresco of a pagan god holding a staff entwined with snakes. The painted deity stood between two massive lead rings for tethering horses. Just as described.

The front of the house had torches burning, and Ciolo passed through the flickering light, walking drunkenly in case anyone was watching. He'd been told there was no possible entrance from the ground, so he didn't waste time looking for one. Instead, he circled the block until he came to a three-story wall outside a dyeyard. The wall's covering plaster had worn away at the street level, showing a mix of round stones and proper bricks. It was dark in this street, the light from the stars the only illumination. Still playing the drunkard, Ciolo loosened the points on his hose and relieved himself against the wall. Pretending to lean heavily with his free hand, his questing fingers found the promised holds. Readjusting his points, he rubbed his hands together and, with a quick glance around, he began his ascent.

Along the top were curved spikes to keep intruders out of the dyeyard. But Ciolo didn't want in. He wanted passage. Reaching up one hand he carefully wrapped his fingers around the inch-thick base of the spike. He didn't put much pressure on it at first. It might be sharpened along its whole length, not just at the curve. But in this too his instructions were accurate. The flat edges of the spike were dull. Ciolo gripped the spike harder, praying it would bear his whole weight.

It did. Feet dangling, he swung his free hand up to grasp the next spike. Then the next. Hand over hand he passed down the row of spikes, around the shadowed corner between two houses.

By now his breath was coming hard, his hands and shoulders aching sourly. But he only had another half length of wall to travel. He started on it, then froze as a noise came from the house behind him. Did they have dogs? Or worse, geese? Pressing himself against the high wall, feeling his sweaty fingers slipping, wishing for a cloud to hide the stars and plunge him into deeper shadow, Ciolo listened.

Change to: It was a child. A child's cry in the night. Unattended, it went uncomforted. Unprotected.

In a perfect world he could have waited for the child to sleep again. But his hands were losing their strength. He continued quickly down the final length of the wall, mouthing foul pleas not to slip. The next move was tricky — he had to twist around until he was hanging with his back against the high wall and leap to a window across the four-foot divide. He doubled up his grip with his one hand, then twisted around and threw out his free hand. It brushed past one bar but firmly found the next. Hanging now with his back to the dyer's wall, he faced his target. The arched window was open, the wooden door swung wide. Knowing the longer he waited the worse his nerves would get, Ciolo curled his feet up, released the bars, and kicked off hard.

His ribs banged against the windowsill and he hit his chin as he began to slip. Flinging his arms wide, he pressed his elbows against the inside walls. Feet scrambling, he pulled himself awkwardly over the sill and into the house. Graceless, but successful.

Crouching low, Ciolo found himself in a long hall, narrow, with a pair of doors on each side. He squinted until he was sure all the doors were closed. He felt like his breathing was making more noise than a bellows. If someone found him now he would be useless, his arms were shaking so fiercely.

But no alarums. No sound but the child. Ciolo flexed and stretched, each second gaining him another breath, each breath easing his beating heart. His eyes began to play tricks on him in the dark. Twice he swore he saw movement at the far end of the hall. But each time he was wrong. Or hoped he was.

After two or three minutes of watching from the shadowy corner by the window, Ciolo was as ready as he was likely to be. His right hand dropped to his left hip. Gripping the leather-wrapped hilt, he withdrew a dagger nine inches long.

Keeping well out of the faint light coming in the window, he made his way down the hall. The house plan Ciolo had memorized indicated he had not far to go. Down this hall, a right turn into a grand room, and up a single flight to a double door. Simple.

The hallway was tiled and clear of rushes. Ciolo placed first one foot, then another, so much on his toes that his boot heels hardly brushed the floor. He came to a pair of doors facing each other. Both were closed. Holding his breath, he picked up the pace past them. Nothing leapt out at him and he sighed, then instantly cursed himself for the noise.

The second pair of doors were also closed. Again, everything was proceeding as planned. He forced himself to stop and listen. One flight up the infant was still making noise, but the rest of the house was still.

Fortune favors the bold
, thought Ciolo. He crept around the corner, feeling along the wall for the beginning of the stairs. Tripping would be bad. Most stairs creak at the middle, so Ciolo kept his weight to the far outsides of each step where the wood was unlikely to bend.

At the top of the stair there was another window, facing north. He could see the sliver of the moon, and it could see him. He crouched down, his back to the wall, and looked for the double doors.

There they were. The light from the partial moon just brushed their bottom edges. Inside he could hear the child. It was neither wailing nor giggling. More of a string of burbling noises. Ciolo thought the room must be small because he could hear an echo, as if the child's own voice was answering itself.

He waited, listening to the room beyond the doors. Was there a nurse waiting with the baby? Surely not. He'd be calmer. Or else she was asleep, dead to the world.
And soon will be moreso.
Smiling, Ciolo trained his eyes on the shaft of exposing moonlight. He needed complete darkness to open the door. He prayed to a merciful God to send a cloud, then on second thought redirected the entreaty to the Fiend.

Whoever heard his prayer, it was answered almost at once. The light crept away. Once it was dim, Ciolo moved swiftly. Lifting his knife, he grasped the handle to the child's room and pulled the door wide.

Blackness within. Ciolo stood to one side of the doorway, pausing for his eyes to adjust to the more complete darkness. Still the child burbled. Ciolo squinted at the corner the noise was coming from and thought he saw an outline. Reversing his dagger from point up to point down, a stabbing grip, he stepped fully into the gap, one hand on the door frame to guide him into the room. He was a professional. What did it matter that his victim was a child. He was certainly going to the Inferno already. One step. Two…

A sharp cracking noise made Ciolo wince. An instant later the breath exploded from his body. Confused, he found himself sprawled several feet back down the hallway. Something had hit him in the chest, hit him hard enough to stun him and knock him backwards. His free hand came up and found a thin line of wood protruding from his breastbone. His fingers brushed the fletched end absently. He whimpered, afraid to pull on the arrow's shaft.