The Master of Verona

Mercurio seemed lost, and Pietro wondered if the hound was having difficulty holding onto the scent. Which brought another thought in its wake — if Cangrande used his hounds to trace Pietro, would they be able to follow that tortuous path by the river after a few hours of rain?

Now he was conflicted. He thought of poor Detto. If anything happened to Pietro, Detto might never be found. An insistent voice kept telling him to turn about, cut his losses, and take Detto to safety. He could lead Cangrande's men back here and trap the bastard.

But if Pathino left between then and now, taking Cesco with him, Pietro would never forgive himself. He glanced up at the top of the hill. A hard climb for him. The grass would be slick, the rocks treacherous. Making up his mind, Pietro took a deep breath and carefully placed his cane for the first step.

He'd hardly gone five feet up the slope before realizing the dog wasn't with him. Looking back, he saw the dog snuffling around the large stone. Then Pietro saw a pair of hoofprints in some dry earth sheltered from the rain by the rock. Moving from right to left, he noticed a gap in the center of the rock that was wide enough for a horse to ride through.

A cave. This had to be one of the hiding places Mari's ancestors had used when they absconded with their neighbours' horses. Clever bastard. Pathino intended to hide the Scaliger's son right under his nose, on the lands of the Montecchi.

Pietro was trying to make up his mind when he heard a blessed sound. Hoofbeats. Not Pathino, he was sure of it. He debated making noise and settled for showing himself in the open.

The rider wore the Bonaventura crest. When he saw Pietro he shouted, but Pietro waved him to silence and beckoned him forward.

"Alaghieri?" asked the man.

It wasn't Petruchio, didn't look anything like him. But Pietro thought he remembered the face and took a chance on the name. "Ferdinando? Quiet. He's around here somewhere."

Ferdinando nodded and made to dismount. Pietro gestured him to stay where he was and quickly related the news. "Here's what I want you to do — go that way and find Detto. Get him to safety and bring back Cangrande or anyone else you can find. I'll keep the bastard trapped here as long as I can."

Ferdinando cast a dubious eye over him. "Are you sure? Together we would have a better chance."

"We have to keep Detto safe. And we'll have a better chance if someone knows where I am."

Still Ferdinando hesitated. "If you get yourself killed, your sister will never forgive me."

Why does he care what my sister thinks? "If you know my sister, you know she'd tell you the same thing. Don't waste time, get Detto to safety. I'm counting on you."

Ferdinando muttered something about Florentines. He didn't look happy, but he trotted off in the direction Pietro indicated.

Pietro turned back to the cave. The dog was looking up at him. Detto was safe. That left Cesco. Raising his sword, Pietro ventured silently into the darkness.

Thirty-Six

Having recovered as much composure as a dying man may, the Count of San Bonifacio greeted his guest with a smile. "My dear, forgive me for not rising. Would you like to start with thumbscrews? Have you any salt? Or would you prefer to unleash one of your brother's menagerie upon me? If I may choose, I think I'd take the baboon. I have never seen one."

"The jackal is more appropriate. Or the leopard. That was what Pathino tried to feed Cesco to — a leopard. He told you?"

"Some. I try not to rely too heavily upon his word. Is that wine?"

"It is."

He sniffed it warily. "Poppies?"

"Not much. Morsicato's own brew. When the pain leaves you, I will give you nothing but water. We must talk."

The Count lifted the sweet-smelling mixture of wine and drug to his lips and drank deeply. Wiping his lips he said, "Certainly, we shall speak. Let me tell you about my father."

"Fine. Then I will tell you of my son."

The cave's depth was surprising. The path was steep, and the twisting descent masked the distance down to the main chamber. Pietro was surprised to hear drips of water hitting a pool. Was there a spring down here? Or was the roof so saturated with the rain that water was seeping down into the secret stable below?

He smelled the fire before he saw the glow on the curved tunnel wall. How best to handle this? His cape was heavy with wet. His sleeveless leather doublet was stiff and cold. His shirt clung to his skin, hampering his movement. He stripped these off. He knew he ought to remove his breeches, but if he was running to his death he was going decently covered.

The water-filled boots were a problem. They sloshed as he walked. If he took them off, his bare feet would be at the mercy of whatever ground was down there. He couldn't do with noise, though, so he removed them as well. Barefoot and bare-chested, Pietro laid his cane carefully across the path. Then, gripping his sword in his good hand, he moved ahead, placing each foot with care.