The Master of Verona

A secret mission! It's dangerous — dangerous enough to have the Scaliger asking about Fate and the stars. Something's happening that he's worried about. Something that's kept him from attacking Padua. This is what he's been waiting for! He's wrong, I am a fool — I doubted him!

Cangrande mistook Pietro's silence for embarrassment. "Sister, you are unworthy. Trust cannot be promised. It either is, or isn't. Twice now Signore Alaghieri has acted to my benefit. That is proof enough."

"I stand chastised." The lady removed her hand from Pietro's sleeve. "In any case, it is not my secret, is it?"

If it was a thrust, Cangrande did not parry. Pietro was beginning to notice how often her taunts — if that was truly what they were — went ignored. Instead Cangrande said, "What was it you came up with, Pietro? A man may control his actions, but not his stars."

"Actually, it was you who — "

"Tonight we shall test how fixed fate is. We shall see if the ordained comes to pass." A steely look hardened the ocean-blue eyes. "If my fate is indeed written, then the stars will see that my actions are still worthy of the Greyhound."

It was the first time Pietro had ever heard that particular title pass the Capitano's lips. Of all the names the Scaliger owned, the Greyhound was perhaps his most revered. It was unsettling, therefore, to hear him utter it with such loathing.

Twelve

Pietro cracked the door to his father's room. Dante and Poco were both asleep. Pietro crept as best he could to a trunk in the corner, imagining the picture he made, a limping thief with a crutch. Opening the trunk was so noisy he gave up on secrecy and went for speed.

Sure enough, Poco sat up in bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Looking for breeches." To prove his point he held up the trousers he'd found in the dim brazier light.

"Why?"

"I'm going riding." Telling Poco the truth was the best way to make him disbelieve it.

"Is this about your stupid leg?"

"Shut up."

"Did you ask father if you could wear his breeches?"

"No, Poco," said Pietro, using the name his brother hated. "But if you want to wake him, I'll wait."

Poco gave Pietro the fig and rolled over. Leaving the room bearing the breeches in hand, Pietro stopped off in a shadowed hall to struggle into the unfamiliar apparel. Looking down, he was pleased to see they hid his wound entirely. Boots back in place, he picked up his crutch and followed the directions Donna Katerina had given him. On the ground floor there was a panel covered by a tapestry of a pastoral scene. Opening the panel, Pietro discovered a staircase spiraling down. With a hand on the wall to steady himself, he hobbled down to the bottom. It smelled dank and musty here, and Pietro had to bat at his nose to keep from sneezing. Thankfully Cangrande had left a lighted candle behind him, so Pietro didn't have to navigate it in total darkness.

In three minutes he was at the tunnel's end facing a solid wall. He felt for the catch and after several tries found it, opening a sliding wooden panel. Immediately he smelled the wet straw of a stable. He slipped through the panel and closed it behind him.

The place was deserted except for Cangrande and two saddled horses. Both horses were remarkably dark-coloured. Hearing Pietro's step disturbing the straw, the Scaliger turned. "That was quick. Any trouble?"

"No, lord."

"Good. I hope you don't mind, I've chosen your horse for you." While the Capitano's horse was a huge ebony beast, Pietro's was a rust-brown palfrey, a short-legged, long-bodied horse that had a gentle amble for a gait. It was a fine-looking young thing, obviously just broken to the saddle. Pietro ran a hand over its neck. The muscles under the dark coat rippled.

The choice of horse was solicitous. Palfreys weren't as fast as other horses, but the smooth ride they afforded made them suitable mounts for the wounded or aged, who also might have difficulty mounting a taller horse.

The Capitano had laid two extra cloaks across the necks of both horses. The cloaks covered broadsword sheaths strapped tightly to both saddles. A good one-handed sword was in place on Pietro's, but Cangrande's sheath stood empty.