Shadowheart (30 page)

She nodded.

“I see it well enough, now I look,” the old bandit said. “Though you were but an infant when we took you to Tuscany. You have your father’s eyes, Princess, and your grandfather’s certain way with a command, God assoil them both.”

“You took me to Tuscany?” she asked in astonishment.

“I was one in the escort,” Philip said. “It was before—” He made an apologetic gesture, his palm stretching open in his fingerless glove. “It was in better days for my company.” He drew a heavy breath. “He was a great man, Prince Ligurio. I admired him.”

“Aye. He was,” Allegreto said quietly. His mouth made the faintest hint of a curve. “He would have checked me last night.”

Elayne looked up at them both. She had never thought deeply on her grandfather, only known that Lady Melanthe had been his wife, and he had been much older, and he had died.

“You knew him?” she asked Allegreto.

He shrugged, looking down at the rough-cut chips that scattered the ground. “Whatever of me is not my father’s, Prince Ligurio taught me.”

“It was the undoing of this state, when Ligurio passed,” Philip said. “It was the ruin of
this place, to fall into vendetta.” The bandit leaned
against a tree trunk, flicking needles from his sleeve. “And you and your father were no small part of that, my boy, let the Devil blacken both your names. You mean to try to overthrow Franco Pietro now again, do you? That’s why Monteverde bleeds money to
those
French condottiere on the road to Venice, instead of fortifying against Milan, and Franco misplaced his betrothed. I should have guessed.”

“If you’d rather Monteverde bled to you, old fox,” Allegreto said, “I’m here to hire you to my side.”

Philip shook his head. “You cannot win.”

“I can,” Allegreto said.

“You cannot. I see now who it was that escaped you— Franco’s son, eh? Slay the father and you must slay him, too. And it all begins again. Give us at least the poor peace we’ve had these five years, to build something back.”

“What is it to you?” Allegreto spat on his hand and jerked it toward the clearing. “You’re naught but foreign condottiere yourself, or a bandit when you have no better prospect.”

“This is not my land, aye. But I’ve lived here twenty years, and I’ll find my grave here. Kill Franco, and you will have civil war.”

“Not this time.” Allegreto glanced toward Elayne. “We are man and wife.”

“Navona and Monteverde! There are those who will not suffer that union, and well you know it.” Philip crossed his thick arms.

“The people will rally to Ligurio’s blood.”

“If she survives it.”

“Then help me make certain that she does. Or betray us to the Riata if you want his peace.”

“You know I would not.” The bandit laid his head back on the tree trunk with a heavy sigh. “But God and all the saints have at you, Navona. Give it up. Why not be satisfied with a little skimming of silver, and no more?”

Allegreto set his boot on one of the chests. “You won’t skim more of this silver, watered or not. It’s been sent in from Milan, to mix with our coin and shake the faith in Monteverde’s currency.”

“You say!” Philip stood straight.

“That’s all it can be. Else why would it be coming in, instead of leaving? Why has Zoufal not come after you for it? Run your finger over the chests, you’ll feel where the Visconti’s viper has been painted out. Zoufal has some pact with Milan to mingle it with the good coin.”

Philip made a rude noise, then glanced at Elayne contritely. “Your pardon, donna.”

“Franco mistakes his men too often,” Allegreto said.

“But no doubt Jan Zoufal would vacate a snug warm house in town, if you would care to take his place as master of the mint.”

Philip wiped his hand over his mouth. He looked toward Elayne again. “What think you of this fellow, Princess? I suppose he’s pretty enough for any woman’s taste. But you saw him last eve—do you like a man who’ll kill as easy as he breathes?”

“She knows what I am.” Allegreto pushed off the chest. “And you are no bloodless saint, nor Franco either, when it comes to that.”

The bandit fingered his lip thoughtfully, still considering Elayne. She felt herself growing warm under a contemplation that was almost fatherly, half-exasperated, as if Philip Welles had the giving of her hand and Elayne were a blushing maid too much in love to know her own good.

“When I commanded him to stop, he obeyed me,” she said in a steady voice.

Philip shook his head slowly. “He did. But he did not want to kill that boy, my lady.”

She knew it was so. As well as she knew he would have cut Dario’s throat if she had not checked him in the instant before. Allegreto stood still while they spoke, impassive, looking somewhere out beyond the shelter.

“I’ll wager he might even have a small idea that he ought to thank you for sparing him from it,” the bandit said.

Allegreto turned and met her eyes. Nothing in his face changed. He only held her look for a long moment, his eyes as dark as midnight sky. She remembered his touch in the tower chamber, his hands in her hair, his lips at her throat.
I would listen. I would try.

He had listened. Her fallen angel. Pirate, assassin, warrior prince.

“Mary save us,” Philip grunted in the silence. “I believe they are in love!”

Allegreto smiled a little, glancing at the bandit. “Nay, I have no heart. My father hacked it of me out long ago, for his convenience.” He nodded toward Elayne. “But she is my compass and measure now.”

To hear him say it openly made her realize the depth of it, how much he gave up to her.
Love
was a light word, a plaything in comparison.

“Is it war, then, you want, my lady?” Philip asked. “That is the compass and measure of what he intends.”

“No,” Allegreto said sharply to her. “Once you take your place, they will yield. Why do you suppose Franco leaped like a hound at the chance to wed you?” He turned on Philip, scowling. “You know what Ligurio’s memory means to the people. They revere it more every year that passes under the Riata’s hand. Look what savagery it’s taken for Franco to hold his place! You think my father ever managed worse? If I had not had Matteo, he would have killed us to the last woman and child who ever whispered the name of Navona.”

“Because he is afraid of you,” Philip said intractably. “If you would surrender to defeat, and let it go, as Princess Melanthe did, we would have no more of blood revenge.”

“Englishman.” Allegreto made a hiss of disgust between his teeth. “You do not understand.”

“I understand that you and Franco Pietro are as like as one dagger point to another.” He rested a heavy hand on the tree, turning his grizzled face toward her. “Do you understand it, Princess? You were betrothed to Riata. Now you gaze at Navona here like a moonstruck maid. Take your pick, they’ll both have you for your name, and either one would tear apart all Prince Ligurio built to elevate their own. You were well out of this nest of vipers while they fought over his grave, my lady. God bless you, Princess. I am sorry you had to return, if this is all that will come of it.”

Elayne hugged herself. She lifted her face and looked toward the old bandit. In truth she understood him better than she understood Allegreto, but she thought of Zafer and Margaret in Riata hands, of the child that might already be inside her, of Gerolamo waiting in the city and Dario on his face at her feet in gratitude for his very life.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said. “I don’t know how to stop it.”

“He’s bedded you,” Philip said gruffly. It was not even a question.

Elayne lowered her eyes. She bent her head down in a wave of mortification.

“Aye, and sent word of our marriage all over Christendom!” Allegreto took a sudden step toward her. “Look up and show no shame for it! I won’t fail in this. I’ll make you safe. I’ll make Monteverde safe. I told you what I would do even though I burn in Hell.”

She raised her head. He stood like dark Lucifer dressed in peasant clothes, daring hellfire in the gloomy light that filtered through the pine boughs. Elayne gazed up at him, helpless to find any way to leave or turn from him now.

The bandit heaved a sigh. “Forsooth, she is besotted! I see that it is futile to reason. Tell me what’s your plan then, you black murdering bastard. Perchance we can see at least that she lives through it.”

Of the two dogs devoted to Elayne, Nimue was the least loyal. Whereas Dario would not allow her out of his sight, Nim was inclined to wander all over the camp, making friends and stealing anything that took her fancy. It seemed she had grown bigger even in a week, a bright-eyed beauty with the heart of a bandit, her brown eyes full of liquid adoration and her teeth capable of shredding chain mail. Or at least marring it beyond any reasonable use.

She was therefore banished along with Elayne when Philip Welles broke camp at word that Allegreto’s designs bore fruit. It was a strange exile, a hiding in plain sight in the town of d’Avina. Elayne took up residence with Margaret’s baby in a house built by Prince Ligurio himself, home now to a widow of strong Riata connections, childless and wealthy and pious, and devoted for years to supporting the cause of her late husband’s family—so that it was half-forgiven and mostly forgotten that she was the relic of some ancient failed attempt at reconciliation from Ligurio’s day, and had been a Navona before her marriage.

Elayne came in the guise of a young gentlewoman in some unspoken need of charity. The presence of a babe and her voluntary seclusion spoke their own tale for the gossips.

The widow herself was not ancient. Donna Grazia had no more than thirty years, to judge from her lovely face. All of the women loyal to Allegreto’s cause seemed to be lovely, Elayne thought with some impatience. Lovely and silent. Donna Grazia delighted in taking charge of the baby, but there were no more than the most necessary exchanges between Elayne and her hostess.

Elayne was immured with Nim in a chamber fit for a prince, heavy with tapestries and lit by three leaded windows of glass that gave out onto the street. It still held objects provided to her grandfather for his comfort when he visited the mines: a writing desk and lectern, a silver goblet embossed with his initials and ringed with tiny emeralds. Dario kept watch outside the only door. By the end of a day both she and Nim were almost frantic. Nim at least was allowed to walk outside with Dario once every few hours, but Elayne had no relief, not even care of the babe. She could only stare into space and think of Zafer and Margaret and what Allegreto planned.

She knew only the outlines of it. Zafer was to betray a meeting with Allegreto somewhere in the mines, a time and a location—but that encounter would never be convened, if Franco Pietro did as Allegreto predicted of him and went first to the fortress of Maladire to command his garrison there. A counterfeit betrayal of a false rendezvous, all to lure the Riata into his own secure and well-defended castle—where Allegreto knew every secret hole and passage of its dark Navona past.

Elayne closed her eyes, thinking of it. Five games of seven, she repeated in her mind. Five games of seven he could outmaneuver his enemy in chess. Five out of seven, five out of seven … the numbers worked their way into her dreams, so that she woke from nightmares of blocked doors and broken mirrors with her teeth gritted together in a soundless chant.

He had never remembered his arrangements with Morosini. He had to deduce what signal he had agreed upon with Zafer, what spy Venice had on the garrison, what agents Franco Pietro had in the town. He had to expose himself just enough that the Riata would believe he was near, awaiting Zafer, yet give no hint that he guessed Franco would attempt to seize him. And Matteo was vanished like a young ghost, with no knowing what he might reveal if he could reach his father.

Elayne was afraid for Matteo. Allegreto’s covert hunt through the town had found no sign of him. She imagined him alone in the mountains, or huddled in the mouth of some mine in the freezing night air. Elayne had extracted a pledge that the boy would not be hurt if he was discovered; it was her last word with Allegreto before they parted at the camp.

If she opened the window of round watery panes of glass, Elayne could see Maladire looming close, its blank sheer walls and single tower raised like a fist against the leaden sky. It had none of the elegance of the Navona castle on the lake. This fortress was a fierce and haunting silhouette, a barren challenge to the black peaks that encircled d’Avina, overlooking the green valley far below with a malevolence that matched its name. It had not been razed, but confiscated and strongly garrisoned: guardian of the mint and the mines, the silver lifeblood of Monteverde.

The smell of smoke lay heavily in the air. A strange grinding noise filled the street below, the sound of the miners dragging wooden tubs full of rock along the ground. The town itself clung to a ledge on the mountainside, its single street leading at one end to the castle and at the other to the slag heaps and gray landslides of the mines. Near the fortress, the steep-roofed houses were richly appointed, plastered and painted in frescoes, their gilded arcades and window casings agleam even under the threat of snow from the lowering clouds.

Bare-legged workers in white hooded smocks mingled with men and women in long blue robes, all of them hauling baskets and bags and bowls of broken stone toward the covered dais just below the castle, where men in opulent furs and brocaded gowns sat around a huge table and examined the ore set before them.

It seemed a busy and prosperous scene, like a vivid trance overlaid on the secrets below the surface. She leaned one knee on the wooden window seat, looking out, until she saw glances of notice from the people in the street. Then she played ball under the desk and over the bed with Nim until the puppy chewed the leather orb apart and fell into a happy nap amid the pieces.

Elayne paced the chamber. There were books inside the dark wooden chests, but she had not been able to concentrate her mind on reading. Finally she turned to the lectern that stood before the chimney, running her hand over a thick volume that lay wrapped in green velvet upon it. She pulled away the cloth and loosed the straps. The spine creaked as she laid the book open, as if it had not been used in a long time. She expected a Bible, or a book of hours, hoping there would at least be pictures that might distract her. But it was not a religious volume. Under a blank sheet of vellum, the first page was brightly illuminated, entirely covered in flourishes of green and gold and tarnished silver painted around the castle upon a green mount. Below the emblazoned Monteverde arms were Prince Ligurio’s name and the title in Latin.