Bartelozzi hesitated. Then: "Do nothing, milord. Casa Montescue has fallen on such bad times that old Lodovico Montescue will not be able to afford better than middling murderers. And"?again, he hesitated?"we may as well discover now, at the beginning of the contest, how sharp a blade your grandsons will make."
The Duke of Ferrara pondered the advice, for a moment. Then, nodded. "Spoken like a Dell'este. See to it then, Antimo. Pass the word in Venice?very quietly?that if either of my grandsons come to the surface, we will pay well for whoever takes them under his wing. Until then… they will have to survive on their own. Blades, as you say, must be tempered."
His lips tightened, became a thin line. Those of a craftsman, gauging his material. "No doubt iron would scream also, if it could feel the pain of the forge and the hammer and the quenching tank. No matter. So is steel made."
Chapter 1
The silhouette of the Basilica of St. Mark was black against the paling predawn sky. The pillar and the winged lion in the Piazza San Marco could just be made out.
In the bow of the gondola Benito shifted uneasily, looking at it. "Figlio di una puttana, woman," he said, trying to sound older than fourteen. "Can't you get a move on? It'll be sunup before I'm home." He wished his voice would stop cracking like that. Marco said it was just part of growing up. He wished that that would stop too. Being bigger was no advantage for climbing or running. And if he stopped growing, he might stop being so hungry all of the time.
Up on the stern the hooded oarsman ignored him, moving slowly and steadily.
"You want me to row this thing for you?" he demanded.
"Shut up," she hissed. "You want to attract attention? At this time of the morning, only people in trouble are rushing."
Benito had to acknowledge that it was true enough. Even now there were three other vessels moving on the Grand Canal. All of them slowly. He sighed. "I just need to get back home. I'm supposed to see my brother."