Chapter 62
When Antimo brought the news of Dorma’s raid on the Dandelos to the Duke of Ferrara, Dell’este rose from his chair and went to the window. There he remained, for some time, staring toward Venice.
“How much money have we received so far from the Emperor, through Baron Trolliger’s private agents?”
“We’ll have enough to hire the condottieri we need.”
“Secretly?”
“Yes, milord. Since you’ll be commanding the army yourself, I’ve not had to negotiate with any well-known great captains. Just a large number of small companies. Neither Visconti nor Sforza will be able to keep track of the numbers involved. Ferrara will field twice the force the Milanese are expecting. I’m quite sure of it.”
“Careless on their part,” mused Dell’este. “But I’m not surprised. Filippo Visconti has always been too arrogant, and Sforza has grown complacent with success.” He was silent for a moment. Then gave the windowsill a little tap. “So. Everything else is in place. We have the army we need, and it seems as if Venice has finally found a leader worthy of the name. There remains, only—Valdosta.”
When he turned back, the face of the Old Fox seemed to have no expression at all. But Antimo knew his master far too well to be fooled.
“The sword, then?”
The duke nodded. “Yes. Send it. The time has come. At last.”
The Old Fox’s right hand curled into a loose fist, as if an expert swordsman held a blade in his hand. Still, there was no expression in his face. But, again, Antimo was not fooled. And so, as he had done so many other times and in so many other ways, he gave help again to his master.
“They murdered your daughter, hounded your grandchildren. Did their best to soil the name of Dell’este. Plotted and schemed to destroy Ferrara and Venice both.”
The duke’s lips peeled back into a snarl. Had he been there to see the sight, Carlo Sforza—the famous “Wolf of the North”—would have finally recognized what he was about to face.
But Sforza was not there; nor were his master Visconti’s spies. And the moment was brief, in any event. Soon enough, the Old Fox was back.
“So they did,” he murmured, smiling thinly. “And in so doing, did nothing more—in the end—than sharpen my blades.” His eyes moved to the rack of swords. “There are no finer blades in the world, Antimo, than those of Dell’este.”
Chapter 63
The summons to Dorma had come often that spring. Petro seemed to enjoy talking to him, and they would be sending him to the Accademia in the summer.
This Friday morning it was different.
* * *
Petro Dorma was sitting—as usual—in his inner sanctum. The balding man’s face, usually serious, was downright solemn. Across his desk lay an open box containing a naked sword on a sheet of scarlet silk it had plainly been wrapped in. It was an old hand-and-a-half-blade, made in a style a century out of date now. The blue-silver folded Damascus steel was as rippling mirror bright as if it had left the maker yesterday. Only the golden hilt showed the signs of years of careful devoted polishing. Wordlessly, Petro Dorma held out the letter.
It didn’t take Marco long to read it.
I send into the keeping of House Dorma one of the honor-blades of Dell’este, in token of the bond now between us. Young Marco will know how it is to be cared for.
“Your grandfather says you know how to care for this sword.”
Marco nodded, not able to speak. There was a hidden message there from Duke Dell’este, a message Milord Petro could not possibly read. But Marco knew—and the implications turned his life upside down in the single span of time it had taken Petro to free the blade from its silk wrapping.
Petro Dorma was no fool, of course. If he could not read the message, still, he knew that one was there—and that it must be portentous for his house. So he took Marco’s nod at face value, and set the sword back down in its silken nest.
Dell’este steel—Dell’este honor. There is no going back now. Not for Grandfather. Not for the Old Fox.