The duke shrugged. “Different alloys take heat differently; age has nothing to do with it. And I’m worried more about the younger than the older, anyway. Marco’s father was a Valdosta. Benito is Carlo Sforza’s son. They don’t call Sforza the ‘Wolf of the North’ for nothing, Antimo. Between that savage blood and his mother’s . . . recklessness, it remains to be seen how Benito will turn out.”
The duke’s eyes wandered to the sword-rack on the wall, coming to rest on the blades set aside for his youngest grandson. “But . . . hopefully, Caesare Aldanto will deal with him. Benito will get himself into the furnace, I have no doubt of that. Aldanto must just deal with the quenching.”
Antimo Bartelozzi was silent for a time. “And is this Aldanto the right person to handle the quenching, my lord?” he asked at last.
“He is not a good man,” said the duke heavily. “But he’s a survivor, a great swordsman, and something of a tactician. I would struggle to find a tutor quite as skilled at all those things. Part of the quenching process is for those boys to learn their moral judgment. When they realize Aldanto’s nature—and if they still choose to follow after him . . . then they’re not fit to be part of Dell’este bloodline. If they choose honor instead, I will know I have good steel, flexible, ductile, yet sharp and true.” He sighed. “They fell into Aldanto’s lap by accident, but he was among those you hired to search for them. He is being well paid to care for them, to watch over them. While that income continues and while I am alive they are safe. But if I die, Antimo, Caesare Aldanto is to be killed within the day. He is not to be trusted.”
Bartelozzi nodded. “I have arranged it already, my lord. And I will see it is done. Myself.”
The Old Fox smiled. He could ask for no better guarantee. But, as usual, he accompanied the smile with a tease. “You always insist on doing my business in Venice personally, Antimo. I suspect you of keeping a woman.”
For the first time in the interview, Bartelozzi allowed himself a smile. “We are all subject to weaknesses of the flesh, my lord. In my case, however, it’s the food. Venetian courtesans are far too intelligent for my taste. Dangerous, that.”