Bartelozzi was continuing. “All we know about the younger boy is what we learned two years ago. He was thrown out of Theodoro Mantesta’s care once the true story of Lorendana’s death leaked out. Mantesta, not surprisingly, was terrified of Milanese assassins himself. Your youngest grandson seems to have then joined the canal-brats.”
“Damn Mantesta, anyway—I would have seen to his safety.” For a moment, he glowered, remembering a night when he had slipped into Venice incognito. The Duke of Ferrara was no mean bladesman himself. Theodoro Mantesta had been almost as terrified of him as he had been of Milanese assassins. Almost, but . . . not quite. And for good reason. In the end, Dell’este had let him live.
The Old Fox waved his hand irritably. “I know all this, Antimo! Shortly thereafter, you discovered that a child very like him, from the poor description we had, was killed about three weeks later. And while it wasn’t certain—hundreds of poor children live under the bridges and pilings of Venice—it seemed logical enough that the victim was my youngest grandson. So tell me what you have learned since, if you please.”
Antimo smiled. “What I have learned since, milord, is that the boy whose throat was slit had actually died of disease the day before.”
The duke’s eyes widened. “Who would be that cunning? Not my grandson! He was only twelve at the time.”
“Two ladies by the name of Claudia and Valentina would be that cunning, milord.” Bartelozzi shook his head. “You would not know them. But in their own circles they are quite famous. Notorious, it might be better to say. Tavern musicians, officially—excellent ones, by all account—but also thieves. Excellent thieves, by reputation. And according to rumor, shortly thereafter the two women gained an accomplice. A young boy, about twelve. I’ve not laid eyes on him myself, mind you—neither have any of my agents. The boy seems to have been well trained in stealth. But I have gotten a description, quite a good one. In fact, the description came from a former mercenary in Sforza’s service. ‘Could be one of the Wolf’s by-blows,’ as he put it. ‘Lord knows he’s scattered them across Italy.’ ”
The Duke of Ferrara closed his eyes, allowing the relief to wash over him again. It made sense, yes—it all made sense. His youngest grandson had been a wily boy—quite unlike the older. As if all of the legendary cunning of Dell’este had been concentrated in the one, at the expense of the other. Combined, alas, with the amorality of the father Sforza. Even when the boy had been a toddler, the duke had found his youngest grandson . . . troubling.
His musings were interrupted by Bartelozzi. Antimo’s next words brought the duke’s eyes wide open again.
“The two women who may have succored your grandson are also reputed to be Strega. Genuine Strega, too, not peddlers and hucksters. The reputation seems well founded, from what I could determine.”
“Strega? Why would they care what happened to the bloodline of Valdosta and Dell’este?”
Bartelozzi stared at him. After a moment, Dell’este looked away. Away, and down. “Because Venice is the best refuge of the Strega,” he answered his own question. “Has been for centuries. If Venice falls . . .”
A brief shudder went through his slender but still muscular body. “I have been . . . not myself, Antimo. These past two years. All my offspring dead . . . it was too much.”
His most trusted agent’s nod was one of understanding. But pitiless for all that.
“You have other offspring, milord. Of position if not of blood. All of Ferrara depends upon you. Venice too, I suspect, in the end. There is no leadership in that city that can compare to yours. If you begin leading again, like a duke and not a grieving old man.”
Dell’este tightened his lips, but accepted the reproof. It was a just one, after all.
“True,” he said curtly. Then, after a moment, his lips began to curve into a smile. Hearing Bartelozzi’s sigh of relief, he allowed his smile to broaden.
“You think it is time the Old Fox returned, eh?”