“Past time,” murmured Bartelozzi. “The storm clouds are gathering, milord. Have been for some time, as you well know. If Venice is destroyed, Ferrara will go down with it.”
The Duke of Ferrara began pacing about. For all his age, there was a spryness to his steps. “Venice first, I think. That will be the cockpit.”
He did not even bother to glance at Bartelozzi to see his agent’s nod of agreement. So much was obvious to them both. “Which means we must find an anchor of support in the city. A great house which can serve to rally the populace of Venice. The current quality of Venetian leadership is dismal, but the population will respond well—as they have for a thousand years—if a firm hand takes control.” He sighed regretfully. “Doge Foscari was capable once, and still has his moments. But—he is too old, now.”
“If either of your grandsons is alive . . .”
The Old Fox shook his head firmly. “Not yet, Antimo. Let our enemies think the ancient house of Valdosta is well and truly destroyed. That will be our secret weapon, when the time comes. For the moment—assuming they are still alive—my grandsons are far safer hidden amongst the poor and outcast of Venice.”
“We could bring them here, milord.”
The duke hesitated, his head warring with his heart. But only for an instant, before the head began shaking firmly. Not for nothing did that head—that triangular, sharp-jawed face—resemble the animal he had been named after.
“No,” he said firmly. “As you said yourself, Antimo, I have a responsibility to all of my offspring. Those of position as well as those of blood.” For a moment, he paused in his pacing; stood very erect. “Dell’este honor has always been as famous as its cunning. Without the one, the other is meaningless.”
Bartelozzi nodded. In obeisance as much as in agreement. He shared, in full measure, that loyalty for which the retainers of Dell’este were also famous.
“Valdosta cannot serve, for the moment.” The Old Fox resumed his pacing. “Of the others . . . Brunelli is foul, as you well know, however cleverly that house has managed to disguise it. Dorma has potential, but the head of the house is still too young, unsure of himself.”
“Petro Dorma may surprise you, milord.”
The duke glanced at him. “You know something I don’t?”
Bartelozzi shrugged. “Simply an estimate, nothing more.”
Dell’este stared out the window which opened on to the little city of Ferrara. Looked past the city itself to the lush countryside beyond. “Perhaps, Antimo. I’m not sure I agree. Petro Dorma is a judicious man, true enough. And, I think, quite an honorable one. But that’s not enough. A sword must have an edge also.”
The duke sighed. “If only Montescue . . . There’s the man with the right edge. And, for all his age, the tested blade to hold it.”
Hearing Bartelozzi’s little choke, the duke smiled wryly. “Don’t tell me. He’s still trying to have my grandsons assassinated.”
“It seems so, milord. Apparently the same rumors have reached him as well.”
The Old Fox turned his head and gazed squarely upon his most trusted agent and adviser. “Instruct me, Antimo. In this matter, I do not entirely trust myself.”
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.”