David Blixt - The Master of Verona

"What are you doing?"

"We can't stay here and do nothing. I'm going to see your letter is delivered, then I'm going to find Antony and stop this feud nonsense, however I can!"

Mercurio hadn't slackened his pace. So far they had mainly stayed on the road, veering off only twice. Both those times the trail had led to a clump of trees, and Pietro imagined that Pathino had heard some noise on the road that had frightened him into taking cover. Each time he'd returned to the road a few yards ahead of where he'd left it and continued on his way.

If Pietro remembered rightly, this road led past Mariotto's lands at Montecchio, past Montebello and Soave, and directly towards San Bonifacio. So when Mercurio turned off a third time, Pietro thought it was another dodge. He was surprised, therefore, when the hound failed to return to the road. Determined as ever, Mercurio headed south among bushes and trees.

Perversely, Pietro wished he hadn't fought so hard in the battle. Pathino could be lying in wait behind one of these trees. Pietro's sword arm was weary, his right leg weak. He slowed Canis' pace, which earned a withering look from the eager dog, pressing the hunt before him. But Pietro didn't want to risk falling to a hasty ambush. The closest aid was a half-hour behind. If Pietro let himself be killed, Cesco, Detto, and Fazio would disappear like breath into the wind.

Pietro's most valuable sense in this environment was his hearing, and he strained to listen for the slight hints of breathing or metal clanging or a horse shifting. He heard water running — a brook or a stream. Birdsong, and all around him an angry wind rustling the leaves.

And something else. It came from somewhere ahead of him. Pietro's instinct was to kick his spurs and race forward, but he forced himself to dismount and advance slowly. The hound crept along close to his side. Poking through the brush with his sword, he saw a riverbank. And the source of the noise.

A toddler sat on the bank, whimpering in fright. Pietro dismounted and hurried forward, looking about warily. At the sight of Pietro, the toddler shied away, protecting his right arm. The hound sniffed at Detto, then walked directly to the water's edge and strained to cross.

"Bailardetto," said Pietro, watching the opposite bank. The sky was darkening under storm clouds, and it was hard to see through the first rank of trees. He tried to keep his voice friendly. "Do you remember me? We met last night. I'm a friend of your mother."

Barely two years old, Detto was too scared to speak in any coherent way. But in the midst of his tears the boy called for his mama. Pietro knelt and reached out a hand. In response the child held up his good arm to be picked up.

"May I see it?" asked Pietro, indicating Detto's other arm. "It's all right," he said reassuringly when the boy shied, "I won't touch it." There was a livid bruise growing, and scraped skin all around the elbow. Pietro ruffled Detto's hair. "It hurts, but you'll be all right." In response the boy buried his face into Pietro's neck. Pietro put an arm around him and patted his back lightly. At once Detto's breathing relaxed and his mouth found his thumb. Keeping his sword arm free, Pietro hugged him even closer.

It was while he was holding the sniffling toddler that he saw Fazio. The teenager was facedown, half-floating in the shallows of the opposite bank. The water around him showed wisps of blood.

What to do? Pathino had crossed here to hide his tracks, leaving Detto and Fazio behind to delay his pursuers. Pietro released Detto, rammed his sword into the sandy earth, and used his fingers to lift Detto's chin. "Hey there, little man. Which way did your brother go?" The child looked at him without comprehension. "Cesco. Which way?"

"Da' wey." Bailardetto pointed downstream.

Pathino wants me to turn back, so I won't. But what do I do with Detto ? If the boy had been older he would have set him in Canis' saddle and sent the horse back. As it was… "Detto, I need you to be brave. Brave, like your father. We've got to go help Cesco. Is that all right?"

The child looked up at Pietro with huge watery eyes. How much did he understand? Then Detto nodded. "Help Cesco," he parroted.

Retracing his steps to the trees, Pietro led Canis back towards the water and retrieved his sword. Then, with the boy in his arms he somehow managed to mount. Placing Detto on the front of the saddle, Pietro started off across the river. Mercurio dove in after, paddling to pick up the trail on the other side.

They passed Fazio's body. Pietro tried to shield the child's eyes from the sight of the dead groom. Fazio, I'll make Pathino pay, I swear it.

The Count of San Bonifacio lay under guard on the bloody field. Dying, he wondered how long it would take. He was lightheaded and his vision swam in and out of focus.

Then, blinking, he saw Cangrande. The Pup. They had never met, these two. Never passed a conversation in private. But there was a look to the family that the Count knew too well. Now he was coming closer, accompanied by a woman garbed as a man. She, too, had the family look. His sister, no doubt. Vinciguerra pulled himself as upright as his wounds allowed. Settling his back against a tree stump, he steeled himself.

"My dear Count." Cangrande's tone was neither cold nor angry but warm, almost affectionate.

"Puppy."

Dismissing the guards, Cangrande knelt to examine the Count's bandaging. He clucked his tongue. "This is bad. We have to get it clean. It doesn't hurt too much?"

"It's numb, now." The Count wondered what this solicitude was for. He was dead already, and dead men are immune to charm.

"I imagine you bandaged it yourself? It's not a bad job, but perhaps a doctor should see it."

"Don't bother."

"I'll try to find one, nevertheless. As my guest, now, you are to be treated as the lost brother you have always been." Vinciguerra blinked while Cangrande looked around. "Damn. Morsicato was just here. You know, Count, he treated a wound almost exactly like this three years ago. If not for him, my friend Pietro Alaghieri would have lost his leg, if not his very life." He looked down at the leg again. "This does seem a little worse than Pietro's. I wonder where Morsicato got himself to."

"You sent him on an errand," supplied Katerina.

Cangrande frowned in puzzlement. "Did I? Oh yes, he's looking after some knights in the city. Well, there are other doctors. We'll get you to one, Count, never you fear. You'll be up and making trouble for us again in no time." Cangrande patted Vinciguerra's shoulder as one might pet a troublesome child injured by his own folly. The Scaliger stood and turned, clearly planning to move on. His sister looked as if she had swallowed something distasteful, but said nothing as Cangrande made to go.

"Wait!" said the Count sharply. "What about the boy?"

"What boy? Pietro? He recovered from that injury. A touch of a limp, but today he was able to don armour and lead his men in a glorious battle inside the city. Not often a man gets to see such valour in action. Pietro was the very picture of knighthood — as he should be, since I invested him. Now, if you'll excuse me, Count, I am a trifle busy."

The blood-loss was affecting him again. "No — not Alaghieri. The boy — her boy — your son — Francesco." He took a breath. "Send some men back to the palace, O mighty Scaliger. You'll find your little prize has vanished from under your nose."

Cangrande looked amused. "You mean Pathino? My dear Count, do you really think us as foolish as that? Didn't you hear me? I said Pietro was here. He was the one that foiled Pathino's attempt two years ago, and his memory is excellent. He recognized your agent and informed my sister at once. Your man has had a score of eyes on him all night. Really, Count — such a fellow as Pathino to carry out your bold plan?"