out the package inside. Two hand-spans long, narrow, and heavy. A main gauche in the new Toulouse style . . . Marco knew that before he even opened the box. He’d hefted too many blades in his time not to know the weight and balance of a knife. Even with it well wrapped and in a wooden box, he could tell.
Silk cords twisted about the final wrapping inside the box in complicated knots; red silk cords in patterns Marco knew, patterns difficult to duplicate. The final knot had been sealed with a wax stamp, imprinted with the Dell’este crest.
Hazard, those knots said, and Be wary. You only tied a package coming out of Ferrara with those knots when you thought there might be a possibility the package would be opened by unfriendly hands somewhere along the way.
All of which meant that this was the very blade that had gone upriver to Ferrara and Duke Dell’este, the town’s iron-spined ruler.
The knife that had slain Bishop Pietro Capuletti. The Ferrara blade, a signed blade with the intaglio crest etched proudly on the pommel nut for all to see, pointing straight to Valdosta—and another clan, a Venetian clan.
House Dorma. A new Power, and rising, which made their situation more precarious than if they had been established movers-and-shakers.
Guilt by association implicated Casa Dorma; and most especially Petro Dorma, who had taken in two long-lost Valdosta boys and had tied silken cords of tighter binding to Marco, and so to the steel of Ferrara.
Someone had used a Ferrara main gauche to sever more than Pietro Capuletti’s life. Someone had gone to expensive lengths to bring a signed Valdosta knife down-river to assassinate the pro-Pauline prelate.
Marco rested his elbows on his knees and stared wearily at the thing, bright on the dark wool blanket of Dalmatian weave.
I didn’t expect an answer so quickly. Maybe I ought to put off
Silk cords twisted about the final wrapping inside the box in complicated knots; red silk cords in patterns Marco knew, patterns difficult to duplicate. The final knot had been sealed with a wax stamp, imprinted with the Dell’este crest.
Hazard, those knots said, and Be wary. You only tied a package coming out of Ferrara with those knots when you thought there might be a possibility the package would be opened by unfriendly hands somewhere along the way.
All of which meant that this was the very blade that had gone upriver to Ferrara and Duke Dell’este, the town’s iron-spined ruler.
The knife that had slain Bishop Pietro Capuletti. The Ferrara blade, a signed blade with the intaglio crest etched proudly on the pommel nut for all to see, pointing straight to Valdosta—and another clan, a Venetian clan.
House Dorma. A new Power, and rising, which made their situation more precarious than if they had been established movers-and-shakers.
Guilt by association implicated Casa Dorma; and most especially Petro Dorma, who had taken in two long-lost Valdosta boys and had tied silken cords of tighter binding to Marco, and so to the steel of Ferrara.
Someone had used a Ferrara main gauche to sever more than Pietro Capuletti’s life. Someone had gone to expensive lengths to bring a signed Valdosta knife down-river to assassinate the pro-Pauline prelate.
Marco rested his elbows on his knees and stared wearily at the thing, bright on the dark wool blanket of Dalmatian weave.
I didn’t expect an answer so quickly. Maybe I ought to put off