cheeks where a slender blade had sliced his hairless skin. Lorenzo didn’t need to see them closely to know they would leave long, ugly scars. He caught the youth’s arms. “Are you all right?”
Enrique nodded and croaked, “Yes.”
“What happened?”
“We were just walking along and he stepped out of nowhere,” the young man said, his eyes level with his teacher’s shoulder. “He grabbed me and started yelling at Gaspar about getting you. I tried to get away, and he cut me.” He looked up slowly and gently touched his jaw, his fingers nowhere near the long gashes. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“You’ll be fine. I’ve never known a diestro who didn’t have a few scars.”
“You don’t.” His lip was trembling.
Lorenzo winced. Oh, yes I do, just not where you can see them. “Can you get back to the inn on your own?”
Enrique nodded and shuffled on. Over the scuffing of his student’s boots on the fragile ice, Lorenzo heard him sob and sniff.
The hidalgo watched him get halfway up the hill before turning his full attention back to the figure on the bridge. “I’ll spare you the sermon about hurting that boy. Anyone depraved enough to maim an unarmed opponent isn’t worth the effort. I’ll leave that to God. Who are you and what do you want with me?”
A short bark of a laugh echoed out from the covered bridge. The voice that spoke flowed like wine and honey carrying the posh accent of Roman nobility. “Oh, my. You really are a delusional zealot, aren’t you, Don Lorenzo? Sermons and God, souls and ghosts. I wasn’t sure whether I should believe the stories, but I can see now they’re all true. How disappointing.”
For a moment, a burning flare of rage and hate erupted in Lorenzo’s belly. It startled him. The sudden desire to carve a man into bloody pieces. The impulse to scream obscenities. It was so close to the surface. He knew he had only to touch his sword to unleash those dark passions. It would only take a moment, the briefest of lapses, the briefest of indulgences.
No, that’s all in the past now, and besides, murdering this man won’t heal Enrique’s wounds.
He exhaled and managed a smile. “You know my name! It’s terribly civilized of you to go to the trouble, what with the stalking and the night-time dramatics. Or am I so well-known in Italia these days that everyone there recognizes my face? I’m flattered. Really. But I’m sorry to say I have no idea who you are. Is there a name, or shall I just pick some barnyard animal to call you? Chicken, cow, dog, pig?”
The man paced forward slowly into the starlight. His lined face was no longer young, but he was far from middle-aged. A well-sculpted mustache swept across his upper lip and a sinister tuft of beard pointed down from his chin. A long, heavy coat concealed the shape of his body, but Lorenzo guessed from the angles of his face and his movements that the man was rather lean. His eyes stared out in an expression of intense study and yet also mild amusement. He nodded curtly and said, “Salvator Fabris, at your service.”
Lorenzo willed himself to stand very still. A moment ago he had been supremely confident that no matter what was about to happen, he would walk away from the encounter unharmed. Now that confidence was gone. The name alone was enough to cast dark doubts over his own abilities. Fabris’s reputation wasn’t merely one of skill or excellence, but casual ruthlessness and viciousness, and suddenly the long cuts on Enrique’s face seemed a mercy.
The one story that Lorenzo had long associated with this man was of an honor duel. Years ago, some wealthy Roman hired the young Fabris to fend off an angry Sicilian. The Sicilian unleashed a dozen Espani diestros to search the Roman’s home for a certain misplaced daughter, but Fabris had met them on the lawn and defeated all twelve of them in rapid succession. Later that day, the Sicilian had received the bodies of his champions, but not his daughter.
It was the sort of story meant for drunken embellishment. After all, there were no witnesses. There was no reason to believe it was true. Maybe it was only one diestro. Maybe Fabris hadn’t fought alone. Maybe. But for years, Lorenzo had allowed that story to worm its way into the mythology of this man, and now as he stood a dozen paces from Fabris, he couldn’t escape his irrational certainty that the entire story was absolutely true.
Lorenzo cleared his throat. “What do you want with me?”
“What do I want? Oh no, signore, you misunderstand. I want nothing. You, on the other hand, appear to want a great deal. You must have been quite pleased with yourself when that bloated swine Faleiro came to offer you my job.” Fabris rested one hand on the elaborate swept hilt of his rapier.
“I suppose it’s possible that I might have been pleased if he had offered me your job, but he left before we had a chance to speak.” Lorenzo rested his own gloved hand on his espada. He knew the Italian blade was just a little longer and lighter, and that small difference might be all that was needed to defeat him. “I was, however, a bit put out to find that your friend Faleiro helped himself to a little book of mine that I would very much like returned.”
“Ah yes! Funny you should mention that. Faleiro mentioned it, too. Just before I killed him.” Fabris held up the small leather-bound journal. “Fascinating story, this. Your handwriting leaves something to be desired, but your drawing is really quite excellent. I particularly liked your maps.”
Lorenzo blinked. Faleiro’s dead. My book is in this man’s hand. It never reached Magellan. No one knows about the stone after all. It’s over. The skyfire stone is safe! For a moment, all his concerns about Fabris were swept away by a cleansing wave of relief. He smiled and nodded. “Thank you. I was very proud of the maps. May I have it back now?” He held out his empty gloved hand.
“Oh, I think not. You see, I just couldn’t put it down. I read the entire book last night, and I found one part in the middle especially interesting. Your heroic journey through the jungles of the New World. The priests, the soldiers, and the stone. The otherworldly stone. Boiling soldiers alive in their armor. Very interesting reading, indeed.”
Lorenzo frowned. “This stone is a gift, a life-giving gift, an inspiration, a clue to the broader nature of the universe. It is not a weapon.”
“Oh, my dear Lorenzo. Of course it’s a weapon,” Fabris said. “It’s the most powerful weapon I’ve ever heard of. If these stones can boil a river, they’ll make short work of a city harbor. Carthage comes to mind. They have a lovely harbor full of things I wouldn’t mind boiling or burning.”
“Yes, I’m sure Rome would find all sorts of horrible things to do with the stone if they had it, which they don’t, and they won’t.” Lorenzo flexed his hand to work some blood into his fingers. “May I have my book back now, please?”
“No,” Fabris said airily. “Tell me about the Mazighs. Are you working with them to build a weapon around the stone? Or were you just planning to use that little airship of theirs to fly over the mountains to find the stone?”
“The Mazighs?” Lorenzo shrugged. “They’re just old friends from out of town. Visiting. For the holidays.”
Fabris nodded and shrugged back. “Perhaps. Although, I must say they didn’t appear to be visiting for the holidays when Admiral Magellan and I were watching them circle above the harbor in Valencia.”
“Magellan?” Lorenzo glanced about at the shadows again, looking for the regiment of soldiers that must surely have accompanied Fabris.
“Yes. Technically, I’m here at the Admiral’s request. He’d like the Mazighs dead and asked me to see to the matter personally. A bit simple for a man of my talents, but far be it from me to refuse an order from the man paying my rather obscene salary.”
“But the Mazighs aren’t soldiers or spies. They’re just travelers. There’s no reason to kill them.”
Fabris nodded. “If you say so. I can always ask them myself after I kill you and your extremely unimpressive students.”
“Honestly?” Lorenzo curled his fingers around his sword hilt. “Why would you kill me? A complete stranger who has never done you any wrong, whom you’ve never even met before? You would murder me and then murder those poor innocent people? That’s what you want to do with your life?”
“Honestly? Yes.” Salvator drew his blade, the steel singing softly as it came free of its sheathe. “Although, I’ll also happily kill you to get my hands on this skyfire stone of yours. Italia has her share of enemies and problems. The Hellans, the Eranians, the Numidians, and oh yes, you Espani. In fact, your dear Admiral Magellan has quite a nice little boat in Valencia that I very much want to destroy. Your stone will be invaluable to my efforts. Your poor Espana fell in the New World and I intend to see that it remains fallen.”
It’s just talk, he’s all talk. Lorenzo whipped his espada out into the starlight, slicing through the chill air in a
