In another quarter of an hour Ciolo found the house, right where it was supposed to be. There was the hanging garden. There was the juniper bush. The house was frescoed with a pagan god holding a staff with two snakes on it. The god was between two barred windows and above two massive lead rings for tethering horses. Just as described.
The front of the house had torches burning, and Ciolo passed through the flickering light, walking drunkenly in case anyone was watching. He’d been told there was no possible entrance from the ground, so Ciolo didn’t waste time looking for one. Instead he circled the block until he came to a three story wall outside a dyeyard. The wall’s covering plaster had worn away at the street level, showing the mix of round stones and proper bricks that made the wall. It was dark in this street, the light from the stars the only illumination. Still playing the drunkard, he stood in the open, loosened the points on his hose, and relieved himself against the wall. Using his free hand to lean against the wall, his fingers quested. No one passed, not even a cat. Readjusting his points he rubbed his hands together and, having found the promised fingerholds, he began his ascent.
Along the top were curved spikes to keep intruders out of the dyeyard. But Ciolo didn’t want in. He wanted passage. Reaching up one hand he carefully wrapped his fingers around the inch-thick base of the spike. He didn’t put much pressure on it at first. It might be sharpened along its whole length, not just at the curve. But in this too his instructions were accurate. The flat edges of the spike were dull. Ciolo gripped the spike harder, praying it would bear his whole weight. It did. He swung his free hand up to grasp the next spike. Then the next. Hand over hand he passed down the row of spikes, around the shadowed corner between two houses.
By now his breath was coming hard, his hands and shoulders aching sourly. But he only had another half length of the wall to travel. He started on it, then froze as a noise came from the house behind him. Did they have dogs? Or, worse, geese? Pressing himself against the high wall, feeling his sweaty fingers slip, he wished for a cloud to hide the stars and plunge him into deeper shadow. Ciolo listened.
It was a child. A child’s cry in the night. Unattended, it went uncomforted.
Ciolo glanced over his shoulder. It came from the house he was aiming for. In a perfect world he could have waited for the child to sleep again. But his hands were losing their strength. He continued quickly down the final length of the wall, mouthing foul pleas not to slip. The next move was tricky – he had to twist around until he was hanging with his back against the high wall and leap to a window across the four foot divide. He doubled up his grip with his one hand, then twisted around and threw up his free hand. It brushed past one bar, but firmly found the next. Now he was facing his target, an arched window. It was open, the wooden door swung wide. He knew the longer he waited the worse his nerves would get. Ciolo curled his feet up to press against the wall at his back, released the bars, and pushed off hard.
His ribs banged against the windowsill. He hit his chin as he began to slip. Flinging his arms wide, he pressed his elbows against the inside walls. His feet scrambling he pulled himself awkwardly over the lip and into the house.
Crouching low beside the window, Ciolo found himself in a long hall, narrow, with a pair of doors on each side. He squinted until he was sure all the doors were closed. He felt like his breathing was making more noise than a bellows. But no alarums. No cries but for the child, which were subsiding. If someone came now he would be useless, his arms were shaking so fiercely. He flexed and stretched, each second gaining him another breath, each breath easing his beating heart. His eyes began to play tricks on him in the dark. He imagined that the doors were all open, and twice he swore he saw movement. But each time he was wrong. Or he hoped he was.
After two or three minutes of watching from the shadowy corner by the window Ciolo was as ready as he was going to be. His right hand dropped to his left hip. Gripping the leather-wrapped hilt he withdrew a dagger nine inches long.
Keeping well out of the little light coming in the window he made his way down the hall. Based on the plan of the house Ciolo had memorized, he had not far to go. Down this hall, a right turn into a grand room, and up a single flight to a double door. Simple.
The hallway was tiled and clear of rushes. Ciolo placed first one foot then another, so much on his toes that his boot-heels hardly brushed the floor. He came to the pair of doors facing each other. Both were closed. Holding his breath he picked up the pace past them. Nothing leapt out at him. He sighed a little and instantly cursed himself for the slight noise.
The second pair of doors were also closed. Again, everything was proceeding apace. He forced himself to stop and listen. One flight up the infant was still making noise, but the rest of the house was still.
Fortune favors the bold, thought Ciolo. He crept around the corner, feeling along the wall for the beginning of the stairs. Tripping would be bad.
Most stairs creaked, but Ciolo kept his weight to the far outsides of each step where the wood was unlikely to bend. At the top of the stair there was another window, facing north. He could see the sliver of the moon, and it could see him. He crouched down, his back to the wall, and looked for the double doors.
There they were. The light from the partial moon just brushed their bottom edges. Staying out of the light Ciolo pressed himself up to one side of the doors. Inside he could hear the child. It was neither wailing nor giggling. More of a string of burbling noises. Ciolo thought the room must be small because he could hear an echo, as if child’s own voice was answering itself.
Ciolo waited, listening to the room beyond the doors. Was there a nurse waiting with the baby? Surely not. Or else she was dead to the world. And soon would be moreso. Ciolo smiled and trained his eyes on the moonlight. He prayed to a merciful God to send a cloud, then on second thought redirected the entreaty to the Fiend.
Whoever heard his prayer, it was answered almost at once. The light crept away. Once it was dim Ciolo moved swiftly. Lifting his knife he grasped the handle of the nearest door to the child’s room and pulled.
Darkness within. Ciolo stood to one side of the doorway, pausing for his eyes to adjust to the more complete darkness within. Still the child burbled. Ciolo squinted at the corner the noise was coming from and thought he saw an outline. Ciolo reversed his dagger from point up to point down – a stabbing grip. Then he stepped fully into the gap, one hand on the doorframe to guide him into the room.
There was a movement in the corner. A sharp cracking noise made Ciolo wince. Instantly the breath exploded from his body. Confused, he found himself sprawled several feet back down the hallway. Something had hit him in the chest, hit him hard enough to stun him. His free hand came up and found a thin line of wood protruding from his breastbone. His fingers brushed the fletched end absently. He whimpered, afraid to pull on the arrow’s shaft.
A hinge creaked as the second door opened. Light appeared as a shuttered lantern was unveiled. The light approached, growing brighter. To Ciolo’s dazed eyes to seemed to be borne in the hands of an angel. He blinked away the shapes that were creeping into his vision. She was still there, standing above him now. An angel all in white. The color of mourning.
"Not dead, then?" asked a voice. "Good."
“Holy Madonna...” he sputtered, the blood on his lips leaving the taste of metal on his tongue.
“Shhh.” The angel set aside both the candle and the instrument of his demise, a small trigger-bow. Her arm must have been hurt firing it, for she used her off hand to take the blade from his unresisting grasp.
Behind her was another shape, a young girl clutching a baby. The baby Ciolo had come to murder. He didn’t know if it was a boy or girl, it was too young to tell and he’d never asked. He wanted to ask now, but breathing was trouble enough. Still his mouth tried to work at the words.
The woman shook her head. With a lilting accent Ciolo found beautiful, she said, “Say nothing except the name of the man who paid you.”
“I – I don’t…”
“Not a good answer, love.”
“But – madonna forgive me, but – it was a woman.”
The angel nodded but didn’t smile. Ciolo wanted her to smile. He was dying. He wanted absolution – something. “Angel, forgive me.”
“Ask forgiveness of God, man – not of me.”
His own knife flashed left to right in her pale hand. He made the effort to close his eyes so as not to see his life’s blood spill to the floor. With a choked whimper, Ciolo lay still.
* * * * * *
End of Prologue
