Suicide Kings (10 page)

“I think just a man,” Diana said confidently of the attacker at the church. “And I’d wager that he was no Mancini. He could have killed me when I fell into the pool, but he hesitated and lost his chance. Mancini would never have lost his nerve that way.”

“You were chasing him with a gun. He might have just been defending himself.”

Diana considered that. “You have a good point. His motive seemed to be escape, not homicide. Yet there can be little doubt he was following us. To what end if not to do me harm? No one would send a man such as him to act as a spy. Not with such a notable affliction. He must have been acting alone.”

Siobhan frowned. “It has not even been forty-eight hours since that sister died. How could you have made so many enemies so quickly?”

“There must be multiple parties involved in the nun’s death…and my mother’s.” She went silent. What had her mother gotten involved in? How had neither she nor her father detected any hint of what had been going on?

The Byzantine slave Agathi appeared at her doorway. “I beg your pardon for the intrusion, lady,” the old woman intoned, “but there is a gendarme at the door asking for you. He told me that your presence has been requested by Signore Machiavelli.” She hovered by the door waiting for instructions.

“Tell him we’ll be right down.” She gave Siobhan a meaningful look. “You better fetch my warmest coat. I wonder what’s gone wrong now.”

The gendarme was a tall young lad disinclined to answer questions. From his demeanor, Diana guessed she was not in personal trouble. That was good at least. Silently, he led her and Siobhan south to the banks of the Arno. The wind had picked up, blowing dry flakes of snow into her face. She wrapped her coat tightly around her to keep the worst of the cold away.

At the edge of the Arno she saw a cluster of men gathered, most of them gendarmes. Among them, a frail frame in the midst of the military men, hovered Niccolo, hand ever on his chin. When she drew closer she could see that his expression was grim.

Niccolo looked up at their approach, his eyes locking with Diana’s. “Thank you for coming, Lady Savrano. Who is this that accompanies you?”

“This is my handmaid, Siobhan. She can be trusted.”

Niccolo’s eyes flashed over Siobhan, sizing her up quickly. Diana couldn’t miss the briefest look of doubt on his face before he dismissed the girl. He turned to the Arno and led them closer to the waters. “A gentleman’s body has washed up on the banks. I would like to see if you recognize him. I should warn you that the sight is disturbing.”

Diana instantly thought of her father. Her chest felt like it might split open. When had she last seen him? Not this morning, not since the morning before. She hadn’t even thought to ask of him. Whatever his faults, she couldn’t bear the possibility of losing him so soon after her mother. One balled fist covered her mouth. Siobhan seemed to sense her mood and put one hand against her back as they edged closer. As they drew near to the ragged form deposited among the dead reeds at the river’s edge, Diana breathed a sigh of relief. The form was not that of her father, the frame too short. Whoever it might be, at least it was not he.

The figure lay on his back, splayed open on the ground. No one would have mistaken him for sleeping, even had the weather been pleasant. From the waist up he was bare. His stomach and chest were torn open, the entrails gone, with little remaining of the abdomen but the spine and flaps of skin and gristle. The lungs too were lost, and Diana remarked to herself on the interior structure of the man’s ribs with the little muscles running back and forth between the bony cage. A deflated sack of a heart lingered and some other unidentifiable bits of organs. A pair of ragged pants hung just below his pelvic bones, the upper portions of which were visible through the viscera of what remained of his abdomen. His feet were bare, pale, shriveled. His hands were up at the level of his head as if he were surrendering at war. The fingers were limp, scraped and torn. His eyes were closed, head lolling to one side, mouth opened and black tongue protruding. There was a groove in the skin around his neck. Aside from the damage to his gut, his body retained otherwise fair condition. Diana guessed he hadn’t been in the water long.

“Do you recognize him?” Niccolo asked.

“Should I?” Diana inquired. It was difficult to tell. The man’s flesh sagged, the face battered a bit, perhaps from rocks or debris in the river.

“He was found with a scroll tube tied round his neck. Inside was a note addressed to you.”

She looked at Niccolo with wide eyes. He didn’t acknowledge her though, staring intently at the body. She looked at the carcass more carefully. It didn’t bother her to see the human form in this condition. If anything, the anatomy fascinated her. Still she felt bad for the poor fellow. She stared intently at the face. “I recognize him,” she declared at last. “He is the innkeeper of a place called the Romancier. I don’t know his name.”

“I agree,” declared Siobhan beside her. Diana realized the other young woman had never left her side. The sight of the body evidently didn’t bother her terribly either, as the Irishwoman didn’t look away.

Niccolo pulled at his chin and gave her a long hard stare. “This innkeeper is involved in your mother’s death?”

“I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. More likely, she figured, his death was simply payback for letting them into Mancini’s room. She couldn’t be sure, though.

“You don’t seem entirely surprised to see him here, though, do you?” His voice took a hard edge.

Diana remained quiet, her silence giving him the answer. She didn’t look away, meeting his stare until his eyes dropped. She wasn’t about to hand over to him every bit of information she had, not knowing his agenda. She doubted he’d tell her everything he knew either. “Can I see the letter?” she asked finally.

One hand reached into his coat and retracted a thin bone scroll case. He passed this to her without a word. She took it in her cold numbed hands, turning it over and over. It was an unremarkable bone case, the sort a courier might use to protect a message from moisture. The ends had been covered and sealed with a kind of hard wax. One of these ends was now open, and Diana slipped the parchment within into her hand.

The scroll was of rough parchment, poor quality. She unfurled it. The script was elegant with looping curves and dramatic flourishes, broad lines crossing through or underlying entire passages. It was the writings of someone well educated. The missive read:

“Diana Savrano:

You are quite clever by half. Will you laugh over this man’s fate while you and the Devil dine together on his entrails? Mourn your dead, Diana, no more should die. Your mother’s soul already burns in Hell. Seek not comfort in the bosom of the Dark God. An angel watches over your shoulder, ready to guide you to Heaven or to strike you down as your mother was struck down. Persist in consorting with the unwashed souls of sinners and her fate will be yours. Her imperfection runs through you like a crack in marble. I pray, we all pray in unison for your soul. We watch you, we pray for you, and we will be that angel to strike you down if you remain unsaved. Walk down the unholy path no longer, seek solace in the arms of Lucifer and you shall be safe. Alone you must certainly die and burn forever in desolation, lost to God’s love.

Blessed in the name of the Lightbringer,

SCA”

Diana folded the parchment in half, and slipped it back into the case. She ran her tongue over her front teeth. She passed the bone case back to Niccolo and he took it without looking at her. “It’s not Mancini,” she said at last. When Niccolo didn’t respond, she added, “We went to see him, confront him. We tricked the innkeeper into showing us his room. Mancini is a cold-blooded killer but he’s not—whatever it is that would make someone write a note such as that.”

Niccolo looked at her at last. “You didn’t tell me you confronted Mancini.”

Diana struck a defiant tone. “I figured you would have heard on your own.” Her blood raged hard through her veins. She felt a pain in her head as her thoughts pushed out against her skull, threatening to tear her mind apart. She wanted to lash out and Niccolo was the obvious target. “I imagine you have your spies keeping watch on me, don’t you?”

“If I had the authority to do so I would, but I do not. My resources are limited, Lady.” His tone was unapologetic.

“You want me to trust you, even while you treat me as an enemy of the Republic.” Niccolo’s face remained calm, though stern. She felt an urge to strike him, if only to make him share some of her agitation.

“My only thought was for your safety, Lady Savrano.”

She breathed out a long cone of cold through her teeth. “The words on the page are those of a religious fanatic. I might expect them to be the words of the Mad Friar Savonarola himself, were they not burdened by the name of Satan.”

Niccolo blinked at the friar’s name. “If it is Savonarola who opposes you, you’ll burn in the Piazza delle Signoria before the week is out if you persist. We must both hope that you are wrong in any such suspicion.”

She scratched the side of her head with her cold fingers. Looking at him askance, she told him. “There was a man today at the church at Piazza Madonna delle Grazie. He followed me. Disease disfigured his face, the lips damaged, his teeth like the tusks of a boar. Do you know of such a man in Firenze?”

He frowned. “A man with the face of a boar?” He thought for a moment. “Dear Lady, I think I may know the man of whom you speak. I’ll go to confront him at once.” He called out to several of his gendarmes, who came to his side. He turned to her again, his face softer now. “I truly am on your side, Lady Savrano. I wish you could believe that.”

She nodded, eyes averted. She wished she could believe that too.

As he led away the little group, he and two of his gendarmes, with herself and Siobhan in tow, Diana managed to feel a little burst of hope. Niccolo looked to know the man with the diseased mouth. If he was correct about the man’s identity, perhaps they would finally make some progress. Perhaps she would finally have some answers on the circumstances of her mother’s death. With that hope in mind, she dared to trust Niccolo, if only for this moment.

The home at which they stopped was a modest palazzo not far north of the Arno. The building was old and in need of repair, but it nonetheless spoke to the repute of the family in residence. Two lamps were kept lit outside the main door, above which the family crest of a man’s arm holding a holly branch was emblazoned. Aside from this there was little sign of life. Evening fell, the sun having disappeared, and on such a cold night the street stood empty.

Niccolo went to the door and knocked loudly. Within seconds, an attendant answered and exchanged words with Niccolo. The door closed momentarily and more waiting ensued. Niccolo shuffled his feet without a word; the gendarmes stood by silently. Diana kept to the back with Siobhan, not quite sure what her role was in this. Was she expected to accuse the Boar of following her to his face?

A moment later the door opened once more and an elderly man with a skeletal frame and a shock of white hair stood waiting.

“Signore Benedetto,” Niccolo demanded. “I am here to speak to your son.”

“My s-son?” the old man stammered. “He has done nothing wrong. What would you want with him?”

Diana watched the exchange with curiosity. The old man, frail though he was, spread his body across the threshold, blocking entry. The gesture was defensive, and not that of a man who believed in his son’s innocence. Her heart beat fast again, but she was glad for once to let someone else take charge.

“I must insist on having words with him,” Niccolo replied. “Stand aside or I will have the gendarmes move you.”

Above, the sound of scraping across roof tiles made Diana look up. A shadow disappeared behind a stone chimney. A moment later it reappeared, sailing like a bat across the space between two stone palazzos. “There!” Diana pointed toward the sky. “He flees across the rooftops!”

“Damn!” Niccolo hissed. “Get him!”

The gendarmes rushed off immediately, intent on tracking the dark figure above. Diana could see it would be hopeless. She had already lost track of the shadow herself.

Niccolo pushed the old man aside roughly and entered his home. “You could burn for this,” he growled as he moved inside.

Diana followed, moving past the shaking old man. She looked at him from the corner of her eyes. He did not meet her gaze, only staring at the floor, one hand clutched to his heart. The poor old fool worried for his son, she could guess easily enough. Perhaps he might even know that his son was a murderer. An odd sense of sympathy washed over her, yet she pushed it immediately from her mind.

She looked around the entrance hall. Above, a host of anguished painted angels emerged from darkened clouds to do battle with red skinned devils that rose up from a crack in the Earth. A host of nude mortals cowered in fear at the sight of the heavenly war. With Siobhan behind her, Diana felt unusually conscious of the painting, something she would have taken for granted in another time. The entire lives of the Firenzians were observed by these silent visitors.

Niccolo returned to the old man and took up his collar in one fist. “Where are his rooms?”

The old man shrank back, one armed raised up over his face. “Up the staircase, to the right.”

Niccolo tossed the man aside and strode for the broad stone stairs. Diana followed once again, her feet disappearing in the thick carpets that covered the stone. A moment later they had the door opened before them.

The quarters of Benedetto’s son were small and, on first glance, unremarkable. The bed, though a four-poster, was small and unmade. The mural on the ceiling showed a scene of the Last Supper, with the apostles gathered around the figure of Christ. Squinting, Diana noted that the paint had been scratched away from all of their eyes aside from Judas. On a table by an open window, a thick candle still burned, its flame resisting the onslaught from the cold night air. A book stood open on the desk, a dull quill cast aside beyond it.

Niccolo looked out the window, head and torso stretching outside. Diana ignored his efforts, turning her attention to the book. The writing was new, as she expected, the page incomplete, a diary. The penmanship was exquisite, loosely flowing and easy to read. She began reading on the open page. “She was there,” the words began, “dark, like a fallen angel, beautiful like a peaceful death. I touched her in the dark, her fear a thing more precious than salvation. I could have killed her, it would have been demanded of me, but she is Isabella’s daughter and I can destroy no part of my beloved Isabella. Sweetest God, what am I to do? What am I to do?”