10 Dell’este
10
Dell’este tapped the sheet of paper. “Well, Antimo? How do you assess this?”
Bartelozzi said nothing. Just looked, unblinking, at the duke. A lesser master might have taken it for insolence. The Old Fox knew better. Antimo Bartelozzi always considered his answers very carefully; that was just his manner.
The duke waited.
Bartelozzi tugged his ear. “Caesare Aldanto overstates his importance in caring for the boys. But basically he is being accurate.”
The old duke sighed. “Grandchildren are for spoiling and dandling on your knee, Antimo.” For a moment he paused, allowing—once again, as he had time after time since Antimo brought him the news—joy and relief to wash through him.
But the pause was brief. The grandfather was disciplined by the duke. “These two are not grandchildren,” he said harshly. “They are Dell’este bloodline. If they survive.”
“You could bring them home, my lord,” said the agent, quietly. “As I suggested once before.”
Duke Dell’este shook his head grimly. “For a first thing, they may well be safer hidden in Venice. For a second, the Dell’este bloodline is like steel. Steel needs to be tempered to both harden it and make it flexible. It must be heated, hammered and quenched.” He took a deep breath. “Some steel becomes the stuff of great swords. But if the alloy is not a good one, if it is not tempered between the furnace and ice, then you must throw it away because it is worthless.”
Bartelozzi looked at the report on the desk. “By the part about the Jesolo marshes, written in Marco’s hand, he’s been through the fire. Young Benito has I think also been tested, perhaps not so hard. They’re only fourteen and sixteen years old.”
The duke shrugged. “Different alloys take heat differently; age has nothing to do with it. And I’m worried more about the younger than the older, anyway. Marco’s father was a Valdosta. Benito is Carlo Sforza’s son. They don’t call Sforza the ‘Wolf of the North’ for nothing, Antimo. Between that savage blood and his mother’s . . . recklessness, it remains to be seen how Benito will turn out.”
The duke’s eyes wandered to the sword-rack on the wall, coming to rest on the blades set aside for his youngest grandson.
Dell’este tapped the sheet of paper. “Well, Antimo? How do you assess this?”
Bartelozzi said nothing. Just looked, unblinking, at the duke. A lesser master might have taken it for insolence. The Old Fox knew better. Antimo Bartelozzi always considered his answers very carefully; that was just his manner.
The duke waited.
Bartelozzi tugged his ear. “Caesare Aldanto overstates his importance in caring for the boys. But basically he is being accurate.”
The old duke sighed. “Grandchildren are for spoiling and dandling on your knee, Antimo.” For a moment he paused, allowing—once again, as he had time after time since Antimo brought him the news—joy and relief to wash through him.
But the pause was brief. The grandfather was disciplined by the duke. “These two are not grandchildren,” he said harshly. “They are Dell’este bloodline. If they survive.”
“You could bring them home, my lord,” said the agent, quietly. “As I suggested once before.”
Duke Dell’este shook his head grimly. “For a first thing, they may well be safer hidden in Venice. For a second, the Dell’este bloodline is like steel. Steel needs to be tempered to both harden it and make it flexible. It must be heated, hammered and quenched.” He took a deep breath. “Some steel becomes the stuff of great swords. But if the alloy is not a good one, if it is not tempered between the furnace and ice, then you must throw it away because it is worthless.”
Bartelozzi looked at the report on the desk. “By the part about the Jesolo marshes, written in Marco’s hand, he’s been through the fire. Young Benito has I think also been tested, perhaps not so hard. They’re only fourteen and sixteen years old.”
The duke shrugged. “Different alloys take heat differently; age has nothing to do with it. And I’m worried more about the younger than the older, anyway. Marco’s father was a Valdosta. Benito is Carlo Sforza’s son. They don’t call Sforza the ‘Wolf of the North’ for nothing, Antimo. Between that savage blood and his mother’s . . . recklessness, it remains to be seen how Benito will turn out.”
The duke’s eyes wandered to the sword-rack on the wall, coming to rest on the blades set aside for his youngest grandson.