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Fiore spent the entire sandolo journey with heart in throat and fist white-knuckled upon the hilt of his rapier. He clenched his jaw against demanding the staff move faster. They well understood the urgency of his mission. There were natural limits to how swiftly a vessel could go through Halcyon’s canals. Still, his mind raced on. Enzo had doubtless already reached Isola dell’Anfiteatro. Perhaps the duel had already begun. Perhaps Enzo had already slain Nascimbene. Or perhaps Nascimbene had already—Fiore shook his head. It didn’t halt his racing thoughts.
The amphitheater loomed on the northern horizon. To the east the sun climbed slowly yet steadily into the sky. Fiore willed the sandolo to fly faster than Phoebus’s chariot. Still he knew nothing approaching relief until the boat’s bow knocked against the island’s dock. He leaped ashore before the gondolier had finished tying off and ran headlong into the amphitheater itself. His footfalls echoed off the empty stone halls beneath the seats.
Until, at last, he stumbled out into the ring.
The sunlight stung his eyes after the relative darkness of the stone tunnels. The vast field lay empty save for a few indistinct figures silhouetted against the dawn. They came into focus as Fiore staggered toward them.
With a jolt he recognized the beaked masks and glinting glass eyes of two chirurgeons. Which one was Dr Malvestio and which belonged to Nascimbene he couldn’t discern; their garb rendered them identical.
Two figures remained. One was Nascimbene himself. Even when Fiore expected to see him, the sight still gave him a nasty shock, like an icicle driven into his spine. The other figure remained a stranger. Not Enzo.
Which was really the only thing that mattered.
Enzo wasn’t here. Or if he was, he wasn’t able to stand upright.
All the panic Fiore had held off until this point threatened to overwhelm him. Had they already dueled? Had Enzo lost? Was he wounded—dead?
The gathered four took notice of him at last. One of the chirurgeons approached.
Without thinking, Fiore braced to draw his rapier.
“Is his grace the duke with you?” Dr Malvestio’s voice emerged from beak.
A spark of hope cut through the overwhelming tide of Fiore’s panic. “No. Is he not here?”
“No,” Dr Malvestio replied.
The wave of relief that ought to have washed over Fiore only served to buoy his nerves to unforeseen heights. “You’ve not seen him? They’ve not dueled?”
“No, and no.” Dr Malvestio hesitated. “Do you know where he is?”
Fiore shook his head.
By this point the stranger had approached as well.
“Forgive my interruption,” he said. “Bonato at your service. I am Maestro Nascimbene’s second.”
He was a tall, well-built man around Fiore’s own age. A ballerino, if Fiore had to guess, by his powerful frame and his proximity to Nascimbene. His confidante, perhaps. Maybe even his lover. Or merely whoever stood to inherit the post of impresario in his stead. It mattered not.
“Has his grace the duke sent you to broker peace?” Bonato asked.
Fiore stared. A strangled laugh escaped his throat. He strode past him
Nascimbene and his chirurgeon stood together in close conversation. Fiore wondered if it was the same chirurgeon who’d attempted to castrate him. There was no real way to tell; the chirurgeon then had been masked, just as this chirurgeon was now, and as all chirurgeons were throughout the city. Yet still Fiore wondered. Both ceased talking as Fiore drew up to them.
“Where is the duke?” Fiore demanded.
Nascimbene swept him up and down with white-rimmed eyes. Still his voice emerged arch and cold. “Not here.”
Fiore wondered if Nascimbene and his cohorts had somehow overpowered Enzo and hidden him away. But surely Dr Malvestio would’ve intervened. And no one would dare attack the prince’s brother direct. “How long are you willing to wait for him?”
“If he does not arrive within the hour, then it is forfeit.”
Fiore would’ve gladly waited an eternity if he only knew he would see his Enzo at the end of it. “Very well. I am the duke’s second. If he does not arrive, I am prepared to duel you in his stead.”
Nascimbene balked. “To the death?”
A gallows grin spread across Fiore’s face. “Of course.”
