The Prince(19)

It was a clever ruse.

Water masked the stranger’s scent. The river, although shallow, provided adequate protection from the sun during the day. There was the small matter of oxygen, but their kind barely needed to breathe. Ibarra surmised the Venetian was able to surface beneath the shade of the bridge during the day and draw air before sinking to the bottom once again.

But no more.

The new head of security had found him and was waiting patiently for him to come out. Just as the last rays of the setting sun faded from the city, he did just that.

Ibarra watched as a man dressed in dark clothes and carrying a sword emerged from the water. The figure quickly scanned the area, tipping his nose into the air and closing his eyes as if to scent out any predators. Seemingly satisfied he was alone, he climbed the underside of the bridge and heaved himself onto the road.

Quickly, Ibarra opened the window to the apartment and leapt to the ground, withdrawing his sword as he landed.

The Venetian’s head came up. His gaze darted in Ibarra’s direction.

When he caught sight of the Basque he cursed, breaking into a run. He crossed the bridge and headed toward Santo Spirito, on the south side of the Arno.

Ibarra followed at a high rate of speed, climbing a building near the bridge. From the vantage point of the roof he caught sight of his prey escaping into a side street.

The Basque crossed to the roof of the next building, continuing to monitor the Venetian’s progress.

The failed assassin wheeled around a corner, coming perilously close to the holy ground of a church. Ibarra watched with silent amusement as the man paused, momentarily confused, before making a hard left and entering Piazza Santo Spirito.

Ibarra jumped to the pavement, pursuing him across the Piazza and into an alley.

The Venetian skidded to a stop the moment he realized the alley was blind.

Ibarra stood behind him at the mouth of the alley, wielding his sword.

The Venetian glimpsed Ibarra over his shoulder, then ran for the wall opposite and began to climb.

The Basque flew toward him and grabbed his clothes, tossing him to the ground.

The would-be assassin landed hard, a loud oath escaping his lips. But he did not drop his sword.

Ibarra stood over him, speaking in Basque-accented Italian. “Surrender and I shall be merciful.”

The Venetian looked around, measuring the distance to the street.

Ibarra took that opportunity to focus on his scent. “You haven’t fed in some time. You must be hungry. I will ensure you’re given food.”

The Venetian stumbled to his feet, waving his sword in front of Ibarra’s midsection. His eyes flickered from place to place, weighing his options.

“Our Prince is dead. You’re the only assassin who survived. The entire principality is hunting you and the others will kill you when they find you.”

The Venetian’s expression changed, but only momentarily. He hadn’t heard the assassination had been successful or that his entire team had been killed. And he didn’t appear to trust Ibarra’s word.

The Basque smiled.

“It’s clear you’re courageous, but don’t let your courage become folly. You’re friendless, alone, and far from home. I will see that you are fed and given shelter. Put down your sword.”

The Venetian lifted his weapon still higher.

Ibarra whistled softly, shaking his head.

“Why would Marcus send someone your age to assassinate an old one? Doesn’t he have other, better soldiers? Or does Venice intend to wage war against us with an army of younglings?”

The young Venetian’s eyes fixed on his.

Ibarra’s smile widened.

“Ah, so Marcus didn’t tell you our Prince was an old one.” He swung his sword with a flourish. “Still, you should have studied your history. Our Prince ruled Florence for centuries. Although I can’t swear to his exact age when he was killed, it’s clear he was one of the oldest in Italy.”

Something remarkably like surprise flashed across the Venetian’s face.

Ibarra’s smile faded. He moved a step closer.

“They say Marcus is a tyrant. Is he worth dying for?”

The Venetian gripped his sword with two hands, swinging it at Ibarra’s head.

Ibarra ducked, swiping his weapon at the Venetian’s feet and knocking him over.

The Venetian toppled to the ground, still clinging to his sword.

Ibarra stomped on his hand and the Venetian cried out in pain, releasing the weapon.

The Basque placed the tip of his sword underneath the Venetian’s chin, lifting it.

“I see that Venetians are loyal, but not intelligent.

“I’m older than you by at least a century, perhaps two. I’m stronger, faster, and more difficult to kill. You won’t best me in a swordfight, even if you weren’t weak from lack of food.”