“An accomplice.” I hesitated, and the wrist knife wobbled as I flicked it away and missed the target altogether. I could see no way to spring an ambush like this without a second pair of arms. Strong arms, too, because Juan would need to be dragged from his horse and bound securely. I was stronger than I looked, but I could not haul a full-grown man off a horse, much less if he was struggling.

How hard is it to kill a pope’s son? What do you need to do it?

Will—yes. A site—I had a few places in mind. A lure—that too could be managed, maybe. But an accomplice—that was where my brain stopped. Because I had friends, but no friends I could ask to help in a matter such as this.

Almost I thought of Cesare. He hated his brother, after all, and he lusted for the opportunities that Juan had squandered. And he knew about his little brother’s hobby; Cesare Borgia knew every secret the family had. He hadn’t bothered to expose Juan, of course—any secret against a rival brother would be kept until the day it proved useful.

Might he . . .

No. If Cesare Borgia ever turned Cain against a member of his own family, he would do it for his own reasons. Not merely to avenge a few lowborn serving girls and tavern maids.

The sun was gone by the time I descended from the loggia with my knives sheathed again and my dilemma no nearer a solution. I had missed cena, so I took myself to the warren of small chambers behind the kitchens, looking to find my wounded Signorina Cuoca and perhaps cadge a little food. But I had no answer at her chamber door, and I wandered out to the kitchen courtyard with a shrug. Where I saw a young man standing in the shadows, one elbow propped against the wall and his face buried in his arm as he aimed the other fist over and over, with great softness and precision, into the stones. “I will kill you,” I heard him mutter indistinctly. “I swear to Christ, you filthy whoremonger, I will kill you—”

“Kill who?” I called across the courtyard.

His head jerked up, and I recognized Carmelina’s red-haired apprentice. “What?”

“You seem to be planning violence.” I sauntered closer, watching my shadow dance in the dim light of a rising half moon. “Violence is my business.”

“And my business isn’t yours.” He straightened from the wall, and I could see that his knuckles were bruised from where he’d driven them into the stones. Bruised, but not bloody—even in fury, he was taking great care to save his fists. For a more specific target, I would wager.