“We can’t follow the Duke of Gandia now,” Bartolomeo was groaning. “Marco will say I attacked him. When he finds out Juan Borgia was beaten, too, he’ll assume I—”

“If Marco Santini lives, or at least lives long enough to talk, all he knows is that the Duke of Gandia left him to go see a mistress.” I cut Bartolomeo off before he could panic any further. “And then you came along, and the two of you got into a fight over a girl. I’ll act as witness, and threaten to have him arrested for drawing the knife on you. I’ll threaten to get him hanged for attempting murder, unless he leaves Rome. He’ll be too terrified to open his mouth about Juan Borgia.”

“But—”

“No buts!” I should have been frightened—already the plan had deviated, and that wasn’t good, but improvisation in danger had always been a gift of mine, and mainly what I felt was focus. I was coming for Juan Borgia, whether the plan blew apart or not. “You want to go back and fan Marco Santini’s brow till he wakes up, boy?” I seized Bartolomeo’s arm and lowered my voice to a steel-hard growl. “Or do you want a chance to beat the Duke of Gandia bloody, like we planned? We won’t get another opportunity like this, so make up your mind!”

Bartolomeo gulped. “Blessed Mother of Mercy, forgive me,” he muttered, crossing himself, but broke into a jog beside me as I plunged into the dark after Juan Borgia.

Good boy, I thought, but didn’t say it.

The circuitous route Bartolomeo had given to the Duke of Gandia took him looping back on his own footsteps—an absurd route, really, but young men love to feel they are being covert. “Must make sure we aren’t followed,” Bartolomeo said through his mask when he whispered the directions, and the Duke had breathed, “Of course.” Really the route was designed to buy time, time for us to deal with Marco Santini. We’d wasted more time than I liked; I had to run hard to close the gap, and the twisted muscles of my thighs stabbed like knives. But Juan Borgia rode on a long rein, taking his time on his ambling stallion, and though my heart throbbed in my throat, it wasn’t long before we caught up with him. I would have been looking about me constantly in such dangerous streets, but Juan whistled a cheery little tune and never looked back to spot me sliding along through the shadows behind him like a fish. He was a dreaming idiot, and I dearly hoped no footpads would realize what an easy mark he was and take him down before I had my chance.