“What are you doing?” Bartolomeo whispered fiercely at me from behind his mask. “Bad enough Marco saw me—you insisted we couldn’t show the Duke of Gandia who we were! You said we’d lure him here and blindfold him and give him a beating, but he couldn’t know who it was. He recognizes you now, are you mad? He’ll have you killed when we let him go—”

I spoke softly, under cover of Juan Borgia’s raving. “Here’s the part where I tell you I lied.”

Bartolomeo reared back. “About what?”

“About letting him go.”

Bartolomeo just stared at me through his mask, and I could see the white around his eyes through the eye holes. I looked at him a moment longer, waiting to see if he’d bolt and leave me now, but he continued to stand in horrified silence, and I shrugged and pulled up a chair before Juan Borgia. I listened to the Pope’s son rant for a while, idly flicking my little finger knife back and forth, and when he showed no signs of stopping I slapped him casually across the face like a lackey. That seemed to shock him more than the blood flowing from his legs. He stared at me, and then he began to froth and threaten again. This time I whipped the blade about in a slash that opened a shallow six-inch cut across his thigh; Juan gave a scream, and I motioned Bartolomeo.

“Shut him up, will you?”

Bartolomeo didn’t move. “What else did you lie about?”

“He’s getting more than a beating, I can tell you that. He’s going to answer some questions first.”

“Why?”

“You’re about to find out. Sorry to deceive you, but you wouldn’t have helped me otherwise.” I’d said very little of why I wanted revenge against the Duke of Gandia, only that I had my reasons, and Carmelina’s would-be lover had been too focused on his own reasons for revenge to give a thought for mine. Nor had he questioned my glib assertions that all I intended for Juan Borgia was to drag him off his horse to a prearranged room where we could give him a swift and anonymous beating, and then let him go. “You’re a good boy, but you still have things to learn,” I told my apprentice kindly. “The next time someone talks you into violence, check all the details first. Now, kindly gag that monster in the chair and let me get to work.”

I didn’t know if Bartolomeo would do it—he looked ready to bolt, away from me and my dark lies and my even darker intentions. But I looked at my apprentice, and he looked at me through his mask, and then he came forward silently and stuffed a rag into Juan Borgia’s mouth.