“One man a week—it’s a heavy load, even for one like Michelotto who likes his work.” A smile for his guard, who looked faintly indignant from his post against the wall. “And I have similar tasks, from time to time, requiring a man of nerve and sharp blades.”

I laughed, swinging my feet above the floor, and the tavernkeeper looked up nervously. “You think that describes me? Nerve and sharp blades?”

“I’ve long had the intention of poaching both for my own service.” Cesare Borgia knocked twice, calling for cards. “Your work has been admirable.”

“My work was bodyguarding. Trailing about after an empty-headed flirt while she read bad poetry and had her hair plaited.” My hand was a measly eleven; Cesare’s twenty-nine. He took his coins back and dealt again.

“I refer to your more . . . private work.”

My fingers stilled on the new cards. What do you know? I thought. Do you know I killed your brother?

Three months had passed since the death of the Duke of Gandia, and no murderer had been found. The Pope had publicly exonerated a variety of candidates such as bitter Giovanni Sforza, who according to common rumor would soon be deprived of his little Borgia wife. Even young Joffre Borgia had been exonerated, since he was widely bandied through Rome as a possible fratricide thanks to Juan’s liaison with the Tart of Aragon. But no killer had been arrested, and three months later the scent would seem to be cold. The gossips of Rome had found other things to talk about.

But Cesare Borgia’s eyes glittered at me through the eye holes of the black mask, and I felt the old stirring of interest at a puzzle to solve. Did he know? Cesare had had no love for his brother—but for daring to lay a finger on any Borgia, I would find myself on the rack or the strappado.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps I would only be offered a job.

“You think I wish to make a career killing your enemies for you, Eminence?” I said at last. “I make a fair enough living here from cards.”

“A dull living.”

“A safer one. Drunks are not nearly so dangerous as the kind of men you play your games with.”

“And don’t you miss those games?” He stretched his arms out across the wooden back of his chair. “The hunt? The chase? The kill in the dark? The look in their eyes when they realize they cannot escape you?”

What do you know? my thoughts whispered at him.

Maybe nothing, his whispered back. Maybe everything.

I could find out, if I worked for him. Perhaps. A new puzzle, and truth was I’d been bored these past months for lack of puzzles. Though playing that game with Cesare Borgia would be a great deal more dangerous than playing it with Juan.