The Moor still seemed more than a little dazed, and although the words he was saying fit Iago’s plan, there was a listlessness about him and again Iago thought it might have been better for everyone if he had just dirked Othello in the dark and cried bloody murder at Cassio’s door.

“Go now, my lord. Before she is able to gather her things from the Citadel and flee.”

“I am for her, and surely she is as doomed as she is damned. Where is my sword?”

“Here it is, my lord. Go, and do not let her say a word in explanation. Hear not a word of her pleas for mercy, for she has wormed her way into your heart and you will lose your resolve. Choke off her lying words as you choke the life from her lying body.”

“I will!” And the Moor sat up, wheeled on the bed until his feet were on the floor, then stood, snatched his sword and scabbard from Iago, and with a bit of a wobble strode out the door.

Iago, now quite amazed by how well that had gone, thought it might be better if he were far away from the Citadel when the Moor killed Desdemona. He could enter the castle a short time later, pretend to be shocked at the carnage, then amid the panic and despair, be the calm presence of command, summon the entire watch and arrest the Moor, with a great show of compassion and justice, and fit his feet most naturally into the general’s shoes. The confirmation from Venice and the council would be only a formality. And if the Moor resisted, if he raged beyond his lady’s bedchamber, well, a half dozen guards with spears would take down even the finest Moorish swordsman.

For now, he would go to the harbor and pretend to inspect some ships, ask about rigging and weaponry, make himself enough of a nuisance that everyone would remember where he was when the Moor made his murder.

He headed out of the inn and had not passed four doors down the lane when he came face-to-face with a cohort of Venetians, the one most formally dressed in purple silks and a hat with a long ostrich feather trailing it leading them in determined stride.

“You, soldier,” he called. “I saw you come out of the inn. We were told we would find General Othello there. Have you seen him?”

He was from the senate, no doubt, just the way he dressed and spoke, and so, so far away from Venice, his stylish pomposity made him look quite the clown, Iago thought.

“I am Othello’s lieutenant, signor. Iago DiFuretto, at your service. Othello was here earlier, but he left some time ago. I would look for him at the harbor. I’m going there myself. I can lead you if you’d like.”