The Master of Verona

The front of the house had torches burning, and Ciolo passed through the flickering light, walking drunkenly in case anyone was watching. He'd been told there was no possible entrance from the ground, so he didn't waste time looking for one. Instead, he circled the block until he came to a three-story wall outside a dyeyard. The wall's covering plaster had worn away at the street level, showing a mix of round stones and proper bricks. It was dark in this street, the light from the stars the only illumination. Still playing the drunkard, Ciolo loosened the points on his hose and relieved himself against the wall. Pretending to lean heavily with his free hand, his questing fingers found the promised holds. Readjusting his points, he rubbed his hands together and, with a quick glance around, he began his ascent.

Along the top were curved spikes to keep intruders out of the dyeyard. But Ciolo didn't want in. He wanted passage. Reaching up one hand he carefully wrapped his fingers around the inch-thick base of the spike. He didn't put much pressure on it at first. It might be sharpened along its whole length, not just at the curve. But in this too his instructions were accurate. The flat edges of the spike were dull. Ciolo gripped the spike harder, praying it would bear his whole weight.

It did. Feet dangling, he swung his free hand up to grasp the next spike. Then the next. Hand over hand he passed down the row of spikes, around the shadowed corner between two houses.

By now his breath was coming hard, his hands and shoulders aching sourly. But he only had another half length of wall to travel. He started on it, then froze as a noise came from the house behind him. Did they have dogs? Or worse, geese? Pressing himself against the high wall, feeling his sweaty fingers slipping, wishing for a cloud to hide the stars and plunge him into deeper shadow, Ciolo listened.

Change to: It was a child. A child's cry in the night. Unattended, it went uncomforted. Unprotected.

In a perfect world he could have waited for the child to sleep again. But his hands were losing their strength. He continued quickly down the final length of the wall, mouthing foul pleas not to slip. The next move was tricky — he had to twist around until he was hanging with his back against the high wall and leap to a window across the four-foot divide. He doubled up his grip with his one hand, then twisted around and threw out his free hand. It brushed past one bar but firmly found the next. Hanging now with his back to the dyer's wall, he faced his target. The arched window was open, the wooden door swung wide. Knowing the longer he waited the worse his nerves would get, Ciolo curled his feet up, released the bars, and kicked off hard.

His ribs banged against the windowsill and he hit his chin as he began to slip. Flinging his arms wide, he pressed his elbows against the inside walls. Feet scrambling, he pulled himself awkwardly over the sill and into the house. Graceless, but successful.

Crouching low, Ciolo found himself in a long hall, narrow, with a pair of doors on each side. He squinted until he was sure all the doors were closed. He felt like his breathing was making more noise than a bellows. If someone found him now he would be useless, his arms were shaking so fiercely.

But no alarums. No sound but the child. Ciolo flexed and stretched, each second gaining him another breath, each breath easing his beating heart. His eyes began to play tricks on him in the dark. Twice he swore he saw movement at the far end of the hall. But each time he was wrong. Or hoped he was.

After two or three minutes of watching from the shadowy corner by the window, Ciolo was as ready as he was likely to be. His right hand dropped to his left hip. Gripping the leather-wrapped hilt, he withdrew a dagger nine inches long.

Keeping well out of the faint light coming in the window, he made his way down the hall. The house plan Ciolo had memorized indicated he had not far to go. Down this hall, a right turn into a grand room, and up a single flight to a double door. Simple.

The hallway was tiled and clear of rushes. Ciolo placed first one foot, then another, so much on his toes that his boot heels hardly brushed the floor. He came to a pair of doors facing each other. Both were closed. Holding his breath, he picked up the pace past them. Nothing leapt out at him and he sighed, then instantly cursed himself for the noise.

The second pair of doors were also closed. Again, everything was proceeding as planned. He forced himself to stop and listen. One flight up the infant was still making noise, but the rest of the house was still.

Fortune favors the bold, thought Ciolo. He crept around the corner, feeling along the wall for the beginning of the stairs. Tripping would be bad. Most stairs creak at the middle, so Ciolo kept his weight to the far outsides of each step where the wood was unlikely to bend.