it smelled like death – like what he’d smelled back in Serenissima as he lay on the Ponticello di Mille Pietri. He screwed up his nose and picked up his pace. Cristoforo chuckled, understanding what prompted this unexpected burst of speed.
When they reached the tents, Cristoforo stopped. ‘Here we must part.’ He regarded Dante for a moment longer before offering his hand again. Dante clasped it. ‘Buona fortuna. I think you’re going to need it.’
‘Grazie, Signor,’ said Dante, realising he’d been dismissed.
He turned away and ambled back through the tents. At least he’d met one person prepared to talk to him, despite all the secrecy. And he’d learnt some valuable things. He wasn’t to reveal his surname, ask where Riders went when they left camp or about Bonds. Especially about Bonds. But he could ask about partners.
An image of Tallow filled his mind. Her dark tangled hair, those amazing eyes and her soft mouth. He tried to shut her out, but she kept returning, skipping along the edges of his consciousness just as she used to skip along the fondamenta. He smiled. How could he ever have believed Tallow was a boy? He remembered that time back in his uncle’s shop. The way they’d huddled together on the floor, the feel of her slender, firm fingers against the back of his neck, the way she’d looked at him with such longing. Warmth flowed through his body, making him catch his breath. How could he have known she wasn’t?
He also thought of Katina. What commitment did she have to Tallow that she would risk both her reputation and life for the Estrattore? He shook his head. No doubt, he would soon find out.
‘Can’t keep away from trouble, can you?’
Dante pulled up short. To his dismay, the man called Santo strolled towards him, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Dante swallowed. Not only had his walk brought him near the cave entrance, it had taken him into the company of the man who had tried to kill him. He looked around for the guards he’d seen earlier.
‘No-one to help you now, is there, ragazzo,’ spat Santo.
‘Signor, I do not seek trouble,’ said Dante, with a small bow and tried to keep walking. A hand clutched his shoulder and spun him round. A pair of ice-blue eyes glared into his. Santo dug his fingers into Dante’s flesh.
Dante inhaled sharply as the pressure increased. ‘What do you want?’ He refused to be cowed by this man. ‘What have I done to offend you?’
‘Your being here is an offence! Isn’t that enough?’ Santo shoved him hard. Dante staggered and slammed into the granite wall, falling to the ground. He quickly scrambled to his feet, his back burning.
He held his hands up in front of him. ‘Signor. I understand that the Obbligare Doppio is a travesty and I will do all in my power to rectify this as soon as possible.’
Santo sneered. ‘You? You can’t fix anything. You have no power, hear me? You are nothing.’ Trapped against the mountain, Dante saw that Santo blocked his way.
‘Then why are you so afraid of me?’ asked Dante quietly.
Santo’s eyes widened then his face turned red. ‘Why, you little bastardo –’ He began to draw his sword.
‘Santo!’ Another man appeared. It was Stefano. Although he was not quite as tall as Santo, he didn’t exude aggression, and his presence seemed to have a calming effect. Santo pushed his sword back into his scabbard and retreated a couple of steps.
‘What?’
‘What’s going on?’ Dante noticed Stefano’s refined accent, his bearing which – though he may never reveal his surname – indicated breeding.
‘Nothing, amico mio. I was just warning the new Rider to stay clear of the cave. If he doesn’t, he might find himself locked up as well.’
Stefano looked askance at Santo and then nodded his head in Dante’s direction. ‘He’s right, you know. You shouldn’t be around here. Didn’t Debora and Alessandro warn you?’
Before Dante could answer, he continued. ‘Where are they, anyway? New Riders aren’t allowed to just wander around the camp. It’s against the rules.’
More rules, thought Dante. He had so much to learn if he was to survive. This was nothing like he expected. Nothing. ‘I simply went to the stream, to wash.’ He indicated the drying sheet flung over his shoulder and his damp shirt.
Stefano and Santo studied him, their eyes raking him, judging him. He could feel simmering anger and something else behind their gaze.
‘Come on, leave him alone, Santo. This is