The Warring States (The Wave Trilogy) - By Aidan Harte Page 0,158

of the surrounding towers.

‘Hear that?’ Uggeri taunted. ‘Now he says we can’t freely assemble. That’s how tyranny starts.’

Geta turned away in exasperation. Many of the condottieri were eagerly waiting for the order to advance. This fight had been a long time coming.

‘Can’t let them laugh in our faces,’ said Becket.

Geta looked at him. ‘It’s better than the alternative.’

Yuri relaxed a little, and Geta smiled slowly. ‘Keeping the peace isn’t something I have much experience with. What do you advise, Russ?’

‘He wants a fight, that boy.’ Yuri shrugged. ‘Let him talk. Let them march. They get tire soon.’

When Geta’s men retreated across the bridge, there was loud cheering, cries of Forza Rasenna! and Small People. The crowd proceeded to occupy the bridge and, when the condottieri didn’t stop them, they grew bolder and spilled into Piazza Luna to assemble in front of the Signoria.

Watching all this from behind the fortezza’s crenellations, Geta spoke seriously to his fiancée and future father-in-law. ‘Best you two stay southside tonight. Mobs do things individuals would never think of.’

‘Fine thing,’ Fabbro said bullishly, ‘a gonfaloniere afraid of those whose flag he bears! I’m going home. The day I need protection from Rasenneisi, I hope they do kill me.’

‘I’m coming with you, Papa.’

‘Your place is here.’ Fabbro took her hand and placed it in Geta’s. ‘With your betrothed.’

The dark night that followed was tense and full of wind and alarums. In spite of his bluff façade, Fabbro was shaken by the aggressiveness of the bandieratori in Piazza Stella, and he instructed the servants to allow entry to no one but family. The storm damped the enthusiasm of the demonstrators, and as Yuri had predicted, they soon returned to their towers.

In the crisp morning light, Bocca came calling at Palazzo Bombelli, eager to discuss the situation with the gonfaloniere: the brewer wanted to know when he could open his tavern again. He was surprised and somewhat alarmed to find the palazzo’s great door open and unattended. He crept in to the atrium, treading lightly and feeling like an interloper, but he felt a wave of relief as he entered the courtyard and saw Bombelli’s bulk sitting at his banco.

‘Counting money all night’s a capital way to ruin your eyesight.’ He walked cheerfully up and slapped Fabbro’s shoulder. ‘Nothing can buy that back – unh!’

Bombelli’s head lolled back. Pushed into his eyes were two Concordian pennies and a bandieratori dagger pinned a large promissory cheque to his chest. On it was scrawled a single word: TRAITOR.

The brewer backed away, too scared to scream. The sensible thing would be to quietly alert the Podesta, but on his way out Bocca tripped over the butler’s body. It was the last straw. He scrambled to his feet and ran across the bridge screaming, ‘Assassins!’

By the time Geta arrived the palazzo had been thoroughly ransacked and the treasures of the workshop stolen. The looters fled from the condottieri, spreading their madness all over the northern city. Pedro was working on the orphanage when the riot erupted, and when he heard what the spark had been, he threw down his tools – the Sisters could defend themselves better than most bandieratori, and his engineers had nothing to interest a mob – that and a lingering suspicion would kept them safe. As he ran to Palazzo Bombelli he saw the chaos and entered the gutted palazzo in trepidation. It was impossible. How could Fabbro Bombelli be still? He of all people? His Godfather had been the one person alive when Rasenna was at its deadest. There was no force able to affect so great a change.

But there he was.

Pedro was surprised that the first thought that struck him was that Fabbro had become remarkably fat. In life he had never seemed so ponderous. Carefully, Pedro removed the pennies and closed his staring eyes.

‘You’ve come to rob us too?’

Maddalena’s hair was streaked and wet, her skin glistened with sweat, her glaring eyes were ringed with dark shadows. She stalked around the banco, looking at him like a rabid animal, hatefully, fearfully.

‘Maddalena, I’m so sorry.’

‘What for? You’ve sought this all along.’

‘How can you say that?’

‘That knife is Uggeri’s.’

‘You can’t be su—’

‘And you helped put it there! Out of my house! Get out! Get out!’

Uggeri found the mood in Piazza Stella dangerously festive. The gonfaloniere was the city’s flag-bearer, and until someone else took up that flag, there was no law. The north smouldered and the south sank into silence. Geta’s men were discreet, at least, forbidden to