It had only taken a few hints, one wrong word in the right ear, to rekindle the constantly smouldering hatred between the followers of the Guelfs and the Ghibellines of Verona. The black-clad figure, huddled in the deep leafy shade of a poplar tree, listened to the clashing of swords. Desolate roars echoed from the facades of the houses, the sounds of stamping feet rang out, hoarse cries of pain cut through the night. Hot-blooded young men thrashed at each other to avenge an insult that had never existed.
The dark one laughed silently to himself and straightened up. He reached for the rope hanging from the poplar that towered over the masonry. In soft shoes, he ran up the wall. At the top, he used the momentum to heave his whole body onto the top of the wall. Lying flat on the wall, he pulled the rope up to him and let it slide down the other side. The half moon provided enough light to keep the night-silent Via Cappello in view. At the Casa delle Farfalle, Verona's noblest whorehouse, a lavish party had taken place that evening. A night of unbridled pleasures and debauchery, as he had been whispered with pleasurable shudders. The woman on whom his attention was focused had not been able to resist the temptation to enjoy herself with her Benedictine priest, who loved to rage against the sinful desires of the flesh in his sermons.
The thought produced a thin smile. The irony pleased him. To use the priest's own medicine against him ...
The dark one watched as the gate of the Casa delle Farfalle opened and a figure with a hood pulled deep into his face stepped out into the street. Soon Lauds would be held in the monastery, and it was high time for the Father to set off for San Zeno.
Only a little later, the torches next to the gate flickered again in the breeze. The woman slipped through the gate, tugged the hood of her cloak into place, and hurried down the alley with her head bowed. As expected, she had dispensed with a companion. Lying flat on his stomach to hide his silhouette, the dark one watched her until she was barely visible in the deep shadows of the houses. Lithely he straightened up, grabbed a branch of the poplar, shimmied along it until his gloved fingers brushed against the grappling hook. He felt for the rope and slid quickly along it into the darkness until he felt soft, yielding ground beneath his feet. Behind the wall was an enclosed, hedge-lined garden with a fountain. Twenty paces away rose the defiant block of a palazzo. A few days before, he had taken a close look at the property to make sure that the residents had neither guards nor dogs. He would never rely solely on third-hand information. He had personally studied every detail of the compound.
Crouching low, he hurried through the garden to the opposite side of the property. A narrow gate opened silently onto a footpath between two houses. The dark one slipped through and darted forward to the junction of the road. With his back pressed against a house wall, he listened to the staccato of her footsteps coming ever closer. He lowered his eyelids and concentrated on the sounds; the barely audible scrape of her coat across the ground, her soft hissing breath that told him she rarely moved at such a brisk pace. Now her scent wafted in too, a mixture of lavender and musk. She was only a blink away from his hiding place. He cautiously pushed himself a step forward. While he was waiting for the right moment, it occurred to him that he didn't know her name. Usually, he knew such things about his victims. Well, he probably wouldn't have to wait long for word to spread around town about who she was. Not with the creepy find some unlucky person was about to make.
Her shadow darkened the confluence. His arm shot forward, wrapped around her neck like a steel clamp, and yanked her to the ground.
