Part 19 (1/2)

Pintaldi threw himself into a chair, and started binding his hand with a scarf.

'I recognized you from the portrait in the gallery, grandfather. You haven't changed that much in sixty years. Still the same Montoni.'

The merchant was confused. He knew he was not this Montoni, and yet, there was something 'The fortune, you say?'

Pintaldi nodded. 'It's vast, by now, the interest compounded since the time of Smarra's father. Unimaginably vast.'

D'Amato tried to imagine an unimaginably vast fortune. He tried to see it in coins. A pile of moneybags the size and shape of a city, or a mountain.

'And, grandfather, I still have my half of the map. It's tattooed on the backs of my children. With your half, the pirate's treasure shall be ours! And d.a.m.n these silly stories about the Black Cygnet's curse!'

Treasure! D'Amato's p.r.i.c.k hardened. Treasure! He looked at the paper from his valise, casually cast aside, and back at Pintaldi. Alert now, he listened. But he didn't mention the half-map he'd found.

'They're plotting all the time. Flaminea, Ravaglioli, Schedoni, all of them. Plotting to cut us out. Vathek is with us, but Valdemar isn't. I can win Christabel round. She likes a handsome face. But Genevieve is a witch. We'll have to kill her.'

He was beginning to follow. 'A witch, yes. A witch.'

'Ambrosio is the real problem. Your brother. Zschokke knows you were exchanged in infancy, and that he is really Montoni and you Ambrosio. But that can be dealt with. You were Montoni when you ran off, when you fathered my father with that bandit queen, when you slew the wood elf who could have given testimony against us.'

Montoni remembered. He had only been using the name of d'Amato as a disguise. He had forgotten, but returning home had brought it all back. The fortune was rightfully his. The treasure was rightfully his. Schedoni and Flaminea were usurpers. Not a coin would go to them.

'Pintaldi, my beloved grandson,' he said, embracing the youth. 'Our cause will prevail.'

Pintaldi cringed, binding his hand tighter.

'We must kill Genevieve. And Ambrosio.'

'Yes,' he said. 'Indeed we must.'

'Tonight.'

'Yes, tonight.'

XX.

The s.p.a.ce was barely two feet high. They were pressed against the floor, and tangled together, their limbs sticking out the wrong way. The ceiling was still coming down.

Kloszowski couldn't take this seriously. It was such a stupid way to die.

'Antonia,' he said, 'I should tell you that I'm a notorious revolutionist, condemned to death throughout the Old World. I'm Prince Kloszowski.'

Her face, near his, smiled feebly.

'I don't care,' she said.

They tried to kiss, but his knee got in the way. Eighteen inches. This was worse than the corpse-cart. The floor was wet. Water was leaking in from somewhere.

He thought of all the things he could have had if he hadn't devoted his life to the cause of the revolution. The approval of the dowager princess, a fine house, quality clothes, a large estate, a pretty wife and wonderful children, accommodating mistresses, an easy life 'If we ever get out of this,' he said, 'I'd like to ask you to'

There was an inrush of air, and the ceiling was withdrawn, hurtling upwards. The wall slid into a slot onto the floor, and there was a clear pa.s.sage ahead.

'Yes?'

Kloszowski couldn't finish his sentence.

'Yes?' said Antonia, her eyes heavy with happy tears.

'I'd like to ask you to to'

The pretty girl's lower lip trembled.

'to get me a couple of complimentary tickets next time you dance. I'm sure you're a wonderful performer.'

Antonia swallowed her evident disappointment, and smiled with her mouth, shrugging her shoulders. She hugged him.

'Yes,' she said, 'sure. Come on, let's get out of these tunnels before anything more happens.'

XXI.

Ravaglioli's stomach felt empty, as if he hadn't eaten for months.

He struggled out of the thick material in which he had been wrapped, and straightened up. Ulric, but his stomach hurt!

He was laid out on a stone table in one of the vaults. He tried to remember what had happened. There had been something in his gruel. He had swallowed something. It was Flaminea, he was sure. She was the poisoner. Pintaldi would have used fire, Christabel her hands.

He staggered across the flagstones, and collapsed against the doorslab. He would have to use all his strength to push it out of the way. Then, he'd find Flaminea and have his revenge.

His wife hated insects, and Ravaglioli knew where he could find a nest of young lashworms. He would take their eggs and force them down her throat, letting them hatch inside her, and eat their way out. That would pay her back.

He pushed against the stone, straining hard. He thought of revenge.