The Malice of Fortune by Michael Ennis

assistants, followed us only because he did not want to risk that we would learn something he would not.

    For perhaps a mile we followed the tracks toward the distant mountains, always on rolling hills, occasionally crossing a vineyard, the baregrapevines sticking up from the snow like the quills of a porcupine. But mostly we traveled in the darker half-light beneath the ancient oaks. Even where the undergrowth was thick, we did not lose the tracks, our quarry having stayed to the narrow paths made by acorn collectors.
    Chastened by what we had seen in the olive grove, we walked silently. After a time I took Messer Niccolò’s arm and drew him back, so that we fell behind Leonardo and his people. “So you believe it is hardly an accident that peasants found the pieces of these bodies,” I whispered to him. “Do you think they were paid to inform the duke’s people?”
    “It wouldn’t be difficult to persuade them,” Niccolò said into my ear. “This countryside has suffered terribly, with so many soldiers living off it. A quattrino would be enough.”
    “But if the condottieri have done this … I can understand why they might wish to make mischief here, perhaps provoke the pope by murdering a woman connected in some fashion to the assassination of his son.” Again I did not think it wise to reveal that the condottieri had taunted the pope with his dead son’s amulet. Instead I went on: “Presumably that poor woman back there is somehow intended as a similar provocation. But why now, when the condottieri have come to Imola to secure peace?” Indeed I feared I had misjudged this matter entirely.
    “I am not certain all the condottieri want this peace, at least under the present terms. The Orsini, yes. The Vitelli …” Messer Niccolò shrugged as if to say “not so much.” He looked at the ground for several paces before he added, “Every day that passes, the condottieri hire more soldiers. And Valentino divests himself of his mercenaries because he cannot rely on them. I believe the Vitelli want to keep the thistle, let us say, up the pope’s ass, hoping that they can delay the signing and continue to improve their position. Their object, I would think, is not to discard the present treaty entirely but to force the duke to make additional concessions.”
    “What sort of concess—?” I broke off because we had walked nearly onto the heels of Leonardo’s party.
    Giacomo pointed toward a shadowed oak grove off to our left.
    “Have you seen him?” Niccolò said.
    Giacomo dropped his arm in a weary fashion. “He’s gone now.”
    I asked, “Was he on stilts?”
    Giacomo shook his head. “He wore a monk’s cowl.”
    “Did you see his face?”
    Giacomo answered Niccolò with another slight headshake. But then he said, “He had a white beard. Just like a goat.” I would have said Giacomo was fond of these invenzioni , except that he had been correct about the Devil’s footprints, even if they had been a fraud.
    “He resembled a goat,” Leonardo said in a fashion more disdainful than affirming, before he started off again.
    “Carnival stilts. And a Carnival mask,” Niccolò said, giving Giacomo a favoring nod. “We’ll look out for this false Devil.”
    “Yes,” I said. The cold wind blew against my back. “No doubt he is already watching us.”

    The Devil’s tracks at last led us to a large farmhouse constructed of pale clay bricks. The stables were on the ground floor, with the farmer’s lodgings above them. This dwelling was perched on top of a hill overlooking the Santerno River, which made a gurgling sound as it flowed swiftly between steep, rocky banks. The farmhouse and several wooden sheds framed the yard, garden, and pigsty, though neither the herbs nor the mud were in evidence beneath the snow. Nor were any animals present.
    The paired “hoofprints” ended where the snow did, at a dirt-floored porch in front of the stables. Niccolò pointed to the names chalked in rough