“Yes, my lord.” Niccolò bowed, obviously shaken.
“A member of the Curia infiltrated my city and I was only notified after the man left. Am I to remove you over this offense?” The Prince’s question was not truly a question.
“My lord, I would be in favor of exactly that.” Aoibhe stood, her tone carefully calculated to sound less than triumphant.
“What say you, lieutenant?” The Prince turned his attention to Lorenzo.
Lorenzo bowed, restraining a smile. “Previous security advisers have been beheaded for less, my lord.”
“True.” The Prince’s gaze moved to the French Canadian. “And you, the newest member of our august assembly?”
Stefan stood, nervously rubbing at his chin. “My lord, it would be premature for me to weigh in on such a matter when I don’t know all the facts.”
The Prince’s lips turned up. “I appreciate your candor. You may be seated.”
Stefan bowed and sat down, noticeably relieved.
The Prince regarded Niccolò for a long time. The Florentine was silent and unmoving under his ruler’s watchful gaze. His expression gave away nothing, but closer inspection revealed the closing and opening of his right hand, an expression of nervousness.
The Prince tapped his hand on top of the armrest. “Sir Machiavelli, you’ve served the principality for centuries and have done so honorably. Although it is my right to execute you for your failure, I am excusing you. I need your service to this body and to the principality for a little longer.
“Security has become the responsibility of every citizen. I want the patrol patterns varied and the number of patrols increased. I want everyone, especially the plebes, to be on the highest alert. Nothing is to be done that will incur the Curia’s ire.
“Now that Maximilian and Pierre are in Paris, a diversion should be forthcoming. However, we must prepare ourselves in case they fail.
“Lorenzo and Aoibhe, the Bacchanalia is to be postponed. Perhaps the delay will impress upon everyone the need for increased vigilance. Every citizen is to make preparations for war. The army is to be at its highest readiness.
“This body is dismissed. Lorenzo, I need a word.” The Prince gestured to his lieutenant, nodding absently at the other members as they bowed before taking their leave.
As they approached the door that led to the corridor, Niccolò turned to Aoibhe. “You’ve made a grave mistake.”
She stopped, her pretty face pensive. “Really, Sir Machiavelli? Tell me more.”
He had just opened his mouth to do so when she kicked the side of his knee, felling him. She stood on his forearm with both feet, preventing him from drawing the long sword that he always carried at his side.
“Aoibhe,” the Prince growled, noticing her display of strength.
She forced a smile. “Just a bit of harmless fun, my lord.” She stepped to the side, leaning over her captive with a triumphant look. “You’re getting reckless in your old age, Nick.”
He swept to his feet. “Not likely.”
“I’m more valuable to you as an ally than as an enemy. You’d best remember that, as your list of allies has grown surprisingly short.” She brushed past him, her eyes meeting Stefan’s. Under the intimidating gaze of the much-older vampyre, Stefan dropped his gaze to his feet.
With a pleased toss of her red hair, Aoibhe walked to the exit.
Sir Machiavelli waited until the corridor was empty before slipping into the Prince’s private study, which was located down the hall from the council chamber. Gregor, the Prince’s assistant, was away on an errand and the Prince himself was deep in conversation with his lieutenant down the hall. Now was an excellent time for the head of security to make his move.
Niccolò disliked surprises. He disliked being embarrassed even more. His anger and resentment toward the Prince burned blue. But he’d learned from his conflict with the Medici long ago not to allow his anger to overtake his reason.
He quickly surveyed the contents of the study and moved to the desk, picking up reports and missives, reading them quickly, then returning them to their positions. But there was nothing of interest. He continued his search, hoping to find something that would either implicate the Prince or support his own position, but soon gave up. Time was not on his side.
He was just about to exit the study, when he noticed a book protruding slightly from one of the bookcases. It seemed strangely out of place among all the neatly shelved volumes.
He pulled it from the shelf, noting with some interest that it was an edition of one of his own works. He flipped through the pages idly, watching in silent fascination as something fluttered to the floor.
If he’d been human, his heart would have quickened when he realized the parchment bore the imprint of the King of Italy. With almost trembling hands, he unfolded the letter and read it.
The message itself was unremarkable and signed by the Roman’s lieutenant. But there was an appendix to the message, penned in a different hand.
His Renaissance profanity was swift as his world tilted on its axis.
Niccolò refolded the parchment exactly as it had been before and placed it back in the book. He reshelved it, taking great care to make sure its appearance was precisely as it had been before he’d touched it.
Then, with eager feet, he exited the study, closing the door carefully behind him.
Chapter Thirty-six
The Prince needed a diversion.
Maximilian and Pierre had not been heard from. As Lorenzo suggested, it was possible they were hiding in Paris and awaiting the appropriate time in which to create a spectacle worthy of the Curia’s attention. It was equally possible they’d been found trespassing and had been destroyed.