Previously... Here it is, all in one post! It makes for a loooong read, so grab a treat and take a seat... thank you ahead of time to anyone who reads the whole thing, I trust you'll enjoy it, and hope that it's clear and exciting! (Particularly exciting for certain people...)   The Tiger of Illaryain   Part I: Sulla Tigre di Illaryian   On the outskirts of Illaryian, for countless thousands of centuries, there has stood a towering statue of a giant stone tiger. Perched atop the tall and elegant Royal Arabesque Mansion, this tiger’s claws scratch the very sky. More than one traveler has come to cringe beneath the looming giant in the dark and gloomy night, at least half convinced that it was some gigantic immortal tiger hound, coming to steal their souls. But not the pair of travelers that stood upon the Tiger of Illaryian this night.  “Che bella notte!” murmured a wistful girlish voice. “Luca? Are you happy that you are Rego?” Arama looked into the young man’s bright green eyes as he leaned back against the foot of the giant stone statue. She took his hand in hers, caressing it lightly. Luca di Carli cast his eyes about the sandy outskirts of the city before replying.  From the roofs of the old mansion they had a beautiful moonlit view of the entire city of Illaryian, all the way out to the boundless sea in the east.  “Why do you want me to talk?” Luca answered in a detached way. “You have qualcosa to tell me.”  “Può essere,” she hesitated demurely.  He looked back at her at last, with keen interest. “Scommetto!” he said. “Let’s go up to the top!” Arama responded without answering directly, blushing beneath the black hood that was wrapped around her pretty face. She took a deep breath and looked at Luca expectantly. He smiled a dashing smile and put his hands together for her to step in. In just another second they were both crawling across the broad back of the statue, making their way further and further over the edge of the mansion. Now a light mist crept in and began to cover the city in its haze, so that the ground beneath them was lost in its swirling depths.  Arama gasped and sat down on the brow of the tiger.  “This is the perfect place for my story,” she breathed, looking at the buildings around her with a feeling of excitement and freedom pulsing through her veins. The entire world lay there beneath them! Beneath Luca di Carli and Arama di Athena de Cioto! “Accidenti!” Luca slowly stood up by her side and she gave him her hand again to steady him, looking up into his eyes with just a slight glimmer of fright in her own.  “Don’t try to go up too high, signore,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.  “No,” he answered, “no. Don’t push me to go too high, De Cioto.” She laughed and shook her head.  “I went to the Sunken City,” she said abruptly.  “I know,” frowned Luca, fingering his cloak. He clenched his fist. “I forbade you to go.” “I know. And what you predicted… happened…” Luca looked at her quickly, his eyes wide. “Quasi,” she gulped.   “Well?” Luca looked down at his feet, and at the black fog beneath them.  “I won’t bother you with all the dettagli. They wanted to kill me, signore.” “The Kolgari?” Arama nodded and swallowed.  “Girl! How could you, Arama?” Luca flashed out angrily, dropping her hand and leaping a pace away. “Don’t you care if Varlyrio is torn apart? I warned you. Arama, it was the one thing I told you that you could not do!” “Attento!” the girl called out, leaning forward on her hands.  Truly Luca was standing in a precarious position, on the tiger’s upper jaw, directly overlooking the dark abyss.  “Come closer to me,” Arama begged. “That’s why I went to the Sunken City! Luca, the Kolgari Elves are wary. After the terrible fashion in which Supano Amancio treated them they are loath to commit to any allegiance beneath a new sovereign. But now, I have a way!” Her eyes shone and she gingerly rose to her feet too, stretching forth both hands towards di Carli.  “What do you mean?” Luca asked mistrustfully.  “Oh Luca, listen to what happened!” She snatched up his hands from his side to balance herself.  “I was in the Sunken City,” she began. “No matter how I got there. Come ho detto, my life was in the gravest danger, for they had discovered that an infiltrator from the world above had come to the caves, and they scoured the forests and dens to hunt me down. But I was not all alone.” “Who was with you,” Luca asked sharply.  “He said, ‘They call me The Tiger.’” Arama looked up into Luca’s eyes, a fiery look on her face. “His name is Prince Råiden Tígrisdýrið.” “Is it, ih! Why were you with this Råiden?” said Luca coldly.  “He met us as we drew near to the city. His eyes danced when he saw me—Luca, he fell in love with me,” Arama’s eyes danced merrily too.  Luca vouchsafed no reply.  “But Luca,” Arama said eagerly, grabbing his cold cheeks, and making him sit down by her side, “this Kolgari is from high circles. Circles of elves. Don’t you see? He saved my life. Sì!” she stopped Luca’s mouth, “They poisoned me with their magic, they found me, and I was bleeding to death. Then The Tiger convinced them all, every one of them, to let me leave in the morning.” “But you were bleeding to death!” mocked Luca.  Arama laughed and threw back her hood, tossing her hair over her back. “I was in the land of the Kolgari, the most famous magicians in the Guilds! I don’t think anyone else would have cared if I had died, but Råiden took me secretly to an ancient shrine, a beautiful enchanting place, Luca. There he put my hand upon an amulet with a muttered pronouncement, and bene signore, faint and dying one moment, in the next I promettere, I felt healthier and happier than I ever had before in my life, and all my blood came back into me, and my wound disappeared completely. See, here is the scar, all that is left of a deadly wound! That amulet, Rego, is worth more than all of the Kolgari.” “Now suddenly I do not understand why any Kolgari ever die,” commented the Rego ironically.  Arama bent over and put her lips to his ear, “Po signore, the amulet can only save humans.” “But who is this Prince Råiden to you?” Luca asked coolly.  “Certo, he is my dearest love… when I am with him,” Arama smiled coyly. “Don’t you see you grande idiota! He is the key to the Kolgari. Listen to my plan! I have never made a better one…” Arama hunkered down and cast her hood back over her head, for the night was cold, the mist had slowly vanished, and she would not have been seen by anyone else for all the world…  But as for that, it was too late.    Not so far off, in the Palazzo Vincenzo—a new mansion under construction on the outskirts of Illaryian, with a charming view of the ancient stone tiger monument—a lone architect still wandered the half built corridors and roofs. But for a while now he had ceased wandering.  “Sana Argenta! Tis the Rego,” he murmured keenly, as he knelt down in the shadows behind an empty window and watched the pair of figures on the head of the Tiger of Illaryian. “And that… that is the figure of una signorina—puh! if she is a signorina.” Signore Brabantio Moccenigo, for it was he, put his hand to his forehead and squinted to catch a glimpse of the girl's face beneath her hood, but the moon was to her back, and with an exclamation of disappointment he grabbed the windowsill.  “There is something here,” Brabantio muttered. “Qualcosa that is not right. And if only I could use this qualche cosa to my advantage!” Suddenly the girl upon the tiger’s brow laughed and threw back her hood with a gesture, shaking her hair in the wind.  Signore Moccenigo gasped.  “By Sana Argenta…” was all that he murmured, “It is Arama De Cioto!” .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.   Brabantio Moccenigo followed the cloak-and-dagger pair to more than one of their secret reunions. From then on he was their shadow, a dark and sinister shadow, cunning and scrupulous, learning dark secrets and deadly proofs. Brabantio only failed to take into account one thing. If he was dead, none of it could possibly do him any good…  One fateful evening as Signore Moccenigo’s plans at last began to fall into place, a little before the sun also fell into its place beneath the horizon, Arama di Athena De Cioto sat out in a wide field upon the grass with Luca di Carli’s arms around her waist. The field was an abandoned one, but even so she was wrapped up closely in a black mantle and hood, and the Rego also was cautiously disguised, so that none should recognize them.  But Signore Moccenigo knew their faces and their names, without even seeing them, for he had dogged them there. As he lay hidden behind a small and ruined stone wall he pondered the measures he had taken to ensure success. Was everything completely ready? Had any little detail been overlooked? That very pomeriggio he had finished writing the letters. Already one was in the hands of no one less than Prince Råiden Tígrisdýrið, with directions to open it at once.  Moccenigo thought himself very clever for having sought out such a delicate ally, and in the brief letter he promised to send more, which should be opened only if he himself by any chance died. In reality he knew that Råiden would never open the second letter. It was nothing but leverage. He would give it to him at the same time as he sent out the other letter to the Rego.  Yes, that was an excellent plan. They would not dare to trouble him—for if any ill befell him they would only end up in worse problems, dalla padella alla brace.  Brabantio leaned over the wall to cast a quick glance at the merrily chatting pair. Only he knew the horrible surprise which was in store for them soon.  “As you sow you shall reap,” he murmured beneath his breath, forgetting how his adages might always cut two ways.   What he fully expected to reap was nothing more nor less than a full king's ransom once they bought him off! He was made for life, and his family would share in the good fortune, although he was not so rash as to let them share in the obvious dangers.  Yes, everything was working to perfection. Ricatto had never been so easy!  Arama De Cioto was bored. Luca was still vacillating about her plan, and she was sure that he was wasting his time. She rolled over in the grass.  “No, I don’t want to be Rego myself,” she grinned, rolling her eyes at Luca as he asked her for the hundredth time.  “Then let me be,” admonished di Carli, running his hand through the girl's long hair beneath her hood.  Suddenly Arama’s whole attitude changed. What was that? No, it was already gone, but she had seen it clearly. It was someone’s face, watching them from over the low wall to their left! She rolled over in the grass again, her heart in her throat, so that she could look up into the Rego’s face.  “I… I have to go, Luca,” she said uneasily, scrambling to her feet and kissing the Rego’s hand. “Le mie scuse, sorry! Addio!” She walked slowly backwards, watching Luca’s baffled face, until she got around the corner of a wall. Then she turned and ran. She ran around in a half circle, as fast as she could, until she found herself watching the wall from which they had been watched.  There was no one there! But to the left there was a man on his feet, walking swiftly towards the Northern Gate of Illaryian. He was the only person on the horizon. She crept after him. If he was going to go far she would need a horse… but then she didn’t really need to know where he was going, if she could only get close enough she would see the coat of arms upon the man's breast coat, perhaps even recognize his face.  Arama clenched her fists and grasped the hilt of her knife. As the man entered a tavern stable to search for his horse she saw the sigil upon his sleeve. The house of Moccenigo! She would be there before the clocks struck midnight, and she guaranteed that whichever Moccenigo this was, his life would not be a long one. “Kiss your soul goodbye,” she murmured softly into the air, as she wheeled round and hurried off into the night.    But after all the sun was high in the sky the next day when a dark figure rode up to a halt before the beautiful Villa Moccenigo in Porto Caglaveri.  “I am here before him,” muttered the masked figure, slipping off the horse and leading it around to a picket. “Aspettami,” she whispered to the horse.  Arama had been riding through the night here and there, following the mysterious Moccenigo wherever he went, until at last he left Illaryian completely behind, and divining that he was at last headed for La Villa Moccenigo, she put the spurs into her horse and reached her destination before him.  All was prepared now. But she had to make sure that her move was a final one. There could be no loose ends, lest for lack of caution the house of di Carli come tumbling to the ground, and the house of De Cioto along with it.  With a bound she was over the fence into the Moccenigo Villa grounds. Arama looked up at an open window on the second floor and a look of determination flitted across her face beneath the mask. All was dark within that room, although in others candlelight was visible behind the curtains.  “That is where I must look, scommetto,” she said hoarsely.  She sprang swiftly up onto the wall, climbing with agility from sill to sill and from corbel to corbel until she reached the window on the second storey. With one quick glance inside she pushed it open and slipped in. She closed the window after her.  Arama stood in a darkened study filled with bookshelves and counters, with a beautiful desk right beside the large sash window through which she had entered.   “Ehi!” she whistled beneath her breath, rushing over to the desk upon which lay certain opened papers and letters. “Brabantio Moccenigo,” she purred threateningly, reading his name from off a dozen papers.  She paled as she hastily looked more closely over the first one that came to her hand.  “Accidenti! he knows far too much! Meno male I am in time!” she cried in a fierce undertone.  With a bound she reached the door. It was a private study.  “Tis locked! Che fortuna! The secret is still safe, these letters prove themselves to be the only ones that he has written, and they could not have been perused by any other within the house. He would not have allowed them in. No, he would not have left the papers exposed were it not a safe room, where no one but himself ever entered.” With a rough hand the infiltrator spilled the other papers about upon the floor and searched the drawers carefully for more evidence—but besides the two letters upon the desk, one of which had been addressed to the Rego, and the other to an anonymous individual, there was nothing whatsoever to interest her.  Still, for precautions sake Arama seized several important blueprints, documents relating to the construction of a Cattedrale in Caglaveri, and other architectural papers.  She shoved them all into her bag and hid behind the broad and heavy curtains with a grim smile. Across her back was slung a light crossbow and a full quiver, and the crossbow was already loaded… “Signore Brabantio!” exclaimed the masked figure suddenly, hearing a horse gallop into the yard without. Arama spun swiftly round and looked down towards the entrance. A lacchè was opening the gate for a tall man upon a handsome white horse. Even in the distance Arama recognized him at once. She closed her eyes briefly and felt that she could still see that face peering over the low stone wall at Luca di Carli and at her.  She grit her teeth and shifted uneasily behind the curtain. Then suddenly a calmness took over her frame, and she felt that she was no longer even Arama di Athena De Cioto: she was only a nameless assassin now. With a cool pert look upon her face she watched as Brabantio Moccenigo exited the building again with a hurried step and remounted his horse. Then she opened the window with a gentle movement, stepped out onto the roof again, and followed him.    .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.   Part II: L'assessinio di Brabantio Moccenigo   The sun was beginning to set over the town of Porto Caglaveri, outside of Illaryian, shadows fading over the edifices standing around the quaint piazza, one of which was the aged Cattedrale della Signorina del Secchio e dello Scudo, a once proud temple for the revered Sana Argenta. Approaching the piazza head-on was a lone figure, the only one there on that eve. The steps of the figure echoed around the cobbled piazza with the only other noises being the gentle flow of water from the small fountain and quiet breaths from the figure’s pretty little nose. Everything seemed normal about this figure except for the dark tan piece of cloth around the mouth and the mean crossbow at the figure’s side.  “È una bella serata,” remarked the hooded figure, looking upwards. Upon looking down, the figure’s gaze fixated on the faded doors, slightly ajar. “Ma non per lui,” the figure finished, advancing towards the ajar door.   On the inside of the temple, Brabantio was clearing up for the night. He’d gotten the scaffold cleaned, free to be used on the morrow for whitewashing the decrypt exterior. But then the door hinges creaked as the large, black door was opened, letting in a bit of the late-evening breeze. “Who is it?” Brabantio called down, expecting another accursed lackey to come in to tell him he was too old to be working this late in the eve.  “Ah, Signore Moccenigo… haven’t you overheard enough of our pleasant conversations to recognize la mia voce?”  “Accidenti!” A cold tremble went down his spine as he heard the voice. He stood cautiously up and dropped the bucket.  “There’s no time to fool around,” said the figure, drawing the loaded crossbow and pulling out a spare bolt. “I need you to swear—here we are in a cattedrale, che fortuna! You must never, never reveal what you know! Swear it, Moccenigo, by Sana Argenta herself swear it! Look here, the Rego dares to trust you. Bene! Are you worth it?” Brabantio spun around slowly on top of the scaffolding, looked down, and spat at the hooded figure leaning in through the half-open door. “What does it matter to anyone what I am worth?” said Brabantio, his voice quivering, but louder and more defiant now. “But appestare! I know those letters that I wish to be paid for are worth a fortune. And you, assassina, know it too! There are famiglie that’d pay a million piastres to know this: your Rego must pay more.” “My Rego?” the figure said, sounding hurt, “he is your Rego too!”  The figure then shifted stance and moved more into the ingress, saying, “You see I would give you a chance, you wretch. Will you take it or not?” “And you would give me a chance, you audacious villana?” Brabantio scoffed, “Am I in your power, or is it not the other way around?” The figure coolly lifted up the crossbow and aimed it straight at Moccenigo’s heart. “You answer me that question, sciocco!” Before Moccenigo could answer, a crossbow bolt sped towards his beating heart. He threw himself down upon the wooden boards, but not in time. He tumbled off the scaffolding, the bolt piercing his side before he could crumble onto the hard, cold flagstones. “There… is another person who will possess the letter, if I die,” groaned Brabantio through his teeth, winded and hurt by the fall. "Don’t be a fool, ragazza! Think it through first! This is but vendetta, not prevention. It’ll be far worse… for you, if you kill me. Someone else will get the ricatto,” he paused, coughing, ”someone who will do you much more harm than me!” The figure laughed a pretty little cold laugh. “Ah, Signore Moccenigo! Oh, aspettare, I… have something of yours,” the figure added coolly, while pulling out two wrapped pieces of parchment: they were the two letters that Signore Moccenigo had written inculpating the Rego. “Someone else will have the ricatto, you say? Bene, me,” the figure said, raising the crossbow to the shoulder again. “No!” Brabantio cried, feebly getting to his knees, “someone else already read that!” “What? Who?” “Edmondo Ziccardi,” he croaked. “You’re lying,” the figure retorted shrewdly. “You haven’t given a letter to anyone yet. Would you like your last words to be a falsehood? If not, then speak up quickly,” the figure said impatiently, the crossbow fully loaded. “Dead or alive, I will fool you yet. You think you know it all! Fool, you don’t know the future!” Brabantio cried defiantly, accepting the inevitable and asking Sana Argenta for forgiveness. “I know your future, Moccenigo,” replied the assassin coldly. The deed was done, the paw of the tiger had struck. The figure then whistled and the sounds of hooves clattering on the uneven cobbles could be heard in the piazza.  With a slow, sad smile beneath her mask the assassin slipped out of the Cattedrale once more, never to be seen in Porto Caglaveri again, closing the tall black doors and barring them shut.  Arama ripped off her mask and her hood and slipped them with her cloak into the saddlebag. Then she leapt up onto her horse and galloped off.  The mysterious and deadly assassin was no more, and in the lonely piazza square there remained only Arama di Athena De Cioto, riding quickly away into the night… and behind her within the closed doors of the old Cattedrale della Signorina del Secchio e dello Scudo, the dead body of Signore Brabantio Moccenigo.  .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.   Besides mine Papà, my family was safe. I had seen to that before going with the servant to Il Tempio della Signorina del Secchio e dello Scudo in my hometown of Porto Caglaveri. Due to certain partly incriminating circumstances—the loss of blueprints and contracts and the like within our house—my family at once suspected our rivals in architecture, the great Ziccardi famiglie who were well known to be jealous of his success and of his latest commision. But I knew that Papà had gotten the contract to reinvigorate the spirit of that ancient Cattedrale from the new Rego Luca di Carli himself. I’d always been suspicious of that mercante, and that now led me to actually suspect the Rego, no less, of this treacherous act. Sì, he must have set my father up! I ground my teeth in anger.  “Mio Signore,” the servant questioned. “Are… are you alright?” I looked at the servant, his face wrought with concern. He seemed genuine. “No,” I replied. We then arrived at the temple, which still had a façade worn from the ages; he had only been renovating the interior after all.  “I will leave you here,” said the servant, his eyes downcast. “I will wait at this door until you are done, Mio Signore.” I walked up the steps and pushed open the large, black door, and then saw it.  Mio padre, dead, slain, with crossbow bolts protruding from his wretched, bloodied corpse. One bolt stuck out from his frail side and the other pierced his poor, lifeless heart. I knelt besides the physical remains of my father, now only existing in memory. Tears sprung from my eyes as I collapsed onto my knees.  “Papà, I know you cannot hear me, tuo figlio Ilazio, but I swear. I swear to Sana Argenta herself that I will make whatever maledetto did this pay. I will make them pay with their own life! Even if I have to condemn my soul to the depths of Nocturnus, I will make that miscredente pay!” .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.   Part III: Il Baile di Mascherati   It was the nineteenth of November. With winter coming on apace there was nothing better for the Marquis of Motu to do than build yet another brand new fancy manor in the heart of Illaryian, the famed capital of Varlyrio, and nothing better for Lady Motu to do than inaugurate the brand new manor with yet another of her famous balls. But this one was a little different. This time it was a mask ball. Un baile di mascherati…    Råiden Tígrisdýrið snapped his mask over his face and thrust his hands into his pockets. He was leaning back against the balustrade, waiting for someone, chewing a popular Kolgari gum behind his mask.  “‘This is the mask I’ll be wearing,’” he repeated to himself, “‘there will scarcely be two of these.’ No, davvero, there is not even one!” he muttered in dissatisfaction. But suddenly the mask he was thinking of appeared bobbing round the corner, tripping towards him through a throng of masked ball-goers.  “There you are at last, Råiden!” whispered a low, girlish voice.  “I, at last? Carina, you are the one who just arrived.” “No, no, on the contrary,” the girl looked hastily about, through the eyes of her mask, “I have been in the camerino all this time, just trying to get by all of the pretty girls who are so vain and throng the mirrors so. Prince Råiden, you want to dance with me, right?” “Hush, no! Well, yes, può essere after a moment,” he added shyly, “but I have something to tell you.” Råiden looked both ways and mysteriously turned his back on the interior palazzo, looking out over the city which lay before them.  Arama, for the girl in the mask was she, leaned over the balustrade with him. “Che cos'è?” she asked curiously.  “I was just told that Signore Moccenigo died, Arama,” Råiden whispered in a very low voice, so that the girl barely caught the words. A shiver went down Råiden’s spine. “Capire, see this, bambina.” Arama’s eyes opened wide and her face turned pale and she was glad that it was hid behind a mask. The paper that Prince Tígrisdýrið showed her had a few quickly scrawled words upon it, and the girl recognized that feverish handwriting at once.  If I perish I hereby swear that Luca di Carli is the author of my death, beyond the shadow of a doubt in my own mind. Råiden, domani I will pass you another letter in the same way. You must open it only if some disgrazia happens to, tuo veramente, Signore Brabantio Moccenigo.  Råiden crushed the letter in his hand again and shoved it down into one of his colorful pockets.  “What?” faltered Arama, “Whatever would the Rego do that for?” She turned away and put her hand up under her mask to her face. She leaned against a pillar to steady herself, and bit her lip as she felt tears spring to her eyes. How much did Råiden know? What if… what if he knew too much? She took a deep breath and realized that Råiden was speaking to her.  No, it was not Råiden. Behind them a barely articulate voice murmured, “That is what we have to trovare—to find out,” as a masked person brushed past them. Arama started again, staring at Råiden with fright in her eyes.  “I thought we were alone,” she murmured, her voice trembling.  Råiden rapped his fingers on the railing. He looked at the man in the dark red cloak and the black mask as he walked on out of sight, and then he pulled up his own mask and put his mouth to Arama’s ear, whispering through the feathers of her mask.  “His father was murdered,” he whispered softly. “I think that the Rego debba stare attento…” Arama opened her mouth but words wouldn’t come out. She raised her hand to the Kolgari’s forehead and gently combed back his wild, matted hair, too frightened to speak. He little knew that she used the very same hand that had pulled the trigger of a crossbow on Brabantio Moccenigo just days before. Suddenly a fellow in an extravagant and costly gold mask strolled carelessly around the corner of the wall and set his eyes on her with an expressive look, visible even through the eyeholes of his mask. Arama’s heart beat faster, and she tried to suppress it, for she feared that at any second Råiden at her side might hear it.  But Prince Råiden stepped aside for just a moment, hurrying after Ilazio Moccenigo to bring him back.  The man in the gold mask stepped up to Arama with a gallant bow. “Mi faresti l'onore di un ballo?” “No, Luca, you must not!” Arama urged, blushes covering her face as she pulled her hand away from him. She suddenly felt very hot under her mask. “No!” she pushed the Rego away from her. The music was starting. Arama caught Råiden looking back at them out of the corner of her eye. Luca di Carli abruptly grabbed both her hands and pulled her up off the balustrade against which she was shrinking.  “Oh, su coraggio, what is the matter with you?” he asked gaily.  “Signore,” Arama mumbled reluctantly, in protest. She looked directly at Råiden with a stare of hopeless helplessness in her eyes as the Rego whisked her away.  “Does Råiden know who Luca is?” she thought uneasily. Råiden did not, but he stared after them in dismay and astonishment. “The first dance was to be mine,” he said to himself, “what is that sciocco doing, dragging her away like that?” He sprinted suddenly forward, hurrying round the corner into the ballroom.  “Who is that fellow?” Prince Råiden demanded in an undertone, watching the pair as the man in the gold mask led the ball with his arms around Arama’s waist. He addressed a person in a simple dark green mask and costume, who was also watching how the pair in the feathered headdress and the regal golden mask danced.  “Accidenti,” answered the other eagerly, “that I can tell you, for I happened to see him in the camerino for a moment with his mask off.” “Parla amico, what did you see?” asked Råiden in the same eager, urgent tone. He noticed that Arama was dancing distractedly, unevenly, and unwillingly, while to his eye her companion seemed utterly taken up with the dance, not a care in all the world troubling his head, not even the evident displeasure and distress of his dancing partner. Råiden frowned and took a deep breath while he shoved his hands in his pockets.  The gentiluomo in the green mask lowered his voice to no more than a whisper as he answered Råiden’s query in a confidential way, “Signore, you may believe me or not, but the compagno dancing there is no other than the Rego of Varlyrio himself. Che ragazza molto fortunata!” “Lucky girl?” Råiden gritted his teeth and clenched his fists in his pockets.     Arama was completely overwhelmed with feelings and thoughts and ideas as the Rego led her around the room, twirling her about and holding her close to him. Each time she struggled in his grasp, and Luca grinned at her inexplicable behaviour with a jolly unrelentingness that further exasperated the poor girl in her dangerous position.  Her cheeks glowed beneath her mask and she spoke to him in a breathless, barely discernible voice. “Did anyone see you, Signore? Does anyone know who you are?” She looked at him demurely as he spun her around his arm, and he thought he caught a glint of angry reproach in her eyes. “No, it’s scarcely likely,” Luca smiled, “while even if anyone had, you don’t really suppose they would know you also? Sst, anyway, better to dance in silenzio. Who can say that I even know you?” “Avventato,” was all that Arama murmured through her teeth, looking down at the ground, spinning round and round until she was dizzy. When she looked up through the spinning walls and floors of the room she thought she saw Råiden’s mask watching her from a corner, while she saw a man next to him turn to him with a confident remark. They were both watching her.  Her heart beat wildly in her chest. She couldn’t dance anymore, she was faint and sick and afraid.  “Fermare! Stop!” she cried, tearing herself out of Luca’s arms in the middle of the dance.  “What, che cosa? Where are you going?” Luca grabbed her wrist, but she jerked away and threw herself towards the doorway, stumbling through the other dancers.  Suddenly she slipped on the marble floor as Luca sprinted after her. Her mask had been half torn off her face as the Rego tried to stop her, and her head was swimming. She was afraid that she really was going to fall headlong to the floor, when she suddenly felt a pair of strong arms around her and looked up into Råiden Tígrisdýrið’s face. He crashed back into the corner of the doorpost with the momentum of her rush.  “Arama, stai bene?” “Sì, no,” she faltered, looking up with relief into his eyes, “he forced me to dance, the cattivo in incognito!” “Ah, do you know who he was?” “Né mi interessa.” Arama looked about and saw that Luca was leaning against a pillar in the far corner watching her contemplatively.  “L'insolente…” Arama didn’t finish, freeing herself from Råiden’s arms and kicking the wall.  Råiden put his hand up to her flushed cheek and she gently removed it to rearrange her hair about her face, and to put her mask back in its place. Råiden watched her, observing that her eyes were bright like fire, and that indignation was written all over those pretty cheeks.  “Non importa, it was only the Rego, Luca di Carli,” Råiden commented glumly. The instant that he had said it he regretted it.  Arama looked at him with a question in her eyes, and then looked quickly back over at the Rego leaning against his pillar.  “Davvero?” she said sceptically.  “Penso,” Prince Råiden shrugged, cursing inside.  Suddenly the fire in Arama’s eyes seemed to double and her face was covered with a pretty blush.  “But it is nothing,” she said affectedly, “the Ciotos have always been close to the throne.”  “Lui pagherà,” muttered Råiden in an undertone, looking with cold fury over at the Rego, who pushed off of the wall and meandered slowly out of the room.  Suddenly Arama leapt up onto the balustrade which overlooked the city, for they had wandered back out into the portico.  “Why don’t we make him pay?” she said eagerly, flushing and looking about furtively, her fingers wrapping around the knife she concealed beneath her clothes.  At the same moment she felt a paper being thrust into her other hand, and she looked up to find her eyes locked with those of Ilazio Moccenigo, the son of the man that she had murdered.  She smiled with a masterful effort and glanced down at the note after looking at Råiden for approval.  Hush, read the note, let us meet domani, at the balcone delle Scale. I will be beneath it in a small gondola. Come alone. Råiden read the note upside down and then Ilazio whispered, “Eat it.” The Kolgari stared after him as he melted into the crowd of merry party-goers.  “Domani,” Råiden murmured, and by the time he looked back Arama had already swallowed the note. .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.   Part IV: L'incontro sul Balcone   The soft sound of water plashing up against the canal walls was the only sound to break the stillness of the night. A somber shadow flitted silently across the waterway, making its way towards an impressive orange building overspread with balconies and terraces rising into the night sky.  Slowly the gondola in the water pulled up to the steps on the side of the canal and at the same moment a set of footsteps resounding through the streets merged with the noise of the canal waves.  “Tutto bene?” whispered a sinister voice.  “Tutto bene,” echoed a low girlish trill.  “Prince Råiden?” “He comes beyond the bridge. Let us go up.” In another moment three shadows gathered on the second tallest balcony of the great orange building, known as the Scale, beneath the shade of a pleasant wooden lattice enveloped in the vines of a vite plant.  Arama di Athena De Cioto was there to revenge herself on the ignoble Rego who had pressed his secret suit upon her, Ilazio Moccenigo had come to avenge his dead father, and Prince Råiden wanted to seek justice and vengeance, for a fear had crept into his heart, lest by some twist of fate he should lose his dear little ambitious Arama. What human might not choose power and wealth above ground instead of less power and less wealth beneath the dark and cruel crust of the earth? Such were the motives that thus brought this unlikely triumvirate together in the dark of the night to plan the downfall of the completely unsuspecting Rego. Luca di Carli had no idea that any of this was going on! “Do you hold, still, your sentiments from the day before?” began Ilazio after a long silence in a low, dreary voice, pacing up and down the length of the terrace and looking fiercely at Arama. The girl pulled down the edge of her cape and frowned. “Signore Moccenigo, the Rego is un assassino a sangue freddo! This note proves it.” She snatched the paper out of Råiden’s hand. “Do you think I would hold back my help against a villino? Your father knew somehow that he was in grave danger. Who knows what ricatto and le malignità the great Rego might have pressed upon him? No doubt all the records were stolen along with the crimine. We must make him pay!” Ilazio pulled the paper out of her hands and wrote upon the back of it. In another second he slipped it back into her possession.  Arama hurriedly read the note to herself under the light of the lanterns, adding another sentence at the end of it with the quill which Ilazio handed to her.  This is treasonous talk, read the note, and, Treason or patriottismo, no man can escape innocent with blood on his hands, she added boldly.  Råiden Tígrisdýrið smiled grimly when they passed him the note.  But if the Rego suddenly dies without cause or blame attached to him, there would be an uproar, and the murderers would be hunted like bloodhounds, he wrote patiently across the side of the small paper.  Arama’s eyes lit up and she whispered cannily, “Then we must make the people angry. The people and the Kolgari.” “How?” asked Råiden darkly, grabbing Arama by the shoulders and staring into her eyes. “The Kolgari are my people, Arama.” Ilazio listened morbidly.  “It would be easy enough,” smirked Arama. “L'amuleto, Råiden. Don’t you know that the Rego will send an embassy to the sunken city in due giorni? I discovered it mo’. And we only need take the amulet and set it in the Rego’s palazzo, and the rest would happen by itself. You could easily arrange to have the Kolgari send a spy to search the Rego’s quarters and find him guilty. There would instantly be an uproar amongst the Kolgari throughout the realm, and the di Carlis position would at once become… instabile.”  “For the Kolgari,” mused Tígrisdýrið, “stealing the necklace would mean death. But the people…” “The people love him,” Ilazio finished gloomily. He was eager to wash out the deed in blood, oh, he would sacrifice himself without a thought! It was well for Luca di Carli that neither of the others mentioned to him who the man in the golden mask had been, or it would have become cracked and bloody before it left the ball that day.  “Bene?” whispered Arama. “If it all went just as you suppose, mia ragazza, there might still be a desperate struggle after all between the humans and the Kolgari, and Varlyrio might be torn apart." “Al demone with Varlyrio!” Arama and Ilazio cried together. They froze and looked at each other.  “We must make the whole guild lose trust in di Carli. They must hate him as we do—for the same buone ragioni that we do.” “And then,” Ilazio halted. His silence was more expressive than words.  “Isn’t that enough?” pleaded Arama uneasily. With frightened eyes she looked back and forth between the conspirators by her side. “That’s not enough,” muttered Ilazio. “‘He who sheds man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed.’” “Then,” said Råiden, “we need a better reason for the populace to hate him. Will they believe that he murdered the famous architect only because of a paper that could be fabricated in dieci minuti? Would your famiglia even believe it?” Ilazio opened his mouth and then shut it again. Would they? It almost looked implausible, unless they felt it, knew it, the way he did! He knew his father’s handwriting. The note was enough to prove the Rego’s guilt, but still there lay those uncomfortable gaps, for what if Brabantio had been mistaken? He knew his family might doubt the paper's authenticity, for no one knew his fathers hand like he did. His father, with whom he had planned out palazzos and written out contracts! “Kidnapping?” Arama whispered suddenly, interrupting his horrible reverie. “The death of a child?” He didn’t know what she was talking about. “But amici, we don’t want blood on our hands.” “None but guilty blood,” Ilazio agreed in a low voice, looking at the girl keenly. Perhaps she was too weak for this job.   “The De Ciotos aren’t popular now,” Arama said ruefully. Ilazio’s stare went by unnoticed. “The De Fioris and the Conzagas and even the Rego blamed us for the assassinations that recently occurred. But even then, a noble family like ours…” What was she getting at?  “The De Ciotos from the East are coming to stay at the Amancio Mansion in two days.” “Is your little nephew–” murmured Råiden. “We cannot harm him!” Arama interrupted, her cheeks flaming red.  “No, no,” Råiden assented. “But if he were to disappear… if this evil Rego were to use him as a bait, to force you to agree to whatever he wants with you… you who he ought to hold politically aloof! what a terrible sensazione that would cause!” “I like the plan,” Ilazio muttered. He bent forward over the balcony and stared down into the water far below. “Tre giorni. On the first Prince Råiden takes the amulet and soon it is safe within the walls of the Rego’s Palazzo della Tigre. Rumour says that the Rego is desperately in love with Arama di Athena De Cioto. On the second the populace is fermented by more rumours and suspicions, as the Kolgari search high and low for the stolen relic… higher and higher and higher. Until at last, on the morning of the third day, Prince Raiden remembers the suspicious visit of the royal ambassador on the day of the theft, and, since that morning the little cousin of Arama disappeared, kidnapped perhaps by the Rego himself, who wants young Arama De Cioto at any cost, the populace bursts into the Rego’s palazzos, and the Kolgari search his inner rooms and take him hostage…” “When they find the amulet,” Raiden finished soberly, “the Rego’s fate will be sealed.” “And if they fail,” Ilazio swore, “I will kill him then!” As for Arama di Athena De Cioto, she had other plans…  .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.   Part V: Rubando l'Amuleto   The underworldly caves of Varlyrio had never looked more beautiful than on the mattinata of that first day. Råiden Tígrisdýrið felt a twinge of uncertainty and guilt for what he was about to do.  The healing amulet was a powerful and ancient heirloom of the Kolgari, one of their most sacred artifacts, and stealing it was no small crime. Again, that was the whole point. He just had to frame the Rego for the theft—a scandal like that would isolate the Rego, Luca di Carli, from the people of Valyrio, and the Kolgari would undoubtedly sever their ties with him and cut off their support, politically isolating him.  Still, as a loyal and patriotic Kolgarian Prince, he felt a bit remorseful about betraying his people like this. He hesitated for a moment, questioning whether it was really worth it, but again an image of Arama De Cioto flashed through his mind, and a new wave of determination flooded over him as he remembered for whom he was doing this. He had to. They would soon recover the amulet anyway! He stopped and glanced over his shoulder, checking to make sure that he wasn’t being followed. Seeing no one, he turned forward and continued on.  Today was the perfect opportunity: Råiden and Arama had worked it all out. Through Ilazio, Råiden had learned that the Rego had just dispatched his ambassador to the Sunken City on official business to meet with the Kolgari Council. With the Rego’s ambassador here at the time of the crime, he would be the obvious suspect for the theft.  Once Råiden had stolen the amulet, he had arranged for his good friend, Islingr, who owed him a favor, to smuggle it into the Rego’s possession, solidifying his identity as the thief. With the Rego established as a dishonorable criminal, leaving him without much support, Ilazio would be able to assassinate him easily enough, which they all knew was exactly what Luca di Carli’s unjust villainy deserved. With the Rego gone, there would be nothing left to stand between Råiden and Arama!  With these thoughts mulling in his mind, he crept stealthily through the rocks and trees, each step taking him closer to his objective. Finally, he reached his destination, a small, open structure, unmistakable elven in design, carved into the surrounding rock. In the middle of this structure lay a pedestal on top of which rested the object that he had been seeking, the sacred healing amulet.  Sticking close to the shadows that lay upon each side of the path, he glanced around warily, checking for any guards. While it was generally guarded fairly loosely—the Kolgari were an honorable people and had a strong bond of trust amongst each other—it wasn’t uncommon for a guard or two to be present. There shouldn’t have been any there today, not with most of the guards being rerouted to guard the meeting between the Kolgari Council and the Rego’s ambassador that was currently going on, but Råiden couldn’t take any risks.  As he had expected, though, the amulet appeared to be unguarded, and, satisfied with these results, he stepped out of the shadows and ascended the large, flat steps leading up to his prize. There it was. Råiden had been here many times, of course, as had many of the Kolgari, but this time felt different.  He paused for a moment, then, in one quick, fluid motion, he advanced toward the amulet and lifted it from its spot on the pedestal, carefully tucking it into a fold in his garb. With the amulet in his possession, he began traversing back down the long path, at the bottom of which Arama was waiting for him and the success of the mission. She would relay the amulet to Islingr without delay, for her presence in the Sunken City was unknown thanks to Råiden. Then Islingr would do his job and the Rego would be incriminated before two full days were out! It was only now that the weight of what he was doing fully hit him, and, once again, he paused, hesitating as to what to do next. But, once again, he thought of Arama, and regained his confidence in the mission. Despite the fact that his stomach was in knots, he couldn’t help but smile to himself a little, knowing the Rego’s fate was nearly secure. .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.   Part VI: La Scomparsa di Fiorello “Ercilia…” Arama hesitated as her sister looked up with an inquiring face, but after a moment she went on in a low tone of voice, “sorella carissima, I need to ask a favour of you, per favore.” “Certo, tell me,” smiled Ercilia Amancio, Arama’s widowed half-sister.  “Tis nothing much,” Arama said quickly, pulling a pile of clothes out from behind her and laying them on Ercilia’s lap, “Only that you put these clothes of mine on, and go out for me with them.” “Where would you want me to go?” Ercilia asked, puzzled. “Oh, nowhere, only wander about the city as you like, and do not come back until it is nearly dawn. I have un appuntamento a mezzanotte, and you know how I hate to be followed, Little Cilia. But I fancy you rather like followers,” she added shrewdly, “Can you do that for me?”  “Si, con piacere,” Ercilia answered warmly, rising with the clothes in her hand, “Of course I like nothing better than the chilling night winds of Illaryian, and a coldhearted assassin close on my heels, mia ragazza dispettosa.” “Those fur clothes are far warmer than what I intended to wear, sorella mia,” Arama laughed merrily as she went up to change her toilette as well, “but if I thought you needed a coat of chainmail under that, I would give it to you.”   She didn’t mention that she would put on a shirt of mail herself…   That very morning, as Arama had expected, her little nephew had arrived at the Amancio Mansion in company of his dashing father, Raimonde De Cioto. Everything was falling right into her hands so far.  She had promptly dispatched Raimonde to make a copy of the beautiful golden Kolgari necklace which he had gotten a chance to examine carefully before she brought it to Råiden’s trusted Kolgari friend, Islingr, who was to plant it in the Rego’s arabesque Palazzo della Tigre. Then she had sent her father off to bed in the left wing of the old mansion, and asked her nephew to amuse himself in the kitchen or the messroom or the library as he pleased, until she returned. These rooms, as it happened, were all in the right wing of the mansion… Ercilia was to be a distraction in the meantime. For one thing, Arama knew well that she was the only attentive person left in the house, and that Fiorello’s kidnapping could scarcely be arranged with her presence. Besides, the men without were waiting to see Arama walk out the front door, for her own absence was to be the signal for il sequestro. Arama didn’t dare to actually step out bound upon her midnight tryst, and so she sent Ercilia out the doors in her place. Yet because she didn’t dare to let even her dear father know that she was involved in the kidnapping of her own nephew either, she had to be gone as well, besides that she truly did have un appuntamento a mezzanotte, as she had said.  Now, if anyone was truly prepared to watch where she went, they would be lost following Ercilia, as Arama herself slipped out the window from above—an important precaution, to keep any of her fellow conspirators from actually following her, for if they discovered her treachery it would be a short shrift for her and a deep hole in the ground after that, if not a rope around her throat, hanging from the tallest wooden beam in Illaryian.   So thus it was that just a little before midnight Ercilia Amancio stepped quietly out of the front door dressed as her half-sister, leaving it unlocked behind her for Arama to follow shortly, while instead the feisty girl slipped quietly out of the window on the tallest roof of the mansion, dressed in a lightweight vest of mail beneath her pitch black cloak, with a loose, grey hood over her hair and face and a dark grey bandana wrapped over her mouth.  “Ah, Råiden, Råiden,” she whispered hoarsely as she bent over the very edge of the roof with her hand on the gutter and stared at the figures moving towards the doorway from the streets below, “it’s unlucky for you that I like you. Che peccato!” “Who is there, chi è là?” cried Fiorello from the library of the grand mansion, just as Arama leapt off the roof above onto another. The sound of a footstep on the old wooden floor outside the room had reached his keen young ears and he started out of his book, all alert and wary. “Arama? Ercilia? Are you back already, are you there? Appestare, are you the ghost of Supano Amancio? Show yourself!” Fiorello threw his book at the creaking door to the library and it groaned as it pushed back off the doorpost and swung all the way open.  There was no one there! “I’ve read about you, vanished man!” threatened Arama’s little nephew, “Go back to your tribe in Mitgardia, I know your weakness! I’m going to ignore you if you don’t speak up.” Suddenly Fiorello felt a hand around his mouth! A real hand. He was paralyzed for just a moment, but then he struck out with his golden hook hand until he felt his arms grabbed too, his feet pulled from under him, and a blindfold suddenly wrapped tightly around his eyes.  “Don’t worry, don’t fret,” whispered the voice of a hired Lionell sicario, “we’re just a takin’ you to a different place for la notte.” A door creaked open and Fiorello felt them going down the steps of the Amancio mansion. Then he felt them drop him down into something that moved and rocked like a hammock. His legs and hands were tied, but he moved the latter until he felt cold, wet water down over the side. They were in a gondola! He felt the boat suddenly skim out over the water and he bit his lip to keep from crying. Where would they take him?  He had to just wait… and not see… “Don’t worry, starai tutto bene,” whispered the same assuring voice.  But Fiorello didn’t feel it to be true.  .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.   The rooms of the Palazzo della Tigre were dark and gloomy with nightfall on the serata of the second day. The Rego was to sleep in this mansion at the outskirts of Illaryian this night and the following, and as he wandered the lonely corridors he remembered the beautiful moonlit vigil with Arama on the head of the giant tiger statue only a few weeks ago. He had not seen her much since then. Why had she shunned him so at the ball? What was she up to? Why hadn’t she responded to his messages? What was the cause for the death of this fellow, Brabantio Moccenigo? To the Rego, who had favoured the well-known architect not long before his death, the sudden assassination was mysterious and appalling. His mind was full of questions.  Luca paced up and down his room uneasily. She was up to something. He had to know what it was—she couldn’t keep hiding it from him. No sooner was his mind made up than a blurry shadow dropped in front of him and a glimmer flashed before his eyes. With startling quickness Luca di Carli silently whipped out his sword and pressed it close against the sudden intruder’s chest.  She threw back her hood and smiled.  “But don’t always think that it’s just me,” Arama cautioned through her smile.  Luca glanced up at the wooden beams above him in the vaulted ceiling, grimly stroking his chin and tossing his sword down onto his bed. “No, I certainly won’t ever get used to it,” he laughed.    Arama put her arm around him demurely, and they walked off together into the uninhabited corridors, conversing in barely audible tones.  Arama once more covered her pretty face in the depths of her dark grey hood and mask so that only her eyes were barely visible, bright and glimmering in the subtle candlelight.  “Tonight my little cousin will disappear, Signore,” she said, looking gaily at Luca’s silent face. “He’s staying in the Amancio Mansion with us,” she explained, “but after the uproar at his sequestro subsides we will find him in one of the deep cells beneath the Palazzo of Illaryian.” Luca stopped walking and turned the girl to face him, his face a question. ”What?” Arama laughed at his confusion, and didn’t pause to answer clearly. “The assurdo rumor will come out that you love me,” she went on, forcing him to walk as she looked him in the eyes and laughed, skipping along beside him, “and when they find the boy Fiorello in the cells of the Palazzo it will be confirmed, besides the note that I will reveal, written by the Rego, Luca di Carli himself, with threats of immediately killing the boy if I did not…” she tapered off and watched the wary, skeptical expression on Luca’s face.  She changed the topic. “You heard about the missing amulet?” Arama suddenly spun around and faced him head-on, leaning against a pillar and swinging the amulet like a pendulum in front of him, grinning behind her bandana. “It will be found in your rooms by a Kolgari spy domani, proving treachery on your part. Then the whole populace will rise against you, and you’ll be fortunato if your Palazzo isn’t stoned, thanks to the influenza potente of the Conzaga and Fiori families, which we know their support was suspicious to begin with, and even worse now, let alone after you have fallen in love with me,” she trailed off in a dry voice, putting her hand to her waist to catch her breath.  “But none of this will happen just like that,” she answered Luca’s silence coyly. Her eyes sparkled. “Not quite just come quello…” Luca di Carli raised his eyebrows. “A pretty mess you got me involved in,” he said. “But you’re always creating hero scenarios for yourself: what’s tua soluzione?”  “It’s better than questo,” answered Arama, her voice suddenly tense and rigid like the chords of a lyre. She dangled a letter out in front of the Rego’s face. It was Brabantio’s ricatto.  “I’m only a hero with you, Luca, you know that,” she said timidly, “I’d rather be a villain with everyone else, tanto che.” Luca didn’t answer. He was thinking. “What are you planning, De Cioto?” he said at last. “Well, I like Råiden…” faltered Arama.  The Rego looked at her sharply.  “So I want him to die, bene?” finished Arama.  Luca smiled slowly in relief. “You don’t like me very much, do you?” he said ironically.  “No… not that much, I guess,” grinned Arama De Cioto.  .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.   It was mezzogiorno on the third day. Once again the Rego slowly paced up and down the lengths of his room in the Royal Arabesque Mansion, this time with his eyes closed in resignation and his lips compressed in concentration. “Do you trust me, capretto? Will you trust me, Luca?” he felt like he heard Arama’s voice still present in the room.  His own answer rose to his lips once more, “Per sempre, mia cara ragazza. And now you have to prove it, olive merchant, son of an olive merchant,” he muttered, throwing himself down upon his rich bed of fluffy down.  Then his eyes opened wide, for there in the beams above him hung two grinning De Fioris staring down at him: the two most violent members of the family, Susto and Falco De Fiori, assassins and sicarios by trade.  In the instantaneous millisecond of opportunity that followed, Luca snapped his teeth shut.  “This is gonna be hard to prove, Arama,” he whistled through them. Suddenly Susto dropped by his side and ripped Luca’s hidden knife out of his hand while Falco’s arms closed around the Rego’s neck with a grip of iron.  “Tie him up, it’s only for a moment,” muttered a cool, calculating voice. A man was standing in the doorway of the balcony, a dark and menacing shadow against the midday sky.   Luca stared at him as they tossed him into a chair.  A Kolgari, escorted by Susto and Falco De Fiori. Yes, it was the mission he was expecting and prepared for. Grazie al cielo, it wasn’t an assassination planned by the De Fiori’s, for he might have played right into their hands!  But the cold and steely Kolgari almost scared him more. Luca knew him. He would do his job no matter where it took him, and he winced to think that if it hadn’t been for Arama that Kolgari’s creed would undoubtedly have led his elvish knife right into Luca’s heart.  Luca struggled uneasily in his chair, pulling at the tight ropes which the brothers had so swiftly spun around him. What if they somehow found the amulet somewhere in his room? “Scommetto, you’re after that odioso amulet,” Luca conjectured cleverly.  No one answered, and Susto started to whistle an airy tune.  “When you trovalo, you just let us do the rest,” Falco nodded smugly at the Elven Lord, juggling his knife and Luca’s dagger. “You’ll never trovalo here!” Luca burst out, upsetting the chair and pushing himself up against the wall with it. At last the cold Kolgari spoke. His mind had run over the whole room, searching for the presence of the priceless healing amulet, but it was nowhere to be found. He stepped up very close to Luca and shoved his chair back against the wall. “If thou art not the vile thief,” said the Kolgari in a slow and deliberate voice, using the ancient form of the Kolgari race in his speech, “then who is?” Luca stared coldly back into his eyes. “Perhaps the one who accused me, signore. But I will not return insult for injury. I mean peace towards your kind, and well you know it. You ought never to have listened to the lying tongue that whispered with guile into your ears that this Rego was only another villano traditore. Those Regos are gone now, and a just one sits enthroned. But is this justice, Lord Círdan?” “Release him,” said the Kolgari Lord, setting the Rego’s chair down and stepping a few paces backwards. “Thou speakest well and fair, O Rego. Thou hast passed a difficult test, and we Kolgari, at least, shall honour you for it.” “As long as we get our pay,” grinned Susto, exchanging hand congratulations with Falco. He pointed his finger knowingly at Luca as he backed out of the room. “Now you know we can get you when we have to,” he said complacently, with a brilliant wink.  “Maybe,” Luca di Carli thought as he rose and watched them leave, “or maybe not…” He looked down at a little slip of paper that Arama had handed to him when she left the night before.  Let them search your rooms when they come tomorrow, it read. See? They will find nothing. Remember Luca: whatever happens, fidati di me…   .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.   Part VII: La Morte di Råiden [...scene yet to be built...]   “Arama, Prince Råiden, we are betrayed! Ci hanno tradito!” Ilazio threw himself into the arms of his fellow conspirators. “They found your little nephew, Arama!” It was the evening of the third day.  “Of course…” Arama De Cioto said uncertainly.  “They found the child in La Villa Moccenigo!” Ilazio threw himself back against the wall of a house, a chill passing through his frame, as he said words the meaning of which had scarcely even sunk in for him yet.  Råiden stared at Arama, and she stared back at him, consternation and horror written on each of their faces.  “Impossibile!” cried Arama, looking around her in fear. “But Råiden, isn’t the Rego dead? How could he still be vivo, with the amulet found in his possession by the Kolgari, whose rule is death to any who moves it even an inch out of suo posto?” “The Rego? It was your own famiglia that discovered him, Arama. But now, la Guardia Reale is searching for me! I, Ilazio Moccenigo, have been blamed! How could il ragazzo be found in our Villa, in our own house?” Ilazio flung out the words with loathing. “Our agenti were all ready to spread the certain word of the Rego’s malvagio furto among the populace, we only waited for a single message.” Ilazio turned on Råiden furiously. “Is Luca di Carli, il maledetto, dead, Råiden? Dead or not!” They were walking quickly out across a bridge now. Prince Råiden grabbed the balustrade in his hands, fiercely smashing them against it. “Arama, Ilazio, I cannot tell! Lord Círdan has not spoken to me! As he ought to have…” Råiden finished with a sick feeling in his stomach.  “There still is,” Ilazio muttered gloomily, a horrible anger in his eyes, “one sure way to find out.” “But che?” Arama asked. “What does this all mean?”  She put her hand on Råiden’s arm as he was about to thrust it down into his pocket.  “Nothing has gone our way,” Råiden slowly answered. “The Rego has escaped completely free so far.”  “By what treachery?” cried Arama passionately. “How can the Rego be condannato now? Nothing has gone dovunque! No one is angry with the Rego.”  “No one?” Ilazio’s face turned white and his hand slowly closed and opened around the handle of a cold, metal knife. “Anche se nessuno è arrabbiato, he must morire. I will get him before he gets me,” Ilazio said between his teeth. “And nothing starà sulla mia strada. Only it must be done mysteriously. And so it shall be,” he hissed.  Without another word he sped off through the winding streets of Illaryian, a carved golden dagger trailing in his left hand.  “He’s heading for la Tigre di Illaryian,” breathed Arama. But he must change those Moccenigo clothes first, she thought, watching him disappear around a corner with her eyes wide. This was not just what she had planned. She wanted to stay with Råiden a little bit longer! It would be kind… but would it be safe? “He’s going to kill di Carli,” responded Råiden pensively. “But Råiden, how come he is not dead yet?” “I don’t know, non lo so, Arama!” cried the Kolgari, staring down into the water beneath with piercing eyes. He shoved his hands into his pockets, and Arama did not stop him now.  The girl watched him nervously, looking back and forth between The Tiger leaning over the bridge in front of her and the distant silhouette of the great tiger pouncing upon thin air. She could barely wait any longer! Suddenly Prince Råiden looked at her with a puzzled air. He pulled his left hand out of his pocket, and the healing amulet was there!  It was the copy that Arama had slipped into his pocket only moments before, but it was impossible to tell the difference, for her cousin Raimonde De Cioto was a brilliant goldworker and had enlaced it to perfection.  Arama’s jaw dropped.  Råiden let go of the amulet so that it slipped right back down into his pocket.  “Arama,” he said, blanching, “it’s here!” He lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper.  Amara looked up at him with fear dawning on her face. She had already seen three figures dressed in black out of the corner of her eyes, watching them from the other side of the bridge. One was Falco De Fiori, another was Susto De Fiori, and the third was Lord Círdan. For an instant she thought that they might kill her too.  “Che? Oh Råiden, what did you do!” Arama cried in distress.  He put his hand on her arm. She started at the cold touch.  “Arama,” he said in a suddenly steady voice, “go!” And she knew that he had seen them too.  But before she could obey, which she wasn’t going to do, Susto flew up over the bridge and Falco threw himself on top of Råiden, trying to wrench the amulet out of his pocket.  Lord Círdan just stood motionless at a distance, and as Arama screamed in real fear and panic he slowly raised an ancient blowpipe to his lips. Arama knew what it was, for it was a blowdart that had nearly killed her when Råiden saved her life that day in the Sunken City. But now she couldn’t save Råiden, even if she wanted to!  With a fierce yell Lord Círdan sent the deadly poison blowdart flying towards Råiden’s heart. Arama jumped forward with a cry and caught The Tiger in her arms as he stumbled to the ground without a cry.  Susto and Falco stepped back, nodding approvingly at the elven way of assassinating. “Arama!” muttered Råiden faintly.  Arama blushed at her name and tears sprang into her eyes as she threw herself down by the Kolgari’s side, setting his head gently upon her knee. “Råiden,” she whispered softly, with a sad smile on her lips. “Perché, Råiden?” “Perchè è questo?” a harsh voice behind them suddenly thrilled her to her veins. “Thou hast perjured thyself with a fraud, Prince Råiden Tígrisdýrið?” Lord Círdan tore his cloak apart, dashing the golden copy of the amulet to the ground. The necklace tinkled down upon the flagstones. “This is not the true amulet! Where hast thou laid it?” the Kolgari Lord demanded of the dying man, viciously shaking his dark red jerkin. “Search the girl!” he cried. “I stole it!” hissed Råiden. “I hid it! Only I!” Suddenly the Prince seemed to grow delirious. “I am… The Tiger!” he whispered.  Lord Círdan looked at him reverently, waving off the assassins as they reached towards Arama as he had commanded.  “The Untameable Tiger…” said Råiden, breathing in one last deep breath as his spirit fled out of him. “La ragazza didn’t do anything,” Råiden murmured with an effort, and Círdan bent down to hear the words. “She didn’t even know.” The Kolgari Lord nodded and made the sign of three claws upon his heart. But then he shook Råiden violently again, “But where is it?” he cried. “Where have you laid it, O Tiger!” Lord Círdan smashed his foot against the flagstones of the bridge and stood up. The dauntless Tiger was not going to tell him. They must honour his choice, justified in blood. He motioned to Susto and Falco De Fiori with a wave of his hand, wrapped his dark green cloak about him, and rushed quickly away. “You have tamed The Tiger,” he murmured, as he hurried out of sight.  “I didn’t know?” Arama half asked and half said, looking down kindly into Råiden’s blurry eyes.  Råiden smiled. “You only knew how to be good,” he said, and then he closed his eyes and died. Arama closed her eyes too, and one tear slipped down into the water as she stood up and looked over the side of the bridge. “You were a noble soul,” she said. “And I am glad that you never knew that I was not…”    .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.   Part VIII: L'assassinio di Luca di Carli   Arama di Athena De Cioto ran like she had never run before in her life. “Am I too late? am I too late?” the words beat out a rhythm in her head. What if she was too tardi? What if the Rego was dead, what if Luca was gone per sempre?  She thought about life in a different way now that death had been in her arms, and not so far from her heart either.  With a gasp of breath the girl threw herself down to her knees in the sand beneath the statue of the giant Tiger of Illaryian. She dug desperately at the sand with her delicate hands, scraping out the dirt until her fingers felt something hard. The healing amulet! With a cry of joy she jerked out the shining pink stone set in the beautiful golden necklace. Then she looked straight up at the head of the looming tiger.  She breathed more slowly now. There was nothing there. But suddenly she thought she saw a pair of small figures moving upon the crest, she heard a bold cry of triumph, and she saw Ilazio Moccenigo, throwing up his arms and shouting so that his voice echoed over the city! He was wrapped up in a concealing dark green turban and an old cloak, but he could not hide himself from her. It was Ilazio, and oh, had he had his vendetta? If he was all alone, then where was Luca di Carli?  She threw the necklace quickly and carefully over her neck.  Then she saw him, and she jumped back with a stifled scream. Luca was falling through the air, right in front of her! Was he dead? She looked up with horror at the man on the top of the tiger: but he was gone now. Only Luca di Carli lay before her, all crushed and mangled. They were alone in the stillness of the sunset.  “Aren’t you glad to see me, signore?” whispered Arama, a mist rising to her eyes. The sun played about her shining auburn hair, and shadows flitted intermittently across her face.  Luca smiled wistfully, his breaths coming in broken, hackneyed coughs.  “So much for… trust,” he said, looking cheerful in spite of his pain.  “So much,” she repeated sweetly, taking up his bloodied hand, ripping the necklace off her neck, and placing Luca’s hand gently on the Kolgari star, the healing diamond set within the stone.  “‘When you feel tired, when you are not well,’” she whispered the ancient lullaby softly and gently in an elvish voice, raising Luca’s head in her arms and rocking him tenderly back and forth as she slipped the amulet down onto his heart, her hand on top of his, “‘When your lifeblood’s spilling, listen to this spell. Nothing can go wrong, solo fidati di me, listen to this song, e starai per mai bene.’ I made up that last line,” Arama laughed between her tears.  As she sang the ancient pronouncement the very light of the sun faded in a glow of brilliant colors. The amulet sparkled beneath their hands and suddenly Luca’s eyes opened wide. “Arama!” he said in a broken voice, “I feel alright! I feel perfect!” “Well,” Arama grinned and pulled him up off the ground into her arms, “maybe you’re alright, Luca… ma fidati di me,” she kissed him on the cheek, “you’re not perfect!” .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.   After the chaotic events that thronged the terzo giorno, everything settled back down into relative tranquility. Arama’s cousin Raimonde pardoned Ilazio’s family in a public address, with Fiorello by his side, for the sequestro of his child, but once the populace understood that it was all a ploy to cast blame upon the Rego, beloved Luca di Carli, they were outraged for a time against the Moccenigos, so much so that no man with that last name dared show himself in the city for molte settimane. The Kolgari meanwhile hunted feverishly for the amulet, raking the city, until at last Lord Círdan bethought him of Prince Råiden’s last words and searched the sands beneath the Tiger of Illaryian. Then the true amulet was restored with joy to the Ancient Elven Shrine in the Sunken City, and The Tiger was completely pardoned for his transgression which he had wiped out in blood.  Luca di Carli, meanwhile, cemented a secret truce with the Kolgari Council, an agreement of peace and companionship between them, with equal rights for every Kolgari who cared to show his face with the humans from above. The Rego remained just as much as ever the keen and shrewd marketer and businessman, running the Realm like a well ordered olive garden.  As for Arama, who knows what deadly scrapes she might get in next? Her public image might not be very good, but behind the scenes she remains Luca’s closest, if most treacherous, friend and consulente, and he has promised to trust her forever…  “Who knows how that might end?” Arama laughed jollily in Luca di Carli’s face. “What if someday I get to like you better?” Luca smiled and shook his head, waving his curly hair back and forth. “Due possono giocare a quel gioco,” he said with a grin. “Two can play at that game, Arama…” .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.