Ilario: The Stone Golem: A Story of the First History, Book by Mary Gentle

By Mary Gentle

The dramatic end to Ilario: The Lion's Eye! Fleeing a shock treacherous homicide test, the previous King's Freak and would-be painter Ilario has run to Carthage, the city-state less than perpetual darkness, looking for freedom. yet unusual plots are afoot, and a tenuous, complex alliance with a bookseller-turned-spy will lead Ilario from the shrouded land into stressful negotiations and intrigues in seductive, mercurial Venice, from a fraught go back to Iberia to a last war of words with kin . . . and future.

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Extra info for Ilario: The Stone Golem: A Story of the First History, Book Two

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Not the time to be holding a child. Nightmare visions of her fragility assailed me, and I blinked them away, staring across the room at Leon Battista. At this distance I could see little enough – only that he seemed well-dressed, grubby, pale with his time in prison; but had evidently been kept in locked apartments, rather than down below us in the dungeons. That will not stop them hanging him now, if they decide to. We would look like a normal aristocrat family gathered in this justice hall. Even an Alexandrine secretary would not be so unusual.

While true, it was not tactful; I was not in the least surprised when he stomped away towards the stairs, muttering under his breath. ‘I could have hidden him here! Sent him to Edirne with the Turk! ’ I heard him calling for fresh ink as he vanished into his room, and guessed he intended a ciphered message to follow Neferet, and say this and more. I reflected: If I were her, I’d make sure to drop the paper in a canal – or in the Arno, if it reaches her in Florence. Florence, I belated realised.

Do they know ‘she’ should be here in place of me? Hot sweat gathered, and rolled down my back between my shoulderblades. The canvas straps of the corset chafed under the sleeves of my bodice. For the first time in a number of years, I wished for a sword, and the memory of my knightly training. 29 ‘You paint, Donna Ilaria,’ Foscari remarked, leaning forward and speaking plainly and clearly to me. It may have been how he spoke to foreigners uncertain of the Venetian language. It felt as if he spoke to a child of eight or ten winters.

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