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over the second silver ring on his staff. He opened his mouth as though to speak, but instead he disappeared.
    General Pardo blinked. His eyes darted right and left. “FIND HIM!” he bellowed at the men who poured into the small, square chamber.
    For a moment the doorway was empty, and Damiano stepped through on tiptoe, holding the shoe of his staff off the tiles. He paced the hall, trading stealth for speed as he approached the arched door that gave onto the street.
    Macchiata sat in the dust with an attitude of martyred patience. Her nose worked, sensing him near, and her head turned expectantly toward the entryway. The single sentry stood oblivious to Damiano, his helmeted head craned over his shoulder as he attended to the rising hubbub from the general’s quarters.
    Damiano touched his dog on the back so lightly she did not feel him. He whispered two words. She yelped and started.
    â€œOh, there you are,” she gasped, and her inadequate little tail wagged stiffly. In answer Damiano put his hand to his mouth and gestured for her to follow.
    â€œI am invisible,” he hissed, springing lightly along the bare street, where aimless flakes of snow had begun to fall.
    â€œBut I can see you, Master,” the dog replied following in more cumbrous fashion.
    â€œYou are invisible, too.” Damiano paused, staring.
    Against the well sprawled old Marco, snoring, a powder of snow, like dandruff, across his felt jacket. He looked the same as ever: dirty, slack, disgruntled, even in sleep. Had he really betrayed the people of Partestrada to Pardo? If so, why was he still sitting out here in the snow, instead of throned in relative splendor at the house that until today had belonged to Cosimo Alusto? Pardo must have been lying. Yet what he had repeated concerning Delstrego and his son was every inch old Marco.
    What did it matter? Damiano bent down and shook Marco by his greasy ears. “Wake up Marco,” he whispered. “Talk or I will turn you into a pig and you will talk no more! Wake up now.”
    Marco came awake grasping at the air. He gasped, “What? Who is it?”
    â€œIt is Delstrego, old man.” Let Marco figure out which one himself. “Where have the citizens gone? Speak or be sausage.”
    Marco clutched at the wrists of invisible hands that in turn were clutching his lapels, slamming his head against the stones of the well. Feeling their solidity did not reassure him.
    â€œGuillermo? Do me no hurt, old friend. They are in the vetch field, where the sheep are summered. Pardo said he will offer them no violence, except, of course, for Denezzi, and I knew he was your enemy, so I told the general he had gold—more gold than he has, you know…”
    Marco giggled ingratiatingly. In horror, Damiano stood, letting him drop back against the well. He turned on his heel and darted off. Behind him came a snap and a yowl of pain, then he heard Macchiata panting at his side. “I always wanted to do that,” she growled contentedly. Damiano only hushed her.
    The tall, scarred soldier still stood beneath the arch of the Delstrego staircase. Peering upward, Damiano could see the door was open. He stopped and pulled off his boots. His breath was beginning to steam; he hoped it was not obvious. Barefoot he climbed the stairs, with Macchiata behind him. Her nails clicked against the stones, and he glared back at her.
    In five minutes he was out again, still invisible, with an invisible sheepskin sack slung over one shoulder and the liuto over the other.
    In the sack he carried wine, cheese, money, and phlegm-cutting tonic. In his heart he carried purpose. He lifted his eyes to the northern hills, where the sheep pastures flanked the Alps.
    Damiano padded noiselessly past the guard and down the open stairs. Once at the bottom he turned and looked about him, missing Macchiata.
    Where was the bitch? Surely she knew better than to wander off ratting now, in the middle of