Leonardo spared the briefest of looks at my father before giving the Duke of Pontalba a cool bow.

“My thanks, Excellency. You are a reasonable man and a worthy ally of Milan. And now, perhaps we might discuss the terms for returning the flying machine.”

The duke chuckled.

I winced, for the sound uncannily resembled that of the chain as it raised and lowered the castle’s portcullis. To my relief, his amusement was short-lived. The chuckling ceased, and his features slipped back into their familiar lines of cold deliberation.

“My good captain, you misunderstand me,” he replied, tapping his fingertips together. “I have no intention of giving up the flying machine. Indeed, I wish to build many more like it. And so, upon further consideration, neither will I relinquish the man who designed it.”

A ripple of laughter washed over the room. Nicodemo, looking pleased with himself, leaned back in his chair and awaited the reaction of the man he believed to be Ludovico’s captain of the guard.

I could not see Leonardo’s face, but I noted an almost imperceptible tightening of his bearing. His tone no longer conciliatory, he replied, “That is unacceptable, Excellency. Milan demands the return of both man and machine.”

“Milan… demands!”

Nicodemo’s roar filled the room as he leaped to his feet, all pretense of humor gone. I reflexively skittered back a few paces, for the force of his outrage was palpable. Some of his men shuffled a few prudent steps to the rear, as well, no doubt having seen previous examples of the duke’s lapses into fury.

Leonardo, however, stood unmoving.

The duke strode around the broad table that separated him from the rest of the hall, the broad skirts of his surcoat twitching like a wild cat’s tail with every livid step. Planting himself inches from where Leonardo stood, he raised his beefy forefinger again.

“How dare you think you can tell the Duke of Pontalba what he must do? I do not answer to you nor to Ludovico!”

Snapping a look at his nearest man-at-arms, he commanded, “Take this so-called captain and hang him from the gatehouse tower, so all his men can see what I think of Milan’s demands!”

I slapped both hands over my mouth to stifle my horrified cry. But as the guards seized Leonardo from either side, I heard my father’s voice ring out.

“Halt, lest you act with too much haste! If you hang him, you will have executed the very man you wish to keep alive… for he is Leonardo the Florentine, and not I.”

“Listen to him not,” the Master protested with equal vigor as a mutter of puzzled voices rose around them. “The man beside me is Leonardo. It is his life that you wish to preserve.”

“He seeks but to spare me,” my father called out. “I am Angelo della Fazia, a simple cabinetmaker. He is Leonardo.”

The murmur of voices grew, while a flash of uncertainty washed over Nicodemo’s craggy features. Signaling his soldiers to release their captive, he gazed from Leonardo to my father and back again, a dark frown furrowing his high brow as he took in the resemblance between the two.

“Pah, I could well believe that my foolish spies might kidnap the wrong man. And so it is possible that he”-the duke jerked a thumb at my father-“is an imposter, and you speak the truth. But, as they say, you may always know when a man from Milan is lying by the fact that his mouth is open.”

Turning to his soldiers again, he commanded, “These two are of no import. The flying machine is all I want. Hang them both, and be done with it.”

A roar of assent rose from the men within the hall, drowning out my cry of fear. Barely had the soldiers laid rough hands upon both their captives, when a familiar voice cried out over the chaos.

“Wait, Uncle! I can tell you which one of these men is Leonardo the Florentine.”

The claim came from the dark-haired youth with a pockmarked face who was pushing his way through the milling men to where the Duke of Pontalba stood. Earlier, he’d been dressed in a plain brown tunic, but he no longer wore an apprentice’s simple garb. Instead, he was clad in red and gold parti-colored trunk hose, over which he wore a blue silk tunic trimmed in gold, his white shirt puffed through the many slits in his sleeves. With a rolled brim hat of gold similar to his uncle’s sitting rakishly atop his head, he was all but unrecognizable as my friend Tito.

“What have you done?” I softly cried, knowing full well that he could not hear me but unwilling to believe that the youth whom I had considered to be both a friend and ally was apparently neither.

And yet, as my thoughts tumbled back over the events of the past weeks, the revelation made an odd sort of sense.

Tito had claimed his uncle was a soldier, which was surely the truth, for the Duke of Pontalba was a military man. Too, he drove a team of horses with far greater skill than a humble apprentice would possess. And, more than once, had I not heard him dismiss those of lesser ranks with a callousness that did not befit an apprentice’s station? As for the knife I’d seen him brandish, I had known at a glance that it was far too fine a weapon for a youth such as he to possess.

But why would a young man of his background buy an apprenticeship to a master painter?

The soldiers, meanwhile, had halted at Tito’s words and gazed uncertainly at the duke for direction. Shaking his head in disgust, Nicodemo gestured them to bring their prisoners forward once again.

“Very well,” he agreed, his sour tone matching his expression as he spared a glance for the youth beside him. “Stay a moment, and let us pause to hear what my worthless nephew has to say about this.”

A blush darkened Tito’s face, but his expression was defiant as he pointed at the Master.

“This man is Leonardo the Florentine, inventor of the flying machine. The other man is who he claims to be, nothing but a cabinetmaker who was staying with Leonardo. I gave your spies a fine description of the person they wanted. It is not my fault that they took the wrong man.”

Nicodemus raised a sparse brow. “Are you saying, boy, that you’ve known from the start that the man we were holding was not Ludovico’s master engineer?”

The duke’s tone was mild enough, but something in his expression made Tito sputter as he answered, “I knew… That is, I came back to the castle to tell you… but I-”

Swift as a knife strike, Nicodemo slapped his nephew. The sound of flesh against flesh was loud enough for me to hear where I stood. Tito staggered from the impact, clutching at his jaw. To his credit, however, he promptly straightened and, heedless of his now-bleeding lip, met his uncle’s cold gaze.

“That is for allowing me to look like a fool before my men,” the duke remarked, though with far less vitriol than I might have expected.

His fury apparently spent for the moment, he strode back around the table and again seated himself in his carved chair. Turning an ironic look on Tito, he waved a careless hand.

“My apologies, Nephew,” he said with mock graciousness. “In all the excitement, I forgot to welcome you home to Pontalba again. And now, since you were supposed to be my eyes and ears in Milan, perhaps you will enlighten me with any other information that you have neglected to provide.”

Dabbing the back of his hand to his lip, Tito nodded.

“Very well, Uncle. The Duke of Milan’s army is not waiting in the forest preparing to lay siege. In fact, Il Moro is meeting secretly with the French king’s representatives and is unaware of what is happening here in Pontalba. He knows nothing of the missing flying machine or the supposed kidnapping of his master engineer.”