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Votive: Curse of the Bond Riders 2
ePub ISBN 9781742744384
A Random House bookPublished by Random House Australia Pty LtdLevel 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060www.randomhouse.com.au
First published by Random House Australia in 2011
Copyright © Beyond the Rainbow Creative Productions Pty Ltd 2011
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia.
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National Library of AustraliaCataloguing-in-Publication Entry
Author: Brooks, Karen (Karen Ruth)Title: Votive / Karen BrooksISBN: 978 1 86471 943 7 (pbk)Series: Brooks, Karen (Karen Ruth). Curse of the bond riders; 2Dewey Number: A823.4
Cover design by Mathematics, www.xy-1.comCover photos: image of mask and Venice backdrop by Getty Images; image of two gondoliers on canals by iStockphoto; image of girl's face by 123rfMap illustration by Karen BrooksMap design by Mathematics
CONTENTS
This one is for the beloved Sara (Douglass) Warneke,with whom I have shared the best of times and the worst.My dearest, most courageous, loyal and wittiest of friends --thank you, lovely lady, for being in my life. Long ago,Sara pushed me down the path, one she lovingly prepared forme and many others, and for that (and for so much more),I am forever grateful.
Votive: a small candle often burned during a religious or other ceremony
Votive: given or dedicated in fulfilment of a vow or pledge
Votive: dedicated, consecrated, offered, sacrifice
My candle burns at both ends;It will not last the night;But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends --It gives a lovely light!
Edna St. Vincent Millay'First Fig'
'BY THE GODS! STOP!'
Katina stumbled into the clearing. Blood soaked the front of her shirt. Debora and Alessandro cried out and raced to her side. She shook them off and stared in horror at the spectacle before her. 'I said, stop!'
She strode forward and struck the knife that had been about to slice open Baroque Scarpoli's neck from Santo's hand. It flew through the air before skidding to a halt in the dirt.
'What are you doing?' growled Santo, scrambling to collect his blade.
His partner Stefano made a noise of disgust and released Baroque, shoving him face first into the ground. The spy sprawled helpless, his hands and feet bound. 'Where have you been?' Stefano spat at Katina, his face inches from hers. 'I waited for you at the pledge stone. But you never came.'
Katina swiped the spittle from her cheek, her mind racing as she searched for an answer that would satisfy him.
Before she could, Baroque, their captive for over a week, groaned. Santo scooped up his knife and landed a vicious kick in his side. 'You can make enough noise now, can't you? But you won't tell us what we need to know.' He thrust his boot into him again and bent down, dragging him to his feet by the collar, his dagger poised.
'That's enough!' Katina pushed Santo hard in the chest. He staggered backwards and would have hit the ground forcefully but for Stefano. Katina went to snatch the knife.
'I wouldn't if I were you,' drawled Stefano, stepping protectively in front of his partner, his hand shielding the blade.
They locked eyes. Tension made the air between them contract.
Katina shook her head but she lowered her arm. 'Back off, Stefano,' she growled. 'Now is not the time and you know it. Call off your ... lover.' Her gaze slid to Santo, who slowly regained his feet, his face twisted in fury. A shift and whisper of movement behind her followed by a soft intake of breath let her know Alessandro and Debora, her own partners, had her back.
'Now. Why don't we all calm down?' Katina said, moving away before anyone could challenge her, making sure she was positioned between Santo, his knife and Baroque. With deliberation she turned and, drawing her own dagger, knelt down and began to cut Baroque's bindings.
'What in the gods' name are you doing?' shouted Santo. 'Let's just slit his throat and get the hell out of here!' Stefano had to prevent Santo from launching himself at Katina. Alessandro also blocked his way.
Katina stopped, her knife held out like a sharp finger. 'Not until I say so. In case you've forgotten, I am in charge.' Her voice was low and deadly. 'Anyhow, Santo, don't you think there's been enough death already today?' Her eyes bored into him.
He gave a bark of laughter. 'We had instructions to kill the chandler, Katina. Remember?'
Katina held his gaze a fraction longer before she resumed cutting Baroque's bonds. They were tight. 'The Elders did not say that Dante's death had to be so --' she searched for the right word '-- brutal. That particular bit was your contribution -- your only one as far as I'm concerned.'
Santo frowned and shot a look at Stefano, who shook his head. He laughed again. 'You've become weak, Katina. Your last stint here in Serenissima sapped your courage. It's diluted your loyalties. You've developed affection for those who are our targets. And now you're protecting someone who was trying to interfere with our mission.' He flipped his hand towards Baroque. 'Why, he's nothing but a filthy spy!' With a snort, he walked away.
Out of the corner of her eye, Katina watched as he began to untether his horse from the nearby trees. While it riled her, Santo had a point. She was not the same anymore; her feelings had been engaged and her eyes opened.
Baroque's bonds fell to the ground. Debora knelt by his side and began to rub life back into his wrists. Katina worked his gag free. It rested against his neck like a noose.
Stefano gazed judgementally at Katina. 'Santo's correct. You've changed. You're too soft.' He lingered briefly, as if he had more to say, then joined his partner.
Katina quietly released her breath. Shooting Debora and Alessandro looks of gratitude, she sheathed her dagger and helped Baroque sit up. The marks of their interrogations were livid on his flesh. His lips were cut, his nose broken; one eye was so puffy, he must have been barely able to see out of it. His clothes were ruined and the patches of exposed flesh were a combination of bruises and dirt -- it was hard to distinguish which.
'Senta, Baroque Scarpoli.' She pushed the gag over his head. 'This is your last chance. Tell us who you're working for. Why you're following Tallow.'
The spy's one functioning eye twinkled.
'I told you. I even told them,' he said, indicating Stefano and Santo. 'I work for myself. But no-one will believe me.' He made an attempt at a chuckle. Blood sprayed the air and his cheeks. He spat on the ground and a tooth dislodged. 'I didn't need to lose another,' he said dourly. He took the gag from Katina and used it to wipe his mouth before letting it fall in the dirt. He rubbed his wrists, wincing as circulation returned.
Katina rose to her feet, never taking her eyes from him. That he'd been tracking Tallow was beyond debate -- they'd been watching him watch her, and that meant he knew the girl was an Estrattore. But who had hired him and for what purpose remained a mystery. Stefano and Santo were right: they should dispatch the spy now. But something made her stay her hand, and it wasn't only the image of Dante's death -- a sight that played over and over in her mind. If Santo hadn't killed Dante, would Tallow have come with them? Would they be loitering here in front of the Limen, afraid to return to the Elders with news of their failure?
Katina glanced at the Limen now, a nacreous sentinel in the fading light. A misty rain began to fall, deepening its radiance.
After Tallow had jumped into the canal, they'd tried to find her. Combing the fondamenta, attempting to appear indifferent while desperately searching the canals, the water-stairs, and every paline that rose out of the lagoon, in the hope they'd find her clinging to one. They checked nearby rami and calles, but there'd been no sign. The mob that had been cowed into silence was furious -- one of their own, a young chandler on the cusp of manhood, had been callously killed, and by a Bond Rider.
When the soldiers arrived, they'd had to end their search, leave Serenissima quickly and covertly. It would be a while before they could openly return. They'd have to wait at least until memories of what they'd done -- what Santo had done, corrected Katina -- faded.
'You couldn't have stopped him,' whispered Alessandro, understanding where her thoughts had taken her. Reaching out, he gently kneaded Katina's shoulders. 'He believes he was following orders.'
'He was,' said Katina. Her tone was bitter, angry. She didn't understand why Dante had to die. It made no sense. She kept her concerns to herself. 'Only no-one said the young man's death had to be so dramatic, so public.' Not when a knife across the throat or a dagger slipped between the ribs would have served equally well.
Aware Baroque was listening to their every word, she bit back what she wanted to express. Who else knew about Tallow? And what did they want? If Baroque was working for himself as he claimed, then it would be for the reward the Doge offered and, if that were the case, he would have kidnapped the girl already. But he hadn't. He'd been following her, gathering information, just as they were. Katina didn't like what that signified one bit.
If they killed Baroque, her questions would never be answered. They needed him to believe he'd convinced them with his tale of working alone. That he'd escaped Bond Rider justice ... this time.
Katina sheathed her dagger. 'In light of what's happened, killing this man would be ... ill considered.'
'What!' exclaimed Stefano, leading his horse over. 'Are you mad?'
'We need to find Tallow. When we can return to Serenissima -- 'her eyes flashed at Santo '-- that will be our mission. This man found Tallow once. He can do so again. More than ever, we need ears and eyes in the city, ones that will not turn an Estrattore over to the Cardinale or the Doge.'
'But he's a spy! How many times do we need to say it? He works for soldi, not out of allegiance.' Santo kicked a stone in frustration.
'Which means he works for whoever pays the most. Am I not right?'
A smile pulled Baroque's lips. 'Sì.'
'And, if we paid you enough, would you work for us?'
'You have my word. On my honour,' he said, placing a hand over his heart.
Santo guffawed. 'Honour? What would you know about honour?'
'About as much as you,' snapped Baroque, finally hauling himself to his feet and making an effort to stand straight. He pulled what remained of his clothes around his body. 'You snatch me from the streets of the Chandlers Quartiere and drag me over here to the mainland and start beating me, making wild accusations, crazy assumptions. Where's the honour in that? You attack me, and why? Because I am following a little boy.'
The Bond Riders glanced at each other. Katina's eyebrows shot up. 'A boy? You know he's a great deal more than that.'
'So what if I do? That doesn't prove I'm working for anyone other than myself.' He looked around at their sceptical faces. 'Senta, listen: I swear, I am working for myself.'
He looked at each of the Bond Riders in turn. 'I promise I will not reveal any of this. Just let me go, please. I will look for this boy for you. I will find him and, when I do, I will tell you. No-one else but you.' Ignoring the others, he stared long and hard into Katina's eyes.
'Upon what do you swear?' she asked.
Baroque's breath caught. 'On my dead brother's soul,' he whispered.
In the dimming light and steady rain, Katina could not see the spy's features clearly. Her eyes flickered over the other Bond Riders. They weren't happy with what she was doing -- that was clear in their faces. Well, Katina didn't trust him either, but killing him served no purpose except to sate some sick blood-lust. The gods knew, enough had been spilled. She resisted pulling her shirt away from her body and ripping off her gloves.
In that instant, she made up her mind. She would bear the consequences of this decision. Anyhow, if the Elders didn't like what she'd done, she could always return and finish off Baroque Scarpoli. It was her other choice she was more worried about.
'Very well,' she said to the spy, 'consider yourself hired. You now work for us.' Debora and Alessandro glanced at each other, faces drawn in displeasure. Stefano and Santo began to laugh.
'You stupid cavola,' said Santo in disgust.
Stefano folded his arms across his chest and regarded Katina carefully, taking note of her appearance. 'Where were you? You never did answer me. How come you took so long to get here? And why do you have blood all over you?'
Debora stared at her. 'It's not yours, is it?'
'No.' She hesitated and then changed her mind. 'All right. If you must know, it's Dante's. I went back --'
'What?' The word slipped out of everyone's mouths. Alessandro slapped his thigh in frustration. Debora made a noise of exasperation and turned away. Santo and Stefano hovered between leering at the discord between the partners and fury.
'To make sure he was dead.' Katina raised her voice. 'I wanted to ...' She searched for an explanation, to tell them what had compelled her to return. 'To say sorry.'
Stefano's frown deepened. 'You're not serious.'
'Sì, she is,' Santo mocked. 'Our leader, the apologist.' He wound his horse's reins around his wrist and leapt into the saddle. 'What are we waiting for?' He looked down at the group. 'I'm not going to argue over this. Not anymore. She can bear the consequences.' He nodded towards Stefano. 'Let's get out of here before she makes us surrender ourselves to the Signori di Notte or the Cardinale.'
Stefano didn't move. 'You're not telling us everything, are you?'
Katina remained silent.
'You've become unpredictable, Katina, and that's not good in a Bond Rider.'
When she didn't respond, he clicked in exasperation and, with practised ease, mounted his stallion. 'Where's your horse?'
'Birrichino? He's back at the pledge stone. Why?' Katina wrapped her arms around her body.
'You have to go back for him?'
'Yes, I do.' Her voice was steady.
'So you won't be making the crossing with us.'
'No, but I won't be far behind.'
'What? Like last time?' Stefano nudged his horse and headed towards the Limen. 'Well, I'm not waiting for you.'
Santo followed. 'Me neither.'
Katina shrugged at their backs as they trotted out of the clearing. She waited till they were out of earshot. 'I deserved that.' She swung to face Debora and Alessandro. 'You don't need to wait for me either. I'll see Baroque on his way and join you shortly.'
'We'll stay with you,' said Alessandro, taking Debora's hand.
'No,' said Katina. 'I need you and Debora to cross with those two. I don't trust them. They'll be in the Elders' ears before I have a chance to explain. I need you to prevent that, at best -- moderate their tales at worst.'
'But --' began Debora.
'No. No buts. Go. I need you on the other side more than I need you here.' She glanced skywards. 'The rain is a blessing and will cover our tracks. I'll be careful. I've done it before.'
Debora stared at Katina, who refused to meet her eyes. 'I hope you know what you're doing.' The brief silence was laden with meaning.
'So do I,' whispered Katina.
Katina watched as her partners mounted their horses and then stepped between them, grabbing Alessandro's hand where it rested on the pommel, reaching over to link with Debora's.
Alessandro sighed. 'You're up to something and I don't like it one bit. But I also recognise that tone. I'll do what you ask, but I'll be waiting.'
Katina looked at his dark hair pulled back in its long ponytail, the brown eyes and broad shoulders. She noted the determined jut of his chin. She stood on tiptoe as he bent towards her and pressed her lips against his. 'You're not the only one who recognises tones,' she said softly against his mouth. 'Wait. If you must.'
'We must,' said Debora, placing her other hand over Katina's. Then she kicked her horse into action. Alessandro was right behind her.
'See you on the other side,' called Debora, using the traditional Bond Riders' farewell.
They urged their horses into a canter, catching up with Santo and Stefano quickly. Kicking up leaves and dust, they charged alongside the Limen, gathering speed. The unearthly glow of the shifting barrier made them appear wraith-like. Katina heard, carried on the wind, the words Stefano chanted to open a rift. From where she stood she saw the air change, dragged towards the hole in the fabric of time, sucked into its hungry maw. One by one the horses and Riders leapt into the opening and, with a great dragging sound, the fracture sealed.
'The other side,' whispered Katina. Then she turned to Baroque. He stood gaping at what he'd just witnessed.
'Amazing,' he said.
She smiled at his reaction. Even after all this time, she felt the same way. Brushing her hair out of her eyes, she considered his appearance. In the growing dark, he was a shambles. 'You'll need to invent a story about bandits or some such.'
'Then I'll just tell the truth and say it was Bond Riders. You're all a bunch of bandits anyway.'
Katina grunted. 'You may joke, but I have put myself at great risk for you, Baroque Scarpoli. The others, even my own partners, would rather you were dead.'
'I know. Believe me, I'm grateful.'
'Hmm. We'll see if that means anything.'
'Why did you, then? You know, save me.'
Katina thought for a moment. 'I don't know, really.' She gave a half-laugh. 'Call it instinct -- or stupidity. Something told me that you have an important role to play in all this.' She dismissed her words with a wave of her hand. 'For now, I want you to let me know if you hear any news of Tallow -- anything at all.'
Baroque took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. It snaked out of his mouth in a long rill of white. 'Sì, Signorina Bond Rider. And how do I find you? You said yourself, it will be a while before you can return to Serenissima. The loss of the chandler will echo throughout the city. Bond Riders will be a byword.'
'Not for long, Baroque Scarpoli. We too are part of Serenissima. The division,' she said, gesturing to the Limen, 'is only superficial.'
Baroque started to chuckle. It was dry, broken. 'You really believe that? Oh, Signorina, the division is deep, and I think you Bond Riders look for an excuse to make it permanent.'
Katina frowned. Baroque was right. The mark of difference between Bond Riders and humans was more than the strange anomaly called the Limen. It was internal, it was social; it was physical as well. She became aware of his eyes upon hers. When she spoke, her voice was sharper than she intended. 'You may leave messages for me at the Taverna di Segretezza -- do you know it?'
'In the Tailors Quartiere?'
'Sì. Ask for Signor Vestire. He owns it. He's a friend of the Bond Riders. He will know how to contact me.'
Baroque nodded. 'I'd heard rumours of the tailors and the Bond Riders.'
Katina flashed a smile. 'Even Bond Riders need clothes, and they are good to do business with,' she said plucking at her shirt. The smile disappeared. 'If you have news, I will come, though you may have to be patient. Messages do not always travel as swiftly as they should between our worlds. But know this: if you break our agreement -- if you do not come to me, Baroque Scarpoli, I will hunt you down. However long it takes. Like you, we have our own way of extracting information. Only we don't do it quietly with whispers and behind closed doors. I will take away that which I have just returned to you -- your life -- and with no thought for where or when. Capisce?'
Katina knew Baroque was considering the seriousness of her threat. 'Capisco. I understand,' he said faintly. He shivered. The rain was becoming heavier and night was setting in. A cold gust of wind blew through the clearing, howling along the Limen, distrupting the billowing mist.
Katina pointed through the trees. 'Head in that direction. You'll find boats moored past the reeds. You can take one and return to Serenissima tonight.'
Baroque frowned. 'I thought you were going back to the pledge stone?'
'Not with you,' she said. 'We part company here. Now.' She reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out a purse and threw it to him.
Baroque caught it mid-air. He weighed it in his palm, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. 'Bene. You have my promise that as soon as I have information about the boy, I will make contact.' He bowed, stiffly. He began to hobble towards the trees, shoving the purse deep into his coat.
After a few steps, he paused and turned. 'I always knew you Bond Riders had secrets.' He blinked the rain out of his eyes. 'But they always seemed to be concerned about this world, about the one you left behind. But this, this business with Tallow. This is something different, isn't it?' He noted the expression on Katina's face. 'The chandler is dead because of that fellow ... What's his name? Santo, wasn't it? I haven't had the pleasure before. Hope I never do again.' He felt his face gingerly, wincing as he encountered a bruise. 'He was a good young man, Dante. Decent. I think he and Tallow shared ... affection. You Bond Riders accept that sort of thing, don't you?'
Katina didn't respond.
Baroque sighed. 'I want to know what you're up to. What's going on. Maybe, when I find the boy for you, I will. The world stirs. Where some see tragedy, others see opportunity. What do you see, Signorina Bond Rider?' He looked as if he was about to say more, then changed his mind. 'Grazie mille for what you did. You saved my life. I won't forget that.'
'Make sure you don't.' They stared at each other for a few seconds more before Baroque grunted and, with a nod, moved away. 'Oh, one more thing, Scarpoli,' Katina called.
Baroque halted and looked over his shoulder.
'Tallow's a girl.'
Baroque's good eye widened and his face broke into the semblance of a smile. 'Bene, bene, bene. I see. Of course. That explains a great deal. Sì. Sì. A ragazza. Grazie mille again.' His broken laughter was eventually swallowed by the trees.
He made a racket as he departed. Above the noise of the rain, Katina heard the snap of branches, the mulch of damp detritus underfoot and Baroque's chatter as he tried to frighten away any lurking creatures. Katina couldn't help but feel some sympathy for him. Still, only by setting him free could she find out exactly who was paying him and why. 'I'll find you yet, Tallow. One way or another,' Katina promised the darkness.
Minutes passed. Except for the gentle patter of rain, it was silent.
At last she was alone. She took a deep breath and recalled every move she'd made since the day began. It all led to this moment. Releasing Baroque was nothing compared to what she was about to do. Was she sure? Was it the right thing?
Just as she knew freeing the spy was correct, she knew that her next action was imperative. Everything she did, she did for the Bond Riders -- and for Tallow.
Plunging back into the forest, Katina ducked and weaved between the trees, her eyes accustomed to the dimness but her pace slowing as exhaustion took hold of her. She'd been lying to Debora and Alessandro when she said the blood wasn't hers. Some of it was, and the loss was affecting her now. She pulled at her gloves. The blood was drying, making the leather stick to her skin.
A gentle snickering interrupted her thoughts. Picking up her pace, she reached her horse in a few strides. 'Hello, boy. You miss me?' She ran her hands along Birrichino's smooth neck, patting his flanks, relieved to see the sweat she'd raised with their earlier dash out of Serenissima had all but disappeared.
'Good boy.' His life-force felt strong, despite today's exertions. She hoped it was enough to get them through the Limen. She hoped she could summon the strength to breach it once more.
She quickly checked the huge bundle she'd strapped to Birrichino's saddle. The reason she was late. The reason she'd returned to Serenissima alone.
Just as her intuition had told her to release Baroque Scarpoli unharmed, so too it had told her to retrieve what should not be left behind.
First tightening the straps that held the roll in place, she undid Birrichino's tether and hooked it across the pommel before throwing herself into the saddle.
'You ready, boy?' she asked. 'Time to go home.' She urged him forward, wondering what price she would pay for her decisions today.
Cold, or a prescient awareness, caused a shudder to wrack her body. She gripped Birrichino more tightly, his warmth offering reassurance. Still, as she passed through the trees, she sent fervent prayers to the gods, for if they did not stand by her now, then nothing on Vista Mare or in the Limen could.
'HEY, VINCENZO! IT'S BEEN A WHILE, amico mio, has it not?'
Vincenzo di Torello, owner of the taverna in the main campo of the Candlemakers Quartiere in the canal-city of Serenissima, spun round at the sound of the voice. His eyes widened and the rag he was using to polish the table slipped from his fingers.
'Signor Barbacan, Barold!' he exclaimed. 'Non è possible! I don't believe it.'
Baroque Scarpoli closed the door behind him, ducking his head to hide the grin the use of his nom de plume caused. His eyes scanned the bar, checking it really was empty. Waiting over the other side of the campo until he was sure everyone had left, he'd stuck to the shadows before coming to the entrance. He didn't want to be seen returning to the taverna that had been his home for many weeks. The place that held his most important possessions. The door clicked and he turned and smiled at Vincenzo, who was manoeuvring his girth through the tables, holding out his arms in greeting. They embraced warmly.
'Sì. It's been too long,' said Baroque as Vincenzo reached behind him and checked the door was locked. Satisifed, he slapped Baroque on the back and beckoned him towards the bar. 'How are you?' he asked over his shoulder.
Falling back into his alter identity of a businessman searching for a shop to buy, Baroque slumped, stuck out his stomach and smoothed back his hair. The foreign accent was easy to maintain -- he'd spent a lot of time in Jinoa. He slid onto a stool and leant on the counter, grateful that, while the fire still threw out some heat, only a few candles were burning. Shadows were an unexpected boon tonight -- for all sorts of reasons.
'Better than you, by the looks of it.' Vincenzo tried to examine his face, but gave up and went behind the bar and poured Baroque a mug of vino. He slid it in front of him. 'Della casa,' he said. 'On the house. Drink.' He nodded towards it.
'Grazie,' said Baroque. He took a deep swig, swallowed noisily and sighed in pleasure.
'What happened to you, amico mio? Are you injured?'
Baroque shrugged. 'It's not as bad as it looks. Common thugs, that's all. After my purse. They left me unconscious in a calle. It took me till today to remember who I was.' Baroque took another drink. 'Now all I want to do is forget,' he chuckled.
'Well, you're safe now,' said Vincenzo. 'Do you want me to send for the dottore? Just to be sure.'
'No, that won't be necessary.' Baroque let out another long sigh and, leaning back on the stool, looked around. 'You were closing?'
'Sì. It's been a long day. The popolani -- they're very distressed. I don't know if you heard, but the chandler, Dante Macelleria, he died today. He was killed --' Vincenzo stopped, biting his lip. Emotions chased each other across his face.
'I know. I did hear. Very sad.'
'Many people came here to drink, to talk. You know -- make sense of the senseless. And then there's young Tallow. Do you know about him too?'
Baroque nodded. 'I heard. Seems he's an Estrattore?'
Vincenzo threw his hands up in the air. 'Who would have thought? Who would have guessed? But he's disappeared. Gone. Jumped over the bridge and into the canal. There's no trace of him.' He stared into the fire. 'And now Pillar, you know, the candlemaker, his master, has shut himself away. He won't speak to anyone. No-one is blaming him. On the contrary, they want to thank him. Without Tallow, so many more would have died during the Morto Assiderato.' He lost himself in his thoughts for a few moments before shaking himself back into the present. He began to stack the glasses he'd collected from the tables into a tub ready to take out to the kitchen for washing.
'I still can't believe an Estrattore has returned. And when we'd all but stopped believing.' He paused, staring out over the empty room. 'Do you believe in God, Signor Barbacan?'
Baroque regarded him steadily. 'We all believe in God, Signor. We have to, remember? The Church says so. The Doge tells us we must. So I do.'
Vincenzo's face was unreadable in the dying light of the embers. 'Do we?' he said quietly. 'I am no longer certain.' A glass clinked against another. 'Anyway,' continued Vincenzo in a different tone, 'you've missed a great deal. I was worried about you. Not without justification, either.' He gestured to Baroque's torn clothes before slowly putting two more glasses in the tub. 'Some people came here looking for you.'
A tingle ran along Baroque's spine. 'Oh? Who were they?' He tried to sound light-hearted.
Vincenzo shrugged. 'Some nobile and his whore. She called him papa, but I know a courtesan when I see one. They were strange. Said you were working for them. Is that true?' Lifting the tub with a grunt, he carried it out to the kitchen. Baroque heard the clatter as he deposited his load. Vincenzo returned seconds later wiping his hands, his eyebrows raised. 'So, is it?'
'Why?' Baroque held his breath.
Vincenzo began to wipe the counter top again, avoiding Baroque's eyes. 'Because I let them take your things.' His hand stilled as he waited for Baroque's reaction.
'My things? You mean, my bag?'
'Sì.' Vincenzo resumed cleaning, using careful, long strokes.
Baroque's heart plummeted. He watched Vincenzo work and inhaled slowly, preparing for what he knew he must now do.
Misreading the look on Baroque's face, Vincenzo spoke quickly. 'Mi dispiace, Signor Barbacan. I had no choice. I couldn't afford to leave the room with only your briefcase and a few clothes in it. After the Morto Assiderato ...' He paused. 'I needed to be able to recoup my losses -- and promptly. An empty room, well, being a businessman, I knew you'd understand.'
Baroque drained his drink and put the mug down firmly. 'I do, amico mio, I do. It's all right.' He swiped his hand across the back of his mouth, wincing at the tender flesh. 'Do you have many guests tonight? Has business picked up?'
Vincenzo snorted. 'I'm as barren as an old woman's womb.' He indicated the rooms above. 'It will take time. The murder today, it does not help. People want to drink, to gossip, to listen, but they don't want to stay. This quartiere is considered dangerous now. There's rumours the Signori di Notte, the Doge's secret police, are in the area. I haven't seen them yet. But it will only be a matter of time.'
Baroque shivered. He hadn't anticipated them. He would have to be careful.
Vincenzo picked up the bladder of vino and poured Baroque another mug. He then picked up a battered old pewter cup and filled it for himself.
'To friends,' he said, lifting his vessel.
'Salute,' said Baroque.
He watched as Vincenzo drank, noting the way his Adam's apple bobbed up and down his throat. Checking once more to make sure that no-one was about, Baroque reached over the bar and picked up one of the glasses that Vincenzo had collected but not yet washed. He held it up to the dim light and turned it before smashing it against the edge of the bar. Glass tinkled to the floor and scattered all over the wooden surface.
Vincenzo jumped and lowered his cup. 'What are you --?'
Before he could finish, Baroque rammed the broken glass into the tavern owner's neck. Vincenzo clutched at his throat, his eyes widening. Blood spilled over his hands, down his arms, dripping onto his apron. Gurgling sounds were trapped in his mouth. He stared at Baroque; questions, accusation and betrayal in his eyes.
Baroque calmly got off his stool and went around to the back of the bar. He wrapped his arms around Vincenzo from behind and gently lowered him to the floor.
He placed his lips against Vincenzo's ear. 'Mi dispiace, Vincenzo. You know too much. You saw the Maleovellis, the nobiles. You know I work for them. The Bond Riders, they cannot know this. No-one must know. Not yet. It will be over soon, amico mio. This way is quick. Trust me, I know what I am doing. I have done it many, many times.'
Baroque sat on the floor of the taverna, the bar rising above him. Vincenzo's head lay in his lap, blood pouring from the wound being absorbed into the sawdust. Vincenzo tried to talk.
'Hush,' whispered Baroque, stroking his hair. 'Do not speak. Be silent. Don't fight.'
Vincenzo frowned. His watery eyes fluttered and slowly closed. Baroque sighed and waited. It would not be long.
Moonlight streamed through the frosted windows at the front of the taverna. The candles spluttered and went out one by one, gradually plunging the room into a cold, blue darkness. The fire spat its last. Baroque noticed the rain had stopped.
Finally, Vincenzo spasmed. Two huge shudders wracked his body. His legs jerked and then, with one final deep breath, his body stilled.
Baroque eased himself out from under it and rose with difficulty. His legs were sticky with blood. Touching it in dismay, he wiped his fingers on his breeches. He would find Vincenzo's clothes and change.
Minutes later, he came down the stairs dressed in a fresh shirt, jerkin, hose and a thick cape with a hood. He glanced down at Vincenzo. He felt a pang of regret. Another innocent life lost. Because of what was afoot in Serenissima; because of Tallow.
Now he would have to return to the Maleovellis. He hadn't intended to see them again. He'd failed in his mission for them and he had a new one. But they had his journals, the detailed diaries he'd kept for decades, filled to the brim with names, dates, secret meetings, treachery, treason, and death. So much of that -- and all in the name of power. Evidence that would incriminate not only him, but many others if they fell into the wrong hands. In the right ones, they were worth a great deal of money -- soldi to which only he was entitled. He had no choice but to go back to the Maleovellis and do whatever it took to retrieve them. He'd worked too hard his whole life -- betrayed, lied, deceived, denied himself real friendship and many creature comforts -- all the while documenting everything so that in his old age he would be comfortable. The Maleovellis would not take that from him. He would have his journals, regardless of the risk. He owed Vincenzo that at least.
Vincenzo's body lay there. He would have to make his death look like a violent robbery. Shaking himself into motion, he unlatched the front door and peered into the campo. It was quiet. Only a cat slinked its way around the well. Good. Stripping the nearest table of its cloth, he wrapped it around his wrist and smashed a window. He captured the glass in its folds before closing the door. Using the heel of his boot, he shattered the lock.
Picking up a few random mugs, he threw them around the room. As he strode to the back door, he knocked chairs over. Using a knife he found, he slit open bladders of vino. They gurgled into the thirsty sawdust.
From the hallway he surveyed his handiwork. In the murky light, it looked impressive. The work of bandits indeed. Satisfied, he went to the desk crammed under the stairs. There, in a tin stashed carelessly in the top drawer, were Vincenzo's meagre takings. He tossed them into the purse Katina had given him.
He threw the empty tin into the bar. It struck Vincenzo's lifeless legs. With a lump of sadness in his throat, Baroque sneaked out the back door, leaving it open, and made his way to the main canal.
In a dark corner, tied loosely to a paline near a set of disused water-stairs, bobbed an old gondola. Baroque quickly checked that no-one was about before easing back the cover, leaping into the craft and untying it. He was about to guide it into the current when he saw another gondola approaching.
Cursing, he quickly retied his craft and lowered himself into the bottom. Peering over the edge, he tried to make out who approached.
Standing in the centre of the gondola, his dark cape billowing behind him like a black sail, was the Cardinale Rafaelo Martino.
Baroque clutched his chest as panic seized his body. Taking deep breaths, he pulled the rotting cover he had partly peeled back over his head and sank to the bottom of his boat, all the time praying he hadn't been seen.
'DO YOU SENSE ANYTHING, your grace?'
Cardinale Martino, the recently appointed leader of the Church in Serenissima, broke away from his close scrutiny of the bridge and stared at Captain Orlando Sansono. The flickering light of the lamps made the handsome Cardinale resemble a reptile, swathed as he was in a cloak, his skin stretched across impossibly high cheekbones and his hazel eyes flashing beneath his red cap.
'Indeed, I do,' said the Cardinale. He rose smoothly from the cobbles, flicking the servants who held the lanterns aloft out of the way. He joined the Captain by the side of the bridge. They both leant against the stone parapet and gazed across the inky waters. The distance separating the men was minimal -- words carried across water and Captain Sansono knew that whatever the Cardinale had to say would be for his ears alone.
He waited patiently for the Cardinale to speak, studying the nobile out of the corner of his eye. Captain Sansono could sense the tension in his superior's body.
The only sound was the creak of the lanterns behind them and the lapping of the waters against the fondamenta and the old gondola below. Behind them, Sansono's men, the Signori di Notte, the Lords of the Night or secret police, blended into what to them was their natural element. Sansono knew their uncanny silence belied a fearsome preparedness. The Cardinale was not the only person longing to prove his worth, eager to hunt and destroy the Estrattore -- the latest and greatest threat to the faith, to Serenissima.
Finally, Cardinale Martino struck the stone railing with his fist and gave a victorious smile. 'You did well to bring me here.' His voice was soft, melodic. 'An Estrattore has walked this bridge, has used his Godforsaken powers right here, this very day. Of that I am in no doubt.'
The Cardinale inhaled deeply, relishing the night air, shutting his eyes in appreciation, ignoring the taint of putrescence that seemed to coat everything. He exhaled slowly and, opening his eyes, gave a soft laugh. 'Just when there were those in the Church, bishops here in Serenissima, who were insisting they were extinct, an Estrattore rears his heretical little head -- just high enough for it to be lopped. And in my lifetime.' He chuckled. 'Thank God the Great Patriarch understood that it was God's will I come here.' He lifted the heavy crucifix he wore around his neck and kissed it passionately, holding it tightly for a moment before releasing it to fall against his chest. 'It's been a long time, such a long, long time.' He turned to face the captain. 'So, Sansono, tell me again what you know. What happened here this afternoon. I can see some blood -- the rain has washed away a great deal -- but I understand it's both human and animal. Explain to me again; do not leave out any details, no matter how insignificant they may seem to you.'
The captain spoke quickly and concisely. The Cardinale listened, his head tilted slightly, his body still. 'There was a chase. From the Chandlers Quartiere. The popolani pursued the one called Tallow. It all ended on this bridge when a Bond Rider appeared. A chandler, Dante Macelleria, was killed. So was a dog that he brought with him but which, I am told, belonged to Tallow. There was another man involved as well. A candlemaker named Pillar Pelleta. It's said, though no-one will yet confirm, that this Tallow, Tallow Pelleta, was a member of his family and his apprentice. And so, your grace,' finished Captain Sansono, 'it was the soldiers who arrived after the homicidi of the chandler who informed us that a masked Bond Rider also attempted to kidnap the apprentice candlemaker.'
The Cardinale rubbed his chin. 'Hmmm. Bond Riders. The unholy alliance between them and the Estrattore has been known for centuries. No doubt they're up to something. For now, I have other prey to catch.' He stared above the captain's head for a moment. 'The young boy. The one who leapt over the bridge -- presumably, he lived in this quartiere?'
'That is what we believe, your grace.'
'And he managed to elude the Bond Riders?'
'The locals were quite clear they never captured him. Some say he jumped into the canal, others that he simply vanished. The soldiers were unable to get much detail. I am sure your grace will understand, they were very distressed at the death of the Macelleria boy, the ragazzo Dante. His family are well known in their quartiere; most of the focus was on what had happened to him.'
'Of course. The loss of a son is tragic.' The Cardinale made a small sound, lowered his chin and shook his head. He waited a full minute before speaking again. 'But I am very curious, captain, as to what the chandler was doing on the bridge, detached from the mob who, it seems, mindlessly followed a commotion. Why it's his blood spilled and no-one else's? Why he was the one in control of the apprentice's dog? You did say, did you not, that the dead dog belonged to the apprentice candlemaker?'
'Sì, your grace.'
'You see, captain, this presents a very curious puzzle. I have no doubt whatsoever that this candlemaker, this young boy named ...'
'Tallow, your grace.'
'Tallow, is an Estrattore. I recall earlier reports of an "angel of mercy" in this sestiere, that some of the residents here, against all possibility, survived the Morto Assiderato and that they were attributing their continued existence to candles? Is that not so?'
'Sì, your grace.'
'I am thinking that it's very likely this Tallow is responsible for those magical candles, that this Tallow is, in fact, the "angel of mercy" that I am very curious about. What do you think, captain?'
'I think your grace is very perceptive.'
'That means that not only were the popolani knowingly buying suspicious products from this young man, but they're also complicit in concealing him from the authorities. Furthermore, they've been doing so for years. This is a very serious charge, is it not?'
'Sì, your grace.'
'And what is the penalty?'
'Death, your grace.'
The Cardinale inclined his head. 'Sì. Morto.' His lips curled. 'Where exactly did the candlemaker live?'
Captain Sansono shifted uncomfortably. 'That's something we're unclear about, your grace. These peasants, they're very protective of one another. Those who were questioned by the soldiers were vague in their responses.'
'The popolani,' he chuckled. 'How sweet. They probably even consider this Estrattore to be one of them.'
'So it seems, your grace.'
'What about the chandler's family -- have they been questioned?'
'Sì, your grace. They too were ... imprecise.'
'Hmm.' The Cardinale pushed himself away from the side of the bridge and returned to where he'd been squatting earlier. His servants quickly joined him, holding their lanterns up high. They illuminated the bridge, turning the cold, dark space into an intimate one. The Cardinale peered down at the slick stones. What remained of the blood was oil-like across the surface, difficult for anything but a trained eye to detect. The captain marvelled that the Cardinale could read anything from what remained and in such poor light.
'I do not like vague, Captain Sansono. I do not like imprecise either.'
The captain knew better than to respond.
'You said there's also some confusion about what happened to the chandler's body?'
'Sì, your grace. Some of the witnesses said that the Macelleria family retrieved the body; others say it never arrived at their premises. You know how particular the mourning rituals are, how seriously they are taken.'
'Did anyone follow up on this?'
The captain paused. 'Your grace, the local soldiers -- some of them knew the family; they didn't want to force --'
'Of course!' The Cardinale threw his hands up in the air. 'Of course they didn't. I understand. God bless their thoughtfulness. And God bless yours too, captain.'
'Your grace?'
'Captain Sansono.' The Cardinale spun towards the captain and draped an arm across his shoulders. The captain gulped. 'Sansono,' he said softly, leaning close so only the captain could hear, drawing him away from the light and his men, and strolling along the bridge. His boots clattered against the stones, his cape swirled around his ankles. 'You have known me for a short time, sì? Ever since the Doge put me in charge of you. What you do not know about me, but what I will tell you to make things between us less complicated, is that I do not like puzzles, I do not like confusion and I particularly dislike ambiguity.' He paused, waiting for an answer.
Captain Sansono swallowed. 'Sì, your grace.'
'Bene. We have a very serious situation on our hands, Sansono. One that is my responsibility to resolve. There's an Estrattore loose in Serenissima and, according to the clues that the events on this very bridge, this very day, have uncovered, there has been for some time now. Possibly years. This has been happening under our very noses. The Doge will not like it. First his grandson, then the Morto Assiderato and now this ...'
The Cardinale withdrew his arm and stood in the middle of the bridge, hands on his hips, facing the Candlemakers Quartiere. Captain Sansono remained behind, admiring the breadth of the man's shoulders, the way the breeze tugged at his grey hair. 'Somewhere, living in those casas,' the Cardinale said pointing to the houses across the bridge and along the fondamenta, 'are people who know the answer to the many questions I have, questions that you too, captain, and your very capable men, will soon also possess. I will give them to you so you can find me the answers.'
The Cardinale turned round and walked slowly to where the captain waited. The lamps behind the captain lit the Cardinale's face, casting shadows that elongated his long nose and threw his eyes into darkness. Captain Sansono no longer knew where or at whom the Cardinale was looking. Not until he stood so close that the captain could feel the nobile's scented breath upon his cheek. Cloves. He could see his eyes now -- they glinted in the distant, flickering flames of the lamps.
'So, Captain Sansono, you and your men must do whatever it takes to get me those answers. To help me piece together the puzzle, to remove the confusion and eliminate vague. Am I clear?'
'Sì, your grace.' Captain Sansono knew exactly what was required of him and his men. His heart quickened. Never did he think he would be responsible for something so important as uncovering one of the forsaken Estrattore -- a creature of unholy horror.
'You have the permission of the Church to use whatever means you must to get these, Captain Sansono.' The Cardinale smiled. 'You will report directly to me and, in turn, I will report to the Council of Ten, the Doge and the Great Patriarch.' He extended his arms, the red cassock of his office appearing as his cloak fell away. His voice deepened as he offered a benediction, becoming rich and impassioned. Captain Sansono felt his flesh quiver, his breath come quickly. He glanced at his men. They were transfixed.
'We will find this Estrattore,' continued the Cardinale. 'We will hunt him down and, when we find him, we will make an example of him and his protectors such as has never been seen before in Serenissima. The Estrattore will not return. Not in my lifetime.' His last word echoed across the waters, resounding in a long expiration, as if the city itself was astonished by what was occurring. 'Do you understand, captain?' whispered the Cardinale.
The captain dropped to his knees, his eyes locked on the Cardinale's. 'Sì, your grace. Your words are my command.'
'You, Sansono -- you are my sword -- God's sword, and you must remember, it's his work we do. Whatever it takes, you are to find the traitors who harboured the Estrattore and punish them. You must find out what the chandler's family knows, why that young man died on this bridge. Only then can we find the boy and bestow upon him what he deserves -- what all Estrattore deserve.'
Captain Sansono ignored the tiny niggle of doubt that tried to intrude upon his thoughts. He pushed it away and raised his shining face to the Cardinale's, waiting for his final orders. As he did, the sky above opened and rain began to fall. He ignored it.
'As God is our witness,' said the Cardinale, 'the hunt begins now, tonight -- and it does not stop until we have caught our prey. Trapped and destroyed him.'
'Amen,' chorused the captain and his men breathlessly.
WAITING UNTIL HE WAS certain the Cardinale and the Signori di Notte had left the bridge, Baroque peeled back the canvas and stood up unsteadily. Once again, he untied the craft from its moorings. He began to ease the oar into the forcola and push away from the fondamenta.
'Merde!' he hissed, almost dropping the oar as a shadow detached itself from a doorway. It was a black cat. It meandered to the edge of the canal and sat there, staring at him with its luminous eyes. He shook his fist at it before guiding the old boat into the middle of the waterway, trying to catch the current.
As he manoeuvred along the stygian waters his mind raced. He'd thought the Maleovellis deluded when they first approached him to find an Estrattore. Keen to take their soldi, he'd agreed to work for them, humour them. When he'd finally found Tallow and realised what the boy ... no, he corrected himself, girl was, he couldn't believe his luck. Options that had never been available to him suddenly appeared. Depending upon to whom he chose to reveal the girl's whereabouts, he was going to be a rich man, only just as she was in his grasp, she was snatched out of reach. He'd missed his chance.
He was not the only one. The Bond Riders had failed to obtain her, the Maleovellis were denied, and now the most deadly of all pursuers was on her tail.
He steered through the Dorsoduro Sestiere, heading for Nobiles' Rise. He knew he was taking a risk -- in many ways. The Bond Riders would be watching him, but not tonight, not when they had their own problems to deal with. Tonight he could return to his former employers safe in the knowledge that he would not be followed. What happened after would be a different matter. No doubt the Maleovellis would use his journals to force his cooperation. They would want him to continue to search for the Estrattore. Fear clutched at his chest and a rivulet of sweat coursed down his back. Only now, with the involvement of the Cardinale, the search for her had reached a new and deadly level. He would be working not only against time, but also against forces that frightened him in ways he did not quite understand. He recalled the anger of the Bond Riders, the fervour of the Cardinale: his life depended on him finding Tallow first.
I'm too old for this, thought Baroque.
The oar spliced the water, sending gentle ripples of Cimmerian wash to break against the passing casas. As he piloted the gondola towards the Circolo, a scream shattered the night. He froze, the oar just above the water. The breeze brought with it fragments of broken voices, other frantic cries. Baroque quickened his stroke. He had to put as much distance between himself and the Signori di Notte as he could. His heavy thoughts turned again to the Cardinale and the conversation on the bridge that had carried down to him in the gondola below. What he'd heard were not mere promises or threats, but pious plans for a terrible revenge.
A tremor gripped Baroque and he swallowed, grateful for the gondola that first hid his presence and now carried him to relative safety. He had escaped, unlike the poor, innocent souls in the Candlemakers Quartiere and Dante's grieving family, who were about to be plunged into a nightmare beyond their wildest imaginings.
UNFAMILIAR SENSATIONS ASSAILED ME -- soft fabrics resting against my body, sweet-smelling pillows under my cheek. Beneath my fingers, I could sense the latent memories of other lives, other moments: longing, reluctance, sated desire and exhaustion. I kept my eyes closed and tried to explore the outlandish fantasies further, pretending that I wasn't an Estrattore, that I wasn't alone in the world, that first my dog and then the man I loved hadn't died in my arms.
Grief flooded my chest, causing an ache so great, it was as if I too had been trampled. I rolled to one side and clutched the pillow as I recalled my last moments with Dante -- his pale face, his beautiful dark eyes, the feel of his hand in mine, the kiss we exchanged. I remembered the love I finally confessed. But, most of all, I remembered the love he'd declared for me.
For eternity ...
And now he was dead. Gone. Killed by a Bond Rider. Tears welled inside me, rising through my chest and into my throat. I didn't let them fall yet. Instead, I continued to retrace my memory.
Where was Katina? How could she allow this to happen, and by one of her own? I didn't understand.
A huge, wracking sob caught in my throat. I buried my head and tried to release it. Nothing came out of my open mouth but raw silence. There was no sound I could make, no words I could utter that could do justice to my sorrow, not as long as I refused to face where my choices and the fates had led me.
I rolled onto my back and willed my eyes open. Soft light struck my face. I threw a hand up to block it. A dull ache registered in my left arm. I recalled hurting it when I'd leapt from the Bond Rider's horse. Beneath the shift I'd been placed in, I could feel coarse bandages. I'd thought my arm broken; clearly, it wasn't. Someone had not only cleaned and dressed me while I was unconscious -- they'd ministered to my injuries as well.
These little acts of kindness undid my resolve; I wept freely.
I lay there for a minute or two, trying to control the emotions and images whirling in my heart and head. I wiped away my tears with the sleeve of my shift and eased myself into a sitting position. I wondered how long I'd been here -- where exactly 'here' was.
It was evident I was in a bedroom. It was so big, it could have fitted the entire first floor of Pillar's house within its walls. When I turned my head to the right, I could see a door with a golden handle and gaping keyhole. I stared at it for a moment, a great eye forever open in a solid socket. Above it hung a faded blue and red rug covered with geometrical designs and aurulent swirls. It matched the one lying on the floor.
On either side of the heavily draped window immediately in front of me were cabinets. Sitting upon one was a large bowl and jug with what appeared to be drying sheets folded beside it. There were also elegant gilt candle holders fitted with the melted stumps of creamy coloured beeswax tapers. I caught their faint scent. Between one set was a small glass figurine. It appeared to have a human shape -- a dancer, I thought.
Through the closed shutters, other, distant sounds filtered into the room: the splash of oars on water, the coo of pigeons, the cries of vendors and, closer still, the murmur of deep voices rising through the floor from below. I resisted the urge to extract, to draw from the coverlets, the pillows, to leap from the bed and touch everything, not sure if I even had the strength. For the moment, I would rely on my eyes and ears to tell me what they could about this strange, lush place. I had never seen anything quite like it; I had no context for appreciating it except to be in awe of its size and what it contained. But even its warm tones could not hide the coldness I sensed, the artistry of its arrangement, as if it were somehow staged for my, or someone else's benefit. Underpinning the sweet fragrances around me was a whiff of decay, of continuous atrophy. I wasn't sure what it meant, but I couldn't shake the feeling of falseness and decline that pervaded the room.
I slowly released my grip on the bedding. I tried to remember everything that had happened while I was in the gondola: whom I'd spoken with, what had occurred. There was Signorina Maleovelli and an old, thin man with hawk-like eyes -- her father. They'd proposed a relationship of mutual benefit -- a colleganza. My skin began to prickle. They knew I was an Estrattore and they didn't care ... Perhaps all was not lost.
I threw back the covers and slid out of bed. I tiptoed across the room to the window, unlatched the shutters and pushed them open. Beams of sunlight spilled inside, forcing me to look away until my eyes became accustomed. The brackish smell of shallow water made me screw up my nose. Below me was a narrow canal that came to an abrupt end a few feet away. It was lined on either side by tall casas.
The one directly opposite had moss climbing out of the water and up its walls. Some of the render had fallen away, revealing a grey underskirt that contrasted sharply with the burnt umber of the rest of the building. It had a singular arched window just above and across from where I was. I wondered if, behind its glass, someone was watching me. I dropped my eyes just in case and noticed a pair of sealed water-gates. This little dead-end canal must be an exit and entrance point for the owners. I assumed it to be the same on my side, which explained the voices I heard. Business was being negotiated somewhere downstairs.
Floating on the water directly beneath me was the usual oily refuse and household litter that collected during low tide and made the canal look like an unwholesome stew. Being careful not to hurt my arm, I leant out as far as I dared, trying to see beyond this constricted passage. At the other end, I could see a bridge and another, larger canal. The voices of gondoliers calling 'Premi!' and 'Stali!' as they manoeuvred past each other and the intense chatter of merchants carried down to me. Boxes of fruit and bales of fabric piled atop gondolas slid past my line of vision, framed by the casa walls and captured beneath the bridge like a still-life nudged into motion. I tried to place where I was. My entire life had been spent in and around the Candlemakers Quartiere and, while I knew their rami as I did the lines in the palm of my hand, this area of Serenissima was as unknown to me as a foreign city. I didn't belong here in so many ways.
I sighed deeply and eased myself back into the room. The Maleovellis were nobiles. I remembered something about the Eighth Casa ... if that was so, then I was on Nobiles' Rise, the Doge's own province.
I leant back against the window frame. I'd literally put myself in enemy territory. If ever I needed my wits about me, it was now. I began to pace the room, aware that the conversation below me was getting louder. I tried to ignore it and focus.
My feet barely made a noise as I passed the cabinets, the bed, the door. I reached out to touch the handle and turned it slowly. It was locked. So, my being here was conditional: I couldn't leave my room. I wasn't sure I wanted to, but I didn't like having the option taken away from me. My stomach growled loudly and I clamped a hand over it. How long since I had eaten? I turned and retraced my steps. I would have to wait until someone came and ... released me? Explained to me why I was here and what they wanted from me? What if I didn't like what they proposed? I stopped. Could I say no? I almost laughed. Hardly. Where would I go? Who could I turn to? Even if Dante had been alive, I wouldn't have returned to him. Just as I could no longer go to Pillar now that people suspected who and what I was. Not even Katina was available to me anymore -- not after what had happened. My old life was forever closed to me.
Without Dante, it is meaningless anyhow.
The tightness in my chest returned and I fought to control the tears that threatened to spill down my cheeks. This wouldn't do! I had to get a hold of myself, at least until I knew what I was facing.
As I passed the first cabinet, my eyes caught the glass ornament. I picked it up and turned it over in my hand. It was a miniature harlequin. During Carnivale, you always saw men dressed in the vivid colours of the popular jester, bells on their collars and the funny, pointed hat pulled on their heads, turning cartwheels, jumping, playing the mandolin and singing crude tunes to make the crowds laugh. I always enjoyed their antics. This one was perfectly formed, with the scarlet, cyan and gold of its costume coiled around each other within the clear glass body.
Before I could help myself, I began to extract, to draw the essence of those who had held this lovely object. I sensed fear, betrayal, caution and need. They so strongly resembled my own that at first I thought I'd placed those feelings there, but they were not mine -- they belonged to others. I caught glimpses of youth, innocence, terrible sadness and then ... nothing but a deliberate emptiness, as if all feelings had been negated, wiped away. It puzzled me, but I didn't have time to dwell upon its significance. I plunged deeper. Beyond my first impressions, I felt triumph, coldness and powerful desire. Warmth infused my body, colouring my cheeks. I saw a woman with long, dark hair reclining over soft white sheets. I could not see her face, only her honey flesh so wantonly, sensuously, on display. I could feel the deliberation that went into the position, the tilting of the head, the tumbling of curls across naked shoulders, the artful draping of a sheet across thighs. Desire flooded my loins and I longed to fall into this tableau, taste what I knew it offered. I began to deepen the extraction, allowing it to pour into my body, fill my mind, before a sound outside the door broke my concentration. A key turned in the lock.
The door swung open. Panting and with shaky fingers, I quickly replaced the harlequin and stepped in front of it, hoping no-one would notice the way the colours inside were spinning in a confused melee, causing the little figurine to glow. My breath was coming fast and my mind was momentarily clouded. I reached out to steady myself and grasped a hold of the edge of the cabinet. I quickly extracted its steadiness and constancy so as to shed my other, more visceral, responses.
In the moments that it took me to do this, two women entered the room. The first was an older woman with the darkest skin I'd ever seen. Her head, which was bowed, was wrapped in a scarf. She shuffled in, her long skirts kicking out as she came to stand in the centre of the room, clasping a tray upon which sat a steaming mug and a pastry. My mouth began to water.
The second was the woman from the gondola -- Giaconda Maleovelli. Her black hair was parted in the middle and piled high towards the back of her head. White pearls contrasted with her sable hair, pinned as they were to complement the style. Her gown was emerald, with hints of deep purple peeping through the folds. It was cut low at the front and had long, full sleeves that collected at the wrist. Gathered underneath her breasts, the gown tumbled to her feet, giving her the appearance of rising out of the waters of the canal itself. It rustled as she moved. A scent of musk followed her like a faithful dog. I inhaled deeply, shutting out the memories of my own canine companion.
Instead of making me reel with longing, as I sensed her entire appearance was designed to do, it set my nerves on edge. She floated towards me, and it took all my control not to race from her presence.
For here in the lovely flesh was not only the woman I'd sensed as I'd held the harlequin, but the manifestation of utter coldness.
AS IF TO MAKE A MOCKERY OF WHAT my instincts were telling me, Giaconda Maleovelli held out both her arms and sailed towards me, her lips curled, her teeth gleaming in a grand gesture of welcome. I was encompassed by a variety of new sounds and delicious odours. The rustle of her green dress, the tapping of her heeled shoes, the way the pearls glimmered in the light that filtered through the window, the fragrance of her skin. For the first time in another woman's presence, I was self-conscious about my own appearance.
I ran my hands over the nightgown, aware of its shapelessness, of its utilitarian purpose.
'Tallow!' purred Giaconda Maleovelli. 'You're awake!'
Before I could respond, she took me by the hand and led me towards the window, placing me in a pool of light. Tall, she bent to study my face, using the tip of one gloved finger to raise my chin.
'Those eyes! You see, Hafeza,' she said over her shoulder. 'I told you there was nothing of which to be frightened.' Her voice lowered. 'So silver. They really are like mirrors. I can see myself so clearly ...' Her voice trailed away. I watched her studying herself in my eyes. I resisted drawing, afraid I would not only instil fear where I sought only understanding, but alert her to my initial impressions. I remained still, my eyes fixed on hers, on their jade depths, and kept my face neutral.
'You have almost no pupil. They're quite daunting to behold, but remarkable all the same. It's as if one is peering into oneself ...' Her face momentarily darkened. She broke away suddenly, straightening to tower over me once more. I was astonished by her formidable height. As she stepped backwards, her skirts shifted and exposed her shoes. Her heels gave her an extra ten inches at least. She gestured for the servant to come forward. 'Tallow will not harm you -- will you, Tallow?'
'Of course not.' I looked at the woman called Hafeza. How could I reassure her? Hafeza gave a slight bob of her head and moved past me quickly, placing the tray on top of the fireplace. She picked up the cup and offered it to me. Her hand trembled slightly and she continued to avert her eyes.
'Please,' said Giaconda. 'Drink while the cafe is still hot.'
'Grazie.' I gently took the cup from Hafeza who, with the merest flash of a smile, almost ran back to the fireplace. From there I felt her watching me, sizing up the menace I posed.
Giaconda clicked in exasperation. 'I should apologise for Hafeza. She has been with the family for a long time. We bought her when she was just a young woman. She's actually very clever, just superstitious -- like all her kind. Over the months, you will find her services indispensable. I certainly don't know what I would do without her.' She allowed herself a private smile.
I turned to the slave. 'Grazie, Hafeza.'
Hafeza lowered her head in acknowledgement, but she did not answer with the customary 'Prego'.
'She cannot speak Serenissian?' I asked Giaconda.
Giaconda raised an eyebrow. 'She cannot speak at all. Hafeza is mute. Essential in a servant who knows the secrets of the boudoir and who is privy to your presence.' Before I could consider what she meant, she gestured to the cup. 'Enough chatter. Drink.' Giaconda left my side and perched herself on the end of the bed. Her dress collapsed in obeisance at her feet.
I carefully sipped the cafe. It was bitter and sweet all at once. My head began to clear. Poor Hafeza. I wondered what it would be like to not be able to express yourself through words. Pillar's mother, Quinn, had always said that Serenissima was a country that traded in words as much as it did in products. That we were all born with a gift for language -- even my kind. And to what secrets did Giaconda refer? What happened in a boudoir that could not be spoken of openly? I almost blushed as I pondered the naïvety of my question. Only the presence of Giaconda brought me back to the moment. This woman also implied a long-term arrangement -- months, she'd said. What had I agreed to on the gondola?
I needed some answers. I put down the cup on the cabinet. 'Signorina,' I began. 'Grazie. For rescuing me and for this.' My arm swept the room. 'Grazie mille.'
She lowered her head graciously. 'Prego.'
'But I have a few questions for you. I know we spoke on the gondola ...' I glanced out the window again and a thought occurred. 'How long have I been asleep?'
'The bells for Nona rang some time ago. I suspect the Maragona will chime soon,' said Giaconda, referring to the great bell in the campanile that sounded at various times of the day, reminding workers of their obligations.
Midday had passed and I'd slept right through. It was late afternoon. Now I understood why my body was so sluggish, my thoughts initially jumbled: I'd been asleep for hours. Then, I tasted it: the sour tang at the back of my throat. 'You drugged me,' I accused.
Giaconda laughed. It sounded like a bell itself. 'Such a harsh word for something that was administered with the best of intentions; for medicinal purposes. You have been through so much, Tallow. From what you told us, you have experienced such loss, so much tragedy. More than most people endure in a lifetime. You needed time to recover -- and not just your body. I simply ensured you were given a little.'
I considered her words. They sounded sincere. Thoughts of Dante pricked the edges of my mind. The weight of anguish sat beneath my breasts, a burden I would forever carry. 'You're right. I did, I do need time. Grazie. You have saved me in more ways than one. But I don't understand. Why? Why have you brought me here, to your casa? You know what I am, what keeping me here means, the risk you're taking.'
She sat very still, her eyes on my face, her hands folded in her lap. I felt the colour rising in my cheeks. If she thought my eyes strange, they were nothing compared to the lagoon-green of hers. They were impossible to read. I shifted from foot to foot under her scrutiny. I longed to reach out and touch her, to feel what she was thinking. 'Why am I here?' I insisted.
She smiled, revealing even, white teeth. 'That's something I'll save for a longer conversation and for my father to explain. You met him on the gondola as well.'
'I remember,' I said. I also recalled just before I leapt into the canal, before the Bond Rider tried to take me, the people from the quartiere who had followed me onto the bridge, calling, shouting. They had witnessed what had happened, Dante's death. They would now know who and what I was. They would be in grave danger. Pillar's life would be forfeit. My hand fluttered over my heart. The kind face of Zia Gaia, Dante's great aunt, swam before my eyes. How would the Macellerias endure the reality of Dante's death? Would they blame me? Could they forgive me? They would be heartbroken ... but they too were not exempt from the danger that must surely lurk wherever I walked.
'Scusi, Signorina. Do you know anything about the family of the man that was ... killed by the Bond Riders?' I fought to keep my voice even. 'About the people that followed me onto the bridge? Pillar, my master? Are they all right? Did the soldiers come?'
Giaconda regarded me carefully. A tiny frown marred her otherwise smooth brow. I could see a faint muscle twitching in her cheek. 'Your questions will be answered shortly,' she said, finally. 'For now, you are to prepare yourself to meet with my father.'
Before I could protest, she continued. 'Once you're bathed and dressed in the clothes I've chosen for you, Hafeza will bring you to the portego -- the main reception room. We will be waiting for you, Tallow. We will all be waiting.' The rest of her sentence remained unspoken, but it charged the air around us. As we have been for a very long time.
Rising from the bed, she bobbed gracefully. 'I will see you soon. Relax and enjoy Hafeza's ministrations. For now we will ease your body.' She gestured to my arm. 'Later, we will soothe your mind.'
As the door closed gently behind her and I was left alone in this sumptuous room with Hafeza, I wondered why I didn't quite believe her.
NO SOONER HAD GIACONDA LEFT than Hafeza, with a peculiar gesture and an odd grunting sound, disappeared as well. Before I could react, the door was flung open and she reappeared dragging a large metal tub, shooing me away as I ran to help her.
Over the next twenty minutes, she went in and out carrying large buckets of hot water that she poured into the bath. In no time at all, tendrils of steam rose above the metal edges. My bath was ready -- even if I was not.
Hafeza dropped the pail onto the floor and pushed the scarf back on her head. She nodded to me. Whether it was because Giaconda was no longer present, or because she felt assured I would do her no harm, she was in control.
I had only just come to her side when she grabbed the bottom of my shift and began to pull it over my head.
'No!' I cried and, with my unbandaged arm, clutched the ends and tried to tug the garment back down, my knees rising as I fought to hide my nakedness. My cheeks burned as we wrestled with the fabric. The thought of being disrobed in front of Hafeza appalled me.
She shook her head and made funny clucking noises, releasing the gown and facing me with her hands on her hips.
I rolled the nightgown back over my legs, my mind roaring in my ears. I found it difficult to look at her, but I did. She regarded me with twinkling eyes. A great smile burst forth, mapping her face with lines and revealing missing teeth. She tossed her fingers towards me and made up and down motions with her hands before flinging them in the air. I understood. She'd seen it all before -- from her patent lack of discomfort, even me.
I felt stupid. 'Mi dispiace,' I muttered. 'I'm not used to this -- to be being undressed ... to being washed, actually, and by someone else.' I cast my mind back to a few days earlier when Dante's Zia Gaia had helped me bathe. The day my gender masquerade began to unravel completely. My heart contracted but I remained resolute.
Hafeza's fingers rested gently on my arm. Her head tipped to one side and I could see the questions dancing in those huge liquid eyes. She rested her other hand lightly against my heart. The warmth of her fingers penetrated my shift. I resisted the urge to extract. I didn't want to frighten her. Again, she nodded and then took her hand away and pressed it against her own breast.
As if she had been the one to extract from me, I saw compassion in her gaze, in the measured way she gestured. She understood my melancholy. She too had lost someone important to her.
My lips began to quiver. Important was such an inadequate word.
'You understand,' was all I said. I could not wait for my strength to return so that I might discover what made Hafeza so unhappy. Was it that she was a slave, that she mute, or was it more?
She nodded once and then went to work. She plucked one of the huge sheets used for towelling off the bureau and, shaking it out, draped it over her shoulder and beckoned me closer.
This time, when she lifted my gown, I didn't protest. She carefully untied the bandage, and with her help I eased myself into the bath. The water rose as I sat back and my limbs became pale and distorted under its liquid weight. It was deliciously warm. My fingers carved a passage through the water and I marvelled at the way it caressed my skin and how, wherever the fluid rested, it changed its texture. I ran my hand along my legs, from my knees to my toes and then back up, along my inner thighs. My flesh felt like satin. I sank deeper into the water and rested the back of my head against the curved edge of the tub and studied my body. I wasn't accustomed to being completely undressed, nor to such display. I found it unexpectedly liberating. My newly discovered breasts floated above the waterline, my nipples coral-tipped islands surrounded by a translucent sea. I couldn't help but stare at this wanton abandonment. I felt a giggle build inside me as Hazefa dipped her hands in the water and began to tease the soap into fragrant bubbles. She produced a sponge and, rubbing the soap into it, started to scrub my legs. The combination of the slippery lather, her deft but gentle fingers and the roughness of the sponge tickled and I had to concentrate not to pull back my legs abruptly.
The firm stroking became rhythmic, and I tilted my head backwards and shut my eyes, enjoying the sensations. Gently, Hafeza lifted my swollen arm and trickled soapy water over it. It was still tender, but the fluid was soothing. I relaxed and my mind began to wander. Where my skin touched Hafeza's, I could feel her strength, her health and, without meaning to, I drew from her as easily as I inhaled. The pain in my arm blossomed momentarily and then disappeared and a sense of well-being permeated my body. In my dream-like state, I began to extract more deeply. My arm was suddenly released, falling with a splash into the warm water. My eyes flew open and Hafeza sat back on her heels, holding her hand in front of her face, her eyes wide -- not in fear, but with wonder.
'Mi dispiace!' I cried, gripping the sides of the bath, sitting up quickly and sloshing water over the floor. 'Hafeza, I didn't mean --'
She pressed a long, wet finger against my lips, silencing me. Pushing me back into the water, she pried my fingers from the edge and lifted my arm, nestling my formerly damaged elbow in the palm of her hand, examining my upper arm closely, running a finger down my forearm. The swelling and redness were gone. I was healed. Without forethought or calculation, I had mended myself -- and without harm to Hafeza. On the contrary, she seemed ... delighted. She smiled sweetly, patting my arm for good measure before retrieving the sponge and, softly at first, but with increasing vigour, resumed washing me. I gave a little moan of approaval.
'It doesn't hurt -- not at all,' I said cautiously. She didn't react. I waited a beat. 'Are you all right?' I asked her quietly.
Hafeza paused and looked at me in astonishment before her face creased into another huge smile. She nodded again and then encouraged me to lie back once again.
At first I found it hard to recapture my earlier mood, but before long, my thoughts escaped my tight leash and I began to wonder what I had done to my body. I rested the back of my neck against the rim of the tub, my eyes half open, my flesh submerged in perfumed water and relished being tended to by such experienced hands. I wondered what Dante would think of me, like this, naked and clean, being so fussed over and smelling of lavender. My imagination spilled into realms of longing and my budding laugh was rapidly smothered.
A spray of water in my face shocked me back into the present.
Hazefa waggled a finger at me and shook her head. She'd caught me retreating into territory that I could not afford to go. She really did understand.
More importantly, Hafeza, the Morokan slave, was right. What good did dwelling on Dante do? He was dead. Cane was dead. Pillar was as good as dead. And as for Katina ... I had no-one I could trust, no-one to turn to -- not anymore. No-one except the Maleovellis. I had to bury my thoughts, my feelings and my fears deep inside -- if I didn't, they would rise and betray me. If not today, or tomorrow, then sometime in my unclear future. Dante would not want that, even if I wasn't sure I cared what happened to me anymore. I had to harden myself. I had to harden my heart.
I took a deep breath and, as Hafeza began washing me in earnest, exhaled and let myself relax. I pretended that every time the soap or sponge touched my body, it was removing traces of the old me -- the unkempt candlemaker's apprentice -- the pretend boy who dared to test his powers and failed. I would not be him any longer. I couldn't afford to be.
Everything I now did, everything I would become, would be for Dante. For what we could have been if we'd been able to be together.
After all, how can you forget someone who is a part of your very soul?
As for those who had shattered our future ... they would pay. I didn't know how or when, but I knew that somehow, some day, I would make sure they did ... and dearly.
IT TOOK ALL BAROQUE'S CONCENTRATION to remain still. He'd been standing in Signor Ezzelino Maleovelli's study for so long, answering question after question, every muscle in his body ached and weariness such as he'd not known in a long time made him feel heavy -- in his heart as well as his mind. He wanted to sit down, to collapse in one of the empty chairs, shut his eyes and hasten the forgetfulness that only an exhausted sleep could bring. But he had to wait to be invited and, now that Signorina Maleovelli had entered the room, that particular overture was unlikely to be forthcoming.
He glanced at her now. A barely repressed excitement attended her, arousing his curiousity. Something was afoot. Baroque could feel her loathing of him emanating from every pore as she sat, twisting in her seat, so she didn't have to face him. The fact that she needed his services, that her father insisted on using them, only intensified her antipathy. If he hadn't been so fatigued, he would have enjoyed the effect he was having. But the last few days had wrested their toll. That the Maleovellis had taken his briefcase, the one containing his precious journals, had almost broken him. His dreams of accruing wealth and walking away from his jeopardous double life never mind the hasty promise he'd made to the Bond Riders, had dissolved as quickly as they'd formed. He glanced at where his briefcase now sat, atop papers on Signor Maleovelli's desk. For a brief second, hope that they had not discovered the false bottom where the books were hidden flashed through him. His eyes slid to his property again. No. It stood as nothing but a monument to his failure.
'Why don't you sit down, Signor Scarpoli?' said Giaconda.
Trying to hide his surprise, Baroque did not wait to be asked again. He slowly eased himself into a chair, clutching the arms as he sank into the tired fabric.
'Tell me, Baroque,' said Signor Maleovelli, reaching for his pipe and continuing their discussion. 'From the time you spent in the taverna talking to Signor di Torelli -- that is, presuming you spoke to him before you ... dispatched him, and from what you observed en route to us, what was the mood of the popolani?' The smell of tobacco began to fill the room.
'They're shocked, Signor. Shocked that an Estrattore lived with them for so long and they didn't suspect anything. They talk about his kindness and how inoffensive he was, obedient. This confuses them. It conflicts with what the padres tell them, with folklore and rumour. What they know, what they have experienced, can no longer be reconciled with the stories of Estrattore wickedness and violence -- of manipulation -- that the Church pedals. So, there's a great deal of uncertainty and now, of course, there's the fear of repercussions. They see themselves as victims, but know they will answer to the Doge and the Church as perpetrators.'
'Sì. Bene. They'd be fools if they thought the Council of Ten won't act further, never mind this Cardinale Martino. The authorities have to quash any sympathy the popolani feel for the Estrattore quickly. It's easy to demonise something that's a part of history, of myth. But once a legend becomes a reality, undermining the propaganda, then there's a problem that can only be solved by erasing it. If I were the Doge, I would be showing the Great Patriarch how loyal I am by removing the source of the tales and those who repeat them immediately. Making an example of those who persist in resisting the Church's teachings.'
'This is what the people fear.'
'Then they are wise.'
'Wise, yes. Prepared, no. Not even the events of yesterday can prepare them for what the Cardinale will unleash upon them.'
They sat in silence for a moment.
'Why did the Bond Riders let you go?' asked Giaconda, flicking an imaginary speck of dust from her gown.
'Signorina,' said Baroque, his mind racing, 'as I have already said, I'm as surprised as you. I felt sure they were going to kill me. You can see for yourself, they beat me to within an inch of my life.' Baroque clumsily indicated his face and hands.
'You told them nothing?' Signor Maleovelli asked.
'Nothing. Your plans are safe.' Baroque shifted slightly, wincing as he stretched one of his legs, moving the jacket he'd taken from Signor di Torelli's to one side. It was tight across the shoulders and refused to button over his stomach. He longed for his own clothes, his own rooms, as small as they were, hidden away above the rami of the Usurers Quartiere.
'It was clear the Riders had their own sources of information,' said Baroque cautiously. 'They knew a great deal about the apprentice. They have been observing him for quite some time, longer than I did.' He ceased fidgeting and met Signor Maleovelli's eyes once more. It was time to play his one and only card.
'Signor, there's something I learned from the Bond Riders, something very important. If the apprentice still lives, it will change everything.'
'Really?' Signor Maleovelli pushed more tobacco into his pipe. 'Signor Scarpoli, I don't think there's any information you can give me that I don't already know.'
Baroque used another cough to disguise his laugh. 'With all due respect, Signor, I don't believe you could possibly know this.'
'Why is it that whenever anyone begins a sentence with those words, "all due respect", they always mean the opposite?' asked Giaconda of no-one in particular.
Baroque's palms itched. He wanted to slap the smug look from her face. He thought of Katina, how negotiating with her was so very different from dealing with this woman who liked to pretend she was a nobile. 'I do mean it respectfully, Signor, Signorina. This knowledge will help you find the Estrattore. But, in exchange, I would like the items you took from my room at the taverna back.'
'Oh,' said Giaconda. 'You mean the dirty old shirt, brush and bag we found.'
'Sì.' He resisted the urge to look at the briefcase.
'And why on earth would you want those back, Signor Scarpoli? I was only saying to Papa after you arrived last night that we should really replace them. And now that, with the advantage of daylight, I see what you have endured while in our employ --' she signalled his bruises and cuts '-- I feel it is the least we can do.'
'Grazie, Signorina. But these items, they're very dear to me just as they are. They contain fond memories, you might say.'
'They are very dear to us too, Signor Scarpoli,' Giaconda regarded him with defiance. 'Your information would have to be very good indeed to make us part with something so ... meaningful.'
'I believe it is, Signorina.'
'More valuable than the knowledge that the candlemaker's apprentice is, in fact, a girl?' added Signor Maleovelli.
Seconds ticked away. Baroque gulped. He forced his hands to be still. His mind raced. How on Vista Mare could they possibly know? He'd spoken with the apprentice, watched her from afar for weeks and he never guessed. 'I was not aware that you already knew this.'
Signor Maleovelli leant on his cane and rose. He hobbled around to the other side of the desk, past the briefcase, searching for something. 'You'd be amazed to know what we've learned in your absence, Baroque. Astonished. A lot can happen in only a few weeks.'
Baroque used the arms of his chair to hoist himself to his feet. The purse in his pocket felt heavy. It reassured him. He would book passage to somewhere, anywhere on the Mariniquian Seas, and start life again. 'I can see that I'm wasting your time, Signor, Signorina Maleovelli.' He bowed towards them. 'We have reached an impasse. I located the Estrattore, which means the terms of our arrangement are over. It serves you no real purpose to keep hold of my ... my property; but, if you insist, then I am afraid I will have no choice but to leave Serenissima.'
Signor Maleovelli's head snapped up. 'As far as I am concerned, our arrangement is not over, Baroque Scarpoli.'
Baroque frowned. 'But Signor, I have failed. Tallow Pelleta is lost -- he ... she could be fish food for all we know. And, frankly, Signor, while I may have fallen on hard times, I also know a great deal about your circumstances. I enter no-one's employ without at least some knowledge of them, especially regarding their capacity to pay. You not only owe me soldi, but you can no longer afford my services. In light of recent ... events, I am happy to extinguish your current debt.' He began to pull Vincenzo's cap back onto his head.
'Ah, but Signor Scarpoli, you are wrong.' said Giaconda. 'You cannot afford to leave us. I think your bag would fetch a great deal of soldi, don't you? Such a fascinating bag with its hidden compartments and false bottom? It's not what it seems, is it? So many tales to tell. I think the Kyprian ambassador or perhaps the Jinoan one would find it most ... diverting.'
Baroque paled. 'You wouldn't ... There'd be questions ... you would come under suspicion yourselves ...'
Stony silence met his gaze.
Defeated, Baroque slowly pulled the cap from his head and sank back into his seat. 'What do you want from me?' he asked in a flat voice.
Giaconda stood and joined her father, the briefcase propped in front of them. Signor Maleovelli pushed aside a pile of antiquated books and half-unfurled scrolls. 'As I said, much has happened in the short time you have been away. The end of the Morto Assiderato and the relief felt by wealthy survivors brought much business our way, didn't it, cara mia?' Signor Maleovelli brushed a long finger against Giaconda's smooth cheek. She modestly lowered her eyes. 'Men who escape a close brush with death like to celebrate in a certain way. My daughter has been in great demand, Scarpoli. As a result, we not only have the means to fund your services, but we also have a very interesting job for you.'
Baroque did not respond. He just sat and waited.
'Gia, bella,' said Signor Maleovelli. 'Pour a drink for Signor Scarpoli. The man looks like he needs one.'
Against her will and with forced grace, Giaconda went to the sideboard and, from a silver decanter, poured glasses of vino for her father, herself and Baroque. She passed them around and resumed her seat. Baroque sniffed the contents suspiciously before taking a grateful gulp.
'Signor Scarpoli. Our situation has changed in ways that will become apparent to you very soon. But, in order for us to benefit from this change, we require your services again, but not in the usual way.'
'In what way do you mean?'
Signor Maleovelli took an appreciative sip of his drink, rolling it in his mouth before swallowing. 'You once enjoyed the reputation of being the finest spy in Serenissima, is that not so?'
'Once upon a time. Until I was caught and identified, yes.'
'And, as a spy, you knew all the tricks of the trade -- how to speak and write in different languages, how to observe human behaviour, when and how to strike to effect change, is that not so?'
Baroque gave a small inclination of his head.
'Oh, Papa, let's not play word games here. Not now, not when so much is at stake.' Giaconda faced Baroque, putting her glass down on the table beside her. 'Signor Scarpoli, we know that you're an expert in all manner of delivering death -- knives, ropes, glass, metal, drowning. But there is one method in particular in which we are most interested.'
'What might that be?' Baroque drained his glass.
Signor Maleovelli himself brought the decanter over. As he refilled the spy's glass he took up where Giaconda had left off.
'Poison.'
Baroque glanced at the glass and began to laugh. The sound dry, without humour. 'Poisoning is forbidden throughout the Republic. Anyone who does it is exiled or put to death. Their employer's name is struck from The Golden Book. As nobiles, you would no longer have a right to sit on the Great Council, to ascend to the Dogeship. Your name would be forgotten, your bloodline extinct. You would be nothing more than a sigh in history. You would be as the Estrattore ...' He paused.
A glimmer of a smile played on Giaconda's mouth as Signor Maleovelli perched himself on the arm of her chair and leant towards Baroque. 'Only if one is caught.' He held up his hand as if to ward off protest. 'No, Baroque, we will not ask you to administer poison. Only that you teach someone all about the properties of every plant and extract in the known world and what they can do -- for poison takes many forms. It does not only deliver death. It can also, when administered correctly, when the right ingredients are sourced and mixed, deliver pleasure, health, acquiescence, laspes in memory, and even recklessness. Is that not so?'
Baroque regarded Signor Maleovelli for a full minute. His eyes slid to Giaconda and back to her father. What are they up to? What is going on? 'Teach. That's it. You want me to teach someone all about plants.'
'And how to transform and administer their properties,' added Giaconda.
'Your days as a spy --' began Ezzelino.
'As a disgraced spy,' added Giaconda.
'-- are over. From this day forward you will be a teacher in our employ and, my dear man, I can assure you, if the arrangement works out, you will be rewarded for your efforts.'
'If I refuse?'
'A bocca di leone,' muttered Giaconda.
Baroque started from his chair. 'You would denounce me? You would place my name in the lion's mouth for the Council of Ten to find?'
'No, not just your name,' said Ezzelino slowly.
Baroque visibly blanched. 'You would deliver my journals to them, to the Doge.'
Silence was the most honest answer Baroque had ever been given.
He swirled the vino in his glass. It reminded him of blood. His stomach lurched. It had been a long time since he'd been outwitted, especially by a barnabotti -- an old, impoverished nobile with barely a soldi, only his ancient name to hang his pride on, despite his boasts. This new money he spoke of had been accumulated through trade -- the trade of his daughter's body. He wanted to shake his head. What a funny old place Serenissima was, where sex was regarded as a legitimate business and a nobile could still hold his head up among his peers even while his daughter lay beneath them. Aware of the Maleovellis' eyes upon him, he took another drink. They were right. For the time being, his life as he knew it was over. The ache that resided deep in his bones told him this was not necessarily a bad thing. After all, how hard could it be to teach someone?
He tossed back the vino quickly, pretending a nonchalance he didn't feel. There were many worse things to be than a teacher -- an insegnante.
Placing the glass on the crowded table beside him, he knocked over a large book. It clattered to the floor. No-one picked it up. There were so many already scattered at intervals under tables, beside chairs, one more made no difference. Baroque watched as the pages fluttered, falling open on one covered with foreign script -- from Kroatia, by the form of the letters. No doubt, another of Signor Maleovelli's expensive tomes on the Estrattore. The man was obsessed.
He swallowed and raised his head. He was not beaten, or coerced, not really; but he would allow them to believe that he was ... for now.
'I have often fancied myself a teacher,' he said.
'We have a deal then, Baroque. A colleganza?'
Baroque bowed deeply. 'Sì, Signor Maleovelli, Signorina. We do.'
'Excellent. I will ask Jacopo to draw up the paperwork and you can sign it tonight. Understand,' continued Signor Ezzelino, 'like all our ... arrangements ... this is confidential.'
'I would not have assumed it to be any other way.'
'You will live here, in our casa.' Ezzelino laughed at the expression on Baroque's face. 'For this particular task, you will remain under our roof. We will provide you with food, lodging and all the materials you require. You may fetch the remainder of your belongings over the next couple of days, after you undertake another task for me.'
Baroque's heart sank. Staying in the casa, now that would curtail his freedom. And what about his promise to Katina? Now he'd have to meet with her. Remaining in one place made him a sitting target. He would have to work around his fresh obligations to the Maleovellis, fit in time to find out about Tallow. Get the Bond Rider off his back as quickly as possible. 'Grazie,' was all he said, dipping his head slowly while dizzying thoughts crashed against each other in his mind.
'Believe me, Baroque --' Signor Ezzelino gestured for him to stand and precede him out the door '-- in the not too distant future, the thanks will be all ours.' He paused in the hallway, waiting for Baroque to join him.
'Now, come and meet your pupil.'
HAFEZA MADE ONE LAST ADJUSTMENT to Tallow's gown and then stepped away. Satisfaction shaped her lips. She did a little pirouette with her finger. Obediently, Tallow spun around.
It was all Tallow could do not to say something sardonic. Whereas a leisurely bath had been a luxury she'd never enjoyed before and, until the water grew cold, didn't want to end, being dressed as a woman for the first time in her life had offered her an entirely different set of experiences. She wasn't sure she liked them very much.
Enduring Hafeza's prodding and poking for the last forty minutes, Tallow had been careful to keep her arms out of the way and do as she was instructed. Dried and made to stand still on the rug, she'd been given another shift to put on. This one was gossamer-light and even softer than the nightgown and was edged in delicate lace. It was made of the finest material; it had a very low neck, no sleeves, and fell to just below her waist.
Then, Hafeza had shaken out a pair of pantaloons in the same fabric. Gathered at the waist and ankles, they were quite large, and Tallow had laughed at the absurdity of them. That was, until a piece of stiff material with leather laces woven through holes made along the edges had been wrapped around her waist and pulled into submission against her body. Suddenly, her breasts were pushed together and spilled over the top of the corset, the neckline of the camicia displaying them perfectly. She had a waist that curved in a sinuous wave before flaring into trim hips.
'This is so uncomfortable, Hafeza!' she gasped. 'Do you have to pull it so tight? Why do I have to wear this?' When Hafeza ignored her constant grumbling, she became cross.
'If this is what a woman endures, I'd rather be a man!'
Hafeza stopped and shook a finger at Tallow, but her eyes were kind. 'Well, I would,' said Tallow. 'I never had to worry about all this. I just threw on my leggings, shirt and sometimes a vest. I certainly didn't wear undergarments. What a nuisance they're going to be!'
Hafeza rolled her eyes and continued with her task, helping Tallow step into a rather sumptuous dress before lacing it at the back and adjusting the sleeves.
Only a few sounds escaped Tallow as her unruly black hair was parted, combed and teased into a style. Pins were dragged across her scalp, causing her to screw up her face and once to cry out. Hafeza surprised her by dropping a kiss upon her head. She bit her lip as, finally, earrings were clipped onto her tiny lobes and a strand of pearls clasped at her throat. Their silky coolness was refreshing. Only then did Hafeza allow her to see what she looked like.
Tallow gazed at her reflection in the large mirror that Hafeza carried in from behind a screen in the far corner and propped against a wall. Tallow had never seen herself in a mirror before, let alone in a dress. It was as if a stranger stood before her.
She gazed at the picture she presented, her large silver eyes opening in wonder. She took in the beautiful deep blue gown that, just like Giaconda's, was cinched in below her breasts. The neckline was scooped, exposing both the creamy edges of her camica and the cleavage she'd once wondered if she'd ever have, let alone display. The whiteness of her skin contrasted beautifully with the midnight colour of the frock. Embroidered around the neckline and upon the voluminous sleeves were cascades of silver swirls, which served to highlight her eyes. Her hair had been swept softly back from her face and into a tiny bun, piled onto her head in an ordered yet gentle way and adorned with pretty jewels that sparkled as she twisted first one way and then the other. Her hair framed her forehead, accenting her eyes.
Her eyes. She had never seen them before, seen what others saw when they looked at her. Now she knew why they recoiled and then stared, unable to tear themselves away. She took a step towards the mirror and closely studied the face of this familiar stranger.
Within the depths of her mercurial gaze she saw another Tallow and then another and another, all reflected back to her. All standing in a gorgeous sapphire gown, all with soft, clean skin, full pink lips and winged brows set in an angular face. But it was the huge silver orbs with slightly darker centres that perturbed her most. She was able to see that she was unusual-looking, mysterious even -- except for her eyes. They were terrible to behold. They exposed her difference as surely as if she were the colour of Hafeza. And yet ...
She leant closer. She saw her other self tip forward and fingers touch her face, exploring its planes and smoothness until they rested in the outer corner of her eyes. She pulled the ends, stretching the skin. They were alarming. Behind her, she caught Hafeza's face in the looking glass and watched as she became aware of Tallow's fleeting look. Fascination was replaced by a smile of such warmth, Tallow could only respond. The black woman gave a series of eager nods, waiting for a sign of approval.
Tallow stood back and turned from side to side. The dress swished. Yes, she looked nice, she really did. The gown was magnificent, even though there were stitches undone and some of the embroidery was frayed. She was unrecognisable as the boy from the Candlemakers Quartiere -- Pillar's little apprentice. But she was still, and always would be, an Estrattore.
Hafeza didn't understand. Not really. Her skin might be the colour of cafe, but there were others like her in Serenissima and in Vista Mare. Tallow had no-one on this side of the Limen. She'd never fit in, no matter how they dressed her, regardless of what costume they made her don or part they expected her to play. Her eyes would always betray her. She was no better off than she was before. But Hafeza did not need to know this.
Her arm dropped and she turned her back on her other self.
'Grazie mille,' she said more curtly than she intended. 'What now?'
Disappointment made Hafeza's face collapse. Instantly, Tallow felt terrible.
'No, no, Hafeza. It's not you, what you've done to me is ... amazing. I never thought I could look like this. Like a ... woman. Did you know I have spent all my life as a boy?' She tweaked a lobe, remembering the day the blood of the pledge stones forever altered her ears, and then smoothed the front of the gown, unconsciously thrusting her breasts forward.
Hafeza folded her arms and arched a brow.
'Oh, of course you do. I've done nothing but talk about that the whole time, haven't I?'
Hafeza grinned.
'I don't know what to say. I ... I look and feel so different. Grazie, Hafeza. Grazie mille. I should have thanked you immediately. I didn't expect --' she indicated the ensemble '-- I had no idea ...' Hafeza's grin widened. 'It's lovely. I've never worn underwear or a dress before. Or jewellery.'
Hafeza made a strange noise.
Tallow realised she was stifling a laugh. She arched a brow. 'Was it that obvious?'
Hafeza folded her arms, rested her head against one shoulder and stared.
Tallow laughed too. 'I guess it was also evident I wasn't used to bathing.'
Hafeza pinched her nostrils and pulled a disagreeable face. Tallow began to giggle. 'Well, even I know I don't smell bad anymore. Now that I could get used to. The dressing like this, however ...' She clasped her waist with both hands, feeling the bones that lined the corset and gave her the hourglass shape digging into her sides. 'This I'm not so sure about.' She spun back to the mirror, the dress following her movements. 'I guess it might not be so bad ...'
Hafeza tapped her on the shoulder and indicated for her to sit on a small stool that she pulled out from under the table. Tallow obeyed, inhaling sharply as her flesh pinched. She had to sit completely straight -- the corset would allow for no slumping.
In her hands Hafeza held a pair of shoes. She bent down and pushed the dress away from Tallow's feet and slipped them on. They were a little big. Made of a similar fabric to her dress, they covered her entire foot. A small wooden heel would give her a bit of height but make walking a chore. She wondered how Giaconda managed her zoccoli, the towering shoes with the great wooden heels that some noblewomen and courtesans wore and which made them appear so tall. Giaconda evidently favoured the additional height the shoes bestowed.
Hafeza stretched out her hand and helped Tallow to her feet. Unaccustomed to even the slight heel, she tottered for a moment before regaining her balance. Holding her fingers lightly, Hafeza promenaded her around the room, allowing her time to get used to them. The wood clacked noisily against the floor.
After two circuits, Hafeza escorted her to the door. She put one hand on the doorknob and then turned to Tallow, eyebrows raised.
Tallow took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. 'I'm ready.' She nodded to Hafeza. As ready as I ever will be.
Hafeza turned the handle and pushed. With a flurry of her arms and a sweeping bow, she ushered Tallow out of the room and into a long, narrow corridor.
As they moved along the hallway that divided the first storey of the Maleovellis' casa, Tallow took note of the surroundings. Mould had climbed the paintwork with ruinous fingers, while some of the cornices had all but crumbled. A few tapestries dangled from carved wooden rods, their ends tasselled and ragged. Some of them looked very old, the images fading into pastel blurs. Many of them were of unicorns or knights from lands far away slaying huge coiled serpents that breathed fire. There were a number of gilt-edged mirrors, blighted with cracks or dark spots, from which Tallow caught a distorted glimpse of herself, taller, more colourful and undoubtedly female. She felt like she was one of the women from the tapestries come to life, woven into a story for which she didn't know the ending.
Her heart thudded in her chest and she worked hard to still the shaking in her hands, clenching them against her sides. At least her arm was no longer a problem. The unmistakeable aroma of beeswax tinged with an antediluvian odour filled her nostrils. Whether this rose from the canals or was a part of the ancient casa itself she could not tell. But it made her think of secrets and corruption all at once.
Dripping candles flickered above them and, despite the barrenness of the corridor, Tallow marvelled at the luxury of burning so many at one time and during the day. They passed by closed doors and a huge staircase that both ascended and descended into dark spaces.
They approached what Tallow knew was the portego -- the major room of any nobile's casa. Quinn would often snidely refer to their kitchen as their portego or the first floor as the piano nobile as a way of reminding Tallow of their place in the Serenissian hierarchy. They might have been citizens of the canal-city, but they were poor and lowly craftspeople only -- mere popolani.
Hafeza slowed her pace and, as they reached the doorway, held up her hand. Tallow obediently paused.
Stepping to one side, Hafeza knocked sharply on the frame.
'Ah, Hafeza, our guest is ready?' Giaconda's voice was accompanied by the rustling of her gown. All too soon, the doorway was filled with her presence. As she saw Tallow, her eyes widened and colour flooded her cheeks. 'My, my, you have done very well, Hafeza. You have certainly exceeded my expectations.' She looked Tallow up and down. 'Your arm? You have removed the bandage?' She raised a querying brow.
A small voice inside Tallow warned her not to say what she had done; what she could do. 'It wasn't that bad after all,' she answered.
'Ah.' Giaconda's eyes lingered on Tallow for a few seconds longer. 'Is that so?' She turned to the slave. 'Now, off to the mercato with you. I have left a list of our requirements with Salzi. Be sharp.'
Hafeza bowed and silently slipped away through the maze of corridors and into another part of the casa. For a moment, Tallow wished she could go with her.
'Well, Tallow, I don't need to tell you how lovely you look. Papa will be pleased.'
Tallow wasn't sure if she was meant to reply. 'Grazie,' she said. Giaconda laughed.
'What are you waiting for, Gia? Bring the ragazza in,' called another voice. Tallow recognised the familiar timbre of Ezzelino Maleovelli -- the man with the eyes of a hunter. She repressed a shudder.
'Coming, Papa!' Giaconda held out her arm. 'Please, allow me to escort you.' Tallow rested her hand lightly on Giaconda's glove. All at once, a melange of images collected in her mind. She saw satin sheets, creamy lace pillows, milky flesh, and long, raven hair spread over lush breasts. Men's faces, their lips leering, their teeth full of food, their chins covered in grey stubble wobbling, ornate masks hanging askew, hairy hands and gnarled fingers groping, probing. Handsome, bare-chested men with thick hair appeared side-by-side with decrepit old men with sunken, loose paunches and bow legs. Soldi, golden ducats and silver lire poured through delicate fingers over dewy skin and dripped onto beds. She tried to draw away, but Giaconda prevented her by placing her other hand over Tallow's and squeezing it tightly.
'Stop that right now.' Giaconda's voice was low but deadly. Immediately, Tallow stopped extracting.
'I'm sorry -- I didn't mean ...'
It had happened automatically -- again. Her cheeks were aflame; she felt warm and uncomfortable. She wanted to wriggle out of Giaconda's grasp but, strangely, she also wanted to pull the woman close to her and not let her go.
'You are never to do that to me again, do you understand?' Tallow could not mistake her words. 'You are never to practise your arts upon me or Papa, Hafeza, or anyone under this roof, is that clear?' She neither looked at Tallow nor sounded angry. Tallow simply nodded. 'Good.' She straightened herself and removed the restraining hand from over Tallow's.
'The moment we pass this threshold --' she nodded towards the doorframe that separated the wood of the corridors from the elegant terrazzo flooring of the portego. '-- you will no longer be Tallow Pelleta, the candlemaker's apprentice, is that clear? It's to be as if Tallow never existed.'
Tallow swallowed. 'Sì. But ... if I am no longer Tallow, who will I be?'
Giaconda turned to her then and, using one satin-bound finger, tilted Tallow's chin so she could look her straight in the eye. 'Someone completely different.'
Tallow frowned and lowered her eyes.
'From this moment forward, you will forget who you were, who you pretended to be. You will forget your old life and the people who filled it.' Tallow drew her breath in sharply before exhaling quietly. Forget them, forget him, she told herself. I cannot ...
'To mark your new life, you will take on a new identity.'
Tallow's mouth dropped open. 'Oh.'
Giaconda smiled. 'Oh, indeed.' She gently closed Tallow's mouth. 'Henceforth, you will be known as my father's ward. For that, you need a new name. Not only will you have the protection of ours -- Maleovelli, a name as old as The Golden Book of Serenissian nobiles itself, but we will bestow upon you another. The name by which others will come to know you as well.'
Before Tallow could ask what that was, Giaconda swept her into the room.
'Signori,' she declared loudly, 'may I introduce the new member of our family?' She released Tallow and stepped to one side.
'I present to you Signorina Tarlo Maleovelli.'
'OPEN YOUR EYES.' The command was soft but firm.
The young man resisted. Memories of great pain, gut-wrenching screams, tears, and impossible heartache were lodged somewhere deep inside him. Yet he also felt oddly detached, as if the feelings didn't belong to him, but to another person or lifetime. Hence, when asked to look upon the world, he hesitated. There was a peculiar comfort in that, in retaining control. He was afraid that if he opened his eyes, everything churning inside would flood to the surface and overwhelm him. But he could not remain inert either.
'Dante? I know you can hear me. Come on.'
He squinted. Dull light hit him in the face and he screwed his eyes shut again. God, it hurt. Everywhere hurt. But now that he'd started, he might as well continue. He wanted to see where he was and who owned the urgent voice that had been calling him over and over. He tried again. Warily, he peered through his eyelashes. Grey shadows flitted before his vision. A face swam into view.
'Thank the gods! Ciao. Welcome back.'
Squatting beside him was a woman with long, tawny hair streaked with grey, large amber eyes scattered with silver flecks and a wide, generous mouth. It broke into a smile, her face folding into lines. He found himself smiling back.
'Where am I?' His voice was scratchy, unused. He cleared his throat. He spurred his limbs into cooperating with his desire. Flat on his back, his hands scrambled in what was a mixture of dirt and stones. Directly overhead was a tree. It cast neither shade nor foliage.
'Ah, now that's a long story.' The woman slowly rose to her feet, towering over him, hands on her hips. It made him feel diminished. He half-lifted himself off the ground, leaning on his elbows to support his weight. His head spun, forcing him to stop. Vague shapes flitted at the edge of his vision. He tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Where was he?
'Suffice to say,' she continued, 'you were closer to death than anyone who lives has a right to be.'
Dante tried to absorb the information, tried to organise his thoughts. They were scattered like leaves in a storm.
'Who are you?'
'My name is Katina Maggiore.'
Dante regarded her carefully. She wore tight-fitting pants made of animal hide and a full-sleeved shirt, gloves, a waistcoat and a coat. Blood soaked the front of her shirt and he wondered if she was badly wounded. She didn't appear to be. A dagger hung from one hip and a riding crop from the other. Thigh-high boots completed her ensemble. If it hadn't been for the blood and the grass stains and dust on her pantaloons, he would have thought her dressed for Carnivale, so masculine was her attire. Behind her, a loosely tethered horse snuffled through a small patch of uninviting grass. Katina and her mount were the only splashes of colour against a slate background.
Dante blinked, trying to clear his head. It felt thick, his thoughts jumbled. He glanced down at his torso. His shirt was ripped and there were bloodstains splashed all over the front. He looked back at Katina's shirt. Whose blood was it? He didn't feel injured. He rolled his tongue in his mouth and found a coppery aftertaste. He glanced at Katina and back to the horse and his pulse quickened. Memories poured into his head. Fear gripped his chest. His throat tightened. He couldn't breathe. He raised a trembling finger as he tried to get to his feet, but his body wouldn't cooperate; his legs collapsed under him.
'You ... you ...' He formed the words in his head, but they would not, could not leave his mouth. Anger darker than night enveloped him; his vision dulled until all he saw were enormous steel-shod hooves bearing down on him and heard Tallow's cry of warning ...
Tallow ...
'You're, you're ... a Bond Rider.' He pointed at her, his hand shaking. From inside his curled fingers, blood dripped to the ground. He stared at it, his eyes widening as he slowly opened his hand and saw the bleeding gash that divided his palm. He swung round, taking in the sky, the ground -- the wisps of cinereous fog that hung from the trees like garlands, that hovered above the earth like mist over the canals in Serenissima; the scraggly limbs of the trees bowed with the grief of living in this damned place; the smell of rotting undergrowth that permeated everything.
He was in the Limen. Slowly he looked back at his hand and in one painful blow realisation hit him.
He was Bonded.
Foreboding exploded into panic.
'No!' he shouted. This time he managed to get his feet. He grabbed the trunk of the tree to steady himself. 'Why did you do this?' He thrust his bloodied palm in Katina's face. 'Why did you Bond me?'
'It was what I had to do in order to ensure you survived.'
He stared at her in disbelief. It all started to come back. The bridge, the crowds, the huge horse, Cane and ... Tallow.
'Tallow,' he said hoarsely. 'She did something to me. I felt it. Where is she? You didn't bring her ...' He scanned the area. The muted light made it difficult to see anything clearly. The world was a smear of pale shadows.
'No, no. I didn't bring Tallow.'
'You tried to kill her,' he said between clenched teeth. 'You tried to kill me.'
'It wasn't me, I swear,' said Katina quickly, but she glanced away. 'We were following ...' She stopped mid-sentence, her face revealing what she didn't utter aloud. She changed tack. 'Tallow is alive. I just don't know where she is. Somewhere safe in Serenissima; if the gods are on my side,' she added quietly.
Dante swallowed his next words. There was something in Katina's manner; something about her that registered with him. 'You're the cousin from Jinoa, aren't you? The one who lived with Tallow for a while, bought her the glasses.'
Katina gave a harsh laugh. 'She told you about me?'
'Yes, she told me how you helped her perfect her candles. Make them so sought after. How you gave her confidence and how you stuck up for her with Quinn. Then you left. Had to go back home suddenly. Family emergency. I believed her, even though I knew there was something about you she wasn't telling. I never suspected you were a Bond Rider. She missed you terribly.'
Dante sank back to the ground, resting the back of his head against the tree. He closed his eyes; his cheeks paled. Katina strode over to her horse and fumbled in the saddlebag, producing a flask. 'Here, drink this -- it will make you feel better.'
Dante's eyes flew open and he shot her a look of incredulity. 'I don't think that's possible right now.'
Katina gave a half-smile as he took the flask. 'No, you're right. But it won't hurt either.' She knelt beside him and gave a deep sigh. 'Let me try to explain what happened.'
'Go ahead,' said Dante, first taking a cautious sip, then a longer one. 'If I understand anything about Bond Riders, it's that I suddenly have a great deal of time.'
As Katina spoke, Dante hung on every word.
'So, you see, when we failed to secure Tallow, to bring her with us, we had to flee. It was never meant to happen the way it did. It was meant to be ... easy. What we didn't account for were the effects of the Morto Assiderato on the popolani, what Tallow had done with her candles. That she'd drawn so much attention to herself ...'
'So, she really is a she?' asked Dante, casually shifting his hair off his forehead.
Katina nodded. 'Oh, sì. She is. Pretending to be male was to protect her. There are those in Serenissima and beyond --' she lowered her voice and glanced over her shoulder; Dante found himself peering through the eternal gloom trying to catch the invisible eavesdropper '-- who seek her.' Katina's face was troubled.
Relief that Tallow lived replaced the ache that had sat like an anchor inside him since he awoke. Relief followed by despair. Tallow. She was what he'd suspected, what his family had uncovered -- an Estrattore. Hunted, sought. By whom? Why? The Bond Riders were after her, her friends and neighbours and God knew who or what else. Where was she? His heart filled. She. Tallow was really a girl. No, he corrected himself as he recalled the soft swell of her breasts as she'd pushed his hands against them in those last moments they'd shared. She was a woman. His heart began to beat faster; heat filled his body. Agitation made his fingers move from his hair to his clothing before pulling at his lip. Soft lips, a tender tongue, blood, eyes, hair, Tallow ... A low moan escaped. He was aware of Katina watching, waiting. He forced his hand to be still. She'd held him so close, whispered words he'd longed to hear, and at the same time ...
He'd known he was dying. He was so cold, so divorced from his corporeal self. Even the agony of his injuries had started to fade as he felt his spirit, his soul, whatever it was the padres called it, leaving his body. Then, as Tallow lifted his head and shoulders and crushed her mouth against his, something had shifted, changed. He'd felt light and warmth and, above all, love and strength, trickle into him. It had come from Tallow, but she didn't seem aware she was doing it.
And he'd finally told her he loved her. Months of repressed emotion had spilled from him. Thinking he was making a dying confession to a boy, no longer caring, simply wanting, no, needing to express how he felt, only to discover Tallow was a girl all along. Not that he cared anymore. You couldn't help to whom you gave your heart.
His soared until it hurt -- a joyous hurt that he didn't want to stop. She loves me back. At least he'd managed to tell her. She would know how he felt, carry him in her heart. Just as he would her -- always.
For eternity.
He thought back to some of the escapades they'd shared, all through the autumn and winter months last year, before the Morto Assiderato had struck, and shook his head. 'I don't know how I didn't see it before.' It was so obvious now -- the timidity, the softness, the gleam of excitement as they dared to cross boundaries; her faith in him. Her compassion.
'Why would you? People's eyes deceive them all the time,' said Katina gently. He became aware of her studying his face and coloured. 'They saw a boy where there was a girl and a human where there was an Estrattore. You know that at least, don't you? That she's an Estrattore?'
Dante nodded. 'I guessed. I just didn't admit it to her. I was so worried that if I said I knew, she'd disappear on me. I ... I challenged our friendship once. I didn't want to do so again. She kept it a secret, so I did too. We all did -- my family and, I suspect, the neighbours. Tallow didn't know how many friends she had.' He frowned. 'She was beaten, you know -- all her life -- by Pillar's mother, Quinn.'
'Oh, I know,' said Katina. Something in her tone made Dante eye her cautiously.
He let out a long sigh. At least Tallow had survived. She'd escaped the crowds and the Bond Riders. He would find her; they would be together again, he'd make sure of it. But, thought Dante, why did this Bond Rider help him when the other one so clearly wanted him dead? What was going on?
Ask, he told himself. Ask her, dammit.
'Why am I here? Why are you helping me?' He gazed up at Katina, challenging her to contradict him.
For a second Dante thought he saw something like sympathy upon her face, but it disappeared before he could be certain.
'We always help our own,' Katina said almost inaudibly. 'You're one of us now. Those who sought to harm you can no longer hurt you. That's why I did it. I didn't believe that killing you was right. Not anymore. Please.' She held up her hand to stop the questions he was about to ask. 'I cannot say anything else, not yet. It's just that something is wrong and I need to find out what. I also need you.' She raised her golden eyes to his. 'Can you trust me?'
Dante stared at her for a moment. Despite what had happened, something within him responded to Katina's words, to her earnestness, to what lay behind it. He nodded.
She breathed a sigh of relief and, sitting beside him, appeared to relax.
They fell into silence. It was eerie, the way the woods around them made no noise. There was a slight wind, no birdsong, just the moist, heavy fog drifting listlessly through the trees. Dante shivered, but it wasn't from cold.
Katina broke the quietness. 'You were a good friend to her, weren't you?'
'Friend!' scoffed Dante. 'More than that, I lo -- 'Dante stopped himself. 'Sì. Very close friends. I would do anything for her.'
Katina reached for his hand, turning it so the ugly gash was facing her. He felt sick looking at it. 'That is what I'd hoped you would say. That is why I did what I did. For Tallow. Because of the love you bear for her.' She lifted her own hand and, wincing, peeled off her riding glove. Slicing through an old jagged wound was a fresh one. It began to bleed again. Thick drops of red splashed onto the ground and were immediately absorbed.
Dante's mouth dropped open. 'You have a fresh Bond? Can you do that, make two Bonds?'
'No. not really. But, you see, I thought --'
The crunch of leaves nearby startled Katina to her feet. She dropped the glove. Dante clambered upright beside her. Emerging from behind a copse of trees came four Bond Riders. Two were dressed in a similar fashion to Katina, the others in the traditional, long robes, the togati of Serenissian nobiles. Only instead of the usual black, their garments had faded, like everything else Dante laid eyes on, to an ashen hue.
'Damn!' Katina said through gritted teeth. Dante could tell she wasn't happy.
'We warned you, Elders. Told you she was not to be trusted,' cried Santo, triumph on his face. He drew his sword and looked Dante up and down.
Stefano closed his hand around the hilt of his weapon. 'And her treachery doesn't end here.'
'Sì, Santo, Stefano, grazie,' said one of the older men, pushing Santo's sword to one side and clasping Stefano's shoulder briefly as he approached. 'It seems your stories have a ring of truth after all.'
Katina dropped to one knee. 'My Elders, I was on my way to report to you.'
'Were you, indeed?' said a man with a huge nose and grey eyes. What little hair he had was clinging to his scalp. It too was grey. 'You have taken your ... time.' He gave a crooked smile that never reached his eyes. His companion's shoulders shook as if at some private joke. Dante shifted uneasily.
'Sì, Elder Nicolotti. I was but allowing this new Bond Rider to adjust before bringing him to Settlement.'
'And who might this new Bond Rider be, Katina?' said the other man. He was very tall and, like his peer, reed-thin.
Behind the Elders, Santo sneered. 'Tell them who it is, Katina.'
Dante could feel Katina tense beside him. Despite the wound, his palms became sweaty and his heart skipped a beat.
'Allow me to introduce Dante Macelleria. Dante, this is Elder Nicolotti and Elder Pisano. They are part of the governing body of the Bond Riders, the Council of Elders.'
Dante bowed awkwardly. The Bond Riders had a Council? He'd always believed that Bond Riders answered to no-one.
The two men returned his bow with curt nods of their heads. Katina did not bother introducing Santo or Stefano. Dante wondered why Santo's name seemed familiar.
'I don't remember requesting that we admit a new Rider to Settlement. Correct me if I'm wrong, but did you not have different orders concerning Signor Macelleria?'
'Sì, Elder Nicolotti.'
Dante noticed a trickle of moisture running down the side of Katina's face.
'You mean she was ordered to kill me?' Dante could stand it no more. Katina had rescued him and he would not see her chastised and humiliated. They were playing games with her, but it was the other two men acting like they'd already won. He thrust his way in front of her. Katina made an exclamation of annoyance and put her hand on his arm, but he shrugged it off.
'No, mi dispiace, Katina, but I'll have my say.' He faced the Elders. 'Katina did follow your orders -- well, somebody did.' He glanced at Santo, who met his gaze with hostility. It became clear just who had been atop the great black horse, who was behind the dragon mask. 'You see, I was dead. It wasn't Katina's fault I was brought back to life. That was Tallow. Tallow, the Estrattore you're after, she ensured my injuries didn't kill me. I don't know how, but she did. Don't blame Katina. She simply brought me here to serve you.' He forced his face to remain expressionless; to keep his conflict about what had happened to him from showing.
The two men locked their eyes onto Dante and he wanted to cower beneath their intensity. He could feel their fury and confusion lash him.
'In future, do not speak until spoken to, ragazzo,' spat Elder Nicolotti. Then his eyes slid to Katina. 'Is what this young man says true? Did the Estrattore save him?'
Katina thrust Dante back into position beside her, squeezing his shoulder in thanks before answering. 'Ask Santo. He rode Dante down. We all thought he was dead -- he should have been. His injuries were grave.' She paused.
Knowing they were waiting for him, Santo grunted agreement.
'But when I went to check, to make sure, I saw he wasn't. He not only had a pulse, his wounds were starting to heal. I knew then that Tallow must have done something, given him something.'
'But you could have acted then, Katina Maggiore. At that point, you could have followed orders.'
Dante held his breath.
'I could have, but there were too many ... witnesses.' Dante could hear the lie and wondered if the others could too ... What is Katina not telling? 'So, instead, I brought him to us. I ... persuaded him to pledge.'
Persuaded? That wasn't how it happened. He was unconscious. Indignation rose. Despite the Elders' warning, Dante opened his mouth to protest. Katina gripped his wrist and squeezed it tightly. He shut his mouth.
'Why?' asked Elder Pisano. 'Why did you bring him here, make him one of us? This is not acceptable. It interferes -- '
Before he could continue, two more figures materialised out of the nether surroundings.
Katina gave a sharp intake of breath. 'No,' she moaned.
'Alessandro, Debora.' Stefano acknowledged the two new arrivals as they came to stand beside him. Santo ignored them. The Elders didn't move, did not greet them either.
Dante tried to read the faces of the newcomers. Younger than Katina but older than Santo or Stefano, they both looked confused, angry and frightened. Whether their fear was for themselves or Katina it was hard to tell, but their eyes never left her face.
'Why did you bring him here?' Elder Nicolotti stepped closer.
Katina released Dante's wrist, but not before applying a little more pressure. 'Because of what happened on the bridge, I knew that Tallow would never again trust Bond Riders. Our chance of convincing her to ... work for us had passed. She would not come to us willingly. All the good work I did back in Serenissima was undone.' She shot a look of poison at Santo.
'This young man is the person Tallow trusts above all others. She risked her life for him -- in more ways than one. I knew that if we want to bring Tallow into the Limen as you ordered, and get her to aid us in our ... recovery, then we need this man. We need Dante. He's our only hope. The only way to bring him into the Limen was to Bond him. So I did.'
Dante wondered at her hesitation. Was she concealing information from him or the Elders? He couldn't tell.
It didn't seem to bother the Elders, her apparent dissembling. They looked at each other before studying Dante with renewed interest. He felt their eyes probing him and he wanted to fling his clothes off and wash every inch of his flesh. Oh, how Zia Gaia would laugh at the irony of that. Then, realisation hit him. It took his breath away.
What had been done to him was worse than death. The dead left behind their old lives and loved ones and, according to the padres, ascended to another realm. Bond Riders could never leave this world: not even when their impious contracts were filled. Once, when the Estrattore were accepted, it was different, they met their obligations and were freed. Now, those who pledged just lurked in the shadows, watching, longing for their old lives and the people who filled them, forever severed from them, forever different. He could never go back -- not to the way it was -- not to who he had been. His soul had been ripped from him and was forever imprisoned in a pledge stone.
He would never be able to see his family again.
Pushing his misery to the back of his mind, he tried to fathom the undercurrents in the conversation before him. The Elders were whispering with each other, their voices rising and falling, casting looks in their direction. Alessandro and Debora were almost smiling. Only Santo and the man Stefano looked unhappy with what Katina had said. No, not unhappy. Disgusted.
'Bene, Katina Maggiore,' said Elder Nicolotti. 'For now, we will accept your story and allow you to return to Settlement. Elder Dandolo and the rest of the Council will want to hear your version of events and see how it tallies with ... others.' He cast a look in Santo and Stefano's direction. 'In the meantime, Alessandro and Debora will take care of our latest addition: begin his training. If he is to help us as you claim, he needs to be ready. Already, his horse awaits him.'
Dante swallowed hard. A horse. His horse. By God. One just tried to kill him and now there's one waiting for him to ride. What did that mean, anyway? How did it know he was coming? Unless it was just a Bond Riders' expression. He had so much to learn.
Dante became aware that Santo had sheathed his sword, his shoulders slumped. Stefano simply stared at him, his countenance inscrutable. Elder Pisano stepped forward and held out his hand. Katina took it in her own and was about to kiss the top of his fingers when, faster than a seahawk swooping on a fish, he clutched hers. Before she could pull it from his grasp, he overturned it.
The deep, weeping gash blazed. All eyes were drawn to it. Disbelief disfigured everyone's faces. Dante didn't understand what he was witnessing.
Elder Pisano twisted her wrist and, with a small cry, Katina fell to her knees. Dante went to help her, to free her from this man's vice-like grip, but Elder Nicolotti pushed him aside. Santo drew his sword again, a look of victory on his face. Behind them, Debora and Alessandro crumpled with both despair and alarm.
'By the gods, Katina Maggiore, what have you done?' Elder Pisano's voice was like a clarion. Dante began to tremble. He didn't understand what was happening.
Katina whimpered. Her face turned ashen.
Elder Nicolotti stared at the mark and then, before Dante could react, grasped his hand and pulled it towards Katina's. The slashes were like twin mouths grinning crookedly, making a mockery of the fury, the revulsion of the others.
'You are an abomination!' Elder Pisano threw Katina's hand away. She nursed it at her side. 'You dare to do this? To deliberately flout our rules in this manner? It's one thing to defy orders, it is quite another to break the law! To interfere so deliberately with everyone's future.' He released Dante's hand slowly. Dante rubbed his wrist.
Katina, refusing to reply, dropped her head to her chest. Elder Pisano glared at her for one long moment. 'Get her out of my sight. Now. The rest of the Council will hear about this.' He spun on his heels and strode away, his togati flaring behind him.
'This changes everything.' The disgust in Elder Nicolotti's voice was tangible. 'Santo, take her into custody.'
'With pleasure, Signor,' said Santo, and hauled Katina to her feet. She tripped, but he grabbed her shirt so she remained upright. It tightened around her neck like a lariat, the blood from the shirt staining her chin. She was diminished, had become a rag doll in Santo's hands.
With a growl, Alessandro stepped forward, but Debora threw up her arm, striking him across his chest, freezing him in his tracks.
'You will answer to us and to the Council for all your crimes, Katina Maggiore,' said Elder Nicolotti. 'But I doubt you'll be forgiven this one. Get her out of here! Stefano, a word.' He indicated that Stefano should follow him, and strode into the mist, disappearing in seconds. Casting one last look in Dante's direction, Stefano trailed after him. Santo began dragging Katina away.
'You harm one hair on her body, Santo, and you'll have us to answer to!' shouted Alessandro, pushing Debora's arm out of the way.
'I don't need to hurt her!' called Santo, as he faded into the haze. 'She does that very well on her own.' His laughter echoed between the trees. Dante winced.
What just happened?
'Please,' he said to the two remaining Bond Riders, trying to fill the silence. 'What was that about? What did Katina do that was so wrong?' He cupped his hand by his side.
Alessandro glanced at him and then, as if the sight of Dante caused him pain, went to tend Katina's mount. Debora stepped forward and took Dante's hand in her own, once more turning it over so the mark of the Bond showed.
'My name is Debora.' She nodded towards the man on the horse. 'That's Alessandro. We're Katina's partners.'
She ran her thumb gently over the jagged surface of the gash. Dante drew his breath in. The area was tender. Debora wiped her finger on her breeches and shook her head in wonder. 'Katina has done what no Bond Rider must do.'
'What's that?'
'She has made an Obbligare Doppio.'
'A double bind?'
'Sì.'
Dante's heart began to thump painfully and a chill crept through his body. It left no part of him untouched. He was seized by a violent shudder.
'Why is that so ... wrong?'
Debora placed her other hand over his, covering the mark. 'Because it pledges Katina to not just her original Bond, but yours as well.'
Dante shook his head and shrugged. 'So? I don't understand.'
Debora choked back a laugh. 'So?' She threw an arm up in the air. 'Oh, our new companion has so much to learn!' Tears began to travel down her cheeks. She wiped them away brusquely. 'Forgive our distress, our anger. This is not your fault, amico mio. Katina knew what she was doing; what the consequences of this would be. She planned this.' She glanced at Alessandro.
He led Birrichino over, shaking his head in disbelief. 'I didn't anticipate anything of the kind. If I had, I never would have left her --'
'This isn't your fault either, caro mio,' said Debora.
Dante waited patiently, but could stand it no more. 'Please, explain what she's done. Why she's in so much trouble.'
'Mi dispiace, Dante.' Debora sighed and dropped his hand. 'You know we're here because of our Bonds, sì?' Dante nodded. 'We make a promise that is sealed with our blood and places our souls in the pledge stones. I don't know when it started, or why. As long as I have lived, so it has been -- and I have lived for a very long time.'
Dante studied her face. She looked no older than his Zia Dulmia.
'How old are you?'
Debora gave a crooked smile. 'In Serenissian years? Over three hundred and fifty. I am not sure exactly. In here it doesn't matter, especially now we can no longer return.'
'Because there are no Estrattore?'
'Esattamente. It used to be that once our pledges were fulfilled, the Estrattore would release our souls. If we chose, we could return to Serenissima and, if time had been kind, pick up what remained of our lives or, if not, start a new one. It depended on how long we'd been Bonded. How long we'd been gone. Now there are no Estrattore, we no longer have a choice. Even so, many of us still try to fulfil our pledges.' She glanced in the direction Katina had been taken. 'It's what drives us; it's what gives this place --' she threw her arms out wide '-- meaning.'
Her eyes flickered to Alessandro and her cheeks coloured. Dante sensed she was omitting something. 'Each of us is responsible for our own Bond.' She paused. 'But, once an Obbligare Doppio is made, no other Rider can fulfil theirs until this new one is completed. The Bond you and Katina have made now takes precedence over every other Bond, over every other Rider's need. That's the nature of the Obbligare Doppio -- it's against the Bond Riders' code; it breaks every rule because it makes us subservient to something none of us pledged. It means our lives, such as they are, grind to a halt for your Bond -- yours and Katina's. No other Bond works that way; they are personal, private. We choose to act on them or not. Except this one. This affects us all. We are beholden to you. Our freedom to choose has been taken away.' She began to cry again.
'I still can't believe Katina did this,' said Alessandro, putting a comforting arm around Debora's shoulders.
'No,' wept Debora. 'You can't believe that she kept her intention from us.'
Alessandro held Debora tightly. 'How could she be so damn selfish, so bloody stupid? Now we have to wait for ...' He pressed his lips together.
Debora tried to pull out of his embrace, but he wouldn't let her.
'For what?' Dante urged.
Over the top of Debora's head, Alessandro raised his dark eyes to Dante's. 'For either of you to succeed and fulfil your Bond or die trying.'
TARLO MALEOVELLI. THE NAME, like the mellow light coming in from the series of arched windows, took me unawares. I tried it out in my mind, rolled it around in my thoughts, tasted it and didn't find it nearly as objectionable as I thought. Tarlo. It suited my new look and life; it was a sobriquet that announced my sex to the world, as well my different purpose -- whatever that might be. Tarlo. So close to Tallow and yet, I thought, my hands brushing against the silken fabric of my gown, aware of my décolletage and the earrings dangling from my lobes and the cool pearls against my neck, so immeasurably distant.
I took a few more steps into the room and stopped. Giaconda had taken my arm again and the downward pressure she applied forced me into an awkward curtsy. As I rose, I could see three figures climbing to their feet. I felt momentarily bereft as Giaconda abandoned me in the middle of the huge room.
Four enormous windows drenched the room in the pastel hues of the afternoon. The floor beneath my feet gleamed brightly. Elaborate rugs were scattered at intervals, their colours fading yet still managing to offer a loud contrast to the geometrical patterns of the wood. I managed to briefly glimpse the ceiling that soared above me. A silent cacophony of cherubs and angels sang in greeting, floating amid a maelstrom of pallid clouds. The cream walls were covered in metal sconces in which sat huge pillar candles at various stages of melting. Tapestries, as discoloured as those in the corridor, hung scrappily between doorways along with leather shields bearing faded coats of arms. The overall impression was one of indifferent luxury such as I had never encountered. I'd often wondered what lay behind the windows of the nobiles' houses; what the interior would be like. I'd never imagined it to be so vast, so lush, so colourful and yet, so used. The room whispered to me of antique wealth and manners, of business that was, as yet, beyond my ken. It was breathtaking in its richness and decadent as well. So many empty chairs, so many tables that did nothing but display beautiful objects. The painted faces looking down their aristocratic noses from the walls made me feel self-conscious. I didn't belong here. But then, I didn't really belong anywhere, not even in Pillar and Quinn's dark little house either. Within seconds, I had drunk my fill of the room and yet remained thirsty. I had so many questions.
In the time it took to store these impressions, someone approached obscured by a haze of fragrant smoke. It was Signor Ezzelino Maleovelli. He wasn't much taller than me and leant to one side. His cane marked the rhythm of his advance. He bowed. I could see his thick silver hair cascading over the crown of his head and curling down his back. As he straightened, his eyes met mine and it was all I could do not to tremble. They were cold eyes -- like the fish I used to see displayed on market days. How could a living being have such eyes? He stood in front of me and brazenly studied my form.
'Bella,' he said approvingly, and then spoke over his shoulder to the people behind him. 'What do you think? Don't stand back there -- come and be formally introduced.' Signor Maleovelli waved them forward, wisps of smoke providing direction.
The light in my eyes meant I could not see them clearly until they stepped into his shadow. The first to be introduced was a corpulent young man who was not only hunched, but rolled as he walked, as if there was something in his shoe. I couldn't help but glance at his feet, but they were obscured by his togati. He paused before me and bowed. Again, I curtsied.
'This is my nephew, Jacopo. He lives with us here at Casa Maleovelli and is responsible for maintaining the family history, accounts and general housekeeping. He is, you will discover, quite a scholar.' Jacopo dropped his eyes modestly, but the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth revealed something less attractive. 'Jacopo, this is the newest addition to our household, Signorina Tarlo. From hereon you will not only be helping us instruct her, but you will also manage her affairs.'
'Sì, Zio Ezzelino. Signorina Tarlo, it's a pleasure to meet you, finally ... cousin.'
I hesitantly raised my eyes, but instead of the usual expression of fear, he was gazing at me the way I used to see Quinn study the soldi collected in her tin. He had a long face and nose with pale skin stained by dark whiskers. He also possessed his zio's eyes.
'Prego,' I said.
'Cousin, you're most welcome,' he murmured in a rather high voice for someone so large, and stepped aside.
'Grazie.' I waited.
I finally caught a glimpse of the other man who replaced Jacopo by Signor Maleovelli's side. He was shorter in stature and wider in girth. I stifled a gasp and had to dissemble quickly. His face was discoloured by livid green and purple contusions. A gash divided his lip and his left cheek was badly swollen. Both eyes were encircled by puffy dark flesh that bled into a sickly yellow at his temples. I knew all too well what those marks signified. Memories I'd managed to all but suppress flooded into my head. He'd suffered a terrible beating. Yet Signor Maleovelli, Jacopo and Giaconda acted as if they did not notice or did not care. I wondered who had administered such pain. My heart contracted. I swallowed and offered him a slight, clumsy curtsy. He returned a surprisingly elegant bow that allowed me to see his broken, cut fingers as one hand rested across his waist.
Despite the wounds he carried and which disfigured his face, there was something disturbingly familiar about him.
He looked first at Signor Maleovelli, then Giaconda, before resting his eyes on me, his head tipped towards his shoulder. A smile played on his ruined lips and a tiny flash from a gold tooth escaped. Words caught in my throat and my pulse raced. Non è possible! I knew him! A flush crept up my neck and I could feel moisture gather between my breasts. What were the Maleovellis doing consorting with this man? What was going on? Why was he here? I froze, uncertain what to say, what to do. I longed to reach out, touch him, touch anything, and extract.
Just as these thoughts swept through my mind, I saw his face redden and his jaw drop. He stumbled, the back of his knees hitting a table.
'No!' he gasped, pointing a shaking finger at me.
I didn't know where to look. His actions mirrored my feelings.
'Sì,' drawled Signor Ezzelino, chuckling. 'She has the silver eyes, the eyes that mark her as an Estrattore. We didn't need you after all, Scarpoli. We found her ourselves.'
The man they called Scarpoli, but whom I knew as Signor Barbacan, staggered back to the armchair he'd recently vacated and fell into it. He reached for a glass from the table beside him and tipped the contents down his throat. He coughed a few times then stared at me more intently. 'You're Tallow Pelleta. The candlemaker's apprentice. Here. Just like that.' He snapped his fingers. 'God has a strange sense of humour.'
There was a bubble of laughter from Giaconda. 'This has nothing to do with God, Signor Scarpoli.'
'Esatto.' Signor Ezzelino's word hung in sunny brumes above his head.
'So you found Tallow yourselves.' Signor Scarpoli shook his head in disbelief.
'Tarlo,' corrected Giaconda firmly. 'From now on, she is Tarlo Maleovelli. You're all to remember that.' She included me as she took a seat. Signor Ezzelino and Jacopo also sat, leaving me standing by myself. 'We picked a name that was close to her own. The fact it's masculinised is our bit of fun, an acknowledgement that, in so many ways, the masquerade of her life continues.' She offered me a smile. I could not yet return it.
'Tarlo,' repeated Baroque. 'I never would have guessed. I never would have expected ...'
I looked him straight in the eye. 'Me neither, Signor Barbacan.'
'You remember me, then.'
'I cannot forget. If I'm not mistaken, you've been following me for some time.' I recalled the night he tracked me and Dante on the Circolo Canal, the time he innocently struck up a conversation with me in the campo. So long ago: another lifetime. 'I don't understand.' I looked from Baroque to Giaconda, to Jacopo, who quickly looked away, and finally at Signor Maleovelli. 'What's going on? How do you all know Signor ... Scarpoli?'
'Please, Tarlo, sit down.' Signor Maleovelli gestured to a high-backed chair opposite his. I sat down gratefully. My thoughts were spinning out of control. 'The time for secrets between us has passed.' Signor Maleovelli signalled for Giaconda to pour from the decanter that sat on one of the many tables scattered between the chairs. 'Baroque works for me, Tarlo. I employed him to find you. Tarlo, meet Signor Baroque Scarpoli.'
My mouth dropped open. 'Me? But how -- why?'
'We saw you, Giaconda and I, months ago in a ramo in the Chandlers Quartiere. We have rooms there for our ... business.' He glanced at Giaconda. Jacopo studied his hands intently. 'You healed a dog, a dog that should not have lived. We watched as you lured the chandler to your side and used the power within you to extract whatever it was you needed from him to save the animal --'
I didn't listen. Not properly, anyhow. Instead I let my mind wander back to that day in the damp ramo, the day I met Dante and saved Cane from certain death. I'd wondered if we'd been seen, but the alley had been dark and there'd been no sign of anyone. Yet the Maleovellis had witnessed what I'd done -- they'd known from that one small action what I was and they'd hunted me down. I glanced at Baroque. They'd even hired this man. God help me.
'-- Baroque was to find you and bring you to us. But he disappeared. Turns out that the hunter was also hunted.' Baroque's cheeks became ruddy and he muttered something. Signor Maleovelli dismissed his mumblings with a wave of his hand. 'As it was, you literally fell into our laps. Well, our gondola.' Signor Maleovelli chuckled. Baroque perceptibly started. It was evident he hadn't known about that.
'It was providence. The goddess, Fortunata -- forgive my blasphemy. Tarlo, my dear, it seems that one way or another, you are meant to be with us.'
Silence filled the spaces between us.
'Why? What do you want from me?' I asked finally. 'Why was Signor Barba ... Scarpoli seeking me?'
Signor Ezzelino and Giaconda exchanged a long look that I couldn't interpret. Jacopo glanced at me. I detected need in his gaze. Need and something else. The back of my neck became ice-cold.
'There's nothing sinister at work here, Tarlo. You have no reason to be afraid of us. We know what you are and what you can do. We haven't sought you all this time to simply turn you over to the Doge or the Church. On the contrary, we want to protect you but, like anything in this damn city, our protection comes at a price.' Signor Maleovelli leant back in his chair and sucked on his pipe.
What did he mean? Was he threatening me? The corset constricted and I was beginning to feel cloistered, even in this spacious room.
'Papa, I think it's best if I explain, don't you?' Giaconda rose from her seat and strolled towards one of the windows. She turned her back to the view. A halo of light formed around her, turning her into a gleaming silhouette. 'Being part of this family, being a Maleovelli, carries obligations, duties. That's what Papa means by a price. Don't look so concerned. You'll be assigned certain tasks and, if you do the right thing by us, Tarlo, then we'll do the right thing by you. First we will give you the protection of our home and our name.' Her arm swept the room. 'You must understand, these are not given lightly. What we offer is to be taken very seriously.'
I felt them all watching me. Time seemed to slow.
'I don't know that I do understand.' My voice sounded distant, small. 'Why would you do this? Take such a risk? What can I do for you? What sort of duties are you talking about? I can clean, I can cook ...'
Giaconda tittered. 'Do you really believe we would ask you to cook? To be a house girl? We already have those. Oh, Tarlo. What we want from you is so much more, so much better.' She detached herself from the window and moved towards me. 'You have so much to offer, my dear young woman. Why, you're an Estrattore.'
I winced as she used the word so brazenly, so openly. Just like Katina when she first came into my life. Pillar had panicked, shutting doors and windows, glancing over his shoulder, even in the safety of his own home. I wasn't sure what would happen here, but when nothing did, when the others sat there and Signor and Signorina Maleovelli bored holes in my head with their intent stares, I released the breath I didn't even know I'd been holding. I waited expectantly. So did the men. We were all now focused on Giaconda. Her gown rustled softly as it reorganised itself around her legs. She faced me. 'Until recently, you'd been taught to deny what you were, hide away your talents, isn't that right?'
'Sì.' Endless beatings, reminders to lower my head, my eyes, not draw attention to myself; even the umber glasses that Katina had insisted were made for me were all attempts to disguise my origins. 'Sì. Vero -- it's true.'
'Well, while you're under our roof, my dear, you don't have to hide anything. Not from us. We want you to refine what it is you do, hone your skills, your talents: make them so much a part of who you are that they are indistinguishable to anyone but us. It can be done. It will be done.'
'We understand,' continued Signor Maleovelli, 'that you were a candlemaker. Scarpoli tells us that somehow, you used the candles to ... how do I put it? Make special things happen? That you were able to effect change in those who burned your candles.'
'Those who survived that dreadful plague, the Morto Assiderato, in your Quartiere attribute it to you -- to your candles,' confirmed Baroque.
He'd learnt a great deal about me. Information that I foolishly thought was hidden, safe. That unnerved me. I cleared my throat. 'I distilled what I extracted from objects and people into the candles. It was a way of hiding what I cannot help but do, of making the process less obvious. Or so I thought.'
'This is excellent,' said Signor Maleovelli. 'And, are we to understand that, like the Estrattore of old, you can extract any emotion, any feeling from a thing --' he held up a brightly striated piece of glass '-- or a person and distil it down to its most potent form?'
I nodded. 'But only if I can detect it in the first place. You have to understand, I haven't had much training. I think I told you in the gondola.' I looked at Giaconda. 'A Bond Rider named Katina tried to teach me --' Baroque spluttered his vino, covering his mouth quickly as he coughed. 'But she had limitations ...' I shot a glance at Baroque and continued. 'She didn't know everything. She wouldn't allow me to do certain things. I'm not properly trained.' I didn't tell them what I had done on my own. How I had failed in my attempts to make certain people's lives better. I was ashamed.
'Is this the same Bond Rider that killed your friend?' asked Giaconda lightly.
I stiffened.
'I don't think she was on the horse that trampled him, but yes, it's the same one.' Why was I defending her? Katina ... how could you let that happen?
Over my head, I perceived unspoken words, lingering glances.
'Let me tell you a story, Tarlo,' said Signor Maleovelli finally. 'It may help you understand our position, what we can offer you.' He waited till he had my full attention. 'You see, once, a long time ago, the Maleovellis were rich. We were a force to be reckoned with -- we had our own ships, trade routes and even, for a while, a bank. We were close to attaining the Dogeship for, in this city, you have to have influence to hold office. By influence I mean wealth and the power that attracts.' He paused, a frown creasing his face. 'And we came so close,' he whispered, staring at a painting of someone I assumed was an ancestor. His frown disappeared and his sombre tone lifted. 'But it all changed. Some very foolish decisions and allegiances by my great, great-grandfather meant that in less than a generation, we lost our money and our reputation. We have never been able to regain the position we had, the position our once-eminent house deserves.' He fixed his eyes upon me. 'With your help, we hope to have all that restored.'
'So, I am here to reinstate your wealth.' I could hear the doubt in my voice. Surely, it could not be so easy. These nobiles could not have the same base desires as Quinn.
'As I said, in Serenissima, wealth also means power. And power means control. We want to be in control. Not just of our lives, but of Serenissma. Tarlo, I want the Dogeship. With your help, I can have it.'
At first I didn't know what to say. My mind galloped. 'You ask a great deal of me.' My voice was quiet.
'Sì. But it is within your power to give us this. According to what Jacopo has learnt from the city's archives, all the great Doges in the past ruled with an Estrattore by their side. You're to be mine, my family's.'
'But that's just like the position the Cardinale has now, isn't it? He advises on matters of the soul, doesn't he?'
'Esatto,' said Signor Maleovelli. 'And not just on the soul. And look where that has led.' He stared out the window, focusing on something in the middle distance, reflecting inwards rather than outwards. 'Once Serenissima was a mighty, independent power, a force to be reckoned with. Exiling the Estrattore, changing the core religious beliefs of the entire city and allowing Roma and the Great Patriarch to, let's say, wield such influence, has not only weakened us, it has made us dependent upon them -- and not just on spiritual matters, but for everything. With your help, we can restore Serenissima to her former glory.' He tore his eyes away from the window and smiled at me. I resisted the urge to shudder. 'Tarlo.' He glanced at Giaconda, who nodded approvingly. 'We know what we're asking of you is enormous.' He put down his pipe. It balanced precariously on a little silver dish, the smoking tobacco threatening to spill. 'But I think you'll find what we offer you in return is more than adequate.'
'What is that?' I tore my eyes away from the pipe to find everyone staring at me, leaning forward.
Signor Maleovelli took a deep breath before he answered.
'The return of the Estrattore.'
I COULD BARELY BREATHE. MY HEART RACED. I wondered for a moment if I'd even heard Signor Maleovelli correctly.
'Return? You mean, bring the Estrattore back to Serenissima? Reinstate them?'
Signor Maleovelli nodded. 'I do. Once I'm in power, nothing can stop me overturning the decree that banished them and restoring the old ways. Together, Tarlo, we can bring the Estrattore, the ancient magic, back -- back to where it belongs, they belong -- here in Serenissima, in Vista Mare.'
'What about people's beliefs? What about God?'
'What about them? They will worship what and whom they're told. It's happened before, it will happen again. Roma's God was forced upon us. The truth is, Serenissima has always belonged to the gods -- those who created your kind.' Jacopo tried to contain himself. Giaconda bowed her head towards her father, a look I couldn't quite read upon her face. Baroque remained impassive.
I couldn't believe what I was being told. Katina had said there were Estrattore in the Limen and it was up to me to find them. I'd often wondered about the point of that if they couldn't come back to Serenissima. But now I was being given the opportunity to bring my people, my 'kind', back to their homeland and to see them and what they represented restored. 'I can bring them back to where they belong.' My thoughts translated into words.
'Esatto,' said Signor Maleovelli. 'But only with our help.'
My eyes shone. To overturn the Church -- the ones responsible for their exile and murder in the first place. It was outrageous, dangerous and wonderful.
'But what if we fail? What if, no matter what I do, you don't become the Doge?'
'Then, my dear little Estrattore, we'll all be put to death,' said Signor Ezzelino calmly. 'You, me, Giaconda, Jacopo, Signor Scarpoli -- horrible, lingering deaths in a very public place. And your Estrattore will remain trapped in the Limen forever and ever and the Church will continue to dictate what we do and what we believe, and Serenissima will one day crumble back into the ocean out of which she arose.' I felt the truth of his words. My heart became heavy with doubt. 'But we will not think about failure. If we do, we introduce the notion. Together, Tarlo, we will not fail.'
As I gazed at Signor Maleovelli, I felt I could believe him.
'There's a prophecy, you know.' Jacopo sat forward earnestly, his voice soft at first. 'It says that one day the Estrattore will create a child who will restore balance to the world.'
All eyes were upon him; he shifted nervously. 'There's mention of it in one of the old scrolls. But you ... you could be that child, you know.'
Oh, I knew. I kept this knowledge to myself.
'The way to restore balance is by placing a Doge on the throne who is not a pawn of the Church.' Signor Maleovelli spoke with practised assurance. 'One who understands to whom this city belongs and that this world is big enough to accommodate different faiths, different creeds and diverse beings. It's all a matter of finding balance. You're right. She is that child, Jacopo, just as I am to be that Doge. Together we can build a great future for all.'
There was no doubt, Signor Maleovelli craved power -- they all did. And, in return, they would give it to me as well. The power to bring my people home and, in doing so, save Serenissima.
They were all watching me. They hadn't stopped from the moment I entered the room. I didn't care anymore. I had nothing, so it seemed, to lose -- only everything to gain. I'd used my talents and risked discovery for a lot less when I lived with Pillar and Quinn. What Signor Maleovelli suggested not only excited me, it gave me confidence, and I hadn't felt that in what seemed like such a long time.
I glanced around the room again. This time I could see the cracks in the plaster, the chipped and peeling paint, the mould that grew up the walls, the age beneath the patina of gilt and sunlight. I also saw darker shapes on the walls and floor. Empty spaces where proud faces had once hung, where tables and other pieces of elegant furniture had formerly stood. I glanced down at my dress and noticed that it was patched in places and the design out of fashion. It all made sense now. These nobiles also played a role -- one their rank would not allow them to relinquish. And now they wanted the chance to play the greatest role of all and change the future by returning to the past and, in doing so, secure themselves a place in history. This was their last chance, their only hope. And if they were to be believed, Serenissima's as well. I could not ignore the message, only take the opportunity to act. Just like the Maleovellis.
An old vision flashed before my eyes. One that had come to me the night I met Katina; the night she told me I was the child of the prophecy. Where Serenissima had once been, I'd seen a wasteland of ruins and dried canals filled with the swollen corpses of those who had once populated them. Carrion birds and bloated toads fed upon the rotting flesh, their beaks and mouths bloodied, their stomachs engorged.
What Signor Maleovelli said, what he'd learnt, was in accord with Katina's warnings and my dire glimpse of a possible future.
A thought occurred to me. 'What about my eyes? If I venture out of here, they'll give me away and anything we plan or do will be for nought.'
'There are ways of disguising them,' reassured Giaconda. 'You have done it before. Do not worry about that. For now, focus on what might be -- on who you might become, or what you could accomplish. On what we'll all, with your help, attain.'
I put my hand over my heart and felt its rapid thrumming. I tried to gather my thoughts, get them in some sort of order.
'How do you envision me helping you? What form will my help take?'
'Ah,' said Signor Maleovelli. 'We see two ways you can help us -- two ways with two stages.' He leant forward. 'First, we want you to modify some candles for us, let us see what they can do, what we can achieve with those. You will be guided, shown what we need. Then we have a second part to our plans for you -- one that is a little risky but, given time and the right circumstances, will bring about the changes we desire.'
'So you do want me to make candles for you?'
'No,' corrected Giaconda. 'Just transform the ones we already have, that we purchase. Everyone uses them. We will tell you what we require you to distil into them, how we want to influence those who burn them. It's important that you do not touch people -- if you're to remain undetected, it's essential you don't use the power of your touch on humans.'
She let that sink in. I did not miss the warning in her words.
They were offering me, if not a home exactly, shelter. It also gave me what I hadn't had before, time. They were proffering me a job as well. I would not feel obliged, beholden to them. I would be earning my way. And what was wrong with manipulating people, anyhow? Isn't that what everyone did? Quinn did it by beating me into submission, Pillar through benign guilt and Katina by making promises -- promises she not only didn't keep but also broke in a manner I could never forgive. The Maleovellis were manipulating me into helping them with the lure of a home, lovely clothes, a new identity, of being free to be who I was while under their roof, the notion of safety -- however false. Only Dante kept his promise, and look what happened to him.
They were waiting for me to respond. The air thickened, cloyed with tobacco smoke and expectation.
I thought about the times I'd tried to bring about transformation, with all the right intentions. It had only ended in disaster.
Signor Maleovelli drew heavily on his pipe and, tipping back his head, exhaled a stream of smoke. I imagined the cherubs burying their coughs in the clouds.
I cleared my throat before speaking. 'If I alter the candles according to your wishes, that means you'll bring people here, to the casa, sì? So that they will be affected?'
'Not at first. We will take them to our ... businesses in other areas of Serenissima in order to expand our circle of influence. Later, we will use them here -- when you and, of course, we --' he indicated the others '-- feel secure in what we're doing.'
His words presaged the cloak of gloom that suddenly enveloped me. My bright prospects quickly dimmed as I imagined my days trapped in this casa. Exchanging one prison for another. At least in the Candlemakers Quartiere I'd achieved a degree of freedom. 'What about me, then?' I despised myself for the plaintive tone that crept into my voice. 'Am I to remain in the casa the entire time? Until you are installed on the throne and the Estrattore welcomed back?'
There was a moment of silence, and then the Maleovellis began to laugh. My cheeks burned and I felt a flash of fear. The sense of stability I'd briefly enjoyed was already disturbed.
'On the contrary, Tarlo.' Signor Maleovelli was the first to recover. 'We're going to teach you not only to move comfortably among the Serenissian nobility, but we're going to make you the toast of society.'
I almost started out of my chair. How was that even possible? I was confused. Surely, that was the most dangerous and stupid thing they could do. Hiding me, as Pillar and Quinn had done, made much more sense.
Signor Maleovelli noted my puzzlement. 'People rarely see what's beneath their noses. You have already proved that. How old are you?'
'I'm ... I'm almost sixteen.' I didn't want to admit I wasn't entirely sure.
Giaconda's eyebrows shot up her forehead.
'Bene. Bene. You're older than we thought. All those years in the Candlemakers Quartiere and not even your neighbours suspected what was in their midst.'
My neighbours! I hadn't given them another thought. After what happened on the bridge, Dante's death ... They knew about me, knew what I was. That put them all in dreadful peril.
'Do you know what's happened to the people of the Candlemakers Quartiere? To Pillar, my master? To Dante's family?'
There was an uneasy pause.
'I told her, Papa, that you would provide answers to her questions,' said Giaconda.
Signor Maleovelli inclined his head towards his daughter, but he did not look pleased.
'I'm afraid we don't. But Signor Scarpoli will find out for you, bella. Will that make you happy?'
My eyes shifted over to Baroque, who had moved forward in his chair, as if he was about to bolt.
'I would be ... grateful, Signor. Grazie.'
'Now, where were we? Ah, yes. You're going to perpetrate the greatest masquerade ever, Tarlo. One that will allow you to move in the highest circles. One that will enable you to take your candles to the most intimate and surprising of places -- places that for us, as we are now, are inaccessible. And for that, you need some very special teachers.'
'Who will teach me? What do I need to learn?'
'They are all here,' Signor Maleovelli's arm swept the room. 'Full of knowledge, which they will impart to you.'
I frowned.
Signor Maleovelli picked up his cane and pointed at Jacopo. 'Jacopo will teach you to read and write.' He swung his stick towards Baroque. 'Signor Scarpoli will instruct you in the peculiar ways of the Serenissian nobility, as well as about the wonderful oils, unguents and plants from all over Vista Mare.' He paused and then lifted his cane in the direction of his daughter. 'Finally, Giaconda is going to teach you the most important lesson of all.'
'What's that?' I asked, breathless.
'Why, what else could it be in Serenissima?' He laughed. 'She will instruct you in the arts of being a woman.'
There was a nuance I couldn't fathom. I swung towards Giaconda. She leant towards me.
'Not an ordinary woman, my lovely Tarlo. Not the normal Serenissian woman who is locked away in her casa, denied the beauty of our fair city, the joy of conversation, the pleasures of meeting and talking with new people, never seen or heard. The type that cower behind their fathers' and husbands' togati, obeying their every whim. The ones adorned in their pretty little dresses that stare longingly through windows day in and out or desperately try to bleach their hair in the sun atop their altanas. The ones who are shut away in convents, never knowing the pleasures of the flesh. No. I am going to teach you how to be the type of woman that men desire to have and other women secretly want to be.'
A shiver ran down my spine. A wave of heat swept over my body.
'What sort of woman are you talking about?' I asked, knowing full well the answer.
'One just like me.'
Giaconda left her seat and walked around my chair, standing before me. Her eyes sparkled, her hair shone and her teeth gleamed between her tinted lips. 'A lady who can bewitch men with words, enchant them with her abilities, make them mad with yearning for a mere touch.' She reached out and ran a finger along my cheekbone. 'A lady who is paid for her scintillating conversation, for her ability to listen.' She leant forward and her mouth moved along my temple and down the side of my face. 'And even more for the exchanges she offers in the boudoir.' Her eyes dropped to my décolletage; so did mine. I felt hot. But she wasn't finished with me yet.
With a long, gloved finger, she tipped my chin and planted the softest of lingering kisses upon my lips. My eyes fluttered shut and my body ached with longing. When she moved away, it was all I could do not to protest.
When I found my voice, I spoke. 'You're a courtesan.'
I recalled the women I had seen, not just at Carnivale, but parading through the piazzetti and campi in my old quartiere on a daily basis. While I had seen some common puttana, the street whores, the courtesans were different. They clattered around proudly in their high heels, usually with a black servant or sometimes a dwarf tripping along beside them. Other times, well-dressed nobiles and merchants accompanied them. They were colourful, loud; they flirted with their eyes, their mouths, with the very air they inhaled. People would stop and stare and these women wouldn't just embrace the attention, they'd insist upon it. I first heard them mentioned by Quinn, when she came home from the basilica, affronted at how many had been at the service one week; how, in her words, the padre had simpered over them. Her anger aroused my curiousity and piqued my interest. Pillar and, later, Katina and Dante, would point them out to me in the calles and, in their voices, I would hear wonder, a form of respect and envy, but mostly I heard desire. Just as if they were nobiles, or the Doge himself, everyone knew the names of the most successful ones -- Veronica Franco, La Zafetta, Madonna Fiamenga.
I'd always found them fascinating. Compared to the Quinns and Francescas of the world, women old before their time, trapped by their trade and lowly status in Serenissian society or, as Giaconda described, the magnificently dressed daughters and wives of nobiles, their necks bent out of shape from peering out at the world all day, trying to experience life from the lofty heights of their bedrooms and sun roofs, or even the numerous nuns who scurried about the city before returning to the high walls of their convents, the courtesans offered something different. They didn't care about the unyielding eyes of judgement; they were too busy. They had money to make and futures to secure. Those who understood that also respected their choices. It was hardly their fault if what they offered for sale was popular.
If my eyes could be hidden, and my talents controlled and the lessons I was being offered learnt, then, who knew, perhaps I could live a normal life after all. That was, until it was time to bring the Estrattore home.
My chest fluttered with anticipation. I wanted to sit on my hands to hide their trembling.
The idea that I was to become one of these women both thrilled and terrified me. My head filled with wild scenarios that scattered as quickly as they formed. I could see how hiding me in plain sight might just work. My mind began to skip along a very different path until a voice broke through my fantasies. I was still being addressed.
'It will take months, Tarlo,' said Giaconda softly. 'Can you be patient?'
I looked at each of them in turn. There was a barely disguised hunger in their gaze. Giaconda gripped the arm of my chair tightly.
'I am to be a courtesan.' It was as if by articulating the idea it became a reality.
'Sì. That is our intention.'
'I can see that you have given this a great deal of thought,' I said.
'We've had years to plan, to hope,' said Signor Maleovelli simply. 'Since long before we found you.'
'What if I say no?'
Giaconda inhaled sharply. I pretended not to notice.
'Then,' said Signor Maleovelli calmly, 'you're free to walk out this door. But, my dear Tarlo, consider this. Where would you go? To whom would you turn? The Bond Riders have turned their backs on you. Your friend is dead and even your former master dismissed you. No doubt the talk in your quartiere is rife. Something I will have Baroque confirm.'
Baroque made a noise of agreement.
'I imagine there's a great deal of anger towards you -- for what happened. They'll blame you, you know, for the Bond Riders, for the death of the young chandler.'
It was as if the little flickering flame of anticipation burning within me was suddenly extinguished. He was right. God, how Zia Gaia and Nonno Renzo must hate me. It was no more than I already hated myself. A flare of guilt rose that I was even tempted, no, excited by what the Maleovellis were offering. How dare I even consider it? But then, what choice did I really have? Give myself up to a padre? To the Doge? What if I just left now, entered the Limen and went to find the Estrattore? I scolded myself. What purpose would that serve? I would just join them and they would still be exiled. And what if I couldn't find them? I'd be lost in the Limen and any good I could do, any of the dreadful mistakes of the past, the lives that had been lost, would be for nothing.
'And you will help me find the Estrattore once you're Doge?' I asked.
'Naturalmente,' said Signor Ezzelino with a laugh. 'Of course. That is part of the bargain is it not? We have to find them in order to bring them back.'
It wasn't difficult for me to imagine this man as Doge. And if he would do as he promised and return the Estrattore, then I owed it to myself, to my brethren, to help him reach those lofty heights, no matter what was asked of me, what sacrifices I had to make.
But, even as I thought those brave sentiments, doubt tinged with apprehension rippled inside me. I was grateful that, for the immediate future, I would have teachers and the protection of these nobiles, even of Baroque, as sinister as they seemed.
Their motives were apparent; they'd been frank with me, but I still felt as if they were holding something back.
I stared listlessly at hundreds of tiny motes dancing in a pulse of soft light.
'Your old life is closed to you, Tarlo.' Signor Maleovelli's voice was barely a whisper. 'It's not safe for you to go back -- only forward. Here, with us, you have a chance at a new beginning. A life of independence. Once the Estrattore are reinstated, your options will be limitless.' Signor Maleovelli reached over and opened a little box on the table. Inside was fresh tobacco. He spent a few moments re-stuffing his pipe.
'Before we retire for dinner, we should celebrate.' Giaconda handed me a glass. It was filled with rich, ruby fluid. I resisted the urge to extract, to draw from the crystal and discover something of its past, of its owners' history. Only I was not supposed to do that.
I watched as she refilled the glasses of her father and Jacopo and then, with much reluctance, Baroque's. I could feel the strain between these two.
'After we've eaten, we'll get you to demonstrate to us what you can do.' Giaconda signalled for me to stand. The men also rose. 'Papa?' she urged, her glass held aloft.
'A toast,' said Signor Maleovelli. 'To our colleganza. To the power it brings us; to what it brings you.' He raised his glass towards me. Giaconda did likewise. Her father watched her, a peculiar expression on his face. 'To the future -- to the Estrattore.'
As I lifted my glass and touched its edge against the others, enjoying the pure note that was released as they kissed, my confidence soared as, without lowering our voices or checking over our shoulders, we repeated his words, 'To the Estrattore.' Even the cherubs and aristocratic faces above and around us seemed to approve.
For the first time in years, I felt a peculiar sensation deep inside. Hope had once again taken up residence in my heart.
SITTING AT HER DRESSER, GIACONDA continued brushing her hair, flashing her father a smile as he closed the bedroom door. He stood behind her and studied her reflection in the mirror.
'Did she settle?' he asked finally.
Giaconda paused mid-stroke, a sash of sable hair catching the candlelight, revealing hints of carmine. 'I believe so. I left Hafeza to tend her.' She resumed her toilette while Ezzelino sat on the edge of her bed and propped his cane against the wall. There was something soporific about her action, the soft purr of the brush, the remote look in her eyes, never mind her loveliness. Unbound, Giaconda's hair fell to well below her waist, and loose, it made her look softer, younger.
'What a day,' he sighed finally. 'Who would have thought we would have the prize we've spent years searching for, not only ensconced in our casa, but bound to us in a colleganza?'
Giaconda put her brush down and considered her father's words.
'Jacopo says her mark is as good as a signature.'
'Indeed. Anyhow, once she learns to write, we can have her re-sign the documents.'
'She's very smart, Papa. Her questions were not what I expected from someone so ... illiterate.'
Ezzelino shuffled back onto the bed, moving the pillows until he was propped comfortably against the headboard. 'Sì. Never underestimate an Estrattore -- this one especially, with her fresh looks and innocent ways. Sixteen, she says. I would have thought older.'
'Older?'
'Sì. Estrattore do not age as we do and they live a great deal longer. There is a maturity about her lacking in humans her age.'
Giaconda nodded. 'Those eyes.' She repressed a shudder. 'I have to steel myself to look at them. Pretend they don't bother me. They really are like gazing into a mirror.' She turned her head and looked into hers. 'Only, I don't just see this.' She waved her hands at her counterpart.
'What do you see?'
'That which I would rather remained hidden,' she said softly, staring at her father.
Ezzelino held her eyes for a moment and then looked away.
'She will be a fast learner,' he said, changing the subject. 'Which will make our lives a great deal easier. All the same, we must not rush things: we must proceed carefully, take our time, or all our plans will have been for nothing.'
'You do not have to convince me of that, Papa. Do you think she really accepts what we're offering?'
He thought for a moment. 'I think she realises she has no choice. She has no-one to turn to. No family, no friends. For now, we are her only option, her allies, and we have to make sure it remains that way until we're ready for it to be any different.'
Placing her brush beside her other combs, Giaconda stood gracefully and took her father's former position at the end of the bed. 'I don't think that will be too difficult. Not from what Salzi told us about the gossip in the marketplace. The city is abuzz with sightings of the Estrattore -- the boy with the golden glasses!'
Ezzelino's eyes narrowed. 'That description will work very nicely in our favour. Very nicely. It also means the Cardinale and the Signori di Notte will be searching in the wrong places for the wrong person They will never think to look here. I would stake our lives on that.'
'We may yet have to, Papa. I admit, I was worried when Baroque told us the Church has become involved.'
'It does not change the risk we're taking, my dear, it just makes the stakes higher and the execution more exciting.' Ezzelino looked invigorated. 'No doubt, something will be said in the Great Council -- you know how the nobiles gossip. I will make sure I attend every Sunday from now on.'
Quiet descended. The only sound that could be heard was the occasional creak as the old casa settled, or the splash of water against the render outside.
Giaconda studied her father. He sat so still, if it hadn't been for the candlelight glimmering in his half-closed eyes, she would have thought him asleep. Such a proud face, a noble one. The years had been kind to him. While his hair was grey, it was also thick and shiny. He was relatively unlined for a man of his years, but that was because her father rarely let his emotions show. His face was like a Carnivale mask, forever frozen into a mien that was as cold as it was unreadable. Only she was allowed to see her father's real feelings. They appeared so rarely that she often wondered if she'd imagined them.
Sometimes, when the ennui of her existence would overtake her, and she'd allow herself the futility of imagining a different life, she would travel in time and try to pluck images of her mother from her past. She knew she resembled her. Closely. The portrait that hung in Tarlo's bedroom indicated how much -- the same dark hair, green eyes and honey skin. Fragments of moments would sometimes pool together and cohere into a memory she could relive, times with both her mamma and papa. But they were fleeting, ephemeral, and it wearied her to gather them. And, as much as she wished them to be, they were not happy. Happiness did not belong in Giaconda's past -- or present. That was for her future. A future that Tarlo would now bring to fruition.
She became aware of her father's regard and made her features neutral. Like him, she too wore a mask. It was one that she didn't want to remove -- especially in front of her father.
'What are you thinking?' he asked her. It was a question he posed often. Giaconda was not allowed to have secrets.
She hesitated. 'I was thinking about what Baroque will find when he gets to the Candlemakers Quartiere.'
'Hopefully, this time, what we sent him to. I've given him three days, in which time he's to remove all traces of himself from the Usurers Quartiere as well. His place is now with us, whether you like it or not.'
'I don't like it but, if he proves his use, I may yet become accustomed.'
Ezzelino simply grunted.
Giaconda smiled. 'You know she'll want to return there, to the Candlemakers Quartiere, at some stage.'
'Assolutamente. As she should and, if she doesn't, we'll force her to go. It's important that she understand where she now belongs.'
Giaconda smiled. 'With us.'
'Sì, amore mio, with us.'
Giaconda plucked at her nightdress. The ribbons on the sleeves and around the neckline tickled her flesh. 'Salzi also told me that the ship from the other side of the Limen, from Farrowfare, entered port today.'
'So I heard.'
'What are their intentions, do you think?'
'Treaties, safe passage through the seas. What else do our prospective allies -- and enemies for that matter -- seek? Only this time, the visitors from the Limen are serious. They've sent an Ambassador. Another among all the other foreign bastardi who occupy our casas.' Ezzelino snorted.
'This means that once he's given permission to disembark and the treaties are signed, the Doge will want to make this alliance public, display his new friends. Could be months. There'll no doubt be a ball.' Giaconda's eyes sparkled. 'I wonder ... do you think ...?' she began.
Ezzelino patted the bed beside him. 'I do. Providing it's not too soon, it will be the perfect time to introduce a new courtesan to the city. Can she be ready by then?'
'We'll make her ready, Papa.' She began to crawl up the bed, like a cat slinking along the fondamenta, her back arched, her arms outstretched. 'Me, Jacopo ... and even Baroque.' She hissed the last name. 'I don't know why you trust him.'
'I don't. But he is exceedingly useful, and now that we have his journals, he's our puppet, to pull the strings of as we wish.'
Giaconda threw back her head and laughed. 'The expression on his face when we threatened to show them to the Kyprians!'
Ezzelino's shoulders began to shake. 'I enjoyed it most when we told him we knew Tarlo was a girl.'
'I almost felt sorry for him. All his bargaining tools, broken.'
'A broken horse is the only kind to ride.' Ezzelino reached for his daughter's hand and squeezed it tightly. 'And now it's up to you, bella, to use all your talents and tricks to change our little candlemaker's apprentice, our Estrattore, Tarlo -- 'He turned her hand over and kissed the inside of her wrist.
'Into what?' asked Giaconda coquettishly.
Ezzelino made a noise of pure pleasure. The sound was dark. 'Into a force to be reckoned with.'
Giaconda shared the laughter that followed. 'Naturalmente.'
'Now,' said Ezzelino and pulled her closer. 'Come and lie beside me. It's getting cold in here and I have a desire to be warm.'
BACK IN HER ROOM, TALLOW CLIMBED out of bed and made her way to the window. Though she was exhausted from the events of the day, she couldn't sleep. Her mind kept replaying everything that happened -- all she'd seen, heard and to which she'd been asked to commit. She remembered the fleeting moment of pure panic when she'd made her mark on the piece of parchment beside Signor Maleovelli's signature. The ink looked like a bloodstain as it was rapidly absorbed by the vellum. A fleeting twinge of doubt had almost made her pull back. No. She would forge ahead and take control of her destiny. But if she was so certain about that, why did she feel so ... ambivalent?
She pushed her shoulder against the glass, forcing it to open. Resting her chin on her hand, she let the chilly air wash over her feverish thoughts.
She was to become a courtesan -- Tarlo Maleovelli. She shook her head in disbelief. With not a soldi to her name, she had no-one to turn to, no-one to help her, except the Maleovellis and, in an ironic twist of fate, Baroque Scarpoli.
Glancing skywards, she tried to see the stars, but the casas were so close, the only light that reached her was muted. It turned the world into a pocket of shifting shadows.
She gave a deep sigh and noted that her breath frosted. Autumn was here and winter was just around the corner. There would be snow atop the Dolomites. For a moment, she closed her eyes and tried to recapture the view from her old rooftop, but it eluded her. Instead, images of Quinn's twisted face as she raised a hand to strike interposed with that of Pillar. She tried to shut Quinn out and focus solely on Pillar, remember him as she'd last seen him on the bridge, before Dante ... she bit her lip. It was no good. Instead, memories of the moment Pillar ordered her to leave the house flooded her mind. Unkempt, dirty and drunk.
Where was Pillar now? What was he doing? Was he safe?
It took her a moment to realise the wet sensation against her cheeks were tears. She brushed them away rudely. What was she crying about? She was better off now than she'd ever been. She was being offered protection. Anyone in her position would be grateful, should be grateful, and here she was weeping like a baby -- and over what? Never again would she have to endure being beaten, hungry, rejected, or thrown out. A life where she had to pretend to be what she wasn't.
But isn't that what you're going to be doing now?
She lowered her head onto the sill, the imprint of the ledge marking her cheek. At least she was choosing this time -- she was in control, not at the whim of some prophecy in which Katina and the Bond Riders believed.
Katina ... Tallow found her chest hurt when she thought of her friend. Friend? Could she really call Katina that any more? That was someone else who'd deserted her, left her to Quinn and Pillar -- and look where that had led.
She stared outside, seeing nothing as her eyes became argent slits, allowing the rage deep inside her to erupt to the surface. She gripped the ledge with her hands, ignoring the pain that shot through her arms. Because of the Bond Riders, she could never go back to her old life. Not to Pillar, not to Dante, not even to the Macellerias -- a family who, though scared of her, had offered her succour and companionship. They'd tried to understand.
No, Katina was no friend of hers, not anymore. Her fingers began to ache. She looked down in surprise. The wood around her hands smoked. She lifted them away in shock. Eight neat gouges appeared -- her anger was inscribed upon the wood. Reaching out, she traced the outline of each one. Feelings of fury and despair washed over her. Oh yes, her wrath was profound.
She took a few deep breaths, allowed her rage to wash over her, and instead tried to focus on everything that had happened that day. Her awakening, her healing, her dress, Hafeza. Now she was a funny one. There was history there, Tallow knew. Then there was the bestowing of her new name. She actually liked it. And what about Baroque? She frowned. She never thought to see him again. What was he up to? What was he not telling the Maleovellis? She knew he was hiding something, something very important.
There was also the colleganza. Unable to read, she'd listened as Jacopo, in his high, fluting tones, had read the document aloud. Jacopo reminded her of a grub, the kind you find in a nice-looking piece of fruit, but only after you've already bitten into it. The way he watched her, as if he thought he couldn't be seen, how he trembled as he held her hand over the paper as she scratched her mark. It hadn't been fear that made him shake either. Tallow had stepped away from him eagerly, almost knocking over a candle in the process.
Briefly she wondered what it was the Maleovellis would ask her to distil into the candles. In exchange, she'd be educated and trained. It seemed fair to her -- so long as they didn't ask her to kill anyone. Katina had made it very clear that was something Estrattores were forbidden from doing.
Could she trust anything Katina had said to her? Or was she like everyone else in her life so far, prone to letting her down, misleading, rejecting her, being so afraid they either beat her to within an inch of her life or failed to defend her from harm despite promises to the contrary?
In fact, the only people who had shown her any kindness, any form of understanding or respect, offered any hope, were the Maleovellis. She sighed. Unbelievable.
What about Dante? What about his family?
A great void opened inside Tallow, an emptiness that she now knew she'd been trying to fill with all the different things she'd seen and experienced in the last few hours. She'd been using them to avoid facing that which now tore at her heart, ate at her soul. Tears coursed down her cheeks.
'Dante,' she whispered into the night. 'Amore mio, forgive me.' His face floated before her, the tousled black hair and sparkling coal-dark eyes. A sob broke the quiet of the night. 'How can I do this without you?'
From anger to anguish, the emotions roiled within her. She began to quiver. If she didn't work out how to control herself, how to moderate and live with the pain of Dante's absence, the guilt of his death, she'd be no good to anyone, and she knew that he would not want that. Of all people, he would understand the choices she'd been given and what she now had to do. Out of everything her life had been so far, out of Dante's death, good must come. If not, she couldn't bear it.
But how? If she fell apart every time thoughts of Dante intruded, how could she manage?
In the corner of her eye, the little harlequin twinkled. She moved away from the window and picked it up, bringing it back and holding it up to the moonlight, an offering like they used to make to the gods of old. She recalled how the figurine had made her feel the last time she held it. Then, it struck her. She knew what to do.
Before she changed her mind, she poured as much of her love and feelings of loss for Dante into the ornament as she could. She extracted from deep within herself and distilled everything: regret for a future that would never be, remorse that their friendship, no, their love, had been no more than a harbinger of death, into the glass. Purging the pain, the blossoming of desire, the longing, the many memories that together shone like a ripe sun, she placed them one by one into the harlequin. The colours glowed, the intensity making her blink and half-close her eyes. She didn't stop; she kept going until she was a gasping, hollow puddle against the sill.
When she'd finished, she staggered to the bureau and placed the harlequin, the vessel for all her feelings for Dante, on top. As she regained her breath and equilibrium, the colours ceased swirling. Reaching inside herself, she tentatively felt for Dante's presence. He was there, but it wasn't painful. The emotions that had made her chest feel as if it were going to explode were now like words she would recite but not feel. Her love had been placed inside the harlequin where it would remain forever, like a Bond inside a pledge stone, hidden in plain sight.
Stroking the diminutive dancer, she knew that while her insides no longer burned with loss, what she'd done didn't change her love. No, she might become a courtesan, but she would never give her heart to another.
In some respects, that was why being a courtesan was an appealing idea. Tallow was no innocent. Not only had she witnessed the passion between a man and a woman during hurried trysts at Carnivale time, but as an Estrattore she'd also felt the range of emotions they experienced. From utter lust to indifference and even hurt, she'd touched them all. Courtesans, unlike many women and even men, were able to control with who and when they shared these things. So far, she'd had no influence over her life; her new one would allow her that at least.
Tallow knew that the Maleovellis were keen to exploit her talents, use her skills to improve their own situation. Why, everything she brushed against screamed of their neediness, their desire for soldi, for power and control -- especially of her. A wicked grin spread across her face as she remembered Giaconda's gloves. For some reason, the Maleovellis believed if they did not directly touch her, or she them, she could not extract and therefore read them. What they didn't understand was that she'd never needed direct contact with their flesh; everything in their casa carried remnants of them. She was able to glean the degree of debt they were in from merely holding the quill she'd been given to sign the colleganza. From that she sensed the vendor's surprise when the Maleovellis had paid with coin and Salzi's relief that this time he didn't have to ask for a chit. In holding a vino glass, a dinner knife, stroking a table, never mind Giaconda's dress, Tallow was able to assemble impressions of her new family. What she'd gathered so far was not alarming. In fact, it was all too familiar -- greed, desire and secrets. Just like so many of the popolani in the Candlemakers Quartiere. For all the book learning of Jacopo, all the research he'd done on Estrattore, she was still an unknown quantity. But the Maleovellis would bring them back -- that was the condition of their agreement. The return of the Estrattore. Only for that could she do what she knew would be asked of her. No price was too high. She glanced at the harlequin.
Well, perhaps one. But she could not change that. Not now.
She came away from the window and wearily climbed into her bed. The fire was a mound of glowing embers in the hearth, radiating warmth and reassurance. She snuffed out the candle and, easing herself under the covers, focused on the fireplace. The coals glowed and the flames crackled, a familiar lullaby that eased her into an exhausted, but content sleep.
DANTE FOLLOWED DEBORA AND ALESSANDRO as they led Katina's horse between the trees, away from where he'd first regained consciousness. He was trying to take stock of events and come to terms with what Katina had done, the ire she'd incurred. Who were these Elders? Why were they so angry? Why were Katina's partners so distraught? There were so many questions to ask, but who should he approach for answers? Debora and Alessandro were so ... overwrought.
He studied them from behind. Their heads were close together and he heard the low mutter of conversation, but not the words. They were still reeling from what Katina had done. They were too polite to show it, but he knew they were shocked that Katina had Bonded him. Now his welfare had also been entrusted to them. Why were they so upset? Was it the Obbligare Doppio or was it that they saw him as a rival for Katina's affections? He'd heard things about the Bond Riders, that the ... relationships between them were very different and a lot more liberal than those in Serenissima. Rumours were that they didn't marry, that they didn't even necessarily have one partner, but a few. Sometimes, even those of the same sex. It didn't bother him the way it used to. He'd fallen in love with Tallow when he still thought she was a boy. Were Alessandro and Debora Katina's partners in that way? Was it sexual? If so, that would mean she and Debora ... An image leapt into his head and heat suffused his body. He studied Alessandro with renewed respect. Maybe being a Rider wouldn't be so bad after all.
He tried to ball his hand into a fist, but the wound was too raw. He glanced at the cut across his palm -- the mark of a Bond Rider -- a mark of separation and belonging that would forever denote his difference and new allegiance. His soul had been sundered until such time it could be returned. Only how could that happen now there were no Estrattore? Except Tallow. Tallow changed everything. For him, and the Bond Riders and, if what he felt deep inside was to be acknowledged, for the future of Serenissima as well. But it was because of her that the adventures denied to him as a chandler were now available. He knew he should probably feel infuriated, if not betrayed by what Katina had done. But instead, he felt gratitude.
The prospect of what lay ahead made him excited in a way he'd never been before. What made him rejoice the most was that, at the heart of it all, was Tallow. While he didn't really understand what a Bond meant, let alone the nature of the Obbligare Doppio, he could already feel it transforming him. Awareness of his body, of his weariness and the injuries he'd sustained but which Tallow's power cured were like a bad dream. His previous life, only a matter of hours old, felt like a childhood memory, only harder to grasp. Nothing seemed real anymore, except what he could see in front of him. Here. Now. Debora, Alessandro, the fog, the horse, the trees, the grass and marshes -- and Tallow. Unlike his fading memories, every step he took, every intake of breath, only sharpened his remembrance of her, his desire to find her, to be with her. It was acute. Was that what a pledge did? Bond you to your promise so it became a part of your very being? Or was that just his previously suppressed feelings for Tallow finding expression?
The land suddenly dipped away and Debora and Alessandro halted at the top of a precipice. Dante joined them and looked at the sight that opened before him.
Nestled in a valley ringed by skeletal trees and with a stream running noisily through it were a scattering of stagnant ponds that seemed a feature of the Limen. Vapour hovered over the area, thinning in patches to reveal what might pass for a town. Pitched in a semi-circular pattern around a huge cave mouth that was cut into the cliff opposite were a series of dun-coloured, canvas tents, some large, some quite small.
Dante was disappointed. This was not what he expected.
'Welcome to Settlement,' said Debora softly, half-turning and giving Dante a small smile. 'The home of the Bond Riders.' She stepped onto the track and beckoned him to follow. 'It's your home now too.'
He didn't respond.
'Come on then,' said Alessandro, and started to descend.
A steep path zigzagged its way down to level ground. Dante was careful to watch where he was walking: one wrong step and he was unlikely to survive the sheer tumble to the bottom, Bond Rider or not.
The lower they went, the more the mist cleared and sounds drifted towards them. Dante saw that the tents were actually quite complex. Some had flat tops, while most rose to elegant points, falling away to varying heights. Others were lavishly decorated, offering splashes of vibrancy in the dismal surrounds. It was only once they reached the floor of the valley that Dante saw green grass growing beside the brook that chuckled quietly over boulders. There were even a few pale flowers, their heads dropping so low, it was as if they were worshipping the water. Groups of people sat outside the tents chatting; others groomed horses, some of which roamed freely, while most were tethered in the trees that ringed the campsite. Smoke rose from fires, mingling with the mist, thickening it in parts. As they walked through Settlement, the talking ceased and, one by one, all eyes alighted on him. Tent flaps parted as men and women stood at the entrance to their homes, arms folded, either whispering behind their hands or studying the newcomer in cold silence.
Dante felt their curiousity, their fear, but also a simmering scorn and distrust. The smile that he'd prepared to greet them fled, and instead he simply gave gruff nods. One or two returned them before looking away. He swallowed. This was not going to be easy.
'Friendly bunch,' he murmured. 'They know how to make a person feel welcome.'
'Don't worry,' said Debora. 'It's been a long time since we've had a new Rider. They'll get used to you.'
'But not to what Katina has done,' said Alessandro sharply. 'It's not you so much, Dante. It's what you represent -- the worst perfidy a Bond Rider can imagine.'
They walked for a while without speaking, accompanied only by the sound of horses snickering nearby and low voices.
'You like your tents,' Dante said softly as they passed yet another that had the Papermakers insignia drawn on it -- an elaborate scroll with a felled tree across the centre.
Alessandro shrugged. 'Sì, they're convenient if we have to move suddenly.'
'You do that often?' asked Dante.
Alessandro thought for a moment. 'Not in my lifetime.' He looked at Debora.
'Nor mine. It's a precaution,' said Debora quickly. 'In case it's ever required. That way, we can move swiftly and take our lives with us.'
Dante absorbed this information, noting the age of the canvas, the way the colour had faded, the damage the eternal damp had wrought on the sturdy fabric, how the trees and weeds grew over and around them. He wondered if these tents had ever relocated.
A gap appeared and he saw a wide path leading straight to the huge cave mouth he'd observed from the top of the pass. Outside were guards standing to attention.
'What's down there?' he asked quietly, nodding in the direction of the mountain.
'That's the Elders' Palazzo,' answered Alessandro.
'Palazzo? What? Like the Doge's?'
'In a way,' said Debora. 'We don't actually have a Doge, though the Elders do have a leader. Like all our leaders, he's of the Doge's bloodline. He's a Dandolo. The Elders are taken from the same families as those who have seats on the Council of Ten back in Serenissima.' She flashed Dante a quick smile. 'You've heard the expression "Com'era, dov'era"?'
Dante shrugged. 'Of course. "As it was, where it was".'
'Well, the first Bond Riders took that to heart. They replicated Serenissima in the ways they thought were helpful. Making laws and providing leadership were paramount; they didn't want a kingship or oligarchy, so they settled for what they knew -- a Republic. "As it was in Serenissima so it shall be in the Limen."' Debora said it flatly, like a mantra. 'The Elders live in there. It's also where our laws are made and offenders who break them are taken.'
'So, Katina's in there?'
Debora nodded. 'For now.'
Before he could ask another question, Debora and Alessandro came to a halt. Debora drew back the flap of a large tent that was striped in a lacklustre red and white like a giant paline.
'You will stay with us for the time being, while you're getting accustomed to your new life, and until either a sentence is served or you choose a partner.' She gestured for him to enter.
With a glance at Alessandro, who was busy taking the saddle off Birrichino, he ducked under the heavy material and entered.
Inside offered a plush contrast to the barrenness of Settlement. A huge, comfortable-looking mattress raised on a wooden platform dominated the tent, taking up almost one complete side. Scattered with an assortment of coloured cushions and a large quilt that was tumbled into feathery knots, it was almost indecent. It looked used. Dante felt the colour rise in his cheeks, as if he'd stumbled upon an indiscretion. A low table and a few comfortable chairs added to this impression. Rugs, cushions and some large timber chests, upon which sat some ornaments and unusual small painted boxes as well as some well-thumbed books, and worn scrolls lined the edges. The items looked very old.
Debora roamed through the interior, lighting candles that, as they spat to life, gave everything a warm glow. 'This is nice,' Dante said, trying to break the awkward silence.
Debora smiled. 'Well, it's your home for now.'
'What's through there?' he asked, pointing to a canvas wall.
'Storage,' said Debora. She didn't elaborate. 'Over there --' she pointed to the other side where another flap hung '-- is where we wash. But if you want a bath, you have to go to the river -- of course, downstream.' She pointed vaguely outside. 'Are you thirsty or hungry?'
Dante had to think. Surprisingly, he felt neither. He couldn't remember the last time he ate or drank. 'No, not really, though I guess I should be. Where's your kitchen? I can look after myself.'
Debora flopped into one of the chairs and laughed. 'We have no kitchens, Dante. Bond Riders don't eat or drink -- not in the Limen. The need deserts us -- it's no longer necessary. Where time has no meaning, neither does anything associated with it, including that kind of nourishment. Our bodies go into a kind of stasis.' She looked thoughtful. 'Age does not afflict us; not even sleep attends us.' Her tone was wistful. 'No, we seek another kind of nourishment, that which we can take from each other.' Her eyes sidled to the bed.
Dante tried to think of something to say, but his voice stuck in his throat.
'Though, while your body adjusts, you may feel the urge to consume food and drink; you'll certainly need to sleep -- for a few days at least. We have supplies in the central tent. I can organise something for you if you need anything.'
Dante shook his head. 'No, grazie. Not yet.'
'Well, if you change your mind, let me know.' Debora slid off her boots. 'There's also a hot spring in the Elders' Palazzo. You can't go there yet, not until you've been formally presented and admitted to Settlement.'
'When will that be?' asked Dante. He wanted to sit down, but didn't feel right without an invitation.
Debora shrugged. 'I don't know.' To Dante's chagrin, tears began to well in her eyes. 'I don't know anything anymore.' Her head dropped into her hands and she began to cry.
Dante hesitated only a second before rushing to her side. He put his arm around her and patted her clumsily on the back. 'It's all right, it will be all right. Please, Signorina ... um ... Signora ... don't cry. Katina is a strong lady, I could tell that. She'll be back before you know it.'
A slight shift in the air alerted him and he raised his head.
Alessandro stood at the entrance, a strange look upon his face. Dante drew his arm away and stood. 'Mi dispiace. I didn't know ...'
In two strides, Alessandro was beside Debora, pulling her into his arms. 'Grazie, Dante. It's all right. Leave us for a while, if you don't mind. Go and explore your new world.'
Dante chewed his lip. 'I don't mind. I think I'll go and wash. Clean the blood off me.'
'Drying sheets and soap are in there.' Alessandro jerked his head towards a chest. 'Help yourself. While you're gone, I'll see if I can find one of my old shirts for you.'
Dante went to the chest and carefully removing the objects on top, opened it. He quickly pulled out a very used but clean drying sheet and rummaged till he found a bar of grey soap. Equipped, he hovered at the tent entrance.
'Is there anything I can do?' He looked helplessly at Debora, who was weeping quietly.
Alessandro frowned, then his face altered. 'No.' He smiled sadly. 'You have done enough already.' Dante bit his lip. 'I don't mean it that way,' Alessandro added hastily. 'You're a decent man, Dante. The gods know, we need your kind here. You didn't deserve this.'
As he left the tent, Dante wondered with a heavy heart what Alessandro meant.
DANTE WANDERED AIMLESSLY AROUND the edges of Settlement for a while, enduring the stares and whispers of the Bond Riders. No-one spoke to him; everyone stopped what they were doing when he approached as if maintaining some great conspiracy. He had to resist the urge to shout. Instead, he kept his head down and ended up walking away from the tents, towards the stream. He quickly disrobed and stood knee-deep in the water, daubing the dark stains off his shirt, scrubbing his body, washing off the dried blood and grit. The water turn red before it bubbled away and was refreshed.
Lowering himself in, he marvelled at how temperate it was, how soothing. If it wasn't for the fog, and the absence of birdsong and animals foraging, he could have been in the foothills of the Dolomites over summer, rather than in the Limen.
After a while, he got out of the water and dried himself. It was so quiet, peaceful. Dressing slowly, he wondered how long he'd been gone. Without the sun, moon, or the bells of the basilica tolling the hours, he had no idea. There was nothing here to mark time. Flinging the drying sheet over his arm, he returned to the rock face they'd descended earlier. He found a small patch of grass, spread his towel out to dry, and let his thoughts run awry.
A noise above disturbed him and he leapt to his feet. A few pebbles were dislodged from the path and fell, striking him.
'Watch it!' he cried out.
'Mi dispiace!' said a deep voice.
The owner, a man leading a fine-boned chestnut mare, descended the last section of the trail and joined him.
'Ah, you must be the new Rider,' said the man and thrust out his hand. 'I'm Cristoforo.'
Afraid lest the welcome prove to be a mistake, Dante took the proferred hand and shook it vigorously. 'Dante Macelleria --'
'No!' said Cristoforo, squeezing Dante's fingers. 'Do not reveal your last name. That's the privilege of the Elders alone to use. No allegiances here, no class distinctions, no houses or bloodlines. Only Riders.' He grinned, to take the sting out of his words.
Dante withdrew his hand and nodded solemnly.
'You've been bathing?' asked Cristoforo, nodding at his wet hair, the drying sheet spread on the grass. Dante nodded. 'Come, pick up your belongings and walk with me. I have to take Castana to the corral.' He indicated his horse. 'She's missed her friends.'
'You've been away?'
'Sì. I think a long time. I certainly feel it.'
Dante studied him out of the corner of his eye. He looked younger than the Elders but older than Alessandro. His brown hair had streaks of grey, as did his beard.
'Where have you been --' began Dante, and then stopped. 'I can't ask that either, can I?'
Cristoforo threw back his head and laughed heartily. Dante's heart lightened. 'Vero. You cannot.' He slapped Dante on the back. 'And I will tell you this now, for nothing, Dante who-so-casually-reveals-his-family-name. Neither can you reveal to whom or to what you're pledged -- your Bond. Do not speak of it. Some will try to draw it out of you. But no matter who asks, do not tell. That's your secret, the only secret you'll truly be able to keep here. Or so they say.'
Dante frowned. 'My Bond is not normal ...'
'So I have heard.'
Dante's eyes widened. 'How could you?'
'Ah, news travels fast. There are Riders moving through the mists as we speak relaying what has happened. We are being recalled for the conclave -- to hear the Elders' decision over what Katina has done. Over you, I gather, as well. It will take the equivalent of weeks to gather everyone. I just happened to be near home. I am sorry that your entry into the Limen has been tainted by this, signor -- it's not your fault.'
'So others keep saying. Well, Debora and Alessandro. But I am not afraid to bear the consequences,' said Dante, thrusting his chin forward.
Cristoforo just grunted and arched an eyebrow at him.
They reached the edge of a crude paddock framed by a wooden fence. There were at least a dozen horses standing listlessly, the miasma swirling around their bodies. Cristoforo opened the gate and led Castana inside.
Dante watched him release the saddle and slide it off. 'Can I ask you a question?'
'Depends what it is.'
'What were you, you know, back in Serenissima? What did you do?'
Cristoforo flashed his teeth. 'It may surprise you to learn that I was an apothecary.' He slapped the satchel that swung over his hip. 'I still collect herbs and plants. Riders are not immune to sickness or injury, though it's rare. I do what I can. Sometimes --' He shrugged. 'It doesn't matter what I try. There are things out there,' he said, gazing into the mist, 'that hunger for us. And their need grows.'
Dante followed his gaze and shivered.
Before Dante could pose the question on his lips, Cristoforo snapped back to reality, turned away and began to wipe down Castana, using long, even strokes. 'Serenissima was the same,' he said, picking up the conversation again. Dante had to think what he meant. 'Only fools believe they are immune, that they're safe.'
'Do you miss it?'
'Serenissima?' Dante nodded. Cristoforo considered the question for a second. 'Not as much as I thought I would. At first I did. But not for long. I missed my wife, my children. I missed the feel of pillows beneath my head when I slept; I even missed sleeping -- and eating and drinking. But faster than I would have thought possible, my desire for these things faded. I came to enjoy what the Limen offers.'
'What's that?'
'Time.'
Dante pondered that for a moment. 'For what?'
'For whatever one wants.'
'Do you have a partner?' asked Dante, deliberately avoiding looking at Cristoforo, but running his finger along the wooden railing of the corral.
'Sì. I have three people I share my life with.'
'What are their names?' When Cristoforo didn't immediately answer, Dante's eyes flew to his face. 'Mi dispiace. I'm not allowed to ask that, am I?'
Cristoforo laughed. 'No. That you're allowed to ask. It's always best to be certain about relationships in a new community. You don't want to tread on anyone's toes.' He folded the horse blanket and rolled it tightly before he replied. 'Their names are Sandro, Regina and Maria. Our home is the one that carries the sign of the apothecary.' He signalled somewhere in the distance.
Dante nodded. He hadn't noticed it on his way through Settlement, but he would look for it in future.
'Have you always been together?'
'In here? Not always. Not all of us. I was with Regina first, but then, Sandro came and finally, we asked Maria to join us. Now, I barely remember time without them, even when I have to return to Serenissima. They are my family. My old one has long passed.' He fell silent. Dante hoped he hadn't upset him.
Cristoforo finished his ministrations and slapped Castana on the rump. She whinnied and trotted over to join the herd. He closed the gate and began strolling back to camp. Dante fell into step beside him. They walked through the barren trees and dry bush skirting the perimeter, circling back around the marshland that deceptively sprouted dull green shoots on what appeared like firm ground. But it also burbled and spat, exposing its treacherous composition. A light breeze sprang up, nipping at their clothes and bringing with it the fetid odour that haunted the marsh. It didn't bother Cristoforo, but to Dante, it smelled like death -- like what he'd smelled back in Serenissima as he lay on the Ponticello di Mille Pietri. He screwed up his nose and picked up his pace. Cristoforo chuckled, understanding what prompted this unexpected burst of speed.
When they reached the tents, Cristoforo stopped. 'Here we must part.' He regarded Dante for a moment longer before offering his hand again. Dante clasped it. 'Buona fortuna. I think you're going to need it.'
'Grazie, Signor,' said Dante, realising he'd been dismissed.
He turned away and ambled back through the tents. At least he'd met one person prepared to talk to him, despite all the secrecy. And he'd learnt some valuable things. He wasn't to reveal his surname, ask where Riders went when they left camp or about Bonds. Especially about Bonds. But he could ask about partners.
An image of Tallow filled his mind. Her dark tangled hair, those amazing eyes and her soft mouth. He tried to shut her out, but she kept returning, skipping along the edges of his consciousness just as she used to skip along the fondamenta. He smiled. How could he ever have believed Tallow was a boy? He remembered that time back in his uncle's shop. The way they'd huddled together on the floor, the feel of her slender, firm fingers against the back of his neck, the way she'd looked at him with such longing. Warmth flowed through his body, making him catch his breath. How could he have known she wasn't?
He also thought of Katina. What commitment did she have to Tallow that she would risk both her reputation and life for the Estrattore? He shook his head. No doubt, he would soon find out.
'Can't keep away from trouble, can you?'
Dante pulled up short. To his dismay, the man called Santo strolled towards him, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Dante swallowed. Not only had his walk brought him near the cave entrance, it had taken him into the company of the man who had tried to kill him. He looked around for the guards he'd seen earlier.
'No-one to help you now, is there, ragazzo,' spat Santo.
'Signor, I do not seek trouble,' said Dante, with a small bow and tried to keep walking. A hand clutched his shoulder and spun him round. A pair of ice-blue eyes glared into his. Santo dug his fingers into Dante's flesh.
Dante inhaled sharply as the pressure increased. 'What do you want?' He refused to be cowed by this man. 'What have I done to offend you?'
'Your being here is an offence! Isn't that enough?' Santo shoved him hard. Dante staggered and slammed into the granite wall, falling to the ground. He quickly scrambled to his feet, his back burning.
He held his hands up in front of him. 'Signor. I understand that the Obbligare Doppio is a travesty and I will do all in my power to rectify this as soon as possible.'
Santo sneered. 'You? You can't fix anything. You have no power, hear me? You are nothing.' Trapped against the mountain, Dante saw that Santo blocked his way.
'Then why are you so afraid of me?' asked Dante quietly.
Santo's eyes widened then his face turned red. 'Why, you little bastardo --' He began to draw his sword.
'Santo!' Another man appeared. It was Stefano. Although he was not quite as tall as Santo, he didn't exude aggression, and his presence seemed to have a calming effect. Santo pushed his sword back into his scabbard and retreated a couple of steps.
'What?'
'What's going on?' Dante noticed Stefano's refined accent, his bearing which -- though he may never reveal his surname -- indicated breeding.
'Nothing, amico mio. I was just warning the new Rider to stay clear of the cave. If he doesn't, he might find himself locked up as well.'
Stefano looked askance at Santo and then nodded his head in Dante's direction. 'He's right, you know. You shouldn't be around here. Didn't Debora and Alessandro warn you?'
Before Dante could answer, he continued. 'Where are they, anyway? New Riders aren't allowed to just wander around the camp. It's against the rules.'
More rules, thought Dante. He had so much to learn if he was to survive. This was nothing like he expected. Nothing. 'I simply went to the stream, to wash.' He indicated the drying sheet flung over his shoulder and his damp shirt.
Stefano and Santo studied him, their eyes raking him, judging him. He could feel simmering anger and something else behind their gaze.
'Come on, leave him alone, Santo. This is not your problem,' said Stefano finally.
Santo frowned. 'But I only want to help --'
'Santo!' Stefano snapped. Santo shut his mouth. 'Now is not the time or place. We don't want another failure on our hands.' He aimed the word 'failure' straight at Dante, a weapon drawn without warning. 'I fancy a tumble instead. Something I know can't fail to please me.'
'And where you're the victor?' asked Santo.
Stefano smiled in a way that made Dante grow very cold. They both waited to see if Dante would react. He knew they were looking for an excuse to attack him. Well, he would not give them one. He stood his ground, meeting their eyes, maintaining his silence.
After a moment, Stefano turned and walked away. 'Santo?' he called.
'Give me a minute,' said Santo and then, with a quick look over his shoulder, stepped so close to Dante that their noses almost touched.
'You think you're some kind of hero, don't you? That your Bond will change the world, save the Estrattore? Oh, don't look so surprised -- it's pretty obvious what your Bond is, what it's about.' He jabbed his finger into Dante's chest, right over his heart. 'Well, let me tell you, you're not going to save anyone -- not Katina, not the Estrattore. You're not even going to be able to save yourself.'
'Why's that?' asked Dante through gritted teeth.
'Because Katina's never going to succeed, and now she's dragged you into her mess. So you'd better make your choice, decide which side you're on and fast, because if you don't, someone else will make it for you.'
'And would that be you, then?'
Santo pulled away and burst into laughter. 'Me?' He was genuinely amused. Dante tried not to look thrown. 'Oh no. Someone much more committed than me, Dante.' He leant in again, his lips almost touching Dante's ear. 'Macelleria,' he whispered hoarsely, 'will you live up to your name and do what needs to be done? Are you a Bond Rider or just a human? Time will tell. It always does. Even in here.'
He pushed Dante into the wall one more time for good measure before spinning round and striding away.
Dante stood there for a moment, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Why did Santo say his name like that? If only the Elders were supposed to use it, then why did Santo deploy it so freely?
A chill gripped Dante as the meaning of Santo's words hit him with such force it nearly knocked him off his feet. He fell against the rock, allowing its coolness to calm his burning rage. An anger tempered by dread. Lost in history and the fugue that attended thoughts and memories of his old life, he struggled to find what he was looking for -- the implication of his family name. Nonno Renzo was so passionate about their origins, so determined they would understand them. As chandlers, part of their task was to render fat from animals. In order to do that, you first had to kill them. They took their surname from a trade that gave their own some status.
Macelleria: the butcher.
Dante didn't remember finding his way back to Debora and Alessandro's tent, but he did. Tired beyond reasoning, he staggered inside. They didn't question him about where he'd been. Neither did he object when Debora helped take off his clothes and placed him under the covers on the bed. He was vaguely aware of movement beside him as they joined him, but sleep claimed him before he could protest.
MY SECOND DAY AT THE MALEOVELLIS' began with a tour of the casa. After a morning wash and being helped into another dress by Hafeza, I was told to meet Jacopo. Instead of inviting me to sit, I was left standing outside his study while he finished reading a document he said was very important. When he'd completed this, he stood and rubbed his hands back and forth in a way that made me think of the actors in the commedia dell'arte. There was something exaggerated and rehearsed about his mannerisms. Straightening his togati, he limped towards me. As he passed through the doorway, he made sure his body brushed against mine. I instinctively recoiled.
I made sure to maintain a distance between us for the remainder of the morning. As his study was next to the stairs on the piano nobile, we began my introduction to the casa at the landing.
First explaining that the servants slept on the floor above, he pointed to the rooms on ours. The piano nobile was mainly bedrooms and studies. Hafeza was the only person not a member of the Maleovelli family to be given a bedroom -- that is, if you didn't count me. In an oily voice, Jacopo reassured me -- at the same time pointing out my marginal position -- that I was most certainly part of the family. Across the front of the casa was the portego, the main salon in which I'd met everyone yesterday. There was also a small dining room that ran off the portego and beyond that a reading room. At the other end of the corridor were two sets of stairs: one led to the ground floor, but if you stepped through a door, the other went down into the central courtyard. We didn't use the external stairs that day.
Descending to the lower floor, the pianterreno, I was shown what was effectively the business part of the house. Like most nobiles' casas, the Maleovellis' was a combination of private and professional interests, the ground floor functioning like a warehouse and shop all rolled into one. Products were received and sold and transactions carried out. I could tell from the many rooms allocated to receiving goods that once the Maleovellis must have been very astute merchants. With one exception, the rooms were all empty, and our voices echoed into the cavernousness. This room still held some sorry-looking barrels stacked in a corner. The wood was split and the coarse grey contents had spilled on the floor. I recognised the smell of rats.
There was also a tidy office that faced onto the rear canal, from which Jacopo did his accounting and met with any visitors. As I stood in the doorway and peered in, careful to avoid Jacopo's lumbering frame, I rested my fingers against the wood and learnt that, for all Jacopo's bluster, it had been a long time since a stranger had crossed this threshold.
I followed him around as we slowly went from room to room and he told me of the Maleovellis' history and the connections and influence they once wielded. Despite the evidence before us, Jacopo spoke as if they were still a force to be reckoned with. His voice became a monotonous drone to which I barely listened. Instead, when I thought he wasn't looking, I allowed my hands to rest on the cool stone of the walls, brush the scratched wood of the banisters and even the creaking door that led out into an internal courtyard. Jacopo may have spoken of the casa as if it were bustling with servants and turning away visitors, but the elements around me told a completely different story.
Hafeza, Salzi and one cleaning woman were all the Maleovellis housed within their walls. A cook would come to the casa each day and prepare meals, but Hafeza or Salzi would often serve the family. They barely had any visitors. Nobiles had not been here for a long, long time -- only debt collectors and merchants seeking recompense for their credit. The casa itself supplied me with the counter-narrative my instincts had already told me was fact. No wonder they wanted my help, they had so little to lose.
We left the cold, damp interior and wandered into what once would have been a lovely walled garden. I could see from the stained, lifting stones, the rusting bucket hanging over the well in the centre, the dead creepers that tangled over the walls and the vacant eyes of the filthy statues standing at intervals, that this was a neglected space. Even the gates that, Jacopo told me, led onto the calle that ran along the rear had once been grand. Now they resembled something I would have expected to see on a poor casa in the Candlemakers Quartiere, not gracing the entrance, or exit, to a nobile's.
After lunch, to my eyes a veritable repast, which I shared with Signor Maleovelli, Giaconda and Jacopo, I was left to my own devices. My lessons with Baroque, I was told, would not begin for a few days. He was currently away on family business. I didn't give him another thought. I was glad of the reprieve.
Instead of engaging in the siesta I knew was expected, I waited till the casa fell silent and continued my journey on my own. No-one had forbidden me, but all the same, I had the sense my solitary exploration would not be approved. So I hadn't asked. I wandered around the portego cautiously, my ears pricked for any noise, my tongue ready with excuses. I quickly touched some objects and pieces of furniture, keen for the opportunity to do this properly another time. They didn't tell me much more than I had already gleaned. The only thing was that the cumulative effect of so much extracting was making me feel both tired and very sad. This was not a happy casa. Not even the sunlight dancing through the windows and making the terrazzo floor gleam could hide that.
I halted before the windows and stared out. Over the top of the casa opposite, I could see the dome of the Doge's basilica in the distance, a burnished copper glow in the afternoon. The pennants of Serenissima with their winged lion flapped over the palazzo. My eyes travelled over the rooftops and gardens towards the elegant facades of the casas and down into the campo below.
Large, with a central well, it seemed all but deserted at this time of day, but from the numerous balconies that faced onto it, I could imagine it being a beacon of activity. As if summoned by my thoughts, a senator, a member of the Great Council, strode across the cobbles, his red togati marking his office. He clutched a sheaf of papers beneath his arm. He signalled a greeting to a padre hovering in a doorway opposite. I hadn't noticed him in his black cassock. He had a loaf of bread in his hand and was feeding the pigeons. There was an entire flock gathered at his feet, flapping and pecking. They squawked and scattered as the senator ploughed through their midst, oblivious to their presence. I stepped back from the window and studied the men as they conversed, sharing a joke before parting company. It was then I noticed a slight movement behind the windows across from mine. Then I saw another, and another. Dozens of shadowed faces were staring not at me, but at the activity below. I noted that they all belonged to women -- women and girls. I saw young and old alike, their hair beautifully dressed, their gowns expensive, their jewels perfect, all framed within the glass. Trapped behind it forever, doomed to look out upon the world but, as Giaconda said, never participate. I sighed. For the moment, I knew how they all felt.
Tired of my exploring and the feelings it aroused, I crossed the portego and quietly entered the hallway. After the bright light of the main salon, it was very dark. Hafeza hadn't yet lit the candles. Then I recalled she'd been sent to the market. It took me a few seconds to become accustomed to the dimness. I wandered back down to my bedroom at the other end of the corridor when a prickly feeling made my shoulders twitch. I paused, my hand resting on an old chair. I did not extract. I pretended to examine a tapestry, leaning in close to make out the stitching. I swung my head at the last moment and caught sight of Jacopo, hovering in the doorway to his bedroom. He quickly withdrew when he knew he'd been seen. How long had he been watching me?
I hurried to my room, slowing as I passed Giaconda's door. I heard the low murmur of voices. Giaconda's and another, deeper voice. Who was there? My understanding was that Giaconda didn't meet with her clients at Casa Maleovelli. It was not deemed appropriate. Glancing over my shoulder, I checked to make sure Jacopo wasn't looking. His door was now shut. Funny, I hadn't heard him close it. I stopped. I longed to press my ear to the wood -- both to listen and use my talent. Instead, I placed a finger on the gilded door handle. Ever so gently, I began to extract.
I almost fell to my knees. I staggered back as darkness entered my heart. I wanted to cry, scream, break something; anything. I needed to cough, to gag, spit out the vile taste in my mouth. The voices behind the door ceased. I heard a creak, of furniture or wood.
I did not stay. I lifted my skirts and ran, as quietly as I could, back to the relative safety of my room. I closed the door softly behind me and flew to the window. Swinging it open, I spat into the water below, breathing deeply to clear my head. What had I felt back there? What did it mean? Some great, dark, lurking secret was buried so deep that my as yet inexperienced touch could not release it.
I trembled, and not from the cold. As I shut the window and retreated to my bed, I was not all together certain I wanted to find out.
BAROQUE KEPT HIS HEAD DOWN and his ears open. For the last three days, having satisfied his primary duty to the Maleovellis, he'd kept vigil in the little taverna on the edge of the Tailors Quartiere in the hope that Katina would appear and he could start to fulfil his obligation to her. The taverna was quiet at this time of day; the regulars were already accustomed to the man who'd made the decision to patronise their local establishment even though he was not a tailor or from the quartiere. If they thought anything of his presence, despite the rumours of Estrattore and the arrests the Signori di Notte had made, they didn't say. He spent good soldi and he'd asked for Katina. He was a friend of the Bond Riders and that was all that mattered to them. For centuries, the Bond Riders had made the tailors and now the current owner of the taverna in the quartiere, Signor Zano Vestire, very comfortable. If this man knew them and had been told to seek out one of their kind, they weren't about to upset their best customers.
Pretending to take a long draught of his vino, Baroque kept the wooden goblet pressed against his lips and tipped back his head, but he barely opened his mouth. He made a show of pouring another round from the jug at his elbow. Whether anyone was watching or not didn't matter. It was about maintaining his disguise. Years of practice had taught him that if he posed no threat, was quiet and became as familiar as not only the locals, but the furniture, then conversations would not be curtailed in his presence.
Yet again he was rewarded. The afternoon wore on and the group at the table beside him grew louder and less guarded in their choice of subject.
'Didn't have a chance. Burst in on them in the middle of the night,' said one old tailor, blinded by cataracts, the enemy of his trade. Baroque knew his name was Signor Pugliesi. Despite his disability, Pugliesi still wore the tailor insignia on his jacket proudly -- his scuola, or guild, had not rejected him. 'Seven of them. Fully armed as well. No warning, nothing. The screams of the women and cries of the children could be heard right across the sestiere. They took the men in for questioning.'
'That'll be the last they're seen, then,' added another man grimly.
Pugliesi nodded. 'They'll make an example of them. No doubt about that.'
A man Baroque knew only as Cucito, in honour of his fine needlework, overheard them and slid off his stool at the bar to join the group. They gave him a rowdy welcome -- him, and the extra jug he placed in the middle of the table. 'I heard they're searching for the candlemaker -- the one who kept the boy hidden all these years.'
'Boy!' scoffed Pugliesi. 'He's not a boy!'
Baroque almost spat his drink back into his goblet. He had to resist the urge to turn round and stare. What did they know? He held his breath.
'Have you forgotten? He's Estrattore. They're not human,' drawled Pugliesi. Baroque let out a sigh of relief, feeling the tension leave his shoulders. 'They're direct descendents of the old gods. They're part divine. He's no more a boy than I am a courtesan!'
General laughter greeted that statement.
'Shut up, you fool!' snapped another voice. It was the taverna owner, Signor Vestire. He headed towards them swiftly and leant over the table. 'We're not supposed to talk about them,' he hissed.
Pugliesi laughed. 'Of course we're meant to talk about them -- we're meant to talk about them until we're so afraid, we'll do and say anything the Doge and the damn Cardinale tell us to.' He raised his goblet. 'And you call me blind.'
'We should be scared,' stammered another patron Baroque didn't recognise. 'Estrattore are heretics. They're evil -- and don't you forget it!' He slammed his fist on the table. Everyone jumped. No-one spoke for a moment.
Signor Vestire looked at the man. 'I wouldn't believe everything you hear, Gusto. Nor what you read -- if you can.' The bell above the lintel jingled as the door opened and two men entered, calling out greetings. Signor Vestire went to leave but Pugliesi, with uncanny swiftness, reached out and grabbed his wrist.
'I heard that this boy, this Estrattore, wasn't evil at all. On the contrary, he brought happiness and health in his wake. He lived among us, not in some trumped-up casa they pretend is a religious house with servants and comforts of which we can only dream, or a treasure-filled church -- he lived like us as well. Just like the Estrattore of old. Despite what the Church and its padres preach, what they'll have us believe ...'
'He saved dozens from the Morto Assiderato,' agreed Cucito. They all crossed themselves. Baroque forced his hands to stay still. Wouldn't do to let them know he was eavesdropping. 'How can that be evil?'
'It isn't.' The taverna owner tried to wrestle from Pugliesi's grip, but the old man wouldn't let him go. 'But that doesn't mean this type of talk isn't dangerous.'
'I heard there are those prepared to die rather than let the Cardinale get his hands on the Estrattore. That there are some --' he dropped his voice even lower; Baroque strained to hear '-- that are even calling for the old ways to come back.'
'Enough!' said Signor Vestire, finally twisting his arm free. 'Pugliesi, you're as stupid as you are blind. I will not have this talk in here, do you understand?'
'Stupid? Do you really think so? Or am I merely saying what everyone else is thinking? Allora, in which case, we're all stupid, hey?' Signor Vestire hovered for a moment before throwing his hands up in the air and, with an exclamation of annoyance, strode to the bar. 'What can I do for you, Signori?' he asked the new patrons with false bonhomie and began pouring drinks from a large bladder.
Pugliesi chuckled. It was a dark sound. 'Interesting days, mi amici,' he muttered. 'Interesting days.'
'What about the candlemaker? Has anyone heard what happened to him?' asked Cucito. 'The one who kept the boy. The master who disguised him as an apprentice. I imagine he'll be in for some trouble.'
'They say he's disappeared off the face of Vista Mare,' said another old man with a hunchback. He was familiar to Baroque. Another tailor who paid physically for his trade. 'He's missing. No-one has seen him since the boy jumped in the canal. He's gone from his casa --'
'-- and straight into the torture chamber of the Cardinale,' chuckled Pugliesi.
'Sì, sì,' agreed the men. 'Or the Doge's dungeons.'
'All the same isn't it?' Signor Cucito shook his head sorrowfully.
'He'll not see the light of day again until it's his last one on Vista Mare.'
Their conversation then turned to the resumption of trade now that the quarantine on the city had been lifted. Baroque ceased to listen and lost himself in his own thoughts.
What these men were muttering, heresy by any other name, was echoed in other parts of the Dorsoduro and Barnabotti sestieri. Ever since he'd left the Maleovellis, he'd heard similar sentiments. Treasonous sentiments. Whispered on the calles, in the shops, around campi and in homes. Not even the threat of the Cardinale and the Signori di Notte had cowed the popolani. Interesting times indeed.
This time Baroque did drink from his goblet, finishing what had been sitting there for a couple of hours. He'd done what he'd set out to do and could return to the Maleovellis triumphant. He had a great deal to share with his new employers and some that he would keep to himself.
But where was Katina? She'd released him and he was keeping his end of the bargain by waiting for her. Or was he? He still hadn't made up his mind whether to tell her about the Estrattore. He wanted to sound Katina out, find out more about what the Bond Riders were up to, how desperate their need. Desperate people were prepared to pay a great deal more, as he'd discovered with the Maleovellis.
No. Best to keep information about Tallow to himself and protect the Maleovellis as well. At least until he figured out how he could best profit from everything. Anyhow, he reassured himself, his conscience was clear. He'd been told Tallow was a girl only after he'd promised to work for the Bond Riders. As far as he was concerned, he was under no obligation to report to Katina about anything other than a boy named Tallow. That he knew about an Estrattore named Tarlo -- well, he'd have to think more deeply about when and to whom he revealed that -- if at all.
Teaching the Estrattore was something he never anticipated doing. He was looking forward to it. No doubt it would bring unexpected benefits as well. He sighed and settled back in his chair. Outside, he could hear the wind whistling through the campo and along the rami. A light rain began to fall. One of the workers lit some rush lights, placing them on the rickety old tables. Their greasy smell combined with that of the wood smoke from the poor fire made the atmosphere thick.
It was clear Katina wasn't coming. But why not? What was keeping her? When so much was at stake as well. For just a second, Baroque felt a flare of concern. Had something happened to her? He almost laughed at himself. Apprehension for a Bond Rider, for a soulless one? Ah, he was getting soft. Was a time when he wouldn't have thought twice about what he was doing -- playing two sides against each other. Better that way. Well, if Katina wasn't coming, it made his life less complicated. And if she did arrive after he left, at least the taverna owner would vouch for him.
Baroque reached for his purse and found the required soldi. They rattled as they hit the table. He grabbed his coat off the hook by the door and, with a wave at the taverna owner and a nod to the patrons, stepped into the darkening, cold calle. He'd return in about a month and, by then, he'd have a story. Whether or not it was the one Katina wanted to hear was another matter entirely.
'ENTER,' CALLED CARDINALE MARTINO from behind his huge desk in the south wing of the Doge's basilica.
Aware of who entered, he nonetheless forced Captain Sansono to wait before he acknowledged him. He scribbled on his parchment, dragging the candle closer then finishing with a flourish. He peered closely at his work, proofing and sanding it dry before putting it to one side. Then he clasped his hands in an attitude of prayer and gazed at the captain.
'You have news for me, captain? You have found the Estrattore?' The Cardinale gestured for the captain to sit.
Swinging his sword over the front of his legs, Sansono gratefully lowered himself into the hard-backed chair. 'Your grace,' he began, moistening his dry lips. 'We haven't found the Estrattore, not yet.'
The Cardinale slammed a fist into his hand. The captain jumped. 'Then why do you bother me at such a late hour?'
'Because you ordered me to keep you informed, your grace. This is what I am here to do. Anyway, the padre told me you were still at work.' The captain fell silent.
The Cardinale resisted smiling. He had struck a nerve. Good. These secret police, the Signori di Notte, had too much power. They did not like answering to anyone, not even the Council of Ten. Well, they would have to get used to serving him. And the Church.
'What about the Estrattore's master, the candlemaker -- has there been any sign of him?'
The captain swallowed. 'No, your grace.
'And you do not believe the disappearances are related?'
'No, I don't. The Estrattore most definitely jumped in the canal. The candlemaker was seen in the quartiere immediately after. Witnesses saw him drinking in that taverna in which we found the body.'
'Could it have been the candlemaker who murdered the owner?'
Captain Sansono frowned. 'According to reports, he was very drunk when he left. It's unlikely he would have had the capacity to return, let alone for such violence. Whether it was him or not, he hasn't been seen since.'
'The Signori found no trace of him when they searched the other casas in the area?' The Cardinale asked the question lightly.
The captain shifted nervously. 'I don't believe they were as thorough as they could have been. It was late, your grace. They --' He stopped and shrugged.
The Cardinale looked at him quizzically. 'What is this?' he said, and raised his shoulders up and down in quick succession -- a series of shrugs. 'Is this a special manoeuvre your men do, captain?' He shrugged again. 'Is this some secret signal to which I am not privy?'
'No, your grace,' said Captain Sansono quickly. 'I ... I meant only that tired men do not perform to the best of their ability.'
'Ah, of course, I see.' The Cardinale smiled. 'How foolish that I would forget such a base need as sleep when there's an Estrattore on the loose. When Bond Riders are walking our calles and murdering our sons.' He curled his lips. 'It won't happen again, will it, captain?'
'No, your grace.'
'And you won't deign to bore me with this either.' He shrugged. 'Will you?'
'Never again, your grace.'
'Bene,' said the Cardinale softly. He reached for a piece of fruit languishing on the platter at his elbow. He saw Captain Sansono eye it longingly. He bit into it, the juices flowing over his chin. Using a cotton serviette, he dabbed them away. 'Allora, what else do you have to tell me?'
Captain Sansono forced himself to meet the Cardinale's eyes. 'We have made four arrests, your grace. The Macellerias. They're the family who hid the Estrattore for a few days. The chandlers. They currently reside in the Doge's dungeons.'
'What are they saying?'
'Nothing. They're not talking at all. They're good men, your grace. Kind men, who love their families and their trade. They believe they're protecting everyone through their silence. That's the problem, your grace. No-one in the entire quartiere is saying anything. It's like a conspiracy.'
'Is that so?' The Cardinale threw down the napkin, rose to his feet and stood by the fire. He turned his back to the flames, his hands clasped behind him. His scarlet cassock glowed in the orange light. 'Why do you think this has happened, Captain Sansono? That these ordinary men would defy God and their eternal souls for the sake of one heretic? Is the faith of Serenissima so weak that the popolani do not speak out against iconoclasts? Where is their fear of God? Where is their fear of you?' He looked directly at the captain.
The captain shifted uncomfortably. 'I do not understand it either, your grace. It's as if they're bewitched. There are reports ...' he hesitated.
'Go on ...' The Cardinale waved at him.
'There are reports that in some sestieri some people have stopped going to Church. That they're whispering about the old ways again. Not openly, but in secret.'
The Cardinale stared at Captain Sansono without speaking. Sansono clenched and unclenched his fists. Just when he was about to interrupt the silence, the Cardinale began to laugh. Not a quiet snickering, but a bold, rich laugh that forced the tears from his eyes. Captain Sansono coloured. He looked at his fingers then his boots. The Cardinale went to his desk and plucked the serviette off its surface, dabbing under his eyes.
'Oh, my dear Sansono. Of course they're talking about the old ways. They're enamoured with this Estrattore, this little boy who saved them from the big bad plague.' He held his arms up in the air. He shook his head. 'To them, the Estrattore did what God and their prayers failed to, and now they turn away. They have become so bold. Correct me if I am wrong, but not even the threat of punishment loosens their tongues. Am I right?'
'Sì, your grace.'
'Well, then, it's very clear what you have to do. What we have to do, Captain Sansono -- remember, you are my sword.'
'Sì, your grace. I am.' The Cardinale's eyes followed Captain Sansono's hand, which had slid unconsciously to his weapon. Captain Sansono waited for the Cardinale to speak again. When he didn't, he frowned. 'Forgive me for my obtuseness, your grace, but I do not understand. What exactly is it that we have to do? Could you please enlighten me?'
The Cardinale stepped towards the Captain, who tensed. The Cardinale slapped him on the back. 'Of course, amico mio. Of course.' He returned to his desk and sat down. He pushed the papers further out of the way and splayed his hands against the wooden surface. The thick golden cross hanging around his neck gleamed in the candlelight. 'Come closer, captain, come closer.' He beckoned him forward.
The captain picked up his chair and moved towards the desk.
'Closer,' insisted the Cardinale.
In the end, Captain Sansono had no choice but to tuck his chair into the desk and rest his elbows on the Cardinale's sacred surface. The Cardinale watched as the man's eyes went from side to side as he negotiated the space, carefully lowering his arms.
Leaning forward, the Cardinale stopped only when the tip of his nose almost touched Captain Sansono's.
'What we have to do, my good, God-fearing captain, is make them so afraid, they will say anything. Anything, do you understand? We must do what is in our power to stop these sacrilegious whispers -- whispers that will, if we don't intervene, rise to shouts and rock the foundations of the Church and this beautiful country.' His lips barely moved.
'Sì, your grace,' whispered Captain Sansono, his eyelids flickering nervously.
'And this is how we will do it.' The Cardinale paused. 'Over the next few weeks, I want you to treat these prisoners with respect and kindness. I want them to receive good food, vino, blankets and I want you to talk to them. Become their friend. Even if they do not speak in return, you are to talk to them. Tell them about your hopes, your dreams, your family ...'
'But your grace, I have no family --'
'I don't care. Tell them -- anything. Make it up. But let them think they are getting to know you. In turn, they will share something of themselves. And, from what they divulge, we will learn about the Estrattore.
'In a few days, I too will join you and speak to these good men, these kind men, these foolish men. Together, we will show them the errors of their ways. Then, I want you to choose one -- only one.'
'What for?' Captain Sansono's eyes hadn't left the Cardinale's.
'He will remain in the dungeons, but the others, we will release them -- for now. I want them to return to their family, to their quartiere, their scuola. I want them to share their experiences with everyone. I want them to spread the word about how afraid they were and how well treated. How understanding we are. How good we are, how kind. How Godly. How, no matter what, the laws must be obeyed.'
'What about the one left behind?'
'Ah.' The Cardinale leant even closer. Captain Sansono could see the pores in his skin, almost feel the grey stubble just starting to grow. His soft words just reached his ears.
'I'm afraid that, like our beloved Lord, he will suffer for all their sins.' The Cardinale pulled away and smiled. 'You see, one of them has to pay. For the sake of the Estrattore, he will die.' Captain Sansono stared and then nodded.
'And,' continued the Cardinale, 'after him there will be others. I don't care who they are, what they've done, or what they believe. But we will let it be known that they die for one reason and one reason only.'
'The Estrattore.'
'Sì, amico mio. The Estrattore. The Estrattore makes us do this.' He began to laugh again. 'Tell me, Captain Sansono, after that, will the popolani still think the old ways are good? When they so clearly result in so much death? Will they champion this Estrattore, indulge in conspiracy against God and country when it means that those they love continue to die?'
Captain Sansono returned the smile. 'No, your grace. I don't think they will.'
'Neither do I,' said the Cardinale as he sank his long, white teeth into another piece of fruit.
'WE ARE VERY MUCH HOPING that the ... ah ... accommodations meet your approvals, Signor. Come, this way, please.'
Lord Beolin Waterford blanched at the senator's hopelessly inflected attempts to speak his language and his thick accent. He'd tolerated it all morning as this representative of the Doge, not even one of the Council of Ten, but a nobile nonetheless, had escorted him from the dock on Nobiles' Rise, where his own launch had left him, into a local craft and to this house on the Circolo Canal in the prestigious Opera Quartiere.
House or 'casa', as these Serenissians called it, was hardly how he would describe such opulence. The fat little senator had assisted him out of the gondola, the strangely ornate long boats that the people used for transport. It had glided in through the water-gates and scraped onto the ramp, throwing Lord Waterford forward and forcing a quickly stifled laugh from the gondoliers. He had ignored them and composed himself before leaping over the lapping water and onto the ground floor. He could see the street entrance at the other end of a long hallway that was dark and smelt of mildew and rotting fruit. Lord Waterford had screwed up his nose and reached, once again, for the scented handkerchief that he'd pressed against his face during the entire journey. He asked himself the question that had puzzled him from the moment he left his ship: how could a place that looked so resplendent smell so terrible?
When he'd sailed into the lagoon over two months ago, past the forbidding Arsenale, and set eyes on Serenissima, he'd been enchanted. It was unlike any city he'd ever seen. The last time he was here, it had been in a Kyprian corsair, and under cloak of darkness, so he hadn't appreciated the beauty of the city or its liquid surrounds. This time, he'd had weeks of leaning on the ship's railing, staring across the waters, to seduce him and make him long for landfall and the opportunity to explore.
At last it had arrived. Officialdom had stamped his passport, checked his papers and those of his men and extracted their outrageous fees, finally allowing him to fully appreciate this jewel of a place. Nothing, not his days of anticipation and ambivalence about what lay ahead, nor even his previous covert entry, had quite prepared him.
Waterford was enthralled as they rowed along the crowded canals, by some miracle not colliding with the other craft that crammed onto the motile streets. It was overpowering -- the sight of so many boats, the shouting, the smells, the colour, the chaos that somehow never spilled into tragedy. And this was despite the huge losses the city had suffered during the recent plague.
Throughout the journey, he caught glimpses of stunted waterways between the elegant buildings, with their mixture of arched windows, colonnades and Gothic splendour; stagnant ponds that owed more to household rubbish than the sea for their existence.
When he thought this arrant disregard for the resplendence of the domain could get no worse, he happened upon areas that took his breath away -- not in disgust, but awe. The pea-green water would open out, revealing its glowing sinuous path between eternally slanting homes, offering stuccoed and smooth façades of differing hues, hemmed with lichen and moss, and tall windows, some with lace verandas, all crowded with pretty faces -- the women of Serenissima. There were striped palines and bobbing gondolas, scattered like party favours after a night of celebration. All of this was reflected in the water that embraced, reflected and inverted it, making it even more unreal and irresistible. It was Serenissima captured in its element, and he saw her with shiny new eyes.
His mind wandered back to his cold, distant homeland and he found himself thinking about his own wife and son and wondering how they were faring. Already he'd been gone from Albion for months, and the missives he'd received from his family had been short and to the point. Clearly, they had been vetted by the queen: they revealed nothing.
His instructions had been clear. The last, which had arrived just before he disembarked, was rolled tightly in his pocket. When he was alone, he would read it, but with the knowledge that other eyes had seen it first. Although the seal was intact, Waterford knew the Serenissians had opened and read the contents. Unlike the other correspondence he'd received, this one had not been delivered by a Mortian, thank the gods, but by a courier pigeon -- easily intercepted.
The jarring enunciation of the senator brought him back to the present, and he followed him up a flight of stairs built halfway along the central corridor. Ascending at a moderate pace, he glanced into the rooms on either side of the ground floor. Additional barrels and sacks were being unloaded and checked, his people working frantically to bring order to the mess, to sort their cargo and begin distribution. It was a way of establishing ties -- this issuing of benevolence through material goods. He was counting on it to open doors.
Which was why he didn't argue when the agreement for renting the casa he'd been assigned was brought aboard. The oily Serenissian merchant who owned the property was bowing and scraping while justifying the disgraceful amount he was expected to pay for rent. He simply signed and paid. The look of disappointment on the merchant's face was laughable. These Serenissians loved to barter. Waterford wanted it known that the Albions had money from which they were easily parted. He'd already set aside a huge sum for gambling in the infamous Serenissian casinos.
He had a reputation to establish, and that included biding his time before seeking an audience with the Doge. Though this would be a political faux pas, he would cite ignorance of alien customs as his excuse and instead focus on putting his men in place, contacting their spies and trying to understand this maze of a city and its secretive, greedy inhabitants and their peculiar ways before he was welcomed into the ducal palazzo.
Light spilled onto the top of the stairs and Waterford stumbled. He was still finding it hard to walk steadily. The floor kept canting, or at least his legs kept remembering the rolling deck of his vessel.
Before him, the senator paused with a questioning look on his face. Waterford cursed himself for not paying more attention before glancing around and, for the second time that morning, found himself lost for words. Now he knew what was expected of him, what the senator was waiting for -- a response.
In contrast to the dinginess of the lower floor, the first floor was bathed in sunlight. A row of multi-arched windows on either end of what was a very long and narrow room, a vast hallway by any other name, pulled his eyes first in one direction and then the other. From the top of the pointed flexures, he was drawn to the ceiling painted with scenes from ancient times. Gods and goddesses gambolled with imaginary creatures who cheekily evaded capture or sought succour at a large, divine bosom. Figures robed in white waited in the wings, serene-faced and all-knowing.
'Estrattore?' asked Waterford, pointing towards them, tucking his handkerchief back into his sleeve. There was no need for its perfume now that the scent of beeswax and other odours filled his nostrils. At least this floor was clean.
'Sì, yes, yes,' said the senator, colour filling his cheeks as he glanced over his shoulder before rudely turning towards one of the many servants in the room and brusquely issuing orders for food and drink.
Waterford knew he'd touched a nerve, but he was surprised to see those the Serenissians considered heretics so brazenly portrayed. But it was a scene more reminiscent of fairytales and folklore; was that why it still remained? The Estrattore, considered monsters, could be tamed by being incorporated into history as myth?
Taken aback, he viewed the room afresh and noted the lavish furniture and portraits that adorned the walls, the scattering of elegant tables and the preponderance of coloured glass -- wrapping the sconces, holding candles, decorating cabinets. It wasn't to his taste. Nor was the gilt that the Serenissians overused on everything. Why, there wasn't a corner of this room that didn't emit a golden halo. It was, to his unaccustomed eyes, garish.
'Signor,' said the senator loudly, making him jump. For such a small man, he had a booming voice. 'What is your, how you say it? Impressione?'
'Impression?' Waterford pulled a stray hair from his coat sleeve and let it flutter to the floor.
'Sì,' smiled the senator, his head bobbing like a duck's, while his eyes followed the passage of the hair.
'Signor. You may tell your Doge and the Council of Ten that, on behalf of my queen, I am humbled by such grand surroundings, which do great honour to both me and my country.' Waterford spoke in fluent Serenissian.
The senator's head whipped up and his mouth fell open. 'You speak our language.' It was not a question, and Waterford knew the poor man was trying to recall any conversations he'd had in Waterford's hearing that would reflect badly on Serenissima. It was all he could do to hold his laughter back. These Serenissians, with their formality, their rigid rules. He also knew the fact he was assured with their tongue would be reported at the highest levels. Good. There were some areas in which he did not want to be taken for granted. He'd keep these wretched foreigners on their toes.
'Who could not learn the most beautiful language in Vista Mare?' Waterford bowed, his hand held over his heart.
The bloom that had filled the senator's cheeks disappeared and his frown was replaced by a smile. He smoothed the front of his togati over his rotund belly. 'I see you have learnt not only our language, Signor, but some of our ways as well.' He looked Waterford up and down, reassessing him. 'Come, I will show you the rest of the casa. We have spent many weeks preparing it for you. It was not only the Morto Assiderato that kept you on your ship, but our desire to present you with a residence worthy of your status. It's our fervent hope that you find your wait was also ... How you say? Worth your while.'
Waterford did not deign to reply, but followed the senator in and out of the various rooms that lined either side of the corridor. There was a library, a study, offices, the long portego at the front, a place to dine, to drink and, finally, to sleep, all lavishly and similarly decorated.
Waterford made appropriate noises of appreciation, strolling through room after room, but his mind raced. They'd prevented his ship from docking for weeks, even though they'd happily unloaded most of its cargo: the grain, spices, sugar, livestock, even salt, never mind the gold, furs, jewels and fabric. These were used to feed a hungry and frightened population as well as salve the nobiles, who had been forced to attenuate their extravagant tastes in a time of need. What was being stored below was not only personal supplies essential to the running of the house, but additional items to be used at his discretion. The plague, what did the senator call it again? Oh, yes, the Morto Assiderato -- frozen to death -- had become a convenient excuse to literally keep their new allies at bay, a means of demonstrating where and to whom power still belonged. Message understood, he thought as he continued to survey the casa he'd been allocated in his new role as Ambassador of Farrowfare in Serenissima.
It wasn't until he'd shared an ombretta and some food -- olives, cheese and pieces of rather stale bread -- with the senator, farewelled him in a stately manner, given final orders to his major domo and endured the attentions of his young valet, Jack, that Waterford was left alone.
In his gilded bedroom, seated in shirt and leggings before the fire with a glass of ruby wine, a silver decanter brimming by his side, and a thick pillar candle burning brightly, Waterford finally unrolled his queen's most recent instructions. Noises from below drifted through the gleaming floorboards as his weary men continued to labour throughout the night. Outside, on the Circolo Canal, and from within the quartiere, strains of music and a lone high voice came through the shuttered window, melodious tones that soothed. The pure notes of a young male -- a castrati most likely -- rose above the others, accompanying him as he read.
After the usual flowery formalities, the letter continued:
Remember, my dear Lord Waterford, that while in Serenissima, every word you utter, every action you take, is in Our name. All you do, you do with Our authority and with Our unequivocal blessing, as We have long discussed. Always strive to achieve a mutually agreeable outcome. We will look forward, over the following months, to your reports and to blessing Our new Serenissian friends with Our bounty, for they have suffered much and the time has come to cast aside old enmities and rebuild relationships that will further everyone's interests. Above all, Our goal is to work in our common interest, helping Serenissma regain her health so she in turn can help Us. We do not need to remind you that the rewards for such an enterprise are potentially immeasurable.
We trust that you understand the gift We have given you with this most precious of postings and the attendant power it bestows and that, when the time comes for you to return to Us, you will bring gifts of equal value from Our beloved Serenissima -- namely, their heart and trust, so that We will be reminded of our fresh accord daily.
The missive was signed with Zaralina's usual curlicue.
To anyone else but him, it would seem typical of a ruler's instructions to a new ambassador. Only he understood it had been written with full knowledge that it would also be read by those for whom it was never intended. The warning was implicit in her words -- play his role well, offer everything to the Serenissians, earn their confidence, be bountiful and generous, and find the Estrattore. Unravel the mystery of the boy whom the Mortians located, and discover the whereabouts of the girl of the legends. The girl that Queen Zaralina wants so badly. That was the gift he was charged with bringing home. Once again, he was being forced to be little better than a trader in slaves. No, he was worse. At least slave traders didn't pretend to be anything other than what they were. He'd already brought his Queen one child; now she was asking, no, demanding another. And, if there were two Estrattore dwelling here, then he had to get them both, whatever it took. Were there no depths to which he would not stoop? Again, thoughts of his wife and son rose in his mind. No. Where their safety was concerned, there were no limits. Zaralina knew that -- she counted upon it.
He picked up the glass of wine and downed it in one gulp before refilling it. His hands were trembling. The song of the castrato rose, filling Waterford's ears and soul. He swilled the glass, holding it to the light, watching the way the flames of the fire and candle exposed unexpected depths and currents.
Other lives depended on him. His countrymen, gods help them, depended on him and what he was brought to Serenissima to do. He had better play his part well, whatever the cost.
If he didn't, if he failed, it would be his beloved wife, son, and all of Albion, of Farrowfare, who paid the price.
Waterford drained his glass and then, with unaccustomed frustration, dashed it into the fire. The flames hissed and sparked before consuming the shattered fragments. With shaking hands he picked up the jug and began to drink from the lip.
THE MIDDAY BELLS IN THE CAMPANILE had long tolled when I entered what I quickly christened the workshop for my first lesson with Baroque. Situated just off the courtyard at the rear of the casa, it was a large, dark room, the only light coming from a grubby window beside the door. A fire was burning in the small grate, the wind whistling through the open door threatening to extinguish the flames. The thick wooden mantelpiece surrounding the hearth had shelves above it, upon which were stacked a range of materials that piqued my curiousity. Not far from the fireplace was an internal doorway that, I quickly discovered, was the entrance to Baroque's bedroom. A huge trestle table stood in the middle of the main room. On this lay an assortment of objects. I could make out a couple of pestles and mortars, a few boxes, some candles -- mainly tapers -- as well as bunches of herbs and a few small vials with liquid in them. Underneath were a pile of dented pots and a variety of containers.
Baroque came out of his bedroom wiping his hands on a towel that, as soon as he set eyes on me, he tossed over his shoulder. 'Forgive me, Signorina Tall -- Tarlo. I did not expect you so soon.'
I curtsied and felt strangely self-conscious. 'Lunch was finished and the others went for siesta, so I thought ...' My voice trailed off. I felt my cheeks growing hot.
'Of course,' he said. 'I am not criticising. You're punctual. I like that.' He glanced behind me into the courtyard beyond. 'They let you come here unescorted?'
I knew to whom he referred. 'Sì. Giaconda is resting as she is ... busy tonight and Hafeza has gone to the mercato.'
'I see. We're alone then. Bene.' He rested his hands on the tabletop and nodded thoughtfully. The bruises and cuts that had so distorted his face were healing. He looked more like the man I remembered than a victim. I found the old resentment starting to churn inside me. I tried to swallow it and waited for him to commence.
Aware of my agitation, he sought to distract me and reached over to one of the shelves, pulling a piece of fabric from a pile. It was an apron. He passed it to me. 'Put this on. You don't want to damage your dress.'
I nodded my thanks and pulled the apron over my head and tied it around my waist.
He dragged a stool over and indicated that I should also find one and sit on the other side of the table. There were two propped under the window. I grabbed one and perched on it.
'So,' said Baroque after almost a minute. 'I am to teach you.'
'Sì,' I said slowly.
I felt Baroque studying me. I didn't look at him, but stubbornly remained focused on the tabletop.
Finally, he sighed. 'Look, Tarlo. This isn't easy for me either. I am not a teacher. I'm a spy. A man few trust and who has made a life out of double-dealing and death. The Maleovellis hired me to find you. I did what I was paid to do. I know you don't like it; but that's the way it is.' He paused as if waiting for me to comment. I didn't.
He rubbed his hands over his face. 'I am old, tired and loath to pass on what I know to someone ... to someone like you.'
My eyes widened.
'But I'm forced into this position, so I'll do my best.'
'Forced? How?'
'The Maleovellis. They have something of mine that I want. That I need.' He shook his head. 'It doesn't matter. It's my problem.' He gave a half-laugh.
'You're not being paid for this?'
'Not exactly. My expenses are covered and, if it all works out ... who knows?' He shrugged.
I thought for a moment. 'Why don't you want to teach me what you know? Is it because I'm a woman?'
He gave my question some consideration. 'No. It has nothing to do with your sex. It's because of what you are. The gifts of an Estrattore are ... special. They're not meant to be used in the way I believe the Maleovellis want to use them. The way they want to use you.'
'You don't think I have some say over the matter?'
He seemed surprised by my question. 'No, I don't. Do you?'
I spluttered at the honesty of his reponse. 'No. Not really.'
'Good. I didn't think you were stupid.'
Before I could reply, he continued. 'So, whether we like it or not, for a few hours a day, we're stuck with each other. We'd better make the most of it, hey?' He chuckled at the expression on my face. 'Now, before I begin to tell you what I know, I want you to show me what you can do. Show me what you used to do with the candles.' He slid one of the creamy tapers towards me. 'Go on,' he urged as I hesitated.
It wasn't working with the candle that gave me pause. The familiarity of its form and texture excited me. It was what Baroque had said. He wasn't being paid, he was being coerced; he was not a willing agent of the Maleovellis. For some reason, this made me see him in a different light. Perhaps I'd judged him too harshly.
I slowly picked up the candle and turned it over in my hand, feeling the smoothness of the wax. I held it to my nose. Beeswax. 'These are good quality,' I said.
'Sì,' agreed Baroque. 'I was to buy the best.'
I twirled it in my fingers. 'What would you like me to show you exactly?'
Baroque considered this for a moment. 'What was it you used to do with the ones that were so successful in the Candlemakers Quartiere?'
'Without going into too much detail, I used to infuse them with happiness.'
Baroque snorted. 'Really? That was it?'
'Sì, basically,' I said sharply, my cheeks colouring. His derision bothered me. He hadn't seen what they could do, the contentment they brought to people. 'But remember, I would make them from scratch. I was able to hide the strength of the extraction. I'm not practised in changing candles that someone else has made. This will take time to get right.' I held up the taper. 'I will have to be very careful. I will make many mistakes.'
He weighed my words. 'But you can do it?'
'Sì, but it will be strong -- maybe overpowering.'
'What harm can happiness do?'
I recalled my early efforts -- the happiness of the alchemist and his wife, of Francesca, the fruiterer's daughter Lucia and her amore. I almost recoiled. 'You may be surprised to learn, Baroque Scarpoli, it can do a great deal of harm. Excess of emotion is not good.' Dante flashed into my mind. I pushed him away.
'Ah.' Baroque lowered his voice. 'Then you have already learnt the most valuable lesson an Esttrattore can teach. What they used to both practise and preach. Excess in anything is to be avoided. Something I am yet to learn.' He patted his belly with a wry smile.
I felt a rush of warmth. The Estrattore would teach such things?
Sensing my glow of pleasure, Baroque smiled, revealing his gold teeth. I found myself responding.
'How do you know this?' I asked quietly.
'The resident expert has not told you?' He jerked his head upstairs. I knew he referred to Jacopo.
I giggled. 'No. Should he?'
'I would have thought it was the most important thing about Estrattore you have to know.' He saw the look on my face. 'I was a spy, Tarlo. I had to know about Estrattore so that when I was asked, I could track and capture them.'
'Did you? Find any, that is.'
His eyes took on a faraway look. 'Once, I thought I had.'
And --' I urged.
'Funny. We were always told to look at the eyes. The eyes were what gave your lot away.' His own gravitated to mine and then away again. 'But this man I found, this man I caught, couldn't even see.'
'What do you mean?'
'He was accused of being an Estrattore. I was sent, along with some soldiers, to bring him to the Doge. In our excitement, we didn't listen to the pleas of his daughter. Not until it was too late.'
'Too late?'
'It was only after he was executed in the piazza that we realised he was blind. What we thought were the silver eyes of the Estrattore were, in fact, cataracts.' He sighed. 'Of everything I've done, I most regret that.'
I stared at him. 'Sometimes we don't see what's in front of us.' My voice was barely a whisper.
'Vero,' he said warmly. We exchanged a long look.
'All right,' he said, slapping his hands together, breaking the moment. 'Happiness it is then. What do you need?'
'For that, nothing,' I said. 'I store it in here.' I touched my breastbone. 'What I've extracted and altered from other things, other people, it's all inside me.'
'Do you feel it, the happiness?'
I shook my head. 'It doesn't work like that; at least, not for me. I don't know how to use what I have extracted to change the way I feel, only others.'
'Then how do you use it?'
I cleared my throat, picked up the candle and wriggled on the stool until I was more comfortable. 'Watch,' I said. I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing. I shut out the noise of Baroque's steady wheeze, the crackle of the fire and the wind blowing through the courtyard. I focused inwards and began to plunder my memories. I knew exactly which ones I would use to transform this candle.
I thought back to my escapades with Dante. Of our times together hiding in the campo, watching the antics of the nobiles and courtesans during Carnivale, gobbling cheese on the awning of a shop on the salizzada, dashing away from the soldiers as they searched for those who had thrown the fruit at them while they snoozed in the sunshine with their backs against the basilica wall.
They were joyful times, wonderful moments. I extracted the pleasure from deep within myself and, with great caution, transferred it to the candle.
When I opened my eyes, Baroque's face was the first thing I saw. He was transfixed by the candle in my hands. But the lines that creased his face had been smoothed; a softness twinkled behind those steely eyes as he recalled something from his past too -- something that made his cheeks rosy and the corners of his mouth turn upwards.
'Now, we light it,' I said.
Baroque grabbed the tinder box and, using the flint and spill, lit the wick. In seconds, a sweet smell filled the workshop. I watched as Baroque's smile broadened. He inhaled deeply a few times and then let out a long sigh. 'Amazing. I feel it. I --' He struggled to find the words. He patted an area on the left side of his chest. 'I feel something here. And just when I thought I no longer had one.' His voice thickened and he quickly slid off the stool, staunched the candle with his fingers and turned to the shelves, but not before I saw the tears in his eyes.
I pretended not to notice as he opened a box and pulled out two more candles. He added them to three others on the bench and pushed them all towards me. 'Can you change these in the same way?'
'Sì, I can. Why?'
Baroque put the lid back on and replaced the box on the shelf. 'The Maleovellis are going to use them. They will burn them for the Signorina's clients to enjoy. They hope they will help make them the friends they currently lack and even bring old ones back. Open their circle of acquaintances.' He raised doubtful eyes to mine.
'If you like, I can make sure they do,' I said.
'You can?'
'Sì. I think so.'
Once again he sighed. I had the strong sense that there was an undertone of disappointment, but it wasn't directed at me. 'Then you had better do that too. I will let them know. They will be very ... pleased.'
I nodded and applied myself to the candles. Baroque's eyes were upon me, admiration, curiosity and a tinge of misgiving behind them.
After I finished, he reached past me and held aloft one of the tapers I'd transformed. 'I can smell them from here.' His eyes widened and he stared at me with something akin to respect. He began to chuckle. 'When I heard about this in the Candlemakers Quartiere, that something had been done to the candles, I didn't really believe, even though I wanted to. But they're changed. Whatever it is you've done, no-one lighting them and breathing in their scent will be the same as they were.' He placed them in a different box. 'And when we're talking about Serenissian nobiles and some of our merchants, that's not necessarily a bad thing.' He winked at me.
'Is that all I have to do?' I asked. I was surprisingly weary.
'For today. But Signorina, you know this is just the beginning. Tomorrow, and in the days to come, I am to teach you everything I know -- about potions.' He pointed to the vials on the shelf and then to the plants drying on the bench. 'About herbs, about the way all these things, when mixed together and in specific quantities, can make people feel certain things, act in particular ways. I'm to teach you about these so that you can collect what you learn and store it in there --' he pointed towards my chest '-- and use that knowledge to change more candles, distil into the wax just as you did then. By the time we're finished, there will be very little by way of feelings or emotions, let alone physical complaints and remedies, that you won't be able to induce in others through your candles.' He paused. 'I'll also teach you what I've learnt over the years about people -- their behaviour, expressions, how they can say one thing with their mouths, something else with their bodies -- what their reactions really mean. Though I have a feeling you may already know a great deal -- more than I think you will ever reveal.'
I swelled with pride at the compliment.
'For what purpose am I to learn all this?'
I already had a fair idea, but I wanted to hear it from Baroque's mouth. 'So the Maleovellis can use your candles to manipulate whomever they want. So their rise to power will be swift and without doubt.'
I studied my hands for a moment. 'I thought so. I just wanted to make sure we both knew what we're doing.'
Baroque looked me straight in the eye. 'You can reconcile this, with your conscience? Your soul?'
'Can you?' I retorted.
He regarded me for a moment before turning back to the fire and poking the embers. 'I have no choice -- not anymore,' he said quietly. 'But you --'
'I have no choice either, Baroque Scarpoli. Not anymore. If I ever really did.' He didn't reply, but began stacking the boxes back on the shelves and rearranging the vials. I watched him in silence.
The afternoon shadows grew, plunging the room into darkness. Baroque added some more wood to the fire and lit the candles at the other end of the table. He began to hum. Wandering into his bedroom, I heard him rummaging through some paper.
'Is there anything else for me to do?' I called.
Baroque's head appeared around the door. He was chewing. 'Goodness. Mi dispiace, Tallow ... I mean, Signorina Tarlo. I thought you'd gone. I didn't notice you sitting there. Lesson is over for the day. I will see you tomorrow.'
'Bene,' I said and slid off the stool, dropping him a small curtsy. 'Don't apologise,' I said as I straightened. 'I have become quite used to blending in over the years. I've learnt how not to be seen.'
'Then that's something I believe the Maleovellis will want you to unlearn. If I understand their intentions correctly, they want you to be noticed by everyone. Just not yet.'
I stared at him then nodded. 'Grazie, Baroque. Grazie mille. I enjoyed my lesson.'
'Anche me. Me too,' replied Baroque.
I hid my smile by turning away. I wandered out into the courtyard. As I ascended the stairs, I knew if I turned round, Baroque would be in the doorway watching me.
DAYS BLURRED INTO WEEKS AS HISTORY, reading, writing, manners and dress, herbal lore and candle fixing filled my time. I could not think of it as candlemaking, not when I'd played no role in giving the wax its form, but I enjoyed working with my beloved medium, practising my talents, refining and adding to my knowledge.
I'd thrown myself into the lessons. I needed distractions, something to keep me from thinking too deeply about what I was doing; how easily it could all go wrong. I also found that keeping myself occupied prevented me from touching the little harlequin that glimmered invitingly in the afternoon light, urging me to extract what I continued to place in there -- my feelings for Dante, which arose every time a fresh memory was plumbed, as well as my doubts and qualms about the entire Maleovelli enterprise.
Even though there was still a great deal I didn't know about the family, they'd shown me nothing but an extraordinary generosity. I wasn't so naïve that I didn't know they'd eventually demand their price; but they'd been frank with me about that. So far, they'd given me a splendid roof over my head, clothes such as I had never even dreamt of owning and delicious food. And they were educating me. At least, that's what they called it.
Every morning, Giaconda would come into my room and, with Hafeza in tow, talk about my 'toilette'; how to make sure I was clean in the areas that count. For a lady, this was my face, my armpits, in my décolletage and between my legs. I was to perform this ritual daily and, once a week, I would enjoy a bath and wash my hair that, owing to my healthy diet, was growing quickly. It already swept my shoulders. I often touched the wisps that would escape my coiffure, twining them around my finger.
Giaconda taught me to add particular fragrances to the water to ensure my skin smelled sweet. There was a rich and heady musk from Hafeza's home, Moroko, and an infusion of florals from Firenze, a city-state a few weeks from Serenissima. There was a citrus perfume from Iraklion, infused, so Giaconda told me, with olive leaves, as well as a range of spicy oils to awaken and inflame the senses that came from as far away as Konstantinople. There were also the scents of roses, dewdrops, sunshine and fabulously shaped containers labelled with ridiculous claims such as 'innocence', 'lust' and 'energy', though how you could extract those without being an Estrattore defeated me. I used them anyhow, and enjoyed the sensation of their perfume lingering in my nostrils throughout the day.
After my daily wash, which Hafeza would inevitably perform while Giaconda watched, I would learn about female clothing. It took me a while to get used to the fine undergarments that a woman was expected to wear -- the long-legged drawers with the silk ties and the gossamer-like camicia that stopped the corset rubbing my skin raw. I found it strange to wear anything under my dress, especially when it took me so long to gather up the yards of material in the skirt before pulling down my pants in order to relieve myself. When I complained about this one day, Giaconda exchanged a long, knowing look with Hafeza.
'You won't always wear them, Tarlo. Do not worry. These are very temporary.'
I wasn't quite sure what to make of that.
It wasn't till the beginning of my third week that Giaconda introduced me to the zoccoli. These added inches to my height, and I struggled to maintain my balance, even with Hafeza's arm to clutch as I tried to walk around the room.
'Glide, Tarlo. Slide your feet forward as if you're dancing,' suggested Giaconda in her calm way. 'Don't try to lift your legs; the shoes are too heavy for that. You'll look graceless.'
'I think I've achieved that already.'
Giaconda just smiled patiently. 'By the time you're ready to be introduced to society, you'll feel as comfortable in those as you used to in your old boots.'
I doubted that, but shut my mouth and stumbled around, every step being met with a loud crack as the wooden heel slammed into the floor. Hafeza winced and threw her hands up in the air. But Giaconda was right. After a week, I was accustomed to the heavy, ornate shoes and enjoyed the additional height they gave me.
On top of these were lessons in table manners, dancing, and how to speak to nobiles of different rank and merchants of varying degrees of wealth. Giaconda would constantly ride me about my accent, making me repeat words over and over to remove the vulgar strains of the Dorsoduro Sestiere that I'd apparently adopted.
She also taught me how to tip my head, whose eyes I could meet and whose I should not. How to curtsy and how deep; how to use my dinner knife; hold my glass, my napkin; how to leave a table, enter a room, how to deploy my fan ... the lessons went on and on.
One day, a thought occurred to me.
'Giaconda,' I began, 'I don't understand why you're teaching me that I can look some people in the eye and not others. Surely, being what I am, I can't meet anyone's eyes.' I let my gaze rest on her face to drive my point home. We had moved to the main portego for our lesson, so the light shining on my face accentuated my silver regard more than usual.
Giaconda tipped her head. 'For the moment, your eyes are a problem. At night, I am hoping your ... differences will not be so difficult to obscure. Men are not interested in your eyes.' Her lips curved. 'But you're right, Tarlo. We do have to work out what to do with them. Glasses are out of the question, since you used to wear those in your old life. Certainly no courtesan would consider placing a pair upon her nose.'
I'd almost forgotten my glasses -- the thin gold frames and burnished lenses that Katina had ordered Pillar have made for me. They'd allowed me to take liberties I'd never known before. The freedom to explore my quartiere and beyond; to meet people. It was because of them that I'd met Dante. Dorato, he'd called me. His golden boy.
'... But he hasn't found anything yet.' I lost most of what Giaconda said as my head filled with images I'd thought I'd buried in the harlequin.
'Scusi?'
'Jacopo is combing the histories, searching for a solution. In order for our plans to work, you need to be able to leave the casa. Don't worry, Tarlo.' She reached over and pushed a stray lock behind my ears. 'We'll find a way. We always do.'
Before lunch, I would spend time with Jacopo. These were my least favourite lessons -- not because of the content, which I actually found fascinating, but because of my instructor. Jacopo, Baroque informed me, was no nephew of Signor Maleovelli, but a bastard son sired by a young woman who fled to a convent when she discovered she was with child. She died during the birth, which was complicated and, I thought as Jacopo struggled around the room, accounted for his deformity. That Signor Maleovelli took the child from the nuns and kept him surprised me somewhat. In the Candlemakers Quartiere, cripples were hidden from sight. They brought shame upon the family. I know. I was treated like one all my life. In the Maleovellis' casa, Jacopo was entrusted with managing their accounts and general affairs. He was their notaio -- their notary.
Each day I would join Jacopo in his room near the top of the stairs for an hour or two. Unlike the portego, which faced a piazzetta and had views of the grander Circolo in the distance, his had a small window that looked down on a calle and faced another casa. It was so dark that even in the middle of the day it required candles. It was also very close and musty.
At some point not long after the lesson began, Giaconda would join us and sit quietly in a corner. I knew her presence made Jacopo uneasy. I didn't need to extract -- his entire body reacted to her by tensing, and sweating profusely. After a couple of hours, his odour would so permeate the room that I found it difficult to breathe. If it bothered Giaconda, she never made mention. She would remain, unmoving and silent, while Jacopo, sitting beside me but never looking directly at me, with his turned leg stretched in front of him, would have me copy out letters on thick pieces of paper with rough edges. At first he sat so close to me, his thigh brushed mine, his fingers hovered over the back of my hand as I wrote. I shifted aside, out of reach, but he chased me across his chair, almost ending up in mine. I longed to push him away, to distil something into him that would force him to keep his distance, but with Giaconda there, I didn't dare. It wasn't till one day, when he placed his hand on my leg, that Giaconda broke her silence.
'Jacopo,' she said with such intensity he froze. 'She's not to be touched. Do you understand?'
Sniffing and licking his lips, Jacopo withdrew his hand. I moved my chair back. After that, he ceased to try. I was grateful to Giaconda and now understood why she stayed.
I would re-use the paper given to me, spinning it around to write across what I had done the day before, then turning it over to start afresh. I mastered the alphabet very quickly, learning to sound out my vowels and consonants. After a day or two, Jacopo began to teach me to script basic words.
I was a quick student. While I was forbidden from initiating touch with anyone in the house, or directly holding certain objects, they hadn't thought much about the pieces of paper I wrote upon. Every time I came in contact with one, I would delicately extract. From that, I could feel the other hands that had passed over its surface, the quills that had scratched letters and words, words that time had faded but in which the memories of the author were imprinted. I assimilated these as well as my lessons and I knew that Jacopo was impressed with the speed at which I learned and which he attributed in a self-congratulatory way to his teaching. That was something that his quill, which I occasionally touched, told me. It also revealed to me a great darkness within him. It was something I didn't want to explore.
My education proceeded at a good pace and my teachers were pleased. I enjoyed what I was being introduced to and, for all my restlessness, there was much to stimulate and satisfy me -- providing I wasn't left with my own thoughts and recollections for too long. Those I fought daily to repress.
My little harlequin was my secret repository, my redeemer. Every time something became too much for me, I would distil it into my figurine. It sat atop the cabinet -- my greatest secret, filled with my longings and the pain of far too many memories.
Memories I foolishly hoped never to have to deal with again.
THERE WAS THE RUSTLE OF ROBES and the clang of keys. Katina stirred atop her bed and sat up. The candle almost guttered and she quickly cupped her hands around the flame to preserve the light. Reassured it wasn't going out, she stood up and straightened her clothes. No-one was expected and she wondered who it could be. Fortunately, she'd washed a few hours ago and been given a fresh robe. She twisted her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck and rubbed her eyes, waiting to see who entered her cell.
The door swung open and in walked an old man in dove-coloured robes carrying a tray. Over his shoulder swung a heavy bag. He turned towards the guard.
'You may leave us,' he said and waited until the guard had shut the door behind him.
'Elder Maggiore.' Katina bowed her head, trying to hide her astonishment. An Elder, and of all of them, Maggiore, visiting her? What was going on?
'Katina.' Smiling gently, he held out the tray. 'Sì, sì.' He verbally dismissed her as she went to kiss his hand. 'Enough of that. Take this, would you? Before I drop it.' She bore it from his shaking hands and placed it on the small table against the wall. It was laden with food and a brimming jug. Vino splashed over the lip as Katina set the tray down.
Elder Maggiore let the bag drop from his shoulders. It spread in a loud plashet at his feet and out rolled an apple. Ruby red, it glowed in the semi-darkness and, despite herself, Katina felt a longing to bite into it and draw the moisture into her mouth. She picked it up and squeezed it onto the tray. Why were food and drink being given to her?
Rotating his shoulder to ease the muscle, Elder Maggiore made a leisurely study of Katina's cell. Her eyes followed his.
Small, it was nonetheless dry and comfortable. She had a bed, a table and chair, a supply of candles and some reading materials. Every so often, a guard would appear with washing water and a change of clothes. Conversation was brief and neutral but it was not denied. She may have been in deep trouble, but the guards were not forbidden from communicating with her. Each time the key turned in the latch and the door swung open, her heart leapt. She foolishly hoped to see Debora, Alessandro or even Dante. But they'd all been kept from her. She understood why, even though it pained her.
Alone for so long, at first she had tried to occupy the hours by reading. But with each tale or historical account, her mind had begun to drift and the questions she'd pushed aside for so long would come to the fore, bringing doubts and distress. Over and over, she replayed the events that had led to her being held within the palazzo awaiting trial.
Why were the Elders so afraid of Tallow? Why was it so important to sever her from her past? The Elders, particularly Nicolotti and Pisano, had been determined that Tallow feel isolated, alone. And that was before their intention to use her -- to have her release the souls of the Bond Riders from every pledge stone -- had been made apparent. But killing Dante made no sense, not really.
Was it the Obbligare Doppio that caused their fury with her or was it the fact that she had saved Dante? Sure, she knew she was forbidden from making such a pact, but at a time when Bond Riders' souls couldn't be released from the pledge stones anyway, why did it matter so much that she had? Especially, when as far as she understood, she was acting in the best interests of the prophecy.
The prophecy.
The first she'd ever heard of it was the night Constantina rescued her and her twin, Filippo, from certain death. The night Serenissima rose against the Estrattore -- those who practised what was now referred to as the old faith -- burning, killing and purging the city of their presence. All Katina had been told back then was that the prophecy involved a child who would, at the right time and place, restore balance to the world.
The next time it was mentioned was when she'd been given the task, along with her brother Filippo, Stefano, the new Rider, Santo, and a few others of finding the baby Estrattore they'd heard had been born, the child it was believed was spoken of in the legends. And they had. After years and years of searching, they'd found, in an unexpectedly fertile pocket of the Limen, where the Estrattore had rebuilt their lives after they were expelled from Serenissima. They'd also discovered and taken the baby. What had always bothered her was why, after learning the location of the Estrattore, the Elders hadn't formed an alliance with them. Instead, they'd antagonised any potential relationship by stealing Tallow. Then they hadn't even kept her, but had sent her into Serenissima, and look where that decision had led.
What bothered her most was the responsibility -- no, the power, that had been given to Santo. The last Rider to be Bonded, he'd been entrusted with so much and so quickly, before he'd proved his worth. Part of that was the relationship he'd developed with Stefano, but even that didn't explain it all. An upstart, with no experience, Santo appeared to have the ear of the Elders ... or did he? Was that just how it appeared to be? Who was using whom?
Certainly, Stefano had some influence. And why had Elder Nicolotti pulled him aside like that just as she'd been arrested? What was going on?
Katina knew the Elders were up to something and was worried about the role she was playing in their plans -- the roles they were all playing. That was why she'd Bonded Dante. He was her guarantee that if something should happen to her, Tallow had a chance.
Katina studied Elder Maggiore expectantly. This was her opportunity to get some answers.
'I didn't think I was allowed visitors,' she said.
Elder Maggiore chuckled. 'What would be the point of my office if I wasn't allowed a few privileges. May I?' he asked, gesturing to the chair.
'Please,' said Katina and sat on the bed opposite him. Awkward in his presence, uncertain what to say, she studied her fingernails.
Elder Maggiore organised his robe around his legs and then placed his hands on his knees.
'You are well, Katina?'
'As well as can be expected.' She wondered where this was going.
'Bene.' Elder Maggiore stared at the walls then his gaze alighted on the door. He held up a finger to ward off Katina's next question. He stood, picked up the chair, and carried it closer to her. 'I am glad to see that you're being treated so well,' he said in an unnecessarily loud voice. 'Even so, I have brought you some food and drink.' He indicated the bag and tray.
'Why?' asked Katina as he finally sat, directly in front of her, so close his knees touched hers. She was about to give him more room when he laid a hand on her leg. She froze.
'Keep talking to me as if there is still distance between us -- make your comments inane,' he said in barely a whisper. 'We are being monitored.'
Katina's eyes widened.
'Why am I being given food?' she asked.
'Both myself and Elder Dandolo felt it was in your best interests. Without knowing the outcome of the trial, it's important to prepare you for any eventuality.'
Katina's heart skipped.
'This,' he said, gesturing to the tray and the bag, 'will help sustain you. I will have more brought as you need it.'
'Grazie,' said Katina. Her mind galloped. What did that mean? Any eventuality? How many options were there?
'Ah,' said Elder Maggiore, reaching for one of the books on the table, 'you're reading the philosophies of Plato. I'm particularly fond of the cave simile.' He glanced around and chuckled at his joke, flicking the pages. Then he leant in as close as he could again, continuing to turn the pages loudly as he spoke.
'Katina,' he whispered urgently, 'all is not as it seems. Your Obbligare Doppio, forgive me for asking this, but I must know. It's to do with Tallow, is it not?'
Katina drew in her breath sharply. Why, Elder Maggiore was breaking one of the greatest taboos in Bond Rider society by simply asking. But, just as Bonding Dante had felt right to her, so did answering him feel correct. She gave the barest of nods. Elder Maggiore blew out his breath. He placed a hand over hers. 'My daughter.' Katina knew he was not simply acknowledging their Rider relationship, whereby all Elders adopted the role of parent to those in Settlement, but their shared blood ties as well. 'All may not yet be lost.'
Over the next few minutes, Elder Maggiore conducted a strange double conversation. One was held sotto voce, in hasty whispers, with Katina's and his heads pressed together. The other was spoken at a volume loud enough to satisfy the eavesdroppers that Elder Maggiore believed were privy to their conversation.
'Katina, what I'm about to tell you is sacred to the Elders. If it was discovered I was sharing this with you, well, I know my end would not be far away.' He flicked a smile at her. 'You know there's a prophecy, sì? Do you know much about it?'
Katina shook her head.
'While the prophecy states that the Estrattore will create a child in order to restore balance, it doesn't say exactly how that balance will be achieved. It does, however, make it very clear that she must have free will. That she must make her own choice -- not one that's imposed. If she's not able to do this, then chaos will ensue and the world as we know it will end.'
'But I thought the Elders,' whispered Katina, 'they want to force her --'
'Not all of us.' He frowned and gathered his thoughts. 'There's been a terrible disagreement among us, Katina. Oh, we present a united face to all you Riders, but within our ranks there's great discord. Elders Nicolotti and Pisano, along with a couple of the others, they want to encourage Tallow towards a particular choice. They feel that the term "choice" is flexible, that it's in the Riders' best interests to pursue a particular line. They also argue that the prophecy states the "end of the world as we know it" -- not its imminent destruction.'
He rose and walked around for a moment, holding the book he'd first picked up in his hand, discussing Plato in a loud voice. Katina watched him, bemused as to how he could switch from one topic to another until she realised he was not talking about the book he was holding. She glanced at the pile on the table. There was no work by Plato sitting among them, though she was familiar with his writings. Elder Maggiore continued, discussing the philosopher's book, The Republic, an imagined ideal state where one class ruled and all others fell into an ordered hierarchy, where certain professions were excluded and others embraced. He was not babbling. He was telling her something.
He sat back down quickly. 'The Elders would create a new world order?' she asked.
'Sì. A closed one, here, within the Limen. One where Bond Riders rule.'
Katina gasped and hid it with a cough.
'What about the Estrattore?'
Elder Maggiore stared at her gravely. 'It's because of the Estrattore that they seek do to this. To protect us from their intentions.' She recoiled in disbelief. This time, he took her hand in his. 'Katina, do you know why they brought Tallow into the world?'
Katina shook her head.
He squeezed her hands tightly. 'We believe Tallow was created to do one thing and one thing only. She's to destroy the pledge stones.'
Katina pulled away from Elder Maggiore's grip and retreated to the back of the bed. She was speechless.
He watched her for a moment and then continued conversing for the benefit of other ears.
'Why didn't you tell us? You had us searching for the baby all that time and you knew ...' she hissed.
'What would you have done?'
'Back then?'
He nodded.
'Killed her.' Horrified by the truth of her response, Katina drew up her knees and hugged them close. She thought of how immersed she'd been in the welfare of the Bond Riders. Years ago, she wouldn't have thought twice about eliminating a threat to them -- even a baby. Thank the gods she hadn't known. Thank the gods Tallow lived.
'That's what we thought,' said Elder Maggiore, studying the expressions that crossed her face.
'Are you certain? I mean, the Estrattore made the pledge stones. Why would they destroy them?' How does that restore balance? How could this be true? Katina sat in shocked silence. It went against everything she knew of the Estrattore. And as for Tallow -- sweet, innocent Tallow was born to be a weapon. She recalled the immense power she felt in the girl. Tallow couldn't. She wouldn't, would she? She shuddered; doubt replaced the fear. She glanced at Elder Maggiore and, unwrapping her arms from her body, lowered her legs.
Elder Maggiore gave her time to think about what she'd been told before he resumed. 'Once it was discovered that Bonds could be made without the intervention of the Estrattore, that they were required only to return a person's soul, well, you can imagine what happened.'
Katina regarded him gravely. 'Anarchy.'
'Sì. To many, the Estrattore lost their purpose. The nobiles started to pledge people to ridiculous, long-term enterprises, force them into Bonds. The Estrattore resisted this. This is what led to the huge schism between the Estrattore and the ruling classes of Serenissima. It was a battle for the souls of the people.'
'And the Church of the Great Patriarch entered the rift.'
'Esatto. And, they won. How can the popolani live without spiritual guidance? The nobiles, well, they worship soldi. And, once the Doge turned from the Estrattore, it was only a matter of time before the Church, with another band of followers, only this time with power and wealth on their side, met that need. To the Estrattore, destroying the pledge stones will destabilise the power of the nobiles, the power of Serenissima. It will allow the Estrattore to return from exile and bring back balance.'
'So why now? The Church has been a fixture in Serenissima for centuries.'
'Who knows? Revenge? A sense of right or righteousness? Anyway, when we learnt what the Estrattore intended, we ordered you to take the child. We had to get her away from them until we could work out what to do.'
'How did you find this out?'
'One of the Estrattore confessed to us.'
'You have contact with them? But I thought ...' Her voice trailed away. She didn't know what to think anymore.
Elder Maggiore sighed. 'That we didn't know where they were, that they were lost to us? They were. It was only because there was one who sought us out. It was from her that we learnt about Tallow; she revealed to us the ambigious nature of the prophecy and what the Estrattore were doing; just as we are doing now, they were manipulating it for their own ends. In telling us, she sought to give the prophecy a chance -- maybe even restore balance; or maybe we're still being duped and I am nothing but an old fool. But I fear with what's happening now, what some of the Elders intend, we've all failed. We hover on the brink, Katina.'
'Why are you telling me this?'
He took a deep breath. 'Because I believe that you and Dante, with your Obbligare Doppio, can influence fate. Oh, not in narrow, conventional ways, but by allowing destiny to take its course -- and I'm not the only one. You are both Bonded to Tallow. You and Dante will protect her interests -- not those of the Bond Riders or the Estrattore or anyone else -- just Tallow -- the child of the legends. That's what has upset the other Elders so much. You have, out of nowhere, overturned their well-laid plans. In doing so, you've given the prophecy a chance to unfold according to fate or free will, not somebody's determined outcome.'
He fell silent. There was something he wasn't revealing. Katina chose not to press him. Not yet.
Sitting down next to her on the bed, he continued. 'You've seen the changes in those who trickle through the Limen over the years. They don't think of others, only themselves. They no longer seek to fulfil their Bonds, but hide, timid and lazy, caught in the lust of their relationships, of the liberties they experience here, hoping they will never be called into Vista Mare. They're prepared to forego their sacred promise, to commit sacrilege, and all for a false freedom.
'We cannot go on this way. Our life has no meaning. What we do here has no purpose except to gather wealth and power -- just like the nobiles of Serenissima we claim to despise. Look at us.' He gestured to his robe of office. 'Look at me. We're nothing but pale imitations of what we left behind.'
'What can I do?' Katina asked finally.
'Find Tallow before either the Riders who Elder Nicolotti sends or the Estrattore do -- for I have no doubt they will all try to use her to influence the outcome of the prophecy. If that happens, then all hope is lost.'
'What's Elder Nicolotti got to do with this? What Riders?'
Elder Maggiore leant so close, his lips touched Katina's ear as he spoke. 'Elder Nicolotti is one of those who will seek to influence the outcome of the prophecy. He has persuaded some of the other Elders that Tallow should be our weapon and he will use what ever resources he has at his disposable to ensure he has her.'
'So, he's the one behind the plan to use her to release the souls trapped in the pledge stones?'
'Sì. And, as I said, in doing so, create a new order, a new world with him at the helm. Imagine it, Katina, thousands of souls all with unnaturally long lives.'
Katina pulled away and regarded him gravely. 'And his Riders? I am guessing you're referring to Santo and Stefano?'
Elder Maggiore patted her knee. 'You do not disappoint, Katina. You're right. I do not presume to understand the nature of Stefano or Santo's Bonds, but it seems that whatever they are, Nicolotti has suborned them and is using them for his own purpose -- a purpose in which you, or at least your new Bond, feature strongly.' The twinkle in his eye darkened. 'You must be careful. For some reason, even beyond this --' he reached for her hand and turned it gently so the new mark could be clearly seen '-- you pose a huge threat to Nicolotti's intentions.'
Katina's fingers curled protectively over her scar.
'What about the Morte Whisperers? They hunt for her as well.'
Elder Maggiore's eyes slid to the door. 'Ah, the Morte Whisperers. Sì, we know. They grow in numbers. They wait until we stray beyond Settlement and they take us.'
'What are they, Elder Maggiore? Do you know? Or is that another secret you keep from us?'
He regarded her for a long time before speaking. 'You're asking the wrong person, Katina. Find the Estrattore, then ask what they know of the Morte Whisperers.'
The candle flickered and the shadows in the cave lengthened, casting Elder Maggiore's face into darkness. Ask the Estrattore? What did they have to do with the nightmarish creatures that took whatever remained of a person's life-force and consumed it? She shuddered. There was so much she still didn't know and already her heart was heavy with what she'd learnt.
'What's going to happen to me and Dante now, then?' she asked finally.
'That I don't know. I wish I did. I wish I could reassure you. I will do what I can to influence the trial in your favour. That is --' He hesitated.
'Go on.'
'If you will help me, help those of us who believe in the prophecy -- those who believe that in order for balance to be restored, Tallow must be able to choose freely.' His eyes were liquid flint.
Katina could not shake the notion that she was either being moulded into a shape she detested or sacrificed for a cause she wasn't sure she believed in. But trapped in her cell she could do nothing to influence either the direction or outcome. Outside, she had a chance and that meant Tallow had one too. 'I will help you,' she said.
Elder Maggiore drew in his breath sharply, his shoulders straightening as he withdrew from her slowly. Katina felt as if she'd just passed an important test. 'Bene, bene. Eat, drink, build up your strength.' He lowered his voice one last time. 'All that matters is the prophecy. That it should be allowed to unfold without interference from those who feel they have a stake in it; that Tallow be able, when the time is right, to choose. What the fates decree, we will then have to accept, whoever we are. Whatever we believe.'
Katina bowed her head.
Elder Maggiore stood and shook out his robes. 'Well, Katina, I don't know if I'll be able to visit again. I will try. But take advantage of the food -- do not reject that which is offered, will you?'
He stared at her earnestly.
'No. I'm not yet so foolish,' said Katina, rising to stand beside him. 'I am even grateful.' She took the Elder's offered hand and kissed it. He lifted her face and touched his lips to her forehead warmly.
'Gods be with you, my daughter.' Without another word, he left.
The door clicked and she heard the key turn in the lock. Katina stood in the centre of the cell staring vacantly at the spot Elder Maggiore had last occupied, his words, his hopes, his fears, his information echoing in her ears. Her head was full of everything she'd been told; the answers she'd so longed for had been given. Only with them came more questions and more doubts and foreboding.
With a long sigh, she lit another candle before collapsing back onto her bed, placing her hands behind her head. She studied the ceiling, noting the way the candlelight enlarged her silhouette, causing it to fill the uneven rock face, distorting her form. It was how she felt inside -- altered, transformed. She would never be the same again.
Everything Elder Maggiore told her she went over, sifting the information bit by bit, slotting pieces into the puzzle. What had once seemed so straightforward was more elaborate and challenging than she could have imagined. Nothing was black or white, but everything, like the Limen itself, was in shades of grey. Disagreement among the Elders, the Estrattore; conflict within: all of them working at cross purposes, which led to secrets, betrayal and worse. Why was she surprised? Why should the Bond Riders be any different from anyone else? Since when did large groups of people agree about anything?
It occurred to her that she hadn't asked about Dante. Not that she needed to. The Bond they shared let her know he was doing well -- better than well. It was a wrench being away from him, especially now, when she had so much to share, information she could not impart to Alessandro or Debora for what that knowledge would do to them; the danger it would place them in.
As her thoughts roamed, a great pair of eyes filled her vision, silver ones staring at her own with such love and trust that it took her breath away. In them, she knew if she looked hard enough, she would find her own face.
Only she wasn't so sure she wanted to see it, carved as it was into an expression of suspicion, weighed by new understanding and graven dread.
'Oh, Tallow,' she said softly. 'What have we done?'
TIME FLEW BY SWIFTER THAN A PETREL, and with its passing came the heavy snows and thick blue mists that wrapped the city in soft, pale blankets, obscuring everything in their wintery embrace.
I had been with the Maleovellis for over three months, and in this period I had learnt much. But it was my time with Baroque that, above all else, I enjoyed, and not only because of the conversations we shared and the emotions we plumbed. I could relax with Baroque, let my guard down. After that first lesson, when we were both awkward with each other -- like dancers who didn't know the steps but who had been flung together to perform, day by day -- bit by bit, Baroque's and my relationship shifted. Whether it was the little scraps of gossip that would trip from his tongue, information about the Doge, his family, other nobiles and the life in the palazzo that he divulged, or that he could make me laugh, I was uncertain. All I knew was that one day, I anticipated my time downstairs in a way I hadn't before.
Jacopo may have read about Estrattore and be considered the family authority, but it was Baroque who instinctively knew how to teach me.
From him I acquired knowledge, not just about the Estrattore and potions and herbs, but also the fierce Sultans of the Ottoman Empire and their bloodthirsty legionaries, the Kings of Moroko, Aquitaine, Konstantinople and Hibernya. About the sand people of Banghazi that ruled the dry lands across the Mariniquian Seas with their dark, smooth skins like Hafeza, and the courageous warriors who dwelled in the Contested Territories of Judea. He did not tell me with words so much, but by bringing me samples of produce such as cloth from a merchant who traded across Vista Mare, or the dried seeds of fruit that had tumbled out of a barrel brought from Hellas. Every day, I would enter the workshop and he would either gesture to a new object on the table or he would pull something from underneath his jacket -- a piece of wood, an earring, lace, grains of dirt, salt or spices; seemingly innocuous, they were like plunging myself into a vat of experience.
He also kept his promise to the Maleovellis and taught me that which he did not wish to -- the tricks of his former trade. I learnt how to crush the petals of certain flowers and herbs to cure fevers, make a laxative, create feelings of great well-being and aid sleep. I also discovered how these same flowers, when mixed with the ground root or bark of other plants, could be malignant.
At first, I found it difficult to work with these powders and pastes. I found myself gasping for air, becoming lethargic, euphoric or breaking out in a sweat and shaking so badly that I couldn't wield the pestle against the mortar. We'd have to stop and I would flee outside and breathe in the cold air.
It took a few days to discover the source of the problem.
'You're extracting while you're mixing,' complained Baroque. 'If you keep doing that, there'll come a time when you're no longer able to prevent the effect it has on your system. What if you're mixing a poison and you're overcome? What use is a dead Estrattore to anyone?'
Desperation entered his eyes.
'You're right,' I said slowly. 'I am extracting. Not deliberately -- I do it instinctively because it helps me understand what it is I'm handling.' I ran my hands over my face. They came away damp. 'It's how I used to make the candles.'
Baroque frowned. 'I thought as much. Some of the potions we're making, the essences we're creating -- there's a huge difference between the effects of what a little can induce and what a larger amount can do. You must be more careful. We must be. You need to understand how to work these, the balance required before you can even think about distilling the effects into your own body, let alone the candles.'
He placed his hand against my forehead. 'Hmmm. You have no fever, but you're clammy. Would you like to stop for the day? Rest?'
I glanced through the window towards the small patch of sky above us. Although it was cloudy, the light was still bright. It was only early afternoon. 'Can we keep going? I am so close to being able to understand what it is this plant can do.'
And so we'd resumed.
It was a relief to lose myself in the pure essence of plants such as comfrey, the sweet-scented melissa, periwinkle and the beautiful tri-coloured flower, heartsease.
Whether grinding these plants into potions or ointments or simply studying them to extract their properties, they offered me an escape that being in the casa didn't allow. Over the weeks, I'd learnt to mine the essence of the plants and distil them to their most rudimentary form. Whereas Baroque told me that comfrey was used as a poultice to mend broken bones, I was able to discover that when I drew on its essential components alone, I could distil its quintessence in different ways. Candles infused with a little comfrey worked to heal broken relationships as well, to make whole what had once been fractured emotionally or physically. Once the Maleovellis realised the effects of these candles, they began to burn them whenever they had the chance, working hard to re-establish old friendships, encourage partnerships. As the candles melted, so had the hardened hearts of those who once swore never to associate with the Maleovellis again.
Periwinkle, used to staunch blood, became valuable for expelling negative thoughts. Burning a comfrey candle beside one infused with a concentration of periwinkle made an irresistible combination. Nobiles entered into colleganzas with the Maleovellis, banishing their lack of enthusiasm for an association, keen to establish new and fruitful relationships with a house and family they once thought all but finished.
When tiredness overcame the household, I burnt candles suffused with a new seed that had been brought back from the provinces of Phalagonia and which Signor Maleovelli believed would make their fortune -- the cacao plant. Baroque had managed to smuggle a few back from the docks to the casa for me to experiment with and I discovered that they banished fatigue, providing those who inhaled the candles with unnatural energy. As the days flew by, I relied on these more and more.
My life fell into a pattern -- one that, for the time being, I could not see altering but with which, for the most part, I was content.
WHEN THE REST OF THE FAMILY retired to their rooms to relax for the afternoon, it was time for me to go down to Baroque. I was just waiting for Hafeza to arrive. She'd recently taken to escorting me whenever she could. It was because of Jacopo. Lurking in the corridor outside my door had become his favourite pastime; that is, when he wasn't occupied with another task. Not even Giaconda's terse warnings had stopped him. I was grateful for Hafeza's company. Jacopo, as much as I didn't want to admit it, made me nervous.
I closed the window, latched it and crossed to the bed. I strapped my zoccoli back onto my feet. I had eaten very little at lunch, despite the five tempting courses that had been presented. I was too excited. I knew that today Baroque was bringing a special plant for me to work with. Today we were trying something that would both stretch me and test me to my limits.
Hafeza knocked just as I tied the last ribbon around my ankle. I rose to my feet, shook down my skirts and waited. Impatient, Hafeza knocked again. 'Enter!' I cried. I could not get used to having to give people permission to come into my room.
She opened the door and curtsied, waiting. I gave her an apologetic smile and walked as gracefully as I could into the corridor.
'Buon giorno!' I exclaimed as I entered the workshop.
Baroque muttered something in return. He was stooped over the bench, his hands busy pulling vials and other objects from his jacket. It always amazed me how much he was able to secrete around his body.
I glanced outside to ensure Hafeza had gone. I tied my work apron around my dress and dragged a candle closer, peering at what he'd brought. There were a few bottles filled with powders and liquids of different shades of yellow, as well as a large cutting from a plant, which he'd laid to one side. It had pretty green leaves, if somewhat wilted, that hid a profusion of bright-coloured berries. It also had purple, bell-shaped flowers. I reached for it immediately, only to find my wrist gripped tightly.
'Wait,' said Baroque, and released my hand, pulling more objects from his pocket.
'Why?'
'You need to be cautious with that plant.'
I raised my eyebrows and said nothing.
'It's poisonous.'
'Oh.' My heart began to beat against my ribs.
'It's belladonna.'
'That's belladonna? This lovely plant?' My lips curled. 'It means beautiful lady -- yet it's deadly. Who named it? A Serenissian man, no doubt.'
Baroque's mouth twitched. 'You are spending a great deal of time with Signorina Maleovelli, aren't you?' He took in my dress. It was a ruby red today, not unlike the robes of the senators. 'I'm serious. It's toxic.'
My smile disappeared.
'Touch it carefully; remember not to extract too much. And, when you're ready, tell me what its effects are. Why it's so lethal.'
With less haste I picked it up, allowing the weight of the head to bow over my fingers. I inhaled sharply as sensations of great sleepiness and utter exhaustion almost overwhelmed me. I wanted to find somewhere to rest my head and shut my eyes. Instead, I pushed through this and allowed myself to probe deeper, but cautiously, into the plant's properties. What I sensed sent chills along my spine.
I put it down very carefully.
'It kills. The plant is noxious. It can send people to sleep -- but they may never wake. When it is used in other ways, death is swift and agonising.'
'Sì,' said Baroque. 'When ingested in certain quantities. Now, perhaps, you won't make silly jokes when I tell you to be more careful.' I didn't respond. 'Hmm. Now, I want you to touch it again. There's more to belladonna than meets the eye. It doesn't have to kill. It can also do many marvellous things. I want you to uncover what these are. Search its properties, identify what they can do, Tarlo, and tell me what you find.'
There was an edge to his tone that I couldn't quite fathom. I wiped my sweating palms down the front of the apron. Slowly, I touched the petals of one of the flowers and allowed my senses to open to its effects once more.
My elbow began to twitch. I tried to manage it, but before I could, spasms began to twist my body. My knees shook. I felt my neck begin to jerk. 'Steady.' Baroque's voice was loud in my ear. 'Go further, deeper.'
I did as I was told, diving into the sensations. I wrested back control of my body. 'You're right. There's something else here too, Baroque.' Pictures of women picking these lovely plants filled my head, smiling women whose eyes sparkled and flashed like jewels. I saw them pounding the buds, the violaceous juices squirting. There was excitement, not caution. These women knew something, used the liquid for ... I reached for it, but whatever it was eluded me. I withdrew and took a deep breath. I resisted the urge to stamp my foot. I was so close.
'What is it?' Baroque bent and examined my face.
'I was almost there, Baroque. You're right. The belladonna has many purposes and not all are bad.'
'Then you have already learnt something very important.' Baroque leant over the table. The candle flickered between us, throwing our silhouettes over the crushed belladonna, turning Baroque's face into a dark prism. 'Remember this, Tarlo. Even that which seems to serve only evil has another side. Good and bad co-exist. One may triumph over the other; it may be that you cannot find the good; you cannot discover the bad. But they're all there. Sometimes you just have to search hard to find the other. When you do, expose what's there and use it for your own ends.'
I looked at Baroque for a long moment, then at the belladonna. Baroque's eyes were fixed to mine.
'You're not talking only about the flower, are you?'
Baroque sighed. 'I am talking about the world, Tarlo. About everyone and everything around you. As an Estrattore, you have the capacity to extract both good and evil, that which is heinous and what is decent. Sometimes, you just have to search hard, look deeply to find it. Sometimes, you have to make a choice.'
Baroque's hand covered my own. I could feel the roughness of the skin, the precious metal in the band he wore on his middle finger. Without thinking, I began to extract.
His eyes widened. 'Don't!' He pulled his arm away so fast he banged it against the mortar. Pain twisted his features and he nursed his hand under his arm. 'What do you think you're doing? That's forbidden!'
'Mi dispiace! I wasn't thinking. I couldn't help it.'
Baroque slowly withdrew his hand and shook it a couple of times. 'Of course you can help it. I see how careful you are all the time. I know you extract when you think no-one knows. But we do, Tarlo. We do. Your touch is still clumsy. We're not made of wax, you know. We can feel you.' He jabbed his chest. 'Here. It hurts. Take what you want from the objects I bring, but leave me alone!' He turned away.
I felt tears prick the back of my eyes. 'How am I to trust you if you don't let me know you?'
Baroque made a funny noise. 'Trust me?' He spun round and began to laugh. It was not a nice sound. He stormed across the floor and slammed the door shut. 'Grow up, Tallow! You can't trust me. You, my dear, can't trust anyone, and the sooner you realise that, the safer we'll all be.' He shook his head. 'Did you really believe that I was any different? Do you really think that you can trust any one of them up there?' He stabbed his finger in the direction of the piano nobile. 'Oh, Tallow,' he smacked his forehead. 'I thought you were learning. I thought you were smarter than that. You think a few shared laughs and an exchange of gossip is grounds for friendship? For trust? Not when you're an Estrattore they're not, and especially not with someone like me.'
My insides burned with shame and rage. I'd misread Baroque's treatment of me so badly. Just because someone was nice to me, didn't mean they were my friend. A tear rolled down my cheek. I used my shoulder to sweep it away. I had no friends. I coughed and cleared my throat, aware Baroque was waiting for an answer. I straightened my back. Self-pity did not become me. I was stronger than that. I had to be. I just couldn't speak ... not yet.
Baroque sighed and swung the door open, leaning against it. 'Leave the belladonna, Tarlo. We'll do that another day. The Maleovellis want some candles. Not your usual kind either. We've wasted enough time today. We need to get these done.'
I tried to push away my sorrow.
'Oh,' I said, my voice breaking in an effort to be light. 'What sort do they want?'
'Ones that will make their new friends trust them.' He laughed. 'Ironic, isn't it?'
'Sì,' I said quietly.
'Bene.' He slid a box of candles towards me. Inside were half a dozen creamy tapers, different from the ones we'd used the last few weeks. I lifted one out. They'd been rolled well and the wicks were of good quality. Slow burning. They looked like the work of Master Querini on the salizzada in the Candlemakers Quartiere. I didn't dare extract to see if my supposition was correct.
'You're to infuse these with loyalty -- confidence -- and a bit of gullibility, so those inhaling the scent will have faith in what's being discussed. Capisce?'
'Capisco.' I replaced the candle and pushed the box to one side and picked through some of the objects Baroque had left on the bench. Using a piece of stone that had been partially carved, and a sea bird's feather, I became aware that they carried within them many other emotions, many other stories.
Concentrating, I distilled what was asked of me into the candles. The stone gave me the requisite confidence, the bird feather loyalty, and the fish it had greedily snatched from the ocean as they broke the surface, credulity. I also used a piece of myself, how I'd felt just before Baroque reminded me of who I was; what I was. As I had infused musk into my washing water this morning, so I gave that heady scent to the candles, knowing that whoever breathed their perfume would believe whatever they were being told. The changes took only moments to effect. The candles appeared luminous in the waning light.
Baroque pressed the taper to his nose and inhaled. Then he turned to regard me. 'No wonder the Doge wanted you all gone. This is incredible. I can actually feel myself responding to the scent.'
'Me too.'
'I'd always thought you were immune.' Baroque put the candle back in the box and placed the lid on top, pressing down as if to stop the smell escaping.
'Not entirely.' I didn't reveal that all I needed to do was touch something else, extract a different emotion for the affect to alter or end.
'Do you know when these are to be used?' I asked, trying to keep my tone indifferent.
'No. Not exactly, but I can guess. The Maleovellis are preparing to have guests.'
'Guests?' I was astonished. Since I had been here, only a few tradespeople and some debt collectors had been at the casa, the latter to receive soldi owed. I had heard them singing the praises of the Maleovellis as they left. I'd also smelled my candles burning in Jacopo's office downstairs.
'Sì. Tonight.' Baroque regarded me steadily. 'And so it begins, Tarlo Maleovelli.'
'What does?' I asked, the innocent note in my voice fooling neither of us.
'The purpose for which you were brought here -- to ensure the Maleovellis rise to power.'
My heart began to pound and a roaring filled my ears. I resented his accusatory tone. 'It's the same reason you're here too, Baroque Scarpoli, only my reasons are not so selfish. As they rise, the return of the Estrattore comes closer. I am doing this for my people.'
Baroque gave me a long, long look. 'Then how is your reason any different from mine? Do you expect me to believe you won't personally gain from that?'
I didn't want to answer. Instead, I packed up quickly and fled to my room.
THE MOMENT I WAS TOLD I'D BE HAVING dinner in my room, I knew that not only were the guests Baroque had told me about expected, but also that I had an opportunity to discover exactly what the Maleovellis were using my candles for and how they were doing it.
I sat by the fire, prodding the coals to make them smoulder and create more heat. It was a cold night and I would be grateful for their warmth later. I slipped into my nightgown and wrapped a shawl around my shoulders, clasping the edges with one hand to prevent the fringe from catching in the flames.
There was a sharp rap on the door.
'Permesso!' I cried, resting the poker against the fireplace. I leant back in the chair and waited for Hafeza to enter.
She came in backwards carrying a tray from which steam and a delicious smell arose. I could see a large bowl of soup and a bread roll, along with some roasted pigeon. There was also a small plate of pale, crumbly cheese.
'Grazie, Hafeza,' I said as she placed the tray carefully on my bedside table.
With a flurry of fingers and hands, she asked me if I would like the bed turned down.
'Sì, grazie.' She bobbed her head and moved towards the bed. I made a noise that was meant to be a yawn and stretched my arms up in the air. 'I am very tired. Must be because of all the work I did today. I think I'll eat and go straight to sleep. Please, don't bother collecting the tray tonight. The morning will do.' I winced at my poor performance and prayed Hafeza believed me. I chattered away as she folded back the sheets and plumped the pillows. At first I wasn't sure she'd heard me, but when she finished, she turned, curtsied and, with a flash of white teeth, left the room.
To my surprise, I was perspiring. I hadn't lied to Hafeza before. I didn't like it. But I had to know what was going on in this casa. To what I was sacrificing my talents.
I quickly ate some of the soup and nibbled the pigeon and cheese. I wasn't very hungry. My stomach felt like a tumbler had taken up residence inside.
I waited a little longer and then extinguished the candles and sat on the edge of the bed. There was no moon tonight. Outside my window, a thick fog lurked, turning the glass opaque. If I could make it undetected to the hiding place I'd chosen, the darkness would serve me well.
After a while I heard a door close then another open. A burst of laughter made me jump before it was quickly muffled. The guests were here. I guessed that the first course was being served. I'd estimated that there would be a sufficient length of time between the service of the second course and collection of the plates for me to leave my room and make my way to the dining room unobserved.
I tiptoed across the floor and pressed my ear to the door. There. A door opened. Footsteps, and then a burst of noise before another click. I counted the footsteps. Three servants tonight. They'd hired extra help. Their longed-for soldi were starting to become manifest. My breathing filled my ears.
Minutes passed and I heard nothing more. I turned the handle and eased the door open and peered out.
The corridor was alive with dancing shadows, all cast by the candles in their sconces. My heart pounded and for a moment my courage deserted me. What was I doing? Did I really need to know what the Maleovellis were up to? Hadn't they been good to me? What if I was caught?
Before doubt paralysed me, I jumped into the hallway, shut the door and ran. Cloth eyes followed me as I bolted past tapestries before pausing beside a tall cabinet, ready to melt into the shadows if needed. I thought about snuffing out the candles and throwing the corridor into complete darkness, but knew that would arouse suspicion and activity. So I continued on.
I darted past Signor Maleovelli's study, reaching the top of the stairs, hesitating long enough to make sure that no-one was ascending. I kept moving, careful not to bump into anything. I scurried past Jacopo's room and into the main salon.
The dining room ran straight off the portego. All I had to do was go through the portego and get as close to where they were feasting as possible. I already knew from things Salzi and Jacopo said that the Maleovellis didn't entertain in the portego at this time of year. It was too expensive to heat and light. So I imagined I would be alone in the gloom; no-one would be using the main room.
I paused inside the door and took my bearings. The moon may have been hidden, but there was still enough light to turn the room into a palette of greys, and the furnishings into the stuff of nightmares.
The kiss of crystal and tinkling laughter would have directed me to the other end of the room if the glimmer of candlelight hadn't. I moved around the edges, careful not to be heard. Sidling up to the doorframe, I dropped onto all fours and peeped around the corner. I learnt to do that eavesdropping on Pillar and Quinn when I was much younger. Illicit looks at eye level were much more likely to be caught than those snatched from the floor -- something Baroque, in our many conversations, also confirmed.
From where I was, I had a very good view of the dining room. I could just see the top half of Giaconda's face and could hear her. She was seated at the head of the table, a space usually reserved for Signor Maleovelli. I wondered who they were hosting that his position was usurped. To my right, I could make out Signor Maleovelli's shoulder and head. Next to him and closer to me sat Jacopo, turned in his seat so his leg could be extended; fortunately, he was facing away from where I was.
To my left, opposite Signor Maleovelli and Jacopo, were two men. Behind them was the credenza upon which sat my candles. They had not yet been lit. The man nearest Giaconda was leaning forward and easy to see. He looked quite old, older than Signor Maleovelli. The light threw the pouches and lines on his face into relief and I could see his jowls wobbling like an unset jelly as he chuckled at something that was said.
Next to him was a much younger man. His shoulders were level with Jacopo's head. He had jet-black hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck, a long, straight nose, strong chin and tawny-coloured skin stained across the cheeks with a rose-pink flush. His jacket was of the latest fashion, puffed at the shoulder and drawn at the cuff. The shirt that peeked over the top and spilled at his wrists was snowy white. Even from my vantage point, I could see he was very handsome. He held his knife in the air, waving it around as he spoke and I could see a large bejewelled ring on his finger. I wondered who they were and how they knew the Maleovellis. Even more, I wondered what they could offer that the Maleovellis resorted to such dangerous tactics to obtain it.
I didn't have to wait long.
'The Doge is playing games, naturalmente!' Giaconda's voice rose above the others. 'Keeping this new ambassador waiting is not polite!
'Ah, but it is politic,' said the old man, to gales of laughter.
'Sì, bello,' said Giaconda in a voice I didn't recognise. Bello! That fat old man? Giaconda was clearly playing courtesan tonight. I lay down on the floor and tried to wriggle around the doorframe so I could hear better. The terrazzo was cold.
'When he's ready, the Doge will spare no expense to welcome this man ... What's his name again?' The old man looked to the younger one.
'Water Ford, I believe. A most peculiar name. He's a lord,' replied the younger one.
Everyone laughed. 'Only someone from the other side of the Limen would have the gall to carry a title that belongs to Our Saviour,' Giaconda said softly. 'Still, I think Waterford must be furious at being kept at arm's length for so long and after all the supplies and aid he has given our city.'
'I've heard,' said the old man, 'that there's to be a special function to welcome him -- at the palazzo, no less. All Councillors are to attend and extend the warm hand of Serenissian friendship.'
'Well,' said Signor Maleovelli, 'if he helps Serenissima, then I am prepared to call him friend.'
Again, there was laughter. Another servant began refilling the glasses. I noticed he went only to one side of the table.
'I am tired of talking about this ambassador,' Signor Maleovelli chided. 'Let's talk about this proposed venture of yours, Moronisini.' Signor Maleovelli waved his fingers in the air and a servant I'd never seen before detached himself from the wall and lit my candles. Almost immediately, I could smell them. I wondered what precautions the Maleovellis had taken to ensure they weren't affected. Just as I was musing on what they might do, I saw Signor Maleovelli and Jacopo produce handkerchiefs and press them to their noses, making pretence of dabbing their upper lips, wiping their faces. I imagined Giaconda would be doing something similar. I'd told them that crushed cafe beans would overwhelm the scent of the candles and work towards counteracting the power of the distillation. I was basing this assumption on various extractions I'd done with the small, brown nuggets, but was confident it would work. Tonight would be a test in more ways than one.
The two strangers lifted their chins and I saw them inhale. Instantly, their eyes widened and colour flooded their cheeks. Their faces began to shine with eagerness.
The old man's eyebrows shot up. 'How do you know about this?'
Signor Maleovelli crushed his hanky into his fist and picked up his glass. 'Ah, amico mio, you know how sailors talk. It's a subject of great interest at the port. Which means it's a topic of interest among the merchants. Which means, of course, it's a subject of great interest to me.'
'But the Sea With No Name is not on your trading route.'
Signor Maleovelli threw back his head and roared. My heart leapt into my throat. I had never heard him make such a noise. 'It's not on anyone's trading route!'
Signor Moronisini and the young man joined his laughter.
'That's not what I meant,' said Signor Moronisini.
'I know,' said Signor Maleovelli, his laugh dying as quickly as it had erupted. 'I know what you meant. You were being polite. I don't actually have a trading route anymore. In fact, as we all know, my family have not enjoyed the benefits of one for some time. We have to rely on the spoils that others find, much to our disappointment. I hope to change this. So, I continue to look for the right venture into which I can invest the last of our funds. The Sea With No Name caught my interest. I asked about it and found your name on everyone's lips. You have caused much excitement, amico mio. It is a risk, no? It's probably too ambitious for most.'
Signor Moronosini became suddenly serious and stared earnestly at Signor Maleovelli. His eyes were filled with anticipation. I knew that what I'd distilled into the candles had taken hold. 'Why do you say that? Imagine a whole country with an entire population hungry for trade, for new experiences. It's there for the taking. I just haven't found someone I trust enough with whom I can enter into a colleganza. Finding the right partner, the right person to lead and manage such an expedition is so important. And, let's face it, since the plague it's becoming harder to find that individual. Many of the great casas are reeling from losses brought on by the Morto. Entire bloodlines were decimated, never mind business opportunities ruined. Why, we lost four ships ourselves. Whole cargoes were spoiled while waiting for quarantine to end.' He made a noise of disgust. 'I hope the fish enjoyed them.'
Signor Maleovelli pushed his kerchief beneath his nose. 'I heard of many difficulties. Cargoes decimated, ships deserted in the harbour as their crews fled. Then, of course, there were those tragically taken by the illness.' He took a sip of vino. 'As you say, the Morto Assiderato has deprived us of so much already. We cannot lose anymore -- nobiles, popolani or soldi. Allora, on second thoughts, maybe we can afford to lose a few more nobiles, sì?'
There was a titter of approval as everyone crossed themselves and muttered salutations for the dead. My fingers itched to join them -- it was automatic. I had to concentrate. If I moved, I risked discovery.
'No,' agreed the old man, chuckling. 'And in a venture such as this, there's much to lose. But --' he raised his glass '-- there's also much to gain.'
'What have you heard?' asked Signor Maleovelli. 'Come on, Moronisini -- you can trust me. Long ago, we shared a great deal in our lives, huh? Remember? You can share this with me now. I, who have shared everything with you.' He reached over and stroked Giaconda's arm. This man called Moronisini shifted uncomfortably and gave an uneasy laugh. 'What is there to be lost from simply talking?' Signor Maleovelli persisted.
It was then I knew who the old man was -- my lessons with Jacopo and Baroque's mumblings had not gone to waste. Nobile Moronisini was from the Fourth Casa of Nobiles' Rise, someone who had made a great deal of money from trade and who, according to Jacopo and Baroque, had the ear of the Doge. Certainly he was a member of the inner sanctum -- the Council of Ten. The Maleovellis had important guests indeed. If I was caught spying on them ... For just a moment, I wondered what Baroque would say about what I was doing. I had no doubt he'd approve.
Signor Moronisini considered his words. Then, letting out a long sigh, he signalled for more vino. He drank deeply then smiled, his teeth tinged carmine. 'You're right, Maleovelli. We used to share a great deal ... more.' I saw his eyes flicker over Giaconda in a way that made me shudder. He nestled into his chair. 'Allora. The captain of my fleet tells me that the entire area surrounding the Sea With No Name is ripe for investment. He's seen what comes out of those lands -- the Contested Territories of Judea. He talks about the exquisite clothes, the oil, spices and fruit. There's even rumours of jewels the size of plums. Now that the contested lands are not so ...' He fished for the right word.
'Contested?' suggested Giaconda.
Signor Moronisini grinned. 'Esatto. Now the Crusades are over, the opportunities are there for those with the money and the courage to try.'
'I see,' said Signor Maleovelli. 'So, what would you intend? For ships to sail to the coast and a caravan cross the land until they get to the Sea With No Name?'
'That's what we're considering. But it's a huge risk. There are not only pirates, but once we disembark, brigands as well. They've flourished since the Holy Wars. Deserters, converts, the local barbarians -- no-one is safe.'
'They are if they're not seen.'
'What do you mean, Signor?' It was the younger man. 'How can traders not be seen? Does it not defeat the purpose of the enterprise to slink into a country and cower from meetings?'
Signor Maleovelli leant back in his chair, raising his handkerchief to his face and wiping his nose. 'Under ordinary circumstances where the area is known, it would. But you talk of sending a fleet? Am I right?'
Signor Moronisini nodded.
'That requires a great deal of manpower and resources.'
'How else do you guarantee safety or a return on investment?'
'There's another way.' Signor Maleovelli reached for his pipe. Signor Moronisini turned to the young man and raised his eyebrows. I could see Signor Maleovelli had piqued their interest. It was written all over their faces.
'Go on,' said Signor Moronisini.
'Before I do, who were you thinking of broaching this venture with?'
'I was going to ask Castellani to join me. His ships have sailed to Phalagonia, his men know the waters.'
'So you would be taking your entire fleet and that of the Castellani.'
'Of course.'
'What's that? About sixty ships?'
'Seventy-two,' corrected Signor Moronisini.
'Well,' said Signor Maleovelli slowly, drawing on his pipe with such strength his cheeks collapsed, 'that's where I think you're making a mistake.'
No-one spoke. The candles spluttered. In the far corner, a servant sneezed.
'How?'
'I think you should take two ships.'
Moronisini and the younger man burst into laughter.
'Two!' exclaimed Signor Moronisini. 'What is the point of such an enterprise? How could anyone be taken seriously? No-one does that! It's a waste of time.' I could hear the doubt in his voice; his desire to believe Signor Maleovelli. I held my breath.
'Maybe,' said Signor Maleovelli. 'But it's not a waste of money. Senta. If you risk only one of your ships and one of your partner's and treat this expedition as a trial run, as an opportunity to test the waters, so to speak, then not only do you lose very little should you fail, but you have laid the groundwork for a bigger expedition later.'
Jacopo continued. 'You would not only travel faster, you would return knowing the people, the products, with agreements already in place. With exclusive rights already sealed. You could generate huge interest here in Serenissima and abroad -- you could be the one who sets up treaties, negotiates port fees. You could call for investors.' He spoke quickly.
'My nephew is right,' said Signor Maleovelli. 'The Doge would welcome new trading partners, fresh prospects. Trade with Firenze has all but dried up now the Medici Duke has seized power. Roma is more concerned with our spiritual health and their own wealth than shoring up ours. Serenissima's usual allies are either looking to contain skirmishes around their own borders or still scared they'll catch the Morto and be contaminated if they trade with us. We have to look elsewhere. The people in those parts wouldn't know about the Morto Assiderato or that we've endured quarantine. Not only could we bring their world to ours, but the rest of Vista Mare to them.'
Moronisini sat back in his chair and regarded Signor Maleovelli over his glass. 'I admit, you surprise me, Maleovelli. There's a great deal of sense in what you say.'
'Ah, but I haven't finished.' Signor Maleovelli blew smoke into the room. It mingled with the scent of the candles in a pleasant way. 'Not only do two ships present a much smaller target for pirates -- why would they bother when there's much bigger fish in the water? But two ships mean fewer men. Fewer men means they're unlikely to pose a threat to the people of Judea. Imagine if you and Castellani weighed anchor at Jerusalem with your entire fleet? Picture what would happen when the men disembark? It wouldn't matter that they weren't armed; the authorities would think war had been declared all over again. No. Two ships, eighty men. A captain and a couple of merchants you can trust. An interpreter. That is all that's needed.'
'And produce.'
'Naturalmente. If there should be losses, you can sustain those. Write them off. Any bigger and the entire enterprise is unaffordable from the outset.'
Signor Moronisini rubbed his chin. 'I like what I'm hearing, Maleovelli. I like it very much.' Moronisini looked at the younger man, a quizzical expression on his face. The young man gave the faintest of nods.
'You have a ship, I believe?' said Signor Moronisini.
'Sì. A ship that has not seen the oceans for a while but is sturdy and, with some repairs, would be able to make the voyage. More importantly, I have the perfect merchant to accompany you.'
'Who might that be?'
'Why, my nephew of course!' Signor Maleovelli slapped Jacopo on the shoulder.
'I would be honoured, Zio, Nobile Moronisini.' Jacopo's slug-like tongue wet his lips. I averted my eyes. 'I can speak the language of Hellas and Phalagonian and I have a rudimentary knowledge of Judean.'
'How is that?'
'Ah, my nephew loves to bury his nose in books. His affliction, you know. What he lacks in physicality, he more than makes up for with his mind.'
The younger man leant over and whispered something in Signor Moronisini's ear. The old man nodded thoughtfully.
'Scusi, Signor Maleovelli, Signorina, Jacopo. My son was rude just now, but with good purpose. While I know this dinner was a chance to catch up on old times, reflect on what we once shared and what we may share again --' Moronisini's gaze lingered in Giaconda's direction. I heard her fan snap open and knew that was the signal for being coy. 'I'd not expected to dine so richly in other ways. I would like to talk to you further about your ideas. About your ship. About your nephew.'
'Forgive me, Moronisini, if I appear dim.' Signor Maleovelli leant over the table. 'It must be the candles -- their scent is exquisite, is it not?' He waved towards the credenza.
My mouth dropped open. I could not believe his daring.
'They are delightful,' agreed Signor Moronisini, twisting his bulk in the seat to look behind him. 'The sweetest fragrance I have smelled in a long, long time, apart from one.' Giaconda's fan fluttered again, accompanied by soft laughter. I wanted to laugh as well.
'Are you suggesting that together we take the plunge, sail west and see what riches we find? Are you proposing a colleganza?'
'Sì, sì,' said Moronisini, unable to take his eyes from Giaconda. 'Vero. I am.'
'Wait. Moronisini, I am flattered that you would seek to enter into one with my family and more than anything it's what I would desire for us. But I would insist that this colleganza include not just this trip, but future ones to the Contested Territories. After all, if we're brave enough to strike out together once, we should do so again. Would that not make the perfect partnership?'
Moronisini leant back in his chair, his eyes half-closed. His son was the same. Their faces were flushed, their skin glowing.
'Sì. The perfect partnership. Give me the paperwork. Let's sign.'
'Jacopo?' Signor Maleovelli snapped his fingers. Shaking himself, Jacopo became very businesslike. He pulled out his chair and, reaching into his jacket, pulled out a roll of papers and a quill. If the Moronisinis thought this peculiar, they did not say.
At that point, I withdrew. I'd seen enough.
I sat on the floor, my back against the dining room wall, listening to the laughter and the tone of the voices. I waited until they were toasting their new arrangement before rising to my feet and tiptoeing out of the salon.
I passed from light into darkness and had almost reached the other end of the room when a shadow pulled away from the wall and grabbed me. A hand clamped over my mouth.
I struggled as I was dragged out of the portego and into the corridor. Whoever it was, they were small but strong. Pushed into a chair under one of the sconces in the hallway, I looked at my assailant.
It was Hafeza.
Relief flooded me.
'You scared me to bits!' I hissed, placing my hand against my breast, trying to still the frantic beats that I felt sure could be heard. 'Oh, thank goodness.'
Hafeza frowned at me and waggled a finger in my face. She mimed going to fetch Giaconda while I waited. I caught her skirt as she turned.
'Oh, please, Hafeza,' I whispered. 'Please, I beg of you! Don't tell Giaconda! She will be so angry with me! I will get into so much trouble. Please! I wasn't doing any harm, truly. I ... I just wanted to see how Giaconda behaved. You know, if I'm to be a courtesan, I wanted to see how a real one acted around ... men. That's all. There was no harm done. Please, you have to believe me.'
The whine in my voice made it high. I clutched at Hafeza's dress, gathering more of the fabric between my fingers, pulling her closer.
'Please?' I begged as she regarded me over her shoulder. 'I promise, I will never do it again. Never. Just please don't tell Giaconda. She'll tell Signor Maleovelli and ...' I didn't know what else to say. What would they do? What could they do? Throw me out on the fondamenta? Unlikely. It wasn't the punishment I was afraid of -- there wasn't really anything they could do to me. I just didn't want them to know what I'd done. They would restrict me even more than I already was.
I stared at Hafeza's dark mien, at her conflicted expression, and was appalled at myself. I was manipulating Hafeza! I was as bad as the Maleovellis. She was a slave, bound to her mistress. It wasn't right that I test her loyalty like that. Disgusted with myself, I released the material in my hands, feeling it slither out of my grasp and sat back on the chair, defeated.
'It's all right, Hafeza. Go. I'll wait.' I let out a long sigh. 'Tell Giaconda.'
I'm not sure what changed Hafeza's mind, but instead of heading towards the dining room, she took me by the hand and pulled me to my feet. Then she led me back down the corridor and into my room. Speechless, I half-ran to keep up.
Pushing me gently inside my bedroom, she went to shut the door. It was then I noticed that the tray had been collected. That was how she knew. I stopped her. 'Grazie, Hafeza. I am indebted to you. I promise I'll never sneak out again. I'll never listen in on conversations -- well, not unless I'm invited. Grazie mille.'
It was hard to read Hafeza's features in the glow of the fire. She showed her teeth in what I took to be a smile and did the most astonishing thing of all. She lifted her callused hand and stroked my face, cupping my cheek briefly. I resisted the urge to extract. My heart filled and I smiled, searching for words of gratitude, of friendship. But before they came, she slid out the door and closed it behind her.
As I trudged across the floor, I wondered at Hafeza's actions. Baroque was wrong. I had found the friend I was looking for -- someone I could trust. Hafeza risked a great deal in not telling Giaconda. I raised my hand to where hers had been only moments before. She'd touched me. Not because she was coerced or because it was part of my elaborate toilet, but in affection.
I climbed into bed and pressed the part of my face that she'd stroked into my pillow. For the first time since I'd been in the Maleovellis' casa, I went to sleep with a smile on my face.
'GET DRESSED!' GIACONDA SWEPT INTO TALLOW'S bedroom, followed by Hafeza, who flung open the shutters.
Startled into wakefulness, Tallow sat up quickly, rubbing her eyes and trying to shake the pall of sleep away. 'Scusi?' For just a moment, her escapade last night came back. Her hands fell away and she became very hot. She glanced at Hafeza, who was busy pouring scents into her washing water. Had she told? Did Giaconda know? There was nothing in Giaconda's manner to suggest anger, only repressed excitement. Tallow turned towards her cautiously.
'We have a huge day planned for you, Tarlo! Come on, get out of bed. It's not like you to be so slovenly.' She turned to Hafeza, who was sorting through some dresses in a chest near the screen. 'No, not that one, it's too bright. The dark one with the silver lace on the sleeves. That will do nicely. Brush down my black cape. Tarlo can wear that as well. It's cold outside.'
Tallow looked from Hafeza to Giaconda, trying to clear her head. Outside? Giaconda was already fully dressed in an elaborate gown of deep purple and grey with hints of blue cut into the sleeves. Garlands of pearls were sewn into the bodice and along the cuffs. On her head, she wore a matching cap with a shadowy veil thrown back over her hair. As she collapsed into a chair, Tallow caught a glimpse of her zoccoli. They had the highest heels Tallow had seen yet. They were well over twelve inches. It was far too elaborate an ensemble for indoors. Tallow glanced at the window. It was raining heavily. Water thrummed against the windowpane. The day was dark and uninviting.
'I don't understand. Have I slept in? Why would I need a cape?' Tallow climbed out of bed and picked up a cup of steaming cafe, grateful for its warmth as it slipped down her throat. Before she could have another sip, Hafeza snatched it out of her hand and whipped her nightgown over her head. Used to being naked, Tallow reached for the cup again, blowing across the surface before drinking. After a couple of swallows, her head began to clear.
'You're filling out nicely, Tarlo.' Giaconda lazily studied her form, leaning back in the chair, appraising her in the same way Quinn would discuss the fishmonger's fare before making a selection.
'Your breasts have grown and your hips are also becoming beautifully rounded. It won't be long before we're able to seek offers for you -- well, once we work out what to do with your eyes. You'll fetch a wonderful price.' Tallow gulped. They'd talked about this before. How once she was presented in public, they would both receive and invite offers from gentleman keen to bed her. Virgins fetched the most money. Giaconda herself had been a virgin many times over. It was to be their way of placing Tarlo in certain nobiles' lives. After last night, Tallow had a better idea of what might be expected of her. It filled her with a mixture of dread and longing.
Hafeza lifted Tallow's right arm in the air and rubbed the flesh vigorously with a cloth.
'That's cold,' said Tallow, breaking out in goose bumps.
'Sì. I told Hafeza not to bother heating the water. We don't have time.'
'Time? For what?' asked Tallow, cringing as the cold washer was dashed over her breasts and between her legs. Hafeza indicated for her to sit, so she could wash her feet.
'Today, my dear Tarlo, you leave the casa!' Giaconda beamed.
Tallow's jaw dropped. She didn't even flinch as one after the other, her feet were plunged into a bowl and scrubbed. 'Leave? But how? Why? My eyes ...'
'Ah, so many questions, Tarlo.' Giaconda threw her hands up in the air. 'All you need to know is that today I am your teacher and your lesson will take place outside. And for that to happen, you will wear a mask.'
'But ... I thought Carnivale was still weeks away?' Hafeza began to dry her, running the towel up and down her body. Accustomed to the routine, Tallow held out one leg, then the other, talking around Hafeza's bobbing head. She wanted to give the woman a sign of gratitude. Hafeza hadn't exposed her.
'Sì, it is. But it's the nature of Carnivale that in the lead-up, we celebrate its approach with masks and it so happens that it's perfectly appropriate for ladies to wear them this very day.' Opening the purse tied to her wrist, Giaconda pulled a fabric mask out. She unfolded it and began to tug it into shape. Black with dark beads sewn around the eyes and along the nose, it was adorned with deep purple plumes. Giaconda stroked them back to life.
'Why today?'
'Something special is happening, Tarlo.' She shook the mask in front of her. The black stones sparkled even in the dim light, but the feathers refused to cooperate, remaining flat. Giaconda frowned and kept fiddling with the strange cloth half-face. 'This is a chance for you to learn a great deal. We aren't going very far -- just to the palazzo in Nobiles' Rise. You, me and Papa. Jacopo will stay at home. The ride is difficult for him. But I promise you, what you'll learn today is more than I could teach you in a month. Now hurry!'
Tallow felt her heart swell. She was to escape these walls, even briefly -- and with the Maleovellis by her side. Would the mask be enough to disguise her? What was it she was going to see?
Hafeza continued to dress her, lacing her corset, pulling woollen stockings over her legs, wrestling her into the dress and pushing zoccoli onto her feet before finally pinning the mask securely into her hair so that it hid the entire top half of her face. Tallow couldn't stop plucking at her skirt, fiddling with her locks. Hafeza had to slap her hands away a few times and chide her with an angry finger.
When she was finally ready, Giaconda stood up and slowly circled her, like a gull before it dives. Tallow's throat grew tight. From behind her mask, she followed Giaconda and, standing in front of the mirror, she also took stock of her appearance. The mask was wonderful; sitting away from her skin, it concealed her eyes. They were just like the glittering jewels that arced in place of her eyebrows -- lustrous and dark.
'I thought you might need a veil, but you don't,' said Giaconda finally. 'Good, It's important you're able to see everything today.' She clapped her hands together. 'Come, Papa awaits us.'
With a grateful and knowing smile for Hafeza, Tallow followed Giaconda from the room.
THE RAIN HAD CEASED AS, along with Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli, I left the comfort of the gondola's felze and stepped onto the fondamenta that led to the piazza outside the Doge's palazzo.
Taking Salzi's proffered arm, I followed the Maleovellis onto the cobbles, reorganising my long, black cape as Giaconda had shown me. Unable to see anything from the felze, as the Maleovellis had kept the window shut, I eagerly pulled the hood over my hair and drank in the sites.
It wasn't what I expected.
It was not the buildings -- they were as grand as I had hoped and my neck soon hurt from twisting to and fro. No, what astonished me most of all was the people.
As we mounted the stairs towards the Rise, there were hundreds and hundreds of figures all heading in the same direction, across the wide expanse of the main piazza and towards the Grande Canal. I had never seen so many people in my life. My eyes darted everywhere, drinking in the atmosphere, the sights. What was most astonishing was that they did not speak a word. A little voice of warning started to toll in my mind.
Sombre, the mass moved forward, the only sound the whisper of robes, the clack of heels, the splash of puddles as they all progressed towards a giant wooden platform erected at the lagoon end. From her great height, Giaconda was able to cut a swathe through the people and bring us very close to the stage. I felt a tingle along my spine. There was only one row between us and the platform.
I was relieved to see that many people were either masked or veiled. Giaconda was right; I would not attract even a second glance. As the jostling stopped and places were found, the mask also gave me a chance to study everyone, to absorb my surroundings.
To my right was the Doge's palazzo. An enormous angular building, it still managed to appear light, rising from the fondamenta a blushing contradiction of delicateness and substance. An elegant balconette jutted out about halfway along, overseeing the crowds beneath. Red and gold curtains framed it, fluttering in the wind.
The press of the bodies made me feel warm, but since there was a chill in the air, I didn't mind so much. The smell, however, was not so pleasant. Being accustomed mainly to the aromas of the Maleovellis' casa and Giaconda's scent, I found the odour of so many unwashed bodies difficult to stomach. I wondered at how much I had changed in so short a time. Underneath it, I could smell the tang of the sea. I tried to see past the platform, beyond the lagoon and the masts that keened against the clouds. Out there was the Mariniquian Sea and all the places Baroque had told me about.
The bells in the campanile began to toll. Their long, sonorous notes rang out over the piazza, forcing the crowd to complete stillness. An insolent flock of pigeons swooped overhead, cooing and chirping, defying someone to break ranks and shoo them away. They alighted in the eaves of the palazzo, twisting their pretty heads to study the human assembly.
The last note of the bells lingered, taken over by the steady slap of water breaking against the fondamenta. A gust of wind almost blew my hood off; I caught it just in time. As I lowered my hand, the crowd stirred. Behind me, there was a flourish of trumpets. We raised our chins to watch the Doge appear on the balcony. Swathed in his gold robe and cone-shaped hat, the corno ducale, he looked more like a frail old nonno than he did a ruler. Beside him was a small elderly woman -- the Dogeressa. Drowned by her dark cape and a sea of servants who quickly surrounded her, I caught only a glimpse. Dwarfing both the Doge and the Dogeressa was another man. Dressed in scarlet like a senator, but with a high cap bordered with gold, he had a pale, lean face. His eyes swept the crowd. A huge golden crucifix encrusted with jewels hung around his neck. So, this was the Cardinale. The man who built a reputation on hunting Estrattore. I imagined his arm unfurling from within his wide sleeves to point me out among the thousands, demand my arrest.
Movement to my right drew everyone's focus. Pushing their way through the crowd, which quickly opened a space to admit them, came over a dozen hooded men, climbing the rough-hewn stairs on either side of the podium. Their black togati swept their ankles, their hoods bobbed loosely about their heads, the slits for their eyes opening and closing with each step. I wondered if this was a new fashion, an extreme mask, until I saw what two of them carried.
One of the men had a huge, thick-bladed sword. He raised it when he reached the top of the dais. It gleamed in the grey light, its blade smooth and sharp. At the same time, another man dropped a large chunk of wood, slightly curved on top, in the centre of the platform. In front of that, he put down a crudely woven wicker basket.
The people before us moved back as the basket hit the stage. They didn't stop, despite the murmurs of protest, until there was at least three feet between them and the platform. I almost tripped as I was forced to retreat. The man who had brought the wood laughed. It was a grim sound, muffled beneath the fabric of his hood. I noticed a small piece of embroidery on the shoulder of his togati -- a rope twined around a crossed sword and axe.
In a flash, I knew who these men were: they were part of the Guild of Death -- Scuola Morte. What was going on? I began to extract from the stones beneath my feet.
Excruciating pain, excitement tinged with bitterness, fear, terrible secrets, lust, unhinged thoughts and righteousness overwhelmed me as I naïvely absorbed the emotions of thousands of people, past and present. My knees began to buckle.
By God! My eyes flew to the platform. I knew what was happening. It had happened thousands of times over the centuries. The fondamenta harboured its memories -- of that deadly contraption and many other stories. I had simply caught a glimpse and nearly lost myself.
'Stop that immediately!' hissed Giaconda, grabbing my arm and holding me upright. 'That's precisely what the Cardinale is looking for! You will give yourself away.'
I had been brought here not to be indulged, as I'd so stupidly thought, but to witness an execution. Why? I glanced at Giaconda and then Signor Maleovelli. But their faces revealed nothing as they stared ahead.
Giaconda let me go. 'Control yourself.'
I did.
After what seemed like an age, there was a commotion under one of the arches in the Doge's palazzo. Again the crowd roused, and people were pushed and stumbled into one another. A file of soldiers forced their way through, their spears glinting above people's heads. In their midst was a prisoner.
The soldiers reached the platform and, using their weapons, prodded the criminal. A member of the Council of Ten followed.
The prisoner was brought to the edge of the rostrum and made to face the crowd. I could smell him from where I was. He was filthy. What had once been clothes were now rags, covered in blood and excrement. The wounds of his torture wept, turning his flesh into one giant canker. His hair was matted and glued with bodily fluids. He was tall and skeletally thin and he looked very old. I felt a wave of sympathy for this poor man and wondered what he'd done that his life should end in such a way. Where were his family? How did they feel?
His head was bowed into his chest as if ashamed to face not only his accusers, but also his fellow popolani.
My knees began to quiver and my heart to thunder.
The member of the Council, some nobile, let the crowd study the prisoner for a moment before, with a glance towards the balconette and a signal from the Doge, he stepped forward and unfurled a piece of parchment.
'This man is condemned, before his Doge, the Church, his fellow citizens and, above all, before God as a heretic.' His voice was loud and deep. 'He has consorted with enemies of the Republic and has thus forfeited his life. After all, a dead man makes no war.'
If I had thought it quiet before, it did not compare to the utter paralysis now. It was like one of those black hoods, covering us all. I could hear my pulse sounding in my ears getting faster and faster, louder and louder. I looked up at Giaconda. Her eyes were glittering beneath the veil. A thin smile turned her lips. Signor Maleovelli just stood.
The nobile turned to the criminal. 'You may say your last prayers.'
The prisoner gave the barest of nods and then in a clear, melodic voice, faced us and sang the prayer that I would often hear on a Sunday morning as I'd lolled about the rooftop in the Candlemakers Quartiere -- the 'Salve Regina'. A hymn to the Queen of Heaven, Mother Mary.
'Salve, Regina, Mater misericordiae ...' began the prisoner.
I knew that voice. I began to pull at the laces against my throat, gasping for air. My head spun. No. This could not be happening. I stared through my mask, hoping that what I suspected was not true.
But beneath the filth and injuries, even more apparent now as the old man tilted his head proudly and sang forth, I recognised those dark eyes, the proud bearing, the firm chin. His grandson had them too.
The man about to die was Dante's grandfather, Renzo Macelleria. The man who had welcomed me into his home. Who had shown me nothing but kindness and compassion. The man I saved from consumption and the Morto Assiderato. I threw back my head as the light around me narrowed into a pinpoint of darkness.
'Oh, no you don't,' hissed a voice in my ear and I felt hands grab my elbows and hold me upright. Fingers pressed into my flesh so hard I nearly cried out. 'You will watch this, Tarlo, and you will learn,' spat Giaconda. 'Here begineth your lesson.'
I wanted to screw my eyes shut, to retreat into the blackness swamping my mind, but I couldn't. The Maleovellis gripped me so tightly, I was compelled to watch. To watch the dear man who had given me succour, as brief a time as it was, die a brutal death.
The words of the nobile suddenly became clear. I was the enemy of the Republic that this man had consorted with. He was being put to death because of me.
And Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli knew. They'd brought me here to witness this, to teach me a lesson ... but what lesson? They were consorting with me as well -- this could be their fate if they were caught! Why were they risking this?
I wanted to scream, to fight my way free of the crowd. To run and run and never come back. But I was trapped.
Renzo Macelleria finished his prayer and, without a murmur, knelt before the stump. His shirt was pulled away from his neck and the swordsman stepped forward, pushing Renzo's head onto the block and twisting it to one side, away from the palazzo, away from the symbol of his country. The Republic that he was accused of betraying.
The executioner stood back and raised his weapon towards the sky. For what seemed like hours, he held it above his shoulder, frozen against the firmament, silver and grey, cold metal against soft, rolling clouds. I was transfixed. This was not real.
But it was.
Just before the sword fell, Renzo tilted his chin slightly and looked into the crowd. His eyes locked onto mine. I willed him to see through the mask, to know me, to understand how sorry I was. How I would never forgive myself for this.
With a swift rush of air and a heavy, wet thud, his head toppled into the basket. A fountain of blood rose into the air and then splattered all over the cobbles, spraying those in front of us and landing at my feet.
I began to extract. Feelings rushed into my body. Overwhelming sadness, resignation and a plea to ... the gods! Not the God of the Patriarch, of the Church, but to the gods of the Estrattore! I could sense love, trust and a hope so strong ... I tried to grasp hold of it, to distil it down to its core and thereby understand, but I was knocked from my feet as the crowd surged forward and a cheer rose. 'Estrattore lover! Traitor!' Missiles of fruit and vegetables exploded onto the stage, forcing Renzo's executioner to jump backwards. The commotion hid the sobs that rose in my chest and exploded from my throat.
Swiftly, the Maleovellis grabbed me and propelled me forward, through the crowd, which was becoming noisier by the second, past the dais and onto the other side of Nobiles' Rise, the fondamenta of the Grande Canal. Even in my distress, I recognised the gondola dipping on the waters.
Salzi leapt off the prow and ran towards us. Without a word, he scooped me into his arms. I was crying now. I didn't care that I was thrown into the felze, or that Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli squeezed in with me, shutting the curtains, shoving my legs off the seat so they too could sit. I curled into a corner, sobbing.
Salzi pushed into the current, but we were well on our way home before anyone spoke.
'Here, drink this,' said Giaconda, thrusting a flask that I recalled from my last trip in this gondola into my hands.
'I don't want any,' I said brokenly. I searched for my handkerchief and blew my nose in a very unladylike manner.
'I was not asking you,' said Giaconda ever so softly and slowly. 'If you don't drink some, Papa will hold you while I pour it down your throat.'
I stared at Giaconda for a moment before snatching it from her fingers and taking a gulp. It burned, but I felt my nerves settling.
I tried to glare at both of them, but their faces swam in my tears. 'You knew who that was, didn't you? You knew he was executed because of what he did. Because of me.'
'Sì. Vero. We did.' Giaconda removed her hat and veil and regarded me steadily. Signor Maleovelli eased back in the seat, giving away nothing. Giaconda lit a candle. Its dim light only added to the stuffiness of the interior.
'Why? Why did you bring me there? Why did you make me watch? He was a good man, a kind man, and he died because of me.' I hit my chest.
Giaconda blew out the spill and shoved it back in the tinder box. 'Esatto, Tarlo. That's the point. To teach you a lesson.'
Signor Maleovelli reached for his pipe.
'Papa, please,' said Giaconda, placing a hand on his arm. 'Not in the felze. Do you want us to choke?'
Signor Maleovelli sighed and put the pipe back in his pocket. The ordinariness of their exchange infuriated me. Here they were worrying about some smoke, when a good man, a man I knew, had just been brutally killed. I balled my fists.
'What lesson might that be, Signorina Maleovelli? Please enlighten me, because I can't see the gesture as anything but cruel. If you knew, why didn't you tell me? I would have been prepared. Maybe I could have stopped it.' Even I realised how foolish that sounded. 'Helped him in some way ...' I saw how unmoved they were by my statements. 'I don't understand why you dragged me there.' I pointed through the curtains. 'I don't understand what you hoped to achieve.' I hiccoughed as another bout of weeping threatened to steal my resolve to speak.
'What you have learnt today is very important, Tarlo.' Signor Maleovelli faced me as he spoke. 'You have witnessed that what we're involved in is a deadly game. Lives are at stake. We have to be very careful or more people will die. But Tarlo, we can protect you and others from that ...' He searched for the right word. '... barbarity. If you help us to power, you need never see anything like that again. Do you understand?'
'But that's not all.' Giaconda shifted from her father's side and sidled towards me. 'There's another lesson to be taken from this, Tarlo.'
I waited.
'Just as Renzo Macelleria paid the ultimate price for breaking the rules, so too today's trip outside the casa serves as a form of punishment for you. We knew seeing the old man die would be ... difficult for you.'
'Difficult?' I spluttered. 'That was beyond difficult.' I took a few deep breaths. I needed to master myself. 'Why am I being punished? What have I done that ...' I stopped. My hand flew to my mouth. I knew exactly to what Giaconda was referring.
'You were told very clearly never to extract from us, Tarlo, never to touch us in the way that your kind do.'
'B-- but I haven't.' I pulled the skirt of my dress around my legs so it did not touch Giaconda's. 'I know you forbid that.' Colour flew to my cheeks.
'Really?' said Giaconda. 'Well what do you call spying on us?'
Words froze in my throat.
'You eavesdropped on our dinner last night; on the conversation we had with our guests. It amounts to the same thing as extracting. You wilfully broke our rules.'
My head reeled. Hafeza had told Giaconda after all. She'd betrayed me. First, the shock of Renzo, and now this. Grief became something solid in my chest. I pressed my face into my hands.
'When you eavesdrop, you learn things about us that we're not ready to share. Do it again, and I swear, someone else you care about will die.'
I lifted my head. Tears streaked my face. 'What do you mean? Is that a threat?'
'It's no threat, you silly girl! The Cardinale is offering generous rewards and clemency for information about those who would hide an Estrattore. All it would take is one name from us ...'
Pillar? They would give him Pillar.
'After all, we have a whole quartiere from which to choose.'
I glared at Giaconda darkly.
'Don't look at me like that, Estrattore. I don't understand why you would do this to us. We are not your enemy. What more do we have to do to prove that to you?' She waved her hand so it included my clothing, the gondola, her father and finally, herself. 'You don't scare me. But what I am saying to you should terrify you to your very marrow.'
I slumped back against the wall of the felze. I didn't want to admit it, but her threats did frighten me.
Taking me unawares, she threw back her head and laughed. 'Such a heavy conversation; such a heavy day. We need to put this behind us. We need to look to what we can achieve, what we can change, do we not, Papa?'
'Indeed we do, cara mia.'
Giaconda clapped her hands together. 'Bene, bene.'
Signor Maleovelli excused himself and, taking his pipe out of his pocket, joined Salzi outside. Smoke soon drifted into the felze. Giaconda reached over and pulled the curtains tightly across. Sitting back down, she rearranged herself in the seat until she was facing me. 'Tarlo,' she began, the harshness of her earlier tone softened, 'I know I must seem so hard to you --' she delicately pushed a wisp of hair behind her ear -- 'but it is the only way to survive in this world. I'm a courtesan: I share my feelings, my heart, with no-one. I cannot afford to. Neither, my dear, can you.' She traced my tears with a gloved hand. 'You are an Estrattore -- your whole being is created to feel -- to understand emotions and enhance or weaken them. But Estrattore can also suppress them.' She sat back in the seat. 'Do you know what Jacopo told me he'd read?'
I shook my head. I didn't trust myself to speak. Her sudden kindness unnerved me. It made me want to cry more.
'He told me that in the past, Estrattore would often help grieving families by taking away their sadness; or that they would help a love-struck youth forget the object of his love. It's in their scope to stifle emotions as much as it is to extract and distil them.' She leaned forward. 'You need to do this for yourself -- cut off your emotions. Make them disappear. Act as if nothing affects you. If you don't, then you will be lost.' She opened the window in the felze and stared out at the passing casas. 'We'll all be lost.'
I followed the direction of her gaze. Through the rain, which had started to fall again, all I could see was the patterns of mould and mildew that grew along the casas rising from the waterline. Grim, it formed a stark contrast to the colourful render. It occurred to me that my choice was like that. I could either be lost in a mire of emotions and sink into a pool of despair, or embrace the colourful life being offered to me and rise above it.
I became aware that Giaconda was studying me.
'When we reach the casa, you are to remain in your room for the rest of the day. Papa, Jacopo and I have arrangements to make on the basis of the agreement we formed with the Moronisinis last night. We need Baroque as well,' she added, her face a grimace. 'I will have Hafeza bring food. I want you to think on what you saw today and what Papa and I have said. Then, tomorrow, your lessons will continue. Only from hereon in, I want to see more of Tarlo Maleovelli and less of Tallow Pelleta the candlemaker. Am I clear? We need to pick up our pace, Tarlo. Things are afoot; we have to be ready to act. Capisce?'
I nodded. My head was spinning.
'Now that this unpleasantness with the old chandler is over, the celebration to welcome the new ambassador can go ahead and, when it does, we will use the opportunity to present you to the world.'
I barely heard her next words.
'You had better be ready, Tarlo.'
Behind my mask, my eyes throbbed. Emotions I had never experienced before burned in my chest and rose in my mouth. 'Sì, Signorina,' I said, nodding to her. 'It will all be as you desire.'
Giaconda tipped her head in response, her lips pouting just a tiny bit as they did when she was pleased. 'Molto bene.'
The sip I'd taken from the flask was beginning to have an effect. I wanted to drink more, to rush myself into oblivion. Despite my outward composure, my insides were being eaten away. Renzo, oh God! Another Macelleria dead because of me. Forgive me, please, forgive me. I sent my thoughts spiralling to the world in which I hoped Renzo now rested.
And Hafeza. I'd foolishly thought we had a bond -- that we shared something as outsiders in the Maleovellis' household. But Hafeza was one of them. I couldn't trust her. I couldn't trust anyone. Baroque was right. I needed to grow up. My future, the future of my old friends and of my people and even Serenissima should the Maleovellis be successful, depended on it.
When we reached the casa, I went straight to my room, shut my door and fell into bed. I stared at the ceiling for what seemed like hours, reliving every word, everything I'd seen and felt. Hafeza came and went. I ignored her. I had nothing to say.
After she left the third time, I managed to nibble some bread, cheese and cold game. Climbing back under the covers, I watched the fire burn down. Outside, the rain lashed the window and the wind howled through the cracks. I imagined the world outside being washed clean, clean of today's terrible death, of Renzo's blood that had soaked the cobbles, of the pain of the Macelleria family who would not even have been allowed to bury him. Instead, like all traitors to the state, his body would have been dumped far out at sea.
Most of all, I imagined the rain carrying away all the connections to my old life, scouring me clean of past obligations and duty. I would do what Giaconda said. She was right -- the Maleovellis were not my enemy and I could not treat them that way. But neither were they my friends. If I could use them in the same way that they were using me, I would. If that meant obeying them, then so be it.
Giaconda would have her wish. I would go to sleep as one person and tomorrow, I would wake up as a different one -- Tarlo Maleovelli, the woman who would one day bring the Estrattore back and change the world.
WHEN I JOINED BAROQUE IN THE WORKSHOP the following day, I was subdued. As I pulled the apron over my head and tied it around my waist, he gently touched my arm. 'I heard about Macelleria. Mi dispiace, Tarlo. I know that would have been hard for you.' His eyes flicked to the upper storeys of the casa.
I bowed my head, fighting back the tears I felt welling.
'You mustn't blame yourself,' he said. I stared at him glassy-eyed.
'I'm beginning to know how your mind works, that you would believe his death to be your fault.' He gave me a gentle smile. 'The Cardinale, he is a ruthless man. He had to punish someone. Unfortunately, Macelleria was his scapegoat. But Tarlo, you need to know, it's not over yet. He won't stop. There will be others, and some of them will be dear to you. You must be strong.'
'Sì,' I said, moving away so his hand fell. 'And I must be quick. The sooner this ceases the better, and that means helping the Maleovellis. So, let's get on with what we have to do. Enough talk.'
I stood before Baroque and clasped my hands. I had learnt my lessons well.
'Sì, Signorina,' he said, and bowed exaggeratedly. He shot me one last look of concern before he began to place the items we needed on the table. This time, Signor Maleovelli wanted candles that would engender feelings of generosity and sanguinity. More forthcoming than usual, Baroque whispered to me that Giaconda had a liaison with Nobile Pisano, one of the Council of Ten and a wealthy man who made his soldi importing spices from Marrakech.
'No doubt the success of the Signor's colleganza with Moronisini has prompted him to seek more such arrangements. A small investment on his part for large returns.' Baroque lifted a handful of tapers onto the table. 'The Moronisini colleganza is the talk of the city. Most think he's mad throwing his lot in with Maleovelli.' He held up a candle, examining it in the light filtering in the door. 'In a sense, he isn't in his right mind, but who knows, Maleovelli's notion to send only two ships to the Contested Territories may just work. There are others watching this venture with great interest.' He sighed and moved to his usual position on the other side of the table, closer to the fire. 'This is a dangerous game we play, Tarlo. A very dangerous game. But then, as I have learnt over the years, it's those with high stakes that are most worth playing.'
That was something I was learning too. Only sometimes, I thought, as the memory of Renzo refused to disappear, they are too high. I sighed. This was perilous -- only not for me, not yet.
Baroque's eyes were upon me as I picked up the candles.
'Please, Baroque, can you pass me --' I glanced at the variety of objects on the shelves, objects that were familiar to me. 'That old Carnivale mask and ...' I searched for what might make someone act with unstinting generosity. It was not a common trait among Serenissians. Then I saw what I needed -- a coin from a beggar's bowl. Baroque passed the mask and coin to me.
I held them loosely in my fingers and began to extract, sorting through the emotions and sensations I found there, drawing what I needed into myself and distilling it into its purest and most virulent form. My body went hot as I held the mask, its colourful feathers tickling my wrist. I felt laughter begin to bubble inside me as I captured the joy and earthy delights of those who had worn it. The coin told a different story and in its dense composition I found many things, but it wasn't until I felt the generosity of the padre who, torn between feeding those who relied on him in the orphanage and the plight of the sickly young street boy, gave his last soldi to the child. In his heart was such faith and love for fellow humans and a deep conviction that God would provide, and I drew on all this too. That the child later died before he was able to use the coin was something I stored for later. A chilling reminder that even kindness could not prevent the cruelty of life from striking.
When I'd finished, I sat on the stool, a mug of vino from Baroque's own store in my hand. He packed the candles away carefully then, from under a piece of cloth, pulled out the plant that I had tried to fathom earlier -- the belladonna.
'Do you want to try again?' he asked me.
'Baroque, I don't think I want to deal with any more death today,' I sighed.
'But it's not for its deadly properties that I'm giving you this.'
'What then?'
Baroque sat back down and with great care picked up the plant. It was quite dry now and brittle. The petals of its flowers had curled and some had dropped. 'Once, a long time ago now, I had a woman --' He chuckled at the expression on my face. 'Oh, don't look so surprised. I wasn't so bad in my younger days and, even as a spy, I had some status.'
I tried to imagine him as a young man. The creases in his face vanished, the pouches beneath his eyes reduced and the gold teeth became creamy and whole. I suppose he wasn't unattractive. Not handsome, but there was something. It was his eyes that I liked best. Grey, bright and sharp. I wondered what sort of woman she'd been.
As if sensing my thoughts, he moved out of my reach. 'No, you're not going to do that!' He shook a finger at me.
I frowned and sat up straight. I wouldn't have dared put my hands upon him and was astonished he thought I would. 'Why are you telling me this?' I asked, to cover my confusion.
'Well, Zonia, that was her name, Zonia Cucitta, she would use belladonna -- not the way I was accustomed to employing it, of course, but as part of her toilette.'
My mouth dropped open. 'Are you sure?'
'Sì. Many women did. They would pound down the flower, the root -- all parts -- and turn it into a liquid then, they do the most strange thing of all. They would place drops of it in their eyes.'
'Why?'
'In order to enlarge the pupil -- to make their eyes brighter and more shiny.' He put the plant back down carefully. 'It got me thinking --'
'That perhaps I could use it in the same way.'
'Esatto,' he said, pleased. 'What do you think?'
By way of an answer, I reached for the belladonna again. Its swollen buds resembled the sky before a storm. Locked within them was something equally dangerous and wonderful. I would know what that was.
Baroque remained still.
I pressed the flower of the belladonna between my fingers. Viscous ooze escaped and stuck to my fingertips. My pulse quickened. Baroque was right. There was something there. A property that, if used in just the right way ...
Abandoning my earlier caution, I tore the plant apart, dropping it into the enormous wooden mortar ready for grinding. I'd cleaned the vessel thoroughly yesterday, but even so, I could detect traces of feverfew and beyond that, the original ash tree from which the mortar had been carved.
I pounded furiously for a few seconds before being overtaken by the sensations running up and down my arm, the icy tingle along my spine. I was repulsed by what I sensed -- a desperate longing within the plant itself to be released, to sigh into an unsuspecting system and weave its spell. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and kept grinding.
After five minutes, I became aware of two things: firstly, that my shoulder was aching with almost unbearable intensity and secondly, that Baroque was standing beside me, peering into the smooth velvet potion I had created.
'What do you feel?'
I put down the pestle carefully and cupped my hands around the bowl of the mortar and shut my eyes. This time I didn't hesitate, but dived into the sensations emanating from the vessel.
Waves of relaxation swept over me, making the tension fall from my body. The tightness in my shoulder eased. I searched further, allowing the essence of what I'd mixed to mingle with my system. My skin began to grow cold and my eyes to burn. I screwed them shut as tears fought to escape. I wanted to focus on the contents of the bowl. Broken images of women, laughter and huge, glistening pupils spun behind my eyes.
'Stop!' cried Baroque and snatched the mortar out of my hands, dumping it on the bench with a thud. Some of the liquid splashed onto the surface. Baroque jumped out of the way.
'What? What is it? I asked, my eyes flying open and the tears I'd been withholding pouring down my cheeks. I couldn't see properly. 'Oh, my eyes are stinging!' The candlelight, the dimness and Baroque's face were all blended. I went to wipe the back of sleeve across my face and then remembered my handkerchief. I dabbed at my cheeks and eyes.
'You've gone deathly white.' He examined me intently. 'By God!' he exclaimed. 'Tallow!' He sometimes used my old name when he was excited. 'Your eyes.'
'What do you --?' I began, but he dragged me out into the courtyard and over to where the light was the strongest. His earlier tenderness with me forgotten, he took my chin in his hand, forcing me to look up into the light.
'What? What is it?' I was scared, blinking rapidly to alleviate the burning, wanting to screw up my eyes, shut them against the sunlight, but I wanted to know what was wrong more.
Baroque let go of my face and began to laugh. He slapped his thighs. 'Sì, sì, sì!' He did an awkward dance around me, looking like a jester at Carnivale.
I began to smile. 'Did it work? What is it?' I pressed my fingers gently against my eyelids. The pain was subsiding.
He pulled me over to the well and made me wait while he lowered the bucket and filled it, heaving it to the top. He unhooked it, water sloshing over the sides, and banged it on the ground, losing even more on the cobblestones. 'Look for yourself,' he ordered.
I shook my head at him and bent over obediently. At first the water fractured my face into hundreds of wavering lines. But gradually, it stilled. I stared into the depths and what I saw took my breath away. 'I did it!' I fell to my knees, my hands gripping the edges, and looked at what I had done.
In the centre of my silver eyes, two huge black discs had formed -- pupils. The silver had fled to the edges, looking almost grey against the onyx in the middle. I could not believe the transformation. Why, I looked almost normal.
Baroque clapped his hands together.
'What has given you cause for so much ... joy?' Giaconda's voice cut over Baroque's as she appeared at the top of the stairs. Holding the railing, she began to descend. Close behind her was Hafeza. Jacopo appeared as well. Seconds later, Signor Maleovelli emerged from the ground-floor offices, followed by the ever-present Salzi.
'What's all this commotion about?' asked Signor Maleovelli calmly, tapping his way across the cobbles, stopping only when he was inches from where I knelt.
Giaconda and Jacopo flanked him while Salzi and Hafeza remained in the background. Only Jacopo revealed his curiosity; he was doing his usual hand-wringing and his tongue moistened his lips. They stood around me, blocking the light.
'Look at what she's done,' said Baroque, his hand gesturing to my face.
I slowly raised my head.
'My God!' Jacopo stepped backwards, colliding with Hafeza. In one graceful movement, Giaconda knelt down and took my chin in her hands, her nails digging into my flesh. She twisted my face first one way, then the other, peering deeply into my eyes. For just a moment, I was reminded of Quinn and winced. She softened her hold. She stared and then turned to her father, allowing him to see for himself. 'Papa, look.'
Signor Maleovelli studied my face and then smiled. 'Bene. Molto bene. Is the change permanent? Does it affect her abilities?' He fired the questions at Baroque.
'I don't know, Signor. It's only just happened.' Baroque spoke in a measured way. I could hear the amusement in his tone.
'I don't think it's permanent,' I said softly. The stinging had almost stopped. I blinked a few more times. Giaconda grabbed hold of my face again.
'No, her eyes are changing back.' Her disappointment was palpable.
'If she can do it once, she can do it again.' Signor Maleovelli nudged me with his cane. 'Your talent?'
'I ... I can still use it.'
'Bene. Now, all you need to do is experiment with whatever it was you did until you can disguise your eyes for a much longer period.'
'It was belladonna.'
'Ah,' Giaconda smiled. 'Of course. How appropriate,' she murmured, but didn't elaborate. I didn't know what else to say.
Signor Maleovelli flicked his fingers towards Baroque. 'Well done, Scarpoli.' Without another word, he turned and limped back inside the casa, Salzi in tow.
Giaconda let go of me and rose to her feet. 'Tarlo, do not kneel on the ground like a peasant. Remember whose name you now carry.'
I tried to stand up with as much elegance as I could muster, almost twisting my ankle on the zoccoli. 'Sì, Signorina Giaconda. Mi dispiace,' I said, dropping into a curtsy.
'The candles Papa asked for, are they ready?'
'They're ready, Signorina,' said Baroque.
Giaconda gave us one last look before making a noise of approval. She took Jacopo's proffered arm and sauntered back inside, as if nothing momentous had just occurred. Hafeza, after a shy smile, followed. I turned away from her.
Baroque waited till they were all out of sight. 'What has Hafeza done to deserve such a look from you?'
I brushed down my apron. 'Turns out you were right. I can't trust anyone.'
'I see,' said Baroque thoughtfully. Then he changed the subject. 'I knew if you delved deeply enough, you would find the means to effect your disguise! Belladonna.' He started to usher me back in the workshop. 'Come on. We'll work on quantities and determine how much you can take. I am not going to have you ruin your eyes, no matter what the Maleovellis say.' He disappeared through the door, muttering away.
I paused and peered into the bucket again. I blinked. The colour had almost fled but for just a brief few minutes I'd possessed a pair of eyes from which people would not turn in fear or disgust. Dark like the night sky, they'd reminded me of someone else's, someone who had once stared at me with such love and devotion; not in the calculated way that the Maleovellis just had, or as Baroque was wont to. I shook myself. This would not do. I fixed a smile to my face and tilted my head. In the doorway, Baroque waited.
'When you're ready, Signorina,' he said drolly.
'Sì. Vero. It's true,' I said, more to myself than Baroque as I passed him. 'This will change more than my eyes. I think if I use the potion directly, drop it into my eyes as your lady would, instead of extracting, it will last longer. I will try that.' My voice was confident, but my insides were quivering like the houses Jacopo made from cards. With practice, I could, if I was careful, enter the world of Serenissima.
The puzzle of what to do about my eyes had been all that was ever going to prevent me from being seen in public; it was all that had been holding back the Maleovellis' grand plans. Now that obstacle was all but removed.
Baroque had been right: even something that on the surface seemed evil contained some good. Another lesson learnt.
Not only had I solved a very serious problem, I had unwittingly engineered the next step in my education.
DANTE WIPED THE SWEAT FROM HIS BROW and adjusted his stance. He lifted his sword in challenge. 'Again,' he demanded. 'I want satisfaction.'
Alessandro bent over, hands gripping his knees, his blade lying at his feet. 'No.' he panted. 'I surrender. I don't know how you came up with that manoeuvre, but you've bested me once more.'
'Alessandro,' reasoned Dante, 'you can't surrender. I haven't drawn blood.'
'Not this time.' Alessandro scooped his sword off the ground and wiped his hand across his brow. Dark streaks marked his forehead. 'But you've still managed to shred my shirt.' He held it away from his body and groaned. 'Are you sure you never learnt to fence in Serenissima?'
'You keep asking me that!' laughed Dante and, with practised smoothness, sheathed his sword. He ran towards Alessandro, giving him a friendly slap on the back. 'I tell you, I never lifted a sword until I came here. I was a chandler ... and not a very good one. You just don't like the idea that you've had hundreds of years to practise and a novice beats you.'
'I wouldn't describe you as a novice, Dante, not anymore,' said Alessandro stiffly, but the twinkle in his eyes belied his apparent offence. His eyes followed Dante as the young Rider strode to one of the numerous ponds that dotted the landscape. Kneeling at the edge, he unlaced his shirt and pulled it over his head. He dipped his face into the water and threw handfuls over his chest. The water flattened his dark hair and trickled over his torso and arms. Alessandro noticed how sinewy Dante was becoming; his daily workouts with the sword and general hand-to-hand fighting with daggers and a battle-axe were changing him. While his skin had taken on the hue of the Limen, it lacked the sickly pallor that defined so many of the Riders. His shoulders had filled out, his back had hardened and his muscles were becoming more pronounced. The scars that marked his body were also healing nicely, even the large puckered one across his palm, the one Katina had given him.
Alessandro couldn't help the stab of betrayal that pierced him every time he thought about what she'd done, how she'd deliberately concealed her plans. He knew it was to protect him and Debora. But he'd thought their relationship was different, that they shared everything. He should have known better. Once the possibility of a Bond being fulfilled is realised, a Rider is subsumed. Everything else, even lovers, become secondary.
Watching Dante revelling in the water, unaware of the looks of admiration and envy he attracted, he knew the young man had a role to play yet. What he feared most was that it might be all too brief. So much rode on what the Council would decide. That they entrusted Dante's care to Alessandro and Debora and that Elder Dandolo himself had ordered Dante be trained was a positive sign, surely? Elder Maggiore had taken a particular interest in how Dante was being instructed, which also struck Alessandro as unusual.
Alessandro wasn't sure of anything anymore. All that had been solid was now as ephemeral as the mist that defined their existence.
'How was the session?' Debora emerged out of the shifting veils of fog and joined Alessandro, giving him a kiss before pulling at his shirt. 'You don't need to answer, I can tell. Another one ruined. It will take you ages to stitch this back together.'
Dante waved to her and ducked his head in the water again.
'He's very good,' said Alessandro quietly, though his heart lightened to have one of his partners there. 'I would swear he's done this before.'
'I know.' Debora looked over towards their charge. 'It's like he's born to this life. His body has adjusted faster than anyone's I have ever seen. Even his horse skills -- it usually takes weeks for a Rider and horse to properly bond. With Dante and Argento, it was merely hours.'
'And he was so anxious, after what happened on the ponticello back in Serenissima.'
'Until he saw her.'
A slender silver mare broke away from the grazing herd and trotted over to where Dante knelt by the pond. She nudged him until he stood up and wrapped his arms around her neck and scratched her ears. They saw him slap her powerful flanks, running his hands over her smooth coat.
'He named her for the Estrattore.'
'How could he not, with that silver colour? She practically glows in the mist.'
'Do you think it's something to do with the Obbligare Doppio? That somehow, he's absorbed Katina's skills when they shared a Bond?'
Debora shrugged. 'Who knows? That's what the others are saying.' She glanced over her shoulder. 'They're jealous, you know. Of what he can do -- of how easily he's adapted.'
Alessandro followed the direction of her gaze. Clusters of Bond Riders cleaning weapons or grooming horses could be seen through the haze. Their tents rose like a swelling ocean. A few were turned to observe Dante. When they caught Debora and Alessandro looking at them, they hurriedly returned to their tasks. 'Aren't we all?' said Alessandro wistfully.
The thunder of hooves broke the relative calm. Alessandro and Debora spun round. Dante was immediately alert, his hand moving over the pommel of his weapon. Bursting through the trees came a mounted Rider. He pulled at the reins, the horse skidding to a halt sending detritus into the air.
'We're summoned to the palazzo,' he cried. 'The trial of the traitor begins.' The Rider wheeled his horse and disappeared through the trees, the fog swallowing him in seconds. His voice carried as he made the same announcement over and over, mustering Riders to the Council of Elders.
Alessandro and Debora exchanged a long look.
'They're calling her "traitor" openly now,' said Alessandro grimly.
'It's as if they've already condemned her,' agreed Debora.
Dante pulled his shirt back over his head and joined them, Argento in tow. 'They've made a decision then, have they?' His great black eyes sparkled.
'Sì,' whispered Debora. She reached for Alessandro, twining her fingers around his.
Dante nodded gloomily. A rough hand gripped his shoulder.
'Prepare yourself, Dante' said Alessandro. 'For it's not only Katina's fate that's about to be decided.'
Dante fell silent. His eyes grew distant.
'Come on,' said Debora, aware the other Riders were on the move. 'Let's get to the palazzo. Katina needs us now more than ever, no matter what the outcome.'
DANTE SQUEEZED BETWEEN ALESSANDRO and Debora, sitting on one of the crude benches that lined the cave walls. As the brown-garbed Bond Riders filed past him, jostling for a seat, he was astonished at how many people there were. Looking around, he saw well over five hundred men and women grabbing chairs and stools and facing the long, stone table behind which sat ten sombre-faced men and women. Eight for each of the casas on Nobiles' Rise and two extra to mirror the Council of Ten back in Serenissima. Bond Riders might eschew the titles that Serenissians so enjoyed -- the hierarchy that ordained daily living -- and pretend that bloodlines didn't matter, but that didn't stop them replicating it. Life in the Limen was governed by many rules, by petty power struggles and, he thought as he looked around, complex sexual ones as well.
Most of the Riders cast virulent looks in his direction. Of those he'd encountered, none had spoken to him with the exception of Cristoforo -- only he hadn't seen him since the first day. Jealous lest he upset an existing arrangement or longstanding relationship, most ignored him, grateful the responsibility for his well-being and training had fallen to Debora and Alessandro. But whereas the Bond Riders had mostly been indifferent to him, Santo and Stefano had not. They didn't talk to or threaten him again -- not with words, not when they could do it with their eyes. So often he felt their gaze, boring holes of hatred into him.
As if conjured by his thoughts, Cristoforo appeared, a female Bond Rider in tow. He looked around and saw Dante, giving him the briefest of nods. The woman shot him a baleful look and whispered something to Cristoforo, who nodded and covered her hand with his own. They seated themselves next to a couple who smiled warmly at them and faced the front.
Dante resisted the urge to sigh. For the first time in his life, he'd found a place where he was at ease with his choices, deft with the skills he was learning. Only, the community didn't want him. He studied the render burns on his arms -- remnants of his old life, marks of experience or of failure. Back in Serenissima, he was a member of a large family, a trade and a tradition. Apart from his family, it had meant nothing to him. He'd hated being a chandler. Here, despite the coldness of the Riders, he felt he had found his place. This new life and his Bond consumed him -- he didn't care what the others thought. It made no difference to his pledge.
Pulsing away, deep inside him, was not only his link to Katina, a vague awareness of her presence, her state of mind -- which was surprisingly calm -- but of Tallow. With every breath he took, every movement he made, every sigh and heartbeat, was Tallow. She burned deep inside him like an unfulfilled urge.
That was another reason the Riders didn't speak to him. He had not only rendered their Bonds void until his and Katina's were fulfilled, but he was not like them. He could discuss his Bond -- with Katina. They shared not only this life, but their mutual pledge and that, he gleaned from hints that Debora and Alessandro dropped, kept it strong and meaningful. He'd been in this strange, complex world long enough to recognise how important sharing was. Bonds separated and individualised Riders, but love and sex gave them a chance to reconnect. And reconnect they did. Even now, as they filed in, Dante could identify couples, threesomes, and more. Same sex, opposite; it didn't matter in this world. God could not condemn a soul if the sinner didn't possess one. But Dante couldn't think of these people as sinners. Not now he was one of them.
The shuffling of feet and the scrape of benches gradually slowed as stragglers entered. The only light, apart from the weak one filtering through the yawning cave mouth, was provided by spluttering candles melting in their wall brackets and in holders on the main table. They smoked badly.
Moving his feet out of the way so a tall woman could pass, Dante caught sight of Santo. Unaware of Dante's gaze, he sat with his legs outstretched and his ankles crossed, a barrier that people were forced to negotiate. Dante noted the way he pulled his hair off his face, the care that had gone into his grooming; his shirt opened just so, his boots shined to a high gloss. His face was the same washy colour as those who sat on either side, but his eyes were cold and his chin weak. Scanning everyone who entered, he was clearly on the lookout for his partner. There was something about Santo that plucked at Dante's memory. He knew Santo was young in Rider terms, that he'd crossed over only about thirty years earlier. He shouldn't be familiar to him at all ... and yet. Santo's face lit up as another man appeared before him and he quickly drew his legs in and straightened his body with the eagerness of an apprentice welcoming a beloved master. Stefano squeezed into the small gap beside Santo, forcing the people already seated to rearrange themselves on either side. Their heads came together as they whispered, their eyes darting around them before they landed on Dante. Dante looked away, but not before he'd seen their triumphant smiles.
Finally, hundreds of faces were fixed on the older group behind the table. 'Are they the Elders?' whispered Dante. His last word was captured and bounced off the walls -- Elders? Elders? Elders? -- his intonation casting a question over their authority.
Dante held his breath. A trickle of sweat carved a passage between his shoulder blades. Already, the air was growing warm, close.
Alessandro pressed his lips against Dante's ear. 'Sì. They're our Elders, like the Doge's Council in Serenissima, they've kept peace and order here in the Limen ever since the Bond Riders came into being.' Alessandro glanced around then continued. 'Here, we're all senators -- whether we're from a nobile line or not. We all have a say -- we're all kept informed. In the Limen it's what the popolani think -- what we think that counts.'
Before Dante could challenge this, a shadow filled the cave entrance and, as one, the crowd stood as a thin, ancient man dressed in a gold togati, draped with an ermine cloak and wearing a cone-shaped hat appeared. For just a moment, Dante thought the Doge had left Serenissima and entered the Limen. His heart caught in his throat.
The old man moved behind the table and took the central seat. As he sat, the other Elders took their places and the Bond Riders, after a suitable interval, followed suit.
'Bring in Katina Maggiore,' said the man. His voice was clear and deep.
From a recess in the cave that Dante hadn't noticed before came two guards. Between them walked Katina. Debora drew her breath in sharply and Alessandro stiffened. Dante wished he hadn't sat between them, but it was too late to move.
Neatly groomed with a clean shirt and leggings, Katina looked refreshed. Age appeared to have sloughed away from her. Dante had met her only once, but he'd remembered her as older. Not this tall, relatively unlined woman who stood before the Council. She hadn't been languishing in a cell as he'd imagined.
'She looks good. They must have been feeding her.' Debora's lips barely moved.
Alessandro gave the barest of nods.
As Dante understood it, only the sick were fed. Food and drink functioned like restoratives. The air of the Limen was enough. If they were providing Katina with nourishment, surely that was a good sign -- it meant they cared about her well-being. That would explain the lilt in Debora's tone.
Katina crossed the floor, her head held high. All eyes were upon her yet she glanced straight at Dante, picked him out of the crowd. His heart responded. He felt her, felt the strain beneath the outward show of composure. She gave him the barest of nods. He returned it.
Debora and Alessandro sat on the edge of the seat.
The guards brought her to a standstill in front of the wide stone table and left her, retreating to the entrance, their swords still drawn.
One of the Elders, the one who had ordered Katina's capture when he first entered the Limen ... Nicolotti? rustled some papers. He found what he was looking for and passed it to the Doge-like man.
After scanning the papers for a couple of minutes, the Elder in gold finally spoke.
'Katina Maggiore.' He raised deep-set eyes to hers. 'You have been brought to the palazzo today to hear the judgement of the Council of Elders.'
'Sì, Elder Dandolo. Grazie.' Katina's voice was low but firm.
The head Elder had the same name as the Doge.
'This has not been easy, Katina. You have been a Bond Rider for over three hundred years. You're one of our oldest, our finest and, furthermore, you're linked to the prophecy.'
A dull murmur swept the room. Dante's ears pricked up. Prophecy? He glanced at Debora and Alessandro, but their eyes were fixed on what was happening in front.
'We've never had any reason to doubt your loyalty,' continued Elder Nicolotti. 'You have remained true to the Riders' ways, obeyed all our laws. Until recently.'
Another round of muttering blew through the room.
'While we can understand that not all the tasks to which we set our Riders will be successful, 'continued Nicolotti, 'your recent antics now cast your other, more recent failures in a different light. Was this fiasco a result of bad planning or unforeseen circumstances? Or was it deliberate?'
A candle spat. Someone coughed.
'You will answer, Katina Maggiore.'
'It was never deliberate, Elder Nicolotti. Never. Things happened that could not be predicted. We were forced to respond to the situation as events arose, to change our plans accordingly.'
Elder Nicolotti nodded grimly and turned to Elder Dandolo.
'So, this changing of plans, Katina Maggiore --' Elder Dandolo lowered the papers -- 'plans that were clear and agreed upon by all involved in your mission, meant breaking our laws, did they?'
'All I can do is repeat what I said before: it was not preconceived; I did not set out to break them.'
'Who did you discuss this with? Your partners?' Elder Dandolo indicated Alessandro and Debora. 'Your team?' He gestured to where Santo and Stefano sat.
'As I have explained, Elder Dandolo. No-one else was involved. I made the decision myself. I had very little time to act in case the chandler died. Despite what the Estrattore had done, he was not completely healed. Not at the time I was required to make a decision. I did what I thought was best. To me, it was the only viable solution.'
Nicolotti struck the table. Dante jumped. Dandolo shifted in his chair.
'A solution that undermined our authority but brought you closer to fulfilling your Bond,' he said darkly.
Katina lowered her head.
A female Elder leant over and whispered something to Elder Dandolo. He nodded.
'You also forcibly pledged an unwilling subject --'
'I ... I don't mind. Not now --' began Dante. Debora clutched his knee and squeezed it hard, hushing him mid-sentence.
Elder Dandolo frowned. 'You do not speak unless you are directly addressed, do you understand?' His words hung like lead in the air. Dante almost bowed under their weight, shrinking back onto the bench.
'Sì, your ... your eminence. Mi dispiace.'
There was a quickly stifled laugh from the assembly.
Elder Dandolo held Dante's eyes for a moment longer before resting his gaze upon Katina again.
'Katina Maggiore, our laws are designed to keep us civil, to protect us, not only here within the Limen, but outside its borders. If we allowed every Rider to flout these, whether they believed it was for the best, or because of their Bond, then anarchy would erupt. Do you understand?'
'Sì, Elder Dandolo.'
'While what we ask you to do may not always make sense, it's because we understand the bigger picture, the greater context. You do not. Therefore, your actions, while seeming to be harmless or helpful, often have the opposite effect.' He paused to let the words sink in.
'As a consequence, we cannot let this most serious transgression go unpunished.'
'You have left us with no choice, Katina Maggiore, but to make an example of you.' An Elder sitting at the end of the table with a shock of white hair and grey eyes spoke. His voice was so soft, so grave with sadness that Dante had to strain to hear. 'We do this so everyone here today understands what it means to be a Bond Rider.'
Katina lifted her chin. 'I understand, Elder Maggiore.' She held his eyes for a beat longer than she had the others.
Dante looked from the Elder to Katina. They had the same surname. What was their relationship?
'No longer can we be assured of your loyalty, Katina Maggiore,' said Elder Nicolotti. 'Not now that you have placed your own Bond above the welfare and Bonds of all other Riders. In renouncing your first Bond with an Obbligare Doppio, you have made us all beholden to you and to his young man.' He indicated Dante. Dante tried to shrink as he felt all eyes swing towards him. 'And to your mutual Bond.'
'It is with great sorrow that we have reached a decision,' said Elder Dandolo. 'Elder Errizo, would you please stand and read the punishment? Dante Macelleria, you will come forward. Because of what Katina has done this is your punishment as well.'
Dante's heart hammered in his chest as he tried to stand. Debora and Alessandro helped him. His legs felt weak. Faces spun in his vision as he stepped over a space created in the bench in front and stumbled across the sandy floor to join Katina. He glanced at her, but her eyes were fixed on Elder Dandolo. She appeared so solid, so stalwart; he would not disappoint her by showing how nervous he was. He drew back his shoulders and stood erect.
Elder Errizo gathered his robes and came to his feet slowly. Shorter than the other Elders, he nonetheless wore his togati with aplomb, the faded red setting off his dark hair. With a sense of ceremony, he unrolled the yellow piece of parchment and held it in front of him. 'Katina Maggiore, you are charged with breaking section four eight of the Code of the Bond Riders with the intent to gain personally. You are hereby banished from Settlement --' There was a gasp. 'And the Limen.' Exclamations and cries escaped; there was a hum of anxiety as whispered words were exchanged. Elder Errizo waited until they'd all but stilled. 'You are not to enter Settlement again until either your Bonds are fulfilled or you die trying.'
Dante didn't understand what everyone was so upset about. This was a good outcome, wasn't it? Katina wasn't being put to death -- he wasn't being put to death. They were simply to return to Vista Mare -- to Serenissima. That meant they could find Tallow, get her away from those who would cause her harm. He knew that somehow Tallow was the key to his Bond, to the one he shared with Katina. Best of all, when they'd done this, they could return. He knew he'd bring Tallow with him. They'd be together again after all.
'There's one more thing.' No-one moved. 'Your partners, Alessandro and Debora, are forbidden from joining you, from crossing the Limen until your sentence is carried out. You will bear this punishment with Dante Macelleria alone.'
There was a long wail from the back of the cave. The sound was eventually muffled. The Riders began muttering again; their voices rising and falling.
'Silence!' roared Elder Nicolotti, standing so quickly, the candle in front of him blew out. A finger of dark smoke curled its way towards the ceiling, dividing his face in two. He had to thump the table a few times before everyone finally stopped talking. During the commotion, Elder Errizo sat down and began rolling the parchment with great care.
'Do you have anything to say for yourself, Katina Maggiore? Any last words?' asked Elder Dandolo.
Katina looked from one Elder to the other, her eyes lingering on Elder Maggiore. 'No, Elder Dandolo. I do not.' There was a catch in her voice.
'Bene. You have fourteen rests to get your affairs in order, to say your farewells, to prepare yourself, then you will leave. In that time, you will be provided with food and water. Is that understood?'
'Sì, Elder Dandolo.'
Elder Dandolo indicated the other Elders should stand. They climbed to their feet and waited for Elder Dandolo to do the same. As one, they all bowed to the Bond Riders who stood and lowered their heads. The Elders turned and filed out from behind the table, passing through a dark opening and disappearing deep into the mountain.
Dante turned to Katina as soon as they'd left, questions tripping off his tongue. She shook her head. 'Not now,' she said between clenched teeth. Her eyes were glassy.
With barely a word or glance at Katina, the Bond Riders exited the cave, shaking their heads, holding hands, talking in fraught snatches. A movement in the corner caught Dante's eye. Only Stefano and Santo remained stationary, the throng being forced to move around them. In the spaces between heads, they nodded towards Katina, their eyes cold, their mouths twisted in sneers. Katina bit her lip. Knowing she'd seen them, they turned and departed.
Debora and Alessandro waited till only the guards at the entrance remained. They jumped over the benches and ran to Katina, their arms held out. Debora was crying, tears streaming down her face. Katina fell into their embrace. They stood there for a long time, not talking or moving, but Dante could see Katina's shoulders were shaking. He wanted to comfort her, to offer her something to make her feel better, but he knew he didn't have the right.
'Look, perhaps I don't understand what happened, but isn't that good? I mean, you have to leave here -- yes -- but only until your Bond, our Bond is fulfilled. That means you can come back -- doesn't it? It's not goodbye! Why are you so sad?'
Katina slowly drew away from Alessandro and Debora. Pale, Alessandro pulled Debora against his chest. Her face was red and puffy; she sniffed loudly. Katina's state was not much better. She shook her head at Dante, a sad smile on her lips. 'You're right -- you don't understand, Dante.'
'Explain it to me then.'
Katina sighed, a long shuddering sigh that ended with a fresh bout of tears.
'I'm such a fool. I thought, I dared to hope when they fed me, brought me water and vino, that I would be forgiven ...'
'Who brought you food?' asked Alessandro quietly.
'Elder Maggiore. I was so ... grateful. It has helped me enormously. I thought ...' She paused and took a deep breath. 'I now know he knew what the outcome was. They all did. That's why they waited so long to go to trial. They were giving me a chance, buying me time -- not here in Settlement, but for when I am exiled out there.' She nodded towards the cave mouth.
Dante swung round and stared. What did she mean? 'Katina --?' he began.
Alessandro started to answer, but Katina placed a finger against his lips. 'Hush, my love, let me tell him.' Alessandro bit back what he wanted to say. Debora began to sob. Alessandro drew her even closer, his hand pressed against the back of her head.
'Come, let's sit on the bench.' Katina moved towards one of the wooden seats and patted a place next to her. Dante joined her, full of questions. He waited patiently for her to begin. Her eyes strayed miserably towards her partners and she almost lost her ability to speak. She shook her head and stared into space for a moment before beginning.
'Dante, you heard yourself, in Serenissian terms, I am over three hundred years old. There are so many rumours and stories about Bond Riders floating around Vista Mare. Many are true, but most are not. Some think we're immortal, that surrendering our souls to the pledge stones gives us eternal life -- not in the Great Patriarch's heaven, but here, on earth.' She made a small sound that was meant to be a laugh but resembled a groan. 'More like the Limbo that the padres speak of from their pulpits. The truth is, we don't live forever. We live on borrowed time. Our lives are extended -- but only while we remain in the Limen. Each time we return to Vista Mare, what we've been given catches up with us. Little by little, we age. The more often we cross the boundary, the quicker it overtakes us, until one day --' She snapped her fingers. Dante started as the sound echoed in the cave. 'Our lives end. It is quick. That's why so many Riders don't leave anymore; even once they have fulfilled their Bonds. There's no point if the choice to go back to their old lives, to return to Serenissima, only means eternal death, death without a soul.' She stood up and stretched her back, hands on hips.
'Unlike some, I have moved in and out of the Limen over the years and, every time that I do, my body ages, taking back what the Limen gives to me.'
'I don't know -- you look pretty good for a three-hundred-year-old.'
'This isn't funny, Dante. You see, once I leave the Limen forever, it won't take long for my body to catch up to my chronological age.'
Dante stared at her. His mouth formed an 'O'.
'Oh, indeed.'
'But you said food and drink made you better. Can't we just make sure we eat and drink back in Serenissima?'
Katina gave a harsh bark. 'Dante, Dante, Dante.' She sat back down. 'You really do have so much to learn. When Riders enter Vista Mare, our bodies become human again. We have to eat and drink to survive. It's only in the Limen that we don't require that kind of sustenance. Food and drink are used in emergencies only and then at the discretion of Elder Dandolo. It helps us heal, to prepare a Rider for a mission or, in my case, for exile. What they've given me, what Elder Maggiore pleaded with Elder Dandolo to provide me, has bought me some time.'
'For a society that Serenissians believe flouts all conventions, you have so many.'
Alessandro and Debora joined them, sitting down heavily. 'Today you witnessed how harsh some of those can be.'
'It's not fair --' began Dante.
'No, Dante. It is fair.' Katina rested her hand over his. 'Completely fair. I knew what I was doing.'
'Then why did you do it?'
Alessandro stared at her. 'Sì, why?'
'You all know why.'
Alessandro looked away first.
Dante swallowed. He did know. It was because of Tallow. The air suddenly felt dry. His stomach churned. A chill entered his heart and began to spread. 'How ... how long do you have?'
Katina shrugged. 'Days, weeks. I don't know.' Elder Maggiore has ensured I have longer than I would have otherwise.'
Dante traced a pattern in the wood of the bench, his mind racing. 'So, I was wrong. The punishment isn't good at all, is it?'
'Not for me, no. For you, there's still hope. Which is just as well, for there's a great deal riding on what you have to do.'
Dante started to ask what she meant, but she grabbed his hand and squeezed it, shaking her head slightly.
'Later,' she mouthed. She continued in her normal tone. 'You can come back here; reclaim your time. Our population is dwindling; they can't afford to ignore the benefits of a young, hale Rider joining the ranks. For me it's a different story. I doubt I'll return.' Her mouth began to quiver. 'I doubt I have enough time to do what must be done ...'
'Amore mio,' said Alessandro, reaching out and stroking Katina's hair. 'It's worse than that. What our Elders have done is condemn you to hell.'
Katina's eyes filled until they were brimming pools, the little silver flecks shining like glass. She took a deep breath and cleared her throat. She grabbed Alessandro's hand, wrapping her long fingers around it. She brought it to her lips and then rested her cheek against it. 'Then it's up to Dante to make sure that it takes a very long time for me to burn.'
ZARALINA, QUEEN OF FARROWFARE, looked down the long table at the faces of her Privy Council and quickly revised what she was going to say. Anxiety was thick in the room. Trying to ignore the rancid stench of the smoke and noisy splutter emanating from the huge candle closest to her, she brought the piece of paper she'd been given nearer to the light and swiftly read Lord Waterford's latest communiqué again.
Delivered to her last night by her tired steward, Lord Rodbury, it had been brimming with news. Carefully coded, it told her what she wanted to know. An Estrattore had been sighted.
Holding their breath, the men watched their queen's every expression, every movement. Behind them, lawyers sat cramped at small tables, buried behind stacks of paper, their quills poised over their inkwells, ready to record every word. Blank-faced servants hovered in doorways and corners ready to attend to the Privy Council's needs. Aware of her Councillors' earnest regard, Zaralina decided to put them out of their misery.
'Gentleman, this letter came last night,' said the Queen, waving the piece of paper in the air. 'As you know, Lord Waterford arrived in Serenissima some months ago and was forced to weigh anchor and remain on board his vessel until the quarantine period the Serenissians imposed ended. Well, he's now comfortably housed within the city, in one of their casas. Apparently it belonged to a victim of the Morto Assiderato.'
The Earl of Farwarn, Zaralina's chief advisor, cleared his throat and asked to see the letter.
Zaralina passed it down the table. They all watched as he scanned it.
The earl pulled at the brocade collar of his black doublet. Zaralina could not help but notice how the slashes in the fabric served to emphasise his broad shoulders before tightening around a waist not yet affected by the rich diet so many of her other Councillors enjoyed. She looked at their flushed faces, their thick paunches and plump fingers reaching for their goblets and wondered at these men whose bodies yielded to temptation over and over. How they spread into old age. Only the earl, Rodbury, the absent Waterford and the younger nobles were exempt from such indulgences.
'Thank you, Your Majesty.' The earl put the letter down. 'Waterford has detected two spies in his household and, according to this --' he flapped his hand towards the letter '-- suspects there are at least seven others. The Serenissian Council of Ten have endowed him with a great many helpers, it seems.'
The men laughed heartily and the queen allowed herself a small smile.
'Of interest to us is the fact that, coinciding with Waterford's arrival, was the discovery of an Estrattore. Despite the Cardinale employing the services of a special force of soldiers, the Estrattore has continued to elude capture but not, it seems, identification. The Estrattore is named Tallow Pelleta --'
'So, what the Mortians uncovered during their sortie in Serenissima all those months ago is true? The Estrattore is a boy?' interrupted Lord Halthorn. He directed his question at the queen, but glanced over his shoulder into the darker corners of the meeting room. They all did. The mention of the Mortians made them suddenly wary. The fire guttered, momentarily.
'Yes, my lord, this Estrattore is a boy,' answered Earl Farwarn.
'The prophecy says nothing of a boy -- nothing.' Lord Halthorn rapped the pile of papers in front of him. 'I have gone through it over and over, had it retranslated, had some of our finest minds combing the histories and the archives for other clues. There's no mention of a male Estrattore anywhere.'
The queen drew herself upright. 'Prophecies are like legends -- both have been proved wrong before, my lord, and to the detriment of those who follow them blindly. Regardless, this does not change anything. All it means is, as we did before, we continue to search for a boy and a girl. We know the girl exists, we know she left the Limen. She's there -- she's just biding her time. All we have to do is watch and wait.'
'We're perfectly poised to do that now,' said Earl Farwarn. 'What with Waterford so well placed.'
'Indeed,' agreed the queen sharply.
'I would not put it past the Estrattore to play tricks, ma'am. To confuse us,' added Lord Halthorn.
The queen raised her ice-blue eyes to his hazel ones. 'Really? You're so familiar with the ways of the Estrattore you can second-guess their actions? Their motives? Do your old scrolls and books tell you the future now?'
The lord blanched. 'Forgive me, Your Majesty. I didn't mean --'
Zaralina waved him to silence. 'Never mind.' She sank into her high-backed chair and drummed her long fingers on the table. 'You're right. The Estrattore will do all they can to protect or at least distract attention from the child of the legends -- that is, until they're ready to use her. Nonetheless, I still believe the boy is a decoy. We will treat him that way until he's proved otherwise. In order to do that, we must capture him too.'
'Tallow?' The Duke of Dunlilley pulled a face, trying to break the tension in the room. 'What kind of name is that?'
'Appropriate for one who makes candles for a living, I would assume.' The earl frowned. He glanced at Waterford's letter once again.
Father Morrison raised his hand. 'Your Majesty, I must protest --'
'Father Morrison,' said the queen in a slow, sinister voice. 'You must not protest.' The father lowered his hand, burying it in the wide sleeve of his robe. 'I will not be held to ransom by stories. Do you understand, gentlemen? The prophecy was written hundreds of years ago. Whatever happens, we have to ensure that we control the way it ends -- not the Estrattore, the Cardinale, or the Doge; not the Bond Riders, but us.'
There were murmurs of agreement. Father Morrison didn't move. The queen nodded at Farwarn to go on.
'The good news is that, on the basis of our unprecedented generosity in the aftermath of the plague, the Doge of Serenissima has ratified our new trading agreements. They're allowing us to use the ports they control throughout the Mariniquian Seas.'
Murmurs swept the table. Smiles broke out.
'This is very good news indeed!' exclaimed the Earl of Grafton, the sponsor of most of the ships in the queen's fleet. 'Passage throughout those waters means we can start to trade in ways we'd only ever imagined!'
'I have heard that in the lands to the south, there are silks as thin as spiders' webs!' A young lord who Zaralina had only recently elevated leant forward excitedly, his beard almost catching in the candle flame.
'It's the spices I'm interested in -- paprika, salt, and that wonderful coffee bean. We could export throughout Farrowfare and the lands beyond the Wall.'
The Council began to talk over the top of each other. The queen tolerated them for a moment, amazed that their only thoughts were for the riches they could accumulate. They seemed incapable of understanding that the trade agreements were just a small step in a much bigger and more elaborate plan. Even Lord Rodbury, her steward, beamed. She glanced out the windows. Snow fell heavily, making the already gloomy room feel as though it were being suffocated. Not even the fire blazing at the other end managed to warm this chamber. She watched the steady fall of flakes, the way they hit the glass before sliding to collate on the sill, forming a lopsided triangle. There was a big world out there -- a world that was almost ripe for the taking. It was a matter of timing, of ensuring that everything was in place before harvesting. Only the ultimate fruit was still proving to be elusive.
If the Cardinale should find the Estrattore before they did ... No. She would not allow herself to think that way.
Glancing to a spot beside the fire, she saw the air waver. To anyone else, it was as though the heat from the flames was playing tricks with the atmosphere. Only she knew better. Shazet, her Mortian advisor and ally, was loitering in the shadows, watching her Council, reading their reactions, listening to the words they whispered behind their hands, between each other, words not meant for her ears. She wondered what he'd have to say about their short-sightedness. Farwarn looked at her steadily, raising his eyebrows. Of all the Council, only he seemed to understand what was at stake.
Fed up with the chatter, the queen stood. Immediately the room fell silent.
Her white gown, threaded with silver, glinted in the dim light. Her fiery hair shone, making her resemble the candle hissing in front of her. 'I'm glad you're pleased with this news, gentlemen. But you must realise that the reason for Waterford's tenure as ambassador in Serenissima is not only to line our purses.'
The men nodded solemnly, offered reassuring murmurs. Fools! She saw Duke Dunlilley lean towards Lord Halthorn with the pretence of filling his glass and saw his lips move. Hopefully, Shazet will have caught whatever was said.
'It's time for us to make our next move,' said the queen. 'I had thought we could delay this, but Waterford's news means we have to accelerate our plans.' Her eyes alighted briefly upon each man. Most could not return her gaze. 'I'm informing you now that we're sending a ship to the capital of the Ottoman Empire, to Bursa, to open negotiations with the Sultan.'
There were gasps before conversation erupted. 'Why now? The Ottomans! This takes time. We need to trade first, establish our credentials ...'
'Silence!' said the queen.
The fire crackled, the candles smoked. Anticipation cast a long shadow over the table.
Zaralina waited until they were all focused upon her. Sweat dotted the brows of Father Morrison and Lord Halthorn and the odour of bodies and clothes in need of a good wash filled the room. Zaralina tried to ignore it. 'As our first gesture of goodwill, we will promise them ships.'
'They're heathens,' muttered Father Morrison. 'Like the Serenissians, they can't be trusted.'
'When has trust ever had a place in politics?' asked the earl. Scattered laughter followed. Father Morrison frowned and shook his head.
'Are we to go to war, then?' asked Duke Dunlilley, getting straight to the point.
Damn him! Zaralina picked up her goblet and took a measured sip. The liquid warmed her throat and gave her a chance to think. She ran the tip of her tongue delicately, but ever so slowly, over her lips. She could sense their longing for her, for what she had to say. Even Father Morrison's desire was written all over his pale, bloated face. She would, as she always did, use this to steer them in her direction. 'No. Not us. War is for others to engage in. It's for the Ottomans. It's what they're best at, after all.' She put her goblet on the table, her fingers dancing up and down its stem.
Quiet gasps broke the spell she'd cast. She held up her hand again.
'But in order to ensure they don't make war with us, we have to make friends with their ruler, Sultan Selim I. Good friends.'
'How?'
'Using the ships we provide, they're going to sack the one city that Serenissima values almost above its own, the city that everyone on the other side of the Limen in Vista Mare wants. We're going to help them take Konstantinople.'
The uneasy expectation erupted into questions and statements. Halthorn jumped to his feet followed by Dunlilley. Even Father Morrison was visibly shaken. After all, she was talking about forming an alliance with religious barbarians and starting a war. Zaralina sat back down, enjoying the confusion, the protests, and the quiet support. She knew it would shock them but she also noted that it excited them. She glanced towards the fireplace.
Finally, she called the men to order. Seats were returned to, drinks refilled, the fire stoked back to life. Outside, the snow continued to fall steadily.
'So, ma'am, we're to battle alongside the scourge of the Mariniquian Seas -- the Ottomans -- and help them sack Konstantinople.'
Zaralina gave a slow half-smile. 'Exactly. Only we won't be seen to help. We'll be operating quietly in the background. Invisible.'
'But that will infuriate the Serenissians,' said Duke Dunlilley. 'They'll not sit back and watch their prize possession being snatched away.'
'No, they won't. I'm relying on that. And history tells me that I am not being unrealistic. Others have tried to take it from them before and failed. As the Serenissians have always done when Konstantinople is threatened, they'll declare war -- only this time it will be upon the Ottomans. And, when they do, the enemies of Serenissima will flock to the Ottomans' side. This means that all the rulers who've been forced into an uneasy truce with the Republic they loathe -- the Jinoans, the Phalagonians and the Hellans -- will, when they see the colony of Serenissima besieged by a vast enemy, ally with the Sultan. It's their chance to defeat Serenissima and win back all the lands, ports and tarrifs the Republic has taken from them over centuries of war.'
'I'm not convinced.'
'It's not you we need to persuade, your grace,' said Zaralina. 'Serenissima may be rich, but she has many enemies in Vista Mare. People always hate that which they most desire to be -- and Serenissima is a constant reminder of what they are not -- wealthy, powerful and in control of all trade in the Mariniquian Seas. Why, they possess colonies all along the coast, from Byzantium to Moroko. Part of our role as friends of the Ottomans will involve familiarising them with Serenissima's enemies. We will even broker the treaties if we have to. Then we can stand back and watch. Once Serenissima commits to war in that region, once she empties her famous Arsenale of ships and soldiers, she'll be vulnerable.'
'We're not entertaining taking Konstantinople for ourselves, then?' asked Duke Dunlilley.
'We have much bigger goals, your grace, much bigger.' Her eyes glinted in the candlelight, her voice resounding as her thoughts deepened. The men waited, suspended in time, at the mercy of her ruminations.
Aware of the sudden silence, she became businesslike. 'Farwarn, I want you to set sail for Bursa. I trust no-one else but you to handle these delicate negotiations. You leave within the week, before the ice floes from the north move in and make the channel impassable.' Her eyes flicked to the snowstorm outside. 'I want you to take as few men as possible -- an interpreter, a bodyguard, some spies, darker skinned so they melt into the local populations. They are to remain. I will send two Mortians to act as messengers. They can move through the Limen much faster than humans.'
'Ma'am, that's not neces --'
Zaralina stopped his protests with a look. 'Nonetheless, they'll be going.'
The duke nodded resignedly.
'The fewer men you take, the better. We don't want to alarm the Sultan, nor do we want to alert any Serenissian agent to our presence or our purpose. I want the Serenissians to believe that we're simply testing our new port privileges -- especially with the island of Krete. Bursa is such a short distance from there, it's natural we would explore ... other options. With that in mind, take furs to trade. Dunlilley, can you organise them to be brought down from your estates?'
'Yes, Your Majesty, immediately.' Dunlilley beamed.
'News travels fast in those waters -- remember that. Always back to Serenissima. My dear Farwarn, you're to take whatever steps are required to ensure that your tracks are covered. Am I clear?'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'I want to know how the land lies, the size of the Sultan's armies and navy, and his intentions -- before we tell them what they will be, that is,' she smiled. The Council broke into polite chuckles. 'Your grace, you're to offer the Sultan whatever it takes to ensure he accepts our friendship and our help.'
'Your Majesty.' Lord Halthorn rose awkwardly to his feet, his huge stomach resting on the table. 'I am afraid I don't see the point in all this. If Serenissima is our ultimate goal, why don't we just put our cards on the table and sail right on through the Limen and take her? Why waste time sending Waterford? Why all this bargaining with heathens?'
'I'm afraid I have to agree with Halthorn, ma'am,' added Father Morrison, also rising. 'It leaves a bad taste in my mouth, the idea of forming treaties and alliances with those whose spiritual beliefs so conflict with our own. Nothing good can come of it.'
Queen Zaralina flashed them both a look of disgust. 'Sit down, my lord, father. You are bigger buffoons than even I believed if you cannot see the sense in getting others to do work on our behalf. You want to send our men to war? Lose lives, ships, bankrupt Farrowfare, and against a country that is unparallelled on the oceans? Get this straight, gentleman: on water, we don't stand a chance against Serenissima.'
Lord Halthorn started to bluster.
'Do not bother responding, you fool!' spat the queen. 'Think about this -- not only do we buy Waterford the time he desperately needs to find the Estrattore, but we come closer than ever to conquering Serenissima without lifting a finger or losing a thing. What we get in return is a Serenissima that is fighting a war with another country far from her own shores. A Serenissima that is undamaged by looting soldiers, cannons and death or disease. But we also take a Serenissima that has sent all her soldiers to protect her interests elsewhere. A defenceless Serenissima by any other name ... Not even the Cardinale can keep focused on what's happening under his very nose if his city is plunged into war. In the meantime, we continue with our original plans. The Serenissians will never suspect that their real enemy is also their newest friend. And that is why Waterford is there -- to allay any suspicions and to make sure that godsforsaken place falls to us unscathed.'
The men did not speak. Zaralina felt their emotions. They permeated the table, running along her fingers, being absorbed into her flesh. She relished every sensation, allowing it to fill her from within. She glowed in their esteem.
'If this works, it's genius,' said Duke Dunlilley, his chest expanding. He stroked the fur that lined his doublet.
Murmurs of agreement flew around the table.
'There are no "ifs" anymore, Dunlilley. Only "whens".' Zaralina raised her eyes to Farwarn, who nodded solemnly. 'But this will, like all good plans, take time.
'For now, I will construct a response to Waterford and explain to him what our intentions are. The Sultan's ambassador in Serenissima will suddenly become his friend too.'
'Seems we are making friends everywhere, Your Majesty,' said the young knight. Zaralina glanced at him, noting the whiteness of his teeth as he smiled, the intelligence behind his pale eyes. She remembered now, that like Waterford and Farwarn, he came from the north.
She returned his smile. 'Indeed we are, Sir Kay, we are. In the meantime, I want our ships to continue to move around the Mariniquian Seas. I want us to go about ratifying our new agreements with Serenissima by engaging in trade -- Grafton, ensure our ships are well equipped.'
Lord Grafton raised his goblet in acknowledgement. 'Ma'am.'
'We will buy and sell and move about the ocean -- a great friend indeed. All the while, I want us to listen carefully, and when we talk it's to whisper in the right ears. We will appear to be the best friend Serenissima has had -- that is, until we reveal ourselves for what we really are.' She paused and stood, picking up her goblet. The men clambered nosily to their feet. She signalled for them to raise their vessels. 'The greatest threat Serenissima has ever faced.'
'To Farrowfare.'
Zaralina watched as the men drank.
'Gentleman,' she said finally, placing her goblet firmly down on the table. She waited patiently as they drained their drinks and, one by one, bowed. 'Time to attend to our duties,' she said. In a cloud of whispers, they began to leave the room.
'Rodbury!' she called. In seconds, her steward was by her side. 'Change our candle supplier, will you?' She reached over and snuffed out the candle in front of her as she spoke. 'These are poorly made.'
'I hear there's a good one in Serenissima,' said Sir Kay as he bowed to the queen. Zaralina stared at him for a moment, then burst into laughter.
Sir Kay's eyes twinkled as, with a deep bow, he left.
As Rodbury drew the door closed behind him, conversation broke out in the hall. It gradually faded into the distance. The meeting had given the men a great deal to think about.
Zaralina waved a young boy over to refill her goblet, watching as the ruby liquid splashed into the bronze. 'You may leave us,' she said to the lawyers and servants. Hastily, they withdrew. Only then did she bring her cup to her mouth, moving to the window to gaze into the encroaching darkness, noting the way the snow glistened as she took small sips. She sighed deeply. 'Where are you?' She whispered the words against the glass. It momentarily frosted before clearing. 'Why can't I find you?'
A chill gust blew through the room. 'She's not lost, Your Majesty, only misplaced.' Shazet materialised beside her, causing an involuntary shiver to wrack her frame. 'We will find the Estrattore. We will find her.'
Zaralina turned to regard the Mortian. 'You sound almost sympathetic, Shazet. What's come over you?'
An expression that might have been humour crossed the creature's grey features. 'It's not just your cause that is lost if we fail, Your Majesty, but that of my people.'
'Your people?' She arched a brow and held his regard before breaking into a smile. 'You're right, Shazet. You're right. So much is bound up in finding her, I am losing sight of our ultimate goal.'
'Easy to do when explaining our plans to those regarded as the finest minds in the land.' He glanced scornfully towards the door.
Zaralina gave a small laugh. 'Young Kay is smart -- I will watch him. And Farwarn is clever -- very clever. What he lacks is Waterford's ready acquiescence; I do miss that.'
'But you're cultivating it in Rodbury, I note.'
Zaralina swept past Shazet and went to stand in front of the fire. It had burned low in the grate and the radiance turned her face into gentle slopes and smooth planes. She felt Shazet's great, mournful eyes upon her.
'How go our plans, my friend?' she asked softly.
'We make inroads every day, Your Majesty.'
'The Bond Riders, those who would baulk at what is happening, do they suspect anything?'
'Perhaps, Your Majesty. But they don't act -- I surmise they're too afraid. They have not placed any additional guards on the entry points into the Limen -- our allies have assured us of that at least. We believe there are internal troubles keeping them occupied.'
'Internal troubles? What's the nature of these?'
'The same that beset you and yours, Your Majesty: the Estrattore.'
'Ah. How strange that those who share so little can attract a common enemy.'
'Most Bond Riders still regard them as both saviours and threats. They are divided about how to deal with them. If anyone has lost sight of their goal, it is them.'
Zaralina smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. 'Yes, it's one of the lovely ironies of their existence, isn't it, that they continue living only because of the Estrattore, and yet they don't understand the nature of that so-called existence. Of what the Estrattore have really done to them.'
'They may one day find out, Your Majesty.'
'Oh, indeed they will, Shazet. They will.' She emptied her goblet and placed it on the mantel, picking up a poker and prodding the hot embers, throwing sparks into the chimney. 'Making sure those interfering soulless bastards find out just how cursed they are is something that will afford me the greatest pleasure.'
Zaralina felt Shazet's form waver before he moved closer. The chill that emanated from his body made her flesh quiver, despite the proximity of the fire. She shut her eyes in anticipation of his cold embrace when a noise at the door startled her.
Shazet stepped back just as it was flung open. In ran a small boy followed by a large woman.
'Claudio!' exclaimed Zaralina, spinning round, the poker clattering to the floor. She cast a look of both warning and frustration at Shazet, who quickly merged with the shadows. She bent down and flung out her arms.
The dark-haired child, dressed in a long cream nightgown with a soft pointed cap atop his curls, darted around the table, ran the length of the room and threw himself into her outstretched arms. 'Zaralina!'
'Ma'am, I am so sorry,' panted his nurse, curtsying between stumbles as she tried to catch the child.
'Never mind that now!' snapped the queen. She gave Claudio a quick embrace before holding him at arm's length.
'What is it, my love? Why are you running? Why have you left your room? I've told you not to do that. You must always wait for my permission.'
'But Zaralina, it's my bedtime and you promised me you would come and kiss me goodnight. Nurse tried to put me to bed, but I wouldn't let her till I'd had my kiss.' The little boy pouted prettily.
'Ah,' said Zaralina, shooing the nurse away behind Claudio's head. 'Now I understand.' She stood up, holding his hand tightly. 'Lady Mary, wait outside.'
'Yes, Your Majesty,' said Lady Mary, dropping into such a deep curtsy that she had trouble rising. Zaralina waited until she was on the other side of the door and out of sight.
'Come,' she said. She sat down and patted the pool of loose material in her lap. Claudio climbed into the space, pressing himself against Zaralina's body. She entwined her arms around him, noting how fast he was growing as the top of his head was almost level with hers. The new diet and exercise evidently agreed with him. He was filling out already and he was only, what? Seven? Eight? They all looked the same to her at that age.
'How did your riding go today, my love?'
'It was belliss ... good. Lord Brin allowed to me to jump Jed this time.'
That dreadful accent that made every word sound like a song and aroused uncomfortable memories was still apparent. She would have his tutors work harder.
'Really? And what about your sword practice?'
In answer, Claudio held up his thumb. There was a small gash across the top. Zaralina placed the thumb in her mouth, kissing it gently, allowing her tongue to brush the tip. Claudio shivered. 'You will have to improve. How can you protect me from my enemies if you cannot fight?' She let Claudio's thumb fall from her lips. His own quivered.
'I can fight. I will not let you be hurt. Not ever.' He tilted his face and regarded her earnestly.
Zaralina glanced at where she could detect Shazet before gripping Claudio's chin.
'But you have hurt me, my love.'
Claudio frowned and tried to wriggle out of her grasp. She tightened it, his tender flesh reddening beneath her fingers. He stilled. 'What have I told you about disobeying me?' she said softly.
'That it will make you very angry,' lisped Claudio.
'Indeed, it will. And what happens when I am angry, Claudio?'
His face momentarily darkened. 'I have very bad dreams.' He tried to bury his face in her breasts, but she held him steady. Tears began to form in the corner of his eyes.
'You do, don't you, my love? But, what happens when I am happy?'
Claudio smiled, his huge brown eyes lustrous. 'You kiss me!'
Zaralina's lips hovered inches from Claudio's. 'I do. So, what do you think I am now? Angry or happy?'
Claudio gave it some thought. 'I think you're both. You're angry with me for disobeying, but you also want to kiss me.'
Zaralina looked at him in surprise. There was a tone in his voice and a look on his face she hadn't seen before. Perhaps the dreams she'd been sending him were a little too old for his young mind. 'I think you're right. I am very angry with you, Claudio. But, just for today, I will forget my anger.'
'Will you kiss me?' he pleaded.
Zaralina stared at the full pink mouth. 'I will,' she said, and pressed her lips gently against his young ones. She watched as he shut his eyes as their kiss deepened. She saw the colour fill his cheeks, felt his heart begin to race, the heat that infused his body, the conflicting thoughts that raged in his head.
After a full minute she drew away. Claudio's eyes were still closed and he swayed.
'Lady Mary,' she called quietly.
'Ma'am?' Lady Mary peeped around the corner.
'You may come and collect your charge.'
As Lady Mary scooped the half-unconscious boy out of the queen's lap, she met Zaralina's eyes. Her look of concern was replaced by an icy fear.
'Do not let that happen again, Lady Mary. I don't care what it takes -- do not let him burst in on me again.'
'Y-- yes, Your Majesty.'
'Leave me,' ordered Zaralina and turned to face the table.
The door shut and Zaralina felt the comfortable frostiness of Shazet's touch brush her shoulder.
'Will I ever be able to feel a kiss like that, Your Majesty?' The words tickled her ear.
She reached up and cupped his face, feeling his shudder right through her own body. 'Get me what I want, Shazet, and I'll make sure you feel that ... and so much more.'
THE WEATHER GREW SO BITTER, not even the crackling fires burning in every grate could dissipate the icy draughts that whistled up and down the corridors and through the cracks of Casa Maleovelli nor keep away the damp that began to seep into the walls as the constant rains lashed the casa. We all seemed to race from room to room, shutting doors, clutching shawls and coats about us, and loitering before the fireplaces in an effort to dispel the chill that, once it entered your body, was almost impossible to expel. With mid-winter came shortened days bookended by darkness -- the black sky and the illumination of candles now accompanied most of our daily rituals.
It wasn't only the change of season that brought an adjustment to the rhythms of the casa. I could feel something in the air -- a growing excitement -- not only delivered every time a fresh missive arrived from Jacopo, who had now reached the Contested Territories and successfully negotiated trading rights, but from beyond. Something was happening outside; as if the city were holding its breath. I longed to find out what it was but at first I was too caught up by the transformations within.
The quiet canal that ran along the back of the casa had become a busy thoroughfare. Craft laden with merchandise appeared daily, unloading onto the ground floors. There were now frequent visitors and the house began to ring with accents, pungent smells and the noise of workers scraping barrels, boxes and bales across the floors below.
The changes beneath soon made their way to the first floor. Variety crept onto the platters of food that were painstakingly prepared by a new cook the Maleovellis employed and who took up residence on the floor above, along with a growing band of servants. Where once there were spaces on the walls and floors, fresh pictures and tapestries were displayed, dusted by the additional helpers who had also been found to restore the casa to its former glory. Giaconda's wardrobe also altered. Gone were the unfashionable dresses I'd first seen her in, and which so impressed me, to be replaced with the latest trends sewn from lush, ornate fabrics.
When Giaconda brought to my room a gown designed especially for me, I first sank into a low curtsy. 'Grazie mille, Signorina,' I said, and tried not to show how great my pleasure was at receiving such a gift. The dress was a deep violet, much like the belladonna I would crush and drop into my eyes, so often these days I'd become accustomed to the sting. It would not do for the new servants to discover what I was.
I'd hastened my wash and, with Hafeza's help, stepped gracefully into my new dress. Snug over my breasts, it clung to my waist, its full sleeves slashed to expose silver and pearl inlays. I'd never possessed anything so beautiful in my life. I'd never possessed anything, apart from my spectacles, that was for me alone. I could not stop admiring myself. Wherever there was a reflection -- the glass of the windows, the sheen of a knife, the gilt mirrors that decorated the dark hallways, I would take the opportunity to look.
I knew it was my candles and the power they contained that had helped to turn the Maleovellis' fortunes. They were well pleased with me. Over time, new clothes, shoes, masks and even some jewellery became more frequent and, I confess, expected. I, who had once appreciated hand-me-down britches and thought a scrap of paper from the canal and a piece of myrtle wax precious, began to covet these expensive things.
Dinner in my room became a more frequent occurrence, and I would both hear and sense laughter and movement in other parts of the casa long into the night. I stifled my natural curiousity. Ever since I was caught eavesdropping, I'd done nothing to make the Maleovellis doubt me again. I felt confident that my good behaviour would soon be rewarded in other ways.
I was right. Only it wasn't in the manner I anticipated.
Now that Jacopo had left, my lessons in reading and writing also ceased. Not that I needed them anymore. I was able to shape my letters well and reading was no longer difficult as I simply absorbed the author's intentions as I touched the parchment. I would look at the words, and the ideas and purpose behind them would form a context in my mind. It was not reading in the true sense, I guess, but it more than sufficed. Not only that, but it opened a world to me that my confinement within the casa denied. I devoured the various pamphlets and books that Giaconda allowed. I quickly graduated from shopping lists and household invoices to religious texts, philosophical treatises, ancient history translated from Hellenic into Serenissian, and what I loved best: poetry. There was something about the arrangement of the words, the pictures that filled my head and darted in and out of my heart that set my imagination afire.
Giaconda would draw me into discussions about what I was learning. I was astonished at how much she knew and, I admit, impressed. Able to recite poetry, remember important dates and events, even in other countries, converse about the merits of a particular artist or singer or quote lines from a popular play, she would challenge me to do the same. She also told me about the triumphs and misdemeanours of other nobiles, of courtesans and traders. It may have been gossip, but it was different from that I used to hear poisoning Quinn and Francesca's tongues or even the bits Baroque would periodically divulge. She would quiz me about everything afterwards -- test my memory. It became a game between us and, as the days went by, I became a worthy contestant.
She did maintain my lessons in deportment, dancing and dress and continued to work on softening my accent and developing my singing voice which, it turned out, was reasonably melodic. As I had sworn to myself after Renzo's death, I remained compliant, and with that my confidence grew. Any doubts I had, any misgivings or uncomfortable memories, I simply extracted and distilled into the harlequin. My past faded into a piece of glass as, day by day, I grew into someone else.
In order to become her completely, one last lesson remained.
THE DAY BEGAN IN SILENCE AS SNOW fell softly, secretly, blanketing the casa and cocooning us from the outside world. I attended to my ablutions, dressed and joined Giaconda in Jacopo's study for cafe. We sat facing each other in the old armchairs, the candles flickering, the little window admitting only a dull light, the books and scrolls with which I was becoming so familiar neatly stacked on shelves. The fire blazed, but the room refused to warm. I sipped my cafe, concentrated on not shivering too much, and waited for Giaconda to begin.
Putting down her cup on the little side table, she regarded me for a moment.
'You look well, Tarlo.'
'Grazie. I feel well, Signorina.' I nursed my cup in the palm of one hand as I had been taught.
'Bene.' Over the next five minutes, she questioned me about our conversation the day before -- the descendants of the Doge. I answered her without making a mistake.
'Ah.' She smiled and picked up her cafe, taking a drink. 'Your mind will gratify the most difficult and demanding of men, Tarlo. It is sharp and quick. Your memory is faultless. But the mind of a courtesan is only useful if she also knows how to use her body.'
My heart began to beat very quickly. Colour infused my cheeks.
'Combined, the mind and body of a courtesan can afford a man untold pleasures. You are learning to master one; it's now time to begin studying the other.' She gave me a knowing smile over the rim of her cup. She finished the contents, placed it back on the table and smoothed her skirt.
'Words are one talent courtesans have -- but there are many more arts we use. There's also our lips, tongues, fingers and even our toes.' As she spoke, she touched the relevant body part before closing the gap between us and stroking mine as well. The sateen of her gloves sent shivers along my spine. 'There's also our legs.' She lifted her dress slowly, like a curtain. My eyes widened when I saw she wasn't wearing any pantaloons. Her creamy legs looked smooth and inviting. She lowered the skirt. 'And arms,' she continued, reaching over and running a finger along mine, pushing the fabric into my skin as she did. I remained completely still less she stop. The pleasure of her touch sent waves of longing through me. 'And let's not forget the beauty of our breasts --' Her fingers danced over my décolletage, goose bumps marking their passage '-- and naturalmente, the rest of our form.' Her hand rested lightly over the place where my dress dipped into my lap. I was holding my breath.
'With that in mind,' she said, slowly removing her hand and drawing away from me, 'I want to give you this to read.' She reached over the desk and picked up a tattered pamphlet. 'This is an infamous piece by a rather clever man whom I hope you will meet one day. His name is Pietro Aretino -- he calls himself a poet. Others call him a peddler of pornografia.' She shrugged. 'No matter what he's called, he's very popular and his work is ... enlightening. Certo, it's appropriate for our needs.'
I knew his name. He'd been mentioned over dinner a number of times, causing Signor Maleovelli no end of delight. Apparently his work had caught the attention of the Cardinale and not in a welcome way. I didn't always understand the nuances underpinning much of what Signor Maleovelli said -- he often spoke in cipher -- but I found it interesting and more than a little thrilling that I was being allowed to read the work of someone so ... notorious. I took the bundle of yellowing parchment Giaconda offered, my hand shaking slightly, my insides very warm.
'Of course, the best way to learn how to please a man is to be with one.' She stood up and leant over, caressing my cheek as she spoke. 'Your time approaches, Tarlo.'
Clutching the parchment tightly, I did not trust myself to speak,
'Do not fear,' she said, leaning closer. 'I know you disapprove of Signor Moronisini. I will make sure your first is not so ... old. I will also ensure he is gentle.'
I opened my mouth to protest then shut it again.
I shivered -- from fear, excitement or premonition, I did not know.
Happy to have dinner in my room that night, I lay on the bed and thought about what Giaconda said. I could not change what for me was inevitable. It was clear that, in order to work towards the greater goal of bringing the Estrattore home, I had to be in a position where I could advance the Maleovellis, and the best way for me to do that was as a courtesan. Giaconda had explained that, as a courtesan of a particular calibre, I would have access to the nobiles' casas, to their bedrooms and to their minds. Once she had enjoyed the same sort of entrée, but time and the reduction of the Maleovelli fortunes had meant that doors previously open had closed, and they'd been forced to rent accommodation in other sestiere to maintain business. For me it would be different. Once inside the casas, I could burn my candles. No-one would suspect a courtesan of that type of manipulation, let alone of being an Estrattore. Not if I was as careful as I intended to be.
I threw aside my concerns and wild imaginings and opened the bound pieces of parchment. The title, 'School of Whoredom' should have prepared me for the contents, but I still found myself blushing and giggling and feeling very hot as I read a fictitious dialogue between an older woman and a young courtesan. They were so graphic in their descriptions of what happened between a man and a woman, so open in their conversations. I had to keep putting the pamphlet down as pictures flew into my head, and scenarios that I found quite arousing formed. I rolled from my back onto my stomach and kept reading. When the first candle burned to a tiny stump, I lit another. The fire smouldered, its heat no longer necessary. My fevered imagination kept me very warm.
It wasn't until I fell into an exhausted sleep in the early hours of the morning, that the images of men and women, flirting, taking pleasure from each other's bodies, feeling sated and satisfied by the transaction between courtesan and gentleman, translated into a vivid dream. A dream in which I was a courtesan, and my lover a tall, broad-shouldered man with thick black hair and night-time eyes that regarded me with such intensity it took my breath away. I knew this man. He was as known to me as my own face.
It was Dante.
Every kiss we shared, every caress, made me ache with desire for more. I moaned and half-woke to find myself clutching my pillow. I buried my head and tried to return to that place where Dante was alive and he was mine. It was fruitless.
When I finally roused, I felt tired as well as unfulfilled and restless. I trembled, and not only from the chill in the room. I rose, and after first blowing on the fire to stir the glowing embers into flames, went to the bowl that rested on the cabinet and splashed water on my face. I picked up a drying sheet and rubbed my face vigorously, as if shedding the residue of my night memories. I caught my reflection in the mirror and went and stood in front of it.
Instead of seeing myself, Dante stood before me. The sheet fell from my fingers. His hair was tousled, his face smudged with dirt, his teeth so very white. His eyes sparkled and he wore that knowing look of his -- the one that bespoke mischief and something else besides. Then, it all swam and changed. I was looking down on him. He stared back at me and I lost myself in the depths of his gaze, indifferent to the blood pouring out of his mouth and over those firm, full lips.
I threw myself against the mirror, clutching its sides, pressing myself against the glass, trying to merge with it, with Dante. It was no good. I hit my head against its hard surface. Fool, fool, fool.
No matter what I did, no matter how much I tried to shut myself off from my old life, from Dante, above all the others -- Pillar, Quinn, Renzo, Zia Gaia, even Francesca and our neighbours in the Candlemakers Quartiere -- he continued to haunt me. I rested against the mirror, staring at my feet -- white and frozen, and at their reflected twins. Why could I not forget him? It would make all of this so much easier.
Out of the corner of my eye, the harlequin glinted in the flames that now crackled in the fireplace. Despite what I had placed in the tiny statuette, and in spite of my resolution not to feel in that way anymore, I did. I felt so strongly, too strongly. I sighed and pulled away, dropping my arms and studied myself again.
My eyes were shadowed and my face drawn. I ran my fingers through my hair. It was long now, tumbling down my back.
Why could I not block Dante out? It was as if something was preventing me ... why?
'Go away,' I whispered. 'Please. I need you to leave me alone. How can I become what I know I must if you are still with me?'
I stared intently, hoping that somehow my own soul would open up to me. But I could not see the truth inside myself, only suffer it.
Dante would never go away. And I did not really want him to. I didn't need my abilities as an Estrattore to tell me that. But the time had come for me to take the next step. Reading that pamphlet had made me more aware than ever of the desire I was trying to repress, of the urges that were enhanced every day I spent in Giaconda's company, in this casa, with its lush fabrics, musty scents, and the insatiable lust and greed that clung to every surface.
I was not immune to it -- on the contrary, I was absorbing it bit by bit, taking it into myself, deliberately, effortlessly, anything to block out the feelings that warred within me. What I knew was that I could no longer be denied.
'I want more.'
'And so you shall have it, Tarlo, cara.'
I did not hear Giaconda enter. I spun at her voice, curtsying and blushing that she should catch me so. She simply opened the door wider and stepped into my room. She indicated for Hafeza, who was close on her heels, to begin my morning bath.
'Today, Tarlo, you and I are celebrating,' she said, crossing to the window and flinging open the shutters. Feeble light crawled its way across the bedroom.
'Sì? Why is that?' I tried not to pull away as Hafeza dragged a wet cloth over my breasts. I noted the water had been scented with the heady fragrance Giaconda favoured. I inhaled it, trying to shut out my fevered thoughts. It didn't help.
'Carnivale.'
My eyes widened. 'Carnivale! It starts today?' I had been anticipating its arrival for weeks now.
'Sì, it officially begins tonight and with that, so does some freedom for you. But since you cannot partake in tonight's festivities --' My face fell. She gave a small laugh and continued. 'I have decided that instead, to make up for this, we will go on a trip so you may have a taste of what to expect.'
My stomach flipped, my hands fluttered. 'I need the belladonna.'
She tipped her head. 'Perhaps a little. But you will be masked and caped. This is a chance for you to see without being seen.'
I raised my arms as Hafeza pulled the camicia over my head.
'Am I to be presented, then?'
'Today we're going to buy fabric for the dress you will wear for your first public appearance.' My head spun.
'Where? When?'
'Sooner than you think. How else can we field offers for your most precious of gifts if the nobiles do not glimpse what it is they are bargaining for?'
I knew she wasn't talking only about my talents as an Estrattore. Bids for my virginity would be seriously considered and the man with the most in terms of connections as well as soldi would be my first paramour. A sense of inevitability tinged with sadness rose. I quashed it immediately. I wanted this. I needed this. The Estrattore needed me to do this.
Giaconda watched me as Hafeza helped me into my gown. 'No need to hurry. Make sure her hair is dressed well, Hafeza. It's windy and snow is threatening. And put her in those zoccoli we bought last week -- the ones with the exceptionally high heels. Salzi can help her if she finds it too difficult to walk.' She added something else in Hafeza's language. Hafeza paused then nodded. A little nub of resistance within me tightened. I wondered what was said.
'When you're ready.' Giaconda reverted back to Serenissian. 'I will meet you in the portego for a light breakfast. You will need your energy today, Tarlo. It will be a very long one.'
I curtsied as Giaconda, pausing to pick up the pamphlet by my bed, cast me a meaningful glance and, accompanied by a half-smile, swept from the room. I looked coldly at Hafeza. 'You had better be quick then,' I said, ignoring the hurt that flashed in her brown eyes.
IT WAS MIDDAY BEFORE WE LEFT the casa and boarded the gondola. Unlike the day we attended the execution, Giaconda eschewed the felze and sat in the bow. As instructed, I sat beside her, wrapped in my woollen cape and with my mask firmly secured over the upper half of my face. I had been taught exactly how to sit, to look straight ahead and resist the urge to turn my head. We were on display.
Hafeza and another servant, a young girl named Rosalina, a kitchen drab garbed in one of my old dresses so as to look like a lady's maid, perched themselves atop the felze near Salzi, who was rowing, facing towards us. They too remained very still. We presented quite a picture, four women, our dresses fanned against the shiny adamantine surface of the craft, and the tall, elegant boatman with his navy blue coat, his white shirt contrasting with the sun-kissed flesh of his face, his fine hose and straw hat with the striped ribbon that whipped the back of his neck.
We passed by other gondolas carrying a mix of passengers or bearing fruit, vegetables and a range of saleable wares. The gondoliers maintained a constant stream of chatter, calling out when a bank of fog descended so as to avoid collision. One craft glided very close and I caught a brief glimpse of a rather lined face peering out of the window of the felze. On spying us, it withdrew with a noise of disgust and drew the shutter across swiftly.
'Pretend you didn't notice,' said Giaconda, her lips barely moving. 'That's simply Nobile Maggiore's mother. Her kind does not stand the likes of you or me. They think if they do not see us, we can't exist. She will be most displeased that she's set eyes upon us and thus confirmed our presence.' She gave a small laugh. Beneath her bravado, I could sense resentment. She too was the daughter of a nobile, but begotten on a courtesan, therefore she would never be embraced by her father's peers. It was so strange that though she was a Maleovelli, she would never be truly admitted to the circles her father occupied.
The irony was that, as a courtesan, she had so much more freedom than the daughters and wives of Nobile Maggiore, of the other nobiles' wives and daughters. Below the mask, her chin had taken on a determined jut and her mouth was fixed in a smile. Even this freedom exacted a toll.
That hadn't occurred to me before. It wasn't so much that Giaconda didn't care, it was that she couldn't afford to. Like me, she was forever an outsider. I wanted to reach out and let Giaconda know that I, of all people, understood. But I knew she would pull away. If I was to succeed as a courtesan in these circumstances then I could not care about her either. That she made it easy didn't placate me. I quashed my sorrow at the thought.
A large arch emerged out of the mist and, and we passed under the Ponte della Pensieri, the main bridge connecting the Ridotto to the Barnabotti Sestiere. Crowds of people jostled against the sides, many looking down upon us. There were cries of 'Bellissima!' Something fell into the gondola and I almost leapt from my seat in fright.
'Steady,' said Giaconda, placing a hand on my knee.
To my astonishment, two long-stemmed roses lay at the bottom of the boat. Melon-coloured petals were strewn across the seat. Hafeza slid off the felze and picked them up. A few more had missed the gondola and landed in the water, becoming floating tributes to Giaconda, to me -- to what we represented. Serenissians loved their courtesans.
The mist clung to us with damp purpose, adding to the weight of our clothes, making me bitterly cold. The air was so still, a precursor to the snow that would later flutter and fall. Just as my teeth began to chatter and I'd lost the feeling in the end of my nose, we finally turned off the Circolo Canal and into one of the bigger waterways that also sliced through the city. Here too elegant, multi-storey casas with their arched windows and engraved facades loomed above us, appearing -- impossibly -- to float on the dark green waters. Craft lined the sides of the canal, canvas covers securely in place, bobbing against their palines. It was almost mesmerising watching Salzi's oar split the water, hearing snatches of song, voices, the thump of cargo, the slap of waves and the cheer of happy men. The further we went, the noisier it became, and I realised with growing excitement that we were heading for the mercato, the major marketplace of Serenissima -- a place I'd heard so much about, but never before visited. I leant forward, willing the gondola to go faster as anticipation surged through me.
Salzi steered carefully, weaving us through the now heavy traffic. I forgot my earlier instructions not to twist my head and instead looked in every direction.
There were hundreds of gondolas drifting, bumping and pushing past each other. Some rested against water-stairs, emptying their passengers onto the fondamenta. Others aimed for little jetties, remaining still long enough to either take on people or offload them. The cold disappeared in the warmth of chatter, laughter, and human enterprise.
In moments, we were out of the gondola and on the fondamenta ourselves. My zoccoli, which were at least fifteen inches high, enabled me to see in all directions. Domed by the grey blanket of mist that hovered a respectable distance above us, the mercato spread out in an explosion of colour and sound.
It was a series of wide calles, lined by two-and three-storey casas that leant together like conspirators, blocking the light, while below them occupying every square inch of space were stalls, with vendors behind, beside and in front of them shouting the benefits of their wares. Women with baskets over their arms argued with the men and fondled the fruits and other produce, adding to the din. We pushed through the crowd, Hafeza and Rosalina in front, Giaconda beside me and Salzi bringing up the rear.
Moving slowly through the throng, we encountered dirty urchins, giggling at their game, scurrying past my skirts, sweeping them in their wake. Stallholders promising customers the best deals blocked my path, waving their produce beneath my nose, cajoling, pleading with me to buy. Salzi would step forward and shoo them away. I saw other courtesans, the hair on their heads as high and elaborate as their zoccoli, their pale faces deeply rouged, beauty spots prominent on their cheeks or necks. None was alone, but accompanied by servants or, in some cases, patrons. All were masked.
There were dwarves, nuns from the convents, tradespeople of all description milling, shopping, and gawking. Upon togati and doublets, I saw many a woven crest, a pang of recognition making me draw breath. Chandlers, candlemakers, butchers, tanners, paper and maskmakers all mingled with fishmongers, fruiterers, fabric and spice merchants. Perfumes filled the air and faces of different colours wandered past, oblivious to my stares. I saw men blacker than Hafeza, their skin so dark, they looked like shadows in our midst, their wide, white smiles splitting their faces, bringing them to life. There were people with eyes the shape of almonds and beautiful skins the colour of a golden sunset. Their voices were musical as they chanted rather than spoke. I saw hunchbacks, people pushing against the throng to touch their deformity for good luck. Cripples, some like Jacopo, only much worse, limped by. There were beggars, nobiles, mothers, children and even, my heart almost stopped, a real-life harlequin. He pirouetted in a small space in the corner of a campo, then dropped to his knees on the stones and began plucking a mandolin. Soldi were thrown to him, bouncing off the cobbles, but not before a dwarf, also dressed in the geometrical patterns of his master, and hidden beside a floppy-eared donkey with huge panniers, detached himself from the beast and scooped them up, encouraging further generosity with a series of clumsy cartwheels.
We continued to press ahead. I glanced at the stalls -- there were fruits of all shades and shapes on display, mounds of spices that looked like vivid dust that could blow away in the wind. I inhaled their pungency and tasted them deep in my throat. A man dressed in a turban and shiny robes beckoned us to try the liquid in his bizarrely shaped vials. Perfumes mixed in a wild infusion and I tried to catch the different odours and place them. My head spun and my heart soared. I wanted to drink this moment in, sup on this melange of wonders.
As we continued, a juggler appeared out of nowhere, flinging flaming torches into the air. The crowd gasped before breaking into applause as he first spun them so quickly they formed a circle of light and then caught them, one by one, dousing the flames.
I was still trying to see what he would do next when I was steered into a nearby series of rami, up some wooden stairs and then whisked across a bridge. On the other side of the Circolo, the noise and number of people diminished and then completely vanished. We wandered briskly along the empty fondamenta and I wondered where we were going. I looked at the signs hanging over the shops and recognised the insignia of the tailor -- the golden thread, reel and scissors. We had crossed into the Tailors Quartiere.
We turned off the main canal and into a dark ramo. Light did not reach this narrow lane. Giaconda drew to a halt before an unremarkable shop. Its window was streaked with grime, making it hard to see inside. A cat snaked past the door, rubbing its scrawny body along the wood, yawning as it did and revealing its sharp little teeth.
Before Salzi could reach the door, it was flung open, and standing there was the strangest man. Dressed in a light-coloured togati, which in itself was unusual, he wore a yellow cap upon his head. The sleeves of his shirt were the same mustard colour, only the cuffs were stuck full of pins and an assortment of ribbons. He was as short as he was wide, barely reaching my elbows. He had deeply hooded eyes and a nose that resembled a beak -- it was long and very narrow. I wondered if he had to inhale harder than most in order simply to breathe.
'Buon giorno! Signorina Maleovelli, how wonderful it is to see you!' His voice belied his looks. It was resonant and thickly accented. There was something hypnotic about it. 'Come in, come in!' He bowed so low, his large but slender hands scraped the floor which, I noted as I lifted my skirt and stepped over the threshold, was scrupulously clean.
Only Giaconda and I entered the premises. The others waited outside, which was just as well, because the interior was cramped. I dropped my dress and looked around. In every direction there were yards of fabric, stacked in bales, rolls and simply hanging in lengths across every wall and surface. It was like a chest of soft jewels -- dazzling. This was also because the shop was illuminated by dozens of candles, good-quality ones that exuded no smoke or odour. Positioned so as not to pose a danger to the materials and sitting in long, silver holders that had wax catchers at the base, they added grandeur to the place that I would not have assumed from its exterior.
'I received your message, Signorina, and I have what you requested.' He bowed again. 'Is this the lady in question?' He tipped his head at me quizzically.
'Sì, Signor Tedeschi. This is my father's ward, Tarlo Maleovelli. The cloth I asked you to procure is for a dress I want you to make in order that we can formally introduce her to society.'
The old man bowed again and nodded vigorously. 'A dress? Sì, sì.' He looked me up and down. 'I can see why you have gone to such expense, shall I say, taken such a risk. She is worth it, no? What a lovely shape, what fine bones.'
Giaconda did not answer; she simply inclined her head slightly.
I continued to gaze around the shop, looking at the sumptuous material, trying to pretend that Signor Tedeschi's scrutiny didn't bother me. I recognised velvet, silk, wool, damask with its heavy patterns -- all expensive textiles. One aspect of my education had not been wasted.
'Well, Signor Tedeschi, where is it? We do not have time to loiter,' said Giaconda brusquely.
'Aspettare, wait, please,' said Signor Tedeschi and plunged into the fabric, appearing to be consumed by its soft maw. On closer inspection, I saw there was a door hiding under the impromptu curtains. He returned in seconds carrying a long roll of what looked like spun gold.
Under the gentle light of the candles, the bolt shimmered like molten metal, reflecting the flickering flames and casting a wide halo. It was stunning, and I found myself lost for words. I could sense Giaconda's eyes on me from behind her mask. 'You like this, Tarlo?'
'It is ... beyond lovely.'
Giaconda smiled. 'Molto bene, Signor Tedeschi. We will take it.'
The Signor made a sound that might have been delight.
'Included in the price we agreed upon is the making of the dress, sì?' added Giaconda.
'Sì, Signorina, it's all included in the quote I gave you.'
'Bene, bene. I expect you at the casa tomorrow morning, then. My maid has some initial measurements for you to start with. I also want you to follow my design to the last detail, is that clear? I will provide you with the jewels you are to sew onto the dress tomorrow.'
My eyes widened in astonishment. Jewels on the dress? The Maleovellis were sparing no expense -- this was to be a grand introduction indeed. I wondered where and when it was going to occur. My heart started to beat faster at the thought.
'It is clear, Signorina. This is a very exciting commission. You honour me with your patronage.'
'Only so long as this is kept secret, Signor Tedeschi. If I should find that one word of this escapes, then not only will you never have our patronage again, you will no longer enjoy the business of anyone in Serenissima.'
'I understand, Signorina. I am always discreet.' The small man regarded Giaconda with knowing eyes.
'Sì. That you are, Signor.' Giaconda reached out and touched the old man's face. His eyes lit up.
He took her hand and kissed her glove. Giaconda pulled it away with what appeared to be reluctance. 'We will start tomorrow,' agreed Signor Tedeschi. 'When do you require the dress?'
'By the end of the week.'
'The end of the week?' Signor Tedeschi staggered backwards into his bales, clutching one to prevent himself from falling, the other screwing up his shirt over his heart. 'Signorina, non é possible!'
Giaconda reached into her purse and pulled out a small leather pouch. It bulged like a bag of nuts. She held it out in front of her. 'I think you'll find it's not only possible, but it will be done.'
Signor Tedeschi released the grip on his clothes and held out his hand. He rested the pouch in his palm. He weighed it thoughtfully before a smile wiped away his frown. 'Ah, you're right, Signorina. Miracles can happen -- all they need is a little faith.'
Giaconda freed the purse. The coins clinked together as they hit his hand. 'Or a lot.' She nodded curtly to the Signor. 'Till tomorrow then, Signor Tedeschi.'
'Ci vediamo, Signorina Maleovelli.' With a grand flourish, the old man held open the door, bending in half as he did.
We sailed past him and back into the draughty ramo.
'Give Signor Tedeschi those measurements, Hafeza,' ordered Giaconda. Hafeza obeyed, passing a folded piece of paper to the tailor, who bowed again.
'Let's go,' said Giaconda, turning and leading us back the way we had come. It wasn't long before we were once again caught in the current of people.
We were just about to cross back over the huge bridge that separated the Opera Quartiere and the marketplace when something caught my eye. Pressed momentarily against a building as a group of soldiers marched past, I saw a square of paper pasted to the outside of a shop. A corner had lifted and it was fluttering in the wind. In the centre was a crude picture of a young boy with unruly black hair, a small chin and cross brows. His expression was pure evil. I would not have given it another glance except for the eyes. They were the only thing of colour on the paper. Silver blazed from the poster, drawing the eye, drawing my eyes.
Bile rose in my throat and I didn't need to understand what was written below to know who this was meant to be -- it was me -- as the Cardinale chose to represent me to the popolani; to those he now promised to reward with many a lifetime's worth of riches should they report or catch me.
My head began to spin, my heart to hammer. Coldness gripped my chest.
Without thinking, I snatched it off the wall and crumpled it into a ball. Only then did I notice that this was not the only one. Pasted onto every surface available was the same image over and over. Crowds had gathered to watch the young boys, urchins, with satchels on their backs, pages in their hands, pasting the offending picture up wherever they could.
What started as a faint whisper soon became a roar.
'Estrattore, milliones! Estrattore!'
Giaconda turned at the noise and her face paled as she too saw the poster, read what it said.
'Come, we will leave now. Slowly, with dignity. Do not attract unnecessary attention.'
This time, she grabbed my arm. I did not have the desire or ability to draw from her. I could barely stand. Faces blurred, smiles transformed into leers as all lips formed the word, 'Estrattore.' Every set of eyes that lighted on my face saw through my disguise -- accusation and retribution was everywhere.
I barely remember reaching the gondola, but when I did, I retreated into the felze. I sat there in the darkness, the window shut, the curtains drawn, clutching my mask to my face, breathing deeply, trying to control the fear that threatened to break me.
I felt the gondola shift and heard the splash of the oar. Then I heard Salzi begin to sing and Giaconda to converse as if there were not a care in Vista Mare.
The snow that had been threatening all day finally began to fall and the women joined me, brushing their capes before they entered. Cramped, it was also warm. Giaconda shot me a warning look. I knew what it meant. We would talk about what had happened when we were in the privacy of the portego.
I knew what I wanted to say -- how could they even think of introducing me now? Now that not only the Cardinale, but all of Serenissima was searching for me.
But it was what the poster promised to do with me when I was caught that made my heart plummet and my body grow numb.
At the bottom of the poster, by decree of the Cardinale, was my destiny. When I was found, there was to be an execution. Not of the kind poor Renzo suffered. No. I was not to die quickly. I was to suffer the traditional death of an Estrattore.
In front of all Serenissima, upon a pyre to be especially built by the Circolo Canal, I was to suffer the fate of the worst kind of heretic.
In a twist of cruel irony, the apprentice candlemaker was to be put to the flame.
DANTE FOLLOWED KATINA THROUGH the marshes, trusting the horses to stay on firm ground. He watched her back swaying, in tune with Birrichino's rhythms, Argento's making him rock side to side as well. The saddlebags tied across Birrichino's rump were bulging, packed as they were with most of Katina's possessions. Those attached to Argento also carried some of her gear; Dante hadn't been there long enough to accumulate much so was happy to concede what room there was in his packs to her.
Katina had barely said a word since they left Settlement. At first, he'd chattered aimlessly to fill the space, to try to assuage her grief at leaving. But gradually he'd quietened, and respected her silence. Her separation from her lovers had been ... difficult. Poor Debora and Alessandro. In the end, there had been nothing more to say or do. They'd just stood together, their faces cast in misery, watching him and Katina load the horses and then ride away. He'd turned at the last moment, just before the mist swallowed them, the camp, and the other Riders who'd finally emerged -- not to say farewell, but to ensure they'd really left. His time at Settlement had been brief; it hadn't been what he'd call welcoming, but he'd still felt that it was somewhere he wasn't ready to leave. Now the security of the Bond Riders' home had been ripped away. On the bright side, farewelling Settlement also brought him closer to what he had to do -- find Tallow. Excitement surged through his veins at the thought; a thrill that was quickly replaced by guilt as he observed the slump of Katina's shoulders.
For him, it was yet another beginning; for Katina, leaving Settlement signalled an end -- of her status with the Bond Riders, of her time with Debora and Alessandro and, potentially, her long life. He couldn't imagine how that must feel -- knowing that, in all likelihood, you were going to die soon. Perhaps that was why Elder Maggiore had come to their tent just before they left to speak with Katina alone. Perhaps he was preparing her for the worst. They'd spoken for a long time, hidden away from prying eyes and ears. Curious about their conversation, Dante had learnt enough about Katina to understand she'd tell him when she was ready.
Over the last couple of weeks, knowledge of their departure had tainted everything -- his lessons in horsemanship, fighting and tracking. It had coloured their rests in the tent, which seemed to become more frequent. Even the passionate love-making of the Bond Riders had turned into little more than long embraces, surrounded by quiet. Dante would hear them, sliding across the enormous shared bed to hold each other, occasionally whispering. Thoughts of the future were like a spurned lover who would not leave. They hung thick in the air, an unspoken intrusion.
In an effort to distract them both, Katina had focused her energy on training him. If he'd thought Debora and Alessandro tough masters, they were nothing compared to Katina and her demands. She worked both him and Argento until he was one with the sweating, feisty mare. She made him practise his sword technique until he bested Alessandro every time. Katina fought him with her daggers, making him bleed, cutting him without care for the consequences until he learnt to block and counter-attack. She insisted that Debora teach him how to lift a purse without the owner being aware, that he learn how to read lips, understand the meaning behind simple hand gestures and mannerisms and how to disguise himself so he appeared neither a Bond Rider nor chandler, so he could blend with the popolani in Serenissima again.
At first he didn't understand why he had to learn all these things; they might be useful for the brief time he was in Serenissima, but he belonged in the Limen now -- what use would they be to him here? Especially since few Riders engaged in such exercises. When he expressed this to Katina, she turned on him.
'You think a real Bond Rider belongs in the Limen alone? No! Our existence here was only ever meant to be a means to an end. It gave us time to prepare our minds and bodies so we could fulfil our Bonds, carry out our oaths. You've already sensed how easy it is to lose sight of that, that the Limen hastens forgetfulness of what we once were. What you will learn is that while some may try to forget their Bonds -- it's impossible. They sit here,' she said, thumping her breastbone, 'like an undigested meal, an everlasting ache, a constant reminder of what we pledged. Only some of us work hard to ignore it and even --' her eyes scanned Settlement, piercing the drifting clouds of vapour, noting the Riders attending to their tack, braiding each others' hair, engaged in quiet conversation '-- delude themselves into believing they can.' Her lip curled in disgust. 'Well, training keeps us focused, reminds us of what we came here to do -- as well as what we sacrificed for the privilege.' She held her dagger level with his face. 'And don't you forget that, Dante.' She pointed into the fog-bound distance. 'Our real purpose is beyond the Limen -- back in Serenissima.' She stared at him with steely eyes -- her look forbidding the questions she knew he longed to ask, denying him a reply.
Instead, he nodded solemnly. 'Well, what are you waiting for?' he said, and with a smile raised his daggers. With a growl of approval, Katina launched herself at him. She'd drawn no blood that time or in any fight since.
The sound of hooves on stone brought Dante back to the present. The marshes had ended; the horses began to climb a shale embankment, slipping on the loose, flat rocks.
'How much further?' asked Dante, urging Argento forward with his knees. They seemed to be riding forever.
Katina called over her shoulder. 'Not much. We're almost there.' Without warning, she kicked Birrichino into a canter and reached the top of the rise. Dante quickly followed.
As they topped a second lowlying hill, the mist parted and there, rising into the firmament, was the Limen.
Dante had never really seen it before, and for a moment it took his breath away. As they rode closer, he tried to work out its composition. It was as if the mist that surrounded them had gathered into one place, been infused with silver light and formed an enormous wall -- one without beginning or end. It was simply there. Rather than being solid, it was constantly shifting, which gave it the appearance of both fragility and fluidity. Dante knew it was neither. It was a barrier like no other: it divided worlds, people, lives -- in time and space.
Katina cantered alongside it for a while before drawing Birrichino to a halt by a group of boulders arranged in a linear fashion that had been daubed with white paint. They'd passed a couple of groupings like that on their journey -- markers, Dante thought, but for what, he couldn't be sure. He pulled up alongside Katina, stretching down to pat Argento's neck. His eyes were still fixed on the Limen. The horses, he noted, were unfazed; they stood still, heads held high, steam rolling from their nostrils.
'It's ... huge,' he said, trying to gauge how far the Limen extended, at a loss for appropriate words.
'Oh, it's a great deal more than that,' said Katina. She shot him a small smile. 'But I understand what you're saying. It's hard to comprehend, isn't it?'
Dante nodded and turned to her. 'Is that how you know where to cross?' He pointed to the row of marked stones.
'Sì. This tells me that we're close to the Pledge Stone of Casa di Maggiore.'
'Why are we crossing here?'
'Because ...' Katina hesitated. 'Because it's easier for you.'
'Me?' Dante gave an uncertain laugh. 'You don't have to worry about me. I'll be all right. Anyway, I've got you to lead the way.'
Katina met his eyes for the first time since they left Settlement. 'No, Dante. I'm afraid you don't.'
A chill clutched his body. 'What do you mean?'
'I ... I'm not coming with you. I'm staying here.'
'But ... the trial. The Elders said ...'
'I know what the Elders said.' Katina raised her voice to stop his questions. 'I know my sentence was to leave the Limen, but things have changed, Dante. There's a great deal you don't know -- that I still don't know, but which we both have to find out. That we need to know in order to fulfil our Obbligare Doppio. There's also much I have to tell you.' She seemed to retreat in on herself.
Dante waited. Sensing his impatience, Argento began to get restless. 'Should I dismount?' he asked finally.
'No, no. That's not necessary.' Katina took a deep breath and, in a soft steady voice, told him everything Elder Maggiore had imparted to her when he visited her in the cell.
'Tallow is to destroy the pledge stones?' he exclaimed, when Katina arrived at that point in her retelling. Argento was startled by his master's tone, and Dante had to pull hard on the reins to get her back under control. 'Why? Why would the Estrattore want her to do that? I don't understand.'
Katina shrugged. 'Revenge? To prove to Serenissima that the Doge made a mistake in allowing Roma and the Great Patriarch to dictate beliefs and exile, let alone kill the Estrattore? To demonstrate their power; to annihilate the Bond Riders? I don't know.'
Dante thought for a moment, his brow furrowed. 'We didn't openly discuss Estrattore while I was growing up, but we did tell stories about them around the fireplace, the table -- Nonno Renzo and Zia Gaia used to whisper tales to me when they'd tuck me into bed as well. They may have just been stories, but I thought the Estrattore were different. You know, beyond something like revenge.' He paused. 'I thought they were more thoughtful and gentle; more like ...' He searched for the right words. 'Tallow.'
'They were,' said Katina, her face softening in memory. 'The stories you were told are probably closer to what used to be the truth than you know.'
'Used to be?'
'They've been gone for a long time, Dante. What happened to them was ... evil. You can't walk away from that unscathed, not really. Then there's this place.' She waved her arm around. 'It changes people. It distorts everything, eventually. In the end, we all fade to grey.'
'You haven't,' said Dante suddenly, twisting towards her.
Katina's eyes widened and she was about to protest but stopped herself. 'Grazie. But I had, Dante. Until I was asked to go to Serenissima and train Tallow -- I was just like the others. Caught up in my half-life here, ignoring the call of my Bond, believing that what we did was important, that it had meaning. And now I have you and the Obbligare Doppio to remind me that there is so much more. Others are not so lucky. I can see how the Estrattore might have changed; they feel everything so deeply -- joy, sorrow, anger, happiness. You didn't know them, didn't know what life was like with them ...'
'What was it like?' asked Dane softly.
Katina laughed sadly. 'It was so long ago, Dante, but I remember a world where faith was not something used to instil fear in people, but to encourage love and understanding. Oh,' she said, holding up her hand, 'don't get me wrong, it didn't always work -- in the end, we're only human after all. We still had troubles, and petty politics and all the things you expect in a rich, bustling country, but we also had a means to control excess -- of emotion, of feeling. Of helping those who needed it whether they knew it or not.'
'That was the Estrattore?
'Sì. That was how most of them chose to use their gifts.'
'Tallow did that,' said Dante. 'She helped us -- she helped everyone during the Morto Assiderato. She saved lives, she brought happiness and hope when there was none.'
Katina's eyes became glassy. 'Sì, that's what most of them did in my time too. There were some -- there are always some --' she half-laughed ruefully '-- who abused their power, but even then, the others would intervene and quell those who would make ... trouble. That's how I remember them -- they tried to bring stability whenever we were at risk of losing it.'
'Perhaps they will again?' said Dante hopefully.
'Perhaps,' agreed Katina. 'That's what we have to try and do -- give them the chance, give us all the chance to change. To restore hope and faith in a world that has so very little.'
There was nothing but the breathing of the horses and the swirl of the Limen. Minutes passed.
'What must we do? What must I do? Tell me.' Dante reached across and placed his hand over Katina's where it rested on the pommel. 'I am glad you're not coming. That you have chosen to live.'
Katina placed her other hand over his and squeezed it hard. 'Sì, but now you must go into Serenissima alone, Dante. You must learn what you can, find out where Tallow is and what she's doing.' She choked back a laugh. 'I've no doubt she'll be up to something. It's in her nature. I only hope that whatever she's doing, she isn't hurting herself.'
'What about you?'
She patted his hand one last time and then let it go. Dante sat back up in the saddle. 'I'm to wait here for a friend. I have my own task to fulfil.' Katina pursed her lips.
'Very well,' said Dante, blowing out his breath noisily. He knew there was no point questioning her further. 'I see. Where do I go, then?'
'To the Tailors Quartiere -- the Pledge Stone of Casa di Maggiore is the closest one to that quartiere. Go to the Taverna di Segretezza. It's run by a Signor Vestire. He's a good man. They're discreet there, accustomed to me, to Bond Riders. From there, you'll be able to use the skills you've learnt in here to find Tallow. Use the taverna as a base, listen rather than ask questions, follow any leads, no matter how spurious, and search high and low. Try not to draw attention to yourself, do you understand? Once you find her, observe her. Do not make contact with her.'
Dante stared at her for a moment. 'But I thought --' he began.
'No buts, Dante. This is not negotiable. For Tallow's sake, you cannot let her know that you are watching. She must not see you. If she did ... well. It would influence her in a way in which we no longer have a right. Not at the moment. Trust me, Dante. Please. For all our sakes.'
Arguments and protests contorted Dante's face as he struggled to accept Katina's commands, to understand her reasoning.
'Molto bene,' he said. 'For Tallow's sake, I will stay out of sight.'
Katina grunted. 'It is up to you to make sure she's safe. We cannot bring her here against her will, nor can we let her put herself at risk. You will have to use your judgement. If at any point you feel she's in grave danger, don't hesitate to act. When you no longer have a choice, bring her here into the Limen.'
'Then what happens?'
'I am not sure ... yet,' admitted Katina. 'That is part of what I have to find out.'
Dante nodded gravely. 'I see.'
'Do you? Because, by the gods, I am not sure I do.'
Dante couldn't help it -- he laughed. Katina's eyes crinkled. 'No, I don't really. But it felt better saying that.' He slapped the hilt of his sword. 'I will do what I am told. Watch her and make sure she is unharmed. Hopefully, you will discover our next step before I am forced to do what I must in order to protect her.'
'Bene. Another thing -- once you're on the other side, Dante, back in Serenissima, the urge to contact your family will be strong. But you must resist, do you understand? You will cause them pain if you should walk back into their lives after all this time. Not only that, but you'll place them in great danger.'
'Danger?'
'Sì. Our networks tell us that there've been many arrests in your quartiere.'
Dante's heart lurched. 'Why?'
'Why?' Katina threw her hand up in the air. 'Do you think that what Tallow was, what she did, would go unnoticed? The drama on the bridge was the talk of Serenissima -- according to what Elder Maggiore told me, it still is. It attracted the attention of the authorities. That which they feared most has finally happened. An Estrattore has been seen -- worse, she's lived among them. Can you imagine how the Doge, how the Church reacted to that? As far as they're concerned, three hundred years of worshipping the one God has come to nothing. They realise how shaky their foundations are if all it takes to undermine them is one Estrattore. They're furious -- and they are also terrified. They understand now how tenuous their hold on the popolani really is and they're lashing out.' She paused and looked uneasy. 'Those who hid her, who knew what she was and said nothing, are being punished.' She looked deep into Dante's eyes. Her silver flecks gleamed in the dull light.
'Who exactly are you talking about? Tell me.' Dread hardened the coldness that filled his chest, turning it to ice.
'I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, Dante, and now, but your grandfather. He --'
Dante held up his hand in front of her face. His dark eyes were metal. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. Every heartbeat was painful.
'When? Who's responsible?'
'A while ago. It was the Cardinale. He's capturing those he believes harboured Tallow and who are withholding information. Your grandfather ... he was publicly executed, on Nobiles' Rise. Others are dispatched, quickly, quietly, without ceremony. But the popolani know. They're afraid, but not so afraid yet that they talk. This will work both for and against you.' Katina spoke slowly. 'The Cardinale's desperate to locate Tallow; so desperate, he will take any measure. Serenissima is not the place you once knew.'
Dante drew his breath in sharply and threw back his head. He wanted to scream at the mist, cut it with his weapons. Nonno Renzo! No. No. No.
He took some deep breaths, trying to regain equilibrium.
'All right,' he said hoarsely. 'I keep searching for Tallow and, when I find her I watch unless she is danger. If I judge the threat is too great, I bring her to you?'
'Sì. Go to the Pledge Stone of Casa di Maggiore. Touch it and wait for me. I will come, wherever I am. Hopefully, you will not have to do that. I will learn what I need in here, then I will find you in Tailors Quartiere. But I fear if I am to see this through, then I will have to stay in the Limen.'
Dante's mouth became a grim line. 'Of course, you must. But why are we bringing Tallow here? Surely, if the Estrattore are after her, then we're making it easier for them. Shouldn't we just take her straight to the Elders or find another, safer place to take her?'
'The Elders!' barked Katina. 'No. They cannot be allowed to have her either.'
'Why do you say that? I thought the Bond Riders wanted to protect her? To have her restore their souls so they can return to Serenissima, to the real world, a real life? I thought that was what you wanted?'
'Me? Sì. I do. But there are powerful others who do not.'
'Elder Maggiore told you this?'
'Sì. He told me everything I am now telling you.'
'Can he be trusted?'
Katina wrestled with her response. 'I believe him.'
'Then that's good enough for me.'
Katina shot him a grateful smile. 'He told me they would use her. Oh, they want her to draw their souls out of the pledge stones in order to make them whole again, but not with the intention of returning to Serenissima.'
Dante weighed Katina's words. Around him, the mist swirled and parted. He thought for a long while. Beneath him, Argento searched for grass. 'If they don't want to return, what do they want?' he asked finally.
Katina straightened in her saddle. 'According to Elder Maggiore, the majority of the Elders want to create a new society here, in the Limen. A race of semi-immortals. A new order that will exist alongside Serenissima, a power to be reckoned with.'
Dante's eyes widened. 'By God! And they would use Tallow to accomplish this?'
'Like a rag. They will force her to release their souls from the pledge stones -- every single one. Such a task would be too much for one Estrattore, let alone Tallow. It would kill her.'
Dante thought his head was going to explode. He gazed at the shifting border, his need to cross suddenly greater, to get to Tallow before anyone else could. 'Then we must make sure that neither the Bond Riders nor the Estrattore get their hands on her. But I still don't understand why we need to bring her here -- it seems to me that the Limen is dangerous for Tallow.'
Katina leant over in the saddle and clutched Dante's shoulder. 'Everywhere is dangerous for her. But at least in here, I have the advantage -- you have an advantage. And we'll take that for now. Until we can formulate a plan for keeping her safe and allowing her the time to understand what it is she has to do.'
'And what is that?'
'That is for Tallow to decide.'
Dante inhaled deeply and exhaled. 'Molto bene. Then we will make sure she is able to do that.'
'That, amico mio, is my intention. That's the nature of our Obbligare Doppio. You wanted to know what it was? What pledge I made on our behalf? It's simple. I pledged us both to the child of the prophecy. That's all. And that child is Tallow -- the one who will restore balance, bring light into a world growing increasingly dark.' She gripped his hand more tightly. 'I know you care for her -- deeply.' She turned his hand over and ran a finger over the glove, over the place where the scar of his Bond nestled. 'I put my faith in you and your love for her. I know I did the right thing.'
'What will you do while I'm in Serenissima?'
'I cannot say exactly until I meet this friend that Elder Maggiore has told me will help us.'
'Who is it?'
'All I know is that it's an Estrattore, someone who, like Elder Maggiore, believes in the prophecy. Someone who has maintained the old faith.'
'Like you have,' said Dante softly.
'Sì, like me,' Katina agreed. 'Together, we will help prepare Tallow to learn the truth ...'
'What's that?'
Before Katina could answer, a noise in the distance made them both swing round. An icy wind swept through the clearing. Argento's head shot up and she whinnied, pulling on her reins, her ears flat to her skull. Birrichino raised his head and became skittish, walking sideways, kicking his heels, his tail flicking.
'What was that?' whispered Dante, suddenly grateful for the long leather coat. 'Could it be this Estrattore you're supposed to meet?'
'Hush,' whispered Katina, cocking her head to one side.
A faint wail reached their ears, a plaintive song of desperation and terrible hunger. Dante felt his hair stand on end. 'What was that?'
'Morte Whisperers.' Katina was pale, her eyes wide with terror. Birrichino reared, bringing his hooves down hard, jolting Katina. Only her firm grip on the reins, pulling his bit hard against his mouth and digging her knees into his side prevented him from dashing away.
'What are they?' Dante tried to soothe Argento and see through the haze, catch the owners of the dreadful sound.
'Creatures you never want to meet. We've no time to waste. Breach now, Dante,' cried Katina, urging Birrichino into a canter. 'Give the command,' she shouted over her shoulder. 'Go Dante, find Tallow!'
Wheeling Argento around, Dante bellowed the words that had been drummed into his head, fear making his voice crack. Katina rode beside him, Dante understood she was determined to see him through the Limen and safe before she fled. As their horses reached full gallop, the wall slowly tore apart a few hundred feet ahead, the grey mist widening, letting the world of time and space enter.
As they rode closer, Dante felt something pass through him, something so cold it made him arch his back in pain. His mouth froze in a rictus, his hands grew numb and the reins fell from his fingers. He began to slide.
Katina lunged towards him and pushed him upright, preventing him from falling. Birrichino and Argento rode neck and neck, their hooves thrumming as they raced towards the opening. Dante scrambled for the reins, twisting them around his wrists, and regained control. He signalled to Katina and reached for his sword.
Katina's dagger was drawn and she lashed out at not one, but half a dozen of the wraith-like monsters that emerged out of the Limen wall, leaping over Dante and pouncing on Katina, grasping, pulling her into their skeletal-like embrace.
Dante watched in horror as they tried to wrest her from Birrichino and stop her riding away. With long insubstantial fingers, another wrapped itself around her and tried to prise open her mouth. Birrichino reared, his hooves flailing. Dante yelled and bore down upon them.
Katina screamed. The sound was cut off as her mouth was filled while hands groped at her chest, tore at her heart. Dante slashed at the creatures, dismayed as his sword passed through them. Their shrill song rose to a crescendo, piercing his ears, filling his head with terrible pictures, causing his nerves to shriek.
Katina's dagger flew out of her hand. Her pleading eyes met Dante's.
Dante did the only thing left to him. He grabbed her reins and, with one mighty surge, rode Argento through the gap in the wall, pulling Birrichino after him.
They leapt into the air and, as they hit the ground of Vista Mare, the creatures dissolved. Dante rode as fast as he could away from the barrier, looking over his shoulder, terrified in case the vaporous fiends returned. Trees tore at his shirt, whipped Argento's flesh, but still Dante rode on.
It took him a minute to realise the sounds he heard were not pursuit, but Katina's faint cries. Quickly, he drew the horses to a halt and watched as Katina, her face white, her eyes glazed and her body shrunken, slid off the saddle and crumpled to the ground.
'DID ANYONE SEE YOU?' asked Elder Nicolotti, holding aloft the candle, its flickering light striking the rough-hewn walls of the passage.
'No, Signor, not a soul. We were very careful.' Stefano emerged from the shadows followed closely by Santo. They bowed before the older man and raised his outstretched hand to their lips.
'Bene, bene,' said Elder Nicolotti, accepting their benediction before stepping back and appraising them. They'd dressed hastily, despite instructions. Santo wore his sword instead of carrying it. Elder Nicolotti decided to ignore the serious breach of protocol. Only guards were allowed to bear arms in the palazzo. 'She has gone?' He did not have to say to whom he referred.
Santo and Stefano nodded.
'And the chandler?'
'Sì,' said Stefano. 'They left Settlement a while ago, heading for the Limen.'
'Bene.' Elder Nicolotti doused the candle, plunging them into darkness. 'Then walk with me,' he ordered, and turned down one of the narrow corridors that riddled the Elders' palazzo.
Sure-footed, he knew his way. The Bond Riders behind him stumbled and fell. They tried to be quiet, but Santo's sword scraped the walls, Stefano's shoulder thudded into a rocky outcrop, forcing a muted groan. Elder Nicolotti grinned as they struggled to keep up. One did not always need a weapon to exert power.
The corridor widened into a small cave. Grey light from the opening spewed in, revealing a bench and some unlit sconces. Elder Nicolotti placed the candle he carried in an empty one and spun round.
'The time has come for you both to fulfil the pledges you made. You to Casa Nicolotti and you to your partner's house, Casa Maggiore.' His eyes alighted on first Stefano and then Santo. Both Riders lowered their heads. 'You understand what it is you're to do?' He directed the first question to Santo. 'You will enter Vista Mare and follow them. Watch them. Report their every move to Stefano, who will remain in the Limen and relay any information back to me. You'll use the Pledge Stone of Casa di Nicolotti to communicate. I will give Stefano any further instructions that you, Santo, will follow. No digressing, no elaboration, no unnecessary killing. The timing for this must be right. Do you understand? I want to know who they see, where they go and, above all, I want to know when they find the Estrattore. Am I clear?'
'Very clear, Elder Nicolotti,' said Santo, bowing his head again.
Elder Nicolotti considered the Rider carefully. He was still young and, though physically imposing, not very smart. He would have preferred to use Stefano for this mission, but the man had only a few crossings left. The adoration Santo felt for Stefano had proved very useful before and it might do so again, but without the disastrous consequences of their last task. That they'd lost the Estrattore had rocked his plans and shaken the confidence of his peers. It could not happen again. This was their last chance, his last chance.
Elder Nicolotti could read Santo's insecurity and his desperation to prove his worth. It accompanied him like a bad smell. It was inscribed on his face and in the apprehensive looks he cast at Stefano. How Stefano could bear to have this ... this peasant snapping at his heels all the time was beyond him. But then, shame was a great burden that Stefano had carried for years; it had coloured all his relationships, all his actions. It turned real triumphs into perceived failures. For Stefano, Santo was not only someone with whom he could share the guilt and even attribute his failure to, but he was like one of the Church's hair-shirts -- a living punishment -- that Stefano chose to wear.
The hatred Santo Pelleta bore for Katina Maggiore, Stefano's one-time lover, was a wonderful convenience. It suited Nicolotti's purposes well. Little did Katina's relative know when he forced this candlemaker to pledge over a broken colleganza all those years ago that it would bind Santo to a plot to free the Bond Riders -- and that it would create an opportunity for Casa Nicolotti to rise to power beyond Serenissima and even Vista Mare.
Elder Nicolotti's eyes narrowed as he studied the two men. 'Then say your goodbyes now. Do not fail me. Remember who you're pledged to, Santo Pelleta. You too, Stefano Maggiore. This is no time for error. No time for failure -- only success. The time to fulfil your Bonds and free the Bond Riders from their curse once and for all, and give us a future worth living for has arrived.' His voice deepened and rose, ringing with passion, bouncing off the stone walls and echoing around the chamber.
'Now go and do that for which we have all waited many lifetimes.' As Stefano and Santo fell to their knees, Elder Nicolotti touched the tops of their heads, his palms hot, his energy vibrating through their bodies. Releasing them, he spun on his heels and, without another word, disappeared into the tunnels.
SANTO WAITED UNTIL HE COULD no longer hear footsteps before raising his head and turning to Stefano. 'I wish we were able to do this together instead of being separated.' Slightly unsteady, he stood up and brushed the dirt from his breeches. Stefano eased himself to his feet and did the same without speaking. Santo waited till he'd finished and then reached over and pushed the hair off Stefano's face. 'Nicolotti's right. This is your chance to remove the stain from your house and, in the process, get rid of the Estrattore once and for all.'
Stefano's eyes narrowed. 'We had that chance before, remember? Only last time we were together didn't go so well. This separation is for the best.'
Santo frowned at Stefano's tone.
Stefano jerked his head in the direction that the Elder had taken. 'Just remember what Nicolotti said. Don't try to do anything foolish this time -- no dramatics. All you need to do is keep an eye on them and report to me.'
Santo took a step back. 'I know what I have to do. I don't need you to tell me too. I'm not stupid.'
Stefano's eyes glittered in the shadows. He didn't respond.
'I know you'd rather be the one returning, that this is a chance for you to complete your Bond -- what with Katina so vulnerable and all.'
'You really don't listen, do you?' Stefano blew out air in exasperation. 'Let me spell it out for you. Even if I were going, I couldn't fulfil my pledge. Katina's --' he hissed her name '-- made sure of that, hasn't she? Until her Obbligare Doppio is complete, none of us can do a damn thing except hang around and hurt. As for me, I've got the added benefit of having to wait for you.'
'Is that so bad?'
'It is when your insides burn every moment that Estrattore lover walks Vista Mare. Remember, we may share a name, but it's the blood of Katina's direct line that taints all Maggiore and I will do whatever it takes to clear that as soon as I can.'
'Even support Elder Nicolotti?'
'In that, I have no choice. I'm Bonded. But our purpose is the same ... for now. When the time is right, I can both mend the past and shore up the future -- for all of us.'
'Sì,' laughed Santo, relieved that Stefano sounded more like his old self. 'Nicolotti has great plans for the Bond Riders.'
'And if you play this right, Santo,' Stefano said, stepping closer to his lover and grabbing the hair on the back of his head, pulling him in, 'Obbligare Doppio or no, Elder Nicolotti will be in our debt. And that bodes well for our future. So don't ruin this, all right?'
Before Santo could protest, Stefano kissed him roughly.
Drawing away, Stefano untangled his fingers from Santo's hair. 'Once she leads you to the Estrattore, there's nothing to stop you, to stop us. You grab her and you bring her to me. I'll be ready. I doubt there'll be a problem. Katina won't last long as it is.' His lips became a thin line as he grew introspective.
Santo smiled. 'Tallow eluded me once -- never again. Not now we have the one thing she can't resist. Your girlfriend was right about that.'
'Don't call her that. It's been a long time since she was that.'
'Not long enough for my liking.'
'No,' said Stefano with a sigh. 'You'll only be happy when she's dead.'
'Vero.'
Stefano laughed harshly. 'Me too.'
They both shared a look. Stefano was the first to break away.
'Go,' he said, waving towards the cave mouth. 'Follow. And make sure you don't fall back into old habits this time.' Stefano gave him a none-too-gentle slap on the cheek and shoved him in the direction of the exit.
A look of fury swept over Santo's face and he angrily pushed Stefano's hand away. 'Its not me that has old habits to worry about, Stefano.'
Stefano gave a raw laugh. 'Is that right? Katina's nothing to me, Santo. I don't have to prove anything in that regard, whereas you, you have everything. So, prove it to me, Santo. Prove to me that you can do this on your own. For me, for all of us.'
Santo chewed his lips, swallowing the words he wanted to say but knew he'd later regret. 'I will. Farewell,' he said huskily. 'See you on the other side,' and without another word, stalked out of the cave.
'The other side,' said Stefano quietly, his arms folded, his doubts quashed beneath them.
SIGNOR TEDESCHI FUSSED OVER ME like a moth teasing a candle. I wanted to bat him away as he pinned, poked, and pulled me in all directions. I watched him from behind my mask, standing atop a small box while he knelt, working on the hem of my new gown. His mouth was full of pins, a tape measure was flung over his shoulder, ribbons stuck to his doublet, a piece of chalk almost slipping from a pocket. He did not care about how he looked; his focus was on my dress and me. Just as I took pride in my candlemaking, so this little man took great satisfaction in his craft and, as such, would not be happy with anything less than perfection.
Instead of complaining, I sighed and remained as still as I'd been requested and gazed around the room. For the past few days, Signor Tedeschi had come each morning, preparing the dress I was to wear at my first public function. I still didn't know what that was, but from the elegance of the gown, and the jewels provided to adorn the sleeves and bodice, I guessed it was a major event. Giaconda had not left us for a second. She sat in a chair and watched proceedings, occasionally offering an opinion or demanding a change when she felt the result was in question.
Hafeza would dart in and out, bringing cafe and sweet breads -- none of which, while the fabric was being fitted, I was allowed to sample.
I sighed again, drawing a disapproving noise from Signor Tedeschi. 'Patience, Signorina! I'm almost finished. What should take weeks has taken me a matter of days. If anyone should be sighing, it's me.' I glanced at him in surprise. Signor Tedeschi was normally very good-humoured. For the first time, I noticed the sooty shadows under his eyes and the pallor of his skin. I knew from what he'd said to Giaconda that not even the seamstresses he usually employed had been allowed to work on this gown. He'd done every stitch himself.
I wasn't sure what the mystery surrounding my dress was about, why it had to be kept so secret. All I knew was that the golden cloth that pushed out my breasts, swam over my arms, accentuating my waist before sweeping the floor in a long train, shone with metallic depths that glimmered in the candlelight, showering Signor Tedeschi and me in a buttery glow. My mind started to wander as I tried to imagine how I would look, how I would be received. Since that day in the market, when we'd seen the posters, my newfound confidence had taken a backward step.
Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli were dismissive of my fears.
As soon as we'd arrived home, Giaconda ordered Salzi to fetch her father. We'd gone to his study to await him. He'd entered moments after we'd sat down. Giaconda quickly explained what had occurred, pulling an offending poster from her small purse and unfolding it. I hadn't seen her take one. I started forward in my seat.
'It looks nothing like you, Tarlo,' Giaconda snapped, her usual serenity ruffled. 'Calm down, for God's sake.' I forced myself to keep still as Signor Ezzelino studied the poster, his heavy eyes roaming from it to me and back again.
Then he did what I least expected. He burst out laughing. 'We couldn't have hoped for better!' he said, waving it in the air around him. 'This is wonderful. Gia is right. This picture of a dirty little scoundrel looks nothing like you. Better still, it declares you're a boy and offers a reward!' He passed it back to his daughter, wiping his eyes. 'Fools! This is a marvellous distraction and the timing is perfect.'
'We continue with our plans, then?' asked Giaconda, throwing the poster into the grate. We watched as the edges caught and the fire licked the parchment black.
'Sì, bella. We do.' With one last glance at me, Signor Ezzelino left the room.
That had been four days ago and I was still no wiser about the Maleovellis' plans. Anxiety gnawed at me, but also excitement. This was the moment I'd been waiting for, the time when everything I needed to be, everything I'd been learning would be put into practice. My masquerade would begin in earnest.
'Soldi for your thoughts,' said Giaconda softly.
I jumped. I hadn't noticed her leave the chair. She stood in front of me, the top of her head just below my chin.
'I ... I was wondering where I was going to wear this.'
'Just where?' she asked, tipping her head slightly. 'It needs to be lifted here, Signor Tedeschi. I want them to see her zoccoli.'
'Sì, sì,' muttered Signor Tedeschi, quickly pinning the fabric pinched between Giaconda's fingers.
She returned her attention to me. 'Don't you also want to know when?'
'Of course.' Signor Tedeschi indicated I needed to spin to the right, so I spoke over my shoulder. 'But I didn't think there was any point in asking two questions. I am lucky enough to receive an answer to one.'
Giaconda followed me, so I could see her. She was smiling, her eyes sparkling. 'Ah, the little one bites at last! Now I am persuaded you're indeed ready to not only hear where you're going -- but to attend as well.'
I held my breath as Giaconda sat on the edge of my bed and faced me, her hands clasped in her lap.
'Friday night is the official welcome for the new foreign ambassador. It's not a ball in the traditional sense -- there won't be dancing. It's a function to which the Council of Ten and the entire Senate, which is all Serenissian nobiles, are invited. Wives and daughters are excluded, making it the ideal occasion to introduce this foreigner to the delights of Carnivale and the city. Papa will be attending. All the leading courtesans will be there. Consequently, it's the perfect time to present our latest addition, the one and only Tarlo Maleovelli.' She did a flourish with her arms. 'The most desirable virgin the city has ever seen.'
I released my breath slowly. 'Friday? That's in three days,' I said in a small voice. My heart jumped.
'Sì. You'll be presented to both your prospective clientele and your competition. After that, we'll wait for the offers to arrive.' Giaconda rose and walked around me. 'In this dress, you'll attract many.'
'You think so?'
For an answer, Giaconda looked at Signor Tedeschi. 'May I?' she asked.
'Sì, Signorina,' he bowed and stepped out of the way, pulling the last of the pins from his mouth.
Giaconda helped me from my perch and led me towards the mirror. Hafeza scuttled out of the way. I ignored her.
'Shut your eyes,' ordered Giaconda before moving behind me and placing her hands on my shoulders. I could feel her breath against my ears. I quivered beneath her touch. 'When I tell you, I want you to look at yourself, not as Tallow or even Tarlo, but as someone else would see you. Imagine the dress finished, your hair done, a different mask.' She paused. 'You ready? Open them.'
I did as I was told and through my dark mask saw the woman facing me. A tall, slender woman with full breasts, suffused in gold, her skin soft and white, forming a velvet contrast to the sheen of the fabric. This was a woman people would notice, men would desire.
I shook my head.
'I don't believe it. That's me. Signor Tedeschi, it's beautiful.'
'No, Signorina.' Signor Tedeschi moved in front of me, blocking the dress from my view. 'It is you who is beautiful. I'm just framing that which God created.'
Giaconda and I exchanged a smile in the mirror above his head. I thought of my past life, my secrets, my lies, the abuse, the pain, the joy, the sorrow, the love, the anger. Abandoned by my own, hunted by others -- I was barely my own creature, let alone God's.
'That which God created ...' I repeated and began to laugh.
A laugh, I realised as Giaconda joined me, that sounded exactly like hers.
LORD WATERFORD SHUDDERED as he read again the fancy gilt card that had been delivered while he was sitting in his sun-drenched portego overlooking the Circolo Canal. Written in his language, it was clumsy and misspelled, but clear in its intention. There was to be an official function to acknowledge, not simply his arrival in Serenissima, but celebrate the new treaty between the canal-city and Farrowfare. It was to take place in the Doge's palazzo in two days' time. He was guest of honour and, as such, would be escorted to the palazzo by no less than one of the current heads of the Council of Ten, Nobile Zanino Nicolotti.
He threw the invitation back upon the tray and rose, gesturing to a servant to refill his cup. Damn, but that cafe the Serenissians drank was addictive. Initially appalled to discover his store of tea was damaged en route, he had soon adapted to the drink of the locals. Bitter, it left a strange taste in the mouth that was easily offset with sugar. He found he not only liked it, but preferred it to his customary drink.
Taking his cup to one of the windows, he gazed out over the jade waters, the surface crazed by the glacial wind that came in from the north, brilliant under the cloudless azure sky. Snow had fallen overnight, covering the fondamenta and surrounding casas in white cloaks. He watched as gondoliers brushed the pristine powder from the top of the felzes, pulled back the heavy covers that protected the seats, periodically pausing to slap life back into their frozen hands as they worked. Gondolas glided past, nobiles and artists standing erect in the bottom, their faces fixed on their destination, refusing to be distracted by the journey. Below him, people scurried along the cobbles, their capes wrapped warmly around them, their caps snug upon their heads. Many had masks firmly fixed to their faces. Such a strange custom. He supposed he must find one to wear to the Doge's welcome. What would his wife make of all this?
He lifted his eyes and stared beyond the pinnacles of the Doge's basilica and the towering campanile in the piazza, towards the lagoon, imagining the wide expanse of ocean beyond. An ocean that led back to his homeland, to his wife, Annabel and son, Karlin -- back to his queen. He wondered briefly how Annabel was faring. Trapped on their estate in the west, he knew she would be finding his absence difficult, especially since the queen had appointed an overseer to care for his affairs -- someone keen to ingratiate himself with Zaralina. He remembered Sir William Oxford. A simpering lightweight who only ever acted in his own interests regardless of the cost to others. Annabel would not be fooled by his false charm. She could play her role, and well.
On the fondamenta below, a small boy begged for soldi from passers-by. A woman wearing those ridiculous wooden heels the courtesans favoured paused and reached into her purse. He watched the young boy bite the coin and scurry away, grateful for so little. Like Farrowfare, even this civil place, where rich and poor lived side by side, had its hierarchy, a class structure that not even wealth could penetrate, for all it pretended otherwise.
A wave of sadness passed over him. He'd missed his Karlin's ninth birthday. He hoped Annabel remembered to buy him a pony from Sir Giles; no-one bred horses the way he did. Would Zaralina allow Annabel the freedom to contact their neighbour, or would that be something else Oxford controlled?
Zaralina. The view before him disappeared as an image of his queen took its place. Her ivory skin, pale blue eyes and that flaming hair. By the gods, she was beautiful. And dangerous. And clever. And able to utilise supernatural resources.
He glanced over his shoulder as if checking who was about before allowing his thoughts to wander.
Only four days ago, he'd been in his bedroom, reading a most outrageous book by a local poet, enjoying his wine and the candelight, when the fire had momentarily guttered and a chill had pervaded the room. Before he could react, a Mortian had manifested, stealthily, silently.
Leaping to his feet, Waterford had knocked his glass flying, spilling the red liquid on the shining floor. Some had splashed into the fire, causing it to spark and smoke in protest. The Mortian had followed its trajectory before turning to Waterford with his huge mournful, empty eyes. Without a word, he'd handed him a fine piece of paper.
Trembling slightly, and not only from the sudden cold, Waterford had opened it. Before he could read it, there was a knock on the door. The air had shuddered for a moment and the Mortian vanished, dissolving into the atmosphere, the walls, he was never sure.
'Yes?' called Waterford, his voice cracking slightly. 'What is it?'
The door opened and his valet, Jack, appeared. 'Everything all right, my lord? I heard a noise.' Jack noted the spilled wine and broken glass. 'Oh. I'll get you another glass, shall I, sir? Ask Catherine or one of them Serenissian girls to come and clean this up?'
'Leave it, Jack. It can be tidied in the morning.'
Jack raised his eyebrows. 'You sure, my lord? Won't take a moment. By the gods, it's cold in here. What's wrong with these fireplaces? They don't seem to throw out much heat, do they my lord?'
'They're fine, Jack. Please. Leave me.'
Jack frowned. 'Of course, my lord.' With a bow, he shut the door behind him, flashing his master a last look of concern.
Waterford let out a sigh of relief and, seeing that the Mortian didn't reappear, sat back down and opened the letter. It was from Queen Zaralina. He read it quickly. So, they were using the Ottomans. Lord Waterford nodded. It was a risky strategy -- those barbarians were unpredictable -- but if it paid off, worth it. In the meantime, he was to make friends with the Ottomans' ambassador and look for an ally among the Serenissian nobiles. Someone open to bribery. Someone ready to not only betray the Doge, but to topple him from power.
Waterford scoured the rest quickly. It contained the usual platitudes about his health and a brief, oh, too brief, report about his family. He read the entire missive one more time before crumpling it into a ball and throwing it in the fire. He didn't need to respond. The Mortian's absence made that clear. Where was the creature? Racing back to Farrowfare or lingering somewhere in the shadows? Observing him, formulating a report to take back to his master, that Shazet.
Waterford shook away the gloom the Mortians always made him feel and instead watched the fire take hold of the paper and flame brightly before it quickly died, leaving a charred wreck. He reached for the poker and broke it into pieces, some of which rose up the chimney, blackened bits of plot rising to blow over the city his people were set to betray. Fitting somehow.
It was the crackle of the fire that startled Waterford back into the present.
Turning away from the window, the invitation caught his eye. In the weeks he'd been in Serenissima, his agents had made contact with many traders, learned many things, but until his presence was made official, he'd been all but confined to the casa. Invitations to dinners and dances, never mind the casino, had not been forthcoming. All that was about to change.
He plucked the invitation from the table and looked at it yet again. This time, the spelling errors and poor phrasing made him laugh. How convenient was this welcome? After weeks of delay and formality, the time had come to make his presence known -- only not in the way the Doge and his Council were expecting.
'Oh, you silly people, with your masks and pretence, little do you know that among you is the greatest pretender of all.'
With a smile on his face, he decided to forgo another cafe. A glass of wine was in order.
'Jack!' he called, and rang the little bell on the table.
The door opened straight away. Waterford jumped. Jack must have been hovering on the other side, waiting. 'Yes, my lord?' asked Jack, entering the room swiftly.
'Bring me a wine, would you?'
Jack's eyes grazed the tray, containing the cup of cafe and bowl of sugar. 'Yes, my lord.' He bowed and turned to go.
'Oh, Jack,' added Lord Waterford.
Jack paused and raised his eyebrows. 'Sir?'
'Have you heard from your father recently?'
'No, sir, not since the last missive. But I believe he and the family are well.'
'I am glad to hear that.'
Jack hovered for a moment. 'Anything else, my lord?'
'While you're fetching that glass of wine, you might as well bring me the entire bottle.'
Jack picked up the silver tray and its abandoned contents. 'Celebrating, are we my lord?'
Lord Waterford thought for a moment. 'Why yes, Jack, I believe I am.'
GIACONDA PUT THE FINISHING TOUCHES to her ensemble and then lifted her mask to her face. Coloured in varying shades of green, it matched her dress as well as her eyes, which glinted behind the wide, jewel-bordered slits. Hafeza quickly reached to help her, but Giaconda pushed her hands out of the way.
'I can do this myself. I want you to make sure Tarlo is completely ready. Don't look at me like that! I know you prepared her all afternoon, but it does no harm to check once more. Make sure she's remembered to put the belladonna in her eyes. Then, I want you to wait ten minutes before bringing her to the portego. Carry her cape. I want Papa and Baroque to see what those at the reception will. Only they can appreciate the enormity of her transformation.' Giaconda waved her away.
Hafeza bowed and left the room silently.
Giaconda began to pin the mask into place. 'So, Papa, what's the weather like?'
Ezzelino turned from the window and gazed upon his daughter, taking a few seconds to reply. 'Almost as lovely as you.'
'Come, Papa, save your charm for those we encounter at the function. Is it still snowing?'
'No. The sky is bursting with constellations and the wind has dropped. It's a perfect silver backdrop for our little golden star.'
Giaconda's lips curled. 'She will cause a sensation, you know.'
'Oh, I know.' Ezzelino waited till Giaconda had finished sliding the pins in her hair and turned her head a few times to ensure her mask was secure, before offering her his arm. 'Shall we?'
'Grazie,' said Giaconda as she placed her hand on her father's arm and stood. She towered over him. Her emerald gown flashed in the light of the candles, in the firelight, the folds of her dress shifted like the waters of the canal, suggesting depths and variation. Ezzelino held his breath. It wasn't only Tarlo who would do well tonight, he thought. Giaconda tapped him with her fan.
'You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?' she sighed, but there was no trace of annoyance. 'I said, this is it, then, Papa -- the end of all our plans, our years of hoping and waiting culminate tonight. It all comes down to Tarlo -- will she succeed or fail? Will we be discovered or will she perpetrate the greatest deception of all times?' She studied her father's face. He frowned for a moment before his amber eyes became unreadable. 'I'm a little scared, Papa. I admit it. If we should fail ...'
'Hush, bella. We will not fail, Tarlo will not fail. This is not the end. It is merely the beginning.' He laid his hand over the top of hers, where it rested lightly upon his. 'Now, I want you to pretend you're the Dogeressa -- all the while remembering that in the not-too-distant future, you will no longer have to imagine.' He picked up her gloved fingers and kissed them one by one before patting them back into place.
'Ready?' he asked.
'As I have never been before,' answered Giaconda.
Allowing them a moment to compose their features, Ezzelino escorted her from the room.
STEPPING UNDER THE ARCHES THAT formed the entrance to the Doge's palazzo and into the huge central courtyard, I steeled my resolve. I would not think of Renzo's bloody execution, which had taken place just feet away from where I now stood waiting to ascend the Scala dei Giganti, the huge stone staircase that led to the first-floor loggia of the Doge's residence. I would not dwell on thoughts of discovery nor of failure. Not now. Not ever. Calmed by this, I fixed my expression and waited for our escort.
We'd deliberately delayed our arrival and the reception had already begun. Servants who had started to wander away from the staircase, assuming all invitees were present, quickly scurried back into place when they saw us, bowing, apologising and leading us up the stairs. From the looks on their faces, they were impressed with the spectacle we presented. Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli had choreographed our entrance down to the last detail. They would walk ahead of me and, once we reached the palazzo's main chamber, which, I understood was on the second floor, they would be introduced before I would be officially presented.
My heart hammered as I went up the stairs, conscious of my towering zoccoli, of the yards of fabric swirling about my feet and of keeping my cape wrapped around me until such time it would be removed -- at the top of the stairs, just outside the ballroom. I caught a glimpse of two enormous statues -- remnants of the time of the Estrattore -- one each of the gods of war and sea. If only there was a god for money, Serenissima would be captured in statuary.
We rounded the corner at the top and walked along an external walkway and, while Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli exchanged a quiet laugh, I took the opportunity to slide my hand out of my glove and stroke the stone balustrade. Silky smooth, it gleamed in the moonlight, made as it was from Istrian marble. I quickly extracted its strength, the focus of the workers who, with back-breaking patience, had hammered and chiselled the blocks that were now wonderfully symmetrical. I drank in their spirit and found my heart ceased to pound and the anxiety gnawing my stomach eased. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, watching as it poured from my mouth in a misty vapour. It was a cold, still night and yet I felt afire.
Giaconda had described the final staircase we would climb, the massive internal one, the Scala d'Oro, before arriving at the main room, but even so, it took me aback. Made entirely of gold, it glittered and sparkled, the lavishly painted ceiling and walls and tiled floor making it feel as if we'd stepped into a treasure chest. The intense glow reflected off every surface. I scrunched my eyes and searched for each step with the toe of my shoe. I felt like a dislodged gem.
At the top of the staircase were two huge golden doors. Liveried servants, also masked, reached for our capes and Signor Maleovelli's hat. Amid all this gold, I unwound my black cape, handing it to a servant whose jaw dropped as he caught the first glimpse of my dress. I thought I was simply merging with the background -- how wrong I was. Signor Maleovelli handed a man more intricately dressed than the other servants -- the maestro della casa or major domo -- his card and the huge double doors began to swing open. Giaconda gave me the merest of nods, her lips curled beneath her mask, before she turned her back and we prepared to enter.
The doors swung inwards releasing a burst of noise, music and chatter. I stepped into the largest room I had ever seen -- not even the golden staircase could have prepared me for this. It paled by comparison as panels of dramatic art framed by golden carvings blazed from every surface and journeyed across the ceiling, which appeared to go for miles, unsupported, just one long mural of intense hues and iridescence. Along the walls were enormous sconces laden with creamy pillar candles, their flames long and steady, casting radiance above and below.
We paused behind the maestro della casa, who thumped a huge staff against the gleaming floor.
'Signor Ezzelino Maleovelli of the Eighth Casa of Nobiles' Rise; his daughter Giaconda Maleovelli and, introducing his ward, Tarlo Maleovelli.' His voice was throaty and loud.
I don't know what I expected would happen, but nothing changed. Conversations continued uninterrupted, the music played, the people remained focused on each other. I felt a wave of disappointment. All this anticipation.
As if they were actors acknowledging their audience, Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli bowed and curtsied to the indifferent room and turned to face a large, low platform, upon which sat an old man -- the Doge -- in a garish, high-backed chair. His throne. To one side of him stood two men, both of whom resembled each other. I imagined they were the Princes, his sons. On his other side sat a pale man with blond hair who was dressed in peculiar clothes. This must be the ambassador for whom this function was being held. Behind him stood a tall, lean man in a rich, scarlet cassock. He had a matching cap on his head and the huge gold chains of his office dangled across his shoulders, meeting over his heart in a dazzling crucifix. The Cardinale. I swallowed hard.
The foreigner rose to his feet as our names were called and the Princes helped the Doge struggle to his. Once again, Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli sank into deep obeisance and only stepped away from me once it was my turn to greet the Doge. At that moment, I stood unaccompanied, exposed, at the base of the platform in the centre of the room.
It was then that conversation ceased and the music spluttered to a stop. All eyes turned in my direction. I watched as groups of men and other, elegantly clad women, spun to look at me, their mouths dropping open. The silence was complete. No murmurs, not a movement, only my breath in my ears, long, juddering.
Framed by the platform and the huge, dark painting that loomed behind it, I stood proudly, just as I'd been instructed, my head held high, my mask intact, my dress a work of art befitting this grand room. A voice in my head kept talking to me: smile, do not look around, bow your head, curtsy, keep your hands still.
The Maleovellis left me there for as long as protocol would allow, just enough time for me to catch some of the whispers.
'Gold! She's wearing gold!'
'How dare she!'
'Stunning.'
'Good god, she's beautiful!'
'Who is this creature?'
'Maleovelli, the wily old bastardo, where has he been hiding this vision?'
'She dares to wear gold before the Doge?'
And on they went. As I rose out of my curtsy, I risked a quick sweep of the room. It told me that no-one else was attired in the metallic tint that seemed to dominate the palazzo -- that was, until my eyes met those of the Doge. He'd shuffled forward to the edge of the stage, his face creased in a frown. Of all the nobiles clustered in this vast space, only he wore the colour in which the Maleovellis had chosen to attire me.
I sank to the floor once more, my dress billowing around me, the jewels that adorned the slashes in my sleeves and rimmed my bodice flashing in the candlelight. The feathers of my mask caressed the front of the Doge's togati as I rose, running from his groin to almost his chin.
The old man regarded me steadily through his creased eyes. He held out a shaking hand. I placed mine ever so lightly in his. 'Maleovelli, I didn't know you had added another filly to your stable.' I glanced at him quickly. His pitted tongue ran over dry lips. 'She's a beauty. A golden beauty.' He nodded his approval, my hand still in his, holding me at arm's length, appraising every aspect of my gown, his eyes lingering over my daring décolletage.
The silence that had held the room in thrall broke and the conversation quickly rose to a crescendo. I didn't need to hear what was being said to know they were discussing me. It was only later I discovered that the Doge's first words to me were paramount. He could have ordered me taken from the room, stripped, and my clothes burned. I could have been flung out into the piazza or, worse, the dungeons. Instead, he'd not only welcomed me but, through his greeting, also given me permission to be so bold as to dress like him. To wear the Doge's colour: gold.
I had gotten away with breaking one of the greatest taboos in Serenissian society. No wonder the Maleovellis had insisted the dress be kept secret. It also explained the look of fear that crossed Hafeza's face every time she laid eyes on it.
Before I could grasp the enormity of what had just happened, it was time to be introduced to the Cardinale. I knew not to offer him my hand. Giaconda had described him as a Roman puritan who, unlike other members of the church, did not seek a woman's company. Nor a man's, according to rumours. He was a celibate. Puzzling to Serenissian sensibilities. My heart hammered as I met his eyes, afraid he would see straight through my mask, notice the belladonna and denounce me on the spot. As we nodded to each other, I saw the disapproval behind the façade. He did not like what I represented -- something the Church could not control in men or women: lust. I also sensed that he fought hard to control his own.
Then it was time to meet the Doge's sons and the foreign ambassador.
After that, the evening became a blur. Every nobile and courtesan wanted to be introduced, to be seen in my company. I was like a new drink everyone wanted to try. Giaconda stayed by my side, keeping the conversation safe, the men at arm's length. Many tried to get closer, but she would slap them playfully with her fan and warn them away.
We'd been there for what seemed like hours. The bells in the campanile had long since chimed midnight and, through the windows along one side of the room, I could see the sky was beginning to lighten.
Just as dawn's timid fingers reached over the horizon, one of the Doge's sons and Signor Moronisini's, Giacomo, the one upon whom I had spied in the Maleovellis' casa the night the colleganza was made, joined the group of which I was centre.
At first, I noticed only Giacomo. He grabbed Giaconda's hand and kissed it, but his eyes were upon me. Up close, he was very handsome, more so than I remembered. He had smooth olive skin, hazel eyes that twinkled behind his mask, and a generous mouth. He was about to say something to me when the group around us parted. The Prince stepped into our midst.
Giaconda curtsied and I quickly followed suit. As I rose, the Prince took my hand. All night long, I'd resisted the urge to extract, to learn more about these men and the lovely women whose company they sought, but it was just too dangerous. Now, as this man without a mask, with pock-marked skin and the saddest eyes I had ever seen held onto me, I wanted to delve into his soul and discover the source of his sorrow. Above all, I wanted to heal it. Tragedy shaped his face in a way that no mask could ever emulate.
'Another Maleovelli beauty to grace our nights.' His voice was low, husky, a fitting tribute to his melancholy. 'Signorina, you shine brightly even in this glittering firmament.' His arm swept the ballroom.
'Grazie, your grace,' I murmured. He held me for a moment longer before turning to Giaconda and talking about, of all things, what the foreign ambassador ate. It was a source of great amusement to the assembly. I glanced at the outlandish man now, wandering from group to group, the Doge's other son assigned to his side. He was tall, about the Cardinale's height, but broader. Some might find his pale looks handsome, his blond brows, his light blue eyes. His mask dangled by his side and I wondered when he'd removed it.
I watched him conversing with the Cardinale. His hands did not move, only his mouth; his face did not reveal his feelings. Like me, he was playing a role. I wondered briefly what he must think of all this ostentation.
A slight chill made me draw my shoulders together and I glanced around to see if the door had opened, for people were beginning to leave. But it was shut. As I turned back to the group, I became aware of Giacomo Moronisini's eyes on me again. They burned behind his dark mask. I nodded gracefully to him. He did not say a word; he just continued to stare.
Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, I was glad when Giaconda took my arm.
'Come, Tarlo, the night is almost over. It's time to retire.' She smiled and bowed her head to our male companions, who all protested at our leaving. Giaconda opened her fan and concealed her laughing mouth. 'Gentleman, we look forward to your future favours. Don't we, Tarlo?'
Imitating Giaconda, I also opened my fan, a pretty golden one lined with diamantes. They flashed as the material spread. 'Indeed we do, sister.'
Looping our arms, we left the men slowly, aware that every single one of them was watching. As I'd been taught, I swung my hips, pleased as my train (something else I learnt from a very friendly courtesan was also forbidden) rustled and swept its way across the floor.
We approached Signor Maleovelli and I saw he was listening to a conversation between the Cardinale and the foreign ambassador. The Cardinale gave us the barest of nods.
'I am more than happy to explain to you what we're doing to apprehend the Estrattore,' said the Cardinale.
I willed myself not to react. To remain calm. I opened my fan again and began to wave it before my face. The Cardinale turned from me, annoyed that I had drawn attention away from him merely through my presence.
He kept talking to the ambassador. 'And I would like very much for you to explain the religion of your country,' he continued. 'We once worshipped the gods. A long, long time ago. But our eyes were opened. We recognised the gods for what they were: a sign of ignorance, and those who claimed to be conduits to them nothing but charlatans.' The ambassador stiffened. One of the young nobiles gasped at the insult. The Cardinale seemed unaware of the effect of his words. He stifled a yawn. 'You will have to excuse me. It's late.' He glanced out the window. 'Or should I say, early. We will talk, sir.' He struck the ambassador on the arm in what was meant to pass as a friendly gesture, but could, in a different setting, be construed as aggressive.
'Your grace,' we all murmured.
With a brief bow, he left the group. We waited until he was gone from the room before resuming the conversation. Only then did I release my breath. Signor Maleovelli smiled at us. 'Ah, belle. Lord Waterford, I believe you have met my daughter Giaconda and my ward, Tarlo. Gia, Lord Beolin Waterford is the ambassador of our newest ally, the country of Farrowfare. Despite what his grace, the Cardinale implied, religion is not the only subject to occupy Lord Waterford's mind -- he's also interested in trade.'
'Then he is a man of great interest to us, Papa,' said Giaconda, staring over her fan at Lord Waterford, who flashed her what passed for a warm smile.
We both dropped into deep curtsies. Lord Waterford kissed the hands we held out to him, first Giaconda's, then mine. Even through my glove, I sensed something about this man. Depths that his unassuming demeanour hid. This man had secrets.
'Isn't Farrowfare beyond the Limen, my lord?' asked Giaconda.
I tensed. Mention of the Limen still had the ability to startle me.
Lord Waterford cast me a look, a frown between his brows. I forced my face into a smile as I extracted my hand from his.
'Indeed it is, Signorina.' He stepped closer to Giaconda.
'I would love to hear all about it,' she said. 'Living so close to the Limen we're always curious about its mystery, about what lies beyond its peculiar barrier, never mind within. You're the first we know, apart from our infamous Bond Riders, of course, to come from the other side. It's very exciting. We Serenissians are not able to survive within its space, not unless we surrender our souls. But you know this, sì?'
'I have heard of your Bond Riders,' said the lord politely. 'My understanding is that they are no longer able to be, how would you describe it? Made human again?'
'Vero. This is true. Without Estrattore to return their souls ...' Giaconda let her voice trail away, hoisting her shoulders and letting them drop.
I released my breath slowly. The conversation unnerved me.
'I would very much like to learn about why it is your men can cross into Vista Mare and back again so ... unscathed.' Giaconda looked the ambassador up and down appreciatively. 'Do you have to surrender your soul or is that still intact?'
Lord Waterford smiled. 'I'm afraid that's an official secret, Signorina.'
'And what about opportunities for trade between our nations?' asked Giaconda. 'Is that a secret too? Or will you share that with me?'
'That's what we were discussing, bella,' Signor Maleovelli said. 'Lord Waterford and I have just been arranging a time of mutual convenience to talk further on this matter. Is that not right, Signor?' Signor Maleovelli reached inside his jacket. 'This is my card. I would be delighted if you would call upon us soon. I will ask my man to speak to yours, shall I?'
'That would be ... most delightful,' said Lord Waterford, his eyes dusting first Giaconda, then me. I could tell that while he would go ahead with this meeting, it was against his better judgement. I longed to touch this man, to find out more about him. Well, if he came to the casa, I would perhaps have that chance.
'Till the next time we meet, then,' said Signor Maleovelli and gave the ambassador a dignified nod of his head.
Lord Waterford bowed, an elegant, practised one. 'I will look forward to it very much, Signor Maleovelli, Signorina Giaconda and Signorina Tarlo.'
'You will not forget?' asked Giaconda.
'How could I? I don't think I will ever forget the jewels that grace this evening -- the emerald lady and the Signorina Dorata. I doubt anyone will.'
Signorina Dorata? It took me a moment to realise Lord Waterford meant me.
'Signorina Dorata?' Giaconda's eyes widened and then she laughed and stood back to study me momentarily. 'Very appropriate, Lord Waterford. It's a name, a title, I think my sister will wear with honour. Grazie.'
'Prego,' said Lord Waterford. 'But I cannot claim to have invented it. I am simply repeating what everyone else has been calling her.'
Giaconda took my arm again and we followed Signor Maleovelli from the room, nodding to those who called out farewells. The Doge had long left his party; the dais and his throne were abandoned.
I barely remembered being ushered into my cape, descending the staircases or coming out into the fresh early morning air, crossing the piazza and rousing Salzi, who was asleep in the felze. All I could think about was Lord Waterford's description of me.
I huddled beside Giaconda, too tired to listen to the Maleovellis' self-congratulations and analysis of the evening. All I could think about was the uncanny coincidence.
'Did you hear what he called her, Papa?' Giaconda was full of life, high on the success of the evening, despite the hour. 'Signorina Dorata!' She clapped her hands in glee.
Signor Maleovelli regarded her fondly. 'She was a greater success than we ever could have hoped. You did well, mia cara. We did well.'
They continued to speak about me as if I didn't exist. I was grateful. My mind was roiling with confusion, with the impossibility of it all.
In a matter of months, I had gone from being Dante's Dorato -- his little golden boy, to the golden lady of Serenissima -- Signorina Dorata.
I didn't know whether to laugh in triumph or cry at what it all signified. I was too exhausted. My body ached, my feet were leaden and my brain was full of the faces, sights and conversations I had participated in, the danger I had narrowly escaped simply by being there. The tension that had kept me upright and focused all night began to leave my body.
I snuggled into the cushions, rearranging my dress slightly. We passed over the water and, through the window, I could see out on the ocean beyond the Arsenale, the silhouettes of masts as the sun crawled over the horizon, turning the water into a bronze disc. A flat golden orb. Dorato, dorata. Like the ships anchored in the lagoon, I wondered where this new name would take me. What I would become. Would it set me free as we hoped, or would it be a burden that would secure me nothing but trouble?
As it turned out, I didn't have to wait for very long to find out.
DANTE WAS AWARE OF THE OWNER of Taverna di Segretezza's eyes upon him as he gently wiped Katina's brow.
'She's not improving.' Dante turned round and looked at Signor Vestire helplessly. 'I don't know what to do, Signor.' For the last five days, he'd sat by Katina's bed and watched as her body withered away before his eyes. At first, he'd refused to let anyone come near her, but now, when he had lost all hope, he'd admitted Vestire. He gazed at the kind man now. 'Tell me. What do I do?'
Signor Vestire stepped closer. Dante could see a tic in his cheek pulsing frantically as he stared at Katina. He was working hard not to let the apprehension he felt show. 'I have seen this before,' he said finally, the back of his hand gently touching Katina's cheek. Her breathing was shallow, rapid. 'When a Bond Rider is like this -- they must return to the Limen.'
Dante studied Katina's face in dismay. 'I know. But there are factors --'
'More important than this Signorina's life?' Signor Vestire rested a hand on Dante's shoulder. 'Hush,' he said as Dante went to speak again. He dragged a chair over next to him. 'I do know. I do understand. I know the Riders have rules and laws to which we humans are not privy. And you have your Bonds.' He smiled to soften the severity of his words. 'But you should at least consider a dottore, amico mio.'
Dante shook his head. 'What if he talks? What if he lets slip that you have Riders here ...'
'We will get one of our own. Someone who will not breathe a word. Trust me on this. My life is as much at risk as yours.' Signor Vestire folded his arms and nodded out the window. 'The Cardinale and the Signori di Notte are, let's say, encouraging the popolani to report anything or anyone different. They're paying people to spy on one another.' He sighed. 'Why, only yesterday, we heard that an old woman was taken in for questioning. She'd recently moved into the Herb Quartiere from the mainland after her family died during the Morto Assiderato. Once she would have been cared for, welcomed even. Now, she's accused of harbouring the Estrattore.' He shook his head sorrowfully. 'Tragedy begets more tragedy.'
He rose to his feet and stared out the window. Dante watched as rain trickled down the pane. It reflected against Signor Vestire's face, making it appear as if he was crying. 'These are troubled times, Dante. We all have to be careful. Let's not forget the man who was asking after Katina a while back. A suspicious fellow if ever I saw one.' He tapped the side of his nose.
Dante had been unnerved to discover someone had called at the taverna more than once asking for Katina by name. How did he know she would be here? Who was he? Why hadn't Katina said anything about him? It made Dante uneasy.
'But this --' continued Signor Vestire, waving towards Katina, 'this is different. Sometimes we have to throw caution away.'
Dante placed his hand against Katina's forehead. It was burning. He didn't understand what the Morte Whisperers had done but, whatever it was, it was killing her.
'Allora,' said Signor Vestire. 'Do I fetch the dottore?' He squatted beside Dante and patted his leg.
Dante's eyes were itchy, his body ached with tiredness and he was heartsore. 'Fetch him as soon as you can. Please. Let's hope he can do something.'
Signor Vestire took one last look at Katina's pallid face, his lips a thin line, and left the room.
THE DOTTORE CAME EVERY DAY for over a week. No matter what he did, getting broth between her lips, applying cool herbal compresses to her face and arms, Katina grew worse. Dante fretted, alternating between pacing the room and sitting beside her, clutching her hand, wiping her face, watching her waste away. He refused much of the food Signora Vestire brought, and when he slept, it was either on the bed by Katina's side or slumped in a chair that he dragged over, his arm draped across her. Sometimes, in a state somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, he thought he could feel her fingers in his hair and his mind would wander, imagining he was a boy again and Zia Gaia was beside him.
Occasionally, Katina would awake and try to speak. Her eyes would fly open, but her senses wandered in a different realm. Before long, she would fall asleep again and could not be roused.
Dante knew that if they didn't find a cure quickly, then the benefits of Elder Maggiore's diet would be meaningless; their Bonds would be for nothing, for how could an Obbligare Doppio work if there was only one Rider left to carry it out?
Each day, as Dante became accustomed to being in Serenissima again, it wasn't only Katina who occupied his mind. The pull to find Tallow became stronger. He longed for her; he knew she was in the city and every inch of him wanted to begin the search, to see her, touch her and, he thought, taste her lips. He began to dream about her, vivid, powerful dreams that left him confused when he woke. He would look around the room expecting to find her there beside him, only to see the burning grate and the outline of Katina, lying still in the bed.
Katina dreamed too. He would watch her tossing and turning, a frown marring her brow, Tallow's name on her lips. He wondered if that was what was keeping her alive, because he could think of no other reason.
Afraid to leave Katina's side lest she require him, needing to find Tallow, Dante was torn. A man divided. He remained in the room, sitting by the bed or gazing out the window. The rain had been replaced by snow. Carnivale was in full swing, and outside, locals would wander by masked and full of high spirits. He saw tumblers and dwarves, courtesans and nobiles, the crowds increasing as the day wore on and night fell -- carrying torches, assembling in the campo outside the taverna, with their drinks clutched firmly in their hands, their breath long whispers of white against the darkness. Celebrations continued into the night -- the rumblings of conversation, music and laughter would carry through the floor from the bar below. It only served to depress Dante further. It wasn't that he wanted to participate so much as he wanted Katina to be well enough so that he could use the cover of Carnivale to begin his search. No-one questioned strangers moving between quartieri during Carnivale. Why, even the Cardinale's men had to allow some leeway at this time of year -- or so Signor Vestire claimed.
'Why don't you at least go downstairs?' Signor Vestire would ask over and over. 'My daughters will sit with Signorina Maggiore.' His two young daughters, twins, had been constant visitors to the room. Sweet-faced and wide-eyed, they barely spoke, awed by the presence of Bond Riders. They delivered food, medicines; emptied chamber pots, replaced drying sheets, brought fresh water with pretty curtsies and shy, fearful smiles.
Finally, two weeks after Carnivale began, Signor Vestire's insistence that he have a break grew and Dante capitulated.
First making sure Katina was settled, and that one of Signor Vestire's daughters would remain, he had a quick wash, changed his clothes and went downstairs. Small, the taverna seemed big in comparison with the confines of the stuffy room upstairs and Dante appreciated the illusion of space as well as the strange faces, chatter and the smell of wood smoke, vino and hot bread and cheese -- platters of which were spread over a few tables. He settled on a vacant stool by the bar under the nose of Signor Vestire who, without a word, placed a wooden cup brimming with red vino in front of him followed by a small plate of cold pigeon, a tiny bowl of olive oil, and steaming, freshly baked bread. Dante drank gratefully, saluting Signor Vestire first.
He ate slowly, enjoying the warmth of the fire. While the close press of bodies concerned him at first, after his second cup of vino he no longer cared so much. He shifted on his stool so he could discreetly check out faces and listen in on the many conversations that were taking place. Discussion ranged from the fussiness of customers who demanded almost invisible stitching to the latest fabrics and furs, samples of which had been given freely by a new ambassador's men. He heard the names Farrowfare and Waterford, but they were unfamiliar and he quickly dismissed them, trying to hear any news about the Cardinale and the Chandlers Quartiere -- the one place he wanted to go but knew was forbidden to him.
Dante tuned in and out, listening to the good-natured banter, observing the patrons; noting how, as the evening wore on, masks slipped from faces or were pushed up foreheads. Anonymity was not so important to these people, not when the good times they had were shared with friends.
Signor Vestire appeared with the vino flask, ready to tip more into Dante's cup. Dante went to stop him when something caught his ear.
'Signorina Dorata, they're calling her. All she wears is gold. They say all the nobiles are besotted with her!' A middle-aged man with a slashed doublet opened to reveal a generous paunch and a mask dangling from one ear leant over a table of goggle-eyed men.
'Have you seen her?' asked one man, staggering over from another table into the group. There was laughter as they held him upright. 'I saw her riding in a gondola with another beauty. She's the most gorgeous creature I've ever seen. Hair like the evening sky, skin like melted snow --'
'Melted snow?' said another man, slapping his drunken companion on the back. 'How can one's skin be like melted snow?'
'Because you want to stick your tongue into it!' quipped another. Raucous laughter followed.
'What I wouldn't give to be her tailor -- working with golden fabric -- designing for her. What I'd give to know who got that commission.' There was much nodding and chinking of mugs after that statement.
Dante turned back to the bar, musing over the name. Signorina Dorata. How odd that someone should be given a title so like that he'd bestowed on Tallow. Dorato, he called her -- his little golden boy. All because of her strange glasses, the ones she would wear to disguise her eyes. It seemed so long ago. Another lifetime. He looked down at his hands, gripping the mug. They possessed fresh scars, given by knives, swords, and angry trees. His youthful calluses and burns had been replaced by a warrior's roughness. And now a new courtesan bore Tallow's old name. Katina was right. Serenissima was not the same place; he was not the same person he once was. What had happened to Tallow, he pondered. Had she changed too?
With a silent laugh, he took a swig of the drink, forgetting his earlier conviction not to have more. Courtesan, he scoffed as he replayed the men's conversation. A whore by any other name.
He wondered if there were any there tonight; if he might be able to acquire their services. His stool creaked beneath him as he twisted and cast a look around the room. Gazing through the haze of wood fire and tobacco smoke, he became aware he was being watched. In a far corner, near the main door, he spotted a man sitting by himself. A group was close by and he'd arranged his chair to appear part of them, but Dante could tell he wasn't. He wore a mask so large it covered most of his face. The slits glittered, and Dante knew they were fixed on him.
Dante frowned. It was time to leave. He downed the last of the drink and was about to stand when he felt a tugging at his elbow.
'Signor, signor.' He looked down. It was one of Signor Vestire's daughters. 'The lady ...' her dark eyes were wide with fear. 'You must come quickly. She asks for you.'
Dante threw the cup down and followed the child from the room, taking the stairs two at a time, cursing himself for how much he'd drunk.
He flung open the door. Katina was not alone.
Standing over the bed, back to the door, was a cloaked and hooded figure. Dante raced to his scabbard and pulled out his sword. The little girl squealed and ran to a corner, cowering.
'Get away from her,' he ordered.
The figure did not move.
'Now!' he said and stepped closer, his sword held before him.
Slowly, the figure turned and threw back the hood.
Dante gasped and almost lost hold of his weapon.
Signor Vestire's daughter yelped and went to run from the room.
'Stop her,' the figure said.
Dante grabbed the girl's hand and pulled her back. The little girl struggled and began to whimper.
'It's all right,' soothed Dante. 'This is a friend.' He looked at the elderly woman standing before him, with her white hair and pink cheeks. 'You are a friend, aren't you?'
The old woman smiled, and bending down in front of the girl, took her hand. 'Sì, indeed I am. A very, very old one.' Dante watched as the little girl stared into the great silver eyes gazing into her own. He saw the fear leave her body. Her shoulders drooped and a smile replaced the panic. She threw herself in the old woman's arms.
The old lady hugged her and then released her. 'Go and shut the door and then sit over there, cara.' She pointed to a chair by the fire. The little girl did as she was told, her face shining.
Dante watched the exchange and then put his sword back in its scabbard and replaced it on the table.
'You're an Estrattore, sì?' he asked as the woman returned to Katina's side. He joined her, kneeling by the bed.
'Sì,' she said softly and took Katina's hand. Dante felt the power radiating from her.
'Who are you?' he asked quietly as he saw the colour return to Katina's cheeks and her breathing become less laboured. Dante found his head cleared and his heart returned to normal.
'My name is Constantina. Constantina Maggiore.'
Dante looked from Katina to the old woman and back again, understanding registering on his face. 'You're the friend Elder Maggiore told Katina to meet. You're the one who is going to help us.'
'Sì,' smiled the old woman. 'When Katina didn't arrive at the agreed meeting place, I was very worried. It was Elder Maggiore who told me to come here -- to find you. I didn't expect this.' She turned to Katina. 'She's been attacked by Morte Whisperers?'
'They tried to ... enter her body. It was like they were devouring her.' He quickly explained what had happened. 'What have they done?'
'They've tried to steal her life-force and, from the looks of her, they've almost succeeded.'
'Why?'
She hesitated. 'I'm not sure. But it's clear they didn't want her to survive.'
'Can you help?' he asked. 'I mean, I can see you already have. But will she be all right?'
Constantina reached out and caressed Katina's cheek. 'She will be, once I return her to the Limen. I can only do so much here.'
'Return her?' he repeated. 'You're taking her now?'
Constantina nodded.
'Oh, thank God. I didn't know what to do, whether to stay or go back with her. I was --' Relief made the words rush out of Dante's mouth.
'Hush,' said Constantina soothingly. 'It's all right. I need you to help me dress her, get her out of here. There's a back way, sì?' Dante nodded. 'Bene. Can we send someone to bring her horse there?'
'I will ask Signor Vestire myself.' He didn't wait, but dashed down the stairs, his thoughts scattered. Estrattore in the calles of Serenissima. That would be a sight to see. He hoped the Signori di Notte were not in the sestiere tonight.
When he returned, Constantina was already halfway through dressing Katina, who stirred briefly. She blinked once, twice, and then her eyes widened and a small sob escaped. Slowly she reached out and touched the Estrattore, gently at first, then with an urgency that was frightening to behold. She held Constantina's face between her palms, locking eyes with her in a silent communication. Dante watched them, wondering what was being said. Katina's eyes slid over towards Dante before returning to Constantina's. She nodded once and then burst into tears, throwing herself in Constantina's arms. It was this reaction more than anything that both filled Dante with alarm and reassured him.
When Katina tried to ask questions, Constantina put a finger to her lips. 'There will be time for that later. Rest, cara mia.' Katina fell silent and allowed Dante and the Estrattore to finish dressing her.
Before long, they hauled her to her feet and were ready to leave the room. Once again, she'd fallen asleep.
'You wait here,' said Dante to the little girl who had sat the entire time with a beatific smile on her face. 'Is she all right?' he asked Constantina.
Constantina gave a wise smile. 'She's fine. Just lost in happy memories. She won't recall any of this.'
Dante expelled air. 'Lucky girl.'
'Indeed. Now, help me get Katina down the stairs.' Dante picked her up. She was light for such a tall woman.
The noise from the bar muffled their descent. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they sneaked past the kitchen and through a small passageway and into a storeroom that had shelves for linen, bottles, leather flasks and fruit and vegetables. Haunches of meat hung from hooks in the ceiling. They ducked under these, Dante moving ahead. Constantina unlatched the back door.
Snow flew into Dante's face as he stepped out into the night. The wind whipped it in eddies around his feet and blew through his cape, inflating it above his shoulders. Helpless to control it, he tried to shield Katina from the worst. Thankfully, the weather kept revellers inside. Scudding clouds mostly obscured the moon.
'Where to?' he asked, the wind catching his voice and throwing it into the campo.
'Over there,' shouted Constantina, indicating a small calle off the main square.
Dante pushed through the drifts. As they drew closer, he could see a horse, fully saddled, standing in the middle of the calle. Birrichino was also there, ready beside it. Signor Vestire himself held the reigns.
'Grazie, amico mio,' called Dante.
'Do you need help?' shouted the Signor, trying to be heard above the howling wind.
'No, no. We're all right.' Dante swung round to check with Constantina, but she'd moved to her own horse and kept her head bowed.
Signor Vestire gripped Dante's shoulder on his way past. 'You know where I am if you change your mind,' he said, casting a suspicious glance at Constantina. He took another quick look at Katina. Dante nodded and Signor Vestire ran back into the taverna.
Constantina mounted her horse. 'Place her in front of me,' she said. Dante lifted Katina into the saddle. Katina stirred and tried to help. Constantina grabbed a hold of her waist and wrapped her arms and cloak around them both. 'Grab Birrichino's tether and tie him here,' she ordered Dante, pointing to a metal ring on the saddle.
With frozen fingers, Dante did what he was told. As he worked, Constantina spoke.
'You have a duty to carry out. A Bond to fulfil. You must now work towards this and nothing else, do you understand?'
Dante finished what he was doing and rested his hands on the horse's neck. 'I will. Katina and I, we're mutually Bonded -- we have an Obbligare Doppio.' The horse pushed against him, trying to toss his hands aside. Birrichino whinnied as his mouth was pulled.
'I know. Listen to your Bond, young Rider. Find Tallow. Watch and learn what you can about who is protecting her, for I have no doubt she is not alone -- not after all this time. Someone is looking after her. We need to know what their intentions are, what they know of the prophecy. But do not approach her. Not until I tell you it is time or she is directly threatened. Do you understand?'
'Sì,' said Dante. 'I know what to do.' His tone was terse. He didn't like being reminded by this Estrattore who had swooped in and taken control. Constantina raised an eyebrow. 'It doesn't hurt to be reminded, Bond Rider.' Dante gaped at her in astonishment. Could Estrattore read minds as well? 'Now, if you need me, go to the Pledge Stone of Casa di Maggiore and touch it. I will know you're there and I will come.'
The horse broke from his hold. Dante jumped out of the way.
'What if I can't find her?' he cried. He reached up and grabbed the pommel, latching onto the horse, ignoring its jerking head.
Constantina shook her head. 'Haven't you worked that out yet? Listen to your heart -- do not be misled by your head. You will find her. You have no choice. Why do you think Katina Bonded you? It's what you are pledged twice over to do.'
Constantina's horse reared and, as it did, the whirling snow parted and three grey shapes appeared.
Hovering to the side and above the horses, tall vaporous creatures swayed. Their pointed teeth and hungry leers turned towards Constantina and Katina.
'Morte Whisperers!' cried Dante, reaching for the sword that was still in his room. He cursed. 'Run, Constantina!' He slapped the horse and leapt backwards out of the way, slipping in the snow, sprawling on his back. One of the creatures floated over him, curious at his helplessness, but it did not attack.
There was a swirl of movement and the Morte Whisperer disappeared and was replaced by another shape. Atop her horse, Constantina towered over him. The horse's hooves were inches from his face. 'I told you, foolish ragazzo, trust your heart, not your head. Not everything is as it seems.'
She wheeled her mount and broke into a trot, Birrichino following.
'Wait!' Dante cried, clambering to his feet.
'Remember,' called Constantina, kicking her heels. 'If she is under threat, bring her to the pledge stone.'
One moment the horses were there; in the next they were gone, swallowed by the snow and the creatures that followed, their grey forms surging until they too became one with the air.
Dante stared at where they'd been, oblivious to the bitter cold and the snow that was fast turning into sleet. Needles of ice drove into his skin. He dashed the stinging wetness from his eyes. Constantina was working with the Morte Whisperers, the very creatures that had tried to kill Katina. 'What have I done?' he cried, but his words were snatched away. Sorrow and a terrible despondency rose within him. 'Katina, Tallow? What have I done?'
He stood for what seemed like hours, his head heavy with confusion before he stumbled and fought his way back into the taverna, unaware that in the dark shadows under the eaves, another shape watched.
THE DAY AFTER MY OFFICIAL PUBLIC appearance, my introduction to the Doge and the cream of Serenissian society, the casa was besieged with flowers, poems and, most importantly, the highly anticipated offers.
The first few had been very gratifying. Awoken by a timid knock on my bedroom door after only what seemed like minutes of sleep, I saw Hafeza enter, carrying the most enormous spray of flowers I had ever seen. Blue-white lilies stood erect beside blood-red roses while a profusion of star-shaped buds encircled them like gossamer. They were beautiful. I climbed out of bed as Hafeza placed them in a vase. I found a card tucked among them. I didn't even recognise the name. Filled with superlatives and hyperbole, it made me laugh. But it also delighted me. When Hafeza left, I began to dance around the room, only to be brought to a standstill when she reappeared seconds later with yet another bunch.
'More?' I'd asked incredulously.
Hafeza nodded and left, returning again and again.
I gave up trying to sleep and, after a hasty wash, went to the portego for my morning cafe. Every few minutes, a strange gondola would arrive at the door over the water-stairs and Salzi would rush to open it and take receipt of whatever was being delivered. Even our land door was beseiged as couriers and servants under instructions to deliver their masters' gifts and pledges ran along the calles.
After a week, my room and the entire casa were brimming with sweet-scented bouquets and bottles of perfume and oils. My dresser was laden with poems, paste brooches, jewelled pins, silken shawls, wildly decorated masks, embroidered handkerchiefs and a host of other tributes -- most of which were golden or made from the precious metal itself -- along with outrageous declarations of love and devotion. I didn't know what to make of any of it. I giggled, blushed, pretended indifference. But after I'd retire to my room each night, I would pace the floor and read the accompanying cards and savour the poems -- some of which were original -- all over again. The one thing they had in common was how they referred to me.
Signorina Dorata had captured not only hearts, but the public imagination as well.
Giaconda wasted no time in placing orders for more clothes with Signor Tedeschi. I am not sure how the small man accomplished it, but within days, additional dresses arrived -- more than I would need in a lifetime, all cut from golden fabrics, all stitched with beads dipped in molten gold or painted to match. Masks, hats, gloves, even my zoccoli were now made from golden materials. I would pull out each new garment with the same excitement as if it were my first, clutching them to my body, twirling before the mirror, parading around.
It was only when my wardrobe was organised that Giaconda allowed me to reappear in public. From now on, I would dress only in gold. So it was, that a few days after the function, I rode in the gondola once more. The snow, which had fallen steadily since that night, abated, and a thin, sickly sunlight pierced the clouds. Dressed in all my golden finery, I sat in the prow, a new mask firmly in place, my cape thrown back so the sheen of my dress could be seen. Giaconda sat in the doorway of the felze, content to let me be the focus.
As Salzi pushed us along the canal, the talk began. What started as whispers, with the occasional shout of recognition, soon became a roar. People crowded bridges, ran along the fondamenta, all to catch a look at me. It was such a far cry from the last time I was chased, and I found it hard to reconcile at first. But all too soon, as the days went by and I took to the waters every afternoon, I became used to the attention. I even relished it. We rowed the Circolo whenever the weather would allow, rousing excitement. I became part of the attractions of Carnivale.
When Giaconda and I promenaded through the piazza on Nobiles' Rise over a week after the ball, Signor Maleovelli between us, our arms resting lightly upon his, our heavy heels cracking the snow that coated the flagstones, people paused in their step, parting to allow us to pass. Daring children ran up to me, running their fingers along my gown, my cape, keen to touch me. 'Signorina Dorata,' they whispered, awe in their little voices.
I longed to stroke their sweet faces, to thank them, but Giaconda said I must not. 'They're insignificant. Ignore them. You are above them. Be proud. Touch only where it will count. Where and when we tell you.'
How could I explain to her that these bambini were not insignificant to me? None of this was. For the first time in my life, I was being noticed. Not in a way that made me run in fear or shame, but one that made me blaze with happiness. I was bringing the people of Serenissima pleasure. Just seeing me made them smile, gave them cause to talk. And what I heard was generous and loving. Serenissians liked nothing better than what brought glory to their city. I was now among those honoured objects. Signorina Dorata.
Like the golden halo that radiated from my elaborate costumes, I too lived in a haze of wonder.
It was only two weeks after my first introduction that I was brought back to reality. Having attended a few private dinner parties with Giaconda since the function, which only served to fire the ardour of some of my suitors, prompting them to more outrageous bids, all of which Signor Maleovelli and Giaconda took very seriously, bartering to raise the stakes, the time had finally come for me to accept my first client.
Giaconda came to my room early that day.
I was already awake and sipping cafe in my bed, reading both a pamphlet of poetry published by a courtesan I was yet to meet, Veronica Franco, and some more invitations I'd received. I closed the pamphlet when Giaconda entered and put it on my bedside table.
'Where did you get that from?' she asked, looking down her nose at it.
'It was a gift.' I reached over and opened the first page. 'From Signor Castellini.'
Giaconda laughed. 'Ah yes, he was quite taken with you the other night.'
'I mentioned I liked poetry. He sent me this. It's very good.'
'I don't doubt it,' said Giaconda, her tone suggesting the opposite. 'And what are these? More declarations?' She arched a brow at the scattering of cards across my coverlet. I nodded.
She pushed them away and sat on the end of my bed and stared at me. 'Forget them. After much toing and froing, Papa has accepted an offer.'
I put down my cup. My hand began to shake, I swear my heart forgot to beat. 'Who?'
Giaconda took a deep breath and, as she released it, so too she spoke his name. 'Signor Giacomo Moronisini.'
'Signor Moronisini? I know him.' I'd spied on him the night Hafeza caught me. The night she betrayed me. I frowned and pushed thoughts of Hafeza aside. 'He's very handsome,' I said, picking up my cup and burying my smile in the porcelain.
Giaconda nodded. 'He is also very generous. He wants you -- badly. Many do. But Papa has decided that his suit works best for us. We want to shore up our relations with his family. The news Jacopo sends us is very good indeed, Tarlo. The Contested Territories are ripe pickings. We're going to do very well from this enterprise.'
'Then it is good that we can share with the Moronisinis, sì?'
'Share?' Giaconda gave a short laugh. 'Good? I am not sure that's how Papa would view it. For now, it is ... adequate. But once you wrap young Moronisini around your finger, then we can consider just how the spoils of this very successful trip should be divided. It seems to Papa that the original terms need to be changed to favour us.' Giaconda regarded me. 'What? Why that face? You don't like this?'
I considered my words carefully. 'I don't know. It doesn't seem fair. You said yourself that the Moronisinis were very generous to let you enter a colleganza with them. It doesn't seem right to alter the terms at this stage, does it?'
'Ah, Tarlo!' exclaimed Giaconda. 'How little you understand. Nothing about what we're doing is fair! Life is not fair. You of all people should know that.' She shook her head at me. 'The Moronisinis never let us enter a colleganza. They invited us, no, they begged us to join them. Admittedly, they were persuaded -- and by your candles. But this doesn't change the facts, the reality. Don't you think that if the tables were turned, the Moronisinis would do the same to us?'
I shrugged.
'Of course they would. They are Serenissians! And don't forget, it's your -- let's call them powers of influence -- that continue to alter longstanding arrangements.' She referred to other candles that had been burned at special meetings and dinners, at strategic moments, the other colleganzas that the Maleovellis now held. 'They are only the beginning. Once you enter these nobiles' lives and their beds, things will change again. Then, they will be entering agreements on our terms. Terms that will see us restored to power.'
'And the Estrattore brought back.'
Giaconda rose off the bed. 'Sì, sì, of course,' she said, smoothing the creases out of her dress.
'Now, I want you to make a special candle that you will light tonight, cara. It is for you and Giacomo to enjoy alone. It's to be infused with passion. I want Giacomo to be completely besotted with you. I want him to burn like a candle. I want his wick to remain steady and strong.' She tilted her head. 'Do you understand?'
'Sì,' I said, and blushed before laughing. I wanted to bury my face in my pillow.
'After siesta, I want you to bathe. Hafeza will wash your hair. I have a special dress for you tonight and a lovely camicia and pair of stockings. You will not be wearing pantaloons.'
The colour on my cheeks deepened. This was really happening. My final step in becoming a fully fledged courtesan was about to be taken.
'I will leave you now. I have more offers to sort through. You are going to be a very busy lady, Signorina Dorata.'
Giaconda left the room and I lay back on the bed, stretching my arms above my head. I stared at the ceiling. All our plans had come to this. It felt as if little birds flapped in my stomach, and I put my hand there to still them. Behind their activity, I could sense something else. I searched inside. It was sorrow. I didn't need to look at my harlequin to know where that came from.
Dante would understand, I knew. He would tell me to be resilient. To do whatever it takes to bring my people back -- even bedding strangers. Even helping the Maleovellis.
Before I could change my mind, I leapt from the bed, scooped the harlequin off the dresser and buried it in a drawer. Now its rainbow interior and exultant pose could not torment me anymore.
I hurried to dress myself and leave the room before the nonsensical paths my mind was insisting on travelling depressed me further.
THE MOON WAS HIDDEN BEHIND a thick bank of clouds and the snow was heavy and silent as Salzi escorted me to the Moronisinis' casa. It was situated on the tip of Nobiles' Rise, towards where the Circolo flowed into the Grande, and was a longer journey than I expected. Huddled within the felze and wrapped in furlined blankets, a gift from the foreign ambassador, I watched the city slide past. There was a magical quality about the evening, enhanced by the confidence I felt at my first solo trip, never mind my assignation.
We glided to the Moronisinis' water-stairs, where Salzi handed me to a servant. From there, I was taken to a beautifully adorned room on the piano nobile. Already present were Giacomo and four other men -- all sons or nephews of nobiles from the eight great casas. There was Venerio Nicolotti, Rizzo Manin, Bezio Castellini and Rambaldo Errizo. I had been warned of their presence and knew that if I impressed them with my manners and looks, then they too might become clientele. It was also a chance for Moronisini to display his latest conquest to his closest friends and, I knew, rivals as well. As far as he and the nobiles of Serenissima were concerned, he'd won the lottery. I was under no illusions about that.
As I was announced, Giacomo stopped mid-conversation and turned, a glass held aloft. I stood in the doorway and counted to ten. The men froze. Eyes swept me, judged me. I smiled, my nerves hidden behind my fixed stare, grateful for my mask. 'Signori,' I said softly and sank into a deep curtsy.
Giacomo put down his glass and came forward, taking my hand, lifting me to my feet. He wrapped his long fingers around mine, turning them so my wrist was exposed. Pushing my glove back, he rested his lips against the tender white flesh there. They were firm, dry. I shivered. He raised his eyes, his mouth upturned in a smile. 'If it is possible, Signorina Dorata, you are even more beautiful than I remember.'
After that, the evening progressed smoothly and much as Giaconda predicted. Many courses were served and vino flowed freely. I ate and drank sparingly, making sure to listen with rapt attention to Giacomo, to offer opinion only when asked and be prepared to recite poetry or sing if requested. Both were asked of me and I stood to do so. I who had once known no music in my life had a repertoire to draw from, thanks to Giaconda. After I finished, the men applauded enthusiastically. Hours passed, and an artiste from the Theatre Quartiere played the mandolin for us, singing a plaintive madrigal about love and loss. I sighed when it finished and had to work hard to shed myself of the melancholy his lyrics aroused. Nothing was to interfere with my performance. I watched the candles on the sideboard burn to stumps, conscious of the one I had hidden in the folds of my dress.
Finally, the men were left to smoke and chat over their drinks -- their digestivi, and I went to prepare myself. They offered their farewells with knowing, envious looks. I couldn't help but smile, particularly at the smug look on Giacomo's handsome face.
Taken to his private apartments by a sombre servant, I first replaced one of the candles by the bed with my own, throwing the original out the window and into the canal, hoping no-one saw me. I removed my zoccoli and stockings and sat in a plush chair by the fire and waited. I didn't have to linger long.
Giacomo arrived moments later. He shut the door slowly, putting his back against it, and smiled as it clicked. His teeth were white against his bronze skin. 'Since I first set eyes on you at the Doge's palazzo, I have thought of nothing but this moment.'
I had to repress the urge to laugh. Whether it was nerves or the hackneyed nature of Giacomo's words, I wasn't sure. But there was nothing clichéd about his next action. He came towards me and, holding out his hand, indicated that I should place mine in it. I did. He gently pulled me to my feet. Without my zoccoli, I came only to his chest.
'Ah, I like you better diminished,' he said and tipped my chin upwards. He lowered his lips. They were sweet from the digestivo and as they captured mine, sent waves of heat through my body. His kiss deepened and I pressed my body into his. I felt his hardness against me as I wrapped my arms around him and pushed against him. I could smell my candle burning; feel its effects. As I touched him, I knew Giacomo did as well.
He moaned and held me tighter.
My gown shimmied to the floor and I stepped out of it. My delicate camicia was nothing more than a golden veil that he reached for and in one swift motion, tore from my body. I cried out, not in fear but -- God help me -- longing. He lunged, picking me up in his arms, and carried me to the bed.
I helped him remove his doublet, his shirt and, finally his hose. I lay beneath him, naked, quivering with eagerness. I'd never felt like this before. I was on the edge of a precipice and wanted to jump. He straddled me, his chest heaving. Staring at his beauty, the form of his chest, the veins in his arms, I was unable to resist the fine hairs that trailed down his stomach. He threw back his head and shut his eyes.
Much later, when the candle was smouldering, a mound of melted wax, we lay beside each other, covered in a fine sheen of sweat. He rolled over and raised himself on his elbow. With his free hand, he traced patterns over my breasts and along my chin, across my bruised lips. I kissed his finger as it ran over them.
Giaconda had fulfilled her promise to me. My first had been gentle. He'd been kind. He'd given me as much pleasure as I knew I had given him.
'You are a marvel, my little Dorata.'
I was glad the mask hid my wince. That name. Why did he say that? It almost broke the mood, moved me out of the present and back into my past.
'Worth every soldi,' he continued, 'and more.'
Suddenly, he rose from the bed. At first, I thought it was to use the chamber pot. But he searched the floor and began to pull up his leggings.
'Giacomo,' I said, and patted the bed beside me. 'Where are you going? It's not time for me to leave yet. The sun has not risen.'
'I know.' He smiled sweetly as he buttoned his shirt. 'But you, cara mia, still have work to do.'
Before I could react, he went the door and flung it open. In walked the other men I had dined with -- Giacomo's friends.
'What's this?' I cried and grabbed the sheet to cover my modesty.
It registered with me that they'd removed their coats and as they stood, drinks in hand, that they were not decently attired.
'Consider my debts repaid, gentlemen,' said Giacomo, gesturing to the bed, to me. Without a backward glance, he left the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. As one, they stepped closer.
Rambaldo Errizo was the first.
Hours passed and I fell inside myself, into a great dark void. I tried to take hold of something, anything that would get me through. I found what I was searching for in the tenebrous recesses of my soul. Once I did, I didn't let it go.
I WAS ALONE WHEN SALZI FINALLY found me, wound in Giacomo's bedding like a shroud. I couldn't talk. I had no words. He picked up my torn camicia and stockings, my zoccoli, and helped me dress in my splendid gown. Unable to walk down the stairs, I was aware of him wrapping me in my cloak and lifting me into his arms.
The ride home took an eternity, the beauty of the sky mocking the ugliness that rested in my heart.
Giaconda came straight to my room. She took one look at my hollow eyes, the bite marks across my upper arms, my breasts and shoulders, at the accusation in my eyes, only now free of their mask, uninhibited by the belladonna. She turned away.
'Don't you dare look at me like that!' she snapped, her voice breaking. It was the first time I'd ever heard her lose control. 'I will send Hafeza. You will not be able to work for a few days. I will charge Moronisini for that.'
I don't know what my face revealed, but Giaconda made a terrible sound; it came from somewhere deep inside. 'What did you expect? Flowers and romance? You're a courtesan, Tarlo. Your body is for the pleasure of others -- whatever form that pleasure might take. It's not your own anymore. Take the anger you feel and use it, use it to topple these nobiles who would use you in such a way.'
I waited till she left the room and then I ran to the window and shoved it open. I inhaled the cold morning air, but all I could feel was them. Against my body, on my body, in my body. I could hear them, smell them, taste them ...
I leant out as far as I could and lost the contents of my stomach, heaving into the waters. I watched it fall and splatter. Again and again I vomited. Finally, nothing came out but noise, guttural, primitive and loud. The sound of my wretchedness echoed up and down the canal, resounded in my head, through my being. Hollow. That's what I was.
I turned back into the room, gripping the sill, and fumbled in the dresser drawer. I reached for the harlequin and squeezed it in my hand, panting.
That was how Hafeza found me, minutes later, squatting in the corner beneath the window, sobbing over the tiny glass statuette.
I didn't hear her come in. She knelt down beside me and reached out.
'Don't touch me!' I cried.
She withdrew her hand sharply. I could feel her shock, her compassion. I didn't want it. I couldn't have it. Not anymore. I didn't deserve it.
'Don't ever touch me,' I screamed as my body, wracked with pain and sobs, slowly curled into a ball against the floor.
And all our yesterdays have lighted foolsThe way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!Life's but a walking shadow, a poor playerThat struts and frets his hour upon the stageAnd then is heard no more: it is a taleTold by an idiot, full of sound and fury,Signifying nothing.
William ShakespeareMacbeth, Act 5, Scene 5
WINTER BOWED FAREWELL GRACEFULLY, the snow melting into spring, revealing the colour and life made dormant by the bitter cold. Birds busied themselves mating, flowers began to bloom and the markets were filled with the wares of enthusiastic merchants, keen to resume trading now warmer weather tamed the storms and calmed the rough seas. With the balmy evenings came invitations to private dinners, parties, recitals, theatre, opera and exclusive casinos. Not a day went past when either the land or water entrances of the Maleovellis' casa weren't receiving notes, gifts and even visitors. Selective about with whom Tarlo should and shouldn't mix, the Maleovellis would deliberate before accepting. It was important that to whomever Tarlo gave her services, they also had the potential to offer more than soldi in return. Tallow let her benefactors organise her life, satisfied to go where they told her, dine and sleep with whomever she was instructed. They were pleased with her silent compliance, choosing not to question or explore the reasons behind it.
By mid-summer, Signorina Dorata was a regular on the party circuit and her evenings were filled with flirtatious conversations, long, languorous looks across laden dinner tables and sweet vinos, all unfolding against a backdrop of grand salons, exquisitely dressed men and women, the heady strains of music and flickering candles.
Her name spread throughout Serenissima, and sightings of her were reported as eagerly and with as much excitement as the comets that would occasionally arc their way across the firmament. Like the celestial bodies to which she was frequently compared, Tarlo Maleovelli dazzled those with whom she came in contact. Appearing only occasionally during the day, and then always hidden behind a golden mask, she truly shone at night. Wherever she was heading, whichever nobile was enjoying her charms, the path to his casa, whether paved by water or stones, would be lined with the popolani, sighing in pleasure as they glimpsed their city's newest treasure, or threw favours at her feet, tucked as they were in their impossibly high zoccoli, beneath her glinting dress as she sat straight-backed in the prow of the gondola. She would neither wave nor acknowledge any gesture; her lips remained curled in a fixed position, her eyes modestly lowered, though everyone who saw her swore she smiled for them alone.
It was rumoured that Doge Dandolo kept a room in the palazzo just for his assignations with the mysterious beauty, that even his sons, the Princes, who also enjoyed her favours, were forced to find alternate venues for their encounters. It was said that one night with Signorina Dorata was worth every golden ducat she charged; that she was incomparable in her skills, conversation, and the pleasure she gave. Nobiles went to almost any length to secure her services -- offered, spent and exhausted fortunes to be able to say they had spent a night in the golden beauty's arms.
Would-be lovers penned ardent promises, poems were published describing her charms in metaphors and impossible similes. Artists denied permission to paint her nonetheless used their imagination, and images of her were soon hanging in casas and scuolas around Serenissima.
As friend, lover or enchanting companion, Signorina Dorata's fame grew and spread, even out to the furthest of Serenissima's colonies, including newly acquired lands in the Contested Territories of Judea; so too did her price. Some called her an enchantress; others less kind a witch. Men were entranced by her, while to their wives she was the enemy they loathed and to their daughters the woman they longed to be. It was said that even young novitiates from the Convent di Redentore made a pilgrimage to Nobiles' Rise in the hope they would see her.
Signor Maleovelli and Giaconda basked in Tarlo's reputation and were modest about the soldi they were acquiring. Colleganzas were struck, debts repaid, and the Maleovellis' social standing rapidly rose. Whereas once they were remembered mainly for their lost fortune and status and for their absence from many a nobile's table, now they enjoyed one for business acumen and for possessing an eye for potential.
When Jacopo returned from the Contested Territories and, inexplicably, the Moronisinis forwent any of the profit made in the risky venture in order to enter into a new colleganza with the Maleovellis, many were not surprised. Or, if they were, they did not articulate it. Instead, they watched and waited and hoped that they too would have the opportunity to engage in business with the Maleovellis who, it seemed, God had chosen to bless in abundance.
Thanking God was not beyond the Maleovellis either as they attended services in the Doge's basilica every week, muttering prayers, using the holy water, listening with rapt attention to the Cardinale's increasingly fervent sermons, railing against the evils of heresy, of the Estrattore and pagan practices. If the congregation were distracted by the presence of Signorina Dorata rather than the words the Cardinale delivered with passion from the pulpit, well, no-one really minded. Attendance increased until there was standing room only. Collection plates brimmed with soldi and donations to the Church soared. Even the Cardinale overcame his initial disapproval of courtesans as he appreciated what their presence among his flock, especially that of Signorina Dorata, did to his purse. The time he kissed Signorina Dorata's hand was commented on for days after in porteghi over Nobiles' Rise and beyond.
As the days blurred into weeks, and the weeks became months, the weather turned humid and then cloying as summer settled like a heavy cape over the city. The haze of heat now tempered the light that, for a brief time, had possessed a clarity and richness that winter, with its cold fogs, denied. It was as if everything faded a little during summer, wilted in the hot winds that blew from the south and increased the noxious smell that rose from the canals and infected the campi. These added the fear of disease into the torpid summer mix.
Since Tarlo's first formal public engagement, her daily demands had been reduced. Hafeza would still attend her when she awoke, which became later and later as her evenings filled, but her afternoons were her own until after siesta, when she would resume her candlemaking. Often Tarlo found herself counting the hours till her next rendezvous, to the time when she could sit across from some arrogant nobile, prattle for his entertainment, pretend to laugh at his jokes, peer intently into his eyes, whisper silly promises in his ears and then escape to the bedroom. She longed for the moment when she would be alone, claiming an urge to use the chamber pot or tidy herself, and was able substitute her candles for the ones burning around the bed. Only then did she feel in control, safe again. For once her candles were lit and the nobile or merchant was in their thrall, she knew exactly how the remainder of the night would unfold.
She had never again spoken about what happened to her with Giacomo Moronisini the night he'd given her to his friends, using her body to pay the debts he'd accumulated. Debts, she later found out, his father knew nothing about. Instead, she'd appeared to push the entire incident out of her head and embrace her new role. She played it without complaint and, to the Maleovellis' delight, fault either.
It was only the blackness inside her that prevented the images of that time from playing over and over. It held them at bay, kept them in the dark. Sometimes, when she'd fall into an exhausted sleep, they would revisit and she'd wake screaming, trembling from head to toe and bathed in a fine sheen of sweat. Hafeza had run to her the first few times, but Tarlo had shrieked at her to leave, thrown things to force her out of the room. After a while, Hafeza ignored her calls, her sobbing. So did the Maleovellis. It was as if they had never occurred. That suited Tarlo. But whereas she could have extracted the worst of her memories, lessened them, she chose not to do that. She allowed them to remain and fester in the deepest of crepuscular spaces. She would not forget and neither would she forgive. Instead, she would use the new emotions and feelings they gave her to do whatever it was she had to in order to bring the Estrattore back.
Tarlo knew that Baroque yearned to ask her exactly what had happened. The shock on his face when he saw her three days after, the narrowing of his eyes and pursing of his lips said more than words. When he'd spluttered, 'What happened?' all she had said was 'Giacomo Moronisini'. Revenge was her privilege, not Baroque's, though she appreciated what the intenseness in his face every time she caught him staring at her signified. It was more than Giaconda or Signor Maleovelli had given her.
Like her real identity, the entire incident was erased as effectively as spilled vino from a table. Only the next time they entertained the Moronisinis, not long after Jacopo returned, she was not invited to join them. They'd spared her that at least.
The Maleovellis kept her busy -- extracting and distilling, transforming candles into objects of manipulation. As time passed, so too did the lives of those around them. A very wealthy silk merchant was suddenly in league with them, sharing his import business and his profits. A salt merchant also reached an arrangement with Signor Maleovelli that, while benefiting both parties while they lived, on the sudden death of the merchant a month after the agreement was signed, meant that the entire business passed to the Maleovellis. His widow and three daughters were forced into a convent. According to the nuns, they were provided with a generous annuity.
Much to many nobiles' surprise, the Moronisinis had given Giaconda a gift of half a dozen galleys; some said it was in payment for a service rendered, but no-one quite knew what the service was, although they speculated. A very well-known tailor who, it was rumoured, made Signorina Dorata's special golden gowns, also signed over the handling of his thriving business to the Maleovellis.
Even the Ottoman ambassador, Ramadi Suliman, a former Janissary of the current Sultan, had been known to dine with the Maleovellis, who were prepared to cater to his unusual dietary requirements. Foreign officials, merchants, members of the Church, and nobiles all beat a path to the Maleovellis' door. And everyone attributed this rise in popularity and fortune to the mysterious Signorina Dorata.
When it came to beauty, no sacrifice, financial, political or familial was too great.
IT WAS WELL PAST NOON WHEN TALLOW awoke. She lay in her bed, reluctant to rise. The fetid odour of the canal crept in the window, tinging the already close air in the room. Outside she could hear the sounds of gondoliers on the main canal. Servants shouted to each other from windows, exchanging gossip, not caring if others heard their stories. Tallow propped her head on her elbow and listened. She'd been the subject of many a conversation, swapped while beating rugs or shaking out wet washing. She'd heard envy in their tone, and pride -- she was one of them: Signorina Dorata lived in their sestiere and they earned a certain cachet with their distant families because of that. Boasting of her nearness would have been a popular pastime over Sunday dinners. She'd also overheard what it was believed she earned. Millione, they said she charged -- a million ducats! She'd almost laughed that day.
Within the house she could hear the clack of heels against the floors and the opening and closing of doors along the corridor. Now that they had more servants, the previous stillness of the house had disappeared. Dark corners evaporated with the light of burning candles and the smell of mildew was washed away in lemon-scented waters and musky oils. Below she could hear the low hum of men's voices. No doubt Jacopo and Signor Maleovelli would be welcoming merchants, showing them the beautiful fabrics, spices, dried dates, salt, figs and jewelled ornaments that were not only the basis of their new business ventures but which Jacopo had brought back from overseas. They were only part of his prize. He'd also returned with valuable documents -- exclusive trading rights within the region. The Doge had been most impressed, and Tallow knew it was only a matter of time before Signor Maleovelli was restored to the Council of Ten.
Noises from her stomach finally shook her from bed. She went behind the screen to use the chamber pot and then washed before throwing on one of her older gowns.
The dining room was empty, but a platter of exquisite fruits was laid on the credenza, as well as some cold meat and sliced bread. Sipping a watered vino, Tallow helped herself. She was just finishing with a cafe when Jacopo entered. She had been staring into one of the candles, lost in thought, and hadn't heard him approach. He cleared his throat. Startled, she jumped.
'Jacopo!' The cup clattered as she fitted the delicate china back on its saucer.
'Did I startle you, cousin?' said Jacopo with a smile that indicated it had been deliberate. 'Mi dispiace.' He inclined his head before studying her with his lazy eyes.
Repressing a shudder, Tallow quickly finished the cafe and left her chair.
'Please, don't leave on my account,' said Jacopo, grabbing her wrist. He pulled her towards him. His stinking breath blew against her face.
Tallow froze and raised her arm. His fingers bit into her flesh. She stared at them. 'What makes you think I would do anything on your account, Jacopo?' she said quietly.
He sniggered. 'The jewel has developed sharp edges while I've been gone. I like it.'
'Trust me, Jacopo,' said Tallow slowly, 'you won't.'
Jacopo leant so close his lips almost brushed her ear. He inhaled deeply. 'Trust me, Dorata, I would.'
Tallow felt something wet along the side of her face. It took a moment to register it was Jacopo's tongue. She tried to pull away, but he was stronger than she thought. He used the momentum to drag her into his arms. He managed to capture both her hands in his. Tallow struggled.
'Let. Me. Go.'
He began to breathe heavily. Tallow almost gagged. 'I hear you like it rough, Dorata. I do too.' He lifted his other hand, slipping it inside the bodice of her gown, groping clumsily. He sneered at her, daring her to stop him. She stood rigid in his arms, neither struggling nor protesting. His cheeks flooded with colour, his hands reached further down.
His eyes met Tallow's, and for the first time in months she stared into his.
At once, he froze. His hand dropped away and he released her quickly, as if she were a burning coal. He stepped back, the redness in his cheeks fading. He tried to look away, but could not; he was drawn into her gaze, deeper and deeper. He began to whimper. His throat made strange, gulping noises. He started to shake. His hands fluttered in front of his face, clawing at his neck. Tallow took a step towards him. He wanted to back away but could not. He was rooted to the spot, trembling like a wet cat. A triumphant smile split Tallow's face.
'You like it rough, do you, Jacopo? Sì, I felt that when you touched me, felt how you like it. I know what you are, what you do to women. No, not women, to girls, cousin.' Her eyes were the colour of a molten metal.
Jacopo staggered, banging into a chair. He fell to his knees. 'No, no! I didn't mean it. Please --'
Tallow reached out, her hand poised above his heart.
'Tarlo!' Giaconda stood in the doorway, taking in the scene before her. Tallow kept her gaze locked on Jacopo, but slowly withdrew her hand and, with a noise of disgust, moved away. He slithered into a corner, panting.
'Get up, Jacopo,' said Giaconda coldly.
Without taking his eyes off Tallow, he stood, using the sideboard to heave himself upright.
'Leave us,' said Giaconda. 'I will come and find you later.'
He fell over himself in his eagerness to be out of the room. They heard the unevenness of his footfalls as he limped down the corridor. A door slammed.
With her usual serenity, Giaconda poured herself a cup of cafe. 'Do you want to discuss what just happened, Tarlo?'
'No,' said Tallow.
Giaconda sat down, and blew across the top of her cup, even though it wasn't hot. Tallow waited for what she knew would come next.
'I don't care what Jacopo did; you're not to touch him again. You may have changed, Tarlo, but our rules have not. Am I clear?'
Tallow laughed. It wasn't a nice sound. 'Bene. If you say so.' She went to leave and paused in the doorway. 'But, Signorina, if he touches me again, I will not be responsible for what happens.'
'Wait!' ordered Giaconda as Tallow began to walk away. Tallow stopped and spun on her heels, her eyebrows raised. Giaconda stood and covered the distance between them quickly. 'Sì. Tarlo,' she said softly, sweetly, 'you will be. We will hold you responsible, and believe me when I tell you this: you will pay. Which means,' said Giaconda, dabbing her mouth with a handkerchief, 'so will all your kind.'
Tallow looked at her for a moment longer then, with a brief curtsy, went to the workshop, her heart heavy, her mind clouded.
UPON LORD WATERFORD'S THIRD VISIT to Casa Maleovelli, instead of being escorted from the ground floor to the piano nobile and supervised until either Signor or Signorina Maleovelli could be found, he was left alone just inside the water-gates while a servant he hadn't seen before dashed around the piles of bales and stacks of barrels to find a member of the household who had permission to go upstairs.
Admittedly, he had not given notice of his intention to visit -- it had been impulsive. Returning from an interesting meeting with one of the capi or heads of the Council of Ten, Signor Nicolotti, he'd been going over their discussion in his head when he recalled what had been said of Signorina Dorata. Having seen her a number of times now, he was always struck by the way she ... he searched for the right word ... contained herself. It wasn't self-control so much as a holding together of component parts. He thought it must be something to do with being a courtesan, though, of the many he'd met lately, only Signorina Dorata struck him as being so extraordinarily disciplined. While the others sought to flatter the men they consorted with, or those who had bought their favours, concentrating on always being entertaining and witty, Tarlo Maleovelli applied herself effortlessly to the part. She always seemed to do very little to attract so much desire. Maybe that was the trick. She was a great beauty; of that there was no doubt. Yet, as he watched her, his eyes like so many others being drawn as much by appreciation as desire, he was always left with the feeling that she could do and be so much more. He wondered if he was the only one aware of this. Certainly, women did not have much value in this city -- unless it was measured in what they could do for the men. In that regard, Tarlo Maleovelli was considered priceless for, as Signor Nicolotti said, what she had already done for Ezzelino Maleovelli could not be costed in accurate terms. She had not only just enhanced his reputation, she'd built him a fresh one. That usually took generations. Tarlo Maleovelli had accomplished this in mere months.
And so it was, as he passed by the canal entrance that led to the Maleovellis' casa, he ordered his gondolier to turn. They passed under the bridge and into the narrow waterway, pulling up outside the water-gates until a huge craft taking up the space was unloaded and Lord Waterford could disembark.
Being left to his own devices while his hosts were found suited his intentions very nicely. Instead of remaining where he'd been asked to wait, in the way of the men who were busy sorting cargo and checking manifestos, he decided to take the opportunity to explore.
From where he stood, he could see a courtyard. He headed through the doors at the end of the corridor and into the small cobbled space. The sun was fierce against the stones and he regretted almost immediately his decision to leave the cool interior. He looked around the imposing grey walls, noting recent repairs. There was a shiny bucket for the well and the grand stairs that led to the upper floors had been cleaned and the stone balustrade scrubbed. Despite fresh paint and some newly acquired statuary, the garden had not been tended. At least, the vine crawling over the wall clung like a dying man to the stones; the fruit trees in a raised garden bed were withered and barren. Brown weeds choked what he thought must be a failed attempt to grow herbs. He was about to go and examine the soil when something caught his eye. Moving around the dimness of a large room tucked away under the external stairs was a woman. Assuming she was a servant, he was about to turn aside when he saw, with some surprise, it was Signorina Dorata -- Tarlo Maleovelli.
Instead of her usual golden gown, she was dressed in black and silver. Her long, dark hair cascaded down her back. But the reason he'd mistaken her for a servant was because she was wearing an apron. He quickly darted out of sight and leant against the wall of the casa, the shade a brief reprieve. What was she doing wearing the garb of a servant and in such a utilitarian room, the toast of Serenissima? He slowly crept towards the window.
Peering through the grubby glass he watched as she walked around an old table, picking up what looked like a dead plant. Rubbing the leaves and raising her fingers to her nose, she set the plant aside. He craned his neck further as she began to wander out of view. She reached behind her to a shelf and pulled down a box.
Unaware of his scrutiny, she was lost in her own thoughts. He could see the little frown puckering her brow, the sweep of her long lashes against her white cheeks. He had rarely seen her unmasked before. Gods, she was lovely! He saw her lifting the lid from the box and drawing out what looked like two tapers. She held them up, her eyes appraising them before she returned them to the container, shaking her head. Then, she took what appeared to be two smaller candles, the type that burned in the churches here -- votives -- and placed them in front of her. Focused on what she was doing, she moved with grace. He saw her cup her long fingers around the glass holders in which the votives sat and shut her eyes.
Waterford inhaled sharply and his mind began to work furiously.
'Can I help you, my lord?'
Waterford almost leapt out of his skin. He spun and found himself face to face with an older man of medium build who was wiping his hands on a drying sheet, squinting in the bright light. Where had he come from? There was a noise in the workshop. A hasty scurrying, a door clicking shut, and then, silence.
'Ah, I am looking for Signor Maleovelli,' he said in Serenissian.
'Well, you won't find him here,' said the man, never taking his eyes from Waterford's face.
'No. No. I can see that.' Waterford began to collect himself. Who was this rather corpulent man staring at him as if he were one of those dirty feral cats that wandered the fondamenta? Did he know to whom he was speaking?
'I am Lord Waterford -- a friend of Signor Maleovelli. And who, may I ask, do I have the honour of addressing?'
'You may ask.'
The man's grey eyes continued their appraisal. Waterford felt beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. A rivulet coursed down his right temple.
'If you won't tell me who you are, perhaps you can tell me if that was Signorina Dorata I saw in there?' He jerked his head over his shoulder.
The eyes boring into his narrowed. The hands stopped their action.
'Beolin!' called a familiar voice and, to Waterford's relief, Giaconda Maleovelli appeared at the top of the stairs. The sunlight bounced off her hair and the jewels sewn into her gown. 'How on Vista Mare did you end up there? Baroque, grazie mille for finding our unexpected guest. Attend to your duties, please. I will take him from here.' She began to descend.
Baroque grunted and stepped aside so Lord Waterford could pass. Giaconda joined Waterford in the courtyard. He bowed his head and she offered her cheeks for him to kiss.
'Oh, the Signor was not disturbing me.' He turned round, but Baroque had disappeared. 'I was merely asking him to clarify something for me.'
Giaconda took his arm and led him back into the coolness of the lower floors. 'And what might that be, my lord?' asked Giaconda pleasantly, dodging the men who raced past her with practised poise, heading for the stairs. 'You became lost, did you?'
'Not exactly,' said Waterford. 'I just thought I would take it upon myself to find you. I have been waiting some time.'
'Oh, my lord, mi dispiace.' Giaconda smiled. 'I came as soon as my servant let me know you were there.'
'I apologise if I have done the wrong thing, Signorina. I am still learning your customs.'
'Of course you are,' replied Giaconda over her shoulder in a tone that suggested they both knew he was lying.
Without another word, they reached the landing and Giaconda drew him into the portego. She gestured for him to take a seat. A servant detached himself from the wall and poured chilled vino into a glass. Waterford sipped it gratefully, a quick glance around the room telling him much had changed since his last visit.
'So,' he said, beaming at Giaconda, 'can you answer something for me? Your man, Baroque, was it? Seemed very reluctant to help me.' For a fraction of a second a look of irritation crossed Giaconda's features. He knew she'd heard his question to Baroque. His heart quickened.
'What was that?' she asked.
'Well, it may have been the heat playing tricks, but I was certain I saw Signorina Dorata in that dark room under the stairs. She was doing something with what I was sure were candles.'
Giaconda stared at him for a fraction too long before opening her fan and giving a long, trilling laugh.
'Signorina Dorata? In our dirty old workshop?' Her laugh ceased and she snapped her fan shut and rapped Lord Waterford on the wrist, the playful slap stinging and leaving a red welt. 'It was the heat, my lord. I tell you, it was the heat.' She offered him her profile, gazing out the window.
Lord Waterford regarded Giaconda with twinkling eyes. She was unsettled. Something was going on here. He knew the exquisite Signorina Dorata when he saw her, even without her usual golden surrounds.
'I thought it might have been,' he chuckled finally. 'As you say, what would she be doing in there.' He set down his glass and began to chatter about the weather. Slowly Giaconda relaxed, but the look she gave Signor Maleovelli when he joined them was heavy with meaning.
As the afternoon progressed and Waterford allowed the conversation to stay on safe routes, he knew he had to get to the bottom of this mystery.
ORGANISING HIS DESK, Waterford carefully extracted a piece of parchment from the pile he kept and trimmed the quill. Pulling the candles closer, he began to compose a letter to his queen. He wouldn't raise false hope, but something told him the Maleovellis were a far more interesting prospect than he'd first believed. Zaralina would want to know.
Since he'd been in Serenissima, he'd heard all about the Estrattore, the boy who made candles and who, some months ago now, had revealed himself and then disappeared. There was talk of Bond Riders, these people who gave their soul to the sacred monoliths on the mainland or some such thing being involved; there were whispers of prophecy, heresy and all sorts. If he'd heard any of this before Queen Zaralina had come to Farrowfare, he would have dismissed it as superstitious nonsense. He now knew better.
That he'd seen Tarlo Maleovelli holding candles -- not in any ordinary way either, but with reverence and care -- had to be more than coincidence, didn't it? Nobiles, or courtesans for that matter, didn't do that.
He dipped the quill in the ink and was about to begin writing when he paused. Before he alerted the queen to anything, he needed to find out when Signorina Dorata first came into the Maleovellis' life. As far as he was aware, no one had heard of or seen her until that night at the Doge's palazzo. It was as if, as some described, she'd just materialised, like one of the goddesses of old, fully formed from her father's, or in this case, guardian's, head.
He began to laugh. Is that what the Maleovellis were up to? Had Signorina Dorata emerged whole, complete from the mind of Ezzelino? Was she simply part of an elaborate scheme to restore the wealth of this formerly impoverished family? Or was something more complex at work?
Before she was Signorina Dorata, the young woman was Tarlo Maleovelli. What Waterford wanted to know very badly was who the Maleovellis' ward had been before she was Tarlo.
Changing his mind, he pushed the paper aside and leant back in his chair. A warm breeze blew through the window, carrying with it the tang of the sea and other, less pleasant odours. He wouldn't write to Zaralina just yet. He had to know more; he wanted something greater than mere supposition to present to his queen. Too much was at stake for guesses and instinct.
He pried himself out of his seat and sat on the window ledge. Below him, the canal was filled with gondolas, gliding through the dying light. Courtesans, nobiles and others fortunate enough to attend the theatre or opera on this temperate night took briefly to the waters. Nearby, he could hear the strident notes of instruments being tuned, the scales of a pianoforte and even a voice or two being warmed ready for performance.
As he stared at the scene below, his mind worked. How to get the answers he sought?
Stars began to twinkle and the sky transformed from gold to rose to lilac, deepening and changing as he watched. Lanterns were lit and swung from the prows of the gondolas, making them look like huge, floating candle holders. The intense jade of the water was like one great receptacle upon which the gondola votives drifted. He laughed at his fancy. He was becoming obsessed with candles.
Then, it occurred to him. He knew exactly who to ask. It wouldn't be easy, but he knew that if he could get him alone, he was sure he could be persuaded to tell him what he wanted to know. After all, he'd seen the way he looked at Tarlo, the way his tongue wet his lips, the way his hands would become busy whenever he was in her presence.
It was just a matter of getting Jacopo Maleovelli out of the casa and away from his protective, secretive relatives.
Waterford slid off the ledge and began his preparations for tonight's soiree. The prospect of yet another evening in the company of the Serenissian nobiles suddenly didn't seem so unappealing.
THOUGH BAROQUE HAD LONG AGO imparted everything he claimed to know about the arts of spying to Tallow, it was only when she was in the workshop, extracting and distilling, that she felt some sort of peace. She knew that everything she was doing was helping the Maleovellis rise to power and that, once this had been accomplished and the Estrattore were brought home, her role and position within their household would be over. She longed for that day. It was what made Jacopo's unwanted attentions, the endless evenings with strange men, the pretence, the danger, and the dark, acrid memories tolerable. It all had to mean something, didn't it? This couldn't all be for nothing, could it?
She stopped what she was doing, her concentration momentarily broken, and sighed. She wiped the back of her hand across her brow. It was hot in the workshop, and the smells, while pleasant, were overpowering. She felt Baroque's eyes upon her. He'd been hovering over her like a bee to a flower, ever since that Lord Waterford had spied her in the workshop. Tallow appreciated his presence, their silent communion shared over the crushed flowers, distilled essences and, above all, the candles she altered. There was something so familiar about testing the candles with Baroque: the mixture of excitement and concern they exchanged before Baroque would remove the spill from the tinderbox and, striking it against the flint, light the wick. The sputter and slow sizzle of the flame was like the introduction, and they would hold their breath until the wax began to melt and the core of what Tallow had infused in the candle was released.
It reminded Tallow of what to her now seemed like happier times -- her life with Pillar in his greasy old workshop. It was funny, thought Tallow, how current context or even a mood or feeling could change the way you viewed the past, colour it in more sympathetic hues. Pillar would occasionally slip into her mind and she would wonder what he was doing, if he ever thought of her. She tried not to think about him too much. She'd been told he'd left Serenissima and that information hurt -- she suspected that was why she'd been told. Though she knew it was dangerous for him to remain, let alone to seek her, she had thought she meant more to him. He'd run after her on the bridge that awful day -- called to her. If she shut her eyes, she could still see his face: gaunt, grey and yet so filled with joy to see her. And now he was gone -- from Serenissima, from her life. Just like Dante, just like anyone who had ever been kind to her.
But what have you done to look for him? she pondered. She scolded herself for her silly fancies. Just as she could not search for Pillar, which would bring danger to not only herself, the Maleovellis, and the people of the Candlemakers Quartiere who had suffered enough, neither should she seek connections where there were none anymore. Glancing at Baroque as he cleared a space on the table, she had to remind herself that he was not Pillar and she was no longer Tallow. She was Tarlo Maleovelli. She was Signorina Dorata. The past was a wasteland.
With a sharp puff of breath, she threw herself back into her work.
WORKING BESIDE TALLOW, Baroque was aware of her every move, every sound. Each day her mien became increasingly mask-like as she fought to bury the emotions burning inside her and which, periodically, would escape across her features. Each sigh reached into his heart and squeezed it. He longed to touch, hold her and swear to protect her from those who would hurt her.
Surprised at the depth of his feelings, he could no longer deny them. For weeks, he'd shut himself off from the effect Tallow's presence had on him. But ever since that day he'd walked into the workshop and saw the bruises, the dark shadows under her eyes, her downturned mouth, something within him had transformed. It wasn't the external changes that tore away at him, but the hollowness he sensed within her. It was as if a bright spark had been extinguished.
A candle spluttered, drawing his attention. Yes, he thought, as if a candle had been snuffed out. Tallow was nothing more than a walking shadow. Almost daily, her beauty increased and it seemed, from what he heard in the streets, the market, the piazza, the coldness and indifference that attended her whenever she left the casa simply amplified her allure. But those people did not know her. They didn't know what she had once been, the lovely, fragile being he'd first seen parading as a boy in that floppy cap, ambling through a campo, sipping a juice, delighting in the simple pleasures.
He watched her now -- her eyes downcast, the lashes thick and long, hiding those eyes that not even the belladonna could prevent from being extraordinary. He watched the way her long narrow fingers fondled the plant, saw her inhale, her chest rising and expanding, colour flooding her cheeks as she extracted. He noticed the way tiny tendrils of hair escaped her elaborate coiffure, still in place from the night before, and clung wetly to her forehead.
He wanted to dab her brow, cool the feverish thoughts that he sensed working in her mind. But he did not deserve to do that. He had not earned the right. He who was prepared to betray Tallow and in ways she did not even yet realise -- but she would. He feared that day.
Yet he did not act to change things either. He stayed. He no longer tried to find the Bond Rider, Katina -- that was true. She could seek him and be damned. Thoughts of going to the Cardinale were no longer foremost in his mind. Even his desire to retrieve his journals had been dampened. He remained in the casa and continued to teach Tallow, even though they both knew that the student had long surpassed the master. If he was honest with himself there was only one reason he stayed -- and she was standing across from him now.
Tallow picked up a spray of hemlock -- a deadly plant. He saw her trying to draw from it, understand what it could do. His heart lightened. It was moments like that, when she shut her eyes and concentrated, that she was able to forget what troubled her.
Anger flared within him. The urge to kill, lash out, was so very strong. He almost laughed at the power of his feelings. Silly old man that he was! How could it have come to this? Baroque Scarpoli, enchanted by an Estrattore -- not in the way her paramours were. This was different -- this was lasting and deeper than anything he'd felt before. For the first time in his life, he didn't want to put himself and his needs first. Is this how a parent feels for a child? A father for a daughter?
He wondered if Tallow really understood what it was the Maleovellis were doing. He knew she was convinced that once Signor Maleovelli was crowned Doge, he would do everything in his power to ensure the Estrattore returned. All the talk he'd heard from the Maleovellis supported that, but something within Baroque cautioned acceptance of their intentions. Not their plans -- they were going well; they'd even seemed to have drawn that foreign ambassador into their web.
Now, he was one to watch -- Baroque could tell. The Maleovellis thought him a dupe, a puppet whose strings they could pull. Baroque knew better. But how the Waterford Signor could help the Maleovellis, he wasn't sure. Nor was he certain what they would do once their years of preparation finally came to fruition. Would they help Tallow as they promised? Of all people, he knew what good the Estrattore could do, despite what the Church said. But he also understood their potential to do great harm ... and, he admitted, glancing at Tallow as she prepared to work with the hemlock, it terrified him.
The light outside had changed in the last few minutes and a gentle breeze began to blow through the courtyard. There was a coolness to it that suggested seasonal change was not far away. Baroque would be glad when the heat ended. It hung over the city like a pall, turning the canals a thick green and carrying within it the squalid smell of humanity. He screwed up his nose in memory.
'Are you ready to extract?' Baroque asked quietly.
Tallow opened her eyes and looked at him. 'Sì. This hemlock, it's very dangerous.'
Baroque nodded. He studied the little white flowers, the purple blotches on the stems.
'It's sticky,' said Tallow, pressing the ends of her fingers open and shut to demonstrate. 'It will cause strange dreams, but it can also kill.'
'I know,' said Baroque.
Tallow glanced at him. 'What do the Maleovellis hope to achieve this time?'
Baroque frowned. 'They want to persuade someone to do something totally uncharacteristic. So you need to think of how to relax someone, how to make them susceptible to suggestions they wouldn't normally be. A small dose of hemlock should achieve that. It has hallucinogenic qualities.'
'Are the changes to be permanent?'
Baroque hesitated. 'Sì.' He waited. There was a time when Tallow would bombard him with questions in the way he had prisoners of the Doge -- relentlessly, endlessly. He would not always give her direct answers, particularly when the few he did upset her. But Tallow did not even demand to know for whom the candles were intended anymore or the details. She simply made them and then carried out the orders she was given with whomever she was assigned to that night.
'Then, I will use some hemlock, comfrey and ...' She thought for a moment. Not always needing to prepare new potions, Tallow could reach inside herself and draw from plants and objects she'd already extracted. 'Ah.' She waved her hand in the air. 'I have it. I know what to use.'
Baroque no longer asked either. He didn't want to know.
She took a deep breath. 'Bring me the candles, Baroque. Two should do. Votives, please.'
Baroque lifted a pair out of the box he'd bought at the markets yesterday and placed them in front of Tallow. In seconds she'd distilled the necessary emotions into them. 'There's no need to test them, Baroque. They will work. I know it.' Wistfulness tinged her tone as she took one more look at what she'd done. The candles glowed, the glass containers enhancing the effect.
She glanced out of the doorway. 'It grows late. I'd better prepare for tonight's festivities.' Undoing her apron, she slowly hung it on the hook at the back of the room. Baroque watched. Instead of leaving straightaway, she lingered.
'Baroque?'
He quickly swung back to the bench. 'Sì?'
'Do you know who exactly these are for?' She stood close beside him. He caught the scent of musk and vanilla. He inhaled deeply, as if she too were one of her candles. His head spun.
'You know I'm not supposed to answer that, Tarlo. That is for Signor or Signorina Maleovelli to tell you.'
'I know,' she said, locking her eyes onto his.
'They are for the Prince.'
'Which one?'
'Cosimo.'
'Ah, of course.' Tallow touched the candles. 'What do they intend apart from making him ignore his better judgement?'
'I don't know.'
She nodded faintly and Baroque was shocked to realise she didn't believe him.
'Tallow, I mean, Tarlo, I really don't know. You will find out soon enough. You're to take them to Signor Maleovelli and receive your instructions.' He paused. 'The Maleovellis do not share much with me. They never have.'
'No,' said Tallow, raising her huge silver-grey eyes with their dilated black pupils to his. 'I don't suppose they do anymore. They have no need. Not since you helped them secure what they wanted most.'
His heart flipped. Did she know? Then, he realised what she meant -- herself. The rebuke in her voice stung. He was rendered speechless. She collected the candles and plucked a couple of others from the shelf. Candles she would no doubt use in her room. He noted that one had been infused with the elements of heartsease, effectively a love potion, while the other was as yet untouched. What was Tallow intending? He couldn't read her face; it had resumed its mask.
She gave him the barest of curtsies before leaving. 'I will see you tomorrow,' she said over her shoulder. 'I may be late.'
Baroque watched her ascend the stairs and wondered who was going to enjoy her favours tonight. He found that, for once, he didn't envy them.
GIACONDA WAITED UNTIL TARLO had left the room before she perched herself on the arm of her father's chair. She began to stroke his hair. He sighed and relaxed his head into her hands. 'How much longer till we make our move?' she asked softly.
Ezzelino Maleovelli frowned. 'A little longer yet, cara mia. To act too swiftly will arouse suspicion, no matter how cautious we are, how careful we've been.'
'And what of Lord Waterford's curiosity? What he saw?'
Ezzelino's eyes flew open and he sat up abruptly, almost unbalancing Giaconda. She stood up hastily, tugged her gown into order and watched as her father fumbled for his pipe. In silence he stuffed fresh tobacco into the bowl and then, picking up a candle from his desk, used the flame to light it.
Giaconda retreated to the window, watching the way the pastel hues of sunset transformed the campo. It was full of people on their way home, or paused mid-journey, enjoying conversations with old acquaintances.
Not until smoke billowed around Ezzelino's head did he answer her. 'We need to distract him. You need to distract him, but also find out what he suspects and what he would do with his suspicions.'
'Molto bene. It may be that we have to bribe him.'
'Whatever it takes ...'
'At least we're in a position to consider that now.'
Ezzelino chuckled. 'Our little Dorata has made sure of that. She's exceeded all my expectations, cara. All of them.' He held out his hand.
Giaconda took it and was drawn forward into the harbour of his thighs. She smiled softly, her eyes warm. Ezzelino's breath caught.
'Mine too. What that brute Giacomo did to her tamed the wild tendencies I was concerned might interfere with what we wanted. She no longer asks questions; she simply does as she's told.'
'Then he did us a favour.'
Giaconda laughed. 'That's one way to regard it, I guess.'
'You think she'll succeed tonight?'
Giaconda squeezed his hand and then released it. 'Naturalmente. She always does.'
'But this time, we move closer to the throne.'
'Not as close as we will be --'
'Vero. True. But we have to wait. We have to be sure --'
'Of Tarlo?'
'No. We have ensured her cooperation, thanks to Baroque. We put that plan in place a long time ago. I'm not worried about the Estrattore.'
'Then of what do you need to be sure, Papa?'
'That those I am recruiting to our way of thinking keep their promises.'
'Ah.' Giaconda knelt at her father's feet and gazed up at him. 'And what might they be, Papa?' She laid her head against his knees.
'That they help us to keep power, cara mia. Taking it is one thing, holding onto it is harder. For with power, we also have control of not only our destiny, but that of Serenissima's.'
'One that includes the Estrattore?'
'Don't be foolish,' he whispered as he leant over and kissed her neck.
PRINCE COSIMO DANDOLO WAS A MAN WHO, when he spoke, it was to partake in a conversation that had either not yet begun or had concluded minutes before. Ever since his son Claudio had been kidnapped over two years earlier, he'd retreated into a world that his family and fellow nobiles did not share. Sympathy, fear and a hope that he would prove to be so unstable, his claim to the throne of Serenissima would be declared invalid by the Council of Ten, meant his foibles were watched closely while those around him pretended tolerance and understanding. All the nobiles secretly wanted the Dandolo line to end -- a hope they also knew was unlikely to be realised.
But they did not account for me.
Sitting beside Prince Cosimo, I noted that he did not look in my direction, or at any of his guests. He was prone to deep sighs and protracted silences for most of the night, and the rest of us ate and drank as if he was not there.
I had other men to distract me, even if it was the Prince who was paying for my services. I was accustomed to his ways. When we were alone, he did not speak much either. It was physical comfort he sought and which I provided. The arrangement suited both of us, and I was becoming a regular fixture in his rooms at the palazzo.
Tonight, there were twenty of us -- myself, Giaconda and a courtesan named Zanetta di Vetro were the only women. I had met all the other men before, nobiles from all the great casas with the exception of Maleovelli. I could not help but think that must rankle, though I knew that Signor Maleovelli had left the casa before us on his way to a private card game; a game to which he also took one of my candles. We were all becoming adept at substituting our own for those that burned in the residences and public places we visited.
There were even two members of the Council of Ten among us tonight. The foreign ambassador had also become a habitual guest, not just of Prince Cosimo, but recently in the Maleovellis' casa as well. I noted that when he visited, he spent a great deal of time with Giaconda, but also with Jacopo, and that the two appeared to have struck up a friendship. I had thought the ambassador of a different ilk; that he could befriend the likes of Jacopo made me reassess him.
Sitting by his side, Giaconda conversed with the lord easily, her gloved fingers resting lightly on his arm. The measured look that often marred his features in our presence had been, when gazing at Giaconda, replaced by another -- one which I'd grown very accustomed to seeing on men's faces.
Served a range of delicacies from a credenza that had been overlaid with a white linen tablecloth, strands of dark green ivy and statuettes of fantastic monsters, winged cherubs and beautiful women, we found that no effort had been spared. Behind this huge sideboard hung a giant tapestry that also depicted the pagan gods and goddesses, entwined around each other and sharing food while serene figures in white served them. I was constantly amazed that though the Estrattore were considered heretics, the art so often chose to depict them. The tapestry was lovely, and not one I had seen before. My eyes were drawn to its depths, to the celebration it portrayed.
The pages scurried to provide for us, under the instruction of Cosimo's maestro della casa. Gilded bowls of steaming soup were placed before us, followed by slices of roast meat -- deer, goose and boar, carved by a man designated for this task alone -- drowned in a rich brown sauce. Fritters of cheeses and tarts made of onions drizzled with carmeline sauces were also put before us. Jellies, grapes, honey-glazed figs, tiny sausages, exquisite ravioli, fish and oysters from the marshy reaches of the lagoon made their way to the table. Between courses, the linen cloth was changed, as were the plates, which were works of art in themselves.
By the time dessert was served, the men were ruddy-faced with vino. I maintained my smile and listened with as much attention as I could to the gentleman on the other side of me, Signor Bartolomeo Errizo. He was the father of Rambaldo Errizo. Whenever his son's name was mentioned, my smile became brighter, my laughter louder. Like many of the other nobiles present, he had also entered a colleganza with the Maleovellis. It was one that was doing well for them. Unlike his son, I knew the elder Errizo was keen to see me again. For now he had served his purpose, but I made sure I kept him entertained and let him believe that it would not be long before we met in private.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Giaconda nod in my direction. It was time to prepare myself.
Touching Cosimo lightly on the sleeve, I leant over.
'Your grace, grazie mille for such a pleasant interlude.' I deepened my voice. 'But I tire of having to share you with so many. Can we not be alone?' I covered his hand, which was resting on the table, with my own. I felt him quiver.
'Sì, Sì, Signorina Dorata.' His vacant, sad eyes seemed to focus as he saw me for the first time that night. 'Ah, bella,' He reached up and stroked my cheek. 'I have neglected you.' He rose to his feet, lifting me to mine as he did. 'Signori?'
Chairs scraped back as the men rushed to stand.
'Signorina Dorata bids you all good night.'
I fell into a deep curtsy, aware of at least seventeen pairs of eyes, plus those of the servants, on my daring décolletage.
Cosimo kissed my hand. 'I will join you shortly.'
'My only wish is that you were with me now,' I responded, kissing his hand in return.
The room was silent as I departed, the maestro della casa opening the door for me, the armed guards stationed outside coming to attention. Though a high-ranking servant escorted me to the Prince's suite, I knew the way.
Helped by two serving women to disrobe in an elegant antechamber, I bid them goodnight before I entered Cosimo's bedroom. It was filled with the light of dozens of candles and a small fire in the grate. Two huge windows were wide open and the cool night air blew in. I stood before one and looked out over the quiet piazza towards the Grande Canal. The moon was out of sight but its beams turned the water silver. I could see the distant islands of the Arsenale and the masts of the Doge's navy as the ships lay at anchor.
I took a deep breath, preparing myself for what I must now do. I went to the chair over which my dress had been draped and, from within its folds, drew out the two candles that Signor Ezzelino had instructed me to make. Crossing to the bed, I quickly removed the two existing candles from their elaborate holders and replaced them with mine, dragging them closer to where Cosimo's head would finally lie. Then I took out the two that I'd brought without the Maleovellis' knowledge, placing them in the wall brackets above the bed. I took away the existing ones and snuffed them with my thumb and forefinger. I tipped the excess wax into the well of another candle, waited until the wicks had stopped smouldering and then put the candles back in the pocket of my gown.
Satisfied, I lay across the covers of the bed and waited. I tried to blank my mind, but my conscience was heavy. My only consolation was that with Cosimo gone, the way to the Dogeship was becoming clearer. Already Cosimo's younger brother had shocked everyone by renouncing his right to the throne and eloping with a commoner -- a servant. I smiled as I thought of how happy they were under the protection of the Duke of Firenze. That the emotions were induced by false means did not trouble me. I knew that their love would last, unlike many marriages. Forgoing leadership of Serenissima was a small price to pay. Plucking at the soft linen of the pillow, I was surprised at how strongly I believed that.
I thought of the colleganzas the Maleovellis had signed, the riches that the trade they had gained had given them, the profits, the security of a solid and growing reputation. No-one suspected anything. Fortuna and Signorina Dorata were how the Maleovellis' rise was explained by nobiles and, according to Baroque, by the popolani as well.
Already, three other courtesans enjoyed the sponsorship of nobiles, much to the chagrin of their wives, their husbands insisting it was in the interests of good business.
I wondered briefly about Cosimo's wife -- the Principessa. A small woman, she had once been a beauty. Endowed with a rich family as well as naturally pale hair and a womb thought to be fertile, she'd been considered a fitting wife for the Doge's eldest son. But the kidnap of her only son had changed her too. The sparkling, vital woman some had described to me was not the same as the one who roamed the corridors of the palazzo asking the servants if they'd seen her son. That's how I'd encountered her, one night as I left Cosimo's chambers. She was shuffling along past the Doge's rooms, a candle in her hand, calling. As I drew closer, I heard her. On seeing me, she held her light aloft and asked in a soft, frightened voice, 'Have you seen Claudio?'
My heart had wrenched. I shook my head. Her eyes, one moment filled with hope, slid from my face and became as dark as the places she explored. She continued on her way. Five ladies in waiting, all wrapped in their nightgowns, scurried after her, some glancing at me curiously, others with envy.
Cosimo and his wife did not speak anymore. Their loss had torn them apart. It had ripped the Dandolo family asunder. Long before the Maleovellis began their plotting, there were fractures that nothing but Claudio's return could heal. I had even heard that kind of gossip from Quinn's customers. I knew that, in many ways, the Maleovellis were using the decline of the Dandolos' fitness as leaders to justify their push for power. But they were not the only ones. Sensing weakness in their ranks, all the nobiles were jostling. Whoever appeared to have the power and strength to rule would be given the throne. The Dandolos' time, no matter what I did, was over.
I shook my head. Listen to me. I sounded like the Maleovellis, defending my actions. The Dandolos were also in the pocket of the Church, I reminded myself. They were the ones who ordered Renzo killed. I shut my eyes at the memory. I drew my breath in and extracted from the scents around me. The pain fled and peace descended.
Then a thought occurred to me. I was to ensure that the Prince could never make a claim to the throne. Signor Maleovelli had suggested that I persuade him to travel, to leave Serenissima. That would render his claim redundant. No member of the royal family was allowed to leave Serenissima without the permission of the Council. To do so was against the law -- it was a serious violation of protocol. Jacopo had taught me that in one of our earliest lessons.
Sending Cosimo away would not be hard. The candles I brought tonight were infused with all the right elements so that I could place the idea in his head and he would act -- swiftly. I could imagine him fruitlessly roaming the world, never understanding why, the emptiness inside him growing bigger, deeper, until one day it swallowed him. To my surprise, I felt uneasy with that. I didn't love Cosimo; I didn't know him well enough to feel anything but a gentle regard, but I did feel sorry for him -- for him and his wife. I understood what it was like to live with a huge, gaping hole inside you. Perhaps there was something I could do to ensure that the vacuum inside him didn't increase. One way to do that was to make sure he had a goal, something to fill the void his son had left.
Perhaps there was yet a way ...
I sat up, my heart lighter than it had been for days. Of course! I breathed in the scent of the candles, testing their potency again before quickly extracting the effects from my own body. Oh, these would work. They would work well. Once again the Maleovellis would be delighted with me. Only this time I would be able to live with what I had done.
And I would make sure that Cosimo, poor, lost Cosimo, had a reason to live as well.
The door opened and the Prince appeared, loosening the neck of his grand togati. I gave him a real smile and opened my arms wide, the golden gauze falling apart and revealing my nakedness. His eyes widened and his face glowed.
'Come, Cosimo,' I purred.
As if in answer, the flames atop my candles brightened.
SITTING ON THE ROOF OF A CASA opposite the northern end of the Doge's palazzo, leaning against the chimney, eyes fixed firmly on the unremarkable water-gates below, Dante waited. Already the horizon was a thin band of burning orange and the pigeons were becoming restless. Rubbing his eyes, he watched them bobbing across the eaves, their emerald necks reflecting in the sun's first rays, their trilling a comforting end to his lonely vigil. The same one he maintained night after night across different locations in Serenissima.
He stretched cautiously, careful not to disturb the tiles. As much as he longed for his bed, there was something he desired more. He wondered how much longer she'd be; it had been hours and his shoulder was cramping.
A noise below alerted him and he wriggled to the edge of the roof and looked down. His patience was rewarded. Emerging out of the doors and walking across the jetty was Tallow.
His heart soared and he held his breath as she turned to the servant and, opening her purse, pressed a soldi into his hand. She looked magnificent in a deep gold gown that had panels of black velvet over her breasts and peeping through the slashes in her full sleeves. He liked the way her hair had been arranged. As usual, it maintained its style. He imagined her sitting before the mirror as servants pinned it into place.
The doorman smiled and bowed, retreating into the shadows as she moved to the paline at the end of the little wharf and waited for her gondola to arrive. Often it was already there, floating by the jetty, water-stairs or wherever else she happened to be. Dante hated those times, as he barely caught a glimpse of her. She would board the gondola with practised ease and duck straight into the felze. His heart would wrench and he would return to the Tailors Quartiere unfulfilled, to try to catch what sleep he could until darkness fell and he would once again go the Maleovellis' casa, wait for Tallow to leave and follow her.
But today there was no gondola and he was able to drink in the sight she presented. She stood perfectly still, her ornate mask clutched in her hand. She gazed out over the water, looking in the direction from which she knew the gondola would come.
Dante sighed softly. Signorina Dorata -- the celebrated courtesan. No wonder she'd evaded capture. Who would have ever suspected that the scruffy little candlemaker, Tallow Pelleta, had metamorphosed into this magnificent woman? Here she was, flaunting herself, right beneath the Doge's and Cardinale's eyes. How did that make her feel? His little dorato would have been anxious -- but this woman? He recalled the posters with their crude image of Tallow plastered all over the different sestieri, calling for information, offering rewards. He'd laughed when he saw them. Nothing could be further removed from the reality. Her daring, her courage, only made him love her more.
While he knew what it was she did each night with the different men she entertained, he did not feel jealousy so much as envy. He wanted to be them. He longed to be the one that she caressed, held and loved. He yearned for her, but he also wanted her safe, and that was what kept him remote, a watcher. Katina and Constantina had been clear in their instructions. He was to observe, learn and understand, but not to act. Not yet. To move too soon would be to put Tallow and the entire prophecy in danger. He didn't quite understand why, but he knew, in his heart and head, that he had to obey. To do otherwise was to risk Tallow and he would not, could not do that.
As if aware of his thoughts, Tallow turned slightly. He caught his breath and was reminded of the first time he saw her, of the moment he recognised who she was, all those months ago.
Despairing after Katina was taken back into the Limen, he lost himself in a fugue of drink and self-pity. Disobeying explicit orders, he'd taken advantage of Carnivale, and after purchasing one of the large masks that covered his entire face, a bauta, and a cloak, he'd gone to the Chandlers Quartiere.
Roaming up the calle at the back of his grandfather's workshop, he'd seen familiar faces as well as the usual masked revellers, drinking, dancing, running in and out of each other's premises with abandon. But he'd seen no sign of his own family. Flickering lights in the upper storeys revealed they were home, but no-one was celebrating. What did they have to be joyous about?
Sitting in the local taverna, he heard snatches of conversation, rumours. The Macelleria family hadn't been the same since Renzo's death. Business was failing: time in the Doge's dungeons had changed his uncles. Observing the activity around him, he felt remote, distant. This was his neighbourhood; here were people he'd grown up with, rituals he knew and loved and yet ... Part of him wanted to snatch off his mask and declare himself, announce his return and damn the consequences. But another told him not to be a fool. What would it achieve anyway? He was dead and gone. He no longer belonged here and, as the night progressed, he was no longer sure he wanted to. What could he do anyway? He'd simply be arrested, bring more trouble and grief upon his family. He was a Bond Rider now and had a pledge to fulfil. Tallow's face appeared briefly among his crowded thoughts.
Thrusting the drink he'd ordered away from him, he rose and, fumbling in his purse, laid soldi on the bar. Then it occurred to him. There was something he could do to help.
Leaving the taverna, he almost ran down the calle. Dodging the people dancing in the campo, he turned into the main street, the salizzada of his quartiere, where the entrance to Zia Gaia's shop lay. The salizzada was thick with folk making their way to the canal. He loitered, peering in shop windows, pretending to be drunker than he was. One group tried to take him with them, but he shook them off brusquely. They laughed and let him be.
Finally, the salizzada emptied. He paused outside Zia Gaia's shop window. Reaching for the top of the door with one hand and placing the other on the handle, he slowly entered, his fingers catching the string that pulled the little bell before it could ring. Shutting the door behind him with care, he paused a moment while he grew accustomed to the dark. His breathing filled his ears. He saw the shelves were stacked with little paper-wrapped bars of soap. The old abacus sat atop the bench. A small bunch of flowers sagged in a vase. It pained him to see everything so familiar and yet so different.
Shaking himself, he did what he came for. Behind the counter, he found the box where Zia Gaia kept the day's takings. It was, as he suspected, empty. Pulling out his purse, he quietly took out every last soldi. He would simply replace them, as Debora had taught him, with another purse from an unsuspecting merchant in the mercato. He tipped them into the tin, wincing at the noise they made. He pushed the lid back and returned the box to its former position. The coins jangled as the box hit the wood. He waited, listening.
There was a creak on the floor above.
He inwardly cursed.
'Buona sera?' called a voice he knew and loved. Zia Gaia.
He shot to the door, dragging it open. The bell tinkled sweetly. He turned just as a shadow appeared on the stairs. The candle she was holding revealed the top half of her aged face as she bent to see who intruded. He caught his breath and then ran, the door slamming behind him. As it did, he felt sure he heard his Zia cry, 'Dante?'
Confused and heartsore, he stumbled through the calle, crossed so many bridges, darted through so many sottoporteghi, he lost count. This time, when he entered a taverna, he tossed back the drinks offered to him, running out into the night when payment was sought, shouts of abuse all that followed him.
Just before dawn, he started to feel sick. Staggering outside yet another taverna, he tried to work out where he was. He sank back against a building, squatting on the fondamenta, staring out over the water that had turned a dirty grey. Snow began to fall, its soft flakes melting against his hot face.
Then, it happened. Through the veil of white a woman emerged out of a low door on the other side of the canal dressed in a long black cape that fell open as she moved. He noticed her gown. Golden, it sparkled even in the half-light. There was something about her that made him frown then straighten. Something plucked at his heart, pulled him to his feet. His head spun. His mouth was dry.
He crept to the edge of the water, peering through a curtain of snowflakes. She didn't see him; she was too busy searching the canal. He took in her dress, the mask that hid her eyes but exposed a full, pink mouth and the creamiest complexion. Ah. He leered, squinting to bring her into focus as his mind registered who it was he was seeing. It was the famous Signorina Dorata. He relaxed. Alone, unescorted, a sight for him to enjoy. He quietly snorted, his cooling body warming again as he tried to imagine what she looked like beneath that dress, behind the thick black cape that she now wrapped closely around her as if aware of the way in which his eyes were roaming her body. Signorina Dorata, he thought while his heart continued to pound and a tremble beset his body. He glanced at the casa behind her. Grand indeed. Are you worth it? He was about to call out something crude when she took off her mask.
Dante gasped and almost fell to his knees. The woman swung towards the sound and frowned into the thickening snow. 'Who's there?' Her voice carried over the water that separated them. 'Show yourself.'
Before she even spoke, he knew. His eyes and his hammering, full heart told him. It was Tallow.
Unable to move or speak, he saw her try to penetrate the obscuring snow, work out who it was that stood there, a dark and silent shadow. He waited for her to sense him, to use those great gifts he knew she possessed. To call him, find him, hold him, know him. All she did was stare. Time froze. What was mere seconds seemed like hours.
Just as he was about to do something risky, something foolish, a sleek black gondola glided between them, breaking the moment and carrying her away from him. Startled into action, he followed the craft, running along the fondamenta, diving across bridges, making sure the gondolier didn't see him. When it turned down a narrow waterway that he couldn't reach, he'd waited at the corner. By now, the sun was rising above the snow clouds and its washy light filtered across the city. Standing atop the bridge that joined the two sides of the fondamenta and under which Tallow's gondola had floated, Dante tried to see which casa her craft entered, but it was hard to tell. He couldn't be sure.
He rested his arms against the wooden balustrade of the bridge, lowered his burning head onto his hands and sighed deeply. At least he'd found her. His heart, his Bond had told him true. She was here. Lightness filled his being; the dull ache in his head gradually lifted. Then a hand fell on his shoulder.
'It's the umber one with the nasty little gargoyles over the water-gate,' slurred a voice. Dante spun and the hand slid away. A man with half-closed eyes swayed before him. He smelled the fumes of vino on his breath.
'Scusi?' said Dante, one hand on the pommel of his sword, the other across his nose.
'You're looking for Signorina Dorata, sì? Many do.' The man pointed a gnarled finger down the canal. 'She lives there. I see them, day after day, the servants coming and going, bringing gifts, invitations. It never stops.' He smirked, showing a mouth full of rotten stumps. 'Good for business.' It was then Dante noticed the rickety cart he was pushing. Laden with winter flowers, it was a splash of colour in the faded morning.
'Whose casa is it?'
The man leant against him. Dante shifted away, resisting the urge to cough. It wasn't just vino he could smell.
'Not s'posed to tell. But for a soldi, you might be able to change my mind.'
Dante held up his hand to stop the man coming any closer. 'I don't have any.' He patted his empty purse. Not that it mattered. It would be easy to discover whose casa it was. Dante stood back from the rail and looked around. He could not believe his eyes. Why, he was on Nobiles' Rise. He hadn't realised how far he'd come, the bridges he'd crossed, he'd been so fixed on following Tallow. Then he caught his own odour. It wasn't just the flower man who reeked. He felt suddenly ashamed. If Tallow should see him like this! And he, a Bond Rider. What would Debora and Alessandro say? What would Katina?
The old man shrugged. 'Worth a try. But since I like the look of you, I'll tell you for nothing. Casa Maleovelli, that's where she lives. They say she's his ward, that he's her guardian.' He began to chuckle. 'I'd call him something else. Like I would her. Courtesan. Fancy name for a whore, that's all.'
Rage filled Dante's chest and his fingers itched to draw his weapon. As quickly as the anger rose, it died away. Why, he'd said much the same thing only a few weeks ago. Before he knew ...
He took one last look at the casa into which he now knew she'd disappeared then, without another word, began the long trek back to the Tailors Quartiere. There was a lift in his step and his earlier tiredness had fled. He needed to get a message to Constantina and, in order to do that, he had to get to the pledge stone of Casa di Maggiore. After that, he would rest then return to Casa Maleovelli before nightfall.
As he'd been instructed, he'd ridden Argento across the marshes, using the well-travelled path of the Bond Riders, and onto the mainland and touched the Pledge Stone of Casa di Maggiore. Only, Constantina didn't come immediately, as he'd expected. Waiting for her to appear gave him time to think, to wonder why Tallow hadn't felt him, hadn't known he was there. He found it puzzled him and it hurt. If they shared any sort of bond, any type of connection, how had she not known?
He tortured himself with questions while waiting in the cold and snow for two nights, wrapped in blankets, seeking the warmth of his little fire and his horse, practising his sword skills, tracking and running to keep the frost at bay. Constantina had finally appeared. He'd told her everything, how he'd found Tallow, how she was Signorina Dorata, how all of Serenissima was talking about her. He'd even learnt that she was using the name Tarlo Maleovelli. Constantina had listened in silence. When he stopped talking, she'd just stared into the forest. Behind her, the Limen rose, a shimmering, vital force. Just as his Bond to Tallow called him back to Serenissima, he found the urge to pass through the Limen just as difficult to resist. It hailed him, demanded his allegiance.
When Constantina spoke, it was not what he expected to hear.
'Something is not right here. What are these Maleovellis up to? She is living with them, you say?'
'Sì.'
'I recall the Maleovellis. They're an old family -- they're in The Golden Book of Serenissima. But they have never had links with Estrattore before. Find out what you can about them. Keep a close eye on Tallow, Dante.' She shook her head. Her face was inscrutable but the note of concern in her voice registered. It made Dante uneasy.
'Is she in danger?'
Constantina shook her head. 'I cannot believe you ask me that. Of course she is, always. But we cannot put her in more. Capisce?'
Dante nodded grimly. 'Capisco.' He sighed. 'It is hard.'
Constantina's huge silver eyes fixed on him. 'It's not just the Bond, no? Not just the pressure of the Obbligare Doppio?'
'No.'
She studied him carefully. 'You love her, don't you?' she said in a voice of resignation.
'I do,' said Dante simply.
'Ah, my poor man,' said Constantina. She lifted a hand to stroke his cheek, but before she touched him, changed her mind and let it drop to her side. 'It's dangerous to love Estrattore, Dante. No good can come of your feelings.'
Her words were like a slap on the face. 'Is that part of the prophecy too?' he said sharply. 'Or your personal opinion?'
Constantina did not reply.
The silence grew. Dante nodded towards the Limen. 'How's Katina?'
'She's recovering. She is slowly regaining her strength, her life. When she is well enough she will join us in ensuring the prophecy is fulfilled.'
'How?'
Constantina shook her head. 'No, Dante. You cannot know, not now. When the time is right, it will all come together. To know what is meant to happen is to interfere with what might happen. It's the nature of prophecies that while they determine events they must also be allowed to unfold. You, my dear boy, must be open to act, as must Tallow. Do you understand?'
'I'm not sure ...'
'One day, you will be. Then it will be time.'
Argento whinnied and pulled at her reins. Dante held her fast. Constantina reached over and patted her. 'Lovely girl.' Argento nudged the Estrattore gently, trying to push her nose into Constantina's robe, searching for food. Constantina laughed.
'When should I come again?' asked Dante.
'If I need you, I will send for you, as you must for me. In the meantime, watch Tallow, protect her if need be, but do not let her see you. Not yet.'
Dante did not reply. He stood still, one hand clutching Argento's reins, the other resting on his hip. Standing around had allowed the cold to start to creep into his bones. He was eager to be gone. To do what he was told -- watch Tallow.
THAT HAD BEEN OVER SIX MONTHS AGO. Since then, there'd been no other messages. He'd followed his orders. Watch, wait, listen. And he did. Just as he did tonight, across from the rear of the Doge's palazzo.
Finally, the waters to his right stirred. Tallow stepped closer to the edge of the jetty. The sky had brightened into a lavender wash. There was a coolness to the air. He noticed the deepening shadows under Tallow's eyes. She was paler than usual. She looked tired, weary of the world and life. Her mouth was downturned and for a moment, he imagined calling out and watching it burst into the smile that, though he had not seen it since he'd been observing her, still filled his dreams.
The gondola bumped into the jetty and the servant darted forward to hold the prow, careful to avoid the metal ferro that adorned the end. The gondolier, Salzi, Dante had learnt, reached for Tallow's gloved hand and she jumped lightly into the boat.
This time, she did not retreat into the felze, but sat in the prow. She said something softly to Salzi as he tipped his hat to the servant and pushed the gondola back into the current.
Tallow stared over the water, a frown drawing her fine dark brows together.
They were just beneath him now and, as he did every time he saw her, Dante willed Tallow to look up, to see him. He concentrated hard, his heart thundering in his chest, as his mind cried out to her. See me, beloved, acknowledge me! I am here, for you ... for eternity.
Tallow tipped her head and her eyes flew to the roof. Dante flung himself back, his hand hitting the tiles hard, knocking a piece loose. To his horror, it skittered over the edge and fell into the canal. He heard the splash.
'What was that?' asked Salzi.
He heard a faint murmur but could not make out the words.
'Damn cats!' cursed the gondolier.
Sweat trickled down Dante's neck and forehead, and his heart was in his mouth as he slowly eased himself up. The gondola was almost out of sight. That was close. He waited until it disappeared under the Ponte della Pensiere before clambering to his feet and making the long journey back to the taverna.
Instead of walking, he hired a gondola and sat in the prow, watching his former city come to life. All the time, his brain was trying to piece together what Tallow was doing in the Doge's palazzo. If rumours were to be believed, she was the paramour of the entire royal family -- or had been until one of the Princes married that peasant woman and fled to the Duchy of Firenze, effectively surrendering his right to the throne. Such strange behaviour. Some of the popolani approved, said it showed that the nobiles weren't so different after all. Others said it was a sign that nothing was right with the Dandolos since the boy had disappeared. There were mutterings about change, about the Dandolos' line ending.
Did Tallow have something to with it, wondered Dante. Would she dare, on top of being the most famous courtesan the city had ever known, use her talents to bring down the Dogeship?
If so, why? What was going on? He knew the foreign ambassador had taken an interest in the Maleovellis and that these once-impoverished nobiles were suddenly rich. But it was all explained by astute business decisions, measured risks, strategic colleganzas -- at least, that was how it was discussed in tavernas, casinos and in the streets. Only Dante knew that every one of the families who had entered into colleganzas with the Maleovellis, every nobile or wealthy merchant who had acted in an uncharacteristic way, had also associated, if not with Tallow, then with the family.
What were they up to?
And what did Tallow's latest assignation mean for the Doge?
Watching the canals fill with barges and gondolas carrying produce to markets, tradespeople and apprentices to work, and the cats of Serenissima wandering out to bask in the sun that was now hitting the fondamenta, Dante knew that he wouldn't have to wait long to find out.
LORD WATERFORD PUT DOWN HIS glass and went to stand by the window. 'Really,' he exclaimed, 'the view from here is almost comparable to the magnificent one over there.' He indicated his recently vacated chair, which was positioned opposite Giaconda's.
Giaconda slid her fan open, her eyes flashing above its movement. 'You flatter me, Beolin.'
'No,' said the ambassador earnestly, 'I do not. I simply tell the truth.' He held her regard for a beat longer before turning back to look out of the portego's windows.
Tallow watched the exchange from her seat, her eyes following Lord Waterford's to gaze through the glass. In the distance, the spire of the dome that hunched over the Doge's basilica could be seen, the gold and red pennant flapping in the breeze. Immediately in front of them, she could see the altanas of the other casas, with their many chimneys, arrangements of greenery and women loitering, catching the last of the afternoon sun on their rooftop gardens, their hair loose in an effort to lighten it. In the campo below, Hafeza appeared, a laden basket over one arm, a bag full of produce slung over her other shoulder. Tallow saw how she took small, fast paces and kept her head down. She looked away.
Picking up the needlepoint she'd been working on, she dragged the candleholder closer and began to sort the threads.
'You'll ruin your eyes and your fingers with that,' rebuked Giaconda quietly.
Tallow raised her head. For a moment she wondered if Giaconda was letting her know that she needed to replenish the belladonna. But she'd added some to her eyes when she heard Lord Waterford had arrived. It would not do for the ambassador to discover her identity. Not since he'd begun asking questions, and not only about the Cardinale's hunt for the Estrattore. Becoming candid with them one night after he'd had a few vinos, Lord Waterford explained that one of the reasons he'd been sent to Serenissima by his queen was to learn all he could of the Estrattore. In his country, just as Serenissima of old had done, they worshipped a principal male and female deity and their extended family, attributing a particular characteristic or power to each. In Farrowfare they didn't have Estrattore or anyone related to the gods to enrich the spiritual life of the people; much like the Church did now, they had fraternities of men who lived in special houses and who aided worship and functioned as a bridge between the divine and the worldly. Whereas Tallow would have liked to ask more questions about the belief system of Farrowfare, Lord Waterford was not interested in divulging much. He'd asked a great many questions of Jacopo, inviting him to share what he had learnt over the years from the ancient scrolls and books. But it was the continuing hunt for the boy who had been uncovered that fascinated him and initially dominated conversations. What disturbed Tallow most, however, was when Lord Waterford shifted the topic slightly, asking if they'd ever heard rumour of a female Estrattore in Serenissima.
Without missing a beat, the Maleovellis had laughed and directed the chatter onto safer subjects. There was no doubt that Lord Waterford was very interested in Estrattore. Too interested, thought Tallow. Did he guess? She knew he'd spied her that day in the workshop. Only, after questioning Baroque and Giaconda, he'd let the subject drop. Or had he? There was something about him that made her uneasy and not only because of his curiosity or courtesies to Giaconda and Jacopo. Tallow perceived something about the man that no-one else seemed aware of -- something that could not be attributed to cultural differences alone. There was a duplicity within him, depths to his nature that his harmless exterior contradicted.
As usual, Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli saw in Lord Waterford opportunity where Tallow saw only a new threat. They encouraged the ambassador, inviting him to dinners, lavishing attention on him. And now, much to Tallow's annoyance, he'd practically become a fixture in the casa. If he wasn't with Giaconda in the portego, he was with Jacopo in his study. It didn't help that she knew her candles were partly responsible. But even she had to admit, his interest in Giaconda went beyond the type her talents usually inspired. Seeing how he interacted with her, the looks they exchanged, she started to believe his feelings came from somewhere else. But where? Were they real or was this part of what she felt, that he was as great a pretender as they all were?
Tallow raised an enquiring eyebrow at Giaconda, who simply nodded towards the sewing. 'Really, Tarlo, it's too dark for that now. Get Matteo --' she gestured to one of the new servants '-- to fetch some cards if you need to keep your hands occupied.'
Tallow threaded the needle into the fabric and pushed the entire thing back into the little golden basket she'd been given. Another gift from some paramour, all of whom showered her with gold -- golden jewels, ornaments, brooches, scarves and objects. She could no longer remember who had given the basket without touching the lacquered straw and drawing on its essence and thus history. But she dared not do that in front of Giaconda or, for that matter, Lord Waterford.
'It never ceases to astonish me,' said Lord Waterford. He gestured outside. 'The beauty of the sky here. It's so vivid, so dramatic. Where I come from, it's always so bleak, so dull, so white.' An image of his queen popped into his head, her blazing hair and alabaster skin defying his description. 'Look at it now, the way the sun turns into liquid gold just as it sets, melting into the horizon with a last gasp of colour.' He sighed. 'It really is beautiful.'
'If you're not careful,' said Giaconda, 'the Doge will hire you to write pretty speeches. Then you can kiss your pallid country goodbye and write paeans to our sky all day.'
Lord Waterford turned. 'Leave my country and remain here? Don't tempt me, you vixen. Anyway, I would soon tire of the firmament and look to write on other more worldly things.' He crossed the floor and lifted Giaconda's hand, turning it over and kissing her palm with a passion that made Tallow shift in her seat. She felt like an eavesdropper or voyeur. But for propriety's sake, she could not leave. It always amused her that the Maleovellis would not allow men to be alone with either her or Giaconda while in the casa. In these rooms, they behaved differently. It was only in their rented accommodation or in the salas and bedrooms of the men who paid so well for their services that they did not require escorts.
Tallow reached for her vino and realised the glass was empty. A servant darted from a corner. Tallow jumped. She was still growing accustomed to the extra help they had. She could no longer walk down a corridor or enter a room without running into servants. Boys to serve food and vino, run errands, open doors, deliver goods; girls to clean, cook, straighten pictures, beat rugs, wash clothes, buy food. The young boy began to refresh her glass. His dark curls shone with oil, his crisp white shirt was new. She wondered where he was from, which quartiere. He wore no insignia of trade. How old would he be? Ten? Twelve? She didn't know. She couldn't remember his name. It wasn't Matteo -- he was by the door.
'Grazie,' she said to him, earning a frown from Giaconda. She was not supposed to thank them either.
Giaconda was about to say something when the doors at the end of the room were flung open and in walked Signor Maleovelli. The servants stood to attention as his cane rapped against the floor. Lord Waterford released Giaconda and bowed deeply. Signor Maleovelli had an edge about him, a thinly disguised air of excitement. Tallow stood slowly and curtsied.
'Sit down, sit down,' said Signor Maleovelli, waving her back to her chair. 'Signor Waterford! Ah, we're to have the pleasure of your company again.' He snapped his fingers at the young servant near Tallow. The boy ran to one of the many sideboards and acquired a glass. Gone were the old, chipped ones. New ones had been spun by special order. Mainly clear, the stems enclosed a spiral of gold, like the mythical unicorn's horn that featured in so many tapestries. They were quite exquisite. A tribute, Signor Maleovelli said, to Signorina Dorata, and a reminder to those who came to the casa. Of the empire they were building -- a golden one to rustle in a golden age, he'd said.
Tallow watched as Signor Maleovelli took a long draught then ordered his glass to be filled again. He sat back and sighed. 'I have news,' he said quietly.
At that moment, Jacopo entered the room. Tallow stiffened. She didn't see him as he approached through the rear door, but felt his presence, his eyes boring into her back. He bowed towards Lord Waterford, his zio, Giaconda and, finally, her, before taking a seat nearby.
'What news, Signor Maleovelli?' asked Lord Waterford. His eyes were keen.
Signor Maleovelli leant forward. 'Prince Cosimo has disappeared.'
'What?' exclaimed Giaconda. Tallow was impressed with how surprised she sounded. Tallow's hand flew to her mouth.
'When?'
'They believe it was some time early this morning.'
Signor Maleovelli exchanged a long look with Giaconda who, in turn, rested her eyes upon Tallow.
'I can't believe it,' Tallow said. 'Why, I was only with him ... when was it?'
'The night before last,' answered Giaconda. 'We had dinner there. Remember, Beolin? You commented to me afterwards how sad the man looked.'
'Indeed, I did. You attributed it to the loss of his son.' Tallow glanced at Waterford as his voice broke on his last word.
She frowned. 'But I thought that was years ago?'
'Over two years,' said Giaconda.
'He has not been the same since that terrible day,' added Jacopo.
'Where has he gone?' Tallow rose and pretended to stare outside. Instead, she saw her own reflection, the feigned interest, the affected concern seeming as transparent as the glass she now stood before. But it was expected of her.
'He left a note,' said Signor Maleovelli.
'A note?' Giaconda's tone was sharp. Tallow's eyes shifted so she could see everyone in the room, in reverse. She hadn't expected this. Her spine began to tingle. Her body tensed. She became aware that Lord Waterford was studying her intently, thinking she wasn't aware of his scrutiny. Her eyes narrowed, she listened.
'Is the content known? What did it say?' asked Lord Waterford.
Signor Maleovelli took another drink of vino. 'According to my source, it laid out exactly where Prince Cosimo has gone.' Signor Maleovelli waited.
Tallow turned round, resting her back against the window.
'Where?' asked Jacopo breathlessly.
'The Limen.'
Giaconda almost started from her chair.
'The Limen? Why in God's name --' Her face paled. 'No!'
'Sì.'
Giaconda fell back against her seat, her eyes wide in surprise, her mouth open. She stole a glance at Tallow. 'I never would have expected that. It's ...'
'Amazing,' finished Lord Waterford, rising to his feet and joining Tallow by the window. 'Are you saying, Signor, that he has become a Bond Rider?'
'Sì. That is the talk in the Great Council, in the palazzo. If not a Bond Rider, then by entering the Limen he goes to certain death. Who knows? The poor man wasn't in his right mind. Has not been for a long time. The truth is that an action like this is not, shall we say, unexpected?' He looked at Tallow as he spoke, his voice heavy with accusation.
Seemingly unaware of the undercurrents, Lord Waterford nodded solemnly, rubbing his chin. 'And his wife? The Principessa, what about her?'
Tallow could feel the tension in Waterford's body. The excitement.
'The dottore has been called. He has given her opium. She is wild with grief. Cannot understand what is happening. Neither can the Doge. These are terrible times.'
'For the Dandolos,' said Giaconda quietly, staring into her glass.
'For the Dandolos,' agreed Signor Maleovelli.
'Doesn't that mean that all the Doge's heirs are now lost?'
'Sì. Unless they find Claudio,' said Signor Maleovelli. 'And that is not likely to happen, not after so long.'
'No,' agreed Lord Waterford. 'But the Doge has a daughter, does he not?'
Signor Maleovelli and Giaconda began to laugh. 'What difference does that make?' asked Jacopo. 'She cannot inherit. Women cannot rule!'
'In my country,' said Lord Waterford, frowning disapprovingly at Jacopo, 'they can and they do.'
The sneer left Jacopo's face as quickly as it had appeared. 'I apologise if I have caused offence, amico mio.'
Lord Waterford bowed stiffly.
'Jacopo is right, Lord Waterford. The Doge's daughter will now be married off quickly, probably to one of the nobile houses here in Serenissima in the hope of forming an allegiance that will be of benefit to the Dandolos in the future. For, once this Doge is dead and with Claudio gone, there are no more Dandolos to take the throne. They will become mere nobiles and their house, their casa, will be reduced in importance.'
'Once a direct bloodline is finished, doesn't the Dogeship have to pass to another nobile family?'
'You are well acquainted with our customs, Lord Waterford. It does indeed signify a change of that order.'
'What does that mean for the Dandolos' extended family?'
'They will have to begin their climb to the top all over again.' Signor Maleovelli's eyes glinted. Giaconda couldn't hide her smile.
'Ah. I see. Are you not currently the Eighth Casa, Signor?'
Signor Maleovelli nodded. Lord Waterford appeared thoughtful. 'What of a successor for the Dogeship; your laws are quite precise, are they not?' he asked shortly.
'It's the Serenissian law that the Council of Ten, the Great Council of Nobiles, and a representative of the Church, which will be the Cardinale, throw the Dogeship open to all the remaining eligible houses. From among these, a new family will take the throne.' Signor Maleovelli held up his glass. A shaft of sunlight passed through the stem, setting the golden spiral in the centre alight. It was as if a small sun flared. 'One with power and influence will be chosen: a family whose elevation can benefit all of Serenissima and her allies. One who can shape destiny.' He drank the ruby liquid, smacking his lips in appreciation. He smiled, the tannins in the vino staining his teeth.
Tallow repressed a shudder.
Lord Waterford looked from Signor Maleovelli to Giaconda and back again. His eyes rested on Tallow, shining in the dimming light, a beacon by the window for those in the campo to see.
'Power and influence you say? How convenient.' Lord Waterford raised his glass, the benign expression that usually rested on his face replaced by a more cunning, dark look. Tallow tried to read him. It was as if a different man stood in the place Giaconda's lovesick paramour had occupied only moments before.
'My dear Maleovellis,' he said, stepping away from the window and putting his glass down. 'I think the time has come for us to have a very serious talk.'
'SHE DISOBEYED US, PAPA. She must be punished!' Giaconda slammed the brush down on the dresser and spun to face her father.
'Gia, Gia, cara mia. Calm yourself,' said Signor Maleovelli, placing his hands on her shoulders and pushing her back onto the stool so she faced the mirror. 'What Tarlo has done is show a little inventiveness. She's still accomplished what we told her to do -- the Prince has disappeared. He cannot claim the throne.'
'But he's a Bond Rider -- he can come back!'
'Only if an Estrattore extracts his soul from the pledge stone. And where in Vista Mare is he going to find one of those?' Ezzelino Maleovelli spoke soothingly, his long fingers stroking his daughter's hair. 'We control the only one known to have survived the purge, remember? Anyhow, Bond Riders no longer become human again -- they're effectively trapped in the Limen. It's been over three hundred years since one was able to come back. Even if they choose to, they can't return -- not while their souls are in the pledge stones.'
Giaconda sighed. 'But Papa, you're missing my point. She disobeyed us. She's taking matters into her own hands. It isn't the first time. Don't forget what she did to --'
'Hush,' said Ezzelino, resting the tips of his fingers against her mouth. 'We do not talk about that -- about them. As far as we're concerned, what happened to those men were all unfortunate accidents. We know nothing.' He waited until the fire went out of Giaconda's eyes and he felt her shoulders relax before he took his hands away.
'You're right, Papa. I am just ... concerned, that's all.'
'What about, exactly?' Ezzelino moved to sit in the chair and from there watched his daughter perform her nightly ritual. She took up the brush and resumed.
'Tarlo's changed.'
'Ezzelino chuckled. 'Of course she has. We've all worked very hard to ensure that.'
'That's not what I mean and you know it.' Giaconda studied her father in the mirror. 'Papa, don't pretend you do not understand. She's becoming dangerous. I feel we're losing her somehow. Oh yes, she makes the candles, she visits who we tell her, says what she's meant to say, acts appropriately at all times, but I don't know. There's something happening ...' Her voice trailed and she stared into the distance, her forehead drawn.
Ezzelino waited.
'And now there's this whole plan of Waterford's to consider. Do we tell him the truth, Papa?' Through the mirror Giaconda and Ezzelino exchanged a look.
'The truth? Of course not -- don't be silly. Not yet, anyhow,' said Ezzelino. 'We wait for him to tell us what he knows and then we strike a bargain. Not before then. And we do not admit to a thing. Capisce?'
'Capisco, Papa. I am relieved to hear you say that. Nonetheless, what he's offered is very interesting, is it not? If all else fails, his plan could work. It certainly gives us options.'
'Sì, it does. It would mean we would have the support of possibly the greatest ally Serenissima has ever known -- and at a time when we need her most.'
Giaconda put down the brush and looked at her father over her shoulder. 'Do you mean "we" as in the Maleovellis or Serenissima?'
Ezzelino regarded her for a long moment.
'I mean both.'
Satisfied, she turned back to the mirror and began to plait her hair.
'As for Tarlo, do not worry, Gia. We still have one more card to play with her and, when we do, she'll come to heel like a puppy, no matter how independent or inventive she has become. Of that I am certain.'
Giaconda rose and kissed her father lightly on the forehead. 'You once told me that only those with nothing to lose are dangerous.'
'Essato. Tarlo doesn't know it yet, but she stands to lose something very dear to her if she doesn't behave. Very dear to her indeed.'
They both stared at each other for a moment then, with a joy that comes of mutual admiration and assurance, burst out laughing.
'HE'S OBSESSED WITH HER, I tell you,' hissed Santo, staring at Stefano though bloodshot eyes. 'Follows her everywhere. One minute he's on Nobiles' Rise, the next he's darting over to the traders district, or into the Chandlers Quartiere, wherever the harlot does her business. But I've not seen anything of the Estrattore. He's forgotten about her, if you ask me.' He reached for his wooden mug.
Stefano's hand shot out and he grabbed Santo's, preventing him from having his drink. 'You've had enough vino.' He lifted the mug out of reach, and studied his partner. Instead of searching for the Estrattore, or keeping an eye on Dante, Santo had been spending his waking hours in this small taverna in the Stonemasons Quartiere, drinking the Elders' soldi. He was a mess. Everything Stefano feared had eventuated; all Santo's promises, had been broken.
'What'd you do tha' for?' Santo scratched his head, his arm flopping onto the table with a bang.
'Look at you!' snapped Stefano. 'I haven't heard from you in months and at great risk to myself, my life-force, I cross.' He leant over. 'I come here,' he said, jabbing the table fiercely. 'And what do I find? You, drunk and babbling about a courtesan. Look at the state of you. When was the last time you had a wash? You stink, Santo, worse than horse shit.'
Santo screwed up his face then his eyes sidled towards the mug Stefano had pushed out of reach. 'Give me a drink and I'll tell you.' He began to laugh, looking around to see if any of the other patrons shared his joke, but they were too busy with their own conversations and paid no attention to the drunk in the corner, the man they'd become used to seeing day after day, propped against the wall.
Stefano clicked his tongue in disgust. He looked at Santo, the red eyes, the dirty hair and nails. His shirt was filthy, stained with dregs of vino and food, the collar and wrists soiled with sweat. He tried to control the anger he felt building inside him. Left alone, Santo had gone back to his old ways, the ways he'd always told Stefano he'd come into the Limen to escape.
Stefano drank the last of what was left in Santo's mug and tried to think. If what Santo said was true, it didn't make any sense. He couldn't understand what was going on, what Katina and that new Rider, Dante, were up to. First, Katina's taken back into the Limen by an old woman who Stefano initially thought must have been a renegade Bond Rider. The gods knew they were out there. Yet again, Katina had broken the laws and direct orders of her Elders. And secondly, the Rider she was supposedly bound to, in the most irrevocable of Bonds, was running amok, besotted with a courtesan, albeit one that had the entire city abuzz.
Months passed and nothing. Not a word from Santo. Elder Nicolotti had become impatient, demanding. Stefano had ignored his body's warnings, and crossed to come to find Santo -- discover for himself what was going on. What he found made him furious. He rested his head in his hands. How could he report this to Elder Nicolotti? After he'd reassured the Elder that Santo was reliable. That he could be trusted.
'Come on, Stefano,' cajoled Santo. 'Buy us a drink and then let's go find somewhere quiet. I haven't seen you in so long.' He picked up Stefano's hand from the table and brought it to his mouth.
'Keep your voice down!' snapped Stefano, snatching his hand away as a couple of burly stonemasons at the next table glanced at them over their shoulders. 'Are you trying to attract trouble?'
Santo slumped in his chair. His head lolled on his shoulders, a stupid grin was frozen on his face. 'No, just you.'
Fury filled Stefano. He shoved back his chair. It fell over with a clatter. He grabbed Santo by the collar, dragging him upright.
'Wha' you doin'?' asked Santo, trying to find his feet, but they kept slipping out from under him.
'Getting you what you should have had weeks ago!' Stefano gritted his teeth and pulled Santo across the floor towards the door. Sawdust clung to Santo's clothes and he began to giggle.
Patrons nudged each other. Some stood and helpfully moved chairs out of the way to clear a path. A murmur began rising, changing into cheers as they watched Santo being hauled out the door and into the campo outside.
Fight, fight! A chant started. As Stefano wrestled Santo onto the cobbles, men tumbled out of the taverna. Artisans sitting outside on stools with their chunks of stone before them abandoned their tools, wiped their dusty hands on their aprons and began to drift across the small square.
Stefano reached the well and dropped Santo beside it. Santo collapsed, his head striking the edge. He tried to rub it, but his arms wouldn't cooperate. They were like rubber. He began to chuckle again, which only fired Stefano more. He lowered the bucket into the well and, when it was full, pulled it up, unhooked it and tipped it over Santo.
Santo jerked upright, spluttering and coughing, his eyes wide with shock. The men who circled them began laughing and clapping. Children ran out of doors, hovering at the edges of the impromptu ring, peering between legs and bodies to watch the spectacle.
Santo eyed them all through narrow slits, aware of leering faces, of laughter -- all directed at him. A shadow cut off his vision. He stared at it, recognising the boots, the legs. His eyes rose and then another bucket of water was dumped on him.
He scrabbled to his feet. 'Why, you bastardo!' he shouted and swung a punch. Stefano easily stepped out of reach. The stonemasons and children laughed harder, some imitating him as Santo tried to hit Stefano, missing every time, his punches becoming wider. He swung so hard, he flung himself off his feet. Even Stefano guffawed.
'You'll have to do better than that.'
'I'll give you better!' yelled Santo and charged him, taking him by surprise. They crashed into a wall, and Stefano had the breath knocked out of him. Santo punched him in the stomach a couple of times before Stefano recovered. This time, he did not hesitate. He hit Santo such force, he was flung off his feet and onto his back.
'What a hit!'
'A fine punch!'
Stefano became aware of money changing hands in the background. This was getting ridiculous. They weren't supposed to draw attention. He had to put a stop to it now. Lifting Santo's head, he slammed it into the cobbles.
There were groans of sympathy from the crowd, who waited to see if Santo would stir. He didn't.
'It's over, folks,' called Stefano, wiping his hands on his thighs. 'Show's finished.'
Disappointed, the men slowly drifted back into the taverna, some coming to pat the victor on his back. The children crept over and stared at Santo, unconscious, wet hair plastered to his face, his forehead and nose bleeding, his cheek cut.
Stefano looked down and felt a wave of disappointment wash over him. 'You weak fool,' he hissed. He wondered what it was that had ever attracted him to Santo in the first place; how he could have ever believed he could rely on this peasant. The Limen did strange things to people.
Disgusted at himself as much as his partner, he clutched the back of Santo's shirt and dragged him through the nearest ramo, one that led to a set of water-stairs. There, he pulled Santo onto the edge of the fondamenta and, using his handkerchief, began to clean him. He washed away the blood, the vino stains around the mouth and even untangled the knots in his unkempt beard. The smell of his breath made him retch.
A breeze had picked up, blowing dust and debris about the ground. A piece of paper blew against him, sticking to his ankles. He bent down to wrench it away when something caught his eye.
He picked it up and read it. His heart began to beat quickly. Once more, anger flared. He slapped Santo none too gently across the face.
'Wake up,' he called. 'Santo, wake up. Have you seen this?'
He thrust the paper in his face.
Santo blinked a few times and groaned. 'My head,' he said.
Stefano shook the piece of paper. 'Why didn't you tell me about this?'
Santo looked blankly at the paper with the picture and too many words. 'So? What about it? You hit me.'
'So? Is that all you can say --' began Stefano, ready to slap Santo again. Sensing this, Santo covered his face. Stefano's arm dropped. He shook his head.
'You know I can't read,' whimpered Santo.
Stefano bit off the words of recrimination that flew into his mouth. Instead he gave a bitter sigh. 'That's right -- you can't, can you?'
'What's it say?' asked Santo. Then he rolled towards the canal and vomited. Stefano watched as he emptied the contents of his stomach into the waters, listening to the awful sounds without one shred of sympathy. His mind was on fire.
Pale now, Santo leant back onto his elbow and slowly sat up. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He couldn't meet Stefano's eyes. His head was bowed, his shoulders drooped. 'What is it? Read it to me, please,' he asked in a small voice, his earlier bravado now floating away in the canal.
'I don't know why we didn't think of it before.' Stefano was staring at the paper like a man obsessed.
'Think of what?'
'Dante isn't in love with a courtesan.'
'No? Then why does he keep following her?'
Stefano glanced at Santo. His eyes were agate. 'Because Signorina Dorata is the Estrattore. Signorina Dorata is Tallow.'
Santo gaped at him. 'How did you come to that conclusion? Just because Dante follows her doesn't mean --'
'Think about it,' snapped Stefano, poking the bit of paper with his finger. 'The Cardinale is offering a massive reward for information about the Estrattore, for a boy! Look at the picture. You can understand a picture, can't you?' He thrust it into Santo's face.
Santo blinked and made a show of studying the crude image. He'd seen it a hundred times, so what? He shrugged. 'It sort of looks like the boy we tried to snatch off the bridge. I told you, he's nowhere to be found. Not even Dante can find him.'
Stefano resisted the urge to punch him in the head. Instead he continued.
'That's right,' he said slowly, darkly. 'No-one has, have they? Why? Because the Estrattore isn't a boy at all. I know that, you know that, all the Bond Riders know that, including Dante. Dante, who followed a girl onto the bridge, who risked his life for a girl.'
Understanding dawned on Santo's face. He glanced from the paper to Stefano and back again. 'You think the courtesan is that girl. That it's Tallow.'
'It makes sense, doesn't it? What was this courtesan's name again?'
'Signorina Dorata.'
'No, you idioto. Not the name the popolani have given her -- her real name.' Stefano tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice. 'Surely you've discovered that.'
'Err ...' Santo slapped his forehead. 'Let me think ... Taylo, Tarlo, something like that.' Santo stopped.
Stefano just stared at him.
'Right beneath our noses all this time,' said Santo incredulously. He noted the look on Stefano's face and struggled to sit upright.
'Right beneath your nose, you mean. When it wasn't in a mug of vino.'
Santo paused and his pasty face flooded with colour. 'Don't try to blame me.'
'Well, who else, you fool? You could have worked this out. You're the one who's been here all this time, all these months. You said yourself you saw Signorina Dorata -- and apart from Dante and Katina, you're the only one to have a close encounter with Tallow.' Stefano gave in to his desire, and cuffed him across the ears. Santo groaned. 'But instead of using your head, you fill it with vino and don't use it at all. You didn't need to be able to read or write to work this out, you stupid, illiterate bastardo -- you just needed to use the eyes and ears the gods gave you.'
Santo frowned and folded his arms. 'How was I supposed to make that kind of connection, huh? Signorina Dorata looks nothing like that.' He slapped the paper that Stefano still held. It was torn out of his fingers and fluttered to the ground.
'You should have seen this, Santo. Don't make pathetic excuses. Yet again, you caved into your weakness, the way you always do when you come back here. I'm just surprised you didn't have a woman in your bed as well.' Santo cringed at the tone in Stefano's voice.
'I wouldn't do that,' he mumbled, eyes downcast. 'Not any more.'
'No? Why not? You've done everything else you promised you'd never do again.' Stefano stood up.
Santo was about to argue when his shoulders slumped. He waited a moment. 'You're right. Mi dispiace, Stefano. I promise, it won't happen again. I know what to do now, all right? Just tell me what you want me to do to make up for this. What do we do?'
Stefano looked down on his partner, at the state of his clothes, of his puffy face, streaked with sawdust, dirt and worse. He felt nothing but contempt. 'We don't do anything. You don't do anything. I'll go back and report to Elder Nicolotti and return shortly with new instructions you can meet me at the Pledge Stone in a few days.' He bent down and picked up the paper, folding it and putting it in the pocket of his shirt. 'Actually, there is something you can do. Sober up, Santo, because, by the time I return, if you're not ready to join me, I'll do this on my own. I won't rescue you from yourself again.'
Without another word, Stefano turned and walked away, disappearing around a corner.
SANTO SAT FOR A MOMENT, gazing out over the water. He began to shiver. He needed to change his clothes. He pulled his shirt away from his body and the odour that rose to his nostrils almost made him heave again. He struggled to his feet and stood swaying, trying to control the nausea. His head hurt. He felt a lump forming above his eyebrow, a companion to the one on the back of his head. Blood stuck to his fingers. His stomach and left shoulder ached as well. Nothing one more drink wouldn't fix. Then he'd stop. He would. Promise. Stefano wouldn't mind; he'd understand.
His eyes sidled in the direction Stefano had gone. He'd also never know.
On the way back to the taverna, he passed another one of those godforsaken posters. This time, he stopped in front of it and stared at the drawing of the Estrattore and at the, to him, illegible squiggles beneath. The image blurred but he could still see the dark hair and those huge, ugly silver orbs, staring at him, reading what he was, what was tucked away in the deep recesses inside his mind.
'Make a fool of me, would you? Come between me and Stefano? Never again. Not you, or the Maggiore puttana.' Shaking, he drew out his dagger and, first looking up and down the ramo to make sure no-one was about, clumsily shredded the poster into tiny pieces. He watched them flutter to the cobbles and then ground his heel into each little strip. He felt a peculiar sense of satisfaction.
Swaying to and fro, he stared down at the remnants of Tallow's poor likeness, at what it signified, warmth infusing his body. He was about to leave when a thought suddenly occurred to him. In an instant, he knew how to win Stefano's approval; earn not just his respect, but his love again as well.
Katina and Dante's Obbligare Doppio might have stopped the Riders acting on their own Bonds, but what if he chose to fulfil Stefano's for him? Surely the dual pledge couldn't prevent that?
He began to smile, then laugh as he kicked the ground, scattering the fragments of paper in all directions.
Next time, it won't be your image, I cut, Signorina Dorata, he thought as he staggered back to the taverna, a wild grin splitting his face as he formulated a plan. Oh, no. Next time, it will be your heart I break when I tear apart all who are Bonded to protect you ...'
THE COUNCIL OF TEN, THE MOST LEARNED and powerful of the Serenissian nobility, were ruled by a trio of men known as the capi. Head of the capi was Signor Zanino Nicolotti. In a small, dark chamber adjacent to their usual meeting room in the palazzo, Signor Nicolotti looked down the polished wooden table at the faces assembled before him. He'd dismissed the servants with the exception of four of his most trusted, and asked them to position themselves in the secret corridors that ran behind the room. He wanted not one word of what the ruling body behind the Doge was about to discuss to escape.
Thick candles atop enormous iron holders had been burning for a few hours as the capi waited for the other nobiles to arrive and take their chairs. Smoke filled the room and the air grew close, but Signor Nicolotti ordered that the solitary window remain shut.
He reached inside his togati and, tugging a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, patted at the sweat that dotted his brow. Picking up the silver ewer that sat near his glass, he refilled it, taking a long drink of the vino. Like the room, it too was warm.
Finally, all the members were seated. Whispering among themselves, curious as to why this late meeting had been called, even though they could guess the reason, they cast glances at the vacant chair in their midst.
Signor Nicolotti reached across the table for the little hammer and struck it against the block of wood in front of him three times. At once the talking ceased. All eyes fixed on his. He cleared his throat.
'Signori, some of you will be aware of why we,' he said, indicating the two men on either side of him, 'have called you here tonight.'
There were murmurs, a few nods.
'My reasons are twofold. The first, in light of the recent and most unexpected death of Lenuzo Vincini, distant cousin by marriage to Signor Moronisini -- our condolences, good Signor --' As one, they crossed themselves.
Signor Moronisini looked grim-faced. 'There has been too much death, too many sons, brothers, nephews lost of late.' He directed compassionate looks at other members of the Council. They all crossed themselves again.
'Allora,' continued Signor Nicolotti after a respectful pause, 'our immediate business is to replace his seat so that, once again, we are a full Council.'
Again there were slight murmurs. Signor Manin, on his left, coughed.
'It was unanimously decreed at our last meeting that, should a vacancy arise before the next annual election, Ezzelino Maleovelli would be offered the seat. I am pleased to say he has accepted the honour. Signor Errizo --' he nodded to the gentleman on his right '-- if you could admit our new Councillor.'
Colleto Errizo pushed back his chair and hobbled his way slowly to the large wooden door buried in the walls of the chamber. He pressed the secret latch known only to Council members and the capi's servants and it swung open silently. Standing there, one of Signor Nicolotti's men at his elbow, was Ezzelino Maleovelli. His usual black togati had been substituted for a red one, accompanied by a loose white cowl, which draped across his shoulders and down his back. It was this that distinguished the robe from those worn by a regular member of the Great Council.
'Permesso?' he asked, as was required.
'Prego,' said Signor Nicolotti.
Ezzelino bowed as low as his age would allow him and then, using his cane more as a prop than an aid, walked proudly to the table. Each step was accompanied by the drumming of the Council's hands against the table -- a hollow-sounding refrain that ceased once he reached his designated chair.
'Welcome, Ezzelino. It has been too long since a Maleovelli sat in this chamber.'
Ezzelino's eyes glinted and Signor Nicolotti wondered briefly if it was from unshed tears until the candlelight caught his face and he saw only the glimmer of triumph. He quickly swore Ezzelino in, both of them using the Bible from which the Cardinale read in the basilica. As the ceremony finished, all the men crossed themselves and then, raising their glasses, toasted Ezzelino.
'Grazie, Signori,' said Ezzelino in a measured, deep voice, lifting his glass. 'Salute. It is my honour to sit among the most esteemed and wise of my peers and to be trusted to do what is best for our country.'
He took his seat, running his hands up and down the polished wood, noting the comfort of the plush purple velvet, and received the approving nods of the Council members. Beside him, Signor Moronisini reached over and patted his wrist.
Signor Nicolotti sat, sweeping his togati behind him. He rested his hand on top of the papers piled in front of him.
'What we are about to discuss, gentleman, is strictly confidential. The Council of Ten has long been trusted to act with discretion, with or without the approval of the Doge to do, to borrow Signor Maleovelli's words, "what is best for our country". Tonight, we need to do this once more.
'As you know, a great deal of misfortune has struck the Dandolo family. Some attribute this sfortunato, this bad luck, to beginning last century, back when Andrea Dandolo was Doge and sued for peace with the Jinoans.'
Grumbles issued from around the table. Signor Nicolotti repressed a smile. The Jinoans, for all that they made good trading partners, were not loyal allies. 'Others locate it as commencing when young Claudio was kidnapped by unidentified intruders. But there has been no ransom, no threat, only silence. He has vanished. Whatever the reason for his abduction, the fact remains that the Doge's two sons, the heirs to the throne of Serenissima, have, for whatever reason, seen fit to deny their birthright and follow alternate paths. There has been no other male issue in his family; no more sons or grandsons. God has seen fit to deliver of the Dandolos a daughter alone. And daughters do not rulers make, as we all know, Signori. Women were designed for different purposes.' There were knowing smiles and chuckles of agreement.
'Significantly, what this means for us is that we must look to our future. To the future of Serenissima. Doge Dandolo is the last of his family to hold office. He is an old man. In other words, Signori, it's time to think about electing a new Doge.'
Signor Nicolotti watched as conversation broke out among the Council.
He banged the gavel. Gradually, silence fell upon the room.
'Signor Errizo, you wish to speak?' He indicated his fellow capi.
'Grazie.' Signor Errizo stared at the candle in front of him, gathering his thoughts. His skin looked yellow in the halo cast by the light, papery and thin like the man himself. 'I believe that when we seek to appoint a Doge, it must be someone from a large family, someone we can trust to train his sons to hold office with dignity. Someone who, at the first sign of trouble, will not run to the Limen or make a poor marriage. We need to prove once more that we are strong, that as a country, we are leaders in Vista Mare. For this, we need constancy. Tradition. Once again, we need to establish a new and long-lasting dynasty.'
'Hear, hear,' said a voice down the table.
'I disagree.' All eyes turned to Signor Moronisini. 'With your permission?' he asked Signor Nicolotti.
Signor Nicolotti inclined his head.
'While I respect what Signor Errizo says,' began Signor Moronisini, 'I think he is wrong. I think that's the lesson the trouble plaguing Casa Dandolo teaches us. Rather than look to a dynasty, I think we need to reconsider whom we appoint as Doge. Times have changed, so has Vista Mare. Rather than a family with many sons, a family who could rule for years if not centuries, we should seek to appoint someone who is powerful now and for the term of his natural life. Who, if he makes mistakes, will not pass these onto the next generation. With his death, a new Doge can be appointed. In the long term, we should consider changing the Dogeship from a hereditary office to one of appointment. In the short term, the question of male issue should not be a consideration. What should be is appointing a Doge with strong leadership and connections. For it is not the Dandolo problem alone we face, is it, Signor Nicolotti?'
'No,' said Signor Nicolotti, 'it is not.' He released a deep, heavy sigh. 'Signori, the problem of the Doge is a vexed one. I will leave you to ponder this discussion later. But Signor Moronisini is right. We have other problems to consider, ones that will affect our choice of Doge, as well as which families we approve to step forward to make claim to the throne.'
Ezzelino cleared his throat. 'As the newest member of Council,' he said slowly. 'May I ask what these troubles might be?'
Signor Nicolotti nodded. 'Indeed you must. They come from the East -- it's the Ottomans, Signor Maleovelli. The Ottomans are threatening the Serenissian Rebublic -- specifically our ports and holdings in the Mariniquian Seas.'
There were sharp intakes of breath, the whisper of alarm. The men eyed each other cautiously, the fear of possibility and danger in their gaze.
Ezzelino frowned. 'How? They are but a rabble, barbarians who roam the Ankaran Desert, worshipping their strange god, killing one another, are they not?'
'Not anymore.' Signor Moronisini leant forward. 'We have had information from our ambassador in Konstantinople that the Ottoman ruler, Sultan Selim I, has done what his father failed to do -- he has brought together the people. United, they pose a danger to, not only Serenissima, but the Church as well. Reports tell us they are on the move, not in their usual ad hoc, fractured way, but as a cohesive fighting force.' He paused. 'Worse, they have their sights set on Konstantinople -- our most precious of the colonies.'
There were gasps, followed by hurried murmurs.
'This can't be allowed. Once these heretics get a foothold in the Mariniquian Seas, they'll be no stopping them,' argued Signor Dardi Pisano.
'I know they're good fighters. The skills of the Janissaries, their elite warriors, is legendary,' said Signor Guido Maggiore from the other end of the table, his white hair shining. 'But Konstantinople is well protected from land -- and sea for that matter. It's not only ringed by walls, but the Straits separate the Ottoman Empire from Konstantinople, from the whole of Byzantium.' He laughed. 'What do we care if they create an army? They cannot walk across the water, nor can they swim. They are not the threat you fear, Pisano.'
'Vero. This is true,' agreed Signor Nicolotti. 'But they can sail.'
'Since when? They're not known for their navy -- surely, you worry about nothing? It wouldn't be the first time a foreign power has made threats towards Konstantinople. But threats are different from actions.' Signor Maggiore smiled around the table, seeking support. There were grunts of approval. A couple of the Council members struck the table.
'Sì, sì.'
'They have been acquiring a fleet,' said Signor Nicolotti flatly.
There was a moment of silence before voices broke out. 'How? Who would supply them?' Concern and trepidation mingled in the air.
Signor Nicolotti shook his head. 'Foreign ships, the like of which we have never seen before, are anchored outside their capital, Bursa. Our spies tell us they aren't being made in any local shipyards. It's as if they have materialised out of thin air.'
'Magic?' whispered someone.
Everyone laughed nervously.
'But that's not the worst.' Signor Nicolotti waited till all eyes were upon him. 'Our sources tell us they have acquired cannons as well.'
'No!'
'Non è possible!'
'No-one on this side of the Limen would dare!'
'My thoughts, exactly, Signor Moronisini, which leads me to ask, what if they're being supplied by someone from the other side?'
'You mean Farrowfare,' said Signor Maleovelli, aware of eyes upon him.
There was a moment of silence.
'But they have proved to be a staunch friend when others turned their backs on us,' argued Signor Maggiore.
'What do you think, Signor Maleovelli?' asked Signor Nicolotti slowly. 'You seem to know Lord Waterford quite well. Is Farrowfare a friend, or have we been duped?'
Ezzelino's frown turned into a scowl. How could he answer this in a way that protected his interests?
'I believe Farrowfare to be an ally. But, with the Signori's permission, I will question Lord Waterford thoroughly and report back. I will do so in a manner so as not arouse suspicion. Naturalmente.'
'Bene,' said Signor Nicolotti. 'Now, our information is telling us that the Ottomans plan to take Konstantinople. If they are successful, it will effectively cut off all trade between here and the Straits of Lapis Lazuli.'
'It will ruin us,' moaned Signor Errizo, and reached for his glass.
'It will also make us vulnerable to attack. The garrison at Konstantinople has always been our ears and eyes in the East. With that gone, we'd be blind.'
'What do we do, then?' asked Signor Moronisini gravely.
'We do what Serenissians have always done,' said Signor Nicolotti.
'What's that?'
'We follow Maleovelli's lead and we ask questions. We gather information, we make sure of our facts and we prepare our fleet. If we're forced to protect Konstantinople, then we will do so on water. We must mobilise the Arsenale, gather new recruits for the navy.'
'What about the threat the Ottomans pose directly to us, to Serenissima?' asked Signor Maggiore.
'As Pisano says, if we lose Konstantinople, then what's to stop them?' said Signor Errizo.
'That is why we cannot allow that to happen. We cannot lose Konstantinople.'
'What about Roma? Surely they will come to our aid.' Sitting up straight, Signor Pisano put into words what was on everyone's minds.
Signor Nicolotti nodded. 'That's what we hope. That is why I need your permission.' His arm swept the table. 'To include the Cardinale in our plans. Whoever we put forward as our new Doge will have to have his approval if we're to be guaranteed aid from the Great Patriarch.'
'It would help if we could find this Estrattore,' added Signor Errizo.
There were murmurs of agreement.
'It would,' said Signor Nicolotti. 'It would assure Roma of our loyalty; it would rid us of another threat so we can focus on the one growing in the East.' He opened a small wooden box in front of him and pulled out a quill. Dipping it in a little inkpot he wrote a few notes on the topmost piece of parchment. 'I will discuss this with the Cardinale as well. Learn how his hunt progresses. Offer whatever aid he needs to bring this matter to a close.' He placed the quill back in its box and closed the lid, looking from one grim face to another. 'Now you understand why we called this meeting. We must not only prepare for a change of leadership but, potentially, for war. You can see now that the two are very much related. Dandolo is incapable of dealing with this crisis.'
No-one responded.
'And on top of all this is the search for the damn Estrattore,' grumbled Signor Errizo. 'You know they're saying the popolani aren't coming forward, that they're protecting the creature.'
'Not even the Cardinale's punishments, the execution, the arrests and disappearances have loosened their tongues.' Signor Maggiore lifted his chin and locked eyes with each and every member of the Council. A few turned away; others shifted in their seats.
'I don't understand how a boy like that can just vanish,' said Signor Moronisini eventually. 'My understanding was that Estrattore must use their powers or die.'
'Perhaps he's already dead and we're all chasing ghosts,' said Signor Maleovelli easily. They all laughed.
'If only it were that simple,' said Signor Nicolotti. He picked up his glass and drained the contents. 'No. He is not dead. He is somewhere in the city and, the sooner we find him and execute him, the faster we can shore up relations with Roma and quell the damn popolani, and the sooner we can focus on the matters that concern us most: the Ottomans and the Dogeship. Capite?'
'Sì,' there were mumbles and nods.
'Well, Signori, we have a great deal to think about. And much which relies on our complete discretion. If one word of what we discussed tonight should reach the Doge ...' He left his sentence unfinished. 'I will take it upon myself to talk to the Cardinale. I am glad you agree we need his support in this, in everything we do from here.'
He paused. 'Then, if that is all, we'll reconvene at our usual time, which I believe is in ten days. Unless, of course, events force me to call another extraordinary meeting. Good night, Signori. May God bless you and our enterprises.'
Signor Nicolotti remained seated as the Council of Ten exited, each bowing to him as they departed. He couldn't help but note that the spark of accomplishment he'd seen in Maleovelli's eyes was still there. For years he'd underestimated that man, that family. Why, watching him tonight, he seemed to thrive on what they were saying, enjoying the danger. It would be good to have his help, especially now he's forged so many connections -- including with Lord Waterford -- and managed to do what no Serenissian had done before, breach the Contested Territories -- he and Moronisini. They could yet be an important ally in this forthcoming battle, for he had no doubt that's where the armament of the Ottomans would end -- in war. And so long as they all profited, it would not be entirely unwelcome.
Rising to his feet, he poured himself the last of the vino. Moronisini was right. They needed someone powerful, someone strong, to lead them over the next few years. To remove the threat of danger, the taint of the Estrattore and prove that Serenissima was still a force to be reckoned with -- quell the growing disquiet of both their fickle allies and their enemies. It would also subdue the growing discontent and confusion within the popolani. As his ancestors knew, spiritual ambivalence could lead to more than simply internal doubts -- unchecked, it could tear a nation apart. War would distract the popolani from the doubt and disenchantment with the status quo that the presence of one single Estrattore had roused. This was something Dandolo and his supporters had not managed to quash.
Perhaps it was time to change the way they appointed the Doge. Rid themselves of the bloodline, rotate the position through families. Surely that would stop the jostling for power that occurred every hundred years or so. Heaven forbid he should ever be appointed the Doge. Why would he want that when he exerted so much power as a capi -- power without responsibility.
Once again, Maleovelli's face materialised, his head ensconced in the golden cap of the Doge's office. What a fancy, he laughed to himself. Maleovelli as Doge? Why, he had only just returned to the Council of Ten. Not only that, they could never have a man who uses his daughter and ward in such a fashion as Doge -- it simply wouldn't do. The Cardinale would never agree to that, not even if Maleovelli should decry them and put them in a nunnery. The taint would smear the office, tarnish Serenissima irreparably. No, that would never happen. Maleovelli would not be Doge. Not while Signor Nicolotti had a body with which to breathe, influence he could wield and a vote he could cast.
ZARALINA THREW THE LETTER she'd just received from Lord Waterford onto the table and strode to the window. Her heart was singing and excitement thrummed through her body. Despite not sleeping, she was energised in a way she had not been for years. For once, the sky was a clear azure blue and the sunlight made the snow sparkle and the cluster of city roofs that crept almost to the castle walls look pristine and inviting. Curls of smoke rose from chimneys, and birds flew through the air alighting on the barren trees, giving them the illusion of blooming. All in all, she thought, returning to the table and reaching for Waterford's letter again, a good omen indeed.
Watching her every move, the men of the Privy Council waited expectantly.
'Gentlemen.' She turned to them with a gleaming smile. As one, they drew in their breath. Their queen looked magnificent, framed as she was by the window, her white gown thrown into stark relief by the colour of the sky and the copper of her hair, which today was unbound and fell almost to her knees.
Zaralina paused, enjoying the effect she knew she had. 'You will be pleased to learn that Lord Waterford has made some advances. He has found, let's call them, a sympathetic family who are keen for power. They are to be our foothold into Serenissima. Better still, he believes they are harbouring the Estrattore.'
There were gasps of delight.
'Which one?' asked Sir Kay. 'The boy or the girl?'
Zaralina's lips parted slowly. 'The girl.' Her eyes took on a faraway look and her mind wandered. Aware of where she was, she snapped back into the moment. 'But this family she is associating with --' she scanned the letter again '-- the Maleovellis, will not openly admit this. Rather, Waterford has come to this conclusion through observation and some careless comments dropped by a family factotum. He is convinced that, for the right price, the Maleovellis will hand her over.' She tried to keep the triumph out of her voice. After all this time. Waterford, you shall be richly rewarded for this!
'What price do they ask?' The Earl of Farwarn was weary. He'd ridden in the evening before, having been in the Ottoman Empire for the last few weeks delivering ships and cannons. He'd spent the entire night briefing the queen. He couldn't understand how she looked so fresh, so unaffected. He rubbed his face; his eyes were grainy, his mouth dry; his thoughts kept refusing to cohere.
'The price we all want -- power.' The queen took her seat. A servant darted across the floor and poured her a wine.
'What will we offer them?' asked Lord Halthorn.
'Serenissima is about to enter an interesting phase. Waterford has heard from our spies in the palazzo that Doge Dandolo will be the last of his family to hold the throne. There will be a tussle for power. I propose that from a distance and through Lord Waterford, we offer the Maleovellis our support. We give them the Dogeship of Serenissima.'
There were nods and murmurs.
'For how long?' asked the Duke of Dunlilley. 'I thought Serenissima was to be ours?'
'Oh, it is, your grace. I have not changed my mind about that.'
'Then why are we offering these people the Dogeship?'
'Because it will ensure their cooperation and ease the transition of power from them to me.' Zaralina laughed. Sir Kay and Earl Farwarn exchanged quick glances. They knew what that laugh signified. 'It will be a puppet regime. They will act according to my orders, in the best interests of Farrowfare, of course.'
She turned to Earl Farwarn. 'Please, your grace, share with the Privy Council the news you brought from the Ottoman Empire.'
Earl Edward Farwarn took a gulp of his wine and then rose. Moving to the side of the room where the lawyers sat hastily taking notes, their quills a continuous scratching that accompanied the meeting, he rustled through a pile of documents before finding the pages he needed. He returned to his spot at the table but remained standing. He extracted one piece of parchment and handed it to Father Morrison, who sat beside him. Father Morrison glanced at the content and then hastily crossed himself.
'What I am passing around now, ma'am, gentlemen, is a copy of what I gave to Her Majesty last night. That is, a list of the Ottomans' defences. The number of soldiers they have, weapons, including the cannons they've bought from us. The final figures at the bottom of the page are ships already in Vista Mare; the other is those currently in our shipyards that are almost finished. They will be ready to set sail within the month, which means the Ottomans will take delivery of them in the next three or so.'
The paper was shared around, each member taking some time to digest the columns and what they meant.
'Why, their forces are huge,' exclaimed Lord Rodbury. He'd attended the queen's meeting with Farwarn last night but had been forced to leave when a late-night hunting party returned. He could still smell the bear carcass on his skin. He hadn't seen this list.
'Over two hundred thousand,' said Earl Farwarn.
There was a collective gasp.
'Does this not concern Your Majesty?' asked Lord Halthorn. 'Why, our own forces are not more than --'
'Ninety thousand --' finished the duke.
The men tried to picture the numbers. Unease filled the room.
'Unless,' said Zaralina softly, 'you include the Morte Whisperers in our forces. Each one is worth a thousand soldiers.'
An uncomfortable silence fell. Not even the sun shining through the windows or the candles flickering brightened the coldness that filled the chamber.
Zaralina resisted a smile. These men, these brave, bold men who desired nothing more than to fight, win wars, claim more land and thus wealth, still had scruples about how this should be accomplished. It never ceased to amaze her that they thought nothing of killing each other, in cold blood, at the command of a monarch or ruler they often never saw, but when it came to forming alliances to ensure victory, they developed sensibilities.
Shazet was right. Humans were weak. Their souls were made of snow that froze hard for a while but melted as soon as things became a little warm.
'Your Majesty.' It was the earl who broke the silence. 'As you know, we of your Privy Council have grave concerns about the Morte Whisperers.'
'Really?' asked the queen innocently, her blue eyes wide.
The earl touched his face again, scratching his chin through his beard, which was badly in need of a trim. 'Your Majesty, while we feel the Ottomans have numbers that would make a seasoned soldier tremble, we also know that not only are they beholden to us, but they need us to cross the Limen. Whereas your Morte Whisperers --'
'My Morte Whisperers?' She sank into her seat.
'Forgive me, Your Majesty, I meant it as a compliment. As spies, as messengers, there's no doubting their efficacy, their subtlety. They are incomparable, and certainly the information they have retrieved about the Ottomans as well as the Serenissians has been of enormous help in finalising our plans. But if it came to war, ma'am, hand to hand combat, well, we have our doubts.'
'Why?' Zaralina's voice was very quiet. A chill gust blew through the room. She watched as unconsciously, her nobles started to rub their arms, clasp their hands, shiver and then reach for the warming effects of their wine.
'Because, ma'am, they obey you -- only you and Shazet. They would not be an asset in war. Whose leadership would they follow? During combat, even the most courageous of men are afraid; they act on instinct. They trust their leaders and their comrades to do what they're told, when they're told. In other words, ma'am, we need soldiers who will follow orders without question.' He did not seem to notice that every word he spoke was punctuated by a frost of white breath.
He paused and then shrugged. 'Frankly, ma'am, I don't know what else to say.' He looked to the Privy Council for support. Only Sir Kay spoke.
'He's right, ma'am. Put simply, we don't trust the Morte Whisperers.'
'Well,' said Zaralina after a long silence, 'you'll be pleased to learn that you don't have to.'
'What do you mean?' asked Duke Dunlilley.
Zaralina studied their faces. She saw the doubt and the fear and she felt suddenly very tired. Rising quickly, she struck the table. The men jumped.
'I mean you don't have to worry. You will not be commanding them. They will be operating under a different leadership, following different orders.'
'But ma'am, I must protest,' began Earl Farwarn.
'Think carefully before you answer, your grace,' replied Zaralina. Her voice was icy. 'Do you? After all, I have just reassured you that you will not have to deal with the Morte Whisperers -- you or your men. Not at first, anyhow.'
No-one dared to ask what she meant.
She walked around the table. 'You all seem to have forgotten something very important, my lords. You seem to have forgotten the debt you all and this entire godsforsaken place owes to the Morte Whisperers -- to my Morte Whisperers.' She glared at Earl Farwarn.
One by one, their eyes slid from her face. All except Lord Rodbury's. Father Morrison had turned a peculiar shade of pink and was clutching tightly the chaplet that hung from his neck with all its little symbols.
'Without the help of the Morte Whisperers, there will be no wars won, no territories gained and Serenissima will remain the powerful city that it is while Farrowfare will continue to be the little backwater that it always was until I came to the throne. Until I gave you the means to cross the Limen.' She didn't raise her voice, but somehow all the men were cowed. A few raised their hands to their hearts, stroking their chests absent-mindedly.
'Who is it that enables you to breach the Limen? Answer me that? Who do you think allows us to trade, to develop alliances beyond its boundaries? It's me, your queen, along with those creatures you don't trust! Together we have helped you gain riches beyond your wildest dreams, and very soon we'll make Farrowfare a name that strikes terror in the hearts of all those in Vista Mare. Fools! You think because someone is different from you, they can't be trusted? Even when you all seek the same goals! If we followed that logic, well, we might as well forget about sending ships to the Ottomans, recall Waterford and all our spies and remain here, bound by snow and ice all year round with dying crops, barren animals and festering diseases until we all die. Until Albion -- no, Farrowfare itself -- is no more.'
She stopped in front of the fire and faced them all; her eyes blazed, colour infused her cheeks.
'Y-- your Majesty,' stammered Father Morrison. 'There is the saying ... the poem that many believe is an omen, a warning.'
Zaralina cocked an eyebrow
Bravely, or foolishly, Father Morrison continued, a trickle of sweat running from his temple to cross his fat cheeks. 'It says:
The Limen shimmers, a force that divides
Revere its power and keep to one side
Respect this for wealth and peace to abide
Breach the gods' rule, and woe betide.'
'So?' Zaralina's word sliced through the stillness.
'So, Your M-- Majesty, some people attribute what you mention -- the dying crops, the animals, even the weather --' he glanced outside '-- to the fact that ... for years now, we haven't respected the Limen. We've breached it over and over. In doing so, we have flouted the gods' will ...'
Zaralina stared at him, her eyes glittering sapphires. 'Well, well, well. You surprise me, Father Morrison. I didn't think you had it in you.' She moved behind him and trailed her hand across his shoulders. He started, but didn't stir again. 'I know what some of you are thinking.' She rested a hand on the table, her hair falling like a curtain across her body. 'I know what most of you are too afraid to articulate but which old Father Morrison has now had the guts and gall to express.' She pulled away abruptly, her locks trailing over Father Morrison, and walked around the table, staring at each member of Council until he was forced to drop his eyes. 'But let me also remind you that Farrowfare was a pathetic little kingdom until I came to power after my husband, your King, tragically died. A hopeless country ruled by a hopeless, dithering monarch, that is until the Morte Whisperers and I freed you. And look what I've done for you so far. You have a navy, an army, you have begun to trade -- yes, on the other side of the Limen, but look what it's brought you.' She gestured to the men's fine clothes, the candelabra on the table, the fruit piled in pewter platters. 'You can't tell me you don't appreciate this. Now we're giving you a chance to thrive not just here in Farrowfare, but to rule beyond the Limen. To accumulate more wealth, enough to leave this cursed, snowbound country and live in fertile lands where your families, your future children and grandchildren, your descendants, can leave their mark -- or have you so quickly forgotten?' She lowered her voice. 'Or have you changed your minds?'
Only the crackle of the fire and the distant sounds of swords clanging in the courtyard below could be heard.
'I thought not.' She returned to her seat, her hand snaking along the back of the chairs, briefly touching the doublets of her nobiles. They visibly straightened, as if they had suddenly developed a backbone, thought Zaralina.
She stood in front of her chair and leant over the table.
'Now is the time to grasp what is being offered and prepare for this new life that I promised you and which you will, by the gods, soon have.' She took a deep breath and continued, her voice a clarion. 'Send the ships as soon as possible. Make sure you include extra sailors to train the Ottomans. There's no point them having a navy if they don't know how to use it. In the meantime, prepare our men. While we'll use our Ottoman allies to attack from the sea, we'll approach Konstantinople from the land.' She gazed out of the window.
'Through the Limen?' sputtered Father Morrison.
'Of course through the Limen.' She spun round. 'Haven't you listened to a word I just said?'
'All our troops, ma'am?' Earl Farwarn shifted uncomfortably. 'Can we do that? Is it possible? We've never taken so many through ...'
'No. We haven't, have we? So, we will find out. Together, gentlemen, we will learn if our strategy has a chance, if my power is great enough to do what no monarch has ever done before.'
The men shared looks. Doubt was written all over their faces. 'There'll be losses --' Sir Kay shifted in his seat.
'Enough!' said Zaralina sharply. 'I have had enough. You will follow my orders. Do you understand?'
'Yes, ma'am.' Agreement came from around the table.
'Good.' Zaralina sighed. 'Leave me, gentlemen! Now.'
The men jumped to their feet, eager to be out of her sight.
'Oh, all except you, Lord Rodbury -- and Farwarn, you had better stay too. I want us to send a letter to the Sultan. I will get you to help me draft it. The rest of you, be gone.'
They scurried away, leaving her with Rodbury and Farwarn. The earl sank back into his chair wearily. Behind him, Zaralina could just see Shazet. He bowed in her direction and faded away again. But not before she'd seen the delighted grin that twisted his long features. She would speak with him later. There was another order she wished to issue and which only a Morte Whisperer could carry out.
It was time to bring the Estrattore home.
TALLOW AND BAROQUE HAD BEEN tucked away in the workshop for some hours, working quietly side by side, Baroque pouring and mixing while Tallow extracted what she wanted and distilled into some candles. After she'd finished, she didn't leave. Instead, she began to organise the little bottles of potions into some sort of order that only she understood. Baroque watched her placing them back on the shelves, clear fluids next to milky ones; granules next to oils of bright colours. He didn't know what half of them signified anymore. He didn't want to either. He noted how Tallow's thick black hair tumbled out of its pins and fell down her back. Her old blue gown was beginning to pull across her shoulders. Every day brought a change to her. Physically, she was filling out, a picture of health. But it was what was happening to her inside that worried him. A darkness had filled the Estrattore that, no matter what he did, what objects he brought for her to study or stories he told, would not disappear.
Outside, the light was fading quickly and he knew it wouldn't be too long before she was forced to go and prepare for whatever assignation she had tonight. He summoned the courage to do what he felt he must.
Tossing the towel he was using to dry the pestle and mortar he'd just washed over his shoulder, he went to the door. Making sure no-one was loitering in the courtyard, he shut it firmly.
Tallow turned when she heard the click. 'What is it?' she asked, lowering her arms and wiping them on the apron. 'Why are you looking at me like that?' she asked defensively.
'We need to talk.' Without waiting for her to reply, Baroque sat down on one of the stools, his back to the grimy window. Not even with all the spare help in the casa would the Maleovellis allow anyone else to come near the workshop.
Tallow arched an eyebrow at Baroque and then resumed what she was doing. 'I don't want to.'
'Too bad.'
Tallow put her hands on her hips and spun towards Baroque. 'What?'
When he didn't respond immediately, she ran her fingers through her hair irritably, folded her arms and waited.
Baroque sighed.
'Tarlo, I've been hearing some disturbing things.' He glanced down at his hands. Now that he'd started, he didn't know how to go on.
'Such as?' she prompted, tipping her head.
'Talk.'
'Uh huh. So? Since when do Serenissians not talk?'
'Well, there's been a spate of strange things -- tragedies, really -- going on with some of the nobile families. People are beginning to gossip in ways that make me very uneasy. In the tavernas of an evening, there's little else that passes for conversation these days.'
Tallow began to laugh. 'Of course there have been peculiar happenings. You know better than anyone what the Maleovellis get me to do!'
Baroque met her eyes. 'What I am hearing has nothing to do with what the Maleovellis ask of you.'
Tallow's eyelids fluttered, but she didn't look away. 'So? What have they got to do with me, then?'
'Well,' said Baroque carefully. 'I was hoping you could tell me that.' He gestured to the stool on the other side of the bench. 'You might want to sit down.' She did as he suggested, her eyes never leaving his face.
'What have you heard?'
'Well,' he began, 'a great deal lately, and it doesn't add up, not unless one considers what you really are.'
'Go on,' said Tallow steadily.
'First there's the death of the young nobile, Rambaldo Errizo of the Second Casa of Nobiles' Rise. It was assumed he was drunk and fell in the canal. Only, he's not a big drinker. I didn't think much of it at the time. Accidents happen.
'Then, there's the recent suicide pact between Signori Rizzo Manin and his cousin, Bezio Castellini. Young men who had everything to live for -- why, Signor Manin was set to make a very advantageous marriage into Casa Maggiore. Bezio, well, the word is that he was handsome, carefree and had a great future. He was considered quite the poet.'
Baroque watched Tallow carefully. She stared at him defiantly. Her cheeks grew pink and her eyes darkened. Swallowing hard, he continued.
'The one that really baffles me, though, is Venerio Nicolotti. While he was the youngest son, they're a very wealthy family. Yet Venerio goes and joins the priesthood in Roma. Even the Cardinale has expressed his astonishment. The young man had never shown any interest in taking the cloth, let alone the Church, and suddenly --' Baroque snapped his fingers '-- he ups and disappears. At first the family thought he'd gone the way of his friends, but a letter from Roma arrived a week ago explaining everything.'
Tallow gave a dry laugh. 'Why should I care about these nobiles? What are you accusing me of, Baroque? It's not good enough that I'm an Estrattore? How ridiculous.' She laughed harshly. 'I don't know why you're telling me this, Baroque. I really don't.'
'Don't you?' He eased himself off the stool and leant over the counter. 'Doesn't the fact that these are the same four men that dined with you and Giacomo Moronisini the first night you officially became a courtesan, worry you?'
Her eyes slid from his face. 'No, why should it?'
'Tarlo. If I've worked it out, then surely you realise others will have. The Maleovellis must know. But then, why would they care? You've also rid them of potential problems -- diminished the casas with which they see themselves in competition by eliminating their scions. They would be delighted. I am surprised they haven't showered you with more gifts, with more dresses, jewels and such.' He gestured towards her. He was surprised at the bitterness in his voice. 'But the thing is, if I have been able to piece this together, then Giacomo Moronisini will eventually too. He's no fool, despite what you or the Maleovellis might think.'
'Oh, I don't think he's a fool.'
There was a flash of something in Tallow's eyes. Baroque caught his breath. 'By God! You want him to figure this out.'
Tallow didn't answer.
'Why? What if he goes to the Cardinale? Even if he doesn't figure out you're an Estrattore, even if he suspects the Maleovellis are behind it -- oh.' His mouth dropped. 'I am obtuse. That's what you want him to think. You don't care if he knows it's you or the Maleovellis. He will be afraid. Afraid of when death, or something worse, will strike him. His life will be eaten up by fear.' He smacked the heel of his palm against his forehead. 'Of course. This is revenge. The revenge you always said was yours to take.' He gave a deep sigh, one that came from the depths of his being. 'Tarlo, please, tell me what happened. What did they do to you that you felt this was the only solution? That you, of all people, would willingly murder let alone induce such suffering.' His voice was gentle.
He reached out his hand and waited. He saw a flicker in her eyes.
Tallow glanced down at the peeling, red skin, a landscape of veins and spots. The long, astonishingly delicate fingers trembled slightly, matching the quake on Baroque's lips.
'Tallow, Estrattore feel deeply -- more than human beings. But they used to be trained to manage these intense feelings, to moderate not only the emotions of others, but their own as well. You've not been taught this. You swing from one extreme to the other. You feel deeply or not at all. You cannot do this to yourself. You must not.' His voice dropped to a whisper. 'Let me help you, please ...' The wall she'd erected between them began to waver. Baroque sensed it. Her hand dropped and crawled across the bench. It too shook.
She was just about to place it in Baroque's when she halted then snatched it away. 'I can't,' she said, her face a mask of coldness once more.
'You can.'
'No, you don't understand. I cannot let you help, I will not. It doesn't matter anyhow. It can't change anything. I am what I am and that is it. I have been forged in different fires from my kind -- with good reason. The past is nothing anymore. I do not dwell on it. I think only about tomorrow.'
Baroque sighed. He'd come so close. But he had another plan, another way to get to her. Break her resolve, this brittle hardness. 'All right, then I have a proposition for you.'
Tallow tilted her head and looked at him curiously. 'What?'
'How about tomorrow, we take the gondola and go to the Candlemakers Quartiere. If you're really serious about looking only to tomorrow, then we have to lay yesterday to rest completely, sì?'
Tallow scoffed. 'I don't want to. I don't need to.' She slid off the stool and busied herself at the shelves. 'Anyhow, it's silly. It's dangerous.'
Baroque shrugged. 'When has that ever stopped you?'
Tallow gave a small smile. 'You're trying to persuade me using very poor tactics, Baroque. You're so easy to read -- and that's without using any of my talents. Appeal to my sense of adventure. Convince me I'm a hero. I am no hero and I no longer seek adventure. I want only an end to all of this.' She undid her apron and flung it over the hook. She regarded Baroque. 'You want to take me back to where I grew up in the hope that I'll think you're my friend, that I'll have regrets and feel ashamed and sorry and confess everything to you. It won't work, you know. But that's not really what it's about, is it? You're not offering this for me. This is to make you feel better. Better about your role in what it is I have done. What it is I do.'
Baroque opened his mouth to protest then shut it again. He wanted to deny her, but there was truth in her words. Painful truth. Only it was not himself that he was worried about.
'I can't fool you, can I?' he said stiffly. 'But Tarlo, trust me when I tell you, this isn't just about me. You need to go back. It will help you move forward -- perhaps in the right direction.'
'Right? What does that even mean anymore? There's no such thing.' She gave a bark of laughter, then thought for a moment. 'If I do this, will you promise not to "talk" to me anymore?'
Baroque hesitated then nodded. 'All right. I promise. Do this and there'll be no more lectures.'
'Very well, then,' she said. 'I'll go back to the Candlemakers Quartiere. Tomorrow.' Before he could say another word, she swooped past him. It was all Baroque could do not to cheer.
'But,' she said, just inches from him as she gripped the door handle. 'I will not confess anything to you, Baroque. I will not tell you my secrets. I will not share with anyone what resides in here.' She rested her other hand over her heart. 'How can I, when it's empty?'
The smile left his face.
She opened the door. 'Someone once told me not to trust anyone. I listened to him. Turns out, it was good advice. It makes everything so much easier.'
She disappeared. He heard her heels clattering up the stairs.
Filled with sadness, he climbed off the stool and, in lonely silence, finished cleaning.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I AWOKE EARLIER than usual. The evening had been spent entertaining a wealthy merchant named Signor Mario Visconti who, by the time I left his casa, had arranged to meet with Signor Maleovelli to discuss a partnership in the slave trade.
It had been a while since I had arisen before the sun was over the horizon, and I returned to my old habits, climbing out of bed and throwing back the shutters. It was cool outside. Pigeons nestling in the eaves of the roof opposite were all snuggled in their scrappy nests, gently cooing and shuffling their feathers. When I looked down, I could see the faint outline of schools of tiny fish, just beneath the surface of the water, fleeting shadows that darted first one way, then the other. I rested my chin on the crook of my arm and thought that was how I had felt once -- compelled to change course. No longer. I knew where I was headed, what I was doing, despite what Baroque thought. And today, that was going back to the Candlemakers Quartiere, back to my old home.
My heart fluttered. I was surprised and a little annoyed. I had trained myself not to feel excitement anymore, not to let anything ruffle my inner calm. And yet, the mere thought of strolling the fondamenta, of seeing Quinn's shop and encountering the people who represented my past the way shadows occupy corners, filled me with trepidation and, I admit, longing. Perhaps Baroque was right. This was what I really needed in order to be able to embrace my future.
I moved away from the window and, using the water left over from my evening wash, cleaned and dressed without Hafeza's help. She would be cross with me in the way she'd adopted -- more playful than serious. I found, like many things about Hafeza, it annoyed me. I'd actually asked Giaconda if I could have a different maid, but she'd explained that this was impossible. The fewer who knew about me, the better. I still didn't trust Hafeza. Though Giaconda left me very much to my own devices these days, I felt that she might as well be around while Hafeza was present. I wasn't sure how, but I knew Hafeza reported my every move to her mistress. Well, today she wouldn't be able to. Today I would slip out from under her watchful eyes and escape with Baroque.
Escape. The mere word gave me joy. I hadn't realised I felt trapped.
I dressed quickly and, using some of my belladonna potion, attended to my eyes. I blinked and let the drops settle, accustomed now to the expansion of my pupil, to the slight sting. I brushed my hair and placed some pins in it, tucking the rest into my headpiece and attaching one of my day-masks: an understated, dusky creation. I pinched my cheeks and stared at my reflection. I forced my lips to turn so it appeared as if I smiled. There, I was ready to face the world.
Despite the early hour, the canals were busy as traffic to and from the markets passed by. Forgoing my golden costume, today I wore black. It blended with my cape and ensured I did not attract attention. I found I enjoyed the anonymity.
Baroque sat beside me, occasionally pointing out a building or explaining why a particular casa was having its stucco repaired. His appearance had also changed from the last time he was in the Candlemakers Quartiere. Gone was Barold Barbacan, the Jinoan businessman with his exotic ways and mouth full of gold teeth, to be replaced by a Serenissian intellectual. Dressed in a long togati, his face clean-shaven, his hair trimmed and tied, he would be recognised by no-one. Even his posture was different.
We turned off the Circolo and into a narrower canal that divided the Opera Quartiere and the University. Scholars strode along the fondamenta, their togati flapping around their ankles, books and scrolls tucked under their arms. I watched them, with their solemn distracted faces, their inner life richer than the lovely façades around them.
When we turned back onto the Circolo, it was mid-morning. The sun warmed my back in a pleasant way, the sky was a clear blue above me, the ripples of water that caressed the gondola as we sliced through its surface silver. The gondolier was new to the Maleovelli household. I wondered if he would still have his job when we returned. Baroque had neither sought permission nor told the Maleovellis what we were doing. We'd all pay for that. I didn't care. What did it matter anymore? They could do nothing to me.
I raised my face and shut my eyes, enjoying the sun on the parts of my face that were exposed, the artificial sense of freedom. I opened them again and found spots before my eyes. I blinked a few times and when everything around me crystallised, we were facing the mainland. On the other side of the wide expanse of water, the forest spread, the dark green pines like rows of soldiers mustered for battle. Behind them, the Dolomites loomed, their snow-covered peaks majestic sentries. For just a second, I saw a glimmer beyond them and knew what it signified. The Limen. My heart caught in my throat. Living on Nobiles' Rise, it was easy to push the Limen and everything it meant to the back of my mind. To pretend that it didn't exist: that, just like my past, it could be blocked out. But there it was, rising as far as the eye could see before melting into the atmosphere, a painful reminder of how much further I had yet to go, of the promise I had made to myself, to my people. It also made me think of Katina ...
I glanced at Baroque. His eyes were fixed firmly on my face. He knew where my thoughts had taken me.
'Are we almost there?' My voice was harsher than I intended.
'Sì. Not long now, Signorina,' he said. He turned to regard the mainland. I wondered briefly what he was thinking.
I deliberately focused on the fondamenta, twisting so my back was to the verdant scene on the other side of the canal. Instead, I watched the women in their coarse dresses, baskets over their arms, children pulling at their aprons as they attended to their tasks. Shopkeepers stood outside their businesses, talking, calling for customers. Cats weaved their way around their legs, while gondolas unloaded their wares onto the cobbles. It was all so familiar and yet, in just a short amount of time, so strange as well.
I saw it then. The spire that marked the main basilica and overlooked the buildings I knew and had grown to love. The narrow frontage, the way the casas leant into each other like derelict, drunken friends. We had reached the Chandlers Quartiere. We were so close that I could see the badge denoting the scuola of the men who trotted over the bridges.
For the first time in a long while, thoughts of Dante returned. The pain was not as great as I feared. But it was still there. Pain and deep, desperate longing. I looked beyond the popolani, hoping to catch a glimpse of Zia Gaia or any of the Macelleria family in the futile way that those who need reassurance or wish to assuage a long-held guilt do. I wanted some kind of signal they were all right. I'd tossed them aside with my old self. While I knew it was something I had to do for their sake as much as mine, returning to this place made me wonder, for just a brief moment, if I'd done the right thing.
I became aware I was chewing my lip and my hands were strangling each other in my lap. I took a deep breath and forced them still.
I was not prepared for the effect seeing my old home would have on me. There it was. So ordinary. So neglected. The windows were empty eyes that looked at me dolefully, but without accusation. I stared up at it as we glided by.
'Wait!' I said as we neared the Ponticello di Mille Pietre -- a place I'd never wanted to see again but realised now, that like its name, it was the rock upon which I needed to ground myself. 'Can we stop? Please, Baroque. I would like to walk.'
Baroque stared at me. 'Certo.' He gave the order to the gondolier who, with practised ease, brought us level with the water-stairs at the base of the bridge. He tied the gondola to the paline.
'Here,' said Baroque, reaching in his purse and handing over a ducat. 'Find us some breakfast. We won't be long.'
The gondolier tipped his hat and, after assisting us from the craft, strolled down the fondamenta, away from us. He stopped for directions from a young child. I recognised little Sophie, the cobbler Enzo's daughter. Because of me, she'd survived the Morto Assiderato. She pointed down a nearby ramo. The gondolier bowed and followed her finger. She giggled and skipped towards us. I froze. What if she recognised me?
She took one glance at us and skidded to a halt. She dropped a clumsy curtsy. 'Signor, Signorina,' she said, her mouth falling open as she gazed up and down at us. I had removed my cape during the trip and my gown, while dark and faded, was sewn with jewels and had slashed, full sleeves.
Both Baroque and I bowed our heads. My throat was tight with tension; my eyes mere slits behind my mask.
Sophie broke into a huge smile and raced off. 'Mamma, mamma!' she cried. 'I've seen a princess!'
I couldn't help it. I burst out laughing.
'Well, that's a sound I haven't heard for a long, long time,' said Baroque. He smiled at me kindly.
I thought for a moment. 'Vero. It's been a while.' I took his proffered arm, looping it through mine and, turning our backs on the bridge, we strolled along the fondamenta.
I was aware of eyes upon us. From the windows, from the darkened shelter of doorways. One or two nodded to us. I knew them all: Carlita, Enzo's wife and Sophie's mother, who stepped out of her shop and also curtsied. There was Fabrizio, another candlemaker; Guiseppi, the fruiterer; and Francesca's husband came past us, dragging a cart. He tipped his hat and muttered, 'Buon giorno.' I felt him looking over his shoulder, not because he recognised me, but because strangers in the quartiere were always noted. They were the subject of conversations for days afterwards. I knew that Baroque and I would entertain many a group in the taverna, many a family tonight.
Finally, we paused outside Quinn's shop and Pillar's workshop. It was only when Baroque placed his hand over mine that I realised I was trembling.
'He's really gone, hasn't he?' I said, looking around, resisting the urge to touch, to draw, to learn, to feel.
Baroque nodded. 'From here. Sì.' He cleared his throat.
I took in the peeling paint, the cobwebs that festooned the entrance. Debris had blown onto the doorstep and gathered in the corner. Quinn would have had me sweeping that away, scrubbing the wood until it gleamed.
'Do you want to go in?'
'Inside?' Panic flared in my chest. 'We can't --'
Baroque glanced around. Apart from a young boy scaling a fish, the fondamenta was relatively quiet. He reached over and did something with the lock. The door swung open, the creak it made echoing around the empty room. I hesitated for only a second and then stepped inside.
Memories crowded my head. Anger, harsh words, fear, blood. I shut my eyes and took a deep breath. The musty smell of age, damp and disregard filled my nostrils. I opened my eyes again and walked to the counter. I removed my glove and ran my finger through the thick dust. I stood outside the door to the workshop. Composing myself, I twisted the handle and let the door swing open. It creaked loudly before stilling.
I didn't step inside, I just looked. The vats were cold, the fireplace a dark, barren space. The worktops were scattered with broaches and yards of wick rolled into tight circles. I saw remnants of candles, half-melted stumps, broken votive glasses, pillar moulds, just sitting there, abandoned. While I could recall the lessons, the burns, the triumph of mixing and pouring my early batches, of rolling the wax, straining the impurities, it seemed so pointless now. Even my lessons with Katina, those gentle explorations into the essence of objects, of extracting and distilling, no longer seemed relevant. Not when all I had focused on was kindness and beauty. Oh yes, Katina had warned me that life was not all sweetness and light. Little had I known back then how well I would learn that lesson. I recalled Cane and Dante, crushed beneath a Bond Rider's horse. Hardly any of what she'd given me, what she'd imparted in our brief time together, apart from the basic skills, was meaningful to me. Not in the life I had now.
Even her order that I must not kill I'd ignored. And why shouldn't I? Death was not her decision alone nor God's. Not when I could so easily remove those who didn't deserve to live. Even while I had these thoughts, others spun in my head: Katina's warmth, her conversations about her childhood, about Estrattore. She'd always made them sound so good, so noble in their intentions. That was what she wanted from me. I hadn't listened. I'd done terrible, unforgivable things, felt and responded to extreme emotions, as Baroque had accused. What a disappointment I would be to her.
Standing here, I could recapture those moments with her and Pillar. And yet, as I did, I found I wanted to let them go.
I felt time contract and then expand out into some endless void. How long had I been gone? Was it really more than a year? Looking over the ruins of my former life, it seemed like centuries. I sighed and closed the door.
'Have you seen enough?' asked Baroque. He had wiped a space on the counter and was leaning on it. I sensed his agitation, his nervousness. He'd brought me here, manipulated me into coming. He could wait.
'There is one more place I want to go.' I pointed upstairs. 'Wait here, please.' This was something I needed to do alone.
I slowly ascended, my heels clattering on the stairs. I paused beside the kitchen. It looked so ... ordinary. So dirty and poor. And yet I had called this place home for the greater part of my life. Now it felt as remote to me as the distant Dolomites. I took in the blackened grate and pots, the chipped porcelain plates and wooden trenchers that lay on the table. What astonished me was that food had been left upon them and had rotted into hardened green lumps. Not even flies feasted on those remnants. Wherever Pillar had gone, he'd left in a hurry. His coat still hung from the hook. What had made him leave so quickly? I knew from Baroque that the Signori di Notte and the Cardinale had been through this area. God knows, Renzo had paid the price of harbouring me, but Pillar seemed to have escaped. I was relieved. For all that thoughts of him still hurt, I was glad he was safe. I wouldn't have wanted him to be any other way. I touched the table in the hope of extracting something of his fate. Quinn's face rose in my mind, and the lacerating power of her words, the agony of her beatings, almost reduced me to tears. I snatched my hand away. Pillar's fate would remain a mystery.
It was better that way.
I turned aside and climbed the last staircase, to my room. There, I looked upon the tiny space that had been mine. I shook my head. It always seemed so much bigger in my dreams, in my memories. I walked around, trailing my finger along the edge of the two huge vats, bending to brush the surface of the mattress and the tatty blankets that lay in a heap in the middle. Without meaning to, I began to draw. I almost doubled over as waves of dreadful pain, sorrow and grief washed over me. I grabbed a hold of the chest and clutched my stomach. I gagged.
I quickly stopped extracting. Every surface screamed of horror. How could I have ever remembered my time here as good, as somehow magical? As something to cherish and restore my lost faith in others, in myself? I leant against the chest, trying to regain my equilibrium. My fingers gripped the top and I remembered that, inside it, were my precious items. I moved away and lifted the lid, coughing as dust and the smell of lost time hit me in the face.
I looked inside the tiny space and saw the things I had once treasured still sitting there. There was my old tinderbox, a few candles, the piece of green myrtle wax and the ancient bit of paper I'd salvaged from the canal the first time I ever rode in a gondola. I drew it out and examined it.
Back then it had been the colours and patterns that had attracted me. I had never seen anything so unusual. Now, I looked at it and the meanings of the designs and words, at one time obscure, became apparent. The urge to laugh found me again. That was how Baroque came upon me moments later, doubled over with tears pouring down my cheeks.
'What is it?' he asked. 'What's wrong?' He didn't intrude, but asked from the doorway.
'Wrong?' I straightened and wiped my face. My shoulders shook, my throat contracted. I wasn't laughing, I was sobbing. 'Look,' I said, and with two steps, thrust my cherished piece of paper into his hands.
Baroque took it from me carefully and his eyes widened.
'Sì,' I said. 'It's ironic, isn't it? The one thing of the outside world that I chose to keep as a child is a piece of paper advertising the services of a courtesan. I have even met her. Veronica Franco. The poetess.' I took a deep, quivering breath. 'Oh, Baroque, let's go. I don't ever want to come back here. It does not contain what I thought it might.'
Baroque glanced at me with his secret eyes. 'I'm not so sure about that. Did you ... did you extract?'
'What do you think?' I raised my tear-stained face to his.
'You felt nothing?'
'No. I felt everything.'
As we shut the door and returned to the fondamenta, a barrage of abuse greeted us.
'What right do you have to go in there?' screeched a familiar voice. We both jumped guiltily to find Francesca, the fruit vendor's wife, staring at us, a broom in her hand held before her like a weapon. 'You'll not find anything in there that the Signori and the Cardinale haven't. He's gone, I tell you. Gone.' Her voice broke. 'And so has the Estrattore, all right. We don't know anything. Go back to Nobiles' Rise. Leave us be!'
'Signora,' began Baroque in his most consoling voice, 'you misunderstand. We were not --'
'I don't care what you were doing. We're no objects of curiousity. We're people with lives and families. And your kind don't belong here. Now go!' Francesca began to sweep hard in our direction, dirt and bits of rubbish flying into our faces. I began to cough and held my hand up in front of my face. We tried to escape, but Francesca followed us, her broom working harder and harder. Along the fondamenta, people appeared in doorways, cheering her on, spitting at us, ordering us to leave. Soon she was joined by others, all of them sweeping us away in a tirade of words and dust.
It wasn't until our gondola was in sight that they stopped and watched us. Grouped together in silence, they waited until we were in the gondola and on our way before, one by one, they turned their backs and returned to their lives.
It was some time before Baroque and I spoke again.
BY MID-AFTERNOON WE WERE BACK at the Maleovellis' casa. As we glided through the water-gates, I removed my mask and disembarked. I saw Giaconda waiting. If she was angry, she hid it well. Her voice as she told us to go to Signor Maleovelli's study was measured, her gestures calm. It was only when she turned to the boatman and ordered him to report to Salzi that I detected the fury. I knew I would not see the gondolier's smiling face again. I felt guilty about that.
In silence, Baroque and I went up the stairs. Jacopo loitered at the top.
'Tsk, tsk, tsk,' he muttered. 'Naughty cousin.' His grin only enhanced his delight. 'I am here to comfort you if you need it,' he said to my back.
Giaconda snapped. 'Don't you have work to attend to, Jacopo?'
He stammered something and limped away. I allowed my lips to curl.
Signor Maleovelli was seated behind his desk. Papers rested askew in front of him. Navigating our way between the chairs, Baroque and I stood patiently and waited. I repressed a yawn. My early morning adventure was catching up with me.
Finally, Signor Maleovelli raised his head. The afternoon sun streaming behind cast him into shadow. His hooded eyes glittered.
'Where have you been, Tarlo?' he asked. It had been a long time since he'd directed a question or any conversation to me. I was taken aback. 'I went to the Candlemakers Quartiere.'
'Really?' he said. He glanced at Giaconda, who had followed us into the room. 'Why?'
Something in his tone warned me not to implicate Baroque. Without rushing, I explained that I had a sudden urge to see my old home and that I had found Baroque and insisted he take me. Baroque had unhappily obliged.
Signor Maleovelli's eyes passed from me to Baroque and back again.
'Sit down, Tarlo,' he said. He did not extend the same courtesy to Baroque. He didn't believe me. 'You placed yourself in unnecessary danger. You placed all of us in danger and, it seems, on a whim.'
'Mi dispiace,' I said and lowered my head. I could not see how what I did was any more dangerous than what the Maleovellis had me doing night after night.
He did not speak for a while. Instead, he rustled through the papers in front of him. I watched the dust motes float on a sunbeam, noticing how they all seemed to ascend rather than descend, aspiring to greatness, I mused.
'I do not see the point in going back,' said Signor Maleovelli. I jumped; I'd been lost in my thoughts.
'Perhaps not, Signor,' I said. 'But that may be because you're surrounded by your past.' I gestured to his crowded room. 'Mine is still to be discovered, but what I had back there in the Candlemakers Quartiere, I felt I should say goodbye to before I leave it for good. Surely you would grant me that?'
Signor Maleovelli studied me carefully, then he began to chuckle. 'Do not try to use your charms on me, young woman.' He reached for his pipe. 'They do not work.' He opened his pouch and began stuffing the fragrant weed that Jacopo had brought back from the Contested Territories into the bowl. 'You have taught her well, Gia. For a moment there, she reminded me of you.' I could feel Giaconda stiffen behind me.
He used a spill to light his pipe and slowly the room began to fill with smoke. I tried to clear my throat as silently as I could.
'Who saw you?' asked Giaconda, her voice slightly muffled from the handkerchief she pressed to her face.
'My former neighbours. But they didn't recognise me. I was masked.' I raised my hand slightly; the mask dangled from my finger as proof. I thought about Francesca's daring. To attack people she thought were nobiles with a broom! Things had changed. Either fear or a fresh sense of courage inspired that. I hoped it was the latter but did not want to explore what had caused it. I knew the answer.
Giaconda couldn't hide her relief at my words.
'And what about you, Baroque?' asked Signor Maleovelli. 'Did anyone --' he emphasised the word '-- recognise you?' Signor Maleovelli leant back in his chair.
'No, Signor. They did not.'
'Still, I think your little sojourn there will arouse suspicion. There will be talk. That will attract the attention of the Signori.' Signor Maleovelli frowned. 'It's just as well I have planned a diversion.'
Baroque shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.
'What might that be, Signor?' he asked.
'A dinner party,' answered Signor Maleovelli. 'Tonight I have some very important guests and for that I need some very important candles. Capisce, Baroque? Capisce, Tarlo?'
'Capisco,' I answered.
Baroque muttered. 'What kind do you require?'
Signor Ezzelino leant across his desk. 'The kind that will persuade my peers to go against their better judgement. The kind that will, when the Council of Ten vote upon who they will support to be the next Doge, make them cast their decision in my favour.'
I looked at him steadily. 'That may be difficult.'
'But not impossible.'
'No, Signor, not impossible.' My mind raced. Had we really come so far in such a short time? Signor Maleovelli was ready to take such a step?
'Very well, then. Get to work.' He glanced at Baroque. 'Both of you. Do not disappoint me. A great deal rests on those candles, Tarlo -- for me and for you, your kind.'
'I understand, Signor. I will do my very best.' A mixture of nerves and excitement made me long to escape, to begin immediately. Something occurred to me. 'Will I be required tonight, Signor?'
Signor Maleovelli took his pipe out of mouth. 'Naturalmente! What is dinner at the Maleovellis if Signorina Dorata is not present? Of course you will be there. Wear your finest gown and be ready to entertain my guests in whatever way is required.'
'Sì, Signor.'
Baroque bowed and I sank into a curtsy. We turned to leave. 'Oh, Baroque,' said Giaconda.
'Sì, Signorina?' Baroque turned, his eyebrows raised. I paused, my hand on the doorframe.
'If ever you escort Tarlo anywhere without seeking permission from either me or my father, your journals will be handed over to the Signori di Notte. Am I clear?'
No-one spoke. Outside, a cat wailed.
'Sì, Signorina,' said Baroque, a smile fixed on his face.
Once we were safe in the workshop, he closed the door and leant against it. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he dabbed at his brow.
Putting on my apron, I waited for him to speak.
'That puttana,' he almost spat. He stuffed the material back into his pocket. 'Who does she think she is? She's only a damn courtesan --' He stopped, his hand flying to cover his mouth as he recalled to whom he was speaking.
'Sì. There are a few of us, you know. Believe it or not, Baroque, not all of us by choice.'
He levered himself away from the door. 'You're not the only one feeling trapped, Tarlo.' He began to roll up his sleeves, the action jerky, furious. 'While the Maleovellis have my journals, they think they can manipulate me in any way they want; make me dance to their music; draw me into their schemes. Just like they do you.'
He rubbed his hands across his face and through his hair. 'I am so weary, Tarlo, so very weary.' He let out a long breath and stared into space before remembering where he was and giving me a watery grin. 'Mi dispiace. I didn't mean that about the courtesans.'
'Sì, you did,' I corrected.
'All right. I did. But I didn't mean it about you.'
I raised my eyebrows. He laughed.
'Come, you don't need to hear an old man complaining. Have you thought about what to distil into those candles?'
He drew out a fresh box of votives and, pulling them out of their little glass holders, began checking them for chips or poor wicks as I had taught him. I picked one up and, hoping he didn't notice, extracted slightly, drawing the essence of the last person to touch it -- Baroque.
Just like his outburst, what I found astonished me. Dark emotions roiled through the candle. I would have to make sure they were extracted or else use them. I felt deep-seated resentment, not just for the Maleovellis, but for everything they represented. I was somewhat surprised. To me, Baroque was as much one of them as Hafeza. He was just ... nicer. As he said himself, I could not trust him; but what I felt here suggested something very different.
I went further. Beneath the initial feelings of loathing was much confusion. Over what, I wondered. I probed deeper and was infused with regret, sadness, guilt and, above all, pity. I couldn't fathom where that last emotion came from. Baroque didn't strike me as someone who indulged in self-pity often. He made his choices and lived with them. I went deeper still.
When I realised the pity was directed at me, I almost dropped the candle.
WHEN LORD WATERFORD WAS INTRODUCED the following afternoon, he sensed he was interrupting a celebration. Escorted to the piano nobile and into the portego, he caught Giaconda bending over her father's chair and kissing him, the looks on their faces and the glasses in their hands indicating a triumph of some kind. As his name was called, they drew apart slowly. Lord Waterford felt uncomfortable.
'Ah, Beolin, bello,' cried Giaconda, and putting down her glass on one of the little tables, sailed towards him, arms outstretched, a smile upon her beautiful face.
Kissing him on both cheeks, she took his hand and led him to a chair near her father's. 'Signor Maleovelli,' he said crisply and bowed before Giaconda practically pushed him into a seat. She gestured for one of the servants to bring Lord Waterford wine.
'Has something special happened?' enquired Lord Waterford.
'Sì,' said Signor Maleovelli. 'It has indeed.'
They all waited until Lord Waterford's glass was filled and the servant retired to the corner of the credenza.
'May I ask what?'
Signor Maleovelli smiled. 'Last night we had a very successful dinner party, did we not, Giaconda?'
'We did, Papa.' Giaconda raised her glass to him.
Lord Waterford lifted his as well. 'Here's to fine dining,' he said and drank.
Signor Maleovelli studied him for a moment. Aware of the scrutiny, Lord Waterford lowered his glass. 'Signor?'
'To what do we owe this visit, Lord Waterford? I had thought we were having dinner tomorrow night.'
'Yes, Signor, but something has happened which induced me to seek your company earlier. Whereas dinner in your casa is always a pleasure --' he reached for Giaconda's hand and kissed it '-- I wish to speak to you on a matter of business.'
'Go on,' said Signor Maleovelli.
'Here?' he asked, signalling the room.
'Like all good Serenissian servants and slaves, ours are selective about what they hear and, if they do listen, they know never to repeat what is said. It is not worth the risk, if you understand. You may speak freely.'
Lord Waterford looked vexed.
'He means in front of me, Papa.' Giaconda withdrew her hand from Waterford's.
Signor Maleovelli looked genuinely surprised. 'I hide nothing from my daughter. Anyway, I thought you said that in your land, a woman rules. Why would you hesitate to speak in front of Giaconda?'
'I do not,' said Lord Waterford gruffly. 'I was just uncertain. In Serenissima, women play such a contradictory role. I have barely met any of the wives or daughters of the other nobiles. They are hidden away as if they are somehow ashamed of them. Only courtesans and peasants seem to lead any kind of public life. I know Giaconda is a ... well ... she's also your daughter. You're a nobile. I wasn't sure ...'
'Be sure. Speak without inhibition.' Signor Maleovelli leant forward, his hands clutching his thighs. 'What is it you have to say?'
Placing his glass down, Lord Waterford turned to his hosts. 'We have spoken, Signor Maleovelli, of our shared concern over the future of Serenissima under ... the current regime. I have, as I told you I would, passed those worries onto my queen and her privy council. As you know, Farrowfare has recently shown great interest in, not only Serenissima, but in accelerating commercial opportunities in Vista Mare. Trade between our countries has commenced; soon you will be sending an ambassador to our city, Albion. We have also negotiated tithes to be paid for use of your ports in the Mariniquian Seas and the exchange of important diplomatic information.'
'Sì,' said Signor Maleovelli, trying to hasten the point. 'It's this diplomacy that has allowed us to discover the movements of the Ottomans, is it not? Without the cooperation of Farrowfare and your spies and networks, we would not have known of their plans.'
Lord Waterford bowed his head. 'That is all true. What is also true is that I have spoken to you of Farrowfare's genuine interest in the Estrattore.'
'Ah.' Signor Maleovelli frowned and leant back in his chair. 'Do you mean the race, or the ones you have been so curious about?'
'Signor, do not mock me.' Lord Waterford smiled to soften his words. 'You know I mean both. We have followed the Cardinale's search for the young male Estrattore with great interest. My queen is very keen to find this boy -- if indeed he exists.' Lord Waterford reached for his glass and took a deliberate sip, studying the Maleovellis beneath his lashes. They neither moved nor spoke, but kept their eyes fixed on him. 'She is also very interested in any information pertaining to Estrattore generally -- it's a passion of hers, you understand. But, most especially anything at all about a female.'
'A female Estrattore?' Giaconda gave a small laugh. 'Why, Beolin, do you persist in speaking of this girl? She does not exist, my friend. I fear she is a product of the Farrowfare, of your queen's, imagination.' Lord Waterford saw Giaconda glance at her father. He felt the frisson in the room. He decided to take it a step further.
'I have reason to believe that you know something of this Estrattore. I speak, of course, of the young woman. Not the boy the Cardinale searches for.'
Signor Maleovelli looked meaningfully at the servants. He picked up his drink and swirled the glass. He watched it for a moment before taking a long drink. 'Have you told anyone else of ... your suspicions?'
'Only my queen. But do not worry,' said Lord Waterford, sensing the next question. 'My communiqués with her are always in code. Your spies would not be able to decipher it. Let me reassure you of that.'
'You do not know our spies.'
'I know none of them have yet intercepted a Morte Whisperer.' There. It was out in the open. The nature of the aid he could promise, the kind of ally they would be working with. He waited.
Giaconda's eyes widened. Even Signor Maleovelli looked stunned.
'I have heard of these creatures -- the Morte Whisperers,' said Signor Maleovelli softly. His voice was brittle. 'They are mentioned in the scrolls of the Estrattore. Jacopo said they are not of this world.'
'They are not of any world, Signor.' Lord Waterford repressed a shudder. 'They are --' he searched for the right word '-- extremely ... savage. But trust me when I tell you, my queen ... controls them. They do her bidding.'
Signor Maleovelli stared at Lord Waterford for a long time. Lord Waterford met his gaze without wavering.
'Farrowfare has strange allies.'
'Stranger than you can imagine,' said Lord Waterford and, for just a moment, wondered if he had gone too far. 'But strong as well.'
The bell in the campanile tolled. The servants took it as their cue to light the candles. Lord Waterford and the Maleovellis sat in silence, sipping their wine, staring out the window. Lord Waterford could almost see the workings of Signor Maleovelli's mind. He knew that Giaconda longed to pull her father aside, talk to him. Not yet. Not till he'd played his final card. Then, he would leave them to ponder his words, to plan.
'So,' said Signor Maleovelli after the room was ablaze with candlelight and the fire had been rebuilt, sending its much needed warmth into the room, 'what do you want to ... share with us exactly, Lord Waterford? What has led you to believe that we --' he indicated himself and Giaconda '-- possess knowledge that even the Cardinale and the Signori di Notte have failed to acquire? Tell me.'
Lord Waterford took a deep breath. 'I know that a male Estrattore escaped capture, that he leapt off a bridge in the Candlemakers Quartiere and has not been seen since. I know that he was a master candlemaker who, it's rumoured, distilled his powers into the candles.' He paused. 'I also know that around the same time as the male Estrattore disappeared, Tarlo Maleovelli came to your household.'
A log shifted in the fireplace, sending sparks up the chimney.
'So?' Signor Maleovelli said finally, not taking his eyes off Lord Waterford.
'So,' continued Lord Waterford, 'under normal circumstances, this would not mean anything except for an interesting coincidence. Only, what is curious is that Tarlo not only happens to be very accomplished, she also makes candles.'
Signor Maleovelli swung towards Giaconda and they both burst out laughing.
Lord Waterford recoiled in surprise. It was not the reaction he was expecting.
'You're suggesting that my ward, a Maleovelli no less, would be involved in such a base trade?' Mirth made Signor Maleovelli difficult to understand.
Giaconda wiped imaginary tears from her eyes.
'I don't mean make in the traditional sense,' said Lord Waterford, recovering. 'I mean, she alters ones that you purchase for her. There's no point in denying it. I've seen the receipts, Signor. I have also seen Tarlo doing this.'
Signor Maleovelli stopped laughing.
So did Giaconda. Her arm crossed the space between them as she rested a hand on her father's.
Lord Waterford had their full attention now. 'And then there is the coincidence of the name,' he continued. 'If I did not know these other factors, it would not have occurred to me. But Tallow and Tarlo, they're rather similar, are they not? It would be very easy to become accustomed to a name that sounds so much like your old one ...' Lord Waterford allowed his words to sink in. Signor Maleovelli and Giaconda stared at him. They were barely breathing. Lord Waterford resisted the urge to smile. 'I am not here to play games, Signor Maleovelli. I'm under instructions to make you an offer,' he said softly. 'An offer from Queen Zaralina of Farrowfare.'
Signor Maleovelli put down his glass. The servant darted forward to refill it. Signor Maleovelli tapped him with his hand to indicate he should keep pouring. When he'd finished, the servant backed into his spot against the wall.
'What offer might that be?' Signor Maleovelli spoke cautiously.
'The Dogeship of Serenissima.'
Signor Maleovelli began to chuckle. So did Giaconda. This time it was genuine. Lord Waterford gripped the arm of his chair and, despite the coolness of the room, grew very hot.
'Signor, Signorina, this is no laughing matter. Understand, in exchange for the Estrattore, you would have the support, the friendship of a great foreign country. We would make sure you're given the throne and, more importantly, that you keep it.'
'What makes you think I need, we --' he lifted Giaconda's hand from his and held it '-- need your help?'
'Because my understanding of your political system is that without it, forgive me, Signor, someone like you, from the Eighth Casa of Nobiles' Rise, whose daughter and ward are courtesans, could never achieve it.' He let that thought sit for a second. 'Give Farrowfare the Estrattore and the throne is yours.'
'Only until your queen sees fit to take it from me.'
Lord Waterford bowed his head in acknowledgement. 'I understand your scepticism, but why would she do that? It's the Estrattore she wants. She has her own country.'
Signor Maleovelli released Giaconda's hand. Using his cane, he stood up and walked to the window. He gazed out over the campo. He turned. 'What if I told you I don't need your help, that I can achieve the Dogeship without the support of Farrowfare?'
'I don't believe you,' said Lord Waterford.
Giaconda drew her breath in sharply. Signor Maleovelli shook his head.
'Signor, forgive me again,' said Lord Waterford. 'I mean no disrespect. I just do not see how this is possible.'
'Then you underestimate me, Lord Waterford. You underestimate the Maleovellis.' He struck Waterford's chair with his cane. 'You think you have us worked out -- but you see secrets where there are none. You imagine heresy and plots where there is nothing but honest trade and success. Tarlo, an Estrattore?' He laughed again. It was dry, hollow, forced.
'But you do not deny it.'
'Deny it? There is nothing to deny. I indulged you, Waterford. I wanted to see how far your fancy went.'
Lord Waterford regarded Signor Maleovelli for a moment longer. He rose from his chair. 'It seems I am mistaken. I apologise, Signor Maleovelli, Giaconda. I beg your forgiveness.'
Signor Maleovelli waved his hand. 'Sit back down, Lord Waterford.' Waterford reluctantly did as he was told.
'Now I will tell you something in complete confidence. In less than a week, the Council of Ten will vote for whom they intend to support for the next Doge.'
'And you believe they will support you.'
'I know this for a fact.'
Lord Waterford nodded. 'I see. The dinner here last night. You had some of your Council peers to dine.'
Signor Maleovelli didn't respond.
Lord Waterford sighed. 'Very well. I understand now. You have extracted --' he drawled the last word '--promises from them. I hope for your sake they keep them.' He stood again. He bowed to Signor Maleovelli and, taking Giaconda's hand, kissed it lightly. 'All I ask, Signor Maleovelli, is that you think on what I say. My offer remains open. Let us say that if the vote does not go your way, and you change your mind, you know where to find me.'
Signor Maleovelli smiled. 'But I do not have the Estrattore.'
'I am sure, if you needed to, you could find her,' said Lord Waterford, staring at Signor Maleovelli. 'As has oft been remarked of late, you have an enviable capacity to reverse your fortunes.'
Giaconda stood between the two men, breaking their gaze. 'We will see you tomorrow then, Beolin.'
Lord Waterford shook his head. 'I do not think so, bella.'
Giaconda quickly dissembled.
With a courteous bow to both of them, he left the room, aware that behind his back, Giaconda was resisting the urge to turn to her father. She had thought him a puppet in her gloved hands. So had Signor Maleovelli. Well, perhaps tonight he had shown them a brief glimpse of what was in store for them should they continue to deny what he was certain was a fact. Tarlo Maleovelli was an Estrattore.
If they continued to say no to his offer, he knew that disappointment was the least of their worries.
EZZELINO MALEOVELLI COULD BARELY CONTAIN HIMSELF. He felt as giddy as a ragazzo when he first dons a togati and realises he's a man. The Council had voted -- a secret ballot collected by the most trusted of the capi's servants. Those votes had been counted and the Council of Ten was summoned. Never before had a gondola ride seemed so long.
Entering the chamber, Ezzelino worked hard to maintain an outward appearance of calm, if not measured indifference. Still, the knowing nods he received from Moronisini, Manin and even Nicolotti went a long way to assuring him that what was about to be announced was a mere formality only. His time had come.
Waiting until the three capi had taken their seats, he slid into his, resting his cane against the shining table that had been carved from a single trunk. The swirls and knots in the wood gleamed beneath the candles, which were themselves held aloft by a dozen gilt candleholders placed along the table at intervals. Beautiful glass ornaments and jewelled goblets sat atop an ornate lace runner, broken only by enormous golden bowls of ripe fruit and brimming decanters from which a servant poured vino. The walls were a series of dark panels, occasionally broken by a painting commemorating the Council's and capi's past, their faces interchangeable miens of sagging cheeks and hooded eyes behind which glowed state secrets. Shelf after shelf of files lined one wall, documents accrued by the Signori di Notte and which held, not only the financial details of every nobile in The Golden Book over the centuries, but information many a family would pay vast sums of soldi to ensure never left this room. Ezzelino sighed. All this would be his soon. He plucked at his shirtsleeves, buried as they were beneath the scarlet robe of his office. Anticipation made his heart beat quickly. Colour, which didn't come only from the heat of the room or the vino he swiftly swallowed, flushed his cheeks. He breathed deeply, his head bowed, his eyes barely open.
Ezzelino knew that what they were doing was very dangerous. Still, it had been done before. Every time a family line ended, the Council of Ten had stepped forward to represent the interests of their choice for the next Doge, ensured that bribes were given, promises exhorted. The smooth running and status of Serenissima depended on it. It was a pity that poisoning had been outlawed. Ever since an ancient Council banned the use of poisons -- evidence of it being used effectively disqualifying members of a casa from ever holding office -- the practice had ceased.
Rumours were that the Estrattore had been behind that ban. They'd grown weary of extracting toxic substances from members of the Doge's family. Ezzelino chuckled inwardly. Well, there was more than one way to bring down a Doge -- and a respected casa too. He studied the candle before him. Flickering gaily, it gave off a soft light, such a sweet scent. Who would ever suspect that something so common could be so deadly? A poison by any other name.
As the Council took their seats, murmuring quietly, drinking, breaking open a piece of fruit, exchanging nods, the Cardinale entered. Bowing to the Council, he too sat down, and in the chair opposite Ezzelino. He tipped his head towards him. Ezzelino curled his lips and nodded in greeting. In this chamber, not even the Cardinale received special privileges, or the acknowledgement due to his exalted rank. In here, he was subordinate to the Council's whim. Outside was a different matter; hence they needed his support, his approval of what they were about to do.
'Signori,' began Signor Nicolotti, rising to his feet. 'It's time to reveal your preferences, who we will support as Doge once Dandolo passes from this world. With all that has happened to his family, his health is not what it was. It's important that we start to sow the seeds for the next casa, the next man to hold the highest seat in the land, capite? You all understand?'
There were murmurs, nods of agreement.
Signor Nicolotti took a long drink of his vino. Ezzelino resisted the urge to down his. He wanted a clear head.
'Molto bene, Carlo,' said Signor Nicolotti sharply, snapping his fingers. The servant behind him stepped forward and placed a folded piece of paper in his hand. 'Before I reveal the outcome of this vote, I want us all to swear that we will do our utmost to support the person named herein: that we use our vast private resources to help him to power and ensure that Serenissima remains stable, strong and a nation to be reckoned with. Remember, Signori, war is brewing. We must be ready -- united we are formidable; fractured, someone else will pick up the pieces.'
Everyone made noises of agreement.
'We also know that the person named here has the support of Roma. Is this not so, your grace?'
'It is,' said the Cardinale. His eyes glinted. Ezzelino felt a mixture of elation and fear. He would make sure to work closely with this man and then, when the time was right, bring him to his knees.
Signor Nicolotti cleared his throat and opened the paper. His eyes dropped to the name and widened. Colour filled his cheeks. He gazed at the men around him.
Ezzelino leant forward eagerly.
'The next Doge will be ... Signor Tomasi Moronisini.'
There were gasps. Moronisini's mouth dropped open before he remembered where he was and whom he was among. He drew back his shoulders and stuck out his chest, a wave of red flooding his jowls. He stood up slowly, accepting slaps on the back and arms from those nearest to him.
At first Ezzelino did not hear what he was saying, so great was the deafening noise in his ears. What had happened? How had this gone wrong? Moronisini? The fool he'd manipulated into handing over almost half his wealth? The idioto who entered into whatever colleganza the Maleovellis proposed? This buffoon was to be the new Doge?
As Moronisini gave a speech about the honour he felt, how humbled he was and what he would do for Serenissima, Ezzelino studied the other Council members beneath his lashes. Why, Errizo had all but promised to vote for him, and likewise Manin; even Nicolotti had hinted that it was all but certain -- a foregone conclusion. But he had not been at the dinner the other night. He had cancelled at the last minute, a fever. He looked well enough now.
Ezzelino caught him watching his reaction and saw the smirk that twisted his lips. Fury almost lifted him out of his seat. He clenched and unclenched his hands. What about the Cardinale? Could he have swung the vote? The Cardinale sat back in his chair, a hand carelessly draped on the table, the other resting against his cross. He appeared to be hanging on Moronisini's every word, but Ezzelino saw his eyes flicker to catch everyone's response. He steeled his features. Cardinale Martino's eyes lingered on him for a moment, and he arched a fine brow. Ezzelino nodded and smiled and the Cardinale looked away. Yes. There was no doubt. The Cardinale had played an important role in this outcome. He chewed the inside of his mouth. He still didn't dare burn Tarlo's candles around him -- that was inviting too much danger.
But of all the men here, six had come to his casa, his table. Six had breathed the fumes, inhaled the power of the Estrattore. With his vote, that meant seven against four. The position should have been his! It should be him standing there now, receiving congratulations, thanking the Council, basking in the glow of their confidence, their trust, revelling in the power that all too soon would be Moronisini's. Now it had been snatched away.
Still, he thought, all was not lost. There was another move left -- another option available to him: Lord Waterford. He recalled Waterford's voice: 'You could name your price.' All he wanted, all Farrowfare wanted, was the Estrattore.
His price: Moronisini's head on a platter, the Cardinale's beside it, and the corno ducale firmly on his own head.
Suddenly Ezzelino didn't feel quite so bad. Suddenly the future again looked bright. Serenissima, his city, the country he loved above everything had betrayed him. He'd bled for this country, lost and won a fortune, and now it turned his back on him when he was in a position to save it. Well, he still would. But he would make it pay first. He would make them all pay, and if it meant using a foreign power to exact his revenge, so be it.
With a start he realised the speeches were over and the Council was breaking up for the night. Hands were being shaken, backs patted. The fools looked pleased with themselves.
'Maleovelli, amico.' Moronisini gripped his forearm. 'Grazie mille, grazie mille. Without your support, your faith in my enterprises, I doubt the others would have seen what I can do, how I can unite our country and stave off this war.'
Ezzelino tried not to let shock register on his face. He squeezed Signor Moronisini's arm in return. 'You deserve everything, amico mio. What you have now, and what's to come. Trust me.' He looked Signor Moronisini in the eye.
Signor Moronisini's fat face carved into a smile. 'I do, Maleovelli. I do. That's why I am where I am now.' He kissed Ezzelino warmly on both cheeks and then moved to receive tributes from the others.
Ezzelino was momentarily stunned. Then he began to laugh.
'What's so funny, Signor Maleovelli?' asked the Cardinale, breaking away from a conversation with Signor Nicolotti, who was talking fast and low to him.
'Nothing, your grace. I just think these are good times to be alive.'
'You think so? What, with an Estrattore on the loose and a foreign power breathing down our necks, threatening our trade, our allies and colonies? You have a strange view on life, Signor Maleovelli.'
'No, your grace, I have faith.'
The Cardinale stared at him intently. 'Then God be with you.'
'And also with you,' answered Ezzelino automatically and, taking leave of the capi, left the chamber.
It wasn't until he was tucked into the felze with an ermine-lined blanket wrapped around his legs that he replayed the events.
He was still puzzled by how the vote had gone against him. He'd all but taken their promises, empty as it now turned out. What had gone wrong? Then he thought of the candles. For months now, he'd trusted Tarlo to do what he told her. To infuse the candles with what he needed to ensure his climb to power. And she'd obeyed. She'd even done a bit of manipulating on her own. He hadn't cared; grief-stricken nobiles meant vulnerable ones. It had contributed to his cause in the end. He even admired her newfound ruthlessness. But had he grown careless? After all, he didn't know for sure if the candles worked until afterwards ... He'd always taken Tarlo's word for it and, to this point, she had not given him a single reason to doubt her.
Rage clenched his stomach as understanding dawned on him. There was only one person responsible for the outcome tonight. One person who manipulated the result. The Estrattore.
The little bitch had disobeyed him. It was her fault he hadn't got the vote. 'Puttana!' he hissed. He warned her -- months ago; he and Giaconda warned her what would happen if she broke the rules, if she thwarted their commands, their desires.
He banged on the ceiling of the felze. 'Faster, Salzi, faster.'
He began to plan how he could undo what had just happened. First he would get a message to Waterford, then he would think about what to do with Tarlo. Giaconda's fears were founded after all. Tarlo was more dangerous than he realised. He would not make that lapse in judgement again. At some time over the last few months, she'd stopped being afraid of him. Well, she would soon learn the meaning of fear -- and what it meant to double-cross the Maleovellis.
Snuggling back into the rug, he began to smile. The future really did seem bright after all.
'CAPTAIN SANSONO! WAIT,' cried a familiar voice. Exiting the basilica after taking confession, Captain Sansono paused at the font, the holy water still dripping from the ends of his fingers. Almost running towards him from under the south dome was Cardinale Martino. Heads turned at the spectacle the Cardinale made with his red togati flapping around his legs, his huge cross swaying across his chest and his hand clutching his cap to his skull.
In the few moments it took the Cardinale to reach him, Captain Sansono slipped on his gloves and tied his cape under his neck. A servant passed him his sword. By the time it was back in his scabbard, the Cardinale was at his side.
'Walk with me,' said the Cardinale, not even out of breath.
'Your grace,' said Sansono, puzzled as to why the Cardinale was seeking him out. He'd presented his last report only yesterday and they'd discussed it at some length. Sansono and the Signori di Notte had been very busy. Along with some of the Doge's best decoders, they'd been translating correspondence between the Ottomans and the Jinoans, intercepted by spies in Roma only a few days earlier. War was brewing, but all the Cardinale seemed to focus on was the fact they'd still not found the Estrattore. Sansono assumed the Cardinale would ease back on the search and concentrate on the threat the heathens -- never mind the Jinoans and Kyprians -- posed, but he'd been wrong. The Cardinale had insisted on recruiting more men to question the popolani and even infiltrate the various scuola in the Dorsoduro Sestiere. Sansono thought it a waste of time and resources, but he didn't argue. No-one could argue with the Cardinale. The last man who tried disappeared less than twenty-four hours later and hadn't been seen since.
They exited the basilica together, stepping out into the piazza. A bitter wind blew in from the north, sweeping their robes around them. Sansono caught his breath, clutching his cape together, grateful for the marten-fur lining in his gloves.
'Sansono, I've been thinking,' said the Cardinale. 'And, as you know, when I do this, it often means more work for you and your men, no?'
'Sì, your grace.'
'Bene. I know you and the Signori have been active day and night to find our little Estrattore, and I of all people know and appreciate the lengths to which you have gone on Serenissima's and the Church's behalf.' A few steps away from the basilica, the Cardinale stopped in his tracks and turned to face the Captain. 'You have done well, Captain Sansono.'
Sansono knew what was expected of him, 'Grazie mille, your grace, you're too kind.'
'Ah, is it not God who said the way to enter His kingdom is through benevolence?' He crossed himself.
Sansono also made the sign rapidly across his chest and then waited. The Cardinale's features twisted as if he was in great pain.
'But, my dear Captain Sansono, despite doing your best, your very, very best, it has not been enough. Still the Estrattore eludes capture, still the talk of the "old ways" reaches my ears. I don't like this.' He shook his head. 'Not at all.'
Captain Sansono knew better than to reply.
'So, I thought about what you could do to turn my displeasure which, as you know, is but small compared to the displeasure of the Great Patriarch, into a different and more satisfactory emotion. And I came up with a new avenue of inquiry.'
'Your grace? I would be most pleased to know what that might be.'
'Ah, I thought you would.' The Cardinale moved closer and draped a heavy arm across Captain Sansono's shoulders. He began walking again. 'I have a job for you, Sansono, and you alone. Capisce?' He didn't wait for a response. 'I want you to look into the affairs of a nobile named Ezzelino Maleovelli.'
'Signorina Dorata's guardian?'
'The very one. I want you to find out how he has risen to power quite so quickly; where his wealth has come from. A little over a year ago, I had not heard of him or his ward. Now they are everywhere. He has his long fingers sunk deep into many affairs, many enterprises. I want to know how and why. I also want to know about his friendship with this foreign ambassador -- the one from Farrowfare.'
'Lord Waterford.'
'Sì. I want to know if it extends beyond the lord enjoying the services of Maleovelli's ... daughters.' The Cardinale crossed himself again. Knowing it was expected of him, Sansono did the same.
'It will be done, your grace.'
'Of course it will be, Sansono, of course it will be.' The Cardinale removed his arm and held out his hand.
Captain Sansono took it and lowered his head, planting his lips against the great ring of the Cardinale's office. The jewel was even colder than his chattering lips. He was officially dismissed.
'Your grace,' he murmured and went to take his leave. He'd managed two steps when the Cardinale called to him. 'Only ... Sansono?'
'Sì, your grace?' The captain paused. A dove flew over his head, forcing him to duck slightly.
'When you give me your report, which I expect in one week, I do not want to find out that a copy has also gone to the Council of Ten. If I do, I will be more than displeased.'
Captain Sansono swallowed. 'I understand, your grace.'
'I thought you might,' said the Cardinale, beaming at him. With a swirl of red, he turned and disappeared back into the basilica, leaving Sansono standing in the piazza.
As he watched the people scurrying past, their heads bowed, moving as fast as they could to escape the icy winds, it occurred to him that the cold gripping his chest far outweighed that caused by the wind whistling through his clothes.
THE QUESTIONING CRY OF AN OWL broke the silence. Father Morrison ducked as the grey form swooped out of the shadows, winged over his head and past the flaming torches near the main gate to be swallowed by the night. With his heart thumping in his ears, the portly monk gathered up his cassock and scurried through the sorry excuse for gardens. He hesitated at the edge of the wall and then hurried across the open space, fumbled with the lock on the old wooden door and tumbled into the storeroom. As instructed, he left the door slightly ajar.
He counted to three slowly, drawing deep breaths, and then poked his head around the door, peering across the bailey.
From where he was, the noise of the kitchens could just be discerned. The lights of the chapel flickered through thick garden foliage. He made sure the pages lit scores of candles tonight; they would draw the eye and make it difficult to penetrate the dark; to detect movement outside. Raising his eyes towards the upper storeys of the keep, the main part of the castle, he could see the warm glow of burning hearths and candles in the windows. Above those, armed guards marched along the battlements, their pace brisk, their heads turned towards the outer walls, oblivious to his mad dash beneath them. He was safe. For now.
He withdrew back inside the doorway, relief replacing his anxiety. At least the wind couldn't bite at him in here. He watched the little darts of snow fall to the ground, an angled rain of silver arrows against the night. They glimmered in the light of the torches illuminating the main gates at the end of the courtyard. It was eerily beautiful. Nature was playing her role tonight. Maybe the gods were on their side after all.
The weary soldiers disappeared into one of the many towers that rose above the parapets, emerging from the other side seconds later. It wouldn't be long before they passed above him, heading to the guard house and preparing for the change of watch. If the others didn't arrive soon, their chance to share the latest information would be lost. Damn them! Where were they? Not even his woollen robes and furlined gloves could keep the bitter cold from penetrating his bones, causing him to shiver uncontrollably. His thoughts wandered to the mulled wine and blazing fire he knew awaited him just a few hundred feet away in his rooms at the back of the chapel. Instead of enjoying those, here he was, playing dangerous games in the dark. But they had to know, didn't they? Before they could go ahead with their plans, they had to be certain. Courage flickered like a candle, almost deserting him. If they should be discovered ... He poked his head around the door again.
'Morrison,' said a voice in his ear.
Father Morrison jumped. His hand gripped his chest as if to stop his heart exploding through his rib cage, and he fell back into the room and against the interior wall.
At the same time, a large figure darted through the door, pushing it wide open. A gust of wind-driven snow followed.
'By the gods!' panted Father Morrison. The figure flung back his hood and brushed off the sleet that had settled on his cape. Father Morrison was relieved to see the familiar silhouette of Earl Farwarn's features. 'You startled me, your grace, I-- I didn't see you.'
'That's the idea, isn't it?' whispered the earl. He glanced around the storeroom, wrinkling his nose at the musty smell of rats and rotting fruit. He was about to shut the door when a thought stopped him. 'Where's Kay?'
'Here,' said another voice. The two men spun at the sound.
This time, Father Morrison did cry out. The sound was whipped out the room and cut through the night, echoing across the bailey. Earl Farwarn put a finger to his lips and crossed to the door.
High above them, there was a scrape of metal as the guards leant over the parapet.
'What was that?' asked one, his voice carrying clearly.
Earl Farwarn froze, his hand on the latch. Father Morrison held his breath.
'What was what?' The second guard joined him.
'That noise ...'
'What noise?'
All Father Morrison could hear was the sound of his breathing in his ears.
'Nothing,' said the first voice, finally. 'Just thought I heard something.'
'You're always hearing something.' There was the dull thud of boots. 'Come on, let's get ourselves before a fire. Our watch is finished and none too soon. That sleet sticks to you like a needy woman.'
'It's freezing tonight.'
'Since when is that different from any other night?'
There were gruff noises of agreement, more footsteps and then the sound of a door being unlocked and opened. Distant voices protested briefly before the door closed and the world was quiet once more.
'That was close,' hissed the earl and shut the door firmly but soundlessly, pressing his back against it and releasing his breath in one long exhalation.
The earl and Father Morrison peered into the darkness of the room. A small window admitted a thin sliver of light. As their eyes grew accustomed, they could see the outline of a man sitting on a barrel. His head was in his hands, his shoulders slumped.
'Sir Kay! You scared me witless,' accused Father Morrison, tiptoeing towards him. 'How long were you hiding there?'
'Long enough to consider what it is we do.' Sir Kay's voice was dull.
'When did you get back?'
'Over an hour ago by my reckoning, father. I came straight here. I wasn't ready to face anyone ... not yet. Not after what I witnessed ...'
Father Morrison became aware that the ripe smell assailing his nostrils was not from the supplies stored in this room alone. Sir Kay had ridden hard and it was clear dread had driven him.
'Out with it then, son,' said Farwarn softly, joining the father by Sir Kay's side. 'The guards daren't linger too long between watches. Only enough to share a drink and exchange news.' We have but a few minutes. Let's not waste them.' He perched himself on another barrel beside Sir Kay and caught a glimpse of the knight's face. He inhaled sharply and looked at Father Morrison, his eyebrows raised.
'So, James,' urged Father Morrison, 'what did you see? What can you tell us? Are our fears well founded?'
At first the knight said nothing; his chin fell towards his chest, his eyes stayed lowered. 'Come on, man,' urged the earl. 'What did you find out? Is it as we suspected?'
'No,' said Sir Kay, lifting his face. Even in the sickly light, Father Morrison could see that horror had recast the young man's features. Darkness ringed his eyes and his cheeks looked hollow. His hair was unkempt and his clothing torn. 'It's much, much worse.'
'Tell us, James,' he asked softly.
Sir Kay looked at both men and seemed to shake himself, find an inner resolve. He took a deep breath and let it out in one long hiss. 'I did as you instructed me, your grace. I went to the White Cliffs, right to the point where the Limen is in clear view and the markers you mentioned were apparent. I rode Bessy hard, too hard.' He bit his lip. 'I hid among the ancient barrows there, out of sight and, as ordered, waited. For three days I waited in the cold and snow and nothing happened. I saw no-one; nothing, only the strange, undulating silverness of the Limen. I thought we were wasting our time. That the reports you'd received were false. I was preparing to return. But you'd said to remain five days. Fortunate you did, your grace. For on the fourth day everything changed --' He hesitated.
'Go on,' said the earl.
'Just on dusk, they came.'
'Who?'
Sir Kay spoke so quietly, at first Father Morrison thought he'd misheard. But the chill that swept through his body told him he hadn't.
'Morte Whisperers.'
Earl Farwarn whistled through his teeth. 'I knew it. My informants were right.'
'Oh yes,' agreed Sir Kay. 'They came across the channel on a bed of mist, like they were floating above the water.' He shuddered. 'There were hundreds, I tell you. I have never seen so many. I wanted to run, to get away from there and never return. But I didn't, your grace. I knew that if things were to change, if we were to act, then we had to know. So I stayed. Gods help me. I stayed.' He began to shudder. Deep convulsions made it difficult for him to stay seated, let alone continue with his story.
The earl leapt to his feet, unclasped his cape and threw it around Sir Kay's shoulders, his hands clasping it in place, holding the knight still. Sir Kay gripped it gratefully, but tremors continued to wrack his frame.
'What happened then?' asked Father Morrison, his beads twisted in his fingers.
'Nothing at first. I watched and listened. They gathered at the edge of the cliffs, like they too were waiting. And then the shepherd came ...'
'What shepherd?' The earl glanced at Father Morrison, who shrugged.
'A young boy who ... who must have stumbled upon them. I don't know who he was. He mustn't have seen them, mustn't have felt them. He was too busy chasing a lamb that gambolled far from its mother. When they saw him, they ... they ...' He paused, his mouth agape in memory, his eyes black pools of emptiness, the words unable to be spoken.
'They did what, James?' Father Morrison squatted before the knight, his knees creaking with the effort. He took the young man's hands in his own and squeezed them, willing him the strength to continue. 'What did they do?'
'At first they hovered around him in the way that they do, poking him, prodding, laughing as he screamed and begged for mercy. I saw their leering mouths, I heard that awful keening they make. Every time they touched the boy ... his pain ...' He shook his head in misery at the memory.
The father and the earl exchanged a long look.
'But that wasn't the worst.' Sir Kay raised his eyes to the ceiling. 'They hadn't been at it long when, from behind me, she came. I mean, Her Majesty, Queen Zaralina -- she arrived. She was alone. All in white, she was on that strange horse of hers and I thought, good, at last, she will make them stop, she will save the boy ...' He chewed his lip.
'And ...' said Earl Farwarn.
He looked from the earl to the father and back again. 'And, as soon as they saw her, they ceased their godsforsaken song and parted to let her through. She dismounted and went into their midst. The poor boy, he threw himself at her, wrapped himself around her knees and wouldn't let go. She reached down, stroked his hair, and spoke softly to him. At first, I couldn't hear what she was saying, but he seemed to calm and I thought, good. But then, I noticed that with every touch of her hand, the boy seemed to change. Not only that, but a Morte Whisperer would detach itself from the circle and come forward, approach the Queen. It looked like they were kissing her hand, offering obeisance. The boy had gone all silent and pale -- by the gods, so pale. With every stroke of her fingers, he seemed to diminish, to fade. Then, I knew what she was doing. Bit by bit, she was taking the boy's life-force and feeding it to the Morte Whisperers.' He brought Father Morrison's hands to his chest, almost unbalancing him.
'Father, there was nothing I could do. I realised too late what was happening. I watched that poor boy die, a shrivelled, shrunken version of his self. Condemned to hell because I was a coward. She took his soul. She gave it to those ... those creatures, and damned him forever.'
The earl removed his arms and Father Morrison reached over and held Sir Kay as he fought back the tears. 'It's not your fault, James. There was nothing you could have done. To act would have put your life at risk and then you wouldn't have been able to deliver this ... information to us.'
'What did the queen do after she had ... fed her pets?' growled the earl.
Sir Kay swallowed. 'She ... she spoke to them, your grace. She told them how much she loved them and how, one day soon they would be free. Then, she clapped her hands and ... and ...'
'Gods. There's more?' Father Morrison's voice was faint.
'Shazet appeared.'
The earl hissed.
Sir Kay continued. 'He brought with him dozens of children. Dozens! I do not know who they were or whence they came. But they were tired, ragged and looked so terribly afraid.'
'Gods save us!' exclaimed Father Morrison and, letting go of Sir Kay, rose to his feet and began to pace. 'This is worse then we thought.'
'The ... queen moved among them, touching each of the children and inviting those creatures to come forward. The Morte Whisperers fed upon them, all of them -- they took the children's souls. The sound ... I can't shut it out. Even now, I can hear it. But I forced myself to watch. With each child, the creatures grew more solid, more real. I could feel their power growing, the fear they emanated.' He rubbed his face, as if to wipe away the remembrance. 'When it was all over, the queen bade them return to the Limen until she called them forth again. She said something about Bond Riders, but I didn't catch it all. I'm sorry.' He released a juddering sigh. 'I waited till Her Majesty and Shazet were gone, retrieved Bessy, and rode back here as quickly as I could. That's it. That's all I have to report.'
'It is enough,' said the earl gravely and patted Sir Kay on the back. 'I asked a great deal of you, James -- you put yourself and your family at enormous risk for our cause. I won't forget that. You have done well. It's not your fault those children were taken. It's a ruler's moral obligation to care for her people. Our queen has shown where her allegiance lies and it's as we have long suspected. It's not with us.' He folded his arms and gazed out the window. The snow was falling thick and fast now.
'We have to accelerate our plans, Farwarn,' said Father Morrison, joining him. 'This ... this sacrilege can't be allowed to continue. She'll damn us all with her ways. All the unexplained disappearances, the reports from the villages near the Limen -- this is not a chance encounter, your grace. This is part of a bigger plan -- one to which we're not privy. We have to act --'
'We will,' snapped the earl and spun to glare at the father. Father Morrison took a step back. 'We will,' said the earl more softly. 'Once news of this travesty spreads, more will come to our side. Whatever it is the queen intends, it does not bode well for us. She must be stopped.'
'How?' asked Sir Kay. He regarded them both gravely. 'Have you not heard what I said? With a simple touch, she can take people's souls from their bodies. How can we possibly hope to resist her?' He caught his head in his hands again. 'We're all dead, I tell you. Condemned.'
'Sir Kay!' barked Earl Farwarn. Sir Kay's head flew up. 'You're a knight of Albion, one charged with protecting the lands and the people. Show some backbone! Throughout history, we've been both conqueror and conquered -- we don't pick our battles according to what the outcome will be. We simply fight them. We owe it to the people who trust us to care for them to fight this one too -- no matter what the cost.' He hauled Sir Kay to his feet. 'You might be right,' he said, pushing his face into the knight's. 'We might all die; our sorcerer queen may rip our souls from our bodies, but that doesn't mean we don't fight. It doesn't mean we give up and roll over on our backs like a frightened puppy.' He pushed Sir Kay away in disgust and turned back to the window.
Sir Kay staggered and found his footing. Father Morrison stared at his beads.
'You're right, your grace. I am sorry. What I saw --'
'Would unsettle the most seasoned of warriors, son,' said the earl. 'You're only human.'
'Unlike our queen,' added Father Morrison dryly.
'Indeed,' said the earl. He spun on his heel and faced them. 'Which is why we will stick to our original plan. We will use whatever is in our power to bring the queen to her knees, to end her unholy reign.'
'What about you, your grace?' said Father Morrison. 'We know your venture to the Ottomans was ... as the queen desired. But how are you? Have you been ... restored yet?'
'You mean, has Her Majesty seen fit to return my soul after sending me through the Limen?'
Father Morrison reached out and pressed his gloved hand against the earl's broad chest.
'It's all right, father,' said Earl Farwarn, gently lifting the father's hand away. 'I'm a fortunate man. The part she has taken, she has returned. I am again whole; unlike some. Unlike those poor children ...'
A noise from another part of the castle startled them.
'We've spent too long conferring,' said the earl, snapping back to attention. 'But now we have the proof that has eluded us and our motivation for the sin we are about to commit.'
'Sin?' asked Sir Kay.
'Yes, my son.' Father Morrison spoke gravely. 'Treason is a sin in the gods' eyes.'
'As is taking someone's soul,' added the earl. He drew closer to the others. 'Here's what we do. Let our allies know about this abominable act. Tell them to stay strong, to warn the villagers to keep their children safe.' Light filled the room as the clouds parted and the moon shone. 'We need to recruit more to our cause. Perhaps we need to look into what these Bond Riders we know so little about have to do with all this.'
'It's stopped snowing,' said Father Morrison. He looked from the earl to Sir Kay and beamed. 'It's a sign. The gods have heard us.' He worried his beads again.
'So long as it's only the gods,' said the earl softly. 'You will send a missive to Waterford? Tell him what has occurred?' he asked, tying his cape under his chin and pulling the hood over his forehead.
'I will make sure he knows what is going on. What instructions do you want me to give him?'
The earl thought for a moment. 'None at present. Just keep him informed. He knows what to do. The part he must play.'
Father Morrison took the cape from Sir Kay's shoulders and draped it back over the earl's. 'You can do without having to explain why you're wearing the earl's wardrobe.' He smiled at Sir Kay.
'What about the Estrattore? Where does she figure in all this? The queen is so desperate to have her brought here,' said Sir Kay.
'Somehow, I just know she's the key to all this. We need to work out how to unlock her purpose.' The earl's eyes glinted beneath his hood. 'I am hoping Waterford can help us there. For the time being, he's the only one in the position to do so.'
'He understands that,' said Father Morrison.
'He'd better.'
Sir Kay slowly lifted the latch and opened the door. 'When will we three meet again?'
'Look to the chapel for the usual signal,' said the earl. 'For now, lie low and, above all else, show your queen your fealty. We cannot raise her suspicion.'
'Or Shazet's,' added Sir Kay.
'Gods, no!' Raising his hand in farewell, the earl first peered around the door before disappearing into the night. With one last shake of Father Morrison's hand, Sir Kay followed, sticking to the shadows under the parapet walls, heading for the stables.
Father Morrison waited a moment and then stepped outside and as quietly as he could secured the storage room door. He looked right then left and ran as fast as his fat legs could carry him into the garden, moving off the main path, fumbling through the overgrown sections to the side. Just as he disappeared around a large clump of fruit trees, the guard house doors swung open and the soldiers spilled onto the rampart.
Not wasting a moment, he put his head down and raced to the chapel, praying that the gods and the tangle of branches and bushes would keep him hidden.
HIGH ABOVE THE GARDENS, comfortable in the warmth of his bedroom, snug in this long nightgown and cap, Claudio pushed his nose up against the window and watched the moon rise. He kept wiping away the steam that obscured the glass so he could see what was going on outside. There were people out there, and as the moon came out from behind a thick bank of clouds and cast its radiant light, he was astonished to see three of them leave the old storage room one after the other and dash in different directions. He wriggled around on the window seat to try to gain better vantage.
It was such a cold night and it struck him as very unusual that Father Morrison, a man that he knew loved his warm chamber, and more than a man of the gods should, was out in the darkness. But stranger still were the other two who had clearly been with the father. What was going on? What were they meeting about so late at night and in a part of the castle that nobles, let alone a man of the cloth, never had cause to visit? While Claudio was uncertain who the first man out of the room was, he was sure the lean-looking man who departed immediately after him was Sir Kay. He liked him. For some reason, Sir Kay reminded him of his papa.
Claudio bit his lip as a pain shot through his head. He pressed his forehead against the cold glass. He knew he wasn't supposed to talk about his family back in Serenissima, let alone think of them. Another needle-like pain went through his skull. But it was so ... so hard not to.
Tears gathered in his eyes and he squeezed them shut, forcing himself to push aside thoughts of his mamma and papa, his old nursery at the palazzo -- the warmth of the sun, the dazzling light, the jade-coloured water -- and to think of Sir Kay here in snowbound Albion, the great city, in the wonderful country of Farrowfare. The pain eased and Claudio exhaled in relief and opened his eyes. He glanced over his shoulder and into the darkness of the rooms beyond. He could just see the outline of Lady Mary, bundled under the covers and hear the soft sound of her breathing. She slumbered on. Eagerly, he looked outside again. There was no sign of Sir Kay.
The young knight had, a few weeks ago now, promised to show him a trick or two with his pony. But then he'd disappeared, sent on a mission for Earl Farwarn, one of the stable hands had said when he asked. Evidently he'd returned. Claudio was pleased, but it wasn't good that he was out in the bailey at night. Zaralina had forbidden that. Claudio frowned. No-one was to wander the castle at night -- only the soldiers who were charged with protecting them all -- like the ones he could see now, marching across the walkway, their spears at the ready. Zaralina did terrible things to those who disobeyed her, and Claudio didn't want Sir Kay to feel her wrath. But why had Father Morrison and Sir Kay risked her anger, never mind the other man? What were they doing?
Claudio wiped a circle in the glass with his sleeve, pushed his face up against it and twisted his neck so he could see better. He shivered as the frost outside ate into his skin. He wrapped his arms around his body. It was unusually bitter tonight, even for Farrowfare. He tried to penetrate the shadows below. For a second he couldn't find Father Morrison and assumed he must have returned to the chapel. He was about to give up when the bushes stirred. He glanced up at the peripatetic guards. They were in the wrong position to see, thank goodness. Father Morrison bolted from under cover and up the chapel steps. Claudio laughed as the old man tripped and fell against the door in his eagerness to be inside. The chubby priest looked over both shoulders and then squeezed through the gap, closing the door hastily behind him. Claudio chuckled again. The fat father had outwitted Zaralina, and this pleased him.
'What's so funny, Claudio?' asked a familiar voice.
Too late, Claudio understood that the cold he felt, the uncanny pressure in his head, wasn't coming only from outside. He spun round and quickly slid off the window seat, standing to attention as he'd been taught.
'Nothing, Shazet,' he said, glad the creature could not see the high spots of colour that he knew were staining his cheeks.
'Nothing? Humans don't normally laugh at nothing.' Shazet's tone made the hair on Claudio's arms stand on end. The Morte Whisperer detached himself from the dark space near the fire and drew closer. Claudio willed Lady Mary to wake. 'What was it, Claudio? Tell me.'
'It was a ... a ... a bat,' said Claudio, astonished at how easily the lie bounced off his tongue.
'A bat?'
'Sì ... I mean, yes. A fat little bat. It hit a tree and became tangled in the branches. It was very funny.'
'Really?' Shazet glided past Claudio, brushing against the boy as he did. Claudio recoiled as if he'd been slapped.
Shazet leant forward and gazed out the window. 'I do not see a tangled bat out there, princeling. Come, show me your bat.'
Reluctantly, Claudio came to the window and pointed to the biggest fruit tree in the garden. An apple tree that for years had failed to produce anything but a few shrivelled lumps. 'It's there.'
Without turning, Shazet spoke again. 'No, my prince. Come closer, come up beside me and point to exactly where the bat was lodged.'
Claudio bit his lip, bracing himself. Slowly, he climbed onto the window seat, being careful not let any part of him touch the creature. He gazed out the window earnestly. What could he do? What could he say? Then it occurred to him.
'It was there, Shazet. On the third branch from the top. See? The one that forks towards this window.' Detail. If you want to sound convincing, you must give detail, but not too much. It was all a matter of balance. He'd heard Sir Kay say that only two weeks ago.
'Really? And where is it now?'
Claudio's mind raced. He had to be so careful. If he wasn't, whatever he said next could hurt Father Morrison, and he didn't want to do that. Worse, it could mean something dreadful happened to Sir Kay, and he was his friend. For the first time since being in Farrowfare, Claudio did something he'd never done before. He deliberately subverted Queen Zaralina's wishes.
He cleared his mind of all thought and raised his face to Shazet's and, his brown eyes wide, answered. 'Why, I don't know, Shazet. It must have freed itself and flown away.'
Shazet stared into the child's eyes. Claudio forced himself not to flinch; not to turn away. His lips and hands began to go numb. His body began to shake.
The fire crackled. Lady Mary slept on.
'Hmmmm.' Shazet drifted away from the window. 'Your little bat best enjoy its freedom while it can, for there is nowhere in Farrowfare it can fly that is completely safe.'
With one last look at Claudio, the Morte Whisperer shimmered and, in a whirl of vapour, disappeared.
Claudio let out his breath. His heart was beating so fast it hurt. He stared at the spot where Shazet had been and his eyes narrowed. Turning, he threw himself against the window, his palms firm against the glass. 'You're wrong, Shazet. I know you are. There's always a safe place -- you just have to look hard to find it,' he whispered, his words turning the glass opaque, imprinting themselves against the dark.
AS SOON AS I ENTERED THE STUDY, I could tell something was afoot. Signor Maleovelli reclined in the seat behind his desk, puffing away as was his custom on his wretched pipe, the smell of which I had grown to loathe. Sitting in the chairs before him were Giaconda and Jacopo. Neither met my eyes as I sank into a curtsy and greeted them. The fire burned low in the grate and the candles had been reduced to deformed stumps. A long conversation had taken place in this room. I knew that Lord Waterford had only just departed. I had heard Salzi calling for his gondolier.
My heart began to thump and, despite the cool, I felt a trickle of sweat slide its way between my shoulder blades. I waited for Signor Maleovelli's invitation to sit. It was not forthcoming. I stood in front of him, Giaconda to my right and Jacopo where I didn't like him -- behind me. I could feel his eyes staring, probing like fingers. I lifted my chin.
'You called me, Signor?'
'How long have you been with us now, Tarlo?' began Signor Maleovelli.
Taken aback by the question, I did a quick calculation. I came to Casa Malevoelli in autumn last year. It was now winter. 'I believe it would be well over a year ago, Signor.'
'And, during this time, have we done anything other than what we promised?'
'Signor?' I didn't understand.
'Have we not educated you, introduced you to society, asked you to make your candles to help us achieve great power so that, in turn, we might help you?'
'Sì, Signor.' I resisted the urge to look at Giaconda. What was going on?
'Our plans, our colleganza, which you signed and of which I have a copy here --' He pulled a piece of yellow parchment out from under the pile in front of him and slid it across his desk. I looked down at the agreement. My signature was a crude cross at the bottom beside Signor Maleovelli's elegant flourish. 'Clearly states that you will work for us towards a common goal: bringing the Maleovellis to power in Serenissima, sì?'
'Sì.'
'Don't just parrot me, read it,' he said, jabbing his finger into the centre of the document.
I quickly read the contents -- something I could do with ease.
'Sì, this is our agreement, Signor,' I said cautiously.
'Molto bene. We have concord.'
He sat forward suddenly, his fingers intertwined, eyes fixed on my face. 'And you have always worked towards this, have you, Tarlo? At no time have you broken or undermined our pact? Our signed business arrangement?'
'No, Signor. Of course not.' I was proud of the way I held his eyes, that my voice was so steady.
'For, if you have, if you ever did, then everything we have agreed upon becomes void, capisce?'
'That is what I signed, sì Signor.'
He kept his eyes locked on mine for a few seconds longer and rolled the agreement back up, closing it with a fresh wax seal. There was a movement at the rear. Giaconda had left her chair. She went behind the desk and stood beside her father, her hand resting on his shoulder. He reached up and twisted his fingers through hers. Giaconda stared at me, her eyes dark and unfathomable in the dim light, her face a forbidding landscape.
'Bene,' said Signor Maleovelli. 'The time has come to grasp the power that, together, we have been working towards, Tarlo. Whereas we have been cautious until now, events are moving and, as a consequence, we must act swiftly.'
He put down his pipe. It teetered on the edge of a porcelain dish, the smoke rising in a small cloud.
'You are to make a candle, Tarlo. A special candle that you are to deliver to the Doge during your next assignation at the Palazzo. When is that exactly?' he asked Giaconda.
'Next week, Papa. The ball that marks the beginning of Carnivale.'
'Ah,' said Signor Maleovelli. 'Then it is fitting, is it not? Last year, we used the same function to introduce you to the Doge. Only this time, when you meet him, you will kill him.'
It took me a moment to register what had just been said. 'Kill him? The Doge? But ...'
'You can't?' Signor Ezzelino brushed away Giaconda's hand and stood up. He hammered his fist onto his desk. I jumped. 'Don't give me that! I know you have killed before now! Save me your precious semantics -- your candles killed. It's the same thing, is it not? You made sure the four men who raped you would never do that to anyone else ever again, didn't you? Do you think we didn't notice? That your attempts at revenge were lost on us?' He studied my face. I tried not to give anything away.
'You did, didn't you?' He laughed. 'Well, Tarlo, those men only died or left Serenissima because we let them. We allowed it to happen.'
'Let them? Allowed?' I said through gritted teeth. 'You let them violate me, allowed that to happen and then you did nothing. Nothing.' My eyes became glassy. I fought back the tears. I would not cry. I would not show my emotions. Not in front of these people.
'You are a courtesan. Your client's desires are therefore yours. They are ours as well. Let is a word that does not exist in a courtesan's vocabulary. Not even you can control desire once it is unleashed; on the contrary, as a courtesan you cater to it, whatever form it takes. But sì, we did not stop them either. That is not our way. You learnt this, Tarlo, and it was a good lesson for you.'
Good? I clenched my hands into fists.
'Yet you still have not learnt, have you? Despite being so clever, so talented. Everything you do in this casa is watched, reported back to me. I know exactly what you're doing and when you're doing it -- from your morning wash to what goes on in the workshop, to what you whisper into the ears of the men who adore you, who seek your services night after night after night.' He locked his eyes onto mine, those deep-set yellow eyes that were so cold, so lacking in humanity. I felt my knees begin to tremble.
Don't Tallow, don't, I said to myself. I longed to extract from the hard surfaces in the room, draw their strength and solidity into me now, when I needed it most. I must not crumble.
As much as I wanted to tear my eyes away, I would not. I looked at first Signor Maleovelli and then Giaconda, met their gaze. I took a deep breath and exhaled. The candles spat, the pipe smouldered. In the grate, the embers coughed. I heard Jacopo shift in his chair behind me.
'I will not kill the Doge for you, Signor Maleovelli. If I do, then I will be exposed and that will make the contract you obligingly showed me redundant. It will make everything I have done, everything I have risked, irrelevant. Therefore, in order to preserve our colleganza, I refuse to do what you ask of me. There must be another way.'
'Refuse?' His voice was as chilly as the ice that coated the canal.
'Sì.'
Both Signor Maleovelli and Giaconda began to laugh. Behind me, Jacopo chuckled. I wanted to swing round and slap the smug look I knew would be there from his face. How dare they laugh.
'You cannot make me,' I persisted. 'And, if you try, you will only uncover me and therefore yourselves.'
'Jacopo,' said Signor Maleovelli, waving his hands.
Jacopo leapt to his feet with a swiftness I didn't think his deformity would allow and, before I could stop him, grasped my wrists and pulled my hands behind my back.
'What are you doing? Release me at once!'
He clamped his huge, sweaty palm over my mouth.
'Let's go,' said Signor Maleovelli, rising and leading the way out of the room. Jacopo wrestled me out the doorway. Giaconda followed. She stooped towards me as I was forced into the corridor.
'You're a fool, Tarlo,' she said.
I had no idea where we were going as I was pushed and pulled, Jacopo taking pleasure in my stumbles and muted cries as we went down the stairs and into the area reserved for business. Lit only by the candles carried by Signor Maleovelli and Giaconda, it was difficult to see where we were going. At first I thought they were going to throw me in a gondola, but we went through a doorway near the water-gates and down another flight of stairs, ones I never even knew existed.
They twisted around sharply and I could smell centuries of damp. In the pale light, I could see the moss and lichen growing between the cracked stones, spreading like a canker over the walls. What was this place?
Finally, after spending what seemed like minutes descending, we stopped. Signor Maleovelli stood beside an enormous, ancient door. He drew a key out of his pocket and passed it to Giaconda. He held the candle close and she placed the key in and turned it. The door opened quietly and I knew then that, wherever they were taking me, it was a place they used frequently. The key was not rusted, the hinges oiled.
The door opened onto a corridor. A frigid wind greeted us and I shivered. The cold was like a barrier we had to pass through. I began to shake. My heart felt like it was going to jump out of my chest. Jacopo's breathing was harsh in my ears while my own strained in my throat. I could feel his stubble pressed against my cheek, the way he used this opportunity to press himself against me even though I had stopped resisting long before.
A light flickered at the end. As we stepped in, Signor Maleovelli used his candle to light a torch that sat in a sconce above us. He lifted it down.
'Take her to him,' he said gruffly.
Him?
Jacopo grunted and pushed me towards the light. We passed what appeared to be cells, their iron bars sparkling in the flame of the torch. They were all empty.
At the end of the corridor, Jacopo stopped and then, with cruel force, slammed me into the railings, pushing against the back of my head so my face was pressed against their algific hardness.
It took me a moment to register what I was seeing.
In the small, freezing cell was a dark shape. It was curled over on what appeared to be a large bed of straw. The smell was dreadful -- a mixture of urine, faeces and sweat. I coughed and tried to breathe through my mouth.
'Do you know who this is, Tarlo?'
I stared and blinked. 'No,' I said, my voice cracking.
'Tallow?' said another deeper and familiar voice.
I caught my breath. No.
I saw Signor Maleovelli make a gesture with his hand and the pressure on the back of my head went away. I tried to see through the darkness. Signor Maleovelli stood beside me, his torch held high. The gleam from it radiated into the cell.
Rising from the straw, the shape detached itself from the shadows and slowly lumbered towards us. The light hit its face and it threw up an arm to protect its eyes. I saw through the dirt, the clothes that were mere shreds, the food and other stains that covered almost every inch. Then the hand fell away and I had no doubt. A pair of faded blue eyes in a face ravaged by sores and scabs blinked lovingly into my own.
No. No. No. No.
'Pillar?' I said disbelievingly. I reached for him.
'Tallow,' he sighed. His voice unpractised, hoarse. He did not move.
'Hold her!' snapped Maleovelli.
Jacopo grabbed my hands, banging them into the bars as he wrenched them behind my back. I did not give him the pleasure of knowing the pain he caused me.
'Oh, God, Pillar!' I said softly, 'What have they done to you?'
Pillar stumbled closer and I heard the splash of water, but he did not come within reach. He'd been told what to do. I could feel that now. He did not say a word. He just stared. He looked me straight in the eyes and, in that moment, I used every ounce of my talent and, resting my cheek against the iron that I now knew he too had held, plunged into his soul.
I saw pain, fear and, above all, guilt. Guilt over me. I felt the agony of his indecision, of his restlessness once I had gone. He did not know what to do, where to go. The Signori were coming; the Cardinale. He could not, would not betray me, but he was afraid he would not be strong enough to withstand their punishment. He drank and waited. Inert. Terrified. Then I saw Baroque. Baroque had persuaded Pillar to come with him; Pillar had believed him when he said he knew were I was, that I was safe. He promised to bring Pillar to me. And, cruelly, he had. Pillar had seen me from a distance -- in the window of the piano nobile before he was taken, by Jacopo and Salzi, and locked in this damp, cold place. He'd been here ever since. Ever since I had been at the Maleovellis. For over a year ...
They had beaten him, starved him, fed him, tormented him with what I now was, my success, with what I had become. I saw myself, the grand courtesan, through Pillar's eyes and what I saw sickened me. The price for this was too high. The Estrattore were my people, sì, but Pillar was my family. The only family I had ever known.
The knowledge brought me to my knees. I slid down the bars, my eyes still fixed on Pillar. Sorrow poured out of me; I begged his understanding as I gazed deep into his essence. What I saw almost undid me.
He did understand. He did forgive. He was proud of me, bewildered by my beauty, the talent I know he could sense. In his eyes I saw belief. The Maleovellis had not broken him -- or the love he still had for me. The love I did not deserve.
Don't. Don't. Don't love me, I silently begged.
'Now will you do what we ask?' asked Signor Maleovelli, squatting beside me, speaking directly into my ear. 'For if you don't, I think you know what we'll do.'
I didn't need to extract to know the answer.
'Sì,' I said. 'I will do whatever you ask of me.'
I could not let Pillar -- this man who had already suffered so much for me -- suffer any more. I would not.
Above my head, looks of triumph were exchanged. I no longer cared. I would kill the Doge and then I would figure out what to do about the Maleovellis, Pillar and Baroque.
He had warned me not to trust him. Now I knew what he had meant.
IT TOOK BAROQUE A MOMENT TO REALISE what had woken him. He lay there, trying to make sense of the muffled voices, the cry. He sat up. Moonlight streamed into his windowless bedroom from the workshop. Throwing his coat over his nightshirt, he stumbled out into the main room, colliding with the table as he tried to wake. What was happening?
He wandered out to the well and lowered the bucket. The sounds weren't so apparent out here. He pulled the rope and splashed some water on his face, scooped handfuls of the icy-cold liquid into his mouth. He shouldn't have had the extra vino, but the waitress at the taverna had been very attentive and she had a nice smile.
He heard a door slam and quickly ducked down behind the well. Someone was on the pianterreno -- the ground floor. He could hear voices. What where they up to this time of night? Bending over, he scurried to the small window under the stairs and slowly raised himself. In the candlelight he saw Signor Maleovelli and Giaconda. They were followed by Jacopo, who held Tarlo tightly and, while she did not struggle, Baroque could see that she was distressed. Fury rose in him. What was happening?
Then it occurred to him.
Pillar! They'd taken her to see Pillar.
Merde. He hadn't expected this so soon.
He crept back to his room and flung on some clothes. He wormed his way into his hose, but didn't put his shoes on. If he was to move around the casa without being heard, he didn't want the creak of the leather to give him away.
Back out in the courtyard, he noted the moon was in the ascent. Its light was watery and thick clouds were about to cross its path. Good, the darker the better. He glanced up at the piano nobile. The candles in the corridor had been extinguished, another element in his favour.
Using the external staircase, he entered the piano nobile without a sound. Practice paid off. Making sure no-one was about, he crept up to where light spilled into the hallway from Signor Maleovelli's study. Every time he passed an open door, he held his breath. If he was caught ... But there were only sepulchral spaces and draughts to meet him.
When he reached Signor Maleovelli's study, he lowered himself onto his haunches beside one of the ornamental chairs that dotted the corridor and manoeuvred as close to the door as he could. It was ajar, and from within the room the voices carried clearly.
'You'll have to watch her carefully, Gia. But I want you to keep a distance -- make sure you have an alibi. If she's caught, I don't want you involved.' A shadow crossed the doorway. Signor Maleovelli had moved to the fire. Baroque peered around the corner carefully. Giaconda sat in a chair, Jacopo was adding more wood to the grate and, as he'd surmised correctly, Signor Maleovelli had made his way to the mantelpiece.
'Do you trust her, Papa?'
'No,' scoffed Signor Maleovelli. 'But I think tonight we played a card she did not expect. She will not risk Pillar. You were right to suggest we take him into our ... care, cara mia. It showed great foresight.'
'She talked about him in her sleep, even through the drugs -- him and the dead boy, Dante. Over and over, she called for them.'
'And yet she hasn't mentioned either since?'
'Not to me.'
'Jacopo?'
'No. She does not talk to me unless she has to. Puttana,' said Jacopo and moved away from the fire. He fell into one of the chairs. Baroque wished he could grind his fist into his face.
'So, Papa, you're happy to accept Lord Waterford's offer?'
Baroque's ears pricked up. He knew that Waterford had been at the casa earlier that evening and shared a private meal with the Maleovellis. Excluded, Tarlo had spent more time in the workshop with him.
'Happy?' Signor Maleovelli made a noise in his throat. 'Sì and no,' he said.
'What are you displeased about? He is going to make you Doge once Dandolo dies --'
Baroque did not hear the next part as his brain whirled. Doge! The ambassador was supporting Maleovelli to be Doge? Why? It didn't make sense. What did he have to gain? All too soon it was explained.
'I am not happy with the price we have to pay for an honour that, by rights, should be mine anyway. We worked hard for this. All of us. We put ourselves at risk. What have Farrowfare done? Sat back and waited. They back me because they know I have won. If I give them what they want, what is of value to me as well, then my victory will not be the same.' He sighed. 'No, despite what we've promised Lord Waterford. The second rule of power is to never surrender your most potent weapon to your enemy.'
'What's the first?' asked Jacopo.
'Do not hand it to a friend either. You destroy it. I don't think we'll be handing Tarlo over to anyone.'
So, he would exchange Tarlo for the Dogeship. Baroque had been right about the ambassador. Waterford had known what Tarlo was for a long time -- probably since that day he found him snooping outside the workshop. But how could he give Maleovelli the Dogeship? What was Farrowfare up to?
Baroque recalled the talk in the tavernas, the mutterings among the soldiers. The Ottomans were stirring, Konstantinople, one of Serenissima's most lucrative and important allies, with a colony of Serenissians situated right in its heart, was under threat. Why would the Ottomans move against Serenissima when, for years, they had existed in beneficial peace? But if another foreign power was behind the Ottomans' push into the Mariniquian Seas, then it all made sense. Baroque chewed his lip. What if Farrowfare was that power? Making friends in Serenissima while stirring her enemies in the colonies, and all the while seeking to disrupt the leadership in order to claim the Estrattore. This was deeper and darker than even he anticipated. Waterford and his people were playing an extremely dirty and dangerous game. And trapped in the middle was Tarlo. She was a valuable piece in this political contest. Too valuable, it seemed, for the Maleovellis to surrender.
'Why not, Papa?' asked Giaconda. 'If she's gone, then we cannot be held to account for anything she has done. It will be like getting rid of the evidence. No-one can accuse us without proof.'
'Cara mia, use your head. According to Waterford, Farrowfare has already taken extraordinary steps against Serenissima. Without our government even being aware, or the Cardinale, they've made allies of the Jinoans, the Kyprians and the Kretans and managed to incite them against us. It's going to be hard enough to stop their combined might, and that's before we consider the cursed Ottomans.'
Baroque chewed his lip. He was right.
'But Beolin says that once we hand over Tarlo, all hostilities will cease.'
'You really believe that, cara?'
'I ...' Baroque could imagine her lovely face creased in thought. 'I don't know. No,' she sighed. 'It would not make sense. Not once the fury of our enemies is unleashed upon us. Why let us have the Dogeship when they can watch others destroy us and then take it for themselves?'
'Esatto. With war, there is everything to gain -- for the victors.' Signor Maleovelli's voice sounded distant, strained. 'No, we cannot let these people take Tarlo. If they do, we win nothing. But for now we will let them believe they can have her.'
'What do you intend to do?'
'Once she has killed the Doge and I am in power, it will be time for Tarlo Maleovelli, the great Signorina Dorata, to disappear.'
'Meaning?'
'Meaning she will meet an unfortunate end, won't she, Jacopo?'
'Sì, zio. Very unfortunate,' agreed Jacopo.
'Once Tarlo is out of the way, then we will expose Farrowfare for the traitor she is.'
Baroque's breath caught in his chest. He reeled and rested his head against the wall, his hand over his heart. He could hear them talking, going over their plans, what they would say, how they would manage Waterford and Farrowfare, but he no longer listened. Instead he thought about Tallow and the great betrayal the Maleovellis intended.
He had to do something. He had to help her. But how?
He needed to think, and fast. An image of Katina flew into his mind. She had asked him to search for Tallow and he had broken his part of the bargain, justifying it by telling himself that Tallow no longer existed. Well, perhaps it was time to honour what he said he'd do. The Bond Rider had saved his life. If anyone could help, it would be her. Putting his thoughts in order, he planned his next course of action. He would go to his room, get some money, his cloak and his shoes and go to the Tailors Quartiere. This time, he would demand to see Katina and not leave until someone told him where she was, how he could contact her.
It was the least he could do. After all, he was responsible for what was happening to Tallow as well and, while he had been coerced and manipulated, he'd been prepared to sacrifice the Estrattore's life so as to have his returned. But that hadn't happened either. Like the promises they'd made to Tallow, the colleganza they'd signed, the Maleovellis betrayed everyone and everything they came into contact with. No more. This would stop now. He would play no further part in their machinations.
He began to crawl away from the door, backwards, when the soles of his feet connected with something. He twisted his head to look over his shoulder and found himself staring into a pair of huge dark eyes. It was Hafeza.
She bent down and pressed her fingers against his lips. With a nervous smile, she beckoned for him to follow. Rising to his feet as smoothly as he could, he tiptoed after her, all the time wondering where this sudden recklessness would lead him.
'I NEED TO SEE HER, I TELL YOU,' demanded Baroque, his face red, his voice rising.
Signor Zano Vestire ignored the urgency in Baroque's tone and continued to wipe down the counter. 'I tell you, Signor Scarpoli,' he said firmly, 'she's not here. Repeating myself will not make her materialise. So hound me all you want, but Signorina Katina left here months ago.'
'But when she left here, she went somewhere,' insisted Baroque. 'I need to know where. I need to speak with her. If it's the Limen, then I need to know how to get a message to her. Signor, it is very important that I do this.'
He glanced over his shoulder, but only a couple of old men, sad regulars, occupied seats. It was still early. 'I have even taken the risk of giving you my real name. Katina knows me. Please, you must help me. I must know where she is or how to contact her. A long time ago she told me that, if ever I needed to, you would know how.'
Signor Vestire stopped mid-swipe. He sighed and for the first time really looked at the man behind the cloak. Dishevelled and out of breath, Baroque, he could tell, was also anxious. Unlike the last time this man had come to his taverna. Back then, he'd sat in the crowded bar, downed vino after vino before finally enquiring after Katina, appearing almost relieved when Signor Vestire informed him the Bond Rider had not been seen in the Tailors Quartiere for a few weeks. Since then, of course, Katina had been and gone, but this man, who fidgeted on the stool, whose fingers agitated the counter, had not earned the right to know of her movements, nor of the one who remained. He was not a Bond Rider. Nor was he a tailor. Like a good Serenissian, Signor Vestire protected his own. For all he knew, this short, stout man could be working for the Cardinale. And yet, there was something about him that told him this was not so. A desperation that stoked the pity in his heart.
His instincts had not been wrong before. Maybe it was time to set aside caution ... after all, the world was stirring. Whispers were they were on the cusp of great change.
He stared at Baroque, who raised his eyes to meet the taverna keeper's. What he didn't expect to see was despair. He saw intelligent eyes that missed nothing, not even Signor Vestire's attempts to put him off track. Baroque was a man on the edge.
Signor Vestire left the rag where it was and filled a mug with vino. He put it down in front of Baroque. 'Drink. You look like you need it.'
Baroque seemed to hesitate then, with gruff thanks, quaffed the contents. In the time he did this, Signor Vestire looked over his head at the young man who had come down the stairs at the bidding of Signor Vestire's daughter and sat in the corner, his arms folded, his eyes never leaving Baroque's back.
All he did was dip his head towards Signor Vestire.
'Grazie,' said Baroque again, pushing the mug back towards Vestire. He rested his head in his hands.
Signor Vestire took mercy on him. 'I may not be able to help you, but you're in luck. There is one here who can.'
Baroque raised his red eyes to Vestire's, hope registering on his features. Signor Vestire nodded over his head, towards the stairs.
'Speak to him.'
BAROQUE SLOWLY TURNED AND STARED into the dimness. He could see the outline of someone sitting at a small table beneath the stairs. Cautiously, he slid off the stool and walked towards the man that Signor Vestire said could help him. As his eyes grew accustomed to the shadows, he saw the man had dark, untidy hair that rested on broad shoulders. He was very tall but quite young; he also noticed, with the eyes of experience, that he was a Bond Rider. He picked up his pace, not even stopping when he knocked over a chair.
He stood by the table. 'Signor Vestire tells me you can help me with my enquiries.'
The young man raised his head.
Baroque's jaw dropped. He staggered back a pace. 'No! Non è possible!'
The man smiled. 'I have learnt, Signor Scarpoli, that even in this world, everything is possible.' He gestured to the table. 'Sit down. We need to talk.'
His eyes never leaving the man's face, Baroque slid into the chair opposite. 'Dante Macelleria,' he said finally. 'She thinks you're dead.'
Dante's lips tightened and the pulse in his neck hammered. 'I know. It is better that way. For now.'
Baroque noted they did not need to say who 'she' was. All effort at pretence had gone.
'So, what do you want, Signor Scarpoli?' Again, he lingered on the last word. 'And tell me, why should I trust you when the last time we met, you not only had a different name and occupation, but you were following me and Tallow. And you continue to work for the very people who sent you after her in the first place.'
Baroque's eyebrows shot up. This young man had done his homework.
Dante laughed at his expression. It was dry, false. 'Oh, sì, I have not wasted the time I have spent here. I know what you do -- what you make Tallow do.'
Baroque winced. 'Let me explain,' he said.
'Please.' Dante made a wide gesture with his hand. 'Unlike you, I have all the time in Vista Mare.' He called to Signor Vestire to bring them vino. Baroque noticed that Signor Vestire had not taken his eyes from them.
Over the next two hours, Baroque spoke and Dante listened. For the first time in many years, he held nothing back, but revealed almost everything. His role in helping the Maleovellis track Tallow, his lessons, what she created and how the candles were used. He also shared with Dante what Tallow had been ordered to do -- and his fears about this. There was one thing he chose to remain silent about: suspicions around what had happened to her at Casa Moronisini and Tallow's retribution.
Finally, after Dante had questioned him, and Baroque answered, they sat back in their chairs. More men poured into the taverna and the smell of food reminded Baroque that he hadn't eaten. The vino sat heavy in his head and stomach. He looked at Dante, who was frowning into a corner, processing what he'd been told.
The chandler had changed. Confidence oozed from him. The boy had become a man. His black, flashing eyes and astute mind missed nothing. While they had come to this point from different sides and with opposing intentions, they now shared the same purpose: Tallow.
Baroque knew he'd finally found an ally.
'You will help me, then?' asked Baroque finally, unable to bear the silence.
Dante turned to him slowly. 'Was there ever any question, Signor? Sì. Where Tallow is concerned, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. I am yours.' He looked around, aware suddenly of the extra bodies, the loud voices. He rose. 'I will have food sent to my room. We need to make plans and quickly. And you need to get back to Nobiles' Rise. It would not do for the Maleovellis to discover what you have done, where you have come. It might force their hand.'
Baroque shook his head. 'No. They need her for now. But after the deed is done, then we must be ready to act.'
Dante headed for the stairs. 'Come then, we've no time to waste. Not any more.'
Watching Dante take the stairs two at a time, his sword swinging by his side, Baroque dared to believe.
SIGNOR PUGLIESI, AN OLD REGULAR who had slowly moved to be nearer the fire, heard most of what Baroque and Dante discussed. When they left, he grabbed his stick and heaved himself to his feet. Leaving the required soldi on the tabletop, he hobbled to the door and out into the campo. Patrons moved out of his way; children were careful not to knock the frail, blind man over. The wind whipped his cloak around his legs, his thin hose inadequate for keeping out the chills that wracked his skinny frame. He would need new clothes if he were to survive this winter. Well, now he would have the means. A big fat purse for any information; that was the promise he'd been given. Now, he had a great deal.
With the knowledge of a lifetime, he made his way down the numerous rami that mazed the quartiere. Sight was unnecessary when smells and sounds and the feel of the crumbling walls, with their pocks and raised patterns of mildew could direct him as well as any map. He finally came to the apartment he'd been looking for. In an old, ramshackle building owned by a madam who kept her four prostitutes on a tight leash were rooms for rent. In the topmost one dwelled the drunken Bond Rider.
Admitted by the madam with a screech of disappointment, Signor Pugliesi climbed the three flights slowly, his breath coming in gasps by the end, and rapped on the door with his cane.
It took the Bond Rider some time to open it. The fumes of vino almost knocked Signor Pugliesi off his feet. Shuffling past the Bond Rider, who was scratching and belching, he waited till the door was shut and then in a quiet, steady voice repeated everything he'd heard.
If anyone was surprised when they didn't see Signor Pugliesi for a few days, no one said. Not at first. But when his body was discovered floating against a set of water-stairs just outside the marketplace, no-one could understand how cautious old Pugliesi had been so careless as to slip and strike his head.
They toasted him that night in the Taverna di Segretezza and then barely mentioned him ever again.
WHEN I ARRIVED IN THE WORKSHOP Baroque was not there. His bed was empty, his coat absent from the hook. I didn't wait for him. Instead, as a limpid sun rose over the city and a cold wind blasted through the courtyard, I began to make the candle that would kill the Doge.
Instead of simply extracting and distilling into an existing candle, I made this one from scratch. In the small grate that Baroque used to warm these freezing rooms, I used the remnants of last night's fire and assembled a fresh one, feeding it not only with wood, but the paper upon which I had laboured while learning to write. I had brought it from my rooms. I knew it would help give me the heat required for melting wax, but that wasn't the only reason.
What I had once been proud of now only reminded me of my complicity in Pillar's imprisonment. I was keen to destroy it. I'd lain awake last night, my conscience aflame with guilt as I argued with myself. Why hadn't I gone to look for Pillar? Instead I believed what the Maleovellis told me, that he had gone, vanished, left me without caring about what happened. I'd been so suspicious of the Maleovellis' intentions regarding most things, and yet I'd never thought to question them about Pillar. Why? When did I become so selfish? So narcissistic? After all Pillar had done for me, I consigned his memory to the refuse -- not because it pained me in the way that thoughts of Dante did, but because I simply didn't want to think about him -- him or my old life. They were so interconnected that one roused the other. By shutting out Pillar, I was never Tallow, never his lowly, browbeaten candlemaker. I was never a girl pretending to be a boy; an Estrattore masquerading as a human. I did not spare a thought for Pillar, not when I could adorn myself in beautiful fabrics, swathe myself in silken sheets, be admired, adored, control others in a way I couldn't even control my own life.
Seeing Pillar, feeling his unconditional love, whether I wanted to or not, had opened a large crack in the barrier I'd painstakingly erected over the months. And, in the early hours of the morning, the truth doused me like the cold rain that struck my windowpane. He hadn't abandoned me. I had abandoned him.
I had always wanted to belong, to find my people. He was my people. I was his. The Estrattore were as a myth, a story -- ghosts that haunted my present. In believing in them, trusting they would embrace me, I was behaving like a child who believed in fairy tales. What could I change? What could I really do? Even if they did exist, somewhere in the Limen, why hadn't they tried to find me? They hadn't and, I realised now, they never would. If I was so damn important, why didn't my people help me? They had left me; left me to find my own way and now, finally, I had.
It was time for me to do something. Not about the Estrattore, but about Pillar and, I thought as I heard the casa begin to stir, the Maleovellis as well. For so long I had obeyed their every command, their every whim, frightened of their disapproval, keen to earn their confidence, afraid to stand against them lest I lose the little I had. No more.
I watched as the paper caught in the flames, the parchment blackening and curling, adding fuel to the fire.
The spitting and crackle of the blaze was loud. I added some wood and blew and poked.
Finally the heat was enough for my purposes.
I grabbed an old battered pot from under the table and began to break apart three candles, snapping them in as many places as I could, pulling hard to remove the wick. I dropped them into the pot. Before I consigned it to the fire, I added some oils -- lavender for its sweet scent and to aid relaxation, musk, for the sheer pleasure and headiness of its perfume, and some mistletoe. I had discovered that this plant, when broken down to its essence, affected the heart and blood. This was essential if the candles were to work.
Satisfied with my initial additions, I grabbed an old wooden spoon, sat on my haunches and placed the pot on a rusty tripod above the flames. Giving the wax time to begin melting, I stirred it, allowing the mixture to fold in on itself, absorb my additives. The workshop was soon filled with the smells of my labours.
When the mixture was smooth, the original shape of the candles reduced to a liquid mass, I rose and removed the pot from the immediate heat, leaving it in the glowing embers at the edge of the grate.
Among the objects that Baroque had brought to me over the months were some small ornate glasses -- the kind that held the votive candles in the basilica. I recalled that they had carried within them the memories of not only their original makers, but all those who had bowed before them, praying to lost loved ones, begging forgiveness of God for perceived and real crimes. They also carried the thoughts and essence of the padres and novitiates who had placed them in the alcoves near the pews and altar. From them I was able to detect everything from concern over spiritual matters to the content of the next meal, to carnal thoughts that had no place in God's house. Having met a few of God's men myself, I knew their practice of celibacy to be an illusion. Men of the cloth were no more spared the desires of man than a cat denied fleas. Padres just had to work harder to excise them than others. Not all succeeded. These votive holders screamed their shame.
I sorted through and found four holders that suited my purpose. They all matched: the glass had a slight blue tinge and was decorated in geometrical patterns of jade, ruby and gold. I laid them out carefully on the counter and, as I did, began to distil into them the beginnings of my intentions. After that, I sliced open a couple more candles, like a fishmonger does his catch, pretending a spine where none existed and extracted the wick in its stead. Chopping it into suitable lengths, I laid them in the holders, draping the ends over the glass.
Finally, I was ready to pour the wax. Wrapping a cloth around the handle of the pot, I lifted it to the counter. The wax was molten cream and the smell was tantalising. The scene painted across the screen in my bedroom came to my mind -- wild, exotic. Using a bent metal spoon, I began to carefully ladle the wax into the containers. As I did, I drew on my talents, distilling with such intensity that I lost track of time. From within myself I drew elements of the many poisonous plants, people, surfaces and objects I had come in contact with and which I had stored. Selecting what I needed, I poured them out of me and into the wax. My insides burned. I wanted to choke. My heart thudded against my chest and sweat beaded my brow as I worked slowly, methodically, concentrating hard, unaware I was being watched.
A sharp intake of breath distracted me enough that I raised my head. In the doorway was Giaconda. Still in her nightgown, her hair falling about her shoulders, she had a thick shawl draped across her shoulders.
'The wax, it changes,' she whispered, her eyes wide.
I glanced back down. Instead of the luscious colour of the lace that so often bordered her gowns, or the lustrous sheen of the pearls that scattered her hair, the wax had transformed into a dark purple, so dark it was almost black. Bruised now, the wax sank into the glass, swirling in unctuous layers. In their midst sat the little hemp wicks. I tweaked them upright and watched in pleasure as, responding to my touch, they metamorphosed from white to black.
Four votives sat -- gloomy, sinister, their holders pulsating as if a tiny heart struggled to beat in all that darkness. I sighed, put down the pot containing the remainder of the wax and wiped my hand across my brow.
'It is finished,' I said to Giaconda.
She looked into my eyes and I saw something in hers that I had not detected before. It was fear. A thrill ran through me. I tried not to let it show on my face.
'Bring them to me,' she said. She did not want to cross the threshold.
'No. They cannot be moved -- yet. Later. I will bring them to you later.'
'Bene,' she said, frowning. She peered around the workshop entrance, wrapping her shawl more tightly across her breasts. 'Where's Baroque?'
'He went to get me some wick. But he took too long so I made use of what I already had.' The lie tripped so easily from me.
Her frown deepened. 'Tell him Papa wants to see him when he returns.' She glanced at me. 'You need to rest. We need you to look your best -- more beautiful than you ever have.'
I inclined my head and then turned away from her, pretending to lift the last of the wax from the pot.
The swish of her dress and the cold wind that hit my back let me know she had gone.
I slowly turned round and saw the hem of her gown disappearing up the stairs. At that moment, Hafeza crossed the courtyard to the well. I remained still, lost in the shadows that lingered in the workshop, watching as she lowered the bucket. She was humming a tune that I knew came from her home country. Her eyes followed the bucket and she bent over the edge of the well. In repose, her face possessed a gentleness and kindness that I recalled had once appealed to me. But I knew it to be false. Like Giaconda's beauty or Signor Maleovelli's benevolence, it was a mask designed to lure people closer the way fire does air, the chameleon insects, or the moon attracts the stars. We all wore masks in this casa.
But beneath the façade of servitude and obedience, I wondered what the real Hafeza was like, how this woman could be loyal to the Maleovellis. What did they inspire that she was forever obedient to their whim, served them unquestioningly? What horrors had they rescued her from? For that seemed to be their way. Jacopo, consigned to the life of a cripple, an orphan, first in a convent, then in the streets until his father claims him, relying on his son's gratitude for a lifetime of loyalty. Hafeza, a mute slave given the task of raising Giaconda. Does such munificence engender trust in return? I thought of my own circumstances. It did -- for a while. I was grateful, and in turn that made me not only admire the Maleovellis but seek their admiration in return.
Lost in my reflections, I noticed Hafeza had left only when she was mounting the stairs, struggling with a full bucket. She would be replenishing my water, no doubt. It was time to leave.
I moved the votives to a space where they could cool undisturbed. Then, picking up the pot, I scraped the remnants of the wax out of the bottom and threw them in the fire. I wanted no evidence of this batch to remain -- no opportunity for the Maleovelli's to abuse my talents. When I'd finished, I took the pot out to the well and scrubbed it thoroughly, along with the spoons and knife.
I re-entered the workshop, standing still to wait for my eyes to grow accustomed again. As I did, I noticed the door to Baroque's room was ajar. I placed the implements back on the shelves and then paused.
Curiousity overcame me and I pushed the door open further and stepped inside Baroque's room. I had only ever been in there once before, when I'd hidden from Lord Waterford -- and that had only been brief and my anxiety at being discovered had discouraged me from exploring. There were no such deterrents now. My eyes travelled over the space. It was small and neat. His bed was unmade, but his belongings, such as they were, lay folded on the chair or the small rickety table. A stock of candles sat to one side, a holder with a melted stump nearby.
Where was he, this man who didn't know the meaning of loyalty and yet desired to be friends? Who warned me away with words but lured me closer with actions. He too had betrayed me but, like the Maleovellis, when had he ever promised anything else? He told me not to trust him. Why did the Maleovellis -- well, the Signor at least -- give Baroque so much responsibility? First to find me and, later, to kidnap Pillar. I knew that Baroque was behind that, and at first it had enraged me. But when I touched the iron bars of Pillar's prison, I had also learnt something else, something that in the whirlpool of my emotions I'd only sorted later. It was Baroque who had brought Pillar food, fresh clothes, and extra blankets when winter descended. It was Baroque who had spent nights talking to Pillar and easing his solitude. I was grateful for that. Was that why Baroque's attitude towards me had changed? Had Pillar facilitated that? The man I sensed in this bedroom and had worked with side by side no longer accorded with the one who had followed me almost two years ago in the Candlemakers Quartiere or who had lured Pillar from his house to the Maleovellis' dungeon. Where had that man gone?
Surely these journals that kept him here, as much against his will as Pillar, could not be that important? I would know.
I reached out to touch the chair upon which a shirt was draped. I rubbed the material between my fingers and opened myself to what I found.
Emotions flowed into me; sometimes they were accompanied by images. I moved around the room, running my hands over every surface, feeling the man who owned these things, understanding him in a way that had been denied me.
It did not stop there. Emboldened by my new awareness and knowledge, I left the workshop and ascended to the piano nobile. As I passed the objects in the corridor, I touched them. I didn't care anymore who saw me. The servants who did ignored me, believing me lost in reflection or suffering ennui. I extracted and, before I could stop myself, distilled a little of something back into them. Tapestries, chairs, mirrors, paintings, nothing was spared. Sensations warred inside me. Feelings such as I'd never known -- jealousy, craven lust, deception -- it was all there, carved deep into the fabric of the casa itself. But there was also love, hate, loathing and lies -- dreadful, terrible lies.
I moved along faster now, my breathing heavy. I had to stop. This was too much, too great for me to bear. Outside Giaconda's door, I hesitated. Just one tiny extraction, one little insight into the woman who hovered over my life like an avenging angel. I slowly reached out and then touched the door handle.
I staggered and fell into the chair against the wall.
'Who is there?' called Giaconda. 'Hafeza?'
I was panting now. The shock of my discovery almost undid me. I whirled to my feet and ran down the passage. I reached my door and wrenched it open and ran inside, straight into Hafeza, almost knocking her off her feet. I threw my arms out to steady her, not realising that I was still extracting. It was only when I saw the horror spreading across Hafeza's face, saw the way her eyes were locked onto mine, that I knew what I was doing. But by then it was too late. I could not stop.
Standing in the middle of my room, I held Hafeza in the thrall of my gaze, my touch, and after all these months of anger and distrust, I came to know her.
Taken from her family just as she was reaching womanhood, she had been locked in the hold of a ship, chained to other children, other women. Beaten, starved, thirsty and tired, she'd been too afraid to speak. She worried about her mother, her sisters, her father, the young man who had just begun to court her. I felt the passage of time -- it did not lessen her loss; that only intensified.
Next she was on a platform, a skinny, frail girl with black skin, stripped for all to see. Others were beside her, trying to hide their nakedness, protect what little of their dignity remained. Below them, men jostled and fought to get closer; their hands flew up, their gaping mouths shrieked. It was all babble to Hafeza. She did not understand. She didn't know what they wanted, that they were bartering for her.
Then she was here, in Casa Maleovelli. A fat old woman with red hands washed her. She cried then, not from the cloth that, ignoring her wounds, roughly broke the scabs away and made her bleed, but because she knew she would never get her former life back. The big woman scrubbed her hair and then cut it coarsely, with a knife. She tugged and pulled, oblivious to Hafeza's protests.
Hafeza pleaded. I heard words even though I did not understand exactly what they meant. My heart seized. Hafeza could talk! She was not born mute as I had believed. I held her tighter, searching, probing, what had happened to her? I could not let her go.
Another woman came towards Hafeza followed by a beautiful little girl. The girl had long dark hair, green eyes and olive skin. She looked like the woman leading her into the room, her mother. Only I saw calculation in this young one's eyes that made that of her mother's seem harmless. Hafeza saw it too and cringed. Even so, she was unprepared when the child handed her mother a long, shiny knife.
The pain of having her tongue cut out gradually faded along with Hafeza's hope. She came to understand these people whom she now worked for and what they required of her. They didn't need to remove her tongue -- she would have been quiet, she would have kept any secret. And that was how I found out that she'd never revealed mine that night in the portego -- the night I spied on the Maleovellis as they dined with the Moronisinis. Hafeza would never, never tell, especially not the dreadful secret about Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli, the one that I now knew we shared.
A noise of sheer despair finally broke my concentration. It was Hafeza. Her mouth was contorted in a rictus and I could see the stump of her tongue flapping in her mouth. Dismayed that I could cause such pain, such alarm, I stopped extracting and began to distil, quickly, using all my power. I wanted to hasten forgetfulness, allow this dear, sweet woman I had judged so wrongly the panacea of oblivion.
'No! No!'
It took me a moment to realise the sounds came from Hafeza. I was so stunned to hear her voice, I dropped my guard. With a forceful shove, she separated us. She scrambled to her feet and stood panting, her hand on her chest, her eyes wide as they stared at me.
'Hafeza.' I held my arms out. She threw up her own to stop me. 'Mi dispiace,' I said, my voice hollow. 'How can you ever forgive me?' I took in her tortured face, at the memories I'd brought to the surface caused by a lifetime of servitude to those who had brutalised her. The lines were heavy, the sadness etched all over her ageing mien. 'Oh God,' I said, and sank back to my knees, my head dropping into my hands. 'Forgive me, forgive me.'
A gentle pressure on my head caused me to look up. Hafeza was stroking my hair. 'Don't touch me!' I cried. But she ignored me and, picking up my hands, clasped them in her own aged, dry ones and held them over her heart. She knelt and gave me a tremulous smile. I inhaled deeply before shakily returning it.
'Forgive me, Hafeza. I should never have doubted you.'
She placed a finger against my lips, and instead released my hands and opened her arms. I fell into them. In that instance, I opened myself to Hafeza. Just as I had discovered aspects of her I did not know existed, I allowed her to see inside me as well. For the first time since Dante, I gave of myself in a way I never had before -- my hopes, my secrets, my dashed dreams.
I began to cry -- quiet, deep sobs that tore at my chest and spilled into Hafeza's. Tears rolled down her cheeks as we comforted each other, sharing an awareness of what we once were and what, under the Maleovellis, we'd allowed ourselves to become.
WITH THE MALEOVELLIS AND TARLO GONE, the casa was suddenly quiet. Servants had retired to their dining area downstairs, Jacopo was locked in his study, and at last Hafeza was able to attend to the disruption the preparation of her two charges had caused.
Folding Tarlo's undergarments, Hafeza found herself thinking over what had happened this morning -- what the little Estrattore had done. With a soft smile, Hafeza stroked the delicate fabric of her camicia before stowing it away. It reminded her of Tarlo -- fragile and yet with an inner strength that only a fool would underestimate. She knew that now. Did the Maleovellis, she wondered? They must, she thought, otherwise they would not be intending to kill her.
With a heartfelt sigh, Hafeza blew out the candles around the room. She stood in the semi-darkness, in front of the fire, staring into the flames. There was so much to do before Giaconda and Tarlo came home, and yet she found she could not attend to her duties just yet.
She'd known that Tarlo had not had an easy life; one had only to remember what she'd been like when she first came to Casa Maleovelli. The way she would flinch if an arm was raised near her, how those eyes would darken with despair if she thought she'd hurt someone's feelings; how she would try so hard not be noticed, quietly slinking around corners, melting into chairs and walls. Hafeza sighed. She knew those signs all too well.
Only something had changed Tarlo. She remembered the day she first noticed it. The day that Tarlo, despite Hafeza's inability to reply, stopped speaking to her. Later she also stopped smiling. Hafeza, who had thought she'd finally found someone she could nurture, had despaired. Like Tarlo, she'd also withdrawn into herself, erected walls that, over her life, she'd worked hard to maintain. Even now, she tried to restore that which Tarlo had dismantled.
But in Tarlo's arms she'd done something she hadn't done for such a long time -- feel. She'd felt compassion, fear, need and the desire to help. She understood why Tarlo had done what she had and why she was risking herself and everything she held dear to do what the Maelovellis ordered -- kill the Doge. Hafeza knew about the man in the dungeon; what she hadn't realised until Tarlo had shared with her was what he meant to the Estrattore.
Hafeza leant over the mantelpiece and rested her head against her arm. Tonight, something terrible was going to happen. The Maleovellis, using Tarlo, were setting in train events that would change Serenissima. They'd change all their lives -- but was it for the better? Would hers change? No. She already knew the answer. It would not. She would continue to be Hafeza, the slave. But for Signor Maleovelli, for Giaconda, theirs would never be the same again. And what about Baroque? That man made her laugh. She enjoyed encountering him in the courtyard when she fetched water. He would go out of his way to talk to her, to help her if he could. Over the last year, he'd changed too -- but Hafeza knew his transformation was good. She'd seen him many times before Tarlo came to live with them. Most often he would meet the Maleovellis in their rented apartment in the Chandlers Quartiere. She saw how distant he was, how careful to hide his real self. He'd been the same when he first came here, but something or someone, she thought, an image of Tarlo appearing before her, had worked its magic on him. Only it hadn't been deliberate, like the candles.
And yet the Maleovellis had plans for Baroque as well. Hafeza knew. She'd overheard them, as she often did. People were strange. They believed that because you couldn't talk, you couldn't hear either. So much was revealed in front of Hafeza. In this casa, she was invisible -- a slave, a Morokan, displaced, dispossessed and, she knew, afraid. Afraid of being seen. She understood Tarlo and what she'd confronted in her early life all too well. No wonder the young woman had embraced what the Malevoellis offered. Through them she could make a difference, but she had to follow their orders, obey their whims and help them before she could help herself.
Hafeza sighed and reached for some wood to stoke the fire. She threw it in, using the poker to make sure it rolled into the embers, waiting for it to catch. She rubbed her hand across her face. She was tired of this life -- an admission she'd never had the courage to make to herself until now.
She slumped into the chair and glanced around the room. The fire gave a burst of light as the log took. Something flashed on top of the dresser. It was the little harlequin, the funny statuette that she'd never really noticed before, not until she understood what it was that Tarlo had done with it. Earlier, she'd pulled it out of its hiding place in the drawer and placed it back where it had stood for years. Now it caught her eye. She rose and crossed the room, picking up the delicate object. Holding it up, she watched the way the light from the fire plucked out different colours within the glass. So much love, so much pain. She wished she could do that -- extract her memories and emotions and put them somewhere else so she could stop feeling all the time. But she was no Estrattore. She had to live with her past and her present. Together, they made her future.
But what did that hold? More pandering to Giaconda, remaining silent while the Maleovellis brought down not just the Doge -- oh, that was too remote and vague for her to care about -- but the young woman she understood as well as she did herself. And Baroque. They were not going to let him escape their clutches either -- not alive. They couldn't afford to. They knew he'd softened towards Tarlo, that if they harmed her, he might expose them. They kept him on a lead through blackmail.
What was it her insights into Tarlo had revealed? That was right -- it was Baroque's journals, those battered old things that Signor Maleovelli kept locked in the top drawer of his desk. She'd seen him thumbing through them. And then there was Pillar.
Listening to the casa creaking as the wind blew outside, bringing with it lashing rain that now beat against the window, Hafeza fingered the little statuette and let her thoughts go in directions they had never before dared ...
HAFEZA ENTERED BAROQUE'S ROOM slowly. Wet and cold, she couldn't risk lighting a candle. She fumbled around in the dark until she felt what she was looking for. She pulled the four old books out from under her dress and slid them beneath his pillow. It would be weeks before Signor Maleovelli noticed they were gone. Baroque would find them and then he would be free, a slave to the Maleovellis no more. She smiled and moved quietly through the workshop. She stood in the doorway, watching the rain for a while. It was heavy tonight. She was glad. She sent a quick prayer to her gods that it would cover any noise she might make as she descended into the dungeons.
Eschewing a torch, Hafeza felt her way down the stairs. A chilly wind whistled along the corridor, making her shiver and her teeth chatter. When she finally found the keys, they clanged together in her hands. She looked over her shoulder, but all she could see was darkness. No-one had followed her. She was certain.
OPENING PILLAR'S CELL WAS harder than she thought. Her fingers were stiff and fear made her clumsy. At last the key turned and the lock sprang open. She pulled open the door. The cell was even darker than the corridor and it took her a moment to see the body huddled in the corner.
'What do want?' croaked a voice. 'Oh, it's you. What have you brought me this time?'
In answer, Hafeza threw a bundle at his feet and opened the door wider. She made a grunting noise and flapped her arms towards the corridor.
She could see Pillar reaching out for the package, shaking out the contents: trousers, a shirt, doublet and boots.
'Why?' he asked.
Stepping closer to him, she caught his hand and raised it to her eyes, placing his fingertips against her lids.
'Tallow,' he said. Hafeza nodded. She knew that had been Tarlo's name; it was the one she still called herself. Tallow, like the wax. Something to be moulded, shaped to others' designs. It was appropriate.
'You are setting me free?' In answer, Hafeza began to strip his old clothes from him, peeling off what remained of his shirt, ignoring the smell that exuded from him, that made the bile rise in her throat.
'Grazie mille.' He began to help her, struggling out of his tattered pants and into the new ones. Hafeza tried to hurry him. They didn't have much time. She wanted Pillar away from here.
In minutes, he was dressed. She could hear him panting from the exertion. She gave him a flask of vino and a hunk of bread. He drank and ate as quickly as he could. From his quiet moans she could tell his gums were sore. She remembered that feeling. When he'd finished eating, she pressed a knife into his hands.
'Bene,' said Pillar. 'What else do you have concealed in there? I see you have thought of everything.' He gave a low laugh that turned into a rasping cough. She sought to support him. 'I am all right,' he said, 'I just need a moment. I'll be fine.'
Hafeza frowned. He did not sound fine.
She followed him out into the corridor. A blast of wind forced her dress to press against her. She could feel Pillar shaking beside her as she closed the door to his prison, locking it again behind them. Let the Maleovellis puzzle that one.
She groped for Pillar's hand and began to lead him forward, stepping around the pools of stagnant water. They'd just passed the second cell when a figure leapt out of the dark. With a small noise, Hafeza stopped, Pillar slamming into her back with a grunt.
'Well, well, well. What are you up to, Hafeza? You deceptive black puttana.' It was Jacopo. Wood struck the flint and light flared. Jacopo raised his torch and looked them up and down. 'What have we here?' He began to chuckle. 'Have you lost your mind, Hafeza?'
Hafeza's eyes slid from Jacopo's sneering face to the glinting steel he held in his other hand. Pillar squeezed her fingers and then released them. He doubled over in pain and began groaning loudly.
'Oh, my stomach, my legs!'
Jacopo ignored him. 'What are you thinking?' he hissed at Hafeza. 'How could you, after everything my father has done, everything Giaconda has given you? How could you betray them, tonight of all nights? The moment everything we've been planning comes to a head and you would ruin it! You bitch!' With every word, he came closer and closer to Hafeza, pushing her in the chest. She stumbled into the wall, tripping over Pillar.
Jacopo followed closely, kicking Pillar out of his way. 'You choose to help that --' he spat at Pillar's side '-- instead of the family that has given you a roof over your head, taken you in? You don't deserve to look after Giaconda, you don't deserve to be part of this casa, not anymore.' He lifted the torch and leaned into Hafeza, his nose almost touching hers.
Hafeza was backed against the stone wall, her hands trapped behind her. She could not push Jacopo away, she could not fend for herself.
'And I am going to give you what you deserve.' Jacopo raised the knife in the air.
Hafeza tried to scream, to protect herself. She managed to free an arm just as the knife came down, just as the torch was knocked out of Jacopo's hands and fell to the floor. Jacopo shouted and a great weight fell against her and pain exploded in her side. She thrust at the body that pinned her to the wall, trying to free herself.
It was gone. There was a great groan followed by a thud and the sound of flesh hitting stone.
'Hafeza, are you all right?' It was Pillar. She tried to make reassuring noises. 'I can't find the torch.'
Hafeza took a deep breath, her hand pressed tightly to her side. She bent down and searched, her fingers wrapping around the wood. She lifted it off the ground and, as the wind blew, it spluttered back to life.
Lying at her feet was Jacopo. The knife she'd given Pillar was sticking out of his back. His eyes were wide, unfocused. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of its element, struggling to survive. She was not sorry. There was blood everywhere. It was even on her hands, trickling between her fingers as she gripped the torch.
She stepped over Jacopo's body and tugged at Pillar's shirt. He bent and, turning Jacopo over slightly, drew the knife out of him. With a cry, Jacopo's head rolled to the side and his eyes closed. He was still.
'I may need this,' said Pillar, wiping the blood on Jacopo's hose.
Hafeza nodded, then hesitated. Closer to the stairs, she could hear the rain. She glanced at Pillar's shirt. It too had blood on it. He could not roam the calles with those stains upon him. Not with the Signori di Notte about.
Bending back over Jacopo, she wrestled his cape from under him. It was sticky with blood, but at least the dark material made it difficult to detect and it would keep the worst of the elements at bay. Understanding what she was doing, Pillar helped. Once it was free, she draped it over Pillar's shoulders. Then she thrust her hands in Jacopo's pockets and pulled out his purse. She placed it in Pillar's hands. He didn't argue. He nodded grimly and shoved it in a pocket.
Holding hands, they climbed the stairs, Hafeza slowing as they reached the top. Out in the rain, she led him across the courtyard to the gate that led out into the calle. Fumbling with the latch, she managed to open it. Pillar stood still, lifting his face to the rain, opening his mouth and allowing the moisture to fall in. Hafeza watched him. In the strange, glowing light, she could see his features more clearly. Thin, he had a long, regal nose, an unkempt beard and gentle eyes. His voice too was kind as he spoke.
'I cannot thank you enough for this, Hafeza.' He took her face in his hands. 'I know you will look after Tallow. I know what she has become. Please, if you can pass her a message?'
Hafeza nodded, aware of how this man's hands on her face made her feel. Safe, warm, cared about.
'Tell her I have not abandoned her. Tell her I love her and I will be back for her. That I promise.'
Not wanting to, Hafeza pulled at his hands. She shook her head. No, no! He had no time to waste; he must help Tarlo now! How could she make him understand?
Letting her go, Pillar smiled at her urgency. 'Can you do that for me? Can you tell her?'
Hafeza stared at him, willing him to know what was in her head. But it was no good. This man, this Pillar, had set a course of action. She sighed and raised a hand in affirmation.
'Grazie mille, Hafeza, grazie mille.' He turned to go. 'When I come back for Tallow, I will come back for you as well. Capisce?'
Hafeza froze. He would help her too? She sighed. So, it had all been worth it. To find someone ready to serve her, help her and at this point in her life. She smiled sadly and nodded. Then she pushed him away.
Bending suddenly, Pillar kissed her forehead. His lips were warm against her wet flesh, the cracked skin soothing in their roughness. Then he was gone, disappearing in a swirl of cape and rain into the calle.
Hafeza sent prayers to her gods and, with care, locked the gate.
Resting against it, she slowly lowered her hand to just below her right breast. It came away wet. She'd lost so much blood. Dizziness threatened to overwhelm her. She put her hand against the wall and then thrust herself towards the staircase.
There was one last thing she had to do -- while she still had breath in her body, life in her limbs.
Staggering across the courtyard, her vision began to go. The steps she knew she had to ascend appeared in two places. The rain confused her. She fell, her hip hitting the stairs. She found them. On her hands and knees she crawled, her blood mingling with the downpour, leaving a watery trail.
When she reached the portego, she did not stop, though her body was trembling with the strain, her mind was clouding. Images of her mother, her clay house in the sunshine back in Moroko paraded before her, overlapping with Tarlo, that first day in the tub, delighting in the water, amazed at how she appeared, so transformed in a dress. Her young beau from another lifetime bowed to kiss her cheek and she turned her head at the last moment so his lips grazed hers. They'd both blushed and giggled. Then there was Tarlo, as she'd last seen her tonight, magnificent in her finest golden gown yet, her mask fixed to her face, her black hair arranged so it fell between her shoulder blades. Only Hafeza knew the terror that lurked in those eyes, the emptiness in her soul, the guilt that drove her to do the terrible deed the Maleovellis demanded of her before they would murder her as well.
No more, Tarlo. No more. I will set you free.
Hand over hand, Hafeza reached Tarlo's bedroom. She pushed open the door and crawled across the floor, focused on one thing only: the huge chest of drawers under the window. She fell at their base, panting, her lungs gurgling. Consciousness teetered. No! She fought the darkness. Summoning the last of her strength, she used the handles to lift her off her feet. Her hand scrabbled over the surface of the dresser, knocking the pile of freshly pressed drying sheets to the floor. She ignored them as her hands became her eyes. There! She had it. She sank back down to the floor, the tiny glass harlequin clutched to her chest.
In the dying embers of the fire, Hafeza took a few shallow breaths and stared into the glass. Multiple colours whorled, making it seem as if the harlequin was alive. She was certain she felt the love and trust of the old Tallow, the woman she was before she came to this forsaken casa, contained within its fragile form.
Hafeza raised it to her lips before lifting it over her head and, with trembling, cold arms, hurled it against the grate. The force of the impact shattered the figurine, the glass exploding like the fireworks that erupted in the sky at Carnivale. Hafeza smiled.
Through half-closed eyes, she saw a rainbow-hued mist rise from the fragments and swirl about the room. It enveloped her in a love such as she had never known. She slid down further, curling onto the floor, cocooned in its depths. The edges of her sight began to fade; all she could see now were the colours twirling like a dancer before her eyes. The pain that had pierced her side disappeared and joy lifted her heart.
'Be free, Tallow,' she whispered in her mind and, with a great shuddering that sounded like laughter, breathed her last.
'SIGNORINA DORATA! YOU CANNOT LEAVE NOW! I have not claimed my dance!'
The masked dandy swung me around in his arms as I tried to leave the floor. I slapped him playfully with my fan and saw Giaconda swooping past him. She linked her arm in mine.
'Ah, Signor Maraponi, Signorina Dorata is not leaving! She is merely taking what we ladies sometimes have to -- a small break.' She tweaked his cheek and pushed her finger against his pout as Lord Waterford approached and took the Signor aside. Giaconda nodded to the ambassador before drawing me away.
'Once we get through the doors, I will distract the guards. You have only a short time to get to where you have to be, Tarlo. Do not fail us; you know what will happen if you do.' She chattered in my ear as she pulled me across the floor.
'I'll not fail,' I said, smiling as another sweating nobile, a courtesan in his arms, sailed past us, the drinks they clutched in their hands spilling unnoticed down their clothes.
Giaconda led me through the maze of dancers and observers. Filled with food and vino, some could barely stand, let alone take note of Giaconda and me. A few were gathered around a courtesan who was demonstrating an exotic dance involving veils. A high-pitched scream made me jump, but it was only another courtesan being dragged onto the lap of one of the Council of Ten. Through the crowd of noisy, leering faces, I saw Signor Maleovelli. Arrayed in his new Council regalia, he raised his glass to me, his eyes glowing with anticipation, his mouth locked in a feigned smile.
We swept past the windows and I glanced outside. It was pitch black and the rain was falling hard and the wind was so strong the glass shook. It was as if the elements themselves protested what I was about to do.
The servants swooped to open the doors, admitting us to the landing outside. We stopped briefly and found our breath. The doors swung shut and the laughter and music diminished, already placed in a distant past. Ahead of me rose the golden staircase -- the only access from this part of the palazzo to the Doge's rooms.
I lifted my skirts and began to ascend, Giaconda close behind me. No-one questioned courtesans moving throughout the palazzo at this time of year. Baroque had also told me that, whenever I was trying to get to somewhere I shouldn't, let alone be someone I was not, I had to appear confident. Even if I was trembling inside, I could not show it. He was right. I was far less likely to be challenged.
I was well past fear. I felt a heavy sense of resignation, of obligation. I longed for tonight to be over. I wanted to see Pillar. I would not do another thing for the Maleovellis until they released him. Of that I was sure.
We reached the next level and paused at the top of the stairs. Giaconda quickly clutched her ear. She unclipped her earring and allowed it to disappear into her décolletage. She smiled without looking at me and pressed on. A wide corridor opened before us, punctuated by grand doors, each of which led to a suite of rooms. I had been here many times already, the guest of Prince Cosimo and, once, the Doge. But that was when he was entertaining the Hybernyian ambassador. Giaconda glanced at me.
'I will accompany you to the Prince's rooms. From there, you're on your own.'
The rustle of Giaconda's gown against the floor was spoiled by the slap of our zoccoli against the terrazzo. As we drew level with each set of guards, they stood to attention, staring straight ahead. Some were faces I knew and I felt their eyes follow me, the knowingness in their looks, the envy underlining their gaze. I was hoping their acquaintance with my presence would last long enough for me to do what Giaconda was now making sure was done.
At the end of the passage was my goal -- the Doge's suite. It loomed closer with every step. No sentinels stood outside his rooms. It was considered a breach of privacy, a threat to state secrets. It was inconceivable that an attacker should get through the ranks of guards already posted; just as it was beyond comprehension that a woman would hurt the ruler of Serenissima. That was my greatest asset and protection. No-one would even consider that a mere courtesan would dare do such a thing. I was suddenly conscious of the votives wrapped in paper, secreted in my purse. I slowed down. Giaconda matched my step.
'Ready?' she muttered. Without waiting for an answer she stopped suddenly. 'Oh, no!' she exclaimed, 'I have lost my earring! Guards!'
She began to search the floors, bending over to reveal a large expanse of bosom. The guards stared and then exchanged a long look.
'Can we help you, Signorina?' asked one, stepping forward.
'Sì!' said Giaconda and grabbed his hand, clutching it to her bosom. 'I have lost an earring! Do you know who gave it to me? How much it is worth?'
Two other guards came forward.
'Who was it, Signorina?'
'Signor Moronisini.'
Again, more looks were exchanged. They had heard the rumours then; that Signor Moronisini was informally the Doge Elect.
'I must go back -- but ...' She glanced at me.
'I am all right, sister. I can go alone. Signor Nicolotti told me he would not be long.'
One of the guards sniggered. Another elbowed him.
'Do you know which suite is his, Signorina?' asked one of the young men.
'That one?' I asked, pointing to the abandoned rooms of the younger Prince. The guards laughed. 'No,' said the same one who spoke before. 'It is the one closest to the Doge's. You will be safe, Signorina. Do not worry.'
'I am not worried for myself, only for my sister. You will help her find that which she has lost?'
Giaconda blinked back her tears. 'You must. I have to find this -- it was a gift from Signor Moronisini, the most generous of patrons, the most forgiving, except when it comes to carelessness.' She gave a sob. 'Will you help me, gallant sirs?'
If the guards had any doubts, it was the repetition of Signor Moronisini's name that dispelled them. Four of them began to comb the floors. I took advantage of their distraction and calmly walked to Signor Nicolotti's rooms, paused and, when I was sure no-one was looking, quickly crossed the corridor and slipped into the Doge's suite. What the guards could not have known was that Signor Nicolotti had already gone home.
Baroque had told me all about the secret passages that laced the palazzo. There was one connecting the Doge's rooms with the capo of the Council of Ten. Not that I would be using it tonight. I would be employing another route to escape down to the canal and to the relative safety of the Maleovellis' gondola. First I had to be certain that the votives I'd prepared worked -- that the Doge succumbed to their power.
I rested against the door and took stock of my surroundings. My heart was pounding in my ears. I could still hear Giaconda leading the men away.
Comprising four separate rooms, the Doge's suite was enormous. I was in a lavish sitting room. Tapestries of the finest quality hung from the walls, paintings much like those that adorned the ballroom took up space as well. Gilded chairs, wooden tables, thick patterned rugs and beautiful ornaments set atop a long credenza and the mantelpiece over a blazing fire completed the room. What astonished me most was the number of candles -- pillars, tapers and votives all burned, throwing their light about, making the entire space glow like a setting sun.
I kicked off my zoccoli and picked them up, crossing the room. The rugs were soothing under my aching feet. I opened one of the doors and found a cosy meeting room in which I'd once dined; another opened onto a smaller suite. I had never seen the Dogeressa's area, but recognised the feminine qualities of the fittings. The last door I opened was the bedroom.
The bed was enormous, an old piece of furniture that, as I stroked its highly polished wood and began to extract, sang to me of triumph, tragedy and profound grief. The last was from the current Doge. The loss of his grandson, the defection of his sons and the infertility of his daughter affected him deeply. Around the bed and on the windowsills, more candles burned.
I moved towards the window, careful to stay in the shadows lest a guard on the battlements above spy me.
As Baroque had said, a small door to the right of the bed led to a dressing room. It was in here that I would hide. Tonight, of all nights, the Doge dismissed his servants and his valet, allowing them to indulge in some Carnivale revelry. He would disrobe himself and leave his clothes on the floor and chairs for his men to attend to in the morning.
A howl of wind distracted me. I had to stop wasting time. With caution, I withdrew the votives from my purse and placed them on the bedside table. Picking up a taper, I used its flame to light my candles. Once the wick had taken, I quickly placed them around the room. Already their scent was escaping. I closed myself to their effects. Alongside the other candles, their differences were not so obvious -- even the unusual darkness of the wax was not easy to discern against the brightness of the flame.
Satisfied, I picked up my zoccoli from where I had left them on the floor and entered the Doge's dressing room, placing them back on my feet. I needed to be ready to leave. The dressing room was rather large and lined with shelves upon which sat an array of folded garments that, even in the semi-darkness, I could see were made from quality fabrics. I resisted the urge to stroke the velvets, silks and ermine robes, caps and collars, stepping over pairs of leather shoes and boots that stood to attention along the sides, and crept into the centre as I made my way to the rear wall. A number of gold and cream togati covered the space. I pushed them aside and struck the wood behind. I counted across the panels until my hands rested against the fourth one. Just as Baroque said, there was a lever -- so tiny it would be easy to miss. If I flicked it, the wood beside the shelves that stored the Doge's hats and gloves to my right would slide away, revealing a passage. I prayed fervently that it would work.
I went back to the door that led into the bedroom. I didn't close it completely, but left it slightly ajar. From where I was, I could see the bed clearly. Two of my candles were also in view. My palms began to sweat and my throat became dry. I wished I had something with which to moisten my mouth.
It seemed like only a few minutes passed before I heard the outer door open. I stiffened as feet shuffled across the floor. There was a tinkle of glass and the sound of liquid being poured. More sounds, then a long sigh.
When the door to the bedroom opened and the Doge appeared I almost lost my nerve. Here I was, Tallow, in the Doge's bedchamber. I could hardly credit it myself. The Maleovellis had insisted I remain until I had proof that the Doge was dead. They wanted me to take his corno ducale. I saw it on his head now, the strange curved shape of golden fabric that denoted his leadership, his authority over all Serenissians. Only the Cardinale wore something so ornate, so tall.
I averted my eyes as the Doge slipped off his robe and, as Baroque had predicted, let it slide to the floor. I heard the thud of his leather shoes hitting the rug and grunts and groans as he picked his nightshirt off the bed and stepped into it, clutching the bedpost for support. I held my breath as he fell into bed, reaching for his vino once he'd settled against the pillows.
With horror, I saw that he still wore his corno. I willed him to remove it, throw it upon the chair nearest me. But it remained stubbornly fixed upon his head.
It was strange watching the Doge, waiting for my candles to take effect. The first time I saw him, he appeared to me as I imagined a nonno to look -- old, frail and kind. Closer, he did not look kind so much as sad and beaten. And so ancient. I exhaled quietly and noted that his eyes had taken a strange, faraway look. His face appeared to collapse in on itself.
The candles were working.
His eyelids grew heavy and the colour in them started to leach away. He slowly slipped down the bed, the cap I needed as my proof bending beneath his weight, falling behind his head, sliding backwards over his ears. I saw his chest, rising and falling, the rhythms slowing with each breath. His eyes shut and he sank towards oblivion.
I waited.
I was about to step out of the closet when I heard a loud noise in the corridor. Shouts and cries. I'd been discovered. Darting out of the closet, I raced to the bed and reached behind the Doge, and tried to wrench his cap off. It took two pulls before it came free. I stared at it in both disbelief and relief, spinning around to flee, when a hand flew out and gripped my wrist. I repressed the scream that rose in my throat and looked down in dismay.
Staring at me, with eyes that had once been grey, was Doge Dandolo. They widened as he took in my face. My mask dangled around my neck and the belladonna had long worn off.
'Estrattore!' he rasped. 'Estrattore! Help!' he began to cry.
'No,' I said, pressing my fingers against his wizened, dry mouth, the corno crunching under his chin. 'Please, you don't understand.'
'Help!' he tried to call. But his voice was so faint, I doubted he'd be heard. I didn't wait to find out.
I wriggled out of his grasp and, dropping the corno, ran to the closet. I shut the door and quickly activated the lever. To my relief, the wood swung aside and cold air from a long dark passage blasted me. I stepped in, fumbling for the candle in the sconce that Baroque had warned me to expect. Using the tinderbox that sat in a groove by the opening, I lit it quickly with shaking hands and shut the door, using the mechanism on the inside. As it slid closed, I noted that the noises I'd heard had not grown louder, that the Doge's rooms had not been disturbed. Why had there been shouting? Perhaps it was just Carnivale gaiety, or had Giaconda organised a greater distraction than her own charms?
I ran as carefully as I could down the passage, holding onto the walls when I reached the steps, keeping the candle above my head so the light cast a wide halo. It was freezing and, as I fled past alcoves and doorways, I occasionally heard the mutter of voices, groans and little squeals. Rats scurried past my feet; a couple ran over them. On I moved, as swiftly as I could. Down staircase after staircase, passageway after passageway, always moving west as Baroque had told me, praying I wouldn't encounter anyone else.
After ten minutes, I came to a section I knew -- I had used it many times when leaving Prince Cosimo. I slowed down. I was nearly there. I had to catch my breath. I descended the last two flights of stairs and rounded a corner. There was the outer door at the end of the passage. Relief flooded me. I was sweating. I pulled my mask off completely and tucked it into my purse. It no longer mattered who saw me. It was over.
Pulling back the latch, I slowly opened the external door and peered into the dark. It was still raining. I was about to step outside when a force on the other side slammed into me and sent me reeling back. I slipped over, throwing an arm out to keep my balance and striking the wall hard. I gasped in pain. Somehow, with my other hand, I managed to keep the candle aloft. I held it before me.
'At last we meet then, Estrattore.' Out of the night and into my circle of light stepped a man. Cold steel pressed against my throat.
'Get up slowly. Keep your hands by your side. One word, one movement and I will kill you,' he hissed. He reeked of vino and his words were slightly slurred. I tried to think fast.
He snatched the candle out of my hand and held it above his head, studying me, careful to avoid my eyes. As he took in my appearance, I staggered to my feet and examined him. There was something about the blue eyes, the chin, the way the cheekbones flared towards the temples, how his hair came to a widow's peak above his eyebrows that registered with me. I swallowed heavily. The man began to laugh. A freezing draught blew around my legs, lifting my dress, forcing his cape to flap against me.
'You know, for so long my thoughts were preoccupied with Katina.' I stiffened. 'I wanted to hurt her, damage her, erase her from his memory, rid his casa of her shame. But then I realised, all I had to do to set him free, to make him happy and get Katina at the same time was destroy you.' He leant towards me. I thought he was going to fall. The tip of the sword pressed into my flesh. I felt a burn then a rush of warmth as I was cut. I winced and cried out.
'Dante made it so easy --'
Dante? What was he talking about? How did he know Dante?
'All I did was follow him and there you were -- right before my eyes, right before everyone's eyes, but we were so dazzled by the gold, by the beautiful Signorina Dorata, that no-one saw what was in front of their eyes. Only Dante, the lovesick fool.'
My heart began to race. What was this man talking about? Who was he? I could see now he was a Bond Rider. He mentioned Katina. But Dante? Dante was dead ... How could Dante know that I was Signorina Dorata?
'Who are you?'
The sword came up under my chin, forcing my head back. The man laughed and again, his blade sliced my flesh. By now I was pressed hard against the wall. His body rested against mine. I could feel its strength. I swallowed nervously. If only I could touch him, get him to look at me, but my hands were caught behind my back. His strange eyes would not focus, couldn't. And, when they did, he was seeing something or someone else. He was like a man possessed.
'I figured out what to do,' he continued, oblivious to the pain he was inflicting or else celebrating it. I stayed still, but began to ease my hands out from behind my back, scraping them as I did. I saw how you use this gate, this entrance. I knew if I waited you'd appear. You're the star of Carnivale; of course the Doge would have you at his ball. I knew and I was right. Stefano thinks I'm stupid -- they all do, you know. But I'm not. I've outsmarted her -- I've outwitted Katina this time. She is going to be very angry when she finds out.'
'What makes you so sure of that?' I asked through gritted teeth.
His eyes widened and he gave me a mocking laugh. 'Because it will ruin her Obbligare Doppio.' He lowered his weapon slightly.
Her what? A double bind? What was that? I knew I had to pretend to know what he was talking about.
'Really? Well, good. I hate her. So do what you have to do.'
This time he was surprised. He pushed himself away from me and the sword shifted. It was now poised over my breast. I tried to ignore it, but the tip of the blade sank into the fabric of my dress. At least my hands were free. I kept them motionless by my sides.
'Why do you hate her?'
'She killed my love.'
He frowned and then his face cleared. 'You mean Dante? He's not dead.'
I thought my heart had stopped. 'What?' A great roar sounded in my ears. I saw this man's mouth move, but I didn't hear what he was saying. The door blew shut behind him. I barely noticed. Dante's not dead? He's alive? Where is he? Oh my love, my dearest. My heart filled. I wanted to cry out, to find him, now, this minute.
The smell of vino brought me back to the present. To where I was, to who I was. To the danger I was in. Who was this madman? No, my heart screamed. No!
'I killed him. At least I thought I had.'
I stared at this staggering drunk man. I'd had enough of him and his senseless babbling, his threats, his stench. Waiting until he was lost in some sort of reverie, I gave him a huge shove in the chest. He stumbled back and his head hit the wall. I stepped forward and wrenched the door open. Rain pelted me in the face, but I could see the small pier, the striped paline and, bobbing alongside it, a gondola. I began to run. Only, as I drew closer, I saw with horror it wasn't the Maleovellis' craft. I slowed down as two shadows emerged from the felze, leaping onto the dock. With a wave of relief, I saw the first was Baroque. He reached behind him and held out a hand, hauling the other person onto the dock. A tall man with big shoulders and glossy dark hair.
'Tallow!' cried a voice. My heart swelled. I stopped in my tracks. My body began to shake as feelings I had denied myself for months flooded into every fibre of my being, filling me with hope and longing. Where they came from, I didn't know. But they entered with such force, I was almost thrown off my feet. My knees buckled, my lips began to say his name over and over, Dante, Dante. Rain struck my face, fell into my mouth, mingling with the tears that I knew fell freely. I dashed them out of my eyes, fearful that if I didn't keep this person, this man, in my sights, he'd disappear. My Dante. I compelled my legs to work as he too began to run towards me, arms outstretched. But before I could call out, something slammed into my back.
I stumbled forward and stopped again. I felt hot, peculiar.
I tried to move, but my body refused to cooperate. It didn't matter, because he came to me. After all this time, he came. Through the rain and darkness he found me. So tall, so strong, so beautiful. I saw his mouth open wide as he cried out a word I could not hear because of the thunder in my mind. The joy on his face, which echoed that in my soul, dissolved into something else. Everything slowed down. I saw Baroque draw a sword and begin to lumber down the dock. He ran past me shouting, but I couldn't hear him either, I saw his mouth moving, snarling. I saw Dante's eyes drop to my breasts. I saw a look of panic twist his beloved face. I followed the direction of his gaze.
Sticking out of my chest was a sword. It was covered in blood. My blood.
I started to fall forwards. He ran to catch me but it was too late.
'Don't touch me!' I whispered before I toppled onto the dock and knew no more.
IGNORING THE HORSE THAT CANTERED into the clearing, Dante remained hunched over Tallow's unconscious form. Even the sounds of the rider dismounting and the rough hand gripping his shoulder didn't break his focus. 'I can't lose her again, Baroque. I won't,' he said as Baroque released his grip. The back of Dante's hand brushed her cheek gently.
Dante had placed her on his cape. Without her mask, and with her eyes closed and hair all dishevelled, she could have been asleep. Only the blood that stained the front of her dress told a different story. Her skin has taken a bluish cast, ghastly, in the moonlight.
'We won't lose her, Dante. Stay strong, amico mio. Have faith,' Baroque said and squatted beside him. 'There was more than a mortal hand behind that sword, the intention. But if there is one thing I've learnt about Tallow, it's that she's stronger than she looks, you know.'
'I did what you said.' Dante faced him, desperation making his eyes glimmer. 'I gave her that potion. Her breathing is slowing; but her heart ... I can barely feel it.' Dante stumbled over the words. He fought back tears.
'Then you have done all you can for now.' Baroque rose and left Dante alone for a moment. Walking back to where he'd left his horse, he quickly tied it to a tree next to Argento and began to loosen the large roll strapped behind the saddle. 'Dante,' he called over his shoulder, 'I need your help.'
First pushing Tallow's hair from her face, Dante reluctantly went to aid Baroque. Together they carried the roll and dropped it down next to Tallow.
'What's this?' Dante asked.
Baroque didn't answer. Instead, he slowly unrolled what was an ornate rug until its centre was exposed. A pale, dishevelled old man lay in the middle.
Dante leapt back in astonishment. 'The Doge!' he yelped. 'That's what you went back for, Baroque? Why? Is he dead?' Dante approached cautiously and bent down, peering at his ruler curiously.
Baroque knelt on the carpet and gently pulled the old man's robes around him -- the robes he'd scooped from the floor and clumsily thrown over the Doge's nightshirt before wrapping him in the rug and carrying him down the passage. He grimaced as he saw the bruises that marked the Doge's face and hands, the dried blood from all the scrapes that tore his papery flesh and from which the thin rug had not protected him. It was these that gave him hope. Dead men did not bleed.
'No, he's no dead -- not yet,' said Baroque.
'What do you mean?'
Before he could answer, the horses began to snort and pull at their tethers. The crash of undergrowth and the sound of harnesses jangling brought Dante and Baroque to their feet. Both drew their swords, Dante standing protectively over Tallow.
From the direction of the Limen cantered two riders. Dante gave a crow of joy and sheathed his sword.
They both waited beside Tallow and the Doge as first Katina and then Constantina rode into the clearing. Katina threw the reins aside and leapt off her horse. She ran to Dante and clasped him to her bosom.
Surprised, Dante returned the hug, glad to see how well Katina looked, how alert and strong.
'You've grown,' she said, holding him at arm's length then reaching up and tousling his hair. 'Where is she?'
Before Dante could warn her, Katina released him and looked down at his feet, her face altering. 'No, No! What's happened?' She fell to the ground. 'Tallow?' She scrabbled helplessly at Tallow's bloodied clothing. 'Who did this to her?' She glared at Dante. 'You were meant to protect her.' Katina stared, her eyes accusing. 'No, no, this is not the way it's meant to be.'
'Settle down, Katina,' said Baroque. 'She's alive, for all that she appears not to be. We did what we could. Don't blame Dante. No-one could have prevented this.'
'We think it was a Bond Rider,' said Dante, uncomfortable under Katina's flinty gaze. 'I didn't recognise him in the dark. There was something peculiar about him. He fled back into the palazzo.' He looked to Baroque to continue the story.
'We didn't follow him. We didn't have time. Dante brought Tallow here as fast as he could. We knew it was important to alert you, get her into the Limen. She needs help.'
Katina gave a curt nod. 'You're right. Of course, you're right.' She dashed a hand across her cheek, wiping away her tears. 'Constantina, come quickly.'
The older woman was slower to get off her horse, but fast once on her feet. She nodded to Dante and studied Baroque briefly before kneeling beside Katina. Baroque's jaw dropped and he couldn't tear his eyes away from the woman.
Pulling Tallow's dress aside, Constantina tried to see the wound.
'The light is terrible,' she said. 'Can you give me a fire, a torch, something?'
'No, I'm afraid not. Not only is everything wet from the rain, but if we're followed, it will make us easy to find,' said Baroque. 'I did my best to cover our tracks as it was.'
Constantina grunted.
'You're an Estrattore, aren't you?' he asked.
Constantina glanced at him over her shoulder. 'Vero,' she said. 'Now, give me some space, all of you. I need to examine Tallow.'
Reluctantly they moved away, their eyes still upon Constantina and Tallow.
'Allora. You think you've been followed?' asked Katina quietly.
Baroque nodded. 'I'm sure of it. When I took him --' he gestured to the Doge '-- something was afoot in the palazzo. I heard the Cardinale's name mentioned. Something about a message from Roma. It won't take long for them to discover the Doge is missing.'
'That's the Doge?' Katina's eyes widened. 'What on Vista Mare possessed you to bring him here?' She shook her head in astonishment. 'The Doge! What's wrong with him?'
'Tallow, that's what. She's done something to him.' Katina's eyebrows shot up. 'I brought him because they can't implicate Tallow in his death if there's no body, can they?'
'She killed him?'
'No, not exactly. I don't know what she's done. I took him to buy us time. To sort out this mess.'
'Us?' asked Constantina. She'd managed to open the front of Tallow's dress, pulling it away from the wound.
'Sì. Us. We're all in this together now,' said Baroque. 'I trained Tallow. I was the one who led the Maleovellis to her. The one who brought her to the point where she was left with no choice but to do what they ordered -- to kill the Doge.'
Katina gasped. Baroque gave a rough nod in affirmation of her surprise. Then he lifted his chin and continued. 'But blame for his death will fall on you,' he said, indicating Constantina. 'On the Estrattore. That cannot be allowed to happen. Not now. People are starting to believe again -- and all because of Tallow.'
Constantina paused. 'Your friend knows much for a human, Katina. He's right. He did well to bring the Doge. And I can tell you, the man is not dead or in any likelihood of dying. But it's Tallow I'm worried about now.'
'What is it?' asked Dante, dropping beside her. 'She will be all right, won't she? I mean, he didn't pierce her heart or anything vital, did he?'
'No. No, he didn't, which puzzles me. Bond Riders are normally very accurate. By rights, she should be able to heal herself. An Estrattore with a fraction of her capabilities would be able to. But ...' Constantina hesitated,
'But what?' urged Dante, his voice catching.
Katina came and stood beside him. 'What is it, Constantina?'
'It's not the physical injury I am concerned about. There is more damage here than a sword thrust or blood loss. It's as if ...'
'What? Tell me,' insisted Dante.
'It's as if she's distilling the pain, storing it inside herself,' finished Constantina.
'I don't understand. What do you mean?'
'I'm not sure. All I can tell you is that I sense a terrible darkness in her -- a great void that I have only felt once before in my entire life.' She looked up at Katina, then her eyes slid to Baroque. 'What did those people do to her?' Her voice was wintry, her eyes weapons that glinted sharply.
Baroque stood rooted to the spot; he struggled to speak, to explain.
'I do not expect an answer,' said Katina finally. 'Not now. But I will have one, Signor.' She released Baroque from her gaze. Tension fled his body and he stumbled.
Constantina pulled a bandage from a bag slung over her shoulder and wrapped it around Tallow firmly. Katina aided her. Pulling Tallow's dress back into place, Constantina rose to her feet.
'She will live. She's lost a great deal of blood and the wound, as bad as it first appears passes right through her body. But you're correct, Dante, it missed her heart, thank the gods. I have the right medicines, but I am no longer certain they are enough.' She glanced at Baroque.
'If what you say is true, and you may be followed, then we have to leave. We must take Tallow into the Limen. At least in there I will have time to try to find the source of this terrible shadow, this force that is destroying her from within.'
'What if you can't?' asked Dante.
'Then we are all lost.'
'What about the Doge?' asked Katina.
Constantina's face was hard to read in the dark, but Dante was sure he saw her expression harden. 'Bring the unbeliever as well.'
'But how? He's human.' Dante said.
'Just bring him. He may not be dead, but he's not exactly alive either. I'm not sure what Tallow has done -- her skills are like nothing I've sensed before -- but he'll survive a crossing. I'll make sure of it.'
'And Tallow? Will she?'
'She has to,' replied Constantina simply. 'Now, pick her up and place her on my horse.'
'No,' said Dante.
They all looked at him in shock.
'I will take her.'
Constantina studied his face for a moment. 'Molto bene.' She turned to Baroque. 'You, Signor, since you had the foresight to bring the Doge, can help me tie him to my horse.' Joining Baroque, she placed her bag in the one attached to her saddle. 'And, since you can't come with us, you can make yourself useful in Vista Mare.' She regarded Baroque more carefully. He shifted uncomfortably under her pearly gaze.
'You will be our eyes and ears in Serenissima. Can you return to the Maleovellis?'
'Sì, I think so. For a while. I am very good at feigning ignorance.'
'Bene,' said Constantina. 'Learn all you can about what is going on. What their plans are, what the plans of the Serenissian Council are. Great forces are rousing and we're all being drawn into the whirlpool on this side of the Limen, and within. We need to know what every element is doing before we can understand what's really at stake and how to act. If we move too soon or in the wrong direction, all could be undone.'
Baroque's face broke into a smile. 'I thought my spying days were over.'
Katina cocked her head to one side. 'No. Not yet. You sound pleased.' She slapped him on the back. 'Go well, amico mio, be careful.'
'You will be contacted, Baroque,' said Constantina. 'I will send my servants -- you may leave messages with them too. Katina,' she said, turning to the Bond Rider. 'Make sure our tracks are covered. Hide Baroque's once he goes. We cannot afford to have our involvement discovered. Not until we know why a Bond Rider tried to kill an Estrattore. More importantly, until we learn why he tried or deliberately failed to kill Tallow. We need to find out if he was acting under orders or independently.'
Katina nodded and helped Baroque sling the Doge onto Constantina's horse.
Dante sat in his saddle, his arms wrapped around Tallow, her head resting against his chest. He noted that Constantina insisted the Doge was lashed to the back of her horse. It seemed to amuse her to have the ruler of one of the greatest countries in Vista Mare, one that had ordered her people exiled and killed, flung like a piece of baggage over her mount.
When he'd finished, Baroque appeared by his side and gripped Dante's leg. 'Look after her, Dante.'
'I will.' Words didn't seem necessary between them anymore. Dante looked at the older man. 'Grazie mille, Baroque. For everything.'
'Don't thank me yet, not until we know Tallow is going to be all right. Those Maleovellis ... they, they tried to break her, to mould her into something she never was and was never meant to be. I will never forgive myself if they have succeeded,' said Baroque quietly. With one more squeeze, he released Dante.
'See you on the other side,' said Dante to Katina.
'The other side,' she said and slapped Argento's rump. The horse neighed, Dante wheeled her round and let her have her head. She knew where she was going. Constantina was close behind him.
They rode through the trees, towards the glittering wall that rose into the sky -- both barrier and haven.
After all this time, the months of watching Tallow, seeing her feted, admired and, most of all, knowing someone else was able to hold her, love her, she was here. She was where she belonged -- in his arms. He'd dreamt of this moment and, despite the warmth of her body, the smell of her hair, it still didn't seem real. He didn't care about what she'd been, or what she'd done. She was his once more and he would do everything in his power to protect her, to see the prophecy of which Tallow was so central a part come to be. What Constantina sensed, what Baroque whispered, that terrified him. What had happened to her? How could someone who brought so much light into the gloom have darkness in their core? What did that mean? What was Constantina hiding? And who was the Bond Rider who attacked her?
That Tallow had been so badly hurt, and right before his eyes, had almost crushed him. He'd prayed to his God and to those of the Estrattore to let her live. He had promised them his life for hers -- whatever they wanted, so long as she survived. So far, they'd listened. Or had they? Was it already too late? Had something worse than death taken her from him? He longed to kiss the top of her head, but was afraid he would bang his chin against her and cause more hurt. God knows, she'd suffered enough in her short life. Instead, he tightened his arms around her, astonished by how small and frail she felt, this magnificent, golden being. He felt her shift and thought for a second she was trying to get closer to him. With a painful start it occurred to him that even in her semi-conscious state, she was trying to move away.
Oh, Tallow, my love, I'll make them pay for this. They'll all pay.
In the melee of his thoughts, a face swam into view, crystallising before him. Santo. That day by the Elders' palazzo. The day he woke to his new life and new responsibilities. The day he became a Bond Rider. Macelleria? Santo had sneered at him. Will you live up to your name and do what needs to be done?
Dante knew, that for Tallow, he could become anything -- even a butcher of men.
The trees ended and the Limen waited. Shimmering, alluring, dangerous and exciting. Much like Tallow, he thought, as she rested against his chest. The warmth of his feelings pervaded his body, flowing to the ends of his fingers and toes. The sensations were so intense they brought tears to his eyes. He held Tallow tighter. You'll never escape me again, he promised. Grazie mille, God, gods. Help her. Help us all.
He remembered what she said before she collapsed. 'Don't touch me,' she'd cried. Did she recognise him? Did she mean that? Why did she say that and to him of all people? He pushed aside the pain her first words had caused to flare and concentrated on breaching the Limen.
He could hear Constantina behind him. As he shouted the words that would tear the barrier asunder, urging Argento into a canter, a great shudder wracked his body.
Katina! She was in dreadful danger. Just when he thought what remained of his soul was at peace, that his Bond could now be fulfilled, the Obbligare Doppio told him something else. Before he could reverse his charge, Argento leapt through the Limen, Constantina on their heels.
One minute, a window opened from the world of time and space and into the grey place where it had no meaning before it closed behind him, swirling and reforming as if it had never been disturbed.
Shutting him out.
'NO GOOD LOOKING FOR HIM, he's far away now.' Santo nodded in the direction that Baroque had gone over ten minutes ago. Katina's heart sank. There she was, unarmed and vulnerable, her weapon and horse out of reach by the pledge stone.
Santo stood in front of Katina. In one hand was his sword, in the other a dirk. His face was twisted in a lopsided grin. He swayed from side to side, ready to attack. Katina registered a mad, unfamiliar glint in his eyes, the position of his weapons. They shone, sharp and deadly, by the fractured light of the moon. She didn't recognise this being before her; the strange, dangerous energy he exuded.
'I have been wanting this for so long, Katina Maggiore. Ever since I learnt about you and Stefano, ever since I discovered the nature of his shame.'
'Stefano's shame? What are you talking about?' Katina's mind reeled. 'The only thing Stefano is ashamed of is you.'
Howling like an animal, Santo ran at her. Katina tried to wrest the sword from his grip, knock the dagger from his hands; but he was a good fighter, a dirty one -- even full of vino: even unhinged. She'd seen him and Stefano battle many times. It was part of what drew them together, a love of violence. They broke apart. His knife had sliced her arm. She bled onto the ground.
Her heart was beating frantically. She had to keep her wits, not panic. She also had to keep Santo talking, try to distract him.
'Why do you say my name like that, Santo? What do you know of the Maggiore?'
Santo laughed, his lips pulled back to show all his teeth. 'Me? I know nothing. I care even less. This isn't about me, this is about Stefano. This is about you and what you have done to him and his casa.'
'What are you talking about?' Katina was very confused. 'Stefano and I have not been together for centuries. And as for his casa, I have done nothing to it ... how could I? We are of the same family, it is my house too. I would not harm my own.'
'You really don't know?' He crowed at the look of puzzlement on her face and swung at her with the sword. Katina jumped back, the blade narrowly missing her stomach.
Katina could see Tallow's blood splattered all over his shirt, her own glued to his knife. It sickened her. 'What do you mean?'
'I mean that because of what you are, what you believed, Stefano was forced to pledge to Casa di Nicolotti. You, your blood, your line ruined his life.'
Katina stared at him in disbelief. 'How is that even possible? There are hundreds of Maggiore in Serenissima.' 'Why my line? It is his too.'
Again Santo laughed. Katina backed away, increasing the distance between them. 'You're wrong as usual, Katina. There's only one bloodline remaining that tarnishes the fine name of Casa di Maggiore. Only one that is directly linked to the Estrattore. Only one that prevents the Maggiore from ascending to the Dogeship -- and they're all gone. Stefano has long desired to destroy the taint -- the pain, the shame. That's you, Katina.'
He lunged again. Katina slipped and only just managed to move out of the way. The ground was muddy; the soles of her boots failed to grip. Sweat broke out on her brow. By the gods, he was crazy!
'Pain and shame? Well, you should know all about that, shouldn't you, Santo Pelleta!'
Santo gave a harsh laugh. 'Try and provoke me all you like, Katina. I will kill you when I'm ready. This has nothing to do with my Bond. I'm not bound by your Obbligare Doppio.'
'If that's so, why have you waited?' gasped Katina. 'Why didn't you or Stefano just kill me in the Limen?'
'Oh, believe me, I tried. Many times I tried to dispatch you. But there was always Debora and Alessandro hovering around or the other Elders and, later, my pathetic excuse for a son. There was even the Estrattore. But now they're all gone. She's gone and you're alone. No-one is here to stop me. Stefano will thank me. They'll all thank me.'
'But you'll be killing a Rider, Santo. You'll be renounced, exiled just as I was.'
'Not if I end the stalemate you caused with your Obbligare Doppio. Not if I kill a Rider who consorts with Estrattore behind the backs of the Elders.' He laughed at the look on Katina's face. 'Sì! I know about that too. No, with your death, I'll not only be setting Stefano free, but all the Bond Riders.'
'Free? Nothing will set us free, Santo, except the Estrattore. And you tried to kill the one who has the only chance of uniting us all, of having us cooperate the way we used to in the old days.'
'The old days? Who cares about those? They don't mean anything anymore.'
'Is that what you think, or are you simply parroting Elder Nicolotti ... like you always do? Poor, needy Santo. You know you're an object of pity in Settlement?'
With a ferocious, guttural growl, he ran at her, thrusting with the knife as he brought the sword down. Katina ducked to one side and spun, coming out under his arm, unharmed. They both stood panting, staring at each other. Feet separated them. Katina's eyes never left his weapons.
Santo's grin widened. 'Happy now? I lost control. Won't happen again.'
'Senta, Santo -- listen.' Katina's voice was harsh in her ears. 'I know you think you're doing this for Stefano, but you don't understand. Even if you want to kill me, there are greater forces at work here. The Obbligare Doppio -- it will not allow you. It will stop you ...'
'What? Like it stopped me killing Tallow?' He threw back his head. 'You fool! Don't you understand? The Estrattore is dead. Your double bind is meaningless now. All those years you and my son and that useless shrew of a wife of mine worked to protect her were for nothing! It's over, Katina. Over.' His sword cut the air. 'You're finished.' With a shout, he raised the sword again and dived towards her.
'Not while I'm alive,' roared another voice.
Santo froze mid-swing, pulling up his knife, the sword poised.
Katina stared, her mouth dropping open. 'Pillar!'
Santo began to laugh harder. He lowered his weapons, his face twisting in a range of expressions. 'Well, well, well. So it is. Pillar. Pietro. Old man. My son,' he said slowly. 'You never could get your timing right, could you?' Contempt hung in the night. 'You would protect this woman? You would risk your life for her? You would challenge me, your father?'
'My father,' Pillar repeated. 'The father who left Mamma and me in poverty, to fend for ourselves while he joined the Bond Riders. The father who never gave us another thought. The father who thinks only of himself and where his next drink is coming from. Sì, I remember you.' Pillar lifted the axe he'd held by his side, the axe he'd stolen from a woodsman's cottage after he'd blundered through the marshes, desperately following Dante's trail.
Santo looked from the axe to Pillar. He stood up straight, fixed a smile on his face and lowered his sword. 'What are we doing? You would do battle with me, Pietro? Your own flesh and blood? This is not the Serenissian way. This is not you.'
Behind Santo, Katina watched, unable to move. Father and son circled each other, their weapons aloft, their faces alike and yet so different. Santo, the father, unlined, his hair dark, his eyes undamaged by years of squinting over hot fat, of extreme temperatures. His body lithe from its time in the Limen. Even affected by alcohol, he moved with a grace and knowingness that his son lacked.
She looked to Pillar. He'd changed. Weight had fallen from him, leaving him lean and sinewy; he appeared pale and unwell. But within him something burned. Rage, revenge. She was not sure. A long beard hid the lower half of his jaw, disguising the weak chin. His lined cheeks, savaged by sores, had a sharpness and strength she'd not noticed before. If they lacked the skill they required, his long fingers held the axe with determination.
'How would you know what's me and what isn't? You don't know me,' said Pillar, his voice deep, deadly.
Santo chuckled. 'You're meant to be my son. I know you -- you're like me.'
Now it was Pillar's turn to laugh. 'I am nothing like you.'
Faster than Katina expected, Pillar crossed the space between them. He swung the axe hard. Santo feinted to the left and brought the sword down on Pillar's arm. It sliced through his cape, just missing his flesh.
Pillar spun round quickly, panting heavily. He now had his back to Katina. He flapped his hand behind him. 'Go, Katina. Make yourself safe.'
'Yes!' cried Santo. 'Go, Katina. Go Bond Rider. Run while you still can. I will find you and when I do, I will finish you just like I did the Estrattore!'
'What?' Pillar glanced at Katina briefly before turning to keep Santo at bay. 'Is that true?'
'Yes, my son. I killed your precious pet. The pet I made sure was handed to you all those years ago on the Old Jinoan Road.'
'But why?' asked Pillar. Katina could hear the confusion in his voice. 'If you wanted her dead, why did you give her to me? "For Santo" that Rider said. He threw her to me. I knew you'd sent her. I thought, finally, you trusted me with something precious, important. I believed then that you'd come back, that you'd be proud of me. I defied Mamma. I kept that sweet little girl.'
'Sì, you did. But do you know why I told the Rider to give the baby to you?' He did not wait for an answer. 'Because I knew even then that you were so desperate to win my approval, even though I'd been gone for many years, that you would obey anything asked of you in my name. That you would risk your life and Quinn's. That you would take an Estrattore. And I was right. You did. You did very well, Pietro. You did what Papa told you. Only it was never for me. It was for the Bond Riders.'
Pillar did not speak. His shoulders seemed to slump with the burden of this new knowledge. He'd been used. Like his father had used him and Quinn when he lived with them. No wonder Quinn had been ... the way she was. Santo kept circling. Now his back was to Katina. Both men were between her and the pledge stone. She couldn't get to her weapon without Santo seeing. She bent down slowly and, without taking her eyes off them, felt for a rock, a branch, something to help Pillar.
'Did you know that all this time, Pietro,' continued Santo, his voice taunting, 'all the years you raised Tallow, trained her, you've been doing the Bond Riders' bidding? That Katina, this woman you want to protect --' he jerked his head back '-- was making sure that everything went according to plan? The Elders' plan, Pietro. Not yours, not some divine prophecy, but the gospel according to the Bond Riders.'
'Don't listen to him, Pillar,' said Katina. 'He's twisting the facts.'
'Am I?' asked Santo, closing the distance. 'Isn't it true that the Elders listened to me, Katina, to me? The new Bond Rider. When I said my son and wife would mind the child they fell over themselves to accommodate me. How that must have rankled with you -- one of the ancients. But they knew it was a good idea. Hide the child where she was least likely to be found, in the backwaters of Serenissima, apprenticed, as I knew she would be, to a candlemaker.' He looked Pillar up and down. 'To you, Pietro.'
'If Tallow is so important, why did you kill her?' asked Pillar suddenly.
Santo paused. Bewilderment ran across his features and then disappeared. 'Because as long as she lives, the Bond Riders can't act -- we can't be freed. Katina made sure of that when she made the Obbligare Doppio. So you see, it wasn't me who killed Tallow, it was Katina.' His face brightened. 'Sì. It was Katina. And now I am going to kill her.'
As he spoke, Santo twisted his sword and held his knife at an angle. With a mighty shout, he leapt in the air. Still kneeling, Katina looked up in horror to see Santo descending on her, the blades of his weapons inches from her face.
She screamed and threw herself backwards just as Santo swivelled again and turned on his own son.
Pillar had run at his father, his axe raised. Santo landed lightly, sword and dagger attacking. Pillar swung his axe, crudely, bravely, but Santo's abilities were greater. With his sword arm, he parried the axe, pushed it away and used his knife. Again and again, he stabbed at his son.
Katina saw Pillar's face change. The realisation that his own father was prepared to kill him triggered something inside. With an almighty howl, he jumped, just as Santo plunged his sword into what would have been Pillar's heart. Santo lost his footing, stumbling forwards, his neck outstretched. Pillar lowered his axe with all the force he could muster.
Santo's scream of rage was cut off the moment the axe lodged in his neck. His body collapsed at Pillar's feet. Pillar raised the axe above his head and struck again and again. Blood rained on him from above, spurting in a vermilion fountain and flowing, thick and sluggish, from the growing wound. It looked unnatural in the light that penetrated the clouds and illuminated the glade, soaking into the earth, a metallic vein of silver.
It was only when Santo's head detached from his bloodied shoulders and rolled into a pile of leaves that Pillar stopped. Santo's eyes stared at the sky, a look of surprise and pain forever etched across his features.
Katina rose slowly, a rock clutched in her fist. She let go and it thumped to the ground. Pillar stared at his father's body, his face frozen in disbelief. Katina hesitated.
Pillar flung the axe to one side and, running towards Katina, held out his arms. She surged towards him, but stopped short, her hands raised. 'Pillar ... you're covered in ...' She indicated his clothes.
He dropped his arms and looked down in dismay.
'My father's blood.'
'Sì.'
With great care, Pillar took off his cloak and pulled off his shirt, using it to wipe his face, his head and his hands. When he'd finished, he flung it to one side and slowly retied the cloak. Only then did Katina stepped closer. He cupped her face in the palm of his hand.
'You saved my life,' she whispered.
'By God, I thought I was going to be too late,' he said, swallowing the emotions that threatened to spill.
Katina drank in the sight he made, noting the bloodstains smeared across his cheeks, over his forehead, between his fingers and under his nails. She saw the thinness of his body, the muscles twitching in his face. They stood under the moon staring at each other for what seemed like ages.
'You were just in time,' said Katina, softly. All the confused affection she'd held for this gentle man rushed to the surface. She touched his beard, ran her fingers through his filthy grey hair. 'Oh, Pillar. Grazie. Grazie.'
Pillar bent his head to kiss her. She stopped him. 'Pillar, mi dispiace. But you ... you smell terrible.'
For a moment, hurt flared in his eyes, but then he laughed.
'You're probably right. I have lived with this odour ... this state for so long, I am no longer aware.' He cupped her chin. 'When I am clean again, perhaps?'
'Perhaps,' she said. 'But there are more important matters.'
His eyes narrowed and his hand fell away. 'Tallow,' he said hoarsely. 'I was too late to save Tallow.'
'No. No. That's not true,' said Katina hurriedly. Disregarding the bloodstains, the stench, she grabbed Pillar's face between her hands. 'She lives, Pillar. She's going to be all right. She's in the Limen. Dante has taken her, and Constantina, another Estrattore.'
'She lives?' Pillar's face broke into a smile. The sadness that cast his features sloughed away. He laughed. Softly at first, but then with greater abandon. 'Thank God. Oh, thank God.' He looked deep into Katina's eyes again, his hands rising to cover hers and press them into his skin. 'There's another, you say? Another Estrattore? Is this possible?'
'Sì, Pillar. It is. There are many more and I have to find them. It's part of my Bond, part of my duty to Tallow. I must find the rest of her people. Terrible things are happening in the Limen. There are dreadful forces mustering and we have to stop them. The Bond Riders are not what they seem,' she glanced at Santo. 'They have been corrupted, lost their way. That's why I cannot stay with you. I have to go, Pillar. That's what I wanted to tell you. Mi dispiace, You understand? I must work with Tallow and give her a chance to do what she was born to.' She dropped her hands and stepped out of reach. She held his regard a moment longer before turning towards Birrichino. She found her sword among her things and sheathed it.
'But I can help as well. I must,' said Pillar, following her.
'No, you don't understand.' Katina paused and spun to face him. Already the light was changing and she could see Pillar's face more clearly. A cold wind gusted through the clearing, rustling the trees, loosening the moisture collected on the leaves that surrounded them. 'You cannot come with me, Pillar. I have to return to the Limen. What happened here tonight, in Serenissima, and this ...' She gestured to where Santo's corpse lay, wincing at the sight. 'This is only the beginning. I have to see it through to the end.' She swung herself up into the saddle.
'No,' cried Pillar, and grabbed the reins. 'It's you who doesn't understand.' Birrichino pulled against him, neighing in protest. 'I'm coming too. You can't stop me.'
'Pillar, you of all people know that's not possible. Only Bond Riders or those without souls can breach the Limen.'
A strange look passed over Pillar's face. 'Esatto,' he said, and shoved his palm towards her.
In the cold light of the new dawn, Katina saw the long, jagged cut filled with dried blood that crossed his flesh.
Katina gasped. 'No!'
'Sì. I am pledged, Katina. I have made a Bond as well. To Tallow. I have forsaken her once but I'll not do so again. I promised.' He let go of the reins and, instead, used the edge of the saddle to heave himself up behind Katina and wrapped his arms about her. 'I apologise for the condition I'm in, but the sooner we breach, the faster I'll be able to do something about it. And the faster we'll be able to help Tallow.'
Katina froze for a moment, trying to comprehend what had just happened.
'What are we waiting for?' cried Pillar. 'Take me with you, my Bond Rider.'
After the horror of the last hour, Katina felt the release of laughter bubbling up inside her. Pillar was right. What were they waiting for? The time had come to set things right.
'For Tallow!' she shouted and, swinging Birrichino around, galloped towards the beckoning veil of the Limen.
ALL THE WHILE, HIGH ABOVE THEM, a pair of mournful, dark eyes watched and waited ...
ZARALINA'S EYES FLEW OPEN and she sat bolt upright in her bed. 'Shazet!' she cried.
Never far away, the Morte Whisperer materialised beside her.
Without acknowledging him, she addressed the darkness. 'She is in the Limen.'
Shazet released a long, triumphant sibilation.
'Bring her to me.' Zaralina lay back down slowly. 'Bring her to me now.'
There was a slight disturbance in the air as Shazet went to do his mistress's bidding.
THESE TERMS ARE EITHER ITALIAN or Venetian, or sometimes fantasy variations of the two. I have, on occasion, taken liberties with meanings and spellings.
allora: an expression used to start a conversation. For example, 'So, ...'
altana: roof top terrace
amica mia: my friend (female)
amico mio: my friend (male)
amore mio: my love
anche: also
aspettare: wait
barnabotti: a group of impoverished nobiles or degenerate young men
basilica: church
bells of Serenissima: bells in the campanile or tower in the main piazza that all rang to mark time and/or occasions. Nona sounded at midday, the Maragona rang to mark the beginning and the end of the working day. The Renghiera was sounded to denote an execution, while the Trottiera called Council to a meeting and the Mezza Terza summoned the Senate.
bocca di leone: literally, 'the mouth of the lion'. In Serenissima, citizens (of any rank) are encouraged to reveal the names and behaviours of those who are breaking the strict laws and doing anything untoward by depositing a slip of paper with the details in the mouth of a carved lion. These lions, or repositories, are situated in different locations on the islands and the notes found in them are taken very seriously and investigated by the Signori di Notte.
Bond Rider: a person who surrenders his or her soul to a pledge stone for keeping in order that he or she may fulfil a specific task -- a Bond
broach: wooden rod from which wicks are suspended, then dipped repeatedly in either tallow or wax to make candles of varying thicknesses and lengths
buon fortuna: good luck
buon giorno: good morning
calle: alley
campo: local marketplace or square, plural is campicandles: used for both heat and light. The cheapest are formed from animal fat (mostly beef) and render, often a mixture of different types, while more expensive candles are made from beeswax and even different types of oil. The most popular types are: long, slender tapers; small, squat votives placed in glass containers, often used for religious purposes; pillar candles, thicker and taller than votives. Rush lights, lumps of tallow rolled around a basic wick, are popular with the poorer classes because a one-metre homemade rush light burns for about an hour. Wicks can be made from any flammable fabric that maintains a consistent burn and temperature, e.g. hemp or cotton. Additives can also be applied to the wax to sweeten the candle's scent.
capi: collective name given to the three nobiles who head of the Council of Ten. The positions are rotated among the Council.
capisce: you understand
capisco: I understand
capiscono: they understand
capite: you (plural) understand
casa: grand house owned by a member of the aristocracy
Castana: means 'chestnut'; is the name of Cristoforos' horse
cavola: literally 'cabbage', but also slang for 'bitch'
certo: certainly; sure
ci vediamo: till we see each other again (pronounced che)
colleganza: a short-term business partnership
Commedia dell'arte: term for a particular type of theatre with distinct characters that relied on humour (usually satire and irony as well as slapstick) to tell the story
Council of Ten: elected nobiles who advise the Doge on matters of governance and security. They have extraordinary powers of veto and often work without the Doge's knowledge to protect the interests of Serenissima.
Doge: elected ruler of Serenissima
dorata: golden (feminine)
dorato: golden (masculine)
dottore: doctor
esattamente: exactly
esatto: exactly
Estrattore: someone who has the ability to extract specific emotions and feelings from a person, animal or object and alter and transfer this emotion/feeling, positive or negative and distill these in different ways
Factotum: general servant or person who fulfils many functions in a household -- mostly, administrative
felze: small passenger compartment on a gondola
fondamenta: paved path that runs beside the canal
forcola: the oarlock on a gondola
fortuna: fortune, chance, good luck
grazie: thank you
grazie mille: thank you very much (literally: thank you a thousand times)
homicidi: murder, homicide
insegnante: teacher
Limen, the: a peculiar space that divides countries and, according to legends, worlds. Within this space, time stands still. Only Bond Riders and their horses or those who have partial or no souls can dwell in these parts.
maestro della casa: literally, master of the house; a Major Domo
maragona: see 'bells of Serenissima'
mercato: the market
Morto Assiderato: a plague, literally means 'frozen to death'
Mortians: wraith-like beings whose specific origins are unknown but who currently have an allegiance with the Queen of Farrowfare, Zaralina. They are able to breach the Limen and can move mostly undetected. It is also believed that they have formed a treaty with a Bond Rider faction to enable them to navigate the Limen more readily. Also known as Morte Whisperers.
naturalmente: naturally
nobile: noble; aristocrat
non è possible: it's not possible
nona: see 'bells of Serenissima'
nonno/a: grandfather or grandmother
ombretta: small glass of wine
paean: song or poem of joyful praise or exultation
palazzo: palace
paline: red-and-white striped poles in the canals to which personal watercraft are tied
piano nobile: main floor of a palazzo or casa
pianterreno: ground floor of a palazzo or casa
piazza: main central plaza in Serenissima -- the Doge's palazzo and the Cardinale's basilica face onto the piazza
piazzetta: small square for markets or concerts, often linked to other parts of the quartiere by bridges and calles. Casas, businesses and local basilicas usually line piazzettas.
pledge stones: name given to the strange monoliths that absorb the souls of Bond Riders. Each is named after a major Serenissian nobile's house or casa.
ponte: bridge
Ponticello di Mille Pietre: Bridge of a Thousand Stones
portego: main room in some casas
porteghi: a covered walkway generally formed when houses meet or through deliberate design
puttana: bitch or whore
quartiere: a district; plural is quartieri. In Serenissima, quartieri are named after the major profession or trade of the area.
ragazza: adolescent girl
ragazzo: adolescent boy
rami: very small, often dead-end, alleyways
Redentore: the Redeemer
salizzada: main street; means 'paved'
scion: a descendent (of a notable family); a son or daughter
scuola: school or trade group. In Serenissima, scuola are non-religious establishments based in areas where master craftsmen live. The group decides on tithes, training and the general rules by which craftsmen and women should live.
senta: literally, 'listen'; a common way to start a conversation
La Serenissima: republic formed by a group of islands nestled in the lagoon area of the Mariniquian Seas and surrounding mainland areas, between the Jinoa and Vyzantian pensinulas
Serenissimina: a conquered island off the coast of Hibernya. Forms part of an important trade route between Moroko, Hibernya and Serenissima. Literally 'little Serenissima'.
sestieri: the six major areas of Serenissima, which are then broken up into quartieri named for the dominant craft in each area
signor: mister, sir
signori: gentleman; lords
Signori di Notte: Lords of the Night. A band of elite soldiers/police who answer usually to the capi (three heads) of the Council of Ten, but also, in Serenissima, to the Cardinale.
Signorina: unmarried woman
sottoporteghi: passageways through the city; tunnels formed when buildings meet over open spaces
squero: boatyard
stazione: jetty where passengers wait for sandolis or traghettos, also known as fermata
ti amo: I love you
traghetto: a gondola ferry
vero: it's true
vi amo: I love you (plural)
Zia: Aunt
Zio: Uncle
THIS NOVEL HAS BEEN A LABOUR of love and I've so many people I wish to thank. I fear I'll be a little sentimental, but when you read why, I hope you'll forgive me that indulgence.
When I wrote the acknowledgements for my last book, Tallow, I stated how inspiring two of my dearest friends, Sara Warneke and Grant Searle, who were undergoing treatment for cancer were (and still are). Little did I know, as I typed away that I too had cancer. Diagnosed last year, I'm still in the process of recovery and, without the unwavering support of the people I'm about to mention, I doubt I could have gotten through the last 18 or so months -- a time when I also lost my father and, within a few weeks, my beloved dog, Dante, as well.
Out of the darkness, there does indeed come light and the names below have brought that and more into my sometimes dim world -- so has the writing of this book.
Firstly, I have to thank my fabulous agent, Selwa Anthony. Selwa is both friend and colleague and lifted me when I was down and unwell, advised me on matters beyond the manuscript and was just magnificent.
I also want to thank the lovely Leonie Tyle for her faith, presence and enthusiasm. When Leonie rang me at 5.30 pm on a Saturday to say she'd read the draft of Votive in one sitting, neither showering nor getting out of her pyjamas for two days, it was a thrill, and something every author (but not neglected family) wants to experience. Thanks also to the adorable Sarah Hazelton for early work on this novel -- again, your ideas and belief have been sensational.
Celia Jellet, the main editor on this book -- what a considered, brilliant and knowledgeable woman. I've been so fortunate to, yet again, have someone so familiar with and passionate about the genre with which to work. Celia has made this book much better than it otherwise would have been and, in editing terms, is a writer's gift. To the rest of the terrific mob at Random House, Cristina Briones, Adiba Oemar, Nerrilee Weir, Justin Ractliffe, Sarana Behan, Peri Wilson, Linsay Knight and the entire design team -- thank you for your support and understanding and for your hard and enthusiastic work on the novel and series.
To my vet, Greg Plumber, who shared his love of poetry and introduced me to the joys of Edna St. Vincent Millay and who tried desperately to save Dante -- thank you. To my neighbour and friend, the artist Ken Johnson, who was not only inspired enough by Tallow to paint a magnificent picture, but who dropped by for coffee and talk all things Italiano with me as well -- grazie mille. My mate and fellow writer, Anthony Eaton, who always found the time to check in and discuss writing, work and family and share a laugh or allow me to vent about illness -- thank you so much. Also, a heartfelt thanks to my gorgeous friends, Lesley Roberts, Shelley De Courcy Lys, Frannie Thiele, Lisa Hill; Michael, Stacey, Andre and Axel Angelides; Grant Searle and Fiona LeGassick and their lovely children, Shamus and Riley; Chris, Andrea, Charlotte and Isobelle Lilley -- all of whom stopped their lives for me and Stephen. Special thanks go to Greg and Alison Hall. Even in the grip of cancer themselves, their love and friendship shines. Also, Jo and Harry Gibbs, Jane Fynes-Clinton, Bronnie Marquardt, Lauren Charrington and Gail Enstrom; my family, especially, Moira Adams, Pat Brooks, Peter and Helen Meyer. I am so lucky to have you all in my life.
There were many wonderful people who helped and supported me without even knowing it: the talented Sassy writing community -- you're all fabulous, especially Kim Wilkins, Michael MacConnell, Nathan Burrage and Katherine Howell -- amazing writers and loved friends. Also, the great team at the Courier Mail: Margaret Wenham, Sam Strutt, Geoff Shearer, Paul Syrett and Bob MacDonald -- thanks. Thanks also to Professor Graeme Turner and his gorgeous wife, Chris, and the staff and students at the Centre for Critical and Cultural Studies at the University of Queensland.
My facebook friends and members of my Fan Page -- your words, help, insight, 'likes' when I posted something trivial, thoughtful or just needed to share were so important. Thanks especially to Amanda Wrangles, Joy Rockey and Michael Clabingboel -- virtual friends extraordinaire. Thanks go to my email buddies, Bronwyn Quinn, Gregory Rees, PK and Bill Howell -- you brightened my days and nights.
To those who wrote regarding how much they enjoyed if not loved Tallow -- you have no idea how much your kind words meant.
Thanks also go to my dear, dear friend, Jim McKay. Someone who not only was there whenever Stephen or I needed him, who gave us so much love and support through good times and not so good, but who, along with Stephen, was a 'test' reader for Votive. Both Jim and Stephen gave me such insightful and great advice and I know the book is a better read for their suggestions.
To my children, Adam and Caragh, who never doubt me as a mother, writer, and a person, and always love me -- thank you, darlings. Those feelings are completely and utterly mutual.
Sara, what can I say that I haven't already said, except from the bottom of my heart -- thank you. Words, our currency, are ironically inadequate here.
My thanks also go to my little sister, Jenny Farrell, who unselfishly dropped everything and was there when I needed her most and who has been the best sibling anyone could wish for. Along with her husband, John, and my niece, Jessica, and nephew, Jordan, they took me into their home and cared me back to health -- thank you today and every day.
But Jenny didn't do the caring alone and I didn't heal in isolation either. Stephen -- my beloved, my partner, my rock -- was beside me every step of the way. Stephen has held me up, given me arms and a shoulder whenever I needed them, cried and laughed with me through the cancer and its rotten aftermath, sacrificing his needs for mine without second thoughts -- only love. And all the time he encouraged me to write and live. Votive is as much yours as mine and you get the biggest thank you of all. As Dante and Tallow said to each other: Ti amo -- per eternitá.
Associate Professor Karen Brooks is an Honorary Research Fellow at the Centre for Critical and Cultural Studies at the University of Queensland and has a PhD in cultural studies.
Renowned internationally for her work on popular culture, Karen is also a dynamic and award-winning teacher. She is a weekly columnist for The Courier Mail and an 'expert' on Channel 7's Sunrise and The Morning Show and has appeared on 60 Minutes. She was also a regular on ABC's The Einstein Factor as part of the Brains Trust. Author of the popular Cassandra Klein quartet and Rifts through Quentaris, Karen's first non-fiction book Consuming Innocence: Popular Culture and Our Children was published in 2008 to rave reviews. In recognition of the public debates she has stimulated and her academic and creative contributions to Australian and global society, she is cited in Who's Who of Australian Women 2007--2011, as well as Who's Who in the World.
Karen has a wonderful partner, Stephen, and two gorgeous children, Adam and Caragh, and shares her house with her cuddly dogs and, occasionally, her fabulous friends as well.
TALLOW
THE CURSE OF THE BOND RIDERS BOOK I
By Karen Brooks
In a world of darkness, there is one who will bring light ...
On the edge of a mystical border called the Limen, close to a beautiful canal-laced city, a humble candlemaker rescues a child, whom he raises as his apprentice.
Years pass and the child's unusual talents are revealed, the gentle art of candlemaking slowly transforming into something far more sinister.
Lingering in the shadows, enemies watch and wait -- a vengeful aristocrat, an exotic queen and the lethal creatures known only as the Morte Whisperers.
They hunger after the child's ancient magic and will do anything to control it -- betray, lie, manipulate. Even murder.
A story of intrigue, deadly magic and a love so deep it transcends life itself.

