‘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.