The Vessel of Ra

by Catherine Schaff-Stump

  “The shadows do,” said Lucy, “and they pass it on to me.”

  Paolo pointed to a broken window on the second floor, its glass jagged like an old man’s teeth. “There,” said Paolo. “We’ll go in there.”

  “Don’t you have a key?” asked Carlo.

  “I can’t use it. We are keeping Miss Lucia a secret. You don’t use keys when you are keeping a secret.”

  A gentle breeze drifted from the canal, covering them with drizzle and the stale, fishy, salty smell.

  “You want us to climb up there?” Carlo asked.

  “If I can do it, so can you.”

  “I’m not thinking about you, Nonno. Lucy, maybe, cannot.”

  Lucy’s eyes climbed to the second story. “Don’t worry about me,” said Lucy. “We can manage. Can’t we?”

  Ra, sitting on her shoulder, spread his wings. Lucy touched him and they floated to the ledge just outside the window.

  “Maybe she doesn’t need us,” said Carlo.

  “Maybe you need her,” said Paolo. “Up you go.”

  Lucy watched the Borgias clamber up the edifice the old-fashioned way, finding toeholds and handholds in alcoves and on ledges. She glanced inside the broken windows, but could not see much in the gloom.

  When he reached her side, Carlo studied the window. He wrapped his hand in his cloak and snapped away glass. “Would you care to glide inside?”

  Lucy floated to the floor, her boots kissing the ground. Dust swirled up. Carlo landed beside her in a crouch, his hands brushing swaths in the pervasive dirt. Paolo located a rope to the right of the window and shimmied down. He’d been in this way before.

  Lucy coughed as the dust settled. A grand wood counter had been cut in half by a falling column, which rested at a slant across the counter’s marble top, cracks webbing out from it, patterned like a lace collar. Warped shelves rolled across the walls. The floor tiles were fragmented, missing in some spots. Below them, metal and glass had broken from the shattered dome above, which was open to let all the elements in. Leaves filled the room’s corners.

  “I can stay here,” announced Lucy. “This will do quite nicely.”

  “I don’t think so.” Carlo shook his head. “Where will you sleep? How will you eat?”

  “I’ll manage. The important point is anyone Octavia sends won’t find me here. They’re looking for a woman, not a little girl.” She twirled in her dress, the skirt rising. “I can leave the city in a day or two.”

  “Best stay inside as much as you can. Your bird, he’ll reveal your presence.”

  Lucy flipped one tile back into place with her foot. “We can compromise, can’t we, Ra?”

  Ra fluttered into the dark shadows, plucking something from a leaf pile. Ra was always hungry for something.

  “Won’t Ra tell your family where to find you?” asked Carlo. “What can he gain keeping you away?”

  “The Trial will happen in three weeks, with or without the proper ceremony. Ra knows Octavia will have to kill me when he wins. I know Ra doesn’t want us to be killed. Otherwise, what would be the purpose of winning?”

  “I don’t see how this makes your situation any better.”

  “Wait! I told you to trust me!” Paolo darted around a dividing wall into what could have been a storeroom or a workroom.

  “You aren’t going to try killing yourself again?” Carlo reached for her shoulder, then pulled his hand back.

  Lucy started. “No.” She watched his hand drop to his side. “Killing myself is impossible, and I’m grateful. Jumping in the canal might have not been my wisest decision.”

  “You were desperate.”

  “I was foolish. I don’t want to die. It seemed one way or the other who I was would die. Your grandfather seems to have something else in mind.”

  Paolo came back around the dividing wall. “You must come here,” he said. “I think you will be impressed.”

  Lucy rounded the corner. Carlo followed into a back room full of shelves stretching floor to ceiling, up to a second floor. Another dome decorated the room, the glass broken in missing patchworks. Birds roosted inside and out.

  “My library,” announced Paolo.

  “I don’t see any books,” said Carlo.

  “You wouldn’t,” said Paolo. “Not yet. When you learn some magic”—he spread his hands expansively—“you will be able to see, and all this will be yours!”

  “Thank you?” said Carlo. He dragged a foot along the floor, cutting a canal in the dust.

  Lucy walked to a stand, where a giant tome laid open. She traced the gilt letters on the page with her index finger. “I’ve never seen so many books about magic.”

  “Lucky you,” muttered Carlo.

  “It is a crime you, the powerful Lucia Klaereon, have not seen this many books. It is as if someone has been keeping them from you.”

  Lucy studied the skylight. “Don’t you worry about rain?”

  Paolo pulled a creaky ladder along the shelves. “No. Or people coming in. Only I can see it and those I allow to.” He climbed the ladder one careful rung at a time. On the top shelf, he searched among papers and gadgets and pulled out a scroll, double-rolled, as long as his arm. He climbed down with more caution.

  “Maybe,” he said. “Solomon has his scroll, and this scroll commands the demons. Is it possible the demons have made a counter scroll?”

  Lucy eyed the scroll. Demon magic emanated from it like the rays of the sun. Paolo handed it to her.

  “Where did you get this?” Lucy untied strings and unfurled the paper.

  Paolo waved her question away. “It is why you came to us.”

  “I didn’t come to you. Carlo saved me.”

  “No accidents with your kind, Miss Lucia. If your familiar talked to my grandson, he brought you here for this.”

  Lucy stopped unrolling the scroll. “Ra talked to you?” she asked Carlo.

  “He told me to bring you to my house.”

  “Ra can’t talk to anyone but Binders and demons.”

  “Maybe he can talk to Borgias,” said Paolo.

  “What are you people, exactly?” Lucy glanced at Paolo, stared at Carlo.

  The old man straightened. “I am Paolo Borgia. Some will tell you I am a doctor. Some will tell you I am a murderer. Because I am a Borgia, I cannot tell you which I am. I go where I want, do what I want, and like I said, I know your kind. I can help you change your destiny.”

  “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “Sometimes a magician must take their own path. You do not like the one you are on, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” Paolo said. “We are alike. The scroll will help you with Ra.”

  “What about Carlo?”

  “Yes,” said Carlo. “What about me?”

  “Try not to worry about Carlo,” said Paolo. “He has his own destiny.”

  “Do you even need me here at all?” asked Carlo. “Since you’ve decided I don’t need to see the library?”

  “You,” said Paolo, “are vital. You are the watchman and the errand boy.”

  Carlo frowned. “I cannot tell you how much that thrills me. Not your heir, but your servant.”

  Paolo laughed and slapped Carlo on the shoulder. “So,” he said, turning his attention to Lucy. “The language on the scroll. Do you recognize it?”

  Lucy shook her head. “I was expecting Binder script. Or hieroglyphics. I’ve never seen this language before.”

  “It’s Demotic,” said Paolo. “Where we must begin. Carlo”—he gave Carlo a jingling bag—“get us some food. Also, we will want something comfortable for Miss Lucia to sleep on. But first, you should do some cleaning out there. Some place fit for her to stay.”

  For the rest of the afternoon, Paolo taught Lucy Demotic while Carlo worked, moving leaves and tiles.

  Lucy didn’t care for the way Paolo was using Carlo. She would find a way to make it up to him.

  Dinnertime came and went.

  “I’m sorry,�
� said Carlo. “It’s late.”

  Paolo pulled a candle from his coat and lit it. “It is like this when we are interested, yes? Carlo? Did you get the food? And sleeping things?”

  “No. There’s been a lot to clean.”

  “Well, you must do it now. More challenging because everything is closed, so you will have to rely on your more secret connections. We will continue and you will return.”

  “Very well, great magician. Your humble servant leaves you.” He shimmied up the rope and left the building.

  Lucy frowned. “Is it fair to treat him like a servant?”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Paolo. “He’s fine. He’s learned Demotic and he’ll be helpful to you.”

  “He wasn’t studying with us.”

  “Ah!” said Paolo, pride edging his voice. “He was listening. Smart as a whip, that one. I am very proud.”

  Carlo found the climb down into the alley harder in the dark, but lights from San Marco reflected enough to help a little. There were always lights in the square. The drizzle had stopped and the wind picked up, creating choppy water for the boats to navigate. The revelers were out, wading their way to balls and entertainments. It would take more than a little flooding to keep them inside.

  On the list his grandfather had penned were food and sleeping items. Food was not a problem. He knew a woman from whom he would buy some zuppa de pesce. The woman might want a favor in return, a love charm to make a certain glassblower interested in her. Carlo would not point out the potion she had purchased from him before had not done the trick. He wanted a good price on the soup.

  Bedding he would have to go home for. The question was how to sneak the requisite materials past his mother. Carlo did not consider himself as sneaking around. He considered he was protecting his mother from herself. He found it hard to understand why Sofia had tried to poison Lucy, and he wanted to know what it was about his father’s last days that troubled her so much and made her so afraid. Carlo knew because of the mysteries of his past, his mother could not walk. She had been so frightened, part of her hair turned white. He could hardly ask her. Perhaps a little more patience with his grandpa would do the trick, and Carlo would learn the story. He respected his father’s death was a painful subject in his family, but Carlo had too many questions, and he was determined to get answers.

  Maybe a better plan for bedding would be to talk to the soldiers. No, that would not suffice either. If Lucy’s family were smart, they would enlist the aid of the authorities. Since Carlo had not cultivated the reputation of a lothario, it might rouse their suspicion. At any rate, too many risky connections might be made. Then again, perhaps he could pretend he had a night delivery and needed to stay in the apothecary. The lies closest to the truth, Nonno said, were always the best.

  Carlo was not happy. Tonight he’d been relegated to a second-class citizen as two magicians worked together in a library he could not see. He had chosen today to begin magic. He thought he had been clear about his wishes in the public house, and yet, he was shut out. When Carlo talked to his grandpa again, he would get a commitment from him regarding his own studies. He wanted to learn alchemy, real alchemy, and since he was responsible for Lucy, without magic he could only be so useful.

  Not that he wasn’t grateful for what he had already. His grandfather gave Carlo a place in business so he wouldn’t have to live his life out working in a factory, or farming salt, or worse, be conscripted into the Austrian army. Before all this talk of magic had begun, Carlo wanted to be a doctor. There were no such opportunities for Venetians anymore, but given their connections, Carlo hoped his grandfather could wrangle him a trip to Vienna. He had not conceived of becoming an alchemist. But why not? It seemed to make opportunity for Nonno even in a place like Venice.

  As he neared San Marco, Carlo felt the wind change, warm and cinnamon, like exports from a spice shop, overpowering the stagnant water and too many pigeons. He turned into the bustle of the square, the Austrians marching away from their final parade. Venetians watched from the sidelines, their faces blank. Revelers drifted into the plaza and the birds floated down from the buildings. This was the same route he had taken last night when he rescued Lucy, just a little farther down from the square along the Grand Canal. The lamplighters lit the torches, and water taxis and gondolas began to pick up their evening fares.

  The only warning Carlo had was the slight pull on his cloak. He was ripped away from the open square, clutched by arms that pressed his own to his sides, tumbled back into a nearby alley and thumped hard against a stone wall. Carlo lurched away from his attacker, but was stopped short. The face close to his didn’t look right. Hooded eyelids, flat nose, small nubs rising from the forehead underneath woolly hair. Not a man, not an animal. Something in between.

  “Do not struggle,” it said. “My mistress has not given me any direction against hurting you and I will do what is necessary to keep your attention.”

  “Your mistress?”

  “You smell like us. I expect if anyone knows where Lucia is, it will be you. Where is she?”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  It breathed in his ear, his breath like rotten cheese. “I think you do. Take me to her, right now, or you will regret your lie.”

  Carlo reached into his cloak, pulled out a vial, and worked the small stopper with a finger. “If your mistress wants her, I’m not convinced she should have her.”

  “My mistress is most concerned Lucia has encountered foul play.” The creature shoved its upper arm against Carlo’s neck. “Are you foul play?”

  Carlo splashed the bottle onto the creature and himself. The acid would damage his cloak, but it was nothing compared to what it would do to the goat man, who sprang back as it burned his bare chest.

  Carlo ran. He knew these alleys. He wasn’t sure what the creature meant about his smell. Magic being involved, Carlo was out of his depth. If he was lucky, the monster would be in pain and not interested in following. The acid would stop him. Of course, no one ever heard of a weak monster. Maybe he was only a misshapen man, and this would end.

  No such luck. He heard hooves clopping behind him. The goat man was gaining. Carlo looked down the alley. He focused on what was ahead; there were few options open to him. Through the gate into another plaza. Climb up a building. Enter a side door in the wall. Attack the creature as it came in the alley. Yes, he could soothe it to death with a chamomile packet from another pocket in his cloak.

  Carlo rattled the side door in the wall, and it opened. Someone had been foolish in unsafe Venice, but he was grateful. He slipped inside the dim, empty room. Carlo waited, hand sweating on the doorknob. What was happening outside?

  What was this thing? It was more remarkable than a bird that could project thoughts into your head. It was a flesh and blood creature that should not exist, let alone wander the street. Carlo had seen pictures in his mother’s books, old woodcuts of frightening half-human creatures: demons.

  The door slammed open. The room was tiny, with dead embers in a fire grate, an unmade bed in the corner, and a shelf with two bottles: olive oil and wine. A table dominated the rest of the room.

  Carlo fell over the doorsill. Rough hands reached in and pulled him up. He kicked and hit the creature until he broke free, racing to the other side of the room and putting the table between them.

  “Half-breed,” the goat man said. “Your kind does not deserve to live.”

  “Half-breed?”

  The goat man bleated. Its horns grew. He looked more like Carlo’s mother’s wood block carvings as the horns turned into a curly ram’s rack, a beard sprouting from his chin. The devil? The Greek god, Pan? What kind of creature was this?

  “Can it be you don’t know? Delicious!”

  On the counter, Carlo saw his next weapon. Venetian wine was heady, floral, and flammable. The wine bottle uncorked with a pop, and Carlo flung it at the goat man.

  Wine coated the monster. It lunged at Carlo, but he used his cloa
k like a bullfighting cape and swept past the creature, moving away. Carlo found his flint. A quick, fluid motion and he landed fire on the goat man. It dropped to the floor, rolling into a shadow in the corner, and disappeared.

  Carlo’s heart beat so fast it hurt his ribcage. He stepped into the alley and gently closed the door behind him. He needed to leave the dark and move into the light. His footsteps quickened, street grit grinding under his boots. Had the goat man really dissolved into the shadows?

  A woman’s voice filled his head, louder than any personal thoughts: “You will come to me.”

  Her voice brooked no disobedience. His feet began to move by themselves. His breathing became shallow, and his hands dampened with sweat. He sloshed through the water into the maze of Venice, deeper into the alleys, into a forgotten, remote courtyard filled with rubble and dark pockets in corners.

  A woman waited for him, dressed in black like a mourner. She spoke with passable, but accented, Venetian to a pocket of black shadow. “You were right. He is one like you.” She turned her attention to Carlo. “Khun knows you for what you are. He thinks I should kill you. I want to see how useful you are first. What have you done with my sister?”

  The woman lifted her veil. Her face was the same white as Lucy’s. She spoke to the corner again.

  The darkness whispered, “He’s dangerous. Let me kill him.” The voice was the goat man’s.

  “You are a Binder,” Carlo said.

  “I see you know something of my kind. My sister? She has been reckless running away this close to her Trial. You will take me to her.”

  “So you can kill her?”

  The woman sighed. “This is an uncomfortable place to have this conversation. Khun, bring him.”

  The goat man oozed from the shadow pocket where Lucy’s sister directed her attention. “With pleasure.”

  Khun’s rough hand clamped over Carlo’s mouth and nose. Carlo clawed at the strong arm. Black dots jumped into his vision, and as he was dragged toward a shadowy corner, he lost consciousness.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Carlo held his father’s hand, looking up as he talked to the man behind the marble counter. He almost remembered the name of the man behind the counter, but time had taken it away from him.