Falcon in the Glass

by Susan Fletcher

  Vittorio made a swatting motion. “It’s crazy!”

  “Listen, Uncle. I can take them to the workshop and replace the iron ones. There’s little enough danger in that.”

  “Little enough danger! Do you hear yourself? Look at me, Renzo.” He leaned forward and jabbed a finger in the direction of the cloth that covered his eye. “And you say there’s no danger?”

  “But I . . . stabbed him with the calipers.”

  “Did he walk away?”

  “Yes, but — ”

  “Was he limping? Bleeding?”

  “Yes! More than limping. Staggering.”

  “You didn’t see his face? His mask never slipped?”

  “No.”

  “You swear it?”

  “By almighty God.”

  Vittorio let out a long sigh. He eased himself back against the pillow. He seemed . . . weary. Not just body-weary but weary in his soul. “Well, then,” he said, “you may be safe enough for now. So long as you can’t identify him, I doubt he’ll come for you. Antonio was punishment for me, because they couldn’t find me. But the man has seen me now, knows I’m somewhere on the lagoon. It’s me he wants.” Vittorio leaned his head back and closed his eye.

  Truth be told, Renzo had expected Vittorio to put up more of a fight. Truth be told, Renzo didn’t want to row across the lagoon again, all alone, to the place where they’d been accosted. Didn’t want to break into the carpentry shop, knowing he might be watched, knowing he might be caught. And what if the dungeon doors had been assembled already? He could never pry them apart and reassemble them by himself.

  But he had to try.

  Yet after that . . .

  Then what?

  “Uncle?”

  The eye opened. “You still have a problem, don’t you?” Vittorio said. “Once the doors are installed in the dungeon.”

  “You must know people who can break into things, and . . .” Thieves, Renzo thought. Beggars. In Vittorio’s twilight world there must be many desperate people. Renzo couldn’t scrape up much to pay them, but . . .

  Vittorio was frowning at him. “You’re going to do this no matter what I say, aren’t you?”

  Renzo nodded. He’d do something. He didn’t know what.

  “Did something happen between you and the girl?”

  “What?”

  “With the oldest girl? The one with all that dark hair?”

  “Happen?” Renzo’s face grew warm as he realized what Vittorio was asking. “No!”

  “Hmph.” Vittorio was quiet for a moment. He tipped back his head; the lone eye gazed up at the ceiling, as if searching for something it had lost. “They none of them had shoes.”

  “What?”

  “The children. They don’t have shoes.”

  “No, just strips of cloth, wrapped around. I did give one of them a pair of Pia’s outgrown boots, but — ” He stopped, remembering the tiny boot in the alley.

  “The little boy . . . that terrible cough . . .”

  “Paolo,” Renzo said. “He was getting better, but — ”

  “Strangers,” Vittorio murmured.

  “What?” Renzo was having trouble following this conversation.

  “They’re strangers here. They’re all alone.”

  Something Vittorio had said earlier came back to Renzo. When you’re a stranger . . . I was all alone.

  “Well, then,” Vittorio said. “The Ten don’t send assassins after people for breaking into carpentry shops. Just switch the bars. If you’re about to get caught, throw them into the canal. If we’re lucky, we may have a little time.”

  We. So Vittorio would help?

  Renzo gazed at him, hope rising. But Vittorio yawned, shut his solitary eye, and turned to face the wall.

  33.

  Acqua Alta

  At the stroke of midnight Renzo rose. He dressed quickly, tonged a hot coal into the tin box, drew on his cloak, and picked up the lantern. He slipped outside, closing the door softly behind him.

  Inside Vittorio’s little boat he checked the bundle he had stashed in the bow the night before: two sets of glass bars, wrapped in cloth, supported with boards on either side and bound together with twine.

  He pulled up his hood against the light rain, undid the mooring lines, and paddled silently down the canal.

  Something felt different tonight. It took a moment before he realized what it was. The wind. A warm wind, coming from the south.

  A scirocco wind.

  Renzo steered toward the side of the canal and eyed the water level.

  Just as he’d feared. It was higher than usual. Not three fingers’ breadth from the top of the wall.

  Acqua alta. High water.

  He stilled his hands on the oars, staring out across the rain-dimpled canal, hearing the waves splash against the stone walls. Soon, very likely, water would stream across the lanes and seep under doors. People would wake. They would rise from their beds to stuff rags beneath the doors of homes, of churches, of workshops, of warehouses. They would go stirring about the town at a time when they usually stayed abed.

  When Renzo wanted them abed.

  But now, because of the acqua alta, he might be missed. Mama would scold if he wasn’t there to help.

  Not an auspicious night.

  But still, who knew when the carpenters would hang the new doors? After that it would be too late.

  He dug his oars into the water and began to row.

  At last, sodden and weary, he reached the island of Venice and guided his boat into the shelter of a canal. The wind abated, and even the rain seemed to ease. Lamplight flickered in the windows of some of the shops and houses. But unlike the last time, when masked and glamorous partygoers had glided past in torch-lit gondolas, now only dark figures bustled about, hunched against the rain. All around he heard the gurgling of water as it lipped over the edges of the canal and flowed into the streets.

  What would he do if the carpenters were already there, come to set everything of value above the likely high-water mark and stuff rags between the door and the threshold?

  But when at last Renzo turned a corner and rowed within sight of the carpentry shop, no light leaked through the cracks at the edges of the shutters.

  Had they already come and gone? Nearing, Renzo searched for rags. But no. Water lapped against the door, flowed unimpeded through the gaps.

  He hesitated. They might come at any moment.

  No time to lose.

  He tied up a little way down from the shop, so his boat would not likely be noticed. He picked up the lantern and the tin box, then bent to lift the bars. Carefully he stepped out onto the paving stones, where water reached well above his ankles.

  Something bumped against his boots. A stream of rats, swimming past. He jumped back sharply to avoid them, but felt a squirming bulge beneath one boot and heard a squeal. His feet slipped; he landed hard on the ground.

  Splash!

  Crack!

  The glass.

  Hands shaking, he unwrapped the bars and ran his fingers along them. The top set — the thicker ones — seemed fine. But the bottom set . . . had snapped.

  He picked out the broken pieces, five of them. He rose gingerly to his feet, carried them to the canal. He dropped them into the dark water and felt the weight of them dragging him down, as if he were sinking too.

  Gone.

  There had been two dungeon doors in the carpenter’s sketches, but Renzo had only ever heard of one. If the thicker bars were for a door to some different part of the palace, they were no use to him. And the others had broken so easily! They’d been weak!

  He groaned. Maybe he should just go home.

  But still . . .

  The shorter, thicker window bars had always seemed sturdier. And once fitted properly into their slots in the little door, they would be braced on all sides. They might hold fast.

  Carefully he rewrapped the bars and clasped them to his chest. He gathered up the lantern and the tin box and waded across the s
lippery pavement to the door. He set down the bars, fished Vittorio’s picks from his purse, and fumbled for the one he’d told him to use.

  To his relief the padlock soon snapped open. He hung it on the hasp and collected the bars. He had to lean hard against the door to open it; the water resisted. But at last he let himself in and shut the door fast behind.

  Dark. He stood there a moment, thinking about rats, thinking about water snakes, thinking about the last time he had come.

  The assassin.

  Voices now, outside. Light stretched across the room, shrank back, stretched again. Sloshing sounds. Renzo held his breath, stood perfectly still. In the moving light he made out a table just in front of him. He searched for the iron bars, realizing he had no idea where he might find them. They could be anywhere, even mounted in the doors.

  The light passed. The voices faded. Renzo let out his breath. He swished through the water to the table and set down lantern, box, and bars. He opened the tin box.

  The coal had gone dead.

  He felt himself sag. What was he doing here, in Venice, in the middle of the night? He should be home, warm in bed.

  A thin wash of gray leaked in through the shutters, but just a few paces away from them, the room was as black as a crow. Renzo tried to remember what the brighter light had shown a moment ago — the positions of benches and tables. He swished through the water. Was it higher now? It seemed so. Halfway to his knees. One leg bumped against something hard — a table. Reaching for the edge, his hand brushed against something hard and smooth and cold.

  He ran his fingers along it.

  Bars.

  These were the longer ones. He knew the shape of them by heart. He moved along the edge of the table, groping blindly for the second set.

  And there they were.

  He felt them, learning their dimensions.

  Yes.

  He went back for the glass bars and switched the two sets, putting the iron ones on the floor. The glass bars felt naked, unprotected. How was it possible they wouldn’t be jostled or hit or twisted? How was it possible they wouldn’t break?

  Voices.

  He stilled, hoping they would pass.

  They grew louder. A bright light flickered through the shutters. A rattling sounded at the door.

  The padlock. Still open, hanging from the hasp.

  He cast about for a place to hide. The door opened; a widening pool of light bled across the surface of the water. Renzo threw himself under the bench, shuddering at the shock of cold water.

  “Fiorello? Are you here?”

  Renzo recognized the voice — Signore Averlino.

  “Look, he left his lantern.” A different voice.

  “Fiorello!” Signore Averlino called.

  Silence. Light flared across the room.

  “Well, if he was here,” Signore Averlino said, “he didn’t accomplish much. Let’s to work.”

  There came a din of splashes, footfalls, thuds, scraping sounds, grunts. Renzo crouched low in the water, trying to make himself small. They must have passed him; they had moved to the back of the shop.

  A dull ache spread across Renzo’s legs and back; his feet had gone numb. He shifted, knocked a boot against the iron bars beside him.

  The bars.

  Underwater they wouldn’t be noticed. But once the flood receded . . . An extra set of bars would be a puzzle, would call attention to the glass ones.

  It would be best to drop them into the canal, but he couldn’t do that now. He’d better hide them somewhere in the shop.

  But where?

  He recalled seeing a chest flush against the wall beneath the windows.

  He twisted round. There it was, not three paces away.

  Slowly he picked up the iron bars, praying the men would stay where they were a little longer. He scooted on his knees through the black water, staying in the shelter of the table for as long as he could. When he came to the chest, he set down the bars in the water beside it. He reached his fingers to the bottom of the chest.

  A gap.

  He felt the bars.

  Yes. They would fit.

  Carefully he scooted the bars beneath the chest. They scraped the floor, loud as thunder in his ears.

  Then they were in.

  Renzo crept back beneath his table. He sat for a moment, plotting an escape route among the benches and tables. The men were at the back of the shop; with a head start he could beat them out the door.

  All at once he realized that it had grown quiet. There was only a slow swish of footsteps, coming near. He crouched, kept his head down. Out of the corner of one eye, he saw a slick of yellow light glide across the water, illuminating floating flecks of sawdust.

  Swish. Swish.

  The flecks swirled before a new disturbance: a pair of tall, black boots.

  Renzo peered up through the light — into the long, homely face of Signore Averlino.

  A younger man appeared behind him. He lunged toward Renzo. “A thief! I’ll show him — ”

  But Signore Averlino held out a restraining hand.

  “Wait,” he said. “I believe I know this boy.”

  34.

  Man to Man

  Signore Averlino reached out a hand to help him to his feet. Renzo, rising, ignored it. He was behaving like a petulant child, he knew. But he couldn’t help it. He glared at Signore Averlino.

  “Renzo.” Signore Averlino sounded perplexed. There was a questioning in his voice, an invitation for Renzo to explain himself.

  Renzo halfway wished Signore Averlino would berate him, lay hands on him, and try to toss him bodily from the shop. Then he could lash out; he could run. But this . . .

  He’d better think of something quick, not just stand there gaping like a fish. “You’re such a . . . friend to my mother,” he said. “I wanted to see for myself what manner of man you are.”

  “And it’s by my shop that you would know this?” Signore Averlino raised an eyebrow, seemed to be amused.

  Renzo bristled. “How else?”

  Signore Averlino said nothing, only regarded him with level eyes. The other man broke in. “Let me take care of him, padrone.”

  “You go ahead to work. I’ll be only a moment.”

  “But, padrone — ”

  “Go.” Signore Averlino waved the man toward the rear of the shop, then turned back to Renzo. “Well?” he asked. “So what do you think? What does my shop say of me?”

  Renzo’s shirt and hose clung to him, frigid and clammy. He did not like this game, though he had begun it. Signore Averlino’s tone was mild, but Renzo could hear the challenge in it. Still, he supposed that this was better than being accused of thievery — or having his true purpose discovered. Besides, Signore Averlino would no doubt report his presence here to Mama, so it behooved Renzo to play along and not make things worse.

  He looked about. Light from Signore Averlino’s lantern flickered through the workshop, illuminating work surfaces, ceiling, and walls.

  Last time, Renzo had been impressed with the size of the shop. But now, as the light slid past, he marked the neat rows of pegs on which hung tools grouped by type and ranked by size: hammers, saws, rasps, chisels, awls. He marked the orderly tiers of shelves that held vises, planes, and tools of which Renzo didn’t know the names.

  There was nothing grandiose about the shop. The cabinets were unornamented, the windows unglazed. And yet it seemed the shop of someone who respected his craft.

  “I think,” Renzo said, “you are a man who cares well for his tools.”

  In the wavering light he could see Signore Averlino’s expression change, a shifting in the leathery creases of his face. Not a smile, precisely, but a softening.

  Voices at the door. Renzo turned to look. Two more men, wading in through the doorway. Signore Averlino greeted them, motioned for them to help the first man.

  Now it was four to one.

  Renzo longed to run, make a break for the door, but something about Signore Averlino’
s steady gaze prevented him. Renzo recalled that he’d ever treated him with respect, even when Renzo had insulted his profession.

  What would Papà have done if he’d found some intruder lurking about in his glassworks? Likely cuffed him about the ears, dragged him across the floor, and shoved him out the door — at the very least!

  What would Signore Averlino do?

  Rain tapped at the roof. A sudden wind gust rattled in the shutters. From the rear of the room came grunts, scraping sounds, swishes, splashes.

  “Can you make it home safely?” Signore Averlino asked.

  Renzo nodded.

  “And what of your mama? Did you think of her when you embarked on this little escapade?” For the first time Signore Averlino’s voice warmed with quiet anger. “No doubt your house is flooded too. You’re the man of the family. She needs you.”

  Renzo’s face burned. Who was there now to help Mama set up boards and trestles and stack the carpets and furnishings upon them? Who would help lift Mama’s wedding chest, Papà’s chair? Pia? Uncle Vittorio, with his grievous wound? All Renzo had been worried about when he’d left was that Mama might catch him and scold him.

  Like a little boy.

  He made to go, but Signore Averlino blocked his way.

  “I think your mama doesn’t need to know of this. It would disturb her, and I think she doesn’t need to be disturbed.”

  Renzo swallowed, met Signore Averlino’s eyes. “Thank you,” he said.

  The older man yielded; Renzo started for the door.

  “Renzo.”

  He turned back. “If you ever have questions about me, son, I’ll be happy to talk with you. Just the two of us. Man to man.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Outside, rowing back through the dark canals, Renzo tried to choke down the stubborn lump that had risen in his throat. So clearly had he conjured up the nightmare — that he’d be found out, perhaps beaten, perhaps released to the authorities.

  Disgrace.

  Signore Averlino’s words echoed in his ears:

  If you ever have questions about me, son . . . Just the two of us. Man to man.

  Son.

  So long since he had heard that word from a man’s lips.

  What would Signore Averlino think of him if he knew that lying on a bench in his workshop was a set of bars that could destroy all he’d ever worked for?