Falcon in the Glass

by Susan Fletcher

  He looked back the way he had come. The torchlight bobbed closer now. He could see the guard’s shadow beside it and another shadow behind.

  The owl called again. Nearer now. Somewhere above. And then . . . The kree, kree, kree of a kestrel.

  Renzo ducked around the corner and crept up the stairs. Moonlight trickled through a small, barred window at the stair landing, giving him just enough light to see by.

  Ahead, more stairs. To the left, another corridor, also lined with doors.

  The kestrel called again — from above.

  Renzo scrambled up the stairs. He tripped over his skirts; he grabbed them and hiked them to his waist. At the third landing something swooped past him from above. The kestrel. At the fourth landing the bird went pumping past again, heading back up. Renzo followed. His breath came hard; his legs were beginning to ache. Voices reached him from below. Shouting voices. Alarmed. He ignored them and pushed on up.

  At last the stairs ended. On his right was an archway; on his left, a low, narrow corridor. This had to be a sort of attic, just below the roof. He crept a little way along the corridor, and saw that it was lined with doors. Doors with small, barred openings.

  Cell doors.

  A crow cawed from somewhere down the hall.

  Renzo ran. He hurtled from door to door, the slippers skidding on the tiles. He stretched up to peer through the openings in the doors. The cells to his left were dark, each lit only by an oil lamp, dim and smoky. But the cells on his right had high, barred windows to the outside world; they let in enough moonlight to see by. A rotund man hunched on a bench, moaning. A tall woman pacing restlessly. A rag-clad heap of sticks on the floor — whether man or woman he couldn’t tell.

  At the next-to-last door Renzo stopped. Inside the mask his breath came labored and ragged.

  There they were.

  Huddled together, their backs rising and falling in sleep. Birds perched on shoulders, on heads, on arms. Somebody began coughing; somebody else joined in.

  Renzo’s vision blurred. All this time they had been here — in this hopeless, miserable place.

  A head raised, turned slowly toward him.

  Remembering his mask, Renzo yanked it off, blinking back the sudden moisture in his eyes. “It’s me,” he said. “It’s Renzo.”

  40.

  Taste for Death

  The assassin stood at the edge of the heat, near enough to the furnace to drive the chill from his bones but not near enough to make him sweat. He rubbed his aching hands, surveying his night’s work.

  Three bodies: One alive. One newly dead. One dead more than a year.

  The first, lying well outside the open door, belonged to the guard. Useless man. So many of these guards were useless. It had been child’s play to stop him, immobilize him. They’d surely find him in time, haul him away. He’d wake in a couple of hours, a little sore but none the worse for wear.

  It would have been simpler to kill him, but the assassin had lost his taste for death.

  As to the second, the assassin had had no choice. Though, to look at the man now — lying there so peacefully — you might think he’d settled down for a quick nap just inside the doorway. The assassin had left no mark. He had found out what he’d needed to know; he had been merciful; he had been quick. The man had come with him to the glassworks without a struggle; he’d seemed almost to welcome death.

  With luck he would be recognizable later.

  The third body, nearest the furnace, would be burned up entirely, except for the bones — and a cloak pin wrought of silver.

  The assassin rubbed at his hands, at the painful, stiff knots of his knuckles. The stench of the long-dead corpse filled his nose. He pulled a torch from a bracket in the wall and moved to the white-hot furnace to light it. The heat seared his own skin, threatened to blister it black, threatened to melt the flesh from his bones. He hesitated, imagining: bones melting too, and the old, knotted knuckles, and the new wound above his heart that never ceased aching. He saw it all turning to liquid. Seeping across the floor.

  But no. No more death here tonight. He still had much to do.

  He moved toward the far edge of the glassworks. Touched fire to a dry, wooden beam. Walked a few steps. Touched another.

  So many fires flared up in these glassworks. So easy for a wayward spark to waft into the rafters and catch. So natural for roof tiles to shatter in the heat. And then it all came crashing down.

  People should be more careful.

  Truly, they should.

  41.

  Flight

  Renzo?”

  It was Letta’s voice. He recognized it, though the tone of it, soft and wondering, didn’t sound like her at all. A figure rose inside the cell, haloed in the thin wash of moonlight. Yes. It was she. Renzo swiped a hand across his wet cheeks as the others slowly rose as well. The children.

  “Renzo!”

  “Renzo!”

  “Renzo!”

  His name echoed faintly round the cell. He made out Paolo, and the twin girls. Federigo and Georgio. Ugo, with his magpie. And there, in the far corner, little Sofia.

  One of them coughed, then another. Then a flurried chorus of coughing.

  Renzo knew he should say something, but his throat seemed to have closed up tight. He hiked up his skirts, pulled the picklocks from his belt, and felt along the surface of the door, seeking out a lock. His fingers found the opening. He inserted one of the picks, felt it nudge the tumblers inside —

  A thump at the other side of the door. Letta’s face appeared at the window, no more than a hand’s breadth from his. “ ’Tis you,” she breathed. “You came.”

  Her eyes held him; he couldn’t look away.

  “Well, hurry up!” she said. “We don’t have all night!”

  Now, that was the Letta he knew.

  He put his head down, fumbled at the lock. “I come clear across to Venice, break myself in to get you out of here, and all you do is scold?”

  “Ah, so this is Renzo.”

  His head snapped up. An old woman had taken Letta’s place at the window. The grandmother, no doubt. “And what’s your plan, pray tell?”

  You would think that people would be grateful when you came to rescue them, Renzo thought, not pester you to hurry and demand to know every detail.

  “Well?” the woman insisted.

  The lock wasn’t turning. Suddenly, despite the chill in this place, Renzo felt warm. He pulled out the pick and tried again. “Do you know how to get to the back door out of here?” he asked. “The small one that comes out in an alley?”

  “I might. What’s your plan?”

  “I have a . . . friend outside. He’ll take care of the guard in the alley and let us out.”

  It sounded so simple when he said it. Leaving out the fact that his “friend” was missing an eye and was still feeble from his injury. And that Renzo had no idea how to find the little door. And that if there were two guards stationed there instead of one, or if the little door was guarded on the inside as well, or if a passerby noticed anything amiss, Vittorio would fail, and then —

  A shout. A distant reverberation of footsteps.

  Letta’s face appeared in the window. “Hurry!” she said.

  He jiggled the pick. “I’m trying!”

  All at once a commotion erupted from inside the cell. Birds calling. Clattering sounds. Voices. Footsteps.

  A drop of sweat trickled down the side of Renzo’s face. Still no movement in the wretched tumblers. Maybe Vittorio could spring this lock, but Renzo couldn’t; he didn’t have the skill.

  Then, dangling between the bars of the opening in the door . . .

  A hand, holding a ring of keys.

  “ ’Tis the middle one, I believe,” the old woman said.

  Renzo gaped.

  Keys?

  “Hurry!”

  He took them. Found the middle one. Thrust it into the lock. Turned it. The tumblers gave way with a satisfying click.

  He pulled t
he door open.

  From behind and below came a drumroll of echoing footfalls. Not one guard but many. Down the corridor Renzo saw a faint halo of light. They were somewhere on the stairs. They were near.

  “Go, go, go!” the old woman cried. The owl pushed off her shoulder and glided toward the stairs, toward the voices. And then the air was filled with birds, creaking and flapping after the owl. They made for the archway on the far side of the stairs, and disappeared through it. The woman plucked Ugo from the floor and thrust him into Federigo’s arms. To Letta she said, “You lead the way; I’ll take care of stragglers.”

  Letta hesitated. “But, Nonna, your knees — ”

  “I’ll be right behind you. Go!”

  She went.

  The children stumbled out of the cell, following Letta. The woman scooped up Sofia and pressed her to Renzo’s chest. “The birds’ll lead you to the door. Run!” she said. “Don’t wait for me. I’ll follow.”

  He didn’t argue. He ran.

  But in a few steps he heard her call out: “Renzo!”

  He stopped. Turned back.

  “She always knew you’d come. She never doubted. Now go. Get moving! Go!”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  He followed the children down the corridor, through the archway, and down another hall. Soon they came to a flight of stairs — a different one. He headed down, but then the stairs ended. He followed the children through a short corridor, around a corner, and then down another stairway. This one went on and on.

  Sofia was bony and light, but she wiggled, kicking him with her one remaining boot, throwing him off balance. The hammer slapped painfully against his side, the keys rattled at his wrist, and the gown kept tangling between his legs. Soon it grew dark, so dark he could barely see. At last the stairs ended. He moved along a narrow corridor, following the sound of footsteps. The floor had become slippery again. The stones seemed to buckle and dip beneath his feet, making him lurch and stumble. He pushed himself to hurry, but Sofia jerked in his arms, and the blasted slippers slid out from under him. His hip cracked hard against the floor; he clung tight to Sofia; she landed on his lap.

  He clambered to his feet and groped along the walls, limping now, straining his ears beyond the rasp of his own breathing for the sounds of the children ahead. Echoes reverberated all around him — echoes of voices, of footsteps, of coughing, of calling birds — but he couldn’t tell for certain where they came from. Was the old woman coming along behind him? Were the guards?

  Suddenly he slammed into something. It cried out. Paolo. Renzo found his hand, small and damp; they went on. A little way farther Paolo was seized with a fit of coughing. Renzo wanted to say, Hurry, hurry, hurry but could only wait until the coughing subsided.

  Yet soon, as they walked, the air grew fresher; it smelled of water. The darkness lightened. Renzo turned a corner, and there they were, the other children, squatting on the floor, their birds perched on heads and wrists and shoulders. And down the corridor beyond them . . . a narrow door with thick black bars.

  But were they iron or glass?

  He set down Sofia; she and Paolo joined the others. Letta rose, came to him. “Where’s Nonna?” she whispered.

  “She’s . . . coming,” he said.

  “You left her?”

  “I did as she told me.”

  “Have you seen her? Have you heard her?”

  Renzo shook his head.

  “I’ll find her, then. Your friend hasn’t come yet. There’s no one at the door, save for the guard.”

  Vittorio not there? But he should have been there long before. Maybe he was waiting for Renzo. “Stay here,” he said. “Let me look.”

  “I told you, your friend’s not there.”

  “There may be a way.”

  “But — ”

  “Would you wait, please? Just for a moment?”

  She hesitated. Nodded. Stood aside.

  Renzo picked his way among the children on the floor. When he came to the door, he reached up and touched one of the bars. Cold and smooth. Too smooth for iron?

  He flicked it with a finger.

  Glass!

  Through the spaces between the bars, he saw the wall of another building. And in between . . . a narrow alley.

  Footfalls outside. Renzo ducked. Above him a man passed on the other side of the bars.

  A guard.

  Vittorio was supposed to have dealt with him. Lured him away, or knocked him out, or . . .

  Renzo hadn’t wanted to know.

  But where was Vittorio now?

  Renzo crouched on the cold floor and put his head in his hands. He tried to think, tried to rise above the dragging pull of dread that lay heavy in his belly. Vittorio was still weak, had not fully recovered. And his eye . . .

  A sound, behind him. Letta.

  “Told you,” she whispered. “Let’s go back and find Nonna. She may have an idea. She — ”

  Renzo broke in. “I can get us out.” He hiked his skirts and fumbled to untangle the hammer from his belt.

  She raised her eyebrows, eyeing the gown. “That’s very fetching, Renzo, but — ”

  “Be quiet, would you?”

  “You couldn’t even pick the lock of our cell; I don’t know how you’re going to — ”

  He pulled out the hammer, held it up.

  “You’re going to beat your way out?”

  “Shh.” The guard passed by again. Renzo waited. Then, “I can get us out. Trust me. But the guard is a problem.”

  “I can deal with him.”

  “You? What are you going to do, attack him with your fingernails?”

  Behind them, a rumble of footfalls. No time to wait for Vittorio. They had to go now.

  “How long d’you need him out of the way?”

  “Not very long. Just — ”

  “I’ll take care of him.”

  “How?”

  “Trust me,” she said.

  Her face stilled, and in a moment Renzo heard a soft fluttering of wings. Birds streaked overhead, flitted between the glass bars.

  A shout from outside. A cry. Renzo stretched up to peer through the window bars.

  The guard was covered with birds. They funneled out of the sky and converged on him — on his shoulders, on his helmet, in his face. Not just the children’s birds but masses of them — pigeons, seagulls, crows.

  The guard tore at them, staggered away from the door.

  Renzo drew back the hammer. “Step back, Letta! Everyone, cover your eyes!” He smashed the hammer against the bars. Glass exploded from the door, collecting bits of moonlight, spilling out in a bright cascading fan that, for an instant, blotted out the dark.

  42.

  Night Full of Trouble

  The captain stood on deck scanning the legions of boats in the basin of San Marco, studying the crowds of revelers in the streets and on the stone pavements that bordered the canals.

  No. Not there.

  Hurry, would you?

  He began to pace. The ship had been laded. Everything in place, everything lashed down. The flats of lace and bolts of silk had been stowed two days ago, the glass urns and tableware as well. Renzo’s ten glass birds had arrived the day before; they slept snug in their crates with the other ones, deep within the hold. An hour ago the tide had turned. The captain felt it tugging at him, urging him to cast off. All lay in readiness . . . save for the last few passengers.

  Who were late.

  “Captain.” The first officer approached. “Sir, ready to depart.” It was not a question, but the captain heard the questioning in his tone: What are you waiting for? The winds are favorable, the tide well turned, and the men are getting restless.

  “Thank you, Fidelio,” the captain growled, more abruptly than he’d intended. He dismissed the officer and searched the basin again.

  Where were they?

  He couldn’t wait forever. If suspicion were aroused, if he were caught with them . . .

  But wait.

  A f
leet of shadows shivered across the face of the moon. They poured into the darkness somewhere near the south end of the Doge’s Palace.

  Birds?

  A distant crash.

  Shouting.

  Something was going on. He swept his gaze across the crowded pavement near the palace. But of his passengers . . .

  No sign.

  “Damnation!”

  But now an odd brightness in the sky caught his notice; he pivoted north.

  The horizon glowed orange.

  Fire?

  Yes, it had to be. Was it a ship? Or something on one of the islands?

  This night, it seemed, was full of trouble.

  He should cast off now, before trouble came to find him.

  And yet . . .

  He’d given his word.

  Just a moment longer, he thought, and then we’ll go.

  43.

  Vittorio

  Renzo smashed out the last of the glass. He turned to Letta. “You first.”

  She was gaping at him. “What . . . What’d you do, Renzo? How — ”

  “Hurry! I’ll help you out and hand them through to you.”

  “No. Hand them t’ Federigo. I’m going back for Nonna.”

  Renzo grabbed her arm. “Listen!” he said. The footsteps were louder now, thundering in the corridor behind them. “She’d want you to go. You know she would. What use are you to anyone if you’re dead?”

  She wrenched out of his grasp. Her eyes gleamed bright with unshed tears. “I’m going back.”

  “The others won’t leave without you. Is that what you want?”

  She glared at him.

  He bent and made a stirrup with his hands. “Letta, come on! Please?”

  She hesitated so long, he feared she’d turn back after all. But then she stepped into his clasped hands, boosted herself up, and twisting like an eel, slid through the window. Her hands caught on the sill; they released; he heard her feet crunch down on glass on the other side.

  He called the children and, one by one, lifted them up and through the opening into Letta’s waiting hands: Sofia, Ugo, Paolo. Marina, Ottavia. Georgio, Federigo. Just as Federigo disappeared, the footsteps suddenly surged behind Renzo, and a swath of light swept across the door.