The next onslaught was against the statues. The mist that had settled on Venice now started to eat away the features on their faces. In just a few days, their heads were plain white globes – sexless and sinister as tragic masks above their flowing robes.
‘Without our statues, we are a town without a face,’ lamented Giuseppe Tassini. They were all assembled around a damp copy of the Gazzetta at Professor Marìn’s kitchen table.
His small house now resembled a rather eccentric military barracks.
Ambrogio was spending every possible moment there, under the pretext of receiving extra Latin tutoring from the professor.
There’d been no more talk of sending Talina back to the tower. She’d been set up with a comfortable cot in a screened corner of the library, and fitted out with a luxury of improved flannel drawers and chemises by Mademoiselle Chouette, as well as a pretty sprigged dress fashioned from half a bathroom curtain. Professor Marìn had allowed Talina to hang her pencils from the library beams and he’d provided her with plentiful paper. She spent every possible minute of her time scanning the professor’s collection of atlases and maps, searching for a rock, a promontory or mudflat with the name of ‘Maggot Island’. That is, when she was not in the kitchen, cooking up heartening feasts for the troops.
The professor had not been falsely modest in saying he was not much of a cook. But he was an enthusiastic diner when it came to Talina’s sizzled sweetcorn fritters, her artichoke goulash and, most of all, her caramel custard toffee chocolate puddings. Talina soon learnt to adapt recipes from the few volumes that approximated cookbooks in his kitchen, such as Ancient Secrets of Marzipan Reveal’d and Sprites with Spatulas. There was little in the way of proper cooking implements, so Talina improvised with the professor’s Patent Amulet Amputation Saw for a bread-knife, his Fiend-Forceps as tongs and his Necromantic Insufflator for dusting cakes with icing sugar. Somewhat more reluctantly, she resorted to a fat syringe labelled ‘Elf Enemas’ to baste her spicy sausages, and only after scrubbing it out first.
Tassini, now a permanent fixture, also appreciated Talina’s cooking. He’d arrived with a wheelbarrow of atlases, dictionaries of Slavonic tongues, and travellers’ tales from antiquity – and even a chronicling tablet from the Royal Library of Assyria at Nineveh. The historian had taken over the dining room to work and sleep. He did little of the latter, spending every waking hour trying to trace the true ancestry of the Ravageur tribes in Siberia.
Professor Marìn had gallantly offered his own bedroom to Mademoiselle Chouette, who had brought a small sewing machine with her. The professor himself slept in the snuggery off the kitchen, imposing a midnight curfew on Talina’s cookie-baking.
They were all nibbling despondently on her cherry macaroons now – a great waste, Talina thought, as the fist-sized pink rounds were outstandingly delicious: fluffy inside and delicately crunchy on the outside. But there was no denying the depressive power of the Gazzetta’s latest report. Ambrogio pointed to an etching of one of the faceless statues. ‘This is certain to be a message from Grignan, another of his threats.’
As if to confirm this, when they turned the page, they found a transcription of a poem that had been affixed to the doors of the Basilica of San Marco.
When did it start to blow cold, little city!
When did the water flow cold?
When will the cold quite enfold you, little city?
When will you start to grow old?
Where did your stone faces go, little city?
Those faces that once were so bold?
When did they bring you so low, little city?
Was it a long time ago?
Now there’s no life in your soul, little city,
For all your fine memories are sold.
You think you’re a sight to behold, little city,
But your end is already foretold.
‘He has gifts as a poet, this Grignan,’ said Professor Marìn, without pleasure, looking at the Gazzetta’s transcription.
‘If only that was a clue as to their true origins!’ Tassini crushed a cherry macaroon in his fist. ‘The texts disagree. From Toulouse, one scholar says! Or from the Black Mountains of the Pyrenees. Or the swamps of Rieux.’
‘I think they just came from Hell,’ said Ambrogio, solemnly. ‘Or some place like it.’
Listlessly, he picked up an American volume from Tassini’s place. It was entitled The Natural History of Mystical Quadrupeds. He read aloud: ‘Ravageurs are such ferocious and useless creatures that all other animals detest them, yea, they even hate each other … Perhaps of all other animals, Ravageurs are the most hateful while living and the most useless when dead.’
Tassini’s biggest book of all was simply called Parasites of Mammals, and he kept it permanently open the section to do with sarcoptic mange. Talina shuddered at a magnified drawing of Sarcoptes scabiei, the mange-mite, a squat, thorny, scaly creature with a blunt head and stubby legs.
Tassini explained, ‘Sarcoptes burrows into the skin of its victims to lay eggs. The subsequent scratching leads to hairlessness, scabs, infection and sometimes death. And look at this!’
He flung open a veterinary journal to show an article entitled ‘Dumb and Furious Rabies in Wolf-and-Hyena-like Creatures.’
‘Zere are two kinds of rabies?’ asked Mademoiselle Chouette.
‘Dumb Rabies – paralysis of the throat, loss of voice, slobbering, and then death. Furious Rabies is the one we have to worry about – starts with the slobbering and strange barking, followed by an aggressive period in which they will attack even inanimate objects, but, most of all, other creatures. At this stage, Ravageurs have no fear of humans. But eventually this is followed by the paralytic phase. The tongue sticks out of paralysed jaws, and then the creature dies.’
‘Do you think our Ravageurs have Furious Rabies? They certainly fight one another.’ Talina reminded them of the fate of Croquemort’s ear, adding, ‘And their tongues stick out a lot. It’s perfectly revolting.’
‘They might be in the second phase of Furious Rabies, yes. This would explain why they have taken to attacking humans after so many centuries of a retired existence in the lagoon.’
‘Doctor Raruso also said that they are unwell! And that they had changed recently, since Grignan came to power. I just remembered something else! The Ravageurs take some kind of medicine before their meals. From iron spoons. Grignan orders them.’ She clapped her hand over her mouth.
Ambrogio said, ‘Do you mean … What if that isn’t medicine?’
Professor Marìn said, ‘By Jove, that could be the explanation. Grignan is poisoning his own kind, to make them aggressive! Furious Rabies and mange – a very poor combination for the temper.’
‘And Grignan himself doesn’t have rabies, of course,’ guessed Ambrogio. ‘He’s just naturally bad.’
‘As Doctor Raruso said, “The old house never lacks a rat – every family has its black sheep, its low-life evil-doer”,’ quoted Talina.
‘Yes, a blot, that’s Grignan,’ said Ambrogio. ‘Is there a cure for Furious Rabies?’
‘Usually only death,’ said Tassini grimly, pointing to the last page of the veterinary journal. ‘But not for a long time. They can wreak a powerful amount of damage in that time.’
‘There is nothing for it,’ said Professor Marìn, stabbing at the Gazzetta’s poem with his finger, ‘we must capture this beast Grignan and put him on trial for crimes against his own species as well as ours. Then perhaps they will turn against him as well. Only then can we save the city.’
‘And my parents,’ Talina put in.
‘But Grignan would never submit to a human court. He’s seen just how fair humans are,’ Ambrogio said bleakly. ‘Why should he expect justice from us?’
‘When I suggested a court case, he just sneered,’ Talina told them. ‘He wants to be judge and executioner himself.’
The professor’s eyes lit up. ‘But Grignan could be tried by beings who are more than human.’
Talina stared at him.
‘Have you never heard of the Chamber of Conversation, child?’ asked Professor Marìn. ‘What do they teach you at school these days?’
Mademoiselle Chouette’s eyes flashed and her turquoise earrings danced angrily.
‘Be fair, Ridolfo,’ Tassini rushed in before she could speak. ‘The Chamber has not met for five hundred years.’
The Chamber of Conversation, he explained, was an institution named in the city’s ancient charter. The members – known as Have-a-Voices – were ghosts of Doges past, figures from Venetian history and other magical beings.
‘So a kind of courtroom?’ Ambrogio asked eagerly.
‘The Have-a-Voices are magical beings?’ wondered Talina. ‘Like witches and wraiths?’
‘Several of each. Good Witches are in short supply, as they can be created only on Christmas Eve. But then they’re born so wild that it takes another five hundred years before they are coven-ready. But yes, a few Good Witches and many Righteous Wraiths. Penitent Hags. The ghosts of three Admirals of the Fleet. Mermaids, if available. Proceedings take place in a secret room – the Chamber of Conversation, which simultaneously translates from one beastly or ghostly or human tongue to another. It is also a little different from human courts – some would say better – in that anyone with a case or information against the accused is entitled to conduct a cross-examination.’
‘Even a very young person?’ Ambrogio’s face was shining.
‘Even a child. If that child has a case and can carry an argument,’ smiled Tassini. ‘Boy, I think you were born for this.’
‘Where is it? I never saw such a place,’ said Talina.
‘Ah, it floats just above the human law courts at Rialto,’ replied Professor Marìn. ‘A higher authority, as it were.’
‘How do we get to it, then? A spell, I suppose.’
‘Even simpler – a clearly expressed desire will do it.’
‘All we have to do is get Grignan there,’ said Ambrogio.
‘But he’s never going to clearly express a desire to be judged, is he? We’ll have to force him to agree. So how are we going to trap him?’
There was a moment’s despairing silence, and then Talina shouted, ‘I know how. Not-Quite-Setting Toffee!’
the kitchen-table conference continues at Santa Croce,
May 15th, 1867, Saint Sofia’s Day
IT WAS ONE of Talina’s favourite recipes. You didn’t have to wait for it to harden, because it never did. At least not until you got it into your mouth, when it immediately set in a solid glossy coating over your teeth. Then you’d have twenty-four hours of sweetness on your gums and a deliciously busy time licking all the remnants from the gaps between your back molars.
‘You know how Grignan always goes up the bell-tower at the Madonna dell’Orto to howl his threats? Why don’t we fly up on the tea towels and coat the tower with my Not-Quite-Setting Toffee? Grignan’s got a sweet tooth, like all the Ravageurs. He won’t be able to resist a lick. As soon as his tongue touches it, he’ll get stuck up there.’ Talina was already ransacking the professor’s cupboards for ordinary sugar and molasses. She rejected a large roll of Sweetened Skylark Song and a jar of Blacker-than-night Treacle.
‘How shall we get him down?’ asked Ambrogio. ‘Will he have to lick the tower clean?’
‘Or gnaw off ’is own feet? Like Monsieur Fox in a trap?’ Mademoiselle Chouette looked quite cheerful at the prospect.
‘Ugh. No, I don’t want that,’ shuddered Talina. ‘In fact, I accidentally discovered, when forced to eat a salad one day, that a teaspoon of vinegar easily loosens the toffee.’
‘But where will Grignan get a teaspoon of vinegar, stuck up there?’
‘Exactly. And he won’t know about it either. So we’ll have him just where we want him. Ravageurs have to keep eating, or they quickly die. Poor Doctor Raruso told me that. So we’ll tell Grignan that unless he agrees to be taken to the Chamber of Conversation, we’ll leave him up there to starve.’
‘Or chew ’is own leg off and die,’ insisted Mademoiselle Chouette.
‘Stop it!’ Talina squealed. ‘Don’t forget he’s still the only one who might be able to tell me where my parents are!’
‘Will this be big enough, do you think, Talina?’ Professor Marìn staggered out of the kitchen snuggery with a black concocting cauldron large enough to take a bath in.
‘Absolutely. If we boil all day and all of tomorrow, it’ll be ready by tomorrow night. Then we’ll take it up by Thaumaturgic Tea Towel, and paint the tower with brushes. If I can use your Sprite Spatula, the one with the bone handle, for stirring, Professor …’
Grignan tried to raise his clenched paw to shake at the moon, as he always did. But the paw would not lift.
‘Strange,’ he growled. He bent his head and sniffed something sweet. Then his nose too stuck to the bricks of the onion-dome bell-tower of the church of the Madonna dell’Orto.
‘Treachery!’ he howled, indistinctly, for the top half of his jaw was stuck to the other. He tugged at the toffee, shaking the ancient masonry, already weakened from bearing his weight on so many previous nights.
Other Ravageurs, howling on other fog-wrapped spires, could not hear his muffled cries, or see his distress. They did not see the plaster dust and broken tiles flying from the tower as Grignan writhed and kicked in a vain effort to free himself. Instead, his minions busied themselves emptying sacks of gunpowder down Venetian chimneys, and then descended and made off in their gondolas, quite unaware that their Lord was left in a most embarrassing predicament.
Meanwhile, below Grignan in the campo, the professor, the historian, the French mistress, Ambrogio and Talina gathered around an enormous picnic basket.
Talina whispered, ‘What now?’
‘We wait,’ smiled Emilie Chouette, ‘until ’e get reeeelly hongry.’
‘He’s a Ravageur. That won’t be long,’ said Ambrogio. ‘And he’ll see the note we left in a minute. That’ll make him feel like crunching a few bones.’
Grignan had already seen the note. He couldn’t help it. His eyelashes were stuck to it. He crossed his eyes so that he could read it.
‘Noooooo!’ he howled. ‘Neverrrrrr. Everrrr.’
Down below the professor frowned. ‘We’ll want to deliver him to the Chamber of Conversation a bit sooner than that. Let’s make the decision easier for him. Emilie, could you arrange the plate for me? In that special French way? I’ll let the Thaumaturgic Tea Towel out.’
Minutes later, a plate of French delicacies was circling the top of the tower, wafting its delicious perfume around Grignan.
He groaned, ‘Assiette de choucroute et ses petits …’
He snapped his jaws ineffectually. The plate descended to earth, where the humans made short and pleasurable work of it.
Meanwhile the Thaumaturgic Tea Towel took up the next course, ‘Filet de cervelles en jus avec ses …’
Droplets of moisture fell from the sky.
‘What’s that?’ asked Talina.
‘Ravageur dribble, I think you’ll find,’ spluttered Ambrogio, wiping the thick slime off his shoe. ‘Unusually thick, isn’t it?’
‘So do you think he’s ready to negotiate up there?’ wondered Tassini.
‘I’ll go up and see, shall I?’ offered Ambrogio.
‘Be careful, young man,’ urged Tassini. ‘Don’t let him bite you.’
Ambrogio was by now an old hand on his Thaumaturgic Tea Towel. He sped up to the top of the tower in one smooth motion.
‘Grignan!’ he shouted, only half-sure that he wanted the Ravageur Lord’s full attention.
The Ravageur swivelled his opal eyes in the direction of Ambrogio. He could not move another muscle. All four paws, as well as his head, were stuck to the toffee. Still he tugged at the tiles, dislodging showers of dust and fragments of brick.
‘Grignan,’ Ambrogio said with dignity, ‘if you will agree to be transferred to the Chamber of Conversation, for a
fair and final judgement by the Have-a-Voices, we shall free you from the Not-Quite-Setting Toffee—’
‘Who are you?’ Grignan’s growl came out jerkily as the dome wobbled beneath him.
‘Ambrogio Gasper—’ The words were halfway out of his mouth before he realized how incriminating they were.
‘The boy who insulted us with that drawing! I might have guessed. You are doomed, boy. Doomed.’
Ambrogio gulped.
Grignan snarled deep in his throat, with a ferocity of foul breath and anger that rocked Ambrogio backwards on the tea towel. He teetered helplessly on the delicate fabric edge. There was nothing he could grab to steady himself. If he swung forward he would fall on the tower, and be stuck in the toffee just like Grignan. What’s worse, he would be trapped beside the Ravageur Lord on a dome that was looking far from solid now.
Ambrogio looked down, dizzily. Far below him were the faces of the professor, Emilie Chouette and Talina, all taut and white in the moonlight.
‘They’ll never be able to catch me,’ was his final thought as he started falling.
The last thing he heard was Grignan laughing and another sound curiously like the beating of wings.
‘Restaurant!’ shrieked Talina. ‘You leave him alone!’
But the vulture was coasting a metre above Ambrogio’s plummeting head, his beak wide open and his talons fully extended.
The second Thaumaturgic Tea Towel lay carefully folded in the picnic basket. At the sound of Grignan’s laugh, it sat up to attention in swift folds. Then it arched and thrust itself out of the basket like a small sheet inhabited by a small ghost. It sped upwards.
‘Grab it, Ambrogio! With your other hand!’ cried Talina.
The first and second tea towels were already together, one at each of Ambrogio’s hands, which closed over them. The tea towels instantly puffed up with air, like white balloons.
Talina in the Tower Page 16
