Talina in the Tower

by Michelle Lovric

  Restaurant tried to clamp his talons around them, but succeeded only in getting his legs crossed and tangled. He spun into a somersault, careered into a gargoyle, hit his head on a drainpipe and flumped to the ground in a heaving heap of feathers.

  Meanwhile Ambrogio floated gracefully down, landing gently on his back, where he lay quietly for a moment, looking pleased as Christmas, while his friends gathered around him, checking his bones and splashing cold water on his face.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he smiled. ‘But one of the Thaumaturgic Tea Towels is in a poor state. I tore it on the way down.’

  Professor Marìn picked up the damaged towel and ripped it solemnly in four. The white squares immediately repaired themselves with neat hems all round.

  ‘Thaumaturgic Handkerchiefs, my friends,’ he said, offering one section each to Talina, Mademoiselle Chouette, Tassini and Ambrogio. ‘You never know when such a thing will come in handy. And the interesting thing about infused fabrics like this is that the smaller the piece, the more concentrated the magic. You’ll find these little fellows even more biddable than the larger item.’

  ‘They already do what we say,’ observed Talina.

  ‘Better than that, now they’ll do what you think,’ the professor added. ‘And I think we must send up the Îles flottantes now.’

  ‘Talina’s chef d’œuvre!’ Mademoiselle Chouette clapped her hands. ‘Her masterpiece!’

  With pride, Talina lifted the crystal bowl from the basket. The dessert glittered, its foamy piles of soft-poached meringue floating like islands in a sea of fragrant custard. A swirl of caramelized spun sugar encrusted each peak. Below the custard nestled sponge biscuits soaked in kirsch.

  ‘A remarkable French culinary invention. It does rather remind one of the Venetian lagoon, doesn’t it?’ said Professor Marìn sentimentally. ‘Sweet islands in a flowing liquid.’

  ‘Hopefully it will remind Grignan of his empty belly and the risk of imminent death if he doesn’t eat something very soon,’ said Talina briskly. ‘I’ll take it up. No, Ambrogio, don’t argue with me. You shouldn’t be wasting a single word on me … we need you to be preparing our case against the Ravageurs for the Chamber of Conversation.’

  With that, she ascended on the whole tea towel, while the Îles flottantes were borne aloft on one of the Thaumaturgic Handkerchiefs.

  The dessert made ten quick circuits of the top of the tower, each time closer to Grignan’s nose and drooling muzzle.

  At first, Grignan threatened Talina. ‘You’ll never get away with this,’ he growled.

  ‘Watch me,’ she smiled, twirling on one leg.

  ‘Don’t forget I’ve got your hair,’ he mumbled.

  Talina thought, ‘I really must have the professor explain properly about the hair. And the scorpions.’

  But she was not going to show doubt or weakness to Grignan, not when she’d nearly got him where she wanted him.

  ‘You’ve stolen one handful of my hair?’ she said scornfully. ‘So what? I’m not exactly short of it.’ And she spun in graceful circles, sweeping her hair in a thick dark gold arc around her.

  The fissure under Grignan’s back legs opened up alarmingly.

  ‘Grignan!’ Talina shouted. ‘That dome is going to break off any minute. Either you express a clear wish to go to the Chamber of Conversation – or you’re going down with that tower, and getting smashed to pieces.’

  A tumble of loosened bricks and a gush of dust confirmed her words.

  Grignan growled, ‘I shall attend the Chamber of Conversation. I shall listen to the Have-a-Voices. Just let me have these floating islands. That’s all I ask.’

  Even as he said the words, his body’s outline was fading to a ghostly transparency. Soon he had disappeared completely, along with the bowl of Îles flottantes.

  ‘We’ve won!’ shouted Talina, descending. ‘He’s submitted. But the thing is …’

  The professor and Mademoiselle Chouette were dancing a triumphant minuet and Tassini was throwing his hat in the air for Ambrogio to catch. So no one heard Talina’s anxious whisper: ‘Don’t any of you wonder if, when Grignan said “Just let me have these floating islands”, he meant the meringue in the bowl … or did he really – could he possibly – mean the one hundred and seventeen floating islands of Venice herself?’

  But Professor Marìn was already speaking the incantation that began: ‘O Chamber, and your wise Have-a-Voices, kindly admit us, Friend and Foe, Destroyer and Victim alike …’

  the same place but somehow somewhere else,

  a few hazy moments later

  THE CHAMBER OF Conversation was contained in curved glass walls, like a bubble. It hovered in a silver fretted fishing net high above the bridge at Rialto.

  A bank of benches housed the ranks of Have-a-Voices, all seated solemnly at desks and scribbling notes with ostrich-feather pens on parchment. The frondy plumes of the pens tickled their noses, causing frequent sneezes.

  ‘What ’ave we ’ere?’ spluttered Mademoiselle Chouette.

  ‘Good Witches, for a start,’ noted Talina. They were easy to identify by their diaphanous forest-green robes and stupefying beauty. The Penitent Hags were gruesomely ugly, their dismal looks not improved by noses rendered bulbous and red by persistently flowing tears.

  ‘Now that,’ Professor Marìn told Ambrogio pointedly, ‘is a hag. I don’t think you’ll find any resemblance to Emilie!’

  ‘Not at all! And those must be Righteous Wraiths,’ Ambrogio pointed at six shimmering upright apparitions with quicksilver coursing through their transparent veins. ‘What are they all scribbling?’

  ‘Their memoirs. The sessions here can be rather long.’

  The ghosts of the three former Admirals of the Venetian Fleet were the most human of the Have-a-Voices in appearance, but they too were slightly translucent, apart from their half-moon hats, which they doffed with the utmost elegance to the newly arrived company before settling down again on their benches.

  There was also a tank of water – shaped like an enormous teardrop – with nothing inside. ‘For the mermaids?’ guessed Talina.

  ‘Who are still away dealing with the Ghost-Turks,’ boomed one of the Admirals of the Fleet. ‘Unfortunately. We could do with those excellent ladies right now.’

  On a golden chair at a higher level sat the ghost of a small but perfectly formed Doge, enveloped in ermine and wearing the traditional curved corno cap. He held a crystal gavel filled with water in which a solitary goldfish swam.

  ‘So let’s hope he doesn’t have to rap it hard,’ thought Talina.

  ‘Oh my goodness, look at them!’ said Ambrogio.

  The back of the glass bubble was studded with the mounted heads of animals: zebras, squirrels, rabbits, minks, goats and even chickens. The heads were conversing about the case in animated tones, snorting and flapping their ears for emphasis.

  Talina caught disturbing shreds of chatter: ‘They say the humans will have to leave the city!’ and ‘The rats predict the worst’ and ‘It’s all up for …’

  The front benches of the public area were occupied by rows of rats wearing bandages and aggrieved expressions.

  ‘Victims of the Ravageurs,’ thought Talina.

  With so much to look at, and listen to, Talina had not at first noticed the change in her own appearance. So she was surprised when she caught sight of her reflection in the empty mermaid tank. She’d left the campo of Madonna dell’Orto in an apron well spattered with Not-Quite-Setting Toffee, with her hair still wild from shaking it at Grignan. Yet she had arrived in court with her hair neatly brushed and wearing a clean starched pinafore over her best pink dimity dress – which she’d last seen in the armoire at the tower at Quintavalle.

  Ambrogio had somehow changed into his Sunday suit, complete with checked waistcoat and green cravat. His shoes shone like liquorice. He was scribbling notes onto his spotless white cuffs with a stub of a pencil, and quietly mouthing words to himself.

  ‘His very first case,�
�� Talina thought proudly. ‘Most barristers start with something simple, like a bank robbery. Not the theft of a whole town, kidnapping, enslavement and potential mass murder.’

  Mademoiselle Chouette was dressed in an elegant sky-blue dress that transfixed the professor, who wore an uncharacteristically pure-white cravat, with no ink stains on it at all. His red hair was neatly slicked down on his head. Tassini sported a dinner jacket unusually deprived of gravy. His goatee beard was carefully combed and his glasses shone.

  ‘But there’s one person, or creature, missing,’ thought Talina. ‘Did Grignan not honour his promise?’

  With a clatter, Grignan now appeared in the room inside a cage. One back leg was shackled to the bars. He was devouring the Îles flottantes with an abomination of table manners.

  Looking at the faces of Professor Marìn, Tassini and Mademoiselle Chouette – all three rigid with fear and distaste – Talina realized that the Chamber of Conversation not only translated all beastly languages but made magical creatures visible even to adult humans.

  ‘Zis is what zey look like? Les Ravageurs?’ whispered Mademoiselle. ‘Zey don’t look French at all!’

  The Chamber sat silent while Grignan guzzled and slurped, spraying the ushers, a pair of solemn herons, with custard and sharp shards of caramelized spun sugar. The birds groomed themselves with their long black beaks, spitting out bits of toffee. But they remained resolutely at their posts beside the cage.

  The little Doge averted his eyes from the unpleasant spectacle. He pointed to an empty seat beside his own, beckoning to Professor Marìn. ‘For your contributions to aeromancy, hydromancy, astragolomancy and assorted other mancies, you, Ridolfo Marìn, are hereby raised to a place on this jury.’

  ‘But, my goodness … I never thought to be so honoured!’ The professor was pink with pleasure and embarrassment.

  ‘Your place on the jury means, however, that you cannot speak for your side,’ the Doge told him severely.

  Professor Marìn said bravely, ‘It matters not, for I have a young friend of surpassing eloquence with me.’ He smiled at Ambrogio, encouragingly.

  He was interrupted by a complex and elongated burp.

  Grignan licked the last remnant of Îles flottantes from the bowl and then sent it spinning through the bars onto the floor at the centre of the room.

  ‘For shame!’ reproved a Righteous Wraith.

  ‘Yes, Mr Grignan, you have the Chamber’s attention,’ sighed the small Doge.

  Grignan drew himself to his full height, snapping, ‘Lord Grignan. And I am quite ready to speak. In fact, these dull-witted humans have given me just the opportunity I’ve wanted for centuries.’

  ‘He’s lying,’ thought Talina. ‘Lying like a snake!’

  ‘Well, Lord Grignan, you may have your say,’ said the Doge mildly. ‘But first perhaps you would care for the use of a napkin.’

  Grignan shook the slobber off his jaws so vehemently that no one in the Chamber remained completely dry, except for the Good Witches, who intercepted the debris with their wands and sent it flying back into Grignan’s fur. Shaking himself like a wet cat, Grignan began.

  ‘Never in the whole history … of history … has there been so foul a crime as that which the Venetians have perpetrated on us Ravageurs in stealing our land and casting us out. Yet, instead of being punished, the Venetians have prospered on their ill-gotten gains, concealing their crime by building palaces on top of it. And even churches. They have made a mask of magnificence to hide the evil within. But Venice herself is a crime!’

  ‘Now it starts!’ thought Talina, raising her eyebrows.

  Ambrogio leapt to his feet, his mouth open, but one look from the small Doge silenced him.

  Grignan shouted, ‘The Venetians pretend that they were the first on this land, and that it has always belonged to them. But the meshes of Truth’s net have at last fallen over those criminals. My ancestor Verpillion Grignanne was the true master of this place … and I now reclaim it for my race, as his direct and true descendant.’

  ‘Who here speaks for the Venetians?’ boomed the Doge.

  Talina, Tassini and Mademoiselle Chouette pointed to Ambrogio. He cleared his throat, rose and stepped forward.

  ‘I may address the prisoner directly?’ he requested. The Doge nodded.

  Ambrogio removed his spectacles, inspected them and dusted them lightly on his waistcoat before replacing them on his nose. Then he spun around dramatically to face Grignan. Unfortunately he’d put too much into his turn and ended up facing the Doge again. Blushing, he inched his way back round. But his voice hardly trembled as he looked Grignan in the eye. ‘Verpillion is a nickname, I understand. I also understand that the “Verpillion” is a small species of green weevil – or parasite – that preys greedily on grape vines. Will the prisoner inform me if that is correct?’

  ‘And so what if it is?’

  ‘It is just that greed shall be central to our case,’ Ambrogio replied gravely.

  ‘Greed is indeed the issue here. Venetian greed—’

  ‘No,’ said Ambrogio. ‘Ravageur greed. We have reason to believe – and evidence to present to this court – that your ancestor’s fondness for luxurious food and wine led him to renounce his rights to this town fourteen hundred years ago. Willingly. He was not forced. Have you ever seen anything like the marks that are represented on this piece of paper, Mr Grignan?’

  Ambrogio held up to the Chamber an exact copy of the inscription on the tower at Quintavalle.

  ‘Is it not the case that in AD 421 your ancestor Verpillion Grignanne simply sold the lands of Venice to a human known as Uberto Flangini?’

  ‘A robbery!’ shrieked Grignan. ‘Not a sale!’

  The Righteous Wraiths frowned.

  ‘But the transaction was recorded in a Deed of Sale,’ said Ambrogio. ‘And the price was … as you can see here, Ten Fire-buckets of Human Wine, Five Sheep, Six Brass Buttons, a Mink Jelly and a Dozen Fancy Pastries.’

  ‘Mink Jelly!’ cried an outraged mink.

  Grignan shouted, ‘Flangini deceived my ancestor! How could the Venetians exploit a vulnerable creature so shamelessly, tricking him out of his inheritance with a few humble objects? Of all things Venice should be ashamed of, this is the worst.’

  Talina met Ambrogio’s eyes across the Chamber. So Grignan had changed plan. He was not going to try to deny that the sale took place, as they had hoped he would. He was going to rest his case on the terrible injustice of it. This was what they had hardly dared to fear. The faces of the Have-a-Voices hardened. The mounted animals uttered low grunts of disapproval.

  ‘Another thing you fail to mention,’ sneered Grignan, ‘is that the original Flangini paid his pittance, in full knowledge of something that he hid from my ancestor. Old Flangini consciously deceived my kin.’

  ‘What is this secret?’ demanded Ambrogio. Talina sat forward in her seat.

  ‘The original Sior Uberto Flangini had a gift of sight. He had a vision in which the island of Luprio would one day be the richest city in the world, and but a few years thence. So when he paid his paltry price, he knew he was swindling my race.’

  ‘Oh no!’ wept the Penitent Hags. The mounted heads murmured among themselves, their whiskers and noses twitching with doubt.

  ‘Wait! How can that be proved after all this time? A secret sight?’ demanded Ambrogio. ‘In a man who must have died fourteen hundred years ago? Jolly convenient for the Ravageurs’ case, I must say—’

  ‘Session concluded,’ called the Doge, pointing to a grandfather clock. ‘Take the prisoner back to his cell. The Have-a-Voices shall reconvene tomorrow. Meanwhile the witnesses and defendants will be transported to a safe house – Professor Marìn’s, where they must wait under curfew until the next session.’

  ‘That could not have gone worse, could it?’ lamented Talina. ‘Did you see the looks on the Righteous Wraiths’ faces?’

  ‘And the Penitent Hags obviously don’t think we have a ghost of a chance,’
said Tassini. ‘Boy, why did you … ?’

  ‘I was just getting to my point when the session was stopped,’ Ambrogio stamped his foot.

  ‘What point?’ asked Talina scornfully.

  Then everything in her sight crumbled into mist, and the next thing she knew she was in her bed behind the screen in the professor’s library with her pencils dangling above her. She could hear scribbling and bunching up of sheets of paper, and balls of paper flying across the room.

  ‘Ambrogio!’ she said, peering over the top of the screen. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Preparing our counter-argument,’ he said, pointing to a stack of densely written sheets. ‘Go to sleep.’

  Surprising even herself, Talina obeyed.

  the Chamber of Conversation, May 17th, 1867,

  Saint Pasquale’s Day

  ‘THE CHAMBER CALLS Mademoiselle Emilie Chouette!’

  The Mademoiselle Chouette who strode up to the witness stand bore absolutely no resemblance to the merry young woman that Talina and Ambrogio had come to know in the past few days. In fact, she was exactly like the martinet they’d dreaded in the classroom at school. The turquoise earrings hung straight down on their gold chains with not a hint of dancing about them. A velvet ribbon around her neck was fastened with a sober black cameo brooch. Her hair was dressed in severely regimented ringlets.

  ‘So,’ she snapped, ‘Monsieur Grignan. You claim to be French.’

  He snarled, ‘It is Lord Grignan to you.’

  ‘Boh! Your accent is melting my ears! Now, can the Chamber supply a blackboard?’ asked Mademoiselle Chouette. Before she finished speaking, a handsome board appeared on a mahogany easel with an ornate ledge, upon which rested a long stick of chalk.

  ‘Merci! So, Monsieur Grignan, what are ze past participles of zese verbs, with which you are so familiar in practice?’

  In her strong looping cursive, Mademoiselle Chouette wrote ‘mentir et voler’ on the blackboard.