‘How do you Fragile Creatures cope with the constant presence of death?’ Niamh asked. ‘Living in its shadow can only bring fear, and that is so debilitating as to leach all pleasure from daily existence, thus removing the very reason for being.’
‘If you know you’re going to die there’s no point worrying about it.’ Church scanned the crowd, but the masks and costumes were so elaborate it was impossible to tell what he was seeing. ‘You have to make the most of what you’ve got. Make things good for yourself. More importantly, make things good for the people who come after you so they can lives their lives with a little less pain and suffering.’
‘How curious,’ Niamh mused.
‘Death focuses the mind. If you don’t have to die, you don’t have to drive yourself to achieve things quickly because there’s always plenty of time. The result is that nothing ever gets done. You drift along, saying, “Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.” Life becomes an endless stream of nothing. Frittered away. Worthless. Meaningless. Death gives life meaning.’
Niamh observed a trio with lute, viol and recorder accompanying a madrigal. ‘So you are saying death is good?’
‘I’m saying it’s the piece in the tapestry that makes the picture complete.’
Niamh tapped her toe to the music, deep in thought. ‘If what you say is true,’ she began, ‘then rather than being at the centre of Existence, my people are … unnecessary. Pointless. Whatever meaning exists in the great sphere of things can only be divined, and defined, by Fragile Creatures. Death, then, is your curse and your gift.’ She gave a hollow laugh. ‘And from that comes the sole conclusion that Fragile Creatures lie above the Golden Ones and not below.’
‘Crazy, isn’t it?’ Church said with an irony that Niamh did not register.
Church’s attention was drawn by a colourful puppet show before which a group of children sat rapt. The puppetmaster rose up eight feet or more, his long black robes hiding whatever stilts he wore. His white mask featured an enormous nose that arched out like a bird’s beak. The puppets were the most amazingly lifelike that Church had ever seen, and it was only when he looked closely that he saw there were no strings. As he tried to see how the illusion was created, the puppetmaster made a flamboyant gesture towards him, and Church realised with shock that his height was entirely natural.
Church turned to Niamh. ‘Not all of these people are human.’
‘The denizens of the Far Lands take the opportunity to mingle amongst Fragile Creatures when they can do so undiscovered. Many have a deep affection for the Fixed Lands, and even for your kind. Some come for entertainment. And some for sport.’
Church could see she was right. Beautiful men and women with the golden skin of the Tuatha Dé Danann were dancing so gloriously that their feet barely touched the ground. A painfully thin man in a tall hat performed magic tricks. A woman with scales watched from the shadows. And there were others unusual in many ways, their true identities hidden behind the fantastic masks and costumes.
‘The fabulous and the strange have been a part of your world since your kind first appeared,’ Niamh said, ‘guiding your destiny with a gentle push here, a shove there. Influencing your writers and artists and musicians. Whispering in the ears of kings and religious leaders.’
Church considered how many great works and events might have been influenced from beyond. Was that guidance, or interference?
‘You people do have your advantages. It’s weird to be able to understand the Venetian dialect so easily,’ Church mused. ‘And when I speak, my brain tells me I’m talking English, but everyone understands me. Don’t get me wrong – I’m grateful for the upgrade. But it’s still weird.’
Niamh ignored him. ‘If your new friend had not decided this was a time of crucial events we could enjoy the music,’ she said blithely. ‘Would one dance hurt?’
Church relented while still keeping one eye on the shifting crowd. ‘ “Friend” is too strong a word for Tom,’ he said. ‘I can’t help but think he has his own agenda.’
Soon they were whirling around the square in one of the formal dances that the locals loved. Niamh’s hand was cool in Church’s; her smooth cheek brushed his and her lips breathed warmth onto his ear. He realised she was staring at him in a curious manner, her eyes huge and dark. When she saw he had caught her looking, she broke her gaze and then the dance.
‘Enough,’ she said. ‘These are dark times for both of us, and it is not right to indulge in frivolity.’
Nearby the Mocker juggled burning torches for the pleasure of a small crowd. He wore no mask, though none noticed. He caught Church’s eye and nodded towards a man in a harlequin costume slipping determinedly through the crowd. Tom followed at a distance, his dour features hidden behind a wolf’s-head.
‘Looks like Tom’s found our man,’ Church said. ‘I’ll meet you later.’
Niamh caught at his sleeve as he moved away. ‘Take care,’ she said, and before the words could register she was gone.
3
Lucia loitered alongside the canal where Tom had told her to keep watch. The sounds of revelry were muted there. Nearby, but hidden by the fog, her owl hooted mournfully. Adjusting her mask, which resembled a beautiful doll with pale skin and bright-red cheeks, she considered using an incantation to bring some light to the gloomy, lonely street. She was still amazed at how powerfully her Craft worked now that she was a Sister of Dragons. When she was a child in Sicilia, learning the words and rituals from her mother, who had learned them from her mother before her, she’d had many small successes: controlling small animals, shifting the moods of friends and enemies, altering the balance of fortune slightly. But it had been nothing like what she could do now. Most of the time she felt almost bursting with power, ready to bend even the weather to her will. It was increasingly addictive.
A man in a skull mask and skeleton costume appeared out of the fog and walked by. He nodded to her and continued on his way before halting under an arch, where he gave a short whistle that ended on an interrogatory note.
Within seconds, a man in a dog mask appeared behind Lucia. She sensed his presence and looked around as another man with a clown mask joined him. Lucia’s heart beat a little faster. Before she would have been scared, but her confidence in the Craft filled her with bravado.
The three men surrounded her. ‘A doll,’ the Skeleton said, ‘a toy for our play.’
‘Lay one finger on me and you will live to regret it,’ Lucia said defiantly.
The three men looked at each other and laughed, their masks making their actions eerie. The Skeleton drew a small knife and moved towards Lucia, who backed to the edge of the canal. Her heels went over the edge and she teetered, only just catching herself. Brief panic scrambled the words of power she had been about to utter, and that made her panic more acute.
‘Canal vermin!’ she said, not showing it.
The Skeleton brandished his knife.
From the shadows came a bright English voice laced with wit: ‘Sheath your blade, good brother, for its size only embarrasses you.’
A man in a gaudy harlequin costume stepped into the small circle of light cast by the lone torch. He drew a rapier and flexed the tip against the flags. Lucia could see his balletic poise and strength, but the costume made him look like an unthreatening dandy.
‘You see, my weapon is most impressive,’ he said.
The Skeleton continued to advance on Lucia while the others drew their swords and turned to face the Harlequin. Before they could attack, he flamboyantly drew a scarlet silk scarf and presented it to them on the palm of his hand. The men stared at it, dumbfounded. Snapping his head to one side, the Harlequin whisked the scarf into the air. A blinding flash burst as phosphorus dust ignited.
Dazzled, the Dog gamely thrust his sword forward, but the Harlequin parried quickly, returned the thrust and disarmed his attacker. As the sword clattered to the flags, the Harlequin cuffed the Dog unconscious with his hilt. The Clown blinked, but had no time to recover. The Ha
rlequin propelled him into the canal with a kick to the chest.
At the same moment Lucia grabbed the Skeleton’s arm and twisted it behind his back. A second later he was in the water, too. She flinched as the Harlequin grabbed her hand.
‘This doll has a lively attitude,’ he said. The two attackers distracted him as they attempted to climb out of the canal. ‘Enough sport with rats. Best not to dally, lest they travel in packs.’
The Harlequin flung Lucia over his shoulder and despite her protests ran along the edge of the canal until he found a secluded alley not far from the revelry at the Piazza San Marco. He lowered Lucia gently to her feet and waited for thanks. Instead he received a sharp slap to the face.
‘A kiss would have been preferable,’ he said, rubbing his cheek.
Lucia bristled. ‘If I wanted your help I would have shouted for a fool.’
The Harlequin was baffled. ‘I saw a lady in distress. Your life or honour—’
‘My life and honour are my own. I need no man to protect them.’
‘So you think,’ the Harlequin said dismissively.
‘So I know.’ Lucia pulled a knife from her dress and shook it at the Harlequin. He didn’t flinch.
‘Next time I will leave you to your own devices,’ he said.
‘Good.’
As he began to walk away, Lucia asked, ‘What is an Englishman doing here, in enemy territory?’
‘You would rather I had been elsewhere,’ he said sarcastically, ‘and left you to the hands of your admirers?’
‘A question answers a question,’ she teased. ‘I fear you have something to hide.’
‘Enjoy the carnival, my lady.’
As the Harlequin made to leave, Lucia leaped forward and attempted to pluck his mask free. The Harlequin grasped it in time.
‘This is not the time for unmasking.’ He waved a cautionary finger.
A whistle like the one the Skeleton had made echoed nearby, but this one was clearly intended for the Harlequin. He gave Lucia a laddish grin. ‘Anon, fair doll.’
Then he was gone, and Lucia realised that behind her annoyance there was intrigue.
4
In the Piazza San Marco two men met on the edge of the revels away from the torchlight. One wore a hawk mask, the other a fish. They looked around uneasily until the Harlequin hurried up.
‘We thought Philip’s men had got to you,’ the Hawk said.
‘More like the king’s women,’ the Fish added irritably. ‘Did some doxy take your fancy?’
‘A spot of bother,’ the Harlequin replied. ‘Nothing to worry you, Mr Fish. Let us make haste. The king’s agents are everywhere.’
The three men made their way to the Palazzo Ducale, whose grand façade stood next to the Basilica, the sacred and the profane cheek by jowl. The Palazzo was the residence of the doge, the city’s leader, but also contained many other institutions of the Republic’s government.
‘This way,’ the Hawk whispered. ‘The door is unguarded.’
‘While you were making love, we were doing the job the queen has charged us with,’ the Fish said tartly.
The Harlequin led the way to the door. ‘Good Queen Bess has charged us with succeeding, not talking. And if there was gold for chat, Mr Fish, you would be the richest of us all.’
The Harlequin and the Fish formed a barrier while the Hawk dropped to his knees to work the lock.
‘Remember,’ the Harlequin whispered, ‘the avogaria, the law offices, are on the first floor, along with the chancellery, the censors and the Proweditori della Milizia del Mar. They will be unoccupied. The ballot chamber where the committee meets to elect the doge and the doge’s apartments are on the second floor. That is where we must go.’
‘Hurry now,’ the Fish said.
The Hawk tutted. ‘Genius cannot be rushed. What do you say, Will? An unguarded door at a grand palace? Are the Venetians or the Spaniards the true buffoons?’
‘Never underestimate the enemy, Mr Hawk. And no real names. My reputation precedes me. Spain has a bounty on my head.’
The Hawk chuckled. ‘England’s greatest spy.’
‘I fail to see how a spy can operate when everyone knows his name,’ the Fish noted.
The lock clicked, the door swung open. The Hawk held up a triumphant hand. ‘Applause, now.’
The Fish pushed past him. Will the Harlequin helped the Hawk up and they both slipped inside, pushing the door closed behind them. Across the echoing, marble-floored entrance hall they flitted like ghosts from shadow to shadow. Silently, they climbed two flights of stairs to a grand corridor along which a guard walked nonchalantly. The Fish removed his mask to reveal a shock of red hair and a freckled face. He pulled out a blowpipe and waited for the guard to near before blowing a dart into his neck.
Will and the Hawk dashed out to catch the guard before he hit the floor. ‘Well done, Francis,’ Will said, removing his mask to reveal an intelligent face topped by curly black hair.
The Hawk followed suit, wiping sweat from his brow. He was barely out of his teens with the red cheeks and heavy jaw of farming stock.
‘Keep your lock-picks to hand, Richard,’ Will hissed. He sprinted quietly along the corridor, counting off the doors. He indicated the fifth, but when Richard dropped to his knees to work the lock, the door swung open at his touch. He looked at Will in puzzlement, who considered this turn of events for a moment before motioning for them all to enter.
Will closed the door behind them. The room was still and dark apart from one shaft of light from the sole unshuttered window. It illuminated a pedestal with a glass case atop it. In it was a black wooden box.
‘There it is,’ Will said softly.
Richard was filled with awe. ‘The Box of Anubis,’ he said in hushed tones, ‘containing—’
‘A plague that can devastate an empire.’ Francis could not tear his eyes from the box. ‘Recovered from the sands of Egypt by Spanish marauders.’
‘So Dee says,’ Will noted sarcastically. ‘And Dee claims to talk with angels.’
‘It would make a fine weapon for England,’ Francis said. ‘The Spanish could not threaten us with this in our possession.’
‘And we cannot threaten the Spanish with it in theirs.’ Will tried to survey the room, but the conflict of dark and light made it impossible to discern any detail.
‘Let us take it and be off. The shadows in this place disturb me,’ Richard said. He set off for the pedestal.
‘Wait!’ Will said, reaching out to his comrade.
The quiet of the room was cut by a shrill whistling. Richard’s head toppled from his shoulders and bounced noisily across the floor. His body slumped down a moment later.
Will and Francis stared in horror before Francis whispered, ‘Witchcraft!’
‘Spanish deception. Traps.’ Sickened, Will edged along the wall to a candelabra and lit two candles with his flint. The shadows rushed away from him.
Dropping to a crouch, Will crept forward holding the candelabra above his head. When he neared Richard’s decapitated body he noticed a brief glimmer in the air. Slowly, he moved the candles back again. The glimmer reappeared.
‘Wires,’ he said, ‘strung across the room at different heights, so delicate they are almost invisible.’ Will followed the line of one wire to where it disappeared into the wall. Holding the candelabra as high as he could, he pressed the wire with one finger until it broke.
High overhead an intricate clockwork mechanism came to life. One of many scythe blades swung down in an arc through the place where Will’s neck would have been if he had been standing. It returned to the ceiling. The top of one candle fell off; the lower one remained intact.
‘The Spanish have the minds of devils,’ Francis said. ‘Would that we were so inventive.’
‘To the window, Francis,’ Will said. ‘We may have need of a rapid exit.’
Carefully ducking under any wires, Francis edged around the wall until he could open a window. The sounds of the carniv
al floated in.
‘The rest of the world makes merry while I risk a haircut too far.’ Using the candle to illuminate the wires, Will manoeuvred through them. A few steps from the pedestal his boot slid on the wooden floor. He caught himself before he fell, balancing on the ball of one foot. His hand brushed against a wire, which trembled but did not break. Will and Francis let out their breath in a sigh of relief.
Reaching the pedestal, Will cautiously opened the glass case. The wooden box had a handle carved in the shape of the head of Anubis, and hieroglyphics were etched on the black wood in gold filigree. Will scanned for other traps, but seeing nothing steeled himself and plucked the box out. He held it up triumphantly.
‘How can a plague be trapped inside such a thing?’ Francis asked.
‘Damnably clever, those pyramid builders.’
‘I do not believe it.’
Will held the box towards Francis. ‘Would you take a peek inside?’
The door swung open with a clatter and Spanish guards carrying crossbows rushed in and deployed themselves around the room, carefully staying clear of the network of wires.
Will sighed. ‘’Twas too good to be true. Where is he, then?’
A flamboyant man with a waxed goatee and a red and green diamond costume stepped in. He was charismatic, but with a dark, brooding streak.
‘Don Alanzo De Las Posadas,’ Will said. ‘’Twas not my wish to draw you from the party.’
Don Alanzo smiled. ‘William Swyfte. How fitting to see you dressed as a clown.’
‘My friends call me Will, Don Alanzo. Though last time we met you called me “master”. The wound has healed, I see.’
Don Alanzo unconsciously traced a small scar on his cheek. ‘If I recall, our last fight was curtailed by your cowardly comrades blasting the deck from beneath my feet. You have never bested me in fair swordplay, Swyfte. And you never will.’
Jack of Ravens Page 22
