The Mirror Thief

by Martin Seay

  Crivano closes his eyes, takes a long breath—remembering his other life: the view of the sultan’s palace from Galata, laughing janissary faces around a campfire, the texture of a silk caftan against his skin, a cradlesong an Albanian girl once sang for him—and when he speaks again, the old language comes. Do you take me for a fool? he says. I was careful. The boys know nothing. One will set the true messenger in motion.

  Whom?

  My innkeeper.

  This man can be trusted? You’re sure? How do you know?

  Of course I’m sure, Crivano says, but now he doesn’t feel sure. Could Anzolo’s performance this morning have been for his benefit, not Lunardo’s? But no: an innkeeper who cooperated with sbirri couldn’t stay in business very long. Could he?

  I left a note in my room, Crivano continues, where it won’t be found. The note tells the innkeeper how to find Obizzo.

  How?

  Obizzo is a gondolier in the Rialto. He has scars on his arms from the furnaces. The gondoliers all know one another. You can always find one, if he wants to be found.

  What message did you send?

  The one you told me to send, Narkis. In two days, he’s to row to the lagoon west of San Giacomo en Palude under cover of darkness, and look for an anchored trabacolo showing two red lanterns. That is all.

  Crivano can barely make out the shape of Narkis’s head against the blue light from the corte; it’s motionless for a long time. Loud muffled voices come from behind them, but no boots scuffle on the steps, not yet. Come, Narkis says, and presses on.

  Crivano’s boot drags through a puddle; the odor of the sea rises with the splash. You have done well, Narkis says. Our project may not be completely destroyed.

  I don’t know how the sbirri discovered me. They want me to think it has to do with a heretic who’s been arrested, but I don’t believe that.

  It is the mirrormaker, Narkis says. The one you killed.

  Verzelin?

  They have found his remains. They washed up on the Lido yesterday morning. He must have drifted quite far. The gulls showed where his body had come to rest. The flesh had been badly disturbed by various creatures, but the constables knew who it had been in life from a ring that it wore: a glass ring, bearing a false black pearl. You should have removed that, I suppose.

  Crivano stops. The skin of his face is numb, as if blasted by an icy wind. He shakes his head. Verzelin wore no rings; Crivano would have noticed them as he bound the dead man’s hands. Surely he would have. You’re quite certain, he says, that the corpse is Verzelin’s?

  I can only repeat what I have heard. The mirrormakers’ guild has declared that the corpse belongs to the man you murdered. Prevalent opinion is that he suffered despair due to his sickness and drowned himself. Although there is some doubt that, in his infirm condition, he could have tied certain knots. Also, no boats are missing from Murano. This is difficult to explain.

  They’re going to accuse me.

  I think it is likely that they will do so, yes. They suspect a larger conspiracy.

  What should I do?

  You should stay away from the glassmaker and the mirrormaker whom you have recruited until they have safely escaped. You should avoid arrest until they are gone. If the constables arrest you, they will torture you, and you will confess. Everyone does.

  But what—

  Crivano’s voice is suddenly harsh in the tight space: a stranger’s voice. His clawed hands gather the folds of Narkis’s caftan.

  —should I do?

  Narkis is still for a moment. Then he sighs. I do not know, Tarjuman effendi, he says. They are hunting me as well. The constables came to the fondaco this afternoon. I fled through a window and escaped along the rooftops.

  Crivano’s grip loosens. The sbirri saw them both at Ciotti’s shop; of course they’d be looking for Narkis too. Is all lost, then? he says. Who will arrange the escape of the craftsmen? We ourselves can do nothing now.

  Rest assured, Tarjuman effendi, that others can accomplish these things.

  Narkis’s cryptic tone is ugly to Crivano’s ear; it flavors his restrained panic with a new disquiet. If that’s so, he says, then perhaps we might now consider how best to save ourselves. What if we leave for the mainland tonight? With a few days’ advance travel we can meet the ship in Trieste, and then go with them to Spalato.

  Our party may not be going to Spalato after all, Tarjuman effendi.

  Or, Crivano says, we could risk the uskoks, and sail directly for Constantinople.

  They will not be going to Constantinople, either.

  Crivano’s teeth chatter; he’s suddenly cold. So damp: he feels as if he’s been ingested by some leviathan. What, he says, are you talking about?

  Narkis doesn’t answer. He begins to walk toward the corte again; Crivano stumbles after him. In the opening he can see a small carved wellhead, and fallen tiles littering the pavement. Old friend, Crivano asks again, what do you mean?

  In arranging the passage of the two craftsmen, Narkis says, I have had assistance from other interested parties. These parties have made suggestions that may alter aspects of our scheme.

  Who? What parties?

  I am speaking of certain instruments of the Mughal Empire.

  Crivano stops again. Narkis walks ahead for several paces, then slows and turns back. Somewhat sheepishly, it seems. Tarjuman effendi, he says. Come along.

  What in the name of God did you just say?

  The Mughals. They have been lately challenging our Safavid enemy along his eastern borders, and have conquered Gujarat and Bengal. It seems—

  Do I understand correctly, Crivano says, that you intend to take the craftsmen not to Constantinople, but halfway across the world, to Hindustan? To install them among savages, where not a single soul can speak or comprehend their language? Is this what you mean, Narkis? Because, if so, you are insane.

  Speak low, Tarjuman effendi. Please.

  Crivano’s voice is shot through with hot veins of hysteria; it trembles and cracks like a fuzzy-cheeked boy’s, but he does not hold his tongue. How in the name of the Holy Prophet, he says, can the Mughals assist us? They’re separated from Frankish lands by the breadth of our own empire, and another empire besides. Between us and them lies not only a continent, but an unceasing bloody war. What can they do?

  They have arranged to escort us through the lands of the Tatars and the Turkmen, across the Caspian Sea, up the valley of the Amu Darya, to Kabul. We need never enter Safavid territory.

  Ah! Crivano half-shrieks. Splendid! I wonder, though, if you have considered how the emperor of Japan might also help us? Now, there is a resource we have not yet exploited! And neither must we ignore the New World, of course. Perhaps we can hitch our craftsmen to a team of parrots and fly them to safety! Oh, it sounds mad, sure. But is it really?

  Narkis steps forward and slaps him. Crivano recoils, then raises his stick; it strikes the low ceiling and clatters from his hands. Trembling, he sags against the slimy wall, his eyes full, his breath coming in rapid gasps. After a moment he feels Narkis’s gentle hand on his head. Calm, Tarjuman effendi, he says. I am truly sorry for this. It is not what was intended.

  Crivano gulps air, hiccups, picks up his stick. They continue together toward the corte. What do you expect of the craftsmen? Crivano says, when he can speak again.

  They will be angry. That is inevitable. But this cannot be avoided. After all, they already believe they’re going to Amsterdam. Is Lahore a much greater deception than Constantinople?

  I’d say so, yes. What will you do? Cage them like beasts bound for a menagerie?

  If I must, yes.

  As they approach the end of the sottoportego, Narkis’s features come gradually into view: first his eyes, reflecting blue light from the corte, followed by his pale face, the fabric of his caftan. A black ribbon runs from the edge of his turban down his cheek and onto his shoulder. Crivano remarks it vaguely; he’s not seen Narkis wear such an ornament before.

 
I’m not going to Lahore, Narkis, Crivano says. I won’t.

  Yes. I expected that you would not.

  What, then, should I do?

  Sequester yourself for a few days. Once the craftsmen have escaped, come forth and cooperate with the constables. They will be lenient; you can tell them much that will be of value to them. You can continue your life here. Have you a place you can go now? A safe place?

  I think so. The Contarini house.

  Yes. The senator will protect you. The Morosini, also. These men are powerful, and opposed to the faction that now controls the Council of Ten. You will survive.

  Could I return to Constantinople?

  Narkis is silent for a long time. That would be difficult, he says.

  They enter the corte, stepping around debris to lean against the wellhead. Its hexagonal base bears the emblem of an ancient family, disgraced or devastated by the accident of history. Crivano pays it little mind. Overhead, coppery Mars shines, along with a few bright stars, dulled by the glow of the waxing gibbous moon. Dense scattered clouds still rake the sky, slate-gray against the deep blue.

  What are we, Narkis? Crivano asks. Whom have we betrayed, and on whose behalf? Of whom are we agents?

  Narkis’s chin is tucked against his chest; he pushes a chip of terracotta back and forth with his boot’s toe. We are agents of the haseki sultan, he says. And agents of the Mughal emperor. We are agents of no one. We are agents of ourselves. And, as we are both scholars, I believe us to be agents of the truth. I truly believe this, Tarjuman effendi.

  Crivano now sees that the dark ribbon that runs down Narkis’s face is a column of blood, spilled from a gash on his forehead, an inch forward of his temple. It’s clear in the moonlight against the yellow silk of his caftan; it stains his shoulder, then vanishes into his armpit.

  When I was a young man, Narkis says, the grand vizier chose me from among the sultan’s guard to join an expedition to the court of Akbar, the Mughal emperor, who was then still quite young. The journey was difficult. Many of us were killed by sickness and cold, by packs of wolves, by Safavids and Cossacks. Some fell into ravines. Some were struck by lightning. One man was devoured by a tiger: a terrible sight, glorious in its way, and one I will never forget. When finally we presented ourselves to the emperor in Delhi, we were greatly depleted. He welcomed us with pity and wonder. A remarkable man! Entirely illiterate, but with a flawless memory. Moderate in his diet. Subsisting from fruits, and very little meat. Intensely curious. Capable of extraordinary sympathy. A Muslim, but friendly toward Christians and Hindus, and those of less common faiths. He suspects, as we do, that diverse beliefs and practices have as their common basis a single truth, and he devotes himself and the vast resources of his empire to uncovering it. Most remarkable. I stayed with him for a number of years.

  You became his agent.

  I became an agent of the truth. As I have said.

  Crivano looks at the walls that edge the corte. He can see dim lamplight in some windows. What does your emperor want with our craftsmen? he says.

  He is interested in mirrors. He keeps a sizable collection of them. The ones he showed me were quite old, and inferior to what Murano now produces. He confided to me that he dreams of building a mirrored palace, where everyone can be seen always, where everyone can always see himself. Everything is always clear. The emperor’s grand unlettered mind is itself like a mirror, Tarjuman effendi. Its surface can hold anything, and yet remains unscarred by error and falsehood. I believe him to be the perfect sovereign. The Guided One foretold by the hadith.

  A long silence. Then more muffled shouts from the street, and a flash of lantern-light down the sottoportego. Crivano tenses in fear, but Narkis doesn’t react. After a moment the light moves away, and the voices cease.

  They will return soon, Narkis says. With more men. They know that we have come here.

  Is there another way out?

  There is. A moment, please.

  Narkis’s face is slack with weariness, or disappointment, or grief. Crivano has never learned how old he is; at this moment he looks very old. What about you? Crivano says. Where can you go?

  Vacant buildings, Narkis says. Since I do not speak the local language well, it will be difficult for me to arrange passage from the city. Perhaps I will hide myself among the Greeks and escape to Dalmatia on one of their boats.

  What happened to your head, Narkis?

  Narkis looks up, touches his cheek, looks at his fingers. This? he says. This is nothing. A group of boys throwing stones. They were trying to knock off my turban, I think. It happens often enough. They meant no real harm.

  Crivano watches him with a mixture of sorrow and revulsion. Millennial fervor abounds in Muslim lands this year, the thousandth year of the Hegira, but it has never occurred to Crivano that Narkis might be susceptible to it. He remembers something Tristão said about the Nolan, about how he’d been searching the courts of Christendom for a philosopher-king to instruct. Perhaps he should have traveled farther east. What produces credulous fools like these?

  He remembers something else. Might not Tristão be in danger? he says.

  Who?

  Dottore de Nis. How much does he know of our plot?

  Narkis’s eyes narrow in the dark; the hint of a furrow appears on his smooth brow. I know of no one by that name, he says.

  Of course you do. The Portuguese alchemist. The converso. When you and I met in Ravenna, you instructed me specifically to seek him out. You said that his activities could serve as a blind for our own conspiracy. Like the gecko who drops his tail, you said. You must remember.

  Narkis offers a tentative nod. Yes, he says. I suppose I do. His name came to me from the haseki sultan, by way of her lady-in-waiting. My recollection is faint, I confess. My attention has since been directed to other matters.

  But you must know him, Crivano persists. He arranged our meeting at the bookshop. He introduced me to Ciotti. He suggested you as a translator. I’m sure I saw sbirri watching us when we left Minerva, so I thought that surely—

  Crivano’s voice trails off. The crease in Narkis’s brow deepens, stretching his skin, reopening his cut, but now his eyes are wide. My summons came from the bookseller himself, he says. I have never met the person of whom you speak.

  The scrape of a boot echoes from the far terminus of the sottoportego; a half-hooded lantern glints along its slick wall. Crivano can hear gruff whispers. They’re coming, he says.

  Narkis has moved to the corner of the corte almost before Crivano has turned around. A thick piece of pinewood is propped against the wall there; Narkis climbs it to grab a loop of rope that dangles from a narrow window, then squeezes inside as Crivano pushes his feet from below. Crivano hands Narkis his walkingstick and ascends, planting a toe on the cracked dentil molding long enough to kick the wood aside, dragging himself through the window as Narkis pulls him by the arms. Shouts from the sottoportego, and a bobbing light: the sbirri must have heard the pinewood fall. Crivano pulls up the loop of rope after himself.

  They’re in a dark and musty storeroom, cluttered with empty and broken crates; many are rotten, fuzzed with moss. Soft footfalls come from overhead. Someone is upstairs, Crivano whispers.

  Narkis waves a hand, as if this is no concern, and steps out of the moonlight. Crivano takes hold of his sleeve to follow him. They emerge in a hallway, which leads in turn to an ancient staircase; as they descend, it groans menacingly under their weight. Narkis leads him to a heavy door, then stops, his hand on the bolt. They must be near the street now; Crivano hears strident commands, heavy boots on pavingstones.

  Beyond this door, Narkis says, is a storefront. The shopkeeper and his family are upstairs; they will be down soon when they hear it open, so you must be quick.

  You aren’t coming with me?

  Narkis shakes his head with grim impatience. Walk through, he says, and then unbolt the door to the street. Go back to your inn, collect your possessions, and go to the senator’s house.

/>   Where will I be when I come out?

  In the Campiello del Sale. Do you know where that is?

  Of course. Where are you going to go? You can’t stay here.

  Narkis doesn’t answer. With some effort, he throws the bolt and casts the large door open. The storefront is lit through its slatted shutters by the lantern of the locanda next door. For an instant, Crivano can see Narkis’s face: haggard with anguish, his eyes brightened by tears. Then Narkis shoves him through, and the door slams behind him.

  Loud voices from above, and rapid steps: soft at first, then, after a pause, boot-shod. Crivano vaults the counter, crosses the room, unbolts the door. He peeks through the crack—the campiello looks clear—and slips out. But the moment his feet touch the flagstones, a pair of sbirri enter from the north, on the very street he’d planned to take; he turns left, makes the corner before they spot him. Something different about these two. Walking together. Both wearing sidearms. Hunting, not following.

  He’s soon in the Campo San Aponal again—a group of young nobles is gathered before the church, grousing about the lack of linkboys—and from there he takes a back route to the White Eagle over the Slaughterhouse Bridge Canal. Along the way, he passes a pair of watchmen from the Ministry of Night, drinking cups of wine in a casino with its shutters still open. They don’t seem intent on resuming their rounds anytime soon. Tonight they’ve ceded their streets to the sbirri.

  He expects cloaked swordsmen at the locanda’s door, or in the parlor, but there’s no one to be seen aside from one of the Friulian girls, who scurries away in evident terror as soon as Crivano appears. He pays her no mind, rushes upstairs, bursts into his room, bolts the door. Then he turns to survey the damage done to his things.

  His things are gone. The sbirri must have confiscated them. The message pinned to the curtain is gone, too. Who found it first?

  He nearly collides with Anzolo on his way to the street. Dottore! Anzolo hisses, and shoves him backward, down a corridor, into the kitchen, out of sight. They’re out there now, Anzolo says. It’s very bad, dottore. They’re everywhere, and they’re all armed. Wait here until the street clears, then go to the Contarini house at once.