Votive

by Karen Brooks

  He steered through the Dorsoduro Sestiere, heading for Nobiles’ Rise. He knew he was taking a risk – in many ways. The Bond Riders would be watching him, but not tonight, not when they had their own problems to deal with. Tonight he could return to his former employers safe in the knowledge that he would not be followed. What happened after would be a different matter. No doubt the Maleovellis would use his journals to force his cooperation. They would want him to continue to search for the Estrattore. Fear clutched at his chest and a rivulet of sweat coursed down his back. Only now, with the involvement of the Cardinale, the search for her had reached a new and deadly level. He would be working not only against time, but also against forces that frightened him in ways he did not quite understand. He recalled the anger of the Bond Riders, the fervour of the Cardinale: his life depended on him finding Tallow first.

  I’m too old for this, thought Baroque.

  The oar spliced the water, sending gentle ripples of Cimmerian wash to break against the passing casas. As he piloted the gondola towards the Circolo, a scream shattered the night. He froze, the oar just above the water. The breeze brought with it fragments of broken voices, other frantic cries. Baroque quickened his stroke. He had to put as much distance between himself and the Signori di Notte as he could. His heavy thoughts turned again to the Cardinale and the conversation on the bridge that had carried down to him in the gondola below. What he’d heard were not mere promises or threats, but pious plans for a terrible revenge.

  A tremor gripped Baroque and he swallowed, grateful for the gondola that first hid his presence and now carried him to relative safety. He had escaped, unlike the poor, innocent souls in the Candlemakers Quartiere and Dante’s grieving family, who were about to be plunged into a nightmare beyond their wildest imaginings.

  UNFAMILIAR SENSATIONS ASSAILED ME – soft fabrics resting against my body, sweet-smelling pillows under my cheek. Beneath my fingers, I could sense the latent memories of other lives, other moments: longing, reluctance, sated desire and exhaustion. I kept my eyes closed and tried to explore the outlandish fantasies further, pretending that I wasn’t an Estrattore, that I wasn’t alone in the world, that first my dog and then the man I loved hadn’t died in my arms.

  Grief flooded my chest, causing an ache so great, it was as if I too had been trampled. I rolled to one side and clutched the pillow as I recalled my last moments with Dante – his pale face, his beautiful dark eyes, the feel of his hand in mine, the kiss we exchanged. I remembered the love I finally confessed. But, most of all, I remembered the love he’d declared for me.

  For eternity …

  And now he was dead. Gone. Killed by a Bond Rider. Tears welled inside me, rising through my chest and into my throat. I didn’t let them fall yet. Instead, I continued to retrace my memory.

  Where was Katina? How could she allow this to happen, and by one of her own? I didn’t understand.

  A huge, wracking sob caught in my throat. I buried my head and tried to release it. Nothing came out of my open mouth but raw silence. There was no sound I could make, no words I could utter that could do justice to my sorrow, not as long as I refused to face where my choices and the fates had led me.

  I rolled onto my back and willed my eyes open. Soft light struck my face. I threw a hand up to block it. A dull ache registered in my left arm. I recalled hurting it when I’d leapt from the Bond Rider’s horse. Beneath the shift I’d been placed in, I could feel coarse bandages. I’d thought my arm broken; clearly, it wasn’t. Someone had not only cleaned and dressed me while I was unconscious – they’d ministered to my injuries as well.

  These little acts of kindness undid my resolve; I wept freely.

  I lay there for a minute or two, trying to control the emotions and images whirling in my heart and head. I wiped away my tears with the sleeve of my shift and eased myself into a sitting position. I wondered how long I’d been here – where exactly ‘here’ was.

  It was evident I was in a bedroom. It was so big, it could have fitted the entire first floor of Pillar’s house within its walls. When I turned my head to the right, I could see a door with a golden handle and gaping keyhole. I stared at it for a moment, a great eye forever open in a solid socket. Above it hung a faded blue and red rug covered with geometrical designs and aurulent swirls. It matched the one lying on the floor.

  On either side of the heavily draped window immediately in front of me were cabinets. Sitting upon one was a large bowl and jug with what appeared to be drying sheets folded beside it. There were also elegant gilt candle holders fitted with the melted stumps of creamy coloured beeswax tapers. I caught their faint scent. Between one set was a small glass figurine. It appeared to have a human shape – a dancer, I thought.

  Through the closed shutters, other, distant sounds filtered into the room: the splash of oars on water, the coo of pigeons, the cries of vendors and, closer still, the murmur of deep voices rising through the floor from below. I resisted the urge to extract, to draw from the coverlets, the pillows, to leap from the bed and touch everything, not sure if I even had the strength. For the moment, I would rely on my eyes and ears to tell me what they could about this strange, lush place. I had never seen anything quite like it; I had no context for appreciating it except to be in awe of its size and what it contained. But even its warm tones could not hide the coldness I sensed, the artistry of its arrangement, as if it were somehow staged for my, or someone else’s benefit. Underpinning the sweet fragrances around me was a whiff of decay, of continuous atrophy. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of falseness and decline that pervaded the room.

  I slowly released my grip on the bedding. I tried to remember everything that had happened while I was in the gondola: whom I’d spoken with, what had occurred. There was Signorina Maleovelli and an old, thin man with hawk-like eyes – her father. They’d proposed a relationship of mutual benefit – a colleganza. My skin began to prickle. They knew I was an Estrattore and they didn’t care … Perhaps all was not lost.

  I threw back the covers and slid out of bed. I tiptoed across the room to the window, unlatched the shutters and pushed them open. Beams of sunlight spilled inside, forcing me to look away until my eyes became accustomed. The brackish smell of shallow water made me screw up my nose. Below me was a narrow canal that came to an abrupt end a few feet away. It was lined on either side by tall casas.

  The one directly opposite had moss climbing out of the water and up its walls. Some of the render had fallen away, revealing a grey underskirt that contrasted sharply with the burnt umber of the rest of the building. It had a singular arched window just above and across from where I was. I wondered if, behind its glass, someone was watching me. I dropped my eyes just in case and noticed a pair of sealed water-gates. This little dead-end canal must be an exit and entrance point for the owners. I assumed it to be the same on my side, which explained the voices I heard. Business was being negotiated somewhere downstairs.

  Floating on the water directly beneath me was the usual oily refuse and household litter that collected during low tide and made the canal look like an unwholesome stew. Being careful not to hurt my arm, I leant out as far as I dared, trying to see beyond this constricted passage. At the other end, I could see a bridge and another, larger canal. The voices of gondoliers calling ‘Premi!’ and ‘Stali!’ as they manoeuvred past each other and the intense chatter of merchants carried down to me. Boxes of fruit and bales of fabric piled atop gondolas slid past my line of vision, framed by the casa walls and captured beneath the bridge like a still-life nudged into motion. I tried to place where I was. My entire life had been spent in and around the Candlemakers Quartiere and, while I knew their rami as I did the lines in the palm of my hand, this area of Serenissima was as unknown to me as a foreign city. I didn’t belong here in so many ways.

  I sighed deeply and eased myself back into the room. The Maleovellis were nobiles. I remembered something about the Eighth Casa … if that was so, then I was o
n Nobiles’ Rise, the Doge’s own province.

  I leant back against the window frame. I’d literally put myself in enemy territory. If ever I needed my wits about me, it was now. I began to pace the room, aware that the conversation below me was getting louder. I tried to ignore it and focus.

  My feet barely made a noise as I passed the cabinets, the bed, the door. I reached out to touch the handle and turned it slowly. It was locked. So, my being here was conditional: I couldn’t leave my room. I wasn’t sure I wanted to, but I didn’t like having the option taken away from me. My stomach growled loudly and I clamped a hand over it. How long since I had eaten? I turned and retraced my steps. I would have to wait until someone came and … released me? Explained to me why I was here and what they wanted from me? What if I didn’t like what they proposed? I stopped. Could I say no? I almost laughed. Hardly. Where would I go? Who could I turn to? Even if Dante had been alive, I wouldn’t have returned to him. Just as I could no longer go to Pillar now that people suspected who and what I was. Not even Katina was available to me anymore – not after what had happened. My old life was forever closed to me.

  Without Dante, it is meaningless anyhow.

  The tightness in my chest returned and I fought to control the tears that threatened to spill down my cheeks. This wouldn’t do! I had to get a hold of myself, at least until I knew what I was facing.

  As I passed the first cabinet, my eyes caught the glass ornament. I picked it up and turned it over in my hand. It was a miniature harlequin. During Carnivale, you always saw men dressed in the vivid colours of the popular jester, bells on their collars and the funny, pointed hat pulled on their heads, turning cartwheels, jumping, playing the mandolin and singing crude tunes to make the crowds laugh. I always enjoyed their antics. This one was perfectly formed, with the scarlet, cyan and gold of its costume coiled around each other within the clear glass body.

  Before I could help myself, I began to extract, to draw the essence of those who had held this lovely object. I sensed fear, betrayal, caution and need. They so strongly resembled my own that at first I thought I’d placed those feelings there, but they were not mine – they belonged to others. I caught glimpses of youth, innocence, terrible sadness and then … nothing but a deliberate emptiness, as if all feelings had been negated, wiped away. It puzzled me, but I didn’t have time to dwell upon its significance. I plunged deeper. Beyond my first impressions, I felt triumph, coldness and powerful desire. Warmth infused my body, colouring my cheeks. I saw a woman with long, dark hair reclining over soft white sheets. I could not see her face, only her honey flesh so wantonly, sensuously, on display. I could feel the deliberation that went into the position, the tilting of the head, the tumbling of curls across naked shoulders, the artful draping of a sheet across thighs. Desire flooded my loins and I longed to fall into this tableau, taste what I knew it offered. I began to deepen the extraction, allowing it to pour into my body, fill my mind, before a sound outside the door broke my concentration. A key turned in the lock.

  The door swung open. Panting and with shaky fingers, I quickly replaced the harlequin and stepped in front of it, hoping no-one would notice the way the colours inside were spinning in a confused melee, causing the little figurine to glow. My breath was coming fast and my mind was momentarily clouded. I reached out to steady myself and grasped a hold of the edge of the cabinet. I quickly extracted its steadiness and constancy so as to shed my other, more visceral, responses.

  In the moments that it took me to do this, two women entered the room. The first was an older woman with the darkest skin I’d ever seen. Her head, which was bowed, was wrapped in a scarf. She shuffled in, her long skirts kicking out as she came to stand in the centre of the room, clasping a tray upon which sat a steaming mug and a pastry. My mouth began to water.

  The second was the woman from the gondola – Giaconda Maleovelli. Her black hair was parted in the middle and piled high towards the back of her head. White pearls contrasted with her sable hair, pinned as they were to complement the style. Her gown was emerald, with hints of deep purple peeping through the folds. It was cut low at the front and had long, full sleeves that collected at the wrist. Gathered underneath her breasts, the gown tumbled to her feet, giving her the appearance of rising out of the waters of the canal itself. It rustled as she moved. A scent of musk followed her like a faithful dog. I inhaled deeply, shutting out the memories of my own canine companion.

  Instead of making me reel with longing, as I sensed her entire appearance was designed to do, it set my nerves on edge. She floated towards me, and it took all my control not to race from her presence.

  For here in the lovely flesh was not only the woman I’d sensed as I’d held the harlequin, but the manifestation of utter coldness.

  AS IF TO MAKE A MOCKERY OF WHAT my instincts were telling me, Giaconda Maleovelli held out both her arms and sailed towards me, her lips curled, her teeth gleaming in a grand gesture of welcome. I was encompassed by a variety of new sounds and delicious odours. The rustle of her green dress, the tapping of her heeled shoes, the way the pearls glimmered in the light that filtered through the window, the fragrance of her skin. For the first time in another woman’s presence, I was self-conscious about my own appearance.

  I ran my hands over the nightgown, aware of its shapelessness, of its utilitarian purpose.

  ‘Tallow!’ purred Giaconda Maleovelli. ‘You’re awake!’

  Before I could respond, she took me by the hand and led me towards the window, placing me in a pool of light. Tall, she bent to study my face, using the tip of one gloved finger to raise my chin.

  ‘Those eyes! You see, Hafeza,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘I told you there was nothing of which to be frightened.’ Her voice lowered. ‘So silver. They really are like mirrors. I can see myself so clearly …’ Her voice trailed away. I watched her studying herself in my eyes. I resisted drawing, afraid I would not only instil fear where I sought only understanding, but alert her to my initial impressions. I remained still, my eyes fixed on hers, on their jade depths, and kept my face neutral.

  ‘You have almost no pupil. They’re quite daunting to behold, but remarkable all the same. It’s as if one is peering into oneself …’ Her face momentarily darkened. She broke away suddenly, straightening to tower over me once more. I was astonished by her formidable height. As she stepped backwards, her skirts shifted and exposed her shoes. Her heels gave her an extra ten inches at least. She gestured for the servant to come forward. ‘Tallow will not harm you – will you, Tallow?’

  ‘Of course not.’ I looked at the woman called Hafeza. How could I reassure her? Hafeza gave a slight bob of her head and moved past me quickly, placing the tray on top of the fireplace. She picked up the cup and offered it to me. Her hand trembled slightly and she continued to avert her eyes.

  ‘Please,’ said Giaconda. ‘Drink while the cafe is still hot.’

  ‘Grazie.’ I gently took the cup from Hafeza who, with the merest flash of a smile, almost ran back to the fireplace. From there I felt her watching me, sizing up the menace I posed.

  Giaconda clicked in exasperation. ‘I should apologise for Hafeza. She has been with the family for a long time. We bought her when she was just a young woman. She’s actually very clever, just superstitious – like all her kind. Over the months, you will find her services indispensable. I certainly don’t know what I would do without her.’ She allowed herself a private smile.

  I turned to the slave. ‘Grazie, Hafeza.’

  Hafeza lowered her head in acknowledgement, but she did not answer with the customary ‘Prego’.

  ‘She cannot speak Serenissian?’ I asked Giaconda.

  Giaconda raised an eyebrow. ‘She cannot speak at all. Hafeza is mute. Essential in a servant who knows the secrets of the boudoir and who is privy to your presence.’ Before I could consider what she meant, she gestured to the cup. ‘Enough chatter. Drink.’ Giaconda left my side and perched herself on the end of the bed. Her dress collap
sed in obeisance at her feet.

  I carefully sipped the cafe. It was bitter and sweet all at once. My head began to clear. Poor Hafeza. I wondered what it would be like to not be able to express yourself through words. Pillar’s mother, Quinn, had always said that Serenissima was a country that traded in words as much as it did in products. That we were all born with a gift for language – even my kind. And to what secrets did Giaconda refer? What happened in a boudoir that could not be spoken of openly? I almost blushed as I pondered the naïvety of my question. Only the presence of Giaconda brought me back to the moment. This woman also implied a long-term arrangement – months, she’d said. What had I agreed to on the gondola?

  I needed some answers. I put down the cup on the cabinet. ‘Signorina,’ I began. ‘Grazie. For rescuing me and for this.’ My arm swept the room. ‘Grazie mille.’

  She lowered her head graciously. ‘Prego.’

  ‘But I have a few questions for you. I know we spoke on the gondola …’ I glanced out the window again and a thought occurred. ‘How long have I been asleep?’

  ‘The bells for Nona rang some time ago. I suspect the Maragona will chime soon,’ said Giaconda, referring to the great bell in the campanile that sounded at various times of the day, reminding workers of their obligations.

  Midday had passed and I’d slept right through. It was late afternoon. Now I understood why my body was so sluggish, my thoughts initially jumbled: I’d been asleep for hours. Then, I tasted it: the sour tang at the back of my throat. ‘You drugged me,’ I accused.

  Giaconda laughed. It sounded like a bell itself. ‘Such a harsh word for something that was administered with the best of intentions; for medicinal purposes. You have been through so much, Tallow. From what you told us, you have experienced such loss, so much tragedy. More than most people endure in a lifetime. You needed time to recover – and not just your body. I simply ensured you were given a little.’