by Karen Brooks
Tired of my exploring and the feelings it aroused, I crossed the portego and quietly entered the hallway. After the bright light of the main salon, it was very dark. Hafeza hadn’t yet lit the candles. Then I recalled she’d been sent to the market. It took me a few seconds to become accustomed to the dimness. I wandered back down to my bedroom at the other end of the corridor when a prickly feeling made my shoulders twitch. I paused, my hand resting on an old chair. I did not extract. I pretended to examine a tapestry, leaning in close to make out the stitching. I swung my head at the last moment and caught sight of Jacopo, hovering in the doorway to his bedroom. He quickly withdrew when he knew he’d been seen. How long had he been watching me?
I hurried to my room, slowing as I passed Giaconda’s door. I heard the low murmur of voices. Giaconda’s and another, deeper voice. Who was there? My understanding was that Giaconda didn’t meet with her clients at Casa Maleovelli. It was not deemed appropriate. Glancing over my shoulder, I checked to make sure Jacopo wasn’t looking. His door was now shut. Funny, I hadn’t heard him close it. I stopped. I longed to press my ear to the wood – both to listen and use my talent. Instead, I placed a finger on the gilded door handle. Ever so gently, I began to extract.
I almost fell to my knees. I staggered back as darkness entered my heart. I wanted to cry, scream, break something; anything. I needed to cough, to gag, spit out the vile taste in my mouth. The voices behind the door ceased. I heard a creak, of furniture or wood.
I did not stay. I lifted my skirts and ran, as quietly as I could, back to the relative safety of my room. I closed the door softly behind me and flew to the window. Swinging it open, I spat into the water below, breathing deeply to clear my head. What had I felt back there? What did it mean? Some great, dark, lurking secret was buried so deep that my as yet inexperienced touch could not release it.
I trembled, and not from the cold. As I shut the window and retreated to my bed, I was not all together certain I wanted to find out.
BAROQUE KEPT HIS HEAD DOWN and his ears open. For the last three days, having satisfied his primary duty to the Maleovellis, he’d kept vigil in the little taverna on the edge of the Tailors Quartiere in the hope that Katina would appear and he could start to fulfil his obligation to her. The taverna was quiet at this time of day; the regulars were already accustomed to the man who’d made the decision to patronise their local establishment even though he was not a tailor or from the quartiere. If they thought anything of his presence, despite the rumours of Estrattore and the arrests the Signori di Notte had made, they didn’t say. He spent good soldi and he’d asked for Katina. He was a friend of the Bond Riders and that was all that mattered to them. For centuries, the Bond Riders had made the tailors and now the current owner of the taverna in the quartiere, Signor Zano Vestire, very comfortable. If this man knew them and had been told to seek out one of their kind, they weren’t about to upset their best customers.
Pretending to take a long draught of his vino, Baroque kept the wooden goblet pressed against his lips and tipped back his head, but he barely opened his mouth. He made a show of pouring another round from the jug at his elbow. Whether anyone was watching or not didn’t matter. It was about maintaining his disguise. Years of practice had taught him that if he posed no threat, was quiet and became as familiar as not only the locals, but the furniture, then conversations would not be curtailed in his presence.
Yet again he was rewarded. The afternoon wore on and the group at the table beside him grew louder and less guarded in their choice of subject.
‘Didn’t have a chance. Burst in on them in the middle of the night,’ said one old tailor, blinded by cataracts, the enemy of his trade. Baroque knew his name was Signor Pugliesi. Despite his disability, Pugliesi still wore the tailor insignia on his jacket proudly – his scuola, or guild, had not rejected him. ‘Seven of them. Fully armed as well. No warning, nothing. The screams of the women and cries of the children could be heard right across the sestiere. They took the men in for questioning.’
‘That’ll be the last they’re seen, then,’ added another man grimly.
Pugliesi nodded. ‘They’ll make an example of them. No doubt about that.’
A man Baroque knew only as Cucito, in honour of his fine needlework, overheard them and slid off his stool at the bar to join the group. They gave him a rowdy welcome – him, and the extra jug he placed in the middle of the table. ‘I heard they’re searching for the candlemaker – the one who kept the boy hidden all these years.’
‘Boy!’ scoffed Pugliesi. ‘He’s not a boy!’
Baroque almost spat his drink back into his goblet. He had to resist the urge to turn round and stare. What did they know? He held his breath.
‘Have you forgotten? He’s Estrattore. They’re not human,’ drawled Pugliesi. Baroque let out a sigh of relief, feeling the tension leave his shoulders. ‘They’re direct descendents of the old gods. They’re part divine. He’s no more a boy than I am a courtesan!’
General laughter greeted that statement.
‘Shut up, you fool!’ snapped another voice. It was the taverna owner, Signor Vestire. He headed towards them swiftly and leant over the table. ‘We’re not supposed to talk about them,’ he hissed.
Pugliesi laughed. ‘Of course we’re meant to talk about them – we’re meant to talk about them until we’re so afraid, we’ll do and say anything the Doge and the damn Cardinale tell us to.’ He raised his goblet. ‘And you call me blind.’
‘We should be scared,’ stammered another patron Baroque didn’t recognise. ‘Estrattore are heretics. They’re evil – and don’t you forget it!’ He slammed his fist on the table. Everyone jumped. No-one spoke for a moment.
Signor Vestire looked at the man. ‘I wouldn’t believe everything you hear, Gusto. Nor what you read – if you can.’ The bell above the lintel jingled as the door opened and two men entered, calling out greetings. Signor Vestire went to leave but Pugliesi, with uncanny swiftness, reached out and grabbed his wrist.
‘I heard that this boy, this Estrattore, wasn’t evil at all. On the contrary, he brought happiness and health in his wake. He lived among us, not in some trumped-up casa they pretend is a religious house with servants and comforts of which we can only dream, or a treasure-filled church – he lived like us as well. Just like the Estrattore of old. Despite what the Church and its padres preach, what they’ll have us believe …’
‘He saved dozens from the Morto Assiderato,’ agreed Cucito. They all crossed themselves. Baroque forced his hands to stay still. Wouldn’t do to let them know he was eavesdropping. ‘How can that be evil?’
‘It isn’t.’ The taverna owner tried to wrestle from Pugliesi’s grip, but the old man wouldn’t let him go. ‘But that doesn’t mean this type of talk isn’t dangerous.’
‘I heard there are those prepared to die rather than let the Cardinale get his hands on the Estrattore. That there are some –’ he dropped his voice even lower; Baroque strained to hear ‘– that are even calling for the old ways to come back.’
‘Enough!’ said Signor Vestire, finally twisting his arm free. ‘Pugliesi, you’re as stupid as you are blind. I will not have this talk in here, do you understand?’
‘Stupid? Do you really think so? Or am I merely saying what everyone else is thinking? Allora, in which case, we’re all stupid, hey?’ Signor Vestire hovered for a moment before throwing his hands up in the air and, with an exclamation of annoyance, strode to the bar. ‘What can I do for you, Signori?’ he asked the new patrons with false bonhomie and began pouring drinks from a large bladder.
Pugliesi chuckled. It was a dark sound. ‘Interesting days, mi amici,’ he muttered. ‘Interesting days.’
‘What about the candlemaker? Has anyone heard what happened to him?’ asked Cucito. ‘The one who kept the boy. The master who disguised him as an apprentice. I imagine he’ll be in for some trouble.’
‘They say he’s disappeared off the face of Vista Mare,’ said another old man wit
h a hunchback. He was familiar to Baroque. Another tailor who paid physically for his trade. ‘He’s missing. No-one has seen him since the boy jumped in the canal. He’s gone from his casa –’
‘– and straight into the torture chamber of the Cardinale,’ chuckled Pugliesi.
‘Sì, sì,’ agreed the men. ‘Or the Doge’s dungeons.’
‘All the same isn’t it?’ Signor Cucito shook his head sorrowfully.
‘He’ll not see the light of day again until it’s his last one on Vista Mare.’
Their conversation then turned to the resumption of trade now that the quarantine on the city had been lifted. Baroque ceased to listen and lost himself in his own thoughts.
What these men were muttering, heresy by any other name, was echoed in other parts of the Dorsoduro and Barnabotti sestieri. Ever since he’d left the Maleovellis, he’d heard similar sentiments. Treasonous sentiments. Whispered on the calles, in the shops, around campi and in homes. Not even the threat of the Cardinale and the Signori di Notte had cowed the popolani. Interesting times indeed.
This time Baroque did drink from his goblet, finishing what had been sitting there for a couple of hours. He’d done what he’d set out to do and could return to the Maleovellis triumphant. He had a great deal to share with his new employers and some that he would keep to himself.
But where was Katina? She’d released him and he was keeping his end of the bargain by waiting for her. Or was he? He still hadn’t made up his mind whether to tell her about the Estrattore. He wanted to sound Katina out, find out more about what the Bond Riders were up to, how desperate their need. Desperate people were prepared to pay a great deal more, as he’d discovered with the Maleovellis.
No. Best to keep information about Tallow to himself and protect the Maleovellis as well. At least until he figured out how he could best profit from everything. Anyhow, he reassured himself, his conscience was clear. He’d been told Tallow was a girl only after he’d promised to work for the Bond Riders. As far as he was concerned, he was under no obligation to report to Katina about anything other than a boy named Tallow. That he knew about an Estrattore named Tarlo – well, he’d have to think more deeply about when and to whom he revealed that – if at all.
Teaching the Estrattore was something he never anticipated doing. He was looking forward to it. No doubt it would bring unexpected benefits as well. He sighed and settled back in his chair. Outside, he could hear the wind whistling through the campo and along the rami. A light rain began to fall. One of the workers lit some rush lights, placing them on the rickety old tables. Their greasy smell combined with that of the wood smoke from the poor fire made the atmosphere thick.
It was clear Katina wasn’t coming. But why not? What was keeping her? When so much was at stake as well. For just a second, Baroque felt a flare of concern. Had something happened to her? He almost laughed at himself. Apprehension for a Bond Rider, for a soul-less one? Ah, he was getting soft. Was a time when he wouldn’t have thought twice about what he was doing – playing two sides against each other. Better that way. Well, if Katina wasn’t coming, it made his life less complicated. And if she did arrive after he left, at least the taverna owner would vouch for him.
Baroque reached for his purse and found the required soldi. They rattled as they hit the table. He grabbed his coat off the hook by the door and, with a wave at the taverna owner and a nod to the patrons, stepped into the darkening, cold calle. He’d return in about a month and, by then, he’d have a story. Whether or not it was the one Katina wanted to hear was another matter entirely.
‘ENTER,’ CALLED CARDINALE MARTINO from behind his huge desk in the south wing of the Doge’s basilica.
Aware of who entered, he nonetheless forced Captain Sansono to wait before he acknowledged him. He scribbled on his parchment, dragging the candle closer then finishing with a flourish. He peered closely at his work, proofing and sanding it dry before putting it to one side. Then he clasped his hands in an attitude of prayer and gazed at the captain.
‘You have news for me, captain? You have found the Estrattore?’ The Cardinale gestured for the captain to sit.
Swinging his sword over the front of his legs, Sansono gratefully lowered himself into the hard-backed chair. ‘Your grace,’ he began, moistening his dry lips. ‘We haven’t found the Estrattore, not yet.’
The Cardinale slammed a fist into his hand. The captain jumped. ‘Then why do you bother me at such a late hour?’
‘Because you ordered me to keep you informed, your grace. This is what I am here to do. Anyway, the padre told me you were still at work.’ The captain fell silent.
The Cardinale resisted smiling. He had struck a nerve. Good. These secret police, the Signori di Notte, had too much power. They did not like answering to anyone, not even the Council of Ten. Well, they would have to get used to serving him. And the Church.
‘What about the Estrattore’s master, the candlemaker – has there been any sign of him?’
The captain swallowed. ‘No, your grace.
‘And you do not believe the disappearances are related?’
‘No, I don’t. The Estrattore most definitely jumped in the canal. The candlemaker was seen in the quartiere immediately after. Witnesses saw him drinking in that taverna in which we found the body.’
‘Could it have been the candlemaker who murdered the owner?’
Captain Sansono frowned. ‘According to reports, he was very drunk when he left. It’s unlikely he would have had the capacity to return, let alone for such violence. Whether it was him or not, he hasn’t been seen since.’
‘The Signori found no trace of him when they searched the other casas in the area?’ The Cardinale asked the question lightly.
The captain shifted nervously. ‘I don’t believe they were as thorough as they could have been. It was late, your grace. They –’ He stopped and shrugged.
The Cardinale looked at him quizzically. ‘What is this?’ he said, and raised his shoulders up and down in quick succession – a series of shrugs. ‘Is this a special manoeuvre your men do, captain?’ He shrugged again. ‘Is this some secret signal to which I am not privy?’
‘No, your grace,’ said Captain Sansono quickly. ‘I … I meant only that tired men do not perform to the best of their ability.’
‘Ah, of course, I see.’ The Cardinale smiled. ‘How foolish that I would forget such a base need as sleep when there’s an Estrattore on the loose. When Bond Riders are walking our calles and murdering our sons.’ He curled his lips. ‘It won’t happen again, will it, captain?’
‘No, your grace.’
‘And you won’t deign to bore me with this either.’ He shrugged. ‘Will you?’
‘Never again, your grace.’
‘Bene,’ said the Cardinale softly. He reached for a piece of fruit languishing on the platter at his elbow. He saw Captain Sansono eye it longingly. He bit into it, the juices flowing over his chin. Using a cotton serviette, he dabbed them away. ‘Allora, what else do you have to tell me?’
Captain Sansono forced himself to meet the Cardinale’s eyes. ‘We have made four arrests, your grace. The Macellerias. They’re the family who hid the Estrattore for a few days. The chandlers. They currently reside in the Doge’s dungeons.’
‘What are they saying?’
‘Nothing. They’re not talking at all. They’re good men, your grace. Kind men, who love their families and their trade. They believe they’re protecting everyone through their silence. That’s the problem, your grace. No-one in the entire quartiere is saying anything. It’s like a conspiracy.’
‘Is that so?’ The Cardinale threw down the napkin, rose to his feet and stood by the fire. He turned his back to the flames, his hands clasped behind him. His scarlet cassock glowed in the orange light. ‘Why do you think this has happened, Captain Sansono? That these ordinary men would defy God and their eternal souls for the sake of one heretic? Is the faith of Serenissima so weak that the popolani do not speak out against
iconoclasts? Where is their fear of God? Where is their fear of you?’ He looked directly at the captain.
The captain shifted uncomfortably. ‘I do not understand it either, your grace. It’s as if they’re bewitched. There are reports …’ he hesitated.
‘Go on …’ The Cardinale waved at him.
‘There are reports that in some sestieri some people have stopped going to Church. That they’re whispering about the old ways again. Not openly, but in secret.’
The Cardinale stared at Captain Sansono without speaking. Sansono clenched and unclenched his fists. Just when he was about to interrupt the silence, the Cardinale began to laugh. Not a quiet snickering, but a bold, rich laugh that forced the tears from his eyes. Captain Sansono coloured. He looked at his fingers then his boots. The Cardinale went to his desk and plucked the serviette off its surface, dabbing under his eyes.
‘Oh, my dear Sansono. Of course they’re talking about the old ways. They’re enamoured with this Estrattore, this little boy who saved them from the big bad plague.’ He held his arms up in the air. He shook his head. ‘To them, the Estrattore did what God and their prayers failed to, and now they turn away. They have become so bold. Correct me if I am wrong, but not even the threat of punishment loosens their tongues. Am I right?’
