Votive

by Karen Brooks

  Giaconda taught me to add particular fragrances to the water to ensure my skin smelled sweet. There was a rich and heady musk from Hafeza’s home, Moroko, and an infusion of florals from Firenze, a city-state a few weeks from Serenissima. There was a citrus perfume from Iraklion, infused, so Giaconda told me, with olive leaves, as well as a range of spicy oils to awaken and inflame the senses that came from as far away as Konstantinople. There were also the scents of roses, dewdrops, sunshine and fabulously shaped containers labelled with ridiculous claims such as ‘innocence’, ‘lust’ and ‘energy’, though how you could extract those without being an Estrattore defeated me. I used them anyhow, and enjoyed the sensation of their perfume lingering in my nostrils throughout the day.

  After my daily wash, which Hafeza would inevitably perform while Giaconda watched, I would learn about female clothing. It took me a while to get used to the fine undergarments that a woman was expected to wear – the long-legged drawers with the silk ties and the gossamer-like camicia that stopped the corset rubbing my skin raw. I found it strange to wear anything under my dress, especially when it took me so long to gather up the yards of material in the skirt before pulling down my pants in order to relieve myself. When I complained about this one day, Giaconda exchanged a long, knowing look with Hafeza.

  ‘You won’t always wear them, Tarlo. Do not worry. These are very temporary.’

  I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that.

  It wasn’t till the beginning of my third week that Giaconda introduced me to the zoccoli. These added inches to my height, and I struggled to maintain my balance, even with Hafeza’s arm to clutch as I tried to walk around the room.

  ‘Glide, Tarlo. Slide your feet forward as if you’re dancing,’ suggested Giaconda in her calm way. ‘Don’t try to lift your legs; the shoes are too heavy for that. You’ll look graceless.’

  ‘I think I’ve achieved that already.’

  Giaconda just smiled patiently. ‘By the time you’re ready to be introduced to society, you’ll feel as comfortable in those as you used to in your old boots.’

  I doubted that, but shut my mouth and stumbled around, every step being met with a loud crack as the wooden heel slammed into the floor. Hafeza winced and threw her hands up in the air. But Giaconda was right. After a week, I was accustomed to the heavy, ornate shoes and enjoyed the additional height they gave me.

  On top of these were lessons in table manners, dancing, and how to speak to nobiles of different rank and merchants of varying degrees of wealth. Giaconda would constantly ride me about my accent, making me repeat words over and over to remove the vulgar strains of the Dorsoduro Sestiere that I’d apparently adopted.

  She also taught me how to tip my head, whose eyes I could meet and whose I should not. How to curtsy and how deep; how to use my dinner knife; hold my glass, my napkin; how to leave a table, enter a room, how to deploy my fan … the lessons went on and on.

  One day, a thought occurred to me.

  ‘Giaconda,’ I began, ‘I don’t understand why you’re teaching me that I can look some people in the eye and not others. Surely, being what I am, I can’t meet anyone’s eyes.’ I let my gaze rest on her face to drive my point home. We had moved to the main portego for our lesson, so the light shining on my face accentuated my silver regard more than usual.

  Giaconda tipped her head. ‘For the moment, your eyes are a problem. At night, I am hoping your … differences will not be so difficult to obscure. Men are not interested in your eyes.’ Her lips curved. ‘But you’re right, Tarlo. We do have to work out what to do with them. Glasses are out of the question, since you used to wear those in your old life. Certainly no courtesan would consider placing a pair upon her nose.’

  I’d almost forgotten my glasses – the thin gold frames and burnished lenses that Katina had ordered Pillar have made for me. They’d allowed me to take liberties I’d never known before. The freedom to explore my quartiere and beyond; to meet people. It was because of them that I’d met Dante. Dorato, he’d called me. His golden boy.

  ‘… But he hasn’t found anything yet.’ I lost most of what Giaconda said as my head filled with images I’d thought I’d buried in the harlequin.

  ‘Scusi?’

  ‘Jacopo is combing the histories, searching for a solution. In order for our plans to work, you need to be able to leave the casa. Don’t worry, Tarlo.’ She reached over and pushed a stray lock behind my ears. ‘We’ll find a way. We always do.’

  Before lunch, I would spend time with Jacopo. These were my least favourite lessons – not because of the content, which I actually found fascinating, but because of my instructor. Jacopo, Baroque informed me, was no nephew of Signor Maleovelli, but a bastard son sired by a young woman who fled to a convent when she discovered she was with child. She died during the birth, which was complicated and, I thought as Jacopo struggled around the room, accounted for his deformity. That Signor Maleovelli took the child from the nuns and kept him surprised me somewhat. In the Candlemakers Quartiere, cripples were hidden from sight. They brought shame upon the family. I know. I was treated like one all my life. In the Maleovellis’ casa, Jacopo was entrusted with managing their accounts and general affairs. He was their notaio – their notary.

  Each day I would join Jacopo in his room near the top of the stairs for an hour or two. Unlike the portego, which faced a piazzetta and had views of the grander Circolo in the distance, his had a small window that looked down on a calle and faced another casa. It was so dark that even in the middle of the day it required candles. It was also very close and musty.

  At some point not long after the lesson began, Giaconda would join us and sit quietly in a corner. I knew her presence made Jacopo uneasy. I didn’t need to extract – his entire body reacted to her by tensing, and sweating profusely. After a couple of hours, his odour would so permeate the room that I found it difficult to breathe. If it bothered Giaconda, she never made mention. She would remain, unmoving and silent, while Jacopo, sitting beside me but never looking directly at me, with his turned leg stretched in front of him, would have me copy out letters on thick pieces of paper with rough edges. At first he sat so close to me, his thigh brushed mine, his fingers hovered over the back of my hand as I wrote. I shifted aside, out of reach, but he chased me across his chair, almost ending up in mine. I longed to push him away, to distil something into him that would force him to keep his distance, but with Giaconda there, I didn’t dare. It wasn’t till one day, when he placed his hand on my leg, that Giaconda broke her silence.

  ‘Jacopo,’ she said with such intensity he froze. ‘She’s not to be touched. Do you understand?’

  Sniffing and licking his lips, Jacopo withdrew his hand. I moved my chair back. After that, he ceased to try. I was grateful to Giaconda and now understood why she stayed.

  I would re-use the paper given to me, spinning it around to write across what I had done the day before, then turning it over to start afresh. I mastered the alphabet very quickly, learning to sound out my vowels and consonants. After a day or two, Jacopo began to teach me to script basic words.

  I was a quick student. While I was forbidden from initiating touch with anyone in the house, or directly holding certain objects, they hadn’t thought much about the pieces of paper I wrote upon. Every time I came in contact with one, I would delicately extract. From that, I could feel the other hands that had passed over its surface, the quills that had scratched letters and words, words that time had faded but in which the memories of the author were imprinted. I assimilated these as well as my lessons and I knew that Jacopo was impressed with the speed at which I learned and which he attributed in a self-congratulatory way to his teaching. That was something that his quill, which I occasionally touched, told me. It also revealed to me a great darkness within him. It was something I didn’t want to explore.

  My education proceeded at a good pace and my teachers were pleased. I enjoyed what I was being introduced to and, for all my restlessness, there was m
uch to stimulate and satisfy me – providing I wasn’t left with my own thoughts and recollections for too long. Those I fought daily to repress.

  My little harlequin was my secret repository, my redeemer. Every time something became too much for me, I would distil it into my figurine. It sat atop the cabinet – my greatest secret, filled with my longings and the pain of far too many memories.

  Memories I foolishly hoped never to have to deal with again.

  THERE WAS THE RUSTLE OF ROBES and the clang of keys. Katina stirred atop her bed and sat up. The candle almost guttered and she quickly cupped her hands around the flame to preserve the light. Reassured it wasn’t going out, she stood up and straightened her clothes. No-one was expected and she wondered who it could be. Fortunately, she’d washed a few hours ago and been given a fresh robe. She twisted her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck and rubbed her eyes, waiting to see who entered her cell.

  The door swung open and in walked an old man in dove-coloured robes carrying a tray. Over his shoulder swung a heavy bag. He turned towards the guard.

  ‘You may leave us,’ he said and waited until the guard had shut the door behind him.

  ‘Elder Maggiore.’ Katina bowed her head, trying to hide her astonishment. An Elder, and of all of them, Maggiore, visiting her? What was going on?

  ‘Katina.’ Smiling gently, he held out the tray. ‘Sì, sì.’ He verbally dismissed her as she went to kiss his hand. ‘Enough of that. Take this, would you? Before I drop it.’ She bore it from his shaking hands and placed it on the small table against the wall. It was laden with food and a brimming jug. Vino splashed over the lip as Katina set the tray down.

  Elder Maggiore let the bag drop from his shoulders. It spread in a loud plashet at his feet and out rolled an apple. Ruby red, it glowed in the semi-darkness and, despite herself, Katina felt a longing to bite into it and draw the moisture into her mouth. She picked it up and squeezed it onto the tray. Why were food and drink being given to her?

  Rotating his shoulder to ease the muscle, Elder Maggiore made a leisurely study of Katina’s cell. Her eyes followed his.

  Small, it was nonetheless dry and comfortable. She had a bed, a table and chair, a supply of candles and some reading materials. Every so often, a guard would appear with washing water and a change of clothes. Conversation was brief and neutral but it was not denied. She may have been in deep trouble, but the guards were not forbidden from communicating with her. Each time the key turned in the latch and the door swung open, her heart leapt. She foolishly hoped to see Debora, Alessandro or even Dante. But they’d all been kept from her. She understood why, even though it pained her.

  Alone for so long, at first she had tried to occupy the hours by reading. But with each tale or historical account, her mind had begun to drift and the questions she’d pushed aside for so long would come to the fore, bringing doubts and distress. Over and over, she replayed the events that had led to her being held within the palazzo awaiting trial.

  Why were the Elders so afraid of Tallow? Why was it so important to sever her from her past? The Elders, particularly Nicolotti and Pisano, had been determined that Tallow feel isolated, alone. And that was before their intention to use her – to have her release the souls of the Bond Riders from every pledge stone – had been made apparent. But killing Dante made no sense, not really.

  Was it the Obbligare Doppio that caused their fury with her or was it the fact that she had saved Dante? Sure, she knew she was forbidden from making such a pact, but at a time when Bond Riders’ souls couldn’t be released from the pledge stones anyway, why did it matter so much that she had? Especially, when as far as she understood, she was acting in the best interests of the prophecy.

  The prophecy.

  The first she’d ever heard of it was the night Constantina rescued her and her twin, Filippo, from certain death. The night Serenissima rose against the Estrattore – those who practised what was now referred to as the old faith – burning, killing and purging the city of their presence. All Katina had been told back then was that the prophecy involved a child who would, at the right time and place, restore balance to the world.

  The next time it was mentioned was when she’d been given the task, along with her brother Filippo, Stefano, the new Rider, Santo, and a few others of finding the baby Estrattore they’d heard had been born, the child it was believed was spoken of in the legends. And they had. After years and years of searching, they’d found, in an unexpectedly fertile pocket of the Limen, where the Estrattore had rebuilt their lives after they were expelled from Serenissima. They’d also discovered and taken the baby. What had always bothered her was why, after learning the location of the Estrattore, the Elders hadn’t formed an alliance with them. Instead, they’d antagonised any potential relationship by stealing Tallow. Then they hadn’t even kept her, but had sent her into Serenissima, and look where that decision had led.

  What bothered her most was the responsibility – no, the power, that had been given to Santo. The last Rider to be Bonded, he’d been entrusted with so much and so quickly, before he’d proved his worth. Part of that was the relationship he’d developed with Stefano, but even that didn’t explain it all. An upstart, with no experience, Santo appeared to have the ear of the Elders … or did he? Was that just how it appeared to be? Who was using whom?

  Certainly, Stefano had some influence. And why had Elder Nicolotti pulled him aside like that just as she’d been arrested? What was going on?

  Katina knew the Elders were up to something and was worried about the role she was playing in their plans – the roles they were all playing. That was why she’d Bonded Dante. He was her guarantee that if something should happen to her, Tallow had a chance.

  Katina studied Elder Maggiore expectantly. This was her opportunity to get some answers.

  ‘I didn’t think I was allowed visitors,’ she said.

  Elder Maggiore chuckled. ‘What would be the point of my office if I wasn’t allowed a few privileges. May I?’ he asked, gesturing to the chair.

  ‘Please,’ said Katina and sat on the bed opposite him. Awkward in his presence, uncertain what to say, she studied her fingernails.

  Elder Maggiore organised his robe around his legs and then placed his hands on his knees.

  ‘You are well, Katina?’

  ‘As well as can be expected.’ She wondered where this was going.

  ‘Bene.’ Elder Maggiore stared at the walls then his gaze alighted on the door. He held up a finger to ward off Katina’s next question. He stood, picked up the chair, and carried it closer to her. ‘I am glad to see that you’re being treated so well,’ he said in an unnecessarily loud voice. ‘Even so, I have brought you some food and drink.’ He indicated the bag and tray.

  ‘Why?’ asked Katina as he finally sat, directly in front of her, so close his knees touched hers. She was about to give him more room when he laid a hand on her leg. She froze.

  ‘Keep talking to me as if there is still distance between us – make your comments inane,’ he said in barely a whisper. ‘We are being monitored.’

  Katina’s eyes widened.

  ‘Why am I being given food?’ she asked.

  ‘Both myself and Elder Dandolo felt it was in your best interests. Without knowing the outcome of the trial, it’s important to prepare you for any eventuality.’

  Katina’s heart skipped.

  ‘This,’ he said, gesturing to the tray and the bag, ‘will help sustain you. I will have more brought as you need it.’

  ‘Grazie,’ said Katina. Her mind galloped. What did that mean? Any eventuality? How many options were there?

  ‘Ah,’ said Elder Maggiore, reaching for one of the books on the table, ‘you’re reading the philosophies of Plato. I’m particularly fond of the cave simile.’ He glanced around and chuckled at his joke, flicking the pages. Then he leant in as close as he could again, continuing to turn the pages loudly as he spoke.

  ‘Katina,’ he whispered urgently, ‘all is
not as it seems. Your Obbligare Doppio, forgive me for asking this, but I must know. It’s to do with Tallow, is it not?’

  Katina drew in her breath sharply. Why, Elder Maggiore was breaking one of the greatest taboos in Bond Rider society by simply asking. But, just as Bonding Dante had felt right to her, so did answering him feel correct. She gave the barest of nods. Elder Maggiore blew out his breath. He placed a hand over hers. ‘My daughter.’ Katina knew he was not simply acknowledging their Rider relationship, whereby all Elders adopted the role of parent to those in Settlement, but their shared blood ties as well. ‘All may not yet be lost.’

  Over the next few minutes, Elder Maggiore conducted a strange double conversation. One was held sotto voce, in hasty whispers, with Katina’s and his heads pressed together. The other was spoken at a volume loud enough to satisfy the eavesdroppers that Elder Maggiore believed were privy to their conversation.

  ‘Katina, what I’m about to tell you is sacred to the Elders. If it was discovered I was sharing this with you, well, I know my end would not be far away.’ He flicked a smile at her. ‘You know there’s a prophecy, sì? Do you know much about it?’

  Katina shook her head.

  ‘While the prophecy states that the Estrattore will create a child in order to restore balance, it doesn’t say exactly how that balance will be achieved. It does, however, make it very clear that she must have free will. That she must make her own choice – not one that’s imposed. If she’s not able to do this, then chaos will ensue and the world as we know it will end.’

  ‘But I thought the Elders,’ whispered Katina, ‘they want to force her –’