by Karen Brooks
‘Unlike some, I have moved in and out of the Limen over the years and, every time that I do, my body ages, taking back what the Limen gives to me.’
‘I don’t know – you look pretty good for a three-hundred-year-old.’
‘This isn’t funny, Dante. You see, once I leave the Limen forever, it won’t take long for my body to catch up to my chronological age.’
Dante stared at her. His mouth formed an ‘O’.
‘Oh, indeed.’
‘But you said food and drink made you better. Can’t we just make sure we eat and drink back in Serenissima?’
Katina gave a harsh bark. ‘Dante, Dante, Dante.’ She sat back down. ‘You really do have so much to learn. When Riders enter Vista Mare, our bodies become human again. We have to eat and drink to survive. It’s only in the Limen that we don’t require that kind of sustenance. Food and drink are used in emergencies only and then at the discretion of Elder Dandolo. It helps us heal, to prepare a Rider for a mission or, in my case, for exile. What they’ve given me, what Elder Maggiore pleaded with Elder Dandolo to provide me, has bought me some time.’
‘For a society that Serenissians believe flouts all conventions, you have so many.’
Alessandro and Debora joined them, sitting down heavily. ‘Today you witnessed how harsh some of those can be.’
‘It’s not fair –’ began Dante.
‘No, Dante. It is fair.’ Katina rested her hand over his. ‘Completely fair. I knew what I was doing.’
‘Then why did you do it?’
Alessandro stared at her. ‘Sì, why?’
‘You all know why.’
Alessandro looked away first.
Dante swallowed. He did know. It was because of Tallow. The air suddenly felt dry. His stomach churned. A chill entered his heart and began to spread. ‘How … how long do you have?’
Katina shrugged. ‘Days, weeks. I don’t know.’ Elder Maggiore has ensured I have longer than I would have otherwise.’
Dante traced a pattern in the wood of the bench, his mind racing. ‘So, I was wrong. The punishment isn’t good at all, is it?’
‘Not for me, no. For you, there’s still hope. Which is just as well, for there’s a great deal riding on what you have to do.’
Dante started to ask what she meant, but she grabbed his hand and squeezed it, shaking her head slightly.
‘Later,’ she mouthed. She continued in her normal tone. ‘You can come back here; reclaim your time. Our population is dwindling; they can’t afford to ignore the benefits of a young, hale Rider joining the ranks. For me it’s a different story. I doubt I’ll return.’ Her mouth began to quiver. ‘I doubt I have enough time to do what must be done …’
‘Amore mio,’ said Alessandro, reaching out and stroking Katina’s hair. ‘It’s worse than that. What our Elders have done is condemn you to hell.’
Katina’s eyes filled until they were brimming pools, the little silver flecks shining like glass. She took a deep breath and cleared her throat. She grabbed Alessandro’s hand, wrapping her long fingers around it. She brought it to her lips and then rested her cheek against it. ‘Then it’s up to Dante to make sure that it takes a very long time for me to burn.’
ZARALINA, QUEEN OF FARROWFARE, looked down the long table at the faces of her Privy Council and quickly revised what she was going to say. Anxiety was thick in the room. Trying to ignore the rancid stench of the smoke and noisy splutter emanating from the huge candle closest to her, she brought the piece of paper she’d been given nearer to the light and swiftly read Lord Waterford’s latest communiqué again.
Delivered to her last night by her tired steward, Lord Rodbury, it had been brimming with news. Carefully coded, it told her what she wanted to know. An Estrattore had been sighted.
Holding their breath, the men watched their queen’s every expression, every movement. Behind them, lawyers sat cramped at small tables, buried behind stacks of paper, their quills poised over their inkwells, ready to record every word. Blank-faced servants hovered in doorways and corners ready to attend to the Privy Council’s needs. Aware of her Councillors’ earnest regard, Zaralina decided to put them out of their misery.
‘Gentleman, this letter came last night,’ said the Queen, waving the piece of paper in the air. ‘As you know, Lord Waterford arrived in Serenissima some months ago and was forced to weigh anchor and remain on board his vessel until the quarantine period the Serenissians imposed ended. Well, he’s now comfortably housed within the city, in one of their casas. Apparently it belonged to a victim of the Morto Assiderato.’
The Earl of Farwarn, Zaralina’s chief advisor, cleared his throat and asked to see the letter.
Zaralina passed it down the table. They all watched as he scanned it.
The earl pulled at the brocade collar of his black doublet. Zaralina could not help but notice how the slashes in the fabric served to emphasise his broad shoulders before tightening around a waist not yet affected by the rich diet so many of her other Councillors enjoyed. She looked at their flushed faces, their thick paunches and plump fingers reaching for their goblets and wondered at these men whose bodies yielded to temptation over and over. How they spread into old age. Only the earl, Rodbury, the absent Waterford and the younger nobles were exempt from such indulgences.
‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’ The earl put the letter down. ‘Waterford has detected two spies in his household and, according to this –’ he flapped his hand towards the letter ‘– suspects there are at least seven others. The Serenissian Council of Ten have endowed him with a great many helpers, it seems.’
The men laughed heartily and the queen allowed herself a small smile.
‘Of interest to us is the fact that, coinciding with Waterford’s arrival, was the discovery of an Estrattore. Despite the Cardinale employing the services of a special force of soldiers, the Estrattore has continued to elude capture but not, it seems, identification. The Estrattore is named Tallow Pelleta –’
‘So, what the Mortians uncovered during their sortie in Serenissima all those months ago is true? The Estrattore is a boy?’ interrupted Lord Halthorn. He directed his question at the queen, but glanced over his shoulder into the darker corners of the meeting room. They all did. The mention of the Mortians made them suddenly wary. The fire guttered, momentarily.
‘Yes, my lord, this Estrattore is a boy,’ answered Earl Farwarn.
‘The prophecy says nothing of a boy – nothing.’ Lord Halthorn rapped the pile of papers in front of him. ‘I have gone through it over and over, had it retranslated, had some of our finest minds combing the histories and the archives for other clues. There’s no mention of a male Estrattore anywhere.’
The queen drew herself upright. ‘Prophecies are like legends – both have been proved wrong before, my lord, and to the detriment of those who follow them blindly. Regardless, this does not change anything. All it means is, as we did before, we continue to search for a boy and a girl. We know the girl exists, we know she left the Limen. She’s there – she’s just biding her time. All we have to do is watch and wait.’
‘We’re perfectly poised to do that now,’ said Earl Farwarn. ‘What with Waterford so well placed.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed the queen sharply.
‘I would not put it past the Estrattore to play tricks, ma’am. To confuse us,’ added Lord Halthorn.
The queen raised her ice-blue eyes to his hazel ones. ‘Really? You’re so familiar with the ways of the Estrattore you can second-guess their actions? Their motives? Do your old scrolls and books tell you the future now?’
The lord blanched. ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty. I didn’t mean –’
Zaralina waved him to silence. ‘Never mind.’ She sank into her high-backed chair and drummed her long fingers on the table. ‘You’re right. The Estrattore will do all they can to protect or at least distract attention from the child of the legends – that is, until they’re ready to use her. Nonetheless, I still believe the boy is a decoy.
We will treat him that way until he’s proved otherwise. In order to do that, we must capture him too.’
‘Tallow?’ The Duke of Dunlilley pulled a face, trying to break the tension in the room. ‘What kind of name is that?’
‘Appropriate for one who makes candles for a living, I would assume.’ The earl frowned. He glanced at Waterford’s letter once again.
Father Morrison raised his hand. ‘Your Majesty, I must protest –’
‘Father Morrison,’ said the queen in a slow, sinister voice. ‘You must not protest.’ The father lowered his hand, burying it in the wide sleeve of his robe. ‘I will not be held to ransom by stories. Do you understand, gentlemen? The prophecy was written hundreds of years ago. Whatever happens, we have to ensure that we control the way it ends – not the Estrattore, the Cardinale, or the Doge; not the Bond Riders, but us.’
There were murmurs of agreement. Father Morrison didn’t move. The queen nodded at Farwarn to go on.
‘The good news is that, on the basis of our unprecedented generosity in the aftermath of the plague, the Doge of Serenissima has ratified our new trading agreements. They’re allowing us to use the ports they control throughout the Mariniquian Seas.’
Murmurs swept the table. Smiles broke out.
‘This is very good news indeed!’ exclaimed the Earl of Grafton, the sponsor of most of the ships in the queen’s fleet. ‘Passage throughout those waters means we can start to trade in ways we’d only ever imagined!’
‘I have heard that in the lands to the south, there are silks as thin as spiders’ webs!’ A young lord who Zaralina had only recently elevated leant forward excitedly, his beard almost catching in the candle flame.
‘It’s the spices I’m interested in – paprika, salt, and that wonderful coffee bean. We could export throughout Farrowfare and the lands beyond the Wall.’
The Council began to talk over the top of each other. The queen tolerated them for a moment, amazed that their only thoughts were for the riches they could accumulate. They seemed incapable of understanding that the trade agreements were just a small step in a much bigger and more elaborate plan. Even Lord Rodbury, her steward, beamed. She glanced out the windows. Snow fell heavily, making the already gloomy room feel as though it were being suffocated. Not even the fire blazing at the other end managed to warm this chamber. She watched the steady fall of flakes, the way they hit the glass before sliding to collate on the sill, forming a lopsided triangle. There was a big world out there – a world that was almost ripe for the taking. It was a matter of timing, of ensuring that everything was in place before harvesting. Only the ultimate fruit was still proving to be elusive.
If the Cardinale should find the Estrattore before they did … No. She would not allow herself to think that way.
Glancing to a spot beside the fire, she saw the air waver. To anyone else, it was as though the heat from the flames was playing tricks with the atmosphere. Only she knew better. Shazet, her Mortian advisor and ally, was loitering in the shadows, watching her Council, reading their reactions, listening to the words they whispered behind their hands, between each other, words not meant for her ears. She wondered what he’d have to say about their short-sightedness. Farwarn looked at her steadily, raising his eyebrows. Of all the Council, only he seemed to understand what was at stake.
Fed up with the chatter, the queen stood. Immediately the room fell silent.
Her white gown, threaded with silver, glinted in the dim light. Her fiery hair shone, making her resemble the candle hissing in front of her. ‘I’m glad you’re pleased with this news, gentlemen. But you must realise that the reason for Waterford’s tenure as ambassador in Serenissima is not only to line our purses.’
The men nodded solemnly, offered reassuring murmurs. Fools! She saw Duke Dunlilley lean towards Lord Halthorn with the pretence of filling his glass and saw his lips move. Hopefully, Shazet will have caught whatever was said.
‘It’s time for us to make our next move,’ said the queen. ‘I had thought we could delay this, but Waterford’s news means we have to accelerate our plans.’ Her eyes alighted briefly upon each man. Most could not return her gaze. ‘I’m informing you now that we’re sending a ship to the capital of the Ottoman Empire, to Bursa, to open negotiations with the Sultan.’
There were gasps before conversation erupted. ‘Why now? The Ottomans! This takes time. We need to trade first, establish our credentials …’
‘Silence!’ said the queen.
The fire crackled, the candles smoked. Anticipation cast a long shadow over the table.
Zaralina waited until they were all focused upon her. Sweat dotted the brows of Father Morrison and Lord Halthorn and the odour of bodies and clothes in need of a good wash filled the room. Zaralina tried to ignore it. ‘As our first gesture of goodwill, we will promise them ships.’
‘They’re heathens,’ muttered Father Morrison. ‘Like the Serenissians, they can’t be trusted.’
‘When has trust ever had a place in politics?’ asked the earl. Scattered laughter followed. Father Morrison frowned and shook his head.
‘Are we to go to war, then?’ asked Duke Dunlilley, getting straight to the point.
Damn him! Zaralina picked up her goblet and took a measured sip. The liquid warmed her throat and gave her a chance to think. She ran the tip of her tongue delicately, but ever so slowly, over her lips. She could sense their longing for her, for what she had to say. Even Father Morrison’s desire was written all over his pale, bloated face. She would, as she always did, use this to steer them in her direction. ‘No. Not us. War is for others to engage in. It’s for the Ottomans. It’s what they’re best at, after all.’ She put her goblet on the table, her fingers dancing up and down its stem.
Quiet gasps broke the spell she’d cast. She held up her hand again.
‘But in order to ensure they don’t make war with us, we have to make friends with their ruler, Sultan Selim I. Good friends.’
‘How?’
‘Using the ships we provide, they’re going to sack the one city that Serenissima values almost above its own, the city that everyone on the other side of the Limen in Vista Mare wants. We’re going to help them take Konstantinople.’
The uneasy expectation erupted into questions and statements. Halthorn jumped to his feet followed by Dunlilley. Even Father Morrison was visibly shaken. After all, she was talking about forming an alliance with religious barbarians and starting a war. Zaralina sat back down, enjoying the confusion, the protests, and the quiet support. She knew it would shock them but she also noted that it excited them. She glanced towards the fireplace.
Finally, she called the men to order. Seats were returned to, drinks refilled, the fire stoked back to life. Outside, the snow continued to fall steadily.
‘So, ma’am, we’re to battle alongside the scourge of the Mariniquian Seas – the Ottomans – and help them sack Konstantinople.’
Zaralina gave a slow half-smile. ‘Exactly. Only we won’t be seen to help. We’ll be operating quietly in the background. Invisible.’
‘But that will infuriate the Serenissians,’ said Duke Dunlilley. ‘They’ll not sit back and watch their prize possession being snatched away.’
‘No, they won’t. I’m relying on that. And history tells me that I am not being unrealistic. Others have tried to take it from them before and failed. As the Serenissians have always done when Konstantinople is threatened, they’ll declare war – only this time it will be upon the Ottomans. And, when they do, the enemies of Serenissima will flock to the Ottomans’ side. This means that all the rulers who’ve been forced into an uneasy truce with the Republic they loathe – the Jinoans, the Phalagonians and the Hellans – will, when they see the colony of Serenissima besieged by a vast enemy, ally with the Sultan. It’s their chance to defeat Serenissima and win back all the lands, ports and tarrifs the Republic has taken from them over centuries of war.’
‘I’m not convinced.’
‘It’s not yo
u we need to persuade, your grace,’ said Zaralina. ‘Serenissima may be rich, but she has many enemies in Vista Mare. People always hate that which they most desire to be – and Serenissima is a constant reminder of what they are not – wealthy, powerful and in control of all trade in the Mariniquian Seas. Why, they possess colonies all along the coast, from Byzantium to Moroko. Part of our role as friends of the Ottomans will involve familiarising them with Serenissima’s enemies. We will even broker the treaties if we have to. Then we can stand back and watch. Once Serenissima commits to war in that region, once she empties her famous Arsenale of ships and soldiers, she’ll be vulnerable.’
‘We’re not entertaining taking Konstantinople for ourselves, then?’ asked Duke Dunlilley.
‘We have much bigger goals, your grace, much bigger.’ Her eyes glinted in the candlelight, her voice resounding as her thoughts deepened. The men waited, suspended in time, at the mercy of her ruminations.
Aware of the sudden silence, she became businesslike. ‘Farwarn, I want you to set sail for Bursa. I trust no-one else but you to handle these delicate negotiations. You leave within the week, before the ice floes from the north move in and make the channel impassable.’ Her eyes flicked to the snowstorm outside. ‘I want you to take as few men as possible – an interpreter, a bodyguard, some spies, darker skinned so they melt into the local populations. They are to remain. I will send two Mortians to act as messengers. They can move through the Limen much faster than humans.’
