Votive

by Karen Brooks

  The old man shrugged. ‘Worth a try. But since I like the look of you, I’ll tell you for nothing. Casa Maleovelli, that’s where she lives. They say she’s his ward, that he’s her guardian.’ He began to chuckle. ‘I’d call him something else. Like I would her. Courtesan. Fancy name for a whore, that’s all.’

  Rage filled Dante’s chest and his fingers itched to draw his weapon. As quickly as the anger rose, it died away. Why, he’d said much the same thing only a few weeks ago. Before he knew …

  He took one last look at the casa into which he now knew she’d disappeared then, without another word, began the long trek back to the Tailors Quartiere. There was a lift in his step and his earlier tiredness had fled. He needed to get a message to Constantina and, in order to do that, he had to get to the pledge stone of Casa di Maggiore. After that, he would rest then return to Casa Maleovelli before nightfall.

  As he’d been instructed, he’d ridden Argento across the marshes, using the well-travelled path of the Bond Riders, and onto the mainland and touched the Pledge Stone of Casa di Maggiore. Only, Constantina didn’t come immediately, as he’d expected. Waiting for her to appear gave him time to think, to wonder why Tallow hadn’t felt him, hadn’t known he was there. He found it puzzled him and it hurt. If they shared any sort of bond, any type of connection, how had she not known?

  He tortured himself with questions while waiting in the cold and snow for two nights, wrapped in blankets, seeking the warmth of his little fire and his horse, practising his sword skills, tracking and running to keep the frost at bay. Constantina had finally appeared. He’d told her everything, how he’d found Tallow, how she was Signorina Dorata, how all of Serenissima was talking about her. He’d even learnt that she was using the name Tarlo Maleovelli. Constantina had listened in silence. When he stopped talking, she’d just stared into the forest. Behind her, the Limen rose, a shimmering, vital force. Just as his Bond to Tallow called him back to Serenissima, he found the urge to pass through the Limen just as difficult to resist. It hailed him, demanded his allegiance.

  When Constantina spoke, it was not what he expected to hear.

  ‘Something is not right here. What are these Maleovellis up to? She is living with them, you say?’

  ‘Sì.’

  ‘I recall the Maleovellis. They’re an old family – they’re in The Golden Book of Serenissima. But they have never had links with Estrattore before. Find out what you can about them. Keep a close eye on Tallow, Dante.’ She shook her head. Her face was inscrutable but the note of concern in her voice registered. It made Dante uneasy.

  ‘Is she in danger?’

  Constantina shook her head. ‘I cannot believe you ask me that. Of course she is, always. But we cannot put her in more. Capisce?’

  Dante nodded grimly. ‘Capisco.’ He sighed. ‘It is hard.’

  Constantina’s huge silver eyes fixed on him. ‘It’s not just the Bond, no? Not just the pressure of the Obbligare Doppio?’

  ‘No.’

  She studied him carefully. ‘You love her, don’t you?’ she said in a voice of resignation.

  ‘I do,’ said Dante simply.

  ‘Ah, my poor man,’ said Constantina. She lifted a hand to stroke his cheek, but before she touched him, changed her mind and let it drop to her side. ‘It’s dangerous to love Estrattore, Dante. No good can come of your feelings.’

  Her words were like a slap on the face. ‘Is that part of the prophecy too?’ he said sharply. ‘Or your personal opinion?’

  Constantina did not reply.

  The silence grew. Dante nodded towards the Limen. ‘How’s Katina?’

  ‘She’s recovering. She is slowly regaining her strength, her life. When she is well enough she will join us in ensuring the prophecy is fulfilled.’

  ‘How?’

  Constantina shook her head. ‘No, Dante. You cannot know, not now. When the time is right, it will all come together. To know what is meant to happen is to interfere with what might happen. It’s the nature of prophecies that while they determine events they must also be allowed to unfold. You, my dear boy, must be open to act, as must Tallow. Do you understand?’

  ‘I’m not sure …’

  ‘One day, you will be. Then it will be time.’

  Argento whinnied and pulled at her reins. Dante held her fast. Constantina reached over and patted her. ‘Lovely girl.’ Argento nudged the Estrattore gently, trying to push her nose into Constantina’s robe, searching for food. Constantina laughed.

  ‘When should I come again?’ asked Dante.

  ‘If I need you, I will send for you, as you must for me. In the meantime, watch Tallow, protect her if need be, but do not let her see you. Not yet.’

  Dante did not reply. He stood still, one hand clutching Argento’s reins, the other resting on his hip. Standing around had allowed the cold to start to creep into his bones. He was eager to be gone. To do what he was told – watch Tallow.

  THAT HAD BEEN OVER SIX MONTHS AGO. Since then, there’d been no other messages. He’d followed his orders. Watch, wait, listen. And he did. Just as he did tonight, across from the rear of the Doge’s palazzo.

  Finally, the waters to his right stirred. Tallow stepped closer to the edge of the jetty. The sky had brightened into a lavender wash. There was a coolness to the air. He noticed the deepening shadows under Tallow’s eyes. She was paler than usual. She looked tired, weary of the world and life. Her mouth was downturned and for a moment, he imagined calling out and watching it burst into the smile that, though he had not seen it since he’d been observing her, still filled his dreams.

  The gondola bumped into the jetty and the servant darted forward to hold the prow, careful to avoid the metal ferro that adorned the end. The gondolier, Salzi, Dante had learnt, reached for Tallow’s gloved hand and she jumped lightly into the boat.

  This time, she did not retreat into the felze, but sat in the prow. She said something softly to Salzi as he tipped his hat to the servant and pushed the gondola back into the current.

  Tallow stared over the water, a frown drawing her fine dark brows together.

  They were just beneath him now and, as he did every time he saw her, Dante willed Tallow to look up, to see him. He concentrated hard, his heart thundering in his chest, as his mind cried out to her. See me, beloved, acknowledge me! I am here, for you … for eternity.

  Tallow tipped her head and her eyes flew to the roof. Dante flung himself back, his hand hitting the tiles hard, knocking a piece loose. To his horror, it skittered over the edge and fell into the canal. He heard the splash.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Salzi.

  He heard a faint murmur but could not make out the words.

  ‘Damn cats!’ cursed the gondolier.

  Sweat trickled down Dante’s neck and forehead, and his heart was in his mouth as he slowly eased himself up. The gondola was almost out of sight. That was close. He waited until it disappeared under the Ponte della Pensiere before clambering to his feet and making the long journey back to the taverna.

  Instead of walking, he hired a gondola and sat in the prow, watching his former city come to life. All the time, his brain was trying to piece together what Tallow was doing in the Doge’s palazzo. If rumours were to be believed, she was the paramour of the entire royal family – or had been until one of the Princes married that peasant woman and fled to the Duchy of Firenze, effectively surrendering his right to the throne. Such strange behaviour. Some of the popolani approved, said it showed that the nobiles weren’t so different after all. Others said it was a sign that nothing was right with the Dandolos since the boy had disappeared. There were mutterings about change, about the Dandolos’ line ending.

  Did Tallow have something to with it, wondered Dante. Would she dare, on top of being the most famous courtesan the city had ever known, use her talents to bring down the Dogeship?

  If so, why? What was going on? He knew the foreign ambassador had taken an interest in the Maleovellis and that these once-impoverished
nobiles were suddenly rich. But it was all explained by astute business decisions, measured risks, strategic colleganzas – at least, that was how it was discussed in tavernas, casinos and in the streets. Only Dante knew that every one of the families who had entered into colleganzas with the Maleovellis, every nobile or wealthy merchant who had acted in an uncharacteristic way, had also associated, if not with Tallow, then with the family.

  What were they up to?

  And what did Tallow’s latest assignation mean for the Doge?

  Watching the canals fill with barges and gondolas carrying produce to markets, tradespeople and apprentices to work, and the cats of Serenissima wandering out to bask in the sun that was now hitting the fondamenta, Dante knew that he wouldn’t have to wait long to find out.

  LORD WATERFORD PUT DOWN HIS glass and went to stand by the window. ‘Really,’ he exclaimed, ‘the view from here is almost comparable to the magnificent one over there.’ He indicated his recently vacated chair, which was positioned opposite Giaconda’s.

  Giaconda slid her fan open, her eyes flashing above its movement. ‘You flatter me, Beolin.’

  ‘No,’ said the ambassador earnestly, ‘I do not. I simply tell the truth.’ He held her regard for a beat longer before turning back to look out of the portego’s windows.

  Tallow watched the exchange from her seat, her eyes following Lord Waterford’s to gaze through the glass. In the distance, the spire of the dome that hunched over the Doge’s basilica could be seen, the gold and red pennant flapping in the breeze. Immediately in front of them, she could see the altanas of the other casas, with their many chimneys, arrangements of greenery and women loitering, catching the last of the afternoon sun on their rooftop gardens, their hair loose in an effort to lighten it. In the campo below, Hafeza appeared, a laden basket over one arm, a bag full of produce slung over her other shoulder. Tallow saw how she took small, fast paces and kept her head down. She looked away.

  Picking up the needlepoint she’d been working on, she dragged the candleholder closer and began to sort the threads.

  ‘You’ll ruin your eyes and your fingers with that,’ rebuked Giaconda quietly.

  Tallow raised her head. For a moment she wondered if Giaconda was letting her know that she needed to replenish the belladonna. But she’d added some to her eyes when she heard Lord Waterford had arrived. It would not do for the ambassador to discover her identity. Not since he’d begun asking questions, and not only about the Cardinale’s hunt for the Estrattore. Becoming candid with them one night after he’d had a few vinos, Lord Waterford explained that one of the reasons he’d been sent to Serenissima by his queen was to learn all he could of the Estrattore. In his country, just as Serenissima of old had done, they worshipped a principal male and female deity and their extended family, attributing a particular characteristic or power to each. In Farrowfare they didn’t have Estrattore or anyone related to the gods to enrich the spiritual life of the people; much like the Church did now, they had fraternities of men who lived in special houses and who aided worship and functioned as a bridge between the divine and the worldly. Whereas Tallow would have liked to ask more questions about the belief system of Farrowfare, Lord Waterford was not interested in divulging much. He’d asked a great many questions of Jacopo, inviting him to share what he had learnt over the years from the ancient scrolls and books. But it was the continuing hunt for the boy who had been uncovered that fascinated him and initially dominated conversations. What disturbed Tallow most, however, was when Lord Waterford shifted the topic slightly, asking if they’d ever heard rumour of a female Estrattore in Serenissima.

  Without missing a beat, the Maleovellis had laughed and directed the chatter onto safer subjects. There was no doubt that Lord Waterford was very interested in Estrattore. Too interested, thought Tallow. Did he guess? She knew he’d spied her that day in the workshop. Only, after questioning Baroque and Giaconda, he’d let the subject drop. Or had he? There was something about him that made her uneasy and not only because of his curiosity or courtesies to Giaconda and Jacopo. Tallow perceived something about the man that no-one else seemed aware of – something that could not be attributed to cultural differences alone. There was a duplicity within him, depths to his nature that his harmless exterior contradicted.

  As usual, Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli saw in Lord Waterford opportunity where Tallow saw only a new threat. They encouraged the ambassador, inviting him to dinners, lavishing attention on him. And now, much to Tallow’s annoyance, he’d practically become a fixture in the casa. If he wasn’t with Giaconda in the portego, he was with Jacopo in his study. It didn’t help that she knew her candles were partly responsible. But even she had to admit, his interest in Giaconda went beyond the type her talents usually inspired. Seeing how he interacted with her, the looks they exchanged, she started to believe his feelings came from somewhere else. But where? Were they real or was this part of what she felt, that he was as great a pretender as they all were?

  Tallow raised an enquiring eyebrow at Giaconda, who simply nodded towards the sewing. ‘Really, Tarlo, it’s too dark for that now. Get Matteo –’ she gestured to one of the new servants ‘– to fetch some cards if you need to keep your hands occupied.’

  Tallow threaded the needle into the fabric and pushed the entire thing back into the little golden basket she’d been given. Another gift from some paramour, all of whom showered her with gold – golden jewels, ornaments, brooches, scarves and objects. She could no longer remember who had given the basket without touching the lacquered straw and drawing on its essence and thus history. But she dared not do that in front of Giaconda or, for that matter, Lord Waterford.

  ‘It never ceases to astonish me,’ said Lord Waterford. He gestured outside. ‘The beauty of the sky here. It’s so vivid, so dramatic. Where I come from, it’s always so bleak, so dull, so white.’ An image of his queen popped into his head, her blazing hair and alabaster skin defying his description. ‘Look at it now, the way the sun turns into liquid gold just as it sets, melting into the horizon with a last gasp of colour.’ He sighed. ‘It really is beautiful.’

  ‘If you’re not careful,’ said Giaconda, ‘the Doge will hire you to write pretty speeches. Then you can kiss your pallid country goodbye and write paeans to our sky all day.’

  Lord Waterford turned. ‘Leave my country and remain here? Don’t tempt me, you vixen. Anyway, I would soon tire of the firmament and look to write on other more worldly things.’ He crossed the floor and lifted Giaconda’s hand, turning it over and kissing her palm with a passion that made Tallow shift in her seat. She felt like an eavesdropper or voyeur. But for propriety’s sake, she could not leave. It always amused her that the Maleovellis would not allow men to be alone with either her or Giaconda while in the casa. In these rooms, they behaved differently. It was only in their rented accommodation or in the salas and bedrooms of the men who paid so well for their services that they did not require escorts.

  Tallow reached for her vino and realised the glass was empty. A servant darted from a corner. Tallow jumped. She was still growing accustomed to the extra help they had. She could no longer walk down a corridor or enter a room without running into servants. Boys to serve food and vino, run errands, open doors, deliver goods; girls to clean, cook, straighten pictures, beat rugs, wash clothes, buy food. The young boy began to refresh her glass. His dark curls shone with oil, his crisp white shirt was new. She wondered where he was from, which quartiere. He wore no insignia of trade. How old would he be? Ten? Twelve? She didn’t know. She couldn’t remember his name. It wasn’t Matteo – he was by the door.

  ‘Grazie,’ she said to him, earning a frown from Giaconda. She was not supposed to thank them either.

  Giaconda was about to say something when the doors at the end of the room were flung open and in walked Signor Maleovelli. The servants stood to attention as his cane rapped against the floor. Lord Waterford released Giaconda and bowed deeply. Signor Maleovelli had an edge about him,
a thinly disguised air of excitement. Tallow stood slowly and curtsied.

  ‘Sit down, sit down,’ said Signor Maleovelli, waving her back to her chair. ‘Signor Waterford! Ah, we’re to have the pleasure of your company again.’ He snapped his fingers at the young servant near Tallow. The boy ran to one of the many sideboards and acquired a glass. Gone were the old, chipped ones. New ones had been spun by special order. Mainly clear, the stems enclosed a spiral of gold, like the mythical unicorn’s horn that featured in so many tapestries. They were quite exquisite. A tribute, Signor Maleovelli said, to Signorina Dorata, and a reminder to those who came to the casa. Of the empire they were building – a golden one to rustle in a golden age, he’d said.

  Tallow watched as Signor Maleovelli took a long draught then ordered his glass to be filled again. He sat back and sighed. ‘I have news,’ he said quietly.

  At that moment, Jacopo entered the room. Tallow stiffened. She didn’t see him as he approached through the rear door, but felt his presence, his eyes boring into her back. He bowed towards Lord Waterford, his zio, Giaconda and, finally, her, before taking a seat nearby.

  ‘What news, Signor Maleovelli?’ asked Lord Waterford. His eyes were keen.

  Signor Maleovelli leant forward. ‘Prince Cosimo has disappeared.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Giaconda. Tallow was impressed with how surprised she sounded. Tallow’s hand flew to her mouth.

  ‘When?’

  ‘They believe it was some time early this morning.’

  Signor Maleovelli exchanged a long look with Giaconda who, in turn, rested her eyes upon Tallow.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Tallow said. ‘Why, I was only with him … when was it?’

  ‘The night before last,’ answered Giaconda. ‘We had dinner there. Remember, Beolin? You commented to me afterwards how sad the man looked.’