by Karen Brooks
‘Indeed, I did. You attributed it to the loss of his son.’ Tallow glanced at Waterford as his voice broke on his last word.
She frowned. ‘But I thought that was years ago?’
‘Over two years,’ said Giaconda.
‘He has not been the same since that terrible day,’ added Jacopo.
‘Where has he gone?’ Tallow rose and pretended to stare outside. Instead, she saw her own reflection, the feigned interest, the affected concern seeming as transparent as the glass she now stood before. But it was expected of her.
‘He left a note,’ said Signor Maleovelli.
‘A note?’ Giaconda’s tone was sharp. Tallow’s eyes shifted so she could see everyone in the room, in reverse. She hadn’t expected this. Her spine began to tingle. Her body tensed. She became aware that Lord Waterford was studying her intently, thinking she wasn’t aware of his scrutiny. Her eyes narrowed, she listened.
‘Is the content known? What did it say?’ asked Lord Waterford.
Signor Maleovelli took another drink of vino. ‘According to my source, it laid out exactly where Prince Cosimo has gone.’ Signor Maleovelli waited.
Tallow turned round, resting her back against the window.
‘Where?’ asked Jacopo breathlessly.
‘The Limen.’
Giaconda almost started from her chair.
‘The Limen? Why in God’s name –’ Her face paled. ‘No!’
‘Sì.’
Giaconda fell back against her seat, her eyes wide in surprise, her mouth open. She stole a glance at Tallow. ‘I never would have expected that. It’s …’
‘Amazing,’ finished Lord Waterford, rising to his feet and joining Tallow by the window. ‘Are you saying, Signor, that he has become a Bond Rider?’
‘Sì. That is the talk in the Great Council, in the palazzo. If not a Bond Rider, then by entering the Limen he goes to certain death. Who knows? The poor man wasn’t in his right mind. Has not been for a long time. The truth is that an action like this is not, shall we say, unexpected?’ He looked at Tallow as he spoke, his voice heavy with accusation.
Seemingly unaware of the undercurrents, Lord Waterford nodded solemnly, rubbing his chin. ‘And his wife? The Principessa, what about her?’
Tallow could feel the tension in Waterford’s body. The excitement.
‘The dottore has been called. He has given her opium. She is wild with grief. Cannot understand what is happening. Neither can the Doge. These are terrible times.’
‘For the Dandolos,’ said Giaconda quietly, staring into her glass.
‘For the Dandolos,’ agreed Signor Maleovelli.
‘Doesn’t that mean that all the Doge’s heirs are now lost?’
‘Sì. Unless they find Claudio,’ said Signor Maleovelli. ‘And that is not likely to happen, not after so long.’
‘No,’ agreed Lord Waterford. ‘But the Doge has a daughter, does he not?’
Signor Maleovelli and Giaconda began to laugh. ‘What difference does that make?’ asked Jacopo. ‘She cannot inherit. Women cannot rule!’
‘In my country,’ said Lord Waterford, frowning disapprovingly at Jacopo, ‘they can and they do.’
The sneer left Jacopo’s face as quickly as it had appeared. ‘I apologise if I have caused offence, amico mio.’
Lord Waterford bowed stiffly.
‘Jacopo is right, Lord Waterford. The Doge’s daughter will now be married off quickly, probably to one of the nobile houses here in Serenissima in the hope of forming an allegiance that will be of benefit to the Dandolos in the future. For, once this Doge is dead and with Claudio gone, there are no more Dandolos to take the throne. They will become mere nobiles and their house, their casa, will be reduced in importance.’
‘Once a direct bloodline is finished, doesn’t the Dogeship have to pass to another nobile family?’
‘You are well acquainted with our customs, Lord Waterford. It does indeed signify a change of that order.’
‘What does that mean for the Dandolos’ extended family?’
‘They will have to begin their climb to the top all over again.’ Signor Maleovelli’s eyes glinted. Giaconda couldn’t hide her smile.
‘Ah. I see. Are you not currently the Eighth Casa, Signor?’
Signor Maleovelli nodded. Lord Waterford appeared thoughtful. ‘What of a successor for the Dogeship; your laws are quite precise, are they not?’ he asked shortly.
‘It’s the Serenissian law that the Council of Ten, the Great Council of Nobiles, and a representative of the Church, which will be the Cardinale, throw the Dogeship open to all the remaining eligible houses. From among these, a new family will take the throne.’ Signor Maleovelli held up his glass. A shaft of sunlight passed through the stem, setting the golden spiral in the centre alight. It was as if a small sun flared. ‘One with power and influence will be chosen: a family whose elevation can benefit all of Serenissima and her allies. One who can shape destiny.’ He drank the ruby liquid, smacking his lips in appreciation. He smiled, the tannins in the vino staining his teeth.
Tallow repressed a shudder.
Lord Waterford looked from Signor Maleovelli to Giaconda and back again. His eyes rested on Tallow, shining in the dimming light, a beacon by the window for those in the campo to see.
‘Power and influence you say? How convenient.’ Lord Waterford raised his glass, the benign expression that usually rested on his face replaced by a more cunning, dark look. Tallow tried to read him. It was as if a different man stood in the place Giaconda’s lovesick paramour had occupied only moments before.
‘My dear Maleovellis,’ he said, stepping away from the window and putting his glass down. ‘I think the time has come for us to have a very serious talk.’
‘SHE DISOBEYED US, PAPA. She must be punished!’ Giaconda slammed the brush down on the dresser and spun to face her father.
‘Gia, Gia, cara mia. Calm yourself,’ said Signor Maleovelli, placing his hands on her shoulders and pushing her back onto the stool so she faced the mirror. ‘What Tarlo has done is show a little inventiveness. She’s still accomplished what we told her to do – the Prince has disappeared. He cannot claim the throne.’
‘But he’s a Bond Rider – he can come back!’
‘Only if an Estrattore extracts his soul from the pledge stone. And where in Vista Mare is he going to find one of those?’ Ezzelino Maleovelli spoke soothingly, his long fingers stroking his daughter’s hair. ‘We control the only one known to have survived the purge, remember? Anyhow, Bond Riders no longer become human again – they’re effectively trapped in the Limen. It’s been over three hundred years since one was able to come back. Even if they choose to, they can’t return – not while their souls are in the pledge stones.’
Giaconda sighed. ‘But Papa, you’re missing my point. She disobeyed us. She’s taking matters into her own hands. It isn’t the first time. Don’t forget what she did to –’
‘Hush,’ said Ezzelino, resting the tips of his fingers against her mouth. ‘We do not talk about that – about them. As far as we’re concerned, what happened to those men were all unfortunate accidents. We know nothing.’ He waited until the fire went out of Giaconda’s eyes and he felt her shoulders relax before he took his hands away.
‘You’re right, Papa. I am just … concerned, that’s all.’
‘What about, exactly?’ Ezzelino moved to sit in the chair and from there watched his daughter perform her nightly ritual. She took up the brush and resumed.
‘Tarlo’s changed.’
‘Ezzelino chuckled. ‘Of course she has. We’ve all worked very hard to ensure that.’
‘That’s not what I mean and you know it.’ Giaconda studied her father in the mirror. ‘Papa, don’t pretend you do not understand. She’s becoming dangerous. I feel we’re losing her somehow. Oh yes, she makes the candles, she visits who we tell her, says what she’s meant to say, acts appropriately at all times, but I don’t know. There’s something happening …’ Her voi
ce trailed and she stared into the distance, her forehead drawn.
Ezzelino waited.
‘And now there’s this whole plan of Waterford’s to consider. Do we tell him the truth, Papa?’ Through the mirror Giaconda and Ezzelino exchanged a look.
‘The truth? Of course not – don’t be silly. Not yet, anyhow,’ said Ezzelino. ‘We wait for him to tell us what he knows and then we strike a bargain. Not before then. And we do not admit to a thing. Capisce?’
‘Capisco, Papa. I am relieved to hear you say that. Nonetheless, what he’s offered is very interesting, is it not? If all else fails, his plan could work. It certainly gives us options.’
‘Sì, it does. It would mean we would have the support of possibly the greatest ally Serenissima has ever known – and at a time when we need her most.’
Giaconda put down the brush and looked at her father over her shoulder. ‘Do you mean “we” as in the Maleovellis or Serenissima?’
Ezzelino regarded her for a long moment.
‘I mean both.’
Satisfied, she turned back to the mirror and began to plait her hair.
‘As for Tarlo, do not worry, Gia. We still have one more card to play with her and, when we do, she’ll come to heel like a puppy, no matter how independent or inventive she has become. Of that I am certain.’
Giaconda rose and kissed her father lightly on the forehead. ‘You once told me that only those with nothing to lose are dangerous.’
‘Essato. Tarlo doesn’t know it yet, but she stands to lose something very dear to her if she doesn’t behave. Very dear to her indeed.’
They both stared at each other for a moment then, with a joy that comes of mutual admiration and assurance, burst out laughing.
‘HE’S OBSESSED WITH HER, I tell you,’ hissed Santo, staring at Stefano though bloodshot eyes. ‘Follows her everywhere. One minute he’s on Nobiles’ Rise, the next he’s darting over to the traders district, or into the Chandlers Quartiere, wherever the harlot does her business. But I’ve not seen anything of the Estrattore. He’s forgotten about her, if you ask me.’ He reached for his wooden mug.
Stefano’s hand shot out and he grabbed Santo’s, preventing him from having his drink. ‘You’ve had enough vino.’ He lifted the mug out of reach, and studied his partner. Instead of searching for the Estrattore, or keeping an eye on Dante, Santo had been spending his waking hours in this small taverna in the Stonemasons Quartiere, drinking the Elders’ soldi. He was a mess. Everything Stefano feared had eventuated; all Santo’s promises, had been broken.
‘What’d you do tha’ for?’ Santo scratched his head, his arm flopping onto the table with a bang.
‘Look at you!’ snapped Stefano. ‘I haven’t heard from you in months and at great risk to myself, my life-force, I cross.’ He leant over. ‘I come here,’ he said, jabbing the table fiercely. ‘And what do I find? You, drunk and babbling about a courtesan. Look at the state of you. When was the last time you had a wash? You stink, Santo, worse than horse shit.’
Santo screwed up his face then his eyes sidled towards the mug Stefano had pushed out of reach. ‘Give me a drink and I’ll tell you.’ He began to laugh, looking around to see if any of the other patrons shared his joke, but they were too busy with their own conversations and paid no attention to the drunk in the corner, the man they’d become used to seeing day after day, propped against the wall.
Stefano clicked his tongue in disgust. He looked at Santo, the red eyes, the dirty hair and nails. His shirt was filthy, stained with dregs of vino and food, the collar and wrists soiled with sweat. He tried to control the anger he felt building inside him. Left alone, Santo had gone back to his old ways, the ways he’d always told Stefano he’d come into the Limen to escape.
Stefano drank the last of what was left in Santo’s mug and tried to think. If what Santo said was true, it didn’t make any sense. He couldn’t understand what was going on, what Katina and that new Rider, Dante, were up to. First, Katina’s taken back into the Limen by an old woman who Stefano initially thought must have been a renegade Bond Rider. The gods knew they were out there. Yet again, Katina had broken the laws and direct orders of her Elders. And secondly, the Rider she was supposedly bound to, in the most irrevocable of Bonds, was running amok, besotted with a courtesan, albeit one that had the entire city abuzz.
Months passed and nothing. Not a word from Santo. Elder Nicolotti had become impatient, demanding. Stefano had ignored his body’s warnings, and crossed to come to find Santo – discover for himself what was going on. What he found made him furious. He rested his head in his hands. How could he report this to Elder Nicolotti? After he’d reassured the Elder that Santo was reliable. That he could be trusted.
‘Come on, Stefano,’ cajoled Santo. ‘Buy us a drink and then let’s go find somewhere quiet. I haven’t seen you in so long.’ He picked up Stefano’s hand from the table and brought it to his mouth.
‘Keep your voice down!’ snapped Stefano, snatching his hand away as a couple of burly stonemasons at the next table glanced at them over their shoulders. ‘Are you trying to attract trouble?’
Santo slumped in his chair. His head lolled on his shoulders, a stupid grin was frozen on his face. ‘No, just you.’
Fury filled Stefano. He shoved back his chair. It fell over with a clatter. He grabbed Santo by the collar, dragging him upright.
‘Wha’ you doin’?’ asked Santo, trying to find his feet, but they kept slipping out from under him.
‘Getting you what you should have had weeks ago!’ Stefano gritted his teeth and pulled Santo across the floor towards the door. Sawdust clung to Santo’s clothes and he began to giggle.
Patrons nudged each other. Some stood and helpfully moved chairs out of the way to clear a path. A murmur began rising, changing into cheers as they watched Santo being hauled out the door and into the campo outside.
Fight, fight! A chant started. As Stefano wrestled Santo onto the cobbles, men tumbled out of the taverna. Artisans sitting outside on stools with their chunks of stone before them abandoned their tools, wiped their dusty hands on their aprons and began to drift across the small square.
Stefano reached the well and dropped Santo beside it. Santo collapsed, his head striking the edge. He tried to rub it, but his arms wouldn’t cooperate. They were like rubber. He began to chuckle again, which only fired Stefano more. He lowered the bucket into the well and, when it was full, pulled it up, unhooked it and tipped it over Santo.
Santo jerked upright, spluttering and coughing, his eyes wide with shock. The men who circled them began laughing and clapping. Children ran out of doors, hovering at the edges of the impromptu ring, peering between legs and bodies to watch the spectacle.
Santo eyed them all through narrow slits, aware of leering faces, of laughter – all directed at him. A shadow cut off his vision. He stared at it, recognising the boots, the legs. His eyes rose and then another bucket of water was dumped on him.
He scrabbled to his feet. ‘Why, you bastardo!’ he shouted and swung a punch. Stefano easily stepped out of reach. The stonemasons and children laughed harder, some imitating him as Santo tried to hit Stefano, missing every time, his punches becoming wider. He swung so hard, he flung himself off his feet. Even Stefano guffawed.
‘You’ll have to do better than that.’
‘I’ll give you better!’ yelled Santo and charged him, taking him by surprise. They crashed into a wall, and Stefano had the breath knocked out of him. Santo punched him in the stomach a couple of times before Stefano recovered. This time, he did not hesitate. He hit Santo such force, he was flung off his feet and onto his back.
‘What a hit!’
‘A fine punch!’
Stefano became aware of money changing hands in the background. This was getting ridiculous. They weren’t supposed to draw attention. He had to put a stop to it now. Lifting Santo’s head, he slammed it into the cobbles.
There were groans of sympathy from the crowd, who waited to see
if Santo would stir. He didn’t.
‘It’s over, folks,’ called Stefano, wiping his hands on his thighs. ‘Show’s finished.’
Disappointed, the men slowly drifted back into the taverna, some coming to pat the victor on his back. The children crept over and stared at Santo, unconscious, wet hair plastered to his face, his forehead and nose bleeding, his cheek cut.
Stefano looked down and felt a wave of disappointment wash over him. ‘You weak fool,’ he hissed. He wondered what it was that had ever attracted him to Santo in the first place; how he could have ever believed he could rely on this peasant. The Limen did strange things to people.
Disgusted at himself as much as his partner, he clutched the back of Santo’s shirt and dragged him through the nearest ramo, one that led to a set of water-stairs. There, he pulled Santo onto the edge of the fondamenta and, using his handkerchief, began to clean him. He washed away the blood, the vino stains around the mouth and even untangled the knots in his unkempt beard. The smell of his breath made him retch.
A breeze had picked up, blowing dust and debris about the ground. A piece of paper blew against him, sticking to his ankles. He bent down to wrench it away when something caught his eye.
He picked it up and read it. His heart began to beat quickly. Once more, anger flared. He slapped Santo none too gently across the face.
‘Wake up,’ he called. ‘Santo, wake up. Have you seen this?’
He thrust the paper in his face.
Santo blinked a few times and groaned. ‘My head,’ he said.
Stefano shook the piece of paper. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this?’
Santo looked blankly at the paper with the picture and too many words. ‘So? What about it? You hit me.’
‘So? Is that all you can say –’ began Stefano, ready to slap Santo again. Sensing this, Santo covered his face. Stefano’s arm dropped. He shook his head.
‘You know I can’t read,’ whimpered Santo.
Stefano bit off the words of recrimination that flew into his mouth. Instead he gave a bitter sigh. ‘That’s right – you can’t, can you?’
