Votive

by Karen Brooks

  Signor Nicolotti shook his head. ‘Foreign ships, the like of which we have never seen before, are anchored outside their capital, Bursa. Our spies tell us they aren’t being made in any local shipyards. It’s as if they have materialised out of thin air.’

  ‘Magic?’ whispered someone.

  Everyone laughed nervously.

  ‘But that’s not the worst.’ Signor Nicolotti waited till all eyes were upon him. ‘Our sources tell us they have acquired cannons as well.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Non è possible!’

  ‘No-one on this side of the Limen would dare!’

  ‘My thoughts, exactly, Signor Moronisini, which leads me to ask, what if they’re being supplied by someone from the other side?’

  ‘You mean Farrowfare,’ said Signor Maleovelli, aware of eyes upon him.

  There was a moment of silence.

  ‘But they have proved to be a staunch friend when others turned their backs on us,’ argued Signor Maggiore.

  ‘What do you think, Signor Maleovelli?’ asked Signor Nicolotti slowly. ‘You seem to know Lord Waterford quite well. Is Farrowfare a friend, or have we been duped?’

  Ezzelino’s frown turned into a scowl. How could he answer this in a way that protected his interests?

  ‘I believe Farrowfare to be an ally. But, with the Signori’s permission, I will question Lord Waterford thoroughly and report back. I will do so in a manner so as not arouse suspicion. Naturalmente.’

  ‘Bene,’ said Signor Nicolotti. ‘Now, our information is telling us that the Ottomans plan to take Konstantinople. If they are successful, it will effectively cut off all trade between here and the Straits of Lapis Lazuli.’

  ‘It will ruin us,’ moaned Signor Errizo, and reached for his glass.

  ‘It will also make us vulnerable to attack. The garrison at Konstantinople has always been our ears and eyes in the East. With that gone, we’d be blind.’

  ‘What do we do, then?’ asked Signor Moronisini gravely.

  ‘We do what Serenissians have always done,’ said Signor Nicolotti.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We follow Maleovelli’s lead and we ask questions. We gather information, we make sure of our facts and we prepare our fleet. If we’re forced to protect Konstantinople, then we will do so on water. We must mobilise the Arsenale, gather new recruits for the navy.’

  ‘What about the threat the Ottomans pose directly to us, to Serenissima?’ asked Signor Maggiore.

  ‘As Pisano says, if we lose Konstantinople, then what’s to stop them?’ said Signor Errizo.

  ‘That is why we cannot allow that to happen. We cannot lose Konstantinople.’

  ‘What about Roma? Surely they will come to our aid.’ Sitting up straight, Signor Pisano put into words what was on everyone’s minds.

  Signor Nicolotti nodded. ‘That’s what we hope. That is why I need your permission.’ His arm swept the table. ‘To include the Cardinale in our plans. Whoever we put forward as our new Doge will have to have his approval if we’re to be guaranteed aid from the Great Patriarch.’

  ‘It would help if we could find this Estrattore,’ added Signor Errizo.

  There were murmurs of agreement.

  ‘It would,’ said Signor Nicolotti. ‘It would assure Roma of our loyalty; it would rid us of another threat so we can focus on the one growing in the East.’ He opened a small wooden box in front of him and pulled out a quill. Dipping it in a little inkpot he wrote a few notes on the topmost piece of parchment. ‘I will discuss this with the Cardinale as well. Learn how his hunt progresses. Offer whatever aid he needs to bring this matter to a close.’ He placed the quill back in its box and closed the lid, looking from one grim face to another. ‘Now you understand why we called this meeting. We must not only prepare for a change of leadership but, potentially, for war. You can see now that the two are very much related. Dandolo is incapable of dealing with this crisis.’

  No-one responded.

  ‘And on top of all this is the search for the damn Estrattore,’ grumbled Signor Errizo. ‘You know they’re saying the popolani aren’t coming forward, that they’re protecting the creature.’

  ‘Not even the Cardinale’s punishments, the execution, the arrests and disappearances have loosened their tongues.’ Signor Maggiore lifted his chin and locked eyes with each and every member of the Council. A few turned away; others shifted in their seats.

  ‘I don’t understand how a boy like that can just vanish,’ said Signor Moronisini eventually. ‘My understanding was that Estrattore must use their powers or die.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s already dead and we’re all chasing ghosts,’ said Signor Maleovelli easily. They all laughed.

  ‘If only it were that simple,’ said Signor Nicolotti. He picked up his glass and drained the contents. ‘No. He is not dead. He is somewhere in the city and, the sooner we find him and execute him, the faster we can shore up relations with Roma and quell the damn popolani, and the sooner we can focus on the matters that concern us most: the Ottomans and the Dogeship. Capite?’

  ‘Sì,’ there were mumbles and nods.

  ‘Well, Signori, we have a great deal to think about. And much which relies on our complete discretion. If one word of what we discussed tonight should reach the Doge …’ He left his sentence unfinished. ‘I will take it upon myself to talk to the Cardinale. I am glad you agree we need his support in this, in everything we do from here.’

  He paused. ‘Then, if that is all, we’ll reconvene at our usual time, which I believe is in ten days. Unless, of course, events force me to call another extraordinary meeting. Good night, Signori. May God bless you and our enterprises.’

  Signor Nicolotti remained seated as the Council of Ten exited, each bowing to him as they departed. He couldn’t help but note that the spark of accomplishment he’d seen in Maleovelli’s eyes was still there. For years he’d under-estimated that man, that family. Why, watching him tonight, he seemed to thrive on what they were saying, enjoying the danger. It would be good to have his help, especially now he’s forged so many connections – including with Lord Waterford – and managed to do what no Serenissian had done before, breach the Contested Territories – he and Moronisini. They could yet be an important ally in this forthcoming battle, for he had no doubt that’s where the armament of the Ottomans would end – in war. And so long as they all profited, it would not be entirely unwelcome.

  Rising to his feet, he poured himself the last of the vino. Moronisini was right. They needed someone powerful, someone strong, to lead them over the next few years. To remove the threat of danger, the taint of the Estrattore and prove that Serenissima was still a force to be reckoned with – quell the growing disquiet of both their fickle allies and their enemies. It would also subdue the growing discontent and confusion within the popolani. As his ancestors knew, spiritual ambivalence could lead to more than simply internal doubts – unchecked, it could tear a nation apart. War would distract the popolani from the doubt and disenchantment with the status quo that the presence of one single Estrattore had roused. This was something Dandolo and his supporters had not managed to quash.

  Perhaps it was time to change the way they appointed the Doge. Rid themselves of the bloodline, rotate the position through families. Surely that would stop the jostling for power that occurred every hundred years or so. Heaven forbid he should ever be appointed the Doge. Why would he want that when he exerted so much power as a capi – power without responsibility.

  Once again, Maleovelli’s face materialised, his head ensconced in the golden cap of the Doge’s office. What a fancy, he laughed to himself. Maleovelli as Doge? Why, he had only just returned to the Council of Ten. Not only that, they could never have a man who uses his daughter and ward in such a fashion as Doge – it simply wouldn’t do. The Cardinale would never agree to that, not even if Maleovelli should decry them and put them in a nunnery. The taint would smear the office, tarnish Serenissima irreparably. No, that would never happ
en. Maleovelli would not be Doge. Not while Signor Nicolotti had a body with which to breathe, influence he could wield and a vote he could cast.

  ZARALINA THREW THE LETTER she’d just received from Lord Waterford onto the table and strode to the window. Her heart was singing and excitement thrummed through her body. Despite not sleeping, she was energised in a way she had not been for years. For once, the sky was a clear azure blue and the sunlight made the snow sparkle and the cluster of city roofs that crept almost to the castle walls look pristine and inviting. Curls of smoke rose from chimneys, and birds flew through the air alighting on the barren trees, giving them the illusion of blooming. All in all, she thought, returning to the table and reaching for Waterford’s letter again, a good omen indeed.

  Watching her every move, the men of the Privy Council waited expectantly.

  ‘Gentlemen.’ She turned to them with a gleaming smile. As one, they drew in their breath. Their queen looked magnificent, framed as she was by the window, her white gown thrown into stark relief by the colour of the sky and the copper of her hair, which today was unbound and fell almost to her knees.

  Zaralina paused, enjoying the effect she knew she had. ‘You will be pleased to learn that Lord Waterford has made some advances. He has found, let’s call them, a sympathetic family who are keen for power. They are to be our foothold into Serenissima. Better still, he believes they are harbouring the Estrattore.’

  There were gasps of delight.

  ‘Which one?’ asked Sir Kay. ‘The boy or the girl?’

  Zaralina’s lips parted slowly. ‘The girl.’ Her eyes took on a faraway look and her mind wandered. Aware of where she was, she snapped back into the moment. ‘But this family she is associating with –’ she scanned the letter again ‘– the Maleovellis, will not openly admit this. Rather, Waterford has come to this conclusion through observation and some careless comments dropped by a family factotum. He is convinced that, for the right price, the Maleovellis will hand her over.’ She tried to keep the triumph out of her voice. After all this time. Waterford, you shall be richly rewarded for this!

  ‘What price do they ask?’ The Earl of Farwarn was weary. He’d ridden in the evening before, having been in the Ottoman Empire for the last few weeks delivering ships and cannons. He’d spent the entire night briefing the queen. He couldn’t understand how she looked so fresh, so unaffected. He rubbed his face; his eyes were grainy, his mouth dry; his thoughts kept refusing to cohere.

  ‘The price we all want – power.’ The queen took her seat. A servant darted across the floor and poured her a wine.

  ‘What will we offer them?’ asked Lord Halthorn.

  ‘Serenissima is about to enter an interesting phase. Waterford has heard from our spies in the palazzo that Doge Dandolo will be the last of his family to hold the throne. There will be a tussle for power. I propose that from a distance and through Lord Waterford, we offer the Maleovellis our support. We give them the Dogeship of Serenissima.’

  There were nods and murmurs.

  ‘For how long?’ asked the Duke of Dunlilley. ‘I thought Serenissima was to be ours?’

  ‘Oh, it is, your grace. I have not changed my mind about that.’

  ‘Then why are we offering these people the Dogeship?’

  ‘Because it will ensure their cooperation and ease the transition of power from them to me.’ Zaralina laughed. Sir Kay and Earl Farwarn exchanged quick glances. They knew what that laugh signified. ‘It will be a puppet regime. They will act according to my orders, in the best interests of Farrowfare, of course.’

  She turned to Earl Farwarn. ‘Please, your grace, share with the Privy Council the news you brought from the Ottoman Empire.’

  Earl Edward Farwarn took a gulp of his wine and then rose. Moving to the side of the room where the lawyers sat hastily taking notes, their quills a continuous scratching that accompanied the meeting, he rustled through a pile of documents before finding the pages he needed. He returned to his spot at the table but remained standing. He extracted one piece of parchment and handed it to Father Morrison, who sat beside him. Father Morrison glanced at the content and then hastily crossed himself.

  ‘What I am passing around now, ma’am, gentlemen, is a copy of what I gave to Her Majesty last night. That is, a list of the Ottomans’ defences. The number of soldiers they have, weapons, including the cannons they’ve bought from us. The final figures at the bottom of the page are ships already in Vista Mare; the other is those currently in our shipyards that are almost finished. They will be ready to set sail within the month, which means the Ottomans will take delivery of them in the next three or so.’

  The paper was shared around, each member taking some time to digest the columns and what they meant.

  ‘Why, their forces are huge,’ exclaimed Lord Rodbury. He’d attended the queen’s meeting with Farwarn last night but had been forced to leave when a late-night hunting party returned. He could still smell the bear carcass on his skin. He hadn’t seen this list.

  ‘Over two hundred thousand,’ said Earl Farwarn.

  There was a collective gasp.

  ‘Does this not concern Your Majesty?’ asked Lord Halthorn. ‘Why, our own forces are not more than –’

  ‘Ninety thousand –’ finished the duke.

  The men tried to picture the numbers. Unease filled the room.

  ‘Unless,’ said Zaralina softly, ‘you include the Morte Whisperers in our forces. Each one is worth a thousand soldiers.’

  An uncomfortable silence fell. Not even the sun shining through the windows or the candles flickering brightened the coldness that filled the chamber.

  Zaralina resisted a smile. These men, these brave, bold men who desired nothing more than to fight, win wars, claim more land and thus wealth, still had scruples about how this should be accomplished. It never ceased to amaze her that they thought nothing of killing each other, in cold blood, at the command of a monarch or ruler they often never saw, but when it came to forming alliances to ensure victory, they developed sensibilities.

  Shazet was right. Humans were weak. Their souls were made of snow that froze hard for a while but melted as soon as things became a little warm.

  ‘Your Majesty.’ It was the earl who broke the silence. ‘As you know, we of your Privy Council have grave concerns about the Morte Whisperers.’

  ‘Really?’ asked the queen innocently, her blue eyes wide.

  The earl touched his face again, scratching his chin through his beard, which was badly in need of a trim. ‘Your Majesty, while we feel the Ottomans have numbers that would make a seasoned soldier tremble, we also know that not only are they beholden to us, but they need us to cross the Limen. Whereas your Morte Whisperers –’

  ‘My Morte Whisperers?’ She sank into her seat.

  ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty, I meant it as a compliment. As spies, as messengers, there’s no doubting their efficacy, their subtlety. They are incomparable, and certainly the information they have retrieved about the Ottomans as well as the Serenissians has been of enormous help in finalising our plans. But if it came to war, ma’am, hand to hand combat, well, we have our doubts.’

  ‘Why?’ Zaralina’s voice was very quiet. A chill gust blew through the room. She watched as unconsciously, her nobles started to rub their arms, clasp their hands, shiver and then reach for the warming effects of their wine.

  ‘Because, ma’am, they obey you – only you and Shazet. They would not be an asset in war. Whose leadership would they follow? During combat, even the most courageous of men are afraid; they act on instinct. They trust their leaders and their comrades to do what they’re told, when they’re told. In other words, ma’am, we need soldiers who will follow orders without question.’ He did not seem to notice that every word he spoke was punctuated by a frost of white breath.

  He paused and then shrugged. ‘Frankly, ma’am, I don’t know what else to say.’ He looked to the Privy Council for support. Only Sir Kay spoke.

  ‘He’s rig
ht, ma’am. Put simply, we don’t trust the Morte Whisperers.’

  ‘Well,’ said Zaralina after a long silence, ‘you’ll be pleased to learn that you don’t have to.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Duke Dunlilley.

  Zaralina studied their faces. She saw the doubt and the fear and she felt suddenly very tired. Rising quickly, she struck the table. The men jumped.

  ‘I mean you don’t have to worry. You will not be commanding them. They will be operating under a different leadership, following different orders.’

  ‘But ma’am, I must protest,’ began Earl Farwarn.

  ‘Think carefully before you answer, your grace,’ replied Zaralina. Her voice was icy. ‘Do you? After all, I have just reassured you that you will not have to deal with the Morte Whisperers – you or your men. Not at first, anyhow.’

  No-one dared to ask what she meant.

  She walked around the table. ‘You all seem to have forgotten something very important, my lords. You seem to have forgotten the debt you all and this entire godsforsaken place owes to the Morte Whisperers – to my Morte Whisperers.’ She glared at Earl Farwarn.

  One by one, their eyes slid from her face. All except Lord Rodbury’s. Father Morrison had turned a peculiar shade of pink and was clutching tightly the chaplet that hung from his neck with all its little symbols.

  ‘Without the help of the Morte Whisperers, there will be no wars won, no territories gained and Serenissima will remain the powerful city that it is while Farrowfare will continue to be the little backwater that it always was until I came to the throne. Until I gave you the means to cross the Limen.’ She didn’t raise her voice, but somehow all the men were cowed. A few raised their hands to their hearts, stroking their chests absent-mindedly.

  ‘Who is it that enables you to breach the Limen? Answer me that? Who do you think allows us to trade, to develop alliances beyond its boundaries? It’s me, your queen, along with those creatures you don’t trust! Together we have helped you gain riches beyond your wildest dreams, and very soon we’ll make Farrowfare a name that strikes terror in the hearts of all those in Vista Mare. Fools! You think because someone is different from you, they can’t be trusted? Even when you all seek the same goals! If we followed that logic, well, we might as well forget about sending ships to the Ottomans, recall Waterford and all our spies and remain here, bound by snow and ice all year round with dying crops, barren animals and festering diseases until we all die. Until Albion – no, Farrowfare itself – is no more.’