by Karen Brooks
She stopped in front of the fire and faced them all; her eyes blazed, colour infused her cheeks.
‘Y– your Majesty,’ stammered Father Morrison. ‘There is the saying … the poem that many believe is an omen, a warning.’
Zaralina cocked an eyebrow
Bravely, or foolishly, Father Morrison continued, a trickle of sweat running from his temple to cross his fat cheeks. ‘It says:
The Limen shimmers, a force that divides
Revere its power and keep to one side
Respect this for wealth and peace to abide
Breach the gods’ rule, and woe betide.’
‘So?’ Zaralina’s word sliced through the stillness.
‘So, Your M– Majesty, some people attribute what you mention – the dying crops, the animals, even the weather –’ he glanced outside ‘– to the fact that … for years now, we haven’t respected the Limen. We’ve breached it over and over. In doing so, we have flouted the gods’ will …’
Zaralina stared at him, her eyes glittering sapphires. ‘Well, well, well. You surprise me, Father Morrison. I didn’t think you had it in you.’ She moved behind him and trailed her hand across his shoulders. He started, but didn’t stir again. ‘I know what some of you are thinking.’ She rested a hand on the table, her hair falling like a curtain across her body. ‘I know what most of you are too afraid to articulate but which old Father Morrison has now had the guts and gall to express.’ She pulled away abruptly, her locks trailing over Father Morrison, and walked around the table, staring at each member of Council until he was forced to drop his eyes. ‘But let me also remind you that Farrowfare was a pathetic little kingdom until I came to power after my husband, your King, tragically died. A hopeless country ruled by a hopeless, dithering monarch, that is until the Morte Whisperers and I freed you. And look what I’ve done for you so far. You have a navy, an army, you have begun to trade – yes, on the other side of the Limen, but look what it’s brought you.’ She gestured to the men’s fine clothes, the candelabra on the table, the fruit piled in pewter platters. ‘You can’t tell me you don’t appreciate this. Now we’re giving you a chance to thrive not just here in Farrowfare, but to rule beyond the Limen. To accumulate more wealth, enough to leave this cursed, snowbound country and live in fertile lands where your families, your future children and grandchildren, your descendants, can leave their mark – or have you so quickly forgotten?’ She lowered her voice. ‘Or have you changed your minds?’
Only the crackle of the fire and the distant sounds of swords clanging in the courtyard below could be heard.
‘I thought not.’ She returned to her seat, her hand snaking along the back of the chairs, briefly touching the doublets of her nobiles. They visibly straightened, as if they had suddenly developed a backbone, thought Zaralina.
She stood in front of her chair and leant over the table.
‘Now is the time to grasp what is being offered and prepare for this new life that I promised you and which you will, by the gods, soon have.’ She took a deep breath and continued, her voice a clarion. ‘Send the ships as soon as possible. Make sure you include extra sailors to train the Ottomans. There’s no point them having a navy if they don’t know how to use it. In the meantime, prepare our men. While we’ll use our Ottoman allies to attack from the sea, we’ll approach Konstantinople from the land.’ She gazed out of the window.
‘Through the Limen?’ sputtered Father Morrison.
‘Of course through the Limen.’ She spun round. ‘Haven’t you listened to a word I just said?’
‘All our troops, ma’am?’ Earl Farwarn shifted uncomfortably. ‘Can we do that? Is it possible? We’ve never taken so many through …’
‘No. We haven’t, have we? So, we will find out. Together, gentlemen, we will learn if our strategy has a chance, if my power is great enough to do what no monarch has ever done before.’
The men shared looks. Doubt was written all over their faces. ‘There’ll be losses –’ Sir Kay shifted in his seat.
‘Enough!’ said Zaralina sharply. ‘I have had enough. You will follow my orders. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Agreement came from around the table.
‘Good.’ Zaralina sighed. ‘Leave me, gentlemen! Now.’
The men jumped to their feet, eager to be out of her sight.
‘Oh, all except you, Lord Rodbury – and Farwarn, you had better stay too. I want us to send a letter to the Sultan. I will get you to help me draft it. The rest of you, be gone.’
They scurried away, leaving her with Rodbury and Farwarn. The earl sank back into his chair wearily. Behind him, Zaralina could just see Shazet. He bowed in her direction and faded away again. But not before she’d seen the delighted grin that twisted his long features. She would speak with him later. There was another order she wished to issue and which only a Morte Whisperer could carry out.
It was time to bring the Estrattore home.
TALLOW AND BAROQUE HAD BEEN tucked away in the workshop for some hours, working quietly side by side, Baroque pouring and mixing while Tallow extracted what she wanted and distilled into some candles. After she’d finished, she didn’t leave. Instead, she began to organise the little bottles of potions into some sort of order that only she understood. Baroque watched her placing them back on the shelves, clear fluids next to milky ones; granules next to oils of bright colours. He didn’t know what half of them signified anymore. He didn’t want to either. He noted how Tallow’s thick black hair tumbled out of its pins and fell down her back. Her old blue gown was beginning to pull across her shoulders. Every day brought a change to her. Physically, she was filling out, a picture of health. But it was what was happening to her inside that worried him. A darkness had filled the Estrattore that, no matter what he did, what objects he brought for her to study or stories he told, would not disappear.
Outside, the light was fading quickly and he knew it wouldn’t be too long before she was forced to go and prepare for whatever assignation she had tonight. He summoned the courage to do what he felt he must.
Tossing the towel he was using to dry the pestle and mortar he’d just washed over his shoulder, he went to the door. Making sure no-one was loitering in the courtyard, he shut it firmly.
Tallow turned when she heard the click. ‘What is it?’ she asked, lowering her arms and wiping them on the apron. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ she asked defensively.
‘We need to talk.’ Without waiting for her to reply, Baroque sat down on one of the stools, his back to the grimy window. Not even with all the spare help in the casa would the Maleovellis allow anyone else to come near the workshop.
Tallow arched an eyebrow at Baroque and then resumed what she was doing. ‘I don’t want to.’
‘Too bad.’
Tallow put her hands on her hips and spun towards Baroque. ‘What?’
When he didn’t respond immediately, she ran her fingers through her hair irritably, folded her arms and waited.
Baroque sighed.
‘Tarlo, I’ve been hearing some disturbing things.’ He glanced down at his hands. Now that he’d started, he didn’t know how to go on.
‘Such as?’ she prompted, tipping her head.
‘Talk.’
‘Uh huh. So? Since when do Serenissians not talk?’
‘Well, there’s been a spate of strange things – tragedies, really – going on with some of the nobile families. People are beginning to gossip in ways that make me very uneasy. In the tavernas of an evening, there’s little else that passes for conversation these days.’
Tallow began to laugh. ‘Of course there have been peculiar happenings. You know better than anyone what the Maleovellis get me to do!’
Baroque met her eyes. ‘What I am hearing has nothing to do with what the Maleovellis ask of you.’
Tallow’s eyelids fluttered, but she didn’t look away. ‘So? What have they got to do with me, then?’
‘Well,’ said Baroque carefull
y. ‘I was hoping you could tell me that.’ He gestured to the stool on the other side of the bench. ‘You might want to sit down.’ She did as he suggested, her eyes never leaving his face.
‘What have you heard?’
‘Well,’ he began, ‘a great deal lately, and it doesn’t add up, not unless one considers what you really are.’
‘Go on,’ said Tallow steadily.
‘First there’s the death of the young nobile, Rambaldo Errizo of the Second Casa of Nobiles’ Rise. It was assumed he was drunk and fell in the canal. Only, he’s not a big drinker. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Accidents happen.
‘Then, there’s the recent suicide pact between Signori Rizzo Manin and his cousin, Bezio Castellini. Young men who had everything to live for – why, Signor Manin was set to make a very advantageous marriage into Casa Maggiore. Bezio, well, the word is that he was handsome, carefree and had a great future. He was considered quite the poet.’
Baroque watched Tallow carefully. She stared at him defiantly. Her cheeks grew pink and her eyes darkened. Swallowing hard, he continued.
‘The one that really baffles me, though, is Venerio Nicolotti. While he was the youngest son, they’re a very wealthy family. Yet Venerio goes and joins the priesthood in Roma. Even the Cardinale has expressed his astonishment. The young man had never shown any interest in taking the cloth, let alone the Church, and suddenly –’ Baroque snapped his fingers ‘– he ups and disappears. At first the family thought he’d gone the way of his friends, but a letter from Roma arrived a week ago explaining everything.’
Tallow gave a dry laugh. ‘Why should I care about these nobiles? What are you accusing me of, Baroque? It’s not good enough that I’m an Estrattore? How ridiculous.’ She laughed harshly. ‘I don’t know why you’re telling me this, Baroque. I really don’t.’
‘Don’t you?’ He eased himself off the stool and leant over the counter. ‘Doesn’t the fact that these are the same four men that dined with you and Giacomo Moronisini the first night you officially became a courtesan, worry you?’
Her eyes slid from his face. ‘No, why should it?’
‘Tarlo. If I’ve worked it out, then surely you realise others will have. The Maleovellis must know. But then, why would they care? You’ve also rid them of potential problems – diminished the casas with which they see themselves in competition by eliminating their scions. They would be delighted. I am surprised they haven’t showered you with more gifts, with more dresses, jewels and such.’ He gestured towards her. He was surprised at the bitterness in his voice. ‘But the thing is, if I have been able to piece this together, then Giacomo Moronisini will eventually too. He’s no fool, despite what you or the Maleovellis might think.’
‘Oh, I don’t think he’s a fool.’
There was a flash of something in Tallow’s eyes. Baroque caught his breath. ‘By God! You want him to figure this out.’
Tallow didn’t answer.
‘Why? What if he goes to the Cardinale? Even if he doesn’t figure out you’re an Estrattore, even if he suspects the Maleovellis are behind it – oh.’ His mouth dropped. ‘I am obtuse. That’s what you want him to think. You don’t care if he knows it’s you or the Maleovellis. He will be afraid. Afraid of when death, or something worse, will strike him. His life will be eaten up by fear.’ He smacked the heel of his palm against his forehead. ‘Of course. This is revenge. The revenge you always said was yours to take.’ He gave a deep sigh, one that came from the depths of his being. ‘Tarlo, please, tell me what happened. What did they do to you that you felt this was the only solution? That you, of all people, would willingly murder let alone induce such suffering.’ His voice was gentle.
He reached out his hand and waited. He saw a flicker in her eyes.
Tallow glanced down at the peeling, red skin, a landscape of veins and spots. The long, astonishingly delicate fingers trembled slightly, matching the quake on Baroque’s lips.
‘Tallow, Estrattore feel deeply – more than human beings. But they used to be trained to manage these intense feelings, to moderate not only the emotions of others, but their own as well. You’ve not been taught this. You swing from one extreme to the other. You feel deeply or not at all. You cannot do this to yourself. You must not.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Let me help you, please …’ The wall she’d erected between them began to waver. Baroque sensed it. Her hand dropped and crawled across the bench. It too shook.
She was just about to place it in Baroque’s when she halted then snatched it away. ‘I can’t,’ she said, her face a mask of coldness once more.
‘You can.’
‘No, you don’t understand. I cannot let you help, I will not. It doesn’t matter anyhow. It can’t change anything. I am what I am and that is it. I have been forged in different fires from my kind – with good reason. The past is nothing anymore. I do not dwell on it. I think only about tomorrow.’
Baroque sighed. He’d come so close. But he had another plan, another way to get to her. Break her resolve, this brittle hardness. ‘All right, then I have a proposition for you.’
Tallow tilted her head and looked at him curiously. ‘What?’
‘How about tomorrow, we take the gondola and go to the Candlemakers Quartiere. If you’re really serious about looking only to tomorrow, then we have to lay yesterday to rest completely, sì?’
Tallow scoffed. ‘I don’t want to. I don’t need to.’ She slid off the stool and busied herself at the shelves. ‘Anyhow, it’s silly. It’s dangerous.’
Baroque shrugged. ‘When has that ever stopped you?’
Tallow gave a small smile. ‘You’re trying to persuade me using very poor tactics, Baroque. You’re so easy to read – and that’s without using any of my talents. Appeal to my sense of adventure. Convince me I’m a hero. I am no hero and I no longer seek adventure. I want only an end to all of this.’ She undid her apron and flung it over the hook. She regarded Baroque. ‘You want to take me back to where I grew up in the hope that I’ll think you’re my friend, that I’ll have regrets and feel ashamed and sorry and confess everything to you. It won’t work, you know. But that’s not really what it’s about, is it? You’re not offering this for me. This is to make you feel better. Better about your role in what it is I have done. What it is I do.’
Baroque opened his mouth to protest then shut it again. He wanted to deny her, but there was truth in her words. Painful truth. Only it was not himself that he was worried about.
‘I can’t fool you, can I?’ he said stiffly. ‘But Tarlo, trust me when I tell you, this isn’t just about me. You need to go back. It will help you move forward – perhaps in the right direction.’
‘Right? What does that even mean anymore? There’s no such thing.’ She gave a bark of laughter, then thought for a moment. ‘If I do this, will you promise not to “talk” to me anymore?’
Baroque hesitated then nodded. ‘All right. I promise. Do this and there’ll be no more lectures.’
‘Very well, then,’ she said. ‘I’ll go back to the Candlemakers Quartiere. Tomorrow.’ Before he could say another word, she swooped past him. It was all Baroque could do not to cheer.
‘But,’ she said, just inches from him as she gripped the door handle. ‘I will not confess anything to you, Baroque. I will not tell you my secrets. I will not share with anyone what resides in here.’ She rested her other hand over her heart. ‘How can I, when it’s empty?’
The smile left his face.
She opened the door. ‘Someone once told me not to trust anyone. I listened to him. Turns out, it was good advice. It makes everything so much easier.’
She disappeared. He heard her heels clattering up the stairs.
Filled with sadness, he climbed off the stool and, in lonely silence, finished cleaning.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I AWOKE EARLIER than usual. The evening had been spent entertaining a wealthy merchant named Signor Mario Visconti who, by the time I left his casa, had arranged to meet with Sign
or Maleovelli to discuss a partnership in the slave trade.
It had been a while since I had arisen before the sun was over the horizon, and I returned to my old habits, climbing out of bed and throwing back the shutters. It was cool outside. Pigeons nestling in the eaves of the roof opposite were all snuggled in their scrappy nests, gently cooing and shuffling their feathers. When I looked down, I could see the faint outline of schools of tiny fish, just beneath the surface of the water, fleeting shadows that darted first one way, then the other. I rested my chin on the crook of my arm and thought that was how I had felt once – compelled to change course. No longer. I knew where I was headed, what I was doing, despite what Baroque thought. And today, that was going back to the Candlemakers Quartiere, back to my old home.
My heart fluttered. I was surprised and a little annoyed. I had trained myself not to feel excitement anymore, not to let anything ruffle my inner calm. And yet, the mere thought of strolling the fondamenta, of seeing Quinn’s shop and encountering the people who represented my past the way shadows occupy corners, filled me with trepidation and, I admit, longing. Perhaps Baroque was right. This was what I really needed in order to be able to embrace my future.
I moved away from the window and, using the water left over from my evening wash, cleaned and dressed without Hafeza’s help. She would be cross with me in the way she’d adopted – more playful than serious. I found, like many things about Hafeza, it annoyed me. I’d actually asked Giaconda if I could have a different maid, but she’d explained that this was impossible. The fewer who knew about me, the better. I still didn’t trust Hafeza. Though Giaconda left me very much to my own devices these days, I felt that she might as well be around while Hafeza was present. I wasn’t sure how, but I knew Hafeza reported my every move to her mistress. Well, today she wouldn’t be able to. Today I would slip out from under her watchful eyes and escape with Baroque.
