“A dead end,” Merle grumbled. “We have to go back again.”
Serafin shook his head. “We’re exactly where I wanted to be.” He bent over the edge a bit and looked up at the sky. Then he looked across the water. “See that?”
Merle walked up next to him. Her eyes followed his index finger to the gently swelling surface. The brackish smell of the canal rose into her nose, but she hardly noticed it. Strands of algae were drifting about, far more than usual.
An illuminated window was reflected in the water, the only one far and wide. It was in the second floor of a house on the other side of the canal. The opposite bank was about fifty feet away.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
“See the light in that window?”
“Sure.”
Serafin pulled out a silver pocket watch, a valuable piece that probably came from his thieving days. He snapped open the lid. “Ten after twelve. We’re on time.”
“So?”
He grinned. “I’ll explain. You see the reflection on the water, don’t you?”
She nodded.
“Good. Now look at the house over it and show me the window that’s reflected there. The one that’s lit.”
Merle looked up at the dark house front. All the windows were dark, not a single one lit. She looked down at the water again. The reflection remained unchanged: In one of the reflected windows a light was burning. When she looked up at the house again, that rectangle in the wall was dark.
“How can that be?” she asked, perplexed. “In the reflection the window is lit, but in reality it’s pitch-black.”
Serafin’s grin got even wider. “Well, well.”
“Magic?”
“Not entirely. Or maybe yes. Depending on how you look at it.”
Her face darkened. “Couldn’t you express yourself a little more clearly?”
“It happens in the hour after midnight. Between twelve and one at night the same phenomenon appears at several places in the city. Very few know about them, and even I don’t know many of these places, but it’s true: During this hour, a few houses cast a reflection on the water that doesn’t tally with the reality. There are only tiny differences—lighted windows, sometimes another door, or people walking along in front of the houses while in reality there’s nobody there.”
“And what does it mean?”
“Nobody knows for sure. But there are rumors.” He lowered his voice and acted very mysterious. “Stories about a second Venice.”
“A second Venice?”
“One that only exists in the reflection in the water. Or at least lies so far away from us that it can’t be reached, even with the fastest ship. Not even with the Empire’s sunbarks. People say that it’s in another world, which is so like ours and yet entirely different. And around midnight the border between the two cities becomes porous, perhaps just because it’s so old and has gotten worn over the centuries, like a worn-out carpet.”
Merle stared at him, her eyes wide. “You mean, that window with the light…you mean, it actually exists—only not here?”
“It gets even better. There was an old beggar who sat at this spot for years and watched day and night. He told me that sometimes men and women from this other Venice managed to cross the wall between the worlds. What they don’t know, though, is that they’re no longer human beings when they arrive here. They’re only phantoms then, and they’re caught forever in the mirrors of the city. Some of them manage to jump from mirror to mirror, and so every now and then they also stray into your master’s workshop and into his magic mirrors.”
Merle considered whether Serafin might perhaps be playing a joke on her. “You aren’t just trying to put something over on me, are you?”
Serafin flashed a phony smile. “Do I really look as though I could swindle anyone?”
“Of course not, top-notch master thief.”
“Believe me, I’ve actually heard this story. How much of it’s the truth, I can’t really say.” He pointed to the illuminated window in the water. “However, some things support it.”
“But that would mean that I was catching human beings in that glass ball the other day!”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve seen Arcimboldo throw them into the canal. They get out again somehow there.”
“And now I understand what he meant when he said that the phantoms could settle into the reflections on the water.” Merle gasped. “Arcimboldo knows! He knows the truth!”
“What are you going to do now? Ask him about it?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Why not?” She didn’t have a chance to pursue the thought further, for suddenly there was a movement on the water. As they looked down more attentively, a silhouette slid over the surface of the canal toward them.
“Is that—” She broke off as it became clear to her that the reflection was no illusion.
“Back!” Serafin had seen it at the same time.
They whipped into the alleyway and pressed tight against the wall.
From the left, something large glided over the water without touching it. It was a lion with mighty wings of feathers; like the entire body, they were also of stone. Their tips almost touched the walls of the houses on both sides of the canal. The lion flew almost soundlessly, only its unhurried wingbeats producing subtle whishing like the drawing of breath. Their draft blew icily into Merle’s and Serafin’s faces. The enormous mass and weight of that body were deceptive; in the air it held itself as featherlight as a bird. Its front and back legs were bent, its mouth nearly closed. Behind its eyes sparkled a disconcerting shrewdness, far sharper than the understanding of ordinary animals.
A soldier sat grimly on the lion’s back. His uniform was of black leather and trimmed with steel rivets. A bodyguard of the City Council, assigned to protect one of the big bosses personally. You didn’t encounter them very often, and when you did, it usually meant nothing good.
The lion bearing its master floated past the opening of their alleyway without noticing the two of them. Merle and Serafin didn’t dare breathe until the flying predator had left them far behind. Carefully they leaned forward and watched the lion gain altitude, leave the narrow canyon of the canal, and make a wide loop over the roofs of the district. Then it was lost to sight.
“He’s circling,” Serafin stated. “Whoever he’s watching can’t be far away.”
“A councillor?” Merle whispered. “At this hour? In this district? Never in your life. They only leave their palaces when it’s absolutely necessary.”
“There aren’t many lions that can fly. The few that are left never go any farther than necessary from their councillors.” Serafin took a deep breath. “One of the councillors must be very close by.”
As if to underline his words, the growl of a flying lion came out of the nighttime darkness. A second answered the call. Then a third.
“There are several.” Merle shook her head in bafflement. “What are they doing here?”
Serafin’s eyes gleamed. “We could find out.”
“And the lions?”
“I’ve often run away from them before.”
Merle wasn’t sure if he was boasting or telling the truth. Perhaps both. She simply didn’t know him well enough. Her instinct told her that she could trust him. Must trust him, it looked at the moment—for Serafin had already made his way to the other end of the alleyway.
She hurried after him until she came even with him again. “I hate having to run after other people.”
“Sometimes it helps to get decisions made.”
She snorted. “I hate it even more when other people want to make my decisions for me.”
He stopped and held her back by the arm. “You’re right. We both have to want this. It could get quite dangerous.”
Merle sighed. “I’m not one of those girls who gives up easily—so don’t treat me like one. And I’m not afraid of flying lions.” Of course not, she said silently to herself, I’ve never been chased by one eith
er—yet.
“No reason to be offended now.”
“I’m not at all.”
“You are so.”
“And you keep picking a fight.”
He grinned. “Occupational disease.”
“Boaster! But you aren’t a thief anymore.” She left him standing and walked on. “Come on. Or there won’t be lions or councillors or adventure tonight.”
This time it was he who followed her. She had the feeling that he was testing her. Would she go in the same direction that he’d chosen? Would she interpret the distant wingbeats against the sky properly to lead them to their goal?
She’d show him where to go—literally, in fact.
She hurried around the next corner and kept looking up at the night sky between the edges of the roofs, until she finally slowed and took pains to make no more sound. From here on they ran the danger of being discovered. She just didn’t know whether the danger threatened from the sky or from one of the doorways.
“It’s that house over there,” Serafin whispered.
Her eye followed his index finger to the entrance of a narrow building, just wide enough for a door and two boarded-up windows. It seemed to have once been a servants’ annex to one of the neighboring grand houses, in days when the facades of Venice still bore witness to wealth and magnificence. But today many of the palazzi stood just as empty as the houses on the Canal of the Expelled and elsewhere. Not even tramps and beggars squatted there, for in winter the gigantic rooms were impossible to heat. Firewood had been a scarce commodity since the beginning of the siege, and so the stripping of the abandoned buildings of the city had begun long ago, breaking out their wooden floors and beams in order to heat the woodstoves in the cold months.
“How do you know it’s this particular house?” Merle asked softly.
Serafin gestured to the roof. Merle had to admit that he had astonishingly good eyes: Something peeked over the edge of the roof, a stone paw, which scratched the tiles. It was impossible to see the lions from the street. Nevertheless, Merle did not doubt that watchful eyes were staring down out of the darkness.
“Let’s try around back,” Serafin suggested softly.
“But the back side of the house is right on the canal!” Merle’s sense of direction in the narrow alleyways was unbeatable. She knew exactly how it looked behind this row of houses. The walls there were smooth, and there was no walk along the edge of the canal.
“We’ll manage anyhow,” said Serafin. “Trust me.”
“As friend or master thief?”
He stopped for a moment, tilted his head, and looked at her in amazement. Then he stuck out his hand. “Friends?” he asked carefully.
She took his hand firmly in her own. “Friends.”
Serafin beamed. “Then I say to you as master thief that somehow we are going to get inside this house. And as friend—” He hesitated, then went on, “as friend I promise you that I will never let you down, no matter what happens tonight.”
He didn’t wait for her reply but pulled her with him, back into the shadows of the alleyway out of which they had come. Unerringly they made their way through tunnels, across a back courtyard, and through empty houses.
It seemed almost no time until they were edging their way along a narrow ledge that ran along the back of a row of buildings. The pitch-dark water rocked below them. About twenty yards farther, vague in the faint moonlight, the curved outline of a bridge was discernible. And at its highest point stood a lion with an armed rider. If he were to turn around, he would surely be able to spot them in the darkness.
“I hope the lion doesn’t sense us,” Merle whispered. Like Serafin, she was pressing herself flat against the wall. The ledge was just wide enough for her heels. She had trouble trying to keep her balance and at the same time keep her eye on the sentry on the bridge.
Serafin had less difficulty negotiating the ledge. He was accustomed to getting into strange houses in the most unusual ways, first as a thief, then as Umberto’s secret courier. Still, he didn’t give Merle the feeling she was holding him back.
“Why doesn’t he turn around?” he burst out through clenched teeth. “I don’t like that.”
Since Merle was a little smaller than he was, she could see a little farther under the bridge. Now she saw that a boat was approaching from the opposite direction. She reported her discovery to Serafin in a whisper. “The guard doesn’t seem bothered by it. It looks as though he’s been waiting for the boat.”
“A secret meeting,” Serafin guessed. “I’ve seen those a few times—a councillor meeting one of his informants. They say the councillors have spies everywhere, in all sorts of people.”
Merle had other concerns at the moment. “How much farther is it?”
Serafin bent over a fraction of an inch. “About ten feet, then we’re at the first window. If it’s open, we can climb into the house.” He looked around at Merle. “Can you tell who’s in the boat?”
She blinked hard, hoping to be able to see the figure in the bow more clearly. But, like both the oarsmen sitting farther behind him, he was wrapped in a dark hooded cloak. No wonder, considering the time and the cold, and yet Merle shivered at the look of him. Was she mistaken, or did the lion on the bridge paw the ground nervously?
Serafin reached the window. Now they were no more than ten yards away from the bridge. He looked carefully through the glass and nodded to Merle. “The room’s empty. They must be waiting somewhere else in the house.”
“Can you get the window open?” Merle wasn’t really subject to dizziness, but her back had begun to hurt and a tingling was creeping up her outspread legs.
Serafin pressed against the glass, first gently, then a little harder. A slight crack sounded. The right window swung inward on its hinges.
Merle sighed in relief. Thank goodness! She tried to keep her eye on the boat while Serafin climbed into the house. The dinghy had tied up on the other side of the bridge. The lion bore its rider to firm ground to receive the hooded and mantled figure.
Merle saw flying lions in the sky. At least three, perhaps more. If one of them should swoop down again and fly along the canal, it would discover her immediately.
But then Serafin reached his hand to her through the window and pulled her inside the house. She gasped as she felt wooden planks under her feet. She could have kissed the floor with relief. Or Serafin. Better not. She felt her cheeks flush red.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I was working hard,” she replied quickly and turned away. “What next?”
He took his time answering. At first she thought he was still staring at her; then she realized that he was listening, quite like the way Junipa had listened during their journey along the Canal of the Expelled—highly concentrated, so that not the slightest sound escaped him.
“They’re farther front in the house,” he said at last. “At least two men, possibly even three.”
“With the soldiers that makes it roughly half a dozen.”
“Afraid?”
“Not a bit.”
He smiled. “Who’s the boaster here?”
She couldn’t help returning his smile. He could see through her, even in the dark. With anyone else that would have made her uncomfortable. “Trust me,” he’d said, and in fact, she did trust him. Everything had gone much too fast, but she had no time to worry about it.
Quiet as mice, they slipped out of the room and felt their way down a pitch-black hallway. At its end lay the front door. A shimmer of candlelight was falling through the first corridor on the right. On their left a flight of stairs led up to the second floor.
Serafin brought his lips very close to Merle’s ear. “Wait here. I’m going to look around.”
She wanted to protest, but he quickly shook his head.
“Please,” he added.
With heavy heart she looked after him as he quickly tiptoed to the lighted hallway. At any moment the front door could open and the man in the hooded cape come
in, accompanied by the soldiers.
Serafin reached the doorway, looked carefully through it, waited a moment, then turned back to Merle. Silently he pointed to the stairs to the upper floor.
She followed his instruction noiselessly. He was the master thief, not she. Perhaps he knew best what to do, even if it was hard for her to admit it. She was usually unwilling to do what others told her to—whether or not it was in her own best interest.
The stairs were of solid stone. Merle went up and on the second floor made her way to the room that lay over the candlelit room on the ground floor. There she understood what had drawn Serafin upstairs.
A third of the floor had fallen in a long time ago. Wooden beams were scattered and splintered away from the edges, framing a wide opening in the center of the room. From below, candles sent a faint light. Low voices could be heard. Their tone sounded uncertain and apprehensive, even though Merle couldn’t make out the exact words.
“Three men,” Serafin whispered in her ear. “All three city councillors. Big bosses.”
Merle peeked over the edge. She felt the warmth of the light rising to her face. Serafin was right. The three men standing next to one another down there in the light of the candles wore the long robes of Council members, golden and purple and scarlet.
In all of Venice there was no higher authority than the City Council. Since the invasion by the Empire and the loss of all contact with the mainland, they had jurisdiction over the affairs of the besieged city. They had all powers in their hands and they maintained the connection with the Flowing Queen—at least that’s what they said. They posed to the public as men of the world and infallible. But among the people, there were guarded whispers of misuse of power, nepotism, and the decadence of the old noble families, to which most of the city councillors belonged. It was no secret that those who had money received preference, and anyone who bore an old family name counted more than ordinary folk.
One of the three men on the ground floor was holding a small wooden box in his hands. It looked like a jewel casket made of ebony.
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