Termination

by Deborah Chester

  Stepping between bales of merchandise and parcels of spices that had been unloaded that afternoon, Noel drew closer to the doorway. He was drawn to the beckoning safety of the night. He could run and not be caught. He could escape this place and its bizarre inhabitants. He would be free.

  But Messer Tibo would have the LOC with which to wreck untold futures. And Vicente Contarini would die.

  Swallowing, Noel retreated from the temptation of escape and hid himself behind a column in the shadows.

  The entrance hall was lit by huge gilded lanterns taken from galleys. The walls themselves were decorated by swords and scimitars arranged in stars. Rapiers were crossed in herringbone patterns on either side of the doorways. Halberds dressed in dark red velvet and silk fringe hung as trophies of past victories. Tall inner doors fashioned of intarsia were pushed open to show the way to the main staircase.

  Within a few minutes the guests began to arrive. The entourage was large, as befitting a Doge of Venice. Guards and courtiers disposed themselves about the entry hall while canopied gondolas bearing proud coats of arms pulled up and discharged their passengers.

  The Doge wore an ermine-trimmed cloak but not his crown of state. Beside him walked his son Aldo, still looking angry and edgy. Following came Lady Francesca, plump and beautiful, her long golden curls spilling down her back, her dress of blue damask glowing richly. She looked very pale, and seemed lethargic for a bride. Noel studied her worriedly, wondering just how recovered she truly was from her ordeal. The girl ought to be home, resting in preparation for the joyful strain of her wedding day, instead of jaunting out to the homes of people who wanted to hurt her more. She was surrounded by her ladies in waiting, all wearing sumptuous gowns and jewels, their painted faces animated and smiling.

  A few ecclesiastics arrived in purple and crimson according to their office. Last of all came Vicente with a handful of his kinsmen. Vicente wore a stern expression in grim contrast to his silk finery. With his eagle face and fiery dark eyes, he looked less like a bridegroom than an avenger.

  Noel, well aware that Vicente had failed to catch the culprit who had attacked the Lady Francesca, knew that the man must be seething with frustration. He hesitated in the shadows, hoping for a chance to approach Vicente without being seen, yet it did not happen. The guests milled around, greeting each other. They shed their masks and cloaks, then passed up the staircase to be welcomed in turn by the contessa and her nephew.

  Snagging a cloak and mask off a chair, Noel lurked out of sight and agonized over how quickly the poison would be administered. Would it be in the first cup of wine handed to Vicente? Would it lie in his plate of food? Would it be in his after dinner fruit? It had to be slow-acting, a substance that would not bring him down for a day or possibly longer so that no direct connection could be traced to what he consumed here. Therefore, they probably would wait and slip it to him later.

  But Noel dared not wait too long. He could be found at any moment by Messer Tibo’s servants, who were obviously searching for him now, stopping others and making inquiries. Or there were the palace guards spreading their cloaks across the bales of merchandise and setting up their dice games. If one of them recognized him, he would be done for.

  Noel took down a rapier off the wall and melted away down a servants’ passage to an outside door. It was locked but not guarded. He threw it open and stepped out into the street. In the night it took but a moment to don the stolen cloak and mask. Tucking the sword through his belt beside the dagger, Noel again felt the temptation to just vanish into the night.

  But his primary obligation wasn’t to save himself but to prevent the interference with history.

  And if Leon’s wrong? asked a tiny voice inside his skull.

  He could be playing into their hands. Leon could have lied to him in order to manipulate him into changing history.

  Noel paused with his hands on the mask. Then he forced himself past the moment of indecision. Whatever Messer Tibo was involved in, he was against it. That was all he had to go on now. Let the chips fall where they had to.

  Gathering his courage, he walked around the palazzo to where the canal flowed wide and deep beneath the lanterns of Carnival. Laughter floated through the darkness, and the palazzos were lit with bright merriment.

  Keeping his hand on his sword hilt in case of trouble, Noel hurried along the footpath and went up the steps. Snarling dragon heads supported large lanterns with windows of colored glass. They cast an eerie light across the steps. The porter met Noel with a bow.

  “An urgent message for Lord Contarini,” Noel said at his most clipped.

  The porter bowed again and snapped his fingers. “I shall send a page to him with it at once.”

  Noel held up his hand. “It must be delivered in person.

  “Ah, signore, how can I interrupt the dinner? I have no authority to do this.”

  “It is not by your authority he is disturbed,” Noel said harshly, hoping the man could not hear how loudly his heart was beating. “It is by the authority of the Council of Ten.”

  The porter drew back with a hiss of dismay and looked anxiously past Noel’s shoulder. “A missier grande is here? An agent of the secret police? God have mercy.”

  “Hurry, man. Summon him downstairs at once. There is not a moment to lose.”

  “Si, si.” Turning away, the porter snagged the sleeve of a page and murmured into his ear. Then he gave the boy a shove and urged him toward Noel.

  The boy approached Noel fearfully, bowing low. His dark eyes rolled uneasily at the darkness past Noel. “Where is the missier grande?” he whispered. “Never has an agent of the Council come to this house. What is to be done?”

  “He has already come and gone,” Noel said, wishing he possessed one of the distinctive red and blue robes of the secret police. Wearing it, he could have come and gone as he pleased, with no one daring to stop him. But he had only his own brashness and ability to bluff to get him through. “Send for Lord Contarini at once.”

  The page swallowed hard. “And what am I to say?”

  “Just what I have told you. Nothing more. Give no names. It is not appropriate at the table. Hurry!”

  “Si, I’m going.”

  The page ran past the dicing soldiers and headed up the stairs.

  Waiting, Noel retreated to the shadows and paced there, his palm sweaty on his sword hilt. The canal water lapped less than a foot below his shoes. The water must be warmer than the chilly breeze blowing in off the Adriatic, for a soft mist was starting to form upon its surface.

  Finally, the sound of footsteps made him turn around. Vicente was coming downstairs with Aldo in tow. Noel groaned beneath his breath and mouthed a couple of curses. He fought the urge to retreat, reminding himself that his mask was his safety. It felt pretty thin at that moment.

  The two noblemen glanced around the entrance hall as the guards came to attention. Aldo began to question the men, who glanced at each other in puzzlement.

  Vicente looked annoyed. “Ridiculous. I told you it was nothing.”

  “But for an agent to come here to report…surely it is about the sorcerer,” Aldo said. “He is found at last. I know he must be found.”

  “There are more irons in my fire than one sorcerer,” Vicente said.

  Aldo bridled immediately. “And what is more important than the honor and safety of your bride? Eh?”

  “Oh, shut up, you foolish hothead,” Vicente said, turning away. “Of course I do not dismiss this matter surrounding her, but the affairs of state do not permit personal expediency to take precedence over everything. You, porter! Where is this messenger?”

  The porter pointed at Noel, who waited nervously at the foot of the steps, half in the shadows.

  Vicente stared, light spilling around his broad shoulders in a halo. “That is not one of my men. What is this prank?”

  Aldo appeared at his shoulder, one hand on his dagger hilt. “By God, I’ll loosen his tongue.”

  “The message
is urgent, Lord Contarini,” Noel said, putting more confidence into his voice than he really felt. “It is for your ears alone.”

  Scowling, Vicente started down the steps, but Aldo grabbed his shoulder. “Careful!” he said. “This could be an assassin.”

  Behind the mask, Noel rolled his eyes in exasperation, but Vicente checked. He beckoned to Noel. “Come here into the light.”

  Noel wished a thousand curses on Aldo, but he had to approach or confirm their suspicions.

  “He said he has a message from a missier grande,” the porter said helpfully. “We dared not ignore him.”

  “Yes, yes.” Vicente impatiently dismissed him. “In the meantime, we are rude to our hostess and annoyed by this transgression on our time. Come, man, and say your message.”

  Noel paused halfway up the steps. “For your ears alone, signore.”

  Aldo whipped out his dagger. “Remove your weapons!”

  Noel flipped back his cloak and reached for his sword hilt, but Vicente was already coming down the steps to meet him. The man was assured as always, his dark eyes alert and confident. He gripped Aldo’s arm when Aldo would have stopped him.

  “Have done,” he said quietly, but annoyance could be heard in his voice. “The men are watching. He cannot strike at me and escape them.”

  “On my honor,” Noel said, “I have not come to bring harm.”

  Aldo retreated reluctantly, scowling. The guards crowded at the door in open curiosity. Noel had never felt so exposed and vulnerable as he did while waiting for Vicente to join him. At last they stood eye to eye. Vicente’s gaze bored into him as though he would see through the mask.

  Noel turned his back to the men watching them, although he felt as though Aldo would drive a dagger into him at the least provocation. “Signore,” he said in a low voice, “do not eat or drink in this house. There is a plot against you and—”

  “Who speaks this warning?” Vicente asked, frowning at Noel. “Remove your mask and identify yourself.”

  Noel shook his head. “Eat nothing here,” he said in a whisper. “You are to be poisoned tonight.”

  Vicente glared at the canal. Noel could see the speculation whirling in his mind. “How know you this? Who has discovered this? Who dares lay such an accusation at the contessa’s door?”

  “Gabriella Virenza is no friend of yours or your bride’s,” Noel said rapidly. “She wants her nephew Claudio to marry Lady Francesca. The dowry is considerable. The alliance is invaluable. She also wants revenge for the execution of her brother.”

  “Bah! I had no part in his denouncement.”

  “Well, she still means you harm.”

  “I do not believe you.”

  “Believe me or not, but do not eat here,” Noel said in exasperation. “Value your life and be cautious.”

  “I will heed no nameless accusations and rumor-mongering,” Vicente said angrily. He grabbed Noel’s mask and yanked it off.

  The action took Noel by surprise. But Vicente was equally astonished. Holding the mask, he stared at Noel with his mouth open.

  “You!” he said.

  Noel whipped out his dagger and pressed it to Vicente’s throat, turning him around and pinning his arms behind him as Aldo gave a shout and hurried forward.

  “Stop!” cried Noel.

  The men froze, their hands on their weapons.

  Aldo’s face lost color. “Madre de Dios,” he said. “It is the sorcerer.”

  “Come no closer,” Noel warned, making sure they could all see the dagger at Vicente’s throat. Vicente was rigid in his hold. The fury pouring off the man was palpable. Noel didn’t care. He backed down one step, forcing Vicente to go with him.

  “You will die for this,” Aldo said, brandishing his dagger. “There is no place that you can hide. I swear this to you!”

  One of the guards darted forward. Noel jabbed Vicente with the knife, bringing a small trickle of blood. “Keep them back.”

  Vicente gulped against the knife. “Aldo, no,” he said. “Stay back.”

  The men froze.

  “Better,” Noel said. He eased down another step and another, still manhandling Vicente. He could hear the man’s breathing. A trickle of sweat ran down Vicente’s temple.

  “If you are to kill me, do it quickly,” Vicente said in a low voice for his ears alone. “Then pray to God they do not reach you. They will tear you apart like dogs.”

  “I told you I came to do no harm,” Noel said. “I brought you a warning. I am trying to save your life, you fool, not take it.”

  Vicente’s eyes flashed at him, but he dared not turn his head. “I don’t understand.”

  Aldo edged forward, and Noel tensed. The knife moved, and Vicente’s gasp was audible.

  “Aldo!” he said angrily. “Stay back.”

  His eyes flashed at Noel again. “You make a fool of me. You unman me. I have prayed for the privilege of cutting out your heart, and now I will try!”

  As he spoke, he pushed against Noel in an attempt to break free. The guards and Aldo also rushed them, distracting Noel.

  But Noel knew all the tricks. He jumped clear of Vicente’s elbow, and when Vicente drew his dagger, Noel whirled in close and knocked it from Vicente’s hand. He shoved Vicente into the other men, blocking their rush.

  “If I’d come to kill you, you’d be dead by now!” he shouted furiously. “Stop being such an idiot. Get yourself and your bride out of this house.”

  Panting, his blood-tipped dagger swinging in his hand as he spoke, Noel backed away. Aldo started forward, but Vicente held him back.

  “Let me take him!” raged Aldo.

  “He’s right,” Vicente said. “He could have killed me with a quick thrust. He did not.”

  Vicente glanced at Noel, who did not need another warning. Vicente would hold them only for a few seconds in return for the favor Noel had done him.

  Noel ran, cursing history, cursing responsibility, cursing his own sense of fair play that got him into this. He could foresee a night of desperate running and hiding, the searchers drawing ever closer, his own strength giving out. Even if he—

  Noel ran full tilt into something solid in the darkness, which he didn’t see in time. He staggered, slightly stunned by the impact, and felt strong hands grip him. Striking out, Noel fought to get free, but a short, bulky figure joined the first to pin his arms and hold him fast despite his struggles. Neither man spoke. Suddenly Noel knew he had been captured by Soma and the dwarf, Messer Tibo’s mute servants.

  One tossed a cloak over his head, but Noel pulled his feet off the ground, throwing his full weight onto their grip. They were caught unawares by his maneuver, and Noel thudded to the ground with a rip of one sleeve. He twisted and squirmed between their legs before they could regain their hold on him. The cloak settled across his shoulders and head like a blanket, hampering their attempts to grab him. Noel ducked out from beneath it and straightened with a strong thrust of his knees. He knocked Soma off balance, and the man went flailing into the canal with a splash.

  Coming around the corner of the palazzo, the guards paused in surprise. “What the—”

  The dwarf seized Noel from behind in a bear hug. When his powerful arms squeezed Noel’s waist, Noel’s world went blank with pain. Gasping, he sagged at the knees and the dwarf grunted beneath his sudden weight. Noel tried to shake off the fuzziness. He could not black out now, could not go down now. But his eyes were shut as though they had been glued, and the pain was harsh and stabbing, blasting his consciousness apart each time he pulled himself together.

  He lost a moment, came back and found himself being dragged along the ground. The guards were still peering into the canal, confused and speculating about whether it was Noel who had gone into the water. Cursing, Aldo pushed past them and ran a few steps into the darkness. Holding his sword, he stopped and stared around, but it was clear he could not see where Noel was being dragged deeper into the darkness. There were no torches lit on this side of the palazzo. The
alley was black and damp. Noel felt water seep through his clothing as he was dragged through a puddle.

  Panting softly, the dwarf paused and crouched beside Noel. He gazed toward the corner where Aldo was now shouting at the guards, rebuking them for not having continued the chase. Noel lifted his head, but before he could move, the dwarf turned on him and shoved him toward a hole in the alley where the grating had been removed. Noel’s palms scraped across the edge of it where it lay on the ground. He curled his fingers around the metal bars in panic. No one was shoving him down a hole.

  The grating was heavy, but adrenaline lent Noel the necessary strength to lift it one-handedly and slam it against the dwarf’s face. The dwarf grunted and fell back. Noel twisted and crawled past him, scrambling until he could get to his feet.

  His heart was thudding, but he had a chance now to get away. He took a step, staggered, and tried to run.

  “Noel,” whispered a voice from the darkness.

  Noel skidded to a halt, clutching his side, and looked around wildly. The dwarf lay unconscious with the grate still across his chest where Noel had dropped it. Who had spoken?

  “Noel.”

  His name might almost have been a sigh of the wind, so soft was it, yet Noel heard it clearly. He shivered and turned to press his back against the wall.

  “Climb down to safety,” sighed the voice against his mind. “Come down to me, and they will never find you.”

  Noel gulped in air, conscious of sweat pouring off him. He closed his eyes a moment and fought to hang on. This was no hiding place. At any moment the guards would organize themselves beneath Aldo’s stinging orders and fan out.

  Pushing himself away from the wall, Noel went down the alley, staggering now and then so that his shoulder bumped against the wall. He glanced back, watching the uncertain glow of torchlight in the distance as the guards finally found the courage to continue searching. Ahead of him lay another canal. He could see gondola lanterns bobbing, reflected in the inky water. Noel quickened his steps.

  Something black and solid closed off the alley ahead of him. It was as though a curtain had been drawn. The lanterns vanished. The canal vanished. He could no longer see the shadowy silhouettes of the gondolas.