Valour and Vanity

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  For what Jane hoped would be the last time, they climbed the stairs to the small room and settled down to watch the palazzo. The real General Germain should be arriving there shortly to meet Spada. If Lord Byron was correct in his estimation of the French officer’s state after the distraction arranged by the poet, he would have quite the bad head from an excess of wine. Vincent pulled up a chair in front of the window and held out his arm to invite Jane to sit on his lap.

  “I will not hurt you?”

  “Not so long as you stay on my right side.”

  She settled gingerly nevertheless, but took great comfort from the warm solidity of his form. “I am glad that I did not know the wound was real, or I should never have been able to leave the room.”

  “Mm.” Vincent leaned his head against hers and inhaled deeply. “Have you thought about what we are going to tell your parents?”

  Jane shuddered. “I am half hoping that we can beat my letter to Vienna, but I know that is unlikely.”

  “I will join you in hoping that—there he is.” Vincent straightened in his chair.

  Jane turned to the window and felt the absence of his body against hers as a line of cool down her side. In some ways, it was like watching Vincent walk into the palazzo again, except that this officer travelled with a small complement of soldiers. His aide knocked on the door.

  After a few minutes, he knocked again, pounding so hard that they could hear it across the street even without glamour. The door cracked open, but not so far that they could see who answered the door. The Frenchman gesticulated with some passion. The door began to close, but the aide shoved his booted foot in it, and the officers forced their way inside.

  Vincent set Jane gently to the side and stood. He leaned against the window, reaching for the bouclé torsadée.

  She put her hand on his arm. “Shall I?”

  “We can have this argument every day, Muse, but I would rather not.” The words were irritable, but not his tone, which was buoyed by a laugh that seemed aimed at himself more than her. “Shall we trade off, so neither is fatigued?”

  “What? Share a burden?” She moved in front of him. Given their comparative heights, that worked best for an operating position in their collaborations.

  “Shocking.” He murmured and slid his arms around her so that they could both hold the same line. Together they began to feed the line, carrying sound from the palazzo.

  Staccato footsteps marched into the parlour. Cloth rustled as someone stood suddenly.

  “General Germain, we did not look for you to arrive this evening,” Spada said. “May I offer you something to drink.”

  “Yes, thank you.” The French officer sat heavily in a chair. “I was delayed, for which I apologize.”

  “It is no trouble at all.” Limping footsteps, interwoven with the sound of a cane. “I only regret that we may have to delay our exhibition.”

  “Is that so?” Cloth rustled again, and the officer humphed. “Why is that?”

  “We keep the Verres in our strong room, but our glamourist is ill, and I cannot open it without him.” Glass clinked and a liquid burbled into a glass.

  “I find that disappointing.”

  “As well you should.” Spada limped across the room. “I also find it disappointing, but I hope that tomorrow he will be improved.”

  “What is the matter, if I might inquire? Ah—thank you.” Glasses clinked again. “To your health.”

  “He hit his head and is suffering from the effects of a concussion.”

  Vincent snorted. Jane could almost feel his smile through her back, or perhaps that was her own clandestine glee at the justness of Bastone’s injury.

  “I am sorry to hear that.” He set the glass down on the wooden side table. “And the papers we gave you? What did you find in those?”

  “It is very complicated, of course, but they have been useful.”

  “Messieurs, vous commencez à chercher!”

  The men in the room began to move about. Wood slid upon wood as drawers opened and closed. Cabinets clicked open, then shut.

  “Is there something I can help your officers find?” Spada’s voice had a slight strained edge.

  “Tell me more about the Verres. How many do you have?”

  “Seven. But not all of them work.”

  Papers rustled. Wood scraped across stone as something heavy was moved. Then footsteps, quick against the marble floor. Paper hushed as a page was unfolded. The French officer growled and tapped the page. “Have you an explanation for this, Signor?”

  Spada limped closer. Paper rattled as if his hand shook. “This is not mine.”

  “It is addressed to you, and seems to be a response to a letter offering to sell the Verres to Lombardy-Venetia.”

  “And yet I have never seen it.”

  “Have you seen this?” Another page brushed against cloth, then unfolded. “No, no … I do not want to chance it becoming damaged. This is your handwriting, is it not?”

  “No.”

  “Odd. The hand looks like the other letters you wrote to me. I thought the part in which you said—where is it? Ah, here—‘The Verres do not work. Our glamourist believes that the Vincents’ theory is erroneous on several points, but Bastone has a plan to trick the fat old Frenchman into thinking that they do’ was particularly interesting.” The paper was folded and put away. “It is very unfortunate that your glamourist is unwell. What a coincidence with our arrival, no? And what about our deposit? The gold we gave you to do this work?”

  Spada gave a strangled sigh. “The Vincents. They broke in today and—”

  “A glamourist and his wife? Not even a true military glamourist, no matter what tricks he might have, but an artist. Please. I find it far easier to believe that a swindler who was hired to learn a certain technique may have decided that it was easier to defraud his employer.”

  “I can promise you, nothing was easy about this job.”

  Other footsteps interrupted him. The French officer turned through pages in a book and grunted. “The pages of Vincent’s journal that you reference in your letter … I find it curious that you knew that a Verre Obscurcie was impossible to make and yet you continued to request funds.” He then spoke in French too rapid for Jane to follow, but it resulted in a flurry of movement in the parlour. For a moment, Spada appeared in the window, backing away. The sounds of a tussle followed, with an impact of flesh and a short grunt.

  The men marched out of the parlour, leaving nothing but silence in their wake.

  Jane and Vincent stopped feeding the line as though they were one person. Vincent folded his hands around Jane’s and wrapped her in an embrace. “Does that sound as though Germain now believes that the Verres do not work?”

  “I hope so.” She sighed, feeling the last of her tension leave her body. “Those letters appeared to be persuasive.”

  Vincent kissed her on the cheek. “Spada should never have left me alone in the palazzo.”

  Jane turned her head to the side to kiss her husband. In so doing, she almost missed the front door of the palazzo opening.

  Spada was marched out, his hands bound behind him. The French soldiers had Coppa and Bastone bound as well, though it looked as if Bastone was having trouble standing. The French officer strode down the street in front of them, with the fake journal of Vincent’s tucked under his arm.

  It was a beautiful sight. She sighed back against Vincent, revelling in the beat of his heart. “Do you feel uneasy about keeping his money?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “Have I told you today how much I love you?”

  “You may tell me again.”

  “I love you very much.” An impish idea occurred to Jane, and she turned in Vincent’s arms to regard him with the most solemn expression she could summon. “I had nearly forgotten. There was something that I overheard Denaro and Coppa discuss on my first visit to the palazzo, while I was trapped in the parlour with them.”

  “That sounds forebod
ing.”

  “Perhaps. It might require some exploration.” Jane rose on her toes and whispered to Vincent one of the phrases that she had heard the two men use when discussing their adventures with the fairer sex. Pressed as she was against her husband, the effect of her suggestion was immediately felt. “Is that language salty enough?”

  “Very much so.” Vincent’s voice was rough as he bent to lift her. His left arm slid under her knees, and he winced. Straightening, her husband looked a little abashed. “Let me take my wife’s advice to not be stupid. Lady Vincent … I may need help undressing in order to explore this theory of yours.”

  “Rogue.”

  “Muse.”

  The closet room turned out not to be so drafty as Jane had thought.

  * * *

  They had fallen asleep on the little bed in the corner, both utterly spent after the exertions of the past week. Jane woke to the sound of the door shutting as Vincent re-entered the room, carrying with him the aroma of fresh pastry and two packets, one of which had clearly come from a baker’s.

  “Sister Aquinata will be upset that you purchased someone else’s bread.” Jane sat up, drawing the thin blanket around her.

  “This is a glazed tart, not bread, so I hope she will forgive me.” Vincent sat on the bed beside her, then shook his head and set aside the largest of the packets, which was giving off the tempting aroma. “I cannot wait.”

  “Is the pastry that good?”

  He shook his head again and, with a smile, handed her the smaller of the two. “This is a belated anniversary present.”

  With a questioning look, which he answered only by an enigmatic smile, Jane took the package and untied the string that held the paper shut. Inside, covered in delicate printed paper, were three bars of lavender soap.

  “One for each year.” Then he slid off the bed to kneel in front of her. Vincent reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a small gold ring. “Jane, Lady Vincent … will you do me the honour?”

  As her husband slid her wedding ring back on to her finger, joy unfolded inside Jane as though the room had attained a sudden softening glamour. For the second time in her life, Jane accepted Vincent’s proposal, and knew that she would always love him, for richer, for poorer.

  With and without soap.

  Twenty-six

  Debts Paid

  All that remained after the apprehension of Spada and his gang of thieves was for Jane and Vincent to repay their debts to the merchants of Murano. Vincent’s tailor expressed his frank astonishment, but seemed quite willing to accept French coins and provide a receipt without question. He allowed Vincent to change into the clothing that he had repossessed and said he would send the remainder of the clothes to their lodgings.

  Jane, likewise, found herself welcomed by the dressmaker and in short order reclothed. It was with some relief when Jane stepped onto the street with Vincent, once again in her travel pelisse and with a proper bonnet. Her husband offered his arm—his right arm—to her, and they stepped out in style. Other than his walking stick, which had some scars on the ebony shaft from where a sword had hit it, they presented a very attractive picture to those who passed.

  It was remarkable how anonymous Jane felt while walking with her husband in respectable clothing, though in entirely different ways from only the day before. Was it truly only the day prior that she had felt eyes glancing past her because her mended clothing marked her as poor? Today the other passers-by saw her, but as a fitting part of Murano rather than as a bit of refuse that they would prefer not to acknowledge.

  Only one merchant remained unpaid, and it was a debt that required some conversation before they settled on a solution that satisfied all their requirements. They spoke to Signor Nenci about their idea, and he approved it with a gratifying vehemence. So they turned with eager steps to Signor Querini.

  At the glass factory, Vincent knocked sharply on the door using the head of his walking stick.

  Querini opened the door himself. “Where—” He recognised Vincent and attempted to shut the door.

  He was thwarted as Vincent shoved forward and caught the door with his left shoulder. He grunted at the impact, but kept the door from closing. “We have business with you, Signor.”

  “No! I have no business with you. Not unless you have my money—and even then, I want nothing to do with you. Nothing, I tell you. Nothing.” He was sweating, though the fire in his glass oven was out.

  Jane looked past him and into his empty glass factory. “We have your money.”

  “You—you do?” He wet his lips and shot a furtive look to the narrow lane before opening the door wide enough for them to enter. “Mind the step.”

  “Where are your apprentices, sir?”

  “That is no business of yours. I told you I want nothing to do with you, only my money.” He crossed his arms over his belly and glowered at them. “Do you have it, or do you not?”

  The man was odious, and Jane’s stomach twisted at the thought of giving him anything. Vincent, with his peculiar sense of honour, had argued that they had agreed to his terms, and they did, in fact, have the object that they had hired Querini to make. The fact that he was an agent in a larger imposture was a concern, but Vincent felt that the correct thing was to pay the man the sum they had agreed to, no matter how much they resented it.

  He pulled out his purse and began counting coins onto Querini’s over-crowded desk. “I believe that is what we agreed to.”

  “We will, of course, require a receipt.” Jane opened her reticule and removed a paper. “I have taken the liberty of drawing it up to save you some effort.”

  Scowling, he took up a stained pen, dipped it into the ink, and scrawled upon the paper Jane offered. “And then I never want to see you again.”

  “That is a mutual desire, I assure you.” She turned to the second page for him. “And a copy for the capo di polizia as well.”

  With that signed, they turned to depart, taking no leave of him and sending no compliments to his family. He deserved no such attention. Only at the threshold did Jane pause to allow the part of herself that was vindictive a small measure of satisfaction. “I do hope that you enjoy the fruits of your labour.”

  Vincent closed the door behind her and offered his arm. They walked down the street without conversation until they reached a corner. Signor Nenci waited there for them.

  “Well?” His tone was gruff, but his eyes twinkled.

  “As we had planned.” She handed him the paper Querini had signed without reading, which transferred his apprentices’ contracts to Signor Nenci. “I would feel some remorse for tricking him, but his apprentices will be better served with you.”

  “Rosa’s getting them settled in now.” He folded the paper with surprising neatness.

  “How long do you think it will take him to realize what has happened?” Vincent asked.

  “About as long as it will take him to realize that no one local will buy glass from someone who was selling out to the French.” Signor Nenci tucked the page into his coat and gave a wicked grin. “Murano is a very small town.”

  * * *

  Even after paying off their debts, the remainder of the gold that Vincent had taken from Spada’s vault came to more than enough to restore all of their stolen funds. By mutual agreement, the Vincents put the excess into the coffers of Santa Maria degli Angeli. The Abbess very pointedly did not ask where the funds had come from, but accepted them on behalf of the church with thanks. If any good was to come of Spada’s ill-gotten gains, then Jane could think of no better choice than the convent’s work.

  The small garret where Jane and Vincent had spent the previous months no longer seemed so mean, with the addition of proper fuel for the fire and Vincent’s glamour. Though, in truth, they were barely in it during the next week, as they spent the days at work with Signor Nenci. His daughter and one of his apprentices proved to be the best on his team at learning how to embed glamours in the glass. This prompted a discussion about whet
her the technique required both sexes to work. Jane found this a decidedly silly idea, and she and Rosa proved it by creating a Verre Plat of a vase containing a tulip of such delicacy that a living butterfly tried to alight.

  The advantage of working with the slab method was that they could lay in several threads of glamour before the glass cooled too much to take an impression. Vincent speculated that they might eventually be able to stack the glass to create more intricate images, but that would require a different sort of planning to mesh the images.

  Its disadvantage, aside from a dependence on sunlight, was that the images were utterly devoid of motion. Their attempts to record moving glamours failed, leaving only blurred impressions in the glass.

  Jane and Vincent would gladly have stayed longer to continue experimenting, but they were keenly aware of the fact that Jane’s letter was likely to have provoked serious concern in her family.

  When they went to the capo di polizia to present their receipts for the debts owed, a small army of nuns went with them. To Jane’s surprise, Signor Nenci offered to come as well. This precaution turned out to be unnecessary, as Gendarme Gallo was not in that day. He had, it seemed, abruptly given notice and quit the island.

  He had also apparently mislead the capo about the Abbess’s reason for calling. On the day that she came, he said that she had wanted to know if they had seen the convent’s goat, which he claimed had escaped. Of course, the capo had not seen it, since they did not have a goat, and had thus shaken his head.

  With this misrepresentation cleared away and the weight of the evidence the Vincents were now able to produce, the capo di polizia had no difficulty in acknowledging that the Vincents were quite innocent, and apologized handsomely for detaining them in Murano. His consideration extended to walking them to the docks himself, to inform the gondoliers that they were free to go.