The Gameshouse

by Claire North

  —… see.

  This unfortunate gondolier, so tragically trapped by wealth into waiting on his master, tells her that almost nothing has changed in Orio Faliere’s house since the death of Barbaro and you would not think that his master was competing for the post at all, save for in one matter—that last night a masked stranger, a man, came down to the boat and requested that he was shipped to the Doge’s palace where he stayed for some twenty minutes before returning and being returned again to these halls. The masked stranger said no more than the place to go to and the command to wait, and on his return didn’t even tip.

  —How much are you paid to wait? she asks.

  —Not enough, he grumbles.

  —How would you like to earn a little more?

  These streets, these streets!

  Is she afraid to walk them?

  (Yes. She is. We know this; we know it in the deep beating of our hearts; she looks and she is afraid.)

  They are her streets, they are the streets which gave her life, and it is not fear of the shadows nor fear of the dark that walks beside her but rather more, worse, greater—a fear of the past, which does not leave her.

  But she has a card in her hand, the King of Coins, and it must be played soon if results are to come in time for the election, and to play it she must cross the bridge into the ghetto while enough daylight shines so she can still get out.

  The ghetto is in Cannaregio and there is, architecturally speaking, nothing much to the casual eye to set it apart from its surroundings. Like so much of the city, it has absorbed the styles of both east and west: a large square at its centre, tiny alleys all around, sloping cupolas and sharp corners, clothes drying from lines strung between every window. And yet look, look a little closer, for here there are no crucifixes but rather candles burning in the menorah, and there are those who live a little too close together in space that should have been expanded many years ago, but instead the floors have been lowered so that each room feels a little compressed, and where only five storeys might have inhabited the warehouse by the water, here there are seven. Now listen, listen, and you may hear not merely Venetian spoken, but the Spanish of the Sephardic Jews expelled by a Christian queen, or the prayers of those who fled from the Holy Roman Empire when Protestants mistook them for friends of the Catholics, Catholics for friends of the Protestants. They do not pray together, the east and the west, but rather each turns to their own synagogue, whispering that though they are all of one family, one blood, yet he does not practise to the same rules as she, and it is bad form to shake the hand of a man who has shaken the hand of a man who is a Christian.

  So though compressed together, yet even in the ghetto—or perhaps especially—it is easy to be a brotherhood divided.

  Of these people, one at least is universally known, and if not loved, then certainly no one dares speak of him with anything less than admiration. He is called Saloman. They stand together by the gates to the ghetto, watching the Jews and Jewesses of Venice busy about their daylight business, while the day permits them to work. His card is apt, she thinks, for he is the King of Coins to more than simply herself. Only four professions are permitted to the Jews of Venice, and one of them is moneylender, in which part they are derided, cursed, spat upon and envied.

  —There is a cycle of humiliation, he explains. The Christian, to do himself up, humiliates the Jew, calls him dog, beast, devil, imprisons us at night, bids us wear yellow on our sleeves, tells us to eat pork and sleep in the sewer. But we fight with all that we have to become greater than our surroundings, and so we lend money and cure diseases and practise those philosophies that the Christian in his decadence does not. So they come to us for help, and then what is their predicament if they need the service of a dog and a devil? Does this not make them lower than us? And shall they not therefore pull us down in seeking to feel great again?

  —How contrary it all is, he whispers as if she is not there.—How easily wisdom buckles before pride.

  —Is it money you want? he asks, all business now: business, business, business.—Though I am your card, I can only lend cheaply, not gratis. Players usually want money.

  —Not money.

  —What do you want?

  —I need to win Belligno to my cause. Though no player moves him, yet he is too powerful a piece to be ignored.

  —You want to bribe him?

  —No. I want you to make some enquiries in Milan.

  —Ah, you are listening to rumours! The story about the Belligno boy, yes? They say that he went with a woman whose brother, it transpired, was not of a kindly disposition in these regards. Some say Seluda sold the boy out; others say he was just stupid. Me, I think he was probably stupid. Most boys are.

  —I am told you have connections across all of Europe.

  —And most of Africa too, but even I cannot find a dead man.

  —Is he dead?

  —He has been gone for two years and his father made many enquiries.

  —I heard that the Milanese were vengeful people.

  —Death is vengeful.

  —I think we both know that death is a lesser evil in Milan. You can find answers?

  —You wish me to speak to my cousins, rather than spend my coin?

  —A bit of both, perhaps.

  Then he turns to her, surprise on his face.—Do I know you? he asks.—Your voice… there is something familiar in you. When players are dealt my card, they see only the Jew, the Jew who lends money, the dog to be hounded by other dogs. You—you play me in a different way. It is unexpected.

  —Can you do it?

  —I can try.

  —That is all I ask.

  And as she turns to go:

  —I know you, he breaths.—You hide your face but I know your voice. I knew your mother. She was a wonderful singer.

  —I am a player, she replies.—The rest is nothing.

  She is gone.

  At night, we sit beside her, unseen, warmth from the candle. She considers Andrea Tiapolo, remembers him in the basilica, his player sat behind, puffed up and proud. He is moving too fast, playing his pieces too fast. He bribes too many, not realising that the key to success is to learn who the few great men are whose minds must be swayed, and focus resources on them rather than expend largely on the lesser loud men of the Doge’s palace. He has shown his pieces too soon, but here is the question: does she deliver the killing blow to Tiapolo’s campaign, or wait for another player to do so? Faliere bides his time; Contarini is moving slowly and carefully, but move he does. And what of Belligno, Angelo Seluda’s greatest rival? He acts alone, is not a piece supported by a player but rather moves independently, and again the question—why is he not a piece? His moves are strong, he would be an excellent piece to be played, yet the Gamesmaster did not choose him for the game.

  Yet, like the Queen of Spades as she emerges from within the shuffled pack, though he is not played, yet he still is a player.

  She waits and hums her mother’s lullaby under her breath, barely noticing the sound.

  Chapter 15

  The day that Thene spots—absolutely spots—another player’s piece, she is delighted. Less delighted when she sees what he is: Abbot Padova, dear friend of the Patriarch of Venice, dearer friend yet of the Doge himself, for it is said that when the Doge’s wife was sick, the abbot laid hands upon her and within a day—nay, perhaps within an hour!—she was up again, about her business.

  This Abbot Padova she sees now at prayers, whispering when the liturgy is done in the Patriarch’s ear, and as he whispers, Contarini watches him and smiles, and she knows that Padova is his man.

  And why not? she muses.

  If she had a piece like the abbot to play, she would deploy him to the very hilt.

  She flicks through her cards, looking for the answer.

  The Priestess.

  She says:—Perhaps you do not consider it appropriate that a nun should be a piece in your game?

  —I have no thoughts of appropriateness o
r rank, or any matter other than victory, Thene replies as the two of them walk side by side through the little chapel of the nunnery where the Priestess resides. It is not on the mainland of Venice itself, but on an island where the dead are taken to be buried, a steep little protrusion of green from the blue waters of the lagoon where the funeral barges wait in silence at the water’s edge for the priests and diggers of that place to carry their shrouded cargo into black soil. Dark-spined trees hang overhead, gravel crunches beneath their feet and birds sing between the branches, oblivious to the solemnity of this ground.

  —Quite right, murmurs the Priestess.—A piece is a piece; the game is the game. It is the separation of humanity from the enterprise that will permit you to win it. That being so, what do you desire of me?

  —I hear that the Church supports Contarini’s candidature for the Supreme Tribunal.

  —The Church doesn’t concern itself with such matters.

  —Come, you and I both know that isn’t true. Abbot Padova is very much Contarini’s man, and I have no doubt that he is being played.

  —Indeed? Well, there are more than some of us, perhaps, who made… arrangements with the Gameshouse we might someday regret.

  Thene hears the thoughts in the Priestess’s voice, feels the sorrow, sees her eyes drift towards the still waters of the lagoon, and though the offer is sweet and her curiosity blazes, she does not ask the question, but rather swiftly moves through it, for she has business to attend and is beginning to learn that a piece in this game is not as simple as a counter on the board, for these pieces have secrets and prides, and though they are hers by the rules of the game, yet they too must be shaped into something more.

  —I need to know what it is that Contarini has offered the bishops to sway them, and what it would take to change their minds.

  —And you expect me to find out?

  —I do, Sister. I think you are trustworthy. I think your honesty and piety are written in your face. I think you are regarded as spiritually notable but politically insignificant. I think you will be able to find out these truths very easily indeed.

  —I hope you have been dealt better cards than me, she replies.—Though I will, of course, do as you ask.

  —Thank you, Sister.

  And then, as she makes to go:

  —May I ask—how did you come to know of the Gameshouse?

  Thene hates that she cannot stop herself from asking, then forgives herself at once, concluding that the value of the question perhaps—but no, it cannot be—but perhaps even outweighs the glory of the prize for which she plays.

  The Priestess stands still, considering this question, considering her answer, whether it is apt to reply at all. At last she says,—I have seen four or five players set upon different matches who have asked me that question. The first time I was played, I was the Two of Cups, a novice in the order in Rome. The player asked me to perform a task which I could not achieve and I was nearly expelled, and he, having played me badly, lost the use of me as a piece and eventually the match. Then, the game was one of cardinals, and though I was not a player, I could see the pattern of moves well enough to know what the prize was. Ask yourself this, my lady: you play now to crown a king in Venice, and this is, I think, your very first game. Imagine the stakes that more experienced players must work for. Imagine the scale of their ambition. Though I am only a piece in your hand, I am powerful enough to take some interest in these matters, and of enough curiosity to wish to know how the Gameshouse makes its moves. I think anyone who considers themselves wise would do the same.

  —You are not tempted to play?

  —And risk losing? No. It is enough for me to know the board and see the direction that the pieces flow. I will not wager on it.

  As her ship pulls from the island, she sees another, taller, greater, a pennant proud on its mast, heading out towards the open sea. It is a ship of Faliere, though where it is going, riding so high in the water, she cannot tell. Her lips thin ever so slightly behind her mask—her ignorance frightens her more than any certainty of Faliere’s schemes. What does this man plot, who is so aloof from the machinations of the city, so far beyond the reaching of the game? She does not know, and is for a moment terrified.

  And as she returns to shore she sees black fires rising from the harbours.

  Men run, buckets, buckets, the buildings fall, the smoke rises up in a plume then spreads out into the sky at a certain point, as if passing some invisible barrier between the compressed, buffeting world of man and the expanse of heaven. If we stand close—too close!—the heat tears at our faces, at our skins, our lips crack, the blood pulses in our toes; retreat, nothing can save this now, and let us stand with the children who gape at the timbers cracking, the walls coming down, who watch the sparks of this blaze spin and flick towards heaven and say,—Mummy, it’s pretty—can we see another one?

  Onshore, the messenger confirms what she already knows: the warehouse was one of Tiapolo’s. It was supposed to be empty, all goods shipped out three days ago but look, there is the old man on his knees, weeping, weeping, all is lost and it seems that the rumours were a lie. The warehouse was not empty at all, but rather filled with a secret stash of pepper for sale to an Englishman who had promised five times its weight in gold and now—now!—all lost in a sweet-smelling smoke. Tiapolo will be ruined, some say, but no, he’ll come back, his kind always do.

  Thene does not stay to witness the old man on his knees, or to observe the masked man who stands behind him, a silver box empty in his hands, who turns at last and walks away.

  —Of course he can’t win, tuts Alvise Muna as they walk together beneath the low arches of San Marco at the setting sun.—Tiapolo’s entire strategy consisted of bribery and intimidation; it was already suspected that he couldn’t pay his debts and now he definitely cannot enforce his threats. One day he might be a competitor, but not today.

  Not today.

  There are only three contenders now: Seluda, Contarini, Faliere. Belligno still moves on the margins, but she cannot think he will last long.

  Which of Tiapolo’s rivals delivered the blow? What cards did they play?

  (Ah, the King of Swords! Char still clinging to his fingers, the smell of oil about his clothes; his card played, his debt discharged, he turns away from the blaze—until the next game.)

  She has bided her time long enough.

  Time to move.

  Chapter 16

  When they first invite Pietro Zanzano and his wife to dine, a message comes back pleading a headache.

  When the next day they propose the same again, the messenger returns that alas, they have prior commitments.

  On the third day, she visits the house and will not leave until she has seen the master personally.

  He is busy, irritated, his grey hair sticking out beneath his black cap. He is something of a rarity in Venetian politics—not only does he have a great name, but the wealth which bought that name has grown, grown over the centuries where so many others have declined. If there was ever a quality close to godliness in Venetian eyes, it is this, for how rarely do economics and honour collide?

  —Madam, he says, barely bothering to look at her,—I cannot visit your master’s house. My wife is ill-disposed.

  —Sir, she replies,—my master is most sad to hear that, but nevertheless some private conference will be of great use for us all.

  —Doubtless he wishes me to do some favours for him; I cannot of course interfere in this process.

  Hearing this, she smiles beneath her mask. It is the first time we have felt this, and it is so unexpected that we want to freeze this moment, capture it like a portrait, a second that was, and shall never be again.

  Then—then!

  She removes her mask.

  So long we have seen her in this guise, we have almost forgotten that she is human. Shall we use the word “beautiful”? Beauty is a thing that changes with the eye that sees it, but any woman, any living creature, is surely more beautiful than a ma
sk which hides her and so yes, we shall now declare that from the moment that was to the moment that is, she is alive, is living and is beautiful.

  Zanzano looks up and perhaps he is not as impressed as we are by this sight. Or perhaps he is like the mask that now she holds in her hand, a face without a heart.

  —You have already been made an offer, she muses out loud.—Very well. I will not do you that disservice to suggest that my master can beat the proposal that is already before you from Faliere—it is Faliere, I assume, who has approached you?

  He does not move, and she is correct.

  —It is a good move on the part of Faliere, as doubtless your voice holds great sway over these matters and you have power enough to decide, if not the vote, then a deal of it which is undecided until you speak. I will not do you any great dishonour to press you in this regard. You are a man of integrity; I wish you good luck.

  So saying, she leaves.

  And when she returns home, what of the mask shrouding her features?

  Do we detect anger in her voice, or is it merely the intensity of a plan that now must fall as she demands, else all is lost?

  We cannot tell. Our judgement here would be too subjective.

  Yet here she speaks, and what she says is:

  —Faliere.

  And it is a statement, and a challenge, and a move that is yet to be made.

  Chapter 17

  The birds are still singing on the island of the dead, the sun still shines as fresh coffins are lowered into the crowded earth. Thene walks by the Priestess’s side as the other says:

  —Contarini has a relic in his possession. The elbow of St. Simon.

  —Surely there are at least twenty elbows of St. Simon in Venice already?

  —The bishops seem to believe that this one is genuine—or rather…

  Thene smiles to see the Priestess smile, for it is such a rare expression across her features that it reminds Thene, in a way she cannot describe, of herself.