by Tanith Lee
If Meralda had been able to buy Euniche off, or to lose Euniche somewhere, then there would have been no need to confide in her. But the apparently unbribable Euniche now seemed unlikely ever to leave Meralda alone. Naturally, Euniche sensed developments. As for the act on the bed, how could Euniche have any doubts? She herself had facilitated it.
“M’donna—you seem in such a flurry. Why have you taken these things from your chest? Shall I put them back?”
“No—I—need them.”
“How, lady?”
“There’s something I must do.”
“But your cloak, lady—are you going out again?”
And so on.
Eventually the girl had to confess. If only to prevent Euniche from neatly putting away every item Meralda took up for her journey. Of course, another eloper might have managed things differently. But Meralda was herself, fourteen and at her wit’s end.
“Lorenzo and I are to leave the City—“ she whispered, at long last.
Euniche pretended amazement and alarm.
Then Meralda also confessed that she had given up her chastity to Lorenzo.
At that Euniche crossed herself, gathered Meralda into her arms, and vowed that it was no one’s fault, and that God was forgiving to true lovers, and that she, Euniche, would assist her mistress, regardless of any risk to herself.
Then everything was told; Lorenzo’s plan, the boat that would wait by the church of Maria Maesta, its route, the money and papers Lorenzo had garnered. They would be married, but not at Silvia; rather in some rural town farther off, wherever a priest could be made willing.
After this, Euniche helped Meralda to pack up the necessaries for her flight. Then she said that she too had something to do, in order to make everything easier for the fleeing pair. She did not say what this was.
“Rest now, lady. Have a little sleep while you are able. I’ll tell them in the house you have a headache from the sun.”
This at least Euniche did.
It was now well into the afternoon. The maid left the palazzo by a side door, and walked by a long alley under arches to the market behind Aquila.
Mature sunlight lay across the booths, and piled in ruby sheets against the ribs of carcasses newly butchered. If this omen meant anything to Euniche, she gave no sign.
Straight to the paper shops she went, where sheets of Arabian paper, waxes, goose feathers for pens, and metal styluses from the East were sold. Here, too, you could always find someone to scribe a letter for you.
Because of what her letter needed to say, it had to be organized with care. But the old man, who had once or twice written on her behalf in the past, was also in thrall to Euniche. She had long ago, by lucky accident, learned something about him.
“Ah, my girl,” said he, affecting nonchalance and looking at her warily, “how may I help you?”
“I must send a letter on good paper,” said Euniche, loftily. “You must see to it. In the back room.”
So he took her through into the dark chamber, where parchments, ledgers, and wooden boxes stood in columns, and the sunlight only came in chinks through the shutters.
“Light your lamp,” said Euniche.
He obeyed. “To which must I address the letter?” Euniche nodded. “To his lordship, Signore-donno Andrea Barbaron, at the Castello.”
The old man’s mouth fell open. “You are writing to the Barbarons—to the Barbaron eldest son—the heir—”
“Are you to question me, or to write, Jacobe?”
“Excuse me, Euniche, but—this is a great house, and besides, you serve the della Scorpias, who are the sworn enemies—”
“Thank you so kindly for telling me this, which I have never known.” The old man now cowered, but Euniche added, for good measure, “It is to be our secret, Jacobe, this letter. Like the other secret we have.”
“Yes, yes then, Euniche.”
“You recall the other secret, Jacobe?”
“To my regret—”
“The tally of what you have regularly stolen from your employer, and sold on your own account?”
“Yes—hush, please, please say no more, Euniche—you know I did it to send my grandson to the University. It wasn’t for myself.”
“Yes. That’s the only reason I have never told.” Jacobe bowed to the creamy paper.
“Only say what’s to put down, Euniche. You know I’m your friend, as you are mine.”
They left in darkness, under a sky smooth as velvet, where a quarter moon shone like a silver venus.
Their exit required walking silently, through the garden, then through a snarl of store rooms on the palace’s ground floor. Euniche had devised it. But at the outer door, a small one, normally locked (Euniche had gotten the key) and unguarded, the assistant gave her mistress over to the night.
Alone then, Meralda traversed the shorter alley—it seemed long—and came to the bridged canal, where Lorenzo waited for her in a wanderer.
Once in the boat, she lay in his arms, shuddering at the enormity of what she had done. Yet his arms were warm and very strong, as she had remembered. He would keep her safe from all the nightmares of the world.
Euniche meanwhile had gone to the kitchen, where sometimes even the higher maids of the house gathered. Here she sighed and said her mistress had sent her off again, and she feared Meralda was unwell, she had been behaving strangely and secretively for some while.
“I have left her to sleep as she wanted. She was almost hysterical when I remonstrated—what can one do? If things don’t improve, I must ask Donna Caterina what to do.” (This was one of Meralda’s aunts.) “She is very gracious, Donna Caterina.”
The people in the kitchen nodded, afraid to disagree, though Caterina della Scorpia was a cold, too-pious woman. Over the hearth the great pots boiled, and tawny feathers fluttered about from a plucking of guinea fowl. Euniche saw no omens in any of that.
Best she liked power over others. With Meralda, she had found the nicest power was that of life and death.
During that hot evening, as the sky had burnt to crimson behind the City, Andrea Barbaron paced about the upper floors of the Castello. Thinking that he was in a bad mood, his siblings and cronies gave him a wide berth. Andrea was seldom to be trifled with.
He was young, the heir, thick-set and heavy in appearance, his fleshy face handsome, his hair a rich russet-brown, cared for like a woman’s and hanging down his back. He wore, that day, the colors of Barbaron, deep red and sapphire. The design of the Tower, which was the sigil of Barbaron, had been worked for him into a golden collar.
In his thick, ringed fingers he occasionally turned a piece of paper. Much handling had made it limp and smeared its ink, but he could still make out what it said. There was no seal, no name attached. He would not have expected there to be. Plainly enough some underling had written it—or had it written. Not for gain, it seemed, since the author was anonymous, but out of malice.
One phrase came over and again to Andrea’s sharp blue eyes.
“Your lordship may find amusement in promoting the disgrace of one already far-fallen. And in so doing, make of your closest foes a general laughing-stock.”
The words were self-consciously chosen, Andrea thought, and one or two were misspelled. It was a man’s hand—but that denoted only the writer, who might not be the instigator.
Otherwise, everything was clear enough, providing it were true. A daughter of the della Scorpias had taken up with an artisan, some painter’s student, and having already bedded with the fellow, would tonight make off with him. Venus was a City of flights and burrowings, and doubtless they anticipated getting clean away.
There were, however, two complications. For one thing, the girl was already betrothed to one of the noble Ciaras, the one about whom certain sinister stories had recently wafted. Secondly, the handy mischief-maker had outlined both the hour and the escapees’ route.
Another man than Andrea might have gone to his father, the old Lord Barbaron, with this news. B
ut Andrea did not even consider it.
The note had been brought by an unseen urchin, for Andrea’s eyes. Should he involve his father then, it might add further awkwardness. Besides, and this was more to the point, Andrea did not know that his father would be willing to do anything. Andrea respected and disliked his sire in equal measure. In all forms he was outwardly correct, but he waited impatiently for the old man to die and give up the domain, of Barbaron. And that the old man delayed to do. Andrea felt himself to have been consciously standing on tiptoe, breath held for the event, for well over five years (he was now nineteen, but looked older).
This was typical of how they were. The father chilly, persistent, and slow. Andrea heated and quick, of wit and deed.
Therefore, what use to make of the titbit, how to indulge in retribution, while keeping unsullied the name of Barbaron? Andrea did not intend to pass up an opportunity to harm the della Scorpias. Along with his duty to his house, and a sharp attention to all its interests, both political and mercantile, Andrea kept the score of every tussel with Barbaron’s enemies. … on which list the della Scorpias traditionally ranked the highest.
To Andrea, revenge was neither mean nor unlawful. It was, at its most simple, a facet of his duty to his class and family. But, it pleased him, too. He liked it, as he liked to fight with swords, eat a good meal, outthink others in business, or rig a vigorous woman. Besides, Andrea also knew his duty to God. Part of which was, for himself and his, to appear at the Last Trumpet fully clad in flesh, stepping out of a grave and not a jar of dust. The contention over the burial ground on the Isle was important to him.
As the sky shed its flames, Andrea made his decision.
Inside the half of an hour, he had summoned three of his younger brothers, his nearest companion, Gualdo, and some of their men. The problem had been presented, and Andrea’s solution given. After this, some preparation took place. A gathering of boats came to the canal-side doors of Barbaron. And, in its turn, there was the sending of another letter, the content of which was brief.
All this caused very slight comment, for Andrea often went about with his pack. And at night they were seldom at home.
After the furnace of the day, the night had dropped cool. Under that velvet sky with its venus of moon, the channels ran sinuous as snakes of black glass.
They went by the backways of the City, Meralda and Lorenzo, avoiding those spots where torches blazed on the front of buildings, seemingly setting the water itself on fire. The light that was in these narrow fretted windows was soft, and undemanding. Often there was no light, the houses they passed like walls of shadow, glimmering ghostly from the reflections of the moon and the canals.
She did not know the path the boat was taking. Lorenzo knew, that was enough. (It had been enough, too, for others, since Meralda had named the way, even without knowing it.)
In Meralda’s mind, a timid fantasy was getting hold, of how they would live together, he and she. Unpractical, she did not think of all she would have to learn. That she could neither cook nor darn nor wash clothes—which would doubtless be required of her—that she knew nothing at all, even how to care for a child should one arrive. There had, in the house of non-friends, been always others to look after her. Somehow it seemed this would still continue, even when she was Lorenzo’s wife, in some tenement or army camp of the future.
She was drowsy, too. She had not slept, not for a great while, it seemed. It would be wonderful to sleep now, inside the fortress of love.
Meralda drifted, her lullaby the glok-glok of the oar in the water, the candle of the moon to keep night-haunts away. Secure forever in Lorenzo’s arms.
“Messer—” the boatman’s voice, far off, “Messer—who are these?”
And his arms let her go.
“God knows who they are, not I—”
“They’re blocking the channel, Messer.”
“I can see that. Go to one side.”
“It will be impossible.”
Meralda opened her eyes and saw, too.
There were four boats, half veiled in darkness, yet each with a lantern hanging at the prow. Men stood up on the boats, cloaked also in black. But there, and there again, a curious glint of gold, or steel.
And now they were very near.
“Turn back,” said Lorenzo. “They’re robbers.” His tones were uneven with nervousness.
But just then a man called along the few feet of separating canal. “Hail to you, Lorenzo Vai. The greetings of this night.”
The salute was given in a voice of stone.
“He knows you, Messer.”
“Christ’s heart.”
One of the boats detached itself and eased gracefully forward. It was not a wanderer, but well-handled and agile. As it came, the lantern seemed to catch, as if by magic, a shining golden tower within a cloak. Lorenzo finally noticed who they really were.
“They’re Barbarons,” said Lorenzo. “Oh, God … your worst adversaries … Meralda, don’t say a word—”
But this was of no use, for now the approaching boat ground lightly against their own. There, standing up in its prow, the man who had shown his colors, was Andrea Barbaron. He said, “Well met, Messer Vai. And M’donna Meralda. I think you are attempting to desert our glorious City of Venus. I think you must not. No, I think, M’donna, for the sake of your own fairest name, you’d better accept my protection. We shan’t hurt you. We only want to take you to your rightful lord.”
Meralda sat transfixed. A lance might have gone through her and pinned her to the boat, which all the while seemed to be withdrawing from around her (as had Lorenzo s arms) so that she hung there suspended, between night and water, weightless, in the still air.
Lorenzo said, his voice shaking, “To her father? No, her father is cruel to her. Why would you help the della Scorpias—let them sink to Hell. Only let us by, Signore, only let us go on—”
“No,” said Andrea. That was all. It cut the night in two, that one word. Then, after a pause he added, urbanely, “But don’t fear it’s her father we’ll take you both to. I meant her intended husband, Ciara.”
This was the same darkness, through which she and Lorenzo had drifted. How changed.
They had come on to a lagoon. Meralda did not know which one. It might have been anywhere. It might have been in Hell.
Far off, too far and all indifferent, were the lamps and tapers of the City, the walls that held the water from the sky. And then an islet appeared, a little black hump. There was the winey smell of overripen pomegranates. The boat bumped against stone.
She had been put into this boat with Andrea Barbaron and some others. Another boat held Lorenzo, but he had struggled, there in the dark on the canal, and been felled by Andrea’s cousin, the useful Gualdo. Since then, Lorenzo made no protests.
Most devastating of all perhaps, was Meralda’s sense of utter aloneness. It was as if her lover were not even there with her. As if he had abandoned her—not for involuntary unconciousness, but by running miles away.
This fate was hers, and no one could save her from it. If she had stupidly believed Lorenzo Vai could do so, now she was enlightened.
Andrea helped Meralda ashore quite courteously.
Steps led up towards a low, brick house. It was old, had been erected some two centuries before, and the endless encroachment of the lagoon had marked it, inwardly and out. But in the dark, that same darkness, it was only the most terrible spot in the world.
“A house of secrets,” remarked Andrea, as Gualdo and another of the Barbaron men dumped Lorenzo’s inert body on the landing-place. “The story is, some priest of the Primo kept his mistress here, and his boys. They say you can catch huge eels here as easy as blinking.”
She did not say to him, Why am I here?
He told her, anyway.
“This is his solitary-house now. I mean, your betrothed. Sometimes he likes to come here, quietly, for a private festivity of his own.”
He was not sadistic. He was only telling
her, grimly enough, what lay in wait for her. Andrea, with his codes of honor, had no time for women who transgressed the only duty required of them, faithfulness.
Then other men came down the steps. They were all one with the darkness, and they gathered up Lorenzo and carried him away. At this Meralda would have shrieked, but since they were also hustling her in the same direction, the shriek died within her.
By then Andrea, his part in the drama played (and hungry too, for he had missed his dinner through this), had gotten back into the boat with Gualdo.
As the night-house received her, Meralda heard male laughter rowed off over the lagoon.
And now there was only this dark room. And through the dark came two points of light, lit by a third point, all floating. Three candles: one flame, two eyes.
Ciara.
He held the candlestick in his thin and too-white hand. Every second she saw more of him, as the chamber bloomed up into light. It was full of candles now, and he had set his down. The servants—or had they been unseen things, minions of the dark—had withdrawn.
He nodded.
“I am honored, madonna, to entertain you as my guest. A joy I hadn’t anticipated so soon.”
There were tapestries on the walls, to hide the damp perhaps, in dull ancient colors picked out with brackish silver thread. And there was a table with a damask cloth, figured with flowers. On this, were dishes of silver, and goblets of the finest Venus glass, pale red and sulfur, and, in their oval wombs, tiny curled embryos of candlelight.
Courteous as a gallant, he had seated her at the table.
“You must pardon me, madam. My poor house is hardly properly supplied for your visit. Your visit being so unexpected. But try a little of this cheese and fruit. The bread. The wine is good, and will refresh you.” Perhaps he smiled, or not. There were only his eyes, his hands—his hands also watched her with their optical rings. “Tomorrow I must summon a feast for you, something to charm a dainty maiden.”
Even his clothing was invisible to Meralda.