by Deva Fagan
It had taken us two weeks to reach Sirenza. In my mind, those days were lit with an endless golden sunlight, filtering across the green fields we had ridden through, scattered with sunflowers and poppies. I had steadfastly avoided any thought of the future. Instead, I had stored up memories, like fat golden coins I would hoard for the rest of my life.
The memory of Leonato dancing me around a dusty village square when we happened upon a celebration of the feast of Saint Aleppo. I had been embarrassed, out of practice, but he had been too jubilant to care if I stumbled. Soon enough, I didn’t care either.
The memory of huddling under the leaky overhang of some shepherd’s barn, waiting out a sudden storm. I should have been wretched, soaked, and shivering. But Leonato found a kindle of kittens in the hay, and before I knew it, even dour Captain Ribisi was smothering a smile at their antics.
The prince had a boundless capacity for delight and shared it freely. When I was with him, I loved life with a joy I had not felt in many years. My past might hold sorrows, my future might be uncertain, but for those two weeks I had a glorious, sunlit present.
But I could ignore the future no longer. The paddles dipped softly into the rippling waters as Leonato and the captain rowed us smoothly toward Sirenza. She was there, somewhere. The girl that Leonato would marry. I felt ill. I peered at the prince, trying to discern what he might be feeling. Was he excited? Did his heart pound at the thought of his mystery bride? I knew we had no future together, but that did not stop me from wanting to know if Leonato regretted it as much as I.
I comforted myself that he looked troubled, before I remembered the first rule of fortune-telling: People believe what they want to believe. Even me. Bitterly, I tore my gaze from the prince and concentrated on the city ahead.
We drifted in with a line of other vessels passing into the main canal. Two great braziers burned on stone pilings at either side of the canal entrance. A barge held fast in the center, and on it stood a cluster of guards. As each boat passed into the city, it drew up alongside the barge. I peered through the night, trying to make out the faces of the guards, but the leaping flames of the brazier made it hard to see their features.
We were nearly upon it, with only a large skiff ahead of us, when I got a good look at the men on the barge. I shrank down instantly, with a muffled yelp.
“What’s wrong?” Leonato called in a low voice.
“It’s the Bloody Captain himself,” I hissed. “There on the barge.”
“Don’t worry. He has no reason to trouble with us.”
We had agreed to travel in the guise of a minor landowner and his two children, on pilgrimage to the statue of Saint Marco in the grand plaza of Sirenza. But Captain Niccolo would see through this ruse the moment he set eyes on me. “He knows me,” I admitted. “He’ll know I’m not a pilgrim.”
Captain Ribisi moved so nimbly he barely rocked the boat, passing Leonato his own oar, and hastening forward to the prow. “Keep your hood up,” he ordered, and shoved me none too gently toward the side of the boat that faced away from the barge. “And keep quiet.”
The guards were calling us to draw up. Leonato dipped both oars into the water. He frowned, whether in concentration or concern I didn’t know. But he gave me a reassuring grin when he caught me looking at him.
“Keep your face down,” ordered Captain Ribisi. His iron grip held me fast against the far side of the boat, so I couldn’t see what was happening. I heard the creak of the barge under booted feet, heard the rote questions. Captain Ribisi gave his false name and supposed business and place of origin. When he announced that we were from Saint Federica’s Rest, the guard said, “Lord Niccolo, these ones are northerners. Would you like to question them yourself, sir?”
I nearly lost my dinner over the side of the boat. The stamp of well-heeled boots approached.
“Northerners, are they?” Niccolo’s voice slid cold fingers along my spine. Part of me wanted to turn around, to see if he was looking at me, if he had somehow recognized me. Another part wanted to leap then and there into the canal, though I could not swim. Anything to get away from him. “Your names?”
“Giorgio, my lord, and my children, Federico and Maria.”
“Bring that lantern,” said Niccolo, and from the corner of my eye I saw a beam of golden light sweep over our boat. “Fine-looking lad, though nothing of your coloring in that hair.”
“He takes after his mother, my lord.”
“And your daughter?”
Captain Ribisi’s hand tightened on my shoulder. “I’m afraid she’s not taken well to travel by boat, my lord.”
I followed his hint and dutifully began producing wretched sounds as I leaned out farther over the side. It was not far from the truth.
“Tell me, Master Giorgio, in your travels south have you come across a northern prince and his entourage? They would be traveling south as well.”
“No, my lord.”
There was a long pause. I feared we had somehow been discovered. Had Coso come south from Doma to warn the captain? I held my breath. “Very well. You may go about your business. My man will take the entrance tax.” Then the boots clicked against the barge, retreating. Captain Ribisi removed his hand from my shoulder, though I remained clinging to the side of the boat.
“That’s five guilders,” said one of the guards.
As Captain Ribisi rummaged in our bags to find the payment, I could hear Niccolo muttering to his other men. “Come to find the princess, curse it. How they discovered she was here I do not know. If there have been loose lips, they will soon be cut. . . .”
“There’s no way anyone could free her, my lord, not from the tower.”
“There should have been no way for anyone to know she yet lived,” said Niccolo, his voice rising. “You lot stay alert. You’re to let me know if any other travelers from the north pass through. And double the watch boats. I want no one entering or leaving the city without my knowledge. Is that clear?”
The hearty affirmations rang across the canal as we rowed on under the bridge and into the Grand Canal of Sirenza. As the barge passed into darkness behind us, I turned from the side of the boat, not certain I could believe this stroke of good fortune.
“Did you hear?” Leonato asked. “What luck! The S-s-saints are truly s-s-smiling on us.”
“That captain’s an idiot,” was all Captain Ribisi said.
“So we need to find this tower,” said Leonato. He paused, frowning into the heart of the city. “And rescue the princess.”
I wondered if it was the challenge of extracting a prisoner from the Bloody Captain’s grasp that made the prince look so bleak. Or was it something more? Oh, how I dreaded and yearned for the faceless princess. She was the key to my greatest happiness and my deepest sorrow. Find her, and I would save my father’s life. Find her, and I would lose Leonato to her forever.
I jerked myself out of these dark thoughts. I was being an idiot. I didn’t have Leonato, so how could I lose him? I shouldn’t question this good luck. But still my brain whirled, like a restless, feverish child. There were things going on I did not understand. Yet, whatever else, I had the means to make my fortune come true. That was all that really mattered. Father’s life depended on it.
WE TOOK ROOMS at a small inn near the great cathedral, middling accommodations suited to our supposed station. Leonato was all afire to start investigating possible locations of “the tower,” but Captain Ribisi had other ideas. We were playing the parts of pilgrims, and so we must do what pilgrims would do: Visit the statue of Saint Marco in the grand plaza and attend the Mass of Saints at the cathedral.
“We risk drawing unwelcome attention otherwise,” he cautioned as we took our breakfast the morning after our arrival, on a balcony that jutted out over the Grand Canal. He set a slim book in a tattered leather cover down on the table, between the basket of bread and the bowl of oranges.
“The verses of Saint Marco?” I guessed. A pilgrim would almost certainly be carrying such a
thing.
He nodded, and passed us each a string of glass beads. “And prayer beads as well,” I said. I had to respect the captain, though I was still suspicious of him. He was as clever as I in deception. I held up the necklace, admiring the flashes of amber and green in the sunlight.
“All these lies,” Leonato said, setting the handful of beads down so roughly I feared he might break them. “I don’t like it.”
I felt as small and tattered as the prayer book. I had been deceiving the prince for weeks, and my lies were far worse than a false name and a string of beads. Sudden dread filled me like a brimming cup of poison. Leonato must never know. I could lose him to a beautiful princess, but I could never bear to have him look on me with disdain and disgust. “The most important thing is to rescue the princess,” I said, forcing myself back to the matter at hand. “That is your task. Even with an army you couldn’t take this city without great bloodshed, and the captain might well murder the girl.”
“Is that what you s-see?” Leonato asked, twisting a rind of orange in his fingers, filling the air with the sharp citrus scent.
“It’s what the captain would do,” I said. Even without magical foresight, I knew Captain Niccolo was that sort of man.
Leonato cast aside the scrap of peel and took up the prayer beads moodily. He slipped the string around his neck. “Then pilgrims it is.”
I WAITED WITH Captain Ribisi in the shadow of Saint Marco, who stood tall and bronze as if ready to spring up into the heavens. The prince was mingling with the crowds leaving the cathedral, hoping to hear something useful about the princess amid the chatter and gossip. I was keeping my eye on Captain Ribisi. I still had my doubts about his loyalties and couldn’t afford to give him the chance to contact our enemies.
Clouds of pigeons swirled over our heads, flocking to an old man and his grandson, who were feeding them stale bread near the fountain. Captain Ribisi watched them inscrutably for a long moment, then deposited a garland of roses at the sandaled feet of the statue, his gray head bent low. I wondered what prayers he muttered to the Saints, over his posy of remembrance.
When I saw Leonato approaching, I assumed from his troubled expression that he had learned nothing. He thumped himself down beside the statue, gripping the bench on either side, as if bracing himself. “I’ve found out where she is.” He stared toward the Royal Canal that ran along the far side of the plaza. “There’s a tower in the north quarter, near the palace. They call it the Perdutto, the tower of the lost.”
“Not a promising name,” I said.
“But you’ve s-s-seen that I would rescue the princess in your visions. I’ll find a way,” Leonato said, intently. “I must.”
And I must help him. I forced myself to think of my father, of how we would travel once he was free, singing the silly journey songs he loved, finding the best nut cakes in every town and village. We might even return to Valenzia. Perhaps I would buy him a Bragelli painting of his own. There should be enough from what I would earn deceiving Leonato. I knew I could never spend a penny of it on myself.
Captain Ribisi rose, flicking a stray petal from his sleeve. “Trust in your own strength, not visions, my prince. Now, let’s go take a look at this tower.”
We hired a gondola at the edge of the plaza, for travel to the north quarter was a circuitous and tangled route on foot, according to Captain Ribisi. The gracefully curved vessel slipped through the green waters of the Royal Canal, the gondolier chanting in time with his poling and calling out greetings to his brethren.
The captain had us disembark not far from the palace, past a narrow footbridge that spanned the canal. I could see men and women leaning out their windows, chatting amiably across the gap between them. Two boys were poling a small raft from door to door, delivering baskets of lemons. Captain Ribisi led us up a stone stair to a narrow walk that ran atop several buildings, green and fragrant with rooftop gardens.
“You know this city well,” I remarked as the older man took us down another flight of steps I had nearly missed.
“It was once my home,” he said.
I shared a look with Leonato, who appeared as surprised as I at this admission. “Why did you leave?” asked the prince.
But just then we emerged into a sort of cloister along the edge of a larger body of water. “There,” said Captain Ribisi simply.
There was no question what he meant. A single finger of stone rose from the water, smooth and seamless, as if it were a great boulder carved by the hands of the Saints into this cylinder. It stood separate from any other structure, surrounded on all sides by the softly riffled waters. The canal widened out into nearly a small lake here. On the far edge, colorful banners flapped from the balconies of a row of white buildings.
“What’s on the other side?” I asked.
“The Collegium,” Captain Ribisi said. “Those are the colors of the student societies.”
“And this side?” I peered up along the covered walk at the massive stone masonry rising beyond.
“It was once the Hall of Kings, but it’s been turned over to the Bloody Captain’s soldiers, for use as barracks.”
Leonato paid no heed to our exchange. He stood at the edge of the walk, where a low stone wall bounded us from the waters below. “Look. There’s s-s-someone at that window. It must be her, the princess.” He leaned out over the stone wall so far I feared he might tumble down into the canal.
I frowned, squinting at the window. A pale oval, blurred by the distance, but set in a sweep of gold that trailed down the gray stone casement. She was too far away for me to tell, but I had a strange foreboding that she was beautiful. Probably with ruby lips and eyes of cornflower blue, to go with that cornsilk hair. Impractically long, I thought derisively. Why, it must be down to her knees. My own brown braids fell only to the middle of my back, though normally I wore them coiled atop my head out of the way.
“Is sh-sh-she beautiful?” Leonato asked, still staring at the window.
I coughed. “What?”
“The princess, you must have s-s-seen her in your visions. I was, well, wondering if sh-she was beautiful. It’s not required by the Edicts, of course. I was just . . . curious.”
I struggled with my throat, which had gone suddenly tight and dry. Leonato deserved someone beautiful, and kind, and intelligent. And truthful. “I don’t know,” I said at last. I turned to study the Collegium banners as I spoke, unable to face him. “That is, I saw only her feet. In the vision. We’d better try to get around to see that tower on the other side.”
IN THE END, our plan was a relatively simple one. The guards at the Perdutto were as regular in their rounds and watches as the moon circling the heavens. Captain Ribisi and Leonato spent a long night observing the pattern and found a flaw that we could turn to our advantage. Between the first dark watch and the midnight change, there was a short period when the lowest window, not two man-heights from the canal, was unobserved. If we were prepared to move quickly, we could get a small boat to the window and back in that time. There were so many variables I froze with fear if I began to consider them. What if the girl was too slow, what if someone else happened by, what if the guards altered their routine?
But it was our best option. I had given up worrying about whether the slippers would fit. We would get her out and then see. And if they didn’t, Saints help me if I didn’t chop the girl’s toes off to make them fit.
We waited in the shadow of a balcony jutting out from the Collegium. I could just make out snippets of a debate within, over some obscure philosophical point in the writings of Saint Humberto. Captain Ribisi crouched like a gargoyle at the edge of our raft, motionless, the silvery glints in his hair pricked out by the starlight. Thankfully the crescent moon overhead was dim, but I still felt that we would be terribly exposed in this undertaking. What if Leonato was spotted by the guard and shot? What if he fell?
“Stop fidgeting, both of you,” Captain Ribisi ordered. “It’s nearly time.”
Leonato slid
the dagger he’d been fiddling with back into the scabbard at his belt. I stood up from the ledge that ran along the canal, realizing I had been drumming my fingers on the stone. The night darkened. A cloud had swarmed over the moon.
“Now!”
Leonato took up the pole and pushed us off into the lazy current. I held my breath as we drifted along in the darkness, praying the cloud would remain. I looked along the top of the barracks across from us, but saw no sign of the guard. We had until he completed his circuit of the walkway to finish our task. Captain Ribisi took hold of his own pole and worked with the prince to guide us toward the Perdutto.
We bumped up against the smooth stone with a thump that made my heart stutter. Even out here I could hear the laughter of the students floating over the dark water. The canal seemed to magnify all sounds. I kept my eyes fast on the edge of the barracks, expecting to see a guard at any moment.
Someone tapped my arm. I looked up to see Captain Ribisi holding out one of the poles. I took it, nodding. My part was to keep the raft from slipping free and continuing on along the canal. The current held us pushed up against the tower for now, but shortly Leonato and the captain would be too occupied with other things to tend to the raft.
I thrust the end of the long length of wood down into the water, into the squelching silt below. Captain Ribisi hastened to position himself against the side of the tower, hands interlaced, ready to give Leonato a leg up to the window above. The prince scrambled up gracefully, caught hold of the window ledge, then pulled himself up to balance lightly for a moment before jumping down inside. His blond head reappeared briefly as he gave us a reassuring wave, then he was gone.
I felt as if a great weight sat squarely upon my chest, crushing the air from me. My hands gripping the pole were slick with sweat. I rubbed first one, then the other against my skirts as the moments crawled past. It was the guard’s imminent arrival that made me fret—that’s what I told myself. I had no reason to care what was going on in the tower. I had read enough fairy tales. It would be love at first sight probably. Or he would find her sleeping (in a bower of silk and flowers no doubt) and wake her with a kiss. Would he think of me at all? I wondered. Would he feel any regret? Or was it only I who felt this brutal rip tearing through my heart? Ruthlessly, I crammed the thoughts into the back of my mind. This was his destiny. I had made it so.