by Trish Telep
"He sees us."
"It's all right."
"Pietro ..."
"Yes?"
"He's turning the batela. He's heading back the way he came."
"Toward the French?"
"Yes. I think so."
"Then would you ask Brezza to help stoke the fire?"
"Of course!" Chiara lowered the spyglass and turned.
With the fire tended by the two elementals, Pietro closed the furnace door. When the steam pressure rose, he took the rudder, next to a panel of levers that were connected to the paddlewheels and furnace through a complicated system of gears, pistons, and pipes.
"Have you ... worked on this thing often?" Chiara asked, not sure quite how to describe the process of maneuvering a steamship. It wasn't rowing or sailing, that was for certain.
"Never." He grinned and threw a lever. The wheels on the left and right began to turn, propelling the craft backward into open water.
"But you've seen it done before, right?" she shouted over the grinding of the gears, the splashing of the water, and the rumble of the steam engine.
"Twice!"
Chiara buried her face in her hands and prayed to the saints that she hadn't entrusted her voyage to another madman.
After they'd traveled long enough for her to be certain that they weren't going to explode, she moved forward and leaned against the gunwale. Broad expanses of blue water and green marshland spread before her gaze. The sun warmed her back while occasional water droplets from the paddlewheels moistened her cheeks, but she was oblivious, her thoughts fixed on the mission ahead.
As granddaughter of the doge, getting past the Lido Gates shouldn't be too hard. And the ritual wouldn't be too difficult, either. She'd always been impressed by the pomp and ceremony when she'd gone with her grandfather, but Pietro said most of it was show. All the doge really needed to do was declare his intention and reaffirm the pact with his cifra di sangue.
Her stomach fluttered as she touched the small knife she'd taken from the farmhouse and tucked into her dresswaist. She'd already seen too much blood today. Soon she'd be seeing a lot more. But Pietro had promised he'd be there to monitor the ritual and bandage her when she was done.
She shot him a quick glance. He was standing with one hand on the rudder, grinning happily as the breeze ruffled his chestnut hair. They could be going out to Lido for a picnic, for all the worry he showed.
Maybe someday they could do that, too.
Right. As if her grandfather would ever allow it.
Her eyes moved behind him and she straightened. A dark line of boats was moving away from Murano.
"Pietro--the French!" she shouted over the steamship's noisy engine. He gave her a puzzled look. She pointed behind him. He turned and the ship shuddered as his hand slipped on the rudder.
She moved to his side and lifted the spyglass.
"It's definitely the French," she reported. "That man in the blue coat is in the first boat."
"LeClerc." Pietro laid a hand on her shoulder, leaning closer so that he didn't have to shout so loud. She didn't mind. "He must have guessed where we were going when that traitor told him about us."
"Do you think he knows who I am?"
"He might have guessed." He squeezed her shoulder gently. "I'll make sure you get to the ritual on time. I promise."
She looked up at him. Their faces were just inches apart, and for a breathless moment they both stood motionless, gazing at each other.
But then the boat shuddered and Pietro turned to correct the course. His cheeks were flushed, she saw, with a combination of embarrassment and satisfaction.
And so were hers. She raised the spyglass again to make it harder for him to tell.
"They're falling behind," she reported some time later. "But what happens when we get to the Gate? Won't they catch up then?"
"If they do, we'll have the rest of the alchemical engineers to help us." He glanced at her. "And they have guns and cannon."
She nodded, reassured.
Sure enough, the French boats fell back as the engineer's steam-powered watercraft chugged through the lagoon, frightening waterfowl and churning up the waters.
They reached Lido by late afternoon. Chiara lifted the spyglass again, studying the great wood-and-brass gate that towered over the water, encrusted with the immense pistons and gears that opened and closed it. The gate was flanked by a militant stone structure that stretched from the shore out into the water.
She lowered the glass to study the harbor.
Three large, flat-bottomed peate were moored to the docks. And, his back propped against one of the brass-topped oak mooring posts, a French sentry lazily aimed his rifle at the seagulls overhead, pretending to fire.
Chiara grabbed Pietro's arm.
"The French are already here!"
"Impossible!"
She handed him the glass and he pointed it to the docks, then swung toward the gates. At last he lowered it, looking thoughtful.
"Maybe it was a three-pronged attack?" he asked. "One group attacks the city. One group attacks the Guild headquarters at Murano. And one group comes here. But that's so many soldiers ..."
"And how could they get here?" Chiara protested. "Why didn't somebody fire on them?" She gestured to the crenellated walls, through which the muzzles of cannon glinted in the low sun.
"I don't know. Maybe they came in disguise?"
"The soldiers in San Marco and Murano were in uniform ... Could there have been a traitor among the Gatehouse engineers?"
"Maybe, but how could one traitor keep the entire day-shift of engineers under control by himself? Especially on a day when everyone would be overly watchful and cautious?" Pietro stared at the sealed port. "Maybe they had a hostage."
"Everyone important was in the piazza with my grandfather for the festival." She looked up, alarmed. "What if they have him? What if they captured him and took him here?"
Pietro drew in a sharp breath. "Holding the doge hostage would keep us from firing."
"We need to hurry. Where do I have to go?"
"Wait. You can't get past that sentry by yourself!"
"I can't wait here, either. I need to go now. I can have the silfi carry me to the Gatehouse."
"It's too far. You'd pass out--they'd take too much breath." He looked around. "Can you swim?"
"Yes. But--" She gestured to her dress. "Not in this."
"Then you'll have to hold on to me for a little while we swim to shore. But I know how we can distract the guards."
"Hold on to you?"
He grinned. "I won't mind if you forget to let go when we get to shore."
She frowned, but her heart wasn't in it. "What are you going to do?"
He explained.
She had entrusted her voyage to a madman.
Ten minutes later, they were both in the water, clutching the rope ladder hanging over the back of the steamship as the craft dragged them toward the wharfs. Pietro had jammed the rudder in place and opened the valve to full power before they'd both climbed overboard.
The sentry soon heard the ship and turned, shouting in French and then in heavily accented Italian.
"Stop! Stop the boat!"
When nothing happened, he began to fire. Chiara winced as she heard a bullet ping off the exhaust vent and then, a minute later, another thud into the ship's hull.
The sentry began shouting in French again.
"Now!" Pietro exclaimed, letting go of the rope. Chiara released it, too, choking a moment as her head dipped under the water. Pietro grabbed her as she surfaced. Just as she'd feared, swimming was impossible in her skirts.
"Hold on!"
She threw her arms around his neck as he began swimming for shore under cover of the inexorably retreating steamship.
Chiara's feet touched ground just as a splintering crash heralded the craft's impact with the docks. Pietro scrambled upright, grabbing her hand and pulling her out of the water, one arm thrown over her back as if to protect her from--
&nb
sp; A great booming explosion rattled through their bones and a ball of flame burst into the air as Tizzo followed through with his orders, igniting the liquid fire they'd poured over the craft.
For a moment they both knelt on the scrubby grass by the water, clutching each other in stunned silence. Somewhere out of sight they heard swearing and splashing. The sentry must have been thrown into the water.
Chiara shook herself and pulled away.
"Let's go!"
Pietro nodded, dragging his eyes from the fire.
"That was fantastic!" he declared, his face alight with enthusiasm.
Exasperated, Chiara grabbed her drenched skirts in both hands and began running toward the Gatehouse.
Soldiers in French uniforms were gathering on top of the battlements, attention caught by the flames destroying the dock and their transport ships. Nobody seemed to notice Chiara and Pietro as they raced up and flattened themselves against the wall, panting and dripping lagoon water.
"This way." Pietro took the lead and they crept like rats along the base of the giant walls, away from the water.
The Gatehouse was as much a military fortress as a building to house the complicated machinery that operated the Hermetic Gate. There was no hope of sneaking through the main doors, Pietro had said, but he knew of spillway reservoirs and sluice gates leading into the Gatehouse, and he had the maintenance combinations necessary to open them.
"How do you know so much about this place?" Chiara whispered as they slipped into one of the spillways. It was about six feet deep and three feet across, filled with a foot of stagnant water. She made a face as the stinking water soaked through her slippers and brownish-green algae clung to the hem of her dress.
"I work here sometimes."
"Is this where you want to go when you finish your apprenticeship?"
"Not really." He sighed. "I hate this place. Master Lezze sends me to clean the machinery every time I make a mistake."
"And you've made enough mistakes to memorize all the gate combinations?"
"Well--yes."
"Why does he keep you on as his apprentice?"
"Because when I don't make mistakes, I'm very impressive." He laughed as she kicked some greenish water at him.
"How long are you going to have to scrub gears now that you've blown up his ship?"
"Not at all, if the doge's beautiful granddaughter will vouch for me."
"Hmph. I see you aren't afraid of me anymore."
"Not while you have marsh grass in your hair."
She scowled and ran her fingers over her curls, dislodging several long, thin strands of dead grass. Pietro grinned and she flicked them onto his shirt as punishment.
"It's all right; you're still beautiful."
"And you're a shameless flirt."
"I prefer 'very impressive flirt,'" he said lightly, taking her hand and squeezing it a moment before releasing her. Then, turning serious again, he pointed. "We're almost there."
The sluice gate was a tall, nearly featureless metal door in the Gatehouse wall. A circular gearlock, each tooth numbered, held it shut.
Pietro twisted the gears back and forth until the lock clicked. The gears dropped into a groove and continued to rotate as the door ground to one side.
"This way. Tizzo, where are you?" He rummaged in his bag and pulled out a tiny metal lamp.
Chiara slid inside as soon as the gate opened enough to let her pass. The only source of light was the little salamandra, burning like a candleflame in the lamp. Pietro held it up. Chiara got the impression of a vast space filled with machinery.
"Pumps and pipes," Pietro said, resetting the door's combination. It slid shut. "The Gate's primary purpose is to keep enemies out of the lagoon, but it also mediates the flow of the tides. The spillways divert excess water back out to sea to prevent flooding."
A giant rumbling sound made them both stop and look up.
"They're starting the engines," Pietro said.
They ran, their feet splashing through oily puddles of water and their ears deafened by the sound of rumbling pipes and slowly turning gears. Pietro led them up ladders and through narrow catwalks. Finally he threw open a door to reveal lantern light and two men in French uniforms examining a pressure gauge. Surprised, one of them reached for his rifle.
Pietro threw himself forward, knocking the soldier over. Chiara plucked up the rifle, turning and pointing it at the second soldier at the same time that he raised his own.
They stared at each other over the barrels.
"Put it down, little lady," the French soldier said.
"Put yours down," she replied.
Beside them, Pietro slammed a knee between the soldier's legs and rolled aside, lifting a hand.
"Venite!"
Fire burst over the soldier's sleeve as a large salamandra materialized, its molten claws clutching his arm. The soldier howled and dropped his rifle, shaking his arm to try to jostle it free.
"Don't kill him!" Chiara grabbed the fallen rifle with her free hand.
The salamandra vanished.
"May I have one?" Pietro asked, shivering as he stood. She handed him the weapon and laid a hand against his face. His skin was cold.
"That wasn't Tizzo."
"No." He smiled, his cheek moving under her palm. "But it was very impressive, don't you think?"
"It wasn't bad," she allowed, dropping her hand and aiming the rifle again as the soldier finished slapping out the flames on his sleeve.
After Pietro locked the invaders in a room full of cleaning oil and rags, they advanced through the next corridor more carefully, holding the soldiers' rifles and lantern. In the brighter light, Chiara could see more of the machinery that ran the Grand Hermetic Gate of Lido--a vast, oily, sometimes dripping, tangle of metal and gears.
At last they came to two sets of stairs, one going up and the other down.
"The Gear Room is up there," Pietro said, pointing, "but the maintenance door that leads to the harbor is down here."
Chiara hesitated, torn between going up to find her grandfather and running down to complete the ritual.
"If they have my grandfather ... What if they threaten to kill him to make me stop?"
Pietro gently took her rifle and then leaned over to press his lips against hers. She tried to draw in a startled breath, couldn't, and grabbed the front of his shirt for balance as she swayed.
They kissed for a long moment before pulling back, their eyes fastened wonderingly on each other.
Pietro finally smiled.
"You save the republic," he said. "I'll save your grandfather. With any luck, he'll be so grateful that he won't have me executed for falling in love with his granddaughter."
Heat rose in her cheeks.
She swallowed.
"Go on," he urged.
"But ... but ..." Love? "But I don't know what two pints of blood feels like! How will I know when to stop?"
"Let yourself bleed until you're dizzy," he said, his smile falling away. "But stop to bandage yourself as soon as you feel light-headed. You don't want to pass out while you're still bleeding."
Stop as soon as she felt light-headed? She already felt lightheaded.
"Will you come find me?"
"As soon as I can."
She closed her eyes, trying to pull her thoughts into order. It would help a lot if her heart would stop beating so fast.
She hated to let him go, but Pietro had one shot in each rifle and his ability to summon elementals which, despite her teasing, had been impressive. All he needed to do was keep the soldiers from opening the Gate until she finished the ritual.
Then they'd be safe.
"All right," she said, opening her eyes again. "Be careful."
"You too, bella." He didn't show any intention of moving until she was gone, so she drew a deep breath and turned, heading down the stairs.
After the first turn she touched her lips.
If her overly protective grandfather ever learned of that stolen ki
ss, not even rescuing him from the French would keep Pietro safe.
She smiled and hurried down the stairs to open the maintenance door.
The outdoor light was momentarily blinding. She raised a hand and squinted at the broad expanse of the Adriatic. The massive construction of the Gatehouse and its Hermetic Gate rose on either side of the platform she was standing on. And straight ahead, dark and ominous, sailed a fleet of warships.
Their flags were dark silhouettes against the late afternoon sun, but she had no doubt that they displayed Napoleon's tricolore.
She turned and descended the ladder. Rust and dried sea salt crumbled beneath her hands, and the breeze off the ocean felt cold against her wet dress and hair. The giant engines that powered the Hermetic Gate's mechanisms were audible even out here, vibrating through the metal rungs.
"Brezza, are you there?"
The silfo brushed her face in reply.
At last she reached the narrow walkway, a precarious line between the Gatehouse wall and the open sea. Its large cut-stone blocks were slippery and covered with moss, threatening to pitch her into the water with one false step. She carefully turned, feeling salt spray soaking her. Down here, the engine's rumbling was drowned by the crash of waves against the towering Gate.
"I thought you might show up."
Chiara recoiled as the French alchemist LeClerc rose from the niche where he'd been resting. Fear weakened her knees and she clutched the ladder with one hand to steady herself.
"Signorina Chiara Dandolo, am I right? Or is there some sort of title I should be using? You Venetians have a surprising number of titles for an ostensible republic."
"How did you get here?"
"I had the silfi carry me over the gate, of course. I'm surprised you didn't do the same. But I suppose that apprentice you were with didn't have the stamina for it."
"You couldn't have had them carry you that far. You wouldn't be conscious."
He laughed.
"I didn't sacrifice my own breath. I sacrificed the breath of that odious water-rat we brought with us from Murano. I expect you won't shed any tears over him. He seemed thoroughly unpleasant."
"You're disgusting." Chiara tried to back up, but her shoulders hit the wall.
"Needs must, in times of war. They frown on me using our own soldiers, although the enemy is fair game. But you're in no danger, Signorina Dandolo, as long as you sit quietly and wait for the Gate to open."