The Chamber of Ten

by Christopher Golden; Tim Lebbon

  Be good, the man thinks, and then the feeling is so much more familiar, because this is Nico. He’s scared and tired, confused and muddled, and she cannot for a moment believe that he is letting her see this on purpose. This is spillage, his signal leaking because his emotions and consciousness are shredded, and she must take advantage of every moment that he cannot hold himself in.

  He walks toward Palazzo Cavalli looking down at his feet, and for the first time she notices the bags he’s carrying. She has never noticed them before. One has a string-tied top, and looks heavy. The other is a briefcase, and inside—

  The tools I don’t know how to use, the keys I’ve never tried, and that knife, that knife—

  She gasps and the vision blurs. He looks up at the building again and starts climbing the five steps, and then like the sun slowly setting, the vision fades out until there is nothing.

  “Madam?” the shop assistant says, and Geena can tell from her tone that she’s tried several times before.

  “I’m fine, fine,” she says. “Just the heat, you know? And I cut my arm building shelving at home, and …”

  “Well, take a drink. Come through here and sit down.”

  Geena drank the proffered water gratefully, and followed the woman behind the counter and into a large storage area.

  I need to get to Palazzo Cavalli!

  “Actually,” Geena said, “if I could change into my new clothes back here, I’d be grateful.”

  “Of course,” the young woman said, a moment of suspicion and doubt raising her tone. “I’ll be behind the counter.”

  And maybe she’ll call the cops just because of that bloody blouse. Geena knew she didn’t have much time. An urgency pressed her, a hot ball in her chest, and it wasn’t only the woman’s reaction. She thought perhaps she had a very real chance of finding Nico … but she had to move.

  Geena changed quickly and thought of what she’d just seen. Her skin was crawling. It had never been like that before. She had been looking through Nico’s eyes but with Volpe’s thoughts, and it had felt like invading and being invaded at the same time, a grotesque contrast to the beautiful sensation of when they made love. She felt dirty, and after stripping her blouse and trousers she rolled them up, tipped some water from the glass, and used them to wash herself as best she could. The nurse had cleaned away most of the blood, but the harder she rubbed the more she seemed to remove the traces of Volpe from her.

  “Stupid!” she said, but it didn’t feel stupid.

  Nico had Volpe inside him, controlling him, and though she had spent a long time immersed in the past, she had never believed in ghosts.

  “It’s no ghost,” she said. Preposterous. He’d banged his head and now he was suffering from delusions. Maybe his psychic gift made him susceptible to such flights of fancy. And perhaps in his delusion, it also made it possible to construct an alternate personality that would fool even her. She’d only known him for two years; who knew what he’d been through before they met?

  At least now she knew one important thing: where he was. Palazzo Cavalli was less than a mile away, close to the Rialto Bridge, and if she hurried she might reach it before he left.

  Or before he did whatever he had planned with those things in his bags. The tools, the keys … the knife.

  Time seemed to press in around her, and Geena hurried from the shop through the rear door, opening and closing it as softly as possible. The terrible idea was growing that, unless she found him soon, Nico would end up hurting or killing someone else, or himself.

  On her journey along the Grand Canal to Palazzo Cavalli, with the mid-afternoon sun a bright splash over the mainland, Geena kept her mind and heart open. The idea of seeing things through the eyes of Volpe again was abhorrent, but she had to accept that if she was to listen for Nico. Her distaste must be only a fraction of what he was going through, and her discomfort was nothing compared to his. That he was suffering badly was not in question. She only hoped that he could be brought back.

  And just how does someone rid themselves of a ghost? she thought, but the idea was too obscure to conceive of any realistic answers. Maybe there were people who might be able to help. Or perhaps once she found him, she and Nico could resolve things together.

  As the water taxi powered along she checked her cell phone. Five missed calls from Domenic, but nothing from Nico. Ramus had called as well and left a voice mail. She listened.

  Hey Geena, hope you’re feeling better. Er … Howard Finch was wondering what happens now. He’s got his team out here and … er … well, Tonio was wondering, too. I guess today’s out, but let one of us know if you’ll be well enough to come back tomorrow. There was the sound of shuffling, then Ramus’ voice again, quieter this time. Sorry to bother you with this, really, but it’s that fucking Finch. Sleep well. Another pause, awkward and loaded. He’ll be fine.

  Damn it, she felt tears threatening. Ramus was a bright kid, and the fact that he could see past the obvious—understand that there might be something more to Nico slashing her than first appeared—comforted her. Geena glanced at her text messages. They were all from Domenic, and all said roughly the same thing: Call me. I want to help. Amazing that he wasn’t ready to give up on her after she had ditched him at the hospital. At the moment, she felt as though she did not deserve such friends. She pocketed her phone before the temptation to call grew too great.

  Palazzo Cavalli was a popular place for weddings, Venice’s old Town Hall now converted to little more than a tourist trap. Remarkably romantic—and with the Grand Canal and Rialto Bridge close by, it was busy all year round. So what the hell did Nico have to do there?

  As the taxi bobbed against the jetty, she let herself wonder what she would do when she faced Nico again. She had never been afraid of him, and she could not entertain that idea now. But when Volpe was driving him … who knew what else he might do?

  Maybe that old ghost would want to finish the job started at the Biblioteca.

  She alighted from the taxi and felt solid ground beneath her feet once again. The sun glittered on the waterways, even as the afternoon shadows grew longer. The smell of cooking food hung heavy in the air, and from elsewhere on the Grand Canal she heard the excited chattering of travelers.

  Even before she pressed against one of the main doors, she knew that she was too late. He had been here, but she had no sense of his presence at all. But then she pushed and found that the doors were locked, and her brow furrowed in confusion and concern. It couldn’t be much later than three o’clock, but the office was closed, without even a scrawled message taped to the door to indicate a reason. Had Nico done something here that caused them to lock up tight?

  And just what the hell would Nico want here? she thought. She sat for a while, looking out across the Grand Canal, trying to avoid the despair that threatened to well up within her. She had to help Nico—she might be the only one who could—and if that meant walking the city day and night until she found him, that was exactly what she’d do.

  She felt her cell vibrate, checked the screen, saw that it was Domenic again, and turned it off. The only person she wanted to hear from right now was Nico. And he didn’t need a phone.

  Volpe took charge once they were away from Palazzo Cavalli, but he let Nico see. It was as if he was taunting him with the ability to take over control of his body and functions at will, but if that was the case Nico could accept it. He’d rather that than be thrust down out of sight, deep into his own subconscious, where his thoughts did not even feel as real as dreams. Those blackouts were the worst, and he knew that so long as he did not fight too hard, Volpe would leave him be. He’d already used them to exert his authority.

  Besides, Nico knew that there was no way he could escape. To begin with he’d been thinking of it as having an invasive presence in his own body, but now that had changed. Now he was a prisoner in his own body, and the invader was triumphant.

  Zanco Volpe obviously had some definite goal in mind. He strode with purpose, the
drawstring bag clasped tight in his right hand. He’d left the briefcase back in the building, its contents scattered across the floor of one of the old offices now that he had what he’d come for. He’d also left a hole in one of the plastered walls, and a space where something had been hidden away for so long. The office had closed early today for some reason, but that had made his job much simpler. No need to be quiet when the building was empty. He had broken in through a side door and managed to slip in and out without being seen. Volpe had admitted that there was magic in his ability to remain inconspicuous, a spell that caused people to look away or even change direction in order to avoid encountering him. It was subtle magic, he had explained, and not infallible—the monk on San Marco had proven that—but when he wished to go unnoticed, it aided his efforts.

  The bag in Nico’s hand contained The Book of the Nameless, the soldier’s hand from the shattered ossuary on San Marco, the blade—still stained with Geena’s blood—and now the old seal of the city: an ivory stamp once used by the Mayor to stamp his authority into the wax seals of official city documents. It had been mainly ceremonial even back then, used on official certificates and state documents that would either go on show, or which were ruled more by tradition and ritual than by current laws. Yet it seemed important, and when Nico had first laid his hands on it—after hacking at the plaster and digging once again—Volpe’s sigh had been almost audible. He’d spun around in the room, searching the shadows for the shape he was certain must be there, thinking, He’s come out, he’s manifested, and maybe that means I’m rid of him.

  But then Volpe had chuckled and touched him inside, needing no words to urge caution.

  He boarded a water taxi, and Volpe told him where to go.

  “Chiesa di San Rocco,” Nico said, offering the driver an initial payment. “We need to be quick.”

  “I follow speed limits,” the driver said.

  Volpe leaned Nico forward, his voice low and filled with threat. “We need … to be … quick.”

  They were. Like the driver on their way out to San Marco, this man seemed keen to get Nico out of his taxi as fast as possible. The boat bumped against the jetty and Nico stepped lightly off, and almost before his feet were on dry ground the taxi was powering away, the driver’s hair flying about like a nest of upset snakes.

  Almost there, Volpe said in his mind, and Nico knew he was being spoken to. When we arrive there’s a ritual, and you will perform while I conduct. There’s no alternative. I’ll guide you, and you will obey, and they will be excluded from the city once more.

  “What if I don’t want to help?” Nico said out loud, and a sunburnt couple glanced at him warily as they approached the water taxi jetty.

  You keep testing me, Nico? Volpe asked. He kept walking, looking at the ground before him, and he was being steered. You provoke me? It’ll do you well not to. I have done ugly things when they were required, but I am not a cruel man. I don’t want to hurt you—

  “Like you didn’t want to hurt that man in the apartment?” Nico whispered. “Or that monk? What happened to him? I have no memory, but my hands are bruised and cut, and I feel sick to the stomach every time I think of him.”

  Not your concern, Volpe said impatiently. What is your concern is the health of your own self, yes? The well-being of this body that your Geena loves so much?

  “Geena is—”

  My insurance, if other persuasions are not compelling enough. Don’t force my hand. Neither of us will benefit from that. And besides, all of this is your fault.

  “I’m an archaeologist,” he said. Other people glanced at him, but perhaps they thought he was speaking to someone on Bluetooth. He almost laughed. Maybe this was the Bluetooth of the future, contacting the past.

  You’re a meddling fool. Fate compelled you, I know, but it relied upon your bumbling—

  “What do you mean fate compelled me?”

  Venice has chosen my successor, as she always does. But they have all lived and died without inheriting the legacy, because my essence remains.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  Nothing and everything. Fate or not, it wouldn’t have come to this if you’d left the Chamber alone … Volpe trailed off, as if what he’d been about to say was too much.

  “Your rancid heart was so powerful?” Nico asked, wincing as he feared Volpe’s rage.

  Only because I made it so, the old ghost said. Now walk on, Nico. This way … that way …

  Soon they reached the church of San Rocco. Nico felt control slowly return to him, and he came to a standstill.

  The fools, Volpe said. Oh the fools …

  “What is it?” Nico asked. He had been here several times before, examining the relics of Saint Roch and trying to develop a time line for the church’s construction and alterations. It was unremarkable, as churches in Venice went.

  The heart of the city, Volpe said. But like the bell, they have changed this also. It’s a wonder the Exclusion did not fail long before now. No matter. The ritual will still work, only differently. Walk on. Inside. If they haven’t torn the guts from the place, I know where there’s somewhere quiet.

  Nico entered the church, sorry to be leaving the sunlight behind. He moved through to the nave and glanced around at the noted Tintoretto paintings that attracted more visitors than the building’s relatively recent architecture. St. Roch taken to Prison was his favorite—an atmospheric piece exuding repression and unfairness.

  Almost there, Volpe said, and Nico felt the urge to look down at his feet. The old flagstone floor was worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, and such sights never ceased to fascinate him. He wondered how many people had stepped where he now stood—thousands? millions?—and who they had been, and what their stories were. Places like this had power, and myriad ghosts.

  He caught a glimpse of an old priest walking through an arched doorway into the back of the church, perhaps heading for the sacristy. A pair of old women were kneeling in prayer in the front pew, but otherwise the church was quiet and empty as Nico moved around a velvet rope—careful to avoid being seen—and through a side door, closing it behind him. Beyond the door were stairs that he imagined led up to a choir loft, and a tiny chapel area. In centuries past, the Venetian ruling class had once been provided private services here, but now this narrow wing of the church was mostly abandoned. For the moment, he was by himself.

  Nico was walked to the dark corner beneath the stairs. He knelt when Volpe urged him to, wondering what he would find in the old bookcase before him. Then Volpe took gentle charge, pulling out a pile of old books and stacking them on the floor in a shower of dust. When there was room he pressed sideways on one of the shelves, exerting pressure until the old wood creaked, then cracked. The shelf upright broke away. Books fell. Nico worried that someone would hear and come to investigate, but then recalled that there were only the two old women in the front of the church, and any sound from this forgotten corner of the building’s history would be muffled, if it was audible to them at all.

  Quietly, now, he thought.

  And the efforts of his hands did grow more cautious. He felt Volpe eager and frantic in his mind, holding back and yet watching with glee. Soon many of the books were strewn across the floor behind the shelves, and Nico could see the gray stone of the church’s bare walls.

  The hole needs to be wider, Volpe commanded, and Nico could only do as he was told. As he prised the shelves away, Volpe was whispering, They can’t have changed this as well. Can’t have. They wouldn’t have been so stupid.

  And then Nico saw the first seam in the stonework, filled with crumbling mortar that powdered away at his touch, and Volpe said, I hid it so well.

  He dug his fingers into the chalky mortar, quickly loosening one of the stone blocks. When he managed to shove the first block back into darkness—where it landed with a dull thump—Nico caught a whiff of something stale that inspired a rush of strange nostalgia, and he turned his face away trying to find clean air.
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  Volpe turned his head back and breathed in deeply. “Old air, and the smell of Venice as it should always be,” he said aloud, sighing and breathing in again. Then he pulled back and returned Nico’s body to him, saying, I need to rest, and you need to get inside. I’ll be watching. Light the braziers, but don’t touch anything. This is a special place.

  “Special how?” Nico asked.

  I told you … the heart of Venice.

  Nico glanced over his shoulder at the arched doorway he had come through. The door was closed, but he still worried about being discovered. The priest would not remain in the sacristy all afternoon.

  “What if someone comes while I’m in there?” he whispered in the gloom.

  He could feel Volpe’s exhaustion and his impatience, but then the old magician surged up inside of him again. Nico felt himself set adrift inside his own body, but he fought to remain aware, to continue to see out of his own eyes, and perhaps because Volpe was tired, he succeeded. His hands came up and clawed at the air, fingers contorted as if he were conducting some cruel symphony. He spit three times onto the dusty flagstones and used the toe of his shoe to scrape odd sigils in the dust.

  The air in the room grew dense for a moment, the way it did just before a storm, and in that instant he blinked in surprise. The wall and bookcase looked exactly as it had when he had entered the room, intact and undisturbed. But then he inhaled deeply and the illusion vanished, so that he could see the opening in the wall clearly once again.