by Karen Brooks
'Excuse me, Signor.' Tired of the stalemate, Ezzelino decided to intervene. Rising to his feet, he tapped his way over to the counter. He placed a closed fist upon the sticky surface. 'I admire your loyalty to your customers – your reluctance to allow access to Signor Barbacan's room. But perhaps this might persuade you to change your mind.'
Ezzelino opened his fist and two ducats clattered onto the bar.
Vincenzo's jaw dropped. Giaconda shot her father a look of surprise. He fixed his gaze upon the taverna keeper. 'Give us the key,' he said affably, leaning forward conspiratorially. 'No-one need ever know. We'll be ten minutes, not a second more. All we want to do is look.'
Vincenzo cleared his throat, his eyes locked on the coins. He hadn't seen that amount in a while, not since the sickness struck. He quickly scanned the room. There was only the young waiter, Guido, brought in to replace his nephew, Enrico, after he died. The old man was right. No-one need ever know. Anyway, wasn't he a businessman at heart?
He placed one hand over the gold and with his other, handed a key to Ezzelino. 'This is the master key. Your man still has the other. The lock's a bit stiff. Pull the door towards you as you turn.'
Ezzelino smiled and passed the key to his daughter.
'He's on the first floor. I'll give you your ten minutes,' reminded Vincenzo, pointing to the stairs. 'Ten minutes – not a moment more.'
'ALL OF BAROQUE'S BELONGINGS SEEM to be here,' said Ezzelino, picking up a dirty shirt between thumb and forefinger and throwing it over a chair. 'It's as if he's half-packed.'
'Or unpacked,' said Giaconda.
The room was small, tiny even. Dark beams criss-crossed the low ceiling, giving the space an oppressive air. There was a bed, a wooden washstand, a writing bureau placed beneath a narrow window that offered little in the way of light, and a shabby-looking rug on the floor.
'That's good,' added Giaconda, picking up a bag and placing it on the bureau. Opening the lock, she began rifling through the contents. 'At least that means he hasn't gone very far. The owner said he's only been missing two nights. I don't care how long he's been gone; what I want to know is does he have the boy?'
'Yes. And if he does, why hasn't he brought him to us?'
'What if he's double-crossed us?' asked Giaconda, pausing in her search.
'Unlikely,' said Ezzelino. 'Not with what we know about him.' Giaconda smiled. Her father could be so ruthless when he had to. She hoped that when the time was right, she would be the same. She was about to withdraw her hand from the bag when she felt something.
'Wait a minute, what's this?' She probed deeper. 'There's
a false bottom in this bag.' She glanced excitedly at her father. 'What's Baroque got to hide?'
'Plenty. The Doge didn't dismiss him and then put a price on his head for nothing.'
Giaconda tried to lever the bottom out of the bag, but it wouldn't budge. 'This is better made than it looks,' she said through gritted teeth.
Her father stood beside her. 'Standard issue for all spies and diplomats. He was meant to return it when he ... left the Doge's service.'
'I suppose he believed he was owed something.' 'Don't we all?' Ezzelino watched her struggling a moment longer, then bent down and pulled something from a tiny sheath strapped to his ankle. He handed her a small silver dirk.
She was surprised. How many other concealed weapons
does my father carry?
As she ran the blade along the silk lining, something snapped. A trigger was released and the base sprang open. 'At last!' said Giaconda and peered in at the contents. Ezzelino brought the candle closer and looked at what Baroque had wanted to conceal: four mouldy green books. Giaconda plucked one from its case and opened it, turning the pages carefully. 'They appear to be journals of some kind.' She began to read aloud.
The Vyzantian ambassador succumbed quickly. Whoever dosed him had mismanaged the amount. After just two sips of vino, he collapsed onto his plate, convulsing and frothing at the mouth. Within seconds, his eyes had all but departed their sockets, his breathing had stopped and it was evident to all but his hysterical wife that he was dead.
Called to administer what aid I could, I knew not to touch his mouth. The tell-tale purple colour and rapid swelling of his tongue announced poison more loudly than the unexpected absence of the Phalagonian minister.
As I helped the distressed servants remove his body, I knew I would have to work quickly to uncover the culprit and prevent another war. The Doge was clear on that. Serenissima could not afford a war, not for another four years at least ...
Giaconda flicked through the rest of the pages. 'He's documented everything. Absolutely everything. Look. A trip to Kyprus, and here it covers time he spent in Jinoa. In the wrong hands, I imagine these could be quite incriminating.'
'How fortunate, then, that they've fallen into ours.' Ezzelino picked up a journal that looked newer than the rest. 'What about this one?'
Giaconda took it from him and opened it. She was about to read when her father stopped her. 'No. Go to his last entries. What does he write?'
The journal was almost full. Giaconda quickly scanned the pages. Her eyes widened and her face broke into a smile. 'Listen ...'
I have my instructions. I am to kidnap the boy and take him to my employers, the Maleovellis. It's the type of work I've done for decades. I wonder then at my reticence. What is it about this boy that makes me hesitate, even when my life is at stake? My plans are in place, all I have to do is act. I know he was forced from his home in the Candlemakers Quartiere and now dwells beneath the roof of his friend, the chandler Dante Macelleria ...
Giaconda lifted her head. 'That's something we didn't know. I wonder what happened?'
'Continue,' said Ezzelino, tapping his cane on the floor. 'Our time is almost up.'
Giaconda flipped the next few pages. 'He goes on and on about his ambivalence. He seems to be quite smitten with the boy.'
Ezzelino smirked. 'Then he's typical of his kind.'
'Wait!' There was an edge of excitement to Giaconda's voice. She read in silence for a moment. 'He says here that he went to find the boy. He was leaving the taverna, intending to hide in the Chandlers Quartiere until the boy was left unattended so he could kidnap him and bring him to us.'
'You believe that's where he is now? In the Chandlers Quartiere?'
'Where else?' asked Giaconda. 'But why didn't he take his belongings?'
Ezzelino frowned. 'That, my dear, is a very good question.'
'Do you think he's met with foul play?'
Ezzelino didn't answer immediately. 'I don't know. I just know I don't like a mystery. Not when it's costing me money.'
'Should we go to this quartiere then? See what we can find out?'
Before Ezzelino could reply, a shadow filled the doorway. 'Time's up.' It was Signor Vincenzo. Giaconda turned her back on him and carefully closed the journal. She returned it to the case, lowering the false bottom and pushing it until it clicked.
'Ah, Signor di Torello,' said Ezzelino, limping to the door, using his cane to push furniture out of his way. 'We were just leaving.'
'Really?' said Vincenzo. There was something about this pair that left him with a bad taste in his mouth. He wanted them gone, coin or no coin. 'I'd be obliged if you'd give me back my key and go. You've seen what you came for.'
'Yes, yes we have,' said Ezzelino. 'My dear.' He gestured to Giaconda. 'Bring that shirt and the case. Show the good man that it contains nothing but Signor Barbacan's clothing and a few odds and ends.'
Giaconda plucked the shirt off the chair and thrust it into the bag, holding it open beneath Vincenzo's nose for a second. Then she snapped it shut.
'We'll be taking this with us,' said Ezzelino.
'This is quite unorthodox –' began Vincenzo. 'I'm afraid I can't allow –'
'Ah, Signor,' said Ezzelino quickly. 'Think. If we empty the room of the previous tenant's belongings, you can rent it out again, can you not? Signor Barbacan has but one
case and that was already packed. Obviously, he was intending to leave – presumably to report back to us, his employers. But, if you wish, we can leave the case, and then you can rent out the room to a piece of luggage. When the bill is due, you can demand it pay you, yes?'
Vincenzo looked flustered. Ezzelino pressed yet another ducat into his hand. 'That is for rent owed by my employee. Paid in full. If I leave here without the case, any fees incurred are no longer my responsibility. Am I clear?'
'Yes, yes,' said Vincenzo hurriedly. He couldn't afford to leave the room empty. 'Take the case. Take it and go, please.' He took the key and showed the pair out of the room. He watched as they went down the stairs: the old man with the hooded eyes and the attentive, beautiful woman.
Vincenzo had always prided himself on his taste in women. He couldn't understand why this one's obvious charms did nothing for him. She left him cold, uncomfortable even, like one of those women in paintings with mouths that promise while their eyes follow you everywhere.
He waited until they were out of sight and then entered the room. He looked briefly about before closing the window and snuffing the candle.
'Where are you, Signor Barbacan?' he asked the darkness. 'Where are you?'
'YOU TOOK A RISK THERE, Father,' said Giaconda as they stepped back into the campo. 'What if he'd said no?'
'He wasn't going to. Once he took my coin, he was ours.' Ezzelino peered up at the sky.
'What do we do now?'
'We will return to the gondola. According to Baroque, the Chandlers Quartiere can be accessed from the water. I believe we should go and explore the area and see what we will.'
'Very well,' said Giaconda, shifting the suitcase to her other hand. Time was running out. They had to find the boy before someone else did ...
If they didn't, all their plans, their years of research, bribing, scheming – and above all, hoping – would amount to nothing.
Linking her arm through her father's, they strolled back to the canal, talking in low voices, unaware of the leather-garbed Riders watching them from the rooftops.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
On the Ponticello di
Mille Pietre
MY CHEST WAS ON FIRE. My throat was dry. Behind me, I could hear the babble of excited voices. As I ran through calles and rami, tore across the campo, I could hear them calling. 'It's the candlemaker's apprentice. Stop him!'
Yet again, I was running away. I'd left myself with no choice. I'd started this; now I had to keep going. But I'd have to stop sometime, and then what would these people do to me?
A burst of energy spurred by fear put extra distance between me and the trailing masses. I ran across the bridge that spanned the canal dividing the Chandlers and Candlemakers Quartieri and dashed down a sottoportegho, relishing the brief shade it provided. I raced across another campo, aware that everyone was staring at me. Patrons had emerged from the taverna. Signor di Torello's voice rose above the throng. 'Tallow? Where are you going? Why do you run so?'
I was back in my old territory.
Back home.
I knew then where I had to go – where I would be safe. I would go to Pillar.
I left the exposure of the campo and dashed down the salizzada. Before I knew it, I'd negotiated the labyrinthine calles and rami and was running along the fondamenta to my old home. The shop was shut, but I pounded on the door anyway.
'Pillar, it's me!' I cried. 'Let me in, oh God, please, let me in!'
There was no answer.
'Pillar!' I screamed. I ran to the adjacent workshop door, slamming my fist into the wood. I was desperate now.
I could hear them coming. A crowd of about fifty rounded the corner and spilled onto the fondamenta. On spotting me, a cheer rose – whether in celebration or as a prequel to battle, I couldn't tell.
I didn't wait. I couldn't afford to. Not even my beloved rooftop would afford me protection. The mob would simply follow and I'd be trapped.
With no option, I took off again, heading for the bridge at the other end of the fondamenta. Perhaps once I crossed into the Tanners Quartiere, I'd lose them.
I struck out over the bridge, my head down, my arms and legs pumping. The shouts behind me became louder, fiercer. Doors had opened and people were pointing and crying out, adding their words to those already filling the air.
A dark shadow carved the sunlight in two and I was no longer the bridge's only occupant. I looked up and what I saw made me freeze in my tracks. Someone was at the other end, waiting.
I wiped sweat out of my eyes and stared in disbelief.
'Katina?' I gasped. 'Is that you?' My heart was beating so hard, I was certain it would bruise my ribs.
The bridge shook as my pursuers began to cross. I spun around. They slowed to gather in a huddle in the middle of the bridge, shuffling and pushing, murmuring among themselves, waiting for someone to take the lead.
Breathing heavily, they stared at me and I at them. We all waited to see what the other would do next.
I didn't know what to do, but I knew who would. I spun to face Katina.
But she'd gone. Vanished. I couldn't believe it. I gave a small whimper and wiped my face again. Were my eyes playing cruel tricks? Offering me hope where there was none? My legs wouldn't move. I knew fate had finally caught up with me.
I turned back to face the crowd. Someone was moving swiftly through them, jostling to get the front.
Cane and Dante exploded out of the throng. 'Tallow!' shouted Dante. My heart soared. Cane began barking and ran towards me, dragging Dante behind him at the end of a crude leash.
For a moment I hesitated. Should I run to Dante and show how happy I was to see him – that he cared enough to own me as a friend? Or would my obvious allegiance place him and his family in danger? Should I turn and flee instead? I was still trying to make up my mind when someone else emerged from the mob.
'Tallow?'
Standing there, dishevelled and alone, was Pillar.
Dante swung around at the sound of the voice. Cane barked even more loudly, straining in an effort to reach Pillar.
'Pillar,' I whispered. He looked terrible. His clothes hung on him in rags and his face was hollow, covered with a grey beard.
'You came back!' He began to stagger towards me, his arms outstretched.
Just then, a noise behind me made me glance over my shoulder. I fully expected to see the constabulary – or worse, soldiers.
What I saw made my blood turn to ice.
Mounting the steps on the other side of the bridge was a huge chestnut horse. On its back sat a tall, well-built rider wearing a dragon mask.
I couldn't move. The horse leapt over the last step and bore down on me, its hooves thundering over the stone. The sound was shocking. Horses never rode through our quartiere. They just didn't.
The crowd at the other end of the bridge screamed and broke away, trampling each other to get off the bridge. In their panic, I was momentarily forgotten.
I screwed up my eyes and waited for the blow, hoping it would be over quickly, when the rider leant down and, in one smooth action, grabbed my arm and hauled me up onto the saddle.