Maddie spread out the ten night-sight images from Piazza San Marco and took up the magnifier. Soon she had confirmation: all the players had been nearby, all caught up in the inexorable tide of revellers slowly circling the square. The Foxes had been closest to the stage, and got a head start, squeezing along the front of the crowd. Whether Arlecchina meant for them to snatch Scottie or not, they’d reached him first.
Maddie swept the images into a neat pile and was about to lock them into the writing desk’s drawer when her eye lit once more on the strips of taffeta, each one changing its hue at a slightly different rate. These were too valuable to leave in a hotel desk. With a bit of fumbling she tore a strip from their wrapping, rolled each spider-silk into a tiny tubule, and wrapped all five together with the strip of ordinary silk. The resulting package was hardly as big around as her thumbnail.
“Rat,” she said. “Come here.”
For a wonder, it came.
AS DUSK SHUTTERED the sunset and chased its brightness from the canal’s surface, Maddie scrambled from Fanto’s gondola at the Rio di Noale landing. She shook her plain, dark cloak into place and settled the black-diamonded mask over her face. “Now, you’re to go along under Lady Serephene’s windows and try to attract her attention, right?”
“And when she looks out, I say you are hunting the Cats at Frangetti?” Fanto raised a frankly skeptical eyebrow.
“That’s what you say.”
“And if the Cats catch you instead?”
Maddie didn’t have a plan for that. There was nobody left in Venice to call upon for help. “If you don’t get a message from the hotel by noon tomorrow to pick me up for a job, ask at the English Consulate to send a message to Mr. O’Reilly, who will be rejoining the Earl of Kinbiskit soon. Tell O’Reilly where you left me and leave the rest to him.” Obie would already know something was up because TD would send a distress call through the bird network, but this way he’d know where to start looking.
Speaking of distress calls . . . she put her hand to tonight’s headdress, a plumed black turban, and surreptitiously pinched the claws of TD’s right foot to cue in the power-saving mode. It might be days before Obie returned, and TD’s power cells would not last more than twenty-four hours of continuous alarm mode. One burst an hour would be better for him and no worse for Maddie. If she was captured. She had no intention of doing more than spotting the Cats and following them. If they were in league with the Foxes, they’d lead her straight to Scottie. Information-gathering, then rescue. Madame Taxus-Hemlock would commend her cautious plan.
She waved a farewell to Fanto and set off across the campo as the last kite-baskets wafted along their cable overhead. Businesses were lighting up their flambeaux for the evening and early revellers gathered outside the cafes. Frangetti’s doorway, though, was dark. She crept around to the staff entrance but it too was shut up tight. Was there any other way in? From the roof, she had seen the lagoon, and a thread of canal that led up behind the atelier. Was there a water-gate into the dyers’ rooms?
The hunt took her down a number of blind alleys and around odd corners, but at last she found a narrow walkway beside a strip of water hardly two strides across. No boats moored here; they’d have blocked the canal entirely. Only one shuttered window in the entire length showed any light through its chinks. All these must be business premises, closed for the night. A rat’s claws scratched at something behind her and she reflexively raised her skirts lest it decide to climb them. The only other sounds were the plish-plish of incoming tide and a distant chug-chug far out on the lagoon.
The chill of evening curled around her ankles as she crept along. The passage across each water-gate was only a single plank with a rope railing, easily raised and lowered by a pulley. She crossed three of those, edging sideways across the gaps with her toes hanging over the water, and at the fourth stopped. The plank was upright, and not on her side where she might lower it. Not that it mattered by then. The torrent of French voices within told her she’d found Madame Frangetti’s.
The grill was raised but no light showed. Talk and movement sounded oddly muffled. Wishing she’d bought a plain black mask to keep her less visible in the dark, she shifted until she could edge one eye around the corner. It met heavy black cloth. Madame had draped her water-entrance to keep out prying eyes. What was she up to in there?
Maddie was feeling delicately along the folds of cloth, hunting for a gap through which she could peer, when a hand landed between her shoulder blades. She was shoved sharply through the curtain. Her mask slid awry, exposing her eyes to blazing light. She ducked her head, staggering back a step, only to be pushed forward again.
Below her, in the water-gate’s loading bay, bobbed a dark, enclosed craft, as wide as Scottie was tall, and nearly twice that long. A hatchway in its curving metal roof gaped open, its bronze covers folded back like shutters. A line of small men passed bolts of fabric from the stone quayside into the ship. One man wore a Cat head pushed back like a hood. Other Cat heads made a shaky heap in a corner. Here were the Cats, and they were robbing the place.
As she teetered on the edge of the inky water, flailing for balance, hands grabbed her arms and turned her firmly around. Someone snatched off her mask. Madame Frangetti, her arms filled with Scottie’s diagrams and charts, stood glaring at her.
“You? The English chaperone? I knew you were up to something.” She muttered several vile-sounding phrases in French before saying, through gritted teeth, “Well, you’re too late. This will all be gone tonight, and you with it.”
Madame Frangetti, far from being a victim of industrial espionage, was plainly in charge of the whole operation. While Maddie was still reeling from the surprise, Madame snapped at her minions. “La mettre dans la vaisseau! Vite!”
The hands tightened on Maddie’s arms and dragged her backwards. She struggled. There were too many Cats, too many hands, all pulling and shoving until the stone vanished beneath her feet. Metal clanged under her boot and then, as her turban bounced away, she slid through the open hatchway into the low-riding boat.
For one heart-stopping moment, Maddie fell. Then her butt hit something yielding and the rest of her came down around it. Her cloak settled over her face. She pushed it aside and threw up her arms as more bolts of fabric landed on top of her. While trying to get her feet to the floor, she was shoved back as a wooden crate was manhandled into the shrinking space by two men above and two below. The top was open, and in it she saw more of the drawings and tiny machines from Scottie’s airship-laboratory. She leaned as close to the hatch as she could.
“What have you done with Scottie?”
Madame Frangetti’s face appeared above her. “Me? I have done nothing. Do you know what he was worth to me? My Cats watched him everywhere, until that stupid operetta in San Marco. You lured him away. Did you sell him to the English? Did you tell them to come here? They will find nothing. But I must abandon my atelier because of you.” She fairly howled in outrage. “You have spoiled everything!”
“I didn’t lure him away,” Maddie yelled back. “That was someone dressed like me.” But Madame had already turned away, issuing more orders in rapid French, and a steady stream of fabric bolts was passed into the hold, forcing Maddie to duck away from rapidly moving arms.
Ignoring her completely, two small men speedily stacked and stowed, building up the cargo around the walls as it was handed in at the top. She stayed out of their way and examined the submersible. Maybe there was another way out.
Too soon, the loading stopped. One man went to the craft’s nose and the other pulled the hatch’s halves shut. As he turned the wheel, cutting off the light and air, a strange burbling sound filled the hold. The craft lurched and began to sink, and the true horror of Maddie’s situation became all too clear. She would be spirited unseen out of Frangetti’s, almost certainly out of Venice and maybe even, if she stayed alive that long, all the way to France.
Chapter Twenty-One
TIME CRAWLED ON. The air
in the small craft thickened. The only light came from the pilot’s instrument panel; the only view was through his windscreen as blackness burbled past. Once a diesel-launch passed overhead, its throbbing engine vibrating the walls and its propellers thrashing the water, sounding so close that Maddie watched the ceiling, fearing the blades would gash through and send filthy water pouring in to drown them all. She crouched by a stack of fabric, huddling her cloak around her as the chill from the surrounding canal sapped what little warmth was left. How was she going to get out of this one?
Faint glows began, sporadically, to light up the black water beyond the windscreen. As the craft slowed still further, she peered forward, and up. Were those fireworks? The lights retained some colour, and were diffused widely enough that she guessed they had reached the Grand Canal. Occasional blacker patches were, she guessed, the hulls of boats passing overhead. The water was deeper here, but some of those parade floats had deep keels. How far down could this submersible safely travel?
As if in answer to her thoughts, the craft’s nose tipped downward. The glimmers of light receded. Then, over her head, something scraped. A keel? An oar? She looked up. The brass wheel on the hatch was moving. It crept an inch. Stopped. Crept another inch. Was the pressure of deeper water causing this? If it opened, could she force herself out against the flood pouring in? She stood up and loosened the clasp of her cloak. It would only be in the way.
A faint line of moisture gleamed around the hatch’s seal. A single drop gathered. It fell at Maddie’s feet with a tiny plink that sounded to her taut senses like a full-sized dinner gong. She drew back, stumbling against the side.
The slight sound was enough. The co-pilot looked over his shoulder. His eyes followed hers upward. He yelled. The nose pitched sharply upward as he lunged toward the hatch. His hand was on the wheel when the seal gave way, and a great gush of icy water hit him square in the upturned face. He staggered, slipped, and fell. Maddie knocked a stack of fabric on him and scrambled on top of it, shoving at the hatch with all her might.
At first, strain as she would, the weight of water held the hatch closed. Then, as the craft broke the surface, the two panels split. One fell backward, leaving an opening scarcely wider than her hips. She grabbed the wet rim with her arms, kicked off from the sliding fabric bolts underfoot, and struggled upward. Something caught at her trailing skirt. She kicked, and it let go with a muffled French oath.
She had to get off this boat before he came up after her.
As she rolled to her knees, looking desperately for a boat close enough to leap to, the half-hatch beside her shook. The automaton rat crawled out from under it and sat up, its expressionless black eyes reflecting the sparks from a brilliant green firework overhead.
“You?”
Before she could begin to wonder if it, alone, had turned the wheel, the rat gave the hatch a poke with its front paw. She grabbed the edge and hoisted, dropping the metal cover with a clang onto the fingers of the co-pilot. He shrieked so loud she almost felt guilty. Almost. She turned her eyes on the dark water. There! A gondola, barely an oar’s length away. A man in it, dressed all in white, was carrying what looked like . . . a cricket bat?
Maddie had emerged from the depths into the middle of the English Consulate’s annual canal cricket match.
She yelled, but another firework exploded overhead and anyway, he was concentrating on another boat beyond his. A throw, a crack of the bat, and he was away, leaping to the next boat with an ease she very much wished she could emulate. Still, that meant his boat was clear for her. She gathered up her soggy skirts to show an immodest amount of stocking, backed up to the very crest of the submersible, and ran. One step, two steps . . . jump.
Splash.
The frigid water closed over Maddie’s head, driving all the air from her lungs as it went. She fought her way to the surface, her skirts tangling her legs, and reached for the cricket gondola. But it had floated out of reach on a wave of her own making.
Behind her a metallic clang sounded, close enough to touch. She turned. The co-pilot had succeeded in pushing open the half-hatch and was shouting directions to the pilot. The submersible swung around and churned away at top speed, leaving Maddie barely afloat on the black, salty water. She stroked harder, trying to catch the bobbing gondola before her strength failed or her muscles seized up from the cold. But, weighed down by the long, clinging skirts, she knew she was losing the struggle.
Something splashed beside her shoulder. A woman’s voice called to her. “Maddie! Catch the oar. Grab it!”
With her last iota of willpower, she wrapped both arms around the long wooden pole. It drew her slowly and steadily toward a giant floating conch shell, filled with mermaids and mer-men all stretching out their glitter-painted arms to help her aboard. In another moment, she fell over the side into the shell’s surprisingly flat bottom. She lay there in a pool of icy water, coughing and shuddering, while above her the mermaids and mer-men waved their shining arms at the crowds along the canal.
After a moment Maddie realized someone was trying to wrap her in a dry cloak. She sat up, rubbing her arms, and looked up to express her gratitude for the rescue. The words dried on her lips. “Y-you?”
Lady Sarah Peacock looked anxiously down at her. “Yes, me. I’ve paid them to put us ashore at my hotel. Can you hold out until we can get those wet clothes off you?”
Shivering, teeth chattering, drenched curls dripping cold drops down her neck, and far too dazed by recent events to raise a protest, Maddie nodded silently. She didn’t try to speak for the rest of the journey, just silently blessed her lucky escape.
After a time, she looked around the giant seashell. Had the automaton rat sunk? If so, there went Scottie’s samples, hidden in its belly. But maybe the creature could swim. It clearly had its own programming, for it had followed her tonight although it had contentedly stayed in the wardrobe for the past several days.
As the conch shell left the last cricketers behind, she realized they were almost at the far shore. The submersible had headed this way too. It was probably long gone. All that spider-silk, and the double-dealing Madame Frangetti by another route, now on their way to France. Madame F had suspected her, Maddie, of spying, and of snatching Scottie for the British. But if neither of them had him, who did?
A gleam down a dark side canal caught her attention. The next firework played blue chips of light over a rounded metal hull. Dark figures on the nearby walkways were clearing a tangle of fishing net away from the submersible craft she had so recently abandoned. A yellow lamp shone on rat-like masks. The two small Frenchmen lay on the hull, their hands and feet bound. All this she saw before a white beam of light speared the conch-boat with all the force of Neptune’s trident.
Too late, Maddie threw an arm up to shield her eyes. The beam vanished. As the greeny-black spots faded from her vision, she saw, standing at the water’s edge, a large Cricket. It was tipping its outsized bowler hat politely in her direction.
Chapter Twenty-Two
THE CLATTER OF cups and the heavenly scent of coffee woke Maddie. Why didn’t she recall ordering room service last night? Come to think of it, she didn’t remember returning to the Hotel Gritti. She opened her eyes to the pale light of morning washing over a gilt-edged, classically painted ceiling mural.
“Ah, you’re awake.” Lady Sarah, wrapped in a dressing gown that frothed with silver lace, held a second cup under the gently steaming coffee urn on the serving cart. “I was beginning to worry you’d taken pneumonia from that freezing canal water. Or something worse. If you hadn’t woken by noon, I was determined to send for a doctor.”
No doctor, therefore it wasn’t yet noon. Maddie shivered, remembering the frigid black water closing over her head. And then the unexpected rescue. And the Cricket, whose ratty minions had captured the submersible as firmly as though it were Geppetto’s whale. Who was the Cricket working for? Who was Sarah working for?
She sat up, clutching a heavy velvet covering to
her chest, and realized she was stretched out on a long sofa. Her arms were covered by full sleeves of soft flannel, smocked in peacock blue. She was clean, dry, and very glad to see the serving cart held plates piled with pastries, dishes of soft cheese, and a jam jar. She swung her feet to the floor. Sarah passed her a cup and saucer. Noon. Some kind of deadline at noon. What was it?
She took a cautious sip of the coffee and sighed as the rich warmth flowed over her tongue. When she’d finished her first cup and made a start on the pastries, she said, past a pleasant aftertaste of ricotta and strawberries, “I assume I’m in your hotel still. It’s the second night this week I haven’t been home until after sunrise. And here I was worried that you would ruin my reputation.”
Sarah’s immense blue eyes gazed at her innocently over the rim of a cup. “I promised you I would not use your name again, and I haven’t.”
“Well, some people remember you as me from last year.” Maddie took another pastry and daubed it with creamy cheese. “How did you find me last night, and why did you rescue me? Where are my clothes?”
“I sent that grim dress down to be cleaned and pressed. Are you a widow now, or undercover again? When I saw you entering Madame Frangetti’s last week I could not believe my eyes.”
“That’s not an answer about last night.” A thousand other questions whirled in Maddie’s mind. She tried to grasp the most essential ones. “You lured Scottie twice that I know of, and visited his laboratory at least once. Who are you working for?”
Maddie Hatter and the Timely Taffeta Page 11