by Karen Brooks
Baroque calmly got off his stool and went around to the back of the bar. He wrapped his arms around Vincenzo from behind and gently lowered him to the floor.
He placed his lips against Vincenzo’s ear. ‘Mi dispiace, Vincenzo. You know too much. You saw the Maleovellis, the nobiles. You know I work for them. The Bond Riders, they cannot know this. No-one must know. Not yet. It will be over soon, amico mio. This way is quick. Trust me, I know what I am doing. I have done it many, many times.’
Baroque sat on the floor of the taverna, the bar rising above him. Vincenzo’s head lay in his lap, blood pouring from the wound being absorbed into the sawdust. Vincenzo tried to talk.
‘Hush,’ whispered Baroque, stroking his hair. ‘Do not speak. Be silent. Don’t fight.’
Vincenzo frowned. His watery eyes fluttered and slowly closed. Baroque sighed and waited. It would not be long.
Moonlight streamed through the frosted windows at the front of the taverna. The candles spluttered and went out one by one, gradually plunging the room into a cold, blue darkness. The fire spat its last. Baroque noticed the rain had stopped.
Finally, Vincenzo spasmed. Two huge shudders wracked his body. His legs jerked and then, with one final deep breath, his body stilled.
Baroque eased himself out from under it and rose with difficulty. His legs were sticky with blood. Touching it in dismay, he wiped his fingers on his breeches. He would find Vincenzo’s clothes and change.
Minutes later, he came down the stairs dressed in a fresh shirt, jerkin, hose and a thick cape with a hood. He glanced down at Vincenzo. He felt a pang of regret. Another innocent life lost. Because of what was afoot in Serenissima; because of Tallow.
Now he would have to return to the Maleovellis. He hadn’t intended to see them again. He’d failed in his mission for them and he had a new one. But they had his journals, the detailed diaries he’d kept for decades, filled to the brim with names, dates, secret meetings, treachery, treason, and death. So much of that – and all in the name of power. Evidence that would incriminate not only him, but many others if they fell into the wrong hands. In the right ones, they were worth a great deal of money – soldi to which only he was entitled. He had no choice but to go back to the Maleovellis and do whatever it took to retrieve them. He’d worked too hard his whole life – betrayed, lied, deceived, denied himself real friendship and many creature comforts – all the while documenting everything so that in his old age he would be comfortable. The Maleovellis would not take that from him. He would have his journals, regardless of the risk. He owed Vincenzo that at least.
Vincenzo’s body lay there. He would have to make his death look like a violent robbery. Shaking himself into motion, he unlatched the front door and peered into the campo. It was quiet. Only a cat slinked its way around the well. Good. Stripping the nearest table of its cloth, he wrapped it around his wrist and smashed a window. He captured the glass in its folds before closing the door. Using the heel of his boot, he shattered the lock.
Picking up a few random mugs, he threw them around the room. As he strode to the back door, he knocked chairs over. Using a knife he found, he slit open bladders of vino. They gurgled into the thirsty sawdust.
From the hallway he surveyed his handiwork. In the murky light, it looked impressive. The work of bandits indeed. Satisfied, he went to the desk crammed under the stairs. There, in a tin stashed carelessly in the top drawer, were Vincenzo’s meagre takings. He tossed them into the purse Katina had given him.
He threw the empty tin into the bar. It struck Vincenzo’s lifeless legs. With a lump of sadness in his throat, Baroque sneaked out the back door, leaving it open, and made his way to the main canal.
In a dark corner, tied loosely to a paline near a set of disused water-stairs, bobbed an old gondola. Baroque quickly checked that no-one was about before easing back the cover, leaping into the craft and untying it. He was about to guide it into the current when he saw another gondola approaching.
Cursing, he quickly retied his craft and lowered himself into the bottom. Peering over the edge, he tried to make out who approached.
Standing in the centre of the gondola, his dark cape billowing behind him like a black sail, was the Cardinale Rafaelo Martino.
Baroque clutched his chest as panic seized his body. Taking deep breaths, he pulled the rotting cover he had partly peeled back over his head and sank to the bottom of his boat, all the time praying he hadn’t been seen.
‘DO YOU SENSE ANYTHING, your grace?’
Cardinale Martino, the recently appointed leader of the Church in Serenissima, broke away from his close scrutiny of the bridge and stared at Captain Orlando Sansono. The flickering light of the lamps made the handsome Cardinale resemble a reptile, swathed as he was in a cloak, his skin stretched across impossibly high cheekbones and his hazel eyes flashing beneath his red cap.
‘Indeed, I do,’ said the Cardinale. He rose smoothly from the cobbles, flicking the servants who held the lanterns aloft out of the way. He joined the Captain by the side of the bridge. They both leant against the stone parapet and gazed across the inky waters. The distance separating the men was minimal – words carried across water and Captain Sansono knew that whatever the Cardinale had to say would be for his ears alone.
He waited patiently for the Cardinale to speak, studying the nobile out of the corner of his eye. Captain Sansono could sense the tension in his superior’s body.
The only sound was the creak of the lanterns behind them and the lapping of the waters against the fondamenta and the old gondola below. Behind them, Sansono’s men, the Signori di Notte, the Lords of the Night or secret police, blended into what to them was their natural element. Sansono knew their uncanny silence belied a fearsome preparedness. The Cardinale was not the only person longing to prove his worth, eager to hunt and destroy the Estrattore – the latest and greatest threat to the faith, to Serenissima.
Finally, Cardinale Martino struck the stone railing with his fist and gave a victorious smile. ‘You did well to bring me here.’ His voice was soft, melodic. ‘An Estrattore has walked this bridge, has used his Godforsaken powers right here, this very day. Of that I am in no doubt.’
The Cardinale inhaled deeply, relishing the night air, shutting his eyes in appreciation, ignoring the taint of putrescence that seemed to coat everything. He exhaled slowly and, opening his eyes, gave a soft laugh. ‘Just when there were those in the Church, bishops here in Serenissima, who were insisting they were extinct, an Estrattore rears his heretical little head – just high enough for it to be lopped. And in my lifetime.’ He chuckled. ‘Thank God the Great Patriarch understood that it was God’s will I come here.’ He lifted the heavy crucifix he wore around his neck and kissed it passionately, holding it tightly for a moment before releasing it to fall against his chest. ‘It’s been a long time, such a long, long time.’ He turned to face the captain. ‘So, Sansono, tell me again what you know. What happened here this afternoon. I can see some blood – the rain has washed away a great deal – but I understand it’s both human and animal. Explain to me again; do not leave out any details, no matter how insignificant they may seem to you.’
The captain spoke quickly and concisely. The Cardinale listened, his head tilted slightly, his body still. ‘There was a chase. From the Chandlers Quartiere. The popolani pursued the one called Tallow. It all ended on this bridge when a Bond Rider appeared. A chandler, Dante Macelleria, was killed. So was a dog that he brought with him but which, I am told, belonged to Tallow. There was another man involved as well. A candlemaker named Pillar Pelleta. It’s said, though no-one will yet confirm, that this Tallow, Tallow Pelleta, was a member of his family and his apprentice. And so, your grace,’ finished Captain Sansono, ‘it was the soldiers who arrived after the homicidi of the chandler who informed us that a masked Bond Rider also attempted to kidnap the apprentice candlemaker.’
The Cardinale rubbed his chin. ‘Hmmm. Bond Riders. The unholy alliance between them and the Estratto
re has been known for centuries. No doubt they’re up to something. For now, I have other prey to catch.’ He stared above the captain’s head for a moment. ‘The young boy. The one who leapt over the bridge – presumably, he lived in this quartiere?’
‘That is what we believe, your grace.’
‘And he managed to elude the Bond Riders?’
‘The locals were quite clear they never captured him. Some say he jumped into the canal, others that he simply vanished. The soldiers were unable to get much detail. I am sure your grace will understand, they were very distressed at the death of the Macelleria boy, the ragazzo Dante. His family are well known in their quartiere; most of the focus was on what had happened to him.’
‘Of course. The loss of a son is tragic.’ The Cardinale made a small sound, lowered his chin and shook his head. He waited a full minute before speaking again. ‘But I am very curious, captain, as to what the chandler was doing on the bridge, detached from the mob who, it seems, mindlessly followed a commotion. Why it’s his blood spilled and no-one else’s? Why he was the one in control of the apprentice’s dog? You did say, did you not, that the dead dog belonged to the apprentice candlemaker?’
‘Sì, your grace.’
‘You see, captain, this presents a very curious puzzle. I have no doubt whatsoever that this candlemaker, this young boy named …’
‘Tallow, your grace.’
‘Tallow, is an Estrattore. I recall earlier reports of an “angel of mercy” in this sestiere, that some of the residents here, against all possibility, survived the Morto Assiderato and that they were attributing their continued existence to candles? Is that not so?’
‘Sì, your grace.’
‘I am thinking that it’s very likely this Tallow is responsible for those magical candles, that this Tallow is, in fact, the “angel of mercy” that I am very curious about. What do you think, captain?’
‘I think your grace is very perceptive.’
‘That means that not only were the popolani knowingly buying suspicious products from this young man, but they’re also complicit in concealing him from the authorities. Furthermore, they’ve been doing so for years. This is a very serious charge, is it not?’
‘Sì, your grace.’
‘And what is the penalty?’
‘Death, your grace.’
The Cardinale inclined his head. ‘Sì. Morto.’ His lips curled. ‘Where exactly did the candlemaker live?’
Captain Sansono shifted uncomfortably. ‘That’s something we’re unclear about, your grace. These peasants, they’re very protective of one another. Those who were questioned by the soldiers were vague in their responses.’
‘The popolani,’ he chuckled. ‘How sweet. They probably even consider this Estrattore to be one of them.’
‘So it seems, your grace.’
‘What about the chandler’s family – have they been questioned?’
‘Sì, your grace. They too were … imprecise.’
‘Hmm.’ The Cardinale pushed himself away from the side of the bridge and returned to where he’d been squatting earlier. His servants quickly joined him, holding their lanterns up high. They illuminated the bridge, turning the cold, dark space into an intimate one. The Cardinale peered down at the slick stones. What remained of the blood was oil-like across the surface, difficult for anything but a trained eye to detect. The captain marvelled that the Cardinale could read anything from what remained and in such poor light.
‘I do not like vague, Captain Sansono. I do not like imprecise either.’
The captain knew better than to respond.
‘You said there’s also some confusion about what happened to the chandler’s body?’
‘Sì, your grace. Some of the witnesses said that the Macelleria family retrieved the body; others say it never arrived at their premises. You know how particular the mourning rituals are, how seriously they are taken.’
‘Did anyone follow up on this?’
The captain paused. ‘Your grace, the local soldiers – some of them knew the family; they didn’t want to force –’
‘Of course!’ The Cardinale threw his hands up in the air. ‘Of course they didn’t. I understand. God bless their thoughtfulness. And God bless yours too, captain.’
‘Your grace?’
‘Captain Sansono.’ The Cardinale spun towards the captain and draped an arm across his shoulders. The captain gulped. ‘Sansono,’ he said softly, leaning close so only the captain could hear, drawing him away from the light and his men, and strolling along the bridge. His boots clattered against the stones, his cape swirled around his ankles. ‘You have known me for a short time, sì? Ever since the Doge put me in charge of you. What you do not know about me, but what I will tell you to make things between us less complicated, is that I do not like puzzles, I do not like confusion and I particularly dislike ambiguity.’ He paused, waiting for an answer.
Captain Sansono swallowed. ‘Sì, your grace.’
‘Bene. We have a very serious situation on our hands, Sansono. One that is my responsibility to resolve. There’s an Estrattore loose in Serenissima and, according to the clues that the events on this very bridge, this very day, have uncovered, there has been for some time now. Possibly years. This has been happening under our very noses. The Doge will not like it. First his grandson, then the Morto Assiderato and now this …’
The Cardinale withdrew his arm and stood in the middle of the bridge, hands on his hips, facing the Candlemakers Quartiere. Captain Sansono remained behind, admiring the breadth of the man’s shoulders, the way the breeze tugged at his grey hair. ‘Somewhere, living in those casas,’ the Cardinale said pointing to the houses across the bridge and along the fondamenta, ‘are people who know the answer to the many questions I have, questions that you too, captain, and your very capable men, will soon also possess. I will give them to you so you can find me the answers.’
The Cardinale turned round and walked slowly to where the captain waited. The lamps behind the captain lit the Cardinale’s face, casting shadows that elongated his long nose and threw his eyes into darkness. Captain Sansono no longer knew where or at whom the Cardinale was looking. Not until he stood so close that the captain could feel the nobile’s scented breath upon his cheek. Cloves. He could see his eyes now – they glinted in the distant, flickering flames of the lamps.
‘So, Captain Sansono, you and your men must do whatever it takes to get me those answers. To help me piece together the puzzle, to remove the confusion and eliminate vague. Am I clear?’
‘Sì, your grace.’ Captain Sansono knew exactly what was required of him and his men. His heart quickened. Never did he think he would be responsible for something so important as uncovering one of the forsaken Estrattore – a creature of unholy horror.
‘You have the permission of the Church to use whatever means you must to get these, Captain Sansono.’ The Cardinale smiled. ‘You will report directly to me and, in turn, I will report to the Council of Ten, the Doge and the Great Patriarch.’ He extended his arms, the red cassock of his office appearing as his cloak fell away. His voice deepened as he offered a benediction, becoming rich and impassioned. Captain Sansono felt his flesh quiver, his breath come quickly. He glanced at his men. They were transfixed.
‘We will find this Estrattore,’ continued the Cardinale. ‘We will hunt him down and, when we find him, we will make an example of him and his protectors such as has never been seen before in Serenissima. The Estrattore will not return. Not in my lifetime.’ His last word echoed across the waters, resounding in a long expiration, as if the city itself was astonished by what was occurring. ‘Do you understand, captain?’ whispered the Cardinale.
The captain dropped to his knees, his eyes locked on the Cardinale’s. ‘Sì, your grace. Your words are my command.’
‘You, Sansono – you are my sword – God’s sword, and you must remember, it’s his work we do. Whatever it takes, you are to find the traitors who harboured the Estrattore and p
unish them. You must find out what the chandler’s family knows, why that young man died on this bridge. Only then can we find the boy and bestow upon him what he deserves – what all Estrattore deserve.’
Captain Sansono ignored the tiny niggle of doubt that tried to intrude upon his thoughts. He pushed it away and raised his shining face to the Cardinale’s, waiting for his final orders. As he did, the sky above opened and rain began to fall. He ignored it.
‘As God is our witness,’ said the Cardinale, ‘the hunt begins now, tonight – and it does not stop until we have caught our prey. Trapped and destroyed him.’
‘Amen,’ chorused the captain and his men breathlessly.
WAITING UNTIL HE WAS certain the Cardinale and the Signori di Notte had left the bridge, Baroque peeled back the canvas and stood up unsteadily. Once again, he untied the craft from its moorings. He began to ease the oar into the forcola and push away from the fondamenta.
‘Merde!’ he hissed, almost dropping the oar as a shadow detached itself from a doorway. It was a black cat. It meandered to the edge of the canal and sat there, staring at him with its luminous eyes. He shook his fist at it before guiding the old boat into the middle of the waterway, trying to catch the current.
As he manoeuvred along the stygian waters his mind raced. He’d thought the Maleovellis deluded when they first approached him to find an Estrattore. Keen to take their soldi, he’d agreed to work for them, humour them. When he’d finally found Tallow and realised what the boy … no, he corrected himself, girl was, he couldn’t believe his luck. Options that had never been available to him suddenly appeared. Depending upon to whom he chose to reveal the girl’s whereabouts, he was going to be a rich man, only just as she was in his grasp, she was snatched out of reach. He’d missed his chance.
He was not the only one. The Bond Riders had failed to obtain her, the Maleovellis were denied, and now the most deadly of all pursuers was on her tail.