by Karen Brooks
Dante frowned. ‘My Bond is not normal …’
‘So I have heard.’
Dante’s eyes widened. ‘How could you?’
‘Ah, news travels fast. There are Riders moving through the mists as we speak relaying what has happened. We are being recalled for the conclave – to hear the Elders’ decision over what Katina has done. Over you, I gather, as well. It will take the equivalent of weeks to gather everyone. I just happened to be near home. I am sorry that your entry into the Limen has been tainted by this, signor – it’s not your fault.’
‘So others keep saying. Well, Debora and Alessandro. But I am not afraid to bear the consequences,’ said Dante, thrusting his chin forward.
Cristoforo just grunted and arched an eyebrow at him.
They reached the edge of a crude paddock framed by a wooden fence. There were at least a dozen horses standing listlessly, the miasma swirling around their bodies. Cristoforo opened the gate and led Castana inside.
Dante watched him release the saddle and slide it off. ‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Depends what it is.’
‘What were you, you know, back in Serenissima? What did you do?’
Cristoforo flashed his teeth. ‘It may surprise you to learn that I was an apothecary.’ He slapped the satchel that swung over his hip. ‘I still collect herbs and plants. Riders are not immune to sickness or injury, though it’s rare. I do what I can. Sometimes –’ He shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter what I try. There are things out there,’ he said, gazing into the mist, ‘that hunger for us. And their need grows.’
Dante followed his gaze and shivered.
Before Dante could pose the question on his lips, Cristoforo snapped back to reality, turned away and began to wipe down Castana, using long, even strokes. ‘Serenissima was the same,’ he said, picking up the conversation again. Dante had to think what he meant. ‘Only fools believe they are immune, that they’re safe.’
‘Do you miss it?’
‘Serenissima?’ Dante nodded. Cristoforo considered the question for a second. ‘Not as much as I thought I would. At first I did. But not for long. I missed my wife, my children. I missed the feel of pillows beneath my head when I slept; I even missed sleeping – and eating and drinking. But faster than I would have thought possible, my desire for these things faded. I came to enjoy what the Limen offers.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Time.’
Dante pondered that for a moment. ‘For what?’
‘For whatever one wants.’
‘Do you have a partner?’ asked Dante, deliberately avoiding looking at Cristoforo, but running his finger along the wooden railing of the corral.
‘Sì. I have three people I share my life with.’
‘What are their names?’ When Cristoforo didn’t immediately answer, Dante’s eyes flew to his face. ‘Mi dispiace. I’m not allowed to ask that, am I?’
Cristoforo laughed. ‘No. That you’re allowed to ask. It’s always best to be certain about relationships in a new community. You don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes.’ He folded the horse blanket and rolled it tightly before he replied. ‘Their names are Sandro, Regina and Maria. Our home is the one that carries the sign of the apothecary.’ He signalled somewhere in the distance.
Dante nodded. He hadn’t noticed it on his way through Settlement, but he would look for it in future.
‘Have you always been together?’
‘In here? Not always. Not all of us. I was with Regina first, but then, Sandro came and finally, we asked Maria to join us. Now, I barely remember time without them, even when I have to return to Serenissima. They are my family. My old one has long passed.’ He fell silent. Dante hoped he hadn’t upset him.
Cristoforo finished his ministrations and slapped Castana on the rump. She whinnied and trotted over to join the herd. He closed the gate and began strolling back to camp. Dante fell into step beside him. They walked through the barren trees and dry bush skirting the perimeter, circling back around the marshland that deceptively sprouted dull green shoots on what appeared like firm ground. But it also burbled and spat, exposing its treacherous composition. A light breeze sprang up, nipping at their clothes and bringing with it the fetid odour that haunted the marsh. It didn’t bother Cristoforo, but to Dante, it smelled like death – like what he’d smelled back in Serenissima as he lay on the Ponticello di Mille Pietri. He screwed up his nose and picked up his pace. Cristoforo chuckled, understanding what prompted this unexpected burst of speed.
When they reached the tents, Cristoforo stopped. ‘Here we must part.’ He regarded Dante for a moment longer before offering his hand again. Dante clasped it. ‘Buona fortuna. I think you’re going to need it.’
‘Grazie, Signor,’ said Dante, realising he’d been dismissed.
He turned away and ambled back through the tents. At least he’d met one person prepared to talk to him, despite all the secrecy. And he’d learnt some valuable things. He wasn’t to reveal his surname, ask where Riders went when they left camp or about Bonds. Especially about Bonds. But he could ask about partners.
An image of Tallow filled his mind. Her dark tangled hair, those amazing eyes and her soft mouth. He tried to shut her out, but she kept returning, skipping along the edges of his consciousness just as she used to skip along the fondamenta. He smiled. How could he ever have believed Tallow was a boy? He remembered that time back in his uncle’s shop. The way they’d huddled together on the floor, the feel of her slender, firm fingers against the back of his neck, the way she’d looked at him with such longing. Warmth flowed through his body, making him catch his breath. How could he have known she wasn’t?
He also thought of Katina. What commitment did she have to Tallow that she would risk both her reputation and life for the Estrattore? He shook his head. No doubt, he would soon find out.
‘Can’t keep away from trouble, can you?’
Dante pulled up short. To his dismay, the man called Santo strolled towards him, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Dante swallowed. Not only had his walk brought him near the cave entrance, it had taken him into the company of the man who had tried to kill him. He looked around for the guards he’d seen earlier.
‘No-one to help you now, is there, ragazzo,’ spat Santo.
‘Signor, I do not seek trouble,’ said Dante, with a small bow and tried to keep walking. A hand clutched his shoulder and spun him round. A pair of ice-blue eyes glared into his. Santo dug his fingers into Dante’s flesh.
Dante inhaled sharply as the pressure increased. ‘What do you want?’ He refused to be cowed by this man. ‘What have I done to offend you?’
‘Your being here is an offence! Isn’t that enough?’ Santo shoved him hard. Dante staggered and slammed into the granite wall, falling to the ground. He quickly scrambled to his feet, his back burning.
He held his hands up in front of him. ‘Signor. I understand that the Obbligare Doppio is a travesty and I will do all in my power to rectify this as soon as possible.’
Santo sneered. ‘You? You can’t fix anything. You have no power, hear me? You are nothing.’ Trapped against the mountain, Dante saw that Santo blocked his way.
‘Then why are you so afraid of me?’ asked Dante quietly.
Santo’s eyes widened then his face turned red. ‘Why, you little bastardo –’ He began to draw his sword.
‘Santo!’ Another man appeared. It was Stefano. Although he was not quite as tall as Santo, he didn’t exude aggression, and his presence seemed to have a calming effect. Santo pushed his sword back into his scabbard and retreated a couple of steps.
‘What?’
‘What’s going on?’ Dante noticed Stefano’s refined accent, his bearing which – though he may never reveal his surname – indicated breeding.
‘Nothing, amico mio. I was just warning the new Rider to stay clear of the cave. If he doesn’t, he might find himself locked up as well.’
Stefano looked askance at Santo and then no
dded his head in Dante’s direction. ‘He’s right, you know. You shouldn’t be around here. Didn’t Debora and Alessandro warn you?’
Before Dante could answer, he continued. ‘Where are they, anyway? New Riders aren’t allowed to just wander around the camp. It’s against the rules.’
More rules, thought Dante. He had so much to learn if he was to survive. This was nothing like he expected. Nothing. ‘I simply went to the stream, to wash.’ He indicated the drying sheet flung over his shoulder and his damp shirt.
Stefano and Santo studied him, their eyes raking him, judging him. He could feel simmering anger and something else behind their gaze.
‘Come on, leave him alone, Santo. This is not your problem,’ said Stefano finally.
Santo frowned. ‘But I only want to help –’
‘Santo!’ Stefano snapped. Santo shut his mouth. ‘Now is not the time or place. We don’t want another failure on our hands.’ He aimed the word ‘failure’ straight at Dante, a weapon drawn without warning. ‘I fancy a tumble instead. Something I know can’t fail to please me.’
‘And where you’re the victor?’ asked Santo.
Stefano smiled in a way that made Dante grow very cold. They both waited to see if Dante would react. He knew they were looking for an excuse to attack him. Well, he would not give them one. He stood his ground, meeting their eyes, maintaining his silence.
After a moment, Stefano turned and walked away. ‘Santo?’ he called.
‘Give me a minute,’ said Santo and then, with a quick look over his shoulder, stepped so close to Dante that their noses almost touched.
‘You think you’re some kind of hero, don’t you? That your Bond will change the world, save the Estrattore? Oh, don’t look so surprised – it’s pretty obvious what your Bond is, what it’s about.’ He jabbed his finger into Dante’s chest, right over his heart. ‘Well, let me tell you, you’re not going to save anyone – not Katina, not the Estrattore. You’re not even going to be able to save yourself.’
‘Why’s that?’ asked Dante through gritted teeth.
‘Because Katina’s never going to succeed, and now she’s dragged you into her mess. So you’d better make your choice, decide which side you’re on and fast, because if you don’t, someone else will make it for you.’
‘And would that be you, then?’
Santo pulled away and burst into laughter. ‘Me?’ He was genuinely amused. Dante tried not to look thrown. ‘Oh no. Someone much more committed than me, Dante.’ He leant in again, his lips almost touching Dante’s ear. ‘Macelleria,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘will you live up to your name and do what needs to be done? Are you a Bond Rider or just a human? Time will tell. It always does. Even in here.’
He pushed Dante into the wall one more time for good measure before spinning round and striding away.
Dante stood there for a moment, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Why did Santo say his name like that? If only the Elders were supposed to use it, then why did Santo deploy it so freely?
A chill gripped Dante as the meaning of Santo’s words hit him with such force it nearly knocked him off his feet. He fell against the rock, allowing its coolness to calm his burning rage. An anger tempered by dread. Lost in history and the fugue that attended thoughts and memories of his old life, he struggled to find what he was looking for – the implication of his family name. Nonno Renzo was so passionate about their origins, so determined they would understand them. As chandlers, part of their task was to render fat from animals. In order to do that, you first had to kill them. They took their surname from a trade that gave their own some status.
Macelleria: the butcher.
Dante didn’t remember finding his way back to Debora and Alessandro’s tent, but he did. Tired beyond reasoning, he staggered inside. They didn’t question him about where he’d been. Neither did he object when Debora helped take off his clothes and placed him under the covers on the bed. He was vaguely aware of movement beside him as they joined him, but sleep claimed him before he could protest.
MY SECOND DAY AT THE MALEOVELLIS’ began with a tour of the casa. After a morning wash and being helped into another dress by Hafeza, I was told to meet Jacopo. Instead of inviting me to sit, I was left standing outside his study while he finished reading a document he said was very important. When he’d completed this, he stood and rubbed his hands back and forth in a way that made me think of the actors in the commedia dell’arte. There was something exaggerated and rehearsed about his mannerisms. Straightening his togati, he limped towards me. As he passed through the doorway, he made sure his body brushed against mine. I instinctively recoiled.
I made sure to maintain a distance between us for the remainder of the morning. As his study was next to the stairs on the piano nobile, we began my introduction to the casa at the landing.
First explaining that the servants slept on the floor above, he pointed to the rooms on ours. The piano nobile was mainly bedrooms and studies. Hafeza was the only person not a member of the Maleovelli family to be given a bedroom – that is, if you didn’t count me. In an oily voice, Jacopo reassured me – at the same time pointing out my marginal position – that I was most certainly part of the family. Across the front of the casa was the portego, the main salon in which I’d met everyone yesterday. There was also a small dining room that ran off the portego and beyond that a reading room. At the other end of the corridor were two sets of stairs: one led to the ground floor, but if you stepped through a door, the other went down into the central courtyard. We didn’t use the external stairs that day.
Descending to the lower floor, the pianterreno, I was shown what was effectively the business part of the house. Like most nobiles’ casas, the Maleovellis’ was a combination of private and professional interests, the ground floor functioning like a warehouse and shop all rolled into one. Products were received and sold and transactions carried out. I could tell from the many rooms allocated to receiving goods that once the Maleovellis must have been very astute merchants. With one exception, the rooms were all empty, and our voices echoed into the cavernousness. This room still held some sorry-looking barrels stacked in a corner. The wood was split and the coarse grey contents had spilled on the floor. I recognised the smell of rats.
There was also a tidy office that faced onto the rear canal, from which Jacopo did his accounting and met with any visitors. As I stood in the doorway and peered in, careful to avoid Jacopo’s lumbering frame, I rested my fingers against the wood and learnt that, for all Jacopo’s bluster, it had been a long time since a stranger had crossed this threshold.
I followed him around as we slowly went from room to room and he told me of the Maleovellis’ history and the connections and influence they once wielded. Despite the evidence before us, Jacopo spoke as if they were still a force to be reckoned with. His voice became a monotonous drone to which I barely listened. Instead, when I thought he wasn’t looking, I allowed my hands to rest on the cool stone of the walls, brush the scratched wood of the banisters and even the creaking door that led out into an internal courtyard. Jacopo may have spoken of the casa as if it were bustling with servants and turning away visitors, but the elements around me told a completely different story.
Hafeza, Salzi and one cleaning woman were all the Maleovellis housed within their walls. A cook would come to the casa each day and prepare meals, but Hafeza or Salzi would often serve the family. They barely had any visitors. Nobiles had not been here for a long, long time – only debt collectors and merchants seeking recompense for their credit. The casa itself supplied me with the counter-narrative my instincts had already told me was fact. No wonder they wanted my help, they had so little to lose.
We left the cold, damp interior and wandered into what once would have been a lovely walled garden. I could see from the stained, lifting stones, the rusting bucket hanging over the well in the centre, the dead creepers that tangled over the walls and the vacant eyes of the filthy statues standing at intervals,
that this was a neglected space. Even the gates that, Jacopo told me, led onto the calle that ran along the rear had once been grand. Now they resembled something I would have expected to see on a poor casa in the Candlemakers Quartiere, not gracing the entrance, or exit, to a nobile’s.
After lunch, to my eyes a veritable repast, which I shared with Signor Maleovelli, Giaconda and Jacopo, I was left to my own devices. My lessons with Baroque, I was told, would not begin for a few days. He was currently away on family business. I didn’t give him another thought. I was glad of the reprieve.
Instead of engaging in the siesta I knew was expected, I waited till the casa fell silent and continued my journey on my own. No-one had forbidden me, but all the same, I had the sense my solitary exploration would not be approved. So I hadn’t asked. I wandered around the portego cautiously, my ears pricked for any noise, my tongue ready with excuses. I quickly touched some objects and pieces of furniture, keen for the opportunity to do this properly another time. They didn’t tell me much more than I had already gleaned. The only thing was that the cumulative effect of so much extracting was making me feel both tired and very sad. This was not a happy casa. Not even the sunlight dancing through the windows and making the terrazzo floor gleam could hide that.
I halted before the windows and stared out. Over the top of the casa opposite, I could see the dome of the Doge’s basilica in the distance, a burnished copper glow in the afternoon. The pennants of Serenissima with their winged lion flapped over the palazzo. My eyes travelled over the rooftops and gardens towards the elegant facades of the casas and down into the campo below.
Large, with a central well, it seemed all but deserted at this time of day, but from the numerous balconies that faced onto it, I could imagine it being a beacon of activity. As if summoned by my thoughts, a senator, a member of the Great Council, strode across the cobbles, his red togati marking his office. He clutched a sheaf of papers beneath his arm. He signalled a greeting to a padre hovering in a doorway opposite. I hadn’t noticed him in his black cassock. He had a loaf of bread in his hand and was feeding the pigeons. There was an entire flock gathered at his feet, flapping and pecking. They squawked and scattered as the senator ploughed through their midst, oblivious to their presence. I stepped back from the window and studied the men as they conversed, sharing a joke before parting company. It was then I noticed a slight movement behind the windows across from mine. Then I saw another, and another. Dozens of shadowed faces were staring not at me, but at the activity below. I noted that they all belonged to women – women and girls. I saw young and old alike, their hair beautifully dressed, their gowns expensive, their jewels perfect, all framed within the glass. Trapped behind it forever, doomed to look out upon the world but, as Giaconda said, never participate. I sighed. For the moment, I knew how they all felt.