Votive

by Karen Brooks

  They twisted around sharply and I could smell centuries of damp. In the pale light, I could see the moss and lichen growing between the cracked stones, spreading like a canker over the walls. What was this place?

  Finally, after spending what seemed like minutes descending, we stopped. Signor Maleovelli stood beside an enormous, ancient door. He drew a key out of his pocket and passed it to Giaconda. He held the candle close and she placed the key in and turned it. The door opened quietly and I knew then that, wherever they were taking me, it was a place they used frequently. The key was not rusted, the hinges oiled.

  The door opened onto a corridor. A frigid wind greeted us and I shivered. The cold was like a barrier we had to pass through. I began to shake. My heart felt like it was going to jump out of my chest. Jacopo’s breathing was harsh in my ears while my own strained in my throat. I could feel his stubble pressed against my cheek, the way he used this opportunity to press himself against me even though I had stopped resisting long before.

  A light flickered at the end. As we stepped in, Signor Maleovelli used his candle to light a torch that sat in a sconce above us. He lifted it down.

  ‘Take her to him,’ he said gruffly.

  Him?

  Jacopo grunted and pushed me towards the light. We passed what appeared to be cells, their iron bars sparkling in the flame of the torch. They were all empty.

  At the end of the corridor, Jacopo stopped and then, with cruel force, slammed me into the railings, pushing against the back of my head so my face was pressed against their algific hardness.

  It took me a moment to register what I was seeing.

  In the small, freezing cell was a dark shape. It was curled over on what appeared to be a large bed of straw. The smell was dreadful – a mixture of urine, faeces and sweat. I coughed and tried to breathe through my mouth.

  ‘Do you know who this is, Tarlo?’

  I stared and blinked. ‘No,’ I said, my voice cracking.

  ‘Tallow?’ said another deeper and familiar voice.

  I caught my breath. No.

  I saw Signor Maleovelli make a gesture with his hand and the pressure on the back of my head went away. I tried to see through the darkness. Signor Maleovelli stood beside me, his torch held high. The gleam from it radiated into the cell.

  Rising from the straw, the shape detached itself from the shadows and slowly lumbered towards us. The light hit its face and it threw up an arm to protect its eyes. I saw through the dirt, the clothes that were mere shreds, the food and other stains that covered almost every inch. Then the hand fell away and I had no doubt. A pair of faded blue eyes in a face ravaged by sores and scabs blinked lovingly into my own.

  No. No. No. No.

  ‘Pillar?’ I said disbelievingly. I reached for him.

  ‘Tallow,’ he sighed. His voice unpractised, hoarse. He did not move.

  ‘Hold her!’ snapped Maleovelli.

  Jacopo grabbed my hands, banging them into the bars as he wrenched them behind my back. I did not give him the pleasure of knowing the pain he caused me.

  ‘Oh, God, Pillar!’ I said softly, ‘What have they done to you?’

  Pillar stumbled closer and I heard the splash of water, but he did not come within reach. He’d been told what to do. I could feel that now. He did not say a word. He just stared. He looked me straight in the eyes and, in that moment, I used every ounce of my talent and, resting my cheek against the iron that I now knew he too had held, plunged into his soul.

  I saw pain, fear and, above all, guilt. Guilt over me. I felt the agony of his indecision, of his restlessness once I had gone. He did not know what to do, where to go. The Signori were coming; the Cardinale. He could not, would not betray me, but he was afraid he would not be strong enough to withstand their punishment. He drank and waited. Inert. Terrified. Then I saw Baroque. Baroque had persuaded Pillar to come with him; Pillar had believed him when he said he knew were I was, that I was safe. He promised to bring Pillar to me. And, cruelly, he had. Pillar had seen me from a distance – in the window of the piano nobile before he was taken, by Jacopo and Salzi, and locked in this damp, cold place. He’d been here ever since. Ever since I had been at the Maleovellis. For over a year …

  They had beaten him, starved him, fed him, tormented him with what I now was, my success, with what I had become. I saw myself, the grand courtesan, through Pillar’s eyes and what I saw sickened me. The price for this was too high. The Estrattore were my people, sì, but Pillar was my family. The only family I had ever known.

  The knowledge brought me to my knees. I slid down the bars, my eyes still fixed on Pillar. Sorrow poured out of me; I begged his understanding as I gazed deep into his essence. What I saw almost undid me.

  He did understand. He did forgive. He was proud of me, bewildered by my beauty, the talent I know he could sense. In his eyes I saw belief. The Maleovellis had not broken him – or the love he still had for me. The love I did not deserve.

  Don’t. Don’t. Don’t love me, I silently begged.

  ‘Now will you do what we ask?’ asked Signor Maleovelli, squatting beside me, speaking directly into my ear. ‘For if you don’t, I think you know what we’ll do.’

  I didn’t need to extract to know the answer.

  ‘Sì,’ I said. ‘I will do whatever you ask of me.’

  I could not let Pillar – this man who had already suffered so much for me – suffer any more. I would not.

  Above my head, looks of triumph were exchanged. I no longer cared. I would kill the Doge and then I would figure out what to do about the Maleovellis, Pillar and Baroque.

  He had warned me not to trust him. Now I knew what he had meant.

  IT TOOK BAROQUE A MOMENT TO REALISE what had woken him. He lay there, trying to make sense of the muffled voices, the cry. He sat up. Moonlight streamed into his windowless bedroom from the workshop. Throwing his coat over his nightshirt, he stumbled out into the main room, colliding with the table as he tried to wake. What was happening?

  He wandered out to the well and lowered the bucket. The sounds weren’t so apparent out here. He pulled the rope and splashed some water on his face, scooped handfuls of the icy-cold liquid into his mouth. He shouldn’t have had the extra vino, but the waitress at the taverna had been very attentive and she had a nice smile.

  He heard a door slam and quickly ducked down behind the well. Someone was on the pianterreno – the ground floor. He could hear voices. What where they up to this time of night? Bending over, he scurried to the small window under the stairs and slowly raised himself. In the candlelight he saw Signor Maleovelli and Giaconda. They were followed by Jacopo, who held Tarlo tightly and, while she did not struggle, Baroque could see that she was distressed. Fury rose in him. What was happening?

  Then it occurred to him.

  Pillar! They’d taken her to see Pillar.

  Merde. He hadn’t expected this so soon.

  He crept back to his room and flung on some clothes. He wormed his way into his hose, but didn’t put his shoes on. If he was to move around the casa without being heard, he didn’t want the creak of the leather to give him away.

  Back out in the courtyard, he noted the moon was in the ascent. Its light was watery and thick clouds were about to cross its path. Good, the darker the better. He glanced up at the piano nobile. The candles in the corridor had been extinguished, another element in his favour.

  Using the external staircase, he entered the piano nobile without a sound. Practice paid off. Making sure no-one was about, he crept up to where light spilled into the hallway from Signor Maleovelli’s study. Every time he passed an open door, he held his breath. If he was caught … But there were only sepulchral spaces and draughts to meet him.

  When he reached Signor Maleovelli’s study, he lowered himself onto his haunches beside one of the ornamental chairs that dotted the corridor and manoeuvred as close to the door as he could. It was ajar, and from within the room the voices carried clearly.

  ‘You’l
l have to watch her carefully, Gia. But I want you to keep a distance – make sure you have an alibi. If she’s caught, I don’t want you involved.’ A shadow crossed the doorway. Signor Maleovelli had moved to the fire. Baroque peered around the corner carefully. Giaconda sat in a chair, Jacopo was adding more wood to the grate and, as he’d surmised correctly, Signor Maleovelli had made his way to the mantelpiece.

  ‘Do you trust her, Papa?’

  ‘No,’ scoffed Signor Maleovelli. ‘But I think tonight we played a card she did not expect. She will not risk Pillar. You were right to suggest we take him into our … care, cara mia. It showed great foresight.’

  ‘She talked about him in her sleep, even through the drugs – him and the dead boy, Dante. Over and over, she called for them.’

  ‘And yet she hasn’t mentioned either since?’

  ‘Not to me.’

  ‘Jacopo?’

  ‘No. She does not talk to me unless she has to. Puttana,’ said Jacopo and moved away from the fire. He fell into one of the chairs. Baroque wished he could grind his fist into his face.

  ‘So, Papa, you’re happy to accept Lord Waterford’s offer?’

  Baroque’s ears pricked up. He knew that Waterford had been at the casa earlier that evening and shared a private meal with the Maleovellis. Excluded, Tarlo had spent more time in the workshop with him.

  ‘Happy?’ Signor Maleovelli made a noise in his throat. ‘Sì and no,’ he said.

  ‘What are you displeased about? He is going to make you Doge once Dandolo dies –’

  Baroque did not hear the next part as his brain whirled. Doge! The ambassador was supporting Maleovelli to be Doge? Why? It didn’t make sense. What did he have to gain? All too soon it was explained.

  ‘I am not happy with the price we have to pay for an honour that, by rights, should be mine anyway. We worked hard for this. All of us. We put ourselves at risk. What have Farrowfare done? Sat back and waited. They back me because they know I have won. If I give them what they want, what is of value to me as well, then my victory will not be the same.’ He sighed. ‘No, despite what we’ve promised Lord Waterford. The second rule of power is to never surrender your most potent weapon to your enemy.’

  ‘What’s the first?’ asked Jacopo.

  ‘Do not hand it to a friend either. You destroy it. I don’t think we’ll be handing Tarlo over to anyone.’

  So, he would exchange Tarlo for the Dogeship. Baroque had been right about the ambassador. Waterford had known what Tarlo was for a long time – probably since that day he found him snooping outside the workshop. But how could he give Maleovelli the Dogeship? What was Farrowfare up to?

  Baroque recalled the talk in the tavernas, the mutterings among the soldiers. The Ottomans were stirring, Konstantinople, one of Serenissima’s most lucrative and important allies, with a colony of Serenissians situated right in its heart, was under threat. Why would the Ottomans move against Serenissima when, for years, they had existed in beneficial peace? But if another foreign power was behind the Ottomans’ push into the Mariniquian Seas, then it all made sense. Baroque chewed his lip. What if Farrowfare was that power? Making friends in Serenissima while stirring her enemies in the colonies, and all the while seeking to disrupt the leadership in order to claim the Estrattore. This was deeper and darker than even he anticipated. Waterford and his people were playing an extremely dirty and dangerous game. And trapped in the middle was Tarlo. She was a valuable piece in this political contest. Too valuable, it seemed, for the Maleovellis to surrender.

  ‘Why not, Papa?’ asked Giaconda. ‘If she’s gone, then we cannot be held to account for anything she has done. It will be like getting rid of the evidence. No-one can accuse us without proof.’

  ‘Cara mia, use your head. According to Waterford, Farrowfare has already taken extraordinary steps against Serenissima. Without our government even being aware, or the Cardinale, they’ve made allies of the Jinoans, the Kyprians and the Kretans and managed to incite them against us. It’s going to be hard enough to stop their combined might, and that’s before we consider the cursed Ottomans.’

  Baroque chewed his lip. He was right.

  ‘But Beolin says that once we hand over Tarlo, all hostilities will cease.’

  ‘You really believe that, cara?’

  ‘I …’ Baroque could imagine her lovely face creased in thought. ‘I don’t know. No,’ she sighed. ‘It would not make sense. Not once the fury of our enemies is unleashed upon us. Why let us have the Dogeship when they can watch others destroy us and then take it for themselves?’

  ‘Esatto. With war, there is everything to gain – for the victors.’ Signor Maleovelli’s voice sounded distant, strained. ‘No, we cannot let these people take Tarlo. If they do, we win nothing. But for now we will let them believe they can have her.’

  ‘What do you intend to do?’

  ‘Once she has killed the Doge and I am in power, it will be time for Tarlo Maleovelli, the great Signorina Dorata, to disappear.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning she will meet an unfortunate end, won’t she, Jacopo?’

  ‘Sì, zio. Very unfortunate,’ agreed Jacopo.

  ‘Once Tarlo is out of the way, then we will expose Farrowfare for the traitor she is.’

  Baroque’s breath caught in his chest. He reeled and rested his head against the wall, his hand over his heart. He could hear them talking, going over their plans, what they would say, how they would manage Waterford and Farrowfare, but he no longer listened. Instead he thought about Tallow and the great betrayal the Maleovellis intended.

  He had to do something. He had to help her. But how?

  He needed to think, and fast. An image of Katina flew into his mind. She had asked him to search for Tallow and he had broken his part of the bargain, justifying it by telling himself that Tallow no longer existed. Well, perhaps it was time to honour what he said he’d do. The Bond Rider had saved his life. If anyone could help, it would be her. Putting his thoughts in order, he planned his next course of action. He would go to his room, get some money, his cloak and his shoes and go to the Tailors Quartiere. This time, he would demand to see Katina and not leave until someone told him where she was, how he could contact her.

  It was the least he could do. After all, he was responsible for what was happening to Tallow as well and, while he had been coerced and manipulated, he’d been prepared to sacrifice the Estrattore’s life so as to have his returned. But that hadn’t happened either. Like the promises they’d made to Tallow, the colleganza they’d signed, the Maleovellis betrayed everyone and everything they came into contact with. No more. This would stop now. He would play no further part in their machinations.

  He began to crawl away from the door, backwards, when the soles of his feet connected with something. He twisted his head to look over his shoulder and found himself staring into a pair of huge dark eyes. It was Hafeza.

  She bent down and pressed her fingers against his lips. With a nervous smile, she beckoned for him to follow. Rising to his feet as smoothly as he could, he tiptoed after her, all the time wondering where this sudden recklessness would lead him.

  ‘I NEED TO SEE HER, I TELL YOU,’ demanded Baroque, his face red, his voice rising.

  Signor Zano Vestire ignored the urgency in Baroque’s tone and continued to wipe down the counter. ‘I tell you, Signor Scarpoli,’ he said firmly, ‘she’s not here. Repeating myself will not make her materialise. So hound me all you want, but Signorina Katina left here months ago.’

  ‘But when she left here, she went somewhere,’ insisted Baroque. ‘I need to know where. I need to speak with her. If it’s the Limen, then I need to know how to get a message to her. Signor, it is very important that I do this.’

  He glanced over his shoulder, but only a couple of old men, sad regulars, occupied seats. It was still early. ‘I have even taken the risk of giving you my real name. Katina knows me. Please, you must help me. I must know where she is or how to contact her. A lon
g time ago she told me that, if ever I needed to, you would know how.’

  Signor Vestire stopped mid-swipe. He sighed and for the first time really looked at the man behind the cloak. Dishevelled and out of breath, Baroque, he could tell, was also anxious. Unlike the last time this man had come to his taverna. Back then, he’d sat in the crowded bar, downed vino after vino before finally enquiring after Katina, appearing almost relieved when Signor Vestire informed him the Bond Rider had not been seen in the Tailors Quartiere for a few weeks. Since then, of course, Katina had been and gone, but this man, who fidgeted on the stool, whose fingers agitated the counter, had not earned the right to know of her movements, nor of the one who remained. He was not a Bond Rider. Nor was he a tailor. Like a good Serenissian, Signor Vestire protected his own. For all he knew, this short, stout man could be working for the Cardinale. And yet, there was something about him that told him this was not so. A desperation that stoked the pity in his heart.

  His instincts had not been wrong before. Maybe it was time to set aside caution … after all, the world was stirring. Whispers were they were on the cusp of great change.

  He stared at Baroque, who raised his eyes to meet the taverna keeper’s. What he didn’t expect to see was despair. He saw intelligent eyes that missed nothing, not even Signor Vestire’s attempts to put him off track. Baroque was a man on the edge.

  Signor Vestire left the rag where it was and filled a mug with vino. He put it down in front of Baroque. ‘Drink. You look like you need it.’

  Baroque seemed to hesitate then, with gruff thanks, quaffed the contents. In the time he did this, Signor Vestire looked over his head at the young man who had come down the stairs at the bidding of Signor Vestire’s daughter and sat in the corner, his arms folded, his eyes never leaving Baroque’s back.