Valour and Vanity

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  “Everything is spinning.” He clenched his hand into a fist and pounded his knee. “I hate this.”

  “I know.” Jane ran a hand down his back, trying to soothe him. His pride was wounded quite as much as his head, and only time would heal either.

  Four

  A Suitable Circumstance

  The next day Signor Sanuto seemed in sounder health, but his knee was clearly troubling him, so it was approaching noon before they were able to take their host’s gondola from Murano to Venice, where Banco de Giro was situated. Vincent was nearly silent the entire ride, and held the rail of the small boat as if it were tossing on a much larger sea, though Jane found the crossing to be quite easy. When she inquired if he was well, he merely said that he was thinking. She let him “think” in silence, but resolved to limit their water excursions until his head was clearer.

  At first blush, the main island of Venice was all that had been promised in travellers’ tales, with its long graceful canals, arching bridges, and sun-dappled buildings. The walks along the canals were filled with people from every continent, reminding Jane that Venice had once been the centre of an empire. Moors, Jew, Arabs, and Armenians mingled among the Venetians and gave Jane happy memories of London. Only as they walked through the town did Jane begin to note the signs of poverty everywhere. Napoleon had sacked Venice, leaving the fabled city with none of its former wealth. The magnificent palazzos often had cracked façades or empty window boxes where there once would have been flowers.

  Signor Sanuto led them across a footbridge and down a small lane that opened on to a piazza filled with the seemingly incessant pigeons. Banco de Giro faced on to this piazza and showed none of the signs of decay that were evident in other portions of Venice. A long gallery shaded the main entrance with a series of graceful arches. Inside the building, marble floors echoed with the hushed passage of men of business. Heavy wood tables glowed with polish and gave the dim impression of a library devoted exclusively to the study of money.

  This impression was broken only by the workers who were drilling into the masonry wall above the steps. A length of canvas stretched down the stairs and puddled on the floor to catch the dust. They had installed wall sconces above the first half of the stairs and were at work on a third near the first landing.

  Their host took in the mess and sighed. “Yesterday, I complained about the plaster dust on the floor when I slipped, and the canvas is apparently their solution. I shall be so happy when this is over.”

  “What is the work they are involved in?”

  “Gaslights. It is the newest thing, and should make it easier to see, but the process of having them installed has been unpleasant.”

  Jane nodded in understanding. “The Prince Regent has them in Carlton House. They are astonishingly bright.”

  “That is the chief argument in their favour. Well, I am afraid my office is upstairs, so we shall have to go by the workmen.” Signor Sanuto led the way across the bank, nodding to a clerk here and a businessman there. “I do wish it were not so unpleasing, though.”

  “I could mask it for you.” Vincent nodded to a clear section of the wall. “Set up a repeating pattern to hide the workmen while they are about their business.”

  Signor Sanuto started up the stairs, with a little sigh. “Having seen your work, I wish I could take you up on that, but alas. We have a strong room here, and with the glamour laid upon it to prevent theft, our policies do not allow any other illusions in the building.”

  He gestured toward a seemingly blank wall, which stood behind the banking counter. Jane expanded her vision to the second sight and saw that the blank wall was actually constructed of glamour. She had heard of strong rooms before, but had never had the opportunity to see one. The glamour concealed the entrance to the bank’s vault, as well as a variety of corporal alarms. A thief who did not know the correct entrance would sound one of those alarms. At first glance, the illusion appeared to be a tangled mess that would have appalled Vincent’s sense of artistic integrity, but those interwoven strands concealed glamourous alarms. Attempting to undo the folds to see the corporal truth beneath them would be surpassingly difficult. It was an ingenious combination of the tangible and the illusory.

  Continuing, Signor Sanuto said, “At some point, I should ask you to take a closer look. We have had some trouble with—” His foot snared on the canvas and his bad leg went out from under him.

  Jane reached for him, but Vincent was there first. He caught Signor Sanuto, staggered down a few stairs, but somehow managed to keep them both upright. The cane bounced and rattled down the remaining stairs, rolling across the floor until it stopped against a clerk’s desk. For a moment the room was silent; then a flurry of men ran across to assist them.

  It was clear that their host could not put weight on his bad leg. Still, he drew himself erect, leaning on Vincent, and unleashed a torrent of Venetian on the workers. It sounded, to Jane’s ear, very like Italian, but was entirely its own tongue. She could gather nothing from the local language, except through his tone. Though Signor Sanuto’s voice never raised, his face became quite red and a vein throbbed in his neck. He pointed at the canvas, and waved his hand as though to indicate the entire mess.

  The most senior of the clerks came up the stairs and gave a low bow, speaking Venetian in deeply penitent tones.

  Signor Sanuto clapped Vincent on the shoulder as he replied.

  The clerk nodded, and then came to stand on his other side. Together with Vincent, they assisted him back down the stairs to the main floor. Jane hurried in front of them, trying to stay out of their way. Had he fallen, he could have been grievously injured. If Vincent had slipped as well … It did not bear thinking about. He had caught their host.

  She bent and picked up Signor Sanuto’s walking stick from where it had fallen, feeling of no other use.

  Since Signor Sanuto seemed incapable of managing stairs, the clerk escorted them to a nicely appointed room on the main floor for patrons who wished to examine the contents of their vault in privacy. Signor Sanuto was lowered into a chair at the large conference table. He winced as he stretched his leg out in front of him.

  He changed back to Italian for their benefit, and gave them a rueful smile. “I believe the balance between us has been restored. I would have taken a nasty fall were it not for you.” He grimaced and rubbed his leg. “Please, have a seat and we shall take care of our business.”

  Jane started. “But you are injured. Surely you must want for a doctor—”

  “Who will tell me that my knee is ruptured, as it has been for over a decade. This has aggravated it, but done no new damage. Please believe me. I have had time to become used to the vagaries of the injury. I used to be quite the good dancer.”

  The door to the room opened and they were joined by the senior clerk, who bore a lap desk and an envelope bulging with papers. Signor Sanuto thanked him in Venetian and proceeded to organize the papers, in spite of Jane and Vincent’s protests. “I have work to do today, so I would need to set up shop in here regardless, because I will not be able to manage the stairs. Tending to your accounts”—he held up a hand to stop Vincent who had drawn breath to speak—“Truly. I appreciate your concern, but will feel better to have some work that I can accomplish. The rest of my tasks today will not be so easy. So … here.”

  Signor Sanuto’s efficacy was impressive. It took only a few moments for him to have Vincent sign the agreements. Though Jane had no direct experience with banking, she could nevertheless see that Signor Sanuto had done everything in his power to expedite the process. He had established a line of credit at Banco de Giro for use with local merchants, as well as arranging for them to be given a supply of coins for their immediate needs.

  Vincent took fifty pounds out of the purse they had been given and offered Signor Sanuto the coins. “You had said that a donation to your church was welcome.”

  Signor Sanuto smiled and looked chagrined at the same time. “Yes, but truly, there is no need
.”

  Jane put her hand on the table to offer her support to Vincent. “Please. With thanks for our deliverance.”

  “How can I refuse a lady? The Abbess will be most grateful.”

  “And you must also allow us to repay you.”

  He hesitated and straightened his papers, with a frown. “A thousand pounds is less than it costs to clothe my wife and daughters, but for you? And I mean no offense by this: For you it is not an insignificant sum, am I correct? Prince Regent or no.”

  “It is a matter of honour.”

  Signor Sanuto pressed his hands against his eyes and sighed. He lifted his face a moment later with some apparent pain. “And you will not allow me to claim that you saved my life today?”

  “Perhaps,” Jane said, “but you saved two.”

  Their host smiled. “You British and your debts of honour.” Sighing, he pulled a paper toward him and wrote on it for some moments. “This is a promissory note against funds you hold in England. If you are quite certain, deposit this with the clerk as you depart, or wait until you are ready to leave Venice, or after you are back in England. Or not at all, which would be my preference.” He did not flaunt his wealth again, but the implication remained clear that he could afford the ransom and they could not.

  Vincent took the paper and added his broad, masculine signature to the bottom. “Thank you.”

  Jane offered Signor Sanuto her hand in appreciation. “Can we not convince you to go home and rest?”

  He shook his head and waved at the papers in the envelope. “I have all of this to attend to. I shall see you tonight. Dinner, perhaps? Or the opera … I shall have to see what is playing.”

  “I think you and Vincent will get on well, because you have a familiar stubbornness.”

  Laughing, Signor Sanuto bowed from his seat. They took their farewells and stepped out to the hall, leaving him bent over the table with his stack of papers.

  Vincent turned the paper over in his hand and tilted his head toward Jane. “Well, Muse? It is your money, too.”

  “Of course, we must.”

  Nodding, he strode across the room to the nearest clerk and handed him the paper. “Will you see that this is deposited?”

  “With all due speed, sir.” The clerk looked the paper over and added his stamp to it.

  Vincent heaved a sigh as he stepped away from the desk.

  “Relieved to no longer be dependent?”

  “Very much so.” He straightened and rolled his shoulders. “And now, I propose that we see if Byron has made arrangements for us so that we no longer need to trouble our host.”

  * * *

  The apartments that Lord Byron had taken were not far from Banco de Giro. Though they no longer had the directions, Vincent recalled that they lay just west of the Piazza, over the shop of a draper. Fortunately, Lord Byron was a notorious enough figure in Venice that they had little trouble in discovering precisely where the “English poet” lived.

  The building had once been magnificent, but, like so much of Venice, now displayed the fallen splendour that had overtaken the islands when Napoleon had ravaged them. The owner had carved it into separate suites and rented those out to people like Lord Byron. It was difficult to look at the exterior and not compare it to the grand palazzo of Signor Sanuto.

  Vincent frowned at the refuse in the street. “One wonders what led him to apartments such as these.”

  “Perhaps it is grander on the interior?”

  “Or his finances are in worse condition than I thought.”

  “Are his estates troubled, then? I had thought it was the scandal with Caroline Lamb that caused him to leave England.”

  “Mm … Byron thrives on scandal, I think.” Vincent knocked upon the door. “But funds? Even when we were in school together, Byron was always out of pocket.”

  “Oh.” Jane had no time to give further response before the door opened.

  A young woman with large dark eyes and a graceful figure stood framed in the door. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders and her gown was … insufficient. She did not offer them a welcome, but merely raised one brow in question.

  Vincent offered her a short bow and spoke in Italian, “Good afternoon, madam. Is this the residence of Lord Byron?”

  She snorted. “Yes. But the bastard is not home.”

  Jane’s eyes widened at the vulgarity of the woman’s language. Surely the phrase carried the same meaning in Italian as in English.

  Clearing his throat, Vincent nodded, as though it were a discussion of the weather. “I see … Did he leave any instructions regarding Sir David and Lady Vincent?”

  “Instructions? What do you take me for?” She spat upon the walk. “I am not his housekeeper. I know nothing of you, or your wife, or where that bastard has gone. Try Mira to see if he’s with his slattern there.”

  Jane took Vincent’s arm, quite finished with this encounter. “Thank you for your time.”

  The woman snorted again and stepped back into the house, shutting the door behind her.

  “Well.” Vincent rubbed the back of his neck. “That is unfortunate.”

  “Indeed. I wonder at his invitation, if that is the sort of household he keeps. I feel that I should be doubly grateful to Signor Sanuto now.”

  They turned their steps back toward the main piazza with Vincent in a brown study. He shook his head as if clearing it of thoughts. “Shall we interview glassmakers?”

  “That is why we came to Murano.” Jane took his arm. “But we should also purchase some clothes. His wife’s dresses are lovely, but—”

  “But one more form of debt.” Vincent raised her hand and kissed it. “You are monstrously clever for finding a way to convince me to shop.”

  “An attack by pirates might have been a bit extreme, but I do what I can to make sure you are respectable.”

  “A task that I do not envy.” They left Lord Byron’s apartments behind and set out to explore Murano.

  * * *

  The gondola ride from Venice to Murano reminded Jane again of the ethereal wonder of the island city. Seen from a distance, it was easy to imagine it in its era of glory. The buildings came right to the edge of the water, so it seemed as though Atlantis had reemerged from the deep. Every kind of stone imaginable graced the structures in an exuberance of masonry. Glamour enhanced the effect by creating seascapes that extended up the sides.

  The only unhappy moment was when a fast-moving pleasure boat created swells that their gondola bounced over. It pitched and heaved about as if they were at sea.

  Vincent sagged against Jane, closing his eyes. He pressed his lips tightly together and swallowed convulsively. A light sweat stood on his brow.

  “What may I do?” She felt his brow for fever. Vincent was not prone to seasickness under normal circumstances, but he had a decidedly green cast.

  His voice was hoarse as he replied. “Forgive me. It has been some time since I have been badly concussed. The motion of the ship—”

  He broke off and leaned out the gondola’s small window, demonstrating the effects with more vehemence than comfort.

  Jane passed him her handkerchief, and did her best to not fuss over him. He would be mortified enough as it was, without feeling as if he were a burden. “I would rather that you were unfamiliar with the symptoms.”

  “As would I.” He took the handkerchief and wiped his mouth.

  She ventured, “We can wait until you are well to visit the glassmakers.”

  He shook his head, though his eyes remained closed. “Please do not worry. Once we are on land, I will be well.”

  “You will not be in any fit condition to work glamour.”

  “As we discovered yesterday.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed slowly. “But we will not be working glamour today. I would rather spend my recovery making progress in those areas that I can.”

  “You are only seeking a way out of shopping for clothes.”

  He gave a hint of a smile with the small comp
ression of his lips. “You know me too well.”

  Jane sighed. He was right in that. She knew him too well to suppose that she could convince him to spend the afternoon resting. Still, she would keep watch on his health. She could not entirely trust his judgement in the matter.

  Indeed, when they arrived at the dock in Murano, Vincent preceded her out of the boat and turned to offer his hand, as though his complexion did not have an unnatural pallor.

  She accepted his aid and stepped up onto the dock beside him. “Are you certain that you do not wish to return to Signor Sanuto’s home?”

  “Quite. I shall feel better for walking.” True to his word, his countenance improved as they strolled along the canal to the glassmaker’s district.

  Jane considered before she asked the question she most wanted to know. Vincent was so often private about the life he had led before he disavowed his family that she sometimes hesitated to ask about his youth, particularly after meeting his father. She felt the urge to protect him from the memories he had walled away, and yet she wanted to know everything about his life, even the parts that were sometimes difficult to hear.

  They stepped onto one of the bridges arching over the canal. “Do I dare ask how often you have been in this condition?”

  Vincent tucked his chin into his collar in thought. “Three? Perhaps four times, but one was so mild it barely counts. And let me assure you, Muse, that this is not severe.”

  “You now require me to ask what severe is and how you know?”

  “Severe means that I cannot stand without toppling and am confined to bed for a week. It means seeing everything in double and forgetting great swathes of time. But I was also only twelve, so one must allow for that.”

  “Good heavens. Twelve? And so severely hurt? Were you thrown from a horse or did you run into a tree with mad exuberance?” She posed that question, preferring it to the more likely scenario.

  “My father hit me.” His tone was easy. His pace did not falter. The sun continued to shine as they crossed the bridge. “He caught me working glamour. Again. I have been told that what actually caused the concussion was that I hit my head on the hearth’s andiron when I fell. I do not remember. Certainly his usual blows were not enough to have caused it.”