Heart of Glass

by Sasha Gould

  I stumble as the men advance. Halim backs off in a crouch, moving towards the steps of the church, his blade turned over so it lies against the inside of his wrist. I hardly think before snatching at the hilt of the sword in the attacker’s scabbard and drawing it out.

  “Hey!” he shouts, spinning around.

  I level the blade. “Get away from him!” I warn.

  Though he looks gobsmacked, one of his companions—the leader who spoke before—merely grins and raises his club. “Don’t make me smash your skull, woman,” he says. The other men have paused, suddenly unsure.

  “Don’t, Laura!” says Halim.

  I watch the man with the cudgel moving around to my left, but I keep my sword trained on the fellow in front. “Unless you want me to run your friend through,” I say, “I’d lower your weapon.”

  The club-wielder scoffs. “You overestimate my loyalty,” he says.

  He lunges to strike, but suddenly stops and clutches his throat, where a gold hilt protrudes. His legs give way and he collapses. Halim’s arm is still extended from the throw and he snatches up his first victim’s fallen dagger.

  “Three against two,” he says to the remaining men. “Do you fancy yourselves our match?”

  The leader of the attackers has breathed his last at my feet. Blood runs in rivulets between the paving slabs.

  The remaining thugs look at each other but the fight has left their eyes. They’re scared. One makes a sudden break, heading for an alley.

  “The odds get better,” I say.

  “Who ordered you here?” Halim asks. “Tell me and you can keep your paltry lives.”

  The two men are silent, so Halim tosses the blade over in his hand, ready to throw again. I press the point of the sword firmly into the ribs of my man and he gasps in pain. “Tell us!” I say.

  “I can’t!” says the man. “Please, don’t kill me. I have children.” He throws his cudgel to the ground and then his companion lets go of his own dagger. “We’re unarmed.”

  Running footsteps sound from the alley, and four more men rush into view. Reinforcements. Halim’s eyes meet mine. No point fighting now. I nod and we run.

  “Catch them!” comes a shout.

  We dart around the side of the church and into a small alley that twists and forks. The pounding feet of our pursuers never seem far behind. I grab Halim’s arm and we switch back around a deserted sculptor’s yard. Half-finished blocks of marble, faces emerging from stone, watch us impassively.

  “There!” I hiss, and we run towards a pile of swollen wooden barrels, their metal rings red with rust. We duck behind them, kneeling in piles of dried leaves and cobwebs.

  I can feel my heart hammering in my chest, my sides hurting from the constraints of my corset. We peer through spy holes from behind the barrels and wait. Halim pants beside me, his skin slick with sweat. The heat from his body seeps through my gown.

  Shouts echo, but in the distance. No one else approaches the yard. Our breathing slows, and after a few long moments, Halim grunts.

  “We’ve lost them,” I say.

  He stands and pulls me to my feet, my joints stiff. I realize I’m still holding the sword, which he pries gently from my fingers. “No need for that, now,” he says, dropping it to the ground. I see his hand and wrist are covered in blood.

  “You’re hurt,” I say, touching his arm lightly.

  “It’s not mine.”

  Neither of us says what we both must be thinking: We could easily be dead right now.

  There’s a sound of shuffling steps and I tense. But it’s only an old woman, chasing a cat, her back stooped over nearly double.

  “Come back here, you toothless wretch!” she calls after her pet. Halim and I laugh with relief as we watch her hobble after the ancient, skinny animal.

  “Let’s get back to our boat,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ve seen enough of Venice for one day.”

  I follow the prince out of the square.

  17

  When we arrive back at the gondola, Halim’s men have mysteriously reappeared. How could Halim possibly have gotten a message to them? But he ignores them and stoops to clean the drying blood from his forearm. This time, he doesn’t hold his hand out to help me, and one of the guards steadies me as I climb down. Halim has thrown himself back on the velvet seat, his hand to his chin. He is deep in thought, his eyes not seeing the waters of Venice that lie before him. I sit quietly by his side.

  But as the boat moves out into the canal, he speaks.

  “These happy times you were telling me about earlier. Do they involve a suitor?”

  I’m startled by the line of questioning, so soon after we barely escaped with our lives.

  “You want to talk about love and romance at a time like this?” The question’s out before I can stop it.

  “Of course!” Halim says, sweeping an arm across the vista. “How could we not in a city as beautiful as this?”

  I roll my eyes. “You can drop that act now. We can both stop pretending that we’re on a sightseeing tour. Those people tried to kill us!”

  The Turkish prince folds his arms, the shot silk glistening. “That’s not quite true, Laura. Those men tried to kill me. You just got in the way.”

  Is that supposed to make me feel small? As if I don’t count? Is he so full of self-importance that, that … “How do you know that?” I ask, ashamed at how high and squeaky my voice emerges.

  Halim allows his gaze to travel down my body. It feels like a scorching bolt of lightning, and my arms move protectively around my waist. “How could anyone kill a creature as beautiful as you?” he murmurs. “Now, please answer my question. Lovers? Suitors? Would-be husbands? Will one hand be enough to count them?” He holds up a hand and pretends he’s about to list off my love interests.

  I shake my head, more irritated than I know I should feel. “No one. There’s no one,” I say as we pass beneath a bridge. Thank goodness for the shadow covering my face. My cheeks flare with shame at my own lie. Why am I denying Roberto? Why don’t I tell Halim about my one true love? I fall into silence and reason with myself: Halim does not deserve to know my heart. And I do not wish to share Roberto’s current pain with anyone, much less a handsome prince who thinks he can charm the birds out of the trees. What Roberto and I share … it’s worth so much more than that.

  I settle back against a cushion. Roberto gets out of jail today—even now, he may be soaping the dirt from his skin in water perfumed with oil, fresh towels waiting for him.

  My darling, I think, and then I wonder if I spoke the word out loud, because Halim is staring at me.

  “I think there may be someone,” he says, with a small nod.

  Fortunately, the gondola is pulling into the port. Faruk waits there, still as a statue. His gaze bores into Halim as we climb out of the boat. He motions the prince to one side, whispering urgently. An emissary from the Grand Council in his official robes and flat hat stands by, his eyes dropped to the ground.

  Halim strides over to me, his body language transformed. Gone are the smiles and warmth.

  “I must go,” he announces. “Thank you for your time.”

  I drop into a curtsy, stung by his dismissal. “I was only doing my duty,” I say, returning the insult. But Halim has already turned from me and is deep in conversation with the emissary, his hands gesticulating as he speaks. I can’t hear what they are saying and find myself standing alone, abandoned by prince and guards both.

  At least my coach is still waiting for me. I climb inside as a church clock strikes the hour.

  “To the palace,” I call up to the driver.

  I don’t even look back at Halim as the coach pulls away.

  My love is waiting for me.

  Servants in uniform show me to the private apartments. The corridors and galleries seem endless, but finally I arrive at the doors to Roberto’s rooms. Two guards stand outside, each wearing a schiavona sword with a basket guard and double-edged blade. I approach them with my sho
ulders drawn back.

  “Is Roberto here?” I ask.

  The men exchange a glance.

  “May I see him?” I ask.

  “Who’s out there?” calls Roberto’s voice, faint from behind the doors.

  My heart quickens. “It’s me—Laura!”

  One of the soldiers sighs. “Go on inside, then,” he says.

  I run between the guards and throw the doors open. Instantly, my smile fades. Roberto is sitting on the edge of the bed, stripped to the waist. His ribs are dark with bruises. The mark on his face has faded to a sickly yellow.

  “Quite a sight, aren’t I?” he says. I walk to him, and he stands stiffly to enfold me in his arms. “Careful, now!” he says.

  “They can’t treat you like this,” I say. “You’re the Doge’s son!”

  “The rules in the Piombi are different,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I made the mistake of answering back.”

  He presses his face into the folds of my dress. I wait, resting my fingers in locks of his hair. I can feel his chest moving with contained emotion. After a moment, he pulls away and smiles. “I hear you’ve been playing the tour guide.”

  I blush deeply, and I’m not sure why. “It’s been a bore. I’ve been thinking only of you.”

  Roberto kisses my lips, and in those few seconds, all is forgotten.

  “I hear my father is playing the diplomat,” he says as we break apart.

  I shake my head. “Never mind that. You’re out of that hellish place now. Soon, we’ll be able to prove your innocence.”

  Roberto’s smile fades. He turns away from me to shrug on a shirt. “Do you think so?” he says. I can tell that he is listening carefully for what I say next.

  “Of course!” I say. “In time, all Venice will know the truth.” I want to tell him that the Segreta are meeting, perhaps at this very moment—that there are people who can help. Instead, I pull him to me and press my lips against his throat. He kisses the tears from my eyelashes. I could happily stay right here forever, locked in our little room together.

  A distant shout tears through our intimacy. A ragged voice of anger carries up the corridors. “Where is he?”

  Roberto pulls away and stares at me. “What’s that?”

  Before I can respond, he’s making for the doors. The shouts are close.

  “You cannot enter these chambers!” one of the guards protests.

  “Do not stand in my way!”

  I clutch my hands to my chest, fear rolling over me. I know that voice.

  “Halim,” I murmur. Why is he here?

  “Who?” Roberto asks, turning to look at me. I don’t know how to respond. I don’t have to. The doors burst open, sending Roberto staggering back, and a figure appears in the room. Dark skin, darker eyes, hands clawed and face twisted with a fury I could never have imagined.

  “You will pay!” Halim screams at Roberto. The veins stand out on his neck as the guards hold him back. “My sister’s blood stains your hands!”

  18

  Halim’s men crowd around, trying to restrain him.

  “Get off me!” he cries, pushing them away. He lunges towards Roberto, fingers grasping the air. Roberto stands his ground, but his face has drained of blood. Halim’s chest heaves, and his eyes are wild. He doesn’t even seem to have seen me. “You murdering monster! Is this what you do to women in Venice?”

  He manages to free himself and his fist crashes into Roberto’s face with a sickening sound. Roberto staggers back, but Halim’s men are able to drag him from the room. Roberto is too shocked to do anything but watch, fingers staunching the blood from his nose.

  “I’ll tear your throat out!” Halim screams from outside.

  I peer out of the doorway to see him being pulled down the corridor. The guards at the door keep their swords trained on him. For a moment, our eyes meet, and I see a flicker of shame.

  “Unhand me!” he growls. “I won’t fight any longer.” As the men release him, he straightens his clothes and walks away, his retinue following.

  When I turn back into the room, I see that Faruk has remained. He watches my face carefully. Though his own expression is as blank as a mask, I can’t help but sense a smile lurking behind it.

  “What’s happening here?” I ask, swallowing hard. My mouth is so dry I can hardly get the words out. “I don’t understand.”

  “You should,” Faruk says, darting a glance at Roberto. “I have learned you are engaged to this brute. Did you forget to mention to the prince that you were going to marry a child-slayer?”

  A Venetian servant would never dare speak so, but this adviser seems more like a confidante than a manservant.

  “Get out,” I command. His glance rolls over me as if to say, And who are you to give orders?

  One of the remaining guards takes a step towards him. “Do as the lady asks,” he warns.

  Faruk turns his stooped back on us and follows his master outside. Other footsteps pound up the corridor, and the next moment Nicolo appears, swinging around the open doorway.

  “I’m not too late, am I?” he gasps. He spots Roberto’s bloodied nose. “Are you hurt?”

  Roberto lets out a long exhalation. “I’m fine. But what did that man want?”

  His brother walks farther into the room and sinks onto a stool covered in jade brocade. He shakes his head, staring at the marble floor. “You wouldn’t believe it,” he says, almost to himself.

  “That was Halim, the Turkish prince,” I say, going to take Roberto’s hand.

  “That much I gathered.”

  “He asked to see the girl’s body,” says Nicolo.

  “The girl from my rooms?”

  Nicolo nods and explains quickly that Halim was escorted to the warehouse in the harbor, where the body was being kept ready to be shipped to Lazzaretto Nuovo. The watchmen prised the coffin lid off. “We only did it to keep Prince Halim happy!” Nicolo says. “Even though we thought it very strange. He wouldn’t explain what she was to him. But the girl who was lying there …” Nicolo shakes his head. “It wasn’t good, Roberto. She hadn’t been washed or cleaned up. There was dried blood all over her dress and the air stank with decomposition. The prince—he fell to his knees! Began screaming and howling. No one understood.”

  “Go on,” I say in a low voice.

  Nicolo gets to his feet and wanders over to a window to look down on the palace courtyard with its bronze wells. Behind him a bird darts from the eaves, just like the little bird I used to feed in the convent.

  “Prince Halim had a pendant. He was clutching it to his chest. He seemed to …” Nicolo turns to face us, and his eyes are full of pain at the memory of what he saw. “He knew the girl—said it was his sister. Her name was Aysim. Next thing, that bald-headed fellow is whispering in his ear and Prince Halim curses, swearing to kill you, Roberto. I got here as fast as I could, but he’d already started running up the stairs.”

  “I must go to him,” Roberto says quietly. “Tell him I didn’t do this. He has to understand.”

  Before I can move to stop him, he is out of the room. I throw a glance to Nicolo, and the two of us give chase down the corridor.

  “No, Roberto!” I call after him. “Give him time to calm down.” I know what it is to lose a sister, and I cannot blame Halim for his rage. But by the look in Halim’s eyes just now, he’d be capable of anything. I cannot lose my only love.

  Roberto’s marching stride does not falter. “My reputation is at stake,” he says over his shoulder. “And Halim is a prince, an honorable man.” Nicolo throws me a helpless glance, and there’s nothing we can do but follow.

  We find Halim by the sound of his shouts. He is in the Doge’s apartments, appealing to him. Appealing—or demanding.

  “You put her in a cheap box!” he bellows as we near the door. “A princess of the Ottomans, rotting and soiled in a pauper’s grave!”

  We enter, and Halim doesn’t see us straightaway. The Doge sits implacably still in his high-backed chair. Some
men from the Grand Council surround him. He holds up a hand.

  “We didn’t know,” the Doge explains. “If we’d had any idea, of course we would have paid your sister the appropriate respect. But you must remember, no relatives came forward to claim her and she was an anonymous woman on the streets of our city.”

  “Not on the streets, in the house of a …” His words fade away as he notices Roberto’s presence in the room. “You! In your house. In a murderer’s home! What was she doing there?” He strides towards Roberto, hands twitching. Roberto opens his mouth to respond, but Halim has reached to his waist and drawn a sword. One of his servants must have given it him, because he wasn’t wearing it just a moment ago in Roberto’s rooms, nor was it the one he had on our tour of the city. There are gasps, and people shrink back against the walls.

  I have never seen a sword like Halim’s before. It curves in a smooth, lethal sweep of metal. There is a cross of gold at the hilt and calligraphy engraved near the top of the blade.

  “I demand my honor,” Halim says in a low, thunderous voice. “I will fight you, Roberto, until one of us is dead.”

  A sudden clamor of voices fills the apartment. Only the Doge sits silently at the heart of it, staring at the man who would kill his son. One of the elder statesmen takes a cautious step forward.

  “This cannot happen,” he beseeches the Doge. “Roberto has not yet even been tried for murder.”

  “Let God decide,” says Faruk. His thin lips are pursed into a smirk and I feel I could strike him down myself, if I only had a blade. He holds out a hand, palm up, and waits. One of the Ottoman servants scurries forward and places the hilt of a sword in his hand, and his fingers close around the metal. With a flick of his wrist, he turns the sword around so that the hilt faces Roberto.

  “No!” The cry bubbles out from me as Roberto steps forward. This can’t be happening.

  Roberto grasps the sword, and for a moment, I feel unsteady on my feet. Nausea squirms within me. I’ve seen Halim kill two men already today, each with lethal efficiency. After everything we’ve been through, for my beloved to be killed like this.…