by Claire North
—… I do not know where Contarini found it: he did not have it three weeks ago and no vessel has come into port with any such thing about it. Indeed, the whole thing is being kept very close.
—I can make a few guesses as to where this relic came from, murmurs Thene as they walk together by the water, watching the clouds, the water, the city, the woman and the nun, the player and the played.
—Contarini has offered not only to hand over this relic, but to build the bishops a sacred place to house it. Doubtless the contracts for this exploit would be… very lucrative… to many individuals in the city.
—Ah—I see! He wins the bishops’ vote by offering a little theological temptation in a golden box, then wins over the support of half the Senate by proposing building works which will keep them in coin for fifteen years yet to come. But by securing the Church’s support for this venture, he doesn’t even have to pay for more than the initial gilding himself if he can convince Rome to contribute to the construction of a reliquary while turning a profit on the contracts to construct! It is wonderful!
—You are pleased at this?
—I enjoy how so simple a move can trap so many pieces. Bishops, builders, men of faith, men of money. No wonder they have declared this sacred elbow or whatever it is to be the genuine matter, no doubt curing all manner of diseases. It is in the interest of everyone to find it so. Where is the relic now?
—No one knows.
—The bishops are committed?
—This enterprise will bring them wealth and prestige, which to the greatest in this church are of vastly more interest than salvation, sad to say.
—And for the same reason, much of the Senate will follow. Then we must see to its failure as quickly as possible, for the sake of their souls as much as our enterprise. Thank you, sister, for your assistance.
Chapter 18
And together in the dark, their voices hushed in secrecy, a veil across one woman’s face, a mask across the other’s, firelight in the heart and the sound of men, drunk, in the street outside, the Queen of Cups, Pisana, lady of letters and lady of the night says:
—Faliere is so cold I begin to question whether he is even a man, even human, or just some animated statue that sometimes shits and sometimes spits and shows no more that those human functions.
—I take it you have had little success infiltrating his house, murmurs Thene.
—He has doubled his guard, thrown out anyone he doesn’t trust, sent his children away from the city.
—How prudent of him. But his wife?
—Ah—his wife. (And here, through her veil, we feel rather than see our Lady Pisana smile, for she learned long ago to find joy in those few joys that life can give, whatever their calling, whatever their form.)—Poor Lady Faliere: with a husband made of clay, what can she do?
And then, her enthusiasm for the thing itself breaking through her delight at the game of hiding it, she leans forward, the veil stirring around her lips at her breath, and whispers:
—She has taken a lover. A lady in San Marco; a very beautiful lady at that.
—Does Faliere know?
—If he does, he has done nothing.
—Tell no one. Protect the wife and her lover. I need their relationship to continue until election day. Do not let anyone find out.
—I like you, lady. You have a romantic bent.
—Do not believe it.
—Be careful not to lose yourself too deeply to the game. Emotion is a weakness, but players are still human; so are pieces. If you forget the meanings of love or fear, you will not be able to see the board clearly.
—I know the meaning of fear.
—And love?
Thene didn’t answer. Pisana nodded to herself and said,—You are the player I hoped you would be. She told me you were good.
—Who?
—The Gamesmaster.
—The Gamesmaster spoke to you?
—Yes. When she gave me my card, told me the conditions of my arrangement. You do not think I was ever just a piece, did you?
—What did the Gamesmaster say?
—What is it worth to you to know?
—You have a request.
—Rather a favour, let us say. If you win this game—and I think you shall—you will become a great player in the higher league. That could be of use to me. We could reach some understanding, you and I.
She thinks about it for a moment, then says,—No. Not yet. This is the game; I am the player. You are a piece, and I must win. Perhaps, when that victory is won, we can talk again of other things.
—As you wish, my lady. As you wish.
And so the Queen of Cups is gone, as are we.
Chapter 19
The coin.
Thene turns it over in her fingers.
There are only three cards in her pack left to be played. The Fool, the Three of Coins, the Tower and this strange Roman coin, old yet not old, no reason, no great value—what is the purpose of this? How is it to be played?
She lays it aside and goes to the Gameshouse.
The warmth of fire, the distant sound of music, the taste of drink, fine food, the watching umpires all in white, faces hidden, hands clasped, welcome, welcome, welcome to the Gameshouse, all things are possible here.
How is this house standing in this place? How can it be here, where it was not a few months ago? It is as if the street itself shuffled ungainly to the side to make room for it, buildings all around squeezing a little tighter, and yet she has wracked her brains and she cannot remember any building works or hearing any rumours of this place until the day she came to its lion-headed door.
She has questions, but knows the answers are not yet hers; not until victory.
Games.
They focus her.
Thoughts sharpen.
The complexities of the world are simpler here.
Black, white.
Forward, back.
Win, lose.
She plays, her mask still on her face, and she wins without thought, without passion, without enthusiasm for the victory, but with an intensity that speaks of another game, another Thene, working behind the mask.
We watch her, and she does not see us, so intensely her mind turns to the game, until…
… another player sits opposite her at the chess set.
He wears a mask that is nearly the twin of hers: white, soulless.
She looks and starts—a huge reaction for her—towers topple, earth shakes, she starts in surprise but hides it at once and perhaps it was not even seen, save by us who have so long been in her company.
The other, the player, says:
—Shall we?
She gestures her acceptance.
They play.
A while they are silent.
Pawns fall, knights scuttle, bishops are swapped for bishops, queens break from cover, kings cower by the castles, quick moves and silent periods of contemplation, until at last, without very much business about it, the other, the man, says:
—You will lose, my lady.
—She looks up from the board into his empty face, then back down at the board and is silent a while.—The position is balanced, she replies.
—No, he answers.—It is not.
Again she raises her head, and his eyes are blue, so very blue where they meet her own. Who is this man? She can recognise, even behind the mask, the face of he who played Tiapolo, and knows that player to be no threat. Is this stranger now Contarini’s man, the player who pulls his elusive puppet’s strings? But no.
No.
She knew at the moment he sat, she knew without the need of words what he is, who he is, his purpose tonight.
He plays Faliere, and though the board between them is even, the board that matters is not.
She knows, as she has known for a while, that he is winning. He has won Zanzano, and though as matters presently stand, she thinks the Senate is for Contarini, yet Faliere has many cards yet to play, and he is waiting to make a great mov
e.
—What would you do? she asks, almost surprised to hear herself speak.—To win, what would you do?
He doesn’t pause to think about the question.
—Anything, he replies.—Anything.
—So would I, she says, leaning away from the board.
Then,—We should stop this, she says, gesturing at the game between them.
—You said it was evenly balanced.
—The game before us is, but we are now playing another by different rules. I dislike the asymmetry of it.
—No one said the game was simple. If you don’t feel ready for the challenge…?
—Do you ask that because of my actions, or my sex?
—I merely ask.
—You are wrong.
—Am I?
—In one regard. You say that I am losing, but you are mistaken. At this point in time, you and perhaps Contarini are ahead in the count, winning the election. I am not. But, sir, my time has not yet come. Do not assume that you have won until every player has made their move.
—I assume nothing. And yet here you are, my lady, alone in the Gameshouse while your drunken husband whores and gambles alone in the house you wish to leave behind. You assume every air and speak the speech as if it were doctrine, but you are still only the Jew’s daughter. As for the game between us… shall we call it a draw or would you like to test your mettle tonight in preparation for tomorrow?
Her hands are soft in her lap. Her voice is light as breath. She has mastered both these things from a long time ago.
—Let us call it a draw, she replies.—I think the joy may have gone from it for now.
Alone.
In the dark.
Walking.
She is
angry.
So long she has been angry, and so long she has bitten it down, becoming nothing at all but tonight
there!
It rises.
It rises.
She
rages!
Rage!
Rage.
Until it goes.
And then she is alone again, and with the buoyancy of anger spent, she feels small and lost in this world.
Chapter 20
A moment in which we look inward.
Let us make an inventory together as Thene walks through the palazzo of Angelo Seluda, her piece, her king-in-waiting. We count up servants, slaves, nieces, nephews, cousins from the countryside, wife, two daughters, a son, physician, nurse, accountant, couriers, sailors, merchants and knaves. Dozens of people flitter in and out of the house of Seluda every day, and no one seems to keep an account of their activities.
She asks herself a question:
What wouldn’t I do?
To win.
Nothing. There is nothing.
In the evening she stands before Seluda at his table weighed with messages and papers and says:
—The prostitutes must stop.
He splutters some denial.
—I have spoken with certain ladies who make little effort to disguise their purposes in this place. They are a risk to the security of this endeavour. I have other requests.
—Requests?
—Suggestions you would be wise to consider. Too many unknown people come in and out of this place; too many letters are sent by too many men; too few precautions are taken. I have spent the last few days gathering information on your rivals, positioning pieces to be of service in your cause, and I have no doubt that others are doing the same. You are a threat to them as they are to you; therefore they will be acting against you. From now on, greater care with security must be taken.
—This seems…
—… do you want to win?
—Yes.
—… then as I say, I have some suggestions. We must guard your warehouses, protect your ships. Your power is money, prestige, the friends you have, the contacts you’ve made. We secure your wealth, remove it from anyone or anything which might be a risk. If you have supported gambling nephews, that support now ceases. If you have loans in play, recall them now. You have men-at-arms who you trust? They secure this house, your family, your gold. And no one captain works alone: two captains together, that they might watch each other, guarantee the other’s loyalty. No messages are sent unnecessarily, and when you do dispatch a note, your messengers do not wear house colours, decoys are sent and secrecy is maintained. In the Doge’s palace, we must look who to bribe and who is a lost cause already; this election will be won with money. Do not trust people who are too easily swayed; they may be swayed by another’s cause. Every night tonight you will dine with groups of your dearest friends and your more questionable allies—but if you have eating habits, you will now change them. Simple dishes, you must eat foods you dislike, drink modestly, commit few indiscretions. Anyone who you do not fully trust, send away for the coming two weeks. Anyone or anything which could be used as leverage against you, we also retire. A castle is as strong as its weakest point—I cannot win the game for you if you are defeated from within.
—You talk like a general, like Tacitus himself! he says.
—I am a player, she replies.—I know the value of a good defence.
—What you propose is very costly.
—Do you wish to win?
—Of course.
—Then invest in victory.
Chapter 21
A letter from the King of Coins arrives at last! We have checked for messengers every day, never running, never in a hurry—we would never be caught being so undignified—but at last, at last it is here, on the cusp of that moment which would have been almost too late.
She forces herself to open it slowly. Splits the wax. Unfolds the paper. Holds it close to the flame. There is strength in being slow; intelligence in never rushing. She must be strong.
The King of Coins says that he has a cousin who has a cousin who has a sister whose husband’s brother was married to…
… you know how it goes…
Someone whose word he trusts—this is the heart of it—helped wipe up blood from a cellar floor in Milan some two and a half years ago. The boy who bled was a Venetian who had made an unwise accord with a woman whose brother was not of good humour in this regard. The boy died; the sister sent to a convent. They say the boy’s remains were thrown into the river, but that is not the whole story, for the water in Milan is sluggish and no sooner were the remains dumped than they were pulled out again and the unknown corpse was buried in a patch of unsanctified ground where now wild garlic grows.—Now I know a man who knows a man who has a cousin who has been known of a quiet night to dig up corpses from their fresh graves and carry them to the scholars of the city, who all in secret dig through guts in search of mysteries, and prophecy a new age of blood and bone. Upon hearing some tale of your lost boy, I asked this friend to make a little enquiry, and he pulled a corpse from the earth that had upon its flesh, a most terrible tale to tell.
Yet they say that the body wore a ring upon its finger that bears a seal.
Would you like to guess to whom that ring belonged?
And then Seluda says—no, roars:
—Never!
She stands before his ire, hands clasped in front of her, shoulders pulled back, and says simply,—If we are to win this battle, we will need the support of Marco Belligno.
—He is my bitterest enemy, a whoreson, an eater of dung…
—He is also an important piece in this game, one which has been sorely neglected by the other players. I do not think he can win by himself, but he commands a significant faction which, if it can be swayed to our side, will help secure the day.
—I will never work with that man. I will never—
—You need not speak to him; I will handle that. The important consideration here is what you are willing to agree.
—Nothing. Nothing. Nothing!
—Then, sir, I do not think you shall ever be a Tribune.
—You are a player! You are supposed to make this happen!
—I a
m only as good as the cards that are dealt me.
—A player should be able to win off any hand.
—We both know that is not always the case. There are those in Venice who consider you an outside candidate, and marvel that your name is even considered. I have a great deal of work to do to put you in a position where you can win this. Belligno is the ignored partner in this—I can use him.
—What about Zanzano? He’s a friend, he’s a good man…
—… he has been bought by Faliere.
—Then buy him for more!
—I do not think that will solve the problem. He is, as you say, a good man. The definition of “good” is such that it is best encapsulated by the terms of being a man who, having taken a bribe, will not take another that runs contrary to his original contract. Nor can I believe that it was purely wealth that was offered him, since he has such an abundance of his own, but rather something more subtle we have yet to determine. Other players have cards they have played as well as I.
—We need Zanzano’s support…
—And we will get it, but not by flattery or bribery. Rather, if we are to secure the support of Zanzano we must demonstrate that Faliere’s tenure, profitable though it might appear, will do greater harm than good to interests other than the lining of his purse. The only thing which Zanzano prizes more than money is honour—that therefore is what we must target and the tool we must use. Securing the support of Belligno is honourable if done correctly, and the policy I wish to pursue.
—I will not speak to that man.
She considers, a question which she does not want to ask, has no interest in yet which rears its head and will not leave her until it is uttered.—Did you betray Belligno’s son? she asks at last.—Did you betray him to Milan?
He is silent a while, and in that silence is a great answer and a great deceit that, just this once, has the good grace not to be uttered.—You’re a player, he says at last.—You must know something of grief, if you would use the grief of my enemy to make him my friend. Tell me then, my queen of stone, do you know something of anger? Of rage and jealousy? Or are they merely tools, as the chisel is, which you use to carve your victory like a mathematician, all lines and no heart?