by Claire North
There are four people within it, and a gondolier who says nothing and of whom nothing is asked. Torches burn at either end to guide the way, but the moon is shrouded behind the high walls of the city, and only a little light pushes through the mosquito-humming dark. The waterways at this hour are a place for insects, some crawling along the surface, visible only by the pushing ripples of their darting motion; others zip high, bumping along walls like blind bats feeling their way through the air, indignant to find their journey so disrupted.
Through this, Contarini moves in silence.
Let us consider the others who accompany him.
One man we may immediately assess, name and discard: a guard carrying a short spear that he probably can’t use and a chipped sword which perhaps he can. He is a problem, but not an insurmountable one.
Another we have not seen before, his face half shrouded by a velvet hood, but if we were to consider his role, his strength, his abilities, we could give at least a representation of a name to him, and say perhaps that he is that card known as the Sun, whose real name will turn out to be something Germanic, and who used to pass letters for Sir Francis Walsingham and who betrayed the Spanish king and is now what he most excels at being—a spy, a traveller and a watcher of men. He had some aspiration, once upon a time, of playing in the same Gameshouse where his masters sometimes dallied, but for reasons we cannot know, the Gamesmaster never invited him to challenge for the higher league, though his skill was entirely apt to it.
Contarini does not trust the Sun, suspecting what he once was; but for all that he is a fearful man, he is an economically minded one too, for to him a man whose card is held is a man who is now owned. His gaze turns in satisfaction to the final occupant of the boat, a man in a bone-white mask, and Contarini smiles upon him, though if he smiles back we cannot see. How easily has this old, plump man, cheerful Contarini, come to congratulate himself on owning a piece as powerful as the Sun, and somehow managed yet to forget that he is a piece himself. The easiest intellectual option, the path of least resistance, and there you have the man.
A guard, a spy, a piece and a player.
Their route to Zanzano’s house takes them under four bridges. Two are high enough that the gondolier needs only to bend a little to push them through it; of the other two, one requires him to squat, and one is so low indeed that it is miraculous that the pilot of this little vessel does not lie down flat to propel them beneath its stones. As they approach it, Contarini mutters his usual exclamations against new money and the vulgar, unpleasant things it builds, forgetting—choosing to forget—how yesterday he shook the hand of the very man whose construction this bridge is, congratulating him on his superb judgement in supporting Contarini’s claim, and hoping to see him very soon for some private chat.
Coming towards this little bridge, it seems that a shadow stirs around it, and at the sound of footfalls, the Sun raises his head.
A sound that might be the scraping of a barrel.
A creaking that could be the drawing of a bow.
The Sun rises to his feet, steady in the still-moving boat, and seeing him rise, the white-masked player asks,—Something?
—Perhaps, replies the man, and then,—I heard…
What he heard we shall not know, for what he next experienced was a cracking of timbers and an explosion of sticky blackness across his face as, from windows high above, barrels of honey, mud and egg were thrown, all mixed together by an angry cook of Seluda’s, the dark sticky stuff splattering across every soul in the boat which, rocked by this assault and then by the confusion of all within, sloshed first from side to side and then, with a final slow flop, capsized, hurling all into the water.
At this all light ceased, and for a moment five men flapped and splashed, flailed and gasped in the murky dark. How terrible to drown; how much worse to drown in the dark when there is no sense of where safety lies, only water without bottom, darkness without end, clothes swelling up and dragging down, bubbles of air popping from nose and mouth, eyes pushing against their sockets with the pressure of liquid building in your gasping, choking face. Terror, terror to drown, and now the soldier’s sword is an anchor and the fine fur lining of your cloak and golden chain about your neck is death that threatens to pull you down, the rich men drowning faster than the poor.
Yet! A light above, voices in the dark, and here are ten or fifteen boys, the forgotten, unloved, undrawn poor of the city. They crowd round the water’s edge, torches burning and hands outstretched, and some three or four dive in to help the flapping, spluttering passengers, hauling them, some by the arm, some by the neck, one even by the hair, gasping onto the safety of the bridge.
—Money, money, please sir, money! cries the boldest of these unlooked-for saviours, or:
—I’m strong, you see how strong I am, I am very strong indeed you could use me, yes, as a servant, I work very hard because I am very strong!
Or maybe even the simpler, softly whispered words that are not a threat; no, never that, never threatening…
—I saved your life. I could have not done that, sir, and heaven looked no less kindly on my soul.
Contarini is a man of pride, always one to refuse gifts when offered lest they become debts, and even less willing to hand out his own money unless he is sure of what he shall take in return. Yet now he sits, this great man of Venice, dirty, wet and stinking, as dozens of little hands in a show of straightening his sopping gown pat him down for coins, rings, silver and gold, until the Sun, recovering some semblance of his wits roars,—Get away! and charges at the pack which disperses, laughing like hyenas, withdrawing some little way but not yet giving up the prize, the scent of blood in their noses, their victims stranded in the dark. All except one, who runs into the dark and does not look back.
Then the player is pulled from the water, his white mask lost, and he is an old man, grey hair, grey beard, pale eyes and a mole situated perfectly in the centre of his left temple that seems to be pinkish at the base and then deep, deep brown in the middle, as if a second mole has attempted to grow from the first. He gasps for air, sees the boys, sees his pieces, the gondolier lamenting his battered craft, broken barrels floating in the water, and at once now his mind turns to the most important question—
—The box!
At once Contarini feels within his sopping garments, pushing leaden fabric away from his skin in great, sagging waves, and though he almost immediately feels nothing, still he keeps looking, for it is unacceptable, impossible, that he does not find that which he seeks.
—Who took it? roars the player.—Where is it?!
Now he staggers to his feet, and without care for his own safety or person, squelches towards the gaggle of boys, who laugh tremendously to see this drowned ox come for them and scatter before him, chattering at how funny it is to see old men move, and how much funnier it will be to see old men cry.
This pattern of pursuit and scatter, pursue and scatter leads the player a little distance away from the canal, until with a sudden burst like spring petals on the wind, the boys break away, running barefoot over stones away into the swallowing dark.
We look now at this player, clothes streaming, hair stuck to his head, gasping for breath, burdened by time and water. He turns his head side to side, his feet rooted as if crushed by his own weight, and sees now a figure, cloaked in grey, a white mask upon her face, a lantern at her side.
We can name this woman too, can we not? But he sees only what she is, not who she is, and cannot even bring himself to name her.
—Whore, he breathes, having no better wit for the moment.
She steps a little towards him and he tries to draw himself up to his full height, though dignity when you are leaking canal waters from the seat of your trousers is a difficult attribute to obtain.
—Seluda’s little whore, he adds.—Your piece will die for this.
—I do not think so, she replies.—Stealing the relic from you was only part of tonight’s work.
—It
will not be enough: you will lose.
—I do not know if I will win, or if Faliere will beat me to the final reckoning. What I am sure of is that Contarini’s claim will not survive past tonight, and you will never see the higher league of the Gameshouse. It is a trait I dislike in players to gloat over their defeated enemies, but in your case I have come not to gloat, but to witness. It has been suggested to me, strongly suggested, that the Gameshouse does not deal all hands evenly. My player is weak, and though I cannot compare my cards to others, not knowing their draw, I am… uncertain… if they were as touched by chance as perhaps I would think. Therefore I wanted to see you, to witness this moment, and ask myself this question: why you? Or perhaps: why Contarini? Or perhaps both. Why would the Gameshouse seek to see a creature as patently vile as you clearly are in the higher league? What is their purpose? Why are we playing this game? I am sure you have no answer. You are a piece, and perhaps so I am. But in observing you, one day maybe I will be closer to the answer that I seek.
She finishes speaking and he steps towards her suddenly, fast, one hand rising as if he would grab her by the throat, breathless, and what is he thinking now? Can he imagine himself killing her—is he that man? We think that perhaps the truth of the matter is that he cannot think at all, and this is just the animal, the stray dog within his soul, that now twists his fingers towards her neck.
Yet she does not flinch, and at the stillness in her features he hesitates, breath meeting hers, his fast, hers soft, so softly waiting. Two rules there were laid out for the players, and he remembers them now.
—Will you? she asks, as he is frozen to the spot.—Do you dare?
It seems that he does not.
His fingers withdraw; he forces them shaking to his side.
—You are no player, she breathes at last.—A player would never fall so low. That’s good. That’s what I wanted to know. That means the Gameshouse intended Faliere to win.
—This is nothing, he says.—The bishops will still stand with us.
—No, she replies.—I do not think they will.
So saying, she turns away, and he watches her out of sight.
Chapter 37
The sky glows red tonight.
A fire in any city is a disaster, but in Venice! So many buildings so tight together, so much timber waiting to ignite.
Yet this fire is contained, for the building where it begins is kept apart by its status from many others, and there is nothing if not an abundance of water to hand.
A Patriarch should not have so fine a palace, the Priestess tells herself as she watches the flames from across the water. How much we have forgotten. How Christ would weep to see us now.
Chapter 38
And in the morning, the Patriarch of Venice pens a letter to his good friend, Abbot Padova, who we may say perhaps sold his soul to a woman in white and became that card known as the Hierophant, and for what? For a promise of secrets and blessings, whose value we will one day see does not outweigh the sacrifice that must be made.
Be that so, to him the Patriarch writes, telling of the fire which has all but gutted his glorious palace, and the priceless treasures that were lost! Gold melted in the heat, paints blistered on canvas, the faces of the saints destroyed, ancient Byzantine symbols turned to ash, the rosewater boiled in its bowls as glass cracked and turned to sand, a tragedy, a tragedy and an abomination and worse—oh, but far worse! Can the churches of Venice really afford to build both a reliquary for this “elbow of St. Simon” if it is even verified…
(What new question is this, wonders the abbot, since when was verification a concern?!)
… and rebuild the Patriarch’s home?
Panic in the priesthood, panic in the Senate. The situation may still be salvaged, the election may still be saved, but here now come Angelo Seluda and Orio Faliere, and though they are enemies, bitter rivals for the crown, yet both of them smell blood and it seems—for just a morning and an afternoon—that they wordlessly combine efforts.
The profits from building a reliquary have been hugely exaggerated, whispers Seluda.—Contarini was playing you all, using you, offering rewards he could never have given, the priests all secretly doubted themselves—do you really want a man as unreliable as Contarini on the Supreme Tribunal?
And Faliere, frozen, icy Faliere, stalks through the halls of the Doge’s palace and murmurs with a voice that seems to never rise and yet cuts through every shadow, where is this relic anyway? What is this elbow bone for which Contarini would have the bishops go bankrupt?
Through it all, Contarini struggles, and his player too, begging, imploring, coaxing, wheedling, we can still bring great profit to this city, the Patriarch can have his reliquary and his palace too, trust us, trust in what we can achieve, there has been foul play…
… but all for nothing.
And when, at supper, they produce the blessed relic itself, a priest who has buried many bodies in the crowded cemeteries of Venice exclaims,—That is not the bone that you showed us before, and is far newer than any relic should be! and at once chaos erupts as Faliere whispers:
—I would not wish to do my good brother Contarini down, but it does seem that this relic should be questioned…
And Seluda murmurs,—Poor Contarini—it seems he has been the innocent victim of some terrible, terrible hoax, and I wonder that he did not see it sooner himself!
So that, when the sun finally sets over the city, Contarini is done.
We watch him return to his palace, walking this time—shameful walking!—perhaps haunted by his soaking memories of the humiliating night before.
Of the man that was his player, we see nothing more.
And so in the halls of the Doge, when all have departed and the last sunset light burns in sideways and hot through the high windows, all things at last are still. We watch Thene, and do not know her mind. She gazes upon the images of great men, the faces of noble Doges, and the obliterated place where a Doge’s face once was. She walks through images of the history of Venice, the glories of Lepanto, the sacking of Constantinople, memories of crusader princes who others called pirates and rogues. She sees the painted depiction of raging seas upon which the brave Venetians still set forth in brigs, caravels and galleys, mighty men with great shoulders rowing against the crashing waves, ancient Poseidon stirring the oceans below, blessed Jesus calming the skies above. For a moment she thinks she sees the face of Zeus in the bearded depiction of the Almighty as he bestows his blessing on the holy islands of the lagoon. A flicker in her eyes, a question of perspective, for did the people of this land not once worship the all-father Jove, and were they not, in their time, right?
She crosses herself quickly at this thought, and we are surprised.
It is the last time we shall see her make this sign for as long as we shall know her.
And then, quiet as night, he is there.
The man who would make Faliere king.
The two players, Thene and he, face each other down the empty hall. Both are masked, neither speak. Is it coincidence that has brought them here?
Fool you, for asking the question. Shame on you if you thought any of this was not wrought by another’s hand, and long before we came to look on it.
At last the man says,—My apologies, my lady. For how I addressed you the night when we played chess. You are a better player than I gave you credit.
—You played with your words, and with me, when you spoke so, and I respect the game, if not the move, she replies with a little nod of her head.—And for my part, and I think it must also be so for you, I have… enjoyed… our game.
—Very much so, he replies,—and I regret that I will not play you again when this matter is done, since one of us must be exiled from the Gameshouse altogether at its conclusion.
She hesitates, then,—I nearly asked you your name.
—I would not give it.
—Nor I. It seems… unfitting… to the spirit of the thing. Yet I am curious to know who you are, that th
e Gameshouse would have you win.
—You think I have some advantage?
—Yes. I do.
—Come, come, he tuts.—That is bad grace from a good player.
—I have looked at this board and see no reason why Seluda should have been played, nor why Belligno was not, save an intention bigger than either of our parts. Contarini’s man, though strong, proved to be merely… human…
She pauses on this word, considering it, and finds to her surprise that it is right. For what is a human if not flawed by humanity, tempered by feeling, doubt and hope? And is not a player more? Does not the player strive to rise above all of this and see only the moves themselves?
—… and so I must conclude that you are the strongest of us, given the greatest chance, and I wonder who you are, that the Gameshouse would see you victorious.
—You do yourself down, my lady. You have fought a good fight. Perhaps even stood some chance of victory. Does the Gameshouse not wish you even success?
She opens her mouth to say a name, to explain all, but hesitates, blessed sense, hesitates before she speaks of the man with silver sleeves, of a Roman coin, of a bargain struck, and our heart may beat slow again, breathe, breathe, for we are not ready, we are not ready to play the game that must be done, do not betray us yet, Thene, do not show the strength of our hand to one who serves our enemy!
Her lips seal, thin and tight, behind her mask, and if the other player has seen any alteration in her eyes, any drawing in, we cannot tell, and it may not matter.
—You speak of my victory as if it is still impossible, she says at last.—Yet the election seems even.