Shadowheart

by Laura Kinsale

  The white puppy trailed behind her, endowed now with the name of Nimue. The young dog cared for nothing but play and theft, skirting broken tiles and jumping over the smashed pot of a palm tree, the only cheerful presence amid a grimly silent household. The castle stood, but the open arcades lay in ruins, their heavy beams torn askew and flung into the shuttered chambers. Elayne doubted if Amposta’s ship could have survived such a tempest. She said a prayer for Lady Beatrice, but the countess’s fate seemed distant now, in God’s hands.

  Her own pressed much closer. The Raven appeared unconcerned about the damage to his castle. The gleaming horizon seemed to trouble him more—he stared out at the empty blue sea and posted watches at all the corners of the fortress.

  "Is there danger of attack?" she asked when he had sent Zafer away to discover how the town had fared.

  He glanced down at her. For an instant the flash was there, that promise of fire and pain that bound them now whenever he met her eyes. He had not touched her since they left the tunnels. And yet it seemed as if his presence saturated the very air she breathed. Elayne forced herself not to look away.

  He looked back out to sea. "My comrades are to gather a fleet here, in preparation for our return to Monteverde."

  "A fleet." She pushed back from the marble parapet, startled. "So soon?"

  "The time was appointed many months ago. When first I had news that Franco Pietro was to take a bride—and her name was Princess Elena."

  "A fleet," she said faintly.

  "A great fleet, of sixty ships and four thousand men-at-arms, to bring about the absolute destruction of the Riata. It’s taken me five years to assemble it."

  "Depardeu," she whispered. She looked at him, and then at the empty horizon. The sea was fresh and running high. Huge waves crashed far below, rolling in under the precipitous castle wall. Nothing else interrupted the expanse of vivid blue.

  "Yes," he said, "they do not come."

  Veiled by the wind-tossed mass of her hair, Elayne looked down, twisting the band on her finger. She had wished with all her heart to depart on Amposta’s vessel for England and home. But she didn’t believe anything could have kept it afloat in such a storm. Even if his comrades were marauding pirates, she could not wish so many such an end. Her throat felt tight and queasy.

  "Perhaps they did not all perish," the Raven said evenly. "Some might have made shelter."

  "God defend them," she said, signing the cross.

  The pirate stood still, an ironic tilt to his mouth. The breeze played with his black hair and lifted the dark cloak, flashing wings of bloody red. He might have been the Devil indeed, standing there deadly and alone in the dazzling sun. He cast one look at the empty horizon and turned away.

  "We leave tonight," he said. "Take what you want. We won’t return here again."

  SEVEN

  The city of Venice seemed to rise from the green water like a glistening dream: a silent place, where voices drifted from unseen windows and the faint splash of the boatman’s pole was the only sound of passage. Elayne sat in the small silk-draped cabin with Margaret, both of them leaning to stare through their veils at the mysterious facades that glided past. Exotic pointed arches, their foundations awash, reflected plays of brilliant sunlight and darkness from the water. Stripes and diamonds adorned the walls. It seemed as if the silent city had been bedecked for a great celebration that no one had attended.

  Zafer stood behind them, his legs spread apart, his knee touching the maid’s back with each rock of the slender vessel. Beside his master, Dario also kept guard, his foot resting on the curved bow of the gondola, his gaze sweeping over the passing quays.

  Though she had known them but a few weeks, Elayne found an unlikely comfort in their little company. On the island she had thought it wicked of him to train up youths and children in his vile craft, but in the midst of this foreign city, where Il Corvo was condemned and Elayne had no other protection, they seemed suddenly to form their own intimate band.

  None of them, she knew, would scorn her for the black desire she felt for their master, nor think it strange and sinful. Any one of them, even Margaret, would spring to defend her safety with their life. They hardly knew what sin was, she thought. If the Raven countenanced a thing, they would accept it.

  Elayne greatly feared that she was learning to do the same.

  Somewhere to the north and west, across the flat islands and the calm lagoon, lay the princedom of Monteverde. Ever the uneasy ally of Venice—source of the famed Venetian silver, guardian of the mountain passes; as Venice sent her northern trade through Monteverde, the ships of the green-and-silver sheltered in the lagoon and sailed in the company of Venetian galleys to Constantinople and the east. The hurried lessons in alliance and trade that Countess Melanthe had imparted to Elayne seemed more real now. As Monteverde itself began to seem more real, and more threatening, a storm just beyond sight, the sky darkening with menace on the horizon.

  The gondola bumped gently ashore beside an imposing wooden drawbridge. Serene Venice was not so peaceful here: the gondolas vied for space at the quay. A multitude of bells began to ring. Figures in long robes brushed past one another, men of light skin and dark, a hundred different colors in the clothing and wildly diverse headdress.

  The Raven stepped lightly onto the wet landing, flanked by Dario and Zafer. None of them wore their blades; the customs officials had taken them into strong-boxes and handed back paper receipts. The youths stood by, their faces grim and alert. Elayne rearranged the folds of gauze so that she could see through the haze. She did not care for it; it obscured her vision and choked her breath, but in Venice it was the proper attire for a modest woman. She did not care to be taken for an immodest woman here. Even if she was one.

  Il Corvo’s voyage appeared to be a matter of money and business, stopping at ports along the way to visit merchants and collect payments in gold. But it was evident enough, listening between the polite words, that these payments were in return for the unspoken promise that the Raven’s brigand warships would not attack the merchant galleys. No one seemed to comprehend that he commanded no fleet or allies now. Or that if they seized him here, there would be no retribution on the sea.

  The merchants were all exquisitely courteous to Il Corvo and his party. But Elayne could foresee that the price for detection would be death.

  The Raven flipped a coin to the boatman as Dario helped Elayne onto the mossy steps. The pirate took her hand, his thumb sliding across the back of her palm.

  With so little, he set her to thinking of his body coupling hers, of the underground room, thoughts so immoral that they were near beyond comprehension. There had been no opportunity for confession since the night in his secret room, and no repeat of the act—in the stifling, close quarters of the ship, it was Zafer or Dario who kept watch over her as she slept, while the Raven seldom came into the cabin at all if she were there.

  But the utter chastity between them had merely closed the door on a hidden furnace. Elayne labored in a state of sin that would have astounded Countess Beatrice. On the galley she had sat in the place prepared for her under a swaying canopy and pretended to occupy herself with gazing at the dolphins that escorted them. But when the Raven wasn’t looking, she had watched him stand beside the deck rail, taking the motion of the ship easily, his hair tied back under a knotted sash. She thought of the sound he had made as he shuddered inside her; she felt his arms about her and the taste of his bruised skin on her tongue.

  He kept a distance from her: a deliberate, taunting distance. Elayne affected not to notice him. She watched. She relived it again and again in her mind. And she knew that he was conscious of it, that he knew every moment where she was and what she was doing, as he knew the reach of his daggers. She held her breath and thought that when next he touched her in that way, she would shatter like a glass vessel into a hundred razor-edged shards of desire.

  She pulled away. He made a soft sound of amusement and stood back. "Return with Zafer and
Dario," he said to Margaret, as the maid rose to follow Elayne. "We have further business."

  The girl curtsied deeply and sank back onto her seat, holding her arms crossed under her breasts. She had begun on the ship to wean her babe, but Elayne knew that she must be in some fretfulness to return.

  "Let us take the air, carissima," Il Corvo murmured softly.

  "Is it safe?" she whispered, watching the gondola draw away, taking her fragile sense of security with it.

  "You’re with me," he said simply. He put his arm at her back, guiding her into a shadowed passage under the nearest building. The pavement and walls sweated dampness, their surfaces stained black and green by mildew.

  They emerged onto a small piazza lively with people. Knots of men gathered near carpet-covered counters, dealing loudly with one another.

  The pirate stood a moment, his hand still resting on the curve of her back, watching the trade at a table nearby. Amid bowls of gold and silver coins, a man wrote in a ledger while his assistant counted money into a triangular tray. He funneled the coins into a bag with a rush of silvery sound. Their patron lifted the bag high and turned with a shout, rushing toward another table to cast the coins down there.

  Il Corvo smiled. He lifted his hand away from her. "The music and song of Venice," he said. "The island of Rialto."

  Elayne gazed through her veil at the moneychangers. She had read of such in the Bible, of course, and once or twice perused, without much understanding, letters concerning matters of bullion and exchange from Italian merchants, passed along by Lady Melanthe for Elayne’s further education. But the quick fingers and rattle of wood against metal, the open piles of gold spread across the Turkey carpets, the coins that moved so rapidly and assuredly from hand to hand, almost as if they had an end and will of their own—it was far more alive than the dry lists of silver rates and wheat prices she had read in the letters.

  In one corner a half-dozen armed guards gazed on the throng with narrowed eyes. Over it all stood a plain church wall, inscribed with a cross and words in Latin. Around this church may the merchant be fair, the weights just, and no false contract made.

  "If I order you not to look at that man beside the second column there," the Raven murmured, "in the white tunic and gray cap, can you prevent yourself from staring?"

  Elayne found herself looking toward the man he described, unable to help herself.

  "Well done!" he murmured dryly. "Nothing could be more fatally obvious." He lifted his hand, as if he were pointing out an item of notable decoration on one of the buildings. "Now fathom, that you can look five paces to his right, without turning your head. Don’t nod."

  She bit her lip, checking herself from doing exactly that.

  "Green hose, red slippers. When you see him, take my hand."

  Without moving her head, she slid her glance to the right. Though the veil colored everything to a dim haze, she saw a young man in green hose and scarlet slippers with long, pointed toes. He talked animatedly with a banker, rubbing one foot up and down the other leg. She lifted her hand and slipped it into the pirate’s palm. His fingers locked with hers, closing swiftly.

  "Who are they?" she whispered anxiously.

  "I have no notion," he said, lifting her hand and pressing it to his lips, smiling down at her in such a way that it seemed he could see right through the veil.

  Elayne snatched her hand away. "I thought there was some danger."

  "Of course," he said, "there are three of Franco’s hounds watching us right now. But they will be dead by Vespers, so do not concern yourself."

  She closed her eyes and opened them. "Benedicite."

  He turned and began to stroll across the square, smiling pleasantly, as if they were lovers in a garden. "I knew you wouldn’t like it. I almost didn’t tell you."

  "What do they want?" she breathed.

  "They want my death. They want you in their power. They will have neither. It is them or us, beloved."

  Elayne made a little moan. She could not believe she was promenading in a public street, hearing such things.

  They had crossed the piazza and reached another shadowed passage that passed under a building; a damp, black tunnel with an arch of brilliant light at the far end. Even Elayne could see that it would make an excellent trap. She wanted to protest his firm hold on her arm, steering her toward the passageway, but she feared now to make any move outside his guidance.

  She stepped under the decaying archway. An odor of fish wafted from it, growing stronger as she moved forward. Through the veil, she could see almost nothing. She kept walking toward the arch of light at the other end. A figure was silhouetted there for a moment. With an echoing shuffle, the person came toward them. Elayne tensed. The Raven kept walking. They passed, with a brief word of greeting on both sides.

  He paused, turning toward her. He lifted her veil and looked down at her, his face lit faintly from the side. He was the only thing she could see. With a light push, he moved her back, and she realized there was a stairway behind her now instead of solid wall.

  He smiled, resting his arms about her. "A kiss, carissima," he said aloud, pushing the veil back and leaning to her mouth. He breathed lightly against her skin, not quite touching her. She could not comprehend that he wished to make love to her now—here—in this dank, public passage with his enemies lying in wait. But he kissed her, his fingers closing on her arms, his lips hard and quick as the pulse rose in her throat. From the corner of her eye, she could see more pedestrians at either end, black outlines against the strong light.

  "They’re coming," he muttered beside her ear. "Scream loudly when it happens."

  Elayne’s breath stuck in her throat. He kissed her again, blocking all her air, holding her from turning her head to see anything.

  "Courage, Elena," he whispered against her skin, and suddenly flung her back hard.

  She felt herself fall, tripping backward on the step. He vanished from sight and sound as she went down on the stone stairs with a painful yelp. She heard a scuffle of feet, a loud crack and a heavy thud, as if a thick branch had broken. There was another shuffle, a sound like a deep hissing gurgle. Then nothing more.

  Breathing frantically, she held frozen, her hands on the slippery steps, staring into blackness.

  "Scream, curse you!" he muttered from somewhere in front of her. His sleeve made a dim flash. He reached for her, his face and hands pale in the dark.

  Elayne’s throat worked. Only a faint high-pitched squeak would come out.

  "Thief!" he bellowed, his unexpected roar discharging a thunder of echoes in the passageway. He pulled her upright into the passage. "Thief! Help! Robbery!" Then he squeezed her arm. "Will you scream?" he muttered.

  She tried. She wanted to. Over the fish-market scent she could smell fresh blood; she felt something wet and slimy squelch beneath her feet. When her toe touched a form, heavy and lifeless, she gave another huffing squeak. The pirate made an exasperated sound.

  "Thief!" he shouted. "Here! Help us!"

  An invasion of people at the entrance blocked the arch of light. Their raised voices added to the echoes, creating a confused din. He put his arm around her shoulders in the disorder, walking her toward the entrance through the incoming throng of excited people. She was bumped and pushed in the dark, but finally they broke out into the light again. It seemed everyone in the square was crowding toward the passageway, craning their necks to see.

  "They cut my purse!" the pirate shouted angrily. He held Elayne very close as attention turned toward them. "Tried to carry off my wife! God curse their souls! What evil is this in Venice?"

  Shouts came from inside the passageway, cries of murder. People craned their necks. Orders and scuffles filled the damp air as the crowd inside began to back up, making way for guardsmen struggling to bear a body out.

  Elayne stared. She had never seen the man before. He wore simple clothes of black, soaked to his waist with blood. His arms dragged limp across the pavement. Blood steeped his bear
d and flowed in a river of crimson from his throat.

  She put her hand over her mouth, trying not to retch.

  "He’s dead!" someone exclaimed, as if no one could tell it.

  "Go after them!" another cried. "Is the guard after them? Don’t let them escape!"

  "No, they’re dead. Look, they’re dead!"

  They pulled a second body into the light. He had no blood on him, but his mouth lolled open, his lifeless eyes staring at the roof of the porch.

  "He says they robbed him! Abducted his wife!"

  "Stay by your banks! Don’t leave the counters!" someone shouted. The crowd washed back, leaving some space as a few hurried away toward their tables.

  Someone caught the sleeve of the guard captain as he came out of the passage behind his men. "They tried to seize his wife!"

  "Murder! They’ve been murdered!"

  "They’re thieves. They’re not of Venice."

  Amid a general clamor that the dead men were Genoese, or Pisanos, or possibly Neapolitans, the captain shook off his eager informants. He looked up at Elayne and the Raven. "Sir. Your gentle wife is unharmed?" he asked.

  The pirate turned Elayne in his arms, lifting her veil and holding her back from him a little. "You’re not hurt?" he asked warmly.

  At the edge of his jaw, there was a drop of blood clinging to his skin. She pulled away, freeing herself. "You killed them." Her voice came out like a bird’s peep. "You killed both of them."

  He gave a slight shrug, as if the mention of it embarrassed him. "By the grace of God. It seems that I did."

  "You had no aid, Signor?" the captain asked incredulously. "No man at your side?"

  "I sent my attendants back to our ship, Captain. I had private business. "

  The guard captain frowned. He held up a long knife, covered in gore. "This is yours?"

  "Of course not. I have no license. I deposited my weapons at the Customs this morn." He scowled down at the bodies. "Had I not wrenched it from that fellow, it would be in my heart, and my wife—the saints only can say where she would be by now."