Votive

THAT HAD BEEN OVER SIX MONTHS AGO. Since then, there’d been no other messages. He’d followed his orders. Watch, wait, listen. And he did. Just as he did tonight, across from the rear of the Doge’s palazzo.

Finally, the waters to his right stirred. Tallow stepped closer to the edge of the jetty. The sky had brightened into a lavender wash. There was a coolness to the air. He noticed the deepening shadows under Tallow’s eyes. She was paler than usual. She looked tired, weary of the world and life. Her mouth was downturned and for a moment, he imagined calling out and watching it burst into the smile that, though he had not seen it since he’d been observing her, still filled his dreams.

The gondola bumped into the jetty and the servant darted forward to hold the prow, careful to avoid the metal ferro that adorned the end. The gondolier, Salzi, Dante had learnt, reached for Tallow’s gloved hand and she jumped lightly into the boat.

This time, she did not retreat into the felze, but sat in the prow. She said something softly to Salzi as he tipped his hat to the servant and pushed the gondola back into the current.

Tallow stared over the water, a frown drawing her fine dark brows together.

They were just beneath him now and, as he did every time he saw her, Dante willed Tallow to look up, to see him. He concentrated hard, his heart thundering in his chest, as his mind cried out to her. See me, beloved, acknowledge me! I am here, for you … for eternity.

Tallow tipped her head and her eyes flew to the roof. Dante flung himself back, his hand hitting the tiles hard, knocking a piece loose. To his horror, it skittered over the edge and fell into the canal. He heard the splash.

‘What was that?’ asked Salzi.

He heard a faint murmur but could not make out the words.

‘Damn cats!’ cursed the gondolier.

Sweat trickled down Dante’s neck and forehead, and his heart was in his mouth as he slowly eased himself up. The gondola was almost out of sight. That was close. He waited until it disappeared under the Ponte della Pensiere before clambering to his feet and making the long journey back to the taverna.

Instead of walking, he hired a gondola and sat in the prow, watching his former city come to life. All the time, his brain was trying to piece together what Tallow was doing in the Doge’s palazzo. If rumours were to be believed, she was the paramour of the entire royal family – or had been until one of the Princes married that peasant woman and fled to the Duchy of Firenze, effectively surrendering his right to the throne. Such strange behaviour. Some of the popolani approved, said it showed that the nobiles weren’t so different after all. Others said it was a sign that nothing was right with the Dandolos since the boy had disappeared. There were mutterings about change, about the Dandolos’ line ending.

Did Tallow have something to with it, wondered Dante. Would she dare, on top of being the most famous courtesan the city had ever known, use her talents to bring down the Dogeship?

If so, why? What was going on? He knew the foreign ambassador had taken an interest in the Maleovellis and that these once-impoverished nobiles were suddenly rich. But it was all explained by astute business decisions, measured risks, strategic colleganzas – at least, that was how it was discussed in tavernas, casinos and in the streets. Only Dante knew that every one of the families who had entered into colleganzas with the Maleovellis, every nobile or wealthy merchant who had acted in an uncharacteristic way, had also associated, if not with Tallow, then with the family.

What were they up to?

And what did Tallow’s latest assignation mean for the Doge?

Watching the canals fill with barges and gondolas carrying produce to markets, tradespeople and apprentices to work, and the cats of Serenissima wandering out to bask in the sun that was now hitting the fondamenta, Dante knew that he wouldn’t have to wait long to find out.





LORD WATERFORD PUT DOWN HIS glass and went to stand by the window. ‘Really,’ he exclaimed, ‘the view from here is almost comparable to the magnificent one over there.’ He indicated his recently vacated chair, which was positioned opposite Giaconda’s.

Giaconda slid her fan open, her eyes flashing above its movement. ‘You flatter me, Beolin.’

‘No,’ said the ambassador earnestly, ‘I do not. I simply tell the truth.’ He held her regard for a beat longer before turning back to look out of the portego’s windows.

Tallow watched the exchange from her seat, her eyes following Lord Waterford’s to gaze through the glass. In the distance, the spire of the dome that hunched over the Doge’s basilica could be seen, the gold and red pennant flapping in the breeze. Immediately in front of them, she could see the altanas of the other casas, with their many chimneys, arrangements of greenery and women loitering, catching the last of the afternoon sun on their rooftop gardens, their hair loose in an effort to lighten it. In the campo below, Hafeza appeared, a laden basket over one arm, a bag full of produce slung over her other shoulder. Tallow saw how she took small, fast paces and kept her head down. She looked away.

Picking up the needlepoint she’d been working on, she dragged the candleholder closer and began to sort the threads.

‘You’ll ruin your eyes and your fingers with that,’ rebuked Giaconda quietly.

Tallow raised her head. For a moment she wondered if Giaconda was letting her know that she needed to replenish the belladonna. But she’d added some to her eyes when she heard Lord Waterford had arrived. It would not do for the ambassador to discover her identity. Not since he’d begun asking questions, and not only about the Cardinale’s hunt for the Estrattore. Becoming candid with them one night after he’d had a few vinos, Lord Waterford explained that one of the reasons he’d been sent to Serenissima by his queen was to learn all he could of the Estrattore. In his country, just as Serenissima of old had done, they worshipped a principal male and female deity and their extended family, attributing a particular characteristic or power to each. In Farrowfare they didn’t have Estrattore or anyone related to the gods to enrich the spiritual life of the people; much like the Church did now, they had fraternities of men who lived in special houses and who aided worship and functioned as a bridge between the divine and the worldly. Whereas Tallow would have liked to ask more questions about the belief system of Farrowfare, Lord Waterford was not interested in divulging much. He’d asked a great many questions of Jacopo, inviting him to share what he had learnt over the years from the ancient scrolls and books. But it was the continuing hunt for the boy who had been uncovered that fascinated him and initially dominated conversations. What disturbed Tallow most, however, was when Lord Waterford shifted the topic slightly, asking if they’d ever heard rumour of a female Estrattore in Serenissima.

Without missing a beat, the Maleovellis had laughed and directed the chatter onto safer subjects. There was no doubt that Lord Waterford was very interested in Estrattore. Too interested, thought Tallow. Did he guess? She knew he’d spied her that day in the workshop. Only, after questioning Baroque and Giaconda, he’d let the subject drop. Or had he? There was something about him that made her uneasy and not only because of his curiosity or courtesies to Giaconda and Jacopo. Tallow perceived something about the man that no-one else seemed aware of – something that could not be attributed to cultural differences alone. There was a duplicity within him, depths to his nature that his harmless exterior contradicted.

As usual, Giaconda and Signor Maleovelli saw in Lord Waterford opportunity where Tallow saw only a new threat. They encouraged the ambassador, inviting him to dinners, lavishing attention on him. And now, much to Tallow’s annoyance, he’d practically become a fixture in the casa. If he wasn’t with Giaconda in the portego, he was with Jacopo in his study. It didn’t help that she knew her candles were partly responsible. But even she had to admit, his interest in Giaconda went beyond the type her talents usually inspired. Seeing how he interacted with her, the looks they exchanged, she started to believe his feelings came from somewhere else. But where? Were they real or was this part of what she felt, that he was as great a pretender as they all were?

Tallow raised an enquiring eyebrow at Giaconda, who simply nodded towards the sewing. ‘Really, Tarlo, it’s too dark for that now. Get Matteo –’ she gestured to one of the new servants ‘– to fetch some cards if you need to keep your hands occupied.’

Tallow threaded the needle into the fabric and pushed the entire thing back into the little golden basket she’d been given. Another gift from some paramour, all of whom showered her with gold – golden jewels, ornaments, brooches, scarves and objects. She could no longer remember who had given the basket without touching the lacquered straw and drawing on its essence and thus history. But she dared not do that in front of Giaconda or, for that matter, Lord Waterford.

‘It never ceases to astonish me,’ said Lord Waterford. He gestured outside. ‘The beauty of the sky here. It’s so vivid, so dramatic. Where I come from, it’s always so bleak, so dull, so white.’ An image of his queen popped into his head, her blazing hair and alabaster skin defying his description. ‘Look at it now, the way the sun turns into liquid gold just as it sets, melting into the horizon with a last gasp of colour.’ He sighed. ‘It really is beautiful.’

‘If you’re not careful,’ said Giaconda, ‘the Doge will hire you to write pretty speeches. Then you can kiss your pallid country goodbye and write paeans to our sky all day.’

Lord Waterford turned. ‘Leave my country and remain here? Don’t tempt me, you vixen. Anyway, I would soon tire of the firmament and look to write on other more worldly things.’ He crossed the floor and lifted Giaconda’s hand, turning it over and kissing her palm with a passion that made Tallow shift in her seat. She felt like an eavesdropper or voyeur. But for propriety’s sake, she could not leave. It always amused her that the Maleovellis would not allow men to be alone with either her or Giaconda while in the casa. In these rooms, they behaved differently. It was only in their rented accommodation or in the salas and bedrooms of the men who paid so well for their services that they did not require escorts.

Tallow reached for her vino and realised the glass was empty. A servant darted from a corner. Tallow jumped. She was still growing accustomed to the extra help they had. She could no longer walk down a corridor or enter a room without running into servants. Boys to serve food and vino, run errands, open doors, deliver goods; girls to clean, cook, straighten pictures, beat rugs, wash clothes, buy food. The young boy began to refresh her glass. His dark curls shone with oil, his crisp white shirt was new. She wondered where he was from, which quartiere. He wore no insignia of trade. How old would he be? Ten? Twelve? She didn’t know. She couldn’t remember his name. It wasn’t Matteo – he was by the door.

‘Grazie,’ she said to him, earning a frown from Giaconda. She was not supposed to thank them either.

Giaconda was about to say something when the doors at the end of the room were flung open and in walked Signor Maleovelli. The servants stood to attention as his cane rapped against the floor. Lord Waterford released Giaconda and bowed deeply. Signor Maleovelli had an edge about him, a thinly disguised air of excitement. Tallow stood slowly and curtsied.

‘Sit down, sit down,’ said Signor Maleovelli, waving her back to her chair. ‘Signor Waterford! Ah, we’re to have the pleasure of your company again.’ He snapped his fingers at the young servant near Tallow. The boy ran to one of the many sideboards and acquired a glass. Gone were the old, chipped ones. New ones had been spun by special order. Mainly clear, the stems enclosed a spiral of gold, like the mythical unicorn’s horn that featured in so many tapestries. They were quite exquisite. A tribute, Signor Maleovelli said, to Signorina Dorata, and a reminder to those who came to the casa. Of the empire they were building – a golden one to rustle in a golden age, he’d said.

Tallow watched as Signor Maleovelli took a long draught then ordered his glass to be filled again. He sat back and sighed. ‘I have news,’ he said quietly.

At that moment, Jacopo entered the room. Tallow stiffened. She didn’t see him as he approached through the rear door, but felt his presence, his eyes boring into her back. He bowed towards Lord Waterford, his zio, Giaconda and, finally, her, before taking a seat nearby.

‘What news, Signor Maleovelli?’ asked Lord Waterford. His eyes were keen.

Signor Maleovelli leant forward. ‘Prince Cosimo has disappeared.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Giaconda. Tallow was impressed with how surprised she sounded. Tallow’s hand flew to her mouth.

‘When?’

‘They believe it was some time early this morning.’

Signor Maleovelli exchanged a long look with Giaconda who, in turn, rested her eyes upon Tallow.

‘I can’t believe it,’ Tallow said. ‘Why, I was only with him … when was it?’

‘The night before last,’ answered Giaconda. ‘We had dinner there. Remember, Beolin? You commented to me afterwards how sad the man looked.’

‘Indeed, I did. You attributed it to the loss of his son.’ Tallow glanced at Waterford as his voice broke on his last word.

She frowned. ‘But I thought that was years ago?’

‘Over two years,’ said Giaconda.

‘He has not been the same since that terrible day,’ added Jacopo.

‘Where has he gone?’ Tallow rose and pretended to stare outside. Instead, she saw her own reflection, the feigned interest, the affected concern seeming as transparent as the glass she now stood before. But it was expected of her.

‘He left a note,’ said Signor Maleovelli.

‘A note?’ Giaconda’s tone was sharp. Tallow’s eyes shifted so she could see everyone in the room, in reverse. She hadn’t expected this. Her spine began to tingle. Her body tensed. She became aware that Lord Waterford was studying her intently, thinking she wasn’t aware of his scrutiny. Her eyes narrowed, she listened.

‘Is the content known? What did it say?’ asked Lord Waterford.

Signor Maleovelli took another drink of vino. ‘According to my source, it laid out exactly where Prince Cosimo has gone.’ Signor Maleovelli waited.

Tallow turned round, resting her back against the window.

‘Where?’ asked Jacopo breathlessly.

‘The Limen.’

Giaconda almost started from her chair.

‘The Limen? Why in God’s name –’ Her face paled. ‘No!’

‘Sì.’

Giaconda fell back against her seat, her eyes wide in surprise, her mouth open. She stole a glance at Tallow. ‘I never would have expected that. It’s …’

‘Amazing,’ finished Lord Waterford, rising to his feet and joining Tallow by the window. ‘Are you saying, Signor, that he has become a Bond Rider?’

‘Sì. That is the talk in the Great Council, in the palazzo. If not a Bond Rider, then by entering the Limen he goes to certain death. Who knows? The poor man wasn’t in his right mind. Has not been for a long time. The truth is that an action like this is not, shall we say, unexpected?’ He looked at Tallow as he spoke, his voice heavy with accusation.

Seemingly unaware of the undercurrents, Lord Waterford nodded solemnly, rubbing his chin. ‘And his wife? The Principessa, what about her?’

Tallow could feel the tension in Waterford’s body. The excitement.

‘The dottore has been called. He has given her opium. She is wild with grief. Cannot understand what is happening. Neither can the Doge. These are terrible times.’

‘For the Dandolos,’ said Giaconda quietly, staring into her glass.

‘For the Dandolos,’ agreed Signor Maleovelli.

‘Doesn’t that mean that all the Doge’s heirs are now lost?’

‘Sì. Unless they find Claudio,’ said Signor Maleovelli. ‘And that is not likely to happen, not after so long.’

‘No,’ agreed Lord Waterford. ‘But the Doge has a daughter, does he not?’

Signor Maleovelli and Giaconda began to laugh. ‘What difference does that make?’ asked Jacopo. ‘She cannot inherit. Women cannot rule!’

‘In my country,’ said Lord Waterford, frowning disapprovingly at Jacopo, ‘they can and they do.’

The sneer left Jacopo’s face as quickly as it had appeared. ‘I apologise if I have caused offence, amico mio.’

Lord Waterford bowed stiffly.

‘Jacopo is right, Lord Waterford. The Doge’s daughter will now be married off quickly, probably to one of the nobile houses here in Serenissima in the hope of forming an allegiance that will be of benefit to the Dandolos in the future. For, once this Doge is dead and with Claudio gone, there are no more Dandolos to take the throne. They will become mere nobiles and their house, their casa, will be reduced in importance.’

‘Once a direct bloodline is finished, doesn’t the Dogeship have to pass to another nobile family?’

‘You are well acquainted with our customs, Lord Waterford. It does indeed signify a change of that order.’

‘What does that mean for the Dandolos’ extended family?’

‘They will have to begin their climb to the top all over again.’ Signor Maleovelli’s eyes glinted. Giaconda couldn’t hide her smile.

‘Ah. I see. Are you not currently the Eighth Casa, Signor?’

Signor Maleovelli nodded. Lord Waterford appeared thoughtful. ‘What of a successor for the Dogeship; your laws are quite precise, are they not?’ he asked shortly.

‘It’s the Serenissian law that the Council of Ten, the Great Council of Nobiles, and a representative of the Church, which will be the Cardinale, throw the Dogeship open to all the remaining eligible houses. From among these, a new family will take the throne.’ Signor Maleovelli held up his glass. A shaft of sunlight passed through the stem, setting the golden spiral in the centre alight. It was as if a small sun flared. ‘One with power and influence will be chosen: a family whose elevation can benefit all of Serenissima and her allies. One who can shape destiny.’ He drank the ruby liquid, smacking his lips in appreciation. He smiled, the tannins in the vino staining his teeth.

Tallow repressed a shudder.

Lord Waterford looked from Signor Maleovelli to Giaconda and back again. His eyes rested on Tallow, shining in the dimming light, a beacon by the window for those in the campo to see.

‘Power and influence you say? How convenient.’ Lord Waterford raised his glass, the benign expression that usually rested on his face replaced by a more cunning, dark look. Tallow tried to read him. It was as if a different man stood in the place Giaconda’s lovesick paramour had occupied only moments before.

‘My dear Maleovellis,’ he said, stepping away from the window and putting his glass down. ‘I think the time has come for us to have a very serious talk.’





‘SHE DISOBEYED US, PAPA. She must be punished!’ Giaconda slammed the brush down on the dresser and spun to face her father.

‘Gia, Gia, cara mia. Calm yourself,’ said Signor Maleovelli, placing his hands on her shoulders and pushing her back onto the stool so she faced the mirror. ‘What Tarlo has done is show a little inventiveness. She’s still accomplished what we told her to do – the Prince has disappeared. He cannot claim the throne.’

‘But he’s a Bond Rider – he can come back!’

‘Only if an Estrattore extracts his soul from the pledge stone. And where in Vista Mare is he going to find one of those?’ Ezzelino Maleovelli spoke soothingly, his long fingers stroking his daughter’s hair. ‘We control the only one known to have survived the purge, remember? Anyhow, Bond Riders no longer become human again – they’re effectively trapped in the Limen. It’s been over three hundred years since one was able to come back. Even if they choose to, they can’t return – not while their souls are in the pledge stones.’

Giaconda sighed. ‘But Papa, you’re missing my point. She disobeyed us. She’s taking matters into her own hands. It isn’t the first time. Don’t forget what she did to –’

‘Hush,’ said Ezzelino, resting the tips of his fingers against her mouth. ‘We do not talk about that – about them. As far as we’re concerned, what happened to those men were all unfortunate accidents. We know nothing.’ He waited until the fire went out of Giaconda’s eyes and he felt her shoulders relax before he took his hands away.

‘You’re right, Papa. I am just … concerned, that’s all.’

‘What about, exactly?’ Ezzelino moved to sit in the chair and from there watched his daughter perform her nightly ritual. She took up the brush and resumed.

‘Tarlo’s changed.’

‘Ezzelino chuckled. ‘Of course she has. We’ve all worked very hard to ensure that.’

‘That’s not what I mean and you know it.’ Giaconda studied her father in the mirror. ‘Papa, don’t pretend you do not understand. She’s becoming dangerous. I feel we’re losing her somehow. Oh yes, she makes the candles, she visits who we tell her, says what she’s meant to say, acts appropriately at all times, but I don’t know. There’s something happening …’ Her voice trailed and she stared into the distance, her forehead drawn.

Ezzelino waited.

‘And now there’s this whole plan of Waterford’s to consider. Do we tell him the truth, Papa?’ Through the mirror Giaconda and Ezzelino exchanged a look.

‘The truth? Of course not – don’t be silly. Not yet, anyhow,’ said Ezzelino. ‘We wait for him to tell us what he knows and then we strike a bargain. Not before then. And we do not admit to a thing. Capisce?’

‘Capisco, Papa. I am relieved to hear you say that. Nonetheless, what he’s offered is very interesting, is it not? If all else fails, his plan could work. It certainly gives us options.’

‘Sì, it does. It would mean we would have the support of possibly the greatest ally Serenissima has ever known – and at a time when we need her most.’

Giaconda put down the brush and looked at her father over her shoulder. ‘Do you mean “we” as in the Maleovellis or Serenissima?’

Ezzelino regarded her for a long moment.

‘I mean both.’

Satisfied, she turned back to the mirror and began to plait her hair.

‘As for Tarlo, do not worry, Gia. We still have one more card to play with her and, when we do, she’ll come to heel like a puppy, no matter how independent or inventive she has become. Of that I am certain.’

Giaconda rose and kissed her father lightly on the forehead. ‘You once told me that only those with nothing to lose are dangerous.’

‘Essato. Tarlo doesn’t know it yet, but she stands to lose something very dear to her if she doesn’t behave. Very dear to her indeed.’

They both stared at each other for a moment then, with a joy that comes of mutual admiration and assurance, burst out laughing.





‘HE’S OBSESSED WITH HER, I tell you,’ hissed Santo, staring at Stefano though bloodshot eyes. ‘Follows her everywhere. One minute he’s on Nobiles’ Rise, the next he’s darting over to the traders district, or into the Chandlers Quartiere, wherever the harlot does her business. But I’ve not seen anything of the Estrattore. He’s forgotten about her, if you ask me.’ He reached for his wooden mug.

Stefano’s hand shot out and he grabbed Santo’s, preventing him from having his drink. ‘You’ve had enough vino.’ He lifted the mug out of reach, and studied his partner. Instead of searching for the Estrattore, or keeping an eye on Dante, Santo had been spending his waking hours in this small taverna in the Stonemasons Quartiere, drinking the Elders’ soldi. He was a mess. Everything Stefano feared had eventuated; all Santo’s promises, had been broken.

‘What’d you do tha’ for?’ Santo scratched his head, his arm flopping onto the table with a bang.

‘Look at you!’ snapped Stefano. ‘I haven’t heard from you in months and at great risk to myself, my life-force, I cross.’ He leant over. ‘I come here,’ he said, jabbing the table fiercely. ‘And what do I find? You, drunk and babbling about a courtesan. Look at the state of you. When was the last time you had a wash? You stink, Santo, worse than horse shit.’

Santo screwed up his face then his eyes sidled towards the mug Stefano had pushed out of reach. ‘Give me a drink and I’ll tell you.’ He began to laugh, looking around to see if any of the other patrons shared his joke, but they were too busy with their own conversations and paid no attention to the drunk in the corner, the man they’d become used to seeing day after day, propped against the wall.

Stefano clicked his tongue in disgust. He looked at Santo, the red eyes, the dirty hair and nails. His shirt was filthy, stained with dregs of vino and food, the collar and wrists soiled with sweat. He tried to control the anger he felt building inside him. Left alone, Santo had gone back to his old ways, the ways he’d always told Stefano he’d come into the Limen to escape.

Stefano drank the last of what was left in Santo’s mug and tried to think. If what Santo said was true, it didn’t make any sense. He couldn’t understand what was going on, what Katina and that new Rider, Dante, were up to. First, Katina’s taken back into the Limen by an old woman who Stefano initially thought must have been a renegade Bond Rider. The gods knew they were out there. Yet again, Katina had broken the laws and direct orders of her Elders. And secondly, the Rider she was supposedly bound to, in the most irrevocable of Bonds, was running amok, besotted with a courtesan, albeit one that had the entire city abuzz.

Months passed and nothing. Not a word from Santo. Elder Nicolotti had become impatient, demanding. Stefano had ignored his body’s warnings, and crossed to come to find Santo – discover for himself what was going on. What he found made him furious. He rested his head in his hands. How could he report this to Elder Nicolotti? After he’d reassured the Elder that Santo was reliable. That he could be trusted.

‘Come on, Stefano,’ cajoled Santo. ‘Buy us a drink and then let’s go find somewhere quiet. I haven’t seen you in so long.’ He picked up Stefano’s hand from the table and brought it to his mouth.

‘Keep your voice down!’ snapped Stefano, snatching his hand away as a couple of burly stonemasons at the next table glanced at them over their shoulders. ‘Are you trying to attract trouble?’

Santo slumped in his chair. His head lolled on his shoulders, a stupid grin was frozen on his face. ‘No, just you.’

Fury filled Stefano. He shoved back his chair. It fell over with a clatter. He grabbed Santo by the collar, dragging him upright.

‘Wha’ you doin’?’ asked Santo, trying to find his feet, but they kept slipping out from under him.

‘Getting you what you should have had weeks ago!’ Stefano gritted his teeth and pulled Santo across the floor towards the door. Sawdust clung to Santo’s clothes and he began to giggle.

Patrons nudged each other. Some stood and helpfully moved chairs out of the way to clear a path. A murmur began rising, changing into cheers as they watched Santo being hauled out the door and into the campo outside.

Fight, fight! A chant started. As Stefano wrestled Santo onto the cobbles, men tumbled out of the taverna. Artisans sitting outside on stools with their chunks of stone before them abandoned their tools, wiped their dusty hands on their aprons and began to drift across the small square.

Stefano reached the well and dropped Santo beside it. Santo collapsed, his head striking the edge. He tried to rub it, but his arms wouldn’t cooperate. They were like rubber. He began to chuckle again, which only fired Stefano more. He lowered the bucket into the well and, when it was full, pulled it up, unhooked it and tipped it over Santo.

Santo jerked upright, spluttering and coughing, his eyes wide with shock. The men who circled them began laughing and clapping. Children ran out of doors, hovering at the edges of the impromptu ring, peering between legs and bodies to watch the spectacle.

Santo eyed them all through narrow slits, aware of leering faces, of laughter – all directed at him. A shadow cut off his vision. He stared at it, recognising the boots, the legs. His eyes rose and then another bucket of water was dumped on him.

He scrabbled to his feet. ‘Why, you bastardo!’ he shouted and swung a punch. Stefano easily stepped out of reach. The stonemasons and children laughed harder, some imitating him as Santo tried to hit Stefano, missing every time, his punches becoming wider. He swung so hard, he flung himself off his feet. Even Stefano guffawed.

‘You’ll have to do better than that.’

‘I’ll give you better!’ yelled Santo and charged him, taking him by surprise. They crashed into a wall, and Stefano had the breath knocked out of him. Santo punched him in the stomach a couple of times before Stefano recovered. This time, he did not hesitate. He hit Santo such force, he was flung off his feet and onto his back.

‘What a hit!’

‘A fine punch!’

Stefano became aware of money changing hands in the background. This was getting ridiculous. They weren’t supposed to draw attention. He had to put a stop to it now. Lifting Santo’s head, he slammed it into the cobbles.

There were groans of sympathy from the crowd, who waited to see if Santo would stir. He didn’t.

‘It’s over, folks,’ called Stefano, wiping his hands on his thighs. ‘Show’s finished.’

Disappointed, the men slowly drifted back into the taverna, some coming to pat the victor on his back. The children crept over and stared at Santo, unconscious, wet hair plastered to his face, his forehead and nose bleeding, his cheek cut.

Stefano looked down and felt a wave of disappointment wash over him. ‘You weak fool,’ he hissed. He wondered what it was that had ever attracted him to Santo in the first place; how he could have ever believed he could rely on this peasant. The Limen did strange things to people.

Disgusted at himself as much as his partner, he clutched the back of Santo’s shirt and dragged him through the nearest ramo, one that led to a set of water-stairs. There, he pulled Santo onto the edge of the fondamenta and, using his handkerchief, began to clean him. He washed away the blood, the vino stains around the mouth and even untangled the knots in his unkempt beard. The smell of his breath made him retch.

A breeze had picked up, blowing dust and debris about the ground. A piece of paper blew against him, sticking to his ankles. He bent down to wrench it away when something caught his eye.

He picked it up and read it. His heart began to beat quickly. Once more, anger flared. He slapped Santo none too gently across the face.

‘Wake up,’ he called. ‘Santo, wake up. Have you seen this?’

He thrust the paper in his face.

Santo blinked a few times and groaned. ‘My head,’ he said.

Stefano shook the piece of paper. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this?’

Santo looked blankly at the paper with the picture and too many words. ‘So? What about it? You hit me.’

‘So? Is that all you can say –’ began Stefano, ready to slap Santo again. Sensing this, Santo covered his face. Stefano’s arm dropped. He shook his head.

‘You know I can’t read,’ whimpered Santo.

Stefano bit off the words of recrimination that flew into his mouth. Instead he gave a bitter sigh. ‘That’s right – you can’t, can you?’

‘What’s it say?’ asked Santo. Then he rolled towards the canal and vomited. Stefano watched as he emptied the contents of his stomach into the waters, listening to the awful sounds without one shred of sympathy. His mind was on fire.

Pale now, Santo leant back onto his elbow and slowly sat up. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He couldn’t meet Stefano’s eyes. His head was bowed, his shoulders drooped. ‘What is it? Read it to me, please,’ he asked in a small voice, his earlier bravado now floating away in the canal.

‘I don’t know why we didn’t think of it before.’ Stefano was staring at the paper like a man obsessed.

‘Think of what?’

‘Dante isn’t in love with a courtesan.’

‘No? Then why does he keep following her?’

Stefano glanced at Santo. His eyes were agate. ‘Because Signorina Dorata is the Estrattore. Signorina Dorata is Tallow.’

Santo gaped at him. ‘How did you come to that conclusion? Just because Dante follows her doesn’t mean –’

‘Think about it,’ snapped Stefano, poking the bit of paper with his finger. ‘The Cardinale is offering a massive reward for information about the Estrattore, for a boy! Look at the picture. You can understand a picture, can’t you?’ He thrust it into Santo’s face.

Santo blinked and made a show of studying the crude image. He’d seen it a hundred times, so what? He shrugged. ‘It sort of looks like the boy we tried to snatch off the bridge. I told you, he’s nowhere to be found. Not even Dante can find him.’

Stefano resisted the urge to punch him in the head. Instead he continued.

‘That’s right,’ he said slowly, darkly. ‘No-one has, have they? Why? Because the Estrattore isn’t a boy at all. I know that, you know that, all the Bond Riders know that, including Dante. Dante, who followed a girl onto the bridge, who risked his life for a girl.’

Understanding dawned on Santo’s face. He glanced from the paper to Stefano and back again. ‘You think the courtesan is that girl. That it’s Tallow.’

‘It makes sense, doesn’t it? What was this courtesan’s name again?’

‘Signorina Dorata.’

‘No, you idioto. Not the name the popolani have given her – her real name.’ Stefano tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice. ‘Surely you’ve discovered that.’

‘Err …’ Santo slapped his forehead. ‘Let me think … Taylo, Tarlo, something like that.’ Santo stopped.

Stefano just stared at him.

‘Right beneath our noses all this time,’ said Santo incredulously. He noted the look on Stefano’s face and struggled to sit upright.

‘Right beneath your nose, you mean. When it wasn’t in a mug of vino.’

Santo paused and his pasty face flooded with colour. ‘Don’t try to blame me.’

‘Well, who else, you fool? You could have worked this out. You’re the one who’s been here all this time, all these months. You said yourself you saw Signorina Dorata – and apart from Dante and Katina, you’re the only one to have a close encounter with Tallow.’ Stefano gave in to his desire, and cuffed him across the ears. Santo groaned. ‘But instead of using your head, you fill it with vino and don’t use it at all. You didn’t need to be able to read or write to work this out, you stupid, illiterate bastardo – you just needed to use the eyes and ears the gods gave you.’

Santo frowned and folded his arms. ‘How was I supposed to make that kind of connection, huh? Signorina Dorata looks nothing like that.’ He slapped the paper that Stefano still held. It was torn out of his fingers and fluttered to the ground.

‘You should have seen this, Santo. Don’t make pathetic excuses. Yet again, you caved into your weakness, the way you always do when you come back here. I’m just surprised you didn’t have a woman in your bed as well.’ Santo cringed at the tone in Stefano’s voice.

‘I wouldn’t do that,’ he mumbled, eyes downcast. ‘Not any more.’

‘No? Why not? You’ve done everything else you promised you’d never do again.’ Stefano stood up.

Santo was about to argue when his shoulders slumped. He waited a moment. ‘You’re right. Mi dispiace, Stefano. I promise, it won’t happen again. I know what to do now, all right? Just tell me what you want me to do to make up for this. What do we do?’

Stefano looked down on his partner, at the state of his clothes, of his puffy face, streaked with sawdust, dirt and worse. He felt nothing but contempt. ‘We don’t do anything. You don’t do anything. I’ll go back and report to Elder Nicolotti and return shortly with new instructions you can meet me at the Pledge Stone in a few days.’ He bent down and picked up the paper, folding it and putting it in the pocket of his shirt. ‘Actually, there is something you can do. Sober up, Santo, because, by the time I return, if you’re not ready to join me, I’ll do this on my own. I won’t rescue you from yourself again.’

Without another word, Stefano turned and walked away, disappearing around a corner.





SANTO SAT FOR A MOMENT, gazing out over the water. He began to shiver. He needed to change his clothes. He pulled his shirt away from his body and the odour that rose to his nostrils almost made him heave again. He struggled to his feet and stood swaying, trying to control the nausea. His head hurt. He felt a lump forming above his eyebrow, a companion to the one on the back of his head. Blood stuck to his fingers. His stomach and left shoulder ached as well. Nothing one more drink wouldn’t fix. Then he’d stop. He would. Promise. Stefano wouldn’t mind; he’d understand.

His eyes sidled in the direction Stefano had gone. He’d also never know.

On the way back to the taverna, he passed another one of those godforsaken posters. This time, he stopped in front of it and stared at the drawing of the Estrattore and at the, to him, illegible squiggles beneath. The image blurred but he could still see the dark hair and those huge, ugly silver orbs, staring at him, reading what he was, what was tucked away in the deep recesses inside his mind.

‘Make a fool of me, would you? Come between me and Stefano? Never again. Not you, or the Maggiore puttana.’ Shaking, he drew out his dagger and, first looking up and down the ramo to make sure no-one was about, clumsily shredded the poster into tiny pieces. He watched them flutter to the cobbles and then ground his heel into each little strip. He felt a peculiar sense of satisfaction.

Swaying to and fro, he stared down at the remnants of Tallow’s poor likeness, at what it signified, warmth infusing his body. He was about to leave when a thought suddenly occurred to him. In an instant, he knew how to win Stefano’s approval; earn not just his respect, but his love again as well.

Katina and Dante’s Obbligare Doppio might have stopped the Riders acting on their own Bonds, but what if he chose to fulfil Stefano’s for him? Surely the dual pledge couldn’t prevent that?

He began to smile, then laugh as he kicked the ground, scattering the fragments of paper in all directions.

Next time, it won’t be your image, I cut, Signorina Dorata, he thought as he staggered back to the taverna, a wild grin splitting his face as he formulated a plan. Oh, no. Next time, it will be your heart I break when I tear apart all who are Bonded to protect you …’





THE COUNCIL OF TEN, THE MOST LEARNED and powerful of the Serenissian nobility, were ruled by a trio of men known as the capi. Head of the capi was Signor Zanino Nicolotti. In a small, dark chamber adjacent to their usual meeting room in the palazzo, Signor Nicolotti looked down the polished wooden table at the faces assembled before him. He’d dismissed the servants with the exception of four of his most trusted, and asked them to position themselves in the secret corridors that ran behind the room. He wanted not one word of what the ruling body behind the Doge was about to discuss to escape.

Thick candles atop enormous iron holders had been burning for a few hours as the capi waited for the other nobiles to arrive and take their chairs. Smoke filled the room and the air grew close, but Signor Nicolotti ordered that the solitary window remain shut.

He reached inside his togati and, tugging a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, patted at the sweat that dotted his brow. Picking up the silver ewer that sat near his glass, he refilled it, taking a long drink of the vino. Like the room, it too was warm.

Finally, all the members were seated. Whispering among themselves, curious as to why this late meeting had been called, even though they could guess the reason, they cast glances at the vacant chair in their midst.

Signor Nicolotti reached across the table for the little hammer and struck it against the block of wood in front of him three times. At once the talking ceased. All eyes fixed on his. He cleared his throat.

‘Signori, some of you will be aware of why we,’ he said, indicating the two men on either side of him, ‘have called you here tonight.’

There were murmurs, a few nods.

‘My reasons are twofold. The first, in light of the recent and most unexpected death of Lenuzo Vincini, distant cousin by marriage to Signor Moronisini – our condolences, good Signor –’ As one, they crossed themselves.

Signor Moronisini looked grim-faced. ‘There has been too much death, too many sons, brothers, nephews lost of late.’ He directed compassionate looks at other members of the Council. They all crossed themselves again.

‘Allora,’ continued Signor Nicolotti after a respectful pause, ‘our immediate business is to replace his seat so that, once again, we are a full Council.’

Again there were slight murmurs. Signor Manin, on his left, coughed.

‘It was unanimously decreed at our last meeting that, should a vacancy arise before the next annual election, Ezzelino Maleovelli would be offered the seat. I am pleased to say he has accepted the honour. Signor Errizo –’ he nodded to the gentleman on his right ‘– if you could admit our new Councillor.’

Colleto Errizo pushed back his chair and hobbled his way slowly to the large wooden door buried in the walls of the chamber. He pressed the secret latch known only to Council members and the capi’s servants and it swung open silently. Standing there, one of Signor Nicolotti’s men at his elbow, was Ezzelino Maleovelli. His usual black togati had been substituted for a red one, accompanied by a loose white cowl, which draped across his shoulders and down his back. It was this that distinguished the robe from those worn by a regular member of the Great Council.

‘Permesso?’ he asked, as was required.

‘Prego,’ said Signor Nicolotti.

Ezzelino bowed as low as his age would allow him and then, using his cane more as a prop than an aid, walked proudly to the table. Each step was accompanied by the drumming of the Council’s hands against the table – a hollow-sounding refrain that ceased once he reached his designated chair.

‘Welcome, Ezzelino. It has been too long since a Maleovelli sat in this chamber.’

Ezzelino’s eyes glinted and Signor Nicolotti wondered briefly if it was from unshed tears until the candlelight caught his face and he saw only the glimmer of triumph. He quickly swore Ezzelino in, both of them using the Bible from which the Cardinale read in the basilica. As the ceremony finished, all the men crossed themselves and then, raising their glasses, toasted Ezzelino.

‘Grazie, Signori,’ said Ezzelino in a measured, deep voice, lifting his glass. ‘Salute. It is my honour to sit among the most esteemed and wise of my peers and to be trusted to do what is best for our country.’

He took his seat, running his hands up and down the polished wood, noting the comfort of the plush purple velvet, and received the approving nods of the Council members. Beside him, Signor Moronisini reached over and patted his wrist.

Signor Nicolotti sat, sweeping his togati behind him. He rested his hand on top of the papers piled in front of him.

‘What we are about to discuss, gentleman, is strictly confidential. The Council of Ten has long been trusted to act with discretion, with or without the approval of the Doge to do, to borrow Signor Maleovelli’s words, “what is best for our country”. Tonight, we need to do this once more.

‘As you know, a great deal of misfortune has struck the Dandolo family. Some attribute this sfortunato, this bad luck, to beginning last century, back when Andrea Dandolo was Doge and sued for peace with the Jinoans.’

Grumbles issued from around the table. Signor Nicolotti repressed a smile. The Jinoans, for all that they made good trading partners, were not loyal allies. ‘Others locate it as commencing when young Claudio was kidnapped by unidentified intruders. But there has been no ransom, no threat, only silence. He has vanished. Whatever the reason for his abduction, the fact remains that the Doge’s two sons, the heirs to the throne of Serenissima, have, for whatever reason, seen fit to deny their birthright and follow alternate paths. There has been no other male issue in his family; no more sons or grandsons. God has seen fit to deliver of the Dandolos a daughter alone. And daughters do not rulers make, as we all know, Signori. Women were designed for different purposes.’ There were knowing smiles and chuckles of agreement.

‘Significantly, what this means for us is that we must look to our future. To the future of Serenissima. Doge Dandolo is the last of his family to hold office. He is an old man. In other words, Signori, it’s time to think about electing a new Doge.’

Signor Nicolotti watched as conversation broke out among the Council.

He banged the gavel. Gradually, silence fell upon the room.

‘Signor Errizo, you wish to speak?’ He indicated his fellow capi.

‘Grazie.’ Signor Errizo stared at the candle in front of him, gathering his thoughts. His skin looked yellow in the halo cast by the light, papery and thin like the man himself. ‘I believe that when we seek to appoint a Doge, it must be someone from a large family, someone we can trust to train his sons to hold office with dignity. Someone who, at the first sign of trouble, will not run to the Limen or make a poor marriage. We need to prove once more that we are strong, that as a country, we are leaders in Vista Mare. For this, we need constancy. Tradition. Once again, we need to establish a new and long-lasting dynasty.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said a voice down the table.

‘I disagree.’ All eyes turned to Signor Moronisini. ‘With your permission?’ he asked Signor Nicolotti.

Signor Nicolotti inclined his head.

‘While I respect what Signor Errizo says,’ began Signor Moronisini, ‘I think he is wrong. I think that’s the lesson the trouble plaguing Casa Dandolo teaches us. Rather than look to a dynasty, I think we need to reconsider whom we appoint as Doge. Times have changed, so has Vista Mare. Rather than a family with many sons, a family who could rule for years if not centuries, we should seek to appoint someone who is powerful now and for the term of his natural life. Who, if he makes mistakes, will not pass these onto the next generation. With his death, a new Doge can be appointed. In the long term, we should consider changing the Dogeship from a hereditary office to one of appointment. In the short term, the question of male issue should not be a consideration. What should be is appointing a Doge with strong leadership and connections. For it is not the Dandolo problem alone we face, is it, Signor Nicolotti?’

‘No,’ said Signor Nicolotti, ‘it is not.’ He released a deep, heavy sigh. ‘Signori, the problem of the Doge is a vexed one. I will leave you to ponder this discussion later. But Signor Moronisini is right. We have other problems to consider, ones that will affect our choice of Doge, as well as which families we approve to step forward to make claim to the throne.’

Ezzelino cleared his throat. ‘As the newest member of Council,’ he said slowly. ‘May I ask what these troubles might be?’

Signor Nicolotti nodded. ‘Indeed you must. They come from the East – it’s the Ottomans, Signor Maleovelli. The Ottomans are threatening the Serenissian Rebublic – specifically our ports and holdings in the Mariniquian Seas.’

There were sharp intakes of breath, the whisper of alarm. The men eyed each other cautiously, the fear of possibility and danger in their gaze.

Ezzelino frowned. ‘How? They are but a rabble, barbarians who roam the Ankaran Desert, worshipping their strange god, killing one another, are they not?’

‘Not anymore.’ Signor Moronisini leant forward. ‘We have had information from our ambassador in Konstantinople that the Ottoman ruler, Sultan Selim I, has done what his father failed to do – he has brought together the people. United, they pose a danger to, not only Serenissima, but the Church as well. Reports tell us they are on the move, not in their usual ad hoc, fractured way, but as a cohesive fighting force.’ He paused. ‘Worse, they have their sights set on Konstantinople – our most precious of the colonies.’

There were gasps, followed by hurried murmurs.

‘This can’t be allowed. Once these heretics get a foothold in the Mariniquian Seas, they’ll be no stopping them,’ argued Signor Dardi Pisano.

‘I know they’re good fighters. The skills of the Janissaries, their elite warriors, is legendary,’ said Signor Guido Maggiore from the other end of the table, his white hair shining. ‘But Konstantinople is well protected from land – and sea for that matter. It’s not only ringed by walls, but the Straits separate the Ottoman Empire from Konstantinople, from the whole of Byzantium.’ He laughed. ‘What do we care if they create an army? They cannot walk across the water, nor can they swim. They are not the threat you fear, Pisano.’

‘Vero. This is true,’ agreed Signor Nicolotti. ‘But they can sail.’

‘Since when? They’re not known for their navy – surely, you worry about nothing? It wouldn’t be the first time a foreign power has made threats towards Konstantinople. But threats are different from actions.’ Signor Maggiore smiled around the table, seeking support. There were grunts of approval. A couple of the Council members struck the table.

‘Sì, sì.’

‘They have been acquiring a fleet,’ said Signor Nicolotti flatly.

There was a moment of silence before voices broke out. ‘How? Who would supply them?’ Concern and trepidation mingled in the air.

Signor Nicolotti shook his head. ‘Foreign ships, the like of which we have never seen before, are anchored outside their capital, Bursa. Our spies tell us they aren’t being made in any local shipyards. It’s as if they have materialised out of thin air.’

‘Magic?’ whispered someone.

Everyone laughed nervously.

‘But that’s not the worst.’ Signor Nicolotti waited till all eyes were upon him. ‘Our sources tell us they have acquired cannons as well.’

‘No!’

‘Non è possible!’

‘No-one on this side of the Limen would dare!’

‘My thoughts, exactly, Signor Moronisini, which leads me to ask, what if they’re being supplied by someone from the other side?’

‘You mean Farrowfare,’ said Signor Maleovelli, aware of eyes upon him.

There was a moment of silence.

‘But they have proved to be a staunch friend when others turned their backs on us,’ argued Signor Maggiore.

‘What do you think, Signor Maleovelli?’ asked Signor Nicolotti slowly. ‘You seem to know Lord Waterford quite well. Is Farrowfare a friend, or have we been duped?’

Ezzelino’s frown turned into a scowl. How could he answer this in a way that protected his interests?

‘I believe Farrowfare to be an ally. But, with the Signori’s permission, I will question Lord Waterford thoroughly and report back. I will do so in a manner so as not arouse suspicion. Naturalmente.’

‘Bene,’ said Signor Nicolotti. ‘Now, our information is telling us that the Ottomans plan to take Konstantinople. If they are successful, it will effectively cut off all trade between here and the Straits of Lapis Lazuli.’

‘It will ruin us,’ moaned Signor Errizo, and reached for his glass.

‘It will also make us vulnerable to attack. The garrison at Konstantinople has always been our ears and eyes in the East. With that gone, we’d be blind.’

‘What do we do, then?’ asked Signor Moronisini gravely.

‘We do what Serenissians have always done,’ said Signor Nicolotti.

‘What’s that?’

‘We follow Maleovelli’s lead and we ask questions. We gather information, we make sure of our facts and we prepare our fleet. If we’re forced to protect Konstantinople, then we will do so on water. We must mobilise the Arsenale, gather new recruits for the navy.’

‘What about the threat the Ottomans pose directly to us, to Serenissima?’ asked Signor Maggiore.

‘As Pisano says, if we lose Konstantinople, then what’s to stop them?’ said Signor Errizo.

‘That is why we cannot allow that to happen. We cannot lose Konstantinople.’

‘What about Roma? Surely they will come to our aid.’ Sitting up straight, Signor Pisano put into words what was on everyone’s minds.

Signor Nicolotti nodded. ‘That’s what we hope. That is why I need your permission.’ His arm swept the table. ‘To include the Cardinale in our plans. Whoever we put forward as our new Doge will have to have his approval if we’re to be guaranteed aid from the Great Patriarch.’

‘It would help if we could find this Estrattore,’ added Signor Errizo.

There were murmurs of agreement.

‘It would,’ said Signor Nicolotti. ‘It would assure Roma of our loyalty; it would rid us of another threat so we can focus on the one growing in the East.’ He opened a small wooden box in front of him and pulled out a quill. Dipping it in a little inkpot he wrote a few notes on the topmost piece of parchment. ‘I will discuss this with the Cardinale as well. Learn how his hunt progresses. Offer whatever aid he needs to bring this matter to a close.’ He placed the quill back in its box and closed the lid, looking from one grim face to another. ‘Now you understand why we called this meeting. We must not only prepare for a change of leadership but, potentially, for war. You can see now that the two are very much related. Dandolo is incapable of dealing with this crisis.’

No-one responded.

‘And on top of all this is the search for the damn Estrattore,’ grumbled Signor Errizo. ‘You know they’re saying the popolani aren’t coming forward, that they’re protecting the creature.’

‘Not even the Cardinale’s punishments, the execution, the arrests and disappearances have loosened their tongues.’ Signor Maggiore lifted his chin and locked eyes with each and every member of the Council. A few turned away; others shifted in their seats.

‘I don’t understand how a boy like that can just vanish,’ said Signor Moronisini eventually. ‘My understanding was that Estrattore must use their powers or die.’

‘Perhaps he’s already dead and we’re all chasing ghosts,’ said Signor Maleovelli easily. They all laughed.

‘If only it were that simple,’ said Signor Nicolotti. He picked up his glass and drained the contents. ‘No. He is not dead. He is somewhere in the city and, the sooner we find him and execute him, the faster we can shore up relations with Roma and quell the damn popolani, and the sooner we can focus on the matters that concern us most: the Ottomans and the Dogeship. Capite?’

‘Sì,’ there were mumbles and nods.

‘Well, Signori, we have a great deal to think about. And much which relies on our complete discretion. If one word of what we discussed tonight should reach the Doge …’ He left his sentence unfinished. ‘I will take it upon myself to talk to the Cardinale. I am glad you agree we need his support in this, in everything we do from here.’

He paused. ‘Then, if that is all, we’ll reconvene at our usual time, which I believe is in ten days. Unless, of course, events force me to call another extraordinary meeting. Good night, Signori. May God bless you and our enterprises.’

Signor Nicolotti remained seated as the Council of Ten exited, each bowing to him as they departed. He couldn’t help but note that the spark of accomplishment he’d seen in Maleovelli’s eyes was still there. For years he’d under-estimated that man, that family. Why, watching him tonight, he seemed to thrive on what they were saying, enjoying the danger. It would be good to have his help, especially now he’s forged so many connections – including with Lord Waterford – and managed to do what no Serenissian had done before, breach the Contested Territories – he and Moronisini. They could yet be an important ally in this forthcoming battle, for he had no doubt that’s where the armament of the Ottomans would end – in war. And so long as they all profited, it would not be entirely unwelcome.

Rising to his feet, he poured himself the last of the vino. Moronisini was right. They needed someone powerful, someone strong, to lead them over the next few years. To remove the threat of danger, the taint of the Estrattore and prove that Serenissima was still a force to be reckoned with – quell the growing disquiet of both their fickle allies and their enemies. It would also subdue the growing discontent and confusion within the popolani. As his ancestors knew, spiritual ambivalence could lead to more than simply internal doubts – unchecked, it could tear a nation apart. War would distract the popolani from the doubt and disenchantment with the status quo that the presence of one single Estrattore had roused. This was something Dandolo and his supporters had not managed to quash.

Perhaps it was time to change the way they appointed the Doge. Rid themselves of the bloodline, rotate the position through families. Surely that would stop the jostling for power that occurred every hundred years or so. Heaven forbid he should ever be appointed the Doge. Why would he want that when he exerted so much power as a capi – power without responsibility.

Once again, Maleovelli’s face materialised, his head ensconced in the golden cap of the Doge’s office. What a fancy, he laughed to himself. Maleovelli as Doge? Why, he had only just returned to the Council of Ten. Not only that, they could never have a man who uses his daughter and ward in such a fashion as Doge – it simply wouldn’t do. The Cardinale would never agree to that, not even if Maleovelli should decry them and put them in a nunnery. The taint would smear the office, tarnish Serenissima irreparably. No, that would never happen. Maleovelli would not be Doge. Not while Signor Nicolotti had a body with which to breathe, influence he could wield and a vote he could cast.





ZARALINA THREW THE LETTER she’d just received from Lord Waterford onto the table and strode to the window. Her heart was singing and excitement thrummed through her body. Despite not sleeping, she was energised in a way she had not been for years. For once, the sky was a clear azure blue and the sunlight made the snow sparkle and the cluster of city roofs that crept almost to the castle walls look pristine and inviting. Curls of smoke rose from chimneys, and birds flew through the air alighting on the barren trees, giving them the illusion of blooming. All in all, she thought, returning to the table and reaching for Waterford’s letter again, a good omen indeed.

Watching her every move, the men of the Privy Council waited expectantly.

‘Gentlemen.’ She turned to them with a gleaming smile. As one, they drew in their breath. Their queen looked magnificent, framed as she was by the window, her white gown thrown into stark relief by the colour of the sky and the copper of her hair, which today was unbound and fell almost to her knees.

Zaralina paused, enjoying the effect she knew she had. ‘You will be pleased to learn that Lord Waterford has made some advances. He has found, let’s call them, a sympathetic family who are keen for power. They are to be our foothold into Serenissima. Better still, he believes they are harbouring the Estrattore.’

There were gasps of delight.

‘Which one?’ asked Sir Kay. ‘The boy or the girl?’

Zaralina’s lips parted slowly. ‘The girl.’ Her eyes took on a faraway look and her mind wandered. Aware of where she was, she snapped back into the moment. ‘But this family she is associating with –’ she scanned the letter again ‘– the Maleovellis, will not openly admit this. Rather, Waterford has come to this conclusion through observation and some careless comments dropped by a family factotum. He is convinced that, for the right price, the Maleovellis will hand her over.’ She tried to keep the triumph out of her voice. After all this time. Waterford, you shall be richly rewarded for this!

‘What price do they ask?’ The Earl of Farwarn was weary. He’d ridden in the evening before, having been in the Ottoman Empire for the last few weeks delivering ships and cannons. He’d spent the entire night briefing the queen. He couldn’t understand how she looked so fresh, so unaffected. He rubbed his face; his eyes were grainy, his mouth dry; his thoughts kept refusing to cohere.

‘The price we all want – power.’ The queen took her seat. A servant darted across the floor and poured her a wine.

‘What will we offer them?’ asked Lord Halthorn.

‘Serenissima is about to enter an interesting phase. Waterford has heard from our spies in the palazzo that Doge Dandolo will be the last of his family to hold the throne. There will be a tussle for power. I propose that from a distance and through Lord Waterford, we offer the Maleovellis our support. We give them the Dogeship of Serenissima.’

There were nods and murmurs.

‘For how long?’ asked the Duke of Dunlilley. ‘I thought Serenissima was to be ours?’

‘Oh, it is, your grace. I have not changed my mind about that.’

‘Then why are we offering these people the Dogeship?’

‘Because it will ensure their cooperation and ease the transition of power from them to me.’ Zaralina laughed. Sir Kay and Earl Farwarn exchanged quick glances. They knew what that laugh signified. ‘It will be a puppet regime. They will act according to my orders, in the best interests of Farrowfare, of course.’

She turned to Earl Farwarn. ‘Please, your grace, share with the Privy Council the news you brought from the Ottoman Empire.’

Earl Edward Farwarn took a gulp of his wine and then rose. Moving to the side of the room where the lawyers sat hastily taking notes, their quills a continuous scratching that accompanied the meeting, he rustled through a pile of documents before finding the pages he needed. He returned to his spot at the table but remained standing. He extracted one piece of parchment and handed it to Father Morrison, who sat beside him. Father Morrison glanced at the content and then hastily crossed himself.

‘What I am passing around now, ma’am, gentlemen, is a copy of what I gave to Her Majesty last night. That is, a list of the Ottomans’ defences. The number of soldiers they have, weapons, including the cannons they’ve bought from us. The final figures at the bottom of the page are ships already in Vista Mare; the other is those currently in our shipyards that are almost finished. They will be ready to set sail within the month, which means the Ottomans will take delivery of them in the next three or so.’

The paper was shared around, each member taking some time to digest the columns and what they meant.

‘Why, their forces are huge,’ exclaimed Lord Rodbury. He’d attended the queen’s meeting with Farwarn last night but had been forced to leave when a late-night hunting party returned. He could still smell the bear carcass on his skin. He hadn’t seen this list.

‘Over two hundred thousand,’ said Earl Farwarn.

There was a collective gasp.

‘Does this not concern Your Majesty?’ asked Lord Halthorn. ‘Why, our own forces are not more than –’

‘Ninety thousand –’ finished the duke.

The men tried to picture the numbers. Unease filled the room.

‘Unless,’ said Zaralina softly, ‘you include the Morte Whisperers in our forces. Each one is worth a thousand soldiers.’

An uncomfortable silence fell. Not even the sun shining through the windows or the candles flickering brightened the coldness that filled the chamber.

Zaralina resisted a smile. These men, these brave, bold men who desired nothing more than to fight, win wars, claim more land and thus wealth, still had scruples about how this should be accomplished. It never ceased to amaze her that they thought nothing of killing each other, in cold blood, at the command of a monarch or ruler they often never saw, but when it came to forming alliances to ensure victory, they developed sensibilities.

Shazet was right. Humans were weak. Their souls were made of snow that froze hard for a while but melted as soon as things became a little warm.

‘Your Majesty.’ It was the earl who broke the silence. ‘As you know, we of your Privy Council have grave concerns about the Morte Whisperers.’

‘Really?’ asked the queen innocently, her blue eyes wide.

The earl touched his face again, scratching his chin through his beard, which was badly in need of a trim. ‘Your Majesty, while we feel the Ottomans have numbers that would make a seasoned soldier tremble, we also know that not only are they beholden to us, but they need us to cross the Limen. Whereas your Morte Whisperers –’

‘My Morte Whisperers?’ She sank into her seat.

‘Forgive me, Your Majesty, I meant it as a compliment. As spies, as messengers, there’s no doubting their efficacy, their subtlety. They are incomparable, and certainly the information they have retrieved about the Ottomans as well as the Serenissians has been of enormous help in finalising our plans. But if it came to war, ma’am, hand to hand combat, well, we have our doubts.’

‘Why?’ Zaralina’s voice was very quiet. A chill gust blew through the room. She watched as unconsciously, her nobles started to rub their arms, clasp their hands, shiver and then reach for the warming effects of their wine.

‘Because, ma’am, they obey you – only you and Shazet. They would not be an asset in war. Whose leadership would they follow? During combat, even the most courageous of men are afraid; they act on instinct. They trust their leaders and their comrades to do what they’re told, when they’re told. In other words, ma’am, we need soldiers who will follow orders without question.’ He did not seem to notice that every word he spoke was punctuated by a frost of white breath.

He paused and then shrugged. ‘Frankly, ma’am, I don’t know what else to say.’ He looked to the Privy Council for support. Only Sir Kay spoke.

‘He’s right, ma’am. Put simply, we don’t trust the Morte Whisperers.’

‘Well,’ said Zaralina after a long silence, ‘you’ll be pleased to learn that you don’t have to.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Duke Dunlilley.

Zaralina studied their faces. She saw the doubt and the fear and she felt suddenly very tired. Rising quickly, she struck the table. The men jumped.

‘I mean you don’t have to worry. You will not be commanding them. They will be operating under a different leadership, following different orders.’

‘But ma’am, I must protest,’ began Earl Farwarn.

‘Think carefully before you answer, your grace,’ replied Zaralina. Her voice was icy. ‘Do you? After all, I have just reassured you that you will not have to deal with the Morte Whisperers – you or your men. Not at first, anyhow.’

No-one dared to ask what she meant.

She walked around the table. ‘You all seem to have forgotten something very important, my lords. You seem to have forgotten the debt you all and this entire godsforsaken place owes to the Morte Whisperers – to my Morte Whisperers.’ She glared at Earl Farwarn.

One by one, their eyes slid from her face. All except Lord Rodbury’s. Father Morrison had turned a peculiar shade of pink and was clutching tightly the chaplet that hung from his neck with all its little symbols.

‘Without the help of the Morte Whisperers, there will be no wars won, no territories gained and Serenissima will remain the powerful city that it is while Farrowfare will continue to be the little backwater that it always was until I came to the throne. Until I gave you the means to cross the Limen.’ She didn’t raise her voice, but somehow all the men were cowed. A few raised their hands to their hearts, stroking their chests absent-mindedly.

‘Who is it that enables you to breach the Limen? Answer me that? Who do you think allows us to trade, to develop alliances beyond its boundaries? It’s me, your queen, along with those creatures you don’t trust! Together we have helped you gain riches beyond your wildest dreams, and very soon we’ll make Farrowfare a name that strikes terror in the hearts of all those in Vista Mare. Fools! You think because someone is different from you, they can’t be trusted? Even when you all seek the same goals! If we followed that logic, well, we might as well forget about sending ships to the Ottomans, recall Waterford and all our spies and remain here, bound by snow and ice all year round with dying crops, barren animals and festering diseases until we all die. Until Albion – no, Farrowfare itself – is no more.’

She stopped in front of the fire and faced them all; her eyes blazed, colour infused her cheeks.

‘Y– your Majesty,’ stammered Father Morrison. ‘There is the saying … the poem that many believe is an omen, a warning.’

Zaralina cocked an eyebrow

Bravely, or foolishly, Father Morrison continued, a trickle of sweat running from his temple to cross his fat cheeks. ‘It says:

The Limen shimmers, a force that divides

Revere its power and keep to one side

Respect this for wealth and peace to abide

Breach the gods’ rule, and woe betide.’

‘So?’ Zaralina’s word sliced through the stillness.

‘So, Your M– Majesty, some people attribute what you mention – the dying crops, the animals, even the weather –’ he glanced outside ‘– to the fact that … for years now, we haven’t respected the Limen. We’ve breached it over and over. In doing so, we have flouted the gods’ will …’

Zaralina stared at him, her eyes glittering sapphires. ‘Well, well, well. You surprise me, Father Morrison. I didn’t think you had it in you.’ She moved behind him and trailed her hand across his shoulders. He started, but didn’t stir again. ‘I know what some of you are thinking.’ She rested a hand on the table, her hair falling like a curtain across her body. ‘I know what most of you are too afraid to articulate but which old Father Morrison has now had the guts and gall to express.’ She pulled away abruptly, her locks trailing over Father Morrison, and walked around the table, staring at each member of Council until he was forced to drop his eyes. ‘But let me also remind you that Farrowfare was a pathetic little kingdom until I came to power after my husband, your King, tragically died. A hopeless country ruled by a hopeless, dithering monarch, that is until the Morte Whisperers and I freed you. And look what I’ve done for you so far. You have a navy, an army, you have begun to trade – yes, on the other side of the Limen, but look what it’s brought you.’ She gestured to the men’s fine clothes, the candelabra on the table, the fruit piled in pewter platters. ‘You can’t tell me you don’t appreciate this. Now we’re giving you a chance to thrive not just here in Farrowfare, but to rule beyond the Limen. To accumulate more wealth, enough to leave this cursed, snowbound country and live in fertile lands where your families, your future children and grandchildren, your descendants, can leave their mark – or have you so quickly forgotten?’ She lowered her voice. ‘Or have you changed your minds?’

Only the crackle of the fire and the distant sounds of swords clanging in the courtyard below could be heard.

‘I thought not.’ She returned to her seat, her hand snaking along the back of the chairs, briefly touching the doublets of her nobiles. They visibly straightened, as if they had suddenly developed a backbone, thought Zaralina.

She stood in front of her chair and leant over the table.

‘Now is the time to grasp what is being offered and prepare for this new life that I promised you and which you will, by the gods, soon have.’ She took a deep breath and continued, her voice a clarion. ‘Send the ships as soon as possible. Make sure you include extra sailors to train the Ottomans. There’s no point them having a navy if they don’t know how to use it. In the meantime, prepare our men. While we’ll use our Ottoman allies to attack from the sea, we’ll approach Konstantinople from the land.’ She gazed out of the window.

‘Through the Limen?’ sputtered Father Morrison.

‘Of course through the Limen.’ She spun round. ‘Haven’t you listened to a word I just said?’

‘All our troops, ma’am?’ Earl Farwarn shifted uncomfortably. ‘Can we do that? Is it possible? We’ve never taken so many through …’

‘No. We haven’t, have we? So, we will find out. Together, gentlemen, we will learn if our strategy has a chance, if my power is great enough to do what no monarch has ever done before.’

The men shared looks. Doubt was written all over their faces. ‘There’ll be losses –’ Sir Kay shifted in his seat.

‘Enough!’ said Zaralina sharply. ‘I have had enough. You will follow my orders. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Agreement came from around the table.

‘Good.’ Zaralina sighed. ‘Leave me, gentlemen! Now.’

The men jumped to their feet, eager to be out of her sight.

‘Oh, all except you, Lord Rodbury – and Farwarn, you had better stay too. I want us to send a letter to the Sultan. I will get you to help me draft it. The rest of you, be gone.’

They scurried away, leaving her with Rodbury and Farwarn. The earl sank back into his chair wearily. Behind him, Zaralina could just see Shazet. He bowed in her direction and faded away again. But not before she’d seen the delighted grin that twisted his long features. She would speak with him later. There was another order she wished to issue and which only a Morte Whisperer could carry out.

It was time to bring the Estrattore home.





TALLOW AND BAROQUE HAD BEEN tucked away in the workshop for some hours, working quietly side by side, Baroque pouring and mixing while Tallow extracted what she wanted and distilled into some candles. After she’d finished, she didn’t leave. Instead, she began to organise the little bottles of potions into some sort of order that only she understood. Baroque watched her placing them back on the shelves, clear fluids next to milky ones; granules next to oils of bright colours. He didn’t know what half of them signified anymore. He didn’t want to either. He noted how Tallow’s thick black hair tumbled out of its pins and fell down her back. Her old blue gown was beginning to pull across her shoulders. Every day brought a change to her. Physically, she was filling out, a picture of health. But it was what was happening to her inside that worried him. A darkness had filled the Estrattore that, no matter what he did, what objects he brought for her to study or stories he told, would not disappear.

Outside, the light was fading quickly and he knew it wouldn’t be too long before she was forced to go and prepare for whatever assignation she had tonight. He summoned the courage to do what he felt he must.

Tossing the towel he was using to dry the pestle and mortar he’d just washed over his shoulder, he went to the door. Making sure no-one was loitering in the courtyard, he shut it firmly.

Tallow turned when she heard the click. ‘What is it?’ she asked, lowering her arms and wiping them on the apron. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ she asked defensively.

‘We need to talk.’ Without waiting for her to reply, Baroque sat down on one of the stools, his back to the grimy window. Not even with all the spare help in the casa would the Maleovellis allow anyone else to come near the workshop.

Tallow arched an eyebrow at Baroque and then resumed what she was doing. ‘I don’t want to.’

‘Too bad.’

Tallow put her hands on her hips and spun towards Baroque. ‘What?’

When he didn’t respond immediately, she ran her fingers through her hair irritably, folded her arms and waited.

Baroque sighed.

‘Tarlo, I’ve been hearing some disturbing things.’ He glanced down at his hands. Now that he’d started, he didn’t know how to go on.

‘Such as?’ she prompted, tipping her head.

‘Talk.’

‘Uh huh. So? Since when do Serenissians not talk?’

‘Well, there’s been a spate of strange things – tragedies, really – going on with some of the nobile families. People are beginning to gossip in ways that make me very uneasy. In the tavernas of an evening, there’s little else that passes for conversation these days.’

Tallow began to laugh. ‘Of course there have been peculiar happenings. You know better than anyone what the Maleovellis get me to do!’

Baroque met her eyes. ‘What I am hearing has nothing to do with what the Maleovellis ask of you.’

Tallow’s eyelids fluttered, but she didn’t look away. ‘So? What have they got to do with me, then?’

‘Well,’ said Baroque carefully. ‘I was hoping you could tell me that.’ He gestured to the stool on the other side of the bench. ‘You might want to sit down.’ She did as he suggested, her eyes never leaving his face.

‘What have you heard?’

‘Well,’ he began, ‘a great deal lately, and it doesn’t add up, not unless one considers what you really are.’

‘Go on,’ said Tallow steadily.

‘First there’s the death of the young nobile, Rambaldo Errizo of the Second Casa of Nobiles’ Rise. It was assumed he was drunk and fell in the canal. Only, he’s not a big drinker. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Accidents happen.

‘Then, there’s the recent suicide pact between Signori Rizzo Manin and his cousin, Bezio Castellini. Young men who had everything to live for – why, Signor Manin was set to make a very advantageous marriage into Casa Maggiore. Bezio, well, the word is that he was handsome, carefree and had a great future. He was considered quite the poet.’

Baroque watched Tallow carefully. She stared at him defiantly. Her cheeks grew pink and her eyes darkened. Swallowing hard, he continued.

‘The one that really baffles me, though, is Venerio Nicolotti. While he was the youngest son, they’re a very wealthy family. Yet Venerio goes and joins the priesthood in Roma. Even the Cardinale has expressed his astonishment. The young man had never shown any interest in taking the cloth, let alone the Church, and suddenly –’ Baroque snapped his fingers ‘– he ups and disappears. At first the family thought he’d gone the way of his friends, but a letter from Roma arrived a week ago explaining everything.’

Tallow gave a dry laugh. ‘Why should I care about these nobiles? What are you accusing me of, Baroque? It’s not good enough that I’m an Estrattore? How ridiculous.’ She laughed harshly. ‘I don’t know why you’re telling me this, Baroque. I really don’t.’

‘Don’t you?’ He eased himself off the stool and leant over the counter. ‘Doesn’t the fact that these are the same four men that dined with you and Giacomo Moronisini the first night you officially became a courtesan, worry you?’

Her eyes slid from his face. ‘No, why should it?’

‘Tarlo. If I’ve worked it out, then surely you realise others will have. The Maleovellis must know. But then, why would they care? You’ve also rid them of potential problems – diminished the casas with which they see themselves in competition by eliminating their scions. They would be delighted. I am surprised they haven’t showered you with more gifts, with more dresses, jewels and such.’ He gestured towards her. He was surprised at the bitterness in his voice. ‘But the thing is, if I have been able to piece this together, then Giacomo Moronisini will eventually too. He’s no fool, despite what you or the Maleovellis might think.’

‘Oh, I don’t think he’s a fool.’

There was a flash of something in Tallow’s eyes. Baroque caught his breath. ‘By God! You want him to figure this out.’

Tallow didn’t answer.

‘Why? What if he goes to the Cardinale? Even if he doesn’t figure out you’re an Estrattore, even if he suspects the Maleovellis are behind it – oh.’ His mouth dropped. ‘I am obtuse. That’s what you want him to think. You don’t care if he knows it’s you or the Maleovellis. He will be afraid. Afraid of when death, or something worse, will strike him. His life will be eaten up by fear.’ He smacked the heel of his palm against his forehead. ‘Of course. This is revenge. The revenge you always said was yours to take.’ He gave a deep sigh, one that came from the depths of his being. ‘Tarlo, please, tell me what happened. What did they do to you that you felt this was the only solution? That you, of all people, would willingly murder let alone induce such suffering.’ His voice was gentle.

He reached out his hand and waited. He saw a flicker in her eyes.

Tallow glanced down at the peeling, red skin, a landscape of veins and spots. The long, astonishingly delicate fingers trembled slightly, matching the quake on Baroque’s lips.

‘Tallow, Estrattore feel deeply – more than human beings. But they used to be trained to manage these intense feelings, to moderate not only the emotions of others, but their own as well. You’ve not been taught this. You swing from one extreme to the other. You feel deeply or not at all. You cannot do this to yourself. You must not.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Let me help you, please …’ The wall she’d erected between them began to waver. Baroque sensed it. Her hand dropped and crawled across the bench. It too shook.

She was just about to place it in Baroque’s when she halted then snatched it away. ‘I can’t,’ she said, her face a mask of coldness once more.

‘You can.’

‘No, you don’t understand. I cannot let you help, I will not. It doesn’t matter anyhow. It can’t change anything. I am what I am and that is it. I have been forged in different fires from my kind – with good reason. The past is nothing anymore. I do not dwell on it. I think only about tomorrow.’

Baroque sighed. He’d come so close. But he had another plan, another way to get to her. Break her resolve, this brittle hardness. ‘All right, then I have a proposition for you.’

Tallow tilted her head and looked at him curiously. ‘What?’

‘How about tomorrow, we take the gondola and go to the Candlemakers Quartiere. If you’re really serious about looking only to tomorrow, then we have to lay yesterday to rest completely, sì?’

Tallow scoffed. ‘I don’t want to. I don’t need to.’ She slid off the stool and busied herself at the shelves. ‘Anyhow, it’s silly. It’s dangerous.’

Baroque shrugged. ‘When has that ever stopped you?’

Tallow gave a small smile. ‘You’re trying to persuade me using very poor tactics, Baroque. You’re so easy to read – and that’s without using any of my talents. Appeal to my sense of adventure. Convince me I’m a hero. I am no hero and I no longer seek adventure. I want only an end to all of this.’ She undid her apron and flung it over the hook. She regarded Baroque. ‘You want to take me back to where I grew up in the hope that I’ll think you’re my friend, that I’ll have regrets and feel ashamed and sorry and confess everything to you. It won’t work, you know. But that’s not really what it’s about, is it? You’re not offering this for me. This is to make you feel better. Better about your role in what it is I have done. What it is I do.’

Baroque opened his mouth to protest then shut it again. He wanted to deny her, but there was truth in her words. Painful truth. Only it was not himself that he was worried about.

‘I can’t fool you, can I?’ he said stiffly. ‘But Tarlo, trust me when I tell you, this isn’t just about me. You need to go back. It will help you move forward – perhaps in the right direction.’

‘Right? What does that even mean anymore? There’s no such thing.’ She gave a bark of laughter, then thought for a moment. ‘If I do this, will you promise not to “talk” to me anymore?’

Baroque hesitated then nodded. ‘All right. I promise. Do this and there’ll be no more lectures.’

‘Very well, then,’ she said. ‘I’ll go back to the Candlemakers Quartiere. Tomorrow.’ Before he could say another word, she swooped past him. It was all Baroque could do not to cheer.

‘But,’ she said, just inches from him as she gripped the door handle. ‘I will not confess anything to you, Baroque. I will not tell you my secrets. I will not share with anyone what resides in here.’ She rested her other hand over her heart. ‘How can I, when it’s empty?’

The smile left his face.

She opened the door. ‘Someone once told me not to trust anyone. I listened to him. Turns out, it was good advice. It makes everything so much easier.’

She disappeared. He heard her heels clattering up the stairs.

Filled with sadness, he climbed off the stool and, in lonely silence, finished cleaning.