Votive

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I AWOKE EARLIER than usual. The evening had been spent entertaining a wealthy merchant named Signor Mario Visconti who, by the time I left his casa, had arranged to meet with Signor Maleovelli to discuss a partnership in the slave trade.

It had been a while since I had arisen before the sun was over the horizon, and I returned to my old habits, climbing out of bed and throwing back the shutters. It was cool outside. Pigeons nestling in the eaves of the roof opposite were all snuggled in their scrappy nests, gently cooing and shuffling their feathers. When I looked down, I could see the faint outline of schools of tiny fish, just beneath the surface of the water, fleeting shadows that darted first one way, then the other. I rested my chin on the crook of my arm and thought that was how I had felt once – compelled to change course. No longer. I knew where I was headed, what I was doing, despite what Baroque thought. And today, that was going back to the Candlemakers Quartiere, back to my old home.

My heart fluttered. I was surprised and a little annoyed. I had trained myself not to feel excitement anymore, not to let anything ruffle my inner calm. And yet, the mere thought of strolling the fondamenta, of seeing Quinn’s shop and encountering the people who represented my past the way shadows occupy corners, filled me with trepidation and, I admit, longing. Perhaps Baroque was right. This was what I really needed in order to be able to embrace my future.

I moved away from the window and, using the water left over from my evening wash, cleaned and dressed without Hafeza’s help. She would be cross with me in the way she’d adopted – more playful than serious. I found, like many things about Hafeza, it annoyed me. I’d actually asked Giaconda if I could have a different maid, but she’d explained that this was impossible. The fewer who knew about me, the better. I still didn’t trust Hafeza. Though Giaconda left me very much to my own devices these days, I felt that she might as well be around while Hafeza was present. I wasn’t sure how, but I knew Hafeza reported my every move to her mistress. Well, today she wouldn’t be able to. Today I would slip out from under her watchful eyes and escape with Baroque.

Escape. The mere word gave me joy. I hadn’t realised I felt trapped.

I dressed quickly and, using some of my belladonna potion, attended to my eyes. I blinked and let the drops settle, accustomed now to the expansion of my pupil, to the slight sting. I brushed my hair and placed some pins in it, tucking the rest into my headpiece and attaching one of my day-masks: an understated, dusky creation. I pinched my cheeks and stared at my reflection. I forced my lips to turn so it appeared as if I smiled. There, I was ready to face the world.

Despite the early hour, the canals were busy as traffic to and from the markets passed by. Forgoing my golden costume, today I wore black. It blended with my cape and ensured I did not attract attention. I found I enjoyed the anonymity.

Baroque sat beside me, occasionally pointing out a building or explaining why a particular casa was having its stucco repaired. His appearance had also changed from the last time he was in the Candlemakers Quartiere. Gone was Barold Barbacan, the Jinoan businessman with his exotic ways and mouth full of gold teeth, to be replaced by a Serenissian intellectual. Dressed in a long togati, his face clean-shaven, his hair trimmed and tied, he would be recognised by no-one. Even his posture was different.

We turned off the Circolo and into a narrower canal that divided the Opera Quartiere and the University. Scholars strode along the fondamenta, their togati flapping around their ankles, books and scrolls tucked under their arms. I watched them, with their solemn distracted faces, their inner life richer than the lovely façades around them.

When we turned back onto the Circolo, it was mid-morning. The sun warmed my back in a pleasant way, the sky was a clear blue above me, the ripples of water that caressed the gondola as we sliced through its surface silver. The gondolier was new to the Maleovelli household. I wondered if he would still have his job when we returned. Baroque had neither sought permission nor told the Maleovellis what we were doing. We’d all pay for that. I didn’t care. What did it matter anymore? They could do nothing to me.

I raised my face and shut my eyes, enjoying the sun on the parts of my face that were exposed, the artificial sense of freedom. I opened them again and found spots before my eyes. I blinked a few times and when everything around me crystallised, we were facing the mainland. On the other side of the wide expanse of water, the forest spread, the dark green pines like rows of soldiers mustered for battle. Behind them, the Dolomites loomed, their snow-covered peaks majestic sentries. For just a second, I saw a glimmer beyond them and knew what it signified. The Limen. My heart caught in my throat. Living on Nobiles’ Rise, it was easy to push the Limen and everything it meant to the back of my mind. To pretend that it didn’t exist: that, just like my past, it could be blocked out. But there it was, rising as far as the eye could see before melting into the atmosphere, a painful reminder of how much further I had yet to go, of the promise I had made to myself, to my people. It also made me think of Katina …

I glanced at Baroque. His eyes were fixed firmly on my face. He knew where my thoughts had taken me.

‘Are we almost there?’ My voice was harsher than I intended.

‘Sì. Not long now, Signorina,’ he said. He turned to regard the mainland. I wondered briefly what he was thinking.

I deliberately focused on the fondamenta, twisting so my back was to the verdant scene on the other side of the canal. Instead, I watched the women in their coarse dresses, baskets over their arms, children pulling at their aprons as they attended to their tasks. Shopkeepers stood outside their businesses, talking, calling for customers. Cats weaved their way around their legs, while gondolas unloaded their wares onto the cobbles. It was all so familiar and yet, in just a short amount of time, so strange as well.

I saw it then. The spire that marked the main basilica and overlooked the buildings I knew and had grown to love. The narrow frontage, the way the casas leant into each other like derelict, drunken friends. We had reached the Chandlers Quartiere. We were so close that I could see the badge denoting the scuola of the men who trotted over the bridges.

For the first time in a long while, thoughts of Dante returned. The pain was not as great as I feared. But it was still there. Pain and deep, desperate longing. I looked beyond the popolani, hoping to catch a glimpse of Zia Gaia or any of the Macelleria family in the futile way that those who need reassurance or wish to assuage a long-held guilt do. I wanted some kind of signal they were all right. I’d tossed them aside with my old self. While I knew it was something I had to do for their sake as much as mine, returning to this place made me wonder, for just a brief moment, if I’d done the right thing.

I became aware I was chewing my lip and my hands were strangling each other in my lap. I took a deep breath and forced them still.

I was not prepared for the effect seeing my old home would have on me. There it was. So ordinary. So neglected. The windows were empty eyes that looked at me dolefully, but without accusation. I stared up at it as we glided by.

‘Wait!’ I said as we neared the Ponticello di Mille Pietre – a place I’d never wanted to see again but realised now, that like its name, it was the rock upon which I needed to ground myself. ‘Can we stop? Please, Baroque. I would like to walk.’

Baroque stared at me. ‘Certo.’ He gave the order to the gondolier who, with practised ease, brought us level with the water-stairs at the base of the bridge. He tied the gondola to the paline.

‘Here,’ said Baroque, reaching in his purse and handing over a ducat. ‘Find us some breakfast. We won’t be long.’

The gondolier tipped his hat and, after assisting us from the craft, strolled down the fondamenta, away from us. He stopped for directions from a young child. I recognised little Sophie, the cobbler Enzo’s daughter. Because of me, she’d survived the Morto Assiderato. She pointed down a nearby ramo. The gondolier bowed and followed her finger. She giggled and skipped towards us. I froze. What if she recognised me?

She took one glance at us and skidded to a halt. She dropped a clumsy curtsy. ‘Signor, Signorina,’ she said, her mouth falling open as she gazed up and down at us. I had removed my cape during the trip and my gown, while dark and faded, was sewn with jewels and had slashed, full sleeves.

Both Baroque and I bowed our heads. My throat was tight with tension; my eyes mere slits behind my mask.

Sophie broke into a huge smile and raced off. ‘Mamma, mamma!’ she cried. ‘I’ve seen a princess!’

I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing.

‘Well, that’s a sound I haven’t heard for a long, long time,’ said Baroque. He smiled at me kindly.

I thought for a moment. ‘Vero. It’s been a while.’ I took his proffered arm, looping it through mine and, turning our backs on the bridge, we strolled along the fondamenta.

I was aware of eyes upon us. From the windows, from the darkened shelter of doorways. One or two nodded to us. I knew them all: Carlita, Enzo’s wife and Sophie’s mother, who stepped out of her shop and also curtsied. There was Fabrizio, another candlemaker; Guiseppi, the fruiterer; and Francesca’s husband came past us, dragging a cart. He tipped his hat and muttered, ‘Buon giorno.’ I felt him looking over his shoulder, not because he recognised me, but because strangers in the quartiere were always noted. They were the subject of conversations for days afterwards. I knew that Baroque and I would entertain many a group in the taverna, many a family tonight.

Finally, we paused outside Quinn’s shop and Pillar’s workshop. It was only when Baroque placed his hand over mine that I realised I was trembling.

‘He’s really gone, hasn’t he?’ I said, looking around, resisting the urge to touch, to draw, to learn, to feel.

Baroque nodded. ‘From here. Sì.’ He cleared his throat.

I took in the peeling paint, the cobwebs that festooned the entrance. Debris had blown onto the doorstep and gathered in the corner. Quinn would have had me sweeping that away, scrubbing the wood until it gleamed.

‘Do you want to go in?’

‘Inside?’ Panic flared in my chest. ‘We can’t –’

Baroque glanced around. Apart from a young boy scaling a fish, the fondamenta was relatively quiet. He reached over and did something with the lock. The door swung open, the creak it made echoing around the empty room. I hesitated for only a second and then stepped inside.

Memories crowded my head. Anger, harsh words, fear, blood. I shut my eyes and took a deep breath. The musty smell of age, damp and disregard filled my nostrils. I opened my eyes again and walked to the counter. I removed my glove and ran my finger through the thick dust. I stood outside the door to the workshop. Composing myself, I twisted the handle and let the door swing open. It creaked loudly before stilling.

I didn’t step inside, I just looked. The vats were cold, the fireplace a dark, barren space. The worktops were scattered with broaches and yards of wick rolled into tight circles. I saw remnants of candles, half-melted stumps, broken votive glasses, pillar moulds, just sitting there, abandoned. While I could recall the lessons, the burns, the triumph of mixing and pouring my early batches, of rolling the wax, straining the impurities, it seemed so pointless now. Even my lessons with Katina, those gentle explorations into the essence of objects, of extracting and distilling, no longer seemed relevant. Not when all I had focused on was kindness and beauty. Oh yes, Katina had warned me that life was not all sweetness and light. Little had I known back then how well I would learn that lesson. I recalled Cane and Dante, crushed beneath a Bond Rider’s horse. Hardly any of what she’d given me, what she’d imparted in our brief time together, apart from the basic skills, was meaningful to me. Not in the life I had now.

Even her order that I must not kill I’d ignored. And why shouldn’t I? Death was not her decision alone nor God’s. Not when I could so easily remove those who didn’t deserve to live. Even while I had these thoughts, others spun in my head: Katina’s warmth, her conversations about her childhood, about Estrattore. She’d always made them sound so good, so noble in their intentions. That was what she wanted from me. I hadn’t listened. I’d done terrible, unforgivable things, felt and responded to extreme emotions, as Baroque had accused. What a disappointment I would be to her.

Standing here, I could recapture those moments with her and Pillar. And yet, as I did, I found I wanted to let them go.

I felt time contract and then expand out into some endless void. How long had I been gone? Was it really more than a year? Looking over the ruins of my former life, it seemed like centuries. I sighed and closed the door.

‘Have you seen enough?’ asked Baroque. He had wiped a space on the counter and was leaning on it. I sensed his agitation, his nervousness. He’d brought me here, manipulated me into coming. He could wait.

‘There is one more place I want to go.’ I pointed upstairs. ‘Wait here, please.’ This was something I needed to do alone.

I slowly ascended, my heels clattering on the stairs. I paused beside the kitchen. It looked so … ordinary. So dirty and poor. And yet I had called this place home for the greater part of my life. Now it felt as remote to me as the distant Dolomites. I took in the blackened grate and pots, the chipped porcelain plates and wooden trenchers that lay on the table. What astonished me was that food had been left upon them and had rotted into hardened green lumps. Not even flies feasted on those remnants. Wherever Pillar had gone, he’d left in a hurry. His coat still hung from the hook. What had made him leave so quickly? I knew from Baroque that the Signori di Notte and the Cardinale had been through this area. God knows, Renzo had paid the price of harbouring me, but Pillar seemed to have escaped. I was relieved. For all that thoughts of him still hurt, I was glad he was safe. I wouldn’t have wanted him to be any other way. I touched the table in the hope of extracting something of his fate. Quinn’s face rose in my mind, and the lacerating power of her words, the agony of her beatings, almost reduced me to tears. I snatched my hand away. Pillar’s fate would remain a mystery.

It was better that way.

I turned aside and climbed the last staircase, to my room. There, I looked upon the tiny space that had been mine. I shook my head. It always seemed so much bigger in my dreams, in my memories. I walked around, trailing my finger along the edge of the two huge vats, bending to brush the surface of the mattress and the tatty blankets that lay in a heap in the middle. Without meaning to, I began to draw. I almost doubled over as waves of dreadful pain, sorrow and grief washed over me. I grabbed a hold of the chest and clutched my stomach. I gagged.

I quickly stopped extracting. Every surface screamed of horror. How could I have ever remembered my time here as good, as somehow magical? As something to cherish and restore my lost faith in others, in myself? I leant against the chest, trying to regain my equilibrium. My fingers gripped the top and I remembered that, inside it, were my precious items. I moved away and lifted the lid, coughing as dust and the smell of lost time hit me in the face.

I looked inside the tiny space and saw the things I had once treasured still sitting there. There was my old tinderbox, a few candles, the piece of green myrtle wax and the ancient bit of paper I’d salvaged from the canal the first time I ever rode in a gondola. I drew it out and examined it.

Back then it had been the colours and patterns that had attracted me. I had never seen anything so unusual. Now, I looked at it and the meanings of the designs and words, at one time obscure, became apparent. The urge to laugh found me again. That was how Baroque came upon me moments later, doubled over with tears pouring down my cheeks.

‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What’s wrong?’ He didn’t intrude, but asked from the doorway.

‘Wrong?’ I straightened and wiped my face. My shoulders shook, my throat contracted. I wasn’t laughing, I was sobbing. ‘Look,’ I said, and with two steps, thrust my cherished piece of paper into his hands.

Baroque took it from me carefully and his eyes widened.

‘Sì,’ I said. ‘It’s ironic, isn’t it? The one thing of the outside world that I chose to keep as a child is a piece of paper advertising the services of a courtesan. I have even met her. Veronica Franco. The poetess.’ I took a deep, quivering breath. ‘Oh, Baroque, let’s go. I don’t ever want to come back here. It does not contain what I thought it might.’

Baroque glanced at me with his secret eyes. ‘I’m not so sure about that. Did you … did you extract?’

‘What do you think?’ I raised my tear-stained face to his.

‘You felt nothing?’

‘No. I felt everything.’

As we shut the door and returned to the fondamenta, a barrage of abuse greeted us.

‘What right do you have to go in there?’ screeched a familiar voice. We both jumped guiltily to find Francesca, the fruit vendor’s wife, staring at us, a broom in her hand held before her like a weapon. ‘You’ll not find anything in there that the Signori and the Cardinale haven’t. He’s gone, I tell you. Gone.’ Her voice broke. ‘And so has the Estrattore, all right. We don’t know anything. Go back to Nobiles’ Rise. Leave us be!’

‘Signora,’ began Baroque in his most consoling voice, ‘you misunderstand. We were not –’

‘I don’t care what you were doing. We’re no objects of curiousity. We’re people with lives and families. And your kind don’t belong here. Now go!’ Francesca began to sweep hard in our direction, dirt and bits of rubbish flying into our faces. I began to cough and held my hand up in front of my face. We tried to escape, but Francesca followed us, her broom working harder and harder. Along the fondamenta, people appeared in doorways, cheering her on, spitting at us, ordering us to leave. Soon she was joined by others, all of them sweeping us away in a tirade of words and dust.

It wasn’t until our gondola was in sight that they stopped and watched us. Grouped together in silence, they waited until we were in the gondola and on our way before, one by one, they turned their backs and returned to their lives.

It was some time before Baroque and I spoke again.





BY MID-AFTERNOON WE WERE BACK at the Maleovellis’ casa. As we glided through the water-gates, I removed my mask and disembarked. I saw Giaconda waiting. If she was angry, she hid it well. Her voice as she told us to go to Signor Maleovelli’s study was measured, her gestures calm. It was only when she turned to the boatman and ordered him to report to Salzi that I detected the fury. I knew I would not see the gondolier’s smiling face again. I felt guilty about that.

In silence, Baroque and I went up the stairs. Jacopo loitered at the top.

‘Tsk, tsk, tsk,’ he muttered. ‘Naughty cousin.’ His grin only enhanced his delight. ‘I am here to comfort you if you need it,’ he said to my back.

Giaconda snapped. ‘Don’t you have work to attend to, Jacopo?’

He stammered something and limped away. I allowed my lips to curl.

Signor Maleovelli was seated behind his desk. Papers rested askew in front of him. Navigating our way between the chairs, Baroque and I stood patiently and waited. I repressed a yawn. My early morning adventure was catching up with me.

Finally, Signor Maleovelli raised his head. The afternoon sun streaming behind cast him into shadow. His hooded eyes glittered.

‘Where have you been, Tarlo?’ he asked. It had been a long time since he’d directed a question or any conversation to me. I was taken aback. ‘I went to the Candlemakers Quartiere.’

‘Really?’ he said. He glanced at Giaconda, who had followed us into the room. ‘Why?’

Something in his tone warned me not to implicate Baroque. Without rushing, I explained that I had a sudden urge to see my old home and that I had found Baroque and insisted he take me. Baroque had unhappily obliged.

Signor Maleovelli’s eyes passed from me to Baroque and back again.

‘Sit down, Tarlo,’ he said. He did not extend the same courtesy to Baroque. He didn’t believe me. ‘You placed yourself in unnecessary danger. You placed all of us in danger and, it seems, on a whim.’

‘Mi dispiace,’ I said and lowered my head. I could not see how what I did was any more dangerous than what the Maleovellis had me doing night after night.

He did not speak for a while. Instead, he rustled through the papers in front of him. I watched the dust motes float on a sunbeam, noticing how they all seemed to ascend rather than descend, aspiring to greatness, I mused.

‘I do not see the point in going back,’ said Signor Maleovelli. I jumped; I’d been lost in my thoughts.

‘Perhaps not, Signor,’ I said. ‘But that may be because you’re surrounded by your past.’ I gestured to his crowded room. ‘Mine is still to be discovered, but what I had back there in the Candlemakers Quartiere, I felt I should say goodbye to before I leave it for good. Surely you would grant me that?’

Signor Maleovelli studied me carefully, then he began to chuckle. ‘Do not try to use your charms on me, young woman.’ He reached for his pipe. ‘They do not work.’ He opened his pouch and began stuffing the fragrant weed that Jacopo had brought back from the Contested Territories into the bowl. ‘You have taught her well, Gia. For a moment there, she reminded me of you.’ I could feel Giaconda stiffen behind me.

He used a spill to light his pipe and slowly the room began to fill with smoke. I tried to clear my throat as silently as I could.

‘Who saw you?’ asked Giaconda, her voice slightly muffled from the handkerchief she pressed to her face.

‘My former neighbours. But they didn’t recognise me. I was masked.’ I raised my hand slightly; the mask dangled from my finger as proof. I thought about Francesca’s daring. To attack people she thought were nobiles with a broom! Things had changed. Either fear or a fresh sense of courage inspired that. I hoped it was the latter but did not want to explore what had caused it. I knew the answer.

Giaconda couldn’t hide her relief at my words.

‘And what about you, Baroque?’ asked Signor Maleovelli. ‘Did anyone –’ he emphasised the word ‘– recognise you?’ Signor Maleovelli leant back in his chair.

‘No, Signor. They did not.’

‘Still, I think your little sojourn there will arouse suspicion. There will be talk. That will attract the attention of the Signori.’ Signor Maleovelli frowned. ‘It’s just as well I have planned a diversion.’

Baroque shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

‘What might that be, Signor?’ he asked.

‘A dinner party,’ answered Signor Maleovelli. ‘Tonight I have some very important guests and for that I need some very important candles. Capisce, Baroque? Capisce, Tarlo?’

‘Capisco,’ I answered.

Baroque muttered. ‘What kind do you require?’

Signor Ezzelino leant across his desk. ‘The kind that will persuade my peers to go against their better judgement. The kind that will, when the Council of Ten vote upon who they will support to be the next Doge, make them cast their decision in my favour.’

I looked at him steadily. ‘That may be difficult.’

‘But not impossible.’

‘No, Signor, not impossible.’ My mind raced. Had we really come so far in such a short time? Signor Maleovelli was ready to take such a step?

‘Very well, then. Get to work.’ He glanced at Baroque. ‘Both of you. Do not disappoint me. A great deal rests on those candles, Tarlo – for me and for you, your kind.’

‘I understand, Signor. I will do my very best.’ A mixture of nerves and excitement made me long to escape, to begin immediately. Something occurred to me. ‘Will I be required tonight, Signor?’

Signor Maleovelli took his pipe out of mouth. ‘Naturalmente! What is dinner at the Maleovellis if Signorina Dorata is not present? Of course you will be there. Wear your finest gown and be ready to entertain my guests in whatever way is required.’

‘Sì, Signor.’

Baroque bowed and I sank into a curtsy. We turned to leave. ‘Oh, Baroque,’ said Giaconda.

‘Sì, Signorina?’ Baroque turned, his eyebrows raised. I paused, my hand on the doorframe.

‘If ever you escort Tarlo anywhere without seeking permission from either me or my father, your journals will be handed over to the Signori di Notte. Am I clear?’

No-one spoke. Outside, a cat wailed.

‘Sì, Signorina,’ said Baroque, a smile fixed on his face.

Once we were safe in the workshop, he closed the door and leant against it. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he dabbed at his brow.

Putting on my apron, I waited for him to speak.

‘That puttana,’ he almost spat. He stuffed the material back into his pocket. ‘Who does she think she is? She’s only a damn courtesan –’ He stopped, his hand flying to cover his mouth as he recalled to whom he was speaking.

‘Sì. There are a few of us, you know. Believe it or not, Baroque, not all of us by choice.’

He levered himself away from the door. ‘You’re not the only one feeling trapped, Tarlo.’ He began to roll up his sleeves, the action jerky, furious. ‘While the Maleovellis have my journals, they think they can manipulate me in any way they want; make me dance to their music; draw me into their schemes. Just like they do you.’

He rubbed his hands across his face and through his hair. ‘I am so weary, Tarlo, so very weary.’ He let out a long breath and stared into space before remembering where he was and giving me a watery grin. ‘Mi dispiace. I didn’t mean that about the courtesans.’

‘Sì, you did,’ I corrected.

‘All right. I did. But I didn’t mean it about you.’

I raised my eyebrows. He laughed.

‘Come, you don’t need to hear an old man complaining. Have you thought about what to distil into those candles?’

He drew out a fresh box of votives and, pulling them out of their little glass holders, began checking them for chips or poor wicks as I had taught him. I picked one up and, hoping he didn’t notice, extracted slightly, drawing the essence of the last person to touch it – Baroque.

Just like his outburst, what I found astonished me. Dark emotions roiled through the candle. I would have to make sure they were extracted or else use them. I felt deep-seated resentment, not just for the Maleovellis, but for everything they represented. I was somewhat surprised. To me, Baroque was as much one of them as Hafeza. He was just … nicer. As he said himself, I could not trust him; but what I felt here suggested something very different.

I went further. Beneath the initial feelings of loathing was much confusion. Over what, I wondered. I probed deeper and was infused with regret, sadness, guilt and, above all, pity. I couldn’t fathom where that last emotion came from. Baroque didn’t strike me as someone who indulged in self-pity often. He made his choices and lived with them. I went deeper still.

When I realised the pity was directed at me, I almost dropped the candle.





WHEN LORD WATERFORD WAS INTRODUCED the following afternoon, he sensed he was interrupting a celebration. Escorted to the piano nobile and into the portego, he caught Giaconda bending over her father’s chair and kissing him, the looks on their faces and the glasses in their hands indicating a triumph of some kind. As his name was called, they drew apart slowly. Lord Waterford felt uncomfortable.

‘Ah, Beolin, bello,’ cried Giaconda, and putting down her glass on one of the little tables, sailed towards him, arms outstretched, a smile upon her beautiful face.

Kissing him on both cheeks, she took his hand and led him to a chair near her father’s. ‘Signor Maleovelli,’ he said crisply and bowed before Giaconda practically pushed him into a seat. She gestured for one of the servants to bring Lord Waterford wine.

‘Has something special happened?’ enquired Lord Waterford.

‘Sì,’ said Signor Maleovelli. ‘It has indeed.’

They all waited until Lord Waterford’s glass was filled and the servant retired to the corner of the credenza.

‘May I ask what?’

Signor Maleovelli smiled. ‘Last night we had a very successful dinner party, did we not, Giaconda?’

‘We did, Papa.’ Giaconda raised her glass to him.

Lord Waterford lifted his as well. ‘Here’s to fine dining,’ he said and drank.

Signor Maleovelli studied him for a moment. Aware of the scrutiny, Lord Waterford lowered his glass. ‘Signor?’

‘To what do we owe this visit, Lord Waterford? I had thought we were having dinner tomorrow night.’

‘Yes, Signor, but something has happened which induced me to seek your company earlier. Whereas dinner in your casa is always a pleasure –’ he reached for Giaconda’s hand and kissed it ‘– I wish to speak to you on a matter of business.’

‘Go on,’ said Signor Maleovelli.

‘Here?’ he asked, signalling the room.

‘Like all good Serenissian servants and slaves, ours are selective about what they hear and, if they do listen, they know never to repeat what is said. It is not worth the risk, if you understand. You may speak freely.’

Lord Waterford looked vexed.

‘He means in front of me, Papa.’ Giaconda withdrew her hand from Waterford’s.

Signor Maleovelli looked genuinely surprised. ‘I hide nothing from my daughter. Anyway, I thought you said that in your land, a woman rules. Why would you hesitate to speak in front of Giaconda?’

‘I do not,’ said Lord Waterford gruffly. ‘I was just uncertain. In Serenissima, women play such a contradictory role. I have barely met any of the wives or daughters of the other nobiles. They are hidden away as if they are somehow ashamed of them. Only courtesans and peasants seem to lead any kind of public life. I know Giaconda is a … well … she’s also your daughter. You’re a nobile. I wasn’t sure …’

‘Be sure. Speak without inhibition.’ Signor Maleovelli leant forward, his hands clutching his thighs. ‘What is it you have to say?’

Placing his glass down, Lord Waterford turned to his hosts. ‘We have spoken, Signor Maleovelli, of our shared concern over the future of Serenissima under … the current regime. I have, as I told you I would, passed those worries onto my queen and her privy council. As you know, Farrowfare has recently shown great interest in, not only Serenissima, but in accelerating commercial opportunities in Vista Mare. Trade between our countries has commenced; soon you will be sending an ambassador to our city, Albion. We have also negotiated tithes to be paid for use of your ports in the Mariniquian Seas and the exchange of important diplomatic information.’

‘Sì,’ said Signor Maleovelli, trying to hasten the point. ‘It’s this diplomacy that has allowed us to discover the movements of the Ottomans, is it not? Without the cooperation of Farrowfare and your spies and networks, we would not have known of their plans.’

Lord Waterford bowed his head. ‘That is all true. What is also true is that I have spoken to you of Farrowfare’s genuine interest in the Estrattore.’

‘Ah.’ Signor Maleovelli frowned and leant back in his chair. ‘Do you mean the race, or the ones you have been so curious about?’

‘Signor, do not mock me.’ Lord Waterford smiled to soften his words. ‘You know I mean both. We have followed the Cardinale’s search for the young male Estrattore with great interest. My queen is very keen to find this boy – if indeed he exists.’ Lord Waterford reached for his glass and took a deliberate sip, studying the Maleovellis beneath his lashes. They neither moved nor spoke, but kept their eyes fixed on him. ‘She is also very interested in any information pertaining to Estrattore generally – it’s a passion of hers, you understand. But, most especially anything at all about a female.’

‘A female Estrattore?’ Giaconda gave a small laugh. ‘Why, Beolin, do you persist in speaking of this girl? She does not exist, my friend. I fear she is a product of the Farrowfare, of your queen’s, imagination.’ Lord Waterford saw Giaconda glance at her father. He felt the frisson in the room. He decided to take it a step further.

‘I have reason to believe that you know something of this Estrattore. I speak, of course, of the young woman. Not the boy the Cardinale searches for.’

Signor Maleovelli looked meaningfully at the servants. He picked up his drink and swirled the glass. He watched it for a moment before taking a long drink. ‘Have you told anyone else of … your suspicions?’

‘Only my queen. But do not worry,’ said Lord Waterford, sensing the next question. ‘My communiqués with her are always in code. Your spies would not be able to decipher it. Let me reassure you of that.’

‘You do not know our spies.’

‘I know none of them have yet intercepted a Morte Whisperer.’ There. It was out in the open. The nature of the aid he could promise, the kind of ally they would be working with. He waited.

Giaconda’s eyes widened. Even Signor Maleovelli looked stunned.

‘I have heard of these creatures – the Morte Whisperers,’ said Signor Maleovelli softly. His voice was brittle. ‘They are mentioned in the scrolls of the Estrattore. Jacopo said they are not of this world.’

‘They are not of any world, Signor.’ Lord Waterford repressed a shudder. ‘They are –’ he searched for the right word ‘– extremely … savage. But trust me when I tell you, my queen … controls them. They do her bidding.’

Signor Maleovelli stared at Lord Waterford for a long time. Lord Waterford met his gaze without wavering.

‘Farrowfare has strange allies.’

‘Stranger than you can imagine,’ said Lord Waterford and, for just a moment, wondered if he had gone too far. ‘But strong as well.’

The bell in the campanile tolled. The servants took it as their cue to light the candles. Lord Waterford and the Maleovellis sat in silence, sipping their wine, staring out the window. Lord Waterford could almost see the workings of Signor Maleovelli’s mind. He knew that Giaconda longed to pull her father aside, talk to him. Not yet. Not till he’d played his final card. Then, he would leave them to ponder his words, to plan.

‘So,’ said Signor Maleovelli after the room was ablaze with candlelight and the fire had been rebuilt, sending its much needed warmth into the room, ‘what do you want to … share with us exactly, Lord Waterford? What has led you to believe that we –’ he indicated himself and Giaconda ‘– possess knowledge that even the Cardinale and the Signori di Notte have failed to acquire? Tell me.’

Lord Waterford took a deep breath. ‘I know that a male Estrattore escaped capture, that he leapt off a bridge in the Candlemakers Quartiere and has not been seen since. I know that he was a master candlemaker who, it’s rumoured, distilled his powers into the candles.’ He paused. ‘I also know that around the same time as the male Estrattore disappeared, Tarlo Maleovelli came to your household.’

A log shifted in the fireplace, sending sparks up the chimney.

‘So?’ Signor Maleovelli said finally, not taking his eyes off Lord Waterford.

‘So,’ continued Lord Waterford, ‘under normal circumstances, this would not mean anything except for an interesting coincidence. Only, what is curious is that Tarlo not only happens to be very accomplished, she also makes candles.’

Signor Maleovelli swung towards Giaconda and they both burst out laughing.

Lord Waterford recoiled in surprise. It was not the reaction he was expecting.

‘You’re suggesting that my ward, a Maleovelli no less, would be involved in such a base trade?’ Mirth made Signor Maleovelli difficult to understand.

Giaconda wiped imaginary tears from her eyes.

‘I don’t mean make in the traditional sense,’ said Lord Waterford, recovering. ‘I mean, she alters ones that you purchase for her. There’s no point in denying it. I’ve seen the receipts, Signor. I have also seen Tarlo doing this.’

Signor Maleovelli stopped laughing.

So did Giaconda. Her arm crossed the space between them as she rested a hand on her father’s.

Lord Waterford had their full attention now. ‘And then there is the coincidence of the name,’ he continued. ‘If I did not know these other factors, it would not have occurred to me. But Tallow and Tarlo, they’re rather similar, are they not? It would be very easy to become accustomed to a name that sounds so much like your old one …’ Lord Waterford allowed his words to sink in. Signor Maleovelli and Giaconda stared at him. They were barely breathing. Lord Waterford resisted the urge to smile. ‘I am not here to play games, Signor Maleovelli. I’m under instructions to make you an offer,’ he said softly. ‘An offer from Queen Zaralina of Farrowfare.’

Signor Maleovelli put down his glass. The servant darted forward to refill it. Signor Maleovelli tapped him with his hand to indicate he should keep pouring. When he’d finished, the servant backed into his spot against the wall.

‘What offer might that be?’ Signor Maleovelli spoke cautiously.

‘The Dogeship of Serenissima.’

Signor Maleovelli began to chuckle. So did Giaconda. This time it was genuine. Lord Waterford gripped the arm of his chair and, despite the coolness of the room, grew very hot.

‘Signor, Signorina, this is no laughing matter. Understand, in exchange for the Estrattore, you would have the support, the friendship of a great foreign country. We would make sure you’re given the throne and, more importantly, that you keep it.’

‘What makes you think I need, we –’ he lifted Giaconda’s hand from his and held it ‘– need your help?’

‘Because my understanding of your political system is that without it, forgive me, Signor, someone like you, from the Eighth Casa of Nobiles’ Rise, whose daughter and ward are courtesans, could never achieve it.’ He let that thought sit for a second. ‘Give Farrowfare the Estrattore and the throne is yours.’

‘Only until your queen sees fit to take it from me.’

Lord Waterford bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘I understand your scepticism, but why would she do that? It’s the Estrattore she wants. She has her own country.’

Signor Maleovelli released Giaconda’s hand. Using his cane, he stood up and walked to the window. He gazed out over the campo. He turned. ‘What if I told you I don’t need your help, that I can achieve the Dogeship without the support of Farrowfare?’

‘I don’t believe you,’ said Lord Waterford.

Giaconda drew her breath in sharply. Signor Maleovelli shook his head.

‘Signor, forgive me again,’ said Lord Waterford. ‘I mean no disrespect. I just do not see how this is possible.’

‘Then you underestimate me, Lord Waterford. You underestimate the Maleovellis.’ He struck Waterford’s chair with his cane. ‘You think you have us worked out – but you see secrets where there are none. You imagine heresy and plots where there is nothing but honest trade and success. Tarlo, an Estrattore?’ He laughed again. It was dry, hollow, forced.

‘But you do not deny it.’

‘Deny it? There is nothing to deny. I indulged you, Waterford. I wanted to see how far your fancy went.’

Lord Waterford regarded Signor Maleovelli for a moment longer. He rose from his chair. ‘It seems I am mistaken. I apologise, Signor Maleovelli, Giaconda. I beg your forgiveness.’

Signor Maleovelli waved his hand. ‘Sit back down, Lord Waterford.’ Waterford reluctantly did as he was told.

‘Now I will tell you something in complete confidence. In less than a week, the Council of Ten will vote for whom they intend to support for the next Doge.’

‘And you believe they will support you.’

‘I know this for a fact.’

Lord Waterford nodded. ‘I see. The dinner here last night. You had some of your Council peers to dine.’

Signor Maleovelli didn’t respond.

Lord Waterford sighed. ‘Very well. I understand now. You have extracted –’ he drawled the last word ‘–promises from them. I hope for your sake they keep them.’ He stood again. He bowed to Signor Maleovelli and, taking Giaconda’s hand, kissed it lightly. ‘All I ask, Signor Maleovelli, is that you think on what I say. My offer remains open. Let us say that if the vote does not go your way, and you change your mind, you know where to find me.’

Signor Maleovelli smiled. ‘But I do not have the Estrattore.’

‘I am sure, if you needed to, you could find her,’ said Lord Waterford, staring at Signor Maleovelli. ‘As has oft been remarked of late, you have an enviable capacity to reverse your fortunes.’

Giaconda stood between the two men, breaking their gaze. ‘We will see you tomorrow then, Beolin.’

Lord Waterford shook his head. ‘I do not think so, bella.’

Giaconda quickly dissembled.

With a courteous bow to both of them, he left the room, aware that behind his back, Giaconda was resisting the urge to turn to her father. She had thought him a puppet in her gloved hands. So had Signor Maleovelli. Well, perhaps tonight he had shown them a brief glimpse of what was in store for them should they continue to deny what he was certain was a fact. Tarlo Maleovelli was an Estrattore.

If they continued to say no to his offer, he knew that disappointment was the least of their worries.





EZZELINO MALEOVELLI COULD BARELY CONTAIN HIMSELF. He felt as giddy as a ragazzo when he first dons a togati and realises he’s a man. The Council had voted – a secret ballot collected by the most trusted of the capi’s servants. Those votes had been counted and the Council of Ten was summoned. Never before had a gondola ride seemed so long.

Entering the chamber, Ezzelino worked hard to maintain an outward appearance of calm, if not measured indifference. Still, the knowing nods he received from Moronisini, Manin and even Nicolotti went a long way to assuring him that what was about to be announced was a mere formality only. His time had come.

Waiting until the three capi had taken their seats, he slid into his, resting his cane against the shining table that had been carved from a single trunk. The swirls and knots in the wood gleamed beneath the candles, which were themselves held aloft by a dozen gilt candleholders placed along the table at intervals. Beautiful glass ornaments and jewelled goblets sat atop an ornate lace runner, broken only by enormous golden bowls of ripe fruit and brimming decanters from which a servant poured vino. The walls were a series of dark panels, occasionally broken by a painting commemorating the Council’s and capi’s past, their faces interchangeable miens of sagging cheeks and hooded eyes behind which glowed state secrets. Shelf after shelf of files lined one wall, documents accrued by the Signori di Notte and which held, not only the financial details of every nobile in The Golden Book over the centuries, but information many a family would pay vast sums of soldi to ensure never left this room. Ezzelino sighed. All this would be his soon. He plucked at his shirtsleeves, buried as they were beneath the scarlet robe of his office. Anticipation made his heart beat quickly. Colour, which didn’t come only from the heat of the room or the vino he swiftly swallowed, flushed his cheeks. He breathed deeply, his head bowed, his eyes barely open.

Ezzelino knew that what they were doing was very dangerous. Still, it had been done before. Every time a family line ended, the Council of Ten had stepped forward to represent the interests of their choice for the next Doge, ensured that bribes were given, promises exhorted. The smooth running and status of Serenissima depended on it. It was a pity that poisoning had been outlawed. Ever since an ancient Council banned the use of poisons – evidence of it being used effectively disqualifying members of a casa from ever holding office – the practice had ceased.

Rumours were that the Estrattore had been behind that ban. They’d grown weary of extracting toxic substances from members of the Doge’s family. Ezzelino chuckled inwardly. Well, there was more than one way to bring down a Doge – and a respected casa too. He studied the candle before him. Flickering gaily, it gave off a soft light, such a sweet scent. Who would ever suspect that something so common could be so deadly? A poison by any other name.

As the Council took their seats, murmuring quietly, drinking, breaking open a piece of fruit, exchanging nods, the Cardinale entered. Bowing to the Council, he too sat down, and in the chair opposite Ezzelino. He tipped his head towards him. Ezzelino curled his lips and nodded in greeting. In this chamber, not even the Cardinale received special privileges, or the acknowledgement due to his exalted rank. In here, he was subordinate to the Council’s whim. Outside was a different matter; hence they needed his support, his approval of what they were about to do.

‘Signori,’ began Signor Nicolotti, rising to his feet. ‘It’s time to reveal your preferences, who we will support as Doge once Dandolo passes from this world. With all that has happened to his family, his health is not what it was. It’s important that we start to sow the seeds for the next casa, the next man to hold the highest seat in the land, capite? You all understand?’

There were murmurs, nods of agreement.

Signor Nicolotti took a long drink of his vino. Ezzelino resisted the urge to down his. He wanted a clear head.

‘Molto bene, Carlo,’ said Signor Nicolotti sharply, snapping his fingers. The servant behind him stepped forward and placed a folded piece of paper in his hand. ‘Before I reveal the outcome of this vote, I want us all to swear that we will do our utmost to support the person named herein: that we use our vast private resources to help him to power and ensure that Serenissima remains stable, strong and a nation to be reckoned with. Remember, Signori, war is brewing. We must be ready – united we are formidable; fractured, someone else will pick up the pieces.’

Everyone made noises of agreement.

‘We also know that the person named here has the support of Roma. Is this not so, your grace?’

‘It is,’ said the Cardinale. His eyes glinted. Ezzelino felt a mixture of elation and fear. He would make sure to work closely with this man and then, when the time was right, bring him to his knees.

Signor Nicolotti cleared his throat and opened the paper. His eyes dropped to the name and widened. Colour filled his cheeks. He gazed at the men around him.

Ezzelino leant forward eagerly.

‘The next Doge will be … Signor Tomasi Moronisini.’

There were gasps. Moronisini’s mouth dropped open before he remembered where he was and whom he was among. He drew back his shoulders and stuck out his chest, a wave of red flooding his jowls. He stood up slowly, accepting slaps on the back and arms from those nearest to him.

At first Ezzelino did not hear what he was saying, so great was the deafening noise in his ears. What had happened? How had this gone wrong? Moronisini? The fool he’d manipulated into handing over almost half his wealth? The idioto who entered into whatever colleganza the Maleovellis proposed? This buffoon was to be the new Doge?

As Moronisini gave a speech about the honour he felt, how humbled he was and what he would do for Serenissima, Ezzelino studied the other Council members beneath his lashes. Why, Errizo had all but promised to vote for him, and likewise Manin; even Nicolotti had hinted that it was all but certain – a foregone conclusion. But he had not been at the dinner the other night. He had cancelled at the last minute, a fever. He looked well enough now.

Ezzelino caught him watching his reaction and saw the smirk that twisted his lips. Fury almost lifted him out of his seat. He clenched and unclenched his hands. What about the Cardinale? Could he have swung the vote? The Cardinale sat back in his chair, a hand carelessly draped on the table, the other resting against his cross. He appeared to be hanging on Moronisini’s every word, but Ezzelino saw his eyes flicker to catch everyone’s response. He steeled his features. Cardinale Martino’s eyes lingered on him for a moment, and he arched a fine brow. Ezzelino nodded and smiled and the Cardinale looked away. Yes. There was no doubt. The Cardinale had played an important role in this outcome. He chewed the inside of his mouth. He still didn’t dare burn Tarlo’s candles around him – that was inviting too much danger.

But of all the men here, six had come to his casa, his table. Six had breathed the fumes, inhaled the power of the Estrattore. With his vote, that meant seven against four. The position should have been his! It should be him standing there now, receiving congratulations, thanking the Council, basking in the glow of their confidence, their trust, revelling in the power that all too soon would be Moronisini’s. Now it had been snatched away.

Still, he thought, all was not lost. There was another move left – another option available to him: Lord Waterford. He recalled Waterford’s voice: ‘You could name your price.’ All he wanted, all Farrowfare wanted, was the Estrattore.

His price: Moronisini’s head on a platter, the Cardinale’s beside it, and the corno ducale firmly on his own head.

Suddenly Ezzelino didn’t feel quite so bad. Suddenly the future again looked bright. Serenissima, his city, the country he loved above everything had betrayed him. He’d bled for this country, lost and won a fortune, and now it turned his back on him when he was in a position to save it. Well, he still would. But he would make it pay first. He would make them all pay, and if it meant using a foreign power to exact his revenge, so be it.

With a start he realised the speeches were over and the Council was breaking up for the night. Hands were being shaken, backs patted. The fools looked pleased with themselves.

‘Maleovelli, amico.’ Moronisini gripped his forearm. ‘Grazie mille, grazie mille. Without your support, your faith in my enterprises, I doubt the others would have seen what I can do, how I can unite our country and stave off this war.’

Ezzelino tried not to let shock register on his face. He squeezed Signor Moronisini’s arm in return. ‘You deserve everything, amico mio. What you have now, and what’s to come. Trust me.’ He looked Signor Moronisini in the eye.

Signor Moronisini’s fat face carved into a smile. ‘I do, Maleovelli. I do. That’s why I am where I am now.’ He kissed Ezzelino warmly on both cheeks and then moved to receive tributes from the others.

Ezzelino was momentarily stunned. Then he began to laugh.

‘What’s so funny, Signor Maleovelli?’ asked the Cardinale, breaking away from a conversation with Signor Nicolotti, who was talking fast and low to him.

‘Nothing, your grace. I just think these are good times to be alive.’

‘You think so? What, with an Estrattore on the loose and a foreign power breathing down our necks, threatening our trade, our allies and colonies? You have a strange view on life, Signor Maleovelli.’

‘No, your grace, I have faith.’

The Cardinale stared at him intently. ‘Then God be with you.’

‘And also with you,’ answered Ezzelino automatically and, taking leave of the capi, left the chamber.

It wasn’t until he was tucked into the felze with an ermine-lined blanket wrapped around his legs that he replayed the events.

He was still puzzled by how the vote had gone against him. He’d all but taken their promises, empty as it now turned out. What had gone wrong? Then he thought of the candles. For months now, he’d trusted Tarlo to do what he told her. To infuse the candles with what he needed to ensure his climb to power. And she’d obeyed. She’d even done a bit of manipulating on her own. He hadn’t cared; grief-stricken nobiles meant vulnerable ones. It had contributed to his cause in the end. He even admired her newfound ruthlessness. But had he grown careless? After all, he didn’t know for sure if the candles worked until afterwards … He’d always taken Tarlo’s word for it and, to this point, she had not given him a single reason to doubt her.

Rage clenched his stomach as understanding dawned on him. There was only one person responsible for the outcome tonight. One person who manipulated the result. The Estrattore.

The little bitch had disobeyed him. It was her fault he hadn’t got the vote. ‘Puttana!’ he hissed. He warned her – months ago; he and Giaconda warned her what would happen if she broke the rules, if she thwarted their commands, their desires.

He banged on the ceiling of the felze. ‘Faster, Salzi, faster.’

He began to plan how he could undo what had just happened. First he would get a message to Waterford, then he would think about what to do with Tarlo. Giaconda’s fears were founded after all. Tarlo was more dangerous than he realised. He would not make that lapse in judgement again. At some time over the last few months, she’d stopped being afraid of him. Well, she would soon learn the meaning of fear – and what it meant to double-cross the Maleovellis.

Snuggling back into the rug, he began to smile. The future really did seem bright after all.





‘CAPTAIN SANSONO! WAIT,’ cried a familiar voice. Exiting the basilica after taking confession, Captain Sansono paused at the font, the holy water still dripping from the ends of his fingers. Almost running towards him from under the south dome was Cardinale Martino. Heads turned at the spectacle the Cardinale made with his red togati flapping around his legs, his huge cross swaying across his chest and his hand clutching his cap to his skull.

In the few moments it took the Cardinale to reach him, Captain Sansono slipped on his gloves and tied his cape under his neck. A servant passed him his sword. By the time it was back in his scabbard, the Cardinale was at his side.

‘Walk with me,’ said the Cardinale, not even out of breath.

‘Your grace,’ said Sansono, puzzled as to why the Cardinale was seeking him out. He’d presented his last report only yesterday and they’d discussed it at some length. Sansono and the Signori di Notte had been very busy. Along with some of the Doge’s best decoders, they’d been translating correspondence between the Ottomans and the Jinoans, intercepted by spies in Roma only a few days earlier. War was brewing, but all the Cardinale seemed to focus on was the fact they’d still not found the Estrattore. Sansono assumed the Cardinale would ease back on the search and concentrate on the threat the heathens – never mind the Jinoans and Kyprians – posed, but he’d been wrong. The Cardinale had insisted on recruiting more men to question the popolani and even infiltrate the various scuola in the Dorsoduro Sestiere. Sansono thought it a waste of time and resources, but he didn’t argue. No-one could argue with the Cardinale. The last man who tried disappeared less than twenty-four hours later and hadn’t been seen since.

They exited the basilica together, stepping out into the piazza. A bitter wind blew in from the north, sweeping their robes around them. Sansono caught his breath, clutching his cape together, grateful for the marten-fur lining in his gloves.

‘Sansono, I’ve been thinking,’ said the Cardinale. ‘And, as you know, when I do this, it often means more work for you and your men, no?’

‘Sì, your grace.’

‘Bene. I know you and the Signori have been active day and night to find our little Estrattore, and I of all people know and appreciate the lengths to which you have gone on Serenissima’s and the Church’s behalf.’ A few steps away from the basilica, the Cardinale stopped in his tracks and turned to face the Captain. ‘You have done well, Captain Sansono.’

Sansono knew what was expected of him, ‘Grazie mille, your grace, you’re too kind.’

‘Ah, is it not God who said the way to enter His kingdom is through benevolence?’ He crossed himself.

Sansono also made the sign rapidly across his chest and then waited. The Cardinale’s features twisted as if he was in great pain.

‘But, my dear Captain Sansono, despite doing your best, your very, very best, it has not been enough. Still the Estrattore eludes capture, still the talk of the “old ways” reaches my ears. I don’t like this.’ He shook his head. ‘Not at all.’

Captain Sansono knew better than to reply.

‘So, I thought about what you could do to turn my displeasure which, as you know, is but small compared to the displeasure of the Great Patriarch, into a different and more satisfactory emotion. And I came up with a new avenue of inquiry.’

‘Your grace? I would be most pleased to know what that might be.’

‘Ah, I thought you would.’ The Cardinale moved closer and draped a heavy arm across Captain Sansono’s shoulders. He began walking again. ‘I have a job for you, Sansono, and you alone. Capisce?’ He didn’t wait for a response. ‘I want you to look into the affairs of a nobile named Ezzelino Maleovelli.’

‘Signorina Dorata’s guardian?’

‘The very one. I want you to find out how he has risen to power quite so quickly; where his wealth has come from. A little over a year ago, I had not heard of him or his ward. Now they are everywhere. He has his long fingers sunk deep into many affairs, many enterprises. I want to know how and why. I also want to know about his friendship with this foreign ambassador – the one from Farrowfare.’

‘Lord Waterford.’

‘Sì. I want to know if it extends beyond the lord enjoying the services of Maleovelli’s … daughters.’ The Cardinale crossed himself again. Knowing it was expected of him, Sansono did the same.

‘It will be done, your grace.’

‘Of course it will be, Sansono, of course it will be.’ The Cardinale removed his arm and held out his hand.

Captain Sansono took it and lowered his head, planting his lips against the great ring of the Cardinale’s office. The jewel was even colder than his chattering lips. He was officially dismissed.

‘Your grace,’ he murmured and went to take his leave. He’d managed two steps when the Cardinale called to him. ‘Only … Sansono?’

‘Sì, your grace?’ The captain paused. A dove flew over his head, forcing him to duck slightly.

‘When you give me your report, which I expect in one week, I do not want to find out that a copy has also gone to the Council of Ten. If I do, I will be more than displeased.’

Captain Sansono swallowed. ‘I understand, your grace.’

‘I thought you might,’ said the Cardinale, beaming at him. With a swirl of red, he turned and disappeared back into the basilica, leaving Sansono standing in the piazza.

As he watched the people scurrying past, their heads bowed, moving as fast as they could to escape the icy winds, it occurred to him that the cold gripping his chest far outweighed that caused by the wind whistling through his clothes.





THE QUESTIONING CRY OF AN OWL broke the silence. Father Morrison ducked as the grey form swooped out of the shadows, winged over his head and past the flaming torches near the main gate to be swallowed by the night. With his heart thumping in his ears, the portly monk gathered up his cassock and scurried through the sorry excuse for gardens. He hesitated at the edge of the wall and then hurried across the open space, fumbled with the lock on the old wooden door and tumbled into the storeroom. As instructed, he left the door slightly ajar.

He counted to three slowly, drawing deep breaths, and then poked his head around the door, peering across the bailey.

From where he was, the noise of the kitchens could just be discerned. The lights of the chapel flickered through thick garden foliage. He made sure the pages lit scores of candles tonight; they would draw the eye and make it difficult to penetrate the dark; to detect movement outside. Raising his eyes towards the upper storeys of the keep, the main part of the castle, he could see the warm glow of burning hearths and candles in the windows. Above those, armed guards marched along the battlements, their pace brisk, their heads turned towards the outer walls, oblivious to his mad dash beneath them. He was safe. For now.

He withdrew back inside the doorway, relief replacing his anxiety. At least the wind couldn’t bite at him in here. He watched the little darts of snow fall to the ground, an angled rain of silver arrows against the night. They glimmered in the light of the torches illuminating the main gates at the end of the courtyard. It was eerily beautiful. Nature was playing her role tonight. Maybe the gods were on their side after all.

The weary soldiers disappeared into one of the many towers that rose above the parapets, emerging from the other side seconds later. It wouldn’t be long before they passed above him, heading to the guard house and preparing for the change of watch. If the others didn’t arrive soon, their chance to share the latest information would be lost. Damn them! Where were they? Not even his woollen robes and fur-lined gloves could keep the bitter cold from penetrating his bones, causing him to shiver uncontrollably. His thoughts wandered to the mulled wine and blazing fire he knew awaited him just a few hundred feet away in his rooms at the back of the chapel. Instead of enjoying those, here he was, playing dangerous games in the dark. But they had to know, didn’t they? Before they could go ahead with their plans, they had to be certain. Courage flickered like a candle, almost deserting him. If they should be discovered … He poked his head around the door again.

‘Morrison,’ said a voice in his ear.

Father Morrison jumped. His hand gripped his chest as if to stop his heart exploding through his rib cage, and he fell back into the room and against the interior wall.

At the same time, a large figure darted through the door, pushing it wide open. A gust of wind-driven snow followed.

‘By the gods!’ panted Father Morrison. The figure flung back his hood and brushed off the sleet that had settled on his cape. Father Morrison was relieved to see the familiar silhouette of Earl Farwarn’s features. ‘You startled me, your grace, I– I didn’t see you.’

‘That’s the idea, isn’t it?’ whispered the earl. He glanced around the storeroom, wrinkling his nose at the musty smell of rats and rotting fruit. He was about to shut the door when a thought stopped him. ‘Where’s Kay?’

‘Here,’ said another voice. The two men spun at the sound.

This time, Father Morrison did cry out. The sound was whipped out the room and cut through the night, echoing across the bailey. Earl Farwarn put a finger to his lips and crossed to the door.

High above them, there was a scrape of metal as the guards leant over the parapet.

‘What was that?’ asked one, his voice carrying clearly.

Earl Farwarn froze, his hand on the latch. Father Morrison held his breath.

‘What was what?’ The second guard joined him.

‘That noise …’

‘What noise?’

All Father Morrison could hear was the sound of his breathing in his ears.

‘Nothing,’ said the first voice, finally. ‘Just thought I heard something.’

‘You’re always hearing something.’ There was the dull thud of boots. ‘Come on, let’s get ourselves before a fire. Our watch is finished and none too soon. That sleet sticks to you like a needy woman.’

‘It’s freezing tonight.’

‘Since when is that different from any other night?’

There were gruff noises of agreement, more footsteps and then the sound of a door being unlocked and opened. Distant voices protested briefly before the door closed and the world was quiet once more.

‘That was close,’ hissed the earl and shut the door firmly but soundlessly, pressing his back against it and releasing his breath in one long exhalation.

The earl and Father Morrison peered into the darkness of the room. A small window admitted a thin sliver of light. As their eyes grew accustomed, they could see the outline of a man sitting on a barrel. His head was in his hands, his shoulders slumped.

‘Sir Kay! You scared me witless,’ accused Father Morrison, tiptoeing towards him. ‘How long were you hiding there?’

‘Long enough to consider what it is we do.’ Sir Kay’s voice was dull.

‘When did you get back?’

‘Over an hour ago by my reckoning, father. I came straight here. I wasn’t ready to face anyone … not yet. Not after what I witnessed …’

Father Morrison became aware that the ripe smell assailing his nostrils was not from the supplies stored in this room alone. Sir Kay had ridden hard and it was clear dread had driven him.

‘Out with it then, son,’ said Farwarn softly, joining the father by Sir Kay’s side. ‘The guards daren’t linger too long between watches. Only enough to share a drink and exchange news.’ We have but a few minutes. Let’s not waste them.’ He perched himself on another barrel beside Sir Kay and caught a glimpse of the knight’s face. He inhaled sharply and looked at Father Morrison, his eyebrows raised.

‘So, James,’ urged Father Morrison, ‘what did you see? What can you tell us? Are our fears well founded?’

At first the knight said nothing; his chin fell towards his chest, his eyes stayed lowered. ‘Come on, man,’ urged the earl. ‘What did you find out? Is it as we suspected?’

‘No,’ said Sir Kay, lifting his face. Even in the sickly light, Father Morrison could see that horror had recast the young man’s features. Darkness ringed his eyes and his cheeks looked hollow. His hair was unkempt and his clothing torn. ‘It’s much, much worse.’

‘Tell us, James,’ he asked softly.

Sir Kay looked at both men and seemed to shake himself, find an inner resolve. He took a deep breath and let it out in one long hiss. ‘I did as you instructed me, your grace. I went to the White Cliffs, right to the point where the Limen is in clear view and the markers you mentioned were apparent. I rode Bessy hard, too hard.’ He bit his lip. ‘I hid among the ancient barrows there, out of sight and, as ordered, waited. For three days I waited in the cold and snow and nothing happened. I saw no-one; nothing, only the strange, undulating silverness of the Limen. I thought we were wasting our time. That the reports you’d received were false. I was preparing to return. But you’d said to remain five days. Fortunate you did, your grace. For on the fourth day everything changed –’ He hesitated.

‘Go on,’ said the earl.

‘Just on dusk, they came.’

‘Who?’

Sir Kay spoke so quietly, at first Father Morrison thought he’d misheard. But the chill that swept through his body told him he hadn’t.

‘Morte Whisperers.’

Earl Farwarn whistled through his teeth. ‘I knew it. My informants were right.’

‘Oh yes,’ agreed Sir Kay. ‘They came across the channel on a bed of mist, like they were floating above the water.’ He shuddered. ‘There were hundreds, I tell you. I have never seen so many. I wanted to run, to get away from there and never return. But I didn’t, your grace. I knew that if things were to change, if we were to act, then we had to know. So I stayed. Gods help me. I stayed.’ He began to shudder. Deep convulsions made it difficult for him to stay seated, let alone continue with his story.

The earl leapt to his feet, unclasped his cape and threw it around Sir Kay’s shoulders, his hands clasping it in place, holding the knight still. Sir Kay gripped it gratefully, but tremors continued to wrack his frame.

‘What happened then?’ asked Father Morrison, his beads twisted in his fingers.

‘Nothing at first. I watched and listened. They gathered at the edge of the cliffs, like they too were waiting. And then the shepherd came …’

‘What shepherd?’ The earl glanced at Father Morrison, who shrugged.

‘A young boy who … who must have stumbled upon them. I don’t know who he was. He mustn’t have seen them, mustn’t have felt them. He was too busy chasing a lamb that gambolled far from its mother. When they saw him, they … they …’ He paused, his mouth agape in memory, his eyes black pools of emptiness, the words unable to be spoken.

‘They did what, James?’ Father Morrison squatted before the knight, his knees creaking with the effort. He took the young man’s hands in his own and squeezed them, willing him the strength to continue. ‘What did they do?’

‘At first they hovered around him in the way that they do, poking him, prodding, laughing as he screamed and begged for mercy. I saw their leering mouths, I heard that awful keening they make. Every time they touched the boy … his pain …’ He shook his head in misery at the memory.

The father and the earl exchanged a long look.

‘But that wasn’t the worst.’ Sir Kay raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘They hadn’t been at it long when, from behind me, she came. I mean, Her Majesty, Queen Zaralina – she arrived. She was alone. All in white, she was on that strange horse of hers and I thought, good, at last, she will make them stop, she will save the boy …’ He chewed his lip.

‘And …’ said Earl Farwarn.

He looked from the earl to the father and back again. ‘And, as soon as they saw her, they ceased their godsforsaken song and parted to let her through. She dismounted and went into their midst. The poor boy, he threw himself at her, wrapped himself around her knees and wouldn’t let go. She reached down, stroked his hair, and spoke softly to him. At first, I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but he seemed to calm and I thought, good. But then, I noticed that with every touch of her hand, the boy seemed to change. Not only that, but a Morte Whisperer would detach itself from the circle and come forward, approach the Queen. It looked like they were kissing her hand, offering obeisance. The boy had gone all silent and pale – by the gods, so pale. With every stroke of her fingers, he seemed to diminish, to fade. Then, I knew what she was doing. Bit by bit, she was taking the boy’s life-force and feeding it to the Morte Whisperers.’ He brought Father Morrison’s hands to his chest, almost unbalancing him.

‘Father, there was nothing I could do. I realised too late what was happening. I watched that poor boy die, a shrivelled, shrunken version of his self. Condemned to hell because I was a coward. She took his soul. She gave it to those … those creatures, and damned him forever.’

The earl removed his arms and Father Morrison reached over and held Sir Kay as he fought back the tears. ‘It’s not your fault, James. There was nothing you could have done. To act would have put your life at risk and then you wouldn’t have been able to deliver this … information to us.’

‘What did the queen do after she had … fed her pets?’ growled the earl.

Sir Kay swallowed. ‘She … she spoke to them, your grace. She told them how much she loved them and how, one day soon they would be free. Then, she clapped her hands and … and …’

‘Gods. There’s more?’ Father Morrison’s voice was faint.

‘Shazet appeared.’

The earl hissed.

Sir Kay continued. ‘He brought with him dozens of children. Dozens! I do not know who they were or whence they came. But they were tired, ragged and looked so terribly afraid.’

‘Gods save us!’ exclaimed Father Morrison and, letting go of Sir Kay, rose to his feet and began to pace. ‘This is worse then we thought.’

‘The … queen moved among them, touching each of the children and inviting those creatures to come forward. The Morte Whisperers fed upon them, all of them – they took the children’s souls. The sound … I can’t shut it out. Even now, I can hear it. But I forced myself to watch. With each child, the creatures grew more solid, more real. I could feel their power growing, the fear they emanated.’ He rubbed his face, as if to wipe away the remembrance. ‘When it was all over, the queen bade them return to the Limen until she called them forth again. She said something about Bond Riders, but I didn’t catch it all. I’m sorry.’ He released a juddering sigh. ‘I waited till Her Majesty and Shazet were gone, retrieved Bessy, and rode back here as quickly as I could. That’s it. That’s all I have to report.’

‘It is enough,’ said the earl gravely and patted Sir Kay on the back. ‘I asked a great deal of you, James – you put yourself and your family at enormous risk for our cause. I won’t forget that. You have done well. It’s not your fault those children were taken. It’s a ruler’s moral obligation to care for her people. Our queen has shown where her allegiance lies and it’s as we have long suspected. It’s not with us.’ He folded his arms and gazed out the window. The snow was falling thick and fast now.

‘We have to accelerate our plans, Farwarn,’ said Father Morrison, joining him. ‘This … this sacrilege can’t be allowed to continue. She’ll damn us all with her ways. All the unexplained disappearances, the reports from the villages near the Limen – this is not a chance encounter, your grace. This is part of a bigger plan – one to which we’re not privy. We have to act –’

‘We will,’ snapped the earl and spun to glare at the father. Father Morrison took a step back. ‘We will,’ said the earl more softly. ‘Once news of this travesty spreads, more will come to our side. Whatever it is the queen intends, it does not bode well for us. She must be stopped.’

‘How?’ asked Sir Kay. He regarded them both gravely. ‘Have you not heard what I said? With a simple touch, she can take people’s souls from their bodies. How can we possibly hope to resist her?’ He caught his head in his hands again. ‘We’re all dead, I tell you. Condemned.’

‘Sir Kay!’ barked Earl Farwarn. Sir Kay’s head flew up. ‘You’re a knight of Albion, one charged with protecting the lands and the people. Show some backbone! Throughout history, we’ve been both conqueror and conquered – we don’t pick our battles according to what the outcome will be. We simply fight them. We owe it to the people who trust us to care for them to fight this one too – no matter what the cost.’ He hauled Sir Kay to his feet. ‘You might be right,’ he said, pushing his face into the knight’s. ‘We might all die; our sorcerer queen may rip our souls from our bodies, but that doesn’t mean we don’t fight. It doesn’t mean we give up and roll over on our backs like a frightened puppy.’ He pushed Sir Kay away in disgust and turned back to the window.

Sir Kay staggered and found his footing. Father Morrison stared at his beads.

‘You’re right, your grace. I am sorry. What I saw –’

‘Would unsettle the most seasoned of warriors, son,’ said the earl. ‘You’re only human.’

‘Unlike our queen,’ added Father Morrison dryly.

‘Indeed,’ said the earl. He spun on his heel and faced them. ‘Which is why we will stick to our original plan. We will use whatever is in our power to bring the queen to her knees, to end her unholy reign.’

‘What about you, your grace?’ said Father Morrison. ‘We know your venture to the Ottomans was … as the queen desired. But how are you? Have you been … restored yet?’

‘You mean, has Her Majesty seen fit to return my soul after sending me through the Limen?’

Father Morrison reached out and pressed his gloved hand against the earl’s broad chest.

‘It’s all right, father,’ said Earl Farwarn, gently lifting the father’s hand away. ‘I’m a fortunate man. The part she has taken, she has returned. I am again whole; unlike some. Unlike those poor children …’

A noise from another part of the castle startled them.

‘We’ve spent too long conferring,’ said the earl, snapping back to attention. ‘But now we have the proof that has eluded us and our motivation for the sin we are about to commit.’

‘Sin?’ asked Sir Kay.

‘Yes, my son.’ Father Morrison spoke gravely. ‘Treason is a sin in the gods’ eyes.’

‘As is taking someone’s soul,’ added the earl. He drew closer to the others. ‘Here’s what we do. Let our allies know about this abominable act. Tell them to stay strong, to warn the villagers to keep their children safe.’ Light filled the room as the clouds parted and the moon shone. ‘We need to recruit more to our cause. Perhaps we need to look into what these Bond Riders we know so little about have to do with all this.’

‘It’s stopped snowing,’ said Father Morrison. He looked from the earl to Sir Kay and beamed. ‘It’s a sign. The gods have heard us.’ He worried his beads again.

‘So long as it’s only the gods,’ said the earl softly. ‘You will send a missive to Waterford? Tell him what has occurred?’ he asked, tying his cape under his chin and pulling the hood over his forehead.

‘I will make sure he knows what is going on. What instructions do you want me to give him?’

The earl thought for a moment. ‘None at present. Just keep him informed. He knows what to do. The part he must play.’

Father Morrison took the cape from Sir Kay’s shoulders and draped it back over the earl’s. ‘You can do without having to explain why you’re wearing the earl’s wardrobe.’ He smiled at Sir Kay.

‘What about the Estrattore? Where does she figure in all this? The queen is so desperate to have her brought here,’ said Sir Kay.

‘Somehow, I just know she’s the key to all this. We need to work out how to unlock her purpose.’ The earl’s eyes glinted beneath his hood. ‘I am hoping Waterford can help us there. For the time being, he’s the only one in the position to do so.’

‘He understands that,’ said Father Morrison.

‘He’d better.’

Sir Kay slowly lifted the latch and opened the door. ‘When will we three meet again?’

‘Look to the chapel for the usual signal,’ said the earl. ‘For now, lie low and, above all else, show your queen your fealty. We cannot raise her suspicion.’

‘Or Shazet’s,’ added Sir Kay.

‘Gods, no!’ Raising his hand in farewell, the earl first peered around the door before disappearing into the night. With one last shake of Father Morrison’s hand, Sir Kay followed, sticking to the shadows under the parapet walls, heading for the stables.

Father Morrison waited a moment and then stepped outside and as quietly as he could secured the storage room door. He looked right then left and ran as fast as his fat legs could carry him into the garden, moving off the main path, fumbling through the overgrown sections to the side. Just as he disappeared around a large clump of fruit trees, the guard house doors swung open and the soldiers spilled onto the rampart.

Not wasting a moment, he put his head down and raced to the chapel, praying that the gods and the tangle of branches and bushes would keep him hidden.





HIGH ABOVE THE GARDENS, comfortable in the warmth of his bedroom, snug in this long nightgown and cap, Claudio pushed his nose up against the window and watched the moon rise. He kept wiping away the steam that obscured the glass so he could see what was going on outside. There were people out there, and as the moon came out from behind a thick bank of clouds and cast its radiant light, he was astonished to see three of them leave the old storage room one after the other and dash in different directions. He wriggled around on the window seat to try to gain better vantage.

It was such a cold night and it struck him as very unusual that Father Morrison, a man that he knew loved his warm chamber, and more than a man of the gods should, was out in the darkness. But stranger still were the other two who had clearly been with the father. What was going on? What were they meeting about so late at night and in a part of the castle that nobles, let alone a man of the cloth, never had cause to visit? While Claudio was uncertain who the first man out of the room was, he was sure the lean-looking man who departed immediately after him was Sir Kay. He liked him. For some reason, Sir Kay reminded him of his papa.

Claudio bit his lip as a pain shot through his head. He pressed his forehead against the cold glass. He knew he wasn’t supposed to talk about his family back in Serenissima, let alone think of them. Another needle-like pain went through his skull. But it was so … so hard not to.

Tears gathered in his eyes and he squeezed them shut, forcing himself to push aside thoughts of his mamma and papa, his old nursery at the palazzo – the warmth of the sun, the dazzling light, the jade-coloured water – and to think of Sir Kay here in snowbound Albion, the great city, in the wonderful country of Farrowfare. The pain eased and Claudio exhaled in relief and opened his eyes. He glanced over his shoulder and into the darkness of the rooms beyond. He could just see the outline of Lady Mary, bundled under the covers and hear the soft sound of her breathing. She slumbered on. Eagerly, he looked outside again. There was no sign of Sir Kay.

The young knight had, a few weeks ago now, promised to show him a trick or two with his pony. But then he’d disappeared, sent on a mission for Earl Farwarn, one of the stable hands had said when he asked. Evidently he’d returned. Claudio was pleased, but it wasn’t good that he was out in the bailey at night. Zaralina had forbidden that. Claudio frowned. No-one was to wander the castle at night – only the soldiers who were charged with protecting them all – like the ones he could see now, marching across the walkway, their spears at the ready. Zaralina did terrible things to those who disobeyed her, and Claudio didn’t want Sir Kay to feel her wrath. But why had Father Morrison and Sir Kay risked her anger, never mind the other man? What were they doing?

Claudio wiped a circle in the glass with his sleeve, pushed his face up against it and twisted his neck so he could see better. He shivered as the frost outside ate into his skin. He wrapped his arms around his body. It was unusually bitter tonight, even for Farrowfare. He tried to penetrate the shadows below. For a second he couldn’t find Father Morrison and assumed he must have returned to the chapel. He was about to give up when the bushes stirred. He glanced up at the peripatetic guards. They were in the wrong position to see, thank goodness. Father Morrison bolted from under cover and up the chapel steps. Claudio laughed as the old man tripped and fell against the door in his eagerness to be inside. The chubby priest looked over both shoulders and then squeezed through the gap, closing the door hastily behind him. Claudio chuckled again. The fat father had outwitted Zaralina, and this pleased him.

‘What’s so funny, Claudio?’ asked a familiar voice.

Too late, Claudio understood that the cold he felt, the uncanny pressure in his head, wasn’t coming only from outside. He spun round and quickly slid off the window seat, standing to attention as he’d been taught.

‘Nothing, Shazet,’ he said, glad the creature could not see the high spots of colour that he knew were staining his cheeks.

‘Nothing? Humans don’t normally laugh at nothing.’ Shazet’s tone made the hair on Claudio’s arms stand on end. The Morte Whisperer detached himself from the dark space near the fire and drew closer. Claudio willed Lady Mary to wake. ‘What was it, Claudio? Tell me.’

‘It was a … a … a bat,’ said Claudio, astonished at how easily the lie bounced off his tongue.

‘A bat?’

‘Sì … I mean, yes. A fat little bat. It hit a tree and became tangled in the branches. It was very funny.’

‘Really?’ Shazet glided past Claudio, brushing against the boy as he did. Claudio recoiled as if he’d been slapped.

Shazet leant forward and gazed out the window. ‘I do not see a tangled bat out there, princeling. Come, show me your bat.’

Reluctantly, Claudio came to the window and pointed to the biggest fruit tree in the garden. An apple tree that for years had failed to produce anything but a few shrivelled lumps. ‘It’s there.’

Without turning, Shazet spoke again. ‘No, my prince. Come closer, come up beside me and point to exactly where the bat was lodged.’

Claudio bit his lip, bracing himself. Slowly, he climbed onto the window seat, being careful not let any part of him touch the creature. He gazed out the window earnestly. What could he do? What could he say? Then it occurred to him.

‘It was there, Shazet. On the third branch from the top. See? The one that forks towards this window.’ Detail. If you want to sound convincing, you must give detail, but not too much. It was all a matter of balance. He’d heard Sir Kay say that only two weeks ago.

‘Really? And where is it now?’

Claudio’s mind raced. He had to be so careful. If he wasn’t, whatever he said next could hurt Father Morrison, and he didn’t want to do that. Worse, it could mean something dreadful happened to Sir Kay, and he was his friend. For the first time since being in Farrowfare, Claudio did something he’d never done before. He deliberately subverted Queen Zaralina’s wishes.

He cleared his mind of all thought and raised his face to Shazet’s and, his brown eyes wide, answered. ‘Why, I don’t know, Shazet. It must have freed itself and flown away.’

Shazet stared into the child’s eyes. Claudio forced himself not to flinch; not to turn away. His lips and hands began to go numb. His body began to shake.

The fire crackled. Lady Mary slept on.

‘Hmmmm.’ Shazet drifted away from the window. ‘Your little bat best enjoy its freedom while it can, for there is nowhere in Farrowfare it can fly that is completely safe.’

With one last look at Claudio, the Morte Whisperer shimmered and, in a whirl of vapour, disappeared.

Claudio let out his breath. His heart was beating so fast it hurt. He stared at the spot where Shazet had been and his eyes narrowed. Turning, he threw himself against the window, his palms firm against the glass. ‘You’re wrong, Shazet. I know you are. There’s always a safe place – you just have to look hard to find it,’ he whispered, his words turning the glass opaque, imprinting themselves against the dark.