It is, to be fair, a spectacular first sighting—that white-and-russet skyline surrounded by a lagoon of bright teal water. Flocks of ships and striped mooring posts jut from the waves like resting cormorants, black gondolas flitting between them. Against the amber burn of the sunset, domes and bell towers peak, the columned facade of the Doge’s Palace and the capped point of Saint Mark’s Basilica along the Grand Canal flanked by palaces with checkered fronts, their balconies hanging over the canal. The glassy water clasps the light and reflects it back, like there’s a second city beneath the sea.
The only sobering greeting is the gibbets dangling from a row of scaffolds where the Grand Canal opens to the Adriatic, each stuffed with a half-moldered corpse, jagged bones jutting through dimpled gray flesh. Ravens and seagulls swarm them, turning in the sky like Catherine wheels before they break ranks into a dive. Scipio and his men may not be pirates in the strictest sense of the word, but they’re near enough to be afeard of meeting the same fate, and the three of us are as good as crew now—declaring us as such is easier than explaining our role as “quasi-hostages” to the dock officials. Percy and I have even swapped our impractical dandies for wide-legged linen trousers and knit Monmouth caps on loan from the crew, along with rough shirts made from striped ticking, and leather boots worn soft by the sea. We’re proper tars now. Felicity, bless, keeps her lady’s garb in place.
Ebrahim and Scipio stay with the ship and see to customs and port taxes, while the three of us are sent into the city to cash some of the long-suffering Mr. Boswell’s letters of credit, as I’m the only one who can pass for him, then to find lodgings. A fine mist of rain is falling, soft and steamy as it flutters against the canals. The heat is sultry and fragrant, and the rain clears the stink of sewage from the air.
The city is a splintered labyrinth, with canals running like veins between the narrow streets. We find a public house in Cannaregio, near the Jewish Ghetto. Our crew fills a corner of the barroom to enjoy the first hot and hardtack-less meal in weeks, punctuated with posset and fruit pastes and some very fine wine that the barkeeper is overly willing to supply. As darkness settles, the noise in the barroom rises until we’re all shouting at each other to be heard—or perhaps that’s the drink as well. Everything’s louder when you’re in your altitudes, and I’m the tipsiest I’ve been since France.
Felicity goes up to bed as soon as supper is finished, leaving Percy and me to our own devices with the crew. We keep losing each other in the crowd, then coming together for just long enough to comment on how we lost each other, before we’re pulled apart again. He finally leaves me sitting in corner booth with instructions to stay put, then fights his way to the bar for drinks.
Almost as soon as he’s gone, he’s replaced by Scipio, who places his hat upon the table as he slides down the bench to my side. “I think I found your island.”
“Hmm? Has there found . . . ? Have you found . . . ?” By the time I’ve sorted out my conjugations, I can’t recall how I was intending to finish. I nearly slap myself across the face. “What did you find?”
Scipio frowns at me. “Are you drunk?”
“No.”
“You sound drunk.”
I shake my head, trying to make my eyes as wide and innocent as possible. My no spirits have touched these lips face that my mother is fond of.
Scipio’s frown holds formation, but he goes on. “One of the dockhands knew it. It’s been quarantined, like you thought, but it’s not sunk yet. There were too many catacomb tunnels built beneath it and they’re collapsing, which is why it’s going under.”
I say a silent but sincere prayer to the God who raised Lazarus from the dead that one of those collapsed tunnels isn’t the one we need, because at last—at last—something about this absurd journey seems beautifully simple. “But you found it. It’s still standing, so we can go straightaway.”
“There are officers patrolling the waters around it to keep people away. Apparently there have been problems with looting.”
“So we go tomorrow night, when it’s dark. We knew there would be guards, what’s the trouble?”
“Look here.” He fishes a piece of jaundiced vellum from his coat and unfolds it on the table. “This was given to me by the dock officials.”
It’s a crude drawing of our Lazarus Key, with the inscription below:
STOLEN FROM THE HOME OF MATEU ROBLES BY A TRIO OF YOUNG ENGLISH RASCALS, TWO GENTLEMEN—ONE SMALL AND TALKATIVE, THE OTHER OF A NEGRO COMPLEXION—AND A LADY, BELIEVED TO BE HARBORED IN VENICE. UPON THE RETURN OF THE KEY AND THE CAPTURE OF THE BLAGGARD THIEVES, THE REWARD AND ALL REASONABLE CHARGES WILL BE PAID BY THE FAMILY.
I suppose I could do worse than small and talkative, though the notice sobers me too much to comment upon that. The duke must have beaten us here—we were delayed enough that I’m not surprised, but it still makes me anxious, knowing we’re in the same city as him. He might very well be skulking about the island, waiting for us to arrive. I wrap my hand around the key, now snug in my pocket. “So tomorrow. Straightaway, at dawn before anyone’s out, let’s take the ship to the island.”
“We’re not sailing the Eleftheria to your sinking island.”
“Why not? We’ll plow straight over the soldiers in their gondolas.”
“Not much subtlety in that. We’ll take the longboats.”
On the street, someone shrieks, followed by a chorus of boisterous laughter. I can’t help myself—I glance out the window. The rain has stopped, leaving the glass speckled with water droplets that shine like pearls against the darkness. “What’s going on out of doors?”
“It’s the Festa del Redentore. Feast of the Redeemer. Everyone’s drunk and masked and rowdy.”
The candlelight on the table flickers, and Scipio and I both look up as Percy slides into the booth beside me, two mugs in hand. “I didn’t see you come in,” he says to Scipio. “I would have gotten you something.”
“No need.” Scipio stands, pulling his hat on. “I’ll have some of my men watch the patrols tonight and see if we can anticipate any chance to slip through. I’ll fetch you from here when we’re ready to sail.”
“Where are we sailing?” Percy asks.
“Out to the island.” I nudge the vellum in his direction. His eyes scan the page.
“We’ll go in the morning, as quick as we can,” Scipio says. “Is that a problem?”
“No, that’s . . . soon,” Percy says.
A band takes up on the street outside, a whole slew of voices joining it in drunken song. Scipio sighs through his nose. “The sooner we can quit this place, the better.”
“What about our ransom?” I ask.
“We’ll have to do the exchange elsewhere. Once we have your spoils from the island, we’ll move to Santorini, in the Aegean. Our buyers there will harbor us while you write to your families. I’m not staying here for months waiting for them to send someone for you if there are posters everywhere advertising a reward for your capture. Stay out of sight tonight.”
“We will,” Percy says, but Scipio swats his hat at him as he departs.