Crivano slips from the waning procession to stand undetected behind her, close enough to study the sinews in her neck and shoulders, to smell the many days of peppery sweat her skin has accrued. The brown dye on her hands and forearms has faded somewhat. When she stirs, adjusting her weight, Crivano hastens away.
The Universe, in all its disorder and variety, is the mirror which captured Divine Man’s as-yet-unseen reflection. But its seeming chaos masks a unity: Amphitrite, the Ocean, who also corresponds to the waters wherein naked Diana bathes when she is glimpsed by Actaeon, the Intellect. Crivano wanders south to the limit of the Riva del Vin, north to the fishmarket, long vacant at this hour, though still reeking. Boatman after boatman after boatman, soliciting fares, awaiting their masters, laughing and cursing with their fellows. Obizzo is nowhere to be found. On his way through the Ropemakers’ Square Crivano realizes that the image he’s fixed in his brain—the lens through which his mind’s eye has been scanning the canal-sides—is not Obizzo’s broad countenance but the lean face of dead Verzelin. He’s confused the features of a man he murdered. He could have passed Obizzo a dozen times tonight and never known.
He slumps against a pillar in the colonnade of the Treasury and closes his eyes, breathing through his sudarium. Sober now, but aching, exhausted. The White Eagle seems very far to go. A baffled heaviness that’s stalked him all day has at last overtaken him; he still cannot fathom its source. The aim of all his intrigues is now practically within his grasp: in mere days his work will be done. So wherefore this misdirection, these impediments, that seem to bubble from the ferment of his own brain? Even now, as he tries to retrieve Obizzo’s visage, the only image that appears is Perina’s veiled face, her beseeching eyes. Only escape, she said. Nothing more.
There is another course that Crivano could take. The thought rattles his heart. How easily Obizzo could join Verzelin on the lagoon’s floor: a fugitive, he’s practically dead already. Then a private word to the senator—I have recognized one of the Turks at the fondaco as the chief tormentor of my days in bondage, and I must be revenged—to protect him from the sultan’s agents. A meeting with Narkis in a secluded spot; a stiletto between his ribs. Serena would say nothing; what could he say? In two decisive sweeps, the conspiracy would be erased. Here, then, is the ultimate perversion: Crivano could abandon the betrayal masked by his current respectability and become respectable. The gecko who drops his tail.
He has the senator’s blessing. He could wed the foolish lovely girl. What would prevent it? Who would object? He could forsake his current treachery for a treachery altogether more loathsome and more profound, a treachery unknown to every other living soul. The idea is not without its appeal: to become, at last, the perfect impostor.
Someone is watching. Crivano opens his eyes.
It’s the whore. She’s only steps away, standing with her back to the canal. Her expression empty, or emptied. Here I am, it says.
Until now he has taken her for a provincial girl, selling herself during the Sensa for extra coins; in doing so, he may have been too hasty. She’s chosen this moment with care. She seems certain of what he’ll do; more certain than he is himself. He wonders how that could be possible.
He tucks away his sudarium and steps toward her; she greets him politely. He inquires after her foot, and she says that it still troubles her. He asks if she has a bed for the night, and she says that she does not, not yet, but that she’s sure she’ll manage. Then he asks her price.
Back at the White Eagle, he interrupts Anzolo’s supper to give him Serena’s parcel. This must be delivered to Dottore Trist?o de Nis before dawn, he says. You will find him at the house of Andrea and Nicolò Morosini. The men who carry it should be well-armed, entirely trustworthy, and lacking any formal affiliation with this locanda. Its contents are of incalculable worth, and uncertain legitimacy. I intend now to retire, and I should not like to be troubled prior to the fourteenth bell. Oh—have a chambermaid bring a large washbasin, a clean flesh-brush, and a spare pitcher of water to my room. An extra lamp, as well. Immediately, please.
The whore is stepping from her skirts when the knock comes. Crivano opens the door wide enough to gather in what the maid has brought, then shuts and bolts it with muttered thanks. He fills the basin, lights the lamp, and hangs up his own garments while she washes herself. Her eyes linger on the two emblems that mark his skin—the key on his chest, the Sword of the Prophet on his calf—but she asks no questions. Her long shadow stretches over the walls, dulling and sharpening in the erratic light.