Crivano’s boot drags through a puddle; the odor of the sea rises with the splash. You have done well, Narkis says. Our project may not be completely destroyed.
I don’t know how the sbirri discovered me. They want me to think it has to do with a heretic who’s been arrested, but I don’t believe that.
It is the mirrormaker, Narkis says. The one you killed.
Verzelin?
They have found his remains. They washed up on the Lido yesterday morning. He must have drifted quite far. The gulls showed where his body had come to rest. The flesh had been badly disturbed by various creatures, but the constables knew who it had been in life from a ring that it wore: a glass ring, bearing a false black pearl. You should have removed that, I suppose.
Crivano stops. The skin of his face is numb, as if blasted by an icy wind. He shakes his head. Verzelin wore no rings; Crivano would have noticed them as he bound the dead man’s hands. Surely he would have. You’re quite certain, he says, that the corpse is Verzelin’s?
I can only repeat what I have heard. The mirrormakers’ guild has declared that the corpse belongs to the man you murdered. Prevalent opinion is that he suffered despair due to his sickness and drowned himself. Although there is some doubt that, in his infirm condition, he could have tied certain knots. Also, no boats are missing from Murano. This is difficult to explain.
They’re going to accuse me.
I think it is likely that they will do so, yes. They suspect a larger conspiracy.
What should I do?
You should stay away from the glassmaker and the mirrormaker whom you have recruited until they have safely escaped. You should avoid arrest until they are gone. If the constables arrest you, they will torture you, and you will confess. Everyone does.
But what—
Crivano’s voice is suddenly harsh in the tight space: a stranger’s voice. His clawed hands gather the folds of Narkis’s caftan.
—should I do?
Narkis is still for a moment. Then he sighs. I do not know, Tarjuman effendi, he says. They are hunting me as well. The constables came to the fondaco this afternoon. I fled through a window and escaped along the rooftops.
Crivano’s grip loosens. The sbirri saw them both at Ciotti’s shop; of course they’d be looking for Narkis too. Is all lost, then? he says. Who will arrange the escape of the craftsmen? We ourselves can do nothing now.
Rest assured, Tarjuman effendi, that others can accomplish these things.
Narkis’s cryptic tone is ugly to Crivano’s ear; it flavors his restrained panic with a new disquiet. If that’s so, he says, then perhaps we might now consider how best to save ourselves. What if we leave for the mainland tonight? With a few days’ advance travel we can meet the ship in Trieste, and then go with them to Spalato.
Our party may not be going to Spalato after all, Tarjuman effendi.
Or, Crivano says, we could risk the uskoks, and sail directly for Constantinople.
They will not be going to Constantinople, either.
Crivano’s teeth chatter; he’s suddenly cold. So damp: he feels as if he’s been ingested by some leviathan. What, he says, are you talking about?
Narkis doesn’t answer. He begins to walk toward the corte again; Crivano stumbles after him. In the opening he can see a small carved wellhead, and fallen tiles littering the pavement. Old friend, Crivano asks again, what do you mean?
In arranging the passage of the two craftsmen, Narkis says, I have had assistance from other interested parties. These parties have made suggestions that may alter aspects of our scheme.
Who? What parties?
I am speaking of certain instruments of the Mughal Empire.
Crivano stops again. Narkis walks ahead for several paces, then slows and turns back. Somewhat sheepishly, it seems. Tarjuman effendi, he says. Come along.
What in the name of God did you just say?
The Mughals. They have been lately challenging our Safavid enemy along his eastern borders, and have conquered Gujarat and Bengal. It seems—
Do I understand correctly, Crivano says, that you intend to take the craftsmen not to Constantinople, but halfway across the world, to Hindustan? To install them among savages, where not a single soul can speak or comprehend their language? Is this what you mean, Narkis? Because, if so, you are insane.
Speak low, Tarjuman effendi. Please.
Crivano’s voice is shot through with hot veins of hysteria; it trembles and cracks like a fuzzy-cheeked boy’s, but he does not hold his tongue. How in the name of the Holy Prophet, he says, can the Mughals assist us? They’re separated from Frankish lands by the breadth of our own empire, and another empire besides. Between us and them lies not only a continent, but an unceasing bloody war. What can they do?