Only with effort can he now recall the two boys who stood on the deck of the Gold and Black Eagle—the boys who both died there, and were there reborn. He kept himself alive for years with promises of eventual vengeance, with the dream that the Turks would one day pay in blood for what they had done to his home, to his family, to the Lark. He so cherished the dream of retribution that he concealed it in a treasure-box within himself, and locked that box inside other boxes, until finally—after the campaigns in Africa and Persia, after the camaraderie with the men who shared his cookpot, after the failures and successes along every frontier of the sultan’s empire—Narkis’s proposal arrived, and Crivano thought: this is the time, if ever the time is to come. By then, of course, the vengeful boy was nowhere within himself to be found. As he departed Constantinople he consoled himself with the thought that he’d simply mislaid whatever keys would open those old boxes, that they’d reemerge with time. Now he knows that the compartments are empty, and always were. His cold ferocious heart is no more than a corridor lined with mirrors, a procession of ghosts and absences, haunting one another and themselves.
He’s passed the lengths of a half-dozen streets and seen no sbirri. A few watchmen make their rounds—these haven’t been relieved of their duties—and Crivano steps from view whenever they appear. Somewhere behind him the sbirri are tending to their wounded boy, widening their patrols. They’ll catch up soon enough. He’d planned to circle south, to cross the Grand Canal to the Contarini house, but he can just as easily hire a boat on the upper bend, by the Cannaregio Canal. That could be better, in fact: the sbirri won’t find him under the canopy of a sandolo. And it would be pleasant to float free through the heart of the city one last time, to watch the moonlight play on the palace fa?ades. A good way to bid this place farewell. He’ll hide at the Contarini house for a few days, then find a ship to Constantinople. Or Ragusa. Or Tunis. Any port will do. Crivano is a physician, after all, and disease is everywhere.
On the Street of the Dyers he evades two approaching watchmen, then notices that they’re inattentive, deep in discussion. He sits in a doorway to eavesdrop.
So this all has to do with that heretic they’ve arrested? the first says. Some sort of plot, I suppose?
Damned if I can say, comes the reply. The heretic was denounced by his patron, Zuanne Mocenigo, who’s widely known to be a fool and a two-faced coward. They say he’s mixed up with sorcerers, those who conjure demons. Earlier tonight, some villain painted a vile curse in Latin across Mocenigo’s palace gate; now a half-dozen bravi guard his doors, and every candle, lamp, and lantern he owns is ablaze. He’s terrified.
And the two men that the sbirri hunt—
Only one, now. The physician. They found the Turk a short while ago, afloat in the Madonnetta Canal.
Dead?
Of course, dead. You think he was swimming? As far as who killed him—the sbirri, or the Turk’s own accomplices, or perhaps he died by his own hand—
Shush! Who goes there?
They’ve seen him. The tired muscles of Crivano’s legs and back protest as he rises from his seat on the steps, ambles forward.
Good Christ. That’s him.
Their light falls on his face; he squints. These look like ordinary city commoners: sleepy unskilled tradesmen carrying clubs and a lantern through the streets for a few extra coins. Men with debts and families. The three of them exchange bleak looks, trapped in a moment that none has wished for. Then Crivano shifts his walkingstick to his left hand, and begins to draw the rapier.
Run! the first watchman barks, but the other is already running: orange sparks fly from his clattering lantern as he stuffs a wooden whistle between his lips. Thin harsh notes pierce the cooling air. Crivano hears people in adjacent houses stir.
He lets the watchmen go. By now the sbirri must be close; these two will find them soon enough. The campo of San Giacomo dall’Orio is but a short distance away, the Grand Canal not much farther on: Crivano could be safely aboard a boat within minutes. But he’s going to wait in the campo instead. He’s not quite satisfied, not quite finished. Behind him the dark streets scroll like pages in an old codex, one he’s struggled for years to parse. He feels as if he’s reached the end only to discover that he’s been misreading it all along—taking for literal truth what was meant as allegory, or vice versa. He wants to flip back to the beginning, to start over with fresh eyes. Even if doing so means he can never be free of it. Even if it’s too late now for understanding anyway.
A few paces ahead, at the next intersection—a narrow street branching to the west—a chill settles over him, and he stops, aware that he’s being watched. For a long time he remains motionless. Knowing already. Not wanting to see it. Finally, with effort, he twists his stiff neck to the left.
It’s perhaps a hundred feet away, down the sidestreet, backlit by a fat yellow moon. Blocking the light. Crivano can see the outlines of its wide-brimmed hat, its ash wand, its beaked mask. He can’t smell the asafetida, but he can see the smoke: little wisps adrift before its glinting glassy eyes.
He wants to go to it. To kill it. To come to the end. But as he’s drawing his sword he hears a shout from somewhere behind him, and another answering it: the spread of the watchmen’s alarms. He looks away for an instant, and when he glances down the sidestreet again, the fiend is gone.