Crivano hears a distant twang, and a loud crack nearby: someone has fired a crossbow. He spins, searching the surrounding windows and rooftops, but they’re all clear. The sbirro raises his club to strike the torchbearer again; Crivano sweeps forward and stabs him in the chest. The blade reemerges from the man’s back, below the inner edge of his right scapula, then snaps inches above its hilt as he stumbles and falls. The torchbearer is curled on the pavement, moaning through clenched teeth, clutching his ribs. The torch lies beside him, sputtering and hissing.
Lunardo has shaken off Crivano’s blows, returned to his stance. His face is livid, his left eye dark with blood. In the unsteady footlight cast by the dropped torch, Crivano searches for the Genoese’s fallen rapier, and spots it at the canal’s edge.
The one-eyed mutilated sbirro is coming over the bridge, his cudgel at his side. As his boots touch the flagstones, he drops the truncheon with a clatter. Then he begins to speak in a deep resonant voice. Toute leur vie estoit employée non par loix, statuz ou reigles, mais selon leur vouloir et franc arbitre, he says. Se levoient du lict quand bon leur sembloit, beuvoient, mangeoient, travailloient, dormoient quand le desir leur venoit; nul ne les esveilloit, nul ne les parforceoit ny à boyre, ny à manger, ny à faire chose aultre quelconques.
Lunardo and Crivano look at each other. Then they both look at the scar-faced sbirro. He passes between them, swaying like a drunk, still speaking slowly and very clearly. Ainsi l’avoit estably Gargantua, he says. En leur reigle n’estoit que ceste clause: fay ce que vouldras. The fletched shaft of a crossbow bolt protrudes from the left side of his skull. After a few steps, he bumps into the closed shutters of a shop, turns, and slides down the wall to sit on the pavement. He’s whispering now, a great sadness in his voice.
For an instant, Crivano and Lunardo meet each other’s eyes again. Then Crivano throws his broken rapier at Lunardo’s head and dives for the fallen sword of the Genoese. Lunardo ducks, intercepts him, slices him across the left biceps. Crivano pauses, his stick held high, his empty right hand hovering over the weapon on the pavement. Then he feints, parries Lunardo’s thrust downward with his stick, draws the stiletto from his boot, and punches it through Lunardo’s chest, a half-inch to the left of his sternum. Lunardo rises from his crouched stance. A look of mild irritation passes over his face, and he falls backward into the canal.
The splash echoes and fades. Car nous entreprenons tousjours choses defendues et convoitons ce que nous est denié, whispers the scar-faced sbirro.
Dottore, groans the torchbearer. Help me up. We must go.
Crivano’s hands spasm, his legs cramp. He can barely hold the walkingstick. He leans down, offers the boy his arm. The dirty face is known to him, intimately so, but Crivano can’t place it. Like a dream-face that belongs to someone dear, that speaks with the same voice, but resembles the person not at all. Could this be the Lark?
Who are you? Crivano says.
It’s me, dottore. It’s Perina. I came as quickly as I could.
Crivano blinks, shakes his head, looks again. The small nose, the full mouth, the obstinate eyes. He touches her cropped scalp with his trembling hand. What became of your hair? he says.
I took my vows.
What?
I took my vows. I didn’t know what else to do. Don’t be angry, dottore. I couldn’t find you unless I could move through the streets at night, and I couldn’t do that unless I could pass as a boy. You see? I couldn’t pass as a boy without short hair, and the nuns wouldn’t cut my hair except for my profession. So I took my vows. I simulated a sudden mania of piety, and I wept and begged until the abbess included me in tonight’s clothing ceremony. Then I fled. The linkboy you sent sold me his garments.
Crivano stares at her, gape-mouthed. A tremor gathers in his belly: the beginning of laughter, or tears. He’s very tired. The cyclopean sbirro with the bolt in his brain has fallen silent, his chin on his chest. The one lying on the bridge no longer breathes. Dottore, Perina says, seizing his hand. We should hurry. Others will be here soon.
So, he says with an antic smile—one he suspects of containing more than a hint of madness—what is your new name, then?
Her eyes flash. Perina, she says. It’s Perina. As always.
She pulls him away from the bridge, toward the campiello, but he resists. There’s no way out there, he says. We must cross the canal.
No, dottore. Your friend is here, with his boat. He’ll meet us this way.
My friend? What friend?
The gondolier. The one you sent to Santa Caterina to meet me when I escaped. He didn’t say his name.
The one I sent? What are you talking about?
Your message, dottore. You said to flee the convent by the third bell, and to meet the gondolier on the Misericordia Canal.
Who told you this?
The linkboy told me. Dottore, we must go!
She’s tugging his arm like the bridle of a recalcitrant mule. Her skin is blotchy with pink, her face rived with terror. The cool air has grown much colder. The torch on the pavement goes out abruptly, as though it’s been dipped in a bucket. A thick rope of smoke rises from it. There is no wind.
Did he tell you to look behind the curtain? Crivano says.
Who?
The linkboy. The messenger.