He retrieves the wooden grille from the table and tips back the lid of his massive walnut trunk. Jostling items aside—spare shirts and hose, heavy boots and rainwear, his rapier and the new snaplock pistol he purchased in Ravenna—he uncovers his books. Beneath these is a spring-loaded panel that conceals a shallow compartment, and Crivano opens this to put the grille inside. Then he replaces his belongings and closes the trunk. The brass key scrapes between the wards; the lock clicks.
As he’s draping the key from his neck by its leather thong, he remembers the plaguedoctor. He lowers his wrist into the sunbeam to inspect the skin where the ash wand struck it, but he finds no rawness there, no bruise. The inevitable notion arises— was that too a dream?—but Crivano swiftly stifles it. He flexes his fingers, noting the smooth glide of tendons under skin, and returns to his task.
On the floor beside the trunk is his box of physic; from it, he withdraws a square of white linen, and a narrow ceramic jar stoppered by a wide cork. The jar is half-full of dried ragwort root; Crivano shakes this onto the linen, ties it into a bundle, and puts the bundle back in the box. Then he rolls his report to Narkis into a narrow tube, drops the tube into the jar, and stoppers it again.
The bells of San Aponal are ringing the hour, a few long breaths out of phase with the bells of San Silvestro farther south: Crivano counts twenty-three. He combs his hair, slicks the prongs of his beard, and dons his boots and doublet and black robe. A corner of curtain is trapped in the double window in the eastern wall; Crivano opens the sash for an instant to let the curtain fall plumb, and the ray of sunlight vanishes. Then he takes up his jar and Serena’s sealed letter, lifts his stick from its corner, and walks downstairs.
The White Eagle is quieter this evening than he’d anticipated. Most locande in the Rialto are double-or triple-booked for the duration of the Sensa, but Anzolo has been cautious not to let occupancy exceed what his eight servants can manage. The inn is expensive, especially for a room to oneself, but worth it. Narkis suggested the place. Crivano wonders how he learned of it, since the law forbids him from ever spending a night here.
Nearly all the tables in the parlor are occupied. Crivano recognizes most of the lodgers from previous meals: two fat merchants from Frankfurt struggling to parse the mumblings of a one-eyed galley captain, Bohemian pilgrims studying a map of Jerusalem with madness simmering in their eyes, a pair of shabby young nobles from Savoy pointedly ignoring a second pair of shabby young nobles from Milan.
In the middle of the room sits Trist?o. He’s absorbed in an octavo that he holds in his left palm; his right hand makes an automatic circuit—flipping a page, plucking a nut from a dish, bringing wine to his lips, flipping another page—as if it’s a separate creature, a helpful imp. Crivano approaches, hesitates, clears his throat.
Trist?o blinks and shakes his head, his eyes unfocused, as if the book won’t relinquish its hold on him. Then he looks up with a broad smile and a sigh of pleasure. Doctor Crivanus, he says, rising for an embrace. You demonstrate great kindness by your willingness to see me.
They speak Latin, as is their custom. Trist?o’s speech is by turns stilted and poetic and urbane, a Latin learned from books, far removed from the bland efficiency of Crivano’s university argot. Of the three languages they share, it’s the one in which Trist?o is most comfortable. In this room it also affords a measure of privacy.
May I ask how fares Senator Contarini? Trist?o says, sinking into his chair. Does insomnia still prolong his nights?
I haven’t spoken with the senator of late. I’m to call on him tomorrow. I’ll pass along your good wishes.
I am grateful for your doing so. You prescribed him cowslip, I suppose?
Cowslip wine, Crivano says. Given his age and his temperament, I thought it best. What’s that you’re reading, Trist?o?
Trist?o averts his eyes, flashes a sheepish grin. His teeth are lead-white, improbably straight. Oh, this? he says, caressing the octavo. This is the Nolan.
The Nolan?
Trist?o opens his mouth, looks up, and closes it again, pushing the book across the tabletop instead.
One of Anzolo’s Friulian serving-girls has emerged from the kitchen, bearing sweet white wine from Sopron. Before Crivano’s cup is full, a second girl arrives with food: tiny artichokes, rice porridge, Lombardy quail stuffed with mincemeat. The girls giggle and blush whenever they meet Trist?o’s gaze, then hasten away. Oh! Trist?o says, fanning steam toward his face with dove-wing hands. Oh oh oh!