And what of the mirror itself?
Crivano keeps his eyes low—his walkingstick, his jar—betraying nothing. I saw the mirrormaker briefly, he says. The mirror is finished. The glassmaker has it now.
How does it look?
The question carries an undertone of anxiety, audible though unvoiced, like the drone-strings of a robab. Crivano smiles evenly. It’s perfect, he says.
He slips Serena’s sealed message to Trist?o as they pass through the White Eagle’s foyer onto the darkening street. Perfect? Trist?o says, tucking it into his own doublet. You are quite certain of this?
The glassmaker said it might be too perfect.
I do not think I understand you, Vettor. What does this mean, too perfect?
He says clear glass is susceptible to moisture. It might not last long.
Trist?o’s face clouds. Its expression is nearer to confusion than distress, as if it meets impediments so rarely that it’s slow to recognize them. Then it breaks into its customary radiant grin. Ah, my friend, Trist?o says. This is no great concern. After all, what lasts long in this world?
They embrace. Their cloaks are a momentary blot against the bustle of the crowd, black drupes amid wind-tossed bramble leaves. Tomorrow evening! Trist?o shouts as he steps away. A banquet at sundown, and then the symposium! Be prompt!
Tomorrow evening, Crivano calls after him.
On his way toward the Street of the Coopers, Trist?o stops to tweak the chin and inspect the décolletage of a fleshy harlot, then again to exchange familiar greetings with three yellow-turbaned Levantine Jews. The fearlessness that enlivens his movements seems born not of self-confidence, but rather absolute certainty regarding the ultimate fate of his soul. Looking on, Crivano considers that certain damnation could engender such boldness as easily as certain salvation. All too clearly he can see the light Trist?o sheds, but as yet he has no way to guess its fuel.
Trist?o vanishes around the corner to the north. The street is in deep shadow, and up and down its length most shops are closed, or closing. Crivano loiters for a moment, watching traffic pass before him until it becomes abstract and depthless in his sight: a chaos of colors, fabrics, gestures, faces. Then a gap opens and he steps into it, walking to the corner, following the Street of the Coopers south.
The apothecary’s shop is a short distance away, in the Campiello Carampane: the latest location on a coded list of rendezvous points that Narkis gave him in Ravenna before they parted ways. Crivano prays that Narkis—or one of his agents; surely he has other agents—noticed the curtain that he left trapped between his sashes as he slept. Henceforth their enterprise must move ahead quickly.
San Aponal’s last daylight bells are dying away as the shop comes into view. Through its lowered shutters Crivano sees the apothecary tidying his boxes and jars and posies, preparing to close up. He stops across the street to wait, examining the tongs and pliers in an ironworker’s bins as the craftsman hauls his wares indoors. There’s no sign of Narkis yet, but of course there wouldn’t be.
A footman from a nearby palace ducks into the apothecary’s shop, and Crivano follows him inside, then browses heaped bouquets and bundled roots as the apothecary fills the footman’s order for vervain. As the servant departs Crivano steps to the counter, leaving his stoppered jar behind, nestled amid the herbs. Good day to you, maestro, he says. Have you any biennial henbane of quality?
Before the words have left his mouth Crivano feels a slight contraction of the air, a dimming of the light, and he knows that Narkis has entered the shop behind him, though he dares not turn to look.
The apothecary is a compact and fastidious Slovene wearing thick spectacles of Flemish glass; he speaks with urgency as he unlocks one of his many strongboxes. This very power, what I give you, he says. Must not use in tight-closed room. Must not open jar, even. You feel sleepy? You see strange sights, like dreaming? You must cover up, you must open window, you must go outside. Very very very caution. Yes?
Of course, maestro, of course, Crivano says.
The apothecary draws a wide glass cylinder from his box, lifts its tight-fitting lid—he and Crivano both grimace at the cloying stench—and reaches under the counter for an empty container. Oh, I brought my own jar, maestro, Crivano says, then tenses in feigned surprise, patting his belt and his purse, looking up and down the counter.
A voice from behind him: Forgive me, dottore, but is this what you seek?
In thirteen years, this is the first time Crivano has heard his own native language issue from Narkis’s tongue. Narkis pronounces the words roughly, with effort, and the sound is eerie and grotesque, like hearing an animal speak.