Votive (2 page)

‘
We
must,’ said Debora, placing her other hand over Katina’s. Then she kicked her horse into action. Alessandro was right behind her.

‘See you on the other side,’ called Debora, using the traditional Bond Riders’ farewell.

They urged their horses into a canter, catching up with Santo and Stefano quickly. Kicking up leaves and dust, they charged alongside the Limen, gathering speed. The unearthly glow of the shifting barrier made them appear wraith-like. Katina heard, carried on the wind, the words Stefano chanted to open a rift. From where she stood she saw the air change, dragged towards the hole in the fabric of time, sucked into its hungry maw. One by one the horses and Riders leapt into the opening and, with a great dragging sound, the fracture sealed.

‘The other side,’ whispered Katina. Then she turned to Baroque. He stood gaping at what he’d just witnessed.

‘Amazing,’ he said.

She smiled at his reaction. Even after all this time, she felt the same way. Brushing her hair out of her eyes, she considered his appearance. In the growing dark, he was a shambles. ‘You’ll need to invent a story about bandits or some such.’

‘Then I’ll just tell the truth and say it was Bond Riders. You’re all a bunch of bandits anyway.’

Katina grunted. ‘You may joke, but I have put myself at great risk for you, Baroque Scarpoli. The others, even my own partners, would rather you were dead.’

‘I know. Believe me, I’m grateful.’

‘Hmm. We’ll see if that means anything.’

‘Why did you, then? You know, save me.’

Katina thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know, really.’ She gave a half-laugh. ‘Call it instinct – or stupidity. Something told me that you have an important role to play in all this.’ She dismissed her words with a wave of her hand. ‘For now, I want you to let me know if you hear any news of Tallow – anything at all.’

Baroque took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. It snaked out of his mouth in a long rill of white. ‘Sì, Signorina Bond Rider. And how do I find you? You said yourself, it will be a while before you can return to Serenissima. The loss of the chandler will echo throughout the city. Bond Riders will be a byword.’

‘Not for long, Baroque Scarpoli. We too are part of Serenissima. The division,’ she said, gesturing to the Limen, ‘is only superficial.’

Baroque started to chuckle. It was dry, broken. ‘You really believe that? Oh, Signorina, the division is deep, and I think you Bond Riders look for an excuse to make it permanent.’

Katina frowned. Baroque was right. The mark of difference between Bond Riders and humans was more than the strange anomaly called the Limen. It was internal, it was social; it was physical as well. She became aware of his eyes upon hers. When she spoke, her voice was sharper than she intended. ‘You may leave messages for me at the Taverna di Segretezza – do you know it?’

‘In the Tailors Quartiere?’

‘Sì. Ask for Signor Vestire. He owns it. He’s a friend of the Bond Riders. He will know how to contact me.’

Baroque nodded. ‘I’d heard rumours of the tailors and the Bond Riders.’

Katina flashed a smile. ‘Even Bond Riders need clothes, and they are good to do business with,’ she said plucking at her shirt. The smile disappeared. ‘If you have news, I will come, though you may have to be patient. Messages do not always travel as swiftly as they should between our worlds. But know this: if you break our agreement – if you do not come to me, Baroque Scarpoli, I will hunt you down. However long it takes. Like you, we have our own way of extracting information. Only we don’t do it quietly with whispers and behind closed doors. I will take away that which I have just returned to you – your life – and with no thought for where or when. Capisce?’

Katina knew Baroque was considering the seriousness of her threat. ‘Capisco. I understand,’ he said faintly. He shivered. The rain was becoming heavier and night was setting in. A cold gust of wind blew through the clearing, howling along the Limen, distrupting the billowing mist.

Katina pointed through the trees. ‘Head in that direction. You’ll find boats moored past the reeds. You can take one and return to Serenissima tonight.’

Baroque frowned. ‘I thought you were going back to the pledge stone?’

‘Not with you,’ she said. ‘We part company here. Now.’ She reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out a purse and threw it to him.

Baroque caught it mid-air. He weighed it in his palm, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. ‘Bene. You have my promise that as soon as I have information about the boy, I will make contact.’ He bowed, stiffly. He began to hobble towards the trees, shoving the purse deep into his coat.

After a few steps, he paused and turned. ‘I always knew you Bond Riders had secrets.’ He blinked the rain out of his eyes. ‘But they always seemed to be concerned about this world, about the one you left behind. But this, this business with Tallow. This is something different, isn’t it?’ He noted the expression on Katina’s face. ‘The chandler is dead because of that fellow … What’s his name? Santo, wasn’t it? I haven’t had the pleasure before. Hope I never do again.’ He felt his face gingerly, wincing as he encountered a bruise. ‘He was a good young man, Dante. Decent. I think he and Tallow shared … affection. You Bond Riders accept that sort of thing, don’t you?’

Katina didn’t respond.

Baroque sighed. ‘I want to know what you’re up to. What’s going on. Maybe, when I find the boy for you, I will. The world stirs. Where some see tragedy, others see opportunity. What do you see, Signorina Bond Rider?’ He looked as if he was about to say more, then changed his mind. ‘Grazie mille for what you did. You saved my life. I won’t forget that.’

‘Make sure you don’t.’ They stared at each other for a few seconds more before Baroque grunted and, with a nod, moved away. ‘Oh, one more thing, Scarpoli,’ Katina called.

Baroque halted and looked over his shoulder.

‘Tallow’s a girl.’

Baroque’s good eye widened and his face broke into the
semblance of a smile. ‘Bene, bene, bene. I see. Of course. That explains a great deal. Sì. Sì. A ragazza. Grazie mille again.’ His broken laughter was eventually swallowed by the trees.

He made a racket as he departed. Above the noise of the rain, Katina heard the snap of branches, the mulch of damp detritus underfoot and Baroque’s chatter as he tried to frighten away any lurking creatures. Katina couldn’t help but feel some sympathy for him. Still, only by setting him free could she find out exactly who was paying him and why. ‘I’ll find you yet, Tallow. One way or another,’ Katina promised the darkness.

Minutes passed. Except for the gentle patter of rain, it was silent.

At last she was alone. She took a deep breath and recalled every move she’d made since the day began. It all led to this moment. Releasing Baroque was nothing compared to what she was about to do. Was she sure? Was it the right thing?

Just as she knew freeing the spy was correct, she knew that her next action was imperative. Everything she did, she did for the Bond Riders – and for Tallow.

Plunging back into the forest, Katina ducked and weaved between the trees, her eyes accustomed to the dimness but her pace slowing as exhaustion took hold of her. She’d been lying to Debora and Alessandro when she said the blood wasn’t hers. Some of it was, and the loss was affecting her now. She pulled at her gloves. The blood was drying, making the leather stick to her skin.

A gentle snickering interrupted her thoughts. Picking up her pace, she reached her horse in a few strides. ‘Hello, boy. You miss me?’ She ran her hands along Birrichino’s smooth neck, patting his flanks, relieved to see the sweat she’d raised with their earlier dash out of Serenissima had all but disappeared.

‘Good boy.’ His life-force felt strong, despite today’s exertions. She hoped it was enough to get them through the Limen. She hoped she could summon the strength to breach it once more.

She quickly checked the huge bundle she’d strapped to Birrichino’s saddle. The reason she was late. The reason she’d returned to Serenissima alone.

Just as her intuition had told her to release Baroque Scarpoli unharmed, so too it had told her to retrieve what should not be left behind.

First tightening the straps that held the roll in place, she undid Birrichino’s tether and hooked it across the pommel before throwing herself into the saddle.

‘You ready, boy?’ she asked. ‘Time to go home.’ She urged him forward, wondering what price she would pay for her decisions today.

Cold, or a prescient awareness, caused a shudder to wrack her body. She gripped Birrichino more tightly, his warmth offering reassurance. Still, as she passed through the trees, she sent fervent prayers to the gods, for if they did not stand by her now, then nothing on Vista Mare or in the Limen could.

‘H
EY
, V
INCENZO
! I
T’S BEEN A WHILE
, amico mio, has it not?’

Vincenzo di Torello, owner of the taverna in the main campo of the Candlemakers Quartiere in the canal-city of Serenissima, spun round at the sound of the voice. His eyes widened and the rag he was using to polish the table slipped from his fingers.

‘Signor Barbacan, Barold!’ he exclaimed. ‘Non è possible! I don’t believe it.’

Baroque Scarpoli closed the door behind him, ducking his head to hide the grin the use of his nom de plume caused. His eyes scanned the bar, checking it really was empty. Waiting over the other side of the campo until he was sure everyone had left, he’d stuck to the shadows before coming to the entrance. He didn’t want to be seen returning to the taverna that had been his home for many weeks. The place that held his most important possessions. The door clicked and he turned and smiled at Vincenzo, who was manoeuvring his girth through the tables, holding out his arms in greeting. They embraced warmly.

‘Sì. It’s been too long,’ said Baroque as Vincenzo reached behind him and checked the door was locked. Satisifed, he slapped Baroque on the back and beckoned him towards the bar. ‘How are you?’ he asked over his shoulder.

Falling back into his alter identity of a businessman searching for a shop to buy, Baroque slumped, stuck out his stomach and smoothed back his hair. The foreign accent was easy to maintain – he’d spent a lot of time in Jinoa. He slid onto a stool and leant on the counter, grateful that, while the fire still threw out some heat, only a few candles were burning. Shadows were an unexpected boon tonight – for all sorts of reasons.

‘Better than you, by the looks of it.’ Vincenzo tried to examine his face, but gave up and went behind the bar and poured Baroque a mug of vino. He slid it in front of him. ‘Della casa,’ he said. ‘On the house. Drink.’ He nodded towards it.

‘Grazie,’ said Baroque. He took a deep swig, swallowed noisily and sighed in pleasure.

‘What happened to you, amico mio? Are you injured?’

Baroque shrugged. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks. Common thugs, that’s all. After my purse. They left me unconscious in a calle. It took me till today to remember who I was.’ Baroque took another drink. ‘Now all I want to do is forget,’ he chuckled.

‘Well, you’re safe now,’ said Vincenzo. ‘Do you want me to send for the dottore? Just to be sure.’

‘No, that won’t be necessary.’ Baroque let out another long sigh and, leaning back on the stool, looked around. ‘You were closing?’

‘Sì. It’s been a long day. The popolani – they’re very distressed. I don’t know if you heard, but the chandler, Dante Macelleria, he died today. He was killed –’ Vincenzo stopped, biting his lip. Emotions chased each other across his face.

‘I know. I did hear. Very sad.’

‘Many people came here to drink, to talk. You know – make sense of the senseless. And then there’s young Tallow. Do you know about him too?’

Baroque nodded. ‘I heard. Seems he’s an Estrattore?’

Vincenzo threw his hands up in the air. ‘Who would have thought? Who would have guessed? But he’s disappeared. Gone. Jumped over the bridge and into the canal. There’s no trace of him.’ He stared into the fire. ‘And now Pillar, you know, the candlemaker, his master, has shut himself away. He won’t speak to anyone. No-one is blaming him. On the contrary, they want to thank him. Without Tallow, so many more would have died during the Morto Assiderato.’ He lost himself in his thoughts for a few moments before shaking himself back into the present. He began to stack the glasses he’d collected from the tables into a tub ready to take out to the kitchen for washing.

‘I still can’t believe an Estrattore has returned. And when we’d all but stopped believing.’ He paused, staring out over the empty room. ‘Do
you
believe in God, Signor Barbacan?’

Baroque regarded him steadily. ‘We all believe in God, Signor. We have to, remember? The Church says so. The Doge tells us we must. So I do.’

Vincenzo’s face was unreadable in the dying light of the embers. ‘Do we?’ he said quietly. ‘I am no longer certain.’ A glass clinked against another. ‘Anyway,’ continued Vincenzo in a different tone, ‘you’ve missed a great deal. I was worried about you. Not without justification, either.’ He gestured to Baroque’s torn clothes before slowly putting two more glasses in the tub. ‘Some people came here looking for you.’

A tingle ran along Baroque’s spine. ‘Oh? Who were they?’ He tried to sound light-hearted.

Vincenzo shrugged. ‘Some nobile and his whore. She called him papa, but I know a courtesan when I see one. They were strange. Said you were working for them. Is that true?’ Lifting the tub with a grunt, he carried it out to the kitchen. Baroque heard the clatter as he deposited his
load. Vincenzo returned seconds later wiping his hands, his eyebrows raised. ‘So, is it?’

‘Why?’ Baroque held his breath.

Vincenzo began to wipe the counter top again, avoiding Baroque’s eyes. ‘Because I let them take your things.’ His hand stilled as he waited for Baroque’s reaction.

‘My things? You mean, my bag?’

‘Sì.’ Vincenzo resumed cleaning, using careful, long strokes.

Baroque’s heart plummeted. He watched Vincenzo work and inhaled slowly, preparing for what he knew he must now do.

Misreading the look on Baroque’s face, Vincenzo spoke quickly. ‘Mi dispiace, Signor Barbacan. I had no choice. I couldn’t afford to leave the room with only your briefcase and a few clothes in it. After the Morto Assiderato …’ He paused. ‘I needed to be able to recoup my losses – and promptly. An empty room, well, being a businessman, I knew you’d understand.’

Baroque drained his drink and put the mug down firmly. ‘I do, amico mio, I do. It’s all right.’ He swiped his hand across the back of his mouth, wincing at the tender flesh. ‘Do you have many guests tonight? Has business picked up?’

Vincenzo snorted. ‘I’m as barren as an old woman’s womb.’ He indicated the rooms above. ‘It will take time. The murder today, it does not help. People want to drink, to gossip, to listen, but they don’t want to stay. This quartiere is considered dangerous now. There’s rumours the Signori di Notte, the Doge’s secret police, are in the area. I haven’t seen them yet. But it will only be a matter of time.’

Baroque shivered. He hadn’t anticipated them. He would have to be careful.

Vincenzo picked up the bladder of vino and poured Baroque another mug. He then picked up a battered old pewter cup and filled it for himself.

‘To friends,’ he said, lifting his vessel.

‘Salute,’ said Baroque.

He watched as Vincenzo drank, noting the way his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down his throat. Checking once more to make sure that no-one was about, Baroque reached over the bar and picked up one of the glasses that Vincenzo had collected but not yet washed. He held it up to the dim light and turned it before smashing it against the edge of the bar. Glass tinkled to the floor and scattered all over the wooden surface.

Vincenzo jumped and lowered his cup. ‘What are you –?’

Before he could finish, Baroque rammed the broken glass into the tavern owner’s neck. Vincenzo clutched at his throat, his eyes widening. Blood spilled over his hands, down his arms, dripping onto his apron. Gurgling sounds were trapped in his mouth. He stared at Baroque; questions, accusation and betrayal in his eyes.

Baroque calmly got off his stool and went around to the back of the bar. He wrapped his arms around Vincenzo from behind and gently lowered him to the floor.

He placed his lips against Vincenzo’s ear. ‘Mi dispiace, Vincenzo. You know too much. You saw the Maleovellis, the nobiles. You know I work for them. The Bond Riders, they cannot know this. No-one must know. Not yet. It will be over soon, amico mio. This way is quick. Trust me, I know what I am doing. I have done it many, many times.’

Baroque sat on the floor of the taverna, the bar rising above him. Vincenzo’s head lay in his lap, blood pouring from the wound being absorbed into the sawdust. Vincenzo tried to talk.

‘Hush,’ whispered Baroque, stroking his hair. ‘Do not speak. Be silent. Don’t fight.’

Vincenzo frowned. His watery eyes fluttered and slowly closed. Baroque sighed and waited. It would not be long.

Moonlight streamed through the frosted windows at the front of the taverna. The candles spluttered and went out one by one, gradually plunging the room into a cold, blue darkness. The fire spat its last. Baroque noticed the rain had stopped.

Finally, Vincenzo spasmed. Two huge shudders wracked his body. His legs jerked and then, with one final deep breath, his body stilled.

Baroque eased himself out from under it and rose with difficulty. His legs were sticky with blood. Touching it in dismay, he wiped his fingers on his breeches. He would find Vincenzo’s clothes and change.

Minutes later, he came down the stairs dressed in a fresh shirt, jerkin, hose and a thick cape with a hood. He glanced down at Vincenzo. He felt a pang of regret. Another innocent life lost. Because of what was afoot in Serenissima; because of Tallow.

Now he would have to return to the Maleovellis. He hadn’t intended to see them again. He’d failed in his mission for them and he had a new one. But they had his journals, the detailed diaries he’d kept for decades, filled to the brim with names, dates, secret meetings, treachery, treason, and death. So much of that – and all in the name of power. Evidence that would incriminate not only him, but many others if they fell into the wrong hands. In the right ones, they were worth a great deal of money – soldi to which only he was entitled. He had no choice but to go back to the Maleovellis and do whatever it took to retrieve them. He’d worked too hard his whole life – betrayed, lied, deceived,
denied himself real friendship and many creature comforts – all the while documenting everything so that in his old age he would be comfortable. The Maleovellis would not take that from him. He would have his journals, regardless of the risk. He owed Vincenzo that at least.

Vincenzo’s body lay there. He would have to make his death look like a violent robbery. Shaking himself into motion, he unlatched the front door and peered into the campo. It was quiet. Only a cat slinked its way around the well. Good. Stripping the nearest table of its cloth, he wrapped it around his wrist and smashed a window. He captured the glass in its folds before closing the door. Using the heel of his boot, he shattered the lock.

Picking up a few random mugs, he threw them around the room. As he strode to the back door, he knocked chairs over. Using a knife he found, he slit open bladders of vino. They gurgled into the thirsty sawdust.

From the hallway he surveyed his handiwork. In the murky light, it looked impressive. The work of bandits indeed. Satisfied, he went to the desk crammed under the stairs. There, in a tin stashed carelessly in the top drawer, were Vincenzo’s meagre takings. He tossed them into the purse Katina had given him.

He threw the empty tin into the bar. It struck Vincenzo’s lifeless legs. With a lump of sadness in his throat, Baroque sneaked out the back door, leaving it open, and made his way to the main canal.

In a dark corner, tied loosely to a paline near a set of disused water-stairs, bobbed an old gondola. Baroque quickly checked that no-one was about before easing back the cover, leaping into the craft and untying it. He was about to guide it into the current when he saw another gondola approaching.

Cursing, he quickly retied his craft and lowered himself into the bottom. Peering over the edge, he tried to make out who approached.

Standing in the centre of the gondola, his dark cape billowing behind him like a black sail, was the Cardinale Rafaelo Martino.

Baroque clutched his chest as panic seized his body. Taking deep breaths, he pulled the rotting cover he had partly peeled back over his head and sank to the bottom of his boat, all the time praying he hadn’t been seen.

‘D
O YOU SENSE ANYTHING
, your grace?’

Cardinale Martino, the recently appointed leader of the Church in Serenissima, broke away from his close scrutiny of the bridge and stared at Captain Orlando Sansono. The flickering light of the lamps made the handsome Cardinale resemble a reptile, swathed as he was in a cloak, his skin stretched across impossibly high cheekbones and his hazel eyes flashing beneath his red cap.

‘Indeed, I do,’ said the Cardinale. He rose smoothly from the cobbles, flicking the servants who held the lanterns aloft out of the way. He joined the Captain by the side of the bridge. They both leant against the stone parapet and gazed across the inky waters. The distance separating the men was minimal – words carried across water and Captain Sansono knew that whatever the Cardinale had to say would be for his ears alone.

He waited patiently for the Cardinale to speak, studying the nobile out of the corner of his eye. Captain Sansono could sense the tension in his superior’s body.

The only sound was the creak of the lanterns behind them and the lapping of the waters against the fondamenta
and the old gondola below. Behind them, Sansono’s men, the Signori di Notte, the Lords of the Night or secret police, blended into what to them was their natural element. Sansono knew their uncanny silence belied a fearsome preparedness. The Cardinale was not the only person longing to prove his worth, eager to hunt and destroy the Estrattore – the latest and greatest threat to the faith, to Serenissima.