Votive (41 page)

Tallow repressed a shudder.

Lord Waterford looked from Signor Maleovelli to Giaconda and back again. His eyes rested on Tallow, shining in the dimming light, a beacon by the window for those in the campo to see.

‘Power and influence you say? How convenient.’ Lord Waterford raised his glass, the benign expression that usually rested on his face replaced by a more cunning, dark look. Tallow tried to read him. It was as if a different man stood in the place Giaconda’s lovesick paramour had occupied only moments before.

‘My dear Maleovellis,’ he said, stepping away from the window and putting his glass down. ‘I think the time has come for us to have a very serious talk.’

‘S
HE DISOBEYED US
, P
APA
. She must be punished!’ Giaconda slammed the brush down on the dresser and spun to face her father.

‘Gia, Gia, cara mia. Calm yourself,’ said Signor Maleovelli, placing his hands on her shoulders and pushing her back onto the stool so she faced the mirror. ‘What Tarlo has done is show a little inventiveness. She’s still accomplished what we told her to do – the Prince has disappeared. He cannot claim the throne.’

‘But he’s a Bond Rider – he can come back!’

‘Only if an Estrattore extracts his soul from the pledge stone. And where in Vista Mare is he going to find one of those?’ Ezzelino Maleovelli spoke soothingly, his long fingers stroking his daughter’s hair. ‘We control the only one known to have survived the purge, remember? Anyhow, Bond Riders no longer become human again – they’re effectively trapped in the Limen. It’s been over three hundred years since one was able to come back. Even if they choose to, they can’t return – not while their souls are in the pledge stones.’

Giaconda sighed. ‘But Papa, you’re missing my point. She disobeyed us. She’s taking matters into her own hands. It isn’t the first time. Don’t forget what she did to –’

‘Hush,’ said Ezzelino, resting the tips of his fingers against her mouth. ‘We do not talk about that – about them. As far as we’re concerned, what happened to those men were all unfortunate accidents. We know nothing.’ He waited until the fire went out of Giaconda’s eyes and he felt her shoulders relax before he took his hands away.

‘You’re right, Papa. I am just … concerned, that’s all.’

‘What about, exactly?’ Ezzelino moved to sit in the chair and from there watched his daughter perform her nightly ritual. She took up the brush and resumed.

‘Tarlo’s changed.’

‘Ezzelino chuckled. ‘Of course she has. We’ve all worked very hard to ensure that.’

‘That’s not what I mean and you know it.’ Giaconda studied her father in the mirror. ‘Papa, don’t pretend you do not understand. She’s becoming dangerous. I feel we’re losing her somehow. Oh yes, she makes the candles, she visits who we tell her, says what she’s meant to say, acts appropriately at all times, but I don’t know. There’s something happening …’ Her voice trailed and she stared into the distance, her forehead drawn.

Ezzelino waited.

‘And now there’s this whole plan of Waterford’s to consider. Do we tell him the truth, Papa?’ Through the mirror Giaconda and Ezzelino exchanged a look.

‘The truth? Of course not – don’t be silly. Not yet, anyhow,’ said Ezzelino. ‘We wait for him to tell us what he knows and then we strike a bargain. Not before then. And we do not admit to a thing. Capisce?’

‘Capisco, Papa. I am relieved to hear you say that. Nonetheless, what he’s offered is very interesting, is it not? If all else fails, his plan could work. It certainly gives us options.’

‘Sì, it does. It would mean
we
would have the support of possibly the greatest ally Serenissima has ever known – and at a time when we need her most.’

Giaconda put down the brush and looked at her father over her shoulder. ‘Do you mean “we” as in the Maleovellis or Serenissima?’

Ezzelino regarded her for a long moment.

‘I mean both.’

Satisfied, she turned back to the mirror and began to plait her hair.

‘As for Tarlo, do not worry, Gia. We still have one more
card to play with her and, when we do, she’ll come to heel like a puppy, no matter how independent or inventive she has become. Of that I am certain.’

Giaconda rose and kissed her father lightly on the forehead. ‘You once told me that only those with nothing to lose are dangerous.’

‘Essato. Tarlo doesn’t know it yet, but she stands to lose something very dear to her if she doesn’t behave. Very dear to her indeed.’

They both stared at each other for a moment then, with a joy that comes of mutual admiration and assurance, burst out laughing.

‘H
E’S OBSESSED WITH HER
, I tell you,’ hissed Santo, staring at Stefano though bloodshot eyes. ‘Follows her everywhere. One minute he’s on Nobiles’ Rise, the next he’s darting over to the traders district, or into the Chandlers Quartiere, wherever the harlot does her business. But I’ve not seen anything of the Estrattore. He’s forgotten about her, if you ask me.’ He reached for his wooden mug.

Stefano’s hand shot out and he grabbed Santo’s, preventing him from having his drink. ‘You’ve had enough vino.’ He lifted the mug out of reach, and studied his partner. Instead of searching for the Estrattore, or keeping an eye on Dante, Santo had been spending his waking hours in this small taverna in the Stonemasons Quartiere, drinking the Elders’ soldi. He was a mess. Everything Stefano feared had eventuated; all Santo’s promises, had been broken.

‘What’d you do tha’ for?’ Santo scratched his head, his arm flopping onto the table with a bang.

‘Look at you!’ snapped Stefano. ‘I haven’t heard from you in months and at great risk to myself, my life-force, I cross.’ He leant over. ‘I come here,’ he said, jabbing the table fiercely. ‘And what do I find? You, drunk and babbling about a courtesan. Look at the state of you. When was the last time you had a wash? You stink, Santo, worse than horse shit.’

Santo screwed up his face then his eyes sidled towards the mug Stefano had pushed out of reach. ‘Give me a drink and I’ll tell you.’ He began to laugh, looking around to see if any of the other patrons shared his joke, but they were too busy with their own conversations and paid no attention to the drunk in the corner, the man they’d become used to seeing day after day, propped against the wall.

Stefano clicked his tongue in disgust. He looked at Santo, the red eyes, the dirty hair and nails. His shirt was filthy, stained with dregs of vino and food, the collar and wrists soiled with sweat. He tried to control the anger he felt building inside him. Left alone, Santo had gone back to his old ways, the ways he’d always told Stefano he’d come into the Limen to escape.

Stefano drank the last of what was left in Santo’s mug and tried to think. If what Santo said was true, it didn’t make any sense. He couldn’t understand what was going on, what Katina and that new Rider, Dante, were up to. First, Katina’s taken back into the Limen by an old woman who Stefano initially thought must have been a renegade Bond Rider. The gods knew they were out there. Yet again, Katina had broken the laws and direct orders of her Elders. And secondly, the Rider she was supposedly bound to, in the most irrevocable of Bonds, was running amok, besotted with a courtesan, albeit one that had the entire city abuzz.

Months passed and nothing. Not a word from Santo. Elder Nicolotti had become impatient, demanding. Stefano had ignored his body’s warnings, and crossed to come to find Santo – discover for himself what was going on. What he found made him furious. He rested his head in his hands. How could he report this to Elder Nicolotti? After he’d reassured the Elder that Santo was reliable. That he could be trusted.

‘Come on, Stefano,’ cajoled Santo. ‘Buy us a drink and then let’s go find somewhere quiet. I haven’t seen you in so long.’ He picked up Stefano’s hand from the table and brought it to his mouth.

‘Keep your voice down!’ snapped Stefano, snatching his hand away as a couple of burly stonemasons at the next table glanced at them over their shoulders. ‘Are you trying to attract trouble?’

Santo slumped in his chair. His head lolled on his shoulders, a stupid grin was frozen on his face. ‘No, just you.’

Fury filled Stefano. He shoved back his chair. It fell over with a clatter. He grabbed Santo by the collar, dragging him upright.

‘Wha’ you doin’?’ asked Santo, trying to find his feet, but they kept slipping out from under him.

‘Getting you what you should have had weeks ago!’ Stefano gritted his teeth and pulled Santo across the floor towards the door. Sawdust clung to Santo’s clothes and he began to giggle.

Patrons nudged each other. Some stood and helpfully moved chairs out of the way to clear a path. A murmur began rising, changing into cheers as they watched Santo being hauled out the door and into the campo outside.

Fight, fight!
A chant started. As Stefano wrestled Santo onto the cobbles, men tumbled out of the taverna. Artisans sitting outside on stools with their chunks of stone before them abandoned their tools, wiped their dusty hands on their aprons and began to drift across the small square.

Stefano reached the well and dropped Santo beside it. Santo collapsed, his head striking the edge. He tried to rub it, but his arms wouldn’t cooperate. They were like rubber. He began to chuckle again, which only fired Stefano more. He lowered the bucket into the well and, when it was full, pulled it up, unhooked it and tipped it over Santo.

Santo jerked upright, spluttering and coughing, his eyes wide with shock. The men who circled them began laughing and clapping. Children ran out of doors, hovering at the edges of the impromptu ring, peering between legs and bodies to watch the spectacle.

Santo eyed them all through narrow slits, aware of leering faces, of laughter – all directed at him. A shadow cut off his vision. He stared at it, recognising the boots, the legs. His eyes rose and then another bucket of water was dumped on him.

He scrabbled to his feet. ‘Why, you bastardo!’ he shouted and swung a punch. Stefano easily stepped out of reach. The stonemasons and children laughed harder, some imitating him as Santo tried to hit Stefano, missing every time, his punches becoming wider. He swung so hard, he flung himself off his feet. Even Stefano guffawed.

‘You’ll have to do better than that.’

‘I’ll give you better!’ yelled Santo and charged him, taking him by surprise. They crashed into a wall, and Stefano had the breath knocked out of him. Santo punched him in the stomach a couple of times before Stefano recovered. This time, he did not hesitate. He hit Santo such force, he was flung off his feet and onto his back.

‘What a hit!’

‘A fine punch!’

Stefano became aware of money changing hands in the background. This was getting ridiculous. They weren’t supposed to draw attention. He had to put a stop to it now. Lifting Santo’s head, he slammed it into the cobbles.

There were groans of sympathy from the crowd, who waited to see if Santo would stir. He didn’t.

‘It’s over, folks,’ called Stefano, wiping his hands on his thighs. ‘Show’s finished.’

Disappointed, the men slowly drifted back into the
taverna, some coming to pat the victor on his back. The children crept over and stared at Santo, unconscious, wet hair plastered to his face, his forehead and nose bleeding, his cheek cut.

Stefano looked down and felt a wave of disappointment wash over him. ‘You weak fool,’ he hissed. He wondered what it was that had ever attracted him to Santo in the first place; how he could have ever believed he could rely on this peasant. The Limen did strange things to people.

Disgusted at himself as much as his partner, he clutched the back of Santo’s shirt and dragged him through the nearest ramo, one that led to a set of water-stairs. There, he pulled Santo onto the edge of the fondamenta and, using his handkerchief, began to clean him. He washed away the blood, the vino stains around the mouth and even untangled the knots in his unkempt beard. The smell of his breath made him retch.

A breeze had picked up, blowing dust and debris about the ground. A piece of paper blew against him, sticking to his ankles. He bent down to wrench it away when something caught his eye.

He picked it up and read it. His heart began to beat quickly. Once more, anger flared. He slapped Santo none too gently across the face.

‘Wake up,’ he called. ‘Santo, wake up. Have you seen this?’

He thrust the paper in his face.

Santo blinked a few times and groaned. ‘My head,’ he said.

Stefano shook the piece of paper. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this?’

Santo looked blankly at the paper with the picture and too many words. ‘So? What about it? You hit me.’

‘
So
? Is that all you can say –’ began Stefano, ready to slap Santo again. Sensing this, Santo covered his face. Stefano’s arm dropped. He shook his head.

‘You know I can’t read,’ whimpered Santo.

Stefano bit off the words of recrimination that flew into his mouth. Instead he gave a bitter sigh. ‘That’s right – you can’t, can you?’

‘What’s it say?’ asked Santo. Then he rolled towards the canal and vomited. Stefano watched as he emptied the contents of his stomach into the waters, listening to the awful sounds without one shred of sympathy. His mind was on fire.

Pale now, Santo leant back onto his elbow and slowly sat up. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He couldn’t meet Stefano’s eyes. His head was bowed, his shoulders drooped. ‘What is it? Read it to me, please,’ he asked in a small voice, his earlier bravado now floating away in the canal.

‘I don’t know why we didn’t think of it before.’ Stefano was staring at the paper like a man obsessed.

‘Think of what?’

‘Dante isn’t in love with a courtesan.’

‘No? Then why does he keep following her?’

Stefano glanced at Santo. His eyes were agate. ‘Because Signorina Dorata
is
the Estrattore. Signorina Dorata is Tallow.’

Santo gaped at him. ‘How did you come to that conclusion? Just because Dante follows her doesn’t mean –’

‘Think about it,’ snapped Stefano, poking the bit of paper with his finger. ‘The Cardinale is offering a massive reward for information about the Estrattore,
for a boy
! Look at the picture. You can understand a picture, can’t you?’ He thrust it into Santo’s face.

Santo blinked and made a show of studying the crude
image. He’d seen it a hundred times, so what? He shrugged. ‘It sort of looks like the boy we tried to snatch off the bridge. I told you, he’s nowhere to be found. Not even Dante can find him.’

Stefano resisted the urge to punch him in the head. Instead he continued.

‘That’s right,’ he said slowly, darkly. ‘No-one has, have they? Why? Because the Estrattore isn’t a boy at all. I know that,
you
know that, all the Bond Riders know that, including Dante. Dante, who followed a girl onto the bridge, who risked his life for a
girl
.’

Understanding dawned on Santo’s face. He glanced from the paper to Stefano and back again. ‘You think the courtesan is that girl. That it’s Tallow.’

‘It makes sense, doesn’t it? What was this courtesan’s name again?’

‘Signorina Dorata.’

‘No, you idioto. Not the name the popolani have given her – her real name.’ Stefano tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice. ‘Surely you’ve discovered that.’

‘Err …’ Santo slapped his forehead. ‘Let me think … Taylo, Tarlo, something like that.’ Santo stopped.

Stefano just stared at him.

‘Right beneath our noses all this time,’ said Santo incredulously. He noted the look on Stefano’s face and struggled to sit upright.

‘Right beneath
your
nose, you mean. When it wasn’t in a mug of vino.’

Santo paused and his pasty face flooded with colour. ‘Don’t try to blame me.’

‘Well, who else, you fool? You could have worked this out. You’re the one who’s been here all this time, all these months. You said yourself you saw Signorina Dorata – and apart from Dante and Katina, you’re the only one to have a
close encounter with Tallow.’ Stefano gave in to his desire, and cuffed him across the ears. Santo groaned. ‘But instead of using your head, you fill it with vino and don’t use it at all. You didn’t need to be able to read or write to work this out, you stupid, illiterate bastardo – you just needed to use the eyes and ears the gods gave you.’

Santo frowned and folded his arms. ‘How was I supposed to make that kind of connection, huh? Signorina Dorata looks nothing like that.’ He slapped the paper that Stefano still held. It was torn out of his fingers and fluttered to the ground.

‘You should have seen this, Santo. Don’t make pathetic excuses. Yet again, you caved into your weakness, the way you always do when you come back here. I’m just surprised you didn’t have a woman in your bed as well.’ Santo cringed at the tone in Stefano’s voice.

‘I wouldn’t do that,’ he mumbled, eyes downcast. ‘Not any more.’

‘No? Why not? You’ve done everything else you promised you’d never do again.’ Stefano stood up.

Santo was about to argue when his shoulders slumped. He waited a moment. ‘You’re right. Mi dispiace, Stefano. I promise, it won’t happen again. I know what to do now, all right? Just tell me what you want me to do to make up for this. What do
we
do?’

Stefano looked down on his partner, at the state of his clothes, of his puffy face, streaked with sawdust, dirt and worse. He felt nothing but contempt. ‘
We
don’t do anything.
You
don’t do anything. I’ll go back and report to Elder Nicolotti and return shortly with new instructions you can meet
me
at the Pledge Stone in a few days.’ He bent down and picked up the paper, folding it and putting it in the pocket of his shirt. ‘Actually, there is something you can do. Sober up, Santo, because, by the time I return, if you’re not ready
to join me, I’ll do this on my own. I won’t rescue you from yourself again.’

Without another word, Stefano turned and walked away, disappearing around a corner.