Votive (44 page)

‘No. We haven’t, have we? So, we will find out. Together, gentlemen, we will learn if our strategy has a chance, if my power is great enough to do what no monarch has ever done before.’

The men shared looks. Doubt was written all over their faces. ‘There’ll be losses –’ Sir Kay shifted in his seat.

‘Enough!’ said Zaralina sharply. ‘I have had enough. You will follow my orders. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Agreement came from around the table.

‘Good.’ Zaralina sighed. ‘Leave me, gentlemen! Now.’

The men jumped to their feet, eager to be out of her sight.

‘Oh, all except you, Lord Rodbury – and Farwarn, you had better stay too. I want us to send a letter to the Sultan. I will get you to help me draft it. The rest of you, be gone.’

They scurried away, leaving her with Rodbury and Farwarn. The earl sank back into his chair wearily. Behind him, Zaralina could just see Shazet. He bowed in her direction and faded away again. But not before she’d seen the delighted grin that twisted his long features. She would speak with him later. There was another order she
wished to issue and which only a Morte Whisperer could carry out.

It was time to bring the Estrattore home.

T
ALLOW AND
B
AROQUE HAD BEEN
tucked away in the workshop for some hours, working quietly side by side, Baroque pouring and mixing while Tallow extracted what she wanted and distilled into some candles. After she’d finished, she didn’t leave. Instead, she began to organise the little bottles of potions into some sort of order that only she understood. Baroque watched her placing them back on the shelves, clear fluids next to milky ones; granules next to oils of bright colours. He didn’t know what half of them signified anymore. He didn’t want to either. He noted how Tallow’s thick black hair tumbled out of its pins and fell down her back. Her old blue gown was beginning to pull across her shoulders. Every day brought a change to her. Physically, she was filling out, a picture of health. But it was what was happening to her inside that worried him. A darkness had filled the Estrattore that, no matter what he did, what objects he brought for her to study or stories he told, would not disappear.

Outside, the light was fading quickly and he knew it wouldn’t be too long before she was forced to go and prepare for whatever assignation she had tonight. He summoned the courage to do what he felt he must.

Tossing the towel he was using to dry the pestle and mortar he’d just washed over his shoulder, he went to the
door. Making sure no-one was loitering in the courtyard, he shut it firmly.

Tallow turned when she heard the click. ‘What is it?’ she asked, lowering her arms and wiping them on the apron. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ she asked defensively.

‘We need to talk.’ Without waiting for her to reply, Baroque sat down on one of the stools, his back to the grimy window. Not even with all the spare help in the casa would the Maleovellis allow anyone else to come near the workshop.

Tallow arched an eyebrow at Baroque and then resumed what she was doing. ‘I don’t want to.’

‘Too bad.’

Tallow put her hands on her hips and spun towards Baroque. ‘What?’

When he didn’t respond immediately, she ran her fingers through her hair irritably, folded her arms and waited.

Baroque sighed.

‘Tarlo, I’ve been hearing some disturbing things.’ He glanced down at his hands. Now that he’d started, he didn’t know how to go on.

‘Such as?’ she prompted, tipping her head.

‘Talk.’

‘Uh huh. So? Since when do Serenissians
not
talk?’

‘Well, there’s been a spate of strange things – tragedies, really – going on with some of the nobile families. People are beginning to gossip in ways that make me very uneasy. In the tavernas of an evening, there’s little else that passes for conversation these days.’

Tallow began to laugh. ‘Of course there have been peculiar happenings. You know better than anyone what the Maleovellis get me to do!’

Baroque met her eyes. ‘What I am hearing has nothing to do with what the Maleovellis ask of you.’

Tallow’s eyelids fluttered, but she didn’t look away. ‘So? What have they got to do with me, then?’

‘Well,’ said Baroque carefully. ‘I was hoping you could tell me that.’ He gestured to the stool on the other side of the bench. ‘You might want to sit down.’ She did as he suggested, her eyes never leaving his face.

‘What have you heard?’

‘Well,’ he began, ‘a great deal lately, and it doesn’t add up, not unless one considers what you really are.’

‘Go on,’ said Tallow steadily.

‘First there’s the death of the young nobile, Rambaldo Errizo of the Second Casa of Nobiles’ Rise. It was assumed he was drunk and fell in the canal. Only, he’s not a big drinker. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Accidents happen.

‘Then, there’s the recent suicide pact between Signori Rizzo Manin and his cousin, Bezio Castellini. Young men who had everything to live for – why, Signor Manin was set to make a very advantageous marriage into Casa Maggiore. Bezio, well, the word is that he was handsome, carefree and had a great future. He was considered quite the poet.’

Baroque watched Tallow carefully. She stared at him defiantly. Her cheeks grew pink and her eyes darkened. Swallowing hard, he continued.

‘The one that really baffles me, though, is Venerio Nicolotti. While he was the youngest son, they’re a very wealthy family. Yet Venerio goes and joins the priesthood in Roma. Even the Cardinale has expressed his astonishment. The young man had never shown any interest in taking the cloth, let alone the Church, and suddenly –’ Baroque snapped his fingers ‘– he ups and disappears. At first the family thought he’d gone the way of his friends, but a letter from Roma arrived a week ago explaining everything.’

Tallow gave a dry laugh. ‘Why should I care about these nobiles? What are you accusing me of, Baroque? It’s not
good enough that I’m an Estrattore? How ridiculous.’ She laughed harshly. ‘I don’t know why you’re telling me this, Baroque. I really don’t.’

‘Don’t you?’ He eased himself off the stool and leant over the counter. ‘Doesn’t the fact that these are the same four men that dined with you and Giacomo Moronisini the first night you officially became a courtesan, worry you?’

Her eyes slid from his face. ‘No, why should it?’

‘Tarlo. If I’ve worked it out, then surely you realise others will have. The Maleovellis must know. But then, why would they care? You’ve also rid them of potential problems – diminished the casas with which they see themselves in competition by eliminating their scions. They would be delighted. I am surprised they haven’t showered you with more gifts, with more dresses, jewels and such.’ He gestured towards her. He was surprised at the bitterness in his voice. ‘But the thing is, if I have been able to piece this together, then Giacomo Moronisini will eventually too. He’s no fool, despite what you or the Maleovellis might think.’

‘Oh, I don’t think he’s a fool.’

There was a flash of something in Tallow’s eyes. Baroque caught his breath. ‘By God! You want him to figure this out.’

Tallow didn’t answer.

‘Why? What if he goes to the Cardinale? Even if he doesn’t figure out you’re an Estrattore, even if he suspects the Maleovellis are behind it – oh.’ His mouth dropped. ‘I am obtuse. That’s what you want him to think. You don’t care if he knows it’s you or the Maleovellis. He will be afraid. Afraid of when death, or something worse, will strike him. His life will be eaten up by fear.’ He smacked the heel of his palm against his forehead. ‘Of course. This is revenge. The revenge you always said was yours to take.’ He gave a deep sigh, one that came from the depths of his being.
‘Tarlo, please, tell me what happened. What did they do to you that you felt this was the only solution? That you, of all people, would willingly murder let alone induce such suffering.’ His voice was gentle.

He reached out his hand and waited. He saw a flicker in her eyes.

Tallow glanced down at the peeling, red skin, a landscape of veins and spots. The long, astonishingly delicate fingers trembled slightly, matching the quake on Baroque’s lips.

‘Tallow, Estrattore feel deeply – more than human beings. But they used to be trained to manage these intense feelings, to moderate not only the emotions of others, but their own as well. You’ve not been taught this. You swing from one extreme to the other. You feel deeply or not at all. You cannot do this to yourself. You must not.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Let me help you, please …’ The wall she’d erected between them began to waver. Baroque sensed it. Her hand dropped and crawled across the bench. It too shook.

She was just about to place it in Baroque’s when she halted then snatched it away. ‘I can’t,’ she said, her face a mask of coldness once more.

‘You can.’

‘No, you don’t understand. I cannot let you help, I will not. It doesn’t matter anyhow. It can’t change anything. I am what I am and that is it. I have been forged in different fires from my kind – with good reason. The past is nothing anymore. I do not dwell on it. I think only about tomorrow.’

Baroque sighed. He’d come so close. But he had another plan, another way to get to her. Break her resolve, this brittle hardness. ‘All right, then I have a proposition for you.’

Tallow tilted her head and looked at him curiously. ‘What?’

‘How about tomorrow, we take the gondola and go to the Candlemakers Quartiere. If you’re really serious about looking only to tomorrow, then we have to lay yesterday to rest completely, sì?’

Tallow scoffed. ‘I don’t want to. I don’t
need
to.’ She slid off the stool and busied herself at the shelves. ‘Anyhow, it’s silly. It’s dangerous.’

Baroque shrugged. ‘When has that ever stopped you?’

Tallow gave a small smile. ‘You’re trying to persuade me using very poor tactics, Baroque. You’re so easy to read – and that’s without using any of my talents. Appeal to my sense of adventure. Convince me I’m a hero. I am no hero and I no longer seek adventure. I want only an end to all of this.’ She undid her apron and flung it over the hook. She regarded Baroque. ‘You want to take me back to where I grew up in the hope that I’ll think you’re my friend, that I’ll have regrets and feel ashamed and sorry and confess everything to you. It won’t work, you know. But that’s not really what it’s about, is it? You’re not offering this for me. This is to make
you
feel better. Better about your role in what it is I have done. What it is I do.’

Baroque opened his mouth to protest then shut it again. He wanted to deny her, but there was truth in her words. Painful truth. Only it was not himself that he was worried about.

‘I can’t fool you, can I?’ he said stiffly. ‘But Tarlo, trust me when I tell you, this isn’t just about me. You need to go back. It will help you move forward – perhaps in the right direction.’

‘Right? What does that even mean anymore? There’s no such thing.’ She gave a bark of laughter, then thought for a moment. ‘If I do this, will you promise not to “talk” to me anymore?’

Baroque hesitated then nodded. ‘All right. I promise. Do this and there’ll be no more lectures.’

‘Very well, then,’ she said. ‘I’ll go back to the Candlemakers Quartiere. Tomorrow.’ Before he could say another word, she swooped past him. It was all Baroque could do not to cheer.

‘But,’ she said, just inches from him as she gripped the door handle. ‘I will not confess anything to you, Baroque. I will not tell you my secrets. I will not share with anyone what resides in here.’ She rested her other hand over her heart. ‘How can I, when it’s empty?’

The smile left his face.

She opened the door. ‘Someone once told me not to trust anyone. I listened to him. Turns out, it was good advice. It makes everything so much easier.’

She disappeared. He heard her heels clattering up the stairs.

Filled with sadness, he climbed off the stool and, in lonely silence, finished cleaning.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
, I
AWOKE EARLIER
than usual. The evening had been spent entertaining a wealthy merchant named Signor Mario Visconti who, by the time I left his casa, had arranged to meet with Signor Maleovelli to discuss a partnership in the slave trade.

It had been a while since I had arisen before the sun was over the horizon, and I returned to my old habits, climbing out of bed and throwing back the shutters. It was cool outside. Pigeons nestling in the eaves of the roof opposite were all snuggled in their scrappy nests, gently cooing and shuffling their feathers. When I looked down, I could see the faint outline of schools of tiny fish, just beneath the surface of the water, fleeting shadows that darted first one way, then the other. I rested my chin on the crook of my arm and thought that was how I had felt once – compelled to change course. No longer. I knew where I was headed, what I was doing, despite what Baroque thought. And today, that was going back to the Candlemakers Quartiere, back to my old home.

My heart fluttered. I was surprised and a little annoyed. I had trained myself not to feel excitement anymore, not to let anything ruffle my inner calm. And yet, the mere thought of strolling the fondamenta, of seeing Quinn’s shop and encountering the people who represented my
past the way shadows occupy corners, filled me with trepidation and, I admit, longing. Perhaps Baroque was right. This was what I really needed in order to be able to embrace my future.

I moved away from the window and, using the water left over from my evening wash, cleaned and dressed without Hafeza’s help. She would be cross with me in the way she’d adopted – more playful than serious. I found, like many things about Hafeza, it annoyed me. I’d actually asked Giaconda if I could have a different maid, but she’d explained that this was impossible. The fewer who knew about me, the better. I still didn’t trust Hafeza. Though Giaconda left me very much to my own devices these days, I felt that she might as well be around while Hafeza was present. I wasn’t sure how, but I knew Hafeza reported my every move to her mistress. Well, today she wouldn’t be able to. Today I would slip out from under her watchful eyes and escape with Baroque.

Escape. The mere word gave me joy. I hadn’t realised I felt trapped.

I dressed quickly and, using some of my belladonna potion, attended to my eyes. I blinked and let the drops settle, accustomed now to the expansion of my pupil, to the slight sting. I brushed my hair and placed some pins in it, tucking the rest into my headpiece and attaching one of my day-masks: an understated, dusky creation. I pinched my cheeks and stared at my reflection. I forced my lips to turn so it appeared as if I smiled. There, I was ready to face the world.

Despite the early hour, the canals were busy as traffic to and from the markets passed by. Forgoing my golden costume, today I wore black. It blended with my cape and ensured I did not attract attention. I found I enjoyed the anonymity.

Baroque sat beside me, occasionally pointing out a building or explaining why a particular casa was having its stucco repaired. His appearance had also changed from the last time he was in the Candlemakers Quartiere. Gone was Barold Barbacan, the Jinoan businessman with his exotic ways and mouth full of gold teeth, to be replaced by a Serenissian intellectual. Dressed in a long togati, his face clean-shaven, his hair trimmed and tied, he would be recognised by no-one. Even his posture was different.

We turned off the Circolo and into a narrower canal that divided the Opera Quartiere and the University. Scholars strode along the fondamenta, their togati flapping around their ankles, books and scrolls tucked under their arms. I watched them, with their solemn distracted faces, their inner life richer than the lovely façades around them.

When we turned back onto the Circolo, it was mid-morning. The sun warmed my back in a pleasant way, the sky was a clear blue above me, the ripples of water that caressed the gondola as we sliced through its surface silver. The gondolier was new to the Maleovelli household. I wondered if he would still have his job when we returned. Baroque had neither sought permission nor told the Maleovellis what we were doing. We’d all pay for that. I didn’t care. What did it matter anymore? They could do nothing to me.

I raised my face and shut my eyes, enjoying the sun on the parts of my face that were exposed, the artificial sense of freedom. I opened them again and found spots before my eyes. I blinked a few times and when everything around me crystallised, we were facing the mainland. On the other side of the wide expanse of water, the forest spread, the dark green pines like rows of soldiers mustered for battle. Behind them, the Dolomites loomed, their snow-covered peaks majestic sentries. For just a second, I saw a glimmer
beyond them and knew what it signified. The Limen. My heart caught in my throat. Living on Nobiles’ Rise, it was easy to push the Limen and everything it meant to the back of my mind. To pretend that it didn’t exist: that, just like my past, it could be blocked out. But there it was, rising as far as the eye could see before melting into the atmosphere, a painful reminder of how much further I had yet to go, of the promise I had made to myself, to my people. It also made me think of Katina …

I glanced at Baroque. His eyes were fixed firmly on my face. He knew where my thoughts had taken me.

‘Are we almost there?’ My voice was harsher than I intended.

‘Sì. Not long now, Signorina,’ he said. He turned to regard the mainland. I wondered briefly what he was thinking.

I deliberately focused on the fondamenta, twisting so my back was to the verdant scene on the other side of the canal. Instead, I watched the women in their coarse dresses, baskets over their arms, children pulling at their aprons as they attended to their tasks. Shopkeepers stood outside their businesses, talking, calling for customers. Cats weaved their way around their legs, while gondolas unloaded their wares onto the cobbles. It was all so familiar and yet, in just a short amount of time, so strange as well.

I saw it then. The spire that marked the main basilica and overlooked the buildings I knew and had grown to love. The narrow frontage, the way the casas leant into each other like derelict, drunken friends. We had reached the Chandlers Quartiere. We were so close that I could see the badge denoting the scuola of the men who trotted over the bridges.

For the first time in a long while, thoughts of Dante returned. The pain was not as great as I feared. But it was still there. Pain and deep, desperate longing. I looked beyond
the popolani, hoping to catch a glimpse of Zia Gaia or any of the Macelleria family in the futile way that those who need reassurance or wish to assuage a long-held guilt do. I wanted some kind of signal they were all right. I’d tossed them aside with my old self. While I knew it was something I had to do for their sake as much as mine, returning to this place made me wonder, for just a brief moment, if I’d done the right thing.

I became aware I was chewing my lip and my hands were strangling each other in my lap. I took a deep breath and forced them still.

I was not prepared for the effect seeing my old home would have on me. There it was. So ordinary. So neglected. The windows were empty eyes that looked at me dolefully, but without accusation. I stared up at it as we glided by.

‘Wait!’ I said as we neared the Ponticello di Mille Pietre – a place I’d never wanted to see again but realised now, that like its name, it was the rock upon which I needed to ground myself. ‘Can we stop? Please, Baroque. I would like to walk.’

Baroque stared at me. ‘Certo.’ He gave the order to the gondolier who, with practised ease, brought us level with the water-stairs at the base of the bridge. He tied the gondola to the paline.

‘Here,’ said Baroque, reaching in his purse and handing over a ducat. ‘Find us some breakfast. We won’t be long.’

The gondolier tipped his hat and, after assisting us from the craft, strolled down the fondamenta, away from us. He stopped for directions from a young child. I recognised little Sophie, the cobbler Enzo’s daughter. Because of me, she’d survived the Morto Assiderato. She pointed down a nearby ramo. The gondolier bowed and followed her finger. She giggled and skipped towards us. I froze. What if she recognised me?

She took one glance at us and skidded to a halt. She dropped a clumsy curtsy. ‘Signor, Signorina,’ she said, her mouth falling open as she gazed up and down at us. I had removed my cape during the trip and my gown, while dark and faded, was sewn with jewels and had slashed, full sleeves.

Both Baroque and I bowed our heads. My throat was tight with tension; my eyes mere slits behind my mask.

Sophie broke into a huge smile and raced off. ‘Mamma, mamma!’ she cried. ‘I’ve seen a princess!’

I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing.

‘Well, that’s a sound I haven’t heard for a long, long time,’ said Baroque. He smiled at me kindly.

I thought for a moment. ‘Vero. It’s been a while.’ I took his proffered arm, looping it through mine and, turning our backs on the bridge, we strolled along the fondamenta.

I was aware of eyes upon us. From the windows, from the darkened shelter of doorways. One or two nodded to us. I knew them all: Carlita, Enzo’s wife and Sophie’s mother, who stepped out of her shop and also curtsied. There was Fabrizio, another candlemaker; Guiseppi, the fruiterer; and Francesca’s husband came past us, dragging a cart. He tipped his hat and muttered, ‘Buon giorno.’ I felt him looking over his shoulder, not because he recognised me, but because strangers in the quartiere were always noted. They were the subject of conversations for days afterwards. I knew that Baroque and I would entertain many a group in the taverna, many a family tonight.

Finally, we paused outside Quinn’s shop and Pillar’s workshop. It was only when Baroque placed his hand over mine that I realised I was trembling.

‘He’s really gone, hasn’t he?’ I said, looking around, resisting the urge to touch, to draw, to learn, to feel.

Baroque nodded. ‘From here. Sì.’ He cleared his throat.

I took in the peeling paint, the cobwebs that festooned the entrance. Debris had blown onto the doorstep and gathered in the corner. Quinn would have had me sweeping that away, scrubbing the wood until it gleamed.

‘Do you want to go in?’

‘Inside?’ Panic flared in my chest. ‘We can’t –’

Baroque glanced around. Apart from a young boy scaling a fish, the fondamenta was relatively quiet. He reached over and did something with the lock. The door swung open, the creak it made echoing around the empty room. I hesitated for only a second and then stepped inside.

Memories crowded my head. Anger, harsh words, fear, blood. I shut my eyes and took a deep breath. The musty smell of age, damp and disregard filled my nostrils. I opened my eyes again and walked to the counter. I removed my glove and ran my finger through the thick dust. I stood outside the door to the workshop. Composing myself, I twisted the handle and let the door swing open. It creaked loudly before stilling.

I didn’t step inside, I just looked. The vats were cold, the fireplace a dark, barren space. The worktops were scattered with broaches and yards of wick rolled into tight circles. I saw remnants of candles, half-melted stumps, broken votive glasses, pillar moulds, just sitting there, abandoned. While I could recall the lessons, the burns, the triumph of mixing and pouring my early batches, of rolling the wax, straining the impurities, it seemed so pointless now. Even my lessons with Katina, those gentle explorations into the essence of objects, of extracting and distilling, no longer seemed relevant. Not when all I had focused on was kindness and beauty. Oh yes, Katina had warned me that life was not all sweetness and light. Little had I known back then how well I would learn that lesson. I recalled Cane and Dante, crushed beneath a Bond Rider’s horse. Hardly any of what she’d
given me, what she’d imparted in our brief time together, apart from the basic skills, was meaningful to me. Not in the life I had now.

Even her order that I must not kill I’d ignored. And why shouldn’t I? Death was not her decision alone nor God’s. Not when I could so easily remove those who didn’t deserve to live. Even while I had these thoughts, others spun in my head: Katina’s warmth, her conversations about her childhood, about Estrattore. She’d always made them sound so good, so noble in their intentions. That was what she wanted from me. I hadn’t listened. I’d done terrible, unforgivable things, felt and responded to extreme emotions, as Baroque had accused. What a disappointment I would be to her.

Standing here, I could recapture those moments with her and Pillar. And yet, as I did, I found I wanted to let them go.

I felt time contract and then expand out into some endless void. How long had I been gone? Was it really more than a year? Looking over the ruins of my former life, it seemed like centuries. I sighed and closed the door.

‘Have you seen enough?’ asked Baroque. He had wiped a space on the counter and was leaning on it. I sensed his agitation, his nervousness. He’d brought me here, manipulated me into coming. He could wait.

‘There is one more place I want to go.’ I pointed upstairs. ‘Wait here, please.’ This was something I needed to do alone.

I slowly ascended, my heels clattering on the stairs. I paused beside the kitchen. It looked so … ordinary. So dirty and poor. And yet I had called this place home for the greater part of my life. Now it felt as remote to me as the distant Dolomites. I took in the blackened grate and pots, the chipped porcelain plates and wooden trenchers that lay on the table. What astonished me was
that food had been left upon them and had rotted into hardened green lumps. Not even flies feasted on those remnants. Wherever Pillar had gone, he’d left in a hurry. His coat still hung from the hook. What had made him leave so quickly? I knew from Baroque that the Signori di Notte and the Cardinale had been through this area. God knows, Renzo had paid the price of harbouring me, but Pillar seemed to have escaped. I was relieved. For all that thoughts of him still hurt, I was glad he was safe. I wouldn’t have wanted him to be any other way. I touched the table in the hope of extracting something of his fate. Quinn’s face rose in my mind, and the lacerating power of her words, the agony of her beatings, almost reduced me to tears. I snatched my hand away. Pillar’s fate would remain a mystery.