Votive (46 page)

E
ZZELINO
M
ALEOVELLI COULD BARELY CONTAIN HIMSELF
. He felt as giddy as a ragazzo when he first dons a togati and realises he’s a man. The Council had voted – a secret ballot collected by the most trusted of the capi’s servants. Those votes had been counted and the Council of Ten was summoned. Never before had a gondola ride seemed so long.

Entering the chamber, Ezzelino worked hard to maintain an outward appearance of calm, if not measured indifference. Still, the knowing nods he received from Moronisini, Manin and even Nicolotti went a long way to assuring him that what was about to be announced was a mere formality only. His time had come.

Waiting until the three capi had taken their seats, he slid into his, resting his cane against the shining table that had been carved from a single trunk. The swirls and knots in the wood gleamed beneath the candles, which were themselves held aloft by a dozen gilt candleholders placed along the table at intervals. Beautiful glass ornaments and jewelled goblets sat atop an ornate lace runner, broken only by enormous golden bowls of ripe fruit and brimming decanters from which a servant poured vino. The walls were a series of dark panels, occasionally broken by a painting commemorating the Council’s and capi’s past, their faces
interchangeable miens of sagging cheeks and hooded eyes behind which glowed state secrets. Shelf after shelf of files lined one wall, documents accrued by the Signori di Notte and which held, not only the financial details of every nobile in
The Golden Book
over the centuries, but information many a family would pay vast sums of soldi to ensure never left this room. Ezzelino sighed. All this would be his soon. He plucked at his shirtsleeves, buried as they were beneath the scarlet robe of his office. Anticipation made his heart beat quickly. Colour, which didn’t come only from the heat of the room or the vino he swiftly swallowed, flushed his cheeks. He breathed deeply, his head bowed, his eyes barely open.

Ezzelino knew that what they were doing was very dangerous. Still, it had been done before. Every time a family line ended, the Council of Ten had stepped forward to represent the interests of their choice for the next Doge, ensured that bribes were given, promises exhorted. The smooth running and status of Serenissima depended on it. It was a pity that poisoning had been outlawed. Ever since an ancient Council banned the use of poisons – evidence of it being used effectively disqualifying members of a casa from ever holding office – the practice had ceased.

Rumours were that the Estrattore had been behind that ban. They’d grown weary of extracting toxic substances from members of the Doge’s family. Ezzelino chuckled inwardly. Well, there was more than one way to bring down a Doge – and a respected casa too. He studied the candle before him. Flickering gaily, it gave off a soft light, such a sweet scent. Who would ever suspect that something so common could be so deadly? A poison by any other name.

As the Council took their seats, murmuring quietly, drinking, breaking open a piece of fruit, exchanging nods, the Cardinale entered. Bowing to the Council, he too sat down, and in the chair opposite Ezzelino. He tipped his
head towards him. Ezzelino curled his lips and nodded in greeting. In this chamber, not even the Cardinale received special privileges, or the acknowledgement due to his exalted rank. In here, he was subordinate to the Council’s whim. Outside was a different matter; hence they needed his support, his approval of what they were about to do.

‘Signori,’ began Signor Nicolotti, rising to his feet. ‘It’s time to reveal your preferences, who we will support as Doge once Dandolo passes from this world. With all that has happened to his family, his health is not what it was. It’s important that we start to sow the seeds for the next casa, the next man to hold the highest seat in the land, capite? You all understand?’

There were murmurs, nods of agreement.

Signor Nicolotti took a long drink of his vino. Ezzelino resisted the urge to down his. He wanted a clear head.

‘Molto bene, Carlo,’ said Signor Nicolotti sharply, snapping his fingers. The servant behind him stepped forward and placed a folded piece of paper in his hand. ‘Before I reveal the outcome of this vote, I want us all to swear that we will do our utmost to support the person named herein: that we use our vast private resources to help him to power and ensure that Serenissima remains stable, strong and a nation to be reckoned with. Remember, Signori, war is brewing. We must be ready – united we are formidable; fractured, someone else will pick up the pieces.’

Everyone made noises of agreement.

‘We also know that the person named here has the support of Roma. Is this not so, your grace?’

‘It is,’ said the Cardinale. His eyes glinted. Ezzelino felt a mixture of elation and fear. He would make sure to work closely with this man and then, when the time was right, bring him to his knees.

Signor Nicolotti cleared his throat and opened the paper. His eyes dropped to the name and widened. Colour filled his cheeks. He gazed at the men around him.

Ezzelino leant forward eagerly.

‘The next Doge will be … Signor Tomasi Moronisini.’

There were gasps. Moronisini’s mouth dropped open before he remembered where he was and whom he was among. He drew back his shoulders and stuck out his chest, a wave of red flooding his jowls. He stood up slowly, accepting slaps on the back and arms from those nearest to him.

At first Ezzelino did not hear what he was saying, so great was the deafening noise in his ears. What had happened? How had this gone wrong?
Moronisini
? The fool he’d manipulated into handing over almost half his wealth? The idioto who entered into whatever colleganza the Maleovellis proposed? This buffoon was to be the new Doge?

As Moronisini gave a speech about the honour he felt, how humbled he was and what he would do for Serenissima, Ezzelino studied the other Council members beneath his lashes. Why, Errizo had all but promised to vote for him, and likewise Manin; even Nicolotti had hinted that it was all but certain – a foregone conclusion. But he had not been at the dinner the other night. He had cancelled at the last minute, a fever. He looked well enough now.

Ezzelino caught him watching his reaction and saw the smirk that twisted his lips. Fury almost lifted him out of his seat. He clenched and unclenched his hands. What about the Cardinale? Could he have swung the vote? The Cardinale sat back in his chair, a hand carelessly draped on the table, the other resting against his cross. He appeared to be hanging on Moronisini’s every word, but Ezzelino saw his eyes flicker to catch everyone’s response. He steeled his features. Cardinale Martino’s eyes lingered on him for a moment, and he arched a fine brow. Ezzelino nodded and
smiled and the Cardinale looked away. Yes. There was no doubt. The Cardinale had played an important role in this outcome. He chewed the inside of his mouth. He still didn’t dare burn Tarlo’s candles around him – that was inviting too much danger.

But of all the men here, six had come to his casa, his table. Six had breathed the fumes, inhaled the power of the Estrattore. With his vote, that meant seven against four. The position should have been his! It should be him standing there now, receiving congratulations, thanking the Council, basking in the glow of their confidence, their trust, revelling in the power that all too soon would be Moronisini’s. Now it had been snatched away.

Still, he thought, all was not lost. There was another move left – another option available to him: Lord Waterford. He recalled Waterford’s voice: ‘You could name your price.’ All he wanted, all Farrowfare wanted, was the Estrattore.

His price: Moronisini’s head on a platter, the Cardinale’s beside it, and the corno ducale firmly on his own head.

Suddenly Ezzelino didn’t feel quite so bad. Suddenly the future again looked bright. Serenissima, his city, the country he loved above everything had betrayed him. He’d bled for this country, lost and won a fortune, and now it turned his back on him when he was in a position to save it. Well, he still would. But he would make it pay first. He would make them all pay, and if it meant using a foreign power to exact his revenge, so be it.

With a start he realised the speeches were over and the Council was breaking up for the night. Hands were being shaken, backs patted. The fools looked pleased with themselves.

‘Maleovelli, amico.’ Moronisini gripped his forearm. ‘Grazie mille, grazie mille. Without your support, your faith in my enterprises, I doubt the others would have seen
what I can do, how I can unite our country and stave off this war.’

Ezzelino tried not to let shock register on his face. He squeezed Signor Moronisini’s arm in return. ‘You deserve everything, amico mio. What you have now, and what’s to come. Trust me.’ He looked Signor Moronisini in the eye.

Signor Moronisini’s fat face carved into a smile. ‘I do, Maleovelli. I do. That’s why I am where I am now.’ He kissed Ezzelino warmly on both cheeks and then moved to receive tributes from the others.

Ezzelino was momentarily stunned. Then he began to laugh.

‘What’s so funny, Signor Maleovelli?’ asked the Cardinale, breaking away from a conversation with Signor Nicolotti, who was talking fast and low to him.

‘Nothing, your grace. I just think these are good times to be alive.’

‘You think so? What, with an Estrattore on the loose and a foreign power breathing down our necks, threatening our trade, our allies and colonies? You have a strange view on life, Signor Maleovelli.’

‘No, your grace, I have faith.’

The Cardinale stared at him intently. ‘Then God be with you.’

‘And also with you,’ answered Ezzelino automatically and, taking leave of the capi, left the chamber.

It wasn’t until he was tucked into the felze with an ermine-lined blanket wrapped around his legs that he replayed the events.

He was still puzzled by how the vote had gone against him. He’d all but taken their promises, empty as it now turned out. What had gone wrong? Then he thought of the candles. For months now, he’d trusted Tarlo to do what he told her. To infuse the candles with what he needed
to ensure his climb to power. And she’d obeyed. She’d even done a bit of manipulating on her own. He hadn’t cared; grief-stricken nobiles meant vulnerable ones. It had contributed to his cause in the end. He even admired her newfound ruthlessness. But had he grown careless? After all, he didn’t know for sure if the candles worked until afterwards … He’d always taken Tarlo’s word for it and, to this point, she had not given him a single reason to doubt her.

Rage clenched his stomach as understanding dawned on him. There was only one person responsible for the outcome tonight. One person who manipulated the result. The Estrattore.

The little bitch had disobeyed him. It was her fault he hadn’t got the vote. ‘Puttana!’ he hissed. He warned her – months ago; he and Giaconda warned her what would happen if she broke the rules, if she thwarted their commands, their desires.

He banged on the ceiling of the felze. ‘Faster, Salzi, faster.’

He began to plan how he could undo what had just happened. First he would get a message to Waterford, then he would think about what to do with Tarlo. Giaconda’s fears were founded after all. Tarlo was more dangerous than he realised. He would not make that lapse in judgement again. At some time over the last few months, she’d stopped being afraid of him. Well, she would soon learn the meaning of fear – and what it meant to double-cross the Maleovellis.

Snuggling back into the rug, he began to smile. The future really did seem bright after all.

‘C
APTAIN
S
ANSONO
! W
AIT,
’ cried a familiar voice. Exiting the basilica after taking confession, Captain Sansono paused at the font, the holy water still dripping from the ends of his fingers. Almost running towards him from under the south dome was Cardinale Martino. Heads turned at the spectacle the Cardinale made with his red togati flapping around his legs, his huge cross swaying across his chest and his hand clutching his cap to his skull.

In the few moments it took the Cardinale to reach him, Captain Sansono slipped on his gloves and tied his cape under his neck. A servant passed him his sword. By the time it was back in his scabbard, the Cardinale was at his side.

‘Walk with me,’ said the Cardinale, not even out of breath.

‘Your grace,’ said Sansono, puzzled as to why the Cardinale was seeking him out. He’d presented his last report only yesterday and they’d discussed it at some length. Sansono and the Signori di Notte had been very busy. Along with some of the Doge’s best decoders, they’d been translating correspondence between the Ottomans and the Jinoans, intercepted by spies in Roma only a few days earlier. War was brewing, but all the Cardinale seemed to focus on was the fact they’d still not found the Estrattore. Sansono assumed the Cardinale would ease back on the search and concentrate on the threat the heathens – never mind the Jinoans and Kyprians – posed, but he’d been wrong. The Cardinale had insisted on recruiting more men to question the popolani and even infiltrate the various scuola in the Dorsoduro Sestiere. Sansono thought it a waste of time and resources, but he didn’t argue. No-one could argue with the Cardinale. The last man who tried disappeared less than twenty-four hours later and hadn’t been seen since.