Votive (49 page)

I
T TOOK
B
AROQUE A MOMENT TO REALISE
what had woken him. He lay there, trying to make sense of the muffled voices, the cry. He sat up. Moonlight streamed into his windowless bedroom from the workshop. Throwing his coat over his nightshirt, he stumbled out into the main room, colliding with the table as he tried to wake. What was happening?

He wandered out to the well and lowered the bucket. The sounds weren’t so apparent out here. He pulled the rope and splashed some water on his face, scooped handfuls of the icy-cold liquid into his mouth. He shouldn’t have had the extra vino, but the waitress at the taverna had been very attentive and she had a nice smile.

He heard a door slam and quickly ducked down behind the well. Someone was on the pianterreno – the ground floor. He could hear voices. What where they up to this time of night? Bending over, he scurried to the small window under the stairs and slowly raised himself. In the candlelight he saw Signor Maleovelli and Giaconda. They were followed by Jacopo, who held Tarlo tightly and, while she did not struggle, Baroque could see that she was distressed. Fury rose in him. What was happening?

Then it occurred to him.

Pillar! They’d taken her to see Pillar.

Merde
. He hadn’t expected this so soon.

He crept back to his room and flung on some clothes. He wormed his way into his hose, but didn’t put his shoes on. If he was to move around the casa without being heard, he didn’t want the creak of the leather to give him away.

Back out in the courtyard, he noted the moon was in the ascent. Its light was watery and thick clouds were about to cross its path. Good, the darker the better. He glanced up at the piano nobile. The candles in the corridor had been extinguished, another element in his favour.

Using the external staircase, he entered the piano nobile without a sound. Practice paid off. Making sure no-one was about, he crept up to where light spilled into the hallway from Signor Maleovelli’s study. Every time he passed an open door, he held his breath. If he was caught … But there were only sepulchral spaces and draughts to meet him.

When he reached Signor Maleovelli’s study, he lowered himself onto his haunches beside one of the ornamental chairs that dotted the corridor and manoeuvred as close to the door as he could. It was ajar, and from within the room the voices carried clearly.

‘You’ll have to watch her carefully, Gia. But I want you to keep a distance – make sure you have an alibi. If she’s caught, I don’t want you involved.’ A shadow crossed the doorway. Signor Maleovelli had moved to the fire. Baroque peered around the corner carefully. Giaconda sat in a chair, Jacopo was adding more wood to the grate and, as he’d surmised correctly, Signor Maleovelli had made his way to the mantelpiece.

‘Do you trust her, Papa?’

‘No,’ scoffed Signor Maleovelli. ‘But I think tonight we played a card she did not expect. She will not risk Pillar. You were right to suggest we take him into our … care, cara mia. It showed great foresight.’

‘She talked about him in her sleep, even through the drugs – him and the dead boy, Dante. Over and over, she called for them.’

‘And yet she hasn’t mentioned either since?’

‘Not to me.’

‘Jacopo?’

‘No. She does not talk to me unless she has to. Puttana,’ said Jacopo and moved away from the fire. He fell into one of the chairs. Baroque wished he could grind his fist into his face.

‘So, Papa, you’re happy to accept Lord Waterford’s offer?’

Baroque’s ears pricked up. He knew that Waterford had been at the casa earlier that evening and shared a private meal with the Maleovellis. Excluded, Tarlo had spent more time in the workshop with him.

‘Happy?’ Signor Maleovelli made a noise in his throat. ‘Sì and no,’ he said.

‘What are you displeased about? He is going to make you Doge once Dandolo dies –’

Baroque did not hear the next part as his brain whirled. Doge! The ambassador was supporting Maleovelli to be Doge? Why? It didn’t make sense. What did he have to gain? All too soon it was explained.

‘I am not happy with the price we have to pay for an honour that, by rights, should be mine anyway. We worked hard for this. All of us. We put ourselves at risk. What have Farrowfare done? Sat back and waited. They back me because they know I have won. If I give them what they want, what is of value to me as well, then my victory will not be the same.’ He sighed. ‘No, despite what we’ve promised Lord Waterford. The second rule of power is to never surrender your most potent weapon to your enemy.’

‘What’s the first?’ asked Jacopo.

‘Do not hand it to a friend either. You destroy it. I don’t think we’ll be handing Tarlo over to anyone.’

So, he would exchange Tarlo for the Dogeship. Baroque had been right about the ambassador. Waterford had known what Tarlo was for a long time – probably since that day he found him snooping outside the workshop. But how could he give Maleovelli the Dogeship? What was Farrowfare up to?

Baroque recalled the talk in the tavernas, the mutterings among the soldiers. The Ottomans were stirring, Konstantinople, one of Serenissima’s most lucrative and important allies, with a colony of Serenissians situated right in its heart, was under threat. Why would the Ottomans move against Serenissima when, for years, they had existed in beneficial peace? But if another foreign power was behind the Ottomans’ push into the Mariniquian Seas, then it all made sense. Baroque chewed his lip. What if Farrowfare was that power? Making friends in Serenissima while stirring her enemies in the colonies, and all the while seeking to disrupt the leadership in order to claim the Estrattore. This was deeper and darker than even he anticipated. Waterford and his people were playing an extremely dirty and dangerous game. And trapped in the middle was Tarlo. She was a valuable piece in this political contest. Too valuable, it seemed, for the Maleovellis to surrender.

‘Why not, Papa?’ asked Giaconda. ‘If she’s gone, then we cannot be held to account for anything she has done. It will be like getting rid of the evidence. No-one can accuse us without proof.’

‘Cara mia, use your head. According to Waterford, Farrowfare has already taken extraordinary steps against Serenissima. Without our government even being aware, or the Cardinale, they’ve made allies of the Jinoans, the Kyprians and the Kretans and managed to incite them against us. It’s
going to be hard enough to stop their combined might, and that’s before we consider the cursed Ottomans.’

Baroque chewed his lip. He was right.

‘But Beolin says that once we hand over Tarlo, all hostilities will cease.’

‘You really believe that, cara?’

‘I …’ Baroque could imagine her lovely face creased in thought. ‘I don’t know. No,’ she sighed. ‘It would not make sense. Not once the fury of our enemies is unleashed upon us. Why let us have the Dogeship when they can watch others destroy us and then take it for themselves?’

‘Esatto. With war, there is everything to gain – for the victors.’ Signor Maleovelli’s voice sounded distant, strained. ‘No, we cannot let these people take Tarlo. If they do, we win nothing. But for now we will let them believe they can have her.’

‘What do you intend to do?’

‘Once she has killed the Doge and I am in power, it will be time for Tarlo Maleovelli, the great Signorina Dorata, to disappear.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning she will meet an unfortunate end, won’t she, Jacopo?’

‘Sì, zio. Very unfortunate,’ agreed Jacopo.

‘Once Tarlo is out of the way, then we will expose Farrowfare for the traitor she is.’

Baroque’s breath caught in his chest. He reeled and rested his head against the wall, his hand over his heart. He could hear them talking, going over their plans, what they would say, how they would manage Waterford and Farrowfare, but he no longer listened. Instead he thought about Tallow and the great betrayal the Maleovellis intended.

He had to do something. He had to help her. But how?

He needed to think, and fast. An image of Katina flew into his mind. She had asked him to search for Tallow and he had broken his part of the bargain, justifying it by telling himself that Tallow no longer existed. Well, perhaps it was time to honour what he said he’d do. The Bond Rider had saved his life. If anyone could help, it would be her. Putting his thoughts in order, he planned his next course of action. He would go to his room, get some money, his cloak and his shoes and go to the Tailors Quartiere. This time, he would demand to see Katina and not leave until someone told him where she was, how he could contact her.

It was the least he could do. After all, he was responsible for what was happening to Tallow as well and, while he had been coerced and manipulated, he’d been prepared to sacrifice the Estrattore’s life so as to have his returned. But that hadn’t happened either. Like the promises they’d made to Tallow, the colleganza they’d signed, the Maleovellis betrayed everyone and everything they came into contact with. No more. This would stop now. He would play no further part in their machinations.

He began to crawl away from the door, backwards, when the soles of his feet connected with something. He twisted his head to look over his shoulder and found himself staring into a pair of huge dark eyes. It was Hafeza.

She bent down and pressed her fingers against his lips. With a nervous smile, she beckoned for him to follow. Rising to his feet as smoothly as he could, he tiptoed after her, all the time wondering where this sudden recklessness would lead him.

‘I
NEED TO SEE HER
, I
TELL YOU,
’ demanded Baroque, his face red, his voice rising.

Signor Zano Vestire ignored the urgency in Baroque’s tone and continued to wipe down the counter. ‘I tell
you
, Signor Scarpoli,’ he said firmly, ‘she’s not here. Repeating myself will not make her materialise. So hound me all you want, but Signorina Katina left here months ago.’

‘But when she left here, she went somewhere,’ insisted Baroque. ‘I need to know where. I need to speak with her. If it’s the Limen, then I need to know how to get a message to her. Signor, it is very important that I do this.’

He glanced over his shoulder, but only a couple of old men, sad regulars, occupied seats. It was still early. ‘I have even taken the risk of giving you my real name. Katina knows me. Please, you must help me. I must know where she is or how to contact her. A long time ago she told me that, if ever I needed to, you would know how.’

Signor Vestire stopped mid-swipe. He sighed and for the first time really looked at the man behind the cloak. Dishevelled and out of breath, Baroque, he could tell, was also anxious. Unlike the last time this man had come to his taverna. Back then, he’d sat in the crowded bar, downed
vino after vino before finally enquiring after Katina, appearing almost relieved when Signor Vestire informed him the Bond Rider had not been seen in the Tailors Quartiere for a few weeks. Since then, of course, Katina had been and gone, but this man, who fidgeted on the stool, whose fingers agitated the counter, had not earned the right to know of her movements, nor of the one who remained. He was not a Bond Rider. Nor was he a tailor. Like a good Serenissian, Signor Vestire protected his own. For all he knew, this short, stout man could be working for the Cardinale. And yet, there was something about him that told him this was not so. A desperation that stoked the pity in his heart.

His instincts had not been wrong before. Maybe it was time to set aside caution … after all, the world was stirring. Whispers were they were on the cusp of great change.

He stared at Baroque, who raised his eyes to meet the taverna keeper’s. What he didn’t expect to see was despair. He saw intelligent eyes that missed nothing, not even Signor Vestire’s attempts to put him off track. Baroque was a man on the edge.

Signor Vestire left the rag where it was and filled a mug with vino. He put it down in front of Baroque. ‘Drink. You look like you need it.’

Baroque seemed to hesitate then, with gruff thanks, quaffed the contents. In the time he did this, Signor Vestire looked over his head at the young man who had come down the stairs at the bidding of Signor Vestire’s daughter and sat in the corner, his arms folded, his eyes never leaving Baroque’s back.

All he did was dip his head towards Signor Vestire.

‘Grazie,’ said Baroque again, pushing the mug back towards Vestire. He rested his head in his hands.

Signor Vestire took mercy on him. ‘I may not be able to help you, but you’re in luck. There is one here who can.’

Baroque raised his red eyes to Vestire’s, hope registering on his features. Signor Vestire nodded over his head, towards the stairs.

‘Speak to him.’

B
AROQUE SLOWLY TURNED AND STARED
into the dimness. He could see the outline of someone sitting at a small table beneath the stairs. Cautiously, he slid off the stool and walked towards the man that Signor Vestire said could help him. As his eyes grew accustomed to the shadows, he saw the man had dark, untidy hair that rested on broad shoulders. He was very tall but quite young; he also noticed, with the eyes of experience, that he was a Bond Rider. He picked up his pace, not even stopping when he knocked over a chair.

He stood by the table. ‘Signor Vestire tells me you can help me with my enquiries.’

The young man raised his head.

Baroque’s jaw dropped. He staggered back a pace. ‘No! Non è possible!’

The man smiled. ‘I have learnt, Signor Scarpoli, that even in
this
world, everything is possible.’ He gestured to the table. ‘Sit down. We need to talk.’

His eyes never leaving the man’s face, Baroque slid into the chair opposite. ‘Dante Macelleria,’ he said finally. ‘She thinks you’re dead.’

Dante’s lips tightened and the pulse in his neck hammered. ‘I know. It is better that way. For now.’

Baroque noted they did not need to say who ‘she’ was. All effort at pretence had gone.

‘So, what do you want, Signor
Scarpoli
?’ Again, he lingered on the last word. ‘And tell me, why should I trust
you when the last time we met, you not only had a different name and occupation, but you were following me and Tallow. And you continue to work for the very people who sent you after her in the first place.’

Baroque’s eyebrows shot up. This young man had done his homework.

Dante laughed at his expression. It was dry, false. ‘Oh, sì, I have not wasted the time I have spent here. I know what you do – what you make Tallow do.’

Baroque winced. ‘Let me explain,’ he said.

‘Please.’ Dante made a wide gesture with his hand. ‘Unlike you, I have all the time in Vista Mare.’ He called to Signor Vestire to bring them vino. Baroque noticed that Signor Vestire had not taken his eyes from them.

Over the next two hours, Baroque spoke and Dante listened. For the first time in many years, he held nothing back, but revealed almost everything. His role in helping the Maleovellis track Tallow, his lessons, what she created and how the candles were used. He also shared with Dante what Tallow had been ordered to do – and his fears about this. There was one thing he chose to remain silent about: suspicions around what had happened to her at Casa Moronisini and Tallow’s retribution.

Finally, after Dante had questioned him, and Baroque answered, they sat back in their chairs. More men poured into the taverna and the smell of food reminded Baroque that he hadn’t eaten. The vino sat heavy in his head and stomach. He looked at Dante, who was frowning into a corner, processing what he’d been told.

The chandler had changed. Confidence oozed from him. The boy had become a man. His black, flashing eyes and astute mind missed nothing. While they had come to this point from different sides and with opposing intentions, they now shared the same purpose: Tallow.

Baroque knew he’d finally found an ally.

‘You will help me, then?’ asked Baroque finally, unable to bear the silence.

Dante turned to him slowly. ‘Was there ever any question, Signor? Sì. Where Tallow is concerned, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. I am yours.’ He looked around, aware suddenly of the extra bodies, the loud voices. He rose. ‘I will have food sent to my room. We need to make plans and quickly. And you need to get back to Nobiles’ Rise. It would not do for the Maleovellis to discover what you have done, where you have come. It might force their hand.’

Baroque shook his head. ‘No. They need her for now. But after the deed is done, then we must be ready to act.’

Dante headed for the stairs. ‘Come then, we’ve no time to waste. Not any more.’

Watching Dante take the stairs two at a time, his sword swinging by his side, Baroque dared to believe.

S
IGNOR
P
UGLIESI, AN OLD REGULAR
who had slowly moved to be nearer the fire, heard most of what Baroque and Dante discussed. When they left, he grabbed his stick and heaved himself to his feet. Leaving the required soldi on the tabletop, he hobbled to the door and out into the campo. Patrons moved out of his way; children were careful not to knock the frail, blind man over. The wind whipped his cloak around his legs, his thin hose inadequate for keeping out the chills that wracked his skinny frame. He would need new clothes if he were to survive this winter. Well, now he would have the means. A big fat purse for any information; that was the promise he’d been given. Now, he had a great deal.

With the knowledge of a lifetime, he made his way down the numerous rami that mazed the quartiere. Sight was unnecessary when smells and sounds and the feel of the crumbling walls, with their pocks and raised patterns of mildew could direct him as well as any map. He finally came to the apartment he’d been looking for. In an old, ramshackle building owned by a madam who kept her four prostitutes on a tight leash were rooms for rent. In the topmost one dwelled the drunken Bond Rider.

Admitted by the madam with a screech of disappointment, Signor Pugliesi climbed the three flights slowly, his breath coming in gasps by the end, and rapped on the door with his cane.

It took the Bond Rider some time to open it. The fumes of vino almost knocked Signor Pugliesi off his feet. Shuffling past the Bond Rider, who was scratching and belching, he waited till the door was shut and then in a quiet, steady voice repeated everything he’d heard.

If anyone was surprised when they didn’t see Signor Pugliesi for a few days, no one said. Not at first. But when his body was discovered floating against a set of water-stairs just outside the marketplace, no-one could understand how cautious old Pugliesi had been so careless as to slip and strike his head.

They toasted him that night in the Taverna di Segretezza and then barely mentioned him ever again.