Votive (5 page)

‘It doesn’t hurt – not at all,’ I said cautiously. She didn’t react. I waited a beat. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked her quietly.

Hafeza paused and looked at me in astonishment before her face creased into another huge smile. She nodded again and then encouraged me to lie back once again.

At first I found it hard to recapture my earlier mood, but before long, my thoughts escaped my tight leash and I began to wonder what I had done to my body. I rested the back of my neck against the rim of the tub, my eyes half open, my flesh submerged in perfumed water and relished being tended to by such experienced hands. I wondered what Dante would think of me, like this, naked and clean, being so fussed over and smelling of lavender. My imagination spilled into realms of longing and my budding laugh was rapidly smothered.

A spray of water in my face shocked me back into the present.

Hazefa waggled a finger at me and shook her head. She’d caught me retreating into territory that I could not afford to go. She really did understand.

More importantly, Hafeza, the Morokan slave, was right. What good did dwelling on Dante do? He was dead. Cane was dead. Pillar was as good as dead. And as for Katina … I had no-one I could trust, no-one to turn to – not anymore. No-one except the Maleovellis. I had to bury my thoughts, my feelings and my fears deep inside – if I didn’t, they
would rise and betray me. If not today, or tomorrow, then sometime in my unclear future. Dante would not want that, even if I wasn’t sure I cared what happened to me anymore. I had to harden myself. I had to harden my heart.

I took a deep breath and, as Hafeza began washing me in earnest, exhaled and let myself relax. I pretended that every time the soap or sponge touched my body, it was removing traces of the old me – the unkempt candlemaker’s apprentice – the pretend boy who dared to test his powers and failed. I would not be him any longer. I couldn’t afford to be.

Everything I now did, everything I would become, would be for Dante. For what we could have been if we’d been able to be together.

After all, how can you forget someone who is a part of your very soul?

As for those who had shattered our future … they would pay. I didn’t know how or when, but I knew that somehow, some day, I would make sure they did … and dearly.

I
T TOOK ALL
B
AROQUE’S CONCENTRATION
to remain still. He’d been standing in Signor Ezzelino Maleovelli’s study for so long, answering question after question, every muscle in his body ached and weariness such as he’d not known in a long time made him feel heavy – in his heart as well as his mind. He wanted to sit down, to collapse in one of the empty chairs, shut his eyes and hasten the forgetfulness that only an exhausted sleep could bring. But he had to wait to be invited and, now that Signorina Maleovelli had entered the room, that particular overture was unlikely to be forthcoming.

He glanced at her now. A barely repressed excitement attended her, arousing his curiousity. Something was afoot. Baroque could feel her loathing of him emanating from every pore as she sat, twisting in her seat, so she didn’t have to face him. The fact that she needed his services, that her father insisted on using them, only intensified her antipathy. If he hadn’t been so fatigued, he would have enjoyed the effect he was having. But the last few days had wrested their toll. That the Maleovellis had taken his briefcase, the one containing his precious journals, had almost broken him. His dreams of accruing wealth and walking away from
his jeopardous double life never mind the hasty promise he’d made to the Bond Riders, had dissolved as quickly as they’d formed. He glanced at where his briefcase now sat, atop papers on Signor Maleovelli’s desk. For a brief second, hope that they had not discovered the false bottom where the books were hidden flashed through him. His eyes slid to his property again. No. It stood as nothing but a monument to his failure.

‘Why don’t you sit down, Signor Scarpoli?’ said Giaconda.

Trying to hide his surprise, Baroque did not wait to be asked again. He slowly eased himself into a chair, clutching the arms as he sank into the tired fabric.

‘Tell me, Baroque,’ said Signor Maleovelli, reaching for his pipe and continuing their discussion. ‘From the time you spent in the taverna talking to Signor di Torelli – that is, presuming you spoke to him before you … dispatched him, and from what you observed en route to us, what was the mood of the popolani?’ The smell of tobacco began to fill the room.

‘They’re shocked, Signor. Shocked that an Estrattore lived with them for so long and they didn’t suspect anything. They talk about his kindness and how inoffensive he was, obedient. This confuses them. It conflicts with what the padres tell them, with folklore and rumour. What they know, what they have experienced, can no longer be reconciled with the stories of Estrattore wickedness and violence – of manipulation – that the Church pedals. So, there’s a great deal of uncertainty and now, of course, there’s the fear of repercussions. They see themselves as victims, but know they will answer to the Doge and the Church as perpetrators.’

‘Sì. Bene. They’d be fools if they thought the Council of Ten won’t act further, never mind this Cardinale Martino. The
authorities have to quash any sympathy the popolani feel for the Estrattore quickly. It’s easy to demonise something that’s a part of history, of myth. But once a legend becomes a reality, undermining the propaganda, then there’s a problem that can only be solved by erasing it. If I were the Doge, I would be showing the Great Patriarch how loyal I am by removing the source of the tales and those who repeat them immediately. Making an example of those who persist in resisting the Church’s teachings.’

‘This is what the people fear.’

‘Then they are wise.’

‘Wise, yes. Prepared, no. Not even the events of yesterday can prepare them for what the Cardinale will unleash upon them.’

They sat in silence for a moment.

‘Why did the Bond Riders let you go?’ asked Giaconda, flicking an imaginary speck of dust from her gown.

‘Signorina,’ said Baroque, his mind racing, ‘as I have already said, I’m as surprised as you. I felt sure they were going to kill me. You can see for yourself, they beat me to within an inch of my life.’ Baroque clumsily indicated his face and hands.

‘You told them nothing?’ Signor Maleovelli asked.

‘Nothing. Your plans are safe.’ Baroque shifted slightly, wincing as he stretched one of his legs, moving the jacket he’d taken from Signor di Torelli’s to one side. It was tight across the shoulders and refused to button over his stomach. He longed for his own clothes, his own rooms, as small as they were, hidden away above the rami of the Usurers Quartiere.

‘It was clear the Riders had their own sources of information,’ said Baroque cautiously. ‘They knew a great deal about the apprentice. They have been observing him for quite some time, longer than I did.’ He ceased fidgeting and
met Signor Maleovelli’s eyes once more. It was time to play his one and only card.

‘Signor, there’s something I learned from the Bond Riders, something very important. If the apprentice still lives, it will change everything.’

‘Really?’ Signor Maleovelli pushed more tobacco into his pipe. ‘Signor Scarpoli, I don’t think there’s any information you can give me that I don’t already know.’

Baroque used another cough to disguise his laugh. ‘With all due respect, Signor, I don’t believe you could possibly know this.’

‘Why is it that whenever anyone begins a sentence with those words, “all due respect”, they always mean the opposite?’ asked Giaconda of no-one in particular.

Baroque’s palms itched. He wanted to slap the smug look from her face. He thought of Katina, how negotiating with her was so very different from dealing with this woman who liked to pretend she was a nobile. ‘I do mean it respectfully, Signor, Signorina. This knowledge will help you find the Estrattore. But, in exchange, I would like the items you took from my room at the taverna back.’

‘Oh,’ said Giaconda. ‘You mean the dirty old shirt, brush and bag we found.’

‘Sì.’ He resisted the urge to look at the briefcase.

‘And why on earth would you want those back, Signor Scarpoli? I was only saying to Papa after you arrived last night that we should really replace them. And now that, with the advantage of daylight, I see what you have endured while in our employ –’ she signalled his bruises and cuts ‘– I feel it is the least we can do.’

‘Grazie, Signorina. But these items, they’re very dear to me just as they are. They contain fond memories, you might say.’

‘They are very dear to us too, Signor Scarpoli,’ Giaconda
regarded him with defiance. ‘Your information would have to be very good indeed to make us part with something so … meaningful.’

‘I believe it is, Signorina.’

‘More valuable than the knowledge that the candlemaker’s apprentice is, in fact, a girl?’ added Signor Maleovelli.

Seconds ticked away. Baroque gulped. He forced his hands to be still. His mind raced.
How on Vista Mare could they possibly know? He’d spoken with the apprentice, watched her from afar for weeks and he never guessed.
‘I was not aware that you already knew this.’

Signor Maleovelli leant on his cane and rose. He hobbled around to the other side of the desk, past the briefcase, searching for something. ‘You’d be amazed to know what we’ve learned in your absence, Baroque. Astonished. A lot can happen in only a few weeks.’

Baroque used the arms of his chair to hoist himself to his feet. The purse in his pocket felt heavy. It reassured him. He would book passage to somewhere, anywhere on the Mariniquian Seas, and start life again. ‘I can see that I’m wasting your time, Signor, Signorina Maleovelli.’ He bowed towards them. ‘We have reached an impasse. I located the Estrattore, which means the terms of our arrangement are over. It serves you no real purpose to keep hold of my … my property; but, if you insist, then I am afraid I will have no choice but to leave Serenissima.’

Signor Maleovelli’s head snapped up. ‘As far as I am concerned, our arrangement is not over, Baroque Scarpoli.’

Baroque frowned. ‘But Signor, I have failed. Tallow Pelleta is lost – he … she could be fish food for all we know. And, frankly, Signor, while I may have fallen on hard times, I also know a great deal about your circumstances. I enter no-one’s employ without at least some knowledge of them, especially regarding their capacity to pay. You not only owe
me soldi, but you can no longer afford my services. In light of recent … events, I am happy to extinguish your current debt.’ He began to pull Vincenzo’s cap back onto his head.

‘Ah, but Signor Scarpoli, you are wrong.’ said Giaconda. ‘
You
cannot afford to leave
us
. I think your bag would fetch a great deal of soldi, don’t you? Such a fascinating bag with its hidden compartments and false bottom? It’s not what it seems, is it? So many tales to tell. I think the Kyprian ambassador or perhaps the Jinoan one would find it most … diverting.’

Baroque paled. ‘You wouldn’t … There’d be questions … you would come under suspicion yourselves …’

Stony silence met his gaze.

Defeated, Baroque slowly pulled the cap from his head and sank back into his seat. ‘What do you want from me?’ he asked in a flat voice.

Giaconda stood and joined her father, the briefcase propped in front of them. Signor Maleovelli pushed aside a pile of antiquated books and half-unfurled scrolls. ‘As I said, much has happened in the short time you have been away. The end of the Morto Assiderato and the relief felt by wealthy survivors brought much business our way, didn’t it, cara mia?’ Signor Maleovelli brushed a long finger against Giaconda’s smooth cheek. She modestly lowered her eyes. ‘Men who escape a close brush with death like to celebrate in a certain way. My daughter has been in great demand, Scarpoli. As a result, we not only have the means to fund your services, but we also have a very interesting job for you.’

Baroque did not respond. He just sat and waited.

‘Gia, bella,’ said Signor Maleovelli. ‘Pour a drink for Signor Scarpoli. The man looks like he needs one.’

Against her will and with forced grace, Giaconda went to the sideboard and, from a silver decanter, poured glasses
of vino for her father, herself and Baroque. She passed them around and resumed her seat. Baroque sniffed the contents suspiciously before taking a grateful gulp.

‘Signor Scarpoli. Our situation has changed in ways that will become apparent to you very soon. But, in order for us to benefit from this change, we require your services again, but not in the usual way.’

‘In what way do you mean?’

Signor Maleovelli took an appreciative sip of his drink, rolling it in his mouth before swallowing. ‘You once enjoyed the reputation of being the finest spy in Serenissima, is that not so?’

‘Once upon a time. Until I was caught and identified, yes.’

‘And, as a spy, you knew all the tricks of the trade – how to speak and write in different languages, how to observe human behaviour, when and how to strike to effect change, is that not so?’

Baroque gave a small inclination of his head.

‘Oh, Papa, let’s not play word games here. Not now, not when so much is at stake.’ Giaconda faced Baroque, putting her glass down on the table beside her. ‘Signor Scarpoli, we know that you’re an expert in all manner of delivering death – knives, ropes, glass, metal, drowning. But there is one method in particular in which we are most interested.’

‘What might that be?’ Baroque drained his glass.

Signor Maleovelli himself brought the decanter over. As he refilled the spy’s glass he took up where Giaconda had left off.

‘Poison.’

Baroque glanced at the glass and began to laugh. The sound dry, without humour. ‘Poisoning is forbidden throughout the Republic. Anyone who does it is exiled or put to death. Their employer’s name is struck from
The Golden Book
.
As nobiles, you would no longer have a right to sit on the Great Council, to ascend to the Dogeship. Your name would be forgotten, your bloodline extinct. You would be nothing more than a sigh in history. You would be as the Estrattore …’ He paused.

A glimmer of a smile played on Giaconda’s mouth as Signor Maleovelli perched himself on the arm of her chair and leant towards Baroque. ‘Only if one is caught.’ He held up his hand as if to ward off protest. ‘No, Baroque, we will not ask you to administer poison. Only that you teach someone all about the properties of every plant and extract in the known world and what they can do – for poison takes many forms. It does not only deliver death. It can also, when administered correctly, when the right ingredients are sourced and mixed, deliver pleasure, health, acquiescence, laspes in memory, and even recklessness. Is that not so?’

Baroque regarded Signor Maleovelli for a full minute. His eyes slid to Giaconda and back to her father.
What are they up to? What is going on?
‘Teach. That’s it. You want me to teach someone all about plants.’

‘And how to transform and administer their properties,’ added Giaconda.

‘Your days as a spy –’ began Ezzelino.

‘As a disgraced spy,’ added Giaconda.

‘– are over. From this day forward you will be a teacher in our employ and, my dear man, I can assure you, if the arrangement works out, you will be rewarded for your efforts.’

‘If I refuse?’

‘
A bocca di leone
,’ muttered Giaconda.

Baroque started from his chair. ‘You would denounce me? You would place my name in the lion’s mouth for the Council of Ten to find?’

‘No, not just your name,’ said Ezzelino slowly.

Baroque visibly blanched. ‘You would deliver my journals to them, to the Doge.’

Silence was the most honest answer Baroque had ever been given.

He swirled the vino in his glass. It reminded him of blood. His stomach lurched. It had been a long time since he’d been outwitted, especially by a barnabotti – an old, impoverished nobile with barely a soldi, only his ancient name to hang his pride on, despite his boasts. This new money he spoke of had been accumulated through trade – the trade of his daughter’s body. He wanted to shake his head. What a funny old place Serenissima was, where sex was regarded as a legitimate business and a nobile could still hold his head up among his peers even while his daughter lay beneath them. Aware of the Maleovellis’ eyes upon him, he took another drink. They were right. For the time being, his life as he knew it was over. The ache that resided deep in his bones told him this was not necessarily a bad thing. After all, how hard could it be to teach someone?