Votive (52 page)

‘I may need this,’ said Pillar, wiping the blood on Jacopo’s hose.

Hafeza nodded, then hesitated. Closer to the stairs, she could hear the rain. She glanced at Pillar’s shirt. It too had blood on it. He could not roam the calles with those stains upon him. Not with the Signori di Notte about.

Bending back over Jacopo, she wrestled his cape from under him. It was sticky with blood, but at least the dark material made it difficult to detect and it would keep the worst of the elements at bay. Understanding what she was doing, Pillar helped. Once it was free, she draped it over Pillar’s shoulders. Then she thrust her hands in Jacopo’s pockets and pulled out his purse. She placed it in Pillar’s hands. He didn’t argue. He nodded grimly and shoved it in a pocket.

Holding hands, they climbed the stairs, Hafeza slowing as they reached the top. Out in the rain, she led him across the courtyard to the gate that led out into the calle. Fumbling
with the latch, she managed to open it. Pillar stood still, lifting his face to the rain, opening his mouth and allowing the moisture to fall in. Hafeza watched him. In the strange, glowing light, she could see his features more clearly. Thin, he had a long, regal nose, an unkempt beard and gentle eyes. His voice too was kind as he spoke.

‘I cannot thank you enough for this, Hafeza.’ He took her face in his hands. ‘I know you will look after Tallow. I know what she has become. Please, if you can pass her a message?’

Hafeza nodded, aware of how this man’s hands on her face made her feel. Safe, warm, cared about.

‘Tell her I have not abandoned her. Tell her I love her and I will be back for her. That I promise.’

Not wanting to, Hafeza pulled at his hands. She shook her head. No, no! He had no time to waste; he must help Tarlo now! How could she make him understand?

Letting her go, Pillar smiled at her urgency. ‘Can you do that for me? Can you tell her?’

Hafeza stared at him, willing him to know what was in her head. But it was no good. This man, this Pillar, had set a course of action. She sighed and raised a hand in affirmation.

‘Grazie mille, Hafeza, grazie mille.’ He turned to go. ‘When I come back for Tallow, I will come back for you as well. Capisce?’

Hafeza froze. He would help her too? She sighed. So, it had all been worth it. To find someone ready to serve her, help her and at this point in her life. She smiled sadly and nodded. Then she pushed him away.

Bending suddenly, Pillar kissed her forehead. His lips were warm against her wet flesh, the cracked skin soothing in their roughness. Then he was gone, disappearing in a swirl of cape and rain into the calle.

Hafeza sent prayers to her gods and, with care, locked the gate.

Resting against it, she slowly lowered her hand to just below her right breast. It came away wet. She’d lost so much blood. Dizziness threatened to overwhelm her. She put her hand against the wall and then thrust herself towards the staircase.

There was one last thing she had to do – while she still had breath in her body, life in her limbs.

Staggering across the courtyard, her vision began to go. The steps she knew she had to ascend appeared in two places. The rain confused her. She fell, her hip hitting the stairs. She found them. On her hands and knees she crawled, her blood mingling with the downpour, leaving a watery trail.

When she reached the portego, she did not stop, though her body was trembling with the strain, her mind was clouding. Images of her mother, her clay house in the sunshine back in Moroko paraded before her, overlapping with Tarlo, that first day in the tub, delighting in the water, amazed at how she appeared, so transformed in a dress. Her young beau from another lifetime bowed to kiss her cheek and she turned her head at the last moment so his lips grazed hers. They’d both blushed and giggled. Then there was Tarlo, as she’d last seen her tonight, magnificent in her finest golden gown yet, her mask fixed to her face, her black hair arranged so it fell between her shoulder blades. Only Hafeza knew the terror that lurked in those eyes, the emptiness in her soul, the guilt that drove her to do the terrible deed the Maleovellis demanded of her before they would murder her as well.

No more, Tarlo. No more. I will set you free.

Hand over hand, Hafeza reached Tarlo’s bedroom. She pushed open the door and crawled across the floor, focused
on one thing only: the huge chest of drawers under the window. She fell at their base, panting, her lungs gurgling. Consciousness teetered.
No!
She fought the darkness. Summoning the last of her strength, she used the handles to lift her off her feet. Her hand scrabbled over the surface of the dresser, knocking the pile of freshly pressed drying sheets to the floor. She ignored them as her hands became her eyes. There! She had it. She sank back down to the floor, the tiny glass harlequin clutched to her chest.

In the dying embers of the fire, Hafeza took a few shallow breaths and stared into the glass. Multiple colours whorled, making it seem as if the harlequin was alive. She was certain she felt the love and trust of the old Tallow, the woman she was before she came to this forsaken casa, contained within its fragile form.

Hafeza raised it to her lips before lifting it over her head and, with trembling, cold arms, hurled it against the grate. The force of the impact shattered the figurine, the glass exploding like the fireworks that erupted in the sky at Carnivale. Hafeza smiled.

Through half-closed eyes, she saw a rainbow-hued mist rise from the fragments and swirl about the room. It enveloped her in a love such as she had never known. She slid down further, curling onto the floor, cocooned in its depths. The edges of her sight began to fade; all she could see now were the colours twirling like a dancer before her eyes. The pain that had pierced her side disappeared and joy lifted her heart.

‘Be free, Tallow,’ she whispered in her mind and, with a great shuddering that sounded like laughter, breathed her last.

‘S
IGNORINA
D
ORATA
! Y
OU CANNOT LEAVE NOW
! I have not claimed my dance!’

The masked dandy swung me around in his arms as I tried to leave the floor. I slapped him playfully with my fan and saw Giaconda swooping past him. She linked her arm in mine.

‘Ah, Signor Maraponi, Signorina Dorata is not leaving! She is merely taking what we ladies sometimes have to – a small break.’ She tweaked his cheek and pushed her finger against his pout as Lord Waterford approached and took the Signor aside. Giaconda nodded to the ambassador before drawing me away.

‘Once we get through the doors, I will distract the guards. You have only a short time to get to where you have to be, Tarlo. Do not fail us; you know what will happen if you do.’ She chattered in my ear as she pulled me across the floor.

‘I’ll not fail,’ I said, smiling as another sweating nobile, a courtesan in his arms, sailed past us, the drinks they clutched in their hands spilling unnoticed down their clothes.

Giaconda led me through the maze of dancers and observers. Filled with food and vino, some could barely stand, let alone take note of Giaconda and me. A few were gathered around a courtesan who was demonstrating an exotic dance involving veils. A high-pitched scream made
me jump, but it was only another courtesan being dragged onto the lap of one of the Council of Ten. Through the crowd of noisy, leering faces, I saw Signor Maleovelli. Arrayed in his new Council regalia, he raised his glass to me, his eyes glowing with anticipation, his mouth locked in a feigned smile.

We swept past the windows and I glanced outside. It was pitch black and the rain was falling hard and the wind was so strong the glass shook. It was as if the elements themselves protested what I was about to do.

The servants swooped to open the doors, admitting us to the landing outside. We stopped briefly and found our breath. The doors swung shut and the laughter and music diminished, already placed in a distant past. Ahead of me rose the golden staircase – the only access from this part of the palazzo to the Doge’s rooms.

I lifted my skirts and began to ascend, Giaconda close behind me. No-one questioned courtesans moving throughout the palazzo at this time of year. Baroque had also told me that, whenever I was trying to get to somewhere I shouldn’t, let alone be someone I was not, I had to appear confident. Even if I was trembling inside, I could not show it. He was right. I was far less likely to be challenged.

I was well past fear. I felt a heavy sense of resignation, of obligation. I longed for tonight to be over. I wanted to see Pillar. I would not do another thing for the Maleovellis until they released him. Of that I was sure.

We reached the next level and paused at the top of the stairs. Giaconda quickly clutched her ear. She unclipped her earring and allowed it to disappear into her décolletage. She smiled without looking at me and pressed on. A wide corridor opened before us, punctuated by grand doors, each of which led to a suite of rooms. I had been here many times already, the guest of Prince Cosimo and, once, the Doge. But
that was when he was entertaining the Hybernyian ambassador. Giaconda glanced at me.

‘I will accompany you to the Prince’s rooms. From there, you’re on your own.’

The rustle of Giaconda’s gown against the floor was spoiled by the slap of our zoccoli against the terrazzo. As we drew level with each set of guards, they stood to attention, staring straight ahead. Some were faces I knew and I felt their eyes follow me, the knowingness in their looks, the envy underlining their gaze. I was hoping their acquaintance with my presence would last long enough for me to do what Giaconda was now making sure was done.

At the end of the passage was my goal – the Doge’s suite. It loomed closer with every step. No sentinels stood outside his rooms. It was considered a breach of privacy, a threat to state secrets. It was inconceivable that an attacker should get through the ranks of guards already posted; just as it was beyond comprehension that a woman would hurt the ruler of Serenissima. That was my greatest asset and protection. No-one would even consider that a mere courtesan would dare do such a thing. I was suddenly conscious of the votives wrapped in paper, secreted in my purse. I slowed down. Giaconda matched my step.

‘Ready?’ she muttered. Without waiting for an answer she stopped suddenly. ‘Oh, no!’ she exclaimed, ‘I have lost my earring! Guards!’

She began to search the floors, bending over to reveal a large expanse of bosom. The guards stared and then exchanged a long look.

‘Can we help you, Signorina?’ asked one, stepping forward.

‘Sì!’ said Giaconda and grabbed his hand, clutching it to her bosom. ‘I have lost an earring! Do you know who gave it to me? How much it is worth?’

Two other guards came forward.

‘Who was it, Signorina?’

‘Signor Moronisini.’

Again, more looks were exchanged. They had heard the rumours then; that Signor Moronisini was informally the Doge Elect.

‘I must go back – but …’ She glanced at me.

‘I am all right, sister. I can go alone. Signor Nicolotti told me he would not be long.’

One of the guards sniggered. Another elbowed him.

‘Do you know which suite is his, Signorina?’ asked one of the young men.

‘That one?’ I asked, pointing to the abandoned rooms of the younger Prince. The guards laughed. ‘No,’ said the same one who spoke before. ‘It is the one closest to the Doge’s. You will be safe, Signorina. Do not worry.’

‘I am not worried for myself, only for my sister. You will help her find that which she has lost?’

Giaconda blinked back her tears. ‘You must. I have to find this – it was a gift from Signor Moronisini, the most generous of patrons, the most forgiving, except when it comes to carelessness.’ She gave a sob. ‘Will you help me, gallant sirs?’

If the guards had any doubts, it was the repetition of Signor Moronisini’s name that dispelled them. Four of them began to comb the floors. I took advantage of their distraction and calmly walked to Signor Nicolotti’s rooms, paused and, when I was sure no-one was looking, quickly crossed the corridor and slipped into the Doge’s suite. What the guards could not have known was that Signor Nicolotti had already gone home.

Baroque had told me all about the secret passages that laced the palazzo. There was one connecting the Doge’s rooms with the capo of the Council of Ten. Not that I would
be using it tonight. I would be employing another route to escape down to the canal and to the relative safety of the Maleovellis’ gondola. First I had to be certain that the votives I’d prepared worked – that the Doge succumbed to their power.

I rested against the door and took stock of my surroundings. My heart was pounding in my ears. I could still hear Giaconda leading the men away.

Comprising four separate rooms, the Doge’s suite was enormous. I was in a lavish sitting room. Tapestries of the finest quality hung from the walls, paintings much like those that adorned the ballroom took up space as well. Gilded chairs, wooden tables, thick patterned rugs and beautiful ornaments set atop a long credenza and the mantelpiece over a blazing fire completed the room. What astonished me most was the number of candles – pillars, tapers and votives all burned, throwing their light about, making the entire space glow like a setting sun.

I kicked off my zoccoli and picked them up, crossing the room. The rugs were soothing under my aching feet. I opened one of the doors and found a cosy meeting room in which I’d once dined; another opened onto a smaller suite. I had never seen the Dogeressa’s area, but recognised the feminine qualities of the fittings. The last door I opened was the bedroom.

The bed was enormous, an old piece of furniture that, as I stroked its highly polished wood and began to extract, sang to me of triumph, tragedy and profound grief. The last was from the current Doge. The loss of his grandson, the defection of his sons and the infertility of his daughter affected him deeply. Around the bed and on the windowsills, more candles burned.

I moved towards the window, careful to stay in the shadows lest a guard on the battlements above spy me.

As Baroque had said, a small door to the right of the bed led to a dressing room. It was in here that I would hide. Tonight, of all nights, the Doge dismissed his servants and his valet, allowing them to indulge in some Carnivale revelry. He would disrobe himself and leave his clothes on the floor and chairs for his men to attend to in the morning.

A howl of wind distracted me. I had to stop wasting time. With caution, I withdrew the votives from my purse and placed them on the bedside table. Picking up a taper, I used its flame to light my candles. Once the wick had taken, I quickly placed them around the room. Already their scent was escaping. I closed myself to their effects. Alongside the other candles, their differences were not so obvious – even the unusual darkness of the wax was not easy to discern against the brightness of the flame.

Satisfied, I picked up my zoccoli from where I had left them on the floor and entered the Doge’s dressing room, placing them back on my feet. I needed to be ready to leave. The dressing room was rather large and lined with shelves upon which sat an array of folded garments that, even in the semi-darkness, I could see were made from quality fabrics. I resisted the urge to stroke the velvets, silks and ermine robes, caps and collars, stepping over pairs of leather shoes and boots that stood to attention along the sides, and crept into the centre as I made my way to the rear wall. A number of gold and cream togati covered the space. I pushed them aside and struck the wood behind. I counted across the panels until my hands rested against the fourth one. Just as Baroque said, there was a lever – so tiny it would be easy to miss. If I flicked it, the wood beside the shelves that stored the Doge’s hats and gloves to my right would slide away, revealing a passage. I prayed fervently that it would work.

I went back to the door that led into the bedroom. I didn’t close it completely, but left it slightly ajar. From where I was,
I could see the bed clearly. Two of my candles were also in view. My palms began to sweat and my throat became dry. I wished I had something with which to moisten my mouth.

It seemed like only a few minutes passed before I heard the outer door open. I stiffened as feet shuffled across the floor. There was a tinkle of glass and the sound of liquid being poured. More sounds, then a long sigh.

When the door to the bedroom opened and the Doge appeared I almost lost my nerve. Here I was, Tallow, in the Doge’s bedchamber. I could hardly credit it myself. The Maleovellis had insisted I remain until I had proof that the Doge was dead. They wanted me to take his corno ducale. I saw it on his head now, the strange curved shape of golden fabric that denoted his leadership, his authority over all Serenissians. Only the Cardinale wore something so ornate, so tall.

I averted my eyes as the Doge slipped off his robe and, as Baroque had predicted, let it slide to the floor. I heard the thud of his leather shoes hitting the rug and grunts and groans as he picked his nightshirt off the bed and stepped into it, clutching the bedpost for support. I held my breath as he fell into bed, reaching for his vino once he’d settled against the pillows.

With horror, I saw that he still wore his corno. I willed him to remove it, throw it upon the chair nearest me. But it remained stubbornly fixed upon his head.

It was strange watching the Doge, waiting for my candles to take effect. The first time I saw him, he appeared to me as I imagined a nonno to look – old, frail and kind. Closer, he did not look kind so much as sad and beaten. And so ancient. I exhaled quietly and noted that his eyes had taken a strange, faraway look. His face appeared to collapse in on itself.

The candles were working.

His eyelids grew heavy and the colour in them started to leach away. He slowly slipped down the bed, the cap I needed as my proof bending beneath his weight, falling behind his head, sliding backwards over his ears. I saw his chest, rising and falling, the rhythms slowing with each breath. His eyes shut and he sank towards oblivion.

I waited.

I was about to step out of the closet when I heard a loud noise in the corridor. Shouts and cries. I’d been discovered. Darting out of the closet, I raced to the bed and reached behind the Doge, and tried to wrench his cap off. It took two pulls before it came free. I stared at it in both disbelief and relief, spinning around to flee, when a hand flew out and gripped my wrist. I repressed the scream that rose in my throat and looked down in dismay.

Staring at me, with eyes that had once been grey, was Doge Dandolo. They widened as he took in my face. My mask dangled around my neck and the belladonna had long worn off.

‘Estrattore!’ he rasped. ‘Estrattore! Help!’ he began to cry.

‘No,’ I said, pressing my fingers against his wizened, dry mouth, the corno crunching under his chin. ‘Please, you don’t understand.’

‘Help!’ he tried to call. But his voice was so faint, I doubted he’d be heard. I didn’t wait to find out.

I wriggled out of his grasp and, dropping the corno, ran to the closet. I shut the door and quickly activated the lever. To my relief, the wood swung aside and cold air from a long dark passage blasted me. I stepped in, fumbling for the candle in the sconce that Baroque had warned me to expect. Using the tinderbox that sat in a groove by the opening, I lit it quickly with shaking hands and shut the
door, using the mechanism on the inside. As it slid closed, I noted that the noises I’d heard had not grown louder, that the Doge’s rooms had not been disturbed. Why had there been shouting? Perhaps it was just Carnivale gaiety, or had Giaconda organised a greater distraction than her own charms?

I ran as carefully as I could down the passage, holding onto the walls when I reached the steps, keeping the candle above my head so the light cast a wide halo. It was freezing and, as I fled past alcoves and doorways, I occasionally heard the mutter of voices, groans and little squeals. Rats scurried past my feet; a couple ran over them. On I moved, as swiftly as I could. Down staircase after staircase, passageway after passageway, always moving west as Baroque had told me, praying I wouldn’t encounter anyone else.