Falcon in the Glass (27 page)

But no. No more death here tonight. He still had much to do.

He moved toward the far edge of the glassworks. Touched fire to a dry, wooden beam. Walked a few steps. Touched another.

So many fires flared up in these glassworks. So easy for a wayward spark to waft into the rafters and catch. So natural for roof tiles to shatter in the heat. And then it all came crashing down.

People should be more careful.

Truly, they should.

R
enzo?”

It was Letta's voice. He recognized it, though the tone of it, soft and wondering, didn't sound like her at all. A figure rose inside the cell, haloed in the thin wash of moonlight. Yes. It was she. Renzo swiped a hand across his wet cheeks as the others slowly rose as well. The children.

“Renzo!”

“Renzo!”

“Renzo!”

His name echoed faintly round the cell. He made out Paolo, and the twin girls. Federigo and Georgio. Ugo, with his magpie. And there, in the far corner, little Sofia.

One of them coughed, then another. Then a flurried chorus of coughing.

Renzo knew he should say something, but his throat seemed to have closed up tight. He hiked up his skirts, pulled the picklocks from his belt, and felt along the surface of the door, seeking out a lock. His fingers found the opening. He inserted one of the picks, felt it nudge the tumblers inside —

A thump at the other side of the door. Letta's face appeared at the window, no more than a hand's breadth from his. “ 'Tis you,” she breathed. “You came.”

Her eyes held him; he couldn't look away.

“Well, hurry up!” she said. “We don't have all night!”

Now,
that
was the Letta he knew.

He put his head down, fumbled at the lock. “I come clear across to Venice, break myself in to get you out of here, and all you do is scold?”

“Ah, so this is Renzo.”

His head snapped up. An old woman had taken Letta's place at the window. The grandmother, no doubt. “And what's your plan, pray tell?”

You would think that people would be grateful when you came to rescue them, Renzo thought, not pester you to hurry and demand to know every detail.

“Well?” the woman insisted.

The lock wasn't turning. Suddenly, despite the chill in this place, Renzo felt warm. He pulled out the pick and tried again. “Do you know how to get to the back door out of here?” he asked. “The small one that comes out in an alley?”

“I might. What's your plan?”

“I have a . . . friend outside. He'll take care of the guard in the alley and let us out.”

It sounded so simple when he said it. Leaving out the fact that his “friend” was missing an eye and was still feeble from his injury. And that Renzo had no idea how to find the little door. And that if there were two guards stationed
there instead of one, or if the little door was guarded on the inside as well, or if a passerby noticed anything amiss, Vittorio would fail, and then —

A shout. A distant reverberation of footsteps.

Letta's face appeared in the window. “Hurry!” she said.

He jiggled the pick. “I'm
trying
!”

All at once a commotion erupted from inside the cell. Birds calling. Clattering sounds. Voices. Footsteps.

A drop of sweat trickled down the side of Renzo's face. Still no movement in the wretched tumblers. Maybe Vittorio could spring this lock, but Renzo couldn't; he didn't have the skill.

Then, dangling between the bars of the opening in the door . . .

A hand, holding a ring of keys.

“ 'Tis the middle one, I believe,” the old woman said.

Renzo gaped.

Keys?

“Hurry!”

He took them. Found the middle one. Thrust it into the lock. Turned it. The tumblers gave way with a satisfying
click
.

He pulled the door open.

From behind and below came a drumroll of echoing footfalls. Not one guard but many. Down the corridor Renzo saw a faint halo of light. They were somewhere on the stairs. They were near.

“Go, go, go!” the old woman cried. The owl pushed off her shoulder and glided toward the stairs, toward the voices. And then the air was filled with birds, creaking and flapping
after the owl. They made for the archway on the far side of the stairs, and disappeared through it. The woman plucked Ugo from the floor and thrust him into Federigo's arms. To Letta she said, “You lead the way; I'll take care of stragglers.”

Letta hesitated. “But,
Nonna
, your knees — ”

“I'll be right behind you. Go!”

She went.

The children stumbled out of the cell, following Letta. The woman scooped up Sofia and pressed her to Renzo's chest. “The birds'll lead you to the door. Run!” she said. “Don't wait for me. I'll follow.”

He didn't argue. He ran.

But in a few steps he heard her call out: “Renzo!”

He stopped. Turned back.

“She always knew you'd come. She never doubted. Now go. Get moving! Go!”

◆      ◆      ◆

He followed the children down the corridor, through the archway, and down another hall. Soon they came to a flight of stairs — a different one. He headed down, but then the stairs ended. He followed the children through a short corridor, around a corner, and then down another stairway. This one went on and on.

Sofia was bony and light, but she wiggled, kicking him with her one remaining boot, throwing him off balance. The hammer slapped painfully against his side, the keys rattled at his wrist, and the gown kept tangling between his legs. Soon it grew dark, so dark he could barely see. At last the
stairs ended. He moved along a narrow corridor, following the sound of footsteps. The floor had become slippery again. The stones seemed to buckle and dip beneath his feet, making him lurch and stumble. He pushed himself to hurry, but Sofia jerked in his arms, and the blasted slippers slid out from under him. His hip cracked hard against the floor; he clung tight to Sofia; she landed on his lap.

He clambered to his feet and groped along the walls, limping now, straining his ears beyond the rasp of his own breathing for the sounds of the children ahead. Echoes reverberated all around him — echoes of voices, of footsteps, of coughing, of calling birds — but he couldn't tell for certain where they came from. Was the old woman coming along behind him? Were the guards?

Suddenly he slammed into something. It cried out. Paolo. Renzo found his hand, small and damp; they went on. A little way farther Paolo was seized with a fit of coughing. Renzo wanted to say,
Hurry, hurry, hurry
but could only wait until the coughing subsided.

Yet soon, as they walked, the air grew fresher; it smelled of water. The darkness lightened. Renzo turned a corner, and there they were, the other children, squatting on the floor, their birds perched on heads and wrists and shoulders. And down the corridor beyond them . . . a narrow door with thick black bars.

But were they iron or glass?

He set down Sofia; she and Paolo joined the others. Letta rose, came to him. “Where's
Nonna
?” she whispered.

“She's . . . coming,” he said.

“You
left
her?”

“I did as she told me.”

“Have you seen her? Have you heard her?”

Renzo shook his head.

“I'll find her, then. Your friend hasn't come yet. There's no one at the door, save for the guard.”

Vittorio not there? But he should have been there long before. Maybe he was waiting for Renzo. “Stay here,” he said. “Let me look.”

“I told you, your friend's not there.”

“There may be a way.”

“But — ”

“Would you wait, please? Just for a moment?”

She hesitated. Nodded. Stood aside.

Renzo picked his way among the children on the floor. When he came to the door, he reached up and touched one of the bars. Cold and smooth. Too smooth for iron?

He flicked it with a finger.

Glass!

Through the spaces between the bars, he saw the wall of another building. And in between . . . a narrow alley.

Footfalls outside. Renzo ducked. Above him a man passed on the other side of the bars.

A guard.

Vittorio was supposed to have dealt with him. Lured him away, or knocked him out, or . . .

Renzo hadn't wanted to know.

But where was Vittorio now?

Renzo crouched on the cold floor and put his head in his hands. He tried to
think
, tried to rise above the dragging pull of dread that lay heavy in his belly. Vittorio was still weak, had not fully recovered. And his eye . . .

A sound, behind him. Letta.

“Told you,” she whispered. “Let's go back and find
Nonna
. She may have an idea. She — ”

Renzo broke in. “I can get us out.” He hiked his skirts and fumbled to untangle the hammer from his belt.

She raised her eyebrows, eyeing the gown. “That's very fetching, Renzo, but — ”

“Be quiet, would you?”

“You couldn't even pick the lock of our cell; I don't know how you're going to — ”

He pulled out the hammer, held it up.

“You're going to
beat
your way out?”

“Shh.” The guard passed by again. Renzo waited. Then, “I can get us out. Trust me. But the guard is a problem.”

“I can deal with him.”

“You? What are you going to do, attack him with your fingernails?”

Behind them, a rumble of footfalls. No time to wait for Vittorio. They had to go now.

“How long d'you need him out of the way?”

“Not very long. Just — ”

“I'll take care of him.”

“How?”

“Trust me,” she said.

Her face stilled, and in a moment Renzo heard a soft fluttering of wings. Birds streaked overhead, flitted between the glass bars.

A shout from outside. A cry. Renzo stretched up to peer through the window bars.

The guard was covered with birds. They funneled out of the sky and converged on him — on his shoulders, on his helmet, in his face. Not just the children's birds but masses of them — pigeons, seagulls, crows.

The guard tore at them, staggered away from the door.

Renzo drew back the hammer. “Step back, Letta! Everyone, cover your eyes!” He smashed the hammer against the bars. Glass exploded from the door, collecting bits of moonlight, spilling out in a bright cascading fan that, for an instant, blotted out the dark.

T
he captain stood on deck scanning the legions of boats in the basin of San Marco, studying the crowds of revelers in the streets and on the stone pavements that bordered the canals.

No. Not there.

Hurry, would you?

He began to pace. The ship had been laded. Everything in place, everything lashed down. The flats of lace and bolts of silk had been stowed two days ago, the glass urns and tableware as well. Renzo's ten glass birds had arrived the day before; they slept snug in their crates with the other ones, deep within the hold. An hour ago the tide had turned. The captain felt it tugging at him, urging him to cast off. All lay in readiness . . . save for the last few passengers.

Who were late.

“Captain.” The first officer approached. “Sir, ready to depart.” It was not a question, but the captain heard the questioning in his tone:
What are you waiting for? The winds are favorable, the tide well turned, and the men are getting restless.

“Thank you, Fidelio,” the captain growled, more abruptly than he'd intended. He dismissed the officer and searched the basin again.

Where were they?

He couldn't wait forever. If suspicion were aroused, if he were caught with them . . .

But wait.

A fleet of shadows shivered across the face of the moon. They poured into the darkness somewhere near the south end of the Doge's Palace.