Votive (19 page)

Baroque made a funny noise. ‘Trust me?’ He spun round and began to laugh. It was not a nice sound. He stormed across the floor and slammed the door shut. ‘Grow up, Tallow! You can’t trust me. You, my dear, can’t trust anyone, and the sooner you realise that, the safer
we’ll all be.’ He shook his head. ‘Did you really believe that I was any different? Do you really think that you can trust any one of them up there?’ He stabbed his finger in the direction of the piano nobile. ‘Oh, Tallow,’ he smacked his forehead. ‘I thought you were learning. I thought you were smarter than that. You think a few shared laughs and an exchange of gossip is grounds for friendship? For trust? Not when you’re an Estrattore they’re not, and especially not with someone like me.’

My insides burned with shame and rage. I’d misread Baroque’s treatment of me so badly. Just because someone was nice to me, didn’t mean they were my friend. A tear rolled down my cheek. I used my shoulder to sweep it away. I had no friends. I coughed and cleared my throat, aware Baroque was waiting for an answer. I straightened my back. Self-pity did not become me. I was stronger than that. I had to be. I just couldn’t speak … not yet.

Baroque sighed and swung the door open, leaning against it. ‘Leave the belladonna, Tarlo. We’ll do that another day. The Maleovellis want some candles. Not your usual kind either. We’ve wasted enough time today. We need to get these done.’

I tried to push away my sorrow.

‘Oh,’ I said, my voice breaking in an effort to be light. ‘What sort do they want?’

‘Ones that will make their new friends trust them.’ He laughed. ‘Ironic, isn’t it?’

‘Sì,’ I said quietly.

‘Bene.’ He slid a box of candles towards me. Inside were half a dozen creamy tapers, different from the ones we’d used the last few weeks. I lifted one out. They’d been rolled well and the wicks were of good quality. Slow burning. They looked like the work of Master Querini on the salizzada in
the Candlemakers Quartiere. I didn’t dare extract to see if my supposition was correct.

‘You’re to infuse these with loyalty – confidence – and a bit of gullibility, so those inhaling the scent will have faith in what’s being discussed. Capisce?’

‘Capisco.’ I replaced the candle and pushed the box to one side and picked through some of the objects Baroque had left on the bench. Using a piece of stone that had been partially carved, and a sea bird’s feather, I became aware that they carried within them many other emotions, many other stories.

Concentrating, I distilled what was asked of me into the candles. The stone gave me the requisite confidence, the bird feather loyalty, and the fish it had greedily snatched from the ocean as they broke the surface, credulity. I also used a piece of myself, how I’d felt just before Baroque reminded me of who I was; what I was. As I had infused musk into my washing water this morning, so I gave that heady scent to the candles, knowing that whoever breathed their perfume would believe whatever they were being told. The changes took only moments to effect. The candles appeared luminous in the waning light.

Baroque pressed the taper to his nose and inhaled. Then he turned to regard me. ‘No wonder the Doge wanted you all gone. This is incredible. I can actually feel myself responding to the scent.’

‘Me too.’

‘I’d always thought you were immune.’ Baroque put the candle back in the box and placed the lid on top, pressing down as if to stop the smell escaping.

‘Not entirely.’ I didn’t reveal that all I needed to do was touch something else, extract a different emotion for the affect to alter or end.

‘Do you know when these are to be used?’ I asked, trying to keep my tone indifferent.

‘No. Not exactly, but I can guess. The Maleovellis are preparing to have guests.’

‘Guests?’ I was astonished. Since I had been here, only a few tradespeople and some debt collectors had been at the casa, the latter to receive soldi owed. I had heard them singing the praises of the Maleovellis as they left. I’d also smelled my candles burning in Jacopo’s office downstairs.

‘Sì. Tonight.’ Baroque regarded me steadily. ‘And so it begins, Tarlo Maleovelli.’

‘What does?’ I asked, the innocent note in my voice fooling neither of us.

‘The purpose for which you were brought here – to ensure the Maleovellis rise to power.’

My heart began to pound and a roaring filled my ears. I resented his accusatory tone. ‘It’s the same reason you’re here too, Baroque Scarpoli, only my reasons are not so selfish. As they rise, the return of the Estrattore comes closer. I am doing this for my people.’

Baroque gave me a long, long look. ‘Then how is your reason any different from mine? Do you expect me to believe you won’t personally gain from that?’

I didn’t want to answer. Instead, I packed up quickly and fled to my room.

T
HE MOMENT
I
WAS TOLD
I’
D BE HAVING
dinner in my room, I knew that not only were the guests Baroque had told me about expected, but also that I had an opportunity to discover exactly what the Maleovellis were using my candles for and how they were doing it.

I sat by the fire, prodding the coals to make them smoulder and create more heat. It was a cold night and I would be grateful for their warmth later. I slipped into my nightgown and wrapped a shawl around my shoulders, clasping the edges with one hand to prevent the fringe from catching in the flames.

There was a sharp rap on the door.

‘Permesso!’ I cried, resting the poker against the fireplace. I leant back in the chair and waited for Hafeza to enter.

She came in backwards carrying a tray from which steam and a delicious smell arose. I could see a large bowl of soup and a bread roll, along with some roasted pigeon. There was also a small plate of pale, crumbly cheese.

‘Grazie, Hafeza,’ I said as she placed the tray carefully on my bedside table.

With a flurry of fingers and hands, she asked me if I would like the bed turned down.

‘Sì, grazie.’ She bobbed her head and moved towards the bed. I made a noise that was meant to be a yawn and
stretched my arms up in the air. ‘I am very tired. Must be because of all the work I did today. I think I’ll eat and go straight to sleep. Please, don’t bother collecting the tray tonight. The morning will do.’ I winced at my poor performance and prayed Hafeza believed me. I chattered away as she folded back the sheets and plumped the pillows. At first I wasn’t sure she’d heard me, but when she finished, she turned, curtsied and, with a flash of white teeth, left the room.

To my surprise, I was perspiring. I hadn’t lied to Hafeza before. I didn’t like it. But I had to know what was going on in this casa. To what I was sacrificing my talents.

I quickly ate some of the soup and nibbled the pigeon and cheese. I wasn’t very hungry. My stomach felt like a tumbler had taken up residence inside.

I waited a little longer and then extinguished the candles and sat on the edge of the bed. There was no moon tonight. Outside my window, a thick fog lurked, turning the glass opaque. If I could make it undetected to the hiding place I’d chosen, the darkness would serve me well.

After a while I heard a door close then another open. A burst of laughter made me jump before it was quickly muffled. The guests were here. I guessed that the first course was being served. I’d estimated that there would be a sufficient length of time between the service of the second course and collection of the plates for me to leave my room and make my way to the dining room unobserved.

I tiptoed across the floor and pressed my ear to the door. There. A door opened. Footsteps, and then a burst of noise before another click. I counted the footsteps. Three servants tonight. They’d hired extra help. Their longed-for soldi were starting to become manifest. My breathing filled my ears.

Minutes passed and I heard nothing more. I turned the handle and eased the door open and peered out.

The corridor was alive with dancing shadows, all cast by the candles in their sconces. My heart pounded and for a moment my courage deserted me. What was I doing? Did I really need to know what the Maleovellis were up to? Hadn’t they been good to me? What if I was caught?

Before doubt paralysed me, I jumped into the hallway, shut the door and ran. Cloth eyes followed me as I bolted past tapestries before pausing beside a tall cabinet, ready to melt into the shadows if needed. I thought about snuffing out the candles and throwing the corridor into complete darkness, but knew that would arouse suspicion and activity. So I continued on.

I darted past Signor Maleovelli’s study, reaching the top of the stairs, hesitating long enough to make sure that no-one was ascending. I kept moving, careful not to bump into anything. I scurried past Jacopo’s room and into the main salon.

The dining room ran straight off the portego. All I had to do was go through the portego and get as close to where they were feasting as possible. I already knew from things Salzi and Jacopo said that the Maleovellis didn’t entertain in the portego at this time of year. It was too expensive to heat and light. So I imagined I would be alone in the gloom; no-one would be using the main room.

I paused inside the door and took my bearings. The moon may have been hidden, but there was still enough light to turn the room into a palette of greys, and the furnishings into the stuff of nightmares.

The kiss of crystal and tinkling laughter would have directed me to the other end of the room if the glimmer of candlelight hadn’t. I moved around the edges, careful not to be heard. Sidling up to the doorframe, I dropped onto all fours and peeped around the corner. I learnt to do that eavesdropping on Pillar and Quinn when I was much younger.
Illicit looks at eye level were much more likely to be caught than those snatched from the floor – something Baroque, in our many conversations, also confirmed.

From where I was, I had a very good view of the dining room. I could just see the top half of Giaconda’s face and could hear her. She was seated at the head of the table, a space usually reserved for Signor Maleovelli. I wondered who they were hosting that his position was usurped. To my right, I could make out Signor Maleovelli’s shoulder and head. Next to him and closer to me sat Jacopo, turned in his seat so his leg could be extended; fortunately, he was facing away from where I was.

To my left, opposite Signor Maleovelli and Jacopo, were two men. Behind them was the credenza upon which sat my candles. They had not yet been lit. The man nearest Giaconda was leaning forward and easy to see. He looked quite old, older than Signor Maleovelli. The light threw the pouches and lines on his face into relief and I could see his jowls wobbling like an unset jelly as he chuckled at something that was said.

Next to him was a much younger man. His shoulders were level with Jacopo’s head. He had jet-black hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck, a long, straight nose, strong chin and tawny-coloured skin stained across the cheeks with a rose-pink flush. His jacket was of the latest fashion, puffed at the shoulder and drawn at the cuff. The shirt that peeked over the top and spilled at his wrists was snowy white. Even from my vantage point, I could see he was very handsome. He held his knife in the air, waving it around as he spoke and I could see a large bejewelled ring on his finger. I wondered who they were and how they knew the Maleovellis. Even more, I wondered what they could offer that the Maleovellis resorted to such dangerous tactics to obtain it.

I didn’t have to wait long.

‘The Doge is playing games, naturalmente!’ Giaconda’s voice rose above the others. ‘Keeping this new ambassador waiting is not polite!

‘Ah, but it is politic,’ said the old man, to gales of laughter.

‘Sì, bello,’ said Giaconda in a voice I didn’t recognise. Bello! That fat old man? Giaconda was clearly playing courtesan tonight. I lay down on the floor and tried to wriggle around the doorframe so I could hear better. The terrazzo was cold.

‘When he’s ready, the Doge will spare no expense to welcome this man … What’s his name again?’ The old man looked to the younger one.

‘Water Ford, I believe. A most peculiar name. He’s a lord,’ replied the younger one.

Everyone laughed. ‘Only someone from the other side of the Limen would have the gall to carry a title that belongs to Our Saviour,’ Giaconda said softly. ‘Still, I think
Waterford
must be furious at being kept at arm’s length for so long and after all the supplies and aid he has given our city.’

‘I’ve heard,’ said the old man, ‘that there’s to be a special function to welcome him – at the palazzo, no less. All Councillors are to attend and extend the warm hand of Serenissian friendship.’

‘Well,’ said Signor Maleovelli, ‘if he helps Serenissima, then I am prepared to call him friend.’

Again, there was laughter. Another servant began refilling the glasses. I noticed he went only to one side of the table.

‘I am tired of talking about this ambassador,’ Signor Maleovelli chided. ‘Let’s talk about this proposed venture of yours, Moronisini.’ Signor Maleovelli waved his fingers in the air and a servant I’d never seen before detached
himself from the wall and lit my candles. Almost immediately, I could smell them. I wondered what precautions the Maleovellis had taken to ensure they weren’t affected. Just as I was musing on what they might do, I saw Signor Maleovelli and Jacopo produce handkerchiefs and press them to their noses, making pretence of dabbing their upper lips, wiping their faces. I imagined Giaconda would be doing something similar. I’d told them that crushed cafe beans would overwhelm the scent of the candles and work towards counteracting the power of the distillation. I was basing this assumption on various extractions I’d done with the small, brown nuggets, but was confident it would work. Tonight would be a test in more ways than one.

The two strangers lifted their chins and I saw them inhale. Instantly, their eyes widened and colour flooded their cheeks. Their faces began to shine with eagerness.

The old man’s eyebrows shot up. ‘How do you know about this?’

Signor Maleovelli crushed his hanky into his fist and picked up his glass. ‘Ah, amico mio, you know how sailors talk. It’s a subject of great interest at the port. Which means it’s a topic of interest among the merchants. Which means, of course, it’s a subject of great interest to me.’

‘But the Sea With No Name is not on your trading route.’

Signor Maleovelli threw back his head and roared. My heart leapt into my throat. I had never heard him make such a noise. ‘It’s not on anyone’s trading route!’

Signor Moronisini and the young man joined his laughter.

‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Signor Moronisini.

‘I know,’ said Signor Maleovelli, his laugh dying as quickly as it had erupted. ‘I know what you meant. You were
being polite. I don’t actually have a trading route anymore. In fact, as we all know, my family have not enjoyed the benefits of one for some time. We have to rely on the spoils that others find, much to our disappointment. I hope to change this. So, I continue to look for the right venture into which I can invest the last of our funds. The Sea With No Name caught my interest. I asked about it and found your name on everyone’s lips. You have caused much excitement, amico mio. It is a risk, no? It’s probably too ambitious for most.’

Signor Moronosini became suddenly serious and stared earnestly at Signor Maleovelli. His eyes were filled with anticipation. I knew that what I’d distilled into the candles had taken hold. ‘Why do you say that? Imagine a whole country with an entire population hungry for trade, for new experiences. It’s there for the taking. I just haven’t found someone I trust enough with whom I can enter into a colleganza. Finding the right partner, the right person to lead and manage such an expedition is so important. And, let’s face it, since the plague it’s becoming harder to find that individual. Many of the great casas are reeling from losses brought on by the Morto. Entire bloodlines were decimated, never mind business opportunities ruined. Why, we lost four ships ourselves. Whole cargoes were spoiled while waiting for quarantine to end.’ He made a noise of disgust. ‘I hope the fish enjoyed them.’

Signor Maleovelli pushed his kerchief beneath his nose. ‘I heard of many difficulties. Cargoes decimated, ships deserted in the harbour as their crews fled. Then, of course, there were those tragically taken by the illness.’ He took a sip of vino. ‘As you say, the Morto Assiderato has deprived us of so much already. We cannot lose anymore – nobiles, popolani or soldi. Allora, on second thoughts, maybe we can afford to lose a few more nobiles, sì?’

There was a titter of approval as everyone crossed themselves and muttered salutations for the dead. My fingers itched to join them – it was automatic. I had to concentrate. If I moved, I risked discovery.

‘No,’ agreed the old man, chuckling. ‘And in a venture such as this, there’s much to lose. But –’ he raised his glass ‘– there’s also much to gain.’

‘What have you heard?’ asked Signor Maleovelli. ‘Come on, Moronisini – you can trust me. Long ago, we shared a great deal in our lives, huh? Remember? You can share this with me now. I, who have shared everything with you.’ He reached over and stroked Giaconda’s arm. This man called Moronisini shifted uncomfortably and gave an uneasy laugh. ‘What is there to be lost from simply talking?’ Signor Maleovelli persisted.

It was then I knew who the old man was – my lessons with Jacopo and Baroque’s mumblings had not gone to waste. Nobile Moronisini was from the Fourth Casa of Nobiles’ Rise, someone who had made a great deal of money from trade and who, according to Jacopo and Baroque, had the ear of the Doge. Certainly he was a member of the inner sanctum – the Council of Ten. The Maleovellis had important guests indeed. If I was caught spying on them … For just a moment, I wondered what Baroque would say about what I was doing. I had no doubt he’d approve.

Signor Moronisini considered his words. Then, letting out a long sigh, he signalled for more vino. He drank deeply then smiled, his teeth tinged carmine. ‘You’re right, Maleovelli. We used to share a great deal … more.’ I saw his eyes flicker over Giaconda in a way that made me shudder. He nestled into his chair. ‘Allora. The captain of my fleet tells me that the entire area surrounding the Sea With No Name is ripe for investment. He’s seen what comes out of those lands – the Contested Territories of Judea. He talks about
the exquisite clothes, the oil, spices and fruit. There’s even rumours of jewels the size of plums. Now that the contested lands are not so …’ He fished for the right word.

‘Contested?’ suggested Giaconda.

Signor Moronisini grinned. ‘Esatto. Now the Crusades are over, the opportunities are there for those with the money and the courage to try.’

‘I see,’ said Signor Maleovelli. ‘So, what would you intend? For ships to sail to the coast and a caravan cross the land until they get to the Sea With No Name?’

‘That’s what we’re considering. But it’s a huge risk. There are not only pirates, but once we disembark, brigands as well. They’ve flourished since the Holy Wars. Deserters, converts, the local barbarians – no-one is safe.’