Votive (33 page)

Giaconda curtsied and I quickly followed suit. As I rose, the Prince took my hand. All night long, I’d resisted the urge to extract, to learn more about these men and the lovely women whose company they sought, but it was just too dangerous. Now, as this man without a mask, with pock-marked skin and the saddest eyes I had ever seen held onto me, I wanted to delve into his soul and discover the source of his sorrow. Above all, I wanted to heal it. Tragedy shaped his face in a way that no mask could ever emulate.

‘Another Maleovelli beauty to grace our nights.’ His voice was low, husky, a fitting tribute to his melancholy. ‘Signorina, you shine brightly even in this glittering firmament.’ His arm swept the ballroom.

‘Grazie, your grace,’ I murmured. He held me for a moment longer before turning to Giaconda and talking about, of all things, what the foreign ambassador ate. It was a source of great amusement to the assembly. I glanced at the outlandish man now, wandering from group to group, the Doge’s other son assigned to his side. He was tall, about the Cardinale’s height, but broader. Some might find his pale looks handsome, his blond brows, his light blue eyes. His mask dangled by his side and I wondered when he’d removed it.

I watched him conversing with the Cardinale. His hands did not move, only his mouth; his face did not reveal his feelings. Like me, he was playing a role. I wondered briefly what he must think of all this ostentation.

A slight chill made me draw my shoulders together and I glanced around to see if the door had opened, for people were beginning to leave. But it was shut. As I turned back to the group, I became aware of Giacomo Moronisini’s eyes on me again. They burned behind his dark mask. I nodded
gracefully to him. He did not say a word; he just continued to stare.

Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, I was glad when Giaconda took my arm.

‘Come, Tarlo, the night is almost over. It’s time to retire.’ She smiled and bowed her head to our male companions, who all protested at our leaving. Giaconda opened her fan and concealed her laughing mouth. ‘Gentleman, we look forward to your future favours. Don’t we, Tarlo?’

Imitating Giaconda, I also opened my fan, a pretty golden one lined with diamantes. They flashed as the material spread. ‘Indeed we do, sister.’

Looping our arms, we left the men slowly, aware that every single one of them was watching. As I’d been taught, I swung my hips, pleased as my train (something else I learnt from a very friendly courtesan was also forbidden) rustled and swept its way across the floor.

We approached Signor Maleovelli and I saw he was listening to a conversation between the Cardinale and the foreign ambassador. The Cardinale gave us the barest of nods.

‘I am more than happy to explain to you what we’re doing to apprehend the Estrattore,’ said the Cardinale.

I willed myself not to react. To remain calm. I opened my fan again and began to wave it before my face. The Cardinale turned from me, annoyed that I had drawn attention away from him merely through my presence.

He kept talking to the ambassador. ‘And I would like very much for you to explain the religion of your country,’ he continued. ‘We once worshipped the gods. A long, long time ago. But our eyes were opened. We recognised the gods for what they were: a sign of ignorance, and those who claimed to be conduits to them nothing but charlatans.’ The ambassador stiffened. One of the young nobiles gasped at
the insult. The Cardinale seemed unaware of the effect of his words. He stifled a yawn. ‘You will have to excuse me. It’s late.’ He glanced out the window. ‘Or should I say, early. We will talk, sir.’ He struck the ambassador on the arm in what was meant to pass as a friendly gesture, but could, in a different setting, be construed as aggressive.

‘Your grace,’ we all murmured.

With a brief bow, he left the group. We waited until he was gone from the room before resuming the conversation. Only then did I release my breath. Signor Maleovelli smiled at us. ‘Ah, belle. Lord Waterford, I believe you have met my daughter Giaconda and my ward, Tarlo. Gia, Lord Beolin Waterford is the ambassador of our newest ally, the country of Farrowfare. Despite what his grace, the Cardinale implied, religion is not the only subject to occupy Lord Waterford’s mind – he’s also interested in trade.’

‘Then he is a man of great interest to us, Papa,’ said Giaconda, staring over her fan at Lord Waterford, who flashed her what passed for a warm smile.

We both dropped into deep curtsies. Lord Waterford kissed the hands we held out to him, first Giaconda’s, then mine. Even through my glove, I sensed something about this man. Depths that his unassuming demeanour hid. This man had secrets.

‘Isn’t Farrowfare beyond the Limen, my lord?’ asked Giaconda.

I tensed. Mention of the Limen still had the ability to startle me.

Lord Waterford cast me a look, a frown between his brows. I forced my face into a smile as I extracted my hand from his.

‘Indeed it is, Signorina.’ He stepped closer to Giaconda.

‘I would love to hear all about it,’ she said. ‘Living so close to the Limen we’re always curious about its mystery,
about what lies beyond its peculiar barrier, never mind within. You’re the first we know, apart from our infamous Bond Riders, of course, to come from the other side. It’s very exciting. We Serenissians are not able to survive within its space, not unless we surrender our souls. But you know this, sì?’

‘I have heard of your Bond Riders,’ said the lord politely. ‘My understanding is that they are no longer able to be, how would you describe it? Made human again?’

‘Vero. This is true. Without Estrattore to return their souls …’ Giaconda let her voice trail away, hoisting her shoulders and letting them drop.

I released my breath slowly. The conversation unnerved me.

‘I would very much like to learn about why it is
your
men can cross into Vista Mare and back again so … unscathed.’ Giaconda looked the ambassador up and down appreciatively. ‘Do you have to surrender your soul or is that still intact?’

Lord Waterford smiled. ‘I’m afraid that’s an official secret, Signorina.’

‘And what about opportunities for trade between our nations?’ asked Giaconda. ‘Is that a secret too? Or will you share that with me?’

‘That’s what we were discussing, bella,’ Signor Maleovelli said. ‘Lord Waterford and I have just been arranging a time of mutual convenience to talk further on this matter. Is that not right, Signor?’ Signor Maleovelli reached inside his jacket. ‘This is my card. I would be delighted if you would call upon us soon. I will ask my man to speak to yours, shall I?’

‘That would be … most delightful,’ said Lord Waterford, his eyes dusting first Giaconda, then me. I could tell that while he would go ahead with this meeting, it was against
his better judgement. I longed to touch this man, to find out more about him. Well, if he came to the casa, I would perhaps have that chance.

‘Till the next time we meet, then,’ said Signor Maleovelli and gave the ambassador a dignified nod of his head.

Lord Waterford bowed, an elegant, practised one. ‘I will look forward to it very much, Signor Maleovelli, Signorina Giaconda and Signorina Tarlo.’

‘You will not forget?’ asked Giaconda.

‘How could I? I don’t think I will ever forget the jewels that grace this evening – the emerald lady and the Signorina Dorata. I doubt anyone will.’

Signorina Dorata? It took me a moment to realise Lord Waterford meant me.

‘Signorina Dorata?’ Giaconda’s eyes widened and then she laughed and stood back to study me momentarily. ‘Very appropriate, Lord Waterford. It’s a name, a title, I think my sister will wear with honour. Grazie.’

‘Prego,’ said Lord Waterford. ‘But I cannot claim to have invented it. I am simply repeating what everyone else has been calling her.’

Giaconda took my arm again and we followed Signor Maleovelli from the room, nodding to those who called out farewells. The Doge had long left his party; the dais and his throne were abandoned.

I barely remembered being ushered into my cape, descending the staircases or coming out into the fresh early morning air, crossing the piazza and rousing Salzi, who was asleep in the felze. All I could think about was Lord Waterford’s description of me.

I huddled beside Giaconda, too tired to listen to the Maleovellis’ self-congratulations and analysis of the evening. All I could think about was the uncanny coincidence.

‘Did you hear what he called her, Papa?’ Giaconda was full of life, high on the success of the evening, despite the hour. ‘Signorina Dorata!’ She clapped her hands in glee.

Signor Maleovelli regarded her fondly. ‘She was a greater success than we ever could have hoped. You did well, mia cara. We did well.’

They continued to speak about me as if I didn’t exist. I was grateful. My mind was roiling with confusion, with the impossibility of it all.

In a matter of months, I had gone from being Dante’s Dorato – his little golden boy, to the golden lady of Serenissima – Signorina Dorata.

I didn’t know whether to laugh in triumph or cry at what it all signified. I was too exhausted. My body ached, my feet were leaden and my brain was full of the faces, sights and conversations I had participated in, the danger I had narrowly escaped simply by being there. The tension that had kept me upright and focused all night began to leave my body.

I snuggled into the cushions, rearranging my dress slightly. We passed over the water and, through the window, I could see out on the ocean beyond the Arsenale, the silhouettes of masts as the sun crawled over the horizon, turning the water into a bronze disc. A flat golden orb.
Dorato, dorata.
Like the ships anchored in the lagoon, I wondered where this new name would take me. What I would become. Would it set me free as we hoped, or would it be a burden that would secure me nothing but trouble?

As it turned out, I didn’t have to wait for very long to find out.

D
ANTE WAS AWARE OF THE OWNER
of Taverna di Segretezza’s eyes upon him as he gently wiped Katina’s brow.

‘She’s not improving.’ Dante turned round and looked at Signor Vestire helplessly. ‘I don’t know what to do, Signor.’ For the last five days, he’d sat by Katina’s bed and watched as her body withered away before his eyes. At first, he’d refused to let anyone come near her, but now, when he had lost all hope, he’d admitted Vestire. He gazed at the kind man now. ‘Tell me. What do I do?’

Signor Vestire stepped closer. Dante could see a tic in his cheek pulsing frantically as he stared at Katina. He was working hard not to let the apprehension he felt show. ‘I have seen this before,’ he said finally, the back of his hand gently touching Katina’s cheek. Her breathing was shallow, rapid. ‘When a Bond Rider is like this – they must return to the Limen.’

Dante studied Katina’s face in dismay. ‘I know. But there are factors –’

‘More important than this Signorina’s life?’ Signor Vestire rested a hand on Dante’s shoulder. ‘Hush,’ he said as Dante went to speak again. He dragged a chair over next to him. ‘I do know. I do understand. I know the Riders have rules
and laws to which we humans are not privy. And you have your Bonds.’ He smiled to soften the severity of his words. ‘But you should at least consider a dottore, amico mio.’

Dante shook his head. ‘What if he talks? What if he lets slip that you have Riders here …’

‘We will get one of our own. Someone who will not breathe a word. Trust me on this. My life is as much at risk as yours.’ Signor Vestire folded his arms and nodded out the window. ‘The Cardinale and the Signori di Notte are, let’s say, encouraging the popolani to report anything or anyone different. They’re paying people to spy on one another.’ He sighed. ‘Why, only yesterday, we heard that an old woman was taken in for questioning. She’d recently moved into the Herb Quartiere from the mainland after her family died during the Morto Assiderato. Once she would have been cared for, welcomed even. Now, she’s accused of harbouring the Estrattore.’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Tragedy begets more tragedy.’

He rose to his feet and stared out the window. Dante watched as rain trickled down the pane. It reflected against Signor Vestire’s face, making it appear as if he was crying. ‘These are troubled times, Dante. We all have to be careful. Let’s not forget the man who was asking after Katina a while back. A suspicious fellow if ever I saw one.’ He tapped the side of his nose.

Dante had been unnerved to discover someone had called at the taverna more than once asking for Katina by name. How did he know she would be here? Who was he? Why hadn’t Katina said anything about him? It made Dante uneasy.

‘But this –’ continued Signor Vestire, waving towards Katina, ‘this is different. Sometimes we have to throw caution away.’

Dante placed his hand against Katina’s forehead. It was
burning. He didn’t understand what the Morte Whisperers had done but, whatever it was, it was killing her.

‘Allora,’ said Signor Vestire. ‘Do I fetch the dottore?’ He squatted beside Dante and patted his leg.

Dante’s eyes were itchy, his body ached with tiredness and he was heartsore. ‘Fetch him as soon as you can. Please. Let’s hope he can do something.’

Signor Vestire took one last look at Katina’s pallid face, his lips a thin line, and left the room.

T
HE DOTTORE CAME EVERY DAY
for over a week. No matter what he did, getting broth between her lips, applying cool herbal compresses to her face and arms, Katina grew worse. Dante fretted, alternating between pacing the room and sitting beside her, clutching her hand, wiping her face, watching her waste away. He refused much of the food Signora Vestire brought, and when he slept, it was either on the bed by Katina’s side or slumped in a chair that he dragged over, his arm draped across her. Sometimes, in a state somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, he thought he could feel her fingers in his hair and his mind would wander, imagining he was a boy again and Zia Gaia was beside him.

Occasionally, Katina would awake and try to speak. Her eyes would fly open, but her senses wandered in a different realm. Before long, she would fall asleep again and could not be roused.

Dante knew that if they didn’t find a cure quickly, then the benefits of Elder Maggiore’s diet would be meaningless; their Bonds would be for nothing, for how could an Obbligare Doppio work if there was only one Rider left to carry it out?

Each day, as Dante became accustomed to being in Serenissima again, it wasn’t only Katina who occupied his mind. The pull to find Tallow became stronger. He longed for her; he knew she was in the city and every inch of him wanted to begin the search, to see her, touch her and, he thought, taste her lips. He began to dream about her, vivid, powerful dreams that left him confused when he woke. He would look around the room expecting to find her there beside him, only to see the burning grate and the outline of Katina, lying still in the bed.

Katina dreamed too. He would watch her tossing and turning, a frown marring her brow, Tallow’s name on her lips. He wondered if that was what was keeping her alive, because he could think of no other reason.

Afraid to leave Katina’s side lest she require him, needing to find Tallow, Dante was torn. A man divided. He remained in the room, sitting by the bed or gazing out the window. The rain had been replaced by snow. Carnivale was in full swing, and outside, locals would wander by masked and full of high spirits. He saw tumblers and dwarves, courtesans and nobiles, the crowds increasing as the day wore on and night fell – carrying torches, assembling in the campo outside the taverna, with their drinks clutched firmly in their hands, their breath long whispers of white against the darkness. Celebrations continued into the night – the rumblings of conversation, music and laughter would carry through the floor from the bar below. It only served to depress Dante further. It wasn’t that he wanted to participate so much as he wanted Katina to be well enough so that he could use the cover of Carnivale to begin his search. No-one questioned strangers moving between quartieri during Carnivale. Why, even the Cardinale’s men had to allow some leeway at this time of year – or so Signor Vestire claimed.

‘Why don’t you at least go downstairs?’ Signor Vestire would ask over and over. ‘My daughters will sit with Signorina Maggiore.’ His two young daughters, twins, had been constant visitors to the room. Sweet-faced and wide-eyed, they barely spoke, awed by the presence of Bond Riders. They delivered food, medicines; emptied chamber pots, replaced drying sheets, brought fresh water with pretty curtsies and shy, fearful smiles.

Finally, two weeks after Carnivale began, Signor Vestire’s insistence that he have a break grew and Dante capitulated.

First making sure Katina was settled, and that one of Signor Vestire’s daughters would remain, he had a quick wash, changed his clothes and went downstairs. Small, the taverna seemed big in comparison with the confines of the stuffy room upstairs and Dante appreciated the illusion of space as well as the strange faces, chatter and the smell of wood smoke, vino and hot bread and cheese – platters of which were spread over a few tables. He settled on a vacant stool by the bar under the nose of Signor Vestire who, without a word, placed a wooden cup brimming with red vino in front of him followed by a small plate of cold pigeon, a tiny bowl of olive oil, and steaming, freshly baked bread. Dante drank gratefully, saluting Signor Vestire first.

He ate slowly, enjoying the warmth of the fire. While the close press of bodies concerned him at first, after his second cup of vino he no longer cared so much. He shifted on his stool so he could discreetly check out faces and listen in on the many conversations that were taking place. Discussion ranged from the fussiness of customers who demanded almost invisible stitching to the latest fabrics and furs, samples of which had been given freely by a new ambassador’s men. He heard the names Farrowfare and Waterford, but they were unfamiliar and he quickly dismissed them,
trying to hear any news about the Cardinale and the Chandlers Quartiere – the one place he wanted to go but knew was forbidden to him.

Dante tuned in and out, listening to the good-natured banter, observing the patrons; noting how, as the evening wore on, masks slipped from faces or were pushed up foreheads. Anonymity was not so important to these people, not when the good times they had were shared with friends.

Signor Vestire appeared with the vino flask, ready to tip more into Dante’s cup. Dante went to stop him when something caught his ear.

‘Signorina Dorata, they’re calling her. All she wears is gold. They say all the nobiles are besotted with her!’ A middle-aged man with a slashed doublet opened to reveal a generous paunch and a mask dangling from one ear leant over a table of goggle-eyed men.

‘Have you seen her?’ asked one man, staggering over from another table into the group. There was laughter as they held him upright. ‘I saw her riding in a gondola with another beauty. She’s the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever seen. Hair like the evening sky, skin like melted snow –’

‘Melted snow?’ said another man, slapping his drunken companion on the back. ‘How can one’s skin be like melted snow?’

‘Because you want to stick your tongue into it!’ quipped another. Raucous laughter followed.

‘What I wouldn’t give to be her tailor – working with golden fabric – designing for her. What I’d give to know who got that commission.’ There was much nodding and chinking of mugs after that statement.

Dante turned back to the bar, musing over the name.
Signorina Dorata
. How odd that someone should be given a title so like that he’d bestowed on Tallow. Dorato, he called
her – his little golden boy. All because of her strange glasses, the ones she would wear to disguise her eyes. It seemed so long ago. Another lifetime. He looked down at his hands, gripping the mug. They possessed fresh scars, given by knives, swords, and angry trees. His youthful calluses and burns had been replaced by a warrior’s roughness. And now a new courtesan bore Tallow’s old name. Katina was right. Serenissima was not the same place; he was not the same person he once was. What had happened to Tallow, he pondered. Had she changed too?

With a silent laugh, he took a swig of the drink, forgetting his earlier conviction not to have more.
Courtesan
, he scoffed as he replayed the men’s conversation.
A whore by any other name
.

He wondered if there were any there tonight; if he might be able to acquire their services. His stool creaked beneath him as he twisted and cast a look around the room. Gazing through the haze of wood fire and tobacco smoke, he became aware he was being watched. In a far corner, near the main door, he spotted a man sitting by himself. A group was close by and he’d arranged his chair to appear part of them, but Dante could tell he wasn’t. He wore a mask so large it covered most of his face. The slits glittered, and Dante knew they were fixed on him.

Dante frowned. It was time to leave. He downed the last of the drink and was about to stand when he felt a tugging at his elbow.

‘Signor, signor.’ He looked down. It was one of Signor Vestire’s daughters. ‘The lady …’ her dark eyes were wide with fear. ‘You must come quickly. She asks for you.’

Dante threw the cup down and followed the child from the room, taking the stairs two at a time, cursing himself for how much he’d drunk.

He flung open the door. Katina was not alone.

Standing over the bed, back to the door, was a cloaked and hooded figure. Dante raced to his scabbard and pulled out his sword. The little girl squealed and ran to a corner, cowering.

‘Get away from her,’ he ordered.

The figure did not move.

‘Now!’ he said and stepped closer, his sword held before him.

Slowly, the figure turned and threw back the hood.

Dante gasped and almost lost hold of his weapon.

Signor Vestire’s daughter yelped and went to run from the room.

‘Stop her,’ the figure said.

Dante grabbed the girl’s hand and pulled her back. The little girl struggled and began to whimper.

‘It’s all right,’ soothed Dante. ‘This is a friend.’ He looked at the elderly woman standing before him, with her white hair and pink cheeks. ‘You
are
a friend, aren’t you?’

The old woman smiled, and bending down in front of the girl, took her hand. ‘Sì, indeed I am. A very, very old one.’ Dante watched as the little girl stared into the great silver eyes gazing into her own. He saw the fear leave her body. Her shoulders drooped and a smile replaced the panic. She threw herself in the old woman’s arms.

The old lady hugged her and then released her. ‘Go and shut the door and then sit over there, cara.’ She pointed to a chair by the fire. The little girl did as she was told, her face shining.

Dante watched the exchange and then put his sword back in its scabbard and replaced it on the table.

‘You’re an Estrattore, sì?’ he asked as the woman returned to Katina’s side. He joined her, kneeling by the bed.

‘Sì,’ she said softly and took Katina’s hand. Dante felt the power radiating from her.