Votive (45 page)

It was better that way.

I turned aside and climbed the last staircase, to my room. There, I looked upon the tiny space that had been mine. I shook my head. It always seemed so much bigger in my dreams, in my memories. I walked around, trailing my finger along the edge of the two huge vats, bending to brush the surface of the mattress and the tatty blankets that lay in a heap in the middle. Without meaning to, I began to draw. I almost doubled over as waves of dreadful pain, sorrow and grief washed over me. I grabbed a hold of the chest and clutched my stomach. I gagged.

I quickly stopped extracting. Every surface screamed of horror. How could I have ever remembered my time here as good, as somehow magical? As something to cherish and restore my lost faith in others, in myself? I leant against the chest, trying to regain my equilibrium. My fingers gripped the top and I remembered that, inside it, were my precious items. I moved away and lifted the lid, coughing as dust and the smell of lost time hit me in the face.

I looked inside the tiny space and saw the things I had once treasured still sitting there. There was my old tinderbox, a few candles, the piece of green myrtle wax and the ancient bit of paper I’d salvaged from the canal the first time I ever rode in a gondola. I drew it out and examined it.

Back then it had been the colours and patterns that had attracted me. I had never seen anything so unusual. Now, I looked at it and the meanings of the designs and words, at one time obscure, became apparent. The urge to laugh found me again. That was how Baroque came upon me moments later, doubled over with tears pouring down my cheeks.

‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What’s wrong?’ He didn’t intrude, but asked from the doorway.

‘Wrong?’ I straightened and wiped my face. My shoulders shook, my throat contracted. I wasn’t laughing, I was sobbing. ‘Look,’ I said, and with two steps, thrust my cherished piece of paper into his hands.

Baroque took it from me carefully and his eyes widened.

‘Sì,’ I said. ‘It’s ironic, isn’t it? The one thing of the outside world that I chose to keep as a child is a piece of paper advertising the services of a courtesan. I have even met her. Veronica Franco. The poetess.’ I took a deep, quivering breath. ‘Oh, Baroque, let’s go. I don’t ever want to come back here. It does not contain what I thought it might.’

Baroque glanced at me with his secret eyes. ‘I’m not so sure about that. Did you … did you extract?’

‘What do you think?’ I raised my tear-stained face to his.

‘You felt nothing?’

‘No. I felt everything.’

As we shut the door and returned to the fondamenta, a barrage of abuse greeted us.

‘What right do you have to go in there?’ screeched a familiar voice. We both jumped guiltily to find Francesca, the fruit vendor’s wife, staring at us, a broom in her hand held before her like a weapon. ‘You’ll not find anything in there that the Signori and the Cardinale haven’t. He’s gone, I tell you. Gone.’ Her voice broke. ‘And so has the Estrattore, all right. We don’t know anything. Go back to Nobiles’ Rise. Leave us be!’

‘Signora,’ began Baroque in his most consoling voice, ‘you misunderstand. We were not –’

‘I don’t care what you were doing. We’re no objects of curiousity. We’re people with lives and families. And your kind don’t belong here. Now go!’ Francesca began to sweep hard in our direction, dirt and bits of rubbish flying into our faces. I began to cough and held my hand up in front of my face. We tried to escape, but Francesca followed us, her broom working harder and harder. Along the fondamenta, people appeared in doorways, cheering her on, spitting at us, ordering us to leave. Soon she was joined by others, all of them sweeping us away in a tirade of words and dust.

It wasn’t until our gondola was in sight that they stopped and watched us. Grouped together in silence, they waited until we were in the gondola and on our way before, one by one, they turned their backs and returned to their lives.

It was some time before Baroque and I spoke again.

B
Y MID-AFTERNOON WE WERE BACK
at the Maleovellis’ casa. As we glided through the water-gates, I removed my mask and disembarked. I saw Giaconda waiting. If she was angry, she hid it well. Her voice as she told us to go to Signor Maleovelli’s study was measured, her gestures calm. It was only when she turned to the boatman and
ordered him to report to Salzi that I detected the fury. I knew I would not see the gondolier’s smiling face again. I felt guilty about that.

In silence, Baroque and I went up the stairs. Jacopo loitered at the top.

‘Tsk, tsk, tsk,’ he muttered. ‘Naughty cousin.’ His grin only enhanced his delight. ‘I am here to comfort you if you need it,’ he said to my back.

Giaconda snapped. ‘Don’t you have work to attend to, Jacopo?’

He stammered something and limped away. I allowed my lips to curl.

Signor Maleovelli was seated behind his desk. Papers rested askew in front of him. Navigating our way between the chairs, Baroque and I stood patiently and waited. I repressed a yawn. My early morning adventure was catching up with me.

Finally, Signor Maleovelli raised his head. The afternoon sun streaming behind cast him into shadow. His hooded eyes glittered.

‘Where have you been, Tarlo?’ he asked. It had been a long time since he’d directed a question or any conversation to me. I was taken aback. ‘I went to the Candlemakers Quartiere.’

‘Really?’ he said. He glanced at Giaconda, who had followed us into the room. ‘Why?’

Something in his tone warned me not to implicate Baroque. Without rushing, I explained that I had a sudden urge to see my old home and that I had found Baroque and insisted he take me. Baroque had unhappily obliged.

Signor Maleovelli’s eyes passed from me to Baroque and back again.

‘Sit down, Tarlo,’ he said. He did not extend the same courtesy to Baroque. He didn’t believe me. ‘You placed
yourself in unnecessary danger. You placed all of us in danger and, it seems, on a whim.’

‘Mi dispiace,’ I said and lowered my head. I could not see how what I did was any more dangerous than what the Maleovellis had me doing night after night.

He did not speak for a while. Instead, he rustled through the papers in front of him. I watched the dust motes float on a sunbeam, noticing how they all seemed to ascend rather than descend, aspiring to greatness, I mused.

‘I do not see the point in going back,’ said Signor Maleovelli. I jumped; I’d been lost in my thoughts.

‘Perhaps not, Signor,’ I said. ‘But that may be because you’re surrounded by your past.’ I gestured to his crowded room. ‘Mine is still to be discovered, but what I had back there in the Candlemakers Quartiere, I felt I should say goodbye to before I leave it for good. Surely you would grant me that?’

Signor Maleovelli studied me carefully, then he began to chuckle. ‘Do not try to use your charms on me, young woman.’ He reached for his pipe. ‘They do not work.’ He opened his pouch and began stuffing the fragrant weed that Jacopo had brought back from the Contested Territories into the bowl. ‘You have taught her well, Gia. For a moment there, she reminded me of you.’ I could feel Giaconda stiffen behind me.

He used a spill to light his pipe and slowly the room began to fill with smoke. I tried to clear my throat as silently as I could.

‘Who saw you?’ asked Giaconda, her voice slightly muffled from the handkerchief she pressed to her face.

‘My former neighbours. But they didn’t recognise me. I was masked.’ I raised my hand slightly; the mask dangled from my finger as proof. I thought about Francesca’s daring. To attack people she thought were nobiles with a broom!
Things
had
changed. Either fear or a fresh sense of courage inspired that. I hoped it was the latter but did not want to explore what had caused it. I knew the answer.

Giaconda couldn’t hide her relief at my words.

‘And what about you, Baroque?’ asked Signor Maleovelli. ‘Did anyone –’ he emphasised the word ‘– recognise you?’ Signor Maleovelli leant back in his chair.

‘No, Signor. They did not.’

‘Still, I think your little sojourn there will arouse suspicion. There will be talk. That will attract the attention of the Signori.’ Signor Maleovelli frowned. ‘It’s just as well I have planned a diversion.’

Baroque shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

‘What might that be, Signor?’ he asked.

‘A dinner party,’ answered Signor Maleovelli. ‘Tonight I have some very important guests and for that I need some very important candles. Capisce, Baroque? Capisce, Tarlo?’

‘Capisco,’ I answered.

Baroque muttered. ‘What kind do you require?’

Signor Ezzelino leant across his desk. ‘The kind that will persuade my peers to go against their better judgement. The kind that will, when the Council of Ten vote upon who they will support to be the next Doge, make them cast their decision in my favour.’

I looked at him steadily. ‘That may be difficult.’

‘But not impossible.’

‘No, Signor, not impossible.’ My mind raced. Had we really come so far in such a short time? Signor Maleovelli was ready to take such a step?

‘Very well, then. Get to work.’ He glanced at Baroque. ‘Both of you. Do not disappoint me. A great deal rests on those candles, Tarlo – for me and for you, your kind.’

‘I understand, Signor. I will do my very best.’ A mixture of nerves and excitement made me long to escape, to begin
immediately. Something occurred to me. ‘Will I be required tonight, Signor?’

Signor Maleovelli took his pipe out of mouth. ‘Naturalmente! What is dinner at the Maleovellis if Signorina Dorata is not present? Of course you will be there. Wear your finest gown and be ready to entertain my guests in whatever way is required.’

‘Sì, Signor.’

Baroque bowed and I sank into a curtsy. We turned to leave. ‘Oh, Baroque,’ said Giaconda.

‘Sì, Signorina?’ Baroque turned, his eyebrows raised. I paused, my hand on the doorframe.

‘If ever you escort Tarlo anywhere without seeking permission from either me or my father, your journals will be handed over to the Signori di Notte. Am I clear?’

No-one spoke. Outside, a cat wailed.

‘Sì, Signorina,’ said Baroque, a smile fixed on his face.

Once we were safe in the workshop, he closed the door and leant against it. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he dabbed at his brow.

Putting on my apron, I waited for him to speak.

‘That puttana,’ he almost spat. He stuffed the material back into his pocket. ‘Who does she think she is? She’s only a damn courtesan –’ He stopped, his hand flying to cover his mouth as he recalled to whom he was speaking.

‘Sì. There are a few of us, you know. Believe it or not, Baroque, not all of us by choice.’

He levered himself away from the door. ‘You’re not the only one feeling trapped, Tarlo.’ He began to roll up his sleeves, the action jerky, furious. ‘While the Maleovellis have my journals, they think they can manipulate me in any way they want; make me dance to their music; draw me into their schemes. Just like they do you.’

He rubbed his hands across his face and through his
hair. ‘I am so weary, Tarlo, so very weary.’ He let out a long breath and stared into space before remembering where he was and giving me a watery grin. ‘Mi dispiace. I didn’t mean that about the courtesans.’

‘Sì, you did,’ I corrected.

‘All right. I did. But I didn’t mean it about
you
.’

I raised my eyebrows. He laughed.

‘Come, you don’t need to hear an old man complaining. Have you thought about what to distil into those candles?’

He drew out a fresh box of votives and, pulling them out of their little glass holders, began checking them for chips or poor wicks as I had taught him. I picked one up and, hoping he didn’t notice, extracted slightly, drawing the essence of the last person to touch it – Baroque.

Just like his outburst, what I found astonished me. Dark emotions roiled through the candle. I would have to make sure they were extracted or else use them. I felt deep-seated resentment, not just for the Maleovellis, but for everything they represented. I was somewhat surprised. To me, Baroque was as much one of them as Hafeza. He was just … nicer. As he said himself, I could not trust him; but what I felt here suggested something very different.

I went further. Beneath the initial feelings of loathing was much confusion. Over what, I wondered. I probed deeper and was infused with regret, sadness, guilt and, above all, pity. I couldn’t fathom where that last emotion came from. Baroque didn’t strike me as someone who indulged in self-pity often. He made his choices and lived with them. I went deeper still.

When I realised the pity was directed at me, I almost dropped the candle.

W
HEN
L
ORD
W
ATERFORD WAS INTRODUCED
the following afternoon, he sensed he was interrupting a celebration. Escorted to the piano nobile and into the portego, he caught Giaconda bending over her father’s chair and kissing him, the looks on their faces and the glasses in their hands indicating a triumph of some kind. As his name was called, they drew apart slowly. Lord Waterford felt uncomfortable.

‘Ah, Beolin, bello,’ cried Giaconda, and putting down her glass on one of the little tables, sailed towards him, arms outstretched, a smile upon her beautiful face.

Kissing him on both cheeks, she took his hand and led him to a chair near her father’s. ‘Signor Maleovelli,’ he said crisply and bowed before Giaconda practically pushed him into a seat. She gestured for one of the servants to bring Lord Waterford wine.

‘Has something special happened?’ enquired Lord Waterford.

‘Sì,’ said Signor Maleovelli. ‘It has indeed.’

They all waited until Lord Waterford’s glass was filled and the servant retired to the corner of the credenza.

‘May I ask what?’

Signor Maleovelli smiled. ‘Last night we had a very successful dinner party, did we not, Giaconda?’

‘We did, Papa.’ Giaconda raised her glass to him.

Lord Waterford lifted his as well. ‘Here’s to fine dining,’ he said and drank.

Signor Maleovelli studied him for a moment. Aware of the scrutiny, Lord Waterford lowered his glass. ‘Signor?’

‘To what do we owe this visit, Lord Waterford? I had thought we were having dinner tomorrow night.’

‘Yes, Signor, but something has happened which induced me to seek your company earlier. Whereas dinner in your casa is always a pleasure –’ he reached for Giaconda’s hand and kissed it ‘– I wish to speak to you on a matter of business.’

‘Go on,’ said Signor Maleovelli.

‘Here?’ he asked, signalling the room.

‘Like all good Serenissian servants and slaves, ours are selective about what they hear and, if they do listen, they know never to repeat what is said. It is not worth the risk, if you understand. You may speak freely.’

Lord Waterford looked vexed.

‘He means in front of me, Papa.’ Giaconda withdrew her hand from Waterford’s.

Signor Maleovelli looked genuinely surprised. ‘I hide nothing from my daughter. Anyway, I thought you said that in your land, a woman rules. Why would you hesitate to speak in front of Giaconda?’

‘I do not,’ said Lord Waterford gruffly. ‘I was just uncertain. In Serenissima, women play such a contradictory role. I have barely met any of the wives or daughters of the other nobiles. They are hidden away as if they are somehow ashamed of them. Only courtesans and peasants seem to lead any kind of public life. I know Giaconda is a … well … she’s also your daughter. You’re a nobile. I wasn’t sure …’

‘Be sure. Speak without inhibition.’ Signor Maleovelli leant forward, his hands clutching his thighs. ‘What is it you have to say?’

Placing his glass down, Lord Waterford turned to his hosts. ‘We have spoken, Signor Maleovelli, of our shared concern over the future of Serenissima under … the current regime. I have, as I told you I would, passed those worries onto my queen and her privy council. As you know, Farrowfare has recently shown great interest in, not only Serenissima, but in accelerating commercial opportunities in Vista Mare. Trade between our countries has commenced; soon you will be sending an ambassador to our city, Albion. We have also negotiated tithes to be paid for use of your ports in the Mariniquian Seas and the exchange of important diplomatic information.’

‘Sì,’ said Signor Maleovelli, trying to hasten the point. ‘It’s this diplomacy that has allowed us to discover the movements of the Ottomans, is it not? Without the cooperation of Farrowfare and your spies and networks, we would not have known of their plans.’

Lord Waterford bowed his head. ‘That is all true. What is also true is that I have spoken to you of Farrowfare’s genuine interest in the Estrattore.’

‘Ah.’ Signor Maleovelli frowned and leant back in his chair. ‘Do you mean the race, or the ones you have been so curious about?’

‘Signor, do not mock me.’ Lord Waterford smiled to soften his words. ‘You know I mean both. We have followed the Cardinale’s search for the young male Estrattore with great interest. My queen is very keen to find this boy – if indeed he exists.’ Lord Waterford reached for his glass and took a deliberate sip, studying the Maleovellis beneath his lashes. They neither moved nor spoke, but kept their eyes fixed on him. ‘She is also very interested in any information pertaining to Estrattore generally – it’s a passion of hers, you understand. But, most especially anything at all about a female.’

‘A female Estrattore?’ Giaconda gave a small laugh. ‘Why, Beolin, do you persist in speaking of this girl? She does not exist, my friend. I fear she is a product of the Farrowfare, of your queen’s, imagination.’ Lord Waterford saw Giaconda glance at her father. He felt the frisson in the room. He decided to take it a step further.

‘I have reason to believe that you know something of this Estrattore. I speak, of course, of the young woman. Not the boy the Cardinale searches for.’

Signor Maleovelli looked meaningfully at the servants. He picked up his drink and swirled the glass. He watched it for a moment before taking a long drink. ‘Have you told anyone else of … your suspicions?’

‘Only my queen. But do not worry,’ said Lord Waterford, sensing the next question. ‘My communiqués with her are always in code. Your spies would not be able to decipher it. Let me reassure you of that.’

‘You do not know our spies.’

‘I know none of them have yet intercepted a Morte Whisperer.’ There. It was out in the open. The nature of the aid he could promise, the kind of ally they would be working with. He waited.

Giaconda’s eyes widened. Even Signor Maleovelli looked stunned.

‘I have heard of these creatures – the Morte Whisperers,’ said Signor Maleovelli softly. His voice was brittle. ‘They are mentioned in the scrolls of the Estrattore. Jacopo said they are not of this world.’

‘They are not of any world, Signor.’ Lord Waterford repressed a shudder. ‘They are –’ he searched for the right word ‘– extremely … savage. But trust me when I tell you, my queen … controls them. They do her bidding.’

Signor Maleovelli stared at Lord Waterford for a long time. Lord Waterford met his gaze without wavering.

‘Farrowfare has strange allies.’

‘Stranger than you can imagine,’ said Lord Waterford and, for just a moment, wondered if he had gone too far. ‘But strong as well.’

The bell in the campanile tolled. The servants took it as their cue to light the candles. Lord Waterford and the Maleovellis sat in silence, sipping their wine, staring out the window. Lord Waterford could almost see the workings of Signor Maleovelli’s mind. He knew that Giaconda longed to pull her father aside, talk to him. Not yet. Not till he’d played his final card. Then, he would leave them to ponder his words, to plan.

‘So,’ said Signor Maleovelli after the room was ablaze with candlelight and the fire had been rebuilt, sending its much needed warmth into the room, ‘what do you want to … share with us exactly, Lord Waterford? What has led you to believe that we –’ he indicated himself and Giaconda ‘– possess knowledge that even the Cardinale and the Signori di Notte have failed to acquire? Tell me.’

Lord Waterford took a deep breath. ‘I know that a male Estrattore escaped capture, that he leapt off a bridge in the Candlemakers Quartiere and has not been seen since. I know that he was a master candlemaker who, it’s rumoured, distilled his powers into the candles.’ He paused. ‘I also know that around the same time as the male Estrattore disappeared, Tarlo Maleovelli came to your household.’

A log shifted in the fireplace, sending sparks up the chimney.

‘So?’ Signor Maleovelli said finally, not taking his eyes off Lord Waterford.

‘So,’ continued Lord Waterford, ‘under normal circumstances, this would not mean anything except for an interesting coincidence. Only, what is curious is that Tarlo
not only happens to be very accomplished, she also makes candles.’

Signor Maleovelli swung towards Giaconda and they both burst out laughing.

Lord Waterford recoiled in surprise. It was not the reaction he was expecting.

‘You’re suggesting that my ward, a Maleovelli no less, would be involved in such a base trade?’ Mirth made Signor Maleovelli difficult to understand.

Giaconda wiped imaginary tears from her eyes.

‘I don’t mean
make
in the traditional sense,’ said Lord Waterford, recovering. ‘I mean, she alters ones that you purchase for her. There’s no point in denying it. I’ve seen the receipts, Signor. I have also seen Tarlo doing this.’

Signor Maleovelli stopped laughing.

So did Giaconda. Her arm crossed the space between them as she rested a hand on her father’s.

Lord Waterford had their full attention now. ‘And then there is the coincidence of the name,’ he continued. ‘If I did not know these other factors, it would not have occurred to me. But
Tallow
and
Tarlo
, they’re rather similar, are they not? It would be very easy to become accustomed to a name that sounds so much like your old one …’ Lord Waterford allowed his words to sink in. Signor Maleovelli and Giaconda stared at him. They were barely breathing. Lord Waterford resisted the urge to smile. ‘I am not here to play games, Signor Maleovelli. I’m under instructions to make you an offer,’ he said softly. ‘An offer from Queen Zaralina of Farrowfare.’

Signor Maleovelli put down his glass. The servant darted forward to refill it. Signor Maleovelli tapped him with his hand to indicate he should keep pouring. When he’d finished, the servant backed into his spot against the wall.

‘What offer might that be?’ Signor Maleovelli spoke cautiously.

‘The Dogeship of Serenissima.’

Signor Maleovelli began to chuckle. So did Giaconda. This time it was genuine. Lord Waterford gripped the arm of his chair and, despite the coolness of the room, grew very hot.

‘Signor, Signorina, this is no laughing matter. Understand, in exchange for the Estrattore, you would have the support, the friendship of a great foreign country. We would make sure you’re given the throne and, more importantly, that you keep it.’

‘What makes you think I need,
we –
’ he lifted Giaconda’s hand from his and held it ‘– need your help?’

‘Because my understanding of your political system is that without it, forgive me, Signor, someone like you, from the Eighth Casa of Nobiles’ Rise, whose daughter and
ward
are courtesans, could never achieve it.’ He let that thought sit for a second. ‘Give Farrowfare the Estrattore and the throne is yours.’

‘Only until your queen sees fit to take it from me.’

Lord Waterford bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘I understand your scepticism, but why would she do that? It’s the Estrattore she wants. She has her own country.’

Signor Maleovelli released Giaconda’s hand. Using his cane, he stood up and walked to the window. He gazed out over the campo. He turned. ‘What if I told you I don’t need your help, that I can achieve the Dogeship without the support of Farrowfare?’

‘I don’t believe you,’ said Lord Waterford.

Giaconda drew her breath in sharply. Signor Maleovelli shook his head.

‘Signor, forgive me again,’ said Lord Waterford. ‘I mean no disrespect. I just do not see how this is possible.’

‘Then you underestimate me, Lord Waterford. You underestimate the Maleovellis.’ He struck Waterford’s chair with his cane. ‘You think you have us worked out – but you see secrets where there are none. You imagine heresy and plots where there is nothing but honest trade and success. Tarlo, an Estrattore?’ He laughed again. It was dry, hollow, forced.

‘But you do not deny it.’

‘Deny it? There is nothing to deny. I indulged you, Waterford. I wanted to see how far your fancy went.’

Lord Waterford regarded Signor Maleovelli for a moment longer. He rose from his chair. ‘It seems I am mistaken. I apologise, Signor Maleovelli, Giaconda. I beg your forgiveness.’

Signor Maleovelli waved his hand. ‘Sit back down, Lord Waterford.’ Waterford reluctantly did as he was told.

‘Now I will tell you something in complete confidence. In less than a week, the Council of Ten will vote for whom they intend to support for the next Doge.’

‘And you believe they will support you.’

‘I know this for a fact.’

Lord Waterford nodded. ‘I see. The dinner here last night. You had some of your Council peers to dine.’

Signor Maleovelli didn’t respond.

Lord Waterford sighed. ‘Very well. I understand now. You have
extracted
–’ he drawled the last word ‘–promises from them. I hope for your sake they keep them.’ He stood again. He bowed to Signor Maleovelli and, taking Giaconda’s hand, kissed it lightly. ‘All I ask, Signor Maleovelli, is that you think on what I say. My offer remains open. Let us say that if the vote does not go your way, and you change your mind, you know where to find me.’

Signor Maleovelli smiled. ‘But I do not have the Estrattore.’

‘I am sure, if you needed to, you could find her,’ said Lord Waterford, staring at Signor Maleovelli. ‘As has oft been remarked of late, you have an enviable capacity to reverse your fortunes.’

Giaconda stood between the two men, breaking their gaze. ‘We will see you tomorrow then, Beolin.’

Lord Waterford shook his head. ‘I do not think so, bella.’

Giaconda quickly dissembled.

With a courteous bow to both of them, he left the room, aware that behind his back, Giaconda was resisting the urge to turn to her father. She had thought him a puppet in her gloved hands. So had Signor Maleovelli. Well, perhaps tonight he had shown them a brief glimpse of what was in store for them should they continue to deny what he was certain was a fact. Tarlo Maleovelli was an Estrattore.

If they continued to say no to his offer, he knew that disappointment was the least of their worries.