Margaret still sat huddled, her head lowered and her face thoroughly hidden. She said nothing. Zafer stood behind her, in the rear of the little silk pavilion, his legs spread apart, his knee touching the maid’s back with each rock of the slender vessel. Beyond the pirate, Dario also kept guard, his foot resting on the curved bow of the boat, his gaze sweeping over the passing quays.
Though she had known them but a few weeks, Elayne found an unlikely comfort in their little company. On the island she had thought it wicked of him to train up youths and children in his vile craft, but in the midst of this foreign city they seemed suddenly to form their own intimate band. None of them, Elayne knew, would scorn Margaret for her sins, and any one would spring to defend her safety with their life—as Margaret would do in return, if she could only manage to be quick enough with her poisoned cloak-pin. None of them would judge Elayne for the black desire she felt for their master, nor think it strange and sinful. They hardly knew what sin was, she thought. If he countenanced a thing, they would accept it.
Elayne greatly feared that she was learning to do the same.
"Come, I’ll give you a turn around the sights of La Serenissima," Il Corvo said, as the gondola bumped gently ashore beside an imposing wooden drawbridge. A multitude of bells began to ring. Serene Venice was not so peaceful here: the gondolas vied for space at the quay and figures in long robes brushed past one another, men of light skin and dark, sloe-eyed faces of the east outnumbering the red beards of Europeans; a hundred different colors in the clothing and wildly diverse headdress. Many paused to pay toll and then disappeared onto the covered bridge, their footsteps creating a brisk rumble of sound on the wood, as if the bells urged them to greater haste.
Somewhere to the north and west, across the flat islands and the calm lagoon, lay the princedom of Monteverde. Ever the uneasy ally of Venice—source of the famed Venetian silver, guardian of the mountain passes; as Venice sent her northern trade through Monteverde, the ships of the green-and-silver sheltered in the lagoon and sailed in the company of Venetian galleys to Constantinople and the east. The hurried lessons in alliance and trade that Countess Melanthe had imparted to Elayne seemed more real now. As Monteverde itself began to seem more real, and more threatening, a storm just beyond sight, the sky darkening with menace on the horizon.
The Raven flipped a coin to the boatman as Dario helped Elayne onto the mossy steps. She looked up through her veil at a forest of peculiar chimneys towering above the arcaded facades, their tall, narrow necks crowned by upended funnel pots, as if stone flowers raised their blossoms to the sky.
The pirate took her hand, his thumb sliding across the back of her palm. He bent his head close. "And are you incorruptible, my lady?" he asked beside her ear.
With so little, he set her to thinking of his body coupling hers, hot thoughts in the public street, corrupt and lust-haunted. She pulled away. He made a soft sound of amusement and put his arm at her back, guiding her into a shadowed passage under the nearest building. Elayne had to lift her veil to see where she was walking. The bustle of the canal receded. The pavement and walls sweated dampness, their surfaces stained black and green by mildew. Footsteps echoed in the corridor as Margaret and the others came behind.
They emerged from the quiet passage onto a small piazza lively with people. Elayne pulled the veil down over her face again. She was glad of it now, glad that he could not possibly see that her lips parted, that she closed her eyes for an instant when he rested his hand deliberately on the curve of her back. To gain composure, she turned her look upon the arcades that lined two sides of the square, where knots of men gathered near carpet-covered counters, dealing loudly with one another.
The pirate stood a moment, his hand still on her, watching the trade at a table nearby. Amid bowls of gold and silver coins, the man wrote in a ledger while his assistant counted money into a triangular tray. He funneled the coins into a bag with a rush of silvery sound. Their patron lifted the bag high and turned with a shout, rushing toward another table to cast the coins down there.
Il Corvo smiled. He lifted his hand away from her. "The music and song of Venice," he said. "The island of Rialto.
TWELVE
Elayne gazed through her veil at the moneychangers. She had read of such in the Bible, of course, and once or twice perused, without much understanding, letters concerning matters of bullion and exchange from Italian merchants, passed along by Lady Melanthe for Elayne’s further education. But the quick fingers and rattle of wood against metal, the open piles of gold spread across the Turkey carpets, the coins that moved so rapidly and assuredly from hand to hand, almost as if they had an end and will of their own—it was far more alive than the dry lists of silver rates and wheat prices she had read in the letters.
Two boys hurried past, pelting over the pavement with scraps of paper jutting from their caps. In one corner a half-dozen of armed guards gazed on the throng with narrowed eyes. A lady—unveiled—with a train longer than she was tall, moved across the center of the square, causing considerable hindrance to the traffic. She leaned on the arms of her maids, tottering strangely, as if she were on stilts. Over it all stood a plain church wall, inscribed with a cross and words in Latin. Around this church may the merchant be fair, the weights just, and no false contract made.
"Look you there, Margaret." Il Corvo glanced down at the shrouded maid and nodded toward the lady dragging her train step-by-step. "What profits that one, profits Signora Morosini."
"My lord?" Margaret asked in a small, muffled voice.
"Venice taxes her whores," he said, reverting to the French tongue. "Morosini makes the assessments and collections, and takes the first one-fourth for his trouble. I believe he sells most of the slave girls to the houses. It is a copious revenue."
Elayne drew a faint hiss. "Does she know?"
"The Signora? Doubtless she does not inquire. Let us pray that she’s not too astonished when she finds herself immured alongside the other harlots in Hell."
The maid lifted her head a little. "I hope she may repent then, as I have," she said bravely.
"Indeed, we might have warned her of her danger ourselves, had we known!" Elayne said.
"Helas," the pirate said. "And abbreviated my very fruitful interview with Morosini even further, no doubt."
"Only for the sake of her immortal soul," Elayne murmured with innocence.
"Just let me collect my debt of him before you sink us entirely." He touched the empty sheath of his dagger and flicked his hand. Instantly Zafer and Dario moved, closing near as the pirate took Elayne’s arm and started across the square.
He had chosen to dress simply, in a black tabard over voluminous sleeves of white. The sleeves swayed easily as he walked, nearly covering his hands. He nodded to the guards who stared at them, and received only thin-lipped replies. Elayne could not tell if they knew him, or only watched more closely because he was a stranger.
Their hard stares made her feel uneasy. As he paused before one of the tables and handed Dario a sealed document, Elayne’s fingers tightened on his arm. She began to fear that the guards’ interest was more than a passing curiosity. But the banker, a stout man with a fine fur cap, only looked up from reading the document and gave Il Corvo a brief examination, bowing from the waist over his counter. "Good day to you, Signor. You have a voucher from the Morosini?"
The pirate opened his palm. A large jasper bead, broken in half, tumbled onto the rug.
The banker picked it up. He pulled a drawstring bag from beneath his robe, shaking a little collection of shattered beads from inside. With a brief, skillful rotation of his forefinger, he sorted out a black one, fitted it with the pirate’s half, and nodded, satisfied. He barked an order to his attendant, who ducked into the room behind and emerged with a strongbox. Together they began to weigh bags and count out the coin into bowls. As the golden piles grew, several guards drifted closer. The crowd around them began to thicken with onlookers.
Elayne was glad of he
r veil. She did not think she could match the pirate’s composure. Elayne had never handled any money in her life, not even small coins—the amount of gold that mounded up in neat stacks across the table was unnerving. Finally a dozen fat sacks of coin stood waiting on the rug. The banker looked up. "You are in agreement?"
The Raven requested them to empty one bag and weigh out the coins again. The scale came up short by four ounces.
The banker turned crimson. "My carelessness! I beg your mercy." He quickly tossed three more coins onto the scale, sending it tilting to the other side. "Niccolo! Transfer only the demand from Morosini, and enter a debit of two and a half from my own account into the ledger. My gravest contrition, sir! Pray accept the gift, to amend my embarrassment. You are satisfied?"
Il Corvo gave the attendant a look that lasted just long enough to make the man stand back, with his hands open and well-removed from the bags. The crowd about them quieted expectantly.
"I accept the tally," the pirate said.
An audible sound of relief stirred among the onlookers. Before the banker poured from his funnel tray into the bag, Il Corvo took a generous amount into his own purse, counting aloud to two hundred as he slid the gleaming gold across the table, coin by coin. With the rest of the money bagged, he nodded at Dario. The youth quickly began to tie the leather sacks together. He fashioned them into a pair of slings and handed one to Zafer, hefting the other over his shoulder with a grunt.
"You require escort, Signor?" the guard captain asked.
The Raven stood back. "Accompany them, if you will," he said. "I have further business."
The captain bowed his head and set about assigning his men. Elayne would have been pleased to return to the galley along with the coin and a pair of stout guards, but the pirate caught her elbow when she started after Margaret and the others.
"Let us take the air, carissima," he murmured softly. Elayne’s limbs went weak at the timbre of his voice. After the weeks of distance, his every touch now seemed fuel to the flame between them.
Margaret turned back, too, but he gestured for the maid to continue. She paused, then took two steps back toward Elayne. "But—should I not remain with my lady?"
"Do not question me," he said coldly. "Your service is not required."
The girl drew in a sharp breath, curtsied deeply, and hurried after Dario and Zafer, holding her arms crossed under her breasts. She had begun on the ship to wean her babe, but Elayne knew that after the entire morning away, she must be in some fretfulness to return.
"That was unkind," Elayne said, trying to keep her voice steady. She took a step away from him. "She meant to do well."
"Which is more than I can say of you, beloved," he said, leaning close. He brushed his body against hers, so lightly and hotly, a touch of his thigh at her hip, a dark presence at her shoulder. "If I order you not to look at that man beside the second column there, in the white tunic and gray cap, will you stare at him only to gainsay me?"
Elayne found herself looking toward the man he described, unable to help herself.
"Well done!" he murmured. "Nothing could be more fatally obvious." He lifted his hand, as if he were pointing out an item of notable decoration on one of the buildings. "Now fathom, that you can look five paces to his right, without turning your head. Don’t nod."
She bit her lip, checking herself from doing exactly that.
"Green hose, red slippers. When you see him, take my hand."
Without moving her head, she slid her glance to the right. Though the veil colored everything to a dim haze, she saw a young man in green hose and scarlet slippers with long, pointed toes. He talked animatedly with a banker, rubbing one foot up and down the other leg. She lifted her hand and slipped it into the pirate’s palm. His fingers locked with hers, closing swiftly.
"Who are they?" she whispered anxiously.
"I have no notion," he said, lifting her hand and pressing it to his lips, smiling down at her in such a way that it seemed he could see right through the veil.
Elayne snatched her hand away. "I thought there was some danger."
"Of course," he said, "there are three of the Riata hounds watching us right now. But they will be dead by Vespers, so do not concern yourself."
She closed her eyes and opened them. "Benedicite."
He turned and began to stroll across the square, smiling pleasantly, as if they were lovers in a garden. "I knew you would not like it. I almost didn’t tell you."
"Not like it!" she said faintly.
"You see that I was not so unkind to Margaret," he said. "It’s not my gold they want."
"What do they want?" she breathed.
"They want my death. They want you in their power. They will have neither. It is them or us, beloved."
Elayne made a little moan. She could not believe she was promenading in a public street, hearing such things.
They had crossed the piazza and reached another shadowed passage that passed under a building; a damp, black tunnel with an arch of brilliant light at the far end. Even Elayne could see that it would make an excellent trap. She wanted to protest his firm hold on her arm, steering her toward the passageway, but she feared now to make any move outside his guidance.
She stepped under the decaying archway. An odor of fish wafted from it, growing stronger as she moved forward. Through the veil, she could see almost nothing. She kept walking toward the arch of light at the other end. A figure was silhouetted there for a moment. With an echoing shuffle, the person came toward them. Elayne tensed. The Raven kept walking. They passed, with a brief word of greeting on both sides.
He paused, turning toward her. He lifted her veil and looked down at her, his face lit faintly from the side. He was the only thing she could see. With a light push, he moved her back, and she realized there was a stairway behind her now instead of solid wall.
He smiled, resting his arms about her. "A kiss, carissima," he said aloud, pushing the veil back and leaning to her mouth. He breathed lightly against her skin, not quite touching her. She could not comprehend that he wished to make love to her now—here—in this dank, public passage with his enemies lying in wait. But he kissed her, his fingers closing on her arms, his lips hard and quick as the pulse rose in her throat. Someone else passed them with a discomfited mumble of salutation. From the corner of her eye, she could see more pedestrians at either end, black outlines against the strong light.
"They are coming," he muttered beside her ear. "Scream loudly when it happens."
Elayne’s breath stuck in her throat. He kissed her again, blocking all her air, holding her from turning her head to see anything.
"Courage, Elena," he whispered against her skin, and suddenly flung her back hard.
She felt herself fall, tripping backward on the step. He vanished from her sight and sound as she went down on the stone stairs with a painful yelp. She heard a scuffle of feet, a loud crack and a heavy thud, as if a thick branch had broken. There was another shuffle, a sound like a deep hissing gurgle. Then nothing more.
Breathing frantically, she held frozen, her hands on the slippery steps, staring into blackness.
"Scream, curse you!" he muttered from somewhere in front of her. His sleeve made a dim flash. He reached for her, his face and hands pale in the dark.
Elayne’s throat worked. Only a faint high-pitched squeak would come out.
"Thief!" he bellowed, his unexpected roar discharging a thunder of echoes in the passageway. He pulled her upright into the passage. "Thief! Help! Robbery!" Then he squeezed her arm. "Will you scream?" he muttered.
She tried. She wanted to. Over the fish-market scent she could smell fresh blood; she felt something wet and slimy squelch beneath her feet. When her toe touched a form, heavy and lifeless, she gave another huffing squeak. The pirate made an exasperated sound.
"Thief!" he shouted. "Here! Help us!"
An invasion of people at the entrance blocked the arch of light. Their raised voices added to the echoes, creating a conf
used din. He put his arm around her shoulders in the disorder, walking her toward the entrance through the incoming throng of excited people. She was bumped and pushed in the dark, but finally they broke out into the light again. It seemed everyone in the square was crowding toward the passageway, craning their necks to see.
"They cut my purse!" the pirate shouted angrily. He held Elayne very close as attention turned toward them. "Tried to carry off my wife! God curse their souls! What evil is this in Venice?"
Shouts came from inside the passageway, cries of murder. People craned their necks. Orders and scuffles filled the damp air as the crowd inside began to back up, making way for men struggling to bear a body out.
Elayne stared. She had never seen the man before. He wore simple clothes of black, soaked to his waist with blood. His arms dragged limp across the pavement, his head bumped. Blood steeped his beard and flowed in a river of crimson from his throat.
She put her hand over her mouth, trying not to retch.
"I know him!" someone exclaimed, pointing at the bearded man. "Marco, he is called."
"He’s dead!" another cried, as if no one could tell it.
"Who killed him?"
"It was a robbery."
"Go after them! Is the guard after them? Don’t let them escape!"
"Nay, they’re killed. Look, they’re killed!" Another gap opened by the passageway. They pulled a second body into the light. He had no blood on him, but he was dead, his mouth lolling open, his lifeless eyes staring at the roof of the porch.
"Those are the robbers? Are the robbers still loose?"
"He says they robbed him! Abducted his wife!"
"Stay by your banks! Don’t leave the counters!" someone shouted. The crowd washed back, leaving some space as a few hurried away toward their tables.