The cats wove between the futtock shrouds, dodging the occasional poisoned arrow that flew wide of the mark. The children grappled for breath in the pockets of deep mist that enveloped the masts.
“We can free the prisoners but we can’t carry them on our rugs!” whispered Renzo to his cat-bearers.
The largest cat answered, “Once you’ve brrroken all the locksss, we’ll take you back to shore, and then rrreturn for the prisonersss, one by one.”
Renzo and Teo worked their fingers to the bone, worrying the massive black locks open. The cats flew them from mast to mast. Renzo levered chains apart with his ferro penknife. Once each cage was open, he paused to embrace the terrified children, to soothe them, and to give them hope. “Sergio! You’ll be safe now. Wait for the cats. Augusto! The battle’s nearly won!”
Teo used The Key to the Secret City to smash down on the stubbornest padlocks. Lussa’s face on the cover grimaced slightly with each blow.
At her last cage, intent on splintering a lock, Teo did not notice a Dark Elf and a Folletto shimmying up the ratlines towards her. It was only when she felt a slimy grasp on her ankle that she looked down. The Elf had taken a grip of her, and the Folletto was crawling up over his colleague’s back like the dragonfly he so much resembled. A sharp point at the tip of his spine hooked over like a stinger and his green insect eyes were fixed on Teo.
Teo kicked the Dark Elf loose and watched him drop like a stone down onto the deck below. But the Folletto took to the air, speeding up towards her face. Only at the last minute did the jaws of a flying cat close crisply over his wings.
“Back to shore! Now!” miaowed the cat, indistinctly, gnawing on the struggling Folletto. Teo threw herself onto the flying carpet gratefully and felt herself lifted high into the air.
The four cats purred all the way back to land. As they neared the shore of Sant’Elena, Teo glimpsed Signor Rioba and his brothers all spattered with black blood. Signor Rioba had made the werewolves his especial target. He slashed away with his sword, despatching them two at a time.
After ten breathless minutes Teo and Renzo were deposited, panting and dizzy, back at Sant’Elena. It was hard to believe that they had actually been out in the thick of the danger. Except that Renzo had an arrow hooked through his trouser leg, and Teo’s curls were speckled with gunpowder and standing on end.
A thump and an encouraging mew; a small gondolier child appeared beside them, rolling off the carpet onto the soft grass. Then four pairs of cats’ paws appeared, seized the carpet and flew off with it.
Prisoner after prisoner arrived out of the mist on the Persian carpets. Renzo and Teo busied themselves applying Venetian Treacle to the wounds. The gondolier children hugged Renzo, and cried unashamedly with relief.
“You have done well,” he told them, and they glowed with pride.
“He’s acting like a leader, not an outcast,” Teo realized. The children crowded around Renzo, who groaned, “What a curse, this fog! I wish we could see what was happening.”
The Key to the Secret City rattled inside Teo’s pinafore. When she opened it, the page brightened with a living map of the lagoon now hidden by mist and oncoming night. Closing in on the battlefield, the book laid out the scenes of fighting for them in miniature, with each protagonist no bigger than a mouse.
First the mermaids claimed an advantage, and then the pirates fought them back. Then the winged lions edged into the fray, only to be beaten back by packs of werewolves.
Suddenly clouds banked up like gray blancmange above the fight. Then the edges of the pages grew dark and a swirling blackness enveloped the scene with flashes of blinding white light that hurt Teo’s eyes. The two sides were battling their way into the middle of a great storm of thunder and lightning.
With their bird’s-eye view of the miniaturized lagoon, Teo and Renzo could see a new factor entering the fray. The tide in the lagoon was rising. Water cascaded down from the mountains, taking rocks and mud with it, and emptying into the estuary. The book led their eyes over the foaming estuary and the drowning islands. Towering dark waves swept in towards Venice from the ocean.
“Just like in 1866!” whispered Renzo. His tribe of gondolier children cried out with fear.
Bajamonte Tiepolo’s first attempt to drown the city with a storm surge must have looked very much like this scene of pounding water. But this time, if the city flooded, it could fill up with a tide of poison generated by the Creature in the lagoon. And the water now was hotter than ever, heated up by the thrashing Creature. In places it was starting to boil.
The mermaids, the London Sea-Bishops and English Melusine cried out with pain as the hot water seared their delicate flesh. But they fought on bravely. The dolphins, however, grew limp and glassy-eyed as their skin changed from blue to a pale pink.
The book now showed an ornate cloud with a human face pursing its lips and blowing with all its might.
Renzo shivered. “Do you feel that icy wind? That should not be happening in June. It’s the bora, which normally blows in the winter. That will drive the water into Venice from the northeast—”
Teo interrupted, “But I can feel a hot wind too.”
“Yes, that’s the scirocco, from the Sahara, pushing the water from the Adriatic. Together, the bora and scirocco—that never happens!—but they will both fill the lagoon to bursting …”
“And then,” Teo suddenly remembered something her parents had told her, something they’d heard at the scientists’ meeting, “you would only have to drop a match in that dirty water …”
She kept swallowing and swallowing, to keep the tears inside her head.
Back in the cavern, the mermaids had explained to the children that the ghosts, whose miasmas were freezing cold, would move in and surround the Creature, and cause its temperature to drop so low that it would become dormant again.
Il Traditore must have guessed the plan, for his forces tried to cut the ghosts to pieces. In doing that, they just made millions of smaller ghosts, all pushing in the direction of the Creature, whose shadowy form could be seen rising above the water near the island of San Lazzaro. Many ghosts were dragged under the water by the probing tentacles as they moved in to surround their quarry.
The English Melusine and the London Sea-Bishops created a diversion, launching a ferocious attack on Bajamonte Tiepolo’s pirates, while the Sea-Monks cast fine golden nets over the clouds of scolopendre, dragging them down into the sea.
In the interval, a circle of ghosts and shreds of ghosts closed in on the Creature. There came a sound like a long, long sigh, but louder than any sigh could be, because it came from deep inside thousands of weary, desperate hearts.
And that sigh was the turning point.
The combined cold of that joint exhalation at one moment lulled the Creature into unconsciousness. The tentacles loosed their grasp on the gondolas, ghosts and mermaids they had seized, and sank limply under the waves.
Bajamonte Tiepolo’s forces halted, regrouped and pulled back to positions of safety. Without the Creature to help them, they were outnumbered. The Vampire Eels, replete with blood, had grown sluggish and were floating out into the far reaches of the lagoon. True to form, the pirates had stopped fighting and were busy rifling the velvet cushions and gilded ornaments from the gondolas they had captured. The Dark Elves and Folletti were squabbling murderously among themselves over a stash of silver buttons. Discarded white masks floated over the sea.
At Sant’Elena a cheer suddenly rose from the rescued gondolier children.
“Look!” Renzo pointed.
The ghosts in-the-Cold had drawn together in a tight formation, all clutching each other and staring up into the sky with the same wild expression of hope on their faces. Then this great band of spirits, like a big white cloud, rose above the water.
At that moment, the Cherubim reappeared, their little faces alight with joy. They took their positions above the ghosts in-the-Cold and led them upwards and upwards into the palest tint of sky.
br />
Meanwhile, mermaids, exhausted, swam to the shoreline of Sant’Elena, and lay on the rocks, panting and staring at the spectacle above them. Many of the mermaids were bleeding severely and there were far fewer of them than had set out for the battle. Lussa’s eyes were crusted with salt. In the dim light, she simply could not see the pale lettering of the Spell Almanac tattooed on Teo’s skin. Lussa nodded distractedly at the children, croaking, “Lorenzo, Teodora, is the Spell Almanac safe?”
Teo said briefly, “It is safe for now. And we have Venetian Treacle.”
Lussa’s attention was dragged to twenty of the winged lions who now crashed down on the rocks. They started licking their wounds. The circus-master Signor Alicamoussa hurried up with bandages and liniments.
“Administer the Medicine,” Lussa ordered over her shoulder. Renzo and Teo clambered down to the shore. Signor Alicamoussa, now spattered with lion blood, greeted them courteously. “The Undrowned Child and Studious Son? How pleasureful!”
His eyes were the most vivid blue that Teo had ever seen.
“We’ve brought Venetian Treacle for the lions, sir,” blurted Renzo, but Teo, remembering, cried sadly, “Treacle doesn’t help any of the cat family.”
It had not saved the Gray Lady.
“ ’Tis true.” Signor Alicamoussa’s voice was rich and musical. “But worry not, my dears, I have the Milk of the Candelabra Cactus that shall furbish up the poor beasties most wondrously. Give your Treacle to our fellow Incogniti.”
He pointed to a small group of humans lying nearby. As they hurried over, Teo recognized the doctor from the hospital. She looked eagerly for Professor Marìn, but there was no sign of him. The children busied themselves with the Treacle.
“Will ye look at that!” exclaimed a hoarse mermaid voice. “Up there!”
Now all eyes were raised once more to the ghost cloud above them. Sweet, pleading singing floated down from the Cherubim leading the tight cluster of glowing spirits towards the heavens. The melodious cloud of Cherubim and ghosts rose higher. Teo craned her neck, hoping to see Pedro-the-Crimp. A ragged coattail and some sorry breeches flickered into sight and then disappeared among the churning mass.
“Where are they taking the ghosts?” Renzo asked Lussa.
“They are going to their Peace, at last,” the mermaid explained, her eyes fixed on the horizon.
“Good luck, Pedro!” Teo whispered. “There surely must be horses in Heaven!”
Suddenly there was a sweet, low sound, like a thousand children singing a lullaby very, very softly. The cloud of ghosts and Cherubim faded from sight even as the lullaby drew to a close. In their place appeared a shooting star. Then a beautiful perfume flooded the air.
Tears rolled out of Teo’s eyes, and Renzo, his eyes moist, looked straight ahead, unable to speak. Lussa said, “ ’Tis Over & Done, this Part, at least.”
Her voice seemed to come from a long way away. She was still staring into the distance, spent.
The clock of San Donato on Murano could be heard striking across the lagoon. It was not quite midnight. When the clock finished tolling it would be the anniversary of the fateful day of June 15.
a hot, misty dawn, June 15, 1899
The children picked their way through the fog back to the hotel. The Hotel degli Assassini no longer looked like a three-star hotel; it was a dark, crumbling Byzantine palace. Fifty disgruntled guests sat on their suitcases outside. They had been squeezed out of their rooms because new—old—walls had grown in the middle of bathrooms and even between their twin beds. No one knew anything about the great battle in the lagoon. The impenetrable fog had distracted the whole city. And the scientists, including Teo’s adoptive parents, were still huddled on the top floor of the palace in Cannaregio where they were conducting their increasingly frantic meetings.
A fleet of gondolas arrived. The former guests filed aboard, leaving the Campiello del Remer deserted. All over town, other hotels were evacuating too. Gondola after gondola wove through the mist, loaded with anxious tourists and their luggage. Even as the children watched, the traffic slowed to a trickle. Soon there was no one at all. Not a vaporetto. Not even a little sandolo. Just the occasional gray fin. The opposite bank of the Grand Canal was bare. The burnt-out shell of the Rialto Bridge arched over the water like the skeleton of a dinosaur. The market stalls, once so lively, were abandoned. And the tide was rising, slowly but surely, above the Istrian stone. Renzo said miserably, “Even if Bajamonte Tiepolo lost the battle in the lagoon, he’s killed the city, taken all the life out of her. And now he’s drowning her.”
A wave of helpless sadness enveloped Teo. It was, she realized, how her adoptive parents must feel about her, thinking she was dead.
On the doorstep of the palace they found a pile of white masks, no doubt discarded by Il Traditore and his cowardly minions who had fled the battle. Renzo picked up two of them, handing one to Teo. “Some kind of disguise is better than none. We don’t want anyone seeing the writing on your face.”
He showed her how to tie the ribbons behind her head. Inside the mask it smelt sickeningly of old sweat, garlic and rum.
“Mine was a pirate,” guessed Teo, grimacing behind it. “What’s yours?”
“Euuch!” shouted Renzo, flinging his down. “Ottoman! His turban must have caught fire … stinks of burnt hair.” He picked up another mask.
“And what’s that one?”
A muffled voice replied, “Better. I think it’s from Genoa. I smell pesto sauce.”
The interior of the Palazzo Tiepolo was unrecognizable to Teo as the place where she had lived for the last two weeks. The carpets had rotted away to show stone floors. Lanterns smoked in long brick passageways festooned with garlands of dead flowers and tapestries rent with a thousand slits. Renzo said in an awed voice, “This must be what happened when Doge Gradenigo’s men stormed the palace in 1310.”
Teo felt suffocated by the weight of history and evil trapped between those dark walls. Instead of paintings, rapiers and crossbows hung from the damp-trickling walls. Beside each door lurked rusted suits of armor like great jointed insects. She shuddered at the sight of a vast Tiepolo crest carved out of wood. The swords of Doge Gradenigo’s men had not spared that either: it was deeply slashed and scarred.
A strong scent of varnish raised goose pimples on Teo’s arms. Sure enough, a pair of Brustolons reared up in front of them as they turned yet another corner.
“Brustolons!” whispered Teo, suddenly puzzled. “What are they doing here in 1310? Aren’t they from the sixteen hundreds? The doctor in the hospital told me …”
For once Renzo did not seem too pleased that Teo had absorbed some Venetian history. “Ye-e-es,” he admitted. “Brustolons are from just two centuries ago. But of course the figures they represent are much older.” He looked away.
“Why would Brustolons help Bajamonte Tiepolo destroy Venice, Renzo?”
There was a silence.
“Why?” Teo insisted. “Every time I mention the Brustolons you go very quiet.”
Renzo sighed. “I am afraid that the Brustolons represent the enemies of Venice who were … well, enslaved and traded here at market.”
“You mean there were slave traders in Venice?” asked Teo, genuinely shocked. “That’s perfectly disgusting!”
“It was a shameful period in our history, and not much talked about, but yes, Venice once had a profitable slave trade.”
“And profit meant more than those people’s freedom? No wonder the Brustolons want revenge!”
They proceeded in silence, passing through a medieval-looking kitchen that reeked of something sickly sweet. The first shaft of dawn sun revealed long trestle-tables holding trays of the green liquid that would become the Baja-Menta ice cream. On the mantelpiece were two Murano glass goblets labeled The Mayor and The Minister for Tourism and Decorum.
“He plans to poison them too!” cried Teo.
“If he hasn’t already. Just think how they have behaved these last few
weeks, as if they were blind or drunk. They positively refused to see the danger, even when it was screaming at them. I think Il Traditore got to them before anyone else.”
The next room showed them how the mayor and the minister were to be rewarded for their complicity. A diagram pinned to the wall showed a terrible scene between the two columns of the Piazzetta. Renzo reminded Teo, “Where traitors to Venice were traditionally executed.”
Two prisoners were standing on a wooden platform. Their top hats were nowhere to be seen, but twin mustaches showed that they were the mayor and the minister, with expressions of terror on their faces. Bajamonte Tiepolo presided over the scene, with his hands raised high in triumph. Next to him a woman proffered the two poison goblets, her face alight with malice. Her cruel features were familiar.
“The nurse from the hospital!” cried Teo. “She was working with Bajamonte Tiepolo all the time! Those poor children! Shaving their heads, making them sick!”
And displayed in San Marco, impaled and trapped in every kind of torture device, were Venetians: those, it seemed, who had tried to resist the return of Bajamonte Tiepolo. Each wore a white linen cravat on which was scrawled Ha! Ha! Ha! apparently in their own blood. Here too, the children of Venice had not escaped. Rows of small corpses dangled from the lampposts.
Revolted, Renzo and Teo backed out of the room. Teo said quietly, “I thought I hated the mayor, because he sent me out of Venice and then he tried to pretend that nothing was happening. But I don’t hate him anymore … I am sorry for him. He’ll be the first to die if Il Traditore succeeds.”
“Teo,” said Renzo slowly, taking off his mask. “Don’t you think it’s a little strange that Il Traditore’s palace doesn’t seem to be defended?”
Teo pulled off her mask too. “If Bajamonte Tiepolo is hiding out here, anyone could get to him.”
It was only now that they had walked right into the heart of the building that the children realized that this might be just what Il Traditore wanted.