Masks (4 page)

“But you didn’t,” Mircea said. Just like alcohol, the old pleasures were dust and ashes now. Just more reminders of what he’d lost, what he’d never have again.

“No, I didn’t. By the time the Watch picked me up, I was lying in an alley in a blood-soaked haze, having attacked half a dozen people and in full view of dozens more. I was practically begging to be staked and thrown out on the tide, what was left of me. And I don’t think I’d have cared.”

Mircea didn’t doubt it. It was the first impression he’d had of the man. Someone who was tired of it all, who was ready for it to end. To finally be that corpse in reality.

But in less than a day, a transformation had taken place that he wouldn’t have believed if he hadn’t seen it. If he hadn’t been staring at a face full of passion and grief and fury and life. “What changed?”

“Some noble sprout got chucked into the lock up with me,” Bezio said dryly. “And indignant—highly indignant, mind you—of his treatment. Practically begging for some humbling, which he promptly got. Nothing surprising there.

“Not until he took us with him.”

The man’s face transformed again, going soft with wonder. They had such expressive faces, these Italians, so full of every emotion in their passionate natures.
No wonder their artists are so great,
Mircea thought. All they have to do is look around them for inspiration. It was written in every face, in every line. If a sculptor carved this one, it might be entitled “man looking at saint.”

It unnerved him.

Bezio didn’t care. “You stuck out your neck for people you’d just met, people who would have drained you dry for whatever scraps of stolen life you had floating around your veins, people who had just tried to do that very thing! You had no reason to take us with you. No reason to jeopardize what might be your only chance at a way out. And you knew it was likely to be the only one—we’d just told you!”

“Martina wanted me badly,” Mircea explained. “She was willing to deal—”

“That doesn’t explain why you saved us.”

“Is that what you followed me to ask?”

Bezio looked exasperated. “I followed you for the reason I said—to return the favor! To keep you from doing something stupid. But also because . . .” He broke off with a curse.

He glared at Mircea for a moment, before continuing.

“Because I’d convinced myself that I’d stumbled into a world of utter selfishness. Where there were no emotions I understood, or wanted to understand. Where pride and profit were served by bitterness and jealousy and there was
nothing
for a man like me.

“But then you showed up, full of bluster and outraged dignity and a different kind of pride. And calmly told a master what you would and wouldn’t do. And
got away with it
. Because she saw the same thing I did—that you weren’t going to give in unless she did. She could leave you there, or kill you, or rant and rave. But if she wanted your cooperation, she had to give in first. And she did.” He broke off, laughing. “She did!”

“And now I’m here,” Mircea reminded him dryly. Since apparently, the man didn’t understand anything at all. “I’m under her control—”

“Are you? Looks to me like you’re up and leaving her control. That you just decided you didn’t want to be here anymore, so you’re off.” Bezio shook his head in amazement.

“I
can’t
be here—”

“Of course you can. You beat her once, and frankly, I wouldn’t bet money on you not doing it again. But not now.”

“It has to be now! She’ll bind me—”

“She won’t. I asked one of the servants this morning, wanting to know what to expect. He laughed at the idea.”

“What? That doesn’t make sense—”

“And neither does this!” Bezio said, as the noise level from outside the alley reached a crescendo.

Mircea looked to the street, where a cheering crowd had blocked the alley’s mouth on that end, and where what looked like flower petals were now wafting down from the surrounding rooftops. The Watch was there; he knew it, even if he couldn’t see them. But if their attention was on the crowd . . .

“They’re all over town,” Bezio said, breaking into his thoughts. “And on the mainland, and on the roads, picking up everyone who looks even a little suspicious. This is convocation—they’re not going to take chances. But tough it out for three weeks, and when they move on, you can, too. Until then, come back with me.”

Mircea hesitated, torn between the desire for freedom and the desire not to be stupid. He had to get away, but the Watch had caught him flat-footed and he was completely unprepared. And he would only get one chance at this. If he screwed it up, if he landed back in that cold cell . . . he might well never leave it.

But damn, he wanted to try.

“Don’t be a fool!” Bezio said, yelling to be heard over the crescendo of sound outside. “Come back with me. I promise, you won’t regret it!”

“Auughhhh!” Bezio screamed, looking down at his chest.

“The Venetian ideal is hairless,” a sadist named Marte said, holding a strip of cloth covered in pine resin—and a good deal of Bezio’s chest hair.

“Regretting it yet?” Mircea asked evilly, as Bezio stared in disbelief at the swath of skin that had just been uncovered.

It was a day since the fiend of a tailor had left, but the transformation continued. Albeit in another venue. The beautification routine was taking place in a large, burnt-out edifice across the small canal behind the house and down a little way.

The once-elegant structure had been built by a sugar merchant, one of Martina’s former clients, who had designed it as a home and warehouse combined. Not a great idea, as it turned out, since the sugar had been stored in the attic. And, when a fire started in the house, it had melted and dripped down, spreading the flames to the point that it gutted the whole interior.

The sugar merchant died before he could rebuild, leaving Martina her current house and a sum of money in his will, the latter of which she’d used to snap up the decaying hulk behind her.

Mircea assumed she had some sort of long-term plans for it, but for now, weeds were growing in what had been the elegant atrium, the plaster walls were flaking off in chunks, and half the roof was open to the sky. Only a few rooms were still usable, including the one they were in, which had been an office. It was now filled with shelves of strange-smelling ingredients and tables of innocuous-looking implements that Mircea didn’t trust at all.

Like the massive pile of cloth strips lying innocently on the table between him and Bezio.

Mircea looked at them, and then at the acreage left to go, most of which was on display since they were “dressed” in small linen towels. Which, in Bezio’s case, showed off a vast forest of hair on his chest, back, legs, and thighs. Most of which was doomed, if Marte had her way.

“You—you can’t mean to do it all like that,” Bezio said, his eyes flickering from her to the pile.

Marte smiled.

She was a petite brunette Mircea would have described as cute rather than beautiful. She had dimples and merrily bouncing ringlets and tinsel earrings that fascinated him as he’d thought that type of jewelry was only worn by gypsies and strange foreign traders. But they suited her, shimmering whenever she moved, which was often since she hardly ever slowed down. But she was unfailingly good tempered—if a bit overly enthusiastic about the waxing.

As she demonstrated when her eyes lit up at Bezio’s comment.

“Oh, no. We can try other things if you like.”

“What other things?”

“Well, let’s see. There’s the Egyptian way, with beeswax, sugar, and lemon—”

“Does that involve any yanking?” Bezio asked warily.

“Of course. You make a paste that is slathered on the skin, and then cloth strips are pressed into it, which removes the hair when pulled off.”

“So the same thing we’re already doing?” he demanded.

“Oh, no. The recipe is quite different.”

“Is there a method that doesn’t call for removing most of my skin along with the damned hair?”

Marte thought about it. “Well, the Romans used nut shells back in the empire . . .”

“Nut shells?” Bezio looked faintly encouraged. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Oh, it’s a really interesting process,” Marte enthused. “You heat the shells red hot and then singe off the hair—”

“Singe?”

“—but, of course, if your hand slips you can burn yourself rather badly. Which can be, er, unfortunate, considering our flammability—”

“Anything else?” Bezio asked, sounding strangled.

“Lots of things. We usually use bat’s blood or tweezers for eyebrows,” she said, sliding a look Mircea’s way.

He stared her down, and she sighed.

“And then there are pastes designed to soften the hair, so that it just sloughs off.”

“Sloughs off?” Mircea asked, perking up. Because he was next.

“Mmmhmm. You paste it where you want the hair to fall out, leave it for a short time and then just wash it off.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

Bezio didn’t look convinced. “And how does that kill me?” he demanded.

“Well, they do use arsenic in the mix—”

“Arsenic?”

“—along with quicklime and rock alum, but it’s the arsenic that does the trick. Well, as long as you wash it off soon enough. Otherwise you can burn yourself there, too—”

“Burn myself, hell!” He stared at her. “I can die! Are you trying to poison me, woman?”

“You’re already dead,” Mircea pointed out.

“And don’t want to get any deader!”

“My point was that I don’t believe we can be poisoned.”

“Oh, we can be, yes,” Marte said, nodding enough to make her curls bounce. “Although it’s really rare. You’d have to ingest a great deal.” She glanced at Bezio. “Of course, considering how much hair we’re talking about here—”

“Just rip the damned stuff out,” Bezio said, scowling. “It may hurt, but at least I’ll survive the process!”

“Well, that’s what I was doing,” she said, looking disappointed that he wasn’t as enthusiastic about her hobby as she was.

“Why not just use a glamourie?” Mircea asked, talking about the spells that vampires, and some mages, used to change their appearance. “And dispense with all of this?”

“Sure, why not?” Jerome asked, a little desperately.

The slight-built blond currently had no fewer than three attendants hovering around him, probably because he was the closest of them all to the Venetian ideal. And the slender, youthful body and thin, boyish face didn’t appear to have plumped up much, even after feeding. Of course, it was hard to tell. Since it currently had cold cream slathered all over it, while some noxious smelling substance was being combed through his hair.

“It’s only lye,” a severe-looking woman told him, when he protested.

“B-but they washed me last night—”

“And you’ll wash every night, from now on.”

“
Every
—” he looked horrified. “My skin will come off!”

“It’ll be another few layers before we hit skin.” The voice was dry.

“This isn’t about getting you clean,” Auria told him. She was in charge of this operation, with Marte being there, Mircea had gathered, for her hirsute expertise. “It’s to take that awful color off, so we can replace it with something better.”

“W-what color?” Jerome asked, a tentative hand going to his head, only to get it smacked by the attendant.

Auria motioned to one of the other women, who had been mixing something in a small pot. “Let me see.” The pot of stuff was brought over for inspection. “More saffron,” she said determinedly. “It’s not like we can sit him in the sun until it bleaches properly.” Bright blue eyes narrowed on him. “And what about those teeth?”

The blond put a hand up to cover his discolored front teeth, only to have it smacked again. “We’ve already tried tooth powder—twice,” one of the attendants told her. “But it’s not a stain; the teeth must have been going bad when he was Changed, and now the color’s fixed. We can try again, but—”

“Enamel them,” Auria said firmly.

“Why not use a glamourie?” Mircea asked again. He was currently having his hair trimmed, to bring it to the correct, slightly-below-shoulder-length style that suited current Venetian tastes. But Marte was already eyeing him as she denuded poor Bezio, whose watery eyes were making clear how much he was enjoying the process.

“Because we have two types of clients,” Marte told him, ripping off another strip of hair. “The first is easy. Wealthy merchants or visiting pilgrims who come to us for a taste of the exotic. Or, sometimes, for cavaliers to help them entertain their wives, who are often decades younger.”

Jerome frowned. “You . . . you mean, they want us to . . .”

“They prefer to know who their wives are with,” Auria said briskly. “Wouldn’t you?”

“No!”

“You’re thinking of love matches. These aren’t,” Marte told him kindly.

Auria agreed. “Most of the men are as bored with the wives they married for money or family alliances as the wives are with them. They’re happy to find lovers to keep the little minxes out of trouble, rather than have them come up with their own—and in the process possibly ruin the family name.”

Marte nodded. “Better to choose someone for them, someone discreet, someone professional, who can be paid to go away if the relationship becomes a problem. Or who can help persuade the wives of something the husbands wish them to do.”

“Danieli managed to convince one she didn’t want a summer home in Este just the other day,” Auria added. “Winning himself a sizeable reward from the grateful husband. He hasn’t stopped crowing about it yet.”

“Of course, you need training for that sort of thing. And for how to squire the young women about town, and how to dance properly, and how to bow—”

“Bow?” Jerome looked lost.

“Oh, yes! It’s an art, really: how deeply and for which person and on what occasion—”

“And the newly rich never get it right,” Auria laughed. “Some of our gentlemen callers actually end up paying more for lessons than they do for companionship!”

“Paulo’s a bowing master,” Marte nodded. “He has a number of young men who come to him for instruction.”

“In how to bow,” Jerome said, as if he still didn’t believe it.

“Yes, and you’ll have to learn, too,” Auria told him. “You’ll be expected to accompany ladies to social events and not embarrass them—or us! And to shop for them in the Rialto, and to bargain for them with merchants . . .”

“I understand that some things have to be learned,” Mircea said, as Marte finished torturing Bezio’s chest. “But we were talking about looks, and a glamourie would surely be—”

“Too expensive,” Auria said decisively. “Illusion can smooth out small problems, yes, but the more a face or figure must be altered, the more costly it is. Particularly on an ongoing basis. Not to mention—”

But Mircea didn’t get to hear the rest of her comment, because Marte had just slapped Bezio’s thigh. “Good job. Now drop the towel and bend over.”

“What?” Bezio looked understandably confused. And then scandalized, as her meaning set in. He started backing away when she reached for his towel.

“It’s no good,” she told him, following. “You can’t go about like that.”

“Like what?”

“With thighs that hairy, there’s no way it doesn’t extend all the way up.” She motioned for a couple of male attendants when Bezio dodged another grab for his towel.

“It doesn’t!” he declared, clutching it in a panic.

“Then show me.”

“No! No, damn it! Get away from me!”

“You can’t be a proper courtesan with a hairy bum,” Marte grinned, as the attendants fanned out, blocking his only avenue of escape.

“Then I’ll be an improper one!”

“At least you get to stay mostly natural in front,” she wheedled. “We women are expected to lose it all, or be considered as common as a market girl.”

“Yes, but . . . but that’s not the same thing!”

“How so?”

“You’re
women
.”

Mircea winced, and Marte’s eyes narrowed. “And?”

“And I won’t be made to look like a woman!”

Auria snorted, looking over his muscular, stocky frame. “No chance there.”

“Women, men—it doesn’t matter now,” Marte told him. “You’re a vampire. The only thing that matters is power.” The smile returned as the attendants pounced. “Or lack of it.”

A lot of yelling, thumping, and cursing followed, none of which daunted a determined Marte and her little spatula. Mircea looked away in deference to his companion’s discomfort. And met Auria’s smirking face instead.

“Not to mention?” he prompted.

“As Marte said, we have two types of clients,” she told him. “For humans, glamouries are fine, if expensive. But most vampires won’t permit them, not even for minor imperfections.”

Marte nodded, setting her earrings to chiming as she slathered up poor Bezio. “Too many times, some assassin has hidden under a glamourie, and then when they have someone in a vulnerable position . . .” She drew a pretend line across her neck, and then promptly ruined it by laughing at Mircea’s expression. “It doesn’t happen anymore,” she told him.

“It would if anyone thought they could get away with it,” Auria said. “But the vamps around here are too careful for that, these days. They want to know who they’re getting. And that means no glamouries.”

“Then what about Sanuito?” Jerome asked. “Without a glamourie . . .” He didn’t finish the thought, but the point was made. Between the heavily pockmarked skin and the buckteeth and the unprepossessing features, only a glamourie could help Sanuito.

“Oh, him.” Auria looked up from mixing something in a bowl to roll her eyes.

“The mistress is going to use him as her assistant,” Marte said, more charitably.

“Her assistant . . . for what?” Jerome asked, looking faintly envious.

Marte laughed. “Cosmetic making, silly! She makes most of the ones we use here.”

“She has terribly dry skin,” Auria added, with some satisfaction. “None of the stuff in the shops worked for her.”

“So she decided to make her own, and now it’s branched out into all sorts of things,” Marte enthused.

“Luckily,” Auria said dryly. “Paulo would have a fit if we had to buy all the stuff we use.”

“Why would Paulo care?” Mircea asked, eyeing Auria, who had finished her concoction and was now approaching.

“He’s Martina’s
spenditore
. He keeps the accounts around here,” she told him. “And tries to keep us in the black.”

“Like that ever works!” Marte laughed, doing something that made Bezio howl.

“She’ll keep Sanuito busy,” Auria added, slathering some of her noxious brew onto a long strip of cloth.

“But doesn’t that sort of thing take a long time to learn?” Jerome asked, looking envious. Maybe because Sanuito had just gotten a pass out of the rose-scented torture chamber.

“Not all of it. He was grinding some mother-of-pearl for eye shadow last time I saw him. But he won’t make much doing that.”

“And do we make much?” Jerome asked, suddenly more interested.