Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fantasy Fiction, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Historical Fiction, #Vampires, #Saint-Germain, #Inquisition, #Women Musicians - Crimes Against
States of Grace (2 page)
“It would probably be wise to ask the other seven captains when they get back into port if they want fighting men on their ships. I want each man to be able to decide for himself rather than impose my decision upon them. It wouldn’t do to have rivalries develop over protection, considering how intense their rivalries are already.” Di Santo-Germano put his small, elegant hands together and stared contemplatively over his fingertips. “Nothing more from Ulrico Baradin, I understand.”
“What makes you say that?” Ruggier asked in some surprise.
“Niccola said there was nothing from—”
“Niccola hadn’t come on duty yet,” said Ruggier. “A messenger came with his quotes for paper and ink. I left them with Giovanni, for his review.”
“What manner of prices is he asking?” Di Santo-Germano looked down at the two new books. “My guess is that he has raised them.”
“Of course he has. You are a continuing market now that you have produced two books, and he intends to make the most of it.” Ruggier rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger and yawned. “Forgive me. I have spent too long staring at sheets of uncorrected type today.”
“If you want to rest, do so,” said di Santo-Germano.
“Only my eyes are tired,” said Ruggier, and prepared to continue.
“Then you should rest them, old friend,” said di Santo-Germano, reaching out and laying his hand on Ruggier’s shoulder. “There’s nothing that can be done before morning, in any case, and San Luca’s bells will ring at sunrise. You need not think you’ll spend a slothful day—although that would not dismay me.”
“As you wish, my master,” said Ruggier. “I was beginning to think that I should go find Captain Carazza and bring him here for a report.”
“If I know Captain Carazza, he is at Leatrice’s house, and would not like being disturbed,” said di Santo-Germano. “Leatrice would dislike it, as well.”
“He has expensive tastes in women, if he goes to Leatrice,” said Ruggier.
“So it would seem,” said di Santo-Germano, faint amusement turning the corners of his mouth up. “And if that is the case, I hope he enjoys himself thoroughly.”
“So we must hope,” said Ruggier, not quite able to conceal the hint of a smirk that played over his lips. “And hope, as well, that he is coherent in the morning.”
“That may be too much to wish for,” said di Santo-Germano. “He has been at sea for many days; his first night in his home port, you cannot expect him to spend it in penitence.”
“No,” said Ruggier. “Although that may come.”
Di Santo-Germano chuckled. “For his sake, I trust it may.” He went and picked up the two new books. “Is Baradin going to come back tomorrow?”
“He said he would, sometime in midafternoon.” He shook his head. “He’s greedy.”
“That he is,” said di Santo-Germano with a thoughtful look. “Perhaps I should look elsewhere for my paper and ink. Grav Ragoczy has suppliers in Antwerp and Bruges—perhaps I could avail myself of them, as well.”
Ruggier frowned. “Wouldn’t that be taking a chance?”
“Why? If I say my relative, the Grav, recommended the suppliers to me—” di Santo-Germano began.
“What if your ruse is discovered? You should be more cautious than you are. If the Collegio discovers that you and the Grav are one in the same—This isn’t like Karl-lo-Magne’s time, when messages were few and many portions of the country were neglected for years on end,” Ruggier interrupted. “Merchants exchange regular correspondence, and rulers have ministers to keep track of all manner of commerce. The Collegio would not look kindly on you having another identity in Protestant countries, particularly an identity as a publisher, for that would cast questions on all you have published here. They would shut down your press, seize your books, and confiscate the goods in your warehouse.”
“If they found out. But why should they? They are unaware of my other identities—why should this one attract their attention more than any other?” di Santo-Germano asked. “I will not tell them, nor will you. Who else would know?”
“You are taking a risk,” Ruggier admonished di Santo-Germano without apology.
“Of course. Living is a risk, even my sort of living. Why should I not gamble on myself? Is there a reason?” He brushed at an unseen blemish on his wide, turned-back sleeve.
“Because more than you could be harmed by what you do,” said Ruggier bluntly. “I know I often urge you to be open to the possibilities in the world—”
“Hence my patronage of Pier-Ariana Salier,” di Santo-Germano interjected gently.
“—but I worry when you become reckless. You have done so before, and—”
“Are you comparing Pier-Ariana to Csimenae? They have almost nothing in common.” Di Santo-Germano managed to look shocked, not from genuine distress but in an effort to deflect the conversation.
Ruggier relented. “No, I am not, and you know it.” He sighed. “Very well. I will say no more on this matter, at least so long as we have no cause for alarm. But if there is any indication of problems, then I will—”
“Yes,” said di Santo-Germano. “I know you will. And I will thank you for it, no matter what it may seem to be now.”
“Do you suppose I don’t know this?” Ruggier asked.
Di Santo-Germano relented. “Of course you do. And you are gracious enough to permit me to be cow-handed about your understanding from time to time.” He looked about his study. “This is certainly one of those times.”
“You are tired from an evening of courtliness,” said Ruggier.
“Which you, Rogerian, demonstrate superbly,” said di Santo-Germano with a fleeting, rueful smile.
“But only when I choose, and only for as long as I choose,” Ruggier reminded him, and went to the door. “Are you going to sleep at all tonight?”
“I may.” He lifted his head at the sound of rising wind. “There will be rain again before tomorrow night.”
“It’s March. Of course there will be rain,” said Ruggier, and let himself out of the room.
For a short while, di Santo-Germano stood by himself near the low table facing the fireplace. Then, with a small sigh, he went back to the writing table, drew up a chair for himself, selected a sheet of paper, prepared fresh ink in the standish, chose a trimmed quill, sat down, and began to write, his small, precise hand quickly filling the page with the characters of China. He wrote freely, secure in the certainty that no other man presently in Venezia could read what he was writing, except Ruggier.
Text of a letter in regional German from Hagen Arndt of Ansbach to Ulrico Baradin of Venezia, carried by merchants’ courier, and delivered nineteen days after it was written.
To my most industrious colleague, the distinguished ink-and-paper broker Ulrico Baradin of the Most Serene Venetian Republic, my Lutheran greetings, as the city requires, with the request that you remember me in your prayers, in case Brother Luther is wrong, after all.
Your letter came in good time, taking only two weeks to arrive. I am pleased to say that I have more than enough on hand to supply your order; I will make arrangements for it to be sent south with a well-guarded merchant-train in the next ten days, and you should receive it approximately thirty days from now. I will, myself, verify the quality of the paper and the consistency of the inks so that you will not be dissatisfied in any way with the product I deliver. Payment for your shipment will be expected in my hands within sixty days of your receipt of the order, which should allow you time to collect from the publisher ordering the ink and paper.
I was sorry to hear that Alessandro Sole lost his paper-mill on the tributary of the Po (I forget what the people call it—it flows south from the mountains, west of Udine). His disaster may be fortunate for me, but the savor of success is lessened when it is mixed with ashes. Has anyone yet found out who started the fire that burned his paper-mill? I cannot help but be uneasy while such a criminal is abroad in the land. You may say that Ansbach is a long way from that mill, but a man may walk the distance in ten days if the weather is good, and that is too close for my comfort.
You have stated in the letter accompanying your order that you may have some associates who may be interested in having their books printed in Lutheran territories rather than those of Mother Church. I will see if any of the publishers in this area are interested in such an arrangement, and will inform you of what I learn as soon as I have something to report. In the meantime, I would advise your publishers to consider leaving Venezia if their books are so controversial, for, as we know, the Church is still capable of putting dissenters in the hands of the Inquisition, another abuse of power, or so Luther says.
I anticipate hearing from you shortly, I thank you for your business, and once again, I condole with you on the death of your children. It is always hard when all are lost, no matter how young they are. Three dead in two months is a heavy burden for you to bear, particularly since you haven’t yet remarried. All this, difficult as it is, would be more easily endured with the comfort of a second wife. I ask that you bear that in mind, and that the advice is given with the highest regard for you.
Hagen Arndt
printers’ supplier
At Ansbach on the 10
th
day of March, 1530
th
day of March, 1530
To all appearances, Basilio Cuor was drunk; his broad, fleshy face was flushed, his words were slurred, and his patched leather doublet was stained with grease and wine. He lolled in the alcove near the door of the Due Bosci, an over-turned tankard of wine on the narrow plank table in front of him. As the door opened, he squinted in the sudden brilliance of the midday sun, lifting his hand to shade his eyes. “Watch what you’re doing!” he roared, all joviality gone.
The man in the doorway—young, handsome, fashionably groomed, and well-dressed in a Spanish doublet of Fiorenzan velvet in a discreet dark-blue shade, his brown locks hidden by a soft velvet hat—glanced in his direction. “A little early in the day to be in your condition,” said the man dismissingly, closing the door on the capricious spring weather.
“You didn’t come in here to pray! Don’t point to me if you’re not taking your midday rest,” Cuor shot back in a surly growl.
“No, I am not,” said the man, and passed on into the center of the taproom, where he stood looking about expectantly. Seeing no one other than Cuor, he crossed the room to the dingy window and sat down at one of the smaller tables where he waited for someone to serve him.
At last a pale girl, no more than seven and scrawny at that, came hesitantly up to the man in the dark-blue doublet. “Signore?”
“That’s Patron to you, bambina,” said the man, tweaking her chin in a painful pinch. “Bring me a pot of the best that you have”—his sneer indicated he thought it would be none too good—“and a loaf of bread, if it isn’t two days old or swarming with weevils.”
“Our bread is clean, and our wines are from Toscana.” She lifted her head.
“Very good,” the man approved. “I am waiting for someone. I do not wish to be disturbed.” He handed her a fiorini d’argent, saying, “This will buy me a little silence as well as food and drink.”
The girl winkled the coin away, and said, “I will bring you wine and bread. Meat, if you want it, is extra.”
“Their fish stew is excellent,” Cuor piped up from his place in the alcove. “You will like it if you try it.”
The man in dark-blue ignored this interpolation, saying to the girl, “Bring my order quickly and I will reward you.”
The girl vanished as if in a conjurors’ trick only to appear in less than two minutes with a tankard filled with a dark-red wine that smelled of blackberries and currants. She set this down and vanished again.
“She’s the landlord’s daughter, his youngest girl. In another two years, he’ll be renting her out to the men with enough money to pay for her, just as he does with the mother.” Cuor did not sound quite as drunk. “Oh. Yes. The Alpine flowers do not grow in Venezia.”
The man in dark-blue blinked, shocked at hearing the identifying passwords from such a creature as the slovenly behemoth sprawled in the alcove. “But weeds grow everywhere,” he said, cautiously offering the counter-sign.
“Drink your wine,” said Cuor as he lumbered up from his table and lurched toward the newcomer. “The landlord will notice if you don’t.” He leaned back against the wall as if overcome with dizziness. “Go on—drink,” he muttered as if running out of patience.
The landlord’s daughter rushed into the taproom, a basket of fragrant bread still warm from the oven in her thin hands. “My reward?”
“Better give her something,” Cuor recommended, muddling his words again.
“What would you recommend?” the man in dark-blue asked sarcastically.
“Papal coins are always welcome,” said Cuor.
“More than the Doge’s?”
“Occasionally,” said Cuor, and tottered out of the taproom, muttering, “I’ll return,” as he went.
“He’s gone to piss,” said the child knowingly, holding out her hand.
“Given his condition, I’m not surprised. I only hope his aim isn’t completely gone.” The man in dark-blue put two Papal coins of darkly tarnished copper into her palm. “There you are.”
She inspected them, found them satisfactory, and flounced out of the taproom, returning almost at once with a tub of fresh-churned butter. “For the bread,” she said, and left again.
The man in dark-blue, somewhat perplexed, broke off the end of the bread and smeared it with butter, and took a small bite. Discovering that it was delicious, he ate the piece and was buttering a second when Cuor came back into the taproom; he regarded the unkempt man, and after almost a minute of silence, “Are you really working for the Savii agli Ordini?” he asked in hushed amazement; he found it almost impossible to believe such a slovenly drunkard was entrusted with such tasks as he was bringing to him.
At the mention of these powerful cabinet ministers, Cuor raised his hand to his lips. “Best not speak of them. I’m not the only spy in Venezia,” he whispered.
“Then you are,” marveled the man in dark-blue. “You are the one I have been sent to meet.”
“You won’t be so surprised when you’ve been at this a little longer,” said Cuor, and motioned to the man to move over to the alcove, where he sat down again, slumping as if too inebriated to remain upright. “It is part of our work not to be noticed.”
“I’m hardly a novice: I have already carried out two diplomatic missions to the Pope in Roma,” said the man in dark-blue, stung at this implied doubt about his experience.
“With pomp, ceremonies, courtesy, and lies, I’m sure,” said Cuor. “Since you’re young, you must have powerful relatives, ones who are helping you to make something of yourself. No—don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” He shook his head. “That’s nothing like what men like me do.” As he folded his arms, he went on truculently, “You think you have managed to defend the State with your airs and graces, but that is only decoration, a distraction so that the true—Never mind.” With a hard-used sigh, he leaned back. “What am I going to call you? No, don’t tell me who you are: I don’t want to know. I will make a name for you.” He looked the younger man over with a thoroughness that was disconcerting.
“As you like,” said the man in dark-blue, stiff huffy.
“I think I will call you Camilio—a good, ancient name, known but not common, something not readily remarked upon, or apt to be found everywhere.” He repeated it several times, tasting it and trying it out. “Yes,” he said at last. “You are Camilio. Don’t forget.”
The man in dark-blue shrugged. “Camilio it is,” he said and went to retrieve his food and drink before he sat down to talk in earnest. He was often astonished at the unofficial servants the government had, and never more so than now. Taking his place opposite Cuor, he said, “I have been charged with bringing you new orders from … from our superiors.”
“Yes?” Cuor seemed rather bored. “Go on.”
Camilio felt nonplussed by this response, but soldiered on. “You are to undertake an observation for them.”
“And what would that be?”
Without hesitation, he began, “The Greek merchant Samouel Polae, whose house is on the Giudecca, near the Orthodox church, like many of the Greeks: he has made many voyages to the Sultan’s lands, and he is now suspected of dealing in Venezian secrets with the Ottoman court, since he prospers far beyond the merits of his trading. Half of his crews are Cypriots, and that, too, lends credibility to this concern.” Now that he was dealing with his duty, Camilio felt his confidence returning, and his dissatisfaction began to fade, aided and enhanced by the excellent Toscana wine.
“I know this Samouel Polae. I have made reports on him before,” said Cuor. “Has something new been discovered?”
“There is an assumption that he is an enemy of the Repubblica. What else is there to say?” Camilio had more bread and washed it down with wine.
“A great deal,” said Cuor. “We have many enemies, and each has his plots against us that we must uncover.” He picked up his nearly empty tankard and held it to his mouth; about half the wine spilled onto his clothes, the rest went into his mouth.
“Why do you
do
this?” Camilio cried, shoving his bench back from the table to keep the spatter off his fine garments.
do
this?” Camilio cried, shoving his bench back from the table to keep the spatter off his fine garments.
Cuor chuckled, the sound as unpleasant as the rattle of arquebusfire. “Think a moment, Camilio: how dangerous do I appear? How attentive? A man might say anything within my hearing and consider himself safe. I am clearly too far gone in drink to pay heed to whatever is said around me, or to remember it in an hour, or a day.”
“And you
are
drinking. You smell like—”
are
drinking. You smell like—”
“A sewer,” said Cuor with a look of satisfaction.
“You disguise yourself, in fact,” said Camilio.
“Naturally. I would not be useful otherwise, not given my size and shape. A spy is best invisible, which I cannot achieve. Too many men would notice me, and realize I am a formidable opponent, were I to appear capable and alert. I am easily recalled if I seem attentive—but drunk? Not even a man so large as I can be reckoned a threat if he is unable to stand without swaying.” He smiled, an expression reminiscent of the perpetual smile of a jackal. “Do not make the mistake of believing the sorry character I present.”
“No,” said Camilio hastily. “I shall not.”
“Very good,” said Cuor, and leaned back, only to pull a cup and three dice from his pocket. “Put a coin on the table,” he said, shaking the cup.
“Why should I?” Camilio asked. “I’m not here to gamble.”
“It is best that it appears you are, so that anyone watching will think you are fleecing me,” said Cuor, going on with a determined display of tutelage. “This will make your being in my company make sense. Otherwise, someone might think it odd, and regard us more closely than either would like.” He slammed the leather cup onto the table, lifted it, and handed a silver coin to Camilio. “Again. And for a larger sum this time.”
“But we’re alone. Who will notice if I win or lose?”
“The landlord watches, don’t doubt it. Moreover, the midday rest is almost ended; men will be about shortly, and we must present a tableau that seems obvious when they come to this place. So pay attention to the dice and take the coins every time.”
Picking up the coin, Camilio leaned forward in the first sign of actual excitement. “Go ahead.” He shoved his coin toward Cuor, putting his attention on the roll of the dice as much as on what Cuor said to him.
The dice rattled in the cup as Cuor went on, “I’ll check out Polae, and I’ll let you know what I discover.”
“Be sure you provide as much information as you can, good and bad,” Camilio instructed him.
“I am not entirely new to this work,” said Cuor, an edge in his plummy voice. “Is there anything else?”
“Well, there is a second man, one to add to those you watch: the foreigner, il Conte Franzicco Ragoczy di Santo-Germano, who has a house on Campo San Luca. They say he walks to the Palazzo dei Dogei from there, preferring the streets to the canals.”
“Clearly a foreigner,” said Cuor. “What has he done?”
“Nothing obvious, or nothing that seems sinister, but his interests are such that this could well be a disguise, as your appearance is.” This last dig made no impression on Cuor, who nodded several times. “Well?”
“I know the man. Elegant sort of man, rich but not given to extravagance. He’s got ships, and a press, and the rumor is that he owns a fine collection of jewels. His house is as much a palace as anything on the Gran’ Canale.” He clapped the cup onto the table, lifted it, and paid Camilio again.
“You won that,” said Camilio, hesitating to take the coin.
“We are not playing at dice: you’re supposed to be taking advantage of me,” hissed Cuor. “Claim the money.”
Camilio did as he was told. “I will expect a report from you in a week. Shall we meet here again?”
“No, of course not,” said Cuor. “Meet me in one week’s time at sundown at San Sylvestro, near the confessionals.”
“Mightn’t that be a bit … late in the day for you?” Camilio hinted delicately. “Your disguise might be too … convincing.”
“I will be as sober then as I am now, and I am quite in control of my faculties,” said Cuor, and slammed down the cup a third time. “Rest assured, I will be there unless I am dead or taken with Plague.”
Camilio went white and crossed himself. “It is wrong to say such things.”
“What—that I might be killed, or taken ill?” He shook the dice-cup vigorously. “In this line of work, being killed is more likely than not, and the Plague comes from time to time, to cull the herd.” The slam was loud, and brought the landlord into the taproom, only to turn away in disgust.
The nearby church of San Cassiano chimed the hour of three, marking the end of the midday rest; in a moment, all the churches of Venezia joined in the clamor until the air shook with the noise.
“It’s enough to wake the dead,” said Cuor, putting one hand to his ear. “Or to summon Neptune from the depths.”
“I hadn’t realized how loud those bells are,” said Camilio. “I am usually in the Arsenal at this time of day, when I am at home in Venezia.” This was a slight exaggeration, meant to impress Cuor.
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