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 (7 page)
“Do so. And remember that while I am gone, you will have another man appointed to deal with you.” He drank eagerly.
“Why not simply my uncle?” Leoncio asked, peeved at this slight.
“Because he must be able to select what he knows and from what source he knows it,” said Cuor with the extreme patience of one dealing with a fool. “If you tell him directly, then he must admit it.”
“That is a risky game, I think,” said Leoncio. “All this hidden attention on foreigners.”
“The Greek merchant hasn’t provided much of use, has he? He is what he presents himself to be: a merchant of the Eastern Rite, and an honorable resident of Venezia, one who is here to do business and nothing more. Have you discovered anything to the contrary, Camilio?” Cuor asked with exaggerated sympathy. “I have learned very little to Samouel Polae’s discredit, and unless you have uncovered something dangerous in his dealings, I think you need only concentrate on Pier-Ariana Salier and di Santo-Germano’s business arrangements while I am away.”
Leoncio thought of his appointment with Padre Egidio Duradante later that afternoon at Casetta Santa Perpetua, and determined to learn something useful from the Pope’s man, if only to show his uncle and this unkempt hulk that he, Leoncio Sen, was the more capable of the two of them. “I can speak to di Santo-Germano’s appointed deputy; he is likely to have a great deal of information.”
“No doubt. And he is also used to having men attempt to learn his employers’ business,” said Cuor with real dubiety.
“Gennaro Emerenzio likes games of chance as well as the next man. I have met him in one or two of the Casette where men may indulge their fancies for many things, gaming and drinking being only the most obvious pleasures.” He smiled with a fine cynical air. “After wine and dice, when the blood is running high, a man sometimes guards his tongue less than he should.”
“And sometimes his ears are less open than they ought to be,” Cuor added. “It won’t serve anyone’s purpose if you cannot remember all you hear.”
“I know what I have to do,” Leoncio declared huffily. “You will see, reprobate that you are, that a man need not lose all his demeanor and good conduct to serve the Doge and Venezia.”
“Your uncle will be pleased,” said Cuor, and shoved himself to his feet. “I will speak to you again in three days, at noon at I Frari. Be sure to be there.” He wagged his finger at Leoncio. “Camilio, I depend upon you,” he declared, sounding a good deal more drunk than he was.
“Three days at I Frari, at noon,” said Leoncio dutifully. “I will be there.”
“See you bring what you owe me,” Cuor persisted. “I will not countenance delays in—”
“I will, I will,” Leoncio promised and saw that the barmaid was watching them with more attention than they merited. “I will not cheat you.”
“You had better not,” Cuor blustered, shoving out of the niche and trundling toward the door. Once in the street his stride became brisker, and he moved off through the general confusion toward La Merceria, and beyond it toward San Zaccaria and the small, neat house where Pier-Ariana Salier lived. He made his way around the side of the building and knocked on the kitchen door, calling out as he did, “Baltassare Fentrin! Baltassare Fentrin! Eccomi—Basilio Cuor come to pay you the three ducats I owe you. Open the door, Baltassare, te prego.”
Just as Cuor expected, the kitchen door opened slowly and Pier-Ariana’s steward poked his head out. “Oh. You.”
“I said I would have your winnings to you before sundown,” Cuor said as if he were used to being disbelieved.
“So you did, so you did,” Baltassare said, opening the door enough to admit Cuor, but far from displaying any geniality. “You come just as we begin our prandium.”
“An intentional ploy,” Cuor admitted, a bit too eagerly. “I thought I would find you in, and not so busy that you would not see me.” He handed three ducats to Baltassare as they made their way down the narrow corridor to the kitchen.
“You came in the hope of dining here,” said Baltassare with a sigh. “I suppose we can feed you.”
“Most kind,” Cuor muttered.
“As you say,” Baltassare responded.
“Tell me,” said Cuor as if struggling to make conversation, “are you allowed much time for yourself, or is the household demanding? You said you have only a single woman to serve—does she demand much of you?”
Baltassare shrugged. “She is usually busy with her instruments and pens, so much of the day-to-day running is in our hands. We have our appointed tasks, but our mistress does not demand we do them at any particular time.” He pointed to the three men and one woman gathered around the table against the wall on the far side of the kitchen; the woman sat a little apart from the others, as her status and her gender required. The men clustered at the end of the table nearest the open hearth. “Lilio, Gabbio, this is Basilio Cuor; Merula”—he nodded to the woman at the table—“Basilio Cuor.”
“A pleasure,” said Cuor with a forced gallantry that earned him a disbelieving chuckle.
“He owed me money,” said Baltassare. “And paid it in less than a day.”
“As any man should,” said Merula. “It is to your credit.” She indicated a place next to her. “You may sit here, if it suits you.”
“I thank you profusely,” said Cuor with an unsteady bow to her. “You know how to behave in a respectable house. It is apparent that you have learned from most admirable tuition.”
Gabbio looked from Lilio to Baltassare as if to try to decide how he should behave. Finally he reached for a glass and filled it with trebbiano, then held it out to Cuor as if attempting to make peace.
Merula’s somber face wreathed in smiles. “Indeed, yes. I had the honor of serving in the household of the Doge’s son-in-law when I was trained.”
Cuor, who had learned this weeks ago, pretended surprise; taking the glass from Gabbio, he said to Merula, “How fortunate for Signorina Salier, to have so worthy a personal servant as you.”
Color mounted in Merula’s face. “It is not for me to say.”
“No; you are too gracious,” said Cuor as he sat down. He looked at the others at table. “I do not mean to intrude, but it is most pleasant to pass this time in a well-ordered household instead of a tavern. I thank you most earnestly.”
Merula actually simpered. “And you must have learned your manners in a higher station than we see you now.”
“Alas, yes,” said Cuor, allowing Lilio to bring him a bowl of sweetbreads and crab in a creamy sauce made fragrant by garlic and herbs. “My family had three ships when I was a boy, and … and a favorable seat in the Maggior Consiglio. Within a year two of them were taken by corsairs. That was the ruin of our fortunes; my father fled, making his disgrace complete.” It was a fairly accurate story, and one most Veneziani would hear with sympathy; it would be likely to unguard the tongues of these servants.
“The Ottomites are shameless,” said Lilio, passing a loaf of bread.
“That they are, and to our woe,” said Cuor, accepting the bread and breaking off a hunk of it. “This is very fresh, by the smell of it.”
“Made this morning,” said Lilio, his stiffness beginning to fade.
“Very fine,” Cuor approved as he dipped a bit of it into the thick sauce.
“Our mistress’ keeper has lost ships to Ottomites,” said Merula, and ignored the sharp look Baltassare shot her.
“Ah, it is ever more the case,” said Cuor as he chewed.
“It isn’t our place to talk about the Conte,” said Baltassare with a hauteur worthy of the very highest stewards.
“I don’t see why not,” said Lilio. “His fortunes are our fortunes, after all. If he loses all, so does our mistress, and so do we.” He put his elbows on the table. “It isn’t as if we haven’t talked about this.”
“Among ourselves,” said Baltassare sharply. “It is nothing to speak of in front of outsiders.”
“He’s a Venezian,” said Lilio. “Hardly an outsider.”
Merula put her hand on the table. “Peace, you two. This man is our guest, and it is our duty to treat him as handsomely as we may.”
“Because he pays you compliments,” said Baltassare. “He’s a gamester and who knows what else.”
“His family’s misfortune haunts him,” said Merula. “Who among us would not have to live precariously if anything befell our mistress?”
This sobering question silenced the discord; after a short silence, Lilio said, “It may be difficult while di Santo-Germano is in the north.”
“Ah. He goes to Udine,” said Cuor, having a little of his wine.
“No, much farther—to the Lowlands,” said Baltassare. “For a year.”
The servants exchanged single nods of significance, and Merula said, “He is returning, but he will be away for a year.”
Cuor nodded. “That may be inconvenient for all of you.”
“It isn’t money,” said Lilio quickly. “The Conte is a very wealthy man, and he has provided for this household in his absence, very handsomely. We have no concerns on that head. But there may be trouble if any of his ships are seized or he is unable to return as he planned.”
Baltassare sighed. “We’re told provisions are in place, but who can say?”
“He may not wish to continue as our mistress’ patron,” said Merula, expressing their deepest fears. “Who knows what disposition he may make, if that happens?”
The three men nodded slowly; Cuor had a little more wine. “A bad business, no matter how it ends.”
“The Conte says that he wishes to publish her music, but he says it as a man who supports her and who shares her bed,” said Baltassare heavily. “But if he no longer wants her flesh, what will he expect of her music?”
“He has presented her with deeds and grants,” said Merula.
“Which he may rescind at any time,” Baltassare reminded them all. “The Collegio will not enforce any woman’s claim against her keeper.”
“Can you imagine what a nest of intrigue the courts would be if the Collegio did allow such claims?” Lilio asked, and laughed harshly. “No other cases could be heard.”
When the laughter had died down, Cuor said, as if it had just occurred to him, “Is there anyone else who might become her patron, or keep her?”
Merula shook her head. “I don’t think so. She’s not one to try such measures. I think she would make herself a nun to her music.”
“A strange thing for a young woman to do,” said Cuor, thinking that Camilio’s task was likely to be more difficult than either of them had conjectured.
“A pity she comes from ordinary folk,” said Lilio, preparing to offer second helpings of his excellent meal. “It leaves her open to so many troubles.”
“Troubles may happen to any of us,” said Cuor, and held out his bowl for a second helping.
Text of a letter from Atta Olivia Clemens at Nepete, north of Roma on the Via Cassia, to Franzicco Ragoczy di Santo-Germano in Venezia, written in Imperial Latin, carried by general messenger and delivered fourteen days after it was written.
To the Conte di Santo-Germano, Franzicco Ragoczy, at the Campo San Luca in Venezia, the greetings of the Roman widow, Atta Olivia Clemens, at Nepete for the summer, and perhaps into the autumn as well, unless matters in Roma improve.
Before you begin your northern journey, I thought I should send word to you of my present whereabouts, in case you should have reason to contact me in the months ahead. I am at my small stud farm here at the lake; you will remember it from your visit six centuries ago, although the house has been rebuilt twice since then. Niklos Aulirios is with me, but goes monthly to Roma to supervise my properties there, including my house in the city as well as Senza Pari, beyond the walls, and, incidentally, to keep watch over the Villa Ragoczy, which is being given a new roof, which it very much needs, even as I write this. I expect Niklos to return in four days; if he has a report for you, I will authorize him to use my messenger to carry it to you, but you may rest assured that he has taken good care of your property.
As always, I am puzzled why one of our blood would choose to live in Venezia, of all cities, amid all that water, the tides constantly in motion. It must be disconcerting at the least. But you have done so in the past, and will probably do so again, so you need not answer my question unless you have some reason I am unaware of. I find that living next to a lake, as I do here, is not nearly so uncomfortable as being near a river or on the ocean, where the water is forever moving, and rest is difficult even lying on your native earth. Certainly many of your shipping businesses require you from time to time to live in a port city, and Venezia is unquestionably that, but I cannot help but think that you must have daily inconvenience brought about by the enervation of running water, to say nothing of the sunlight.
You have said you are seeking a quiet life, and that may be, but it strikes me as odd that you are attempting to find it at Venezia, or in the turbulence of the north, for that matter, since you are bound thither when summer is gone. Not that there is much quiet anywhere, these days. Since Roma was sacked, the whole of Europe has been in a frangible state, and I doubt it will improve in the next decade, or century. Upheavals always take so much longer than anyone thinks they will—except perhaps for us and those like us, who have such long lives. I am content for now to remain here at the lake where I may tend my horses and enjoy the company of Dionigi Eso, who is a most promising young scholar to whom I have extended my protection, and who is willing to remain with me here for a year or two, exploring the past and other, more personal matters.
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