9

“Captain… over here.” A young whore shushed the voice, shocked at its impudence.

Roderigo recognised its owner despite his gaudy mask. The whore on his arm and the flagon he waved suggested Atilo’s servant had spent his prize money with glee. Like most Venetian men, Roderigo used whores. This one was shapely, only half drunk and grinned prettily.

“Iacopo.”

“My lord…” Turning, Iacopo said, “This is Captain Roderigo. He’s head of the Dogana.”

The whore shot a glance to say, Don’t be stupid. Then realised her client meant it and curtsied deep enough to reveal her breasts, which improved Roderigo’s temper slightly.

The Riva degli Schiavoni lined Venice’s southern shore.

It was the quay where captains sought supplies for their ships. There were food stalls, rope chandlers, and barrel-laden carts with water from the cisterns that collected the city’s rainfall. Slaves were sold, crews recruited. It was to the Riva that sailors went to find whores. Here was where Atilo’s handsome servant had come to celebrate his victory in the previous day’s regatta.

In the course of the night just gone, he’d lost Roderigo’s doublet and the hat Sir Richard gave him. In their place, he sported a black eye and an ornate dagger that undoubtedly broke the sumptuary laws. Also two whores.

Although the second, arriving as Roderigo noticed the dagger, proved Iacopo hadn’t lost the doublet at all. It was draped over the shoulders of his friend, who needed it against the cold, since her breasts were bare.

“Did you see that ship’s fire, my lord?”

“Yes,” Roderigo said. “I saw it.”

“They say Mamluk spies burnt a Cypriot ship.”

Did they now? Roderigo smiled grimly. He’d told his men to say nothing of what had happened, but this was better than expected.

“Why so?”

“Well…” said Iacopo. “Lady Giulietta’s marrying Cyprus.” His elbow missed a ledge, almost tipping him to the ground. “And Cyprus,” he added heavily, “is Byzantium’s ally. And ours, now, of course.”

Byzantium and the Mamluks were enemies, as expected of neighbouring empires. And Venice was Byzantium’s ally, theoretically. At a push, if drunk, you could build a plot from that.

“Almost right. But it was a Mamluk ship and I’d put my money on the Moors.” Why not? They were the Mamluk sultan’s other enemy.

“I heard…”

“Believe me. Moorish spies.”

Opening his mouth to disagree, Iacopo shut it when one of the whores dug her elbow in his ribs. He was very drunk indeed. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Another time…”

“You off to bed?”

Captain Roderigo nodded.

“Then you need help to heaven, don’t you?”

It was too late to stop Iacopo’s recitation and after the first line the whores joined in. “He who drinks well sleeps well, he who sleeps well has no evil thoughts, he who has no evil thoughts does no evil, he who does no evil goes to heaven. So drink well…”

“And heaven will be yours,” Roderigo finished for them.

After five minutes of one-sided conversation, Roderigo knew that Iaco had been in Atilo’s service for eight years. He wanted a promotion. He deserved promotion. There were days—and this was secret—he felt little better than a slave. Atilo’s people had slaves. He was sure the captain knew that.

So do we, Roderigo thought. Half the men working cranes outside were indentured to Schiavoni gang masters. The peasants on the mainland were bound to their lords. Did Iacopo think the whore on his arm worked freely? Taking a gulp from his glass, Roderigo winced at its bitterness.

Halfway down the jug, Roderigo realised why the wine was so bad.

If his mind had not been on last night’s disaster he would have realised men came here with other things on their mind. To share taverns was a Serenissiman tradition. The rules governing brothels were more complicated. In being here he was breaking half a dozen laws.

“I should leave…”

“You sent my whore to check on your sergeant.”

So he had, Roderigo remembered.

Taking his hand from between her thighs, Iacopo patted the remaining whore’s knees. Her shrug making it clear that losing his attention meant little.

What am I doing here? Roderigo knew the answer the moment the question entered his head. He was behaving as any Venetian noble would when invited by the victor of the previous day’s race to have a drink.

“My lord. You look as if the wine doesn’t agree with you.”

“It doesn’t,” he said flatly.

When Iacopo returned it was with a different flask. “Frankish,” he promised. “The best they have. I’m sorry, I should have realised.”

“Realised what?”

“That a nobleman would not have the stomach for the wine we drink. It was thoughtless of me.”

Feeling shamed, Roderigo said, “It’s not your wine. Yesterday’s news about Lady Desdaio has unsettled me…” Toasting Iacopo, he discovering the man was right: this wine was better.

Raising his head from the table, Roderigo watched a serving girl approach. Did she work the stalls? He decided he didn’t care. She’d come to his bed right enough. He was a patrician with a palace on the Grand Canal.

A small one, admittedly. A thin, three-storey building between two fat ones. But still a palace and still overlooking the Canalasso, that watery road Venice chose for its heart. There were times he didn’t like himself and this was one of them.

Last night had begun well enough, only turning sour when Temujin took an arrow. Turning sourer still with his discovery of that boy.

Who knew where he was now?

Drowned, with luck…

Early morning sun crinkled on the lagoon and the tide flowed as sluggishly as molten lead. Somehow, without Roderigo noticing, the room had emptied and his companion was gone.

“Iacopo?”

“A girl is murdered. Iaco went to look.”

In a city where passers-by stepped over bodies most mornings this sounded passing strange. “What makes this killing different?”

“The murderer. A boy was seen nearby. Naked, with silver-grey hair. The Watch believe he was her attacker.”