Masks (18 page)

Business remained slow the next night, although you couldn’t tell it to look at the house. Every window burned brightly as the storm of cleaning continued, with the cook on a positive rampage. And ordering the “useless ones,” as she termed everyone not under her iron thumb, into the city to get them out of the way.

“Beats scrubbing pots,” was Bezio’s only comment.

“I know a good tavern,” Mircea offered.

“Tavern, hell,” Marte said, coming down the stairs with a gaggle of girls in tow. “We’re going to see the fireworks!”

And so they had.

Everyone except Jerome, who insisted that he hated fireworks. “They give me a headache.”

“You’re a
vampire
,” Bezio reminded him.

“A vampire who doesn’t want a headache.”

“So you’re going to do what? Stay here and help clean?”

“Maybe. If they ask nicely enough.”

Bezio shook his head and gave up.

But everyone else went. Even Paulo who, of course, tried to organize everything. But the excited group was beyond even his abilities. “Like herding cats,” Mircea heard him mutter, as the brightly dressed throng of giggling girls tumbled into a gondola, leaving no room whatsoever for the boys.

Until Zaneta pulled Bezio down into her seat near the back of the boat, and then sat on his lap. “Mmm, so much softer,” she said, wiggling around coquettishly.

“Not if you don’t stop doing that,” he warned, grabbing her around the waist.

She shot him a glance over her shoulder, blue eyes mischievous behind the silver half-moon mask she wore. “I was talking about old hard wood.”

“So was I.”

She laughed and continued squirming, while the rest of them tried to find seats. Mircea was pulled into a flutter of silks and hooded cloaks, his black and gold mask coming loose and almost landing in the canal before he managed to catch it. And then Danieli, in the big-nosed mask of a fool, was squeezing in alongside.

Even Sanuito had come, Mircea was surprised to see. A mask might cover the marks on his face, but not on his hands as he gripped the side of the boat, white knuckled. Mircea briefly wondered if he was afraid of water.

And then it was too late when they cast off, joining the queue of other gondolas crowding the small canal, all of them filled with masked revelers.

“I thought it was supposed to be illegal to wear masks after dark,” Mircea said, staring around at the sea of anonymous faces. People flouted the convention all the time, of course, especially during carnival. But he’d never seen so many all at once.

“It’s illegal to do everything,” Danieli said, in the world weary voice he cultivated. “Everything fun anyway.”

“They just wanted a law on the books to let them prosecute anyone causing mischief,” Bezio explained, fighting yards of velvet to peer at Mircea from behind his well-dressed armful. “Young idiots used to go around throwing eggs at people while masked—”

“Eggs?”

“They were filled with rose water, but they could still ruin an outfit,” Zaneta said, disapprovingly.

“And, of course, some people used the anonymity to commit crimes,” Danieli added. “That’s why they throw the book at you if you get caught with a mask
and
a weapon
—
”

“But otherwise, it’s carnival!” Zaneta grinned. “What are they going to do, arrest the whole city?”

Mircea decided she had a point, and lay back against the back of the boat, watching the beautiful, surreal scene spread out in front of him. Dancing flames from the torches affixed to surrounding buildings highlighted old bricks and new flowers, dark water and bright smiles, flashes of real gold and fake jewels. And a surrounding flotilla no less contradictory, filled with regular people pretending to be creatures out of myth and legend.

He’d heard that an early Doge had carried the idea of mask-wearing back to Venice after a visit to Constantinople, where he’d been fascinated with the veiled faces of the local women. Of course, he’d also heard that it was an ancient Roman custom, popular in some of the pagan festivals like Saturnalia, on which some said carnival was based. And yet again that it was done for pragmatic reasons: gamblers used masks to hide their expressions, merchants to make deals under the table, and young gallants to sneak into the numerous local convents—and not for prayer.

All were plausible, he supposed. Especially the latter, since masks were worn almost year-round in Venice, instead of just at carnival time. But he thought there was more to it than that.

It seemed fitting that masks had grown up around a festival that celebrated the world turned upside down, the reversal of roles, the throwing off of the usual rigid social restraints. Inside a mask, the rich man tired of his responsibilities and the poor man tired of his poverty could switch places. So could the proper lady and the courtesan. Or the staid merchant and the adventurous sailor. Or even women and men.

After all, inside a mask, you were whoever you said you were.

Like Auria, in her fine clothes and jeweled half-mask, pretending to be the elegant lady she so wanted to become. Or Bezio, the once upstanding pillar of the community hiding behind the façade of a leering satyr, enjoying his newfound freedom from expectations. Or Paulo, with the soul of an accountant concealed by the mask of an Adonis.

Or Sanuito . . .

Mircea wasn’t sure what statement Sanuito was trying to make. He was sitting at the other end of the boat beside Auria, wearing one of the eerie, full-face ghost masks the Venetians called
larve
. And, somehow, the blank, anonymous features and dark holes for eyes managed to be more unsettling even than Bezio’s mask, with its grotesque features and gilded horns.

Mircea had stood looking at it for a long time back at the house, while it was still in its case, the blank, white wax features both repelling and attracting him. He’d briefly thought about wearing it himself, since he hadn’t found any others that were more appropriate. And that was despite the several dozen on offer after the girls went around gleefully raiding storage chests.

He had stood for a moment holding two of the most elaborate
—
a prince with a golden crown sliding drunkenly over one cut out eye, and a red-faced demon with snarling, evil features. And felt nothing for either. Except a vague sense of appreciation for the artistry that had created them.

But neither had called to him, not the fair features of the man he’d been, nor the snarling visage of the monster he had become. He was caught in between, no longer one thing, nor yet the other. He couldn’t even have said what he
wanted
to be, and thus pretend with everyone else.

He’d been thinking that perhaps the larve fit him best, after all, with its anonymous features meant to represent a ghost, a spirit standing outside any world. But then Besina had come over with the decorative half-mask he was wearing. And, finally, something in him had responded.

Unlike the full-face varieties made of papier-mâché or molded leather, this one was simple. Just stiffened linen decorated with black and gold paint and a single paste jewel, held on with ribbons that tied behind the head. It reminding him of the one he’d worn to perform for the senator’s ladies, and didn’t really look like much of anything.

But then, neither did he, at least not yet. And it was what he’d been wearing when he started this strange journey, from what he’d been to whatever he was becoming. He thought that it fit him better than the cold, white features of the other, which seemed frozen in time as he no longer was.

And so Sanuito had worn the larve.

He looked as quiet and wraithlike in it as he did when ghosting around the house, an unseen, barely there presence that seemed to melt into the furniture. Mircea suddenly realized that, except for their brief, odd encounter in the courtyard, he’d not spoken to Sanuito since their arrival. It hadn’t been deliberate; they’d just been occupied with different things.

He made a resolution to fix that, as soon as he got the chance.

And then their small craft was spilling out into the Grand Canal, and total pandemonium.

It was a working mass of boats, with what looked like half of Venice on the water. And in everything from simple rowboats and gondolas, to the floating palaces of the rich
—
molded, gilt-covered barges with rowers in the lower story and a party deck above, modeled on the Bucentaur the Doges used. They reminded him of the ones that had been used in the consul’s entertainment, only these were decked with flowers and covered with tents erected from brightly colored silks.

But that was only part of it, for the Venetians seemed endlessly creative with their water conveyances. There were boats called
piatti
that seated forty, covered in crimson satin and carpeted with tapestries. There were the elegant
ganzara
—sail-type vessels that also sported thirty oars. There was something Mircea wasn’t even sure should be called a ship, more like a floating platform, where musicians were trying to set up amidst the chaos.

There was everything and anything that would float, all bobbing about, cheerfully ignoring the fact that they weren’t actually going anywhere.

Neither was anyone on Mircea’s boat, where wine had been brought out and mugs were being passed around. They were supposed to be headed for the home of a pepper merchant Martina knew, who had offered his balcony for the occasion. But they weren’t headed very fast. In fact, Mircea thought it might actually be quicker to walk, had there been anything to walk on.

But then he looked at the shore and revised that opinion.

The throng on the water was nothing compared to the crush of people lining both sides of the canal. Some were jostling for a better view or watching the fire-eaters, jugglers, and jesters trying to part the crowd from their coins before the real entertainment began. Others were being conned by men working hastily assembled, and quite illegal, monte games, like the new three-card variety, while lookouts kept watch for the authorities. Still more were crowding the vendors selling dried fruit, chestnuts, and
galani
, the fried pasta strips sweetened with honey or sprinkled with cinnamon sugar that were practically a carnival requirement.

“Oh, I want some!” Zaneta cried, as they passed a pier where a particularly mobbed seller was about to be forced into the canal.

“You can’t taste them,” Bezio pointed out.

“I don’t care. It’s carnival!”

Zaneta seemed to think that phrase excused pretty much anything, but she pouted so prettily that Bezio grinned and gave up. And snared the beleaguered pastry vendor as they passed, pulling the surprised man into their gondola and causing the girls to squeal in protest, since there really wasn’t room.The relieved man handed out pastries to placate them before taking his leave on the next pier.

Where he was immediately mobbed by the diminutive audience of a nearby Punch and Judy show.

Mircea had heard that Venice was possibly the largest city in the world, now that mighty Constantinople had started to decline. But even after living there almost a year he hadn’t really believed it. Until now.

Everywhere he looked
—
crowding the banks, hanging out of windows, piled on top of surrounding buildings, and floating in the water
—
were people. Laughing, talking, flirting, occasionally fighting, or dancing to the ensemble that had finally gotten itself sorted and started to play. The whole panoply of human life visible in one huge vista. And in between, bewildered-looking tourists stood, as awed and slack-jawed by it all as he was.

Until the gondola suddenly bumped into something. Mircea looked around to find that it was a pier. He supposed they must have been moving, after all.

And then he was tumbling out along with the girls.

The pepper merchant turned out to have a fine view of the parade route, which would wend its way by water from the Rialto all the way to San Marco. He also had a double loggia, the colonnaded galleries popular in Venice, on the front of his house. It allowed him to accommodate a large group, and he’d taken full advantage. To the point that the lower loggia was so packed by the time they arrived that they could barely squeeze through and into the house, where an inner staircase led to the less populated upper floor.

But they’d arrived in time, finding places at the railing at almost the same moment that the faint scent of burnt gunpowder filled the air.

“Look, look!” Besina grabbed his arm, as excited as a girl, as a dim glow appeared over some buildings in the distance.

A moment later, the rest of the crowd saw it, too, and abandoned their other amusements to mob the banks. That resulted in several people ending up in the water, only to be fished out dripping and cursing while everyone else laughed. Everyone except for the people on the official-looking ships coursing through the canal, shouting for people to hurry up and get out of the way.

People did. Although less, Mircea suspected, because of respect for the law than out of fear of being set aflame by the floats headed their way. Boats pulled up onto embankments and crowded the piers, extending the viewing area out several more yards in all directions. Which was promptly taken advantage of by more than a few spectators, who swarmed the boats much to the owners’ outrage.

But no one cared. Least of all Mircea. Who was caught up in the same amazement as everyone else when the floating procession finally came into view.

He’d heard it said that the Venetians held displays on the water to awe visiting dignitaries, who would then go home with a profound respect for the power and wealth of the Serene Republic. But he’d never had a chance to see one. And had frankly always wondered how a simple thing like a parade could have such an effect.

He didn’t anymore.

“How the hell do they do that?” Bezio asked, crowding in beside him. Mircea had no answer, too busy staring at the magnificent miniature castle, if something almost two stories tall could be called that, which was first in line.

It was amazingly intricate, adorned with real-looking turrets and gates, pennants and fountains. Along with less expected elements like a bunch of wildly spinning wheels and a cheerful-looking sun that wobbled over the whole in a less than reassuring manner. Especially considering that it, and most of the rest of the castle, was busy shooting out bright orange sparks.

It took Mircea a few moments to notice the short wall around the bottom of the structure, which partially concealed darting figures, their naked bodies covered in soot. It made them all but invisible against the night as they ran about, frantically lighting fuses.

“There,” Mircea said, trying to point them out to Bezio, but the older vampire wasn’t listening.

Or perhaps he was, but the collective gasp of thousands of people managed to render even his ears deaf. And no wonder. Coming down the water after a few smaller edifices was a massive barge carrying an equally massive marine monster. Or possibly a snake. Mircea wasn’t exactly sure what the long, flowing, scale-covered body was supposed to be—until the gaping maw on the huge head slowly opened.

And a shower of sparks erupted, so forcefully that it set the stern of the preceding boat on fire.

“Dragon!” Bezio yelled at him, over the sound of thunderous applause.

“Thank you,” Mircea said dryly, while the soot-covered men ran around on their cheerfully burning boat, hysterically putting out flames.

Next came an edifice designed to mimic the bell tower of St. Mark’s, with a wheel on top. It looked like the ones on the castle float, except that it was mounted horizontally and was perhaps ten times as large. And far more powerful. When the gunpowder in the open ended tubing attached to it was set alight, it propelled it around in a blur of speed, throwing out sparks so furiously that it looked like a ring of fire was hovering in the air.

Next was a comparatively plain looking barge that seemed out of place in the brilliant throng. Until it suddenly sent a burst of military rockets high into the sky, which had been modified to create showers of gold and silver sparks when they exploded. Thankfully, they burned out safely above the host of smaller ships accompanying the spectacle, which were resupplying the gunpowder that the barges were using up at a fantastic rate.

And on and on, in a long line that stretched down the canal as far as Mircea could see, like a glittering snake winding its way through the heart of the city. It sent light shadows leaping over the surrounding buildings and the enthralled crowd, especially whenever a shell exploded overhead. And the whole glittering panoply was mirrored exactly in the dark water of the canal, doubling the effect.

And finally Mircea understood what those visiting diplomats were supposed to see: the unity of earth, air, and water by fire. The Venetians managing to show mastery over all four elements at once. And making their city insanely beautiful in the process.

“Enjoying yourself?”

The words were spoken close enough to his face to make Mircea flinch. With all the noise and applause, he hadn’t heard anyone approach. He looked around to find Martina watching him, from behind a glittering half-mask.

“Yes,” he said, slightly confused. He hadn’t expected her to join them, since she rarely went out of the house.

Or to look so angry if she did.

“Good. I, on the other hand, am not. Would you care to guess why?”

“There is a problem?” he asked carefully.

“Oh, no.” Carmine lips stretched into something that in no way resembled a smile. “Not unless you consider the fact that I haven’t heard a peep from the senator since your last appointment. You should have an offer by now.
I
should have one. Yet, not only has she not attempted to acquire you from me, I haven’t heard a thing from her in days.”

“Three days,” Mircea pointed out.

“Yes, and last time, it was less than three hours.”

“I think she’s had rather more on her mind than last time—”

“It isn’t your job to think! It’s your job to seal the deal, something you appear incapable of doing. So allow me to add to your motivation. Convocation will be over at the end of the week. When that happens, I won’t need extra help, will I? Especially from one who has already thrown away the chance of a lifetime.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, that if you’re still here in a week, I’ll throw you back where I found you.

“Auria!” The girl stepped out of the shadows. “He will service you tonight. See if you can discover why our princeling continues to disappoint.”

Martina departed in a swirl of black skirts, leaving Mircea staring at the beautiful redhead.

The latest burst of fire from below made her hair almost seem to glow. The parade sent light shadows to highlight her high cheekbones, to spangle her décolleté like jewels, and to enhance the naturally bright blue of her eyes. She would have been a lovely sight
—
if it hadn’t been for the cruel slash of her mouth.

“What’s the matter? Forget you’re a slave?” she asked, before turning and following her mistress.

Mircea stood in the dark, feeling the magic abruptly drain out of the night. The light from the show still painted his face as the spectacular parade continued, but he couldn’t seem to see it, except as a stream of shifting shadows. Meaningless, like everything else.

“What’s wrong?”

Mircea looked up at the sound of Bezio’s voice, to see concerned eyes looking at him out of a leering satyr’s mask. It was as odd as seeing hate he hadn’t earned on Auria’s angelic features. He supposed there was a lesson there somewhere, but he didn’t seem able to grasp it at the moment.

“Nothing.”

Bezio sighed. “Everybody’s acting strange tonight. I think Sanuito must have spent some time in battle.”

“Why battle?”

“He’s flinching at every loud noise. He might have done better to stay home.”

Mircea glanced over to where the slight figure in the larve mask was standing, near the end of the loggia. And wondered if he’d overheard. And if he’d come to the obvious conclusion that, if Mircea was sent back, it was likely to be with company.

If so, he might have a better reason for shaking than the explosions.

Mircea started toward him, when Bezio dragged him back. “Listen, I heard what Martina said—”

“I won’t let them take you back there. I’ll come up with something
—
”

“You may not have to.”

Mircea looked a question, and Bezio moved closer, but lowered his voice at the same time, to the point that Mircea had to strain to hear it.

“I’ve been asking around,” Bezio told him. “Seems the night convocation concludes, there’s some big party. All the glitterati will be there, so security has to be tight. In addition to the senate’s usual guard, practically the entire Watch has been pressed into service as extra help, just to make sure that one of the groups the senate has pissed off doesn’t try to take ’em all out at once.”

“And?”

“And the place for this big party of theirs just happens to be the palazzo where the consul has been staying. You know the one you were at the other day? The one
all the way out on Giudecca?”

“That will leave the city virtually unguarded,” Mircea murmured.

“Except for the human authorities, if they count. But for our kind, yes. Anybody wanting to leave could just . . . walk out.”

“And go where?”

“I’ve been thinking about that, too.”

“You’ve been busy.”

Bezio chuckled. “I’m not as popular as you. I had time. But it seems to me there is one place we might go that nobody ever thinks about.”

“We?”

“Like I said, I’m not really cut out for this life. I don’t think I have a future in it.” His lips twisted sardonically. “But I’ve started to think, maybe I could have a future . . . someplace.”

Mircea raised an eyebrow.

“Someplace beautiful,” Bezio elaborated. “Enough to rival Venice. Someplace with plenty of people, even more than here. Someplace where a powerful acquaintance of yours just happens to have her main court
—
”

“
Paris?”

“Why not?”

“Why not? The senate meets there! There are guards every five feet!”

“Which is all to the good. Look,” Bezio said, when Mircea began to protest again. “Even if she doesn’t make you an offer, she might be willing to provide a little protection. Just a word from her and the guards would lay off. And it’s not like we’re a threat to anybody . . .”

Mircea stared at him, utterly flummoxed. And, God help him, more than a little intrigued. It was insane; no one in their position went to Paris. As the permanent home of the European Senate, it was crawling with the most powerful vampires for a thousand miles and their entourages, the least member of which was certain to be far more powerful than he. He’d heard that even master-level vampires hesitated before going there, into the danger and intrigue, and the intricate dance of court etiquette where it was so easy to put a foot wrong.

And a foot was all it took.

But then, they wouldn’t be at court, would they?

He looked back out over the parade, which appeared to have reached the allegorical phase. It was hard to tell since this was Venice, where more was never enough and even solemn, church-related displays tended to become filled with sparkly things. But he thought the nearest barge might be meant as some sort of metaphor on carnival.

A luxuriously dressed, hugely fat man sat atop a wine barrel with a jousting pole tucked under one arm, dueling with a skeletal creature holding a platter of sardines. Mircea assumed the thin man was supposed to be Lent, although he appeared to have been drinking. And seemed rather jolly for someone who was supposed to be observing a period of restraint.

Below them, partygoers costumed as kings and fine ladies danced amid cripples who could barely get about on crutches and beggars on their knees, in some sort of commentary about . . . the brevity of life? Too much hubris? The love of money as the root of all evil? Mircea didn’t know. But he thought it was telling that the revelers never even seemed to notice that the poor were there.

Yes, that about summed it up, he thought fiercely. And he, for one, was tired of always being on his knees. He’d spent two years there—hell, it sometimes felt like he’d spent his whole life there. Always at someone’s beck and call, always having to worry about his duty, his family name, his position, rather than anything he actually cared about.

Or anyone.

But maybe it wasn’t too late to start over. Maybe he could make a new life in a new city. Maybe all of them could. He wondered what Jerome would do with the shops of the French capital at his fingertips.

It boggled the mind.

And sent a relieved smile breaking over Mircea’s features for the first time in a long while.

“I might be going mad,” he told Bezio, “But I think—”

“What’s he doing?” Bezio asked, cutting him off abruptly.

“What?”

“Sanuito,” he said, looking past Mircea. “Hey. Hey!”

Mircea turned in time to see the small figure in the ghost mask balanced on top of the narrow railing, clutching a column. He looked like one of the monkeys the street performers used, who regularly perched on whatever part of a building they happened to be near. With one important difference.

The monkeys didn’t fall off.