Masks (6 page)

“The cad.”

Jerome’s gray eyes narrowed. “Are you making fun of me?”

“No. But you must admit, there’s no difference between a fraud being perpetrated by a charlatan in the square and one being sold out of an apothecary shop.”

“Except that Theriac isn’t a fraud. It really works—”

“And did it work for your master?”

Jerome scowled. “No. But that isn’t—that was different.”

“How so?”

“Theriac works best as a preventative—you’re supposed to take some everyday. Or at the least, shortly after you’re poisoned. But my master was on a trip, away from most of the family. And by the time he admitted he was in trouble . . . well, he came to me too late, is all. I did everything I could, but strong as he was, it just took him right out.”

“I’m sorry,” Mircea said, because Jerome looked genuinely upset.

“It’s fine,” the younger vampire turned away slightly. “I don’t know why I’m so—that is, I barely knew him. And he left me like this,” he gestured around, Mircea assumed at some abstract concept of vampireness. “But it isn’t like I had much to leave behind, and you know how it is with masters . . .”

“No. I don’t.” At Jerome’s look, Mircea elaborated—briefly. “I was cursed.”

“You were—oh,” his eyes went round. “You’re like the mistress then.”

“Martina?”

Jerome nodded. “We were talking about masters the other day, and Auria said something weird. But I guess that’s what she meant, huh?”

“What she meant?”

“Yes. She said Martina made herself.”

“Oh, you have got to be—no!” Paulo said furiously, looking like he’d like to stomp his elegant foot against the stones. But instead, he had to use it to jump under a nearby portico, as what looked like every vampire in Venice came stampeding their way.

Mircea and Jerome followed, barely managing to save their cart of expensive stuff from being crushed under the fanged flood.

“What’s happening?” Jerome asked breathlessly, as they flattened themselves against the wall.

Mircea was wondering the same thing. They’d just finished their shopping and met back up with Paulo, under a long portico near the Rialto Bridge. Only to find that, instead of thinning with the lateness of the hour, the crowd had substantially increased. And that was before a wall of people had come rushing at them like the tide coming in.

No, not people, Mircea corrected, feeling slightly over awed. Vampires. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them, more than he’d ever seen in one place at one time.

That would have been eerie enough, all on its own. But the crowd was also totally silent, the only sounds coming from the
creak-creak
of the great wooden bridge as they passed over it, and the quiet tread of hundreds of soft-soled shoes. And the startled cries of the humans still about at this hour, who clearly had no idea what was happening.

Neither did the Watch, who seemed a little nonplussed by it themselves. As if this wasn’t quite what they’d been expecting. Mircea saw one on a nearby rooftop staring intently at another in the street, as if some sort of silent communication was going on. But then he shrugged and crouched back down by his chimney, as if admitting defeat.

“Some stupid senate thing, no doubt,” Paulo said irritably. “You take your life in your hands trying to go anywhere these days.”

Torchlight from the tapers held by some members of the crowd flickered against the columns of the portico, making shadows run on the bricks behind them. But in between the bursts of light, Mircea could see that the crowd extended up the street and across the massive bridge that unified the two halves of Venice. And then disappeared behind some buildings on the other side with no sign of slimming.

“We might be here a while,” he noted.

Paulo apparently decided the same, because he made another sound of disgust and knelt by the side of their overstuffed cart. “What did you get?” he asked, trying to rearrange their purchase so that he could fit his in as well.

“Most of the list,” Mircea told him, still staring at the almost silent throng.

“We had to settle for pine nut biscuits instead of cake,” Jerome said. “But there was a good variety of candies—”

“What kind?”

He knelt by the cart, sorting through a dozen large paper spills. “Sugar-coated almonds. Candied oranges, limes, and tamarinds. Comfits of ginger, cinnamon, and coriander. Dried fruit jellies. Marzipan. Nougat.”

“Good quality?”

“We went to three different shops to make sure. Try some.”

“For what?” Paulo asked. “I can’t taste them.”

“You can’t—” Jerome blinked.

“You’re not a master?” Mircea asked.

Paulo looked up, intermittent torchlight haloing his blond head. “Of course not. Where did you get that idea?”

“I thought so, too,” Jerome put in.

“Why? I never said—”

“But you hold a position of authority in Martina’s household,” Mircea pointed out.

“I’m good at what I do,” Paulo looked slightly offended.

“Yes, but . . .” Mircea paused, deciding how to phrase things. “Isn’t it more usual for a person’s position to match his power level?”

As far as he’d been able to tell, everything in vampire society was organized around how powerful you were—or were not, in his case. He’d often thought that was what was wrong with it. Power took the place of morals, of law—of God, for that matter. Everything revolved around whether you could do something, instead of whether you should. And no one seemed to have a problem with that.

Well, no one with the power to change things, at any rate.

“Normally,” Paulo admitted. “But Martina doesn’t do things that way.”

“Who is strongest, then?” Jerome asked. “It isn’t Auria?” He looked vaguely appalled at the idea. And then intrigued. Mircea was glad he didn’t know what was going on in that blond head.

And then it didn’t matter anyway, because Paulo laughed. “She’d like to think so!”

“Then who is it?” Mircea asked, curious.

Paulo continued rearranging packages. “I’m . . . not sure.”

“You’re not sure?” Mircea frowned.

“Richa has been with her the longest—”

“The
cook
?” Jerome asked, in disbelief.

“I said she’d been here the longest, not that she’s the strongest,” Paulo said.

“How long have you been with her?” Mircea asked.

“A little over ten years.”

“Ten—” Mircea stopped, trying to process that. Ten years in human terms might be considered a long time, but in vampire . . . it was practically an eye blink. But he didn’t ask, because the set of Paulo’s shoulders said that he didn’t want to talk about it.

Jerome, on the other hand, had no such reservations.

“What did you do before?”

Paulo didn’t answer for long enough that Mircea began to think he wouldn’t. But then he wedged the last package into place and stood up. “If you must know, I wasn’t all that different from you.”

“From who?” Jerome looked around, as if he thought another vampire had snuck up on them. “Than him?” he asked, after a minute, looking at Mircea.

“Than either one of you!” Paulo snapped.

“You mean Martina bought you, too?”

“No! She . . . found me.”

Jerome scrunched up his face, obviously confused. Possibly because the phrasing made it sound like she’d picked Paulo up off the side of the street, like a stray cat. “Where?”

“Here!” Paulo looked irritated. “Where do you think? Where do vampires go who aren’t wanted?”

“You weren’t wanted, either?” Jerome looked as if he couldn’t quite grasp that. He looked the taller vamp up and down. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Jerome,” Mircea said warningly, but Paulo didn’t explode. Instead, he rolled the huge waxed round of Parmesan cheese he’d purchased over by the wall and sat on it, to more comfortably watch the impromptu parade.

“Nothing,” he told them. “Except that my mistress Changed me on a whim. My looks appealed to her, and her consort was . . . inattentive. She thought I would be a comfort when he was away attempting to chisel off bits of other vampires’ territories. But when he returned and found me in her bed, it was
my
bits that were almost chiseled off.”

Mircea winced, and Jerome moved a protective hand to the front of his hosen.

“In the end, she convinced him not to stake me, but only on the condition that I go away—immediately. She gave me some money, and safe passage here with some functionaries she was sending to buy jewels for her. And . . . that was it. I found myself on my own after less than a year, in a strange city where I didn’t know the language and didn’t have any friends. I didn’t know what to do.”

“Sounds familiar,” Mircea muttered.

“As I said. I don’t know where I’d have ended up, once the last of my gold ran out, but Martina found me. In a tavern, waiting for some of the humans to consume enough that I could get drunk off their blood when I took it. She told me that, if I worked for her, I wouldn’t want to get drunk so badly. That I’d have a future again, and a home and hope. She was right.”

“And the others?” Jerome asked.

“They each have their own story, and it’s theirs to tell. But they’re not that different.”

“You mean that Martina made none of her family?” Mircea asked. He hadn’t been a vampire very long, but that sounded . . . unusual, even to him.

“I’m saying what I said before—that she does things differently,” Paulo told him. “She says that the idea that everyone needs a master is ridiculous, that it’s perfectly possible to live and thrive without one. Easier, in fact—you make your own rules. If I wanted, I could leave her tomorrow—”

“And do what?” Jerome asked.

“Whatever I chose.”

“Yes, until a stronger vampire came along and decided he wanted you. Or wanted you dead. That’s why we live in families—for protection.”

“I am protected! Martina—”

“Who you were just talking about leaving,” Jerome reminded him.

“I was not talking about leaving! I merely said that I
could
—”

“And I pointed out that you don’t dare. So how’s that different than being in a family?”

“It’s not—we
are
a family! We just don’t have a blood bond—”

“And don’t you think that’s weird? That she never bound you?”

“She doesn’t need to!” Paulo said, looking exasperated. “I stay for the same reason we all do, because we want to. We know that this is the best chance we have for a future.”

“But if she Changed you, wouldn’t that be the same thing?” Jerome asked. “Not everybody is held against their will, you know. I wasn’t. Nobody in my old family was—”

“Yes, and they proved so loyal to you, didn’t they?”

“I explained about that!”

“And I heard more than you thought. You can tell yourself whatever you like, but the fact is, they. Didn’t. Want. You. Martina does.” He glanced at Mircea and then away again. “She isn’t perfect, I know that. But she’s better than most. If you give her a chance—”

“I wasn’t aware that I had a choice,” Mircea said mildly.

Paulo flushed. “She’s . . . been a little tense lately. We all have. But when the current spectacle is over—”

“Speaking of spectacles,” Jerome said, breaking in. And sounding strange.

Mircea turned to look at the other vampire, who was staring at the crowd on the opposite side of the canal. And then at the guard on the nearby roof, who had just jumped to his feet. And then at the bridge, which had started shaking as if something, some massive thing, was crossing under its covered walkway, with heavy, clomping footsteps that echoed across the quiet night.

It wasn’t quiet much longer.

A new noise suddenly tore across the old city. One loud enough and strange enough to have Mircea flinching and Paulo making a very undignified bleat. Which no one heard over what sounded like a trumpet blast straight out of hell.

And might well be one,
Mircea thought, staring in shock at what erupted from the mouth of the bridge a moment later, surrounded by the fire and smoke of a dozen torches. It was a monstrous creature, towering over the surrounding crowd, terrifying even in the glimpses revealed by the flickering light. Like something out of a nightmare: huge and misshapen and bellowing in anger.

And then stampeding—straight at them.

“Auugghhh!” Paulo dropped the pretense of elegance and knocked into Mircea, before running straight into the building behind them.

Mircea grabbed him, which only seemed to make his panic worse. But then Jerome snared his other, wildly flapping arm, and together they started to pull him away, toward the safety of the nearest alley. Only to stop when they realized that it was already full.

Of members of the Watch.

They had a few locals in there, too, as if they been in the process of moving them to safer areas. But now they, the locals, and some of the urchin children who always seemed to be about, regardless of the hour, had all frozen. To stare past Mircea in shock.

He spun around to find that the great creature had stopped in the street, just outside the portico. He couldn’t see it very well, since an expanse of weathered gray hide blocked the entire space between two columns and extended up beyond the roofline. But he could see its breath, great bellows that misted on the cold night air in front of it, like a mythical dragon spewing smoke.

Mircea stared at the nearest one, as speechless as everyone else.

Everyone except for Jerome.

“
Elefante
,” Jerome said, with every appearance of delight.

“What the devil is that?” Paulo squawked. And then jerked Jerome back when he started forward, as if to touch it. “Are you
mad
?”

“No, I—it won’t hurt you. Well, probably not. I saw one in a menagerie once, when I was a boy.”

Mircea and Paulo just looked at him.

“You know,” he prompted. “Like Hannibal had?”

Mircea vaguely recalled some lessons from childhood, which he had always taken to be myths. Legends. The kind of stories invented to keep bored schoolchildren focused on learning dull history.

But apparently not.

He looked at the great creature again. And then he slowly edged to the side of the portico, ignoring Paulo’s frantic whisperings. And looked up.

And up.

And up.

At something with legs like tree trunks and ears like sails and a huge barrel of a body. Gigantic tusks, bigger than those of a great boar, big enough to savage a man with one swipe, gleamed in the torch light. Small eyes set in heavy folds of leathery skin had an alarming amount of intelligence in them, more than Mircea liked, frankly.

Especially when they suddenly fixed on him.

And then an elongated nose, bigger than a strong man’s arm swept down before he could move—

And began to delicately snuffle around his face.

Mircea froze, unsure what to do with no weapons and with children so close—too close. In the end, he just stood there, while that strange proboscis mushed him in the face and messed about in his hair and sniffed at his clothes. As if finding him as odd as he did it.

And then it was gone, the great body wading slowly into the sea of vampires, who moved along with it, so quickly and so much in unison that it looked like the whole street was moving.

And then it was. First the street urchins broke away from the Watch, to run after the fascinating creature, followed quickly by the regular people of Venice. There had been no announcement, and relatively little noise, all things considered. But word had traveled nonetheless, in that strange, uncanny way that it did in cities.

And suddenly, in the middle of the night, people were everywhere.

Some were still in their nightclothes, or wrapped in blankets, or putting on enough to be respectable as they emerged from houses on all sides. Others were leaning out of windows and edging onto rooftops, a few dropping to the ground and jostling to find room in what was, after all, a narrow street bordering a canal. Members of the Watch were quickly discovering that humans were not so easily controlled, after all, not when what must have seemed like magic was walking among them.

It felt a bit like that to Mircea, too, who couldn’t for the life of him imagine where the great beast had come from.

“Carthage?” Jerome said, when he voiced the question aloud.

“But how did it get
here?
Horses aren’t even allowed in the city!”

It was true, except for the occasional joust in San Marco Square. And for good reason. The streets of Venice, where they existed at all, were narrow and slippery and fronted canals. That’s why the gondolas were so prevalent—there was no simply no room to ride horses. Which would have likely ended up in the water along with their owners had anyone tried it.

“By boat?” Jerome guessed. “They float cows over for the abattoirs that way.”

“That,” Mircea said, flinging out an arm, “is not a cow!”

“Can’t ride a cow,” Jerome agreed, about the time Mircea noticed that the strange creature did, in fact, have a rider.

He hadn’t seen him before because of the roof of the portico, and because he was frankly not nearly as interesting as his conveyance. Or as his seat, for that matter, which was a covered, gilded creation perched on top of the creature’s back, like a cabin on a ship. It mostly obscured the man inside, except for a skinny, nut-brown arm that emereged at regular intervals, to throw something at the now cheering crowd.

Some of it landed at Mircea’s feet.

He picked it up.

Candy.

Well, that explained the children, he thought blankly.

“What is
that
?” Paulo demanded, snatching it away from him. And then staring at it blankly.

“Hey, nougat.” Jerome swiped a couple pieces from off the bricks before the local urchins could. “We could have saved money and just waited around.”

“What the—what the hell does he think he’s
doing
?” Paulo demanded.

“Tossing out candy,” Jerome said, before getting cuffed on the back of the head. His handsome eight-sided hat fell off. He picked it up, looked at it, and promptly began filling it with free candy.

“Who is he?” Mircea asked, trying to get a glimpse despite the cabin’s deep shadow. But the most he saw was a strange shaped head, a flash of sumptuous robes and the wink of countless jeweled rings. And then the great mount turned its rear to them, and he lost even that much of a view.

“The consul,” Paulo said darkly. “Who else?”

“
That’s
the consul?”

“Didn’t you see him at the house?”

“I . . . couldn’t fit on the roof,” Mircea said, as a new clatter sounded on the bridge.

It looked like the prohibition against four-legged conveyances was being truly shattered tonight. Because the sea of vampires parted as if Moses had arrived. And let through a group of riders on horseback that made Mircea’s skin prickle from their power, even this far away.

There were five of them, four men and a woman. The woman was on the only white horse, which was possibly why she drew his eyes the most, but he didn’t think so. There was something about her that the soldier in him automatically recognized—an air of command.

As strange as it seemed, it almost made him wonder if she was the one in charge.

They stopped halfway between the Rialto Bridge and the portico, and watched, utterly silent, and without even any gestures to make their attitudes plain. And yet Mircea could read the disapproval, the tension, coming off them in waves, as easily as if they had been carrying signs. And, apparently, so could Paulo.

“All right,” the blond said uneasily. “We need to be going.”

“Who are they?” Mircea asked, unable to take his eyes off the riders.

“Senators,” Paulo said, grabbing up his great cheese.

“Even the woman?” Mircea asked. Women did not rule in Wallachia.

Paulo rolled his eyes. “Especially the woman.”

“They don’t look too happy,” Jerome said.

“Would you be?” Paulo looked from his cheese to the already overstuffed cart, and then just hiked it onto his shoulder. “With the consul swanning around Venice like this? Probably thinks he’s back in old Egypt, receiving the worship of the masses!”

“He thinks—he is mad?” Mircea asked, looking after the rapidly disappearing spectacle.

“He’s something like three thousand years old!” Paulo said. “Of course he’s mad! Now help me find a path through this mess.”

Mircea didn’t move. “Did you say three
thousand
?”

“And then some,” Paulo said darkly. “I don’t know exactly, but they say he used to be worshipped as a god in old Egypt, before the legions arrived and civilized the place.”

“I heard he still lives in a temple out in the desert,” Jerome added. “Built like a fortress. The only time he comes out is for convocation every couple years, when his senators have to try to control him. Only it doesn’t look like that’s going so great this time.”

“And where did you hear that?” Paulo demanded, searching the crowd for an opening that did not materialize.

“From some of the servants, when he came by the house. Rumor is there’ll be a coup soon. And since he’s easier to get to at here than anywhere else—”

“Yes, and servant’s gossip is always to be believed!”

“If you don’t believe it, why are you trying so hard to get away?” Jerome asked.

“That’s why!” Paulo said, as a group of armed horsemen thundered over the bridge. Resplendent in gold armor and bright red capes, they looked like something out of old Rome. And acted like it, too, riding straight into the milling crowd. “Senate guards!”

Mircea didn’t have to ask if that was bad. The Watch, who had been trying and mostly failing to contain the crowd, suddenly looked up. And then scattered, forgetting their duties in favor of saving their asses.

“Go up!” Mircea said, as the panicked crowd suddenly stormed toward their position, jostling and fighting to get out of the way.

“The cart!” Paulo said, trying to grab it.

“Leave the cart!”

“Do you know how much it’s worth?” the blond asked him wildly, jerking it out of the way of trampling feet. And then flailing at the vamps who got too close and kicked his precious cargo.

But that wasn’t going to work for long. And Mircea was not going to die to save a bunch of groceries, however dear. Nor was he going to watch Paulo do so.

He grabbed him by the back of the doublet, looking for a way onto the roof of the colonnade. Which would have been easier if everyone else hadn’t already been heading that way. And then a path opened up as if by a miracle, and he dragged the irate vampire—and his cheese—through it and around the side of the building.

“Up!” he commanded, pushing him onto a ladder made from a windowsill, a few protruding lumps in the brick wall, and a mass of old vines. And then looked around for Jerome, who hopefully had sense enough to preserve himself instead of the family budget.

And he did. Mircea caught sight of him in the middle of a pack of street urchins, holding his hat high above his head like a flag. And heading this way.

“The roof!” Mircea yelled. “The roof!”

He wasn’t sure the smaller vampire had heard, because just then the senate guards came back, waving burning torches at the crowd, a tactic that worked to scatter vampires and humans alike. People screamed, fire flew, and hooves struck sparks off the brick streets. And Mircea grabbed Jerome and shoved him at the makeshift ladder, along with the nearest children, the rest of whom were already scrambling up like little monkeys.

They ended up sitting on the edge of the roof, watching the guards clear the street far more effectively than the Watch had done. Vampires and humans evaporated like mist, leaving the consul with his own guards and his
elefante
, but with no crowd to appreciate them anymore. Soon, the great beast and its occupant turned and left, lumbering back the way they had come, the night’s entertainment at an end.

Well, most of it.

“What—” Paulo stared at the growing mound of packages at his feet. They were being deposited by a line of grubby little children, who were waiting for their reward from Jerome—and his sugar-filled hat.

“You get a handful, and you get one, and—oh, you get two, thank you,” Jerome said, as one enterprising youngster deposited two large packages in front of him.

“How—” Paulo said, still gaping, when the last little tike had jumped down from the roof, taking off with his well-earned reward.

“Never underestimate the little guys,” Jerome said, as Paulo sorted through their packages. “The candy’s not there,” he added unnecessarily.

Paulo, for once, did not complain, too busy ticking things off in his little book. For his part, Mircea watched until the senators turned around and disappeared back over the bridge, following their leader into darkness. And leaving a swirl of power behind them that shivered over his skin, even this far away.