States of Grace (29 page)
Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fantasy Fiction, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Historical Fiction, #Vampires, #Saint-Germain, #Inquisition, #Women Musicians - Crimes Against
“Whatever suits you best,” said di Santo-Germano as he climbed the stairs and went toward his study. On this floor there had been very little taken, and di Santo-Germano touched the familiar objects as if to make certain that they were still in place. Going through the study door, he found Ruggier with three sheets of paper spread before him, most covered with notes in his archaic hand. “Have you determined yet how much is gone?”
Ruggier showed no surprise at di Santo-Germano’s question. “For the main floor, yes; the inventory is still being conducted on this floor, and the one above. It isn’t as bad as we feared at first; the furniture that has been sold is mostly the kind found in all households: the dining tables and chairs, the clothes-press, the two Turkish couches, the crockery and goblets and the chest to hold them, the two upholstered benches, the work-desk, most of the bed linens, the painted basins, the silk draperies from the—”
“In other words, at Emerenzio’s instigation, the whole of the house has been turned into a source of money for him.” Di Santo-Germano stared down at the floor, a suggestion of a frown between his brows. “I have lost more goods than I can think of, over the centuries, some of them valuable beyond measure, but that was through exigencies of circumstances, and although the losses were sad or bitter, they were not inherently repugnant. This willful confiscation—and for so demeaning a purpose—is different, and it offends me to the soul.”
“This is not the same,” Ruggier agreed.
“No, it is not,” said di Santo-Germano, ending the matter. “When the inventory is—”
“I will put it into your hands,” said Ruggier.
“I am maladroit, old friend,” said di Santo-Germano with a quick, rueful smile. “I have no reason to urge you on, for you are already doing all that you may, and I appreciate all your efforts.” He sighed. “At least I still have the athanor and the rest of my laboratory equipment. I shall have to make another four packets of gold to compensate for Emerenzio’s depredations.”
“You will work tonight?” Ruggier asked.
“In the late watches, I will, and the next few nights as well. After I have made another sally through the city.” Di Santo-Germano began to pace. “Padre Bonnome tells me, as of this morning, that Pier-Ariana may not be still in Venezia, but he has not found out where she is living. He may be wily and political, but he is glad to have my annual donation once again, and he will help me if he can get more: the roof of San Luca is in need of repair.”
Ruggier waited patiently. “Is there anything you would like me to do for now? Is there someone you would like me to enlist in the search?”
Di Santo-Germano shook his head. “If she had shared her blood with me another two times it would be much easier to find her: the Blood Bond would guide me. As it is, I have only a vague sense of her presence.” He stopped. “I will have to go about the city, looking for her, and I may not discover anything useful. It is exasperating. She is in need because of me, and I am having difficulty providing her remedy.”
“Milano may help, if you enlist him,” said Ruggier. “He has been constant in your absence.”
“Because his salary was paid through Merveiglio Trevisan, with a report to Emerenzio; he would have had to find other patronage had Emerenzio had control of Milano’s salary.” Again di Santo-Germano took a turn about the room, asking the air, “What does he
do
with the money he has stolen?”
do
with the money he has stolen?”
“The rumor is he gambles,” said Ruggier, remaining unflustered.
“Yes; yes.” He touched his hands together. “But if that is the case, he has gambled away enough to build and outfit fifty ships. Such losses must occasion some notice, and in a man such as Emerenzio, who is not known to be wealthy, such profligacy should be all the more distinguished since it is so disproportionate to his means.”
“Gamblers may lose and then win,” said Ruggier.
“Apparently not Emerenzio,” was di Santo-Germano’s wry rejoinder. “He seems predisposed to lose.”
“And that is lamentable: what is reprehensible is that he loses money not his own,” said Ruggier.
“Certainly an unfortunate habit,” said di Santo-Germano. “But I will shore up my accounts over the next few days; I will have gold in plenty in three days—well beyond what is required to rectify the defaults Emerenzio has occasioned. Once I have brought my various taxes up-to-date I will be allowed to file a complaint about Emerenzio’s conduct. I am only sorry that I cannot demand restitution personally and directly, rather than through the Maggior Consiglio.”
“Can’t you challenge Emerenzio face-to-face to produce his accounts?” Ruggier asked.
“If I were a Venezian, I could. But I am a foreigner, and I must have the permission of the Maggior Consiglio before I take action against a Venezian, no matter how blatant the Venezian’s trespass might be.” Di Santo-Germano shook his head twice.
“Sic semper Venezia,” said Ruggier, coming as close to humor as he ever did.
“Sic; truly,” said di Santo-Germano, and went to open one of the shutters, only to notice that the glass in the narrow side-windows had been shattered. He touched the remaining shards warily. “Now, who …”
“There are nine broken windows on the ground floor,” said Ruggier, a suggestion of perplexity in his remark. “None of the shutters are damaged, so the windows must have been broken to some purpose during the day, or from the inside; at least one shutter would show breakage were that not the case.”
“True enough,” said di Santo-Germano. “Has Raffaele anything to say about the windows?”
“Only that he has no notion who did it, or why,” said Ruggier in a tone that suggested he was not completely persuaded.
“So,” said di Santo-Germano, to indicate he agreed with Ruggier. “And the under-cook? What has he to say?”
“Vulpio has told me nothing, but I think he is afraid of Raffaele,” said Ruggier. “It may be that to get a candid answer from Vulpio you will have to dismiss Raffaele, or engage a steward to supervise them both.”
“No doubt you are right, and I shall seek your advice—but after I have made another attempt to find Pier-Ariana and have made up more gold. I have two small caches of gold I can use for now—until I have made enough to fill my coffers. For now, there are more immediate requirements being visited upon me, and on the gold Emerenzio knows nothing about.” Di Santo-Germano patted the black-leather wallet hanging from his narrow, embossed belt of silver links.
“Shall I tell Padre Bonnome that you will donate the money to repair the church roof?”
Di Santo-Germano answered readily. “Why not? It will help to restore my reputation, as well.”
“He will be thankful for your gift, I am sure,” said Ruggier, his demeanor contained to the point of inscrutability.
“I will take what comfort I can in that knowledge,” said di Santo-Germano, an ironic light in his dark eyes. “Money and faith, money and faith—what wonders they promise and what havoc they wreak.”
“They do,” said Ruggier in superb neutrality.
With a single, sad laugh, di Santo-Germano opened a concealed drawer in the side-panel of the writing-desk and removed a black-leather pouch roughly the size of his hand; the pouch was secured with broad bands of thick Turkish silk, and it clinked as di Santo-Germano tied it to his belt next to the wallet. “But money has its uses:
for now I am going out to see if it can lead me to Pier-Ariana.”
for now I am going out to see if it can lead me to Pier-Ariana.”
Text of a letter from Onfroi van Amsteljaxter in Nuremberg to his sister, Erneste van Amsteljaxter in Amsterdam, written in German, carried by regular postal courier, and delivered nineteen days after it was written.
To my most dear sister, presently in Amsterdam at the house of Grav Saint-Germain, my greetings on this, the 10
th
day of August, 1531, from Nuremberg, where I have come with my good friend, Constans Dykenweld, to investigate the current ructions in this old city. Your reply will find us at the Red Cock near the Cistercian church.
th
day of August, 1531, from Nuremberg, where I have come with my good friend, Constans Dykenweld, to investigate the current ructions in this old city. Your reply will find us at the Red Cock near the Cistercian church.
I have in hand the pouch you sent me, and the nine ducats it contains will do much to make my stay here more tolerable than it has been. You answered me most promptly, and in such a generous way that I am more deeply obliged to you than ever. How fortunate that you have an open-handed patron to support you, one who does not mind that you have occasionally to assist your younger brother in his moments of travail.
This place has been in such turmoil as you cannot imagine. Only a few days since we witnessed a flogging of obdurate Catholics by agents of the Protestants in the city, followed two days later by a burning of witches, watched over by monks and priests. The Protestants did not challenge the right of the Catholic clergy to do this, but instead tacitly admitted that in such matters, the Roman Church is more expert than they. It was a shocking thing to see the women, only in plain shifts, being devoured by the fire, their bodies jigging like monkeys as they blackened. One man, who had repented of his witchcraft, was hanged while the women who had served him burned. Surely if the Devil is truly abroad in the land, he is rejoicing in all this cruelty.
I have had no word yet from your publisher, this Grav Saint-Germain you have spoken of so enthusiastically, and you have made it clear that you will not speak up on my behalf to him, regarding the publication of my work. How am I to make my way in the world if you will not extend this very minor support while I seek the same degree of success you have attained for myself? You must understand that, without the endorsement of my former employer, I cannot hope to be engaged as a tutor unless I have some other accomplishment to mitigate my lack of recommendation. Why will you not do your utmost to secure me such an advantage? You cannot want to continue to advance me monies against my eventual engagement, can you? Then why not speak to your Grav and request his consideration of my work?
But I will not hector you, Erneste. You have had much to deal with in the last few months, and although we must always disagree, you and I, as to the wisdom of your actions, we must also respect that both of us have to honor our own consciences, which we have done. If you will take in abandoned wives and hapless widows, that must be between you and the Grav, in whose house you live. If he has no grounds for complaint, then how can I have any?
I will remain here for another three months, unless the policies of the town become so stringent that all foreigners are excluded, in which case I will return to Heidelberg, and to my tutoring and letterwriting; I would not like to have to eke out a living in that manner one instant longer than I must, so if you are aware of any opportunities of which I might avail myself, I beseech you to inform me of them at once. I can only hope that some worthy occupation within my scope will present itself, for I will then be able to present myself to the world in a manner appropriate to my station and education. Unlike you, I cannot forget that our mother was the youngest daughter of a landed official of the Emperor, who had the misfortune to fall in love with her brothers’ tutor. If our grandfather had lived, I know you and I would not be in our present predicament, but if you will not approach our aunts and uncles, then I will follow your lead, and remain aloof from them, as well. You will have to forgive me if I urge you to reconsider your position from time to time.
At least you are able to maintain yourself fairly well, which is to your credit. I do agree that having other women in your household would make it inappropriate for me to reside with you, for their sake, if not for mine. It would be harmful to me to have it seem I have ambitions that could include being a whoremaster, for no matter how chaste your companions may be, an unmarried man among them makes it impossible to escape calumny, which could stain my character beyond remedy.
I am off now to see a trial of a coachman on a charge of kidnapping. This case is exciting much attention, for the missing man is a follower of Hus, and therefore at odds with both Catholics and most Protestants in Nuremberg, whose disappearance is fortuitous. The rumor is that his kidnapping was arranged by one of the rival clerics, and that the coachman is meant to be a scapegoat for these men, no matter who they may be.
With highest regard and many thanks,
Your devoted brother,
Onfroi van Amsteljaxter
“Merveiglio Trevisan was here this morning, with di Santo-Germano, asking how our inquiry into Gennaro Emerenzio’s affairs is progressing,” said Christofo Sen to his nephew as he closed his office door. He had loosened his stiff collar-ruff, for although the day was blustery, it was hot, and the wind carried the odor of charring on it from fires in the woods between Padova and Stra. “When a Conte—even one from who-knows-where-comes to me in the company of a man of Trevisan’s position, what can I do but give them the whole of my attention, and the benefit of what I know?”
“And you told them—?” Leoncio asked. He did his best to look at ease, but he was shamming; he felt as if his careful planning had failed and that he was facing the kind of exposure that could only bring disgrace upon him—something he knew his uncle would not tolerate.
“I told them that I was awaiting a report: which I am.” He glared at the handsome young man. “What am I going to tell them, Nipote?”
“You are going to tell them the truth, Zio: that I am doing my utmost to find the missing man. It is no easy thing to find someone who is determined to remain hidden.” This was a half-truth, for he had found Gennaro Emerenzio three nights since, and had warned him to go to ground, at least until the furor was over, and the pressure was off both of them.
“Are you?” Christofo asked.
“Am I what?” Leoncio countered, buying a little time to better frame his explanation.
“Are you doing your utmost?” Christofo demanded. “Or are you continuing to visit gaming establishments and spend hours trying to locate that woman you want to make your mistress?”
“I am doing what you have asked me to do,” Leoncio responded, stung at such a scathing suggestion.
“You are putting my requests ahead of your pleasures?” Christofo asked as if to drive his point home.
“Of course I am,” said Leoncio, standing a little straighter and schooling his features to a demeanor of rectitude.
“Then you must have an idea of how much longer you will require to bring this man to court. You must have eliminated many bolt-holes from your roster—haven’t you?” Impatience made him brusque. “Venezia is not so vast that you need weeks and weeks to search its dens of vice.”
“The dens are many and hidden, Zio,” said Leoncio in as self-effacing a manner as he could summon up. “I have ruled out several possibilities, but too many questions yet remain for me to tell you where this man is to be found. I don’t want to give you inadequate information.”
Christofo leveled a long, knobby forefinger at Leoncio. “But I am depending upon you to bring Emerenzio to justice, and not in the distant future, but within the month—another twelve days, at most. You know him—you know his habits: you will find him, and you will do it before the week is out, or you will seek other protection than mine.” He paused to take a steadying breath. “Do you understand me, Nipote?”
Leoncio hated to be called
nephew
in that demeaning tone, but he stopped himself from making a sharp reply: this was not the time. “Yes, and I will do my—”
nephew
in that demeaning tone, but he stopped himself from making a sharp reply: this was not the time. “Yes, and I will do my—”
“Do not say
utmost
again, Leoncio, unless that is what you actually intend to do,” his uncle warned.
utmost
again, Leoncio, unless that is what you actually intend to do,” his uncle warned.
“I will make my best effort, Zio mio,” Leoncio amended hastily, thinking that Emerenzio should have paid him more to remain silent. “But I don’t—”
“You had best do so, for he has a great deal to answer for,” said Christofo. “The longer he eludes the courts, the—”
“How do you mean, a great deal?” Leoncio asked, forcing himself to behave more self-assuredly than he actually felt.
“There is, to begin with, a misappropriation of private property, but that is not the worst of it: it appears that this Emerenzio has embezzled more than four thousand ducats from di Santo-Germano alone.” Christofo saw the astonishment in Leoncio’s eyes. “Yes. More than four thousand ducats. So you see, this is not some petty crime, but a great deal of money, to say nothing of the household goods he seized and sold.” He sat down. “I had not realized that di Santo-Germano had such a great fortune at his command, but clearly, he did, and Emerenzio must answer for its reduction.”
“More than four thousand,” Leoncio repeated, agog at the staggering sum. “How much more?” The twenty ducats he had been given three days earlier to delay reporting on Emerenzio’s whereabouts, which then seemed more than sufficient to secure his silence, now felt insulting.
“That hasn’t been determined yet; perhaps a great deal more,” said Christofo, his blue eyes crackling the brilliant light of the edge of night lightning. “But whatever the amount, the Savii and the Minor Consiglio will want to have a comprehensive auditing of all the accounts di Santo-Germano has in Venezia, so that some measure of restitution may be made—assuming such is possible—once we have Emerenzio in custody. Di Santo-Germano has already pledged to bring us his own accounts of his businesses here. From what I have seen thus far, the foreigner has not lost all his money, as Emerenzio has claimed—far from it: the man is so wealthy, you might think he coined gold himself.” Christofo gave a dry little laugh at his own witticism.
“I should say so, if he had so much gold to be stolen,” Leoncio seconded his uncle. “More than four thousand ducats! Who would have thought there was so large a reserve to be pilfered, and from an exile?’
“Emerenzio, for one,” said his uncle, and turned his eyes toward the door as a servant tapped upon it. “What is it?”
“There is an emissary from Cyprus here to meet with you, Signor’,” said the servant through the door. “He says you are expecting him.”
“That I am. Have him wait in the reception hall with the ivory chairs,” said Christofo. “I will be finished here shortly.” He looked toward his nephew expectantly.
“Is there anything more you want of me?” Leoncio asked, knowing what was expected of him.
“Only to find out what is your next move, Leoncio?”
“I must unearth more informants, and use their—He stopped.”Is there nothing from the Lion’s Mouths? Surely there must be someone other than di Santo-Germano with a complaint against this man who would entrust it to the Lion?
“Nothing that I am aware of,” said Christofo.
“But there may be,” said Leoncio. “Have your clerks look.”
“We cannot accept anything unsigned,” Christofo reminded his nephew.
“Then you have seen something, something unsigned. Perhaps neither Consiglio can use it, nor the Savii, but I might be able to put it to good use,” Leoncio exclaimed. “Won’t you tell me what it says?”
“I regret I cannot,” said Christofo in the tone of a man used to refusing.
“Emerenzio must have a great deal to answer for,” said Leoncio darkly, thinking of the various casette where Emerenzio gambled frequently, and the places he might have taken refuge in the two days since they spoke. “I will go out this afternoon and continue my search.”
“Very good,” Christofo approved, but without much conviction. “See you are not distracted along the way.”
Leoncio ducked his head. “Not I, Zio Christofo. I know where my loyalty lies.”
“I should hope so—and that should not be at a gaming table or in the bed of a courtesan,” said Christofo, unpersuaded by Leoncio’s protestations. “When shall I expect to see you again?”
“Later tonight or, if I find reliable information, tomorrow. If I make a discovery, I will send you word of it at once,” he promised, adding to himself that he would get more than a paltry twenty ducats out of Emerenzio to remain silent this time: Emerenzio had misappropriated a fortune, and Leoncio would get his share or he would reveal all he learned about Emerenzio to his uncle and the Savii whom he served—they would reward him for his diligence if Emerenzio would not.
“I shall await your news eagerly,” said Christofo, his anticipation as much a warning as an expectancy.
“Si, Zio mio,” said Leoncio.
Christofo touched the wen on his cheek—a sure sign that he was considering more than he intended to reveal—and said nonchalantly, “Have you been to the gambling establishments near San Alvise il Vecchio, or Santi Apostoli recently?”
“Is that what the Lion’s Mouth—” He hated the thought of an informer knowing about the game he was playing, so he shook his head vigorously. “No. You must not tell me. Whatever you have seen was unsigned and cannot be examined or substantiated. I do understand that. But I am curious why you ask about San Alvise il Vecchio and Santi Apostoli.”
“It is simply a question,” said Christofo in a tone that did not encourage more inquiry. “The Cypriot emissary is waiting for me. I must leave you, Nipote, to your work.”
Leoncio nodded several times. “Yes. Just so, Zio. I thank you for giving me the benefit of your advice.”
“Then go and make use of it,” Christofo said as he moved to leave the room. “I cannot extend my patience indefinitely. The Doge himself knows of our present investigation, and I will have to tell him something to the point by noon tomorrow.”
“I understand,” said Leoncio, and held the door for his uncle.
“Do not disappoint me again, Nipote.” With that, Christofo Sen left Leoncio standing in the corridor and hurried along to the reception room with ivory chairs.
Leoncio watched him go, and allowed himself the luxury of swearing under his breath. This was becoming more difficult by the hour, and all he had hoped to gain from the protection he had extended to Emerenzio he now saw as paltry amounts for a much greater risk than he had realized he was taking. He lowered his chin onto the umberdamask silk of his doublet, unaware that he had left a smudge of sweat on the glossy fabric. Moving at a steady pace, he left the Palazzo dei Dogei and stepped out into the Piazza San Marco. The hot wind raked the open square, and a number of passersby grasped at their clothing as the frisky air snatched at them. Muttering at the sky, Leoncio hurried along past the Bacino di San Marco to the footbridge that led to Santa Maria del Giglio. As he reached the handsome church, he ducked inside and, after his eyes had adjusted to the dim interior, found himself an empty seat in a rear pew where he could sit and think in relative tranquility. He made an effort to keep his eyes open, so he would not be accused of sleeping in church.
“Are you waiting for the confessional, my son?” asked a priest when Leoncio had been pondering his next move for almost an hour.
Startled, Leoncio looked up. “No, Padre. Not just yet. I am trying to sort out a difficult question, and I hoped your splendid church would help me to—”
“Oh, yes,” said the priest, whose face had the weathered texture of a man who had spent many long years at sea. “Contemplate your problems in God’s Hands.” He sketched a blessing in Leoncio’s direction and went off toward the row of private chapels along the side of the nave.
Left to himself, Leoncio found his thoughts supremely blank. No efforts on his part could summon forth a scheme that would benefit him without exposing him to hazards he was unwilling to accept. When the chimes sounded for midday, Leoncio shook himself inwardly and rose, planning to make for the door and the increasing bustle outside. Slowly he made his way to the door and glanced out at the wind-battered throng as if hoping to find some indication of what he should do in the behavior of strangers. “Veneziani,” he grumbled as he joined the multitude hurrying to prandium, and then the midday rest.
At San Samuele, Leoncio decided to speed his activities and walked down to the Gran’ Canale to signal for a gondola; being well-dressed and having the Sen arms on his dogaline, he was sure he could command one of the sleek Venezian boats without long delay or excessive haggling. When a gondola finally came up to him, having discharged two prosperous merchants across the Gran’ Canale at San Barnaba, Leoncio held up a silver Foscar and said, “Santi Apostoli, and two more of the same if you get me there promptly.”
The gondolier bowed Leoncio aboard, taking the one Foscar from him, and saying, as he held the boat steady while Leoncio made himself comfortable under the amid-ship awning, “There is a crush of barges and gondole around the Ponte Rialto. If you want speed, I shall have to go around it, past Campo San Angelo, then along to the Merceria, and on from there.”
Leoncio sighed. “Do as you must, so long as you move with dispatch.”
With a bow that also worked his oar, the gondolier moved off toward his indirect approach to Santi Apostoli, along the busy, narrow waterways to the oddly shaped Campo Santi Apostoli, where he brought the gondola up to the landing and held it steady, allowing Leoncio to disembark. “I have done my part.” He doffed his soft cap and held it out for his tip. “No one could get you here any faster at this hour.”
At another time, Leoncio would have found a way to keep his coins, but now he cocked his head and handed over the whole amount. “You did well, gondolier, and you have earned this,” he said in a rare demonstration of good-will; the last thing he wanted was an argument to draw attention to his presence in this place. “May the Adriatic bring you good fortune.”
“And to you,” said the gondolier, and shoved away from the landing, bound for the Gran’ Canale; his voice floated back on the hot, hard air, calling to the Star of the Sea to look upon him with favor.
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