Tallow (23 page)

I sat very, very still. It was ironic, really. The very thing they'd feared for so long had finally made them secure. I wondered fleetingly what Katina would think if she found out that her plans for making me indispensible to Quinn, and thus guaranteeing my short-term safety, had rebounded.

I sat in silence and waited while Quinn went down to the shop, then I escaped via the rooftop. Cane watched me mournfully. I couldn't even reassure him. I was empty. Numb.

I walked along the fondamenta, blind to those who passed me. I left the canal and, following the calle, went to the campo. I sat by the well for a while, watching the local children play. Birds were swooping down on the rubbish piled up outside Signor Vincenzo's taverna. The day was slightly overcast, and rain threatened. The burning in my brain matched the fire in my body.

I drew some water to quench my thirst and decided to make my way to the piazzetta.

When I walked onto the salizzada, the main road that joined the Candlemakers and Chandlers Quartieri, it was mid-morning. My stomach was starting to grumble and the heat was becoming unbearable. I snatched some brief relief in the shade cast by the striped awnings but was moved along once the shopkeepers became aware I was not a serious customer.

Eventually, I reached the piazzetta. The clouds had parted, revealing the sun high in the sky. The heat rising from the cobbles had become unbearable. I perched myself on a crumbling wall at the base of a bridge and fanned myself with my floppy apprentice hat as I looked around. The piazzetta was surprisingly quiet, but I assumed the heat was keeping people away.

I found a copper in my pocket and purchased a freshly squeezed juice from a middle-aged woman with a cart who, sick of the humidity and lack of customers, was making her way home.

Sipping my juice, but unable to distract myself, I found my mind going over what Quinn said. She was right. I had to think about my future, and not only because Quinn and Pillar no longer needed me. Then, I recalled her harsh words from the meal. I knew they were no less than I deserved. Even though I'd intended well, it hadn't worked out that way. That must have been what Katina meant when she said that good intentions cannot be the only motive for action.

I sighed. How I wished she were here now. I knew she would scold me, but she would also understand why I did it. I'd only wanted to help. And I'd also managed to test the limits of my abilities, see what my candles could do. But Katina had been right. My intentions, as good as they'd been, went horribly wrong when translated into action. I was too inexperienced, too naïve.

Perhaps I would be better forgetting what I was altogether. Perhaps I should leave Pillar and Quinn now and try to embrace a new life – a normal one. But pushing my glasses up my nose, I realised that wasn't possible. My eyes and my still-ungoverned talent would never allow it.

I sat there, wallowing in self-pity. I was feeling guilty about what had happened – what I'd done. But I also felt foolish for even trying. I was a child dabbling in an adult world.

But what about Cane? A
small voice inside my head spoke.
You did well there; you saved his life.

I could have killed Dante,
I argued.
If I hadn't been so very careful, I might have.

But you didn't, did you? And anyway, didn't Katina say Estrattore can't kill?

'No,' I whispered to myself. 'She said they mustn't.'

'Senta, scusi,' said a voice nearby, interrupting my thoughts. 'Aren't you Pietro Pelleta's apprentice?'

I spun around.

Leaning over the side of the bridge, staring down on me, was a most unusual looking man.

'Scusi?' I took in his dark attire, his cropped moustache, his short stature. He looked somehow familiar, but I couldn't place him.

The man smiled oddly. I noticed he had teeth missing and that two of the top ones were gold. 'I said, aren't you Pelleta's apprentice?'

He had a thick accent and a peculiar way of pronouncing the letter 'r' that I couldn't identify.

'How did you know?'

'I saw you when I paid him a visit last week. One doesn't forget such fine glasses easily.'

'Oh,' was all I said. I wasn't used to being recognised, let alone approached so openly. Not when I was at such obvious pains to keep to myself, to make myself all but invisible.

Unaware of, or indifferent to, my reluctance to share his company, he moved nearer. 'Is it always so hot here?' he asked, removing his tricorn hat and waving it in front of his face. His hair was oiled and tied back in a long ponytail.

I shrugged. 'Usually. This time of year, anyhow.' I leapt down from the wall. I didn't want to talk to this man, but I didn't want to appear rude either. 'Scusi,' I began, 'I have to –'

'How long have you been Pelleta's apprentice?' asked the man before I could leave. 'Ahh ... forgive me. What's your name again? Your master did tell me, but I have forgotten.'

I frowned. Pillar rarely shared his own name with anyone, let alone admitted to mine. My spine began to tingle. I tried to change the subject. 'You have a strange way of speaking,' I said. 'Where are you from?'

'Ah, my accent always gives me away. I have lately arrived from the Kingdom of Vyzantia.' There was another flash of gold as he smiled. 'Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Barold Barbacan. I am a businessman looking to set up a candle shop here in your quartiere.'

I tried to recall something I had heard Quinn say last night. What was it again?

He waved his hand about. 'But so far, no-one has seen fit to accept any of my offers. They are ... how do you say? Wary of foreigners. A good thing, I expect, during a war. But in times of peace? I am very confused. I do not understand their reticence.'

As suspicious as I was of this man, I pitied him. I knew what it was like to be shunned, to be treated differently. I gave him a smile. 'Perhaps you just haven't spoken to the right person yet.'

'Perhaps,' he nodded. He placed his hat back on his head. As he did, the brim caused a shadow to fall across the lower half of his face. Something began to pluck at my memory. 'Well, young sir, I have told you all about me. How about you share something of yourself? Like your name?'

Though my inner voice tolled a warning, I ignored it. 'My name is Tallow.'

'Tallow?' said the man. I could feel his eyes studying me. 'Is this some kind of cruel joke? I understand that you Serenissians often name your children after some aspect of your trade, but why would you be named for something so ... so ...' He realised he'd gone too far. 'So unremarkable?'

I couldn't help it. I laughed. 'Some say my name suits me.' I thought of Quinn as I spoke.

Barold Barbacan tipped his head back and his grey eyes studied me. They were odd eyes. They didn't seem to go with the rest of him. Whereas his body spoke of indifference and indulgence, with its bow legs and wide girth, his eyes suggested fierce intelligence.

'I think you are misnamed,' he said finally. 'I can tell that a boy like you deserves something better to pin his identity on – his future, his history.' He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 'Tell me,' he said suddenly. 'Is it a family name? Or is naming children after fat and render the way of candlemakers in the Dorsoduro Sestiere?'

I could sense that something else lay behind the question. Once again, uneasiness made me restless. I glanced at him through my honey glasses. He was standing at an angle to me, one arm resting on the bridge, the other raised in the air, underlining his question.

It came to me in a flash. I knew where I'd seen him before.

He was the boatman who had followed me and Dante that night on the Circolo. He'd been wearing a mask, but I was sure of it.

My head began to ache as I tried to work out how to extricate myself from his company without drawing too much attention. I pretended to listen as he spoke of typical Vyzantian names, lest my knowledge of his identity become apparent and I put myself at more risk. What was this man doing here? Why had he followed us that night? And, if he really was a businessman from Vyzantia, how come he was so comfortable in a gondola?

Suddenly everything he said became infected.

Putting my hat back on, I gave him a quick bow. 'It is no joke,' I said. 'My f– family are proud of the name. As am I.' I almost choked on my lie. 'While it has been a pleasure talking to you, Sir, you have reminded me of my duties. They wait for me. Arrivederci,' I said before he could think of another reason to detain me. I started to move away.

'What a pity you have to go.' He sounded genuinely distraught. 'I've been looking for someone to show me around properly.' He gave a sigh and, reaching for the pouch that hung from his belt, pulled out a silver lire. 'I thought you might be interested. But if work calls ... never mind. Maybe I'll be able to find someone else to guide me. Off with you, busy little candlemaker.' He flicked the coin and caught it, stowing it back in the confines of his purse. 'No doubt our paths will cross again.'

I didn't respond except with a guarded smile. I darted past the man and over the bridge. I kept moving for the next ten minutes, in and out of calles and through sottoporteghi. Part of me knew what direction I was heading in, but I didn't consciously follow a route. I just knew I had to get away from this strange man.

When thirst finally overcame me, I stumbled into the nearest campo and went immediately to the well. I dipped the bucket and drank deeply before splashing my face and neck. Others came forward when they saw I'd bothered to get some water, and I happily shared, looking over my shoulder to see if I'd been followed.

As far as I could tell, I hadn't.

I was using the tail of my shirt to dry my face and thinking how much cooler I was when I heard another voice – one I'd longed to hear for weeks.

'What are you doing here?' it drawled.

I let the ends of my shirt drop.

Standing in front of me, his hands on his hips and a scowl on his face, was Dante.

He looked me up and down, his eyes hard, his mouth bitter. 'I thought I told you I never wanted to see you again.'

DANTE COULDN'T BELIEVE HIS EYES.
After all this time – all the daydreams, the nights he unthinkingly found himself making his way towards the Candlemakers Quartiere – there was the face that occupied his every thought. Tallow, with his large, haunting eyes veiled by glazed ochre, his small, straight nose and white teeth.

Anger and longing filled him in equal measure. How he'd yearned to see Tallow again, hear his melodic voice, watch the way his face mirrored and responded to everything around him. Never before had Dante's quartiere seemed so beautiful, wondrous or thrilling as it had when he'd seen it through Tallow's eyes. For days after their last trip, he'd caught himself starting to plan their next escapade, only to remember what had happened that night on the canal. The night he'd almost ... Then he would steel himself to forget.

But there was Tallow, drinking from the well in his campo. Dante had tried to suppress the shudder that ran through him. Seeing the boy again was more painful than he'd expected. He didn't know whether to hug him or hit him. He knew only that when he opened his mouth, he hadn't intended the first words he spoke to be so harsh.

'What are you doing here?'

When Tallow looked up at him, his mouth dropped open then curled into a joyous smile that lit up his entire face. Tallow's expression paralleled the joy Dante had deliberately denied himself. It hurt so much. Now he wanted Tallow to hurt, too. 'I thought I told you I never wanted to see you again.'

Tallow's face crumpled, and so did Dante's resolve.

'I don't mean that. I didn't, at least –' Dante said hastily, then paused. He stared at his feet, at Tallow's boots. They were so ridiculously tiny. The boy was vulnerable, so in need of protection. He slowly raised his eyes to meet Tallow's. Through the golden spectacles, he could see the beginnings of tears. Dante took a deep breath. He couldn't pretend any longer. What was the point? He cleared his throat. 'I ... I missed you.' There. He'd said it.

TALLOW GAVE A SHORT SOB.
'Really?' She sniffled loudly. 'And I missed you,' she whispered. Her arms rose and she took a step forward. Then, remembering where she was and who she was talking to, she dropped them by her sides. 'It's good to see you, Dante.' She gazed at him. 'How have you been?' Even as she asked the question, she knew. In a few short weeks the boy she'd explored the quartieri with had gone, replaced by a man. He'd lost weight and his cheeks had hollowed. The fine stubble that decorated his chin had thickened. His arms looked more sinewy, his chest firmer. But it was his eyes that revealed the most. They were sad beyond measure and Tallow knew she was not the only cause.

'What is it, Dante? What's wrong?'

Dante shook his head. He took a step backward. 'No, not here.' Tallow's face fell. 'Meet you at the canal in fifteen minutes, all right? I have to take water back for my aunt.'

Tallow nodded, uncertain. But she wouldn't doubt. 'Fifteen minutes,' she repeated.

She watched as Dante untied the communal bucket and exchanged it for the one he'd brought. Slowly, he lowered his bucket. It clanged against the sides a few times, the hollow thudding echoing around them like a grim knell. She left despite her fear of letting him out of her sight, looking back at least a dozen times.

Winding her way towards their usual spot along the canal, she was distracted. What had caused Dante to mature like that? She'd used all her restraint not to reach out and touch him. Extract his pain. But that would have been even more foolhardy than her last attempts to use her talents – and look what they'd led to. No, if Tallow wanted to get to the bottom of the changes she saw in Dante, she'd have to wait for him to tell her.

Sitting on the same set of water-stairs that she and Dante had used to escape Signor Barbacan, she waited, leaning back on her hands and watching the water lapping against the stone. The day had grown cooler and for that at least she was grateful. It was very quiet; most of the houses were still shuttered against the earlier heat and, apart from a couple of gondolas gliding past, Tallow could have been alone in the world. She shut her eyes and let out a deep breath, opening her senses to the stillness and quiet.

It was then she became aware that she was being watched.

A prickling at the base of her spine, a tingling along the back of her neck alerted her. Pretending to stretch, she rose to her feet, and slowly scanned the area, fully expecting to see the short, dark-clothed Vyzantian man emerge from some doorway. Instead, she saw nothing but the canal, now divested of its boatmen, and an empty fondamenta. Tallow turned a full circle but there was nothing, no-one. Still focused on locating Barbacan's whereabouts, she tucked in her shirt and unrolled the sleeves. From being mostly overcast and humid, the temperature had suddenly plummeted. It was becoming colder by the second.

The canal became choppy. Gentle waves grew white caps that broke against the walls and washed over the water-stairs. Tallow's anxiety rose like the water. What was going on?

Where was Dante? Surely the promised fifteen minutes had been and gone ...

The water began to break over the top stair. Tallow scrambled onto the fondamenta, backing away as the spray soaked her. She shivered. This was ridiculous!

All at once, a network of icy veins crackled over the buildings around her, as if a spider were spinning a vast silver web. They spread quickly, hungry fingers reaching, grasping.

Stunned, Tallow couldn't move. The air had grown so cold that her breath was a long white stream. Her ears began to ache and her jaw to chatter. The frost thickened, transforming the buildings into glacial monuments. Even the canal ceased to churn as a thin sheet of ice crept across its surface.

Then the whispering began.

It plucked at Tallow's nerves, making her spine thrum and setting her teeth on edge. Glancing over her shoulder, she searched the canal, but the sounds had no centre; they were everywhere and nowhere at once. She forced herself to move, walking along the edge of the fondamenta. With each step, the breathy murmurs became louder, clearer. Embedded within the breathy sounds were words; peculiar shapeless words that, though their meaning escaped her, filled her with dread.

Tallow knew she had to seek shelter. The calle that led back to the campo was only a few hundred yards away. She wrapped her arms tightly around her body and buried her head into her chest.

As she quickened her pace, she became aware of a faint movement in the corner of her eye – vague grey shapes that twisted and lunged. They darted through windows and doors, between fissures and openings. But any time she tried to focus on one, it dissolved.

Her heart quickened. She broke into a run on the icy stones. The grey shapes were following her.

She rounded the corner. The walls rose above her, casting the calle into gloom as the wraiths swooped and dived. The whispery chattering was louder now. Tallow covered her ears and ran, stooped so the shapes couldn't reach her. But they came lower, closer.

Ahead, the calle widened. The campo was in sight. She screwed up her eyes. She was having difficulty breathing. Only a few more yards ...

Something grabbed her wrist and jerked her backwards. She fell onto the cobbles, the force knocking the wind out of her chest.

Opening her eyes, a huge form loomed over her. She tried to scream, but no sound came. Instead, she was dragged through a doorway and into darkness.