Tallow (4 page)

'You really want to know what an Estrattore is?' he whispered hoarsely.

I nodded into his hands.

'It's not
who
they are; it's what they
do
that sets them apart.' He began to pull me even closer.

'Pillar? What are you –?' Before I could finish, he opened his eyes. He didn't flinch or turn away.

'Look at me,' he commanded raggedly. For the first time in my memory, I really looked. I met his eyes hungrily.

And like a flower to the sun, his soul opened to me. It was more than I could bear. I swayed and almost fell. But Pillar held my face tight in the palms of his hands.

Wave after wave of raw sensations engulfed me. I couldn't breathe. I hurt all over. I was drowning.

Like a dagger to my heart, the loss of his father, the melancholy vindictiveness of his mother, the hunger, the dread, the cold pierced me again and again. There was shame, followed by dejection as he became aware of his own inadequacy, as he struggled to learn the craft of his father from reticent, resentful strangers who had misguided and misinformed him. The pain of his early burns, the scorching of his initial pour and the joy of his first candle were as real to me as they had been to his younger self. Underneath all of this, buried deep in his conscience was his fledgling awareness that he would never amount to anything. It gathered momentum, rising like a huge black bird, its wings outstretched, its dark beak open ready to consume him.

I tried to wrench out of his grasp, but he wouldn't let me go.

I was swallowed by years of grinding work, of futile attempts to market his wares. Desperate trips to Jinoa. I was momentarily lost in the pain of his one and only love, ripped from him by another man. Then, beneath the endless layers of grief and self-doubt was something solid and new – a tiny bloom in a desert of pain.

It was me.

I couldn't bear it any more. I threw myself backwards on to my bed. Panting, I stared at him in horror, in shared sorrow. I was shaking uncontrollably. My chest ached with unshed tears.

But it was his face that shocked me the most. It was as if all the years of self-doubt, misery and labour had been plucked out of Pillar, transferred to my soul, and then with remorseless exaggeration passed back to him and inscribed upon his face. Lined beyond belief, his cheeks had hollowed, his eyes sunken. The Pillar I knew was no longer there. I was looking at an ancient, broken man.

I didn't know how or what I'd done, only that I'd remade him as he saw himself – in his own image.

He stared at me and I knew that he saw himself through my eyes.

'After that,' he panted, 'do you still have to ask?'

I shook my head. My body weighed by the burden of new knowledge. 'I'm an Estrattore.'
One who extracts.

He didn't reply. He just buried his face in his hands and wept.

PILLAR SLOWLY UNTIED HIS APRON.
The smell of render clung to his hands and clothes as he made his way to the small alcove where a jug of warm water and a crudely shaped soap awaited. He noticed that Tallow had placed a fresh towel there for him. He released a weary sigh and rolled up his sleeves to scrub his hands and arms.

And, as it often did of late, his mind drifted towards his young apprentice. Pillar knew it was pointless worrying. For the moment, he couldn't change anything. It was only a week since Tallow had emerged from the attic. It had taken four days for the bruises to fade to a pale yellow, the cut on his cheek and the split lip to mend enough to pass for rough play.

Pillar was grateful that no-one seemed to notice that Tallow never joined the gangs of youths who would occasionally spill onto the fondamenta, engrossed in their games – pretending to be soldiers, rolling hoops and chasing each other through the rami. Or, if they did, they never said so openly. Instead, they would mutter, laugh and empathise with Pillar about Tallow's diminutive size, his slender arms and legs, and the acute shyness that meant he always had a downturned face and buried chin. They would reassure him with tales of their own progeny's late development. Pillar always felt uneasy during these moments, and not just because Tallow never mixed with any of the quartiere's children. That was dangerous in ways that made comments about his size, scrapes and bruises insignificant. Worse still was the guilt that always attended these conversations, settling like a mantle upon his square shoulders.

Thank God Tallow healed quickly; he always had. So Pillar's remorse could fade into the background until the next time.

As usual, Quinn appeared to have forgotten or put aside her anger towards the boy; even so, she was adamant that Tallow was not to go near the workshop, let alone any wax. So, while she tended to their meagre business in the shop, she found chores for him to do – things that wouldn't be affected by what she referred to as
Tallow's curse.
She had him fetching water or changing the sawdust that coated the shop floor – anything that involved tools or an intermediary and prevented Tallow from coming into direct contact with an object. For it wasn't just the candles Tallow made that carried within them something of the boy, but over the last few weeks, almost all the other things he touched as well.

When Quinn couldn't think of anything else for him to do she let Tallow run some basic errands, such as fetching food and drink for the evening meal. Making sure he would never handle the produce, she gave him a large hemp bag and insisted that he make the shopkeepers place the items in there. Under strict instructions to talk to no-one and to keep his face hidden, Tallow would only be gone a half-hour or so at a time.

Pillar didn't like it. But he justified his inaction by telling himself that it was not good business to leave the shop unattended as they had done in the past. And there was no doubt Tallow looked better for having been outdoors. His eyes were brighter and his skin not quite so sallow. It saddened Pillar to see how thin he was. But what did he expect? A growing body needed more than bread, cheese and the occasional pigeon or bowl of watery soup to survive.

One part of Pillar knew it was doing the lad good to get out on his own; after all, it was unnatural for a boy that age to be deprived of company – any company. But another part of him was apprehensive. An overriding sense of unease clung to him that he couldn't shake. Scooping handfuls of water on to his face, he castigated himself for thinking that way instead of being grateful that Tallow was proving his use in other ways. Reaching for the towel, he dried himself, watching his mother busying herself at the table. Why, she was actually humming.

'Where's Tallow now?' asked Pillar, hanging the towel on a hook and picking up the basin of water.

His mother watched him cross the room. 'Running another errand for me.'

Pillar opened the window and, with the ease of years of practice, heaved the dirty water into the canal. 'But Mamma, we agreed. Once a day at the most. It's quiet in the afternoons, but now –' He put down the basin and pushed the first-floor window so far open that the rusty hinges groaned in protest. He looked up and down the fondamenta. There was no-one about. But further up, towards the cross street, there were people milling and calling. Pillar gazed at the lilac sky, noting with concern the low band of thick grey clouds gathering on the horizon. A spidery vein of white shot out of the cloudbank and struck the mountain tops. He reached for his hat and cloak.

'How long has he been gone?'

'A while.'

Pillar grimaced. 'Where did you send him?'

Quinn looked at him. 'Why are you asking me all these questions? Someone needs to maintain the workshop and I need to look after the customers. We can't let him make any more candles, so I put him to use. He's got to earn his keep somehow.' She eyed Pillar caustically. 'We had all of four people through the door today. They're complaining that our standards have dropped – that if they don't improve soon, they'll start buying elsewhere.'

'But what if someone sees him?' Pillar stopped, cursing himself for going so far.

'What?' sneered Quinn.
'You
want to go and do the shopping, do you? You're still not fit to be seen. Not after what he did to you.'

Self-consciously, Pillar ran a hand over his face. While he didn't look as bad as he had the night Tallow touched him in the attic, the night he felt his soul flayed open for the world to see, he still bore the physical scars of the encounter: the additional lines, the pinched cheeks and eyes.

Stubbornly, Pillar persisted. 'Where did you send him?' he repeated.

'Oh, where do you think?' Quinn snapped.

'I don't know, Mamma. Where?'

'To Vincenzo di Torello's.'

'You sent him to the
taverna?'
Pillar's heart seized.

'That's right, for some more vino.'

'Mamma! But there are so many people there. What if one of them notices?'

'Relax, Pillar. If Tallow understands anything, it's that he can't stand around idly chatting or put himself in a position where he's remarked upon. You've been to the taverna with him before. He knows what to do, what to say. Anyway, he'll be back in a moment. Sit down and enjoy an ombretta with me. There's still some left.' She picked up the flagon and tipped the dregs into her mug.

Pillar shook his head. Something was pricking at the edges of his conscience. 'I'm going to find him, bring him back,' he said between clenched teeth.

Quinn put her hands on her hips and shook her head. 'You won't always be able to protect him, you know. He's almost an adult – he's going to have to learn to look after himself, no matter what he is.'

Because of what he
is, thought Pillar, refusing to meet her eyes. 'I'm going,' he repeated.

'Don't forget my vino,' reminded his mother and began kneading some dough.

Pillar went down the stairs and back through the shop. He tried not to see the gaps on the shelves where he'd removed Tallow's candles.

Donning his cloak, Pillar stepped on to the fondamenta and closed the door. A sharp wind whipped his cloak and nearly blew his cap from his head. Glancing above the houses on the other side of the canal, Pillar observed the clouds were darker now and coming closer. A low rumble signalled a storm was not far behind.

Holding his cap and clutching his cloak, he set off towards the taverna.

He'd only gone a few steps when a small body came tearing around the corner and crashed into him.

'Tallow!' cried Pillar, recognising the hat and coat. He pulled him away and held him by the shoulders. 'What is it? Why are you running?'

'Pillar!' Tallow sounded relieved. 'There were soldiers.' He swallowed hard. 'They're after me. I've got to hide!'

'Soldiers?' Cold crept over his body. 'What are you talking –?'

'There's been a kidnapping – it's the Doge's grandson, the prince. But that's not all. There was a stranger at the taverna.' Beads of sweat trickled down Tallow's temple as he panted the rest of his tale. 'She kept staring at me and then she started asking questions about a missing girl. There was something about her, Pillar. I didn't stay. I ran. The soldiers ran after me. Perhaps they think I know something about the prince.'

Pillar's throat grew tight and a chill ran down his spine. What if the soldiers followed Tallow? Worse, what if they found him, found out what he was?
Discovered you've kept an Estrattore hidden for almost fifteen years.
And what about this woman? Coincidence, or more? Whichever it was, he'd just have to make sure that Tallow wasn't found. He began to hurry Tallow back towards the workshop.

'I'm so sorry, Pillar. I really am,' said Tallow, glancing over his shoulder, tripping over the cobblestones. 'You always tell me not to talk to anyone. And I didn't – honest! I just panicked. First the soldiers and then the woman ... I know I shouldn't have run, but I didn't know what else to do. Now they think I know something –' The words tumbled from Tallow's mouth.

'It's all right, Tallow.' Pillar's heart was in his throat. 'Come, we've got to hide you.'

Tallow rushed ahead, his hat askew, his coat falling from one shoulder. 'I led them all around the sestiere, Pillar. I knew not to come straight back here.'

Pillar nodded but he was barely listening as he tried to keep up with the boy. What was his mother going to say? Soldiers on the doorstep, the chance of discovery; then arrest, torture and most certainly death.

'Did you hear me, Pillar?' gasped Tallow. 'I said I made sure I didn't come straight home.'

'Good boy,' said Pillar. His mind raced. He wrenched open the door to the workshop. 'Quick, climb in the tallow vat and don't come out till I tell you it's safe. I'll go and make sure they don't find anything that will –' he glanced at Tallow's red face streaked with perspiration, his unholy silver eyes '– give you away.' He gulped. 'And I'll warn Mamma. Go on! Get inside.'

Tallow paused, hands clutching the door frame. 'I'm sorry, Pillar.'

Pillar didn't seem to hear. His eyes travelled down the fondamenta, his mind on more urgent matters. 'Quickly now, not a sound.' With a heavy heart he locked the external door of the workshop and all but ran back into the shop. Swiftly, he cast his eyes around. Thank God he'd destroyed all Tallow's candles. If there was just one piece of wax left ... He had to get to the attic and check Tallow's belongings – they all reeked of his presence. He had to hide what he could. After all, they might know he had an apprentice; hopefully, they'd never discover exactly what else his apprentice was.

Running up the stairs, he steeled himself for his mother's tirade. Only this time, he knew he had to let her speak, let her rant and accuse and threaten. He couldn't help Tallow this time. No words or platitudes would stop the soldiers or the possibility of detection.

This time, he feared, things had gone too far.

I CROUCHED IN THE STINKING
vat, my chin just resting on the surface of the tallow. The rest of my body was totally submerged. Even though I'd heard the story of how I'd been placed in an empty vat all those years ago to hide from the soldiers searching for a baby brought illegally into the city, and so earned my appellation, nothing prepared me for the sensation of being swallowed by my namesake.

I heard raised voices in the kitchen above and then silence. Poor Pillar. My heart quickened at the thought of what Quinn would do to me once the danger had passed. That is, if it did.

What would happen if the soldiers found me? While I had absolutely nothing to do with the disappearance of the Doge's grandson, Pillar and Quinn's other, barely articulated reservations about me began to play on my mind. They'd known all along that I was different, that I belonged in another place, another time. They'd worked hard to erase those differences, render them – and me – invisible. For the first time, I wondered why they kept me. Why would humble candlemakers risk their lives not just to shield me as best they could from others, but to raise me as if I were one of them?

No matter what their reasons were, I'd betrayed those efforts – not by design, but simply because of what I was. Before I could begin to formulate any notions, a dull pounding on the outside of the vat made me jump.

'Stupid boy!' It was Quinn. She hit the sides again. 'How could you do this to us? Your protectors, your saviours – and after everything we've done, all we've sacrificed. You'll pay, boy. Mark my words, you'll pay.' She slammed the wood again for good measure.

She stomped back into the shop, banging the door behind her. I heard her tramp up the stairs, each deliberate step a warning of what was to come. The argument between Pillar and her raged for a long while.

From the time I'd left the house that afternoon and stepped onto the street, I knew something wasn't right. It wasn't just that a storm was brewing in the west; it was something intangible – my scalp crawling across my head, a prickling at the tips of my fingers. It was as if I was being watched. This had happened to me throughout my life. For many years, I'd put it down to my imagination and Quinn and Pillar's constant warnings to stay out of sight. Lately, however, the sensation, subtle but dogged, accompanied me every time I ventured into the sestiere. Sometimes it even partnered my sleep.

I couldn't see a soul. All the doors were closed and the windows shuttered to keep out the cool autumn breezes. The few gondolas gliding along the canal had no passengers, only boatmen who were concentrating too hard on their cargo to notice me. I chided myself for my foolishness. Who would be watching me?

But try as I would to shake off my fancy, the sensation did not leave. In fact, as I turned away from the canal and towards the centre of the island, towards the quartiere's campo, the worse it became. I found myself looking over my shoulder, cautiously, as I had been taught.

There was nothing there.

And yet ... a flash of grey in the shadows, a fleeting movement out of the corner of my eye told me otherwise.

My mouth dried and my pace quickened.

There were people milling in the square. Vendors, hoping to sell the last of their fare before making their way home; aristocrats, promenading before taking their gondolas to dine with friends or attend a performance in the Opera Quartiere down in the Celestia Sestiere. Their talk was of the unusual cold and the approaching storm. Crossing the campo, I passed the Candlemakers Scuola, the place where one day I'd hoped to be formally admitted as a journeyman in the craft, before heading towards the taverna.

For a few days, without Pillar's knowledge, I had been making a second venture from the house and coming to the taverna on Quinn's behalf. It was our secret – the one thing that bonded us in the way that secrets, even those between sworn enemies, could.

The one small thing that made my present life tolerable was fetching Quinn's vino when her supply dried. It was a balancing act that I was learning to perfect. Sober, Quinn was increasingly nasty and looking to find fault. Inebriated, she was the same. But when she drank just a few vinos and moved into that threshold space between, she was almost pleasant.

Keeping my eyes lowered, I entered the taverna and made my way to the corner of the bar. It was full tonight and it wasn't until I reached the bar and glanced around that I saw why. I had walked into a viper's nest.

Dozens of soldiers were lounging on chairs or resting against stools. Most bore insignias that were unfamiliar to me, although I could see some were high-ranking officers from our sestiere, the Dorsoduro. The others I studied surreptitiously. Their uniforms were grand, bordering on decadent even: velvet frockcoats adorned by gold epaulettes, leather breeches, hose whiter than the snows that topped the Dolomites. Their conversation was loud, and it did not take me long to work out that these were men from the Doge's own troops; hundreds had been dispatched from both the palazzo and the garrisons of the Arsenale.

The Doge's grandson was missing – snatched, it was believed, from the nursery that morning. These men were all who remained of the officers sent to our island to search for clues. They were going over what they had achieved so far. Their men, it seemed, were busy combing the local campi, canals and piazzettas for information. They'd tried not to arouse the suspicions of locals, which explained why I'd neither seen a sign of their presence nor heard talk of what had happened before arriving. They did not want to alert the kidnappers that they were nearby.

I couldn't believe it. It was like something out of the stories I sometimes heard Pillar exchanging with the other candlemakers and the soap chandlers; or Quinn's gossip in the shop. It didn't seem real to me, these big men with their plush uniforms and refined manners. Their dark eyes missed nothing, not even me slouching in the corner.

And that was how Vincenzo di Torello, the proprietor of the taverna, found me – perched on a stool gawping at the officers from under my hat. I placed my order for Quinn's vino and turned my back on the room, sipping an ombretta from the small mug the Signor always put in front of me. I hoped he would be quick.

I listened to the conversation of the nearest officers.

'It couldn't be the Jinoans,' said a tall officer immediately to my right. I could just glimpse his long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and his thick eyebrows. 'They wouldn't have the balls, not after the defeat Doge Manin inflicted upon them.'

'Of course not. That was over forty years ago. We've been at peace since then,' exclaimed another officer.

'If you can call it that. All right, if not them, then who? The cowardly Kyprians?' asked a man sitting near the door. He had a deep drawling voice. I turned my head slightly and noticed that he had a thin moustache and even thinner hair. There was almost none left on top of his head.

'Did you hear what Nobile Abbazzio claimed?' chimed in another.

'Yes,' drawled the balding officer. 'That the kidnappers were not of this world.' There was laughter. 'And everyone knows Abbazzio's predilection for the bottle. I'd sooner believe a soothsayer.' More laughter.

'What about the rumour that the child has been taken into the Limen?' added a voice from across the room. It was Padre Foscari, the local priest. The laughter stopped.

'If that's the case, Padre,' said the officer with the thick eyebrows, 'then I doubt we'll see him again in this lifetime.'

'Not unless a Bond Rider comes to our aid,' said the balding officer.

'Unless it was a Bond Rider that took him?'

'For what purpose?' asked another officer. I couldn't help but notice him as he had rust-gold hair and blue eyes, unusual in Serenissima.

'Maybe not for his own,' said the first officer grimly.

'Then whose?'

'Maybe he's working for someone else?'

'Who?'

'An Estrattore, maybe?'

Hearing the word so casually deployed, my blood turned to ice before a rush of heat sped through my body, filling my cheeks with colour.

There were murmurs and some uneasy laughter. 'They're all gone,' said the balding officer. 'No-one's seen or heard of an Estrattore for over thirty years, not since the last one was unearthed and hung in the public piazza on Nobiles' Rise.'

'That's true. There's none left here in Serenissima any more,' said the first officer, taking a sip from his drink. 'But what about in the Limen?'

My heart was thudding painfully. I'd never heard anyone mention Bond Riders – let alone Estrattore – so openly. I longed to hear more. But the conversation shifted.

I did hear the word 'war' being bandied about. That was no surprise. Living in Serenissima, war was never far from anyone's mind. In my lifetime alone we'd clashed with the Kypians and Phalagonians. While our sestiere wasn't as affected as those closer to the seas beyond the lagoon, we still felt its impact. If there was a war, I wondered how Pillar and Quinn would hide me now I was of an age to fight.

But before I could focus on this thought, another conversation caught my attention. A woman's voice, clear but quiet, was asking questions of Signor Vincenzo.

Tall and lean, she wore what appeared to be a tight-fitting skirt and a fitted, functional shirt. It was hard to place her trade or her sestiere. I thought she might be an artist, or perhaps a mercenary. I had never seen anyone like her before. She leant casually against the bar, the tension in her body belying her apparent poise.

I tried not to be obvious in my scrutiny, risking tilting my hat so I could study her better. As if aware of my interest, she turned in my direction and her voice became audible to me as she spoke to the taverna proprietor. I quickly buried my chin in my chest but listened intently. Her questions made me want to draw closer. It took all my willpower to remain still.

'I have spent so many years searching; I am at my wit's end. Do you know of anyone, anyone at all who may know of whom I am speaking? For whom I am looking?'

Signor Vincenzo frowned. 'No, I don't think so ...' His voice petered out. Like most of the people in the quartiere, he was reluctant to talk about his neighbours with strangers, and this woman was clearly a stranger.

I couldn't help it. I slowly turned towards her. Almost immediately, I noticed something unexpected. It wasn't just her appearance; it was something intangible, outlandish even. I'd never come across it before. She was like an unfinished painting, or a candle without a wick. I don't know if anyone else was aware of it, but it was obvious to me. I found it hard to look away.

'I am here to reunite this child with its past,' she said.

Hope began to blossom in my chest. Could it be?

A finger trailed under her eyes, wiping away tears I did not see but heard in her voice. 'Can you help me? Anything you can tell me, anything at all, will be of value.' She leaned towards Signor Vincenzo. 'You do not know what I risk coming here.' Her eyes darted over her shoulder to the men lounging in the chairs.

I held my breath.

Signor Vincenzo started to bluster. He pulled a cloth out of his pocket and began to scrub the counter in small, busy circles. 'Ah, Signora, I am sorry to hear this. Today must be the day for lost children. First the Doge's little grandson and now this child you speak of. Perhaps where one is lost,' he indicated the soldiers, 'another can be found? Is it a boy you look for, or a girl? You have not made that clear.'

'No, I haven't. It's a girl,' said the woman slowly.

My heart contracted into a tight ball. I forgot to breathe.

'And how old did you say she is?'

'I didn't. But she would be fourteen, almost fifteen, by now.' She bowed her head and made a show of reminiscing. 'Such a long time to be apart from your family, don't you think?'

'Indeed,' said Vincenzo, pausing in his cleaning. 'A girl, you say? I'm sorry. I don't know any young women that age. Not now my own family has grown up.' He glanced around the taverna and, spying the person he was after, raised his voice. 'Enrico, do you know of any young girls around here?'

Enrico manoeuvred his way through the tables and deposited the soldiers' empty glasses on the bar. He was standing between me and the woman. My face grew hotter by the second. I quietly exhaled and tried to melt into the bar. The murmuring of the soldiers formed an uneasy descant to my thoughts.

'No, Zio. I don't mix with ragazze. I prefer women myself.' I could see his shoulders straighten as he thumped his chest.

Signor Vincenzo clicked his tongue in disgust. He rolled his eyes and spread his arms. 'I'm sorry I cannot be of more help, Signora, but it's hard when all I have working for me are relatives who are also oversexed buffoons.' He flicked a cloth at his nephew, who jumped out of reach with a chortle of glee.

The woman shrugged affably and turned to study the occupants of the taverna. I willed her not to look at me.

Signor Vincenzo returned to filling the vino bladder when a thought struck him. 'What am I thinking? Not all young men are like Enrico. Some know their place and understand that boys should not dabble in men's business.' He arched his eyebrow at Enrico who spluttered in disgust. 'Take young Tallow here. Unassuming, polite, could do with a good feed, hey? Some more meat and vino to deepen that voice, fill out that skinny chest?' He laughed and slapped his sides as if to take the sting out of his observations. I willed him to stop, to turn away. It did no good. Every word brought him closer.

'Do you know of any girls your age in the area? Anyone attract your attention, a fine lad like you? It's always the quiet ones who notice these things,' he said to no-one in particular. Only the bar divided us now. He waited for me to answer.

I could feel the woman's eyes lock onto me. Unable to help myself, I raised my chin and met her curious gaze. I looked at her with a thousand unanswered questions dancing in my eyes.

All at once, her face paled and she gasped. I didn't know what to do. My thoughts shattered into a million pieces; I struggled to find air. I spun away, knocking over my stool in the process. The rest of the room fell silent and I felt everyone staring at me. I, who tried so hard never to be seen, was suddenly the centre of attention.