The Chamber of Ten (24 page)

“You’re arrogant as hell, but that doesn’t make you right,” she said. “You talk about the ambitions of these three Doges—and I don’t understand how they’re still alive—in such generalities. They’re ruthless, but you’ve admitted you’re just as ruthless. Even if you are this Oracle, I don’t see how that makes you the good guy in all of this.”

Volpe smiled, one corner of Nico’s mouth lifting in something on the verge of a sneer. His eyes darkened with grim memory.

“I understand, Geena,” the old magician said. He pushed his coffee cup aside and leaned closer to her, lowering his voice. “You want me to tell you that the Doges were evil, so you can feel better about helping me kill Caravello. So you can
trust
me. Well, let me assure you that you
cannot
trust me. If I must choose between your life and the preservation of my city, I will choose Venice. I must choose Venice. But evil? I can tell you about evil.

“In a time before the history of Venice had begun to
be written, most of the tribes of the Earth had those amongst them who were different. Magicians, shaman, even gods—call them what you want. They were like us, but they weren’t completely human. Some of the texts I’ve read claim that they were the offspring of demons who’d mated with humans, others the half-breed children of angels. I don’t know the answer, only that these were the true magicians, who did not simply tap into the arcane energies of the world the way that I do, but who had that power innately within themselves.

“The Old Magicians were neither good nor evil, or they were not meant to be. They had wisdom and power and often kept themselves at a certain distance from the tribes with whom they lived, and from one another. Rarely would there be two of them together. Perhaps they were more like shepherds than anything else.

“They were immortal, inasmuch as their lives were longer than an ordinary man could imagine, and they could heal themselves of all but the most grievous wounds. They could die. In time, they all did. But to those around them they surely seemed immortal.”

The waitress came and refilled Geena’s cup and Volpe paused, staring at the woman, letting her see his irritation at the interruption. She didn’t offer him a refill before she darted away, shooting them both a withering glance.

Despite the warmth lingering from the long summer day, Geena felt a chill deep enough that she warmed her hands on the cup.

“Even if I accepted this …” She almost called it a fairy tale, but stopped herself. There were enough ancient texts that referred, even if only tangentially, to magicians and gods, healers and shaman—and oracles, for
that matter—that she could not brush it off so easily. Not after what she had experienced today. And she could not forget the visions she had shared, the parts of the past she had experienced through Nico’s connection to Volpe.

“What do these Old Magicians have to do with the Doges?” she asked. “Are you saying that’s why they’re still alive? They’re part of this ancient race?”

Volpe sneered, and this time there was no trace of a smile in it. “It would be their fondest wish, but no. Not all of the Old Magicians remained so aloof and objective. There are many stories of them becoming corrupted, and among those, one of the ugliest tales is that of Akylis.”

She nodded. “I’ve heard that name. Through Nico. I asked one of my colleagues about it and he mentioned Aquileia.”

“Founded by Akylis,” Volpe confirmed. “Or, at least, by his followers. Those who survived their worship of him. He began to see ordinary people as pets and playthings and he made himself a god amongst them.”

He waved a hand in the air as though to brush his words away. “None of this matters. It is only history, and we must concern ourselves with the present. Akylis has been dead for millennia. The surviving Doges must be our concern.”

Geena stared at him. “You’re confusing the hell out of me.”

Volpe leaned forward, locking eyes with her. For a moment she thought she could see Nico surfacing, but then his eyes narrowed and the old magician frowned, perhaps gathering his thoughts.

“Every city has a soul, a collective spirit of hopes and
desires and needs that, in time, takes on a certain awareness. The Oracle is chosen by the city itself, and the bond between them is intimate and complete. You have been working to preserve the history of Venice, but I have it all inside of me, all its memories, from the magical to the mundane. The moment I became the Oracle of Venice, my mind was flooded with all that knowledge, but one thing stood out amongst the others. Before the city was truly born, when the only people here were fishermen who lived in crude huts in the marsh, a rare gathering of Old Magicians took place. It was a funeral, of sorts. They dug deep into what is now San Marco, more than one hundred feet down, casting spells to accomplish what men could not, holding back the water. At the bottom of this well, they built a dolmen—a tomb of standing stones—and there they lay to rest the remains of Akylis. He had become so corrupt, so evil, that these nearly immortal beings—usually above ordinary emotion—felt ashamed.

“They buried him there, and in time Venice rose above him. Akylis is dead. There is no awareness remaining in him. But his evil survives beneath the city, captured like the rancid gases inside a bloated, decaying corpse. Over the ages, many of those who have dabbled in magic in this city have touched this evil and been tainted by it, and throughout all of those many centuries it has been the duty of the Oracle to protect the city from those dark magicians. Only the Oracle can brush up against the evil trapped in the Well of Akylis without being tainted.”

Geena sipped at her coffee, but did not take her eyes off Volpe. As he spoke, his voice almost mesmerizing, she had begun to really see him in that face, though the features were Nico’s.

“That’s what happened to the Doges,” she said. “They delved into magic—”

“Their hearts were already dark with greed,” Volpe said. “But, yes, they were tainted. It began with Caravello. Even before he became Doge he had already set his schemes in motion, sending cousins and uncles out of Venice, to the other great cities of the Mediterranean, with instructions to wheedle themselves into positions of influence. The family did the same, of course, in Venice. There were murders and blood sacrifices. But I heard every whisper of their conspiracy. Caravello wanted more than to be Doge of Venice. He wanted his family to take all of Europe, and perhaps beyond, one enchantment, one ritual, one murder at a time. And if that kind of black magic took the blood sacrifice of every man, woman, and child in Venice, he minded not at all, so long as his family continued its reign.”

“Fuck’s sake, why didn’t you just kill him?” Geena asked, then blinked in surprise at the savagery of the sentiment.

“We fought a war of influence,” Volpe said. “I did have some members of the family quietly arrested and secretly executed. But I couldn’t kill the Doge without losing control of Venice. I needed to be in the position to protect the city, because even after I arranged to have the Council ban Caravello, I knew that the family would not surrender entirely. The war continued. I managed to keep them out of power for nearly two decades before Aretino became Doge. Even then I watched carefully, uncertain how far he would take it. But he followed the plan that Caravello had set in motion, becoming a minor magician himself, tapping into the evil power of Akylis, and I had to arrange for him to be driven from the city as well.

“Foscari was the last. Over the years after his banishment, I arranged for nearly every relative I could find to be killed. By then I had taken complete control of the Council of Ten and arranged to have them build an enormous crypt beneath a new school being erected in Dorsoduro. My influence did not reach beyond Venice, so there was nothing I could do about those outside the city. But I protected my—”

Geena held up a hand. “Wait. Stop.”

Shaken from the reverie of memory, Volpe narrowed his eyes further. “What is it?”

Mind reeling, Geena took a breath to clear her head, trying to remember exactly what the waitress had told her at the pizzeria earlier in the day.

“A building collapsed today in Dorsoduro. A bunch of people were killed. Supposedly they found a massive tomb hidden beneath it.”

Volpe stared at her, then turned away with a snarl of disgust. “I should have known.”

“What?”

“I should have felt it,” Volpe said. He looked out the window at the fading daylight. “I am less than alive, but more than dead. Not a ghost, but not a man. When you told me the Mayor had been murdered, it upset me that I had not already felt it. I am the Oracle of Venice. The soul of the city is bonded to my own. But since my awakening, now that I am also bonded to Nico, my connection to the city is muffled and unfocused. I should be able to feel them.”

“Because you’re the Oracle,” Geena said, and it wasn’t a question.

Volpe nodded thoughtfully. “They knew enough magic even when I banished them to hide their precise locations
from me, but not their presence in the city. Perhaps now that Nico and I have begun to … accommodate each other, my rapport with the city will grow clearer.

“I never imagined that they had leached enough of the magic from Akylis’ essence to keep themselves alive for this long, but perhaps the three of them worked together to reinforce what they had absorbed and what they had learned of magic. But now that they are back in Venice, they are already tapping into that evil repository beneath the city. They will sap all of the magic from it that they can. By killing Caravello though, we have bought ourselves some time.”

Geena leaned back in her chair. “Time to do what? I mean, what is it that they’re planning?”

“They will throw the city government into disarray, try to reclaim their old family properties—those still standing—and set old schemes in motion. The murder of the Mayor is a part of that, making the city council argue amongst themselves over who is really in charge of Venice. The destruction of that building in Dorsoduro incites chaos, draws the eyes of the city’s authorities away from whatever else they might be doing in the shadows. There will be other assassinations. Already they will be moving lackeys and pawns into positions of influence.”

“But what about the tombs of their relatives? Why would they expose the resting places of so many members of their family?” Geena asked.

“Perhaps simply to give the city something else to focus on, another distraction. Perhaps because they don’t want their dead to be forgotten.”

Something didn’t sound right to Geena. “So they’re
just starting from scratch?” she said. “If what they wanted was to spread their influence across the Mediterranean, how will they accomplish that when all of their relatives have been dead for centuries?”

Volpe frowned, obviously troubled. “I don’t know. But I am quite sure that we’ll have the answer soon enough.”

As she spoke, she scratched at the back of her hand again, and this time she winced and looked down to see a purplish-red sore.

What the hell?
she thought. And then fear rippled through her and she looked up, thinking that somehow Volpe had done this to her, infected her with something. But when she saw the look in his eyes as he stared at the discolored, swollen blotch on her hand, she knew she was wrong. He knew what it was, but he hadn’t done it.

“What?” she asked, her voice a rasp. “What is it?”

Her throat had been dry and a bit raw, but now as she swallowed, it actually hurt. She coughed softly into her fist.

Volpe looked down at his forearm. Where he’d been idly scratching, there were several of those sores.

“Bastard,” Volpe sneered, but in his eyes—Nico’s eyes—she saw fear.

“Tell me!” she snapped, too loud, drawing the attention of the other people in the little café. Twin girls eating lemon granita looked up at her. The barista fixing iced cappuccinos behind the counter gave an eye-roll and a shake of her head that showed her feelings about Americans.

Geena took in the entire scene in a single moment. But then Volpe was standing, his chair sliding back. He put his spoon into his coffee cup and followed it with Geena’s,
then stuffed both of their napkins into his pocket and shot her a hard look.

“Take your cup,” he said, fury making his voice shake.

She wanted to ask why, but her imagination had already begun to supply answers that made her want to collapse into a fetal ball or scream or run or all of those things. In her entire life, she did not think she had ever stolen anything, but as Volpe swept past her she lifted her cup from the table and followed him out.

“Signora!” the barista yelled.

Geena heard a ruckus behind her, realized it must be the barista or a waitress coming after them, and ran through the open café door. With Volpe beside her, she fled along the alley and onto a stone bridge spanning a narrow canal. A shout came from behind, but they ran on.

Volpe coughed and she glanced at him to find that he had pulled Nico’s shirt up to cover his mouth and nose. Her chest burned with the effort of running—exertion that should not have troubled her at all—and she felt her own cough building. She cleared her throat.

“Cover your mouth!” Volpe barked.

Breathless, shivering, they darted down an alley on the right, then took the first jog to the left and ducked into a doorway. For a long minute they only stood there, still covering their mouths, but soon it became clear that the barista had abandoned the pursuit.

Volpe stepped away from the recessed doorway. “Come.”

“Where are we going?”

“Back to Caravello’s corpse.”

“But what if the police—”

“We’ve got to reach it before they do. Before anyone else is exposed.”

Icy dread filled her. “Exposed to what?”

Nico’s eyes narrowed, but then his expression softened and she saw that Volpe had retreated deeper into his mind, letting Nico come to the fore again. He faltered a moment, turning to stare at her, then glancing at the cup and spoons in his hand. He squeezed his eyes shut and then nodded decisively.

“Nico?” she said.

“Hurry, Geena. He can still save us.”