Falcon in the Glass (22 page)

She
had discovered the falcon in the glass.
She
had called down the kestrel to his wrist, had taught him how to see it. Everything he had now he owed to her.

How had he come to a place where the glassworks, a place for men to work, felt empty without this girl?

Were the children with her, all in one cell? Or had they been separated? Was the food sufficient? Were they warm enough? Did they have hope of getting out, or had they despaired of ever seeing daylight again?

This plan of his, it had been chancy from the start. Now, with Vittorio gravely wounded and the assassin on to him . . .

Impossible.

Surely the Ten wouldn't condemn the children as witches. Surely the children would be banished to some new place, where life would be difficult. But they would get by — as they had ever done before.

◆      ◆      ◆

A turmoil of restless dreams roused him in the wee hours of the following morning, and despite his weariness he couldn't get back to sleep. The dreams had dredged up a memory — that Papà had once experimented with making “unbreakable” glass. He had failed, but some of the glass he'd formulated had been surprisingly strong. Renzo lay awake trying to recall what the formula had been, and before he knew it, he found himself hurrying through the dark alleys to the glassworks, imagining assassins around every corner. He announced himself to the new nighttime fire tender — a tall, burly man who'd been charged with guarding the glassworks as well — and went straight to work.

It was good that the bars in Signore Averlino's shop hadn't been rusted. Making black glass that mimicked the
patina of iron would not be too difficult. Well, iron was not as smooth as glass, but he could play with the surface texture. But the real challenge would be making them strong. Strong enough to survive being attached to the doors; strong enough to survive being dropped or kicked or jostled as the doors were transported and installed at the dungeon; strong enough to survive the multitude of ordinary slams and rattles of daily use. At least for a while.

Over the next few nights Renzo tested several batches, made many sets of window bars of the correct dimensions, texture, and hue.

Just to see if it could be done.

Likely they would never be used. The plan was crazy, even more so after what had happened to Vittorio.

Nevertheless, the strongest bars, he kept.

◆      ◆      ◆

For a while there was no opportunity to speak to Vittorio alone. Mama hovered nearby, tending to him at all hours of the day and night. Pia scurried back and forth, fetching bandage cloths and pots of ointment. Once, Renzo came home to find her sitting on the edge of Vittorio's cot, telling him a story. Another time she held his hand and steadied him as he walked.

Renzo searched for his silver cloak pin but couldn't find it. He replaced it with his old copper one, feeling sick. Mama hadn't noticed yet, but when she did . . . Papà's cloak pin! He didn't want to face her.

But on Sunday, Mama and Pia dressed for mass. If
they didn't go, Mama said, people would begin to wonder if something was amiss. People might come to visit. But Renzo should stay with Vittorio; Mama would make apologies for him, would say he had been working late at night.

Vittorio was dozing when they left. He looked much improved. A clean, white cloth lay over the gash in his brow and his ruined eye. His skin, which had been gray, had recovered its color, and his long, dark hair lay clean and combed about his head. His breath came easily, and the corners of his mouth turned up in a peaceful smile.

Vittorio should leave now — or very soon. Before they were caught sheltering him. Before he brought down disaster upon the family for a second time.

Renzo knelt beside him. “Uncle,” he whispered.

The eye blinked open. It flicked toward the corners of the room, then came to rest on Renzo.

“Uncle, how are you?”

Vittorio groaned and struggled to sit up in bed. Renzo fluffed up a pillow and set it behind his back. “Did you make the window bars?” Vittorio asked.

“Yes.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“They're strong. I remembered one of Papà's formulas to strengthen the glass. The bars look like iron, and the surface texture — ”

Vittorio made a swatting motion. “It's crazy!”

“Listen, Uncle. I can take them to the workshop and replace the iron ones. There's little enough danger in that.”

“Little enough danger! Do you hear yourself? Look at me, Renzo.” He leaned forward and jabbed a finger in the direction of the cloth that covered his eye. “And you say there's no danger?”

“But I . . . stabbed him with the calipers.”

“Did he walk away?”

“Yes, but — ”

“Was he limping? Bleeding?”

“Yes! More than limping. Staggering.”

“You didn't see his face? His mask never slipped?”

“No.”

“You swear it?”

“By almighty God.”

Vittorio let out a long sigh. He eased himself back against the pillow. He seemed . . . weary. Not just body-weary but weary in his soul. “Well, then,” he said, “you may be safe enough for now. So long as you can't identify him, I doubt he'll come for you. Antonio was punishment for me, because they couldn't find me. But the man has seen me now, knows I'm somewhere on the lagoon. It's me he wants.” Vittorio leaned his head back and closed his eye.

Truth be told, Renzo had expected Vittorio to put up more of a fight. Truth be told, Renzo didn't want to row across the lagoon again, all alone, to the place where they'd been accosted. Didn't want to break into the carpentry shop, knowing he might be watched, knowing he might be caught. And what if the dungeon doors had been assembled already?
He could never pry them apart and reassemble them by himself.

But he had to try.

Yet after that . . .

Then what?

“Uncle?”

The eye opened. “You still have a problem, don't you?” Vittorio said. “Once the doors are installed in the dungeon.”

“You must know people who can break into things, and . . .” Thieves, Renzo thought. Beggars. In Vittorio's twilight world there must be many desperate people. Renzo couldn't scrape up much to pay them, but . . .

Vittorio was frowning at him. “You're going to do this no matter what I say, aren't you?”

Renzo nodded. He'd do something. He didn't know what.

“Did something happen between you and the girl?”

“What?”

“With the oldest girl? The one with all that dark hair?”

“Happen?” Renzo's face grew warm as he realized what Vittorio was asking. “No!”

“Hmph.” Vittorio was quiet for a moment. He tipped back his head; the lone eye gazed up at the ceiling, as if searching for something it had lost. “They none of them had shoes.”

“What?”

“The children. They don't have shoes.”

“No, just strips of cloth, wrapped around. I did give
one of them a pair of Pia's outgrown boots, but — ” He stopped, remembering the tiny boot in the alley.

“The little boy . . . that terrible cough . . .”

“Paolo,” Renzo said. “He was getting better, but — ”

“Strangers,” Vittorio murmured.

“What?” Renzo was having trouble following this conversation.

“They're strangers here. They're all alone.”

Something Vittorio had said earlier came back to Renzo.
When you're a stranger
 . . .
I was all alone.

“Well, then,” Vittorio said. “The Ten don't send assassins after people for breaking into carpentry shops. Just switch the bars. If you're about to get caught, throw them into the canal. If we're lucky, we may have a little time.”

We
. So Vittorio would help?

Renzo gazed at him, hope rising. But Vittorio yawned, shut his solitary eye, and turned to face the wall.

A
t the stroke of midnight Renzo rose. He dressed quickly, tonged a hot coal into the tin box, drew on his cloak, and picked up the lantern. He slipped outside, closing the door softly behind him.

Inside Vittorio's little boat he checked the bundle he had stashed in the bow the night before: two sets of glass bars, wrapped in cloth, supported with boards on either side and bound together with twine.

He pulled up his hood against the light rain, undid the mooring lines, and paddled silently down the canal.

Something felt different tonight. It took a moment before he realized what it was. The wind. A warm wind, coming from the south.

A
scirocco
wind.

Renzo steered toward the side of the canal and eyed the water level.

Just as he'd feared. It was higher than usual. Not three fingers' breadth from the top of the wall.

Acqua alta.
High water.

He stilled his hands on the oars, staring out across the rain-dimpled canal, hearing the waves splash against the stone walls. Soon, very likely, water would stream across the lanes and seep under doors. People would wake. They would rise from their beds to stuff rags beneath the doors of homes, of churches, of workshops, of warehouses. They would go stirring about the town at a time when they usually stayed abed.

When Renzo
wanted
them abed.

But now, because of the
acqua alta
, he might be missed. Mama would scold if he wasn't there to help.

Not an auspicious night.

But still, who knew when the carpenters would hang the new doors? After that it would be too late.

He dug his oars into the water and began to row.

At last, sodden and weary, he reached the island of Venice and guided his boat into the shelter of a canal. The wind abated, and even the rain seemed to ease. Lamplight flickered in the windows of some of the shops and houses. But unlike the last time, when masked and glamorous partygoers had glided past in torch-lit gondolas, now only dark figures bustled about, hunched against the rain. All around he heard the gurgling of water as it lipped over the edges of the canal and flowed into the streets.

What would he do if the carpenters were already there, come to set everything of value above the likely high-water mark and stuff rags between the door and the threshold?

But when at last Renzo turned a corner and rowed
within sight of the carpentry shop, no light leaked through the cracks at the edges of the shutters.

Had they already come and gone? Nearing, Renzo searched for rags. But no. Water lapped against the door, flowed unimpeded through the gaps.

He hesitated. They might come at any moment.

No time to lose.

He tied up a little way down from the shop, so his boat would not likely be noticed. He picked up the lantern and the tin box, then bent to lift the bars. Carefully he stepped out onto the paving stones, where water reached well above his ankles.

Something bumped against his boots. A stream of rats, swimming past. He jumped back sharply to avoid them, but felt a squirming bulge beneath one boot and heard a squeal. His feet slipped; he landed hard on the ground.

Splash!

Crack!

The glass.

Hands shaking, he unwrapped the bars and ran his fingers along them. The top set — the thicker ones — seemed fine. But the bottom set . . . had snapped.

He picked out the broken pieces, five of them. He rose gingerly to his feet, carried them to the canal. He dropped them into the dark water and felt the weight of them dragging him down, as if he were sinking too.

Gone.

There had been two dungeon doors in the carpenter's
sketches, but Renzo had only ever heard of one. If the thicker bars were for a door to some different part of the palace, they were no use to him. And the others had broken so easily! They'd been weak!

He groaned. Maybe he should just go home.

But still . . .

The shorter, thicker window bars had always seemed sturdier. And once fitted properly into their slots in the little door, they would be braced on all sides. They might hold fast.

Carefully he rewrapped the bars and clasped them to his chest. He gathered up the lantern and the tin box and waded across the slippery pavement to the door. He set down the bars, fished Vittorio's picks from his purse, and fumbled for the one he'd told him to use.

To his relief the padlock soon snapped open. He hung it on the hasp and collected the bars. He had to lean hard against the door to open it; the water resisted. But at last he let himself in and shut the door fast behind.

Dark. He stood there a moment, thinking about rats, thinking about water snakes, thinking about the last time he had come.

The assassin.

Voices now, outside. Light stretched across the room, shrank back, stretched again. Sloshing sounds. Renzo held his breath, stood perfectly still. In the moving light he made out a table just in front of him. He searched for the iron bars, realizing he had no idea where he might find them. They could be anywhere, even mounted in the doors.