Tallow (33 page)

Tallow regarded Giaconda for a long time. Giaconda pretended not to notice his curious stare or the rapid workings of his mind, a mind that was clearly weighing the benefits and disadvantages of what was being offered. This sad, lonely boy –
no, being,
corrected Giaconda – had no real choices anymore. He felt responsible for the deaths of his master's mother, his pet and his friend. He could no longer face those he once trusted; he felt that by bringing death into their lives, he'd betrayed them. He also felt betrayed but whom exactly had done this, Giaconda hoped to discover. Most of all, he'd revealed what he was to the crowds and, in doing so, had exposed his master who was as good as dead, too. Giaconda enjoyed the flutter of triumph. The scenario could not be more perfect, not even if they'd orchestrated it themselves.

A shudder tore through the boy's thin frame. He stifled it quickly. 'I think I would like to go to your casa.'

'Very well then,' said Giaconda, barely keeping the victory out of her voice. 'If that is your desire, that's what we'll do.' She reached under the seat and pulled out a golden flask. 'For now, I think you should drink some of this. We still have a fair way to travel before we reach home.' She pulled out the stopper. 'This will help you relax, take away your pain.'

'Nothing can take away the pain I am feeling,'

'No, that's true. But it will help make it easier to bear. Here,' insisted Giaconda.

Tallow shrugged and, taking a generous swig, gagged and then inhaled deeply and swallowed again before handing the flask back. 'Thank you,' he said, falling back against the cushions. The quiet splash of the oar in the water and the hiss of melting wax and candle flame became a lullaby that made Tallow's eyes grow heavy and finally, close. Giaconda watched as his breathing became deep and even.

She waited a few minutes more, then picked up the candle and held it above Tallow. The boy had high cheekbones and a full, pink mouth. His skin was good. Dirty, but nothing a long soak and scrub couldn't fix. His hair was dark – rich black, thick and long. Giaconda screwed up her nose. He really needed a bath. But with decent clothes, a haircut, training and education, he should present well.

According to legend, Estrattore were very fast learners. Well, they would see. If this Tallow was to convince anyone he was a Maleovelli, he would have to learn very quickly indeed.

Her eyes travelled down Tallow's body. He was small for his age – which she guessed to be about twelve, maybe thirteen – and very fine-boned. She watched as his eyes moved beneath his lids.
Of what,
she wondered,
do Estrattore dream?

Putting down the candle, she searched for a blanket to cover him when something grabbed her attention. 'Father,' she hissed. 'Come here.'

Ezzelino pushed back the curtain. 'What is it?'

Giaconda started to laugh quietly. 'I've found out something about our candlemaker that not even Baroque could uncover.'

'What do you mean?'

'Look,' said Giaconda and pointed at Tallow's chest.

The damp shirt clung to Tallow, outlining every bone, every sinew and even the tatty bandages that were now only partly wound around her breasts.

Ezzelino's mouth fell open. He quickly closed it and began to chuckle. 'So, our boy is not a boy after all.'

'No, it seems not.' Giaconda laughed.

With one last glimpse at the sleeping girl, they left her in the felze and retreated to the seat in the prow. Instead of facing Salzi, they turned so they could meet their destination.

'Who would have guessed?' said Giaconda.

'This will make it so much easier,' said Ezzelino. 'Who will ever suspect that the candlemaker's apprentice, the little boy, is the Maleovellis' new guest? Ah.' He clapped his hands together. 'For once, God is on our side.'

'God might be,' agreed Giaconda. 'But whose side are the Bond Riders on?'

'I think that remains to be seen. I must say, I didn't expect them to throw their hand in the game.'

'No-one did. Their role in the legend is over now; they're incidental.'

Ezzelino watched the brackish wake strike the walls of the passing casas, his mind ablaze with ideas. 'We'll discuss this later, my dear. But I'm thinking that perhaps Baroque may not have outlived his usefulness after all.'

'If he's alive.'

'Of course. He's no good to anyone dead.'

Salzi pushed the gondola into the Circolo and rowed towards the Ridotto Sestiere. Giaconda breathed the fresh air and watched Serenissima slide past. Evening was descending and the sky had transformed into a lilac veil punctuated by strings of stars.

Never before had her city seemed so beautiful.

'So,' said Ezzelino breaking the silence, blowing rings of smoke skyward. 'How do you feel about our Estrattore now we know she's a girl?'

Giaconda smiled and Ezzelino found himself transfixed by her beauty.

'It's always easier to teach a girl than it is a boy, Father. You said that yourself.' She reached over and took his hand.

'Ah, yes. But you are unlike other girls, my dear.' He squeezed her hand and dropped it back in her lap. 'It's also less likely that suspicion will fall on a girl.'

'Yes, especially one as refined and beautiful as Tallow is going to be.'

'We can't keep calling her that.' Ezzelino pulled a face. 'It's so common.'

'As the child herself has been reared to believe she is.'

'But the time we've finished with her, there'll be nothing common about her.'

'No.' Giaconda smiled. In the distance she could see the bronze dome of the Doge's palazzo. She drank in the way the light speared the metal, sending shafts of reflected colour into the low-hanging clouds. Pennants flapped at the tips of the spires, waving their glory to the casas and canals below, while the marble colonnades blushed prettily as the sinking sun gave a last burst of radiance. 'Nothing common at all.'

The gondola glided into a side canal and the palazzo disappeared from view. 'After all,' observed Giaconda, turning her back on the opulence. 'There's nothing at all common about an Estrattore who is also an assassin.'

THESE TERMS ARE EITHER ITALIAN
or Venetian, or sometimes fantasy variations of the two. I have, on occasion, taken liberties with meanings and spellings.

acqua alta:
an unusually high tide

arrivederci:
goodbye

basilica:
church

Bond Rider:
a person who surrenders a part of his or her soul to a pledge stone in order that he or she may fulfil a specific task – a
Bond

broach:
wooden rod from which wicks are suspended, then dipped repeatedly in either tallow or wax to make candles of varying thicknesses and lengths

bucintoro:
the Doge's ceremonial ship

buon giorno:
good morning

biricchinos:
street boys

calle:
alley

campo:
local marketplace or square, plural is
campi

candles:
used for both heat and light. The cheapest are formed from animal fat (mostly beef) and render, often a mixture of different types, while more expensive candles are made from beeswax and even different types of oil. The most popular types are: long, slender
tapers;
small, squat
votives
placed in glass containers, often used for religious purposes;
pillar candles,
thicker and taller than votives.
Rush lights,
lumps of tallow rolled around a basic wick, are popular with the poorer classes because a one-metre homemade rush light burns for about an hour. Wicks can be made from any flammable fabric that maintains a consistent burn and temperature, e.g. hemp or cotton. Additives can also be applied to the wax to sweeten the candle's scent

casa:
grand house owned by a member of the aristocracy

cavola:
literally 'cabbage', but also slang for 'bitch'

colleganza:
a short-term business partnership

Doge:
elected ruler of Serenissima

dorato:
golden

dottore:
doctor

Estrattore:
someone who has the ability to extract specific emotions and feelings from a person, animal or object and alter and transfer this emotion/feeling, positive or negative. This process is known as
distilling

farmacista:
someone who dispenses medication

felze:
small passenger compartment on a gondola

fermata:
jetty where gondolas, traghettos and other craft stop to take on passengers

fondamenta:
cobbled path that runs beside the canal

forcola:
the oarlock on a gondola

fuoco:
fire

grazie:
thank you

grazie mille:
thank you very much

Limen, the:
a peculiar space that divides countries and, according to legends, worlds. Within the Limen, time stands still. Only Bond Riders and their horses, or those who have a partial soul or no soul at all, can dwell in these parts.

mi amo:
my love

Morto Assiderato:
a plague, literally means 'frozen to death'

Mortians:
wraith-like beings whose specific origins are unknown but who currently have an allegiance with the Queen of Farrowfare, Zaralina. They are able to breach the Limen and can move mostly undetected. It is also believed that they have formed a treaty with a Bond Rider faction to enable them to navigate the Limen more readily. Also known as
Morte Whisperers

nobile:
noble; aristocrat

ombretta:
small glass of wine

omicidi:
murders

palazzo:
palace

paline:
red-and-white striped poles in the canals to which personal watercraft are tied

piano nobile:
main floor of a palazzo or casa

piazzetta:
small square for markets or concerts, often linked to other parts of the quartiere by bridges and calles. Casas, businesses and local basilicas usually line piazzettas

pledge stones:
name given to the strange monoliths that absorb the souls of Bond Riders. Each is named after a major Serenissian nobile's House.

ponte:
bridge

Ponticello di Mille Pietre:
Bridge of a Thousand Stones

quartiere:
a district; plural is
quartieri.
In Serenissima, quartieri are named after the major profession or trade of the area

ragazza:
adolescent girl

ragazzo:
adolescent boy

rami:
very small, often dead-end, alleyways

Redentore:
the Redeemer

sandolo:
water taxi; large gondola hired for short trips through Serenissima

salizzada:
main street, means 'paved'

scuola:
school or trade group. In Serenissima, scuola are non-religious establishments based in areas where master craftsmen live. The group decides on tithes, training and the general rules by which craftsmen and women should live.

senta:
literally, 'listen'; a common way to start a conversation

La Serenissima:
Republic formed by a group of islands nestled in the lagoon area of the Mariniquian Seas and surrounding mainland areas, between the Jinoan and Vyzantian pensinulas

Serenissimina:
a conquered island off the coast of Hibernya. Forms part of an important trade route between Moroko, Hibernya and Serenissima. Literally 'little Serenissima'

sestieri:
the six major areas of Serenissima, which are then broken up into
quartieri
named for the dominant craft in each area; singular is
sestiere

sottoporteghi:
passageways through the city; tunnels formed when buildings meet over open spaces

squero:
boatyard

stazione:
jetty where passengers wait for sandolis or traghettos, also known as
fermata

ti amo:
I love you

traghetto:
a gondola ferry

tresoro:
treasure

vi amo:
I love you (plural)

Zia:
Aunt

Zio:
Uncle

ONCE UPON A TIME, A
daydreamer walked into a shop that sold candles and voilà! A story was born. That's really how it happened ... to start with. But beginnings
and
ends have very long middles and acknowledgments go some small way to thanking all of those who helped shape the heart of this novel.

First and foremost, I wish to thank my completely wonderful and amazing agent, Selwa Anthony, who stood by me through the best of times and the worst. I never doubted her and she, more importantly, never doubted me when many others would have abandoned me by the wayside. Thank you, Selwa –
graze mille e tutti bacci.

Then there was Anthony Eaton, sublime writer and friend extraordinaire who patiently listened to my angst and dreams and counselled me wisely on numerous occasions – both on the writing and publishing process. I owe you, Tony, my literary rock – and Imogen and Toby as well. Likewise, James and Vicki Roy, Simon and Annie Higgins, Geoffrey Shearer, Jim McKay, Sam Strutt and Jane Fynes-Clinton – a person could not have better or more generous friends.

A very early draft of the novel was read by Mark Macleod, who provided some invaluable feedback and terrific suggestions, most of which I took on board and which influenced what followed – thank you. The novel's strengths owe a great deal to Mark and Anthony's early ideas, and their beautifully rendered reports as well as the sharp eyes and wonderful skills of Carol Campbell.

Once the book landed in the capable and kind hands of Leonie Tyle, it moved into calm and fabulously creative waters. Thanks so much for your insights, patience and faith, Leonie. Sarah Hazelton, my other editor – what can I say? I have never worked with someone who understands the gifts that words can bring, their power and beauty, as much as Sarah. She also has a knowledge of genres that is unsurpassed. It's been a blessing and an utter delight working with you. The wonderful team at Woolshed and Random House, especially Linsay Knight, but also Justin Ractliffe, Sarana Behan and Yae Morton must be thanked – profusely. They have made this whole process very exciting, challenging and so worthwhile.

Thanks must also go to my Facebook friends and the Sassy online fantasy community. The words of friendship and faith as well as cyber-humour go a long way to reminding a writer that he or she is not alone and can laugh, even about something as serious as writing. Your emails, notes and reminders to live a little and have hope have meant a great deal.

During the writing of this book, so much happened in my life. On the positive side, we moved to one of the most beautiful locations in Australia and were made to feel welcome in a great and vibrant community. I also commenced a new job at Southern Cross University, where I work with some fabulous colleagues and have terrific and talented students. My beautiful daughter, Caragh, was married and thus we gained a lovely son, Paul, but lost her to the USA. Thank goodness for the internet. My fabulous son, Adam, was both hit by a car (he's fine) and promoted into a job that challenges him and keeps him stimulated and happy – something he has deserved for a long, long time.

On the negative side, I lost my mother to cancer after years of struggle and pain. My beloved grandmother died as a result of a tragic house fire – I still miss her every day. My father's health has declined and I have watched him fall into a torpor that's difficult for those around him but no more so than my step-mother who battles on regardless, demonstrating faith and love in equal measures.

Two of my dearest friends have waged a terrible and vicious war with cancer. Their courage in the face of such an invidious illness and their phenomenal personal strength has been inspirational in every way – I love you, Sara and Grant.

All of the above puts life in perspective.

Nonetheless, I still wish to thank all my friends and family – particularly my sister, Jenny, and my wonderful uncle, Peter Meyer, Lesley Roberts, Frances Thiele, Lisa Hill, Catherine Dicker and Jojo Lee, Jenny Daly and my amazing Italian teacher, the incomparable Lauren Charrington –
mia bella, vorrie malto grazie per tutto; hai sensazionale.

Finally, this book would not have been conceived, never mind written, if not for the amazing love, support and friendship of my partner whose patience with my foibles and workaholicism is limitless. I am one of those lucky people who, when still relatively young, found a genuine life-partner. I do what I do for and with him. I certainly can't and don't want to do it without him.

This, like all my creations, is for you, Stephen.
Ti amo.