it Clef? She found it hard to tell. It didn’t sound like the product of sentient thought, but more like a noise someone might make in their sleep.
The low, unearthly groan continued for an impossibly long while, a constant, sustained .
She listened to it, eyes wide. It had to go on for at least half a minute straight, growing louder and louder all the while.
And then it finally erupted.
“Oh my God!” she said softly.
She heard Berenice in her mind, speaking as well:
screamed Clef in her head.
“He’s back!” she cried. “I…I think he’s back!” She burst into tears.
“I just hope,” said Valeria weakly, “that it is not too late.”
29
Alfredo Participazio stared around at the partygoers in the Hall Morsini and did his best to ignore the sweat trickling down his back.
He had never been to the Morsini House campo before, neither as an ambassador nor a trade representative, and he found the entire experience discomfiting. Everything was so strange, so threatening, so different, even here at the campo illustris, the Hall Morsini. Though the checked floor was packed with costumed elites and casks of wine and glittering crowds, it still felt like a dour, cramped building, all frowning, brutish pragmatism and tiny windows: a hostile place, built by a hostile people, and even their abundant merriment couldn’t conceal the threat.
He knew they weren’t simply celebrating for carnival, of course. While the rest of the city shivered at the whisper of war between the merchant houses, the Morsinis were absolutely delighted. The Michiels and the Dandolos were now both begging them for an alliance, so they could pick and choose which house lived and died—and extract considerable payments from whichever house they backed. The opportunity was so tremendous that the de facto head of the house, Rodrigo Morsini, grandson of the estimable (and now disease-riddled) Torino Morsini, had felt obliged to celebrate.
And now Participazio sat at the table with the rest of their diplomatic deputation—ten elite scrivers, none of whom would discuss their orders with him—and watched as the many costumed revelers milled about, some dancing to the pipers, some retreating to the corners to indulge in open acts of carnal pleasure.
He couldn’t help but feel overcome with misery. What am I doing here? What horror have I been assigned to now?
He observed the many wild costumes, variations on the traditional classics: the Cup-Bearer of Storms, the Herald of the Waves, the Vanguard of Wind, the many Drowned Ones…
And of course, the countless Papa Monsoons, dressed in their black cloaks and their black masks and their black three-cornered hats.
Participazio studied these, unnerved. Then one of the Papa Monsoons looked at him, cocked its head, and began to amble across the floor to him. The partygoers thoughtlessly made way for him, some of them shivering slightly, as if the backs of their necks had been grazed by a chilly breeze.
Oh no, thought Participazio.
“It’s been some time since I’ve been to a party,” called the man in black in his deep, rich voice. “I’d hoped no one would wear the same apparel as I, but…I shall have to bear it, I suppose.”
Participazio stood and bowed as he approached, trying to ignore the queasiness suddenly churning in his stomach.
“Good evening, boy,” said the man in black, sounding bemused.
“Evening, s-sir,” said Participazio quietly. He glanced up at the blank, black eyes, and his heart juddered.
The man in black turned his mask on the rest of the Dandolo deputation, who looked back at him uncertainly. “And these are the scrivers I requested?”
“Y-Yes, sir.”
“The ones with the most experience in lexicons?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good!” He reached into his cloak, produced a small, unremarkable-looking wooden box, and held it out. “These are for you.”
Participazio took the box with trembling