Heart of Glass - By Sasha Gould Page 0,66

secret passage. At last, we climb the wooden stairs that lead to the hidden entrance to the Piombi, the rings on the Doge’s fingers now cutting into my skin. I pull my arm free, and he looks round at me, his face wretched.

“I don’t know what we’ll find,” he admits. “But it sounds bad.”

Horrible thoughts assail me. Has Roberto killed himself, finding suicide less humiliating than being executed as a criminal? I follow the Doge down the narrow corridor towards the cell where I last saw him, crumpled on the floor like a pile of rags. A group of men stand at the open door, their faces grim. Sweat streaks their shirts. The heat is still overwhelming up here, even at this time of day.

We come to stand before the cell and see a covered body being lifted off the stained floor by four men. The Doge lets out a cry of pain and reaches for me. I put an arm around his frail shoulders, feeling my own body drain of energy. My heart flutters in my chest.

“It can’t be,” I mutter.

The Doge stumbles forward and pulls away the bloody sheet. A gray face. Unseeing eyes. Smears of blood. Thick eyebrows and a smattering of warts.

It’s the jailer who took me to visit Roberto.

“Where’s my son?” asks the Doge. I look into the empty cell and then at Roberto’s father.

“He’s escaped!” I gasp. A flicker of joy passes across the Doge’s face; then he quickly hides it from the men who watch us. His hands tremble as he reaches out to cover the dead man’s face again.

“Tell the executioner he can go home,” the Doge says. “There’ll be no more death today.”

“What happened here?” I ask the men. They share doubtful glances, their faces flushing.

“Tell us!” the Doge orders. I catch a glimpse of the man he was until recently—powerful, assured, ruthless.

“I’m not sure, I wasn’t here when—” one guard begins.

“Well, bring us whoever was here!” The Doge’s face is red with fury. The guard looks over his shoulder and motions to someone standing in the shadows. Another guard steps forward, his brow heavily bruised. He stands looking at his feet.

“Tell the Doge what happened,” the first guard demands. He looks relieved that the attention is on someone else now.

“The prisoner escaped,” the man mumbles.

“How?” I ask. Though already I think I know. The Segreta’s vote, despite my worst fears, must have turned in Roberto’s favor. But would they have killed a man?

The man shrugs. Behind him, other guards hurtle down the stairs and call out Roberto’s name to each other, throwing doors open and kicking buckets out of the way. The guard we are questioning licks his lips nervously.

The Doge’s face darkens. “If you don’t tell us everything you know, you’ll be in a cell yourself.”

The heat makes my skin prickle. Now the corpse is being carried down the narrow stairs, men grunting with the exertion. One of them stumbles, and the body slips from their arms, its feet knocking against a wall. Hastily, they recover it and resume their descent. When they’re out of earshot, the guard starts talking again.

“I was on duty, when an armed band broke into the prison during the night. I’ve no idea how. This palace is so full of secret corridors.… They killed the jailer and overwhelmed the others.” His words come out in a rush now, as though he wants to be rid of them. “Then they freed Roberto and locked us up. It wasn’t until the new guard arrived this morning that we were freed. We didn’t have time to tell anyone!” His voice has turned pleading.

The Doge shakes his head. “Get out of my sight!” The two men clatter down the wooden stairs, and finally silence descends. Roberto’s father casts me a glance.

“This is bad,” he says. “Justice must be seen to be done. Especially as things stand. The power balance in Venice is … precarious.” But he cannot hide the glint in his eyes. Neither of us says it out loud, but I know we are both thinking the same thing.

Roberto is free. He lives another day.

32

The Doge invites me to his private rooms for refreshment. Beyond the walls, we can hear the crowds calling angrily. A servant hastily goes to shut the window.

A marble table laden with fruit and jugs of water and wine stands at the far end of the room, and paintings line the wood-paneled walls. A couch upholstered in mulberry satin sits in the center