Heart of Glass - By Sasha Gould Page 0,92

confidence in a Venetian victory. I shake my head, trying not to let my face betray the turmoil of my emotions. “No, thank you.”

When I hear Faustina’s door close on the upper level, I stand for a moment on the stairs, letting my thoughts lead me. Something about the gunpowder doesn’t add up. If it’s useless, and there was no reason for Silvio to make up such a lie to his wife, Massimo can’t possibly be so sure of himself. He must know the battle is far from won.

I head straight back out the front door. My suspicion is building like an unstoppable flood. It’s a conspiracy grander than anything the Segreta could achieve, but it’s possible.

For if the Segreta didn’t murder Silvio—and I’m sure they did not—then who did? Could it have been the man who knows that the barrels of gunpowder stored in the Arsenal are useless? Could he be Silvio’s murderer?

I know my mind is getting ahead of itself, that I’m seeing treason where perhaps there is none. But Aysim said that her brother had a fellow plotter in Venice. What if that person is the very man Venice expects will save them? Massimo was quick enough to depose the Doge when he had the chance. His loyalty is only to himself.

Enough gunpowder to sink ten fleets.

Or not even enough for a fireworks party.

Could the Bear of Venice be about to turn his claws upon us?

It’s dark when I reach the palace, and all the way I’ve been turning over the possibilities. There’s a chance, of course, that Silvio was wrong about the powder, but if he wasn’t …

It’s easy enough to gain access to Roberto’s quarters. The guard at the gate can hardly suppress his grin. I find Roberto asleep in a chair. After so many days in captivity, he’s still exhausted. He smiles lazily as I wake him. “Am I dreaming?”

“I need to ask you something,” I say, perching on the edge of his chair. “Did Massimo accompany the delegation to Constantinople earlier this year?”

Roberto’s grin fades as he catches the seriousness of my tone. He rubs his head. “Yes. He was there as an escort with a small detachment of men. They were rude and loud, and he was told not to attend the evening banquet.”

My simmering suspicions begin to boil over. “I think he’s a traitor.”

“Well, he all but usurped my father—”

“No,” I interrupt, “a traitor to Venice.”

“What do you mean?” asks Roberto. “He commands our fleet against the Ottomans.”

“If I’m right,” I say, “it’s our fleet he means to send beneath the waves.”

Roberto’s eyes widen. “How?”

I explain to him what I know about the gunpowder. “What if he’s sending the ships out unarmed? They’d be sitting ducks in the water.”

Roberto frowns. “Where did you come by this information?”

“You cannot ask me that, but I think my source is reliable.”

Roberto shakes his head, and strokes my cheek. “But I’ve seen the plans. Vincenzo has plenty of gunpowder of his own.”

“Vincenzo’s ships may not be enough to defeat Prince Halim. Think about it. If the Turks were to conquer us, they’d need a strong leader here. Massimo would be the obvious candidate. And what about the men who kidnapped you? They must have been soldiers too. Perhaps they were working for the Bear.”

I can tell that Roberto isn’t convinced. “You’re seeing conspiracy where it doesn’t exist,” he says. “This soldier who was killed, he probably tried to swindle the wrong man in a game of dice.”

Something about his earnest eyes in the candlelight soothes me. He’s right. I’ve spent too long in the presence of the Segreta, seeing secrets knotting themselves together.

“Massimo may be ambitious, but he’s a soldier through and through,” Roberto says. “My father trusts his loyalty to Venice, if not to the Doge. Venice is Massimo’s city too. Do you think he would risk his men and his home to become an Ottoman puppet? I’m sure the gunpowder must have been replaced by now.”

I smile weakly. “You must think I’m stupid.”

“I think you’re beautiful,” he replies, leaning forward to kiss me. “I also think the servants will start talking if you stay much longer.”

I ease myself from his chair and wish him good night.

“Sleep well,” he says.

I do sleep well, for the first time in a long while. I don’t even hear the rain that must have poured throughout the night, for the garden’s washed bright green, and puddles stand in the lanes beside the house. The blue sky is trailed