and Grimani’s swordsman was knocked overboard. The body stirred, and Pedro realised it was draped not in grey or red, but in a fur-lined cape the colour of night and lined with stars.
‘Ferruccio!’ Grimani hissed, whipping out his sword and retreating to the gondola’s prow. The old man ignored him and turned to the gondolier, a more pressing danger, but Pedro had already grabbed his oar. Ferruccio’s blade rammed home, then he turned to deal with Grimani.
‘I have diplomatic immunity – you really don’t want to start a war with me, Count. Don’t come nearer.’
‘As you like,’ Ferruccio said. He crouched and began rocking the gondola from side to the side.
‘What are you doing?’ Grimani bleated, trying to keep his balance. ‘No, stop – I can’t— Ahhh!’ He fell into the water screaming, spluttering until he found a body to cling onto.
‘Hand me that paddle, lad,’ Ferruccio said.
‘Don’t be hasty,’ Grimani said, trying to paddle away as the gondola approached. ‘Look, we can make a deal! We can—’
Grimani was still begging when Ferruccio lifted the oar over his head and brought it down on his head. Ferruccio turned to Pedro. ‘Where’s Sofia? Count Scaligeri saved my hide at Montaperti and I’m not about let his granddaughter be sacrificed. She needs to get out of Etruria, now.’
‘She’s leaving on an Oltremarine galley tonight.’
‘Bene.’ Ferruccio steered the gondola towards the dock ‘What do you need?’
‘Time. I have to get to the chain-tower, and they must be long gone before anyone notices.’
‘Right. I’ll keep these sham negotiations going as long as possible.’
‘And what about him?’ He looked at the body in the water.
‘Who? This never happened.’
After Pedro climbed onto the boardwalk, he turned back. ‘You knew the Concordian’s offer was a trap?’
‘From the first. I’d be a poor hunter if I didn’t. Go on now, lad – do what you must.’
Khoril, the Tancred’s commander, was a short hairy Levantine. He gave them a warm welcome – he was furious with the Ariminumese, and blamed the Moor for their confinement. The enmity between the two ex-pirates was obviously personal. Khoril had been looking forward to seeing the Moor dangle in the Arsenale, not running it. Still, when Ezra told Khoril the plan, he was sceptical.
‘It’s true,’ said Ezra. ‘The Tancred’s spooked them into Concord’s arms.’
‘Queen Catrina never learned to tread gently,’ said Khoril. ‘Look, if this were my ship, in a heartbeat I would do it.’
‘You wouldn’t have this fine retirement home if I hadn’t helped you outrun the Moor so many times.’
‘If I sink this galley, Queen Catrina will set me rowing in another, and you beside me.’
‘And if you let the Moor scuttle it, she’ll give you the freedom of Akka? Let’s keep her Majesty out of it. This is between you and me.’
Pedro’s pass got him through the Arsenal without arising further suspicion. The tower – a Rasenneisi would never call it that; it was more like a stubby lighthouse – sat on the very precipice of the southern horn. Its low, thick walls were built to take heavy pounding, and the chain cast to defy cutting – each link was as big as a child. It hung across the harbour in a shallow arch just above the water’s surface, attached to a huge wheel in the top storey. The northern horn had vanished in the fog, so it looked as if the chain was suspended in nothingness: a bridge to oblivion.
Pedro remembered the rope bridge he had made – was it really just two years ago? – the day he met Giovanni. A cascade of conflicting emotion assailed him. Giovanni, his friend, the man who taught him engineering, was not a man, but water. Certainly it was implausible, but could he really say it was impossible? Giovanni himself had told him that Wave Theory was the realm of paradox and shifting definitions. Pedro had seen one buio that thought it was a boy. The only difference was that Giovanni’s disguise had fooled even Giovanni himself.
Pedro gathered his courage and knocked on the door. He heard uneven, stumbling footsteps on a stairway before the watchman opened the door slot and grunted, ‘What’s it?’ A hot waft of alcohol came from his breath. ‘Oh. Maestro Vanzetti, isn’t it? What brings you out here?’
‘Just out for my passeggiata.’
‘Aye, s’lovely view.’
‘Bit chilly, though. Can I come in?’
Even drunk, the watchman was wary, ‘I ain’t supposed to— ’
Pedro interrupted genially before he could shut the latch. ‘Oh, I understand.’ He dropped his voice to a