Lucien found the screen – a ridiculously elaborate set of embroidered silk panels – and sank gratefully into the hot, scented water. He thought he would never get the smell of canal out of his nose or the taste out of his throat. He ducked his head under the water and soaped his hair. He stayed in the bath till it was nearly cold, having nothing to put on but the towel and desperately not wanting the Duchessa to offer him the loan of one of her dressing-gowns.
He listened to her and Rodolfo talking in fierce whispers and, when he put his head round the screen, saw that Rodolfo was pale with fright. His master saw him and strode over.
‘You have saved Silvia and I am forever in your debt. So is all Bellezza, but the details must not be known.’
He stopped and looked at Lucien.
‘Where are your clothes?’
‘The women took them. And I’m not sure if I can get home – the book is damp. Look!’
Rodolfo looked thoughtful and took the book in his hands.
‘I can do something about this,’ he said. ‘But you must tell me everything before you stravagate.’
He had run all the way from the Piazzetta and up through his own palazzo and was still wearing his black velvet cloak, which he now took off and wrapped round Lucien. Then he walked to the empty fireplace and set his firestone in it. Soon warmth began to fill the room.
The Duchessa got to her feet rather stiffly and rang her little silver bell. ‘Why don’t you take him back to your side, Rodolfo? I can’t stay here. I must go and rescue that poor child who impersonated me at the Feast tonight. She must be petrified.’
Lucien understood at last. The Duchessa used a body double! And he saw from the expression on Rodolfo’s face that he hadn’t known about it until now either.
*
Arianna didn’t know if she was more worried or furious. She hadn’t been able to see Lucien surface after his impulsive dive. So she searched the canalside and later the Piazza Maddalena, but it was hard to find anyone in the crowds. In the end, she had to return home to her aunt, hoping that Lucien had managed to stravagate back to his home world before his parents got back. For now she must do what aunt Leonora always referred to as ‘containing her soul in patience’ – something Arianna was very bad at.
*
Simonetta walked across the Piazza on the arm of the Ambassador, as if in a dream. Cheering Bellezzans lined the short distance to the rose-coloured Ducal Palazzo and she managed to wave graciously to them, but inwardly she was quaking. Something must have gone wrong; the Duchessa’s senior waiting-woman had been so specific about her duties and they should have ended half an hour ago.
How relieved she was to see that same waiting-woman inside the doorway of the Palazzo! The woman approached and firmly guided her away from the Ambassador.
‘Excuse me, Excellency,’ she said. ‘Her Grace must have a few minutes to refresh herself before the feast. Please await her in the reception hall.’
The Ambassador bowed. He didn’t know that this was the waiting-woman who had been in the State mandola. He had given orders that whoever was with the Duchessa was to be dispatched, including the mandolier if necessary. Now he could hardly contain his excitement. It would not be long before the floating mandola and the bodies would be found and the assassin would be far away by now. Rinaldo di Chimici took a proffered goblet of wine and drank deep. To Bellezza, he made a mental toast, the jewel in the crown of the di Chimici Republic.
Lucien was relieved to find himself back on his bed. The clock said five and the house was quiet. His parents were not back. Anxiously he checked his clothes. He was back in what he had been wearing before he went to Bellezza this morning, apart from his boxers, which were still drying out somewhere in the Duchessa’s Palazzo. He had given the merlino-blade and the bag of silver to Rodolfo to look after for him. The notebook was not much the worse for its immersion in the canal, though the colours on the cover had run a bit. Rodolfo had carried it over to the fireplace and dried it carefully in the warmth of the glowing red stone.
Anyway, it had got him back. He sniffed cautiously. No smell of canal, thank goodness. Carefully, he put the notebook on the bedside table and fell into a deep natural sleep.
The Duchessa swept down the marble staircase of the Palazzo, magnificent in her violet satin. She had diamonds in her ears and at her throat and was wearing a diamond tiara in her dark hair. A cheer went up from the guests at the feast, who were waiting for her arrival before moving into the dining hall. But her eyes sought out only one person, Rinaldo di Chimici.
She was rewarded by seeing him start and choke on his wine.
‘Ambassador,’ she called graciously in her unmistakable musical voice. ‘Are you all right? We mustn’t keep my guests waiting.’
Di Chimici approached her like a man who has not only seen a ghost but has been ordered to take it in to dinner. He had realized straightaway that this was the real Duchessa. Something had obviously gone wrong. But what? And did the Duchessa know about the planned assassination? As she glided beside him on their way into the dining-hall, the Ambassador knew he was in for several hours of exquisite torment.
And so did the Duchessa. All the terrors of the evening had been worth it to see the Reman Ambassador’s discomfiture and she had no intention of letting him off lightly. If he had planned to have her killed by a paid murderer, she would make him suffer agonies of uncertainty and fear for his own life in the course of her celebration banquet.
‘It was a lovely day. Thank you for encouraging us to go,’ said Mum to Lucien when they got in about an hour later. ‘Gracious, is that the time? You must be starving. Let me go and see what I can rustle up in the kitchen.’
‘Certainly not,’ said Dad. ‘I bet Lucien and Tom have been living on snacks all day. Let’s have takeaway Chinese.’
Lucien had rubbed the sleep from his eyes when he heard them opening the front door. He seemed destined to survive on catnaps today, but he knew he must go back to Bellezza as soon as he could reasonably get to bed.
Over the takeaway, his parents told him all about their day and fortunately did not ask much about his. They kept exchanging conspiratorial looks but Lucien was too tired to ask them what they were hatching. His eyelids drooped.
‘Overdone it a bit today, have you?’ asked Dad, gently taking Lucien’s fork out of his hand.
‘You could say that,’ said Lucien, yawning. He had seen a fireworks display he had helped to make, dived into a stinking canal and recovered treasure and then foiled an assassination attempt on a country’s absolute ruler. Out loud he said, ‘Who’d have thought watching videos and eating popcorn could make you so sleepy?’
‘Off up to bed with you then,’ said Mum firmly. ‘We want you fresh tomorrow. There’s something we want to tell you.’
Normally, Lucien would have risen to such bait. But not tonight. He stumbled up to bed and groaned as his hand clasped the book. What wouldn’t he give for a proper night’s sleep!
An ordinary rowing-boat ploughed its way through the waters of the lagoon. It was rowed by a very good-looking young man, who carried one passenger, a plainly dressed woman, still handsome, though no longer young. She was obviously married, because she didn’t wear a mask. She sat quietly, looking out towards the islands, as they came nearer to the colourful houses of Burlesca.
The boatman moored and offered to accompany his passenger but she refused. She let him help her out of the boat then, carrying her basket, set off for the only white house in town. The handsome boatman shrugged and went off in search of something to eat.
Paola Bellini came to the door, drying her hands on her apron, but they flew to her mouth when she saw who her visitor was.
‘Can I come in, Mother?’ said the woman in a low voice. ‘There is something I must talk to you about.’
*
When Lucien
materialized in Rodolfo’s laboratory the morning after the Maddalena Feast, he was surprised by the warmth of his master’s welcome. Lucien had expected him to be angry about his overnight stay, but the magician caught his apprentice in an affectionate hug, the first he had ever given him.
‘You are all right?’ Rodolfo asked, giving Lucien a long appraising look. ‘Did you get into any trouble with your parents?’
‘No, it was cool,’ said Lucien, a bit embarrassed. They had not had long to talk the night before, because Rodolfo had been anxious to rejoin the Duchessa at the feast and make sure she was properly guarded. Now Lucien felt he should explain why he had stayed on in Bellezza.
‘I know I shouldn’t have taken the risk,’ he said, ‘but I wanted to see the fireworks.’ It sounded childish and selfish as he said it.
‘And what did you think of them?’ asked Rodolfo, gravely.
‘It was brilliant,’ said Lucien. ‘Even better than I had imagined. But I know I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry,’ said Rodolfo. ‘If you hadn’t been here, Silvia would have been killed.’ He shuddered. ‘It might even be why you were sent here in the first place – why the talisman found its way to you rather than someone else.’
He drew the merlino-blade from his own belt and handed it solemnly to Lucien. Then he sat down beside him and, for the first time in Lucien’s presence, made the hand of fortune. ‘You see? By the power of the goddess, her consort and son, the circle of Silvia’s life is unbroken.’
‘Not really,’ said Lucien, self-consciously hefting the dagger and remembering what it had been intended to do. ‘Who is the goddess, and those others? And what does it have to do with me?’
‘It’s our old religion,’ said Rodolfo, ‘the one we had here before Christianity. All over the eastern part of the Middle Sea, people believed in a goddess and her consort.’
‘He was a god too, presumably,’ said Lucien.
‘Yes, but not as powerful as her. Their son was more powerful than him too. Some believe that the consort originally was her son and it was only later, when incest became taboo, that a husband was invented for her and that is why he is such a shadowy figure. The son has always been almost as revered as his mother. When Christianity came along, all those pagan statues of the goddess and her son were allowed to stay. Only now they were supposed to be of Our Lady and the new Lord.’
He looked expectantly at Lucien.
‘Sorry,’ said Lucien. ‘We’re Church of England. I don’t know much about well, your Lady – you know, Catholics.’
Rodolfo frowned. ‘What is the Church of England? And what are Catholics?’
Lucien was surprised. ‘You know, Henry the Eighth and all that. He wanted to marry Ann Boleyn and the Pope wouldn’t let him, because he was already married, so he started his own church.’
It was Rodolfo’s turn to look surprised. ‘Doctor Dethridge never said anything about that. In our world your England, Anglia as we call it, has the same church as ourselves, ruled by the Pope.’
‘Well,’ said Lucien. ‘In Doctor Dethridge’s time it was a dangerous subject. After Henry died, and his son too, his daughter Mary had people killed for following the King’s new kind of religion. And in Dethridge’s time, Queen Elizabeth had people killed for believing in the other one, Catholicism.’
‘Catholics is what you call the people who believe the old Christianity?’
‘Yes. Roman Catholics, we say, because of the Pope in Rome, I suppose.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Rodolfo, musing. ‘Here, the Pope is in Remora, the capital of the Republic. I must tell you some day about the founding of Remora by Remus, after he had defeated his brother Romulus. But now that we have found Doctor Dethridge again and he is a citizen of Talia, I must get him to tell me all about his England and its religion.’
‘Anyway,’ said Lucien. ‘Go back to the goddess.’
‘Lagooners are among the last people in the Middle Sea to cling on to their belief in her,’ continued Rodolfo. ‘They accepted Christianity because they had to. They build churches and go to Mass, as you’ve seen. But in their hearts they believe that it is the goddess who looks after them and after Bellezza too. That is why they have always been ruled by a woman, the Duchessa. They never really felt comfortable about a male god, or a male saviour, come to that. And least of all a male ruler.’
‘They do seem almost to worship the Duchessa,’ said Lucien, remembering the fanatical crowds last night and the infectious madness that had plunged him into the canal.
‘They do,’ said Rodolfo, simply. ‘She is their idea of the goddess personified. That is why her wellbeing is so important to them.’
‘So you don’t think the assassin could have been a Bellezzan?’ asked Lucien.
‘I don’t know; I haven’t seen him yet,’ said Rodolfo grimly. ‘But if the people ever knew that you had saved the Duchessa’s life, they would be sure that you were sent by the goddess. You would be a hero.’
‘You said last night we mustn’t let anyone know,’ said Lucien. ‘That’s cool, I mean I didn’t really think about what I was doing and I don’t want to be a hero or anything. But don’t you think people should know that someone wants to kill the Duchessa?’
‘No one should know that it wasn’t she who opened the church, or wasn’t she, as I now suspect, who performed the Marriage with the Sea. Lagooners are deeply superstitious; they would believe that the prosperity of their city was in danger.’
‘But somebody knew about the double,’ said Lucien slowly. ‘Or the assassin wouldn’t have been aboard the mandola.’
‘Precisely,’ said Rodolfo. ‘And I imagine Silvia’s torturers are hard at work as we speak, finding out who that is.’
Chapter 12
Two Brothers
As it happened, the torturers were not needed. Guido Parola was ready to confess everything. From the moment that he had entered the State mandola, Parola had been a changed man. Brought face to face with the Duchessa, he knew he could not bring himself to kill her, not even for the silver which would cure his father. And Lucien’s instinctive defence of the Duchessa had made him deeply ashamed. All his true Bellezzan feelings had resurfaced and he was ready to tell all. And, after that, to die.
Imagine his confusion when, after a day in which he was brought clean, soft bedding, ample warm water for washing and several excellent meals, the swishing of taffeta skirts and the glimpse of a silver mask announced the arrival in his cell of the Duchessa herself. Parola flung himself at her feet and begged forgiveness.
‘Do get up,’ she said coldly. ‘No, do not offer me a corner of your mattress. As you see, my bodyguard has brought me a chair.’
She sat down, smoothing her full skirt, her well-muscled bodyguard standing behind the chair, and looked at the abject young man kneeling before her. He was very tall and had large dark brown eyes, unusually for a redhead.
‘The Chief Inquisitor tells me that you are a Bellezzan,’ she said.
‘I am, Your Grace,’ he said.
‘And that you were willing to betray your city for money?’
Parola bowed his head and said nothing. He had no defence.
‘What do you think is the appropriate punishment for such a crime?’ asked the Duchessa.
‘Death!’ said the young man, looking up with eager, shining eyes. ‘I deserve to die for what I tried to do to you, milady. The only remission I would ask is that you should hear my story and forgive me before I die. I am truly sorry.’ And he wept, genuine tears of remorse.
Then he told her everything, the death of his mother, his brother’s debauchery, his father’s illness, his meeting with a schoolfriend, who just happened to know someone willing to pay good money to a man desperate enough to do anything.
‘You were no more than an instrum
ent,’ said the Duchessa, more kindly. ‘Just as much as that weapon you carried, you were guided by someone’s hand. Now, you have told the Inquisitor the name of the person who employed you.’
Parola nodded and would have spoken, but the Duchessa stopped him.
‘We will not say his name out loud. I know who it was. Now, it may suit my purpose better not to have a public trial, in which you and he are accused and convicted. I prefer to judge and sentence you here and now.’
‘Yes, milady,’ whispered Parola, not doubting that his last hour had come and that the Duchessa’s bodyguard would soon dispatch him with his sword. ‘Only say you forgive me and let me send word to my father before I die. Then let me make my confession to a priest, before your sentence is carried out.’
‘I do forgive you,’ said the Duchessa, smiling slightly behind her mask. ‘But it is not usual to go to confession before joining the Scuola Mandoliera. It’s not like becoming a knight you know.’
Parola looked up, confused. ‘You are releasing me, milady?’
‘Not exactly,’ said the Duchessa. ‘I am retaining you in my service. You will train at the Scuola and become one of my mandoliers – you aren’t over twenty-five, are you?’
Parola shook his head. ‘I am nineteen,’ he admitted.
‘Then it’s high time you had a respectable trade,’ said the Duchessa. ‘You can’t go round knifing people for a living.’
Lucien’s parents continued to behave mysteriously. Before going off to work, his dad gave him a wink as he hugged him and said, ‘See you tonight.’ The words and the hug were usual; the wink was not. His mother had an almost full day of lessons. But she said at breakfast, ‘I’m going to be very busy today, Lucien, but we’ll have a chance to talk at dinner.’
Talk about what, Lucien wondered, but he wasn’t bothered about being left to his own devices. He needed time to himself, to think and to doze. His mother was out most of the day but he wasn’t tempted to return to Bellezza and see what was happening there at night.