The Mirror Thief(165)

Bells are ringing; he loses count. It must be quite late in the day. Obizzo, he thinks. There isn’t much time left.

On his way out, he ducks into the parlor—unusually crowded—and finds Anzolo by the door to the kitchen. Good day, messer, he says. Did the item—

Ah! Good day, dottore!

Anzolo sweeps forward with a theatrical solicitousness that’s entirely unlike him, and claps Crivano on the shoulders. I am greatly pleased to see you, dottore, he says. But I confess I’d hoped you’d arise a bit later. Knowing of your fondness for lamprey, I had intended to send my girl to the fishmarket this morning, but in my carelessness I forgot until only now.

Crivano is nonplussed: he detests lamprey. I beg your pardon, he says. I don’t believe I requested—

Dottore, a valued guest like yourself should not have to make such requests. You have my apologies. We shall have lamprey for you tomorrow, I hope. Today a very fine turbot will emerge soon from our oven, and I hope you will flatter me by eating some of it before you depart.

Anzolo has a tight grip on his upper arms, restraining him from turning toward the exit. Crivano feels his skin flush, his lip curl with displeasure. A moment ago he’d simply sought to inquire after the parcel he sent to Trist?o; now reflex moves his fingers along his walkingstick’s shaft, preparing to thump this fool in the sternum. He opens his mouth again to protest.

Please, dottore, Anzolo says. I insist.

The innkeeper’s face is garlanded with a beatific smile, but his eyes are fierce—and, Crivano now sees, frightened. The color that rushed to Crivano’s cheek an instant ago now flees; hairs stiffen on his arms and his nape. Of course, he says. Thank you.

A new voice comes from behind him, not a voice he knows: Will you join me, dottore?

Anzolo’s fingers loosen and fall away. Crivano turns.

A compact and sinewy man has risen from his seat at the corner table; he salutes with a raised hand. His garments are simple, grays and blacks, but of good fabric. His several rings and silver pendant put him at the uneasy margin of the sumptuary laws—unless he’s a citizen, or a noble, which Crivano very much doubts. The cut of his hair and beard suggests Spain. His loose bearing recalls the battlefield.

I have just finished my own meal, the man says, and now find that I have nothing better to do on this fine summer day than to sit in this parlor and broaden my association. Shameful to be so idle, I suppose. But gregariousness can be its own species of industry, don’t you agree, dottore? Please. Sit.

His jeweled hand drops to indicate the chair before him. The lace curtains behind him move in a breeze—swaying in unison as if linked by a thread of spidersilk—then sag again, inert. Through the windows, under the awning of a joiner’s shop across the street, Crivano spots two loitering figures; both wear new cloaks of like provenance, though of differing hue. The man at the corner table also wears such a cloak, and has opted not to surrender it to the parlor closet, although the weather is quite warm. As Crivano watches, one of the men across the street shifts and turns, revealing a single rolling eye, a dark hole of a mouth, a confusion of scars from chin to forehead, ear to ear. It’s the bravo he saw yesterday morning on the Mercerie, by Ciotti’s shop. Crivano takes a long slow breath, tightens his sphincter so as not to shit himself.

I don’t believe I know you, sir, he says.

As yet, the man replies with a bow, you do not. I’m called Lunardo.

Vettor Crivano, Crivano says.

Yes, dottore. I know.

Lunardo points to the chair again, raising his eyebrows good-humoredly. Crivano smiles. He has his walkingstick, and the stiletto in his boot. There will be more of these men—outside, and also in here, at other tables. If the White Eagle has a rear entrance he doesn’t know where it is; he should have checked.

He steps forward and sits. Lunardo settles into his own chair. The three men at the next table aren’t wearing cloaks, but Crivano can feel their eyes follow him. Six bravi, then. More?

Who are you? Crivano says. What do you want?

I am only a proud resident of the Rialto, Lunardo says, concerned for the security of my neighborhood. I have a few questions for you, dottore. Very simple questions.

Sbirri, Crivano thinks. In the employ of the Council of Ten. That’s good. Were they assassins, they probably would have cut him down last night in the streets. How long have they been watching him? How much have they seen? The girl he brought here? Perina at the convent? Serena at his factory? When he first saw these men on the Mercerie, were they following him, or Narkis? What snares does he now step among?

Ask what you will, Crivano says.

I shall. Where is your home, dottore?

I have come only recently to the city from Bologna. Until I establish myself, this locanda is my home.

You were a student in Bologna?

That’s right.

And before Bologna, Lunardo says, where was your home?

Surely you know all of this. Come to your point, please.

Lunardo smiles. Where do you hear the Mass?

Crivano furrows his brow. San Cassian, most recently, he says. Also San Aponal. Why?

Do you know Lord Andrea Morosini? Or his brother, Lord Nicolò? They keep a house on the right bank of the Grand Canal.

Crivano scans Lunardo’s face before he answers. The man’s eyes are bright and quick, his mien that of a cunning animal, inventive at feeding itself.

The Morosini house, Crivano says, is on the left bank. I was there two nights ago. I met both brothers at that time.