They will return soon, Narkis says. With more men. They know that we have come here.
Is there another way out?
There is. A moment, please.
Narkis’s face is slack with weariness, or disappointment, or grief. Crivano has never learned how old he is; at this moment he looks very old. What about you? Crivano says. Where can you go?
Vacant buildings, Narkis says. Since I do not speak the local language well, it will be difficult for me to arrange passage from the city. Perhaps I will hide myself among the Greeks and escape to Dalmatia on one of their boats.
What happened to your head, Narkis?
Narkis looks up, touches his cheek, looks at his fingers. This? he says. This is nothing. A group of boys throwing stones. They were trying to knock off my turban, I think. It happens often enough. They meant no real harm.
Crivano watches him with a mixture of sorrow and revulsion. Millennial fervor abounds in Muslim lands this year, the thousandth year of the Hegira, but it has never occurred to Crivano that Narkis might be susceptible to it. He remembers something Tristão said about the Nolan, about how he’d been searching the courts of Christendom for a philosopher-king to instruct. Perhaps he should have traveled farther east. What produces credulous fools like these?
He remembers something else. Might not Tristão be in danger? he says.
Who?
Dottore de Nis. How much does he know of our plot?
Narkis’s eyes narrow in the dark; the hint of a furrow appears on his smooth brow. I know of no one by that name, he says.
Of course you do. The Portuguese alchemist. The converso. When you and I met in Ravenna, you instructed me specifically to seek him out. You said that his activities could serve as a blind for our own conspiracy. Like the gecko who drops his tail, you said. You must remember.
Narkis offers a tentative nod. Yes, he says. I suppose I do. His name came to me from the haseki sultan, by way of her lady-in-waiting. My recollection is faint, I confess. My attention has since been directed to other matters.
But you must know him, Crivano persists. He arranged our meeting at the bookshop. He introduced me to Ciotti. He suggested you as a translator. I’m sure I saw sbirri watching us when we left Minerva, so I thought that surely—
Crivano’s voice trails off. The crease in Narkis’s brow deepens, stretching his skin, reopening his cut, but now his eyes are wide. My summons came from the bookseller himself, he says. I have never met the person of whom you speak.
The scrape of a boot echoes from the far terminus of the sottoportego; a half-hooded lantern glints along its slick wall. Crivano can hear gruff whispers. They’re coming, he says.
Narkis has moved to the corner of the corte almost before Crivano has turned around. A thick piece of pinewood is propped against the wall there; Narkis climbs it to grab a loop of rope that dangles from a narrow window, then squeezes inside as Crivano pushes his feet from below. Crivano hands Narkis his walkingstick and ascends, planting a toe on the cracked dentil molding long enough to kick the wood aside, dragging himself through the window as Narkis pulls him by the arms. Shouts from the sottoportego, and a bobbing light: the sbirri must have heard the pinewood fall. Crivano pulls up the loop of rope after himself.
They’re in a dark and musty storeroom, cluttered with empty and broken crates; many are rotten, fuzzed with moss. Soft footfalls come from overhead. Someone is upstairs, Crivano whispers.
Narkis waves a hand, as if this is no concern, and steps out of the moonlight. Crivano takes hold of his sleeve to follow him. They emerge in a hallway, which leads in turn to an ancient staircase; as they descend, it groans menacingly under their weight. Narkis leads him to a heavy door, then stops, his hand on the bolt. They must be near the street now; Crivano hears strident commands, heavy boots on pavingstones.
Beyond this door, Narkis says, is a storefront. The shopkeeper and his family are upstairs; they will be down soon when they hear it open, so you must be quick.
You aren’t coming with me?
Narkis shakes his head with grim impatience. Walk through, he says, and then unbolt the door to the street. Go back to your inn, collect your possessions, and go to the senator’s house.
Where will I be when I come out?
In the Campiello del Sale. Do you know where that is?
Of course. Where are you going to go? You can’t stay here.
Narkis doesn’t answer. With some effort, he throws the bolt and casts the large door open. The storefront is lit through its slatted shutters by the lantern of the locanda next door. For an instant, Crivano can see Narkis’s face: haggard with anguish, his eyes brightened by tears. Then Narkis shoves him through, and the door slams behind him.
Loud voices from above, and rapid steps: soft at first, then, after a pause, boot-shod. Crivano vaults the counter, crosses the room, unbolts the door. He peeks through the crack — the campiello looks clear — and slips out. But the moment his feet touch the flagstones, a pair of sbirri enter from the north, on the very street he’d planned to take; he turns left, makes the corner before they spot him. Something different about these two. Walking together. Both wearing sidearms. Hunting, not following.
He’s soon in the Campo San Aponal again — a group of young nobles is gathered before the church, grousing about the lack of linkboys — and from there he takes a back route to the White Eagle over the Slaughterhouse Bridge Canal. Along the way, he passes a pair of watchmen from the Ministry of Night, drinking cups of wine in a casino with its shutters still open. They don’t seem intent on resuming their rounds anytime soon. Tonight they’ve ceded their streets to the sbirri.
He expects cloaked swordsmen at the locanda’s door, or in the parlor, but there’s no one to be seen aside from one of the Friulian girls, who scurries away in evident terror as soon as Crivano appears. He pays her no mind, rushes upstairs, bursts into his room, bolts the door. Then he turns to survey the damage done to his things.
His things are gone. The sbirri must have confiscated them. The message pinned to the curtain is gone, too. Who found it first?
He nearly collides with Anzolo on his way to the street. Dottore! Anzolo hisses, and shoves him backward, down a corridor, into the kitchen, out of sight. They’re out there now, Anzolo says. It’s very bad, dottore. They’re everywhere, and they’re all armed. Wait here until the street clears, then go to the Contarini house at once.
Did the boy find you?
Yes, dottore. He did.
And the gondolier, did you find him?
I did. I gave him your message. Let me check the street for you. I’ll tell you when it’s safe.
Yes. Thank you, Anzolo. Oh — my items: my box and my trunk. Do you know where they took them?
Anzolo stops in the doorframe. Where who took them, dottore?
The sbirri. Didn’t the sbirri seize them?
Bafflement settles on Anzolo’s face. I thought you took them, he says. I thought you had them sent to the Contarini house.
But I’ve just now come for them. I didn’t send for them. Who took them away?
I–I wasn’t here at the time. I was on the Riva del Fabbriche, seeking out your gondolier. Agnesina was here. Agnesina!
He calls the girl’s name several times, but she does not appear. They find her in a storeroom, hidden behind a stack of boxes: the one who fled when Crivano arrived.
Agnesina! What’s the matter? What’s come over you?
Young woman, Crivano says, what became of my trunk, and my box?
The girl recoils into the corner, making an elaborate gesture with her hands. The gesture is familiar, though Crivano can’t place it. Her eyes are vast and terrified. Hairs bristle on Crivano’s neck.
Agnesina! Anzolo thunders. Answer the dottore! Who took his things?