Sword of Shame (20 page)

Having dragged my feet as long as I could, I finally stood in the same doorway from where I had seen Caterina in Valier's embrace. This time, the window she had been looking out of was firmly shuttered, and the house showed even fewer signs of life than before. I sensed Malamocco fidgeting at my side, but still I couldn't stir myself. Finally he spoke.

‘Shall I knock?'

‘No, boy. There is no point–there's no one there I want to talk to.'

We slipped away into the darkness, and went where I should have gone to start with–Valier's family home. If he was hiding anywhere, it had to be behind the back of his father. The problem was, how was I going to flush him out? The squat palazzo had the appearance of a fortified castle, quite unlike the red-brick
elegance of the Palazzo Dolfin. It stood on the corner of the Grand Canal and one of the
rios
running off it. Thus on two sides it was virtually moated, and the water entrance looked as forbidding as the gateway to the Arsenal. It was only the fact that lights burned behind the shutters of the upper windows that confirmed for me that someone was in residence.

Malamocco sighed. ‘Jeez. Something's really spooked this Valier, eh?'

‘Spooked? What sort of talk is that?'

Malamocco snorted, and carefully explained what it meant in the gutter language he shared with his fellow beggars and thieves. It was almost like a foreign tongue. I liked the sound of it, and decided I would have to learn some of it too.

‘Yes, he has been…spooked. So we must winkle him out somehow.'

‘Leave it to me, boss. Wait here.'

So saying, the boy disappeared round the corner of the building at top speed. Curious, I didn't wait, but followed. When I turned the corner, he was nowhere to be seen. Until I felt something pattering down on my head from above. I looked up, and there was the rear end of Malamocco wriggling into an open upper window that I had hardly noticed on our reconnoitre of the place. I wanted to shout after him to take care, but I didn't want to rouse the occupants of the house to his presence either.

Malamocco, on the other hand, obviously did. I was suddenly aware of a crash of furniture and a great cry of indignation, followed by the thump of running feet. Two pairs, one lighter-footed than the other. The front door burst open, and the small figure of Malamocco appeared, a purse clutched in his hand. He was hotly pursued by a red-faced Pasquale Valier whose purse he had clearly lifted right from under his nose. As the boy
shot past me, I whipped my sword from its sheath, and used it to trip the unwary Valier. He sprawled at my feet, staring fearfully at the tip of the sword blade poking at his gut.

His cries were piteous as he grovelled in the dust, near pissing himself. ‘Oh, no. Please. Don't kill me, don't kill me.'

Then he looked up, and saw who it was wielding the sword. ‘Zuliani! What are you doing here?'

He cringed down on the beaten earth. If I hadn't been so angry and jealous, I would have felt sorry for him. Something, or someone, had scared him stiff. As Malamocco would say, he was well and truly spooked. I pulled him up by his arm, and pushed him inside before he could protest any more. Malamocco followed me in, slamming the door behind him. He smirked, and dropped the purse into the astonished Valier's palm.

‘Don't think I couldn't lift it without you knowing, pal. Ask Barratieri here. I done it to him.'

‘Barra…? Card-sharp?'

‘Never mind that, Pasquale. I'm not here to murder you, much as everyone seems to think otherwise.' I slid the sword back in its sheath. ‘Just to talk.'

If anything, Valier looked even sicker at the idea of talking to me than he had at the imminence of death. An elderly servant scuttled into the hallway from the rear of the house, enquiring if his master was all right.

‘Yes, yes, Pietro. Make yourself useful, and bring some wine.'

The servant hurried away, returning with a pitcher full of good red Malvasia. He poured two goblets, studiously avoiding Malamocco's outstretched hand. Valier seemed to be recovering his equanimity a little, but when he lifted the goblet of wine to his lips, I could see that his hand still trembled. Even though I felt like
skewering him on the end of my sword, I wanted to know why he had done what he had done to get me accused of murder. And to find out if he knew who was actually guilty of the deed. He was my last chance of proving my innocence. The trouble was, Valier was less scared of me than someone else, it seemed.

When I asked why he had set me up, he shook all over, setting the goblet of wine down on the table before he spilled it. ‘Don't ask, Nicolo. Please don't get me involved. I just did what I was asked.'

‘And what was that? Who asked you?'

‘They approached me through my father. He would do anything to stay in with those in power. He asked me to find someone a bit…well, dodgy…and wager that he couldn't rig the election for doge. I thought of you immediately.'

I didn't know whether to be flattered or outraged, but told him to go on.

‘That's all, really. Well, I was to introduce you to Lazzari also. That was part of it. I just thought they wanted to embroil Lazzari in a disreputable deal that would spoil his reputation. I didn't know he would end up dead.'

His eyes widened, staring at the sword that hung at my waist still. ‘Did you kill him?'

‘You know I didn't.'

He frowned, and that puzzled me. If he and Caterina had set me up by giving me the sword that was then identified as the murder weapon, why was he asking me if I was the murderer? Surely he knew I wasn't.

‘You and Caterina set me up. Who was it really killed Lazzari?'

‘Caterina? The Dolfin girl? Have you not spoken to her? She sent for me yesterday to find out where you were. Though why she should want to ask me, I have no idea. Anyway, I said I couldn't help, as you had gone
to ground after the murder. Probably had already fled Venice.' He frowned. ‘What has she got to do with the fix? I don't follow. And as for who killed Lazzari, I think it was the same man killed di Betto.'

As he spoke, Valier went ghostly pale, and stared over his shoulder, as though scared someone might be eavesdropping. He leaned forward, and clutched at the sleeve of my mantle.

‘Forget I said that, Zuliani, and get away. Just go.'

I grabbed his wrist, and twisted it hard. ‘Why should I? Who killed di Betto? Did you witness it? You did, didn't you?'

Valier jerked away from me, and vomited the wine in a thin, red spurt over the floor. He groaned, and wiped his mouth.

‘Yes, yes. OK, I wanted to be sure it was you killed Lazzari. Idle curiosity, really. Besides, the murder weapon would have been mine, if you had lost the wager. It would have been really something to have owned the sword that killed Domenico Lazzari. I wanted di Betto to tell me what he had seen. So I went to St Pantalon, and observed the family in prayer. When one of the congregation pointed out Lorenzo di Betto to me, I knew I had seen him before. At the swordsmith's who engraved the inscription on your blade. He had been there when I picked up the sword. As I observed him in the church, he was passed a message. It seemed to agitate him, and he ran from the church. I followed him out of…'

‘Idle curiosity,' I proferred, and he nodded.

‘God, I wish I hadn't.'

Valier paused, wiped his mouth again, and reached for his wine goblet. Malamocco filled it for him, and he drank deeply. ‘If only I hadn't seen what I did, I wouldn't be scared to set foot outside the door.'

It seems that Valier followed Lorenzo di Betto into
the gathering dusk of a Venetian evening. Mist was beginning to roll in from the lagoon, seeking its way like sensuously pliable fingers down the maze of canals. Di Betto's route was circuitous, but eventually came out at a dead end on the southern side of the Grand Canal opposite the Chiesa degli Scalzi. Here Valier thought he would be defeated in his pursuit of di Betto, for a ferryman holding a lantern stood waiting in a small boat. Di Betto got aboard, and was ferried across the broad waters of the canal. On the far bank, a tall, swarthy man appeared out of the shadow of the church. He strode forward, and despite di Betto appearing to be reluctant to step ashore, the man grabbed his arm and pulled him up on to the bank. Valier watched by the light of the lantern as the person di Betto was meeting apparently punched him in the chest. It was only when he pulled his fist back that Valier realized the man had stabbed him.

The ferryman turned his head, ignoring di Betto's cries of alarm, and poled rapidly away into the mist. So it was that Valier stood helplessly on the wrong bank as Lorenzo di Betto, already bleeding to death, had a cord pulled tight around his throat to finish him off. He could only watch as the life ebbed out of the unfortunate di Betto. Foolishly, Valier then cried out, and the assassin looked up, peering coldly across the stretch of water.

‘My life was only saved by the fact the ferryman had left,' muttered Valier, a shudder running through his entire body. He reached for the goblet again. I was beginning to feel very uneasy.

‘You say you saw di Betto's attacker clearly by the light of the ferryman's lantern. Describe him for me.'

Valier stared into the far distance as he spoke, conjuring up the terrifying features again. ‘He had long, black curly hair, and dark skin like a Dalmatian
pirate. I think there was some mark on his face, near his jaw. Like a scar or something. And he had a gold ring in his ear. I saw it sparkle in the light from the lamp.'

I sighed deeply. ‘I don't think you need to worry about encountering your assassin friend again. As long as he told no one about you seeing him kill di Betto–and I think his pride in his work probably meant he didn't–you are off the hook. He is no longer alive to hound you down.'

I explained to the wide-eyed Valier how I had been trapped under a bridge when the man he described had been murdered by a band of men I knew were the
Signori de Notte
. I left Valier to drown in his goblet, weak with relief that his life had been given back to him. But I was not so lucky. This was not sounding good to me. And I slunk back through the maze of streets, the fingers of mist curling round my soul, chilling it to the marrow. Malamocco followed in silence, and I think he had come to the same conclusion that I had.

It had been a set-up just as I had surmised. But it wasn't Valier and Caterina who had engineered it. And poor Lorenzo di Betto had been no more than a pawn that had been sacrificed in a much murkier power play. He had been persuaded, maybe with the lure of preferment for his family, to bear false witness against me. And then silenced by the same assassin who had no doubt killed Domenico Lazzari in the first place. Next, the assassin himself had been despatched to close the loop. Except there was still a loose end–apart from myself–and that was Lorenzo Gradenigo.

 

It was an easy matter to draw out Gradenigo–all I had to do was send a message anonymously disclosing my whereabouts. Malamocco said I was mad, and maybe I was. But I had to know why this disaster had
happened to me just when things had been looking up. So I sent the message, and prepared myself to face the
Signori di Notte
. I persuaded Malamocco that he had no place in this final confrontation, sending him away with a purse fuller than he might have ever hoped to steal. I have to admit I was a little disappointed when he didn't put up a fight. But I had also given him a document I wanted him to deliver to the offices of the
Quarantia
judges, stressing its urgency and importance.

After he had left, I had the house to myself for a while, and felt strangely calm. I put on my best clothes, bought with the proceeds of my
colleganza
, and only a little stained. Then set the sugar-loaf hat jauntily on my head, with the brim turned up. The Dolfin sword was comfortingly heavy at my waist. It may have got me into all this trouble, but I trusted it still to do its job.

When the hammering came at my uncle's door, I took my position at the top of the stairs, and called down. ‘The door is unbarred, Gradenigo.'

The big, burly figure of the chief of the
Signori
barrelled through the door, slamming each leaf back against the wall. He looked up, and his red lips curled into a sneer amidst the thick bush of his dense, black beard. I was pleased to see that his nose was still misaligned after our last encounter.

‘Well, well. I might have known you would be prepared for me, Zuliani. Are you going to come peaceably?'

‘And die with a dagger in my back like the Dalmatian assassin?'

Gradenigo's piggy eyes screwed up even smaller than usual, as he assessed how much I knew of his business. I decided to play a few cards.

‘Yes, I know all about him, and about di Betto too. How he perjured himself to put the fix in on me. And
died for it afterwards. Was my rigging of the election so important that these men had to die?'

Gradenigo had been sidling towards the bottom of the staircase, as I held my ground. However my last statement stopped him in his tracks. His lips curled again, and a deep rumble emanated from the depths of his chest. Disconcertingly, he was laughing.

‘Do you really think you are that important, Zuliani? Don't kid yourself. You were just a tool, easily used up and discarded. You were there to enmesh Lazzari in a scandal, and so explain away his murder. Neither you, nor di Betto, nor the assassin mattered one jot.'

My heart sank. It was what I had feared all along. And while I might have flattered myself by imagining all the intrigue was aimed at my demise, deep down I had guessed it was all about Domenico Lazzari. He had made enemies in high places. Particularly with the man who fancied himself as the next doge–Girolamo Fanesi. So the intrigue all came back to Fanesi, and I had no chance of proving my innocence against such a high-level conspiracy. And that was why I had sent Malamocco to the judges with a document faked to make it look like it had been Fanesi who had bribed me to get his name pulled out of the electoral jar courtesy of the tricksy Malamocco. He would deny it of course, but mud sticks–especially Venetian mud–and he would never be doge now. It was the best revenge I could expect out of a hopeless situation.