Tallow (26 page)

DEATH DESCENDED UPON THE CITY
.

After the warning was issued, there was a brief moment of silence before mayhem erupted. Terrified people rushed to stockpile supplies for the days or weeks ahead. Those who could afford to left the city, and their carts rumbled through the salizzada and along the calles. The canals were cluttered with sandolis, traghettos and gondolas, all laden with people and their chattels. They were headed for the supposed safety of the mainland settlement near the Limen, where many believed the clean air of the farmlands and mountains would ward off the mystery sickness. Nobiles, their families in tow, departed in their ships, leaving their casas in the care of their servants. Even the Doge sought shelter in the bucintoro, his huge ceremonial ship. It was rowed into the middle of the lagoon and anchored.

With the Doge fleeing, the padres could no longer reassure those who remained. Panic took over. Doors and windows were shuttered; folk withdrew.

It took less than three days for the sickly smell of death to begin to linger in the air. Smoke obscured the skyline as the houses of the dead were put to the torch, the controlled burning adding to the heat and claustrophobic feel of the city.

An unearthly quiet lay like a thick blanket over the region, all but smothering the distant cries – cries that indicated someone else had succumbed to the illness. The authorities might not have officially declared it a plague, but everyone treated it that way. Rumours about its sudden arrival and possible origins spread quickly and dominated the conversations that still took place through walls and over rooftops. No-one could make sense of it – there were no signs, no warnings, just a rapid change in a person's breathing and the colour of their skin, followed by a ghastly death. It had even been given a name, the Morto Assiderato – 'frozen to death'.

Tallow couldn't bear it, this morbid waiting game. For that's what it was. Like one of the Doge's lotteries, the sickness would either arrive at your door or bypass it. No-one could prevent it. They were all, regardless of beliefs or attitude, potential victims.

Forbidden from using her talents, but unable to sit in the kitchen and watch Quinn downing mug after mug of vino or Pillar clutching his talisman while muttering prayers under his breath, Tallow fled to the rooftop. Day after day she sat in any patches of shade she could find, whispering to Cane, listening to the talk of their neighbours carrying over the walls, planning what she would do when this was all over and she could see Dante again.

At least she could breathe on the roof, even if the air was tainted with the fetid breath of death and decay. It wasn't as cloying as listening to Quinn's dire predictions. Up there she had a sense of freedom and choice, as false as it was.

Tallow huddled against the sides of the rooftop one morning, gazing over the city. She absent-mindedly stroked Cane, her fingers pulling the knots out of his fur. He lay at her feet and panted. Though the sun was not long over the horizon, it was already hot. Distant steeples shimmered in the growing haze. The plague thrived in heat – she'd heard Quinn say it. Would this disease, brought in as it was by the cold, do so as well? As if in answer to her thoughts, another cry sounded, a long, plaintive wail followed by angry outbursts loud enough for her to hear every utterance.

'Carlo, no! God, no! Spare him, please!'

The cry was soon joined by other voices.

Tallow's heart contracted. She knew little Carlo, the butcher's boy. No more than five years old, he used to skip stones along the canal.

It had taken less than a week for the sickness to reach her street. It spread by unnatural and malicious means and there was nothing she could do about it, no-one she could tell.

Irrespective of the heat, she pulled Cane into her lap and held him close.

When Pillar found her a few minutes later, she hadn't moved.

'Tallow!' called Pillar from the trapdoor. He looked around the roof, as if afraid the disease might suddenly crawl over the ledge and claim him. 'Mamma and I think you should come inside now.'

Tallow raised her head. 'Why? So it doesn't get me?'

'Tallow,' he pleaded.

She sighed and letting go of Cane, rose to her feet, brushing her trousers. Another wail sounded.

'Carlo –' Tallow began, glancing over the ledge. Four houses away; only twenty people between them and death.

'We heard,' said Pillar gravely. 'The dottore tells us that so far, seventeen people in the quartiere have died. Ten times that many have been struck down in this sestiere. Carlo is simply another.' He shook his head sadly.

Tallow was shocked by how quickly the disease spread. Each day, the toll doubled. 'That many already,' she whispered, looking down onto the fondamenta. How many had the ghostly beings touched?

'And more to come, I'm afraid. Come on. Let's get you inside.'

Every night, the local dottore, wearing his hawk-like mask and accompanied by two young padres from the seminary, would knock at each house in the quartiere to ask how the residents were faring. He would offer herbs and potions that everyone knew were ineffective, but most took anyway. It was the dottore who knew who had succumbed and who hadn't. Those with illness in the house woke the next day to find their front door marked with a red cross.

The sign of death.

Until now, there had been no marks on the doors along their canal, but that was about to change. Soon, the sexton would stride past Carlo's home and utter his sunset command:
Bring out your dead.
Tallow couldn't accept that. She wouldn't.

'Pillar –' Tallow began, pausing beside him at the trapdoor. 'Can't
I
do something?'

'No, Tallow,' said Pillar firmly, recognising the determined jut of her chin. He pushed her through the door and followed her down the stairs. 'It's too late for that. You can't risk leaving the house. And anyway, you're not a dottore. How could you help?'

Tallow shrugged. 'I don't know. I just feel I could do something – anything rather than sitting here listening to the ever-growing tally of the sick and dying. You've heard them – this sickness isn't natural. Maybe, with my ... talents ...' She waved her hands around in frustration. 'I can't stand it, not knowing if or when.' She flopped onto her bed. Visions of grey arms and mouths hovered in her mind's eye.

Pillar hesitated. 'Tallow ...' She turned her head to look at him. 'There is something I think you should know.'

Tallow pushed her glasses onto the bridge of her nose. 'Yes?'

Pillar swallowed, summoning his courage. He'd kept the news to himself since last night and wasn't sure how to share it. But he wanted to tell Tallow before his mother did. 'It's about the Chandlers Quartiere.'

She sat bolt upright. 'Yes?'

'You were already in bed when the dottore came last night. He told us that he'd heard it has been hit very hard. Entire calles have been wiped out – everyone. Only a few people have survived. And they don't hold out much hope for them.'

'Dante –' Tallow's mind filled with dark images. Her eyes burnt and her throat grew dry.

Pillar shrugged. 'I asked about him. But the dottore didn't know. How could he? There are too many, too many.' He shook his head sorrowfully.

Not Dante, please, God, not Dante. Spare him.
She sounded like Carlo's mother and the other voices she'd heard – pleading, promising. She blinked away her tears. 'We'll be all right, won't we Pillar? Dante will be all right, won't he?'

'I won't lie to you, Tallow,' he said. 'This is not like anything we've ever experienced before. I honestly don't know.'

Cane looked at them both and, throwing back his shaggy head, howled.

LATER THAT NIGHT, AFTER A
frugal supper of cheese and bread, Tallow lay on her bed, her arms folded under her head. The dottore had called and, officially, the dead in their area now numbered fifty-two. Unbeknownst to Pillar or Quinn, she'd crept out on the rooftop and watched as a rickety old cart rumbled its way down the cobbles, halting outside each marked door. Since morning, five red crosses had been drawn on doors in their part of the fondamenta alone. A man with his mouth and nose bound tightly in a dirty grey cloth had ordered the two men pulling the cart to stop and rapped sharply on the marked doors with a thick stick. Relatives had carried out small and large bundles and thrown them onto the wagon before falling into each other's arms, weeping uncontrollably. Regardless of size, the bodies had landed with dull thuds, their fall broken by a layer of other dead. Tallow had seen the little votive candles their relatives held aloft, a last offering to their loved ones.

Her thoughts turned to Dante. Was that to be his fate? Tossed out like old baggage. Dying, dead, with no-one to perform last rites.

Or, what if he was alive? What then?

She sat up.

Regardless of the danger, she had to know.

Pulling on her boots, she thought of Pillar's warning. He'd told her not to do anything; that she couldn't help. Well, he was wrong. She
could.
She could find out what had happened to her friend.

For just a moment, uncertainty pricked at her resolve. What if she contracted the Morto Assiderato? What if she brought it back into their home, a home that had so far been spared? But the disease wasn't contagious like everyone believed. She knew the real reason the people of Serenissima were dying. She'd seen them infected with her own eyes – brushed imperceptibly, violated by some invisible malice. And those who were touched were – whether it was in hours or weeks – doomed to die.

But why had the creatures come? For what purpose? Tallow had no answers. All she cared about was one person and his fate.

Tallow pressed her ear to the floor. Quiet snores were all she heard. Giving Cane's coat a last ruffle, she slid up the stairs, out the door and over the roof.

I COULDN'T BELIEVE THE NUMBER
of doors I saw bearing the symbol of the Morto Assiderato. Everywhere I turned the sign of the cross had been hastily slashed, the red paint so fresh it bled in rivulets down the wooden cracks.

I expected the calles to be empty, but there were people everywhere. Mostly silent, they scurried about, gathering scraps of information, sharing a quiet drink on doorsteps and watching me suspiciously over their shoulders. Down one of the rami I saw people raiding the homes of those who had died. I wondered at the desperation that led them to take what many believed were potentially contagious objects. Like war, disease – a reminder of one's own mortality – did strange things to people.

A sexton's wagon rumbled through the piazzetta. I held my nose as it passed, stiff blue-white limbs protruding at unyielding angles through the sides of the cart. I shuddered and quickened my step.

Beyond the basilica, I thought I saw a movement in the shadows. I paused and held my breath, slowly scanning every corner and overhang. Memories of the grey wraiths still haunted me. What if they returned to inflict more heartache and loss? What if they touched me? I spun on my heels at a slight whooshing noise behind me. But there was nothing there – at least, nothing I could see. It was probably a bat or an owl. I reassured myself that the unnatural, whispering cold that had signalled the presence of the mistral beings was absent, and continued on my way.

It didn't take me long to reach Dante's calle. I ran along the cobbles, horrified to see that every door was scarred by the now-familiar carmine sign. Some were shut to the street, others hung askew on broken hinges, their dark maws reeking. Many of the shops had broken windows and, by the dim light, I could see the shelves had been stripped bare. All exuded a pungent, heavy smell. My stomach protested.

I covered my mouth and nose and hurried towards Dante's shop. I was so terribly afraid of what I would find. I stopped outside the house next to it and tried to compose myself.

Slowly, I gathered my courage and with heavy steps walked past the shop window. It, at least, was intact. I paused, willing myself to look up at the door.

There was no mark. No sign.

The knots in my shoulders relaxed. I fought back a sob of relief.

I pounded on the door. 'Dante!' I cried. 'It's me. Open up!'

I waited a moment. There was no answer. From somewhere in the darkness, a cat let out a pitiful mew. A dog began barking. I pressed my face against the glass. All I could see was the dusky interior.

I kicked the door and shouted. 'Dante! Are you there? Answer me – please!'

A window above me flew open and a head popped out.

'We can't help you. Go away!'

It was Dante's Zia Gaia. Her hair was in disarray and her face pale.

'Wait!' I cried as she began to shut the window. 'It's me, Tallow.'

'Tallow?' The echo came from behind her.

My heart soared.

It was the voice I needed to hear. Dante squeezed in beside his aunt and looked down onto the street. 'Tallow? What in God's name are you doing here? Is everything all right?'

'Dante!' My relief was overwhelming. He looked thinner but seemed to bear no sign of illness. Then I saw the dark humour in his question. 'How can you ask me that? Of course everything's not all right.' I threw my arms out wide, gesturing up and down the calle.

Dante made a funny noise that could have been mirth or sorrow.

'But it is, now I know you're alive,' I added.

It took him a moment to respond. Zia Gaia put an arm around him and squeezed him close. 'Yes, I am. Thanks to you,' he said.

'Me? What are you talking about?' The little warning voice inside my head began to murmur.

'It's those candles you gave us,' said his aunt, her voice quavering. 'I swear you are our angel.'

'How's your grandfather?' I asked, desperate to change the subject.

'The illness has infected us all and yet you remember to ask after Grandfather.' Dante shook his head in amazement. 'He's fine. He's recovered. I burnt the candles you left by his bed and within hours he was eating and sleeping without fever.'

'It was a miracle.' Zia Gaia stared at me in awe.

I shifted awkwardly under her gaze. 'No, it wasn't. Not really.'

'Oh yes, it was,' she insisted. 'You don't understand. When we saw what the candles had done for Father and heard that this sickness had come to Serenissima, we burnt them some more. And we prayed. Night and day, we prayed. Our prayers were answered. The disease passed over us. It spared us when, like our neighbours –' Her voice broke. 'We should have been taken.'

'Perhaps it was your prayers?' I offered.

'No, God wasn't listening. The good people around here prayed as well. If it was only prayers that spared us, then they would have been saved, too. God did not save us. It was the candles,
your
candles, Tallow. They're our salvation.
You
are our salvation. We owe you our lives.'

The moonlight touched her face, revealing the earnestness of her expression. 'Thank you, young Tallow. Thank you. I don't know what you're doing here, but it's not safe. I cannot let you in. If the soldiers found out that I admitted someone from out of the quartiere, we would be severely punished. I hope you'll forgive me, as good as you have been to us, for I do not want to jeopardise the family further. Can you understand?'

'Yes. It's all right. I understand. I just wanted to find out how Dante was. How you all were.'

'I'm fine, Tallow. Really.' He withdrew for a moment and spoke quietly to his aunt.

'Very well,' I heard her say. 'But don't be long.' Her head reappeared. 'Goodbye, Tallow,' she said and, with a wave of her hand, disappeared.

Dante stuck his head back out and put a finger to his lips. He turned slightly and I knew he was waiting until his aunt was out of hearing.

'What are you really doing here, Tallow?' he asked.

'I told you. I wanted to make sure you were all right.'

There was a moment of silence.

I cleared my throat. 'We heard that lots of people had died and I couldn't bear not knowing – if you ... if your family ... you know.'

'I know,' he said quietly. I could feel his eyes upon me. 'And you? You're well?'

'So far. We all are. But our neighbours –' I shook my head. 'When is it going to end?' I looked up and down the calle at the deserted houses and shops, newly created memorials to the dead.

'Tallow,' said Dante after a moment. He leant out the window as far as he dared. 'What did you do?'

'What do you mean?' I stalled.

'Zia Gaia's right. There was something in the candles – something that saved us. I could feel it. It reminded me of what you did that time to Cane, except this time there was also a beautiful perfume.'

I shook my head. 'No. You're mistaken. You were just lucky, that's all.'

'Lucky to know you,' said Dante. 'Don't tell me if you don't want to, but I know what I know. You saved my life – my family's lives – with your candles. I owe you, Tallow.'

'No, no you don't,' I said quickly. 'Please, just be my friend.'

Dante smiled and I could see some of his old self return. 'You don't have to ask me to be what I already am ... always. For eternity.'

'Dante!' called Aunt Gaia.

'Better go,' he said, glancing over his shoulder. 'Coming!' He turned and smiled down on me. 'When this is over –'

'Yes, I'll be there,' I said and watched while he closed the shutters and shut the window.
For eternity.

I let out a long sigh, releasing all my pent-up anxiety of the last few days. Dante was all right. His grandfather and great-aunt were, too. And they believed it was the candles. With questions dancing in my head, I made my way back to the Candlemakers Quartiere.

When I reached the salizzada, many of the doors there had been spared the virulent red mark. Francesca and Giuseppe's door was clear, as was Roberto the tailor's and Giovanni the baker's. To my dismay, everyone I'd witnessed being touched by those ghastly wraiths had been infected. I prayed for their souls – what else could I do?

It was then that something occurred to me. Those whose households didn't bear the mark had purchased candles from us the day the outbreak was declared – the day after I distilled the candles for Dante.

I turned into the fondamenta. The crosses on the doors glared accusingly at me. Most of our neighbours hadn't purchased from us because they were candlemakers, too. They made their own light.

Or was this just a coincidence?

In the life of an Estrattore, there's no such thing as coincidence.

Katina was right. This was no coincidence. Somehow, I'd created an extraction and distillation so powerful that it stopped the disease in its tracks – held death at bay.

Perhaps it wasn't too late to save our neighbours.

I broke into a run.

I burst into the workshop and began searching frantically through every box, every trough, looking for stumps, leftovers, anything that might contain some of my last distillation. But Pillar had done a good job of cleaning. There was nothing. Not a scrap of tallow or wax; not a thread of wick.

Then I remembered Quinn's box of remnants. I flew into the shop and dragged the box out from under the counter. At least a dozen bits of broken tapers and one cracked pillar candle stared back at me. I let out a whoop of joy. Grabbing one, I ran back into the workshop and lit it. The aroma was rich, heady, invigorating. Tiredness fled my bones; my concerns disappeared with each inhalation. Energy began to replace the lethargy and depression that had dogged my last week.

I stared closely at the candle and saw it was surrounded by a golden nimbus. Dante and Zia Gaia were correct, it
was
the candles! Now, all I had to do was melt down the remnants, make lots of tiny votives and deliver them to as many houses as I –

'Tallow, what are you doing?'

I let out a squeal of fright. I'd become so lost in my plans, I hadn't heard Pillar come down the stairs. He leant wearily against the workshop doorway.

'Pillar!' I cried. 'You're not going to believe this. But I know a way to prevent the disease from spreading!'

'What are you talking about?' Pillar shuffled into the workshop. 'The Morto Assiderato can't be prevented any more than it can be ... oh.' His face changed as he caught a whiff of the candle.

'See?' I said quietly, watching the exhaustion and worry slough off him. 'I didn't realise that my last distillation had been so strong.'

'Your last one?' asked Pillar. 'But this is a remnant from the batch
I
poured. I tested those and they smelled nothing like this. They certainly didn't have this effect.' He stretched as he spoke and smiled. 'We wouldn't have let them out of the shop if they had.'

Guiltily, I explained what I had done. How, without breaking my promise, I nonetheless had made one last distillation, one that I knew Pillar would never approve, and then taken the candles to Dante.

'And see, they worked.' The words spilt from me. 'But not in a way that I ever thought possible. Why, Dante says that his grandfather is fine and they –'

'Dante?' said Pillar, his tone changing.

I cursed myself for a fool.

He took in the sweat that dotted my forehead, the soot and dirt that streaked my face. 'Oh, Tallow, please don't tell me you went to the Chandlers Quartiere.' The expression on Pillar's face was terrible to behold. He began to back away from me.

'Only for a while. But it's all right –'

Before I could explain, there was a scream from the door. Quinn burst into the workshop. I spun around just as the broach she'd raised above her head slammed into my cheek and I heard a sickening crack. Pain shot through my head. Blood gushed from my nose and into my mouth. I held up my hands to protect myself as she raised the broach again. But she threw it to one side, knocking over the candle, staunching its tiny flame.

'You stupid, feckless little bastard. You went to the Chandlers Quartiere and you came back. You've brought the Morto into the house! You've brought the Morto Assiderato here. Now we're all going to die!' she screamed.

'No,' I coughed, and shook my head. Blood splattered on the floor. 'Please listen to me. This isn't a normal sickness, it isn't spread the way you think. We're not going to die if –'

'Not before you, I won't,' she shouted. 'Even if I have to kill you myself! You stupid, ignorant child!' She pushed me so hard, I fell against a vat and then onto the floor. She rushed at me and began kicking and punching.

Behind her, I could see Pillar.

'Pillar!' I pleaded. 'Please –'

But Pillar just stood there, his arms folded. I could even see the tears that filled his eyes. That was, until he turned around and, without a word, left the workshop.

The first few kicks hurt the most.

After that, I don't remember.