The Stargazer (35 page)

She spread her hands wide. “If that is the case, why are you hesitating? Why not let Roric kill him?”

“I would rather have the pleasure myself,” was Ian’s cool reply.

“Really?” Mora was momentarily caught off guard. She sat forward on the divan. “How would you do it?”

Ian’s eyes gleamed with an unholy excitement that sent a shiver down Mora’s spine. “I’ve just been considering it. Nothing crass like a simple stab in the heart. That would be too quick, unsatisfying.” Ian shook his head. “No, I was thinking of something slow and personal. I would begin, for example, by cutting through his right arm. It would be painful but not fatal, so he could have the thrill of watching while I did the rest. Then I would take this dagger,” Ian took the small knife from his waistband and held it up, “and use it to cut open his stomach and carve out his bowels. After that, I’d have to see.” Ian casually slipped the dagger back into his waistband, leaving the hilt clearly exposed and ready. “I could do it right here, although with the mess it is bound to make, it might be better to do it outside.”

Mora smiled slowly. Did he really think she would be that easy to deceive, that all he would have to do is persuade her to move Crispin’s execution onto her boat landing outside so he could escape? It was amusing, but also a tad insulting. She had hoped he thought better of her. And she certainly would not let him get away with it. “No, I shouldn’t like to stand outside in the rain, and I wouldn’t want to miss anything. By all means, proceed here. The servants will attend to the mess.”

Much to Mora’s dismay, Ian looked neither surprised nor crestfallen but rather pleased. He bowed deeply to her, then turned his back to the divan and approached his brother.

“Did you hear what I described,
fratello mio?
” he asked Crispin in his chilliest voice.

Roric was still holding Crispin’s arms behind his back, but on a command from Mora he had moved the knife away from the man’s neck. Crispin merely nodded, watching his brother for some sign that this was a joke, some hint that he was not actually planning to execute him in the grisly manner he had just described. Look though he might, Ian’s face remained an impenetrably stony mask.

But not his eyes. They held Crispin’s locked in a powerful unflinching gaze, even as Ian lifted his sword to sever his brother’s right arm. Crispin held his breath and waited stoically for the pain to follow the blow, steeling himself for it.

It didn’t come. All he felt was something warm and wet spilling onto the back of his neck. He was momentarily fascinated by the fact that he felt no pain from his wound, until he realized that it was not his blood he felt but Roric’s. Ian had brought his blade down on Roric’s shoulder, catching him unawares and causing the giant to loosen his grip on Crispin’s left arm, which was now free to take the dagger Ian had carefully placed within his reach moments earlier. Crispin took a deep breath and grabbed it.

He was overwhelmed with relief but even more with joy. “You don’t hate me?” he whispered breathlessly to his older brother, sounding like an insecure schoolboy rather than a man of twenty-nine. Ian made a mental note to spend some time, soon, describing how he had aged ten years in ten seconds when he saw Roric’s knife at Crispin’s throat, but for the time being he simply rolled his eyes at his brother. They had no time to lose, because, though Ian’s back was blocking her view, it was only a matter of seconds before Mora discovered what had happened.

“You take Angelo, and I—” were the only words Ian got out before Roric’s bellow of pain made the situation clear to the observers on the divan. Crispin wriggled free of the bloody giant’s body just before it collapsed to the ground, and was soon heading directly for Angelo. Ian had moved around Roric toward Jenö who, taken off guard, was too surprised to block Ian’s deep thrust at his abdomen. He doubled over with a groan, and Ian used the hilt of his sword to knock him on the head. Jenö teetered once, twice, then fell over sideways, completely unconscious.

Ian looked up in time to see Crispin seize Angelo at dagger point. Mora’s favorite was unarmed and put up little resistance as Crispin prodded him toward the outer door. Ian followed them, pausing only long enough to make sure Roric was truly unconscious and would not unexpectedly rise up behind them. As Ian neared the door, he heard his former mistress clapping behind him, undoubtedly her mocking tribute to his fine performance, which was fine with him, since he had won the day.

It was only when Crispin threw open the door to leave that Ian saw how wrong he was. There, blocking the way, were five giants, each one as large as Jenö, and all in armor.

“You did not really think I would let Angelo go that easily, did you?” Mora called from the couch. “I find I am rather enamored of him. He appreciates the honor of my affections. I am grateful for the diverting show you put on for me, it went exactly as I had planned, but now I am anxious to be on my way.”

Ian and Crispin were not only outnumbered, they were outweighed. They had no choice but to surrender their prisoner and their weapons to the new giants. Angelo strode casually back to the divan as if he had expected exactly this outcome, and resettled himself in the open arms of his mistress.

“Tie them up along the wall so they cannot escape,” she ordered the leader of the new giants. “But don’t hurt them. I want them to be able to hear me when I speak.”

“Since you are obviously planning to kill us,” Ian addressed Mora almost with impatience as one of the new guards attached the irons to his hands, “why don’t you just go ahead with it instead of boring us first?”

“Haven’t you been listening? But of course not, the great Ian Foscari is too preoccupied with his own thoughts, too selfish to pay attention to other people’s needs.” Mora addressed him in the tone of a strict mother. “If I had simply wanted to kill you, I would have done it hours ago, years ago even, instead of delaying my journey. No, I have many other tortures in store for you before you die. Merely putting you to death is not part of my plan.”

“I wish it were,” Ian said frankly, knowing he had nothing to lose. “Anything would be better than having to listen to your deranged chatter. Every moment you delay your departure increases your danger.”

Mora spoke sincerely, as if putting his fears to rest. “Your concern for my welfare moves me, but a slight delay will be well worth my while, I assure you.”

While she was speaking, the giant had hung Ian and Crispin above the ground, their manacled hands suspended by a chain from one of the iron rings in the wall usually used to hold torches. The position might have been less comfortable, Ian reasoned, though he could not actually imagine how as the sharp pains moved from his shoulders to his wrists. Maybe if the torches had also been in place, heating the metal links of the chains and dripping hot wax on his head… He had been in the middle of thinking of other potential tortures, trying to drown out Mora’s demented words, when something caught his ear.

She had returned her attention to Angelo, whom she was now addressing conspiratorially. “Shall we explain what we have prepared for your cousin? Don’t you think it will make the wait so much more exciting for them, to hear the clock ticking and think about her?” Her eyes were hooded as she ran her tongue over her lips on the word “exciting.” Angelo could only nod with expectation.

“What have you done to Bianca?” Ian demanded, suddenly unaware that he had arms, let alone arms that were being stretched like pieces of wet felt.

Mora drew two fingers along the sweep of Angelo’s shoulders. “It is not what I have done. It is what you have done. Or will do, to be more precise. You see, in exactly two and a half hours, when the clock in Piazza San Marco strikes twelve, the east wing of the Doge’s Palace will explode, and it will be your fault. You know the wing I mean, the one where Veronese has just been retouching paintings, the one where the notaries live, the one which contains—”

“The prisons!” Crispin interrupted her. “
Dio mio
, she will kill Bianca!”

Mora nodded and turned her gaze toward where he was suspended next to Ian. “Yes, exactly. Why were you always so much quicker to catch on than your brother?” She focused again on Ian. “But actually that is just the beginning. Shortly thereafter you, Ian, and the rest of your dear Arboretti will be denounced as traitors. Your arms negotiations with the Turks, culminating in a plot to blow up the Doge’s Palace, will be revealed.” She paused here, shaking her head back and forth with a short sigh. “But in your normal bumbling way, you will have missed and blown up only one corner, leaving plenty of barrels of your trademark gunpowder with the Arboretti name painted on them lying about. Your reputation, like your little slut, will go up in smoke. Should you try to get there to stop it, despite your bonds, your presence at the explosion will only confirm your guilt. As will a secret denunciation to be submitted tomorrow. The whole plan will go like clockwork. Clock-work indeed!” She smiled a half smile at Angelo as if they shared a private joke. Then she took a deep breath and resumed, her air distraught. “My only sadness is that I won’t be able to see what delightful tortures the Senate dreams up for traitors of your rank and station.”

Ian shuddered. It was a brilliant plan. Absent or present, his guilt would be manifest. And Bianca would be dead. “You seem to have this very well thought out,” Ian said through clenched teeth.

“You of all people should know how thorough I am.” Her thick black eyelashes raked him up and down. “It is a perfect plan, isn’t it?”

The question had been directed at Ian, but it was Crispin who spoke first, his voice tight with impatience. How could Ian sit or, rather, hang there making small talk with a maniacal murderess when all their lives hung in the balance? “Why are you doing this?” Crispin demanded brusquely. “Why are you punishing Bianca? What has she done to you? What have any of us done?”

Mora regarded him, wide-eyed with disbelief. “You dare to ask me that? What have you done?” Her hands left Angelo’s body and fluttered angrily toward the brothers, her gaze pinning Ian. “I gave up everything I had for him, lost everything I valued most. Tell him, Ian, how I waited upon you. Tell him how I fulfilled your every wish, attended to your every need.”

“That is not exactly how I recollect our arrangement,” Ian began dryly but was cut off.

“Listen to his selfishness and ingratitude. After all I endured from you! I sacrificed everything for you, my own happiness, the best years of my youth, even my one true love, and what did I get in return? Nothing.”

“By my calculations,” Ian computed, “you actually received about a million gold ducats, not to mention business tips worth twice that, as well as the house you live in now, your two custom gondolas, a dozen or more gowns, the string of rubies you are wearing, the matching earrings—”

Morgana sneered at his accounting, then made a wide arc with her hand. “What is all of that without true love? After years of deluding myself that you would grow to be a better man, a man capable of the love I deserved, I saw our relationship had to end. I tried to break things off amicably, but you would not let me.”

“That is strange, I thought it was I who tried to break things off because I did not love you.”

“You always were good at spinning little tales to bolster yourself, weren’t you, Ian?” Morgana interrupted him, then continued speaking before he had time to respond. “You pretended it was you who wanted to end the affair, but anyone could see the truth. Selfish and heedless of others, you were blind to what was going on around you, blind to my love for another and his deep, pure passion for me. I begged for release but you refused. Finally, I could no longer live in the prison of your affections. And yet, being kindhearted, I could not bear the thought of causing you pain. I wanted to spare you the agony of discovering, too late, how much you needed me, and the anguish of seeing me happy with someone else.”

“I assure you, you need not have concerned yourself,” Ian interjected, but Mora was too entranced by her narrative to take any notice.

“And then I saw the way, the way to free you from the dangerous passion you had for me. As my parting gift to you, I sent someone to Sicily to make sure you would never come back to Venice and have to see me in the arms of another.”

“What do you mean? Are you saying you sent someone to
assassinate
me?”

“Such an ugly word for my act of kindness. I was only trying to spare you, so I could lead my life without always having to worry about you and the misery I was inflicting on you. I went out of my way and spent piles of money to hire the most noted man in the profession, because I wanted to see that it was done properly. But even when I had only your welfare at heart, you could not let me have my way unfettered. Instead of you, they killed
him
, my beloved Christian, while you remained on the sidelines unharmed. Ungrateful of my kindness, you practically helped my paid assassins to butcher the man I loved.”

Ian’s face, already registering shock at her narrative, showed complete disbelief at the mention of Christian’s name. “Christian?” he spluttered.

“Yes, Christian. He and I were in love, true love. Something you could never understand.”

It took a moment for the pieces to slip into place. “Then you
planned
that? You were responsible for our attack…” Through the stinging of the chains that were boring into his wrists, he suddenly saw it all so clearly. For the first time everything that had happened in Sicily—the reluctance of the bandits to hurt him, his waking up unscathed in Messina—everything made sense. What did not make sense were the wounds he had allowed Mora to inflict upon him, wounds for which he had punished those around him.

He had known that Mora was selfish, had suspected that she was amoral, but he had failed to see how completely ruthless she could be. For her the poles of right and wrong were defined by what pleased and displeased her, what met with her wishes and what opposed them. Ian was staggered by how destructive this single-minded ruthlessness could be, and by how effectively he had allowed it to destroy his life and his happiness. But not any longer, he promised himself. Assuming he got out of there alive.