Episode 6: Venice - Part 5: Following a Lead

Episode Six: Venice

Part Five: Following a Lead

The building Domitian has brought me to, I learn immediately after entering, is an opulent inn. I'm trying not to roll my eyes at the finery – the Romanesque columns, paintings, sculptures, vases, et cetera, which decorate the open, high-ceilinged entrance hall – because I'm being watched.

There's a girl behind a desk. Waiting, no doubt, for me to tell her what a vagabond-looking asshole like me is doing in her inn. I turn my attention to her, crossing the ten paces between us. She is pretty – exceptionally pretty, actually. And young – maybe sixteen. Her hair and face are clean, and her dress, while simple, is clean and blue. Expensive.

What sort of inn have I found myself in?

I smile at her greeting, leaning into her desk with my hip.

“What brings you today, Mister...?”

Her voice is clear, bright, pleasant, and, above all, professional. This place isn't hers – or her family's. She's an employee. This is potentially much better – for me. Servants and employees know as much of what is going on in their establishments as owner-operators, but are significantly less invested in minutia – like rules about letting strange men into paying women's rooms. Then it occurs to me and I have to work to constrain an irritated seizure of my face: that little motherfucker, Domitian, took the coin I might have used to bribe this girl!

“I'm looking for a friend,” I say, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “She told me I could find her here. And—“ I look over both of my shoulders. “She said no names. Wouldn't want her husband finding out.” I wink and give her my most wolfish half-grin.

A blush fills her cheeks. “Right, Mister— Sir. We pride ourselves in our discretion, here. What did you say her name was?”

“Peitho. Her name is Peitho.”

Two things occur to me as I'm answering this: I have given exactly no thought to what I'm doing here, why I've come, or what I'm going to do if peitho actually is staying here; and what do I have to trade with this girl that will thank her for her help, but, more imporantly, keep her quiet?

The girl frowns and looks down into the ledger before her. I shove my hands into my pockets. A coin that hadn't been there before greet my fingers. It seems that Domitian is, at least, a considerate thief. Before the girl can tell me that no one by that name is staying there, I describe Peitho to her.

Turns out Domitian isn't the only person who knew her by her clothes.

“Oh. I remember her. Yes. She came in last night. The name she gave was... Sophia Aphroditus.”

Of course it was. I could slap my forehead.

“Do you know what room she's in?”

“I do, but— She's not in at the moment.”

Not in? Where could she have gone? What is she doing?

Actually, that's not a bad thing.

You won't have to explain why you're here.

Now you just have to come up with a good enough reason to convince this girl to help you.

“Right. Right. But can't you tell me? It would be nice to surprise her.”

I can see the conflict on the girl's face.

I place the coin on the counter and take my hand away, even moving a half-step back. “That's yours,” I say. “Take it. You can help us out or not. Whatever you do, it's yours.”

Her eyes lock on the coin, then it's in her hand. I'm strangely pleased to see that her face doesn't contort ugly with her greed. She holds it, feels it, looks at it. That kind of coin could change her life, maybe the life of her whole family, forever.

“What do you say?” I ask, “Can you help us or not?”

She looks up at me, her face alight with a deviant thrill. “Yes. We can surprise her.”

I'm not sure what she means by that. Then she's standing very close to me, the heat of her body in her eyes.

“Follow me,” she says, and begins walking into the inn. I am sure that the swing of her hips is for my benefit.

I'm confused by this at first. Then I start to notice a theme to the art lining the hall down which we are passing: it's all erotic. All of it.

I'm in a pleasure house. A brothel. Oh, gods. Does the girl think Peitho is a prostitute? Does she think I'm a generous John? Worse, does she think that Peitho and I are nobles, and that I'm looking to have a little fun before my planned tryst? Oh, no. Does she think I just bought her?

By the time we stop, we have climbed to the highest floor and walked to the furthest-back room. I'm almost exhausted by the journey.

“This is it,” the girl says, unlocking the door. “Should we...?” She turns to me, putting her wrists against my chest, looking up into my eyes, lips gently parted, head angled for a kiss.

She is so young. She knows what to do, but I have to wonder with the way she closes her eyes and makes only the necessary contact with me whether she has before. Is that why she works the desk? Does she fantasize about being bought by one of the rich patrons that stay here? Of being wisked away to romance and decadent glory because of her body and her pretty face? She wouldn't be the first, and she definitely won't be the last.

I almost feel bad when I take her arms in my hands and return them to her sides. My erection is distractingly uncomfortable. I look at the door behind her, then down the hall. Was I seriously considering fucking this girl on Peitho's rented bed? I closed my eyes, trying not to imagine the girl's nudity, the softness of her skin, the warmth of her. It really had been a long time since I'd been with a woman. Not for the first time the last week am I lamenting leaving my regular lover behind in Genoa – then I remember that she's dead, and any sexy-type feelings I might have had are gone.

“Thank you,” I say, releasing her. “But no thank you. Maybe next time.”

“I should get back,” the girls says, eyes, embarrassed, avoiding mine.

I take her gently by the chin and lift her face to meet mine. “Thank you. Really.” I let her go, hoping that this does something for whatever hurt I've done for her. I can see it in her eyes – no one enjoys being rejected. “Do me a favor – forget I was ever here, eh?”

She smiles, nods, then leaves, walking faster, maybe, than is strictly necessary. Any wiping at tears I see I must imagine for my own vanity.

Stepping into Peitho's room is surreal.

I can feel it, like a drastic change in temperature: the sense that I do not belong here, that I should not be here. I want, almost, to duck my head and search for lines of sight. I cast a weary gaze behind me. The girl is gone. I have to resist the urge to check down the hallway.

You'd only answer whether Peitho is coming or not; and you would learn nothing useful either way.

Except whether death is iminent.

I force my eyes to locate the windows of the dark room. Not that they'd do any good.

Smart woman. Third floor. Last room at the end of a long, exposed hallway. High risk of capture, in or out.

Let's hope we find something worth it.

On an apparently insane impulse, I tear through the room – literally. I rip open everything I can. And all I think I'm doing is destroying the inn's property. Hope that girl's a good liar.

She's good at something or she wouldn't be here.

Then I find it.

I'd started with the drawers. Nothing that suggested so much as that she'd been here – until I ruin the mattress. The bagh nakh – another of the weapons I'd brought with me: a fist weapon from India; a small rod with two, or in my case three, short, hooked blades, so named because it makes one's hand into a bagh nakh, or tiger claw - was a big help in that regard. And there it is. I don't know how she got it in there. That green statuette I'd seen her with – and Jimmy, in my dream. It's beautiful, perfectly lifelike, like the gem was formed this way.

And faintly warm.

Fullcrummm. I hear the faintest whisper in my mind. I know the voice. We mussst sstop meeeting this wayyyy.

Lamia, I... how do you say this? Think into the stone.

It is pronounced Lami-ya, Child. But, yes. This time you really do not understand what you have done.

You are Peitho's Matere.

Perhaps I underestimate you. The Master said you could be clever when you want.

What do you want from me?

You have seen what was stolen from me. You know how it will be used. And you ask me what I want? Maybe you are an idiot.

You – I— I take a breath, calming and settling my thoughts. My eyes close. Why have you sent Peitho after me?

Ensurance. Insurance.

That I would find and go after your Rod. And in the event of my failure or... what, if I learn too much?

You are not privy to my reasons.

And I do not need to prove myself to you.

I will judge you all the same. Play along – by the Rules or not. Play your part, and your suffering could end today. Right now, if you wanted, Fulcrum.

Pepin is not in Venice. Is this Peitho's doing?

Too late. Window closed. Fate changed.

Fate? What Fate? Whose fate?

The Fate. Everything in the Weave alters with every choice you make. The weft wobbles. Which side will you choose, I wonder? You seem ready to break under the strain already.

Where is he?

Can't tell.

You can't see him in the Weave?

I didn't say I couldn't see him. I said I can't tell.

You can't tell me?

You ask stupid questions. Think better.

I open my eyes with a sigh and look to the ceiling. Why am I doing this? Any of it. But specifically, why am I letting a voice in my mind talk to me like this?

I saw Metus today.

I know.

Why is he after Peitho?

Has it not told you?

He has. But—

It is not after Peitho. It is after your courage.

It? Is he a threat to me?

It. If a thought could spit, she does. That is your choice. You determine whether it gets what it wants.

You talk like an oracle when you don't want to answer me.

I can answer in penatmeter, if you would prefer. Would that make it easier for you?

No. Thank you. Then no one would believe me that this is happening.

Who do you care believes you? Don't you have better places to be?

I did.

I sharply pull my mind from the statuette.

I need to get the Hell out of here.

Pocketing the statuette, I lock the door behind me as I leave. Then I hope I'm out of earshot of the rest of the inn. Because I kick the door until it splinters at the latch, tearing a chunk of the frame with it. Making my entrance look real convincing. With any luck, my exit will be miraculous.

I make my way out by the reverse of my route in. As I pass the girl at the door, I toss her a wink and a tipof my hat, never to see her again. Except maybe in my dreams. Or if I'm lying.

* * * *

I decide not long after, figuring that Peitho isn't any more likely to appear in this Quarter than any other, to get something to eat – and maybe a couple bottles of wine. The idea just pops in my head, really. I'm walking toward Jac's when I think, While I'm in the rich part of town, I may as well get something good to eat.

Because, yeah, it will be better. But also I might get a chance to ask around about Pepin a little bit. As it turns out, I won't need to. As I'm standing around, eating my whatsit, I overhear two guys talking about how one was:

“...So bummed about my horse, man.”

“What happened? You just got it!”

“I know, man. It was stolen, man.”

“Stolen? Bro, how?”

“Some guy. I don't know.”

“Bro, what the fuck, bro. Do I need to kick some dude's ass?”

“No, man. It's probably all right.”

“But you told the Guard, right?”

“No. I didn't tell the Guard.”

At first I'm laughing with a sort of malicious glee that someone who could afford a horse and bring it to Venice is also stupid enough to have it stolen, but is also rich enough to only be in a kind of bad mood about the whole thing. Then the guy's whole demeanor changes. Suddenly he wants very much not to be talking about it.

“What? Bro? Did you not see it or something?”

“No. I saw it. I just.... His eyes, man. His eyes were wrong. I don't know. I don't know how to say it. Something was broken inside him, man, for him to look like that.”

“Bro?”

“His eyes, man. I only saw them for a second. I was yelling at him like— and then he turns around, and it was, just – ...the craziest thing I'd ever seen. They were all... blistered, man. Red and bloodshot like crazy – like some kind of devil.”

“Jesus....”

“Yeah. Jesus protect that horse, man.”

I let them fade from my awareness.

So, instead of killing a girl last night, he stole a horse today. To go... where? Caesar said he was going to Pavia. But... If he's riding, there's no way I'll ever catch him. Not on foot.

Why did he steal a horse in Venice proper?

Probably figured he wouldn't find one on the mainland.

Easier to find a horse, then a boat, than to hope for a horse after.

The statuette feels warm against my chest.

I should probably go after him now.

But Peitho—

Will find you to tell you about her room just like she found you last night.

But I want to confront her tonight.

But Pepin—

No. Tonight. She is the bigger threat.

There was no arguing that, apparently. Unless you consider the insistent, whispered, You have to stop him. You have to save them. Please— I remember from my dreams an argument.

And, besides, I can always go after him tonight. What's the difference in a few hours?

As it turns out, maybe not the best choice I could have made that night.

* * * *

I am sitting on my rented bed and watching the sun go down, thinking about whether I am making the right choice.

He's left Venice.

And he has a horse.

He'll be days ahead by the time morning comes.

Never going to stop him like this.

Please. Please....

When the knock raps on my door, I'm still not sure.

I don't get up to open the door. It opens on its own a moment later. Peitho is standing on the other side. Her eyes are distant and unfocused.

“Peitho?” I ask, sitting a little more upright.

“Hello, Rob.” She seems somehow cowed. Looking at the floor, her whole body language is hesitation and something else. Something like fear.

“Peitho. Come in.” She does. “Can't say I expected a knock. At least this time I knew to expect you.”

“I was expecting a different greeting,” she mutters, closing the door. Then, “Yes, I am back. Because you told me to be back tonight.”

She is emotional. I can see it in her face, half-formed emotions swirling across her features.

“I did. … Is something wrong?”

“I am disturbed. Yes.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She looks at me. Her eyes seem smaller than usual, but their emeralds pierce me straight through. Then she smiles, a small thing, and her body is less rigid.

“I suppose that I have come here to do just that. If you have meant to frighten and unsettle me, you have succeeded. You can give it back, please.”

“I... don't think I know what you're talking about.” My eyes must believe the lie, beause Peitho sighs and comes over to sit on the bed beside me.

“Is that wine?” she asks, referring to the trio of bottles on the floor.

“You know it.”

She bends and scoops one up, uncorking it and taking a deep drink. Should I tell her there's opium dissolved in there? Nah – I'll just keep an eye on her. I'd like it if that's all she had on her.

Wiping her lips, she hands me the bottle. “Tell me what you have learned.”

I look between her and the bottle, a little surprised by her focus, I suppose.

“He was here. He is gone.”

“How can you know that?”

“I met a man whose horse he stole.”

“How did you manage that? Did you talk to every person in town? That could have taken days!”

“I did not do it that way. Did a little of it. But no.”

“How, then?”

“A sorcerer's secrets are his own. If I tell you, you'll have no more use for me.”

She scoffs. “You do not even wish for me to use you.”

Our eyes meet. She does not know what I wish for her to do, regarding me, apparently. But she must see it in her eyes, because hers don't look away even as a flush fills her cheeks. We can always tell ourselves it's just the wine, that's all.

“Maybe not.” I take a drink.

Then again, maybe I do.

“Is that all? Do you know where he's going?”

“Thought you'd never ask. You're going to the mountains west of Turin.”

“That is not especially helpful.”

“Neither is your telling me nothing besides how unhelpful I am.” I sigh, shaking my head. “It's what I have.” I splay my hands. “He might be meeting an army out there. You shouldn't be able to miss Charles's banners when they come down for Pavia.”

“Then you really do mean to be done.” She takes the bottle and pulls from it.

“I do. That way lies Venatores Malefecarum Iustitiarii and madmen with stolen artifacts and delusions of being Venice's rightful king. I have no interest in tangling with either of them, thank you.” I take the bottle back, looking at it. It's already almost half empty. I'm not sipping, but I'm going to have to work if I'm going to keep up with her.

She takes it immediately back. “Is this what you're doing tonight?”

“That was the plan,” is my answer as I watch her drain the bottle empty and feeling poignantly the was.

“You want company?” She says after gasping and tossing her hair about her shoulders. Her lips glisten with the wine.

My first impulse is to decline – then I wonder what the Hell is wrong with me. I'd trashed her room to— Actually, now that there was some time between me and the doing of the deed, why had I trashed her room? Could I have thought to make her vulnerable or something? Or was I protecting the girl at the desk in the event I found and stole the statuette – like I did?

“Don't want to go wherever you're staying? Are you out of money? Because I am. Or am I just that irresitable?”

She punches me in the arm – hard enough to bruise. “Yes. I find a man who runs from me like I'm the Devil in his nightmares irresistable.” Her smile is lopsided and her eyes are already glassy. Holy shit. She's drunk. And going to be very high on opium soon. Then her face is serious. No. Wan and afraid. Like a little girl's.

“I am frightened. I think your... Metus managed to find where I am staying.”

I put on an appropriate face. “Why do you think that?”

“I... left my room during the day. I wanted to see the city while I am here. Saint Mark's Cathedral.... When I returned, my room was destroyed. It looked like a lion had gotten trapped in there. And... something important of mine was missing.”

“I see.”

“I don't want to talk about this anymore.” She leans her back against the wall and kicks her legs across my lap.

She must be feeling pretty good, then. I can't help but notice how she's as cool as the tavern's stone wall and the breeze rolling inot the room from the darkening night.

I suddenly become hyper-aware of my crotch and my lack of arousal. I just hope I can stay that way – so long as that's what's appropriate.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“I don't know. Tell me a story.” She throws an arm over her eyes, and in five seconds, she's breathing the shallow rhythm of the asleep.

Well, what the fuck do I do now?

“Peitho? Peitho?”

So much for unbalancing her feet beneath her to get her to trip up and give me information she hadn't meant to. I sigh, closing my eyes and shaking my head. Then I look at her. She really is beautiful. So peaceful, in her sleep, with one arm thrown over her brow, the other slung across her body to the opposite hip, her hair scattered about beneath her.

Carefully, I untangle myself from her legs and stand. What the hell am I going to do? What if Metus walks in here right now? I sigh, reminded again how long it's been since I felt a woman. Any hope that I might get her drunk and let her take advantage of me is stillborn. I drop myself into the floor by the bed, crossing my legs beneath me and leaning back against the frame. I still have two bottles of wine and the last of my opium. Plenty enough grass to get through the night.

So that's what I do.

There's always tomorrow. That's what I tell myself. There's always tomorrow – to catch Pepin, to ask Peitho the questions I probably should be asking her now. There's always tomorrow.

At some point, some hour or so later, I'm still sitting in the floor. The bottles are empty, I've smoked my fill, and the Statuette is in my lap. I'm looking down at it, letting my mind wonder wordlessly about Pepin, about Metus – how he came to be the thing he is – about what I'm doing, how real the Rod is. You know, the things you think aout when you're obliterated and the woman you want to climb on top of is asleep.

The last cogent thought I have as my vision blurs and swims and the black maw of sleep threatens to swallow me whole is that I wish I were just dead. That would be better than all this— Right?