And suddenly, in the middle of the night, people were everywhere.
Some were still in their nightclothes, or wrapped in blankets, or putting on enough to be respectable as they emerged from houses on all sides. Others were leaning out of windows and edging onto rooftops, a few dropping to the ground and jostling to find room in what was, after all, a narrow street bordering a canal. Members of the Watch were quickly discovering that humans were not so easily controlled, after all, not when what must have seemed like magic was walking among them.
It felt a bit like that to Mircea, too, who couldn’t for the life of him imagine where the great beast had come from.
“Carthage?” Jerome said, when he voiced the question aloud.
“But how did it get here? Horses aren’t even allowed in the city!”
It was true, except for the occasional joust in San Marco Square. And for good reason. The streets of Venice, where they existed at all, were narrow and slippery and fronted canals. That’s why the gondolas were so prevalent—there was no simply no room to ride horses. Which would have likely ended up in the water along with their owners had anyone tried it.
“By boat?” Jerome guessed. “They float cows over for the abattoirs that way.”
“That,” Mircea said, flinging out an arm, “is not a cow!”
“Can’t ride a cow,” Jerome agreed, about the time Mircea noticed that the strange creature did, in fact, have a rider.
He hadn’t seen him before because of the roof of the portico, and because he was frankly not nearly as interesting as his conveyance. Or as his seat, for that matter, which was a covered, gilded creation perched on top of the creature’s back, like a cabin on a ship. It mostly obscured the man inside, except for a skinny, nut-brown arm that emereged at regular intervals, to throw something at the now cheering crowd.
Some of it landed at Mircea’s feet.
He picked it up.
Candy.
Well, that explained the children, he thought blankly.
“What is that?” Paulo demanded, snatching it away from him. And then staring at it blankly.
“Hey, nougat.” Jerome swiped a couple pieces from off the bricks before the local urchins could. “We could have saved money and just waited around.”
“What the—what the hell does he think he’s doing?” Paulo demanded.
“Tossing out candy,” Jerome said, before getting cuffed on the back of the head. His handsome eight-sided hat fell off. He picked it up, looked at it, and promptly began filling it with free candy.
“Who is he?” Mircea asked, trying to get a glimpse despite the cabin’s deep shadow. But the most he saw was a strange shaped head, a flash of sumptuous robes and the wink of countless jeweled rings. And then the great mount turned its rear to them, and he lost even that much of a view.
“The consul,” Paulo said darkly. “Who else?”
“That’s the consul?”
“Didn’t you see him at the house?”
“I . . . couldn’t fit on the roof,” Mircea said, as a new clatter sounded on the bridge.
It looked like the prohibition against four-legged conveyances was being truly shattered tonight. Because the sea of vampires parted as if Moses had arrived. And let through a group of riders on horseback that made Mircea’s skin prickle from their power, even this far away.
There were five of them, four men and a woman. The woman was on the only white horse, which was possibly why she drew his eyes the most, but he didn’t think so. There was something about her that the soldier in him automatically recognized—an air of command.
As strange as it seemed, it almost made him wonder if she was the one in charge.
They stopped halfway between the Rialto Bridge and the portico, and watched, utterly silent, and without even any gestures to make their attitudes plain. And yet Mircea could read the disapproval, the tension, coming off them in waves, as easily as if they had been carrying signs. And, apparently, so could Paulo.
“All right,” the blond said uneasily. “We need to be going.”
“Who are they?” Mircea asked, unable to take his eyes off the riders.
“Senators,” Paulo said, grabbing up his great cheese.
“Even the woman?” Mircea asked. Women did not rule in Wallachia.
Paulo rolled his eyes. “Especially the woman.”
“They don’t look too happy,” Jerome said.
“Would you be?” Paulo looked from his cheese to the already overstuffed cart, and then just hiked it onto his shoulder. “With the consul swanning around Venice like this? Probably thinks he’s back in old Egypt, receiving the worship of the masses!”
“He thinks—he is mad?” Mircea asked, looking after the rapidly disappearing spectacle.
“He’s something like three thousand years old!” Paulo said. “Of course he’s mad! Now help me find a path through this mess.”
Mircea didn’t move. “Did you say three thousand?”
“And then some,” Paulo said darkly. “I don’t know exactly, but they say he used to be worshipped as a god in old Egypt, before the legions arrived and civilized the place.”
“I heard he still lives in a temple out in the desert,” Jerome added. “Built like a fortress. The only time he comes out is for convocation every couple years, when his senators have to try to control him. Only it doesn’t look like that’s going so great this time.”
“And where did you hear that?” Paulo demanded, searching the crowd for an opening that did not materialize.
“From some of the servants, when he came by the house. Rumor is there’ll be a coup soon. And since he’s easier to get to at here than anywhere else—”
“Yes, and servant’s gossip is always to be believed!”
“If you don’t believe it, why are you trying so hard to get away?” Jerome asked.
“That’s why!” Paulo said, as a group of armed horsemen thundered over the bridge. Resplendent in gold armor and bright red capes, they looked like something out of old Rome. And acted like it, too, riding straight into the milling crowd. “Senate guards!”
Mircea didn’t have to ask if that was bad. The Watch, who had been trying and mostly failing to contain the crowd, suddenly looked up. And then scattered, forgetting their duties in favor of saving their asses.
“Go up!” Mircea said, as the panicked crowd suddenly stormed toward their position, jostling and fighting to get out of the way.
“The cart!” Paulo said, trying to grab it.
“Leave the cart!”
“Do you know how much it’s worth?” the blond asked him wildly, jerking it out of the way of trampling feet. And then flailing at the vamps who got too close and kicked his precious cargo.
But that wasn’t going to work for long. And Mircea was not going to die to save a bunch of groceries, however dear. Nor was he going to watch Paulo do so.
He grabbed him by the back of the doublet, looking for a way onto the roof of the colonnade. Which would have been easier if everyone else hadn’t already been heading that way. And then a path opened up as if by a miracle, and he dragged the irate vampire—and his cheese—through it and around the side of the building.
“Up!” he commanded, pushing him onto a ladder made from a windowsill, a few protruding lumps in the brick wall, and a mass of old vines. And then looked around for Jerome, who hopefully had sense enough to preserve himself instead of the family budget.
And he did. Mircea caught sight of him in the middle of a pack of street urchins, holding his hat high above his head like a flag. And heading this way.