The ladder had been laid against the house wall. It looked brand new and was short enough that one man could carry it, although the Signori di Notte would certainly stop and question anyone lugging a ladder around the city by night. It was also short enough to fit in a standard-sized gondola.
“The watersteps three houses along in that direction, messer,” I said, “they can be reached from the gate?”
He nodded.
“And your daughter’s window?”
The ducal counselor pointed to a window at the mezzanine level, under the twin balconies. The ladder would probably reach that far, but the casement was protected by an iron grille. Madonna Eva had testified that her son had climbed through it, and her husband not only knew that, he knew I knew that. Clearly the ladder was useless for gaining entry to the house itself.
I carried it to the far end and confirmed that it was a good fit for the garden wall. There were marks in the flower bed to show that someone had entered that way, bringing the ladder over with him. Only one man, so far as I could tell, with feet larger than mine. The intruder had carried the ladder to the house so he could climb up and tap on the window. Grazia had gone down, either to let him in or join him in the yard, and they had left by the front door or the gate. In the morning Giro had certainly not entered by the window, so either his sister had not locked her bedroom door behind her or her mother had possessed a duplicate key. I returned with my burden and laid it where I had found it. Then I inspected the door.
“If the bolts were properly closed for the night, clarissimo,” I said, dusting off my hands, “then either the villains had help within your household, or your daughter may have been deceived into admitting them.”
“Young girls without knowledge of the world may be very gullible,” Sanudo admitted.
And some noble mothers are not above telling lies to tidy up a story.
Zuanbattista seemed to be studying the fruit trees. I waited, guessing that something important might be coming.
“It is strange to come home after three years abroad and find the child you once knew has become a young woman you do not.”
“Without doubt it must be so, clarissimo.”
“There are few names older and more honored in Venice than Zeno.”
“I am aware of my burden.”
Still he counted caterpillars. “I should hate to think that the son of the Marco Zeno who displayed such heroism at Lepanto had sunk to peddling nostrums to the gullible or fleecing distraught mothers.”
“It would be unthinkable!” I snapped.
Now he did turn his gaze on me, the eyes of a man of overarching power. “You really believe you can find my daughter tomorrow, Alfeo Zeno?”
“By my ancestors I do, messer!”
“Then may our Lord and His Holy Mother be with you. And if you achieve nothing else, I beg you to tell Grazia that we love her and wish her to be happy.”
Did madonna Fortunata think that way? Or madonna Eva? But sier Zuanbattista rose abruptly in my estimation. He might have wished to choose his son-in-law, but apparently he was not one of those moneygrubbing noblemen who condemn daughters to life imprisonment in convents just to preserve the family fortune for their brothers.
“I shall tell her if it takes my dying breath, messer,” I promised.
4
I am not the greatest swordsman in the world. I rank third or fourth among the dozen in Captain Colleoni’s Monday evening fencing class for young gentlemen. Most of the others are mere dilettantes, though, and there is a world of difference between recreational fencing and red-blood fighting. The great advantage I have over the playboys is that I have been in real sword fights and survived. I have bled, on occasion, but now I know I will not panic, and keeping your head is nine-tenths of a real battle. This knowledge was surprisingly little comfort when I was standing in a shadowy doorway on a misty, clammy dawn, and the world’s greatest clairvoyant had warned me I was going to need my rapier. I shivered.
It was Sunday, so the great marangona bell in the Piazza San Marco had not rung to announce the start of the working day, but already the seventy or so parish bell towers were sounding for early Mass. This day, of all days, no laundry flapped from balconies and roof terraces. We had done everything we could to fulfill the prophecy and now it was up to Destiny to finish the job. I hoped she would do so soon, for the devout were setting out to church. Soon there would be crowds into which our quarry might disappear, and far too many witnesses.
I wore my rapier and dagger.
The henchman at my side was Bruno, our porter. Calling Bruno big would be like saying the sea is moist, but he is the gentlest of men, refusing to carry even a cudgel. He is a deaf-mute, so I had explained in the sign language that the Maestro invented for him: Bad man-steal-woman. Alfeo and Bruno-find-woman-woman happy. He has enough wits to recognize a good cause and had agreed to bring along the only weapon he will tolerate, Mama Angeli’s largest flatiron in a canvas sack.
A path alongside a canal is a fondamenta, but make it wide enough for off-loading cargo and it becomes a riva. We stood in a doorway on the Riva del Vin, just seaward of the great Rialto bridge, the place the quatrain had named. On any other day this quay would be a buzzing hive of barges and lighters and gondolas, loud with abuse, banter, and complaint, but today it was deserted. The forest of striped mooring posts stood abandoned in the water, serving only as perches for yellow-eyed gulls, who stared suspiciously at us obvious intruders.
On the far side of the Grand Canal, the city’s main street, lay the Riva del Ferro, backed by a wall of buildings, four, five, or even six stories high. The traghetto there was almost deserted, although one of the few boats lingering by it was the Maestro’s, with Giorgio standing ready to hasten to our aid.
More gondolas plied the Grand Canal before us, standing well out to clear the marble arch of the Rialto. In my boyhood gondolas had been bright hued and flamboyant, vibrant with color and gilt, every felze sporting rich curtains and every hull proclaiming its owner’s garish escutcheon. Alas, the Senate took offense at such blatant competition and decreed that gondolas should be plainer and plainer, until now they are all black, with black curtains and black leather cushions. Only a few trim items escaped the clammy grip of uniformity, especially the rowlock and the post near the bow that bears a lantern by night and a flower by day-those posts are often gilded still-and private owners are allowed to display their arms on the left side of the boat. Gondolas for hire show the Virgin or a saint.
Then came a gondola moving fast and bearing neither flower nor lantern, but a white cloth tied around its bow post so it could be identified at a distance. Black swan, white collar, it glided in toward the watersteps in front of us. Two people emerged from the calle del Sturion to my left and walked swiftly across to meet it. They had not come from the doorway of the Sturgeon Inn as I had expected, but the Sturgeon is only the oldest and most famous of many inns patronized by foreigners near the Rialto, and they might have spent the night in a private house anyway. He was tall, wearing a short blue cloak over an indigo doublet and knee britches, and white silk stockings. He carried a leather portmanteau. She did not come up to his shoulder, but she was certainly not resisting him. In fact they were holding hands and swinging arms in the sort of childish display that lovers use to warn other people away. I hoped Bruno would do nothing reckless, but sign language cannot convey such subtleties as, “The bad man may be only bad in the eyes of the law and the girl may not be unhappy.”