Stop, she told herself. He’s a grown man. He can take care of himself.
But she couldn’t quite convince herself of that. Normally, yes. But whatever had happened in the Chamber of Ten the day before yesterday had … what? Scrambled his brain? Somehow he’d been blasted with memories that did not belong to him, and they were confusing him, even changing him. That scared her.
She put the phone away. To the Biblioteca first. Get things under control. If Nico wasn’t there, she could go hunt him down after she made sure everything was on track for the arrival of Howard Finch’s BBC colleagues the next day.
To the east, she saw the water bus churning in her direction across the canal. At least she wouldn’t be waiting out here for—
—the book feels warm in his hands. He caresses the supple leather of the cover and finds it unnervingly akin to human skin. But he can almost feel the dark promise that lies within its pages, so any hesitation is immediately dismissed. Forty-seven years he has been searching for The Book of the Nameless. Petrarch had publicly claimed not to have a copy, but his private writings, found in his hidden library, had revealed the truth. He had briefly owned it, but given it to a trusted friend, a scholarly monk. Petrarch had not wanted the responsibility inherent in ownership of The Book of the Nameless. Always the humanist, he had been afraid to unleash its power, afraid to hold that kind of magic in his hands.
Now he has acquired the very same copy that Petrarch had so foolishly given away, and he covets it even more than he had before it was his. Seconds in his possession, and already he guards it jealously. If half of the legends surrounding this book are true, his enemies—the would-be mages plotting against him—will not stand a chance. If they ever had.
“Monsieur?” the Frenchman says.
Volpe glances up, blinking. The Frenchman has just handed him the book but somehow he had nearly forgotten the man’s presence. Lizotte, his name is. Henri Lizotte. He is a thief of the highest order, though he fancies himself a collector of antiquities. He dresses like a dandy and travels with a small boy all in frills and colors like some kind of harlequin or jester. Lizotte refers to the child as his valet, but Volpe suspects the Frenchman of using him for a different service entirely.
“It is as I promised, oui?” the Frenchman asks, stroking his thin mustache.
He agrees that the book is, indeed, as promised, and for several seconds considers the option of simply killing the Frenchman. The right gesture to the guards that surrounded them would have ended Lizotte’s life, but the Frenchman must have known the peril into which he was placing himself by coming here, by agreeing to sell this book.
And how was he managing that feat? How could he part with it, when any fool could have felt its power?
With a flick of his wrist, Volpe gestures toward Lizotte. “Pay him. But get him out of here.”
Away from the book. Volpe is its master now.
The Frenchman seems content. He casts one final, wary glance back at the book as though afraid it might follow him out of the room, then he happily leaves with the household servants to receive his payment.
“Well?” asks Il Conte di Tonetti. “Is that The Book of the Nameless?”
Volpe nods, sizing up the Count. “It is. You’ve done well, Alviso.”
The man smiles. Il Conte Alviso Tonetti had been a member of the Council of Ten for less than a year, but had quickly become Volpe’s most valuable ally and spy among the Council. The man’s home, within view of the Rialto Bridge, might no longer be as opulent as it once was, and his family’s reputation might have been tarnished by scandal a generation ago, but that only made Il Conte a more determined ally. He had something to prove.
Of late it has not been unusual for Volpe and Il Conte Tonetti to meet in secret at the Count’s home. The ordinary council chambers are far too susceptible to spying, and the Chamber of Ten, below Petrarch’s library, also seemed to have its share of spies of late. The Doge—Pietro Aretino—had been one of them only two years ago. He had seemed content to obey Volpe’s secret edicts as a member of the Council of Ten. But once the prior Doge had died and the Council had voted him to replace the dead man, Aretino had grown jealous of Volpe’s influence.
He dabbles in magic now, and that is Zanco Volpe’s province.
Pietro Aretino wants to rule Venice in more than just name. And that, Volpe cannot allow. Worse still, in his dabbling, Aretino has discovered the presence of the dark power deep beneath the city. Like the gases of decay building up inside a bloated corpse, the evil of Akylis remains long after the ancient magician’s death. Already the evil has tainted Aretino, and the Doge has begun to tap into that power to transform himself into more than a dabbler.
Volpe cannot allow it. The man’s dark ambitions must be ended before they can blossom any further.
He glances around Tonetti’s music room, admiring the harp and the lute and the violin upon their stands, but appalled by the ridiculously ornate piano, which is painted in such a way that it appears almost to be dripping gold. The rear wall of the room is a tile mosaic done in the Moorish style, which clashes dreadfully with the paintings in the room’s entryway. Tonetti knows next to nothing about art, but he acquires it with vigor in order to impress other wealthy people. Still, it is a beautiful place, and each of the servants seems both obedient and happy—an unusual combination.
“How long, then?” Il Conte asks. “Now that you have the book, how long until we move against the Doge?”
“Days,” Volpe says. “It will take me time to master these spells. I only hope that he does not grow brash and attempt to kill me first.”
“He’ll never reach you,” Il Conte says. “You’re too well protected.”
Volpe thinks on this for a few moments, then narrows his eyes. “Are you certain only two of the Ten are his allies?”
Il Conte nods. “As certain as I can be. I believe the others are loyal, and those two—”
“Caiazzo and Soldagna.”
“Caiazzo and Soldagna,” Il Conte repeats, confirming. “They chafe at the bit. The Doge has promised them many things.”
“I have promises to give them as well,” Volpe says.
He smiles, again caressing the warm leather binding of the book, staring down at its featureless cover.
“Two days. The day after tomorrow, you and the others will turn on Caiazzo and Soldagna. Kill them in the Chamber. I want to show Aretino the evil fruit borne of his deceptions before he is banished from Venice forever. If the Council would not rebel against it, I would kill him as well, but they would turn on me in an instant, and that, I cannot afford. Without influence, I cannot control the city. Without control, I cannot protect her properly. No, the Council would never stand for me killing the Doge.”