Masks

Chapter Nineteen

Business was still slow the next night, although that turned out to be a good thing. Mircea laid his head back against the doubled towels behind him, letting his body relax into water hot enough to have scalded a human. To him, it just felt good, the steam rising all around him and wafting into the cold night air, making patterns as it twisted and turned and eventually dissipated among the stars, far above.

He could see them because he wasn’t bathing in the kitchen. The cook/housekeeper had decided to use the slowdown as an opportunity to give everything a good scrubbing—and that had included the new arrivals. They had been banished to the sugar house, where large tubs had been set up in the overgrown main hall, with orders to get clean.

This part of the house was largely roofless, thanks to being gutted by the fire, although a few blackened pieces of flooring still jutted out here and there. But mostly, it was open up four stories, where large gaps in the roof allowed the stars to shine through. It was a calm, beautiful, idyllic scene.

Or it would have been.

If not for one small irritation.

“What about this one?” Jerome switched out the contraption on his head for another, equally as extravagant.

Mircea closed his eyes and sighed. He’d run out of things to say three, or was it four, options ago. Unlike Bezio, apparently, who had just come in with two more pitchers of steaming water.

“I think it looks ridiculous,” Bezio told him, setting one of the pitchers down on the overgrown ground.

“I don’t recall asking the water boy,” Jerome said.

“Oh, is that so?” Bezio removed the hat to dump the contents of a pitcher over Jerome’s blond frizz.

Jerome went under, the shock causing him to lose his footing and his head to disappear under the waterline. He came up sputtering, and mad as hell. “Now look! I have soap all in my hair!”

“Easily remedied,” Bezio told him, and poured on the other pitcher.

Jerome had a good deal to say about that, but Bezio wasn’t listening. He’d finished his voluntary service for the night, and stripped down, scrubbing himself all over before settling into his own tub with a deep sigh of heated bliss. Jerome eventually tapered off and resumed perusing a somewhat stupendous hat collection, which he had dragged out of the main house and put on a table beside his tub.

Mircea had no idea why.

He decided he didn’t care and settled in for an enjoyable soak.

Despite Jerome’s initial fears, the usual method of bathing at the house was of the sponge variety, done over the basins in their rooms with one of the “scented waters”—liquid soaps gentler than those used for laundry—that were popular in Venice. But once a week a full bath was required—and very much appreciated, in Mircea’s case.

He never ceased to be amazed at the ingenuity of the Venetians, who had settled on salt marsh flats with no source of drinking water, the kind of place that would have been lucky to support a fishing village. And yet they had built an empire. Although they never would have done it if some genius five hundred years ago hadn’t come up with a way to use the town squares for rainwater collection.

The rain drained through channels in the slightly sloping stones of the thousands of courtyards spread throughout the city. And from there into central marble grills, below which was a thick layer of fine white sand. The sand cleaned the water as it slowly filtered through, and directed it into a well. Like the one that had been built in the courtyard of his new palazzo by the sugar magnate.

It gave Martina’s house all the clean water they could use, and all the baths that anyone wished to take.

Not that everyone seemed to appreciate the luxury.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Bezio asked sleepily, only a few moments later.

Mircea cracked an eye to see Jerome trying to climb out of his tub.

“I’ve had enough. I’m turning into a prune!” Jerome told him.

“I just finished bringing out the hot water.”

“I bathed in cold.”

“Liar. You were busy trotting out all those things,” Bezio waved at the colorful array of headgear. “Although why you were, I have no idea.”

“It’s my new hair,” Jerome said, stopping to grab one of the pitchers of cold water the servants had left by each tub, and made a face. “I can’t wear half my hats now.”

“And that matters because?”

“Because of those tiny rooms they gave us,” Jerome said, busily rinsing off. “Paulo said I can’t buy anymore hats until I clear out some of the old ones. So I have to decide which ones to keep.”

“I can help you with that. None of them.”

“You wouldn’t know fashion if it bit you on the ass,” Jerome said, frowning at him from under dripping bangs.

“I know you couldn’t pay me to wear that,” Bezio said, nodding at one of the more bizarre specimens, near the table’s edge.

It was round and brown and made of felt. Fairly standard except for a much wider brim than was usual in Venice. But it redeemed itself with a deep fringe around the edge in a bright, screaming yellow, which shimmied whenever the wearer moved.

“I bought it off a sailor—” Jerome announced proudly.

“Who saw you coming.”

“—who said they’re all the rage in Portugal.”

“I’m sure he did.”

“Heads turn when I wear this hat!”

“Yes. In horror.”

“Shows what you know.” Jerome scrubbed his wiry mane with a towel. “I saw another man with one in the Rialto the other night.”

“So the sailor duped two of you, did he?”

Jerome made a face and looked at Mircea. “What do you think?”

“I—” Mircea stopped, searching for something that was neither an insult nor a lie, while Bezio smirked at him. “I would keep it over that one,” he finally said, nodding at easily the worst offender on the table.

But Jerome frowned. “Really?”

He picked up a hat with no brim but with a greatly exaggerated crown. It was called a sugarloaf, after the shape of the cones of sugar Europe imported from the east, and had to be almost two feet tall. It would have looked ridiculous even in black.

But of course, it wasn’t.

“My eyes,” Bezio said, only half jokingly, and disappeared under the water.

Coward, Mircea thought, as Jerome turned to look at him. “You don’t like it?”

“I—it’s not that.”

“It came all the way from Burgundy,” Jerome told him. “It’s really rare.”

Bezio glugged something underwater that was thankfully indecipherable.

“It’s . . . certainly . . . bright,” Mircea said.

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Jerome looked pleased. But then he frowned. “But after yesterday, I don’t think orange is a smart choice, do you?”

“Probably not,” Mircea said gratefully. “Perhaps it would be best to set it aside for now.”

Jerome sighed, and relegated the terrible thing to the empty side of the table. Of course, that still left the other side piled high with a mound of the small brimless caps popular in Venice, several chaperons, with their surfeit of cloth copied from eastern turbans, and more than one six-sided Spanish cap cut out of velvet. There had to be a dozen in all.

“Why do you have so many hats?” Bezio demanded, emerging from the water like a bearded Aphrodite.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” Jerome said, picking up the orange thing again and patting the felt. “There was a cappellaio—a hat maker,” he added, for Mircea’s benefit, “who set up shop just across from the apothecary where I worked. Every day, I had to sit on a damned stool with a wonky leg, grinding ingredients for hours, until the fumes made my head swim and my arm felt like it was going to come off and I was practically hunchbacked. And the whole time, in and out they went, right across the street—rich young men in velvets and furs, spending more on some small accessory than I’d make in a month.”

He smiled at the hat, and put it back in the pile with the others. Making a grand total of zero in the discard pile. Not that it mattered, since Mircea couldn’t see how he’d afford a replacement.

Of course, he didn’t see how he’d afforded these, either.

“Where did you get the money for all these?” Mircea asked, somewhat in awe. They’d only been here two weeks.

“My clients. Where else?”

“But . . . I thought Martina keeps that money.”

“She keeps the fee, yes,” Jerome said. “I’m talking about the tip.”

“The—”

“Gratuity? Emolument? Thanks for a good time?” He paused, a bright crimson hat in hand, to narrow his eyes at Mircea. “Don’t tell me you didn’t get one?”

“I—”

“You were with a senator!”

“Well, yes, but—”

“What did you do?” Jerome demanded accusingly, as Sanuito came in, carrying a tray of oils, pomades, and lotions.

“I . . . nothing.”

“Well, that would explain it!”

“No, I—” Mircea stopped, wondering why he was defending himself. Or even discussing this. “Everything was fine,” he said stiffly.

“Fine,” Jerome rolled his eyes. “That’s a ringing endorsement.”

“Maybe she just forgot,” Bezio offered.

“Then he should have reminded her! Admired some jewel she was wearing—she might have given it to him. Or mentioned how much he liked one of the outfits the men had on. Something.”

“Did you see what happened?” Bezio asked. “He was almost killed!”

“Better to be almost killed and rich, than almost killed and poor,” Jerome sniffed. “Auria says never let them get away without giving you something.”

“Auria.” Bezio shook his head.

“What? She’s rich—and she’s right. You want to be poor all your life?”

“So the senator should have stopped after all that to find some trinket for Mircea?”

“No, but she could have sent something over, couldn’t she? She’s had a whole day.”

“She did give me something,” Mircea said, finally managing to get a word in edgewise.

“What?” Jerome perked up. “Show us.”

“You already saw it.” The blond looked puzzled. “The sunlight. We . . . met in sunlight,” Mircea said, finding it hard to put into words what that had meant to him.

Particularly with Jerome rolling his eyes again. “Sunlight. Yes, that will buy a lot of hats.”

“I don’t want hats!”

“Well, whatever you do want.”

“I don’t want anything!”

Jerome sighed. “You,” he said seriously, “are a terrible whore.”

“Thank you?” Mircea said, just before the hall was flooded by a bevy of non-bearded Venuses, who weren’t wearing much of anything else, either. And what little they were, they doffed and started scrubbing down, their intentions to join the men made clear.

And there was no way that many were going to fit in Jerome’s abandoned tub.

Mircea hastily grabbed a sheet.

“Cook said you boys slipped off for a soak,” Marte said, testing the water temperature with a look of appreciation.

“What’s the matter?” Zaneta asked, watching Mircea get out of his tub. “There’s plenty of room.”

“I’ll say,” Bezio said, smiling appreciatively.

“Don’t—no. No, no, no, not the hats!” Jerome said, as a couple of giggling girls splashed about, climbing into his tub. “Don’t get the hats wet!”

“I’ve finished,” Mircea answered Zaneta, managing to grab one side of the hat table, to help Jerome move it back, while still holding up his sheet.

“You just started,” Bezio complained, accepting an armful of attractive redhead. “Why did I drag all that hot water from the kitchen?”

“I’m sure it will be appreciated,” Mircea told him.

“You’re a strange man,” Bezio sighed, as a pair of soft arms grabbed Mircea from behind. And pulled him back into a softer embrace.

“There’s plenty of room in my tub,” Besina whispered in his ear.

“Another time,” Mircea said, trying to pull away.

And failing.

“I’ll even scrub your back,” she promised.

“It’s scrubbed!”

“Aww, he’s shy,” one of the other girls said, as he extricated himself with difficulty.

“Or infatuated,” Marte teased. “Never fall for your clients, pretty boy.”

“I’m not a boy,” Mircea snapped, before realizing that that was exactly what a boy would say.

She laughed, and leaned back against the side of Mircea’s abandoned tub. “Prove it!”

The chant was taken up by the other girls, one of whom tried to tug off his towel. Mircea somehow managed to extricate himself from that, too. And then grabbed a jug of water and made a hurried exit, to rinse off in privacy.

“Come back,” they laughed, calling after him. “We were only joking!”

“I’ll prove it, girls,” he heard Bezio offer.

“Oooh, manly man,” someone said, followed by more laughter and several whistles.

Mircea found a corner of the courtyard and rinsed off, still annoyed. Not at the laughter as much as the accusation. It was infuriating for a number of reasons, not least of which that it wasn’t true.

The senator was . . . intriguing. Dangerous. Erotic. It was hard to completely define her, since he’d never met anyone remotely like her. But it wasn’t infatuation he felt when they were together. Under other circumstances, he’d have almost called it . . .

Respect.

He paused a little at the revelation, surprised. But it felt right. It had taken him a moment to realize it, simply because that wasn’t an emotion he’d ever thought to feel for a woman.

Not that he’d hadn’t respected women in the past, but it had been of a different kind. Admiration for their beauty, their compassion, their way of lighting up a room when they walked into it. For their ability to add grace and gentleness to a world that desperately needed more of both.

But for all that, it wasn’t the same kind of respect as he’d give to a man—a fellow warrior or a canny ruler. For women did not fight and they certainly did not rule. Not in Wallachia, and not in most places in his old world.

But in the new . . .

From what he’d seen so far, it seemed that the women in the vampire world had as much influence as the men. He supposed the difference between the sexes seemed less important when either could make a Child, and when power was no longer determined by the size of one’s body. And alone among the elite of his new race, she hadn’t run.

Mircea saw her again, standing at the railing, in full view of one who had just turned a bevy of master-level vampires into powder. And staring him down. Daring him to make the attack overt, and declare them open enemies.

And the consul had backed down first. If he hadn’t, Mircea doubted he would be here, since he had no illusions about his odds of surviving a battle between those two. Unless, of course, she had.

And, somehow, he didn’t think she had.