Masks

Chapter Thirty-Three

“Auria was right,” Jerome complained, adjusting himself. “These hosen have saggy butt.”

“Don’t touch yourself,” Paulo hissed, slapping Jerome’s hand away.

“I wasn’t touching myself, I was trying to pull up these damned—”

“Don’t touch your clothing, either! Don’t touch anything!”

The gondolier, an African who looked like he’d been in Venice long enough to have heard it all, still grinned.

Mircea didn’t.

Now that he was awake, it had occurred to him that it was a damned strange time for a party. Not that convocation wasn’t usually filled with such things, by all accounts. To the point that Mircea had wondered how anyone managed to get any work done. But it seemed a little odd right now, with dozens newly dead and a rift between the consul and his senior child.

But what did he know? Perhaps it had already been planned, and would have been awkward to cancel. Or perhaps things weren’t as grim as he’d imagined. It certainly didn’t look like anyone was mourning the newly dead as they approached the house, which was festooned in flowers and had torches burning outside in welcome.

“Remember your manners,” Paulo hissed at Jerome, as they approached the dock.

“About what?” Jerome asked.

“About everything! Cut your meat into small pieces, not great gobbets—”

“What’s a gobbet?” Jerome asked, stripping off his gloves.

“Are your nails clean?” Paulo asked, snatching up the glove-free part in question.

“Yes.”

“See that they stay that way. And remember to cut your bread with your knife, instead of tearing it into messy hunks. And never put meat in the salt cellar—”

“Then how am I supposed to—”

“Take a little salt on the tip of your knife—your clean knife—and put it on your food. Never put spilled, dirty salt back in the cellar.”

“Do people do that?”

“You did that at dinner last night!”

“You must be mistaken.”

Paulo’s eyes narrowed.

There was a cluster of other boats ahead of them, requiring them to wait. They bobbed gently on the waves, watching gondola after gondola of richly dressed men and women getting out. But the guests’ fine clothes did not appear to impress the two guards at the entrance, or the six more positioned along the loggia at regular intervals.

Mircea couldn’t recall seeing them the first time he’d been here. But maybe they remembered him. Because unlike the scrutiny they’d given the other arrivals, his group barely received a glance.

Of course, they may have just been trained to look for threats, he thought cynically. And it would be hard to imagine any group less threatening than theirs. Especially with the conversation the other two still had going.

“Don’t slurp your soup,” Paulo was saying, as they finally made their exit. “Don’t throw your bones on the floor—”

“Then where do I—”

“The voiding bowl!”

“But what about the dogs—”

“Forget about the dogs! And if there are any cats, don’t scratch them at the table.”

“I wasn’t planning on it. They might have fleas,” Jerome said, absently scratching himself, until Paulo jerked his arm down.

“Don’t scratch yourself at table, either!”

Jerome sighed.

“Don’t rinse your mouth with wine and spit it out, in fact, don’t spit at all unless you’re going to do it properly—”

“There’s a proper way to spit?”

“Don’t stuff your mouth, pick your teeth, make rude noises, scratch yourself, blow on your food, spit in the washing basin, spit up food into your dish, talk with your mouth full, or fall asleep at the table.”

“I don’t do any of those things. Well, hardly ever. I know how to behave.”

“I’ve yet to see any sign of it,” Paulo said, as they entered the home’s beautiful atrium.

Unlike most of Venice’s houses, the ground floor wasn’t devoted to workrooms, tradesmen’s entrances, and unloading cargo. Or perhaps some part of it was, since the place was huge, with four wings built around an open courtyard. But here in front, the impressive display didn’t wait for someone to make a trip up the long staircase to the beautiful rooms above.

The awe started as soon as a guest’s foot touched inlaid marble.

“This. This is how you live,” Jerome whispered, appearing almost cross-eyed as he tried to take in everything at once.

Mircea had seen it the last time he was here, but he looked around now with new eyes. The seascape murals on the walls had seemed oddly bare to him before, just vast stretches of different shades of blue—sky, sea and distant horizon—with none of the heroically battling ships so preferred by the Venetians. But, in retrospect they made more sense, designed to mimic the views of another palace, seen through painted columns long lost to time.

Along with the murals, statuary he was now certain was genuine stood in niches, people in togas and ancient gowns looking down on him, and his civilization, with barely concealed disdain. Two impressive clusters of delicate cesendello lamps hung overhead instead of ancient braziers, and the long expanse of marble underfoot was of Venetian design. But otherwise, it almost felt as if they had just stepped back in time.

And that was only the architecture.

The people were no less fascinating. Paulo continued his whispered instructions to Jerome, but Mircea doubted the young vampire heard. He was too busy staring slack-jawed at ladies in thick Chinese silk, in diaphanous Grecian robes that would have gotten them arrested on the street, in costumes Mircea couldn’t name from times he didn’t know. At men in the turbans and the flowing robes of the east, or ancient armor, or glittering costumes in the Byzantine style, with high necks and opulent embroidery. At both sexes in more common Venetian styles, if you could call outfits a Doge might envy common.

And all of them wearing enough jewels to buy another palazzo.

“Jerome,” Paulo said suddenly, through his teeth.

“What?”

Paulo looked pointedly at the servant standing in front of them, proffering a bowl of water.

“No, thank you,” Jerome said politely.

The man stood there, blinking at him.

“Wash. Your. Hands,” Paulo hissed.

“But I already washed at home.”

“Just do it.”

Jerome did it, perfunctorily, and then so did Paulo and Mircea. Afterward, the crowd opened up a little and they slipped through to a slightly less crowded area, where more servants were passing around trays of candied fruit covered with gold leaves. And a caper, truffle, and raisin salad in bite-sized pastries. And slivers of fine Friuli ham on slices of melon. And tiny pies of baby eel and octopus. And fried dough shaped like pine cones and smothered with honey. All washed down with a fine white trebbiano from the hills of Romagna served in delicate painted glasses.

“They’re making us eat standing up?” Jerome asked, looking confused.

“The first course is often served standing,” Paulo informed him, as a tray of the candied fruit was offered to them by a tunic-clad servant.

“I’m eating gold,” Jerome told Mircea a moment later, with an air of wonder. And then opened his mouth to prove it.

Mircea stifled a smile, while Paulo blanched and jerked them behind a statue.

That turned out to be fortunate, because it appeared that they had just beaten the rush. The room began to fill up over the next few minutes, as a long line of boats emptied their contents into what was no longer feeling like a large space. In fact, it was quickly becoming too hot, too close. Almost stifling.

And not just from the press of bodies.

Power shimmered in the air, so thick that Mircea could almost feel it. He could taste it, dense and cloying on the back of his tongue, threatening to suffocate him. Had there been this much at the consul’s house, when he was there? If so, the sun must have addled his brains, because he didn’t remember it.

He didn’t remember it from the last time he was here, either. Of course, he’d been a little too overwhelmed by his personal battle to have been paying close attention, but he thought he’d recall the feeling of raw power like a haze in the air. Or a fog that he took in with every breath, and that seeped in through his pores like a caustic lotion, threatening to burn him just from the overflow.

It made him itchy, restless, and nervous as hell. Like a rabbit in a field of foxes. Hungry ones, he thought, noticing the bared-teeth smiles between several guests, two predators meeting and acknowledging one another, before moving on. And sending currents swirling through the room as they passed, like sharks scattering schools of fish.

It was less than reassuring when he was fairly sure he didn’t even qualify as a minnow. There was a distinct feel of another world coexisting with this one, but just out of reach. A world composed of brief touches, half heard whispers, and colors that seemed to stay in the air when people moved, blurring behind them in lines that didn’t go away, no matter how hard he blinked.

He was increasingly sure that what he could see was only half of what was happening, and not the more important part.

A trumpet sounded nearby, glaringly loud, and Mircea jumped. His hand went automatically to his hip where a sword should have rested, but found only the softness of his hosen. He swallowed, and looked around to find Paulo glaring at him.

“Not you, too,” the blond hissed.

Mircea straightened up, and noticed that the guests were now filing toward the banquet room. Including Jerome, until Paulo jerked him back. “Guests are seated according to precedence.”

“I knew that.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full!” Paulo whispered furiously.

“I was just—”

“And don’t fill it so full that your cheeks swell out! And don’t drool onto your shirt! And don’t—”

Paulo cut off abruptly, staring at something on the exquisitely set tables in the room just ahead. And looking stricken. “Oh, no.”

“What is it?”

He grabbed Mircea’s sleeve. “Oh, God.”

“What?”

“Forks.”