Enzo would be furious at an injury to one of his charges, and it was bad to have enemies in a poison factory, so she’d blame it on the intruders, but this snake was going down. She feinted left, and it followed, swaying with its body, unable to recover fast enough as she spun right and gave it a hard forehand cut that was not enough to to strike off its head, but was enough, as the body thudded down with a satisfying thump and lay twitching. She retrieved her lantern, checked her back trail, thankfully still clear, and heaving the dead creature aside, approached the door.

 

     The lock opened quietly, a bit of luck. She faced her lantern backwards, checking for snakes. A horned viper seemed curious, and was slowly headed towards her, but no immediate threats. She cracked the door and peered inside, more than ready to be out of the Hallway of Slithering Doom. There were two lanterns in the large room, one to her right at the back next to a stack of small crates, the second in the hand of a small man directing two others. She paused to listen, slowly cranking her crossbows.

 

     “No, no, get it all, all the red. Leave the green, we want the red,” the small man said. Turning to look almost straight at her, he said, ‘C’mon, Frederico, help us load this out.”

 

     “Hold your horses, Tomas,” Fredrico replied in a low rumble. “You finally ready to move?” He sounded large and dangerous.

 

     “Load out, and we’re all rich by lunchtime!” Tomas said with glee.

 

     It was good she’d waited, because Frederico was a hulk of a man, hidden on the right. As he headed for the stacked crates, she slipped inside, locked the door, and hid behind a counter, working out her plan. Crossbows for sure, but only a fool would take on four armed men if they didn’t have to. Where was Filippo?

 

     Quietly, she readied bows and peeked out. This was an inside job, they’d opened all the lock boxes, and knew red from green, so she wanted at least one alive, preferably Tomas. She recognized Matteo, a strapping young guard, while the fourth was a brute  dressed in rough workmen’s clothes. Tomas and Frederico wore noble’s garb. She slowed her breathing, working out the next steps.

 

     When the back door opened, she waited til Frederico and the brute were outside, then popped up and took aim at Tomas, standing beside the stack of crates chivvying Matteo. She let fly, only to see her bolt thud into a crate beside her target. Tomas whirled to look back at her, emitting a piercing scream as her second bolt caught him in the thigh.

 

     “On the floor, in the name of the Doge,” she yelled in a voice made deep by the Art.

Tomas, doubled over in pain, only screamed “Kill him,” at Matteo, who, looking around for a weapon, grabbed a small bench and charged her. There was shouting outside, but she had her hands full. Matteo outweighed her by a hundred pounds at least, and the bench gave him reach. She drew her sword and waited at the end of the counter. As he charged her and swung, she darted the length of the surface, taunting him. 

 

     “C’mon, big man, I’m your doom. You’ve dreamed of me.” The young man paused, then rushed her. She darted around the next corner, feinting in as he made the turn. He gave an awkward swing with the bench, and she made him pay, slashing in with a vicious cut to the left arm. He howled, and swung wildly one handed, only to be cut across the knuckles. The man tried to back up, bumping the counter, and scrabbled to the side, bench hanging low now. She feinted high, and cut low, scoring his thigh. When the next pass took him in the right arm, the bench fell to the floor, and he stood heaving, looking at her.

 

     “On the floor, or die now,” she growled, swishing her blade in his face. He laid down. “Stay there,” she yelled, turning back to Tomas, who had braced himself up against the crates and drawn a sword. There was the ring of blades outside, so Filippo had engaged. She sauntered to Tomas, who was sweating, brandishing his blade in a trained style, but radiating fear.

 

     “The bolt was poisoned, you know,” she said, gesturing at the man’s thigh. “This IS a poison factory. Of course, there’s an antidote. But you won’t get it in time. UNLESS YOU DROP THAT FUCKING SWORD RIGHT NOW!” This last was said with a menacing pass at his face. There was a clank as his sword hit the stone floor.

 

     “On the floor, and stay there,” she said, kicking the sword away and edging to the door.

 

     “Filippo, what ho?” she shouted out the door, sword in high guard.

 

     “One down, one at bay.” came an answering shout.

 

     “Send me one!” she ordered.

 

     “Yes sir!” The clatter of swords peaked, then a scream, and silence. A panting young guardsman came running up seconds later.

 

     “Any trouble?” she asked him. 

 

     “No, my Lady. We surprised them at the boat.”

 

     “Nice. Tie this one,” she said, gesturing at Tomas, who was moaning on the floor.

 

     She watched him briskly truss Tomas’s arms with his belt, none too gently, and when he looked around, she handed him a roll of cord for the legs.

 

     “Good work, soldier, what’s your name?”

 

     “Mario, my lady.”

 

     “Mario, there’s another back there, I cut him, but he might still bite. Tie him too.” The young soldier trotted off, and she leaned over Tomas.

 

     “So, Tomas, who are you working for?” she asked, nudging him with her toe.

 

     “The antidote, please, now, it hurts,” the man moaned.

 

     “Uh-uh. Not til you say who,” she said, kicking him in the thigh, to bring a piercing scream.

 

     “Please, it really hurts!” the man screamed.

 

     She kicked him again, to another scream. “Please, I really want to know,” she said.

 

     “I don’t know.”

 

     “And I’m forgetting where I left the antidote. Maybe this will help your memory,” and she kicked him again, harder, bringing another howl and the sound of retching.

 

     “I’m starting to lose interest. Will you tell me?” she said with menace.

 

     “Contarini,” the man gasped. 

 

     “Which Contarini?”

 

     “I don’t know, I mean, Nicolo.”

 

     “Very good, thank you,” she said, and walked back to check on Mario, who had the injured Matteo trussed like a hog.

 

     “Good work. But what the fuck are you looking at?” was all she said before heading to the door. The young man turned a satisfying shade of crimson.

 

     “Wait, what about my antidote” Tomas whined.

 

     “Oh, that. I lied, the bolt’s not poisoned, you’ll be fine.” The man began screaming incoherently as she turned to greet an anxious Filippo.

 

     “My Lady, are you all right?”

 

     “I’m good. I have two injured prisoners. We need to get the goods back in, lock up and leave a guard. Any casualties?”

 

     “The lads did well. The big one gashed Alvise, it’s only a scratch.”

 

     “Any prisoners?”

 

     He looked down. “None.”

 

     “Acceptable, I have the one we want.”

 

     It took forever to move the prisoners, store her trunks, re-dress, secure the doors, and load the boat. The snakes were someone else’s problem, but by the time they were back on the water, she could feel the press of dawn not far away. A wave of exhaustion hit her, and she slumped against her courier bag in the bow as they pushed through fog.

 

     The robbery attempt on the factory meant paperwork. She drafted notes in Lazio’s office for the Commander and the Master of the Factory Council after giving Lazio a quick rundown of the encounter, lavishing praise on Filippo and his men. Then it was time to requisition a boat for a ride home to the Cannareggio, landing her a couple of canals from her address to stay incognito. She slipped in without waking the staff and fell into the luxury of her own bed, barely undressed, still clutching the courier bag, looking forward to a long sleep.

 

     It was not to be. A disturbing dream of sneaking across a field of snakes got worse when the ground began shaking, and the snakes began to chant, “My lady, my lady, my lady.” She opened bleary eyes to find a tense Lucinda shaking her. “My lady, please wake, my lady.”

 

     The sun was barely up, she couldn’t have slept more than an hour. “What?”

 

     “An old man from the Inquisition of State demands your presence at the Palace. He is agitated.”

​

 

     Damn. She’d planned a late morning visit, but no such luck. “Coffee,” she managed. “Get Bella and help me dress.”

 

     An official interview with the Inquisition of State, the committee of three that ran Venice’s intelligence service, was no small affair. Soon Lucinda and Bella were chattering excitedly as they worked on her hair and dress while Amalia sulked and nursed evil thoughts about early risers. When her gondola deposited her at the palace with Lucinda as maidservant and Carlo as footman in tow, she was an image of perfection, wrapped in a pleated gown of blue silk, with an ostentatious plumed hat drawing attention away from her veiled face..

 

     It was still early, but the day’s swarm of nobles was already milling about Saint Marks Square, conducting their daily rounds of gossip, commerce, and intrigue. She skirted the crowd, passing through the courtyard of the grand building to an obscure door, where she was greeted by Tristan, a grizzled vet in the Doge’s livery, who gave her an expectant look.

She invoked a small charm that altered her voice, making it higher and more delicate. “Agent Fern, to see the Inquisition, by invitation of Cavazza,” she told him, taking the courier satchel back from Carlo..

 

     “Welcome back, my lady,” he murmured with a hint of a smile before opening the door, gesturing her but not her attendants inside, then locking it behind them before leading her to an imposing set of double doors. He knocked, opened the doors, and with a flourish, announced her in parade ground voice. 

 

     “Agent Fern, by the invitation of Secretary to the Inquisitors of State, Leonardo Cavazza!”

It was a grand room, built to impress: high ceilings, dark paneling, and intricate terrazzo floors. Huge oil paintings by Titian, Tintoretto and Basano graced the walls, with a fireplace big enough to park a cart in at the far end. There was  room for a couple of hundred people, but only four men were present. Three nobles in black robes of office sat on a raised dais against one wall. Cavazza, a drab old man with watery blue eyes and a shiny bald pate, hunched over a desk nearby. Harmless looking, the man was more deadly than a nest of cobras. Snakes rarely killed more than one at a time, never mind whole villages, and they certainly didn’t hold grudges like the old man. Tristan made a precise turn, marched out, and shut the door with an echoing boom.

 

     Amalia walked past Cavazza’s desk. The old bastard was tapping his foot ever so slightly, so she looked at his left hand, surprised to see it was splayed with the first two fingers together, the third apart, and the fourth curled under, which was his code for one hostile Inquisitor.

Spots on the committee only lasted a year, and this group had been sworn in while she was traveling. Thinking  back, she recalled that this year’s Inquisitors were a Donato, a Gritti, and a Contarini. Suddenly it made sense. It was less than six hours since she’d brought in a prisoner who had implicated a Contarini in a crime against the state. She made a modest bow to the Inquisitors and waited in silence.

 

     “Agent Fern, we understand you are just returned from Paris?” Emil Donato rumbled. He was a short, stout man, red-faced under his formal black cap, his glittering eyes suggesting a keen mind.

 

     “Yes, your lordship.”

 

     “And you bring dispatches?”

 

     “Yes, your lordship. I have packets from our ambassadors in Paris, the Hague, and London,” she said, opening the satchel and depositing bundles of letters on Cavazza’s desk.

 

     “What news from Paris?” Contarini asked. He was a slim man with a shock of white hair escaping his cap, and the piercing gaze of a lizard.

 

     “It’s hardly my place to say,” she dodged. “I‘m only a courier.”

 

     “Surely you can tell us something?” Gritti asked. He was the youngest of the three, with the weather beaten face of a sailor.

 

     “There is unrest in the city. I’ll submit a fair copy of my report today. I left in a hurry, because our network in Paris was compromised.”

 

     “What do you mean?” Contarini demanded.

 

     “I was to meet a local handler, but it was a trap. Louis’s agents captured him.”

 

     “But you got away?” Contarini’s sneer made that sound like a failing.

 

     “I was fortunate, my lord. I was hunted all the way to Marseille.”

 

     “Tell us about your return to Venice,” Gritti said.

 

     “I arrived late last night and reported to Lieutenant Lazio at the Arsenal.”

 

     “And then?” Gritti prompted.

​

     “I requested transport of two trunks of supplies to the Poison Factory.”

 

     “Where were these from?” Contarini wanted to know.

 

     “Ambassador Vespi, in Paris.”

 

     “You fled Paris with two trunks?” 

 

     “He shipped them to Marseille.”

 

     “What happened next?” Gritti asked.

 

     “We stopped a robbery.”

 

     “How?”

 

     “We captured two thieves and killed two.”

 

     “And you claim one of these thieves implicated Nicolo Contarini?” Contarini was openly hostile now, his voice full of threat.

 

     “Yes.” There was a long silence.

 

     “Both prisoners died of their wounds, so there is no one to give evidence,” Contarini gloated.

 

     Dammit! The piece of shit had killed her prisoners. She was starting to dislike the man. She fumbled in her satchel for a moment.

 

     “Fortunately, your lordships, I have signed confessions from the two prisoners, witnessed by Lagunari officers before their demise,” she said, laying two envelopes on Cavazza’s desk. One took precautions when going against the great families.

 

     There were glints of triumph in Donato and Gritti’s eyes, while Contarini looked as if he’d been slapped. Cavazza gave her the benevolent grandfather look that always made her want to run.

 

     After a long pause, Contarini said, “I think our business with the agent is concluded. I need a short break, gentlemen,” as he rose and hurried for the door, no doubt to send word to Nicolo to flee before Gritti and Donato could have him arrested.

 

     She gave a respectful bow to the remaining Inquisitors. “Will that be all, your lordships?”

 

     “Yes, thank you,” Donato said without looking up. He was writing furiously on what was no doubt an arrest warrant for Nicolo, while Gritti reviewed the confessions.

 

     “Excellent work, Agent,” Gritti offered.

 

     “An honor to serve the Republic,” she replied, as she headed to the door, and strangely enough, she meant it.

 

     Cavazza was tapping two fingers on his right hand as she passed his desk, which meant to report to his chambers at two pm. It would be a rush to finish her report by then.

 

 

     By condensing the report, she squeezed in a nap and was beginning to feel human again by the time she met Cavazza. His title was Principal Secretary to the Council of Ten, the elected rulers of Venice, but his real role was spymaster for the far flung Venetian empire. The elected Inquisitors were nominally in charge, but the long-serving Cavazza was the gray eminence who moved spies and ambassadors about like chess pieces.

 

     Amalia again arrived at the palace incognito, and after being shown into Cavazza’s office, she removed her hat and studied the old schemer, who was staring back at her.

 

     “How was Paris?” he finally asked.

 

     “A fucking disaster.”

 

     “What happened?”

 

     “Louis knew I was coming, and who I’d meet,” she told him, sliding her report across the polished ebony desk. “They were waiting.”

 

     “Who knew who you were meeting?”

 

     “None of ours in Paris.”

 

     “A leak from Venice?”

 

     “Yes. Louis’s ambassador here is too damn competent, he must have sent a pigeon.”

 

     “I wonder who talked,” Cavazza mused, staring into space, and she knew he was setting traps for anyone talking to the French. “What’s the damage?”

 

     “Not as bad as it could be. They nabbed Jean Kieffer, who ran the Hands team in Paris.”

 

     “Who can he finger on our side?”

 

     “Vespa’s secretary, who got called to England in a hurry.”

 

     Cavazza grunted approval. “Will they roll up his team?” 

 

     “Already happened. They were cutpurses and second story men who didn’t know anything, so great loss, but we’ll need new Hands.”

 

     “Are other assets at risk?”

 

     “I got word to Anna Simone, who runs the Eyes and Ears network. Jean doesn’t know her so I think she’s safe, but she’s laying low.”

 

     “Were you compromised?”

 

     “Damn near. They’d sent pigeons ahead, looking for a Venetian woman. I walked to Marseille as a farm boy. Louis really wanted to catch a spy.” 

 

     “Huh.” Grudging respect was all the praise Cavazza ever gave.  “Farm boys don’t get to sleep at inns, do they?”

 

     “Just think of the money we saved,” she said with a dirty look. ”By the way, you owe me a nice gown.”

 

     “I’m sure something can be arranged.” Which meant, fat chance. “And in Marseille?”

 

     “I talked my way onto a Valieros galleon, and thought my luck had changed for the better, til the bora hit. Then it was all shredded sails, snapped yardarms, broken bones and cracked heads.”

 

     Cavazza nodded gravely. It had been decades since he’d been at sea, but every Venetian respected the terrors of the angry ocean. “Nice work at the factory. Venice thanks you. The Contarini do not.”

 

     “It was lucky timing. What will happen to Nicolo?”

 

     “Probably banishment. The lads are calling you the snake charmer and buying drinks for the ones who saw your shift. In the stories, you’re six feet tall, with a fabulous bosom, and curse like a sailor.”

     “Damn, like I needed that! I couldn’t fight in that gown.”

 

     “Hopefully they’ll never know who was behind that veil. What can you tell me about France?”

 

     “Bad as I’ve ever seen. People starving, unburied corpses in the fields, bandits everywhere, and food riots in Paris.”

 

     “And Louis is still going to war?”

 

     “Yes, the King of England and the Holy Roman Emperor didn’t show him proper respect, so he’s in a snit.”

 

     “All Europe bleeds for one man’s vanity,” Cavazza shook his head in disgust. “Your assessment?”

 

      “Louis lost his best general when Louvois died, that’ll hurt. My girl in Turin confirms Savoy is preparing to invade France. Louis will pull troops out of Spain to counter, so France will play defense in the south.”

 

     “How will it go?”

 

     “The Duke of Savoy has a shiny new army and English gold to pay it. With Prince Eugene egging him on, he’ll invade France.”

 

     “And?”

 

     “He can’t hold anything west of the Alps, even if he wanted to, but those two will raise holy hell. It’ll weaken Louis.”

 

     “And England?”

 

     “They’re the key to it all, and it comes down to ships. Louis wants to invade and put James Stuart back on the throne., William can’t allow that, so he’ll throw everything he has to stop it. I bet on William.”

 

     “What kind of support would James have?”

 

     “Not much, they hate him in England. Some in Scotland, mostly the boondocks. Lots in Ireland, but the bogtrotters can’t work together.”

 

     “And the north?”

 

     “Vauban will attack the Dutch at Namur. He’s slow, but relentless, he’ll take it.”

 

     “How bad is that?”

 

     “Bad. William has to respond, my guess is he makes a stand at Liege.”

 

     He studied her with his watery gaze. “You’re wasted in the field,” he grunted.

 

     “It’s what I do.”

 

     “You supervise the Factory.”

 

     “That’s different, it’s not day in, day out. Working in the palace every day would drive me crazy.”

 

     “I could put you on the western desk, under Pieter.”

 

     “I’d rather row a galley than work for that asshole.”

 

     He gave a long look, and she realized he’d expected that answer. “How about counterintelligence in Venice? Directly under me?”

 

     Dammit! Turning down an offer from Cavazza would be a huge insult, and he was a bad man to insult. Danger!

 

     “Who would run my networks?”

 

     He waved a dismissive hand. “That’s just details. Do you want the job?”

 

     Endless rounds of brunches, birthdays, burglaries, and betrayals, and no time away from prying eyes. She definitely did NOT want the job, but couldn’t tell him that.

 

     “I’m not ready. Give me some time wrap my head around it and get my networks prepped to hand over,” was the best she could come up with.

 

     He sniffed, either mollified or furious, with him it was impossible to tell. “The Republic needs your skills.”

 

     “I live to serve.”

 

     “Not many immigrants are granted the citizenship rights you have so young.” He drummed his fingers for a moment, always a bad sign. “I have another assignment for you, something simple and close to home.”