All eyes turned back to Renzi. He cleared his throat, and folded his arms. 'The French are near.'
Kydd sat back: Renzi was now going to make things clear.
'Venice is a very old, proud and independent republic, and she has no quarrel with revolutionary France. In the legal sense, therefore, we have as Englishmen a perfect right to be here, no need for disguise, dissembling.' He pondered for an instant. 'However, it would make sense not to embarrass the authorities if they must deny knowledge of the presence of English citizens to the French. I rather think our best course would be to lie low and see what happens. We must make the best of our circumstances, therefore.'
'We stay.'
'We must.' There was a heavy silence.
'Why is th' agent, Amati, s' skittish, then?'
'Here we have an ancient and well-worn rule of government that is unique to this place. There are no kings, rather they elect one who should rule over them - the Doge. The first one over a thousand years ago, in fact. And there are nobles, those whose names are inscribed in the Golden Book of the Republic, and honoured above all.' He paused. 'But the real power lies at the palace in the hands of the Council of Ten, who have supreme authority over life and death. They rule in secrecy - any who is denounced risks a miserable end in the Doge's prison. This, perhaps, is the source of his terror.' Renzi continued: 'But on the other hand, even while we are here in durance vile, there are at this moment — and not so very far from here — rich and idle ladies who think nothing of waking at noon, supping chocolate and playing with their lapdogs.' He smiled at his shipmates' varied expressions and went on, 'Should you desire — and have the fee — you may choose from a catalogue your courtesan for her skills and price.'
Talk of this soon palled: the contrast with their present situation was too great.
Almost apologetically, Renzi tried to change tack: 'In Venice gambling is a form of art. Should there be a pack of cards, and as we have time on our hands I would be glad to introduce you to vingt et un - perhaps, or . ..'
Time dragged. A noon meal in the smoke-blackened furatole did not improve the oudook of the three seamen.
Back in the room, Larsson's expression faded to an enduring blankness, and Renzi's features darkened with frustration. Many times he went to the grimy window and stared out over the rooftops.
'I needs a grog,' grunted Larsson, challenging Renzi with a glower.
Renzi didn't answer for a time. Then, suddenly, he stood up. 'Yes. Below.' He left the room abrupdy, without his coat.
Kydd jumped up and followed, tumbling down the stairway. 'Garba!' he heard Renzi shout. It was rough brandy and water; Kydd had no real desire for it, and was unsettled by Renzi's deep pull at his pot.
The third round of drink came. In a low, measured tone, Renzi spat vehemently, 'Diavolo!' The others looked at him. 'This is Venice?
'Aye, and so?' Kydd asked.
Renzi glared at him. 'When last I was here . . .' He stopped. His knuckles showed white as he gripped the stone drinking vessel. Then he got to his feet in a sudden clumsy move that sent Kydd's pot smashing to the floor. Curious eyes flickered from other tables.
'I'm going out!' Renzi said thickly. T' breathe some o' the air of Venice. Are you with me?'
'An' what about Leith?' Kydd wanted to know.
A quick smile. 'Taken by the French long ago,' Renzi said contemptuously, 'How can he get through a whole army to us here? No chance. We make our time here as bearable as we can. Are you coming?'
Kydd saw that something serious had affected his friend, and resolved to stay by him. 'I'll come, Nicholas.' Larsson merely shook his head.
