grimaced. “Because Martina won’t let me. She says some of them
do
know, and we’d damage our reputation—”
“What reputation?” Jerome asked, looking confused.
Paulo stopped mid-sentence to look at him.
“We’re a brothel,” Jerome added helpfully.
Mircea cleared his throat, but the hint failed to register.
“I thought we just gave them a bit of the old, you know,” Jerome elaborated by waggling his hips back and forth suggestively, causing Paulo to look like he wanted to recommence strangling.
“We are not a brothel!” he hissed, jerking the smaller vampire out of the road so that a cart full of farmers, who had been looking at them strangely, could pass.
“We get paid for a tumble, don’t we?” Jerome asked. “So do they.” He pointed at a nearby bawdy house, of the kind that always congregated close to markets. “What’s the difference?”
“The dif—” Paulo shut his eyes. “The difference is night and day! We are
cortigianes,
not
puttana
! We discuss art. And antiquities. And literature and music. We grace palazzos and mix perfectly with the owners and their guests. Auria writes poetry—”
“Auria?”
“—and Bianca paints. We entertain dignitaries, visiting sultans, even senators. Possibly even the consul himself!”
“Soooo, we’re a high class brothel,” Jerome reasoned.
“Gahhh!” Paulo tore a page out of his book and thrust it into Mircea’s hands. “You and Wheezer there get this half of the list; I’ll tend to the rest. We’ll meet back here after!”
He left at what would have been a run, if he hadn’t been upholding the dignity of the house. Leaving Mircea standing in the street, staring after him. And wondering what he was missing.
Jerome reached for the list. “Sugar, spices . . . two large, gilded marzipan cakes? At this hour?”
Mircea didn’t say anything. But his eyes swept the area, looking for the reason why a couple of newly purchased slaves had just been left to their own devices. And sure enough, he found it.
The Watch was everywhere.
Lounging beside a nearby barbershop, laughing at the bawdy story a local man was telling. Walking casually down the street, the light from a late-closing shop spangling their bright silver breastplates and green silks. Standing in solitary, apparently contemplative thought, at the end of a dock.
That alone wasn’t surprising. The hours after dark but before the wine bell sounded was the busiest time of day for his kind. At the moment, there were still hundreds of people in the streets, finishing their shopping, on their way to meet friends for dinner, or heading for the taverns after a hard day’s work. Nightfall seemingly meant nothing to the Venetians, who defied it with the torches affixed to buildings, the lamps on passing gondolas, and the firelight spilling out of doorways and across the faces of the vampires who were suddenly everywhere, mixing with the crowd, sizing up the population, making their choices.
The Watch was on hand to make sure they kept to the rules. Feed but don’t kill, wipe memories properly, take any duels somewhere they won’t be seen by impressionable humans. Who tended to remember things like people scaling the sides of buildings or healing almost instantaneously or somersaulting over their opponents’ heads.
But it seemed to Mircea that there were more of them than usual tonight.
A lot more.
Or maybe he was just noticing them more now. As a freeman, the Watch had been an irritation, quick to give him grief or to bleed him dry for drinking money. But now they felt more like jailors, hemming him in, making his skin tight, making him want to—
“Mircea? Are you coming?” He looked around to find Jerome standing in the road, one hand on the little cart and one on the list, looking at him impatiently. “We need to hurry if we’re going to get everything.”
Mircea nodded, belatedly noticing the signs of a rapidly closing street. A flower seller hurried past with a
do
know, and we’d damage our reputation—”
“What reputation?” Jerome asked, looking confused.
Paulo stopped mid-sentence to look at him.
“We’re a brothel,” Jerome added helpfully.
Mircea cleared his throat, but the hint failed to register.
“I thought we just gave them a bit of the old, you know,” Jerome elaborated by waggling his hips back and forth suggestively, causing Paulo to look like he wanted to recommence strangling.
“We are not a brothel!” he hissed, jerking the smaller vampire out of the road so that a cart full of farmers, who had been looking at them strangely, could pass.
“We get paid for a tumble, don’t we?” Jerome asked. “So do they.” He pointed at a nearby bawdy house, of the kind that always congregated close to markets. “What’s the difference?”
“The dif—” Paulo shut his eyes. “The difference is night and day! We are
cortigianes,
not
puttana
! We discuss art. And antiquities. And literature and music. We grace palazzos and mix perfectly with the owners and their guests. Auria writes poetry—”
“Auria?”
“—and Bianca paints. We entertain dignitaries, visiting sultans, even senators. Possibly even the consul himself!”
“Soooo, we’re a high class brothel,” Jerome reasoned.
“Gahhh!” Paulo tore a page out of his book and thrust it into Mircea’s hands. “You and Wheezer there get this half of the list; I’ll tend to the rest. We’ll meet back here after!”
He left at what would have been a run, if he hadn’t been upholding the dignity of the house. Leaving Mircea standing in the street, staring after him. And wondering what he was missing.
Jerome reached for the list. “Sugar, spices . . . two large, gilded marzipan cakes? At this hour?”
Mircea didn’t say anything. But his eyes swept the area, looking for the reason why a couple of newly purchased slaves had just been left to their own devices. And sure enough, he found it.
The Watch was everywhere.
Lounging beside a nearby barbershop, laughing at the bawdy story a local man was telling. Walking casually down the street, the light from a late-closing shop spangling their bright silver breastplates and green silks. Standing in solitary, apparently contemplative thought, at the end of a dock.
That alone wasn’t surprising. The hours after dark but before the wine bell sounded was the busiest time of day for his kind. At the moment, there were still hundreds of people in the streets, finishing their shopping, on their way to meet friends for dinner, or heading for the taverns after a hard day’s work. Nightfall seemingly meant nothing to the Venetians, who defied it with the torches affixed to buildings, the lamps on passing gondolas, and the firelight spilling out of doorways and across the faces of the vampires who were suddenly everywhere, mixing with the crowd, sizing up the population, making their choices.
The Watch was on hand to make sure they kept to the rules. Feed but don’t kill, wipe memories properly, take any duels somewhere they won’t be seen by impressionable humans. Who tended to remember things like people scaling the sides of buildings or healing almost instantaneously or somersaulting over their opponents’ heads.
But it seemed to Mircea that there were more of them than usual tonight.
A lot more.
Or maybe he was just noticing them more now. As a freeman, the Watch had been an irritation, quick to give him grief or to bleed him dry for drinking money. But now they felt more like jailors, hemming him in, making his skin tight, making him want to—
“Mircea? Are you coming?” He looked around to find Jerome standing in the road, one hand on the little cart and one on the list, looking at him impatiently. “We need to hurry if we’re going to get everything.”
Mircea nodded, belatedly noticing the signs of a rapidly closing street. A flower seller hurried past with a
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