The Empire of Glass - Andy Lane [110]
Fifteen good years. I learned a trade. I was proud of what I did.
And then they made me a Lord of the Nightwatch." He sighed.
"Life used to be so simple."
The water of the canal lapped against the brickwork. It sounded to Speroni like the distant chuckling of some malign demon whose job it was to make his life as unpleasant as possible.
Before he knew what he was doing, he had risen to his feet.
"What do you want to do with them, sir?" the youth said.
"Do what you wish," Speroni replied, feeling a fluttering in his chest as if something with wings had been released from a cage. He began to walk away, down the alley. "I don't care any more."
"But sir!" the guard called. "What do you - where are you going?"
"I'm going back to the Arsenale!" he shouted back, feeling a smile spread over his face. "I'm going to do something important with my life, before I forget how. I'm going to build ships."
The sun was just rising above the golden domes and stone towers as he walked out of the alley, casting a rosy light across the entire city. He felt as if he had just been released from the deepest, darkest dungeon in the Doge's Palace. He took a deep breath, turned towards the sun and walked away from it all.
EPILOGUE
April, 1616
"Father, a visitor for you."
The sound of his daughter's voice from downstairs roused him from a dream full of sound and fury. He found himself in his bed, tangled in sheets that were damp with fever-sweat. For a moment the bedroom looked strange to him, as if the laths were not straight, and the plaster was leaning in towards him. His head ached, and there was a churning in his stomach. It was all he could do to stop himself from rolling over and throwing up, but as his mind cleared he knew that it would do him no good. He had felt this way for three days now, and nothing made any difference - not poultices, nor purges, nor medications of any sort. The inaudible and noiseless foot of time was creeping up on him.
"Send -" His voice was a croak, and he paused to clear his throat.
"Send him up." A cart rattled past the window, and he could smell hay. Footsteps creaked on the stairs. He levered himself into some semblance of sitting upright, but bile rose in the back of his throat at the effort.
"William Shakespeare?" The man who stood in the doorway was tall and thin, his hair falling across his forehead. Shakespeare knew that he had never seen the man before, and yet there was something curiously familiar about him. He had a lean and hungry look about him, as though he thought too much.
"Yes, I am Shakespeare. I apologize for my condition, but I have fallen most greviously ill."
The man nodded. "My name is Braxiatel," he said, "Irving Braxiatel."
"Forgive me," Shakespeare said, "but have we met before? Your face floats most oddly in my memory."
Braxiatel nodded. "We did meet, some seven years ago now, in the city of Venice."
Venice. A dry cough racked Shakespeare's body for a moment, turning his throat to fire. "I remember little of my time in Venice, good sir," he said finally. "I contracted brain fever during the voyage, and awoke to find myself in England again. If I did you injury there, then I apologize."
Braxiatel shook his head. "No injury," he said. "At least, nothing that lasted. In fact, I may have done you more of an injury than you did me."
Shakespeare felt a flicker of interest within his breast. "You intrigue me, sir. Speak on."
"I come to offer you a bargain," Braxiatel said carefully. "I took something from you in Venice that I could return."
Shakespeare chuckled weakly. "If I have not missed it for seven years, what use would it be now?"
"I'm talking about your memory," Braxiatel said calmly, and Shakespeare felt his heart thud hard within the cage of his chest.
"The memory of what happened during those few lost days."
Another cart creaked past the window. Shakespeare's gaze wandered away from the man's face and drifted across the rough walls. His thoughts grew quiet for a moment, and when