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said Camilio. “I am usually in the Arsenal at this time of day, when I am at home in Venezia.” This was a slight exaggeration, meant to impress Cuor.
    “Plenty of racket there,” said Cuor, and put down the dice again, handing over another coin.
    “Not like this,” said Camilio. He took the coin and prepared to rise. “I am expected … elsewhere.”
    “Tell your employer that the tasks will be attended to. If there is anything to discover, I will find it. If I find nothing, you may be certain there is nothing to be found.” Cuor dropped the dice back in the cup and hid them away in his disheveled garments.
    “No doubt, no doubt,” Camilio said, trying to decide on how best to take his leave.
    Cuor sensed his dilemma and waved him away. “You’ve had all of my money you’re going to get,” he complained loudly. “Away with you!”
    The handsome young man obeyed with alacrity.
    Left alone, Cuor let himself slump again, and began to doze—it was going to be a long night and he would need to be sharp-witted. The sunshine coming through the small, spotted windows was warm enough to ease him into sleep just as the rest of Venezia was waking up.
    Camilio walked along the narrow street to the Gran’ Canale and signaled for a gondola; this one had been waiting for him, and it swept up to him promptly. “Take me to Piazza San Marco, and don’t dawdle,” he said to the gondoliere, lachimo, who had long been in the service of the Doge. “I have an appointment there, and I am expected.”
    “At once,” said lachimo, accustomed to officious young gallants. He worked his single oar expertly and soon they were passing under the partially rebuilt Rialto Bridge, threading through a complex parade of boats, gondole, and barges; the day was warm when the sun fell full on the crowd, but in shadow, the cold of winter still lingered, needling the air and sapping the warmth of the day. The Gran’ Canale was a busy, clamoring place, washed by a rising tide and giving access to smaller canals along its sinuous course, fronted with warehouses and palaces intermixed, that ended in the Bacino di San Marco, where lachimo pulled out of the stream and to the landing steps of Piazza San Marco. “Here you are, signor’. In as good time as any could have made.”
    Camilio alighted from the gondola and tossed a copper coin to Iachimo, then slipped through the press and confusion in the piazza toward the Palazzo dei Dogei, taking care to avoid the various officials in the gathering crowd. He looked up at the workmen on the front of the palazzo and reminded himself that eventually the city would not only be restored, it would be more beautiful than before. With that thought uppermost in his mind, he entered the palazzo and made his way through the warren of halls to the office of Christofo Sen, the senior secretary of the Savii agli Ordini; they had recently been retitled Savii da Mar, indicating that the Most Serene Republic was presently at peace, but no one used the new form, not with the Sultan’s corsairs hunting Venezian merchant-ships with arrogant impunity. Camilio knocked and waited to be summoned within.
    Christofo Sen was a small, angular man with prominent shoulders, knotted fingers, and a wen on his cheek; his clothes were of silk and velvet, dark-amber dogaline-and-doublet edged in gold piping and tuck-lace, his knee-length hose of glossy satin, his leggings of knitted silk. His hair was almost white, but his eyes were a deep, intense blue, and he directed his gaze to Camilio as he entered the outer room of his office. “Well, Leoncio?”
    “I have done as you asked, Zio mio: I have met your man, and I will meet with Cuor again in a week. It is all arranged.” Leoncio Sen coughed. “He calls me Camilio.”
    “Just as well,” said Christofo. “It won’t do to have him learn who you are.” He gestured toward a wooden chair. “Sit down and tell me all.”
    “All?” Leoncio repeated. “To tell you all, I must