The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice Read Online Free PDF Page A

non-festive expression was soon remarked, spurring the less inhibited to games of provocation. Two men in giant gold turbans and monstrous feathered garments laughed into my face, showering me with a spray of red and purple confetti. Ignoring them, I meandered through the crowd and hastened toward Canal Grande.
    A hot burst of air made me wince. An obnoxious fire blower standing upon stilts had stooped to my level as he blew flames into my face.  Startled, I stumbled against two teens– two red-heads behind silver masks their manner as stiff as dolls. The girls peered into my eyes, their heads tilting, questioning my intrusion. Now they spun about, barring my way with their hands clasped such that everywhere I turned, I could not escape. Such was I, locked within Venezia’s embrace at the most unfortunate time of the year.
    It did not press upon my mind, not yet anyway, that my irritation had stemmed from Almoro’s cloying insistence and the oppressive feeling of finding myself at the whims of the Consiglio dei Dieci. I had no choice.
    To hell with the gondolas, I thought. I hailed one of the few horse carriages.
    “To the Rialto markets. Trample on the crowd if you must.”
    The coachman tilted his head with a grin.
    “ Si, Signore .”
    And I plunged into the files on my lap.
     
    ***
     
    I had acquired the dubious reputation of inquisitor almost three years ago. I had just turned thirty-eight and graduated from Padua University with high honors.  I came to Venezia as a highly recommended intern and found myself at the service of the Consiglio dei Dieci. At this time, a wave of macabre murders had seized the Republic. The signori di notte found women as young as fifteen, lying dead, their bellies cut open and their insides spilled in a pool of blood. It was evident that the peste was not at cause. By what Almoro had described as my remarkable intuition, I examined the women and determined that their murderer had use of his left hand. He was a sinestra . A wounded witness had later reported his attempts to duel with the masked man, one with a confounding talent in swordsmanship. Tearing off his attacker’s mask, he had noted a harelip upon his face.  The unmasked had fled the scene.
    The murderer’s peculiar traits left him with nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. It was my inquisition which had soon delivered him into the hands of the sbirri . The mysterious man had been hurriedly hung for his vile crimes. He was not given a trial. And yet the case had haunted me. Even after questioning him for days, I had learned little of the Albanian. I had watched him at length and saw only a madman.
    Aside from vendettas and crimes for profit, Venezia suffered few murders, if at all. La Serenissima's numerous guilds and parishes were bastions of morality, while the overseeing Consiglio dei Dieci guided the Republic’s moral principles with a firm hand. What had driven this man to madness?
    To abandon oneself to such brutality, he would have had to exist in the shadows; a silent outcast, without family, without a parish, unguided by guilds and well outside the social order of La Serenissima. At last, I had come to reason–to have wielded the sword with such skill, he must have been, in all likelihood, a foreign mercenary. But when I pursued this idea and enquired into his background, I could discover no file with his name upon it. Not even the signori di notte came forth with further information. From whence had he come?
    I had confabulated on this for months but Almoro had pressed me to desist. This was the moment when he had first shook his head and asked me if I were not driven to obsession by my delusions.
    Ever daring in the advancement of my ideas, I had persisted with my research, even if I did not share my findings with Almoro. I returned to Tuscany to work as a teacher and marry, leaving behind the darkness I had seen in Venezia.
    And today, here I was, faced with the death of three wealthy merchants and their leader,