Children of Earth and Sky (60 page)

Marin has more people here with him in Obravic than is widely grasped. His men learned of the plot quite easily, told the broad details, deducing the secondary ones.

The men who were to kill him were not in any obvious way tied to Seressa. They were to feign a robbery attempt as the Dubravae banker walked through the street. He would be hacked to death. Then the assassins would be killed—by Seressinis—after fleeing to what they had been told was a refuge, where their payment and a secret way out of Obravic would be waiting for them.

The house of refuge had been located by Marin's men. There were to be, he was told, men with guns there on the day, to kill the four street assassins. Then the men with guns would disappear in the throngs. Obravic was expected to be in great tumult after the shocking death of Gospodar Djivo of Dubrava.

It wasn't a badly conceived plan in some ways, Marin had told his men. It was only foolish for failing to consider what might happen if they didn't succeed, and for not realizing that he was guarded exceptionally well.

The street thieves were identified and disarmed before coming anywhere near him as he walked through the cloth market on a sunny autumn day. They were carefully not killed.

Other Djivo guards had earlier made their way to the proposed house of refuge. They had surprised and overcome the Seressinis waiting there, who had not expected anyone for some time. These men were also left alive, trussed, gagged, their guns beside them.

When the assassins confessed to the imperial guard (it didn't take very long) and revealed where they had been instructed to flee after killing the banker, soldiers of the emperor went quickly to that place—and found the Seressinis. Assertive questioning ensued.

The story emerged swiftly as a result, and led straight to the ambassador's residence. The motivation was obvious—the Djivo Bank had offered compelling financial terms to the emperor, and had a persuasive man offering them. The imperial advisers had good reason to reduce their dependence on Seressa.

Trade, commerce, business in all its incarnations, that was what Seressa lived for, and by, and a threat to any of this was not likely to be ignored. Although—murder? Well, yes, murder. The devious republic had done it before, Emperor Rodolfo's chancellor reminded him, sadly.

It was, in short, a disastrous day for the devious republic. For Dubrava and the Djivo Bank (and its backers), it was wondrously good.

Marin was, accordingly, put to some effort to appear shaken and disturbed as officers of the court attended upon him at the house and business premises he'd purchased near the castle.

Their apologies—on behalf of the emperor—were profuse, intense. Rodolfo had already been informed, they told Djivo—and his imperial majesty was outraged. The privileges of the Seressinis in Obravic were to be curtailed. And this ambassador would not remain in the city.

The High Patriarch would be written to.

Marin thanked them for their solicitude and for the emperor's kind concern. He praised their swift actions of behalf of justice and business integrity. He intended, he said, to pray in thanksgiving for his deliverance in the sanctuary down the street, perhaps they would join him?

They did so, of course. The Djivo guards were much in evidence as the dignitaries proceeded both ways at day's end, escorting the handsome Dubravae banker. So were the soldiers of the emperor.

It could not, Marin is thinking, going up to his rooms some time later, have unfolded better if he had been instructing the Seressinis as to what he needed them to do.

He thanks the two guards who have walked him up (there will be one in the hallway all night) and he enters his chambers.

Lamps are lit and the fire is going on a cool night in Obravic. His wine is where it should be.

There is only one cup beside the decanter.

He closes the door.

He says, “I could have poured your cup.”

He turns and sees—finally—Danica Gradek, sitting on his window ledge again.

She looks as he remembers. Years have passed.

She says, “I saw two cups. Didn't know when you would be . . . wait! My cup? Were you
expecting
me?”

He crosses to pour himself wine. “Our guards are much better these days.”

“I heard that. Someone tried to kill you.”

“Yes. They didn't.”

“Seressa?”

“Yes.”

Her hair is shorter, or tied back, he can't tell from here. She wears dark-green trousers, a blue tunic, belted, a sheepskin vest over it, boots. A ring he doesn't remember. No bow, no sword. She will have knives.

“Well, good that they failed,” she says. “Your guards really saw me?”

“Yesterday. I was told a tall woman with yellow hair had been looking at the house from across the street. They said she had a dog. How is Tico?”

“He is very well,” she says stiffly. She looks affronted.

He is amused. “I told them it was all right, not to be concerned.”

“Did you?” she says. “And had a second cup put out?”

He walks to the window and takes her cup and crosses to fill it and his own again. He turns back to her and from halfway across the room, to have a little distance, he says, “Danica, since I returned from Asharias, more than three years now, I have set out two cups in my chamber every night. Wherever I am.”

There is a silence.

“Oh,” she says. “Have you?”

“Yes. In the . . . small hope you might come to find me.”

She has coloured now, he sees.

She says, “I did, didn't I? Come find you.”

“It seems so.”

She sips from her wine. She says, “You were angry with me, that last night.”

“In Sauradia? I . . . yes, let's say that I was.”

“You know why I left, though. Don't you?”

There are changes in her, after all. Of course there are. Time has run. He says, “I do. I did then, Danica. We can still be made angry.”

She looks down at her wine. “Two cups every night?” she says.

“Yes.”

She shakes her head. “And now you are here? Obravic? A bank?”

“Yes. And you are here because . . . ?”

“Because I heard that this was where you were.”

She has always been direct, he remembers.

“I see,” he says calmly enough, but his heart is beating faster. “You never came to Dubrava.”

“No. I . . . no.” A silence. She says, “Did you marry? The clever girl who liked you? Katija?”

“Kata Matko. No.” He smiles. “My brother did. They have two children already.”

“I see. And . . . you made it to Asharias, then, that journey? With the artist? A success? Have you gone back?”

“It was a success. I have not gone back. I found it difficult to be there, and I almost died.”

“Oh?”

“You heard of the rioting? Wherever you were?”

“When the prince died? Yes. I was in Trakesia. Were you . . . ?”

“I got out just before. Pero got me out. He saved my life.”

“Oh,” she says again. “There is a story?”

“There is.” He hesitates. “If we will have time for stories.”

And now, finally, she smiles at him, the needful wonder of that. And as he sees this, the room, the northern night behind her, the arc and unfurl of his whole life all grow brighter, it seems to Marin Djivo.

“Why,” she asks, “would we not have time?”

And because she is smiling, and there is a feeling within him like balm spreading healing, warmth, and something far beyond, he does not delay what he has to tell her any more and says, “I told you that our guards were better now.”

“You did. That they knew I was here.”

“Danica, the one who has trained them, made them better for two years now, is your brother.”

“
Oh, dear Jad. Please tell me . . .
”

He tells her. “Neven came to Dubrava looking for you two years ago. But none of us knew where you were, where Skandir might be, if you were still with him. So he stayed, waiting for you, with us. My father took him on as a guard, as you had been, and then, when we saw what he was, he was asked to train the others as our needs grew.”

Her hands have gone to her face.

“Danica,” he says, “remember, we had no idea where you were.”

“Say he is all right. Please.”

“He is more than that. He is wonderful. Most of the merchants in Dubrava and most of the merchants' daughters want him for their own.”

“The daughters? He's too young!” she cries, a reflex.

His turn to smile. “No, he isn't,” he says.

“Oh, Marin,” he hears her say. “Oh, Marin.” His name. Finally.

—

“OH, MARIN,”
she hears herself whisper, twice. And arriving at that, at his name again in this moment, feeling whole, entirely here, in this room, in this one night in all the world's nights she also feels—after all the years and journeys—as if she has been granted a blessing. After everything.

She looks at him, the composed ease of his body, the smile she remembers, eyes on hers, his
presence
with her, hers with him, amazingly.

She stands. Places her cup on the window ledge, carefully. She says, “Is it possible, do you think, for you to take me to your bed?”

She sees his smile deepen and she knows there is a home in it, in him, for her, and that she is someone who can live in that home now, finally. They make love by lantern light and firelight.
They marry, not long after. In time there are children, who bring, always, the future with them. There are sorrows and joys, as there are. One of them dies, and then the other does, not long after. They are laid to rest beside each other in the Djivo family plot overlooking the sea, on an island near Dubrava. They are still there, though the graves are hard to find after all this time.

One of her grandchildren would talk to Danica in her mind, silently, for many years, from the first moments after her grandmother died. Another blessing granted, to both of them. This should not happen, perhaps, but it does. We live among mysteries. Love is one, there are others. We must not imagine we understand all there is to know about the
world.

S
ome years ago I was on a promotional tour in Croatia. Driving towards an event on the Dalmatian coast, my publisher suddenly exclaimed, “I know what you should do! You should write a book about the
uskoks.
” In my most suave manner, I replied, “Say what?”

He spoke of pirates, small, swift boats, a ruined town on the Adriatic somewhere not far ahead. We carried on along Roman roads. Years later, again on tour in Croatia, a historian picked up on the
uskok
theme as we talked, then sent me links to a book in English and scholarly articles. The book, Wendy Bracewell's
The Uskoks of Senj
, was compelling, immensely useful.

These conversations are the primal “origin story” of this novel. So my first acknowledgements belong to Neven Anticevic (who has published all of my books in his market) and Robert Kurelic. It took me a long time to get to this story, but I seem to have done so.

A second piece of an emerging book became Dubrovnik. Walking the walls, viewing the harbour, climbing the hill to look down on the city and islands—all helped give me ideas. So did a number of books about that fascinating city-state. I'll mention Robin Harris's
Dubrovnik: A History
as a very well done
introduction. I also found useful more narrowly focused works by Susan Mosher Stuard and David Rheubottom.

Venice attracts as many writers, it sometimes seems, as it does tourists. There is no shortage of material on the history of the republic. I'll note a recent, engaging history by Thomas F. Madden (he's a great admirer of the city, there are less sympathetic accounts to be found of some moments and figures). I also want to recommend
Bound in Venice
by Alessandro Marzo Magno, genuinely delightful on printing and books in the Serene Republic.

The history of the Ottoman Empire has also been widely chronicled, also with diverse perspectives. For the general reader, one classic is Kinross,
The Ottoman Empire
, but there are many more recent treatments. Rhoads Murphey's
Ottoman Warfare 1500–1700
was useful. Andrew Wheatcroft has written about both the Ottomans and the Habsburgs—also a component of my story here, obviously. Those who know the history will have noted that I used Rudolf II's court in Prague as an inspiration—backing it up a century or so to the late 1400s. My city of Obravic is an amalgam, but it is Prague more than anything else. A thoroughly engaging book on Rudolf and his remarkable court is Peter Marshall's
The Theatre of the World
.

On Renaissance trade and commerce and so much more, the great resource, to my mind, remains Fernand Braudel's magisterial
The Mediterranean
. I reread it for this novel, taking more notes, without doubt, than from any other book I read. (Mind you, it is longer than any other!) A fine, newer work is Peter Spufford's handsome
Power and Profit: The Merchant in Medieval Europe
.

There are a great many more titles, and writers. I never want to overload these notes, only to guide readers who might be interested to some of the background that engaged me. Michael Herzfeld's
The Poetics of Manhood
, which is about Cretan mountain villages, was unexpectedly illuminating. So were works by Chiara Frugoni on daily life in and around this period. Cennini's celebrated
The Craftsman's Handbook
, a contemporary work on the craft of painting, was a delight.

I have written and spoken often over the years as to why I deploy what one writer called “history with a quarter turn to the fantastic” in my fiction. Those curious will find some of my remarks on the brightweavings.com site, created originally by Deborah Meghnagi, and administered also by Alec Lynch. Elizabeth Swainston is present with Alec on the Facebook page on my work, and responsible for our presence on Pinterest (where I often name and recommend books I've found useful—or just wonderful). I am grateful, always, to the three of them.

I had a longstanding editor and friend retire this past year as this novel was in progress, and this feels a proper place to acknowledge the support I received over the years from Susan Allison in New York. I may yet forgive her for retiring. I'm deeply grateful for her editorial commitment to this book, and others, from another dear friend, Nicole Winstanley, and also to Claire Zion, Adrienne Kerr, and Oliver Johnson. Catherine Marjoribanks copyedited with patience and humour—our eighth time around, she says, and she's the detail person. You'd think we'd stop battling over commas by now. Or not. Martin Springett, another old friend, did patient, professional work on the map.

I owe thanks to my agents, John Silbersack, Jonny Geller, and Jerry Kalajian. And—as always, and with love—to Sybil, Rex, Sam, Matthew, and Laura. It may seem as if we write our books alone, but it just isn't
true.