❂
A YOUNGER, less grumpy version of Silvio picked them up at the dock at midnight. The young man, whom Tenzin introduced as Claudio, kept the boat’s motor almost silent until they were well away from San Marco. Speeding into utter blackness, Ben tried not to panic and instead enjoyed the whipping wind on his face as the wood-paneled boat crossed the dark lagoon.
“Where are we going?” he shouted.
“Murano.”
“The island of glassblowers?”
“It’s not just glass. But the glass helps. Nobody notices his forges there.”
Forges. Of course. You couldn’t fake medieval coins with a regular art forger, you needed a metalsmith. Someone who could pour the metal and create the dies for the coins. You’d need an engraver too.
“Tenzin?” He switched to Mandarin. “Do you actually have these coins?”
“Of course. I’ve had them for around four hundred years. Took them from the Neapolitan treasury ages ago.”
“So you stole them?”
She shrugged. “Define steal.”
That sounded like a conversation he’d need more wine for. “The manual you took from Perugia. Was it for your forger’s benefit or yours?”
“Mine. Oscar has been doing this for a long time. I just wanted to check his work. Don’t mention the manual to him. He’d be offended.”
“Wouldn’t dare.”
The moon peeked from behind the clouds and lit up the lagoon. Ben tried not to notice how fast they were going since Claudio looked bored. This was clearly a familiar route for the young Venetian.
“The museum,” she said. “Did you go like I asked?”
“I did.”
“Several of Oscar’s copies are in there,” Tenzin said.
“So he’s good.”
“He’s the best.”
Ben could see tiny lights in the distance. The flat outline of Murano appeared in the sliver of moonlight. The small collection of islands had become the home of all Venetian glassmakers in the thirteenth century when they were forced off the main island by fears of fire. Since then, Murano had swelled and waned in power. Now it was part of Venice, but Ben knew at one time it had its own government. Even minted its own coinage.
“How old is Oscar?” he asked.
Tenzin shrugged. “Ask Oscar.”
Yeah, that was likely.
“I first heard of him in the seventeenth century,” Tenzin said. “He already had a very good reputation as a metalsmith. Water vampire, of course. Most Venetians are. He designed a piece of jewelry for me around the time I bought my house here. We’ve been… associates since then.”
“So he’s at least five hundred years old.”
“I’d estimate around six. He was young when I met him, but not that young.”
Ben nodded and tucked the information away. Venice in the seventeenth century would have been in decline as an economic and cultural power, but it was still plenty wealthy. Tenzin must have paid someone off handsomely to buy a home in San Marco.
“We’ll go to his workshop tonight so you can meet him. He told me the job is about half done. He’ll need another week at least before we can return the coins to Alfonso.”
“You mean give him the fakes?” He shook his head. “Do you really have the tarì? Or was this whole thing a ruse?”
“Would I lie to you? Of course I have them. How else could Oscar have reproduced them? I like them, and I don’t want to give them back. Why should I when I can hire Oscar to make some very nice fakes for Alfonso? I even found some North African gold to duplicate the originals.”
“Tenzin, that’s not the— Wait, you had a stash of North African gold just lying around?”
“Yes.”
He let out a slow breath. “Sometimes I want to be you when I grow up, then I think about your tenuous grasp on sanity and remind myself it wouldn’t be a good idea.”
She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. The wind whipped her hair around her head. She wasn’t wearing braids, so the mass of it rose like a black cloud behind her.
“Sanity,” she said, “is vastly overrated.”
“Is it really worth pissing off the Mad Duke to keep some old coins? Especially when Gio asked us to tread carefully in Naples? Are they worth that much money?”
“No.” She sat up and squinted. “That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“They’re mine. I don’t give people things that are mine. Especially if I don’t like those people.”
“But you’ll go to all this trouble to forge duplicates for him?”
A smile quirked her lips. “I will enjoy his look of triumph when he holds the fakes. That will be very satisfying.”
“Because you’ll be laughing internally?”
“Yes.”
“You’re twisted, Tiny. So very twisted.”
“That’s what keeps me alive.” She leaned forward as the boat approached the islands. Instead of pulling into the main canal, Claudio turned northeast and headed along the outer edge of Murano, slowing to putter past tiny docks where local boats bobbed in the chop. He pulled up to an unmarked set of steps near a redbrick wall.
“Three a.m.?” Claudio asked.
“We’ll be here between three and four,” Tenzin said. “Is that enough time?”
“Of course.” Claudio grinned. “The boat can always go faster.”