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palace, Paolo saying he could stay but his father insisting on going. Paolo wasn’t even sure how he had gotten back, as late as it was. Tomaso had always been determined though. Paolo had tried to talk to him about the strange summons and what it might mean, Tomaso as empty then as when they had been at the Doge’s Palace. They parted with few words.
    As is often the case with black thoughts and the absence of sleep to dull them, he had begun the day feeling lost and hopeless. He sat at the table, the morning light streaming through the window, staring blankly at the stain left by the wine from the night before. The booming knock came again, more insistent, and seemed to shake the sunlight itself. When Paolo looked at the wine, he saw his brother’s blood.
    “Canever!” came a familiar shout. “I know you are in there!”
    Paolo was too tired to even venture a guess as to why Francesco would be outside his door at this hour trying to knock it down. He had briefly entertained the idea of going to the Arsenale as usual, but thought better of it. The deputy said that he had been removed from his position, and while normal business wasn’t conducted in the dead of night, even in the great merchant city of Venice, he knew that men such as the deputy did not abide by such tedious customs as working hours.
    “Canever! Come out or I shall come in. Do not doubt Francesco!”
    Paolo didn’t, although he did doubt whether the wine merchant could get his ample frame through the narrow entry. Wearily he made his way to the door.
    “Yes, yes, Francesco. Please, no more,” said Paolo, waving his hand absently. He opened the door but could see nothing, Francesco’s bulk blotting out the sun, his body consumed by shadow and lined with a phantasmal corona.
    “Canever,” the apparition said, “what are you doing here? I arrived this morning, punctual as always with my delivery and ready to greet my friend the Canever, and who do I find?” Apparently Francesco was too offended to wait for an answer. “That little pig Fazzari.” Francesco theatrically spat on the ground.
    Paolo could not argue. Indeed, Aldo Fazzari was quite unlikable. More of a weasel than a pig however, he thought. He was the creature of Donato Quaglia, one of the Arsenale’s Provveditori al Arsenale, a three-person magistracy created by the Senate to oversee the Arsenale. Fazzari was the secretary attached to the magistrates. Since Fazzari was held in such low esteem by virtually all those with whom he had dealings, it was assumed that he was in possession of some rather inflammatory knowledge regarding his mentor, and had been particularly effective in parlaying that knowledge into ever increasingly lucrative appointments. Always one to respect character rather than position, Paolo had crossed swords with the man on several occasions, and a deepening enmity had been the result. No doubt Fazzari was enjoying himself and the surprised looks he would be receiving from Paolo’s men this morning. Paolo could only guess at the story he was weaving to explain his absence. Whatever it was, it was not likely to be sympathetic.
    “Francesco,” Paolo said softly, “how did you find me? I do not recall ever telling you where I lived, and now I realize for good reason.”
    Francesco wagged a fat finger at Paolo. “Ah, Francesco is like the bloodhound, no? You cannot hide from this.” Francesco tapped his rosy, bulbous nose. He became serious. “Canever, why are you here? What has happened?”
    Paolo shook his head slowly. “Too much, too much,” was all he said.
    “I understand,” said Francesco. “Francesco does not make a man speak who does not wish to do so. Some things are meant to be left unsaid, but that does not mean that I require an answer before I can offer my help. I do not know what events have transpired to bring you to such a state,” he said almost formally, “but I believe you are a good man. You have always dealt fairly with me, even