'Lucrezia, pray help me. My sentence of exile is for five years, and its course is nearly run. So do I — must I — return then to my family? Leave the sea and my friends — my true friends . . .' It was harder to bear, now it had been given voice.
The gondola rocked gendy in the calm of the lagoon, Lucrezia watching him calmly. But she had no hesitation: 'Niccolo, ragazzo, you know th' answer to that,' she said gently, stroking his hair. 'You have serve your sentence, you can be proud, but you are a gentleman, not low-born. Go to your family an' start life again.'
It was devastating — not what she had said, which was unanswerable, but the discovery that he should have known it would have to finish in this way. A great upwelling of emotion came, sudden and deluging. He covered his face as sobs turned to tears - but in the hot rush a cool voice remained to tell him that this was a final, irreversible decision: before the end of the year he would no longer be in the harsh world of the common seaman.
Kydd picked himself up, more dismayed than hurt. He had always admired his friend's fine intellect, but now he had serious doubts about the balance of his mind. Yet to look for him in this libertine madness was not possible — more to the point was how to steer a course back to their lodgings.
He remembered the big marble bridge. 'Th' Rialto, if y' please,' he asked passers-by, and in this way soon found himself on familiar territory. A quick hunting about found their doss-house.
The Swede looked up curiously. 'Where's Renzi?' A swirl of smoke and coarse shouting eddied from the dark recesses inside, but Larsson was content to stay with his garba.
'He's comin' back,' Kydd snapped. *Renzi knows his duty, ye'll find.' That much would be certain: if anything in this world was a fixed quantity it was that Renzi would fulfil his duty.
But Renzi did not return that night. Kydd waited in the dark loft, hearing the strange sounds of the Venetian night. He slept fitfully.
Minutes before their due reporting time to Lieutenant Griffith, Renzi returned. He gave no explanation, but seemed far more in control — yet distant, unreachable, in a way Kydd had never seen him before.
'We meet the agent at the Rialto,' Renzi said, leading them down to the steps close to the bridge. Amati was waiting for them, and did not reply to their greeting. A gondola threaded through the water towards them, its cabin closed. They stepped aboard and it pushed off to the middle of the Grand Canal.
'Report!' The order came from the anonymous dark of the cabin.
'All quiet, sir,' was Renzi's cool reply, 'but I have heard reliably that the French are at the approaches to Venice, no more than a few miles. It is to be reasonably assumed, sir, that Sir Alastair has been unfortunately taken in trying to get through their lines.'
'Where did you hear this?'
'From ... I have no reason to doubt my source, sir.'
There was no immediate reply. Then, 'Venice is a sovereign republic — the French would never dare to violate her territory. We are safe here for the moment. We shall wait a little longer, I think.'
Renzi frowned. 'Sir, the French commander, General Buonaparte, is different from the others. He's bold and intelligent, wins by surprise and speed. I don't think we can underestimate—'
'Renzi, you are impertinent — this is not a decision for a common sailor. We stay.'
'Aye aye, sir,' Renzi acknowledged carefully.
'You will report here at the same time tomorrow. If you get word of Sir Alastair, I am to be informed immediately.'
'Sir.'
The gondola reached the landing place, and they disembarked. With barely a muttered excuse Renzi was gone - who knew where? Kydd found himself growing resentful and angry. They were on a mission of considerable importance, they were in danger, and Renzi had deserted them.
He growled at the gawping Larsson to keep with him as they headed back to their quarters, then saw what he was looking at. In a chance alignment of the dark streets, the bright outer lagoon was visible, and at that moment a vision was passing, surrounded by a swarm of lesser craft, a great vessel of dazzling gold and scarlet, moving trimly under the impulse of fifty oars.
‘Il Bucintoro!’ a passing onlooker said, with pride, noticing their fascination.
The galley glided grandly out of sight, leaving Kydd doubtful that he had actually seen what his senses told him he had.
Undoubtedly there were more such sights and experiences lying in wait all around, enough to have his shipmates lost in envy when he later recounted his adventures. But the French were allegedly just a few miles away, and their duty was plain. He turned reluctantly towards their noisome lodgings.
The next morning Renzi arrived to meet them at the appointed place, this time with serious news. 'Friuli is invaded. Buonaparte has stormed into Carinthia to the north, and his troops have bypassed Venice to strike south.'