DELUGE by Lisa T. Bergren

four took to the wheel, slowly turning our ship around and pulling us in to our mooring pole, dimly marked as 57, even as the next ship swept past us to number 58 and did the same. It was a far more organized procedure than I anticipated, but never in my wildest dreams had I really expected the madness that was the lagoon. In our own day, it had been busy, bustling with vaparettos and gondolas and even cruise ships, but it was nothing like it was now. The sea traffic was so dense, I thought that, in a pinch, one might be able to jump from deck to deck, until they were all the way to the Rialto.
    Two rowboats arrived beside us, each manned by a pair of men. They shouted and bartered with the captain, negotiating a price, until an agreement was made and the captain gestured downward. “Please, m’lord,” he said to Marcello, “take your wife and kin first.”
    Marcello thanked him and handed him a bag of coins, the payment for safely getting us to our port. Only half had been paid up front. I thought it silly; if we were to die at sea, who cared if the captain had half or all of our money? But I supposed it protected us from those who might wish to take our money, kill us, and move on to whichever port they wished...
    Soon enough, we were all settled in the boat below, with me feeling particularly proud of myself for getting down the net, preggers, big skirts and all. Oh yeah, I thought, I’m the She-est of the She-Wolves. I grinned at Lia.
    “What?”
    “Nothing.”
    She probably thought she was All That because she climbed it in half the time. Whatever. But I was still pleased with my surprising feat of grace.
    Our trunks were lowered into the boat with us, and then we were off, waving to the sailors, and soon absorbed in those we passed. It seemed like the entire world was here in Venezia’s harbor. We could pick out what had to be Russian, Chinese, French and middle-English in the first five minutes. The water smelled of brine and fish, but the air was blessedly cool, keeping me from feeling nauseous again, even facing overwhelming, almost-choking smells. There were merchants ferrying casks of wine and olive oil, skiffs carrying piles of stone out to ships—to serve as ballast weight, I learned from Dad—and others carrying in slabs of white marble. There was chain and rope and bale upon bale of wool. Silk tapestries. Sacks of grain. It was a hive of humanity and trade, and I couldn’t help but think that the harbor was a perfect example of why the coming plague would spread so quickly. Everything and everyone was pressed together, sharing space, air, goods, and all sorts of invisible germs with people from all over the world.
    For the thousandth time, I wished for liquid gel cleanser.
    “When we reach the docks, you must stick very close to us and keep hold of your purse,” Marcello said. “There is an unsavory element here, and they prey upon those who are distracted by the beauty of the city. Be aware of who is around us.”
    “Sounds just like Venezia last time we were here,” Dad muttered, but he grinned with excitement as he looked our way. It’d been years since we’d come this far north. I think I’d been about ten, and Lia eight.
    The men at the oars took us past the busy docks beside the doge’s palace, which led to Piazza San Marco farther down the Grand Canal, and eventually into a small side canal that took us deeper into the Rialto—basically Venice’s version of an alley. It was too narrow for the men to use the oars, so instead they stood and used their hands to propel us between the buildings that rose four stories above us. We stopped beside an ornate gate, with mossy green steps rising from the canal waters, up and into the palazzo beside us. A servant appeared, and Lia and I glanced at each other in glee. We were just a few blocks away from the grand plaza, the doge’s palace. And staying in a palazzo right on the Grand Canal—with a cousin of Marcello and Luca’s.
    “We’re