Free The Serpent of Venice by Christopher Moore Page A

the heavens. As lovely as she was, sarcasm did not wear well on her. Still, she was a bright girl, and in our short time together we had built a bond of petty resentments that usually takes a lifetime to develop. She turned to me then. “Pocket, I am inconsolable in my disappointment.”
    “And there are men in Venice who would do me great harm if they knew I was alive.”
    “Is it because you’re a shit?”
    “I’m not a shit.”
    “Then why do they want to do you harm?”
    “I have been unfairly judged.”
    “Over what have you been unfairly judged?”
    “I know not, for many have said that I am charming and kind.”
    “Really? Many have said that?”
    I nodded, woe sloshing heavily upon my brow. “Unjust suffering and horrendous hardship have been inflicted upon me, for little to no reason.”
    “I know, I know.” She patted my hand. “It brings water to my eyes when you talk of your dear Cordelia. I hope that my Lorenzo loves me that much someday. So why do these fellows want to hurt you?”
    “For merely doing what I was tasked to do by my queen.”
    “It’s because you’re a shit, isn’t it?” Still a compassionate tone and the reassuring pat on the hand.
    “No, it’s—I—the evil that men do—” Oh bugger all. “Yes, it’s because I’m a shit.”
    “There, there, Pocket.”
    “But a shit in the name of the crown!” I added, queen, country, and St. Bloody George implied in my voice.
    “Though a shit nonetheless.”
    “The only difference between a pirate and a privateer is a flag, you know?”
    “Do you have a flag?”
    “Don’t be literal, love, people will think you’re simple. Venice’s own general, Othello, was little more than a privateer when the city found him, and now he is a hero of the republic.”
    “Yes, and when you save the city from total destruction, you, too, will be regarded as a hero, which will—and I’m only guessing now, as I’m just a Jewish girl and know little of the sophistications of the ruling class—require you to wear some sodding trousers.”
    “Well, that’s what I’m getting at, pumpkin. Have you a pair of chopines?”
    Chopines were the wooden platforms that Venetian ladies, and even some gentlemen, wore strapped to their shoes to hold them above the mud, muck, and flotsam that filled the streets during rains or a high storm tide. Some ladies, to ensure that their gowns, made of the finest fabrics available from the most distant and exotic ports in the world, remained unsullied by street sewage, wore chopines longer than their own shins, and required a footman on either side to balance them, so they could walk to a ball or humble themselves at mass each Sunday. Taller chopines tapered from the bottom of the foot to save weight, then widened into a false foot where they met the ground. A nimble fool and skilled acrobat, trained and practiced in the use of stilts, might, with trousers properly tailored, pass for a foot taller than he was, on a proper pair of chopines.
    “I have a smaller pair. None so grand as the senators’ wives wear.”
    “Perfect. Bring them.” I would meet my enemies in Venice eye to eye this time.
    “And then I can ready your trousers?”
    “Almost. I’ll also need three throwing daggers and a cracking-huge codpiece.”
    “Not bloody likely, thou fluffy puppet,” she scoffed at me. Scoffed!
    “Ill-tempered nymph. Don’t your people have a red tent they send you to when you’re like this?”
    “I’m not like that. You are annoying.”
    “Your compassion hasn’t the endurance of a mouse fart?”
    “Nourished by charm, it has wasted away since your arrival, puppet.”

EIGHT
    A Pound of Flesh
    I don’t think you should be in the house when he comes home,” said Jessica. “No one is supposed to be in the house.”
    We stood on the walkway in front of Shylock’s house. I wore Jessica’s chopines strapped to my feet under my newly tailored sailcloth trousers and I now stood a bit taller than the girl. I