The Lion of Venice. Mark Frutkin

soda ash,” he pointed to the pile in the corner, “comes from burning seaweed found in Syria, which is not far so I save much money in shipping costs and I have a guaranteed source of supply all year long. In Venice, when the ships arrived late I could be left without soda ash for months.”

      “The Doge has expressly forbidden any glassmakers to leave the lagoon. Forbidden it. Why do you persist in flaunting his will?”

      “I admit to a feud with my brother. A bitter argument, believe me. Rather than being faced with the necessity of killing him, I left. You understand?”

      The friar said nothing as the other turned to tend his furnace, placing a long clear glass tube through the aperture and bending over.

      In a flash, the priest sunk a thin knife in the glassmaker's back, withdrew it, pulled his head back by the hair and in one smooth swift motion, slit his throat. Marco stood staring wide-eyed at the quick-streaming blood and, for a moment, could not move. Then he spun about and ran. The Dominican, his face vivid with reflected flames, twisted around at the scuffling sound of Marco's retreat.