The Codex of the Witch: Fantasy Novel

by Federico Negri

  “Listen—”

  “Watch out!” Guild Poe screams. Kasia doesn’t spin around in time, and the sole of Franziska’s boot hits her in the middle of her shoulder blades. The earth comes up to meet her and her face bounces off it a couple of times. She senses the taste of blood in her mouth; she must have bit her tongue.

  “You’re exactly right, Santuini,” Franziska roars grabbing her by the collar. “It’s not a job fit for waterlogged little violets like you.”

  “Leave her alone!” Guild Poe enters Kasia’s field of vision, but he’s unarmed.

  The German woman strikes Kasia with a straight punch to the cheekbone that almost makes her lose her senses. She then turns to the American, assaulting him with a series of kicks, which he is able to partially block with his arms, fending them off, until a brutal blow lowers his guard, and she hits him right in the stomach. The man curls up on the ground and Franziska, her blonde hair in the wind like Medusa’s snakes, turns to Kasia once again.

  “Let’s have a look at this famous book.” She turns Kasia over onto her back, throwing her against the ground. She pins her with a knee on her face and one on her thighs, preventing her from seeing. Kasia attempts to shake her off but she’s immobilized.

  The woman’s hands slide under her jacket. Kasia stops debating and digs her fingers into the mud around her.

  “You! German! What the devil do you think you’re doing,” she hears Goldenbit’s voice screaming empty threats.

  The earth’s energy begins to course through Kasia’s fingers. She tries to make the air flow into her lungs, but Franziska has almost cut off her breathing. The dragon stirs in her heart, but it struggles to awaken.

  “Here it is,” the other woman rejoices, extracting the small book from the pocket in which she’d hidden it.

  “You’ll rot in hell! How do you think you’ll escape?” the elderly sorceress presses her.

  “Silence, old coffee pot! You want to get your dose of slaps as well? You don’t scare me.”

  Her enemy rises to her feet, and Kasia finally manages to fill her lungs with air. She feels the combined forces heat up her heart and press into the lower part of her belly. A drop of heat rises along her spinal column, stopping on level with her heart. The rain dragon lifts its head from the ocean of fog in which it sleeps its eternal slumber. Kasia opens wide her eyes, dark like two coalmines.

  “Not so fast,” she hisses. She bends her knees up to her bust and takes out the knife she’s carrying in her boot.

  The baron’s spy has already moved several paces away, towards the path, but Kasia jumps to her feet and pushes hard off her soles, aided by the dragon’s fury. She’s about to land on top of her, but the woman sees this and dodges, anticipating her action.

  Kasia moves with superhuman speed, but incredibly Franziska is able to evade her blows, eluding her knife’s frightful attacks.

  The witch stops a moment, winded. The surprise must show clearly on her face because the other woman laughs and says, “You weren’t expecting that, eh, Santuini? I too have a few rabbits in my hat.”

  “Auntie!” they hear a shout from the bottom of the hill, twenty yards below.

  Little Lingam is flying over the grass, her eyes black and hair in the wind, with her hands full of fire. Behind her two women are running, they too with possessed gazes, already prepared to attack her.

  Kasia takes advantage of the diversion and strikes once again. The German woman avoids the blade, but it was just a feint, which allows the witch to snatch the codex.

  “Leave it,” Franziska shouts, trying to hit her. But Kasia lunges with the knife, forcing her to leap backward in order to avoid getting injured.

  They both tug at the fragile book by the two sides of its cover, trying meanwhile to land a decisive blow with their free hand.

  “Stop!” Ristapor Goldenbit thunders, having made it just a few yards from them.

  With one last jolt, the German twists her leg and hits Kasia on the chin. She loses her balance, but she doesn’t let go of the little book which rips in two, with a dry snap.

  Kasia tumbles onto the damp ground. When she lifts her head back up she can only see the back of Dietrich’s envoy running away at great speed.

  “You need to follow her!” she orders the gathered women, but they close menacingly in around her.

  “We’re on an island, where is she going to escape? You’re coming with us now,” Ristapor hisses. “They told me merchant witches bring trouble, but I never imagined so much. Lingam! Take the bottle of Greek pitch and put it in the fireplace until the smoke comes out white as milk. Someone here owes us some explanations.”

  Guild Poe approaches, his hands folded under his sternum. Without a sound, he kneels next to Kasia to examine the fragment of the book left in her hand.

  “We’ve gotten into a real mess, huh? Extermination, your friend said,” Kasia whispers.

  The American leafs through the few pages remaining. “I don’t know. Fortunately the most dangerous ideas are in the final pages; but if they’re not idiots, with what they have they can guess at the rest.”

  “You know it by heart, right?” Serena Goldenbit limps toward them, supported by the others.

  “Of course,” Guild Poe concedes. “Arabel and I had contrasting opinions. I was of the mind that men should face this menace. She, on the other hand, thought that only the witches could overcome it. But,” the man lowers his eyes, “she is no longer, so it’s up to me to show it to both parties.”

  “You’re not going to explain a damned thing,” Ristapor interjects. “You’ve already earned a permanent place in the homeland’s prisons to wait for someone to send you back to the hole you’ve crawled out from.”

  “Niece, hold on,” Serena interrupts. “A faraway witch wanted to leave us information, and she advised us to trust this stranger. I’m curious to hear what he has to say, and I think the whole Council should be informed. There’s another person here, on the other hand, who I think deserves the chains,” and she turns, angrily, towards Kasia.

  ***

  Silla observes the lights of the docks from her cabin’s porthole; the faint sun grows less distinct every minute. All the people engaged in work try to finish up and enjoy the peace of the evening or the company of a few glasses.

  Tomorrow, the Mala Avis will set sail toward Riga. She was unable to convince Leonardo that this is a mistake. One of his contacts assured him the Cerriwden’s airship, the East Wind, was spotted there the previous morning. Nevertheless, Silla remembers clearly how, thanks to Paulka’s magic, she flew over that city too, but there was no sign of Alina.

  That can only mean that Kasia’s niece was dropped off somewhere or Leonardo’s information is wrong. There’s also the grim possibility the girl may have fallen.

  Silla shakes her blonde mane, chasing away that inauspicious thought. She must follow Alina’s tracks east. She may be in urgent need of help; going to Riga will be a fruitless waste of time.

  She absolutely must find other factors to persuade the Swiss man. She explained Paulka’s spell to him, but the man had doubt in his eyes.

  “We’ll see,” he said. “To go blindly toward the East, we need to ask the Cerriwdens where they dropped off Alina. We raise anchor tomorrow with the midday wind.”

  It’s very likely however that the Cerriwdens didn’t stop in Riga, but cut north toward Gothland; after all, the Sabbath is around the corner. Or perhaps they’re paying a visit to their Teutonic paymasters, going to report the results of their mysterious and urgent mission.

  In any case, the Mala Avis would follow them, losing several days, perhaps even a whole week, time that Alina might not have.

  Thinking about the young woman, Silla feels an uncomfortable pain, as if it were absolutely vital that she act. And do what? The drill sergeant, always so full of advice, is quiet now.

  The woman rubs her knuckles against her temples, until she suddenly gets up.

  She examines the porthole’s aperture.
She pushes aside the bars and opens the little window. Keeping in shape has its advantages, the space is tiny, but it should suffice.

  She moves a stool under the opening and, climbing on top of it, sticks her head out beyond the hull wall. The ribs of the keel run right under her, ending at the prow next to the jetty. From there the dock is little more than a jump away.

  Silla hoists herself out of the window frame until she’s perched her feet on the exterior bulkhead. Under her is almost a forty foot drop, but the woman guides herself safely toward the pier. Having reached solid ground, she slides among the evening shadows, wrapped in her dark cape. She takes the street from this morning until she arrives at the stairs leading down. The steps are slippery with rain but after a few flights, they give way to the mud of the Bottom, which immediately dirties her boots.

  Two lay-abouts holler at her, but she ignores them and heads decisively toward the Pale Moon Inn, a few doors down from the staircase. Outside the tavern, four ragged figures appear in front of her, their faces covered by the shadows of their hoods.

  The witch lowers her eyes and waits for them to clear the way, but the lowlifes don’t seem to pay her any mind and they dance in front of her like bears, chuckling.

  “Who are you looking for, lady?” the most massive of them ends up grumbling.

  “Ahsto,” she answers, curtly.

  “There’s no Ahsto here. Who are you?”

  Silla raises her eyes. “Of course he’s here. I left him a few hours ago and he swore to me he’d come back here. He’s in my debt and, if you don’t go call him for me, I’ll have to straighten you out.”

  “And what could Ahsto owe you?”

  Silla takes both hands out from under her mantel, pointing two revolvers in the face of the closest scoundrel. “He owes me his life. Alright?”

  The fattest of them twitches his head, toward the door to the inn. One of the two goons further outside says, “Easy with those things. I’ll go inside right now and call for him. And don’t get any ideas; I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Silla nods with her chin, keeping her pistols aimed straight at the whites of the two lowlife’s eyes.

  “Silla!” Ahsto appears in the doorway a few moments later wearing his purple coat. A wide smile stretches across his face. “Heh, heh, heh. Careful of that lead, boys, the lady know how to use them.”

  He comes down a few stairs and interposes himself between her and the four men, causing her to lower her weapons.

  “Come back to the Bottom already? I missed you, in all honesty.”

  Silla walks toward the street and takes him under the arm. “How is that shoulder?”

  “It stings. A whore, a friend of mine, bound it up for me. She worked for a time in a public clinic before she realized she earned more taking suppositories rather than administering them. But I’m not complaining.”

  Silla leads the rogue to a patch of bushes next to an abandoned shanty, far away from indiscreet ears.

  “Listen, lion heart,” she says, “I just thought of a possibility for finding the missing demoiselle. There was a boy with her and, from the way he looks at her, I think he would stick pretty close by. He’s an inveterate gambler. It’s very unlikely he’d place a bet again, however; the first time we stepped foot outside his home city, they quickly spotted him, because he owes money to a German pimp.”

  “The name of this pimp?”

  “Altiero Hesser?”

  “Hasse, of course. He’s the owner of half the gambling dens in the Palatinate. Your friend has gotten himself into a nice mess.”

  “I think this Hasse’s cast his web of contacts, because he really wants to make him pay up. So it’s possible someone spotted him in the ports of the East and he’s sent the message on the road back to Frank Fort. It’s a remote possibility, but I want to try it. Who, in this city, might handle that sort of information?”

  Ahsto rubs his coarse beard. “Just one person, Ricardo Motto, the kingpin of the gang that controls the tables in the city’s three major betting parlors. But you can hardly introduce yourself and ask him.”

  “Hmm.” Silla taps her index finger against her chin. “Do you think winning a disproportionate amount of money would be an adequate move for attracting his attention?”

  “Sure as sugar. I don’t know if you’d manage to walk away on your own two feet afterward.”

  “On my own maybe not, but with your help I’d wager I could do it.”

  “Don’t even think about it, I’m injured and—”

  “Refuse and I’ll make you impotent. All it takes is a touch from us witches, you know that?” Silla sticks her little finger out of her cape bringing it toward the man’s nose as he quickly goes still with terror in his eyes.

  “I don’t believe it,” he mutters, but he makes the sign to ward of curses.

  “Let’s try!”

  “No! Okay, I’ll come with you. Put that finger down.”

  “Of course, oops,” Silla pretends to stumble and pushes her finger into the chest of the rascal who jumps, horrified.

  “No! What have you done?”

  “I’m sorry,” Silla draws back her hand. “I didn’t mean to. Can it still get hard?”

  Ahsto rummages feverishly in his trousers, then he stops and twists his mouth into a sharp grin. “You’re joking around with me. You’re—”

  “Quiet with those words. No one must know what I am, otherwise they won’t let me into the gambling house.” The man has a certain allure; Silla jokes around with a little smile and sends him a clear message between the lines.

  “What am I to gain in all this?”

  “All the money I manage to win. And a witch’s good luck kiss.”

  “Interesting.” He rests a hand on her shoulder.

  Silla puts his hand back where it started and finishes, smiling, “Which will come at the end of the mission. Shall we?”

  PART THREE: PLACE YOUR BETS

  “Fourteen!” Ahsto shouts and hits his fist against the table. “Two beautiful fives and a four, that’s five hundred sixty pieces for us.”

  The croupier reluctantly moves the pile of coins toward the corner of the table where a composed Silla sits. Ahsto on the other hand is agitated—jumping, screaming, and truly unable to keep still.

  “Place your bets,” singsongs the dealer, stuffed into his green satin waistcoat covered in stains.

  The patrons busy themselves placing bets while Ahsto weighs the dice in the palm of his hand. Having won, he is last to wager. Silla moves her left ring finger slightly, but Ahsto has sharp eyes and he quickly places a small bet in the square for mid-range rolls from eight to thirteen.

  “What are you doing?” a portly man reproaches him, a merchant from the upper levels judging by his clean and fresh smelling clothes. “You holding back? Bet something for God’s sake! Life is short.”

  “I’m not feeling it this round, boy. One, two, papa needs a new pair of shoes!” and he throws the dice.

  “Three sixes, zara,” the banker declares sweeping his hand horizontally across the table. The bets stay where they are, and Silla’s neighbor stretches out his hand to grab the dice.

  This time she moves her right index finger and Ahsto puts up half his winnings.

  “Your bets haven’t covered the table,” the croupier exclaims.

  Some increase the spread of bets, but most put their coins on the same spot as the two players who’ve been winning until now.

  “No spread,” he grumbles. “The house will cover the difference, pay outs are halved.”

  A tall figure, dressed elegantly in black with a trim beard, approaches the game to watch. At his back lurks a giant almost seven feet tall, with ruffled hair and tight clothing. He wipes his nose with his hand and stares into space with vacant eyes.

  Ahsto smiles with all his teeth, but he moves a hand out of sight and touches Silla on the ribs, even though it’s pretty clear these men are who they’re looking for.

  “Place your bets,” barks
the dealer.

  A fop with a sad look and a costly silk tunic throws the dice against the green velvet cloth.

  “Twelve!” Ahsto screams, and he leans in to give Silla a kiss on the cheek. The witch backs away from him, annoyed, but he doesn’t let up. “Fantastic, beautiful! Tonight we’ll celebrate at the Hotel Intercontinental on the first terrace! Wine! Enough with these potato spirits, bring me wine!”

  A serving girl hurries to refill his glass, while a voluminous heap of money is pushed from the center to their end of the table.

  “By devil, how the hell do you do it?” his neighbor asks with a tone between shock and amusement.

  “We can’t lose; it’s our lucky day! Dice!”

  Ahsto collects the three dice and casts a wild look around. Few bets—they want to see where he puts his ante. The man furtively checks his partner’s signals and then pushes a discreet sum onto the square for high rolls.

  “Cover the table,” the house shouts. Most of the patrons place their bet alongside the couple’s pile, leaving even more of the felt exposed.

  The croupier huffs and quickly looks up toward the bearded man in black. Receiving a slight nod of approval, he again declares, “The house will cover it, pay outs are halved.”

  “Three, four, open that door!’ Ahsto tosses the dice. “Seventeen!” he exclaims and raises his arms to the sky. “I love you, gorgeous!” He kneels over Silla, planting a dramatic kiss on her lips. The woman struggles in surprise for a second, but then she pushes him away with a hard shove.

  “What are you doing?” the witch yells, causing laughter all around.

  “I’m kissing you, like we agreed,” he chuckles mellifluously. “The winnings are coming to me!”

  Two glasses of red wine arrive, filled to the brim. The waitress places them down in front of them with a slight bow.

  “To us, Silla!” the man toasts, making the rims of two glasses clink together.

  “Yes, to us, but let’s keep our composure,” she reprimands him, before taking a few small sips.

  A few rounds of small bets and then Ahsto, as per the woman’s indication, puts a large portion of their fortune back in the middle of the table, on the second sestina, eight to thirteen.