The Codex of the Witch: Fantasy Novel

by Federico Negri

  Almost all the patrons hurry to follow suit, causing a few giggles and several winks. The banker nervously checks the gaze of the man in black and, after getting his approval, declares again that the house will cover their bets.

  “Eleven!” Ahsto shouts with satisfaction, as soon as the dice come to a rest. The whole table rejoices in the win, celebrating with loud pats on the back, everyone shaking the hand and the arm of his neighbor.

  With a waxen face, the croupier pulls out tall stacks of gold coins from under the table, distributing them among the players.

  Ahsto is unrestrainable; he strikes his glass against all those that come up to meet it, jumping to his feet, taking his seat again, and laughing loudly. After having guzzled all the red liquid, he draws toward Silla with subtle movements and grabs her blonde mane, pulling her head back. He then leans in and rolls his tongue obscenely over her lips.

  “Stop it!” the woman screams and to free herself she gives him a resounding slap in the face, “I’m fed up, you uncouth bumpkin! Now I’ll teach you a lesson.” She puts her hand on the small mountain of coins in front of her and divides it in two amid the laughter of the crowd that’s gathered to witness this unusual spectacle.

  “What are you doing?” Ahsto stammers as five red fingers appear on his cheek. “You can’t ditch me now! We’re doing great.”

  “You’re an ignorant lout! Here, this is your share. Get lost!”

  “Oh,” he answers, “if someone should leave I think that’d be you, with your tail between your legs. Dice!”

  Silla sits back down behind her own heap of money, her eyes flaring with rage.

  “Place your bets,” the croupier teases them, intrigued by this development.

  With affected indifference, she pushes her sizable financial stack on the section of the table reserved for the second square, with a mocking smile on her visage.

  “Play, Ahsto,” Silla hisses. “You’ll have to shine my boots with the cuff of your shirt just to get back enough to settle up at the bar.”

  He chuckles in return and, with a slight tremor in his fingers, pushes his entire savings on the third spot. All the patrons dive down to amass their bets behind Silla’s.

  “Cover the table!” the banker shouts.

  Ahsto looks around him, lost. “Come on! What are you afraid of? I won everything up until now!”

  His neighbor pretends to scratch his nose and whispers behind his hand, so only Ahsto can hear him, “Everybody saw that she’s the one who’s been calling your shots, fool.”

  Ahsto dismisses him with a wave of his hand.

  “Spread out your bets!” the boy in the green vest invites them once again.

  “Uh?” Ahsto asks. “The house isn’t going to cover the difference?”

  The man in black shakes his head and the croupier mirrors him, keeping out of the game.

  “How short am I?” Ahsto asks, his eyes clouded by all the alcohol he’s had.

  “Twenty thousand four hundred sixteen pieces.”

  “Ah…” Ahsto shifts from one foot to the other. Then, “I’ll cover their bets, on my honor.”

  “That’s a nice little amount,” chimes in the grave voice of the shadowy man pulling the strings who places a hand on the table’s rail. “On your ill-fated honor.”

  A hush falls around them. It even seems as though the nearby church bells went quiet to listen to the exchange.

  “I’ll pay the debt by tomorrow morning. May I die if I don’t.”

  “You said it, big man,” the other quips and raises an eyebrow toward the croupier.

  “You’re done now, brother,” his neighbor whispers and put his chips behind the Silla’s.

  A tall goon of impressive size comes toward the table, positioning himself behind Ahsto.

  “Dice,” he demands, with an unsteady voice. “Fix, six, don’t let me luck burn up like sticks,” he speaks softly and tosses.

  Dozens of eyes are glued on him, including those of Silla who appears to be seething in the shadows. The three cubes tumble across the green cloth until they stop against the cushion.

  A stunned silence spreads over them. Three, six and five—fourteen in all.

  “Yes!” Ahsto rejoices and raises both his hands to the heavens. “I’m rich! Rich!”

  He throws himself on the table, laughing and crying at the same time, while he fills his hands with jingling coins. Half-swallowed curses run through the murmurs of the other gamblers, who lost all their money on that last, insane wager. Silla lowers the hood over her face and starts to get up, but the criminal in black places a hand on her shoulder.

  “Such haste, madam. Don’t leave our gambling parlor in such a hurry; I’d like you to meet someone.”

  “Rich,” Ahsto continues to mumble, filling his sack.

  “You too, good sir,” the man calls to him, while the two henchmen grab the lucky rascal’s shoulders. “You come with us too. There’s someone anxious to learn the details of the show you just staged.”

  “What do you mean?” Ahsto shrugs.

  “Gather up your money,” the man orders him, “and follow me, please.”

  Silla closes the clasp of her cape and rises from the table with her eyes lowered. The assembled players step aside to let them pass, but more than one hisses some threat and “frauds” is the kindest epithet to make it to their ears.

  Outside, the snow has turned to rain, sliding ice cold between the folds of their clothes. Little ponds of slush and mud obstruct the road, and only Ahsto tries to interrupt the monotonous splashing of their boots in the puddles. “I just hope you’re bringing us where you can get something warm to drink. Infernal weather, tonight.”

  They proceed in silence since after that vain attempt to drum up conversation. Ahsto also shuts up, thankfully. The shack they stop in front of looks like an abandoned kennel. The wide courtyard is surrounded by dark openings and busted down doors.

  The blackguard leading their party guides them toward a small door at the far end of the yard, which opens to a room with an intact roof and a dry floor. A strong odor of mold taints the air. They light a lamp, revealing furnishing composed of a table and a broken down armchair upholstered in red.

  “Wait here,” the criminal orders, and he leaves them in the company of the three burly bodyguards.

  Silla notices the big dark rings that stain the wood. This was a place dedicated to settling accounts and, around here, it doesn’t seem like they use a pen and paper for that purpose.

  “Now, big boys,” Ahsto begins, “who’s coming to join our party?”

  “Shut your trap,” the one in front grumbles, “or I’ll smash your face in. You’ll find out soon.”

  A few minutes later, the door opens and the man in black appears once more accompanied by a heavyset figure, with a few thin hairs around his ears and two gray eyes buried among the wrinkles of his face. Another goon follows them.

  “Well, well, well. Ahsto Selmo, who would have thought it,” the newcomer says.

  “Dearest Ricardo! You remember me, I see! I’m happy you came in person so we can clear up this situation. Your men dragged us away from your Four Streets gambling house right when I was winning at dice, robbing this frigid lady. I don’t—”

  Ricardo waves his hand and the arguments die in his mouth. “I know, I know,” he gripes, and he carefully seats himself in the armchair. “Gherardo,” he points to the man that escorted them, “has already told me everything. You put on a splendid play, you and the lady. Truly interesting. A bit of an old trick, but one that always works.”

  “What trick? What are you saying?” Ahsto brings his hand to his cheek, opening his eyes up wide.

  “It’s a game that needs three elements, to work.” The man counts on his puffy fingers. “One, the victims need to suspect there’s a trick. Two, the victims need to think they’ve figured out what the scam is. And three, in reality the sheep need to be completely wrong about the real deception. You made them think the woman was able to p
redict the dice. That unwary group felt they were strong because they discovered a way to get rich quickly; then you staged the fight and the reckoning of accounts. Everyone put in with the lady thinking they’d win and instead, poof! You brought home more money than you could ever spend.”

  “I have expensive tastes if I set my mind to it,” Ahsto says, softly.

  “Just one element alludes me. How did you manage to use your loaded dice? I thought you were in league with the croupier because the boy’s able to distinguish the den’s dice from those that some ill-prepared fool tries to employ every so often. But that young man is a good sort. What’s more, we just passed by him and he didn’t seem like someone who was hiding any secrets. I examined the dice myself,” the man sticks a hand in his pocket and puts down the three little cubes, stained with blood, on the table’s surface, “and they don’t appear counterfeit to me.”

  “You could have spared that errand boy a few slaps,” Ahsto says.

  “All of which,” the other continues unperturbed, “leads me to another idea. If it isn’t the dice, that means it is this intriguing beauty who controlled your fortune. You don’t have enough brains to have invented a ploy like this. Who are you, woman of mystery?”

  Silla raises her eyes and widens her stance. “I am your lucky star. What did you win in total, Ahsto?”

  “Thirty thousand and change.”

  “I’d like to propose an agreement to you, Motto. Ten thousand to let us go. Ten thousand for my partner, and the last ten thousand for information.”

  “Oh! A pact. Interesting.” The man caresses his yellowish skin. “What do you want to know?”

  “Hanselmus Gingelmann. Where can I find him?”

  Motto raises an eyebrow. “Hear that, Gherardo? Another one asking about the little German. I will share a confidence with you, young stranger. By chance, word reached me today on where to find this Gingelmann, which seems accurate. And ten thousand could be a sufficient sum to inform you, but unfortunately I am a business man and I need to take at least two things into consideration. First of all, you can’t pay me with my own money. You two cheated at the table; that money doesn’t belong to you. In the second place, I ask myself, why are you interested in the German? Why did you pop out of nowhere and manage to win a noteworthy sum at my gambling house, without anyone being able to learn your trick? Why do you have that disdainful confident air about you? Boys!”

  The four lackeys threateningly tighten their circle around the two gamblers. One puts on iron knuckles and another pulls out a long blackened knife from behind his back.

  “I’m curious to know who the new pussycat is rummaging through the city’s trash without pocketing a cent. Actually, if you’re lucky, those pieces will serve to buy your miserable lives.” The kingpin rises from his chair and strikes his fist against the table. “Who the devil are you, woman?”

  Silla closes her eyes and slows her respiration to a steady breath. For several minutes now she has already been making the earth’s forces flow toward the soles of her boots. The pads of her feet sting with fury at holding back the magic impulses, but now she lets the magnetism of the Earth’s crust rush through her ankles and legs, like a raging river plowing through her vital channels. Her pubis catches fire and she feels the generative force slide inside her like a knife in a leather sheath. A moan escapes her lips while her heart swells with heat and her lungs ignite. The comet emerges from out of the mists, greedy for death and destruction.

  Silla lets her voice crackle distorted by the spell that possesses her: “Who am I? Have you ever heard tell of fearsome magical beings who will reduce you to a vegetable and rip away your consciousness before feeding on your mortal flesh? Have you ever heard them speak of the witches?”

  The man takes a half step backward.

  “Wi…wi…” the fat conman stutters.

  Silla opens wide her eyes, black as the gates of hell. “I am the most wicked of them all.”

  Electric discharges mixed with flame sizzle from her fingers.

  Silla pulls out the long military knife and the snub-nosed revolver before the men can lay hands on their weapons. She spins around and the hem of her cape strikes the only lamp, throwing it to the ground. The darkness is only broken by the flash of gunshots and the inhuman lightning emanating from her hand as she twirls the knife like a mill.

  “Relight it,” Silla says after a few seconds’ silence. Between the strong notes of gunpowder, she makes out the, sweeter, aroma of blood.

  Ahsto crouches down and after two fumbles lights the oil lantern with a match.

  “I beg you,” Motto whispers, squashed against the armchair, “spare me.”

  She places a knee on his shoulder and the heel of her boot on his groin. The knife presses against the man’s throat while the revolver is aimed at his ribs. Silla pushes down with her foot, crushing the delicate flesh underneath. “Where is Hansi Gingelmann?”

  “Ah. Please, please, take it easy.”

  The woman smiles and releases the pressure a few degrees.

  “As you can see,” Silla looks around her at the bodies crumbled on the floor, “I don’t hesitate to kill criminals of your kind. You are a cancer. You profit off the weakest and crush innocent people wallowing down here in the shit. You decide: either start talking and aid me in my mission, or I’ll acquire my information from someone else and you’ll catch up with your friends on the gravedigger’s cart. You said ten thousand pieces was a sufficient sum; I’ll surely find someone who will listen to me.”

  “My God, careful with that boot. I’ll help you, but let me breathe. You’re driving the knife into my throat.”

  “Go on,” Silla urges him. “If you tell me, I promise your life will be safe. Where is he?”

  “Your friend, Gingelmann, is very much sought after. He owes an obscene amount of pieces to a German trafficker, probably he fucked his wife too because he’s been hunting for him without rest. Word has raced from door to door. This morning, a Russian courier reported to me that he’d seen him a few days ago in faraway Novograd.”

  “How can you be sure it's him?”

  “I’m not sure, but Hasse, who’s looking for him, sent out a sketch of his features. I have it in my office and the messenger recognized him. That wretch also introduced himself by name; so either he’s a madman who wants to get himself killed, or it’s really him.”

  “Tell me more. Who is with Gingelmann?”

  “How should I know—”

  “Wrack your brain,” Silla thrusts down again with the point of her foot.

  “Wait, wait. He said just one thing more, a trifle but perhaps it will help you. Gingelmann was searching for a girl or a military man. I don’t remember exactly.”

  “What can we do to refresh your memory?” Silla pulls the knife from his neck and rests its tip on an eyelid of the man, paralyzed with fear.

  “Stop, my lady. I beg you grant me a ceasefire. I’ll try to remember. He said,” the portly criminal closes both his eyes, while a bead of sweat runs down his temple, “‘Gingelman was sloshing through the water to find a demoiselle, but every so often he also asked after an English sailor.’ There’s what he said. Take that knife away from my eye.”

  The explanation adds up, even with the wreckage of that English airship she saw where Alina practiced her magic. English sailors could have climbed aboard the Cerriwdens’ vessel. The attachment this Hansi shows toward Alina is remarkable; it looks like the little girl’s big gray eyes hit their mark. Nevertheless, it’s troubling that Alina is separated from the young man, the only one she can count on.

  Silla steps away from Ricardo Motto. “We’ll pay the agreed-upon ten thousand pieces for the information, I don’t want to have anything pending with this human garbage,” she says to Ahsto.

  Reluctantly, the scoundrel piles the required amount on the table while Ricardo follows his movements with a gaze full of terror.

  “Hey, Motto. The only thing I did in this slaughterhouse is light the la
mp,” Ahsto remarks, looking cheerlessly at the corpses around him, “no hard feelings.”

  Silla smiles, “Don’t worry, my noble and courageous knight. Ricardo won’t give you any trouble in the future, right?”

  “You can bank on it,” he mumbles.

  Silla and Ahsto withdraw outside the door, but she doesn’t lower the gun until they’ve both left the courtyard.

  “Come on, run!” Ahsto grabs her by the hand and takes off into the darkness behind the house. They hurry between the puddles, hidden by the night without moon or stars, passing behind the shanties, close to the hill’s edge, on hidden streets the man new by heart.

  They come to a stop, out of breath, near steps leading to the levels above. They’re concealed against the wooden wall of the last hovel before the clearing in front of the staircase, since three drunkards are caterwauling near the steps, unsure whether to climb back up or allow themselves one last amusement on the city’s most fetid level.

  Silla rests a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Hey, Mister. You were great tonight, you know that?” she whispers to him in the darkness. She brings the other hand to the middle of her chest, feeling it beat faster.

  “Yeah,” Ahsto answers, with a smile barely visible among the shadows, “it’s a shame I just earned myself a ticket to the next world. Those people don’t forget.”

  Silla giggles under her breath. “I like you, you know that?” She moves in front of him and lowers her hood, tossing the blonde curls behind her. “You’re a chicken-shit coward, but you have a certain style. Spirit even.”

  The man runs a finger through her hair, first timidly, then with more conviction, when he sees she’s allowing him to do it. “What will you do now, Silla?”

  “I altered the dice throws with my power. Once news spreads that a witch cleaned out Motto’s gambling den, a race will break out in this city to bring me to the stake. Magic is illegal on the Continent. I must manage to reach the airship and take refuge up there, hoping the Captain hosting me has the balls not to deliver me to the city authorities.”