Blood Under Water

by Toby Frost

  She heard footsteps. A young man trotted down a staircase to her left. “Are you the young lady?”

  Giulia resisted the impulse to look around for other young ladies. “Yes, that’s me.”

  “If you would follow me, please?”

  She followed him up two long flights of stairs, onto an airy landing. The wooden panels glowed in the afternoon sunshine as though they were about to catch light. Another pair of guards stood outside a wide, heavy-looking door. They carried halberds and wore armour and polished helmets. They looked like people used to violence.

  The young man opened the door and slipped inside. He returned a moment later. “The procurator will see you now,” he said, and ushered her in.

  It was a plush, neat, slightly prissy room, dominated by a long desk of dark reddish wood. A thin man stood at the big window, arms crossed, watching the dusk creep across the garden. The light turned him into a near-silhouette. “One moment,” he said crisply, not turning round. “Do sit, please.”

  Giulia pulled a chair back and sat down. The chair had curved, delicate legs, lacquered to a smooth shine. Everything in the room seemed sleek and perfect. She looked for somewhere to hang her cloak, saw nothing and shoved it under her seat.

  “Francesco,” said the procurator to the garden, “I need you to go to the Arsenal and tell them that they’ve had all the bronze they’re getting off me. I’m not having those people melting my pieces down to make more stupid cannons. Have them lean on Moraldi: he collects the most awful tat. Got that? Can you do that for me?”

  “Yes, sir,” the young man said, and he left the room, pulling the door behind him. Giulia heard the latch click shut.

  “Now, then.” The procurator turned around. He wore a smart jerkin in the Berganian style, with a thin knife in his belt. He approached with his right hand raised slightly, like an actor about to declaim. He reminded her of Iacono, the mapmaker from the Scola.

  Nobles. All alike.

  She stood up and curtseyed. “It’s an honour to meet you, noble sir.”

  For a second he studied her face, and something changed in his eyes. She wondered if he had seen through her disguise to the scars below – but the procurator merely smiled. “Likewise,” he said. His voice was too clipped to sound friendly. “I apologise for not greeting you properly as you came in, but something of a crisis seems to have arisen. Do you know anything of art?”

  “A little,” Giulia said. “I’ve come across some bits in the past.”

  “Then I’m sure you know how grim it is to have someone try to strip one bare,” the procurator said. He motioned to the objects on the walls: pictures of ancient scenes, and busts on little plinths. “And they want to make cannons out of my collection. For the good of the city, they say.” The procurator huffed as he sat down. “For the good of a bunch of idiots! Would you like some wine?”

  “Please.”

  He reached across to the wall. A length of red cord hung down beside the curtain. He tugged it, hard. Outside, a bell rang. The door opened and a guard looked in. “Bottle of wine, two glasses, thank you. And make it the good stuff.” The door closed.

  He turned back to Giulia and rubbed his chin. “Now, I understand you have a letter of authority from the Watch to come and see me about something. Could I see that, please?”

  “Yes, sir. I thought they’d given it to you.”

  “No. My servant Francesco will have looked it over.” He held out his hand; Giulia gave him the letter.

  The procurator sat up as he studied the letter, as if expecting to have his portrait painted reading it. She waited, the fear of exposure winding a little tighter in her chest.

  “Who wrote this, please?”

  “I’m not sure, sir. A Watchman wrote it for me. He said he was quite high up.”

  “A large man, quite coarse?”

  “I think so.”

  “Ah yes. It looks like ‘Orvo’ down here… Yes, this seems in order. Here.”

  “Thank you,” she said, trying not to grin with relief. She took the letter back and folded it up.

  “It is rather irregular of him, writing to me. I’d have thought he would simply raise the matter in the normal way.” There was a hint of suspicion in the procurator’s voice. “Do you know why that might be?”

  “I’m afraid not, milord.”

  “I see. It’s just that – well, no matter.”

  Giulia had been thinking he was going somewhere with this. No, she decided. He had simply wanted to point out how used he was to having things done his way.

  “You’re not from here, are you?”

  “No, milord. I’m from Pagalia, originally.”

  “I don’t recognise your name. I know most of the noted Pagalian families.”

  Do you, now? I’ve run into a few of them as well. Been inside their houses, too. “Well, there was a feud on the other side of the family, and some of us had to leave for fear of reprisals.”

  “Ah. A terrible business, vendetta. A cousin of mine had to flee Montalius in similar circumstances – poor, dear, sweet girl. Not as bad a situation as yours, from the sound of it, but she is from an exceptional family, and perhaps more delicate… It’s a beautiful place, Montalius, but fiercely so. Now, then, to business. How can I help you?”

  “It’s about a friend of mine. He’s been wrongly charged with a crime.”

  The procurator crossed his thin legs. “Go on.”

  Carefully, as if laying out the parts of some delicate machine, she told her story, starting with her arrival in Averrio. She explained about Hugh – a bold knight who had offered to ride with her as bodyguard – and Edwin, whom she described as a merchant of considerable standing with the Anglian parliament. Elayne was simply his wife: the Averrian authorities were not noted for their love of wizardry. She did not mention the Scola or the dryad dancer – there was no need to bring them into this. Nor did she describe her return visit to the Watch-house.

  Her friends were victims of a plot, she explained, and for reasons unknown had been framed for a murder. Was it laziness among the Watch, or just mistaken identity? She couldn’t possibly say. Although they could petition the Anglian government, it would be far quicker to go straight to the procurator. And of course, he could get the matter sorted out quietly, without all the embarrassment that the government of Anglia would cause.

  He nodded sagely. “You say you looked into the matter somewhat. Do you have any idea who might be behind all this?”

  Giulia paused. She had wanted to leave Varro out, to play the innocent newcomer. But whatever the conspiracy was, whoever was behind it, Varro was involved. And if she could direct suspicion towards Varro – who, if he had not murdered Coraldo, had certainly tried to kill Giulia – the four of them would be safe.

  “Yes,” she said, “I do.”

  Someone knocked on the door. A servant entered with wine. She sat there, watching the procurator test the bottle before allowing it to be poured. Rich people liked to make you wait for things. It was a way of showing that they had power over you.

  “Carry on,” he said, as the servant withdrew.

  As she spoke, he got up and wandered to the window, staring out into the evening. It was getting dark now. He stood there, glass half-raised to his lips, listening.

  “… and I was luckily able to grab a knife and cut him with it, before he had a chance to murder me,” Giulia said. “I don’t believe I killed Master Varro, merely wounded him, but I ran away as fast as I could, and I didn’t see him after that.”

  “You didn’t kill him,” the procurator said. “I have it on good authority that he was in his yard today.”

  “He – he was?”

  “Yes, of course. Go on.”

  She hesitated. What did that mean? Fear settled on her like the growing darkness outside, as if she’d just been told that Varro was in the
building, healed and looking for revenge. “So, ah, I went back to the inn, and came out to talk to you. I thought you might be able to help.”

  The procurator turned from the window. “Yes, well, I’m not sure my powers extend quite that far. Do you know exactly what I do?”

  “Not exactly, milord.”

  “I’m not a minister as such. I’m more a lawyer than anything else. I give advice to the Council of a Hundred where necessary. They tend to take it. But I think I may be able to help you out a little, yes.” He sat down again. “So, what is it that you want me to do?”

  “I’d like you to let us go,” she said. “Milord.”

  “Which is presumably rather difficult at the moment. It would be far easier if we knew who killed this Father Coraldo, wouldn’t it, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “So once we have a man for that, there’d be no need to keep your friends here, would there?”

  “No.”

  He frowned. “You’re in some rather deep water, young lady. Rather deeper than you know, I think. I’m not sure you’re telling me quite everything, but it doesn’t matter. It can still be sorted out.”

  “Really?” She was surprised. Perhaps this man was useful after all. Perhaps the way out of this mess was clear from the lofty position he occupied. Maybe he could cut through the lies and hand her the solution on a plate.

  “Oh, yes. We can sort it right now, in fact.”

  “Right now?” Something felt wrong. “You know who did it, then?”

  “Of course. You did.”

  Gears seemed to lurch inside her. The whole room looked somehow different. “What?”

  “You did it. Or at least that’s what you’re going to say.” He leaned back in his chair and put his fingertips together.

  She hadn’t heard him wrong. “Me?” she managed to say, still astonished. Like a chill, the news was soaking through her.

  “Of course. The answer to all of this seems simple to me. You’re suffering from a derangement of the mind, brought on by illness. You killed Father Coraldo in your sleep, owing to an imbalance of the humours. Then, so deluded was your mind, you cooked up a story that a respected artisan like Ricardo Varro murdered him in some sort of black magic ritual. We can have a man in to write it up right now.”

  “You’re mad,” she said.

  “Not at all. I’m the one trying to sort this mess out. I think my version of events is rather more credible than yours, don’t you? There’s a hospital on the Isle of Quarantine, where deluded people are allowed to stay. You’ll be taken there, and looked after by the authorities—”

  “Are you saying you’re sending me to a fucking madhouse?”

  “That’s not a very tactful way of putting it. The treatment is very good. People do come back, you know. Anyway, in return for your agreement, your friends will be put on the first boat to Anglia. They’ll go free.”

  “But I didn’t do it.”

  “I think that’s a matter of opinion.”

  He was too casual. There was no concern there, no fear that a murderer might be on the loose. “You do know who really did it,” she said. “Don’t you?”

  “No, and if you think that I’d—”

  Her voice was tight. “You know.”

  A smile crept out onto his face. “Do you really want to know?”

  His smile pushed her over the edge. There was no reason to be servile now, no reason to show anything but fury and contempt. “Are you out of your fucking mind? You want to set me up as a murderer – a priest-killer – and you sit there and ask if I fucking want to know? Of course I want to know!”

  Someone knocked on the door behind her. “Problem, sir?” the guard called through the door.

  “No, no,” the procurator called back. “All’s well, thank you.”

  Giulia thought about the knife in her boot and the knife in her sleeve. “If I confess, my friends won’t believe it. They’ll come back for you. These are serious people I’m talking about. Connected people.”

  “That’s a chance I’m willing to take.” He opened his hands. “In this job, you take difficult decisions. I can live with that.”

  Rage made it hard to speak, to do anything much except stare and will him to die. The world seemed to narrow down to his face, as if she was looking at him down the barrel of a musket. You bastard, you fucking bastard. “And I’m just a decision,” Giulia said.

  “Quite. Not one I particularly like to take, though.” He sat upright, as if he had been in danger of drifting off to sleep. “So then: the confession. Shall I attempt a first draft?”

  “Yes, let’s,” she replied. “How about we start with ‘Fuck you’?”

  There was a moment’s silence. The procurator seemed to be considering her suggestion. Suddenly he jabbed his head forward, and all the grace and poise was gone. “Now listen to me, my little friend,” he hissed, “listen closely, because I’m about to give you a few home truths. You’re nothing. You don’t mean a thing here, not – one – thing. You’re not worth a tenth of any one of the paintings in this room. The world’s full of people like you, ugly little people all trying to crawl their way up to where they don’t belong. You came here to fleece me with your shitty letter, this second-rate forgery, in my own home and now I’ve got you, and you don’t even have the decency – the basic decency! – to admit that you’re caught.” He prodded himself in his narrow chest, his eyes wild. “I’m the one putting my neck out here. You don’t know how much I’m looking out for you and your pissy, worthless friends – God knows why. I could have you all killed just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “But I won’t if – if – you agree. You can take what I’ve offered you, you can behave decently and leave this city with a degree of honour that I’ll bet my life you’ve never had before.”

  She looked at him and thought, If he screams, the guards will be in here in a second. This evil bastard knows that. But he reckons I’m unarmed. No-one’s as clever as you think you are, Procurator.

  The procurator leaned back, sighed, and he was composed again.

  “Or, you can choose not to take my advice. In which case, I’ll pass you to my guards, who will do as they see fit with you, and then to the Watch, who will no doubt do likewise. And after that, you can make your confession to my friends in the proper authorities, who may well decide that you’re not just a lunatic but a criminal and probably a heretic – and then, believe me, it won’t be quick or clean at all.”

  Giulia looked at the dead man opposite, the trumped-up fool who thought that he had her pinned down. She wondered if he could ring the bell before she drew her knife, whether he could scream before she cut his throat.

  “You really think you’re something special, don’t you?” she said.

  “I’ll count to ten, shall I? That might help you make up your mind, and I really don’t have all day.”

  She looked over the desk. It was about three feet high. Nothing on the surface. If he wanted a confession, he’d need to fetch some ink. She looked around the room. There was ink and paper laid out on a table by the wall, artfully spread into a fan. In an alcove to her right, a small bronze maiden was riding a dolphin.

  “One,” he said, putting his fingertips together, “two—”

  “I’ll sign.”

  “I thought you might.”

  “Paper,” she said, shifting in her chair.

  He twisted around to look, and she leaned forward, tensing her legs. He saw the paper on the table at the wall. “Ah, yes.”

  The procurator turned again, and Giulia stood up and grabbed at the alcove. Her hand closed around cold bronze. He heard her and turned, and she swung the statue. It met his head just above the ear with a thick, heavy sound, sending a jolt up her arm. He staggered back, eyes wide, and stumbled into his chair like a drunk. His mouth opened and closed as if underwater. Then he slid onto t
he floor.

  “Son of a bitch,” Giulia said. She was panting.

  She glanced at the door. Nothing. She looked back. Behind the desk, the procurator was moving. He moved very slowly, without any clear purpose, like a crawling beetle.

  Giulia wondered if she should cut his throat. She hesitated.

  The procurator threw himself against the wall. His shoulder bumped loudly against the plaster.

  Giulia lunged and grabbed the bell-rope, lifted it out of reach. The procurator’s hand rose and clutched the air spasmodically – and then he fell back down.

  Very slowly, Giulia lowered the bell-rope. It didn’t ring. She sighed.

  There was a knock at the door. A voice called, “Sir?”

  She spun to face the door. Giulia glanced about for weapons, ways out – anything. There were none. The procurator kept paintings on his walls, not swords.

  “Sir?”

  “Um, we’re fine in here,” she said, her voice as deep as she could make it. She put the statue on the desk.

  “Sir, I thought I heard—”

  “No, we’re fine,” she called out, looking for something – anything at all – that would help. “Thanks all the same.”

  “Sir, I think I—”

  She stepped to the door and slid the bolt. She slid the other bolts, top and bottom. A fist hammered on the door. “Sir!”

  Giulia looked at the window. She was four storeys up, with guards and paving stones below.

  Oh God no.

  She reached to her back and loosened her dress, then yanked it over her head. It dropped onto the floor in a puddle of cloth.

  Giulia stood in her undershirt, britches, and boots. She put her cloak on and pulled up the hood. The air felt cold on her face and hands.

  The hammering became pounding. “Open up! Open up right now!”

  She threw the window open and looked out. It was nearly dark.