Low City: Missing Persons (A Tractus Fynn Mystery Book 3)

by Alexander, MK

  Within an hour, the cell had been washed out and fresh hay lain on the floor. Some of the putrid smell had already fled. I returned and brought with me a bundle and a candle. First though, I ordered the guards to unshackle Fynn and leave us alone. “Lasciami in,” I shouted as they still lingered by the door. Someone brought in a bucket of water but it was cold. “Caldo, bollente,” I said and ordered it away for a new one.

  Fynn didn’t stir. He made no attempt to move from the wall but sat there staring at me, I was quite sure. I lit the candle and placed it in a small alcove. It’s flame sparked and gave off a musky scent that soon filled the stone room. Fynn was watching me intently now. I could see his flickering eyes. I placed a fresh blanket on the straw and then slowly drew out a few items from my bundle: a clean linen shirt, a flask of wine and a hunk of bread, some cheese, and a spice-cured sausage of some kind. The last of these items I placed near enough to Fynn so that he could reach, but he made no effort to move towards them. Instead, he sat in silence and simply stared at me.

  A moment later, Fynn lunged, and before I knew it his hands were around my throat, choking hard. He pinned me against the far wall.

  “Fynn,” I tried to say but could barely speak. I put up no fight though. Normally, he would have been an overwhelming opponent, with strength and skill, but Fynn was weak and feeble now. I wrested myself free and leapt from his grasp. He stood there panting, eyeing me with complete loathing.

  “Are you a Guelph or a Ghibelline?”

  “I’m not sure what that means.”

  “We are sworn enemies, you and I. We have been for centuries, and will be for centuries to come.”

  In that moment I had to consider that Fynn may have lost his mind entirely.

  “Lorraine…” I said, “She sent me to find you.”

  He stared at me and something passed across his face. “Lorraine…” he muttered to himself and staggered back. “My true love….” He fell against the wall and slid to the floor.

  “What tongue do you speak?” he asked.

  I wasn’t completely sure at this point. I seemed to know at least two languages. “I’m here to help you.”

  “An Englander, eh?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Yes, now I remember.” He looked hard at nothing, his eyes struggling to focus. “I am…” he paused as if he couldn’t quite recall. “I am Tractus, I am Tractus Fynn.”

  I laughed with relief.

  “You are my friend,” he said looking at me intently.

  “I am,” I replied, smiling. “Well, I will be, someday.”

  “You are Patrick.”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “I seem to be the Magistrate around here.”

  “The Magistrate?” he asked. “You are the one who put me in this predicament,” Fynn yelled harshly and was on me once again, his hands around my throat, wrestling me to the floor.

  “No, it wasn’t me… think, Fynn, get a hold of yourself… Lorraine… Anika…”

  “Anika?” he repeated.

  I felt his grip loosening.

  “Is she here with you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Good… And Lorraine?”

  “She’s fine, they’re both fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “This is a comfort…” Fynn slumped back against the damp wall. He went silent for a time. “Tell me… how many years has it been?”

  “About twenty.”

  “I shudder to know that…” He winced. “I am an old man now.”

  “You look about the same to me.”

  “Eh?” Fynn eyed me carefully. “Oh yes, of course.” He tapped the side of my face with a certain affection. “You must tell me everything that’s happened, Patrick.”

  “We’ll have time for that later. You need to recover first.”

  “I do.”

  “I brought you hot water and a sponge... and soap, I think… something like it— at least it’s pleasantly scented. Someone told me it was good against lice.”

  ***

  “Honestly, I began to fear no one was coming to my rescue. I had given up all hope and fallen into despair.” Fynn sat quietly for a long time, too long a time. “… to yearn for such simple things that I knew I would never have.”

  “Such as?”

  “Something good to eat, a book to read, a sip of wine… even sheers and a brush.”

  “I can find these things…”

  “No, stay a moment, please.” Fynn grabbed my arm. He attempted a smile but it would not come. “I will not describe to you my ordeal, not in torturous detail. I will not mention the rats, the insects, the filth and the stench. The years of loneliness, the wild thoughts swirling inside which brought me to the brink of madness. The darkness, the isolation… It was quite difficult.”

  “Did you try to escape?”

  “Many times, but always found myself back here.”

  “How?”

  “I was able to hide a small knife on my person and everyday I would relentlessly saw my way through the heavy chain. I had to first consider stealth. The guards frequently checked the links nearest my ankle and also pulled at the origin of the chain— where it is attached to the wall. I reasoned that cutting a link in the middle would be my best option.”

  “And?”

  “It took three years of diligent work to make it through.”

  “What happened?

  “My escape attempt was discovered. They brought in a new chain, and it was considerably thicker.”

  “How did you keep your sanity?”

  “Thank you for saying so; I’m not sure I have though.”

  “You seem yourself, pretty much.”

  “For the first decade I had a cell mate. I should thank him for keeping me alive.”

  “Why?”

  “We had many a conversation together.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “It’s best we don’t speak of it.” Fynn stared off into space for a while. “…Someone else has been helping me though, I suspect. But I’m not sure who.”

  “Helping you?”

  “They paid off the jailers and left me little trinkets in the cell— most of which I hoarded.”

  “What kind of trinkets?”

  “Coins, jewelry, baubles… things I could trade with the guards for food and drink.” Fynn paused to reflect. “I don’t suppose I would have survived without such assistance…”

  “Who did this terrible thing to you?”

  “Imprisoned me, you mean?”

  I nodded.

  “I only know it was a woman.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “She was disguised by a hood and cowl. I did not glimpse her face.”

  “What language did she speak?”

  “Very passable Italian, a dialect I did not exactly recognize though, Venetian perhaps.”

  “What happened… how did all this start?”

  “Upon my arrival I was immediately ensnared, arrested and imprisoned.”

  “Didn’t they give you a trial?”

  “A tribunal you must mean, but no. They simply threw me in this dungeon without a word.”

  “Why did you come here? Travel here?”

  “I had been to Modena before as a younger man… I recalled it all rather clearly: I worked as the librarian,” Fynn said and hesitated, struggling with his memories. “I expected it to be a soft jump. But this is where I miscalculated. Apparently, there was a small gap in my concurrency, so I landed here as a separate me. It was a hard jump instead.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “Who could have known is the better question. It makes me quite suspicious. Who, I ask, would know that I had a concurrency at exactly this time, and more: how were they here waiting for me?”

  “Lilly or Chloe,” I said.

  “Ah, the sisters…” Fynn looked at me with some surprise.

&nb
sp; “They’re involved somehow.”

  “Yes, I’ve encountered them before. They have a split personality, I seem to remember.”

  “It might be more complicated than that.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, they’re both here now. I’ve seen them wandering the halls at night… and the streets in broad daylight.”

  “You mean as separate people?”

  “I do… and I think one of them is having an affair with the Inquisitor— so say the rumors.”

  “Most unusual…” Fynn paused to gather his thoughts. “I must ask the obvious question,” he said. “How did they know I was here?”

  “Mortimer,” I said automatically but considered further, “Except he’s nowhere to be seen.”

  “Some small bit of good news, I suppose.”

  ***

  I made frequent visits to Fynn’s cell over the next several days; too frequent perhaps, as I seemed to be arousing some suspicion. “Why take an interest in such a lowly prisoner?” Doctor Pomodoro asked me on the piazza one morning.

  I had no good reply and hurried along my way to the library. Fynn seemed to be improving as the days passed, though he was far from his usual self.

  “Patrick, you must tell me how is it that you came to be here?”

  “You still need to recover,” I replied gently.

  “As you say… hand me that book then.”

  “What?”

  “To recover… what better way than to read? I have a great appetite for words.”

  “Oh, well, it’s less of a book and more of a codex… It’s still BG around here.”

  “BG?”

  “Before Gutenberg.” I handed Fynn a bound manuscript. He took it eagerly and sat back. I brought over a few more candles and he began to read aloud: Il Divina Commedia, by Dante Alighieri. I seemed to understand this Tuscan dialect, but soon Fynn drifted off to sleep. I sat with him patiently, knowing by now that he would reawaken in a terrible state, a kind of panic.

  He seemed a bit calmer than usual when he opened his eyes again. The manuscript was still sitting in his lap. Fynn turn to me. “And now you must tell me how you came to be here, to save me as it were.”

  “Kind of a long story.”

  “I’m sure it is, and I shall be attentive to every detail.”

  “Well first off, there’s no coffee.”

  “What year is it?”

  “Year of our lord, fourteen fifty-three.”

  “Little wonder then, the Grand Mufti has not been born yet. I doubt he’s written a single fatwa.”

  “That’s not exactly what I mean. There was no coffee in my present… before I came here.”

  “I see… well, that’s quite extraordinary.” Fynn paused, seemingly lost in thought. “But tell me of the present.”

  “This present?” I asked. “Oh, I’m not sure of the exact day or even the month… It feels like spring though, and all anyone seems to talk about is the siege of Constantinople.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Il Duca has just been elevated.”

  “Who?”

  “Some guy in a red chef’s hat, Borso D’Este. He’s not around much, seems like he spends most of his time in Ferrara.”

  “Ah, the bastard son of a warlord, a renowned condottiero… He had a brother, I vaguely remember…” Fynn lapsed into silence.

  “There’s a lot of people complaining about the immigrants too. Greeks flooding in from the east… Carrying books… scrolls maybe. Everyone is very upset.”

  ***

  “They’re feeding me now, almost every day. And I’m getting plenty of wine to drink. In all, I feel much better.”

  “That’s good to hear.” I looked Fynn over. He was cleaner than before and his hair was now brushed and tied back with a string; his beard seemed a little less unruly. “Listen, I’ve been thinking about this long and hard… Wouldn’t it be best if I jumped back to before you were taken prisoner? Avoid your ordeal altogether.”

  “It would be a good idea, however it is too late, I’ve already lived through this experience for better or worse. Nothing can undo the memory now.”

  I had considered this but determined he was wrong. “It makes perfect sense to me… If I jump back on my own, and free you twenty-three years earlier in this timeline, you won’t live through this imprisonment. You won’t recall a thing. It would seem like I just showed up at exactly the right moment and we’d be on our way.”

  “No, absolutely not.” Fynn was adamant. “It is too great a risk.”

  “But it’s easy. Chloe is here, and Lilly— they can help me travel back to just the right time.”

  “How?”

  “They have Mortimer’s cane… and they’ve been leaving me clues.”

  “What sort of clues?”

  “Messages, hints maybe, like placed on a bench, or near a window… Travel west when the rooster calls at dawn… Leap to the south as the noon day sun shall falter.

  “No, you must not.”

  “I think I should. Even if I miss by a little, I could save you years of suffering and torture.”

  “Do you trust them?” Fynn asked the simple question.

  “I trust one more than the other… but I’m not sure which one is which.”

  “There you have it.”

  “They’ve also been leaving me tarot cards, as a sort of guide.”

  “Show me, if you can.”

  I reached into my tunic and pulled out a card: The Nine of Swords. It portrayed someone sitting up in bed with their hands over their face. I handed it to Fynn.

  “Hmm… worrisome…”

  “Why is that?”

  “It does not seem to portend anything hopeful… and it’s anachronistic. This kind of card was not designed until the early twentieth century.”

  “A hard jump,” I blurted. “The sisters hard jumped here and brought the cards with them. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

  “Which sister do you suppose left it?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Patrick, quite simply you cannot jump back and save me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Twenty odd years ago, in this timeline, you were a mere lad of nine or ten. I doubt you’d hold much sway at a tribunal.”

  I was too embarrassed to say anything at first. How did I miss something so obvious? Then I realized, the sisters were not trying to be helpful. One or both of them were trying to sabotage my efforts. “That just put a big dent in my trust.”

  “The sisters, you are saying?”

  “Yes.”

  ***

  I wasn’t completely sure if I was dreaming or wide awake the next morning as I crossed the piazza. I did know I was late to the Communal Palace, and I saw at least one ghost flitter by, there to remind me I had been here before. My feeling of deja vu was intense and I struggled to keep my focus.

  The hall was already crowded when I entered; a giant room with even a higher ceiling and a small second floor gallery surrounded by a balustrade. That seemed to be a new renovation. I made my way to the raised box at the side of the hall, the enclosed benches where the tribunal sat to hear cases. Mine was the only seat still empty. A fellow magistrate leaned in close and said, “They mean to clear the dungeons today, to make way for fresh prisoners.”

  “Who has authorized this proceeding?”

  “Il Duca himself,” he replied and glanced over to the raised seats in the center of our box. His Eminence the Cardinal was already there, and oddly, Doctor Pomodoro was at his side, whispering in his ear.

  “Ah, my young protegere,” the Cardinal said in my direction. “I am surprised to see you here this morning.”

  “Please forgive my tardiness, your Eminence.”

  “If you wish to recuse yourself from these proceedings, I fully understand.”

  “Why, my Lord?”

  “Dottore Pomodoro tells me you have been ill as of late.”

  “I am feeling much better, thank you, your
Eminence.”

  Doctor Pomodoro whispered again in the Cardinal’s ear and none too subtly, “Why, even his own family is terrified. He’s become a stranger to them. I tell you, he’s been possessed by the devil himself.”

  The Cardinal waved his hand dismissively. “I am merely here to observe, and act as an arbitrator if it should be required,” he said, then turned to the hall. “Please, carry on.”

  “Bring in the next prisoner…” someone called, probably the aiuto sceriffo, whom I knew to be a kind of bailiff.

  Something made me look up at the balcony in that moment. I noticed that one of my fellow judges’ glances kept returning there. I followed with my eyes. It was Lilly or Chloe sitting on high, staring back intently, not at me, but at my fellow magistrate. I also noticed another Chloe or Lilly, sitting further back in the shadows. I could no longer tell them apart.

  Fynn was brought forth and made to kneel before the tribunal.

  “Has this prisoner come before me previously?” I asked at large. There were a few murmurs in the room.

  “Not to my knowledge, Lord Magistrate,” the bailiff replied.

  His Eminence turned to me. “And your familiarity with this prisoner?”

  “Only through the course of my regular duties.”

  “I have heard otherwise,” the Cardinal said then turned to the bailiff. “What charges are brought, Aiuto Sceriffo ?”

  “Blasphemy, and heresy.”

  “I see… please continue, Magistrate.” The Cardinal smiled at me though it was hardly a comfort.

  “These accusations are quite serious,” I heard myself say. “But I am not here on behalf of the Sancta Sedes. Has this man broken any civil laws, committed general criminality? Does he trespass against our serene Duchy?”

  “To act against the House of Este is to act against the church,” the Cardinal pointed out.