Swords & Steam Short Stories
Page 34
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,The wretch, concentred all in self,Living, shall forfeit fair renown,And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,Unwept, unhonour’d, and unsung.
O Caledonia! stern and wild,Meet nurse for a poetic child!Land of brown heath and shaggy wood;Land of the mountain and the flood.
Footnote 8. …frigate-duels with the English, in which the navy was really baptized. Several great sea fights in this short war gave to the Navy of the United States its reputation. Indeed, they charged the navies of all the world. The first of these great battles is the fight of the Constitution and Guerrilére, August 19, 1812.
Footnote 9. The frigate Essex, under Porter, took the Marquesas Islands, in the Pacific, in 1813. Captain Porter was father of the more celebrated Admiral Porter, who commanded the United States naval forces in the Gulf of Mexico in 1863, when this story was written.
Footnote 10. Beledeljereed. An Arab name. Beled el jerid means ‘The Land of Dates’. As a name it has disappeared from the books of geography. But one hundred years ago it was given to the southern part of the Algeria of today, and somewhat vaguely to other parts of the ancient Numidia. It will be found spelled Biledelgerid. To use this word now is somewhat like speaking of the Liliput of Gulliver.
Footnote 11. The English cruisers on the American coast, in the great war between England and Napoleon, claimed the right to search American merchantmen and men of war, to find, if they could, deserters from the English navy. This was their way of showing their contempt for the United States. In 1807 the Chesapeake, a frigate of the United States, was met by the Leopard, an English frigate. She was not prepared for fighting, and Barron, her commander, struck his flag. This is the unfortunate vessel which surrendered to the Shannon on June 3, 1813.
Footnote 12. No one has erected this monument. Its proper place would be on the ruins of Fort Adams. That fort has been much worn away by the Mississippi River.
Advantage on the Kingdom of the Shore
Kelly A. Harmon
DIO!
The minute the silk slid off the weapon in the auction hall, Father Luciano knew what he was looking at. The ancient sword, Vulsini.
The sword appeared rusted, as he knew it would, but even still, he realized the enormity of the find. The corrosion on the blade belied its state. It might appear rusted on the surface, but that was only a part of its magic, hiding itself.
Luciano had had to stifle a gasp. It wouldn’t do to reveal to the others what he suspected …No, not suspected …knew.
Silence reigned. Did the other bidders recognize the sword, or were they simply unwilling to start the bid?
“Five hundred lire,” said Luciano. It was a reasonable sum for an above-average sword.
“Five-ten,” said another, and so it went, until a throaty, feminine voice interrupted, “Two thousand lire.”
All heads turned to the rear of the room.
“Puttana,” he heard one whisper. Whore.
She wore pants, a cuffed shirt minus any ruff: her neck and throat were bare. He could see why they called her whore, but that was barely fair. She was decent, even if she wore trousers like a man. But he knew Signorita Marcelli’s reputation. She was young. She took lovers. She lived alone.
She possessed another appellation, he knew: Swordsmistress, though he wondered about the accuracy of the title.
“Three-thousand lire,” said Luciano.
The woman turned to him and raised an eyebrow. She walked from the back of the room toward him, the supple leather of her pants shushing against the velvet cushion as she sat in the chair next to his.
“Father,” she said, darting a glance at the large crucifix hanging from his neck, “the church must pay you well if you can afford such an expensive item.”
She leaned toward him as she spoke, and except for the brief touch of her eyes to his jeweled cross, she stared at the unveiled sword at the front of the room. She raised her left hand to increase the bid.
“Not only second sons find their way to the church, Mistress.” He raised the bid again. “Where is the law that states only a poor man may be called by God to enter the church?”
“Then money is no object for you?”
Luciano raised his hand again and turned to her. “I didn’t say that.”
She nodded, appearing to consider his words, then tried a different tack.
“I didn’t think collecting weapons would be an appropriate pursuit for a man teaching the word of God.”
He chuckled. “You want to debate with me on the hobbies permitted to men of the cloth?”
“I want you to give up bidding on the weapon and allow me to have it.”
“Impossible,” he said.
She took a deep breath. “Then you must know what the sword can do.”
“Only by rumor,” he said. That was true. He only knew what he’d read and what little he’d gleaned from guarded conversations. Those who know of the sword, and its partner, are often reluctant to reveal their existence. So much of what he learned the swords could do was nothing more than hearsay and exaggeration. But he’d had sources the average rumor-monger did not. Access to the Vatican library is no small thing.
“Then you can see how Venice will benefit more from it if it were in my hands, rather than yours,” Mistress Marcelli said.
“How so?” He failed to see how anyone but himself could benefit from the sword, by any sword.
“Vulsini is the good sword,” she said. It belongs with a woman – one who knows its nature, knows how to employ its power for the good of the people.”
“You think just because the sword is reputed to be the good sword it should belong to a woman?”
She nodded. “Women are inherently good.”
“And men are inherently evil?” He raised his card again, shaking his head at her audacity. “You’re mad,” he said. “That kind of attitude in possession of the swords will cause nothing less than your own corruption. We can’t even be sure Vulsini is the good sword.”
“Of course it is,” she said. “It’s dark as night, corroded, limned with dirt: hiding its true nature from the world.”
“That’s woman’s logic,” he said, knowing at once he offended her by the stormy expression in her eyes. He wasn’t certain himself, whether good or evil claimed Vulsini. No one he had talked with had known the answer, though he believed it to be evil. After all, he had held Peccerillo in his hands. Polished to a brilliant shine, its gemstone sparkling in the light, how could it not be claimed by goodness? The archangel Michael could name it for his own, such was its beauty.
He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling foolish for tumbling into the same logic trap Mistress Marcelli fell prey to. Composed, he opened his eyes.
Did she realize only the two of them continued to bid?
“This is ridiculous,” he said, tiring of the conversation. “You won’t win the sword. Do you continue to offer for it only to try to bankrupt me?” He raised his bid card again.
Her smile faded. “I can no longer keep up,” she said, pouting. She leaned even closer to him, lowered her voice. “Perhaps we could come to an arrangement?” The corner of her mouth crept up, revealing a dimple.
Father Luciano felt himself smiling back. Still, he wouldn’t rise to her bait. “Another time, Mistress,” he said. “Now that I’ve won the sword, I find myself unwilling to bargain with it.”
He stood and bowed to her, and turned to the front, intent on signing his cheque for the bid-price and making arrangements for the sword’s delivery at the end of the auction.
“Do you plan to donate it to a museum?” she asked.
He turned back. “No. It will remain in my private collection.” But only long enough, he thought, until I can bury it so deep, no one will find it again.
* * *
Merda!
Fiend!
Father Luciano changed clothes with a heavy heart. He should have known Mistress Marcelli was up to something when she asked about the sword’s destination. He should have waited until the auction concluded and taken the sword home himself. Now, he had to steal – steal! – it back from her. Was it a sin to recover something which was originally stolen from you?
He was getting old, forgetting his former training, he thought, pulling the chasuble over his head and hanging it in the wardrobe. He untied the cincture at his waist even as he walked back to the dressing table, leaving the ends of his stole dangling as he walked.
No, he thought. I’m becoming a better priest, assuming in the basic goodness of others. Doing unto others …He dragged the stole from his neck, folding the narrow cloth twice over and kissing it, murmuring the prayer more by rote than reverence. Finally, he took off the alb and hung it in the wardrobe beside the chasuble. Only his dark pants and long-sleeved shirt remained.
Luciano bent and pulled a leather jerkin and boots from the floor of the cabinet. He donned the vest, and sitting on the edge of the bed, he bent and laced the boots. He eyed the weapons hanging on the wall, vying for space on both sides on an enormous crucifix, nearly as tall as himself. He tried to decide which blade would be best, then chose a rapier he’d fought with many times in his youth, coupling it with a long-bladed dagger he could use in his right hand.
Monsignor Alberto disliked his collection. But cells were private and allowed no visitors, and he knew the wall of various-sized blades was unlikely to collect comment. A weighty donation to the Monsignor eliminated further misgivings. And so he allowed Luciano his hobby, with one caveat: He could accumulate; but he could not use. Becoming a priest meant giving up the old ways, and until now, he’d been able to do so.
Luciano threw a cloak over his shoulders, concealing the sword at his hip and the dagger protruding from his boot, and made his way to the famed Signorita Marcelli’s house, less than a mile down San Marco Canal.
His footsteps echoed through the narrow alleyways as darkness fell. The sword felt heavy on his hip. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually carried one. It had been even longer since he had raised one in practice, let alone as a weapon of defense, or attack.
His ecclesiastical life provided him with vast amounts of the time to correspond with those who knew of the swords, and allowed him the use of the Vatican library to glean what knowledge he could …but it left him no time to practise, to retain the rhythms he’d learned in his youth. Monsignor Alberto could overlook sword collecting; sword practice he could not. He said, “What kind of priest speaks the words of peace yet prepares for armed combat?” He would not sanction the practice, even for exercise.
Copernicus was said to have held both swords in his hands, Vulsini, the dark sword, and Peccerillo, the blade with a pommel made of blue stone. It’s said when he finally lifted them together, Copernicus threw them down in fear. Destroy them, he had said, for mankind must never know their power.
If this had actually happened …why hadn’t the swords been destroyed?
Luciano considered the Copernicus tale a fable …but the fabric of most fables is woven to warn. Who knew what happened when both swords are joined together? He intended to find out …and then bury them so deep that no one would find them again.
He arrived at Mistress Marcelli’s house, walked boldly to the front door and tried the knob.
Locked.
Without hesitating, lest he appear to be the robber he meant to be, he entered the garden, looking for a window concealed by foliage.
“Now we have you,” said a voice from the darkness. A light flared, the beam of a lantern unhooded in his direction. Three of the night watch, guarding this house as though it were the Doge’s Palace. What a time to be caught naked of his robes. He looked like a common vagabond. He felt absurd.
“I’m sure there’s been a mistake,” he said. “I’m meeting Signorita Marcelli for a drink tonight.” God forgive me, he thought. Now I’m adding lying to my sins.
“She said you would contrive a slanderous tale,” the guard with the lantern said. “Can you produce the stiletto she says you stole from her?”
“I stole from her?”
The guard nodded. “She said you would come to rob her when she refused to part with the matched pair. You have the shorter blade, and now you’re coming for the sword.”
“I know nothing of a stiletto, but I have the receipt for the sale of the sword,” Luciano said. “It is she who stole the sword from me.”
“A likely tale,” said the lantern-bearing guard, nodding.
An older soldier stepped forward. “Now drop your weapons, very slowly, please. I wouldn’t want to gut you on Signorita Marcelli’s doorstep.”
“I can take you to the receipt,” said Luciano, dropping his weapons, “if you will follow me home.”
The guard looked as though he weighed the idea against the merits of taking Luciano to prison.
“What have you got to lose?” Luciano asked, eying their indecision.
“It is just the whore’s word against his,” the second guard said, retrieving Luciano’s dagger and sword.
The old guard nodded, and Luciano led them back to the palazzo entrance of the church of San Giorgio Maggiore and walked to the door.
“Ho, there,” said the sergeant, grabbing his wrist. “You’ll not enter the church and claim sanctuary.”
“I swear I won’t,” said Luciano. “Monsignor Alberto will vouch for me. He is in charge here and knows I collect weaponry.” He motioned to the guard. “I will wait outside, if you wish, until you contact him.”
A few moments later the guard returned along with Monsignor Alberto, who looked him up and down twice over.
“This is Father Luciano Spina,” said Father Alberto. He spared a brief, disgusted glance with Luciano. “What he’s told you is true.” The Monsignor turned and went back into the church.
The old guard offered his apologies, motioned for the return of Luciano’s weapons, and turned away into the night. Luciano entered the church and shut the door behind him.
“I told you that collection would get you into trouble,” Monsignor Alberto said, stepping out of the darkness into Luciano’s path. “Will you promise to get rid of it now?” he asked.
Luciano nodded, feeling sadness brim up. He had enjoyed it here, but it was time to move on. He would take the collection with him when he left to find a new post. But first, he had a job to do.
He returned to his cell and restored the rapier and dagger to their positions on the wall. Then, he reached for the large plaster crucifix hanging amid the weaponry and hefted it from its moorings. He lowered it to the ground, turning it backside-out, and leaned it against the wall. From a shallow niche he had carved himself from the plaster of the cross, Luciano retrieved a wrapped sword.
He pulled the canvas from Peccerillo, the silver blade shining even in the dim candlelight of his room. He slid it into a loop on his belt, then rehung the crucifix.
Once more, he left the church that evening.
* * *
“I was afraid it might come to this,” Signorita Marcelli said from across the palazzo square. She pulled the sword from the scabbard at her hip and flexed her wrist, raising and lowering the tip of the blade.
Vulsini gleamed darker than the night. The tassels on Signorita Marcelli’s red leather gloves looked like a splash of blood upon it. Street lamps in the palazzo offered limited light, their watery glow just enough to fight by. She had not cleaned the corrosion from the serrated edge of the sword.
Luciano jerked Peccerillo from the belt loop at his waist, the heavy
, round blue jewel of its pommel feeling strange to a hand once accustomed to fighting with a lighter rapier. Still, it was well-balanced and fitted perfectly in his hand. He swung it a few times, keeping his eye on Mistress Marcelli, growing more comfortable with each stroke. Peccerillo glowed with its own light, a bronze nimbus emanating out from the hilt.
God, but his finest rapier never felt so good in his hand, he thought, sweeping the blade in front of him. How could a heavier sword feel so good? He could fight with this weapon for hours without tiring. Or, at least, he might once have been able to. It had been years since he’d fought, but besting a woman who lacked his height and breadth – no matter her training – should be a simple matter, no? He only wished he could do so without hurting her.
He watched her swing Vulsini, feeling strangely attracted to her lithe grace. There was something in the way she moved that drew his eyes toward her. Or did he feel drawn toward the blade, the sight of her a bonus?
She strode toward him, the heels of her booted feet clattering against the cobblestone and echoing throughout the deserted palazzo. As she neared him, she lifted the sword tip above her right shoulder and sliced down across the front of him.
Luciano blocked the thrust with Peccerillo, a shower of sparks erupting where the swords touched. The corrosion fell from Vulsini to the stones. Invisible lightening tickled up his arm, and he drew his sword back.
Mistress Marcelli laughed, her eyes dancing. “Did you feel that?”
He nodded, feeling his own lips curl into a smile. He was fighting again, putting his training to use. He felt a rightness within that he hadn’t felt in years, even if he weren’t on the offensive. It felt right, to be sparring. He felt more alive than he had in years.
He never felt this way when he lifted the swords of his collection from their places on the wall and swung them around in his cell. He thought, is it the sword, or the fight, making me feel so alive?
Signorita Marcelli swung again.