It cut deeply and Vincenzo tried to cry out that he was being murdered, but his voice would not come. He threw his hands up to his throat as he fell forward onto the desk, gasping for air and trying to stop his life blood draining all over his work.
“Or does it?” asked the stranger.
Vincenzo looked down at his hands. There was no blood. He looked at the table and his papers. Nothing there either. He sat back up and felt his throat. There was perhaps a mark there, but he had not been cut open. He looked up at the stranger who was holding his quill pen in his hand instead of a knife.
Vincenzo rubbed his hands across his throat again, and now saw ink on his hands. “But how? But why? But…” Vincenzo began.
The stranger tossed the quill pen to the table and said, “Are you as certain now that the truth is the truth, and there is only one truth?”
Vincenzo said nothing for some moments.
“Can you imagine that there are many and multiple possibilities for any event, and that it is possible, in the right hands, to steer a course through them, ensuring only one possibility eventuates?” the stranger continued.
“Another riddle,” said Vincenzo.
“Not at all. Imagine that you had the power that whatever you wrote became the one truth that you talk of. Imagine that you could not just chart the history of your city, but steer it as well.”
Vincenzo took a deep breath. That was something that he had indeed imagined at times. The power to recreate events. To write them to turn out differently. To save his city from the perils that beset it. “Is such a thing possible?” he asked in a low voice, as if they were talking sedition.
“And why should it not be?”
“Because it is just a dream.”
“Like the knife was a dream?” asked the stranger.
Vincenzo chewed his lip, the feeling of the blade on his neck still strong in his mind.
“What is the weather outside today?” asked the stranger.
“It is overcast.”
“Then take up your pen. Write that it is sunny.”
Vincenzo hesitated. Then the temptation overcame him. He picked up his pen and wrote on a blank page of his manuscript, The sun shone over the Floating City. Then he turned and looked out the window.
“It is still overcast,” he said.
“Patience,” said the stranger. “The sun will return soon enough.”
Vincenzo looked at him and glared. “You are mocking me!”
“No,” said the stranger. “I am not.” And behind him a ray of light shone down on the street outside the window. Vincenzo scowled. It was probably just a coincidence. “I was not sent by Signor Montecchi,” the stranger said. “But I have an interest in seeing that you complete the history of his family.”
“I would but I have another more urgent task to record,” said Vincenzo in a huff.
“The recording of the terrible events that mark the decline of your city?” asked the hooded stranger.
Vincenzo blinked, then said, “Yes. It is important that they are recorded accurately.”
“I believe you will find that both histories are intertwined,” the stranger said. “The fate of the Montecchi daughters mirrors the fate of your beloved city.”
“I don’t understand,” said Vincenzo.
“You don’t need to understand yet,” said the stranger. “That will come with time. All I need of you for now is to accompany me and to write some events anew.”
“Now?” asked Vincenzo.
“Yes. Now,” said the stranger and walked over to the door and unbolted it. “This is the gift. We will be shadows in the night. We will be strangers in the crowds. We will observe everything and be unobserved. We shall watch the story of your city unfolding around us. And you will record it all and amend it when it is vital that it be amended.”
Vincenzo blinked again.
“The idea compels you, doesn’t it,” said the stranger.
And Vincenzo could not deny that it did. Could not deny that it truly was a gift. “What will we observe?” he asked hesitantly, but rising to his feet.
“The truth,” said the stranger.
VIII
THE STORY OF DISDEMONA
“I am going to leave my trusted ensign Ipato to watch over you,” said Otello, as he dressed in preparation to meet the Council of Ten. “There may be no danger, but I will not risk it, cherub of my heart.”
“I worry more for you,” she said. “If there is any danger afoot, you are the one who will be confronting it, not I.”
He turned to her and took his face in his large dark hands. “I would rather stay here by your side and see you safe from any perils, but my duty splits me in two. Half of me I rather leave behind to be with you and half I would send off to ensure the city is safe.”
“So the city is your mistress then,” she asked him, “who I must share your heart with?”
“Nobody has my heart but you,” he said. “If I could I would cut it out and press it inside your bosom so that it always beat beside that sweet heart of yours.”
“Do not even jest about spilling any of your blood,” she said. “Instead I will wear that strawberry kerchief that you gave me next to my heart, knowing it was a gift from your own heart.”
“Then let me place it there,” he said. She reached into her sleeve and pulled it out from where it had been tucked and pressed it into his hand. Leaning forward he loosened Disdemona’s bodice and slipped his fingers in against her breasts. “I think it feels most happy just here,” he said. She smacked at his fingers playfully. “I would have it stay nestled there forever,” he said.
“Then it shall.” She took his head in her hands and standing up on her toes, kissed him on his large full lips. “And something to sustain you in your absence,” she said.
“A drink from your lips is more sustaining than the sweetest of wines.”
“As are your sweet words. Now go,” she said. “Your mistress the city is calling for you.
He took her hands and squeezed them to his own large chest and then turned and left the chamber. Disdemona sat down at her bureau and began brushing her hair. She had never been so happy, she thought. Her Moor was back from the wars and she didn’t care if the Othmen were invading them if every day could be as happy as this one.
She was interrupted by a sudden cough from the doorway. She turned to see the ensign, Ipato, standing there. “Yes?” she asked.
He stared at her pointedly and then said, “The general said I should make sure you were safe.”
“I am quite safe,” she said. Then she noticed his gaze was fixed on her still-undone bodice. She turned back to her bureau and began re-lacing it, only realizing too late that he had watched it all in her mirror. She scowled and turned back to him. He was a thin man with lank dark hair and a thin moustache that she thought looked too much like a worm over his lips.
“So tell me, what danger are you protecting me from exactly?” she asked him.
“These are dangerous times,” he said, stepping closer into the room, as if invited. She did not like the man overly, though his manners were always good and his demeanour never insulting. She much preferred the company of her husband’s captain, Casio, a kind and humorous fellow who always made her feel at ease. Next time she would ask her husband to appoint him to watch over her.
“What dangers do you see around you now?” she asked him. “Does my chamber contain great threats to my safety? Does the ceiling threaten to fall upon my head?”
The ensign took another step closer to her and said, “One can never be too certain where dangers lurk. As one never knows where faith and love might be hiding.”
“I know where faith and love are,” she said. “They dwell in this room.”
He nodded his head. “Then you see it?”
“Of course I see it,” she said. “I see it every evening when I go to bed with my husband and I see it every morning when I waken beside him.”
The ensign cast his eyes down a
t the floor a moment as if she had stung him with her words in some way. “What troubles you?” she finally asked. “Is there a danger lurking by that you are afraid to tell me of?”
“Not a danger as such,” he said. “But something I would much like to share with you but I fear the consequences would be dire.”
“You are a brave man, are you not?” she asked. “My husband has often admired your bravery and told me you are amongst his most able of men.”
He lifted his head up and looked to her. “He says that?”
“Often,” she said, knowing that he had perhaps said it once or twice. The ensign seemed very pleased to know this, she thought, and seemed to grow more courage at hearing it.
“Then perhaps I should tell you where danger lies,” he said.
“Please do.”
He walked across and sat on the edge of her bed. “They say,” he said softly, “that affairs of the heart that run hot soon cool.”
She regarded him warily now.
“They say,” he continued, “that the allure of novelty wears off and one’s heart then has a great longing for things of one’s homeland.”
She lowered her eyebrows into a frown.
“They say that true love is often the quietest that makes no proclamations or poetry.”
“Do they?” she asked him. “Who exactly says that?”
“Well. Wise men and women,” he said.
“Which wise men and women exactly? Give me their names?”
She watched him squirm a little. “Well, not specific wise men and women as much as the wise men and women of the ancients,” he said, trying vainly to make his answer seem authoritative.
“I’ve never heard that said,” she replied at last. “I have heard however that true love is never tainted. And also that while true love does not always love wisely, it can love well.”
“I know enough of love that does not love wisely,” he said.
“Be a fool for love and you will not regret it,” Disdemona said. “Trust me on this. If there is somebody you love, then tell her.” She turned back to the mirror, adjusting her earrings and wishing for the conversation to be ended. She’d had enough of this weary fellow. “Better to show your heart than hide it,” she said.
“Do you advise me so?” he asked.
“I do.”
“Then lend me your kerchief,” he said, “and I will make it into a gift for you in thanks for your advice.”
“There is a kerchief on the mantle,” she said, indicating a pile of folded cloths.
“I would rather the one you have tucked into your bosom there,” he replied.
“No,” she said firmly. “That is not for lending and must remain where it is.”
“Then this will have to do,” he said, rising and going over to the mantle, and taking up the small cloth, he began folding it.
“But would you not hold it against me if I was to tell you who I loved?” he asked, now walking across to her. “Would you harm my heart if I exposed it to you?”
“I would not,” she said distractedly, paying more attention to her hair than to him.
“Do you promise?”
“I promise,” she replied.
“I will hold you to that,” he said, and with a flourish he snapped the cloth and it was folded into the shape of a flower, which he held out for her. She was amazed at the trick and let him place it in her lap. “But I would hold you first,” he said and placed one hand upon her breast, holding it firmly, right above where her husband’s kerchief sat.
Disdemona was too shocked to respond at first and then said, “Sir, I think you forget yourself!”
“I remember that I am in your bedchamber, my lady, and I remember what use bedchambers are best put to.”
She was speechless for a moment and then pushed him away from her. “If my Moor had heard you say that he would rip your heart out and eat it,” she said angrily.
“But you have vowed to protect it,” he said.
“Do not toy with me,” she snapped.
“As you toy with my feelings?”
“I have done nothing to encourage your feelings.”
“Nothing but to ignore them, and then tell me to express them.”
She looked at the man and saw the desperation in his eyes. And lust. “I will ignore this incident,” she said. “But only this once. I think it is time you left, for I would rather face the dangers of the Othmen beasts than be left in your protection any longer.”
The ensign stood there a long moment and Disdemona could have sworn she witnessed the exact moment that his lust turned to hate for her before he turned and stomped out of the room, recalling his words that you could never tell where danger lurked.
IX
ELSEWHERE IN THE FLOATING CITY
The city guards were walking along the edge of the canal cautiously peering into the waters which were dark and ill-smelling in this part of the city. “Watch your footing,” said the lieutenant of the guard. “It’s slippery along here.” The men were making their way along one of the narrower passages where the buildings pressed close to the water’s edge. It was dark and the stones covered in slime. He didn’t need to add that if any of them slipped and fell into the water it wouldn’t be the dunking and jeering he had to most fear.
There were only a few citizens out on the streets, mostly keeping to higher paths, on the bridges or the built-up areas, keeping away from the waters. To their surprise an occasional gondolier had rowed past them with a nervous or ignorant-looking merchant sitting in the boat, glad to not have to jostle for space on the narrow canals for once. “Clearly more money than sense,” one of the guardsmen said.
“They’ll all be back out in a day or two,” said the lieutenant. “It will just take a few days for everyone to realize that the canals are not full of Othmen monsters and life will go back to usual.”
“You sound certain,” said one of his men.
“Think about it,” said the lieutenant. “If the Othmen could invade our city with monsters, they would send a legion of them. But if there was but the one they would have it attack only the most valuable targets.”
“So you’re saying you don’t think they will attack the common people?”
“If I was an Othmen I’d be saving my enchantment for where it most counted.”
“But what if the beast needs to eat while it’s waiting for its targets?”
“There are plenty of dogs and rats that hang around the waters,” said the lieutenant. “Why risk going up against a man who might fight back?”
“What if they cannot be harmed by mortal weapons?”
“What if their purpose is to sow fear into the city?” another asked.
“Well they’ve done that sure enough,” said the lieutenant. “But as I say, people will be back out as usual in a few days when there have been no more attacks.”
“What if there is another attack?”
“Then we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, as the architect said to his mistress.”
Nobody in the troop laughed. The men made their careful way along the narrow alleyway and the man at the back of the line, who was quite new to the guard, heard what sounded like a splash far behind them. “What was that?” he asked quickly.
“Rubbish going into the water,” said the lieutenant of the guard without turning his head. They went on a little further and there was a second soft splash, on the far side of the canal.
“What was that?” asked the last man again.
“Rat,” said the lieutenant, again without turning his head.
The next splash was much louder and closer and it even made the lieutenant turn his head in alarm. He saw the furious splashing in the water and then saw the flailing hands of one of his men there. He had drawn his sword before he understood that the last man in the squad had slipped and fallen into the canal rather than be taken by some beast.
“Quick. Fish him out!” he ordered his men, and two of them dipped their pikes into the wate
r, snared his clothes and dragged him across to the canal’s edge where he started scrabbling out. “Something touched my leg,” he said fearfully. “Something soft touched me.”
“A turd most likely,” said the lieutenant. “Now get in line and watch your feet!” He turned back to lead the men to the end of the dim alleyway, when they heard a man’s scream ahead of them. “Forward on the double,” he called. The men rounded the corner expecting to see a beast of some kind, but instead all they saw was men. One was on the ground and the other was standing over him with a blade of some kind in his hand.
“You there!” called the lieutenant of the guard. The standing figure turned and the guardsmen could see that he was masked. A strange pale mask with a wide closed-mouth grin framed by an angular dark moustache and thin strip of beard from the lips to the base of the chin. The raised cheeks had no colour in them, the dark eyebrows arched in mockery and the eyes were thin enough to appear empty.
“Stand away!” the lieutenant of the guard ordered him. The masked man raised his hands, and the lieutenant could see the weapon was a small trident, like the gladiators of old used. “Drop that!” the lieutenant said, drawing his own sword and advancing on him. But suddenly the masked man threw something to the ground in front of him with his other hand and a cloud of acrid red smoke rose up about them all.
The guards jostled each other, coughing for breath, and could not move for fear of accidentally impaling their comrades, until the smoke had cleared a little. And by that time they could see only one man was still there. And he was lying on the ground with the trident thrust deeply into his neck.
The lieutenant looked at him and then looked at the men gathered all about, staring like imbecilic children at a circus show. “Do you know him?” asked one of the men.
The Floating City Page 3
