The Floating City

by Craig Cormick

  Romeo looked a little pained and took another puff on the pipe on the table. It was a tall brass device, like a large vase, with four snaking red tubes coming out of it, like some sea creature. Each of the tubes was for inhaling the simmering Othmen oil through the water in the base of the pipe. It bubbled softly as Romeo took a long breath in and slowly exhaled.

  “Things are – complicated now,” he told Marcuccio.

  “Complicated? Marcuccio asked. “I don’t understand. You are a man and she is a woman and let me see if I can recall how that works?” He made a circle of the index finger and thumb on one hand and raised his pointer finger on the other hand. He stared at them as if not understanding how they might fit together and waved his fingers around as if unable to connect them. “Am I doing something wrong here?”

  Romeo rolled his eyes and took another puff on the pipe, the soft bubble sound his only response.

  “Aha!” said Marcuccio, sticking his index finger into the circle made by his other fingers. “That’s it! Now I remember. Do you remember too?”

  “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your efforts,” said Romeo, “but I am not in the mood for such an intimate dinner this evening.”

  “Not – in – the – mood?” asked Marcuccio. “Lay down and rest, I will fetch an apothecary. You are clearly very ill.”

  Romeo looked more pained and then said, in a soft voice, “I have met someone else.”

  “Aha!” said Marcuccio and slapped the table hard. “I knew it at once.”

  Romeo frowned. “So there is no meal organized for this evening with Rosaline?”

  “No, no. I just wanted to hear you say it,” said Marcuccio, laughing. “Oh dear, poor Romeo has another wench to try and win.”

  Romeo didn’t share his mirth. “You don’t understand. This time it’s different.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Marcuccio. “It’s the same song every time. They are the fairest wench and the one your heart most desires until you bed them and then you lose interest.”

  “Not this time,” said Romeo.

  “How so?” asked Marcuccio. “No don’t tell me, let me guess. Her bosoms are fairer than any other maiden you have seen. Wait, that was Lady Rosaline. It is her hair, it is soft and like a web of silk that you desire to get entrapped in. No, that was Lady Valeria. It is her smile and her lips. They desire to be kissed and you cannot wait to drink from them. Or was that the Lady Rosaline too?”

  Romeo punched him hard on the arm. “You are a villain,” he said, “to make so light of a friend’s love so easily.”

  Marcuccio looked at his arm and said, “I think a gnat just bit me.” Then he asked, “Who is she? Anyone I know, or perhaps anyone I’ve known!”

  Romeo punched him on the arm again. Harder. This time Marcuccio pretended to fall to the floor as if he had been knocked unconscious, but he could not stop laughing, and picked himself up and dusted himself down. “The insects in here are something to be contended with,” he said.

  “You are the worst villain ever,” Romeo said. “And to think I was foolish enough to ever consider you a friend!”

  “A friend indeed,” said Marcuccio. “Who else but a friend could advise you of the folly of your ways and expect to be thanked only with a beating?”

  Romeo took another deep breath through the pipe. “We will be wed,” he said.

  Marcuccio’s smile broadened even wider. “Wed? That is a statement you should be saving to try and convince her of your intents, not me.”

  “We will be wed,” Romeo said again. “There is enchantment between us.”

  “Yes, Othmen enchantment,” said Marcuccio.

  Romeo shook his head. “I have it all planned out. We will disguise ourselves as two lesser gentlemen, and make our way out of the city, convincing the city guard we are merchants or some such, and run away to live in some distant city such as Verona.”

  “As two gentlemen?” Marcuccio asked.

  “We only need to disguise ourselves to get out of the city.”

  “I take it her parents don’t approve of the match. Indeed, I suspect her parents don’t have the slightest idea of the match.”

  “No. I don’t think they’d approve.”

  “Then who is she? My curiosity is aroused as much as your appetites for a woman are clearly aroused.”

  But Romeo shook his head.

  “Would I not know her?” Marcuccio asked, and then added, “In the most gentlemanly of ways, of course.”

  “You know her,” said Romeo and looked around the room carefully.

  “Then why not tell me her name?”

  “It will do you no favours to know it,” said Romeo.

  Now Marcuccio finally stopped jesting. “She’s married, then?”

  “No.”

  “Betrothed to another?”

  Romeo shrugged.

  Marcuccio rubbed his chin and thought hard and then his jaw dropped. “Oh no,” he said. “What is her first name? Just tell me the first name?”

  “Giulietta,” said Romeo softly.

  Marcuccio took hold of a pipe and drew in deeply, causing the water to bubble like a cauldron. “Dio mio!” he exclaimed finally, sending a puff of thick smoke out of his lips into the air between them. “You have a death wish. You will start a war between your houses. You will bring ruin to the city’s peace. You are mad.”

  “We will be wed,” was all Romeo said.

  XXV

  ELSEWHERE IN THE FLOATING CITY

  “I think you will be pleasantly surprised by our Rosa,” Signora Polani said once more.

  The two Seers, the younger of the remaining three pairs, sat as impassive as if their faces were masks. Yet despite the lack of response from them, Signora Polani kept fiddling with the locket round her neck and asking them repeated questions.

  “Can you tell if a child has the gift just by looking at them? Oh, I asked that already, didn’t I? It’s just that we knew Rosa was special from a very early age.” She leaned a bit closer as if to share a strict secret with them. “My husband was slow to acknowledge it, but as she got older it was more and more evident.”

  The male Seer looked at the locket in her fingers and noticed it contained a tiny portrait of a girl who was undoubtedly Rosa. He also hoped she had at least some of the gifts that her mother professed she might have. The last three families they had visited had proven singularly disappointing and one of the little girls was lucky to have survived. He suspected Signora Polani would not take it well if her daughter’s test went the same way.

  Finally Signor Polani arrived, leading a young girl. She seemed too young to be a possibility, as they knew the first signs of a person’s gifts wouldn’t begin appearing until a child entered maturity.

  “How old is she?” the female Seer asked, looking at the child, but clearly not addressing her.

  “Thirteen,” said her mother.

  “She appears younger.”

  “It is just that she is small. But she is very strong and resilient.”

  We shall see, thought the male Seer.

  He stood up and went across to the girl. She had quite large eyes and dark hair tied back behind her head. She wore a very fine dark blue dress, woven through with white lace. And she did not step back nor flinch when he placed a hand on her head. He felt the tell-tale tingle beneath his fingers. She had the gift, undoubtedly. But to what extent was the question?

  “What is your name?” he asked her.

  “Rosa Polani,” she said.

  “Do you know why we’re here?” he asked her.

  She nodded her head.

  “Are you afraid of us?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  He almost smiled. Almost.

  “Well, then,” he said. “Come and sit over here, Rosa and we shall see just how strong your gift is.”

  She followed him obediently and sat on the chair that had been placed between the two Seers.

  “You have the power over water, yes?” the male Seer asked
her.

  She nodded.

  “Good,” he said. “Now we need you to sit very still. All right?”

  She nodded again.

  The female Seer with a basket at her feet, lifted out a canvas bag. Without saying anything she placed it over the child’s head, tying it tightly around her neck.

  Signora Polani’s fingers went frantic, fiddling with the locket. “What are you doing?” she asked. “This won’t hurt her will it?”

  “We are doing what we need to do,” the male Seer said. “If you think it might distress you to watch, then I advise you to leave us to do our work. We will call you when it is done.”

  She chewed her lip and shook her head a little. She was determined to be at least a little bit as brave as her daughter. “I will stay,” she said in a thin voice.

  The female Seer nodded and lifted the bag open at the top, showing its shape. It was more a tube than a bag, Rosa’s parents could see, with a small opening at one end to be placed over the child’s head and a larger opening at the top.

  “Now the water,” the male Seer said.

  Signor Polani clapped his hands and two servants who had been standing outside the door came in with large pitchers of water on their shoulders. The female Seer indicated the top of the bag and the servant hesitated. He looked to Signor Polani, who nodded his head. The servant started pouring the water into the bag while the male Seer held it open at the top.

  “Don’t be afraid, dear,” Signora Polani said to her daughter, although it was probably more spoken to herself. He daughter didn’t respond. She clearly wasn’t afraid. The male Seer looked down into her eyes and she met his gaze. Could she be the one they were searching for?

  He softened a little and said, “This will get uncomfortable for you, but we sometimes need to do that to trigger your gifts more.”

  “She can do wonderful tricks with a cup of water,” her mother said. “She can make whirlpools appear in them even.”

  Both Seers ignored her, they had seen many children who could do party tricks, but were looking for something more. They watched the water fill up close to her mouth and then cover it. Rosa breathed through her nose, never taking her eyes off the male Seer. Yes, perhaps she was going to pleasantly surprise them as her mother had said, he thought.

  The female Seer then indicated to the second servant to start adding his water into the bag and he stepped forward and poured it in. The water splashed noisily and quickly filled up the bag over her head.

  Rosa began struggling now. And Signora Polani tried to step forward and help her, but the female Seer held out one hand to warn her back. This was the moment. The point of urgency. The water might dissipate outside the bag. Might suddenly stand off from her head inside the bag, leaving her room to breathe. Might even just disappear entirely. Well, never entirely. It would reappear somewhere else. In the canal. In the kitchen. In the courtyard.

  The male Seer willed her powers to do something miraculous, but Rosa lifted her hands to her neck scrabbling frantically with the cords there. Just a moment longer, thought the male Seer. She would astound them all. But Rosa tried to stand, held down by the weight of the water and started scrabbling in panic. He could have sworn he could even hear her shrieking, even though her head was submerged under water. Perhaps just a moment longer though. It might still be possible.

  But with one deft move, the female Seer reached out and pulled a cord, opening the bag around Rosa’s neck, spilling all the water over her fine gown. She gasped loudly for breath, panting, wet hair hanging down around her face, like a half-drowned cat.

  The male Seer looked at her in regret, as if she had personally let him down, and then turned to her mother and father. “I’m sorry,” was all he said. Then he began gathering up their things. There would still be time to visit one or two more children before the day ended.

  XXVI

  THE STORY OF DISDEMONA

  Otello felt that his wife was so close he could reach out one hand and close it around her slim white neck. She sat in the garden below and he stood silently on the balcony above, half hidden by vines that wove their way thickly around a stone pillar.

  Disdemona was talking with Captain Casio and was clearly enjoying herself. Greatly. She even blushed once or twice and pulled the strawberry-embroidered kerchief out of her bosom and hid her face behind it. Otello felt himself reddening in the face likewise, but not with embarrassment – with rage.

  He wished he could fly down close to them, as small as a wasp, and overhear what it was they talked of. Surely it was something bawdy to evoke such emotion from her. But then he felt rather he should be a hawk and settle on the branches nearby so that he could then swoop down and pluck both their tongues out if it was confirmed they were engaged in love banter.

  She laughed again, throwing her head back and letting the silver pearls of her voice spread over the garden. Otello clenched his fist tightly by his side. That was a laugh he had observed many times when he first used to watch her with her friends and had become enraptured in her. But it was not a laugh that she had ever shared with him as her husband.

  Was that all it took to win a woman over? The ability to make her laugh? Would a woman really be more willing to share her bed with a clown than a great warrior? He would crush them both for this.

  Then he watched his wife stand and turn to take up a white flower and smell it. Her hands were so gentle with it. The captain watched her for a moment and then turned to gaze up to the sky, leaving her with the pleasure of the flower. And at that moment Otello was filled with doubt. It was the way she was with him. Gentle and attentive.

  What was he really witnessing here? Love play or just friendly banter? He knew the captain had a quick wit, as did his wife. They enjoyed making word games with each other. He’d long known that. Was that enough to prove she was being unfaithful to him?

  But the captain was also a bawdy devil and loved to make improper suggestions. Had he been making them now to her? And was she encouraging him in it? He watched as she now plucked the flower from its stem and began to remove the petals one by one, as if needing help to make a difficult decision.

  Otello found he was holding his breath, as much as if he might be watching the tide of a battle, knowing it could turn either way, for him or against him. What would Disdemona decide at the last petal? Could he know it from her face?

  Then he heard a servant’s footsteps approaching and turned his head, placing a finger to his lips. The servant stopped at once. Otello beckoned him closer and the man stepped carefully, as if there might be a deadly serpent underfoot.

  “What is it?” the Moor hissed.

  “My lord, there are two men at the door asking to see your lady.”

  The Moor’s eyes narrowed. “Are there indeed?”

  “Yes,” said the servant. “Two.”

  Otello looked back to the garden, but saw he had missed Disdemona reaching the last petal. Instead he saw her turn and throw the empty stalk at the captain, who made as if it was a deadly spear entering his heart, and then they both laughed heartily.

  “I will rather see these two men,” Otello said and pushed the servant on ahead of him.

  He made his way to the ground floor and first took a long look through the spy hole in the wall before suddenly throwing open the door. The foppish scribe stood there, surprised, with an awkward smile on his face.

  “I was told there were two gentlemen at the door,” said the Moor, glaring at the scribe.

  “Yes,” said Vincenzo, and turned to look to the Shadow Master, who had been standing behind him as the door had started to open – but was now nowhere to be seen.

  “Then why do I see only one?” asked the Moor gruffly.

  “Well, it’s just that… I mean…” Vincenzo looked around blankly and then back at the Moor’s steely gaze. It pinned him like nails to a cross, and he started stuttering, as he always did when the Moor confronted him over anything, staring at him as if he was guilty of some crime that he did n
ot even realize he was guilty of until the Moor glared at him. “He was just… right here…”

  The Moor let his eyes half close, in a way that made Vincenzo feel more uncertain and vulnerable than when they were wide open. “I suppose you have come to interview the Lady Disdemona yet again for that never-ending history her father commissioned,” Otello stated.

  “Well, yes, if it’s not too inconvenient, I mean…” Vincenzo began.

  “It is most inconvenient,” Otello said. “My lady is greatly preoccupied. As am I. We have no time for your history today.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Vincenzo. “Then perhaps another time, if we could set an appointment–”

  “Yes. Another time,” said Otello, and closed the door before Vincenzo had even finished speaking. He blinked and looked around himself once more before stepping back from the house and then turned to return to his own quarters. The Shadow Master seemed to detach himself from a wall and fall in beside him.

  “That didn’t go quite as expected,” he said. “You could have been a little more assertive I think.”

  “Where did you go?” Vincenzo asked. “You were there one minute and then gone.”

  The Shadow Master waved a hand in the air. “It would not do for the Moor to meet me yet,” he said. “That time will come.”

  “But it was fine for me to be humiliated in front of the Moor?” Vincenzo asked.

  The Shadow Master waved a hand in the air again.

  “You dismiss me. You drag me around the city. You promise me I will have control over how things turn out, but I do not even have control over where I am and what I am doing? Perhaps my time would be better spent sitting at my desk and writing. I could write something to save Disdemona from peril, yes?”

  “No. We have to let this play out. It is vital.”

  “Then how will we warn Lady Disdemona of these dangers that surround her?” Vincenzo asked.

  “What would you suggest if you were writing this scene?”