“His heart gave out because a dagger was driven into it,” said the female Spring Seer. “Long after the whore had left him.”
“Council of Eight, then,” said the male Summer Seer.
“Which will be the Council of Seven as easily as we might become a single pair of Seers if we do not find a way to defeat these assassins and Othmen Djinn soon,” the male Spring Seer said.
The chamber was quiet for a moment. Then the female Summer Seer said, “We have had a vision.”
The other two Seers sat forward in their seats. “Why did not you say so?”
“It was most unclear.”
“Tell us what you saw,” said the female Spring Seer.
“It was a vision of four boatmen, rowing strange dark craft, making their way along the canals of the city. But the city was shrouded in mist and smoke, and there was no sign of life in it.”
“Tell us about the boatmen,” said the male Spring Seer.
“They all wore dark hooded garments. One carried plague in his boat. One carried famine. One carried chaos and the last carried death.”
The male Spring Seer rubbed his chin and leaned in close to whisper something in his wife’s ear, who mumbled something back to him.
“Do you know what these visions mean?” the Summer Seers asked them.
“As you say, it is unclear. But I do not like the sound of it.”
“There was more,” said the male Summer Seer.
“Yes?”
“They rowed their boats around and around the canals of the city, leaving large swirling currents behind them that slowly dragged the whole city underwater with them.”
The chamber was silent for some time.
“Did you tell the council about it?” the Spring Seer asked.
“No. They would know less what to do with it than we do.”
“There was one last detail,” said the female Summer Seer.
“Yes?”
“The four figures all had the same face, although it was masked and half-hidden it was possible to see this.”
“Would you know the man if you saw him in anywhere in the Floating City?”
“Yes. Anywhere.”
“Then we have a chance. He must be found and destroyed or we will all be destroyed by him.”
XXXVI
THE STORY OF DISDEMONA
“Come to bed. I am waiting for you!”
But Otello did not respond. He sat in the outer room brooding as he had been brooding since returning from the previous night’s patrol.
Disdemona called to him again. “Does something ail you, dear husband?”
“I cannot sleep,” he called back.
“Is there anything I can do?”
Otello spoke back in a low voice, “I would rather you had done nothing.”
“Husband,” she called again, but he did not answer. Then he heard her come into the room and stand by the door. “If you wish me to go back to bed I will, but not until I hear what troubles you?”
“Sleep eludes me, that is all,” he said.
“It eludes me too when you are gone,” she said, coming over to him and laying her hands on his shoulders.
But he shrugged her off and stood, pacing about the room like a caged animal. “Does not the presence of Captain Casio allow you to sleep more peacefully?”
“It is heartening to know he is there,” she said.
“And did you not miss him when I required him to come with me on the patrol last night?”
“Of course I missed him,” Disdemona said. “His company is light and easy and I always feel safe when he is here. It was a good choice to have him look over me.”
Otello muttered, “But whose choice was it really?”
“I fear you are in an ugly temper,” she said. “And I hope I have done nothing to contribute to it. But if I have not, it is not fair that I should be subject to it.”
He did not answer, but sat down again, staring at her.
“You are poisoned with some foul temperament,” she said, and then suddenly saw the mark on his chest where the crossbow bolt had struck him. “You are wounded!”
“It is nothing,” he said. But she reached into her bodice and took out the kerchief with the strawberries on it that he had given her and placed it over the wound.
“From my breast to yours,” she said.
He looked at her, standing close to him and his gaze softened. He placed a hand on hers and felt anew the wonder of touching her. Wanted to pick her up and take her into their bedchamber and lock the door from all the troubles of the outside world and just be there with her. Forever. If only she would say to him that she was not repelled by his dark skin. If only she would open her heart to him and say what she really felt for Casio. But she pulled her hand free and poked at his wound, the pain shaking the thoughts from his head.
“If this had gone a little deeper you might not be sitting here now,” she said, admonishing him.
He pushed her gently away from him. “It is nothing,” he said. “The man’s aim was good, but he barely pierced my armour.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she said.
“It seems there are some things that stay secret between a man and his wife.”
“I would rather you told me everything.”
“If I had come home from killing a man, would you rather that I tell you all the details of it?”
“No,” she said. “Please do not. I cannot bear to think that such gentle hands are also strong against other men and do them violence.”
“As I would not believe that one as tender as you could ever cause a strong man such pain,” he said.
“I would rather face your tender side than your cruel one.”
“And I yours.”
“Your words seem to have two meanings tonight,” she said.
“If you find different meanings in them it is only because you are searching for them,” he replied.
She put the kerchief back inside her nightdress and then crossed her arms. “Why are you in such a temper? Is it something to do with the dangers to the city?”
He did not answer her.
“I would rather know where you are at all hours of the day and night,” she said.
“That would be convenient for you,” he muttered.
“You are in a fouler mood than a wounded bear.”
“A bear can easily be put out of its misery.”
“Is there more danger to the city than you are telling me?” she asked. “There is so much talk of assassins and Othmen beasts in the canals. I would hate for something to happen to you.”
“What might happen to me?” he asked. “Why would you even think it?”
“You live a dangerous life in your profession,” she said. “You face danger daily. And nightly. It is often in my thoughts that one day you might not prevail.”
“Is it indeed?”
“Yes, my love. My life would be barren without you.”
“Barren? Explain that to me.”
“No joy would grow in me anymore. No seeds of happiness would sprout. I would be barren.”
“These are strange words you use.”
“Metaphors,” she said. “Do not worry about the words. Instead take their meaning.”
“I do take their meaning,” he said, moving away from her a little. “Tell me, something I have always wanted to ask you. You insist on sleeping with a candle lit. Do you fear the darkness?”
“I am discomforted by it, yes.”
“So the blackness is less preferred to you than the light?”
“The darkness, my love,” she said. “That darkness of not knowing what lingers just out of arm’s reach. The sounds of night sometimes make my skin prickle.”
He turned and gripped her wrists strongly. “And does it send a wave of revulsion through you?”
“Your choice of words is too strong.”
“Disquiet, then? Discomfort? Disdain?”
“The nights without you are all of those.”
He let go of her arms and let her fall back to the bed. “And if you lay abed with no candle alight, you would not know if I stood a few feet away from you, close enough to reach out and touch you.” He leaned forward and put one hand around her throat.
“I would hope to feel your presence,” she said.
Otello stood up. “I must return to the darkness. I have other work to do this evening.”
“What troubles you, husband?” Disdemona asked again. “You are full of strange thoughts this evening. Come to bed with me and I’ll chase them from you.”
“No,” he said, “I must spend some time alone with my strange thoughts for a while yet.”
Disdemona watched him gather his things and leave, closing the door heavily behind him. The force of it seemed to suck the air out of the room and she suddenly felt giddy. She staggered over to his chair and sat in it, placing her hands on the documents he had been handling. She lifted them away as if scalded. As if she could feel his anger in them.
She sucked in a deep breath and was suddenly overwhelmed by a memory of herself as a small child. She was being led across to the Floating City by a tall dark man in a dark cloak. She closed her eyes tightly to try and recall more details. There were two of them. A small boy that she was clinging to. Someone she loved dearly. Then they were being dragged apart. She was crying and holding out her hands for the boy. It felt like they had been joined physically and the pain of separation was ripping their flesh apart.
She put a hand to her chest as if she could feel it even now. The pain of something being ripped apart inside her. A pain that had lain dormant for all these years, and that loving Otello had been a response to. A need to have that close love again. But his rejection of her now had ripped it apart anew. She gasped for breath and fell off the chair, shocked at the strength of it. Something in the world had changed to awaken this inside her. She wanted to conquer it and suppress it, as she had obviously done many years before. But instead she curled into a small ball on the floor, shivering against the chill of the stones, for she was a small child again, and the pain and fear and uncertainty overwhelmed her.
XXXVII
ELSEWHERE IN THE FLOATING CITY
The Duca of the Floating City could feel a troubling ache in his aged bones. Some days, like this, he felt it would be better to admit to the other counsellors just how ill he was, step down and spend the mornings sleeping late and then playing with his grandchildren. What a glorious life that would be.
But if he wasn’t wearing the Duca’s chain, he knew who would. Signor de Abbacio or Signor Hermino. They were a dangerous couple to be such close conspirators. Each on his own was probably controllable, but together they were formidable. Signor de Abbacio was as rake thin as he was pious, and possessed of the maddened stare of a zealot. Signor Hermino was large and stocky, just starting to run to fat, and although he had a jovial and clown-like manner, he was as much a zealot as his co-conspirator.
Their mantra at every council meeting was that there needed to be firmer control of the city to save it from peril. And at each new meeting there was a new peril. The Othmen Djinn that was lurking in the waters of the city. Othmen spies and assassins that were targeting the council. The threat of a trade war from the north. The threat of the Mongols to the east. The threat of their own countrymen to the west.
At each council meeting they had put forward a motion that the Duca should appoint one of them with special emergency powers to address the crisis. And at each council meeting he had managed to defeat their efforts. But he was tired. And he was sick.
Signor Tegalliano had warned him that they were planning to make a move to take control of the council and advised him to play each man off against the other, and let them devour themselves with their ambitions rather than devour the city. But it had gone beyond that point and Signor Flavius was dead. As was Signor Candiano. At each council meeting there was one less moderate to call on for support.
That their city was facing a perilous hour he did not doubt. But how to deal with it was a major point of difference.
He closed his eyes and tried to imagine he was sitting in a plain wicker chair in his garden with his youngest grandson playing at his feet. The boy liked to tell stories and would be rolling a ball or something and making up the most fanciful tales about it being a dragon. The Duca smiled and felt it hurt his face muscles a little. Had it really been so long since he had smiled?
He thought he should perhaps take a nap to restore his energies. Or have one of the Seers prescribe him some potion or other. But their abilities were limited, he knew. Like they were limited in their ability to ward off the Djinn and safeguard the council from assassins.
But as they had advised him recently, they could not be expected to keep the city afloat and protect the council members. He knitted his brows and tried to concentrate. He had a feeling there was a solution to everything lying just out of his grasp if he could only piece all the disparate parts of the problem together.
But there were so many pieces to contend with. The Guild were protesting about Otello burning down one of their buildings, which he had been engaged in to no outcome while another member of the council had been assassinated on the very streets of their city which he had been charged with keeping safe.
Signors de Abbacio and Hermino were advising that Otello should be removed from his position as general of the city – but of course they would. He was one of the few honest men who the Duca could rely upon to protect the city, even if he did it in a ham-fisted way at times. He would certainly remain loyal to the Duca though and not tolerate any move of force against him.
The Duca felt himself drifting a little. How wonderful it would be to close his eyes and never open them again, he thought. Never to have to look at the visages of the Seers or the council members again. He would miss his grandchildren though, he knew, and used that thought to pull himself back again.
He opened his eyes wide and sighed. It was too much to hope that all his troubles would go away, but perhaps one day without another crisis it was possible. That was surely something he could hope for. Surely.
XXXVIII
ELSEWHERE IN THE FLOATING CITY
The ship crept silently into the city in the pre-dawn light, emerging out of a thin mist that had shielded it from the sentries at the mouth of the lagoon. It sat low to the water and had only one sail set and moved at little more than the pace of a man swimming. Against the regulations of the city it did not fly any flags that identified its country of origin nor the status of a merchant or passenger vessel.
It made its way stealthily towards the row of ships that were already tied up on the eastern side of the city, where cargo was unloaded and loaded, and where merchants would be busily trading their wares come the light of day. No one saw the ship tie up and a small boat lowered from it to the water.
If anyone had been awake at this hour they would have seen about a dozen faces in the small boat, all peering intently into the early morning lights that shone through the gloom ahead of them, and they might even have heard the occasional whimper of a babe in arms.
The boat made its way quietly towards one of the lesser-used docks and the bedraggled passengers climbed out and made their way up the stone steps. Some wore once-fine garments, now soiled and ripped. Others wore the clothes of labourers and servants. A few days in the city and they would revert to those roles, but for now they helped each other up the steps, lifting a few bundles of possessions and children.
One man, who sat at the oars, held the boat steady until everyone had disembarked. He looked up from his task to see one man had not yet left the boat and he nudged him with his foot to urge him to get a move on. The other figure fell to the bottom of the boat. The man stood up from his position by the oars and, taking a dagger from his belt, lifted open the robes that the figure had wound tightly around his face.
One glance and he dropped the robes back and also discarded the dagger, letting it fall to the bottom of the
boat with a clatter.
Turning to see that everyone else had made their way up the steps and was gone, he stepped out of the boat carefully and then put his foot to it and pushed it back away from the dock. With luck it might drift back out to sea. Or it might be found in a few hours. Either way he would have enough time to find somewhere safe with one of his relatives.
He looked around to make sure no one was about and then he too hurried up the stairs and disappeared into the Floating City.
High above them though, in a palazzo window Signora Montecchi watched the dark figures scuttling into the city and it brought back to her mind a memory of a similar night, many, many years ago now. She sighed and wrapped her shawl tighter around herself, remembering the promises that had been made then too. Then she shivered, for that time that they had long talked of, but always hoped would never arrive, had come.
XXXIX
ELSEWHERE IN THE FLOATING CITY
Vincenzo the scribe was creating the world anew. Or trying to. He had several sheets of paper spread out on his writing table and was trying to chart the city’s recent history and the stories of the three Montecchi sisters but was finding it difficult to tie all the disparate strands together. If, for instance, he had the power to change one or two events, as the Shadow Master had hinted at, where should he use that power?
Could he return the slain Seers? Or would that entail also rewriting the knowledge of anybody who had known they were dead? Or should he rather write something that protected the remaining Seers, and ensured the city stayed afloat and did not sink beneath the waves? Could he write away the Djinn, or at least any further attacks from them?
And what about the assassins? Should he save the council from attack? There were too many smaller stories to deal with. Too many lives to save and change. And instead he found himself writing snatches of faint memories of the city when he had first arrived there. The way he had felt its movement under his feet when he first stood on it, such as was only ever felt by first-time arrivals, and never felt again afterwards. But he also had a memory of having stood there as a much younger child. And the more snatches of memories he wrote, the deeper they took him into this half-remembered world. There was a young girl. A dark chill winter’s night. A tall man and a woman bundling the young girl away. He had felt so cold inside himself. The stars had looked like ice formations in the sky. The stranger had held his hand and then let go and was gone. The darkness enveloped him and he felt the city moving under his feet.
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