The Floating City

by Craig Cormick

  “This is wrong,” he started to tell her, when suddenly the two Spring Seers let go of each other’s hands and reached out to them. They grasped their heads in their gnarled old hands and squeezed. Mario felt thumbs digging into his eyes and sharp fingernails probing for his ears and digging into them. He wanted to scream, but could not. Then he felt a thumb drop into his mouth and prise it open, but he could still feel both thumbs pressing into his eyes, digging at the jelly of his eyeballs. Now there were several fingers prising his mouth open and thrusting deep inside his throat. He tried to shout out but his airway was blocked. Something long and dry was moving down his throat and deep into his chest and stomach. He felt his body shaking and felt Rosa’s hand clenching his so tightly it was like they were being crushed under a heavy stone.

  The pain went on and on and on and then suddenly started lifting from him. There were no more hands on his face and he opened his eyes. The lids were clammy as if stuck together, but parted and he saw he was looking at himself and Rosa sitting there. He did not understand and turned his head to see who was holding his hand. It was the female Spring Seer, staring back at him with an equal look of confusion. “What happened?” he asked in an addled old-man’s voice.

  Then the boy who was him, sitting in front of him, stood up. He lifted Rosa from her seat too and then stretched and smiled. “I promised you that today everything changes, did I not?” he said.

  LI

  THE STORY OF GIULIETTA

  “You’re oblivious to anything that doesn’t concern you, aren’t you?” said Romeo’s good friend Marcuccio.

  “What do you mean?” Romeo asked him. The two young men sat at an outdoor café by the Square of the Lion, drinking wine.

  “Did you know that a new Othmen envoy arrived in the city today? A woman! And did you know there is going to be a ceremony to induct two new Seers?”

  “I thought the Othmen kept their women tied up and masked, or something like that,” said Romeo.

  Marcuccio shook his head. “Obviously not all of them,” he said. “They say this one dresses like a warrior and faced down Otello. He’s not a man to be easily intimidated.”

  “He’s to be my brother-in-law,” said Romeo. “That will be a useful thing.”

  “Or not a man to upset,” his friend said. “What if he thinks you are treating Giulietta like an Othmen and comes looking for you?”

  “He’ll never find us,” said Romeo.

  “Where are you going to go to?” Marcuccio asked, picking up the bottle on the table and topping up their cups.

  “I’d like to tell you, but if I did, then when Otello tortured you and bit off your testicles one by one, you might tell him.”

  Marcuccio laughed. “How did you know that I have often dreamt of the Moor putting my testicles in his mouth?”

  Romeo laughed too.

  “To the Lady Giulietta, then,” said Marcuccio and raised his cup.

  “To the Lady Giulietta,” said Romeo.

  The two men raised the cups to their lips when an angry voice behind them said, “Do you mock my cousin?”

  Romeo put down his cup and turned his head. “Tebaldo Montecchi,” he said. It was Giulietta’s cousin. A boorish man who fancied himself a swordsman and merchant and so many other things it was laughable. “I thought the air smelled a little foul suddenly.”

  The other youth, his brow knotted into a single angry line, took a step closer to the two friends. “I have been looking for you,” he said.

  “I am flattered,” said Romeo. “Do you want a loan or some advice?”

  Tebaldo took another step closer and put a hand to his sword hilt. Romeo and Marcuccio’s eyes followed his hand. “I think he’s out of sorts today,” said Marcuccio. “Perhaps we should invite him to drink with us, rather than just insult him.”

  “But a little wine might make him meaner,” said Romeo.

  Marcuccio shrugged. “Perhaps we should ask him,” he said. “I hear he speaks our language.”

  Tebaldo pushed a chair to the floor and drew his sword. “Mock me not,” he said. “I can bear your dishonours, but it is the dishonour you do my cousin that I must avenge.”

  “It is just a toast to her health,” said Marcuccio, raising his hands in a peace offering.

  “You dishonour her more than that,” said Tebaldo, his sword tip wavering from his anger.

  “What do you refer to?” asked Romeo cautiously.

  “You attended the ball at her house in disguise. Do not deny it.”

  “Ah,” said Romeo, smiling a little once more. “Oh that. I meant no dishonour.”

  “Your mere presence was a dishonour,” Tebaldo spat. “You have insulted her and dishonoured our house and you must answer for it.”

  Romeo sighed. “He’s such a boor,” he said to Marcuccio. “All right. We duel. Five days hence in the gardens of antiquity.”

  “Now,” said Tebaldo, and brought his sword down onto the table, knocking their cups and wine glasses off it. The two friends jumped to their feet. Romeo backed away quickly. “Not so fast, not so fast,” he said. “You must do me the right of having time to prepare and work myself up into a state of rage equal to yours.”

  “I would have agreed except for the way you mock me,” said Tebaldo. “You will answer for it now.”

  “Patience, patience,” said Marcuccio. “You know the council’s decree. It is a banishable offence to attack or slay another in a public place.”

  “Cowards,” said Tebaldo and lashed out with his sword, cutting into Romeo’s shirt, slashing the expensive cloth. Romeo looked shocked and fell back, tangling his feet in a chair and falling over, while Marcuccio quickly had his own blade out to parry the return stroke.

  The few patrons of the café fled at the sound of metal on metal, calling for help.

  “This is not your fight,” growled Tebaldo.

  “You seem to make it mine,” Marcuccio countered. “And you might find me a more equal opponent than Romeo, who is better with words than he is with a sword.”

  “Then have at you,” spat Tebaldo and thrust at Marcuccio, who deftly parried attack after attack.

  “I am growing bored,” he called to Romeo, “Do you wish to take over?”

  Romeo, with his own sword in his hand, attacked Tebaldo from his flank and Romeo laughed at the look on his face. “If you apologize now we will let you walk away,” he said. Tebaldo, in response, whistled loudly and Romeo saw three more young men draw swords and start walking towards them.

  “I think our sport is done,” said Marcuccio, holding up his sword. “Let us now talk seriously about how honour will best be restored as you will soon be cousins.”

  Tebaldo, his blood so hot it boiled behind his eyes, took the opportunity and thrust his blade at him. Marcuccio tried to jump back and the blade just pierced his chest. He looked down at the sudden red blossom that sprang forth on his tunic. “A scratch,” he said.

  Romeo now jumped between the two men, to prevent Tebaldo stabbing his friend again and Tebaldo turned his rage on Romeo, lunging at him. Romeo dodged the stroke though, and it passed under his arm, fully piercing Marcuccio. Romeo did not even notice for a moment until he heard his good friend fall to the ground behind him, tipping chairs and tables.

  “Marcuccio,” he called.

  “I am slain,” he said. “Your conflict has claimed another innocent life.” Blood trickled up over his lips and he spat it to the ground in front of him. “Your blade was poisoned,” he accused Tebaldo.

  “It was not,” he protested, the sight of the bleeding man suddenly robbing his rage.

  “It was a poison that the war between your two houses has brewed. We should have been friends all, but fight to the death for nothing of any worth other than honour.” He coughed and spat more blood. “I wish a curse on both your houses until the poison runs its course.”

  “No,” said Romeo. “Do not speak so.”

  “I speak so and mean it,” said Marcuccio. “The closeness of death
makes me speak plainly.”

  “I did not mean to kill him,” said Tebaldo, turning to his friends, who stood stock still.

  “But I mean to slay you,” said Romeo, truly infected by the poison that Marcuccio had died of. He slashed at Tebaldo. The other’s defence lacked strength and Romeo quickly fought past his guard and stabbed him in the heart, twisting his blade fiercely before pulling it free. Marcuccio gasped and his breath bubbled as if he was underwater, drowning in his own blood.

  Romeo only vaguely heard the call of citizens saying, “Murder.” Barely registered the sound of the guard pushing their way through the witnesses towards him. Saw only the look on his dead friend’s face and the glazed look in his eyes, as empty as his own grand plans for the future.

  LII

  ELSEWHERE IN THE FLOATING CITY

  One more lone boat crossed to the Floating City that evening. This one from the mainland, travelling at night, when all traffic from the mainland was prohibited. There was a single oarsman and a single passenger, both dark-clad, and moving under the cover of clouds.

  The oarsman was more cautious of the occasional stirrings in the water than he was of encountering any of the city guards. Men could be bribed or fought. Monsters in the water could not. He had demanded ten-fold his normal fee for the crossing and the stranger had agreed to it. Then he had demanded the payment up front and the stranger reached into a pouch at his waist, counted out the coins and flung them to him. “Half now, half when we arrive,” he said in an accent that the boatman could not place and knew better than to ask. If the man had wanted to make conversation about his homeland he would be crossing to the city during the daylight, and telling the city customs officers his story.

  The boatman had smuggled many men into the Floating City and many goods. And they were as silent as each other on the trip across the narrow strip of water. His oars were wrapped in cloth to dampen their sounds and the boat was painted black and sat low to the water. Before departing he made sure that any passengers were able to press themselves flat to the bottom of the boat if a vessel with a lantern came too close to them.

  But those customs men were fools. They illuminated their boats and talked too much. It was fair behaviour for the bribes they took though, so the smugglers knew just where they were at any time.

  Most men who were sneaking into the Floating City went to a lot of trouble to disguise themselves, wearing a mask or hiding their face, but the man he was carrying across tonight did not. He had a short sharp beard, dark eyes and he was sure his sister would describe him as handsome. His fingers were covered in some type of metal gloves, extending half down the fingers and ending in points.

  The boatman only looked at them briefly while sizing the man up. He looked rich. That was the most important thing about him. So they waited for the clouds to thicken and pushed off from the shore. The boatman was looking at the man sitting in the rear of his boat as he rowed, and could have sworn the man’s eyes shone like those of a cat whenever he looked straight at him, but for most of the journey he was looking about at the water around them, as if watching something there. That unsettled the boatman a little.

  More so when the stranger suddenly put his hand to his lips and said, “Shhh!” The boatman stopped and turned his head to look over his shoulder. He couldn’t see any lights on the water, just those of the Floating City ahead of them. Then he closed his eyes to listen. There was no sound of voices or oars. “What is it?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Shhh,” said the man again. Then the boatman heard it. A soft splash of something moving in the water nearby. It was too big for a fish. Then again. Closer. He felt a chill run through his veins. The boatman waited until he was certain the water was still again, and then dipped his oars into the waters once more, moving them slowly forward.

  It proved rash. The water swirled around the boat as if something was swimming around and around beneath them. “Not a word,” the stranger cautioned, in the softest of voices, and then pulled out a small pouch from inside his tunic. He reached in and grabbed a handful of what looked to the boatman like silver dust, and cast it around them into the water. It sparkled, even with no moonlight, and settled on the surface of the water.

  The swirling and thrashing stopped.

  The two men remained completely still for some time and then the stranger nodded his head. “Go on,” he whispered.

  The oarsman put his oars back into the water and continued rowing. They made their way into one of the lesser canals of the city and pulled up at a dock. It sat lower in the water than usual, with only the top step free of the water.

  The stranger stood to step out of the boat, but the boatman held out an arm and stopped him. “My fee,” said the boatman. “You still owe me half my payment.”

  The stranger’s hand flicked quickly and the metal gloves he wore flashed under the city’s lights and the boatman fell back, gurgling as if he had fallen into the water. Drowning in the blood of his own cut throat.

  He fell flat into the bottom of his boat and the stranger stepped out and put a foot to it, sending it drifting back out onto the waters. The water swirled a little ahead of it. “An offering,” the man said in his native tongue, and then turned and walked into the city.

  The Djinn-slayer had arrived.

  LIII

  THE STORY OF ISABELLA

  Giannetto awoke to find his mast erect and an empty place in the bed beside him. He couldn’t believe it. It had happened again. He rolled across and breathed in her scent. She had been there beside him throughout the night and he had failed to win her. He reached down and took hold of his member and began stroking it, groaning a little, trying to imagine it was her hands holding him.

  A sudden cough roused him. He looked down and saw an elderly lady at the foot of the bed. The same old crone who had been waiting to pass him his clothes and lead him out of the house as before. She was trying very hard to hide a smirk. He sighed and threw a pillow over his face, wondering just how much worse his humiliation was going to get. Then he remembered the loan.

  “Oh dio mio!” he said with an altogether different groan.

  Back out on the chill stone streets of the Floating City, Giannetto began to ponder his predicament. He had borrowed the ship and trade goods from his uncle to woo Isabella, certain he would succeed this time. Now he had lost it. And he had no way of paying it back as he had promised.

  He made his way to a wine tavern, went inside and slumped at a bench, ordering the largest pitcher of the cheapest wine they had. At least he could continue his humiliation and return home as drunk as a peasant.

  He had just begun his second glass, however, when a stranger sat down beside him with a small flagon of much nicer wine and said, “If you’re determined to drink yourself silly at this time of the morning, you should at least do it with better wine.” He poured Giannetto a cup.

  “Who are you?” asked Giannetto, taking the cup nevertheless.

  The man shrugged. “Call me Marco. I work for many people. My last master had to leave the city in a hurry, but had charged me with fulfilling a task before I left it too.”

  “These are dangerous times,” said Giannetto. “Many people might well follow your lead and leave the city. Alas I cannot be one of them.”

  “How so?” asked the stranger.

  “I have debts here to pay.”

  The man nodded. “Yes, we all have debts and I think it worth having them all settled before the Othmen arrive at our shores.”

  “You think they will come this far?”

  “It is only a matter of time.” He took a long drink of his wine and asked, “What is your trade?”

  “I am a ship’s captain. Or I was. I no longer have a ship.”

  “Let me guess,” said Marco. “Isabella Montecchi?”

  “Yes,” said Giannetto. “The story is that well known?”

  He shrugged. “My master was very familiar with the story. Is there any truth to it?”

  Giannetto sighed. �
��The only truth worth knowing is that I have tried twice and failed,” he said. “And I cannot try again. But I don’t believe anybody loves her as much as I do.”

  “Why do you love her?” asked Marco.

  “Ah,” said Giannetto with a smile. “Who could not? She is beautiful. She is proud. She is clever. I have admired her from afar, like many others, but to spend an evening with her, dining with her I mean, you cannot imagine how wonderful she is. I feel like a moth drawn to a flame. Like a …” He searched around for another metaphor.

  “Like a man in love drawn to his intended?” asked the man.

  Giannetto held up his cup in a toast. “Exactly,” he said, and took another deep drink.

  “Are you familiar with the Othmen saying that the third time is the charm? If you were to believe that, the third attempt would certainly win her hand.”

  Giannetto looked at him and cocked his eyebrow.

  “Well, not just her hand,” he said in a conspiratorial voice. “If you know what I mean?”

  Giannetto held up a finger and waved it a little at the man. “I’m beginning to like you. But I have no means to borrow a ship and trade goods.”

  “Who did you borrow from last time?”

  “From my uncle. But he has no more ships that he could lend me, even if I could assure him of success. The Othmen have been attacking his trading vessels as if they knew where they were going to be and when.”

  The man tut-tutted. “Then perhaps I can introduce you to a man who my master did business with regularly.”

  “Who is this man?” Giannetto asked, seizing on the possibility.

  “He is a moneylender and a Son of David. A reputable man.”