The Floating City

by Craig Cormick

  Giannetto sat back in his chair and thought about that. “He would lend me the money?” he asked.

  “I am sure he would if I put in a good word for you.”

  Giannetto nodded his head eagerly.

  “There would be a condition though,” Marco said.

  “Yes?” asked Giannetto.

  “He will ask for a rather unusual guarantee of the loan.”

  Giannetto took another drink and waited for him to go on.

  “The condition would be that if the loan was forfeit, then you would forfeit a pound of your flesh in return.”

  “A pound of flesh?” asked Giannetto, incredulously.

  “Just so,” said Marco.

  Giannetto licked his lips. “Do you mean from my own body?”

  “Of course,” he said and laughed. “But consider it nothing more than an eccentric request. It is something to do with his religion. These things are not to be taken literally you know.”

  Giannetto lifted the cup to his lips, but then set it back down. “But what if I should again fail?”

  “What if I was to give you a charm guaranteeing that you did not?”

  “What type of charm?”

  The man reached into his garments and brought out a thin silver chain with a star-shaped talisman on the end of it.

  “It looks Othmen!” said Giannetto in surprise.

  “I am not sure of its origin,” the man said. “But it carries enchantment. Watch.” And he held it over the half-empty cup of wine and Giannetto saw the liquid in the cup begin turning, like a small tidal pool. “My master gave it to me and charged me to give it to the most needy man I could find in the city, and your story makes me think that it is you.”

  The man held out the charm and Giannetto took it. He felt a slight tingling in his fingers. “Who is your master?” he asked. “He must be a truly singular and generous man.”

  The man smiled. “He would laugh to hear you describe him so.”

  Giannetto proffered his hand to Marco and they shook. “I had thought this an unlucky day,” he said.

  The man smiled. “You should not believe in luck. Believe rather that all things are planned out. Very carefully planned out indeed. Now here,” he said, and passed a slip of paper across the table. “This is the moneylender’s name and address. Tell him that Marco sent you.”

  Giannetto took up the sheet of paper. It was very expensive and the penmanship quite official looking. And he had a moment of doubt as to whether he might make a suitable candidate for the loan. No matter, he would beseech his uncle to make it on his behalf. As long as the condition was nothing to be taken seriously he had nothing to fear.

  LIV

  ELSEWHERE IN THE FLOATING CITY

  It had been a long, long time since the Spring Seers had been so young and they were enjoying the pleasures that come from a young body. “They are too young for that!” the Summer Seers had said, seeing the lust in the young couple’s eyes when they had left the chamber, but that was the voice of bitterness and jealousy. When you found yourself suddenly in a young body free of any of the trials of age there was nothing you were too young for.

  They were left with Mario and Rosa to console. The youngsters had suddenly found themselves aged beyond imagining and without the knowledge and experience of the Seers they did not know how to hold the decrepit bodies together. Mario had wet himself and Rosa was sobbing uncontrollably, just from looking at her hands. They would keep a looking glass from her as long as was possible.

  “It is nothing to be upset about,” the Summer Seers lied. “It is just a temporary thing.”

  Neither child seemed consoled by the idea. “Your bodies have great powers,” the female Summer Seer told them, coming across the chamber towards them. “You will learn how to harness them. But you must maintain the bond.” Or you will die, she neglected to tell them.

  She held up her husband’s hand to indicate that they should do the same, but the children were too distraught to pay them enough attention to follow her bidding. The male Summer Seer was having a great deal of trouble focusing on the fact that these were not the people he knew, falling apart before him, but were in fact children. It seemed to him that if he ever let go of his own control he might behave just like them.

  The female Summer Seer sensed this in him and squeezed his hand tighter, forcing him to focus. But in return a little of his doubt filled her. It was too much like looking into some mirror of the future, she thought, or alternative reality. She drew in a breath and said, in a stern voice, “You can wallow or you can adapt. There is nothing else for it now.” Neither child responded. She felt annoyed, it should have been the Spring Seers doing this, rather than cavorting and exploring each other’s flesh like a pair of love-starved youths. But again, she wondered how she would respond if it were her and her husband in their bodies. It had been a long time since the flesh had held pleasures for them. Who wouldn’t dream of the smooth and unblemished flesh of youth? And with a partner who knew your every whim and wish.

  The Spring Seers had undoubtedly sacrificed a lot of their powers to choose the bodies of these two children, but they would regain that in time. As the two children would regain their senses and come to understand their responsibilities – in time – and then there would be three sets of Seers once more. As they would undoubtedly find another set of Seers eventually.

  Still holding her husband’s hand she stepped forward and pulled one shaking hand from Rosa’s face and pressed it into the boy’s hand. “Hold it,” she commanded. Mario hung onto it for a moment, but Rosa pulled it back to cover her mouth, as great racking sobs were now escaping her. The Seer grabbed it again and pressed it once more into Mario’s hand. “Hold it tighter,” she told him. He looked at her, blinked and did as he was told, as Rosa tried to pull it back from him again.

  She stepped closer to Rosa and raised a hand to strike her face, but could not bring herself to do it. She could easily have struck the female Spring Seer as she watched her leading her child lover out of the chamber, but she could not bring herself to strike the face of the woman in front of her. They had endured too much together.

  She stepped back and said to her husband, “Let’s leave them alone for a bit. They may need the solitude to recover.”

  He knew that was very unlikely. What they most wanted was undoubtedly comforting and some explanation they could accept. But they were not going to get that here. “Yes,” he said. “I hope they find that possible.”

  “In time,” she said to her husband, and turned to lead him out of the chamber. So many things would happen in time. She would adapt to the reality of who were children and who were not, and they would adapt to the fact they were now Seers and with that came great sacrifice and they would adapt to finding a new balance of their powers to protect the city.

  “I fear we do not have that luxury of time,” he said.

  “I fear so many other things above that,” she said, and they left the chamber without once looking back.

  LV

  THE STORY OF DISDEMONA

  Otello returned home that evening in a troubled mood. He had been as much captivated by the Othmen envoy as he had wanted to slay her. She was terrible and she was beautiful. She was as dangerous as she was alluring. He found thoughts of her kept running through his mind. What colour was her skin around her breasts? Was it as dark as that on her face, or was it a little lighter, as he had found in some women?

  He had never had any interest in Othmen women, who hid themselves under dark robes and were said to be either as bony as old camels or as plump as fattened chickens. And hairy. He had heard it said they had body hair all over and the hair on their mons was as thick as that of palm trees growing around an oasis.

  But a half Othmen and half Graecian was like a dangerous mix of drugs that individually brought on a mild stupor, but taken together robbed a man of his senses. And he wondered if her legs wouldn’t prove to be a strong as a dancer’s and her arms as strong as a warrior’s
. It must be something wonderful to have congress with a woman who was as much a warrior as she was, he thought.

  By the time he reached his home and dismissed his guardsmen, he found himself filled with mixed emotions. On the one hand he had been fantasizing over a woman other than his wife, but on the other hand, his wife had been more than overly familiar with the captain. For all he knew she had wed him simply because she was smitten with the idea of finding out what his body was like unclothed and pressed against her, as he had been smitten by a similar idea with the Othmen envoy.

  And had she perhaps tired of the novelty of his dark skin and longed to be with a man more like her own race now? He knew her father and mother had warned her of such things, as if they knew them to be the truth. Perhaps he should have chosen a wife of darker skin, or perhaps he should have chosen a wife who he could wrap up in layers of clothing and forbid from ever being in the company of another man.

  He then asked himself, if she was really being true to him, as she vowed was the case, why did he no longer find favour in her? Why did he mistrust her? He had a sharp nose for deceit, he knew, and it had saved his life on many occasions, and he felt it around him now.

  He came to their bedchamber after a cup or two of wine to find her sitting up waiting for him. She sprang to her feet and came across to help him out of his clothes, but he shrugged her off. She stood back and asked him, “Have I done something to displease you?”

  “I don’t know. Have you?” he asked.

  She lowered her head and he saw it shake a little. “My lord finds fault with me in so many ways,” she said. “What has happened to the love and affection that you once showed me daily?”

  He kicked off his boots and then unbuckled his ornamental armour, letting it fall to the floor. She kept her eyes down, waiting for him to answer, but he said nothing, only lifting off his shirt, then undershirt and then unfastening his breeches and stepping out of them. She glanced up at his near-naked form and then lowered her eyes again.

  What was that look in them that he had seen? Fear? Loathing? Something else?

  “Look at me!” he commanded.

  She looked up briefly and then lowered her eyes again.

  “Are you afraid of me?” he asked softly.

  She nodded her head a little.

  “Why is it that you proffer fear to your husband?” he demanded.

  “I am afraid you no longer love me as you once did,” she said and began crying. She reached into her bodice and took out a kerchief to wipe her eyes. And for a moment he felt something soften inside him and he reached out and took her hand, drawing it gently from her eyes. Then he saw the kerchief.

  “Tell me,” he said in a soft voice. “Where is the strawberry kerchief that I gave you?”

  “It was too precious. I have locked it away for safekeeping,” she said too quickly.

  He held her hand tightly. “Then bring it to me now. I would see you wipe away your sadness with its softness.”

  “I cannot,” she said. “I have misplaced the key.”

  “Then bring me the box you have put it in and I shall break it open with my dagger,” he said.

  “I cannot,” she said again. “It is too precious.”

  “Show me,” he said.

  “The box is not here,” she said. “I have taken it to a locksmith to have it opened.”

  “A locksmith?” he asked. “Which one? I shall have a man fetch it back for you.”

  “I don’t recall his name. He was in the street of metal workers.”

  “How will you fetch it back if you don’t remember his name?”

  “I remember the shop.”

  He held onto her hand tightly but still she refused to look up at him. He pushed her roughly now, sick of the thin lies she had served him up for their bedtime repast. She fell onto the bed and started sobbing again.

  “I want to see that kerchief on the morrow,” he said. “It wounds me greatly that you do not have it, as much as it would wound me to find you had given it away.”

  “I would rather die than give it away,” she said.

  “Then we will speak no more of it tonight,” he said. She climbed to her knees on the bed and wiped her tears.

  “Will you come to bed now?” she asked.

  “I find I am no longer tired and will sit up a little longer,” he said. “There are important matters I need to think upon.”

  “Would you like my company?” she asked timidly.

  “No,” he said. “The consequences of these things are great, and are best considered on my own.”

  LVI

  THE STORY OF GIULIETTA

  “What ever happened to that pesky scribe who was meant to be writing our family history?” Signora Montecchi asked, but none of her three daughters seemed to be paying her any attention at all. It had been a long time since they had all come around for a morning together. She had a fine spread of pastries and light wines laid out for them in their garden, but they had all arrived late, leaving her waiting there on her own, and each seemed quite out of sorts.

  Isabella looked at her first, and asked, “Who?”

  “You know, that scribe that was charged with writing up the family history.”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “I haven’t seen him for some time. I suppose he’s off busy writing somewhere.”

  “Disdemona?” she asked.

  Her second-eldest daughter looked at her as if she hadn’t heard a word. “I’m sorry,” she said. She was not her usual self at all today, and she looked like she had the responsibilities of the Council of Eight – or was it Seven or Six now – upon her shoulders.

  “The scribe,” said her mother. “Has he been to see you?”

  Disdemona looked like she was thinking about the question, and said, “No. I’ve not seen him. Why? Has something happened to him?”

  “I simply don’t know,” her mother said. “He may have been murdered or run off to fight the Othmen for all I’m aware. I’m asking if any of you have seen him recently. He is, after all, charged with writing our family history.” There was no point in asking Giulietta, of course, since there was nothing her daughter could have done without her knowledge.

  “It was tiresome,” said Isabella, “being interrupted in one’s work to answer questions about aunts and uncles and what one did as a child.”

  “I was just thinking that he might have something more interesting to write about now,” her mother said. “Certainly more interesting than stories of old aunts and uncles.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” asked Isabella. “What does she mean?” she asked Giulietta.

  “I never know what she means,” Giulietta said. “But she usually means well.”

  “I mean,” said Signora Montecchi. “Somebody has clearly stolen my three daughters and left these poor imitations in their place.” She pointed at Isabella first. “You, who have always been the most attentive daughter are acting today like you are too busy thinking about business matters, or something, and would rather not be here. And you,” she said to Disdemona. “You, who are normally the most bubbly and happy of women, seem nothing but morose today. And you,” she turned to Giulietta. “You are almost pleasant today!”

  She stared at her daughters, but none of them answered her.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “What is it like being married?” Giulietta suddenly asked Disdemona.

  Her sister looked at her with eyes that seemed to be holding back tears, and she said, “It can be difficult.”

  Her mother looked at her in surprise. “Whatever is the matter?” she asked. “Are you having troubles?”

  “Then ask me,” said Isabella to her youngest sister.

  “But that was so long ago, you’d hardly remember,” said Giulietta. “It must be many months since you even had a man in your bed.”

  “Giulietta!” said her mother.

  Isabella, who had reddened a little, said, “It doesn’t feel like that long to me.”

  “What are
you saying?” asked Giulietta, leaning forward. “You have a lover?”

  Isabella reddened further.

  “Giulietta!” her mother admonished again.

  “Tell me,” Giulietta almost squealed. “What is he like?”

  “Your imagination is running away with you,” said Isabella dismissively.

  “Yes. Running away,” said Giulietta mischievously.

  “Marriage is too complex to try and be captured by a single word,” said Disdemona, as if she were a few lines behind in the conversation. “For some it is not a word, but a sentence.”

  “A whole story!” said Giulietta, missing her sister’s meaning.

  “Yes, just a story really,” said Isabella, missing Giulietta’s. “A fantasy to be toyed with.”

  Their mother watched her three daughters in consternation, and then said, “Yes. I should find that scribe and have him sit down with you and see if he can get any sense from you. I certainly can’t!”

  She looked at them and suddenly wanted to reach out her arms and gather them close and protect them. She knew that the time of losing them was approaching and that she would be left with only one child when it was done. And she did not even know which one it might be. The weight of the knowledge of that was almost unbearable.

  “Ah, there you all are,” said Signor Montecchi, coming out into the garden. He came across and stood beside them, without sitting down. Signora Montecchi smiled, hoping he’d liven the conversation up in his characteristic way, but he seemed just as distracted as their children.

  He took a slow breath and then said, “I have some bad news to tell you about cousin Tebaldo.”

  LVII

  ELSEWHERE IN THE FLOATING CITY

  The Djinn rose out of the Grand Canal in broad daylight, startling dozens of citizens who were going about their daily business. They looked on in horror to see the beast that remained as hidden as a dark fear to most people, now rising high above the waters in plain sight.