The Floating City

by Craig Cormick

  He was weaving amongst them now, moving so rapidly it was like they were drugged and unable to move quickly, and he was dodging their feeble blows with ease. He cut them down one after another until there were ten dead and dying men on the ground. And Vincenzo could feel the strength in the man’s arm and the feeling of victory. The figure turned to look back to where the Shadow Master still stood, leaning against the pillar, and then towards Vincenzo on the ground. But he was no longer there. He was the dark figure wiping blood from his sword with the well-practiced ease that he would wipe excessive ink from his pen.

  LXVI

  THE STORY OF ISABELLA

  There was a small part of Isabella Montecchi that wanted to be angry at her handmaiden, Nerissa, for not giving Giannetto the drugged wine as she had been instructed to. But, in truth, it was a very small part of her.

  She stretched languidly on the bed and felt Giannetto wrap his arms around her naked waist and pull her close to him. She turned her head to look at his face, eyes still closed and half asleep. She saw the small twitch of his eyelashes, like butterflies preparing to take flight. She saw the colour of the three light lines in the skin around his eyes, smile lines like a delicate bird’s feet. She saw his thin beard as a forest of hundreds of individual hairs. And she saw the curve of his full lips and it all made her think of the pleasure she had taken from them throughout the night.

  She let her gaze drop lower over his naked body, recalling the snug feeling of completion in how it fitted so well against her own body. She admired the shape of his arms and the rise and fall of his chest, and then looked back to his face, surprised to find his eyes now open. Surprised to see how very beautiful he looked, lying there, looking at her.

  “And where shall we go today?” he asked.

  “Go?” she said. “Why do we not lie here a little longer?” And her hand snaked down his torso, fingertips sliding along his warm skin.

  “I think I might take you to far away exotic lands,” he said. “And we shall dance to enchanting music and taste strange sweet fruits and we shall think nothing of our lives and our debts in the Floating City. We shall only think of each other.”

  Isabella stretched her body again, this time leaning into his, feeling it respond to her closeness. “But I want to stay in bed,” she said, her fingers searching for him.

  “And we shall,” he said. “Have you heard the stories of the Othmen’s enchanted carpets that can fly?”

  “A children’s tale,” she said.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “But every children’s tale is born from some truth.”

  “Shall we adjourn to the carpet then?” she asked mischievously.

  “Far better,” he said, “if we journey on our enchanted bed. It will carry us over the waves like a galleon of the skies. It shall rise up and float over the clouds, and we shall look down on the foam tops of the ocean like they were small feathers. We shall drift over deserts and rivers and high mountains and we shall find a lush oasis where we shall land our bed under shady trees and rest.”

  “And the musicians?” she asked.

  “Oh yes,” he said. “They shall come across the deserts, riding on camels. Have you heard of camels?”

  “I have seen drawings of them.”

  “And they shall also bear servants with sweet meats and wines. The servants will be wrapped fully in cloth with just their eyes showing.”

  “But isn’t that the way the Othmen women dress?” Isabella asked.

  “No, no,” Giannetto said. “There are many other peoples to the lands south of here than the Othmen. The sand-dwellers dress like this, men and women both.”

  “Yes,” said Isabella. “We shall do this then today.” She clapped her hands and called for her handmaiden, Nerissa. It took a moment for her to appear, her head coming around the edge of the door cautiously. “Come!” said Isabella.

  The handmaiden came into the room with her eyes cast down.

  “Fetch a sheet,” Isabella commanded in a harsh tone. The handmaiden looked a little confused, but did as she was ordered. “Now wrap it around yourself,” Isabella said.

  “My lady?”

  “Do you want me to do it for her?” Giannetto asked, making as if to rise from the bed. The handmaiden looked panicked for a moment, until Isabella said, “Dress like the desert women do.”

  “My lady?” she asked again.

  “I had better show her,” Giannetto teased.

  Nerissa turned away as he sat up in the bed, and quickly began wrapping the sheet about herself. Isabella pulled Giannetto back to the bed, stifling a laugh. Finally the handmaiden turned and asked, “Like this?”

  “You have to cover your face,” said Giannetto, “so that only your eyes show.”

  The handmaiden adjusted the sheet and tucked it in tighter in places. Then stood there.

  “Splendid,” said Giannetto.

  “Yes, splendid,” said Isabella. “Now fetch us exotic sweetmeats and cool drinks.”

  “Wine,” said Giannetto. “But no cups. I shall drink it out of the crevices of your body.”

  The handmaiden spun around again, certain they could see the blush on her face, even though only her eyes showed.

  “Hurry,” said Giannetto. “We have a long journey ahead of us and are famished.”

  “No. Don’t hurry,” said Isabella. “Come back in half a candle’s length. We are not at our journey’s end yet. We have many clouds to soar over and many mountains to climb still.” The handmaiden scuttled from the room, almost tripping over the sheet. Isabella and Giannetto burst out laughing and she slid a leg over his. “So,” she said. “Shall we attempt the mountains or the waves first?”

  And their day passed as he had promised it would, dozing and eating and drinking and enjoying each other until they fell asleep again, quite sated, and slept like children, bodies twisted in uncomfortable intertwined positions, but smiling and content.

  Isabella awoke upon sunup the following day. Her head hurt a little from the wine, her belly was a little swollen from the fine foods and other parts of her hurt a little from equal over-indulgence. She placed a hand under her head and looked at the young man lying there beside her. She considered for a moment the big question in her heart. Was she willing to fulfil the absurd contract and be won by this handsome young man? No, she didn’t think she would. Rather she had won this man, to be her husband.

  She smiled and laughed a little. The movement woke him and he opened his eyes and looked around. He licked his lips, clearly feeling a little unwell too, and blinked. Then he looked to her and smiled. “I was dreaming,” he said. “We had travelled far away to an exotic land in the deserts. But it wasn’t a dream at all, was it?”

  “No,” she said.

  “And look,” he said. “A memento of our trip.” He held up his hand and she saw the ring that she had pressed upon him in the night. In the darkness of night it had been done as play, while they were making vows about all the other enchanted journeys they would take together, but now in the bright light of day she held her breath in anticipation of how he would treat it.

  “Did a gypsy woman give it to you promising it would bring you good fortune?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “My true love gave it to me as a bond that we shall be wed.”

  She smiled and leaned in and kissed him. “Then promise me you will never take it off again.”

  He wrapped his arms about her. “Never,” he said.

  She kissed him again and then lifted her head above his. “It was a wonderful journey,” she said. “But now I see we are back to our lives and our debts in the Floating City.” They both smiled, but she watched the smile fall from his face like a bird struck down by an arrow in mid-flight.

  “Oh gods!” he said. “The debt!”

  LXVII

  ELSEWHERE IN THE FLOATING CITY

  It had started raining on the way back from the Isle of Sorrows, just confirming to the Duca’s small retinue how ill-advised his idea to visit the
island had been. He had stayed overlong as well, talking to the plague people and listening to their grievances about being kept isolated from their families on the island where they could see the Floating City, and often their family homes, but not visit them.

  The bright lights and city colours that must have taunted them each evening now turned to dull grey in the rain and his physician started mumbling and grumbling again. The man was perhaps overly old for his position and the best that could be said of him was that he was quite an expert on a wide variety of ailments since he suffered from so many of them himself. He had been most reluctant to make the trip in the first place and had said repeatedly that it would be dangerous. Said the plague people might take them all hostage. Said they would have to burn all their clothes and even the boats they had travelled in when they returned to the city.

  The Duca was thinking that he couldn’t burn the things he had seen or heard though. The plague people were kept under constant guard. They were housed in overcrowded ramshackle buildings. There were families with children and old men and women there. They were treated like prisoners or enemies captured in battle, he thought.

  He had heard it said that plague people were sneaking into the city at nights, rowing across on any old debris they could find and then hiding with family and friends who would take them in. And why shouldn’t they? The miserable have no other medicine than hope. The guards on the island denied anyone had ever escaped, of course, but the Duca doubted they even kept a head-count on who was there. They had no desire to come into close contact with the plague people and huddled in a single quarter as if besieged.

  “Are we quite sure the waters are still safe?” he heard his physician ask, peering around at the dancing rain-pelted waters about them.

  “The Djinn-slayer assures us they are,” said the captain of the city guard. Normally General Otello would have had the duty of accompanying the Duca on a visit like this, and the Duca missed his quiet presence. The physician was intimidated by him too, and would have most likely kept his complaints to himself.

  Soon they were approaching the city’s edge where they had departed and the Duca looked into the rainy darkness to see a small party there waiting patiently in the rain for them. The Duca’s boat docked first and the men waiting for them bent down and started fiddling with ropes and things. The Duca was eager to be in out of the rain, and stood, assisted by the captain, and just for a moment wondered why there were only three men to greet them. There should have been many more.

  Then the three men lifted their heads. They wore the grinning white masks of the assassins.

  “Stay down,” said the captain, pushing the Duca back into the boat, drawing his sword and stepping between the Duca and the men who had now drawn daggers. He blocked the first dagger thrust and then punched the man hard in the face with the pommel of his sword. The assailant fell back and a second stepped over him. He was quicker than the first and his dagger thrust cut the captain on the arm. He cried out and dropped his sword. The Duca’s eyes went wide as the assassin turned his face towards him.

  But the captain caught his sword as it fell, with his left hand, and brought it up to block the next thrust that was made towards him. The move caught the attacker by surprise. The captain then swung at the man, but it was a clumsy blow and landed on his mask, cracking it.

  The attacker stepped back, suddenly more interested in protecting his identity than in defending himself. But the third man was already stepping forward, weaving his dagger in the air like it was a snake, mesmerizing its prey. The captain did not look at the blade though, instead focusing on the eyes of the attacker. He waited until he saw them ready to strike and flicked his sword out in a long thrusting stroke that brought him close enough for the man to drive his dagger into his eye.

  But he did not. For the captain’s sword had pierced his heart. He fell to his knees with a gasp and the captain fell too, trying to pull his sword out as the first assassin slashed at him again. The dagger cut deeply into his leg and the captain cried out in pain, almost falling into the water. The assassin stood, but he was too late. The second boat had come alongside them now and guards had drawn their swords and leapt at the assassin, quickly striking him down.

  The Duca looked now for the second assassin, expecting to see him make one last attack, but he could see the man scuttling off into the darkness across the cobblestones, cursing and holding his broken mask to his face. Then everything was chaos as the physician started calling murder and the other boats were alongside them and men were taking his arms to lead him to safety.

  High above, in the window of a tower that was protected from the rain, the scribe Vincenzo watched the Shadow Master lower his raised arm and retract the small crossbow that had been affixed to his wrist.

  “You could have got him before he reached the shadows,” Vincenzo said, indicating the assassin who had escaped.

  “Only if the Duca was in real danger,” he replied.

  Vincenzo was taken aback. “That looked like real danger to me,” he said.

  But the Shadow Master shook his head. “You’ll know real danger when it comes. Time will slow down as if by enchantment, and you’ll remember every detail in crystal clarity.”

  The scribe smiled. “I never thought I’d say it, but I’d like to experience that,” he said. “Though perhaps without the danger.”

  The Shadow Master shook his head. “The two are as much a part of each other as… well, as…” He paused.

  “Yes?” asked Vincenzo.

  “It doesn’t matter. Metaphors were never my strong point. You’ll come up with a good one when the time comes.”

  LXVIII

  THE STORY OF DISDEMONA

  The morning sun fought its way past dark clouds on the horizon to find the rain-soaked Floating City settled a little lower in the water and the Moor Otello marching up and down by the ocean’s edge, ranting and grasping at the chill empty air about him. He had left his palazzo at an early hour, unable to abide the look of Disdemona’s peacefully sleeping form. The way she lay there, her hair spread across their pillow, filled him with both longing and hate.

  He had felt certain that if he looked into her eyes deeply enough he would see the deceit there, but all he saw was the familiar dark eyes that he had once thought more beautiful than a precious jewel. She was beyond his understanding to be able to hide her lusts for the captain so well. He could not stay in the bedchamber with her, not knowing if the captain had lain there in that very bed with her. Had kissed her and stroked her long dark hair. Had lain his head upon that pillow beside her. Had looked into those dark eyes as he took her.

  Surely he would be able to see some remnant of that in her eyes. But she was too able at hiding her deceits.

  The thought of her giving her body to another man filled his guts with sickness. He found her very touch abhorrent now. He wanted to vomit the feeling of it out of him. But he felt his anger and grief and pain so great that no purging could ever rid his body of it. It infused every piece of his body. It was in his fingertips and in his stomach and behind his eyelids and running through his arms and legs. He even felt it in his bones.

  And yet, and yet, the sight of her lying there so peacefully in the bed, also made him want to reach out and touch her. To hold her again. To feel that which he had always felt when he held her. That feeling of safety and security. His one safe place.

  She had robbed him of even that. He turned and looked into the rising sun, and sank to his knees, tears filling his eyes. How could a man endure such pain and still live? he wondered. What torture could possibly compare to this feeling of a dark worm eating one’s insides out, starting at the heart?

  He leaned forward until his head touched the ground and he pressed his hands to his head, squeezing it tightly as if it might somehow rid him of the pain and turmoil that filled him. He, who had once been charged with keeping the city’s peace, now a violent battleground himself.

  He slowly climbed to his feet and turn
ed to look at the Floating City that some considered the most beautiful city in the civilized world. He saw the morning sun illuminating its golden domes and tiled roofs. Saw the way the water of her canals turned to silver and yet he found it ugly. This city who had once counted on him to defend it. This city he had once felt could be his home. This city who he once felt would love him as he loved it.

  This city that had also betrayed him.

  He would rather rip his head from his own shoulders and cast it into the sea like a cannonball than do what he knew he needed to now do to free himself of this agony. And then Otello opened his lungs and screamed – a beast-like, grief-filled roar that echoed over the city as the dark clouds engulfed the sun again.

  LXIX

  ELSEWHERE IN THE FLOATING CITY

  It was a battle that should never have happened. The city Seers confronting the Shadow Master and using their combined powers to try and slay him. He was lucky to escape with his life for they had control of the very elements.

  It was impossible to say if they had come seeking him, or happened upon him by chance, but they were out on the city streets in the last darkness just before sunrise, when the Shadow Master was following the Djinn-slayer back to his quarters. He was moving across the wet rooftops, silently, keeping an eye on the other man as he moved from shadow to shadow, when he came upon a young boy and girl. They were just standing there on the flat-topped roof of a building, looking out to where the sun would rise.

  The Shadow Master might have moved silently past them, but they turned to regard him. He stepped back into the darkness and drew his cloak about him, but something amazing happened. The young girl held out her hand and a light sprang from it, illuminating him. And by the light he noticed that the young boy and girl were holding hands.