The magistrate sat in his high chair, his three-faced mask hiding what he might have thought of the case before him, though the mood of the crowd was evident in the way they hissed and spat at the Son of the David when he had entered the room. His opponent, Ansaldo the merchant, however, sat on a small stool, pale and shivering, as if he had contracted some disease in the waiting cells where he would have had thieves and thugs and the low-life of the city for company.
The magistrate called for order and asked the Son of David to explain his case. The man looked around the court first, as if certain already of his victory and then proffered a piece of paper to the magistrate. The man read it and then announced, “This is a bond between Ansaldo the merchant and you, in which he agrees to forfeit a pound of flesh if he has not repaid within the given time.”
The Son of David said nothing, but just bowed in acknowledgment. The magistrate then turned to Ansaldo. “And do you admit that this is your signature and that you signed this bond.”
Ansaldo spoke, in a weak voice, “I did.”
The magistrate waited, as if he might somehow explain what madness drove him to agree to such outrageous terms, but he said nothing more.
“Do you require anyone to argue your case for you?” the magistrate asked the Son of David, who spoke for the first time, saying, “I think there is very little arguing needed.” This brought a low chorus of hisses from the audience, who the magistrate fixed with a glare until they quietened.
“And you,” the magistrate asked of Ansaldo. “Do you require anyone to argue your case?”
“My lord,” said a voice from the assembled spectators and a man stepped forward. He was also masked, in an ornate golden mask, and wore a chain around his neck such as lawyers wear. “I am here to argue his case.”
Ansaldo looked up and seemed surprised to see him. His eyes searched the room and found Giannetto, who nodded his head urgently, so that when the magistrate asked him, “Is this who you wish to argue for you,” he said, “Yes, my lord.”
Vincenzo observed the Shadow Master smile a little at his presence. The magistrate then beckoned the man forward. His walk had a swish to it, and he held his arms out with a certain elegance, that was quickly noted.
“You are not known to me,” the magistrate said.
“I am recently arrived in the city from Verona,” he said, in a voice that sounded like that of a very young man. “And friends of Ansaldo have commissioned me to assist him in his case.”
“It is not the custom to be masked in the court,” he said. “Other than magistrates.”
“I beg your forgiveness,” the young man said, indicating his golden mask. “But this hides an ugly blemish on my face that causes distress to those who see it.”
Vincenzo leaned close to the Shadow Master and asked, in a low voice, “Is this stranger someone you have summoned? Is he the one with the power of enchantment?”
“I did not summon him,” said the Shadow Master.
“And yet you do not seem surprised to see him.”
“I am not,” said the Shadow Master.
“Who is he?” Vincenzo asked.
“He is not a young gentleman of Verona, as he says,” the Shadow Master said in a very soft voice. Vincenzo tried to stand a little higher to get a better view of the man over the crowd.
“Is he an assassin?” he hissed in the Shadow Master’s ear.
“Far from it,” he said. “He is a secret weapon. Watch and listen and you will understand.”
Vincenzo suspected he might not understand, but shrugged again and watched proceedings.
The magistrate then struck the table in front of him with a small block of wood. “We will proceed then.” He turned to the Son of David, and said, in rather stern words, “I fear the outcome of this case and ask if you would you consider a repayment of your loan as compensation enough.”
“I would not,” said the Son of David, holding his chin high.
“Would you consider your debt paid if you were offered twice the sum of the loan?” the young man then asked him.
The Son of David turned to look at the young man’s golden-masked face and glared at him as if he had been offended.
“I would not!” he said.
The young man then said, “As a matter of curiosity, rather than as an actual proposal, would you accept ten times the sum of your loan as compensation?” There was a collective gasp from the court. Such a sum was a fortune that a man could buy a palace with.
“I would not,” the Son of David said again, with bitterness in his voice. “Understand this, if you were to offer more ducats than this city is worth, it would not satisfy me. I would rather have what my bond says is mine.”
“Then I am inclined to ask if you have other motives than reclaiming your loan?” the magistrate said.
“I am but following the laws of our city,” the Son of David said, and bowed low. There were other murmurs and hisses from the audience.
“Our city?” asked the magistrate. “It seems many here in the chamber disagree with your description.”
And the Son of David spun to the room and glared at the people there, then turned back to the magistrate. “I am a citizen of this city,” he said. “My mother was born here and left when she married my father and then converted to our religion. She returned shortly after when I was but a baby, but instead of being welcomed back by her family, she was placed on the Isle of Sorrows because she had contracted the black lung disease. She died when the island was set aflame by the city. I was saved.” Then he said it slowly so that there would be no doubt about it. “I live on the Island of the Ghetto, as is the city law concerning all Sons of David. But my mother was a citizen of this city and as such I am also entitled to citizenship. As I am entitled to be treated by the laws of the city. I have it in writing from one of your colleagues that this is my due.” And he proffered another piece of paper to the magistrate.
The magistrate took it, read it and visibly chewed his lip for a moment and looked to his left and right, perhaps wishing he had colleagues to consult with. Finally he said, “That is correct.”
There was an unhappy mumbling from the body of the court, which the magistrate let continue for some time before calling for silence by rapping his block of wood again.
“Is the young man going to do something soon?” Vincenzo asked.
The Shadow Master nodded his head.
“And you say it is going to be spectacular?”
“Quite spectacular.”
“Has he a special power to defeat the Djinn?” Vincenzo asked.
“I don’t believe so.”
“He has an enchantment to stop the Othmen then?”
“He is a shapeshifter, but not an enchanter,” the Shadow Master said.
Vincenzo chewed his thumb. “But he is somehow vital to saving our city?”
“Extremely vital.”
Vincenzo sighed in exasperation.
“Do you have any arguments to put for Ansaldo the merchant?” the magistrate now asked the young lawyer.
“May I read the bond?” the young man asked and the magistrate passed it to him and he read it over carefully. Then he surprised everyone by saying, “It seems in order. According to this the Son of David may proceed and take the pound of flesh, and I argue that it be done here and now where we may bear witness to it.”
The magistrate was as much taken aback as the members of the public were. “No,” cried one man in the audience. It was Giannetto. “I am the one that Ansaldo took the loan for and I am the one that defaulted on the repayment, so I should be the one who the pound of flesh is taken from.”
The magistrate let him come forward and asked the Son of David if he would consent to this offer. But he refused to accept it. “The bond says it must come from Ansaldo. I am respectful of the law and will follow it to the letter.”
“To the letter then,” said the masked young man. Giannetto reached out and took the young man by the arm and entreated him to argue in A
nsaldo’s defence more rigorously, but the young man shushed him and said, “We must abide by the law.”
“This law is too strict,” said Giannetto, which brought a rebuke from the magistrate not to say any more.
“Come then,” said the young man, stepping forward and flouncing his cape around. “Have the guards hold Ansaldo and bear his breast for the Son of David.” Then he turned to the old man and said, “Do you have a knife, or shall I have one fetched for you?”
“I have a knife,” he said and brought it out of his bag.
“And do you have scales, or shall I have them fetched for you?” the young man asked.
“I have scales,” the Son of David said and produced those as well.
Vincenzo squeezed the Shadow Master’s arm. “Are you going to allow this?” he hissed.
“I trust the young man explicitly,” he said.
“This will not go well,” Vincenzo said. “He is on the side of the Son of David. The crowd will tear him apart and then they will burn down and sack the Island of the Ghetto.”
“Perhaps,” said the Shadow Master. “But perhaps not.”
“Or is this a test for me?” he asked. “Is this going to be dependent on how I write it as to how it turns out?”
“And how would you write it to be?”
“I would write it that the people in this court abandon this folly and arm themselves to help defend the city. I would write it that the magistrate declares a state of emergency and demands every grown man be recruited to militias to take up arms. I would write it that a Djinn rose through the floor and caused every person here to regain their senses and see this for a circus farce. And I would write that you tell me who this young man is.”
“That would be an interesting outcome indeed,” said the Shadow Master, and then put a finger to his lips, indicating that he wanted to better hear.
“I see you have come prepared to exact your due,” the young lawyer said to the Son of David. “Do you have bandages and salve to ensure that Ansaldo the merchant does not bleed to death here?”
“It says nothing of such in the bond,” said the Son of David coldly.
“You are correct. It does not,” said the young man. “All right then, proceed.”
“No!” said Ansaldo, looking around himself desperately.
“Wait,” said the magistrate. “Surely it is not right to cut up a man in the court.”
“We must follow the law,” said the young man.
The magistrate looked pained but had to agree.
Vincenzo leaned in close to the Shadow Master again. “You have some surprise planned, don’t you? Some trick of your own. A smoke cloud. Or a fireball. Surely you’re not going to let the old merchant be sacrificed in this way?”
The Shadow Master said nothing. Vincenzo stood up on tiptoes again to look at the young man closely again. “I think I know. He is actually an Othmen in disguise. You will have him unmasked and then harness the rage of the people of the city in its defence.”
“A good plot twist,” said the Shadow Master. “I hadn’t considered that one. But a little improbable I think.”
Vincenzo squeezed his fists together in frustration. “You are crueller than the Othmen!” he hissed.
“Perhaps,” said the Shadow Master again, calmly. “But perhaps not.”
“Then proceed,” the young man said again. The Son of David, emboldened by the young man’s tone, stepped forward with his knife. Ansaldo, who had been trying his best to show a brave face, started breathing heavily and then fainted, falling forward off his stool.
“Lift him up,” said the young man and the guards did so. “But gently. It might be kinder for him to be insensible.”
Giannetto again stepped forward and grabbed the young man’s sleeve. “You cannot allow this,” he said, but the young man just shushed him again.
“The law will be served and justice will be served. Mark my words on it.”
Giannetto looked as if he was about to do something rash, but a guard placed his hand on his shoulder and steered him back to the body of the court.
Then the Son of David stood in front of Ansaldo and the look on his face was one of victory. A triumph over all the injustices that had been done to him and his family and his mother, and this was his moment of retribution. He placed the point of his knife against Ansaldo’s breast and just before he pushed it in the young man said in a suddenly cold voice, “Take great care in what you do, for you must take neither more nor less than an exact pound.”
The Son of David hesitated a moment.
“And if you shed one drop of blood in this chamber your life will be forfeit as the laws of the city decree that shedding blood here is a mortal crime.”
The Son of David turned and glared at the young man.
“I have studied your bond carefully,” the young lawyer said. “It is for one pound of flesh only. Anything other puts your life at risk.”
The courtroom fell silent and even the magistrate waited to see what would happen. The Son of David turned back to Ansaldo, his face now wreathed in conflict. He placed the knife edge against his breast again and then drew it back. He grimaced like he was in pain and said through gritted teeth, “I suddenly feel it would be better to accept the payment offered to me earlier.”
“Too late,” said the young man with a flourish. “You have refused that before a court. You must take the pound of flesh.”
The Son of David looked around him, like a rodent in a trap and said, “I will accept half of what was offered to me.”
“No,” said the young man. “You must take what is your legal due. You will not receive the smallest coin that exists.”
The Son of David looked like he was going to cry and threw his knife to the ground.
“You must take your legal due or forfeit the bond,” said the young man. “They are the only courses of action open to you.”
The Son of David knew he was beaten and he strode across the room, grabbed the bond from the young man’s hand and tore it into pieces. Then he stomped out through the jeering crowd.
“That was it?” asked Vincenzo. “That was the spectacular thing you promised?”
“It was,” said the Shadow Master. “It was a great victory over the forces of chaos aligned against your city.”
“Uh – how exactly?”
“It is one thing to save the city from the Othmen,” the Shadow Master said. “But it will be another thing to ensure it can be saved from itself afterwards. That can only happen by strengthening confidence in the rule of law.”
Vincenzo stared at the Shadow Master for some moments and then said, “I had been expecting something more – well, visually spectacular.”
“It is not finished quite yet,” said the Shadow Master and gestured for Vincenzo to watch Giannetto heartily shake the masked man’s hand in gratitude, and then ask how he could ever repay him for his services. “Ask anything,” he said. “Ansaldo and I are in your debt.”
Vincenzo watched the young man place his hand upon Giannetto’s chest and lean in close to him. This seemed to disconcert Giannetto a little, but the young man tilted his head this way and that and asked, “Anything?”
“Um – anything within reason.”
The young man then took Giannetto’s arm in his own and pulled him close. “There is something I was longing for that you might be able to give me,” he said.
“I am betrothed,” Giannetto said quickly. “To the Lady Isabella. I cannot.”
“Such a pity,” said the young man, but not letting go of his arm. Then he looked down at his hand and said, “This ring would be fine payment.”
“I cannot,” said Giannetto. “It was given to me by my love on condition that I never part with it.”
“Would you give me one night of pleasure instead?” the young man asked.
Giannetto now looked positively pained and asked if there were any other option. “None,” said the young man. “Consider it as non-negotiable as the Son of David�
�s bond.”
Giannetto looked at Ansaldo, who was being gently shaken back to his senses by his friends, who were also explaining to him what had happened. “The ring or a night with me. Choose quickly,” the young man said.
“The ring then,” said Giannetto, sounding utterly defeated, and perhaps wondering which of the two options would upset his betrothed the least. He prised it off his finger and gave it to the masked young man. Then he went to Ansaldo’s side and when he looked back the young man was gone.
Vincenzo, who had watched the scene closely, said, “I would like to witness what happens when Giannetto tries to explain to the Lady Isabella why he is missing that ring.”
“She will hand the ring back to him,” the Shadow Master said.
“But how is that possible?” Vincenzo said. “The young man has it.”
“Do you mean the young man who mysteriously arrived in the city and who was the same height and build as Lady Isabella and spoke with her voice, though lowered a little?” he asked. “The young man who conveniently wore a mask, and bore the poise of a noblewoman?”
Vincenzo stared at him dumbstruck. “He was Isabella Montecchi?” he asked.
The Shadow Master clearly decided that question did not need an answer. Vincenzo’s mouth gaped open. “Then I would like even more to witness that scene between them.”
“It ends well,” said the Shadow Master.
“How do you know all these things?” Vincenzo demanded of him. “It is like you have written everything out already and all the details are just a game to you.”
But again the Shadow Master decided not to reply.
LXXVII
ELSEWHERE IN THE FLOATING CITY
The Duca had a feeling that if he stood there at the window of his chamber long enough he would see the Floating City sink beneath the waters there in front of him. But he also felt that he didn’t have that much time left in him. The city was dying, but so was he. He was an old man pretending to still have power, when in fact it was slipping away from him each day. This was an autumn of great discontent.
The Floating City Page 26
