Termination

by Deborah Chester

  Sitting in the gondola, listening to the soft chuckle of water beneath the oar, Noel cradled the rapier beneath his cloak and gazed at the narrow buildings rising up from the gray mist of dawn. The cold air stank of fish. Overhead, veins of pink and turquoise faintly marbled the sky, which was lightening from gray to pearl. The clouds were soft. Across the indigo sea, the sun climbed slowly. Its mantle of gold and coral blazed with magnificent radiance. Before it, the sea changed color, becoming turquoise curling with lacy foam. A fleet of galleys floated in silhouette upon the harbor, their sails furled, their masts at rest.

  A sharp tug on his sleeve brought him from his reverie. “Noel,” said Leon sharply. “Pay attention. Messer Tibo is speaking to you.”

  Noel turned his head in the man’s direction. He aimed his gaze, however, at Messer Tibo’s knee.

  “Listen to me carefully. Are you listening?”

  “He is,” Leon said nervously, poking Noel again. “He is. Please go on.”

  “The future of the House of Virenza depends on your actions today. You must not fail.” Messer Tibo enunciated each word carefully, as though he spoke to a halfwit. “Do you understand?”

  Noel shifted his gaze to Leon. “LOC,” he said. His voice was thick and dull. He wanted to sleep, but he was afraid to. “Get it back. Check.”

  Leon patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry about the LOC,” he said, his voice filled with false assurance. “I’ve checked on the outcome.”

  Noel frowned. “Liar.”

  Leon started to argue, but Noel shifted his gaze to Messer Tibo. “I understand,” he said and went back to staring at the scenery.

  “He’s shivering,” Messer Tibo said. “He’s cold.”

  Leon put his hand on Noel’s back. “It’s not the cold,” he said.

  “He’s afraid, then. Afraid to fight. He must win.”

  “Look,” Leon said. “I ran the projections on the LOC for you. Contarini dies. Lady Francesca goes into a period of mourning but eventually marries Claudio Virenza. She bears him two sons.”

  Leon’s voice chattered on, spinning truths among the lies, fitting the two alternative futures together. Messer Tibo listened and nodded, anxious to be reassured. Noel tuned them out, his mind dipping back to the staircase of snow, remembering the agonized faces of the people he had failed before. The water around him looked deep and dark. He could throw himself in and be finished with all of it.

  He leaned over the side of the gondola, and Leon’s hand closed on his arm, drawing him upright again.

  The gondola slowed and bumped to a halt among striped mooring poles.

  “We’ve arrived,” Leon said.

  While the others climbed out, Leon took advantage of the moment to grip Noel hard by the shoulders. “Look at me!” he commanded. “This is our chance, brother. We can escape them if you’ll cooperate.”

  Noel sighed. “I’m tired.”

  “You can rest later. Concentrate, Noel. For God’s sake, you’ve got to pull this off. Remember what I told you.”

  It was too hard to go on talking. Noel said nothing, and with a snort of exasperation Leon prodded him to his feet and steadied him while he climbed onto the landing.

  Beyond them, the Piazza San Marco stretched out, spacious and open. Pigeons paced about importantly, cooing. The bell tower had ceased ringing. The columns of victory were just being gilded by the rising sun. Over the entrance to the church, the famous bronze horses pranced in the delicate light. Venders and merchants were setting up their wares for the day’s commerce. Soon the place would be filled with money-changer tables, quacks selling nostrums, dealers of secondhand books, vegetable stalls, and butcher’s booths. Off to one side stood the dark broglio, an arcade empty now of the politicians who would later spend the day conniving votes and bribing for favors.

  From the entrance of the arcade, a figure in a bright cloak appeared briefly and waved.

  “This way,” Messer Tibo said urgently.

  They walked in a solemn procession, weapons hidden, seeking to arouse no attention. Yet heads turned as they passed. Conversations stilled. Eyes followed them.

  They knew, Noel thought. A duel was a serious business, something forbidden, yet fights occurred daily in this city of passion and intrigue. The very air seemed charged with the expectation of violence. Blood was soon to spill. Death crouched atop the roofs, peering down.

  “Watch for secret police,” Messer Tibo warned. “We must not be followed.”

  Up steps and into darkness. Shadows cold and damp. The swift echo of footsteps. Noel’s mouth was dry. He absorbed the excitement of the others. Their tension traveled into him as though he had lost all of his own natural barriers. He wiped his palms on his cloak. His heartbeat quickened. He felt himself break out in a light sweat, and his gaze began to shift and dart.

  They emerged from the arcade into a tiny courtyard hemmed in on all sides by buildings. Four men stood in an impatient cluster, cloaks flung back over their shoulders to betray colorful silk linings, gloved hands resting on sword hilts. Their breath streamed out in the frosty air as they talked. A fifth individual, garbed in black and wearing the hat of a physician, stood apart, ready to be called on if needed. As soon as Noel and his party entered the courtyard, one man ran to stand guard at the entrance.

  “At last,” Vicente said, his deep voice impatient and cold. “You have kept us waiting.”

  Aldo turned. He was up for this contest like a race horse being led to the tapes. His eyes sparkled. His nostrils flared. He bounced on his toes, every movement indicative of quick energy.

  Noel and the others removed their cloaks and masks.

  A scowl crossed Aldo’s face. “I don’t see him. Where the devil is Claudio Virenza?”

  His voice, angry and scornful, rang out loudly.

  Leon prodded Noel in the ribs, but Noel stood there without moving. He watched the Contarini party react.

  “Not here!” Aldo’s voice rose above the rest. “A coward as well as a traitor.”

  Leon poked Noel again. Noel turned his head fractionally and glared at him. Leon backed off.

  Vicente stepped forward. “What is behind this insult to honor?” he asked sternly.

  “Lord Claudio is ill,” Noel replied.

  They stared at him in startlement. Aldo’s hand jerked out and clamped itself on Vicente’s sleeve. It was as though they had not recognized him until now.

  “The sorcerers,” Aldo gasped. “All three of them. She has sent us a—”

  “Wait,” Vicente said, raising his hand. “I speak for Aldo Contarini,” he said. “If Lord Claudio is truly ill, who has he sent as his second? Or does he forfeit this contest and admit his involvement in the plot?”

  Noel walked forward, feeling as though Leon’s and Tibo’s eyes were drilling holes in his back. “There is no forfeiture,” he said. “Lord Claudio admits no plot, no treason. He has sent me in his place.”

  Aldo laughed in startlement. “You? Bah! I do not believe it. What nonsense is this?”

  Noel said nothing. Glancing aside, he saw old bloodstains on the stone pavement. This must be a common dueling ground. The very air of the place reeked with violence. For a moment Noel felt something prick his shoulder as though talons gripped him. He smelled the stink of sulfur and felt the weight of a demon crouched on his shoulder, leaning forward in anticipation of what was to come. Desperately Noel shook off the vision. He must concentrate, he told himself. Leon had gotten him into this mess. If he didn’t concentrate he would not be able to get out of it.

  “I will not fight this man!” declared Aldo, gesturing. “He is a criminal, accused by the republic and not yet tried for his crimes. He is a sorcerer and a villain. He is not of patrician—”

  Noel flung back his cloak to free his arms. “I come from Constantinople and my family is of high standing,” he said sharply. “I deny the accusations put against me. I deserve no trial. I am a guest in the House of Virenza, and I have been named as second for Lord Claudio.
If you will not fight me, Aldo Contarini, then you forfeit this duel and Lord Claudio’s honor is preserved.”

  Aldo’s face turned red. He reached for his weapon, but the others held him back.

  “Or,” said Noel before anyone could speak, “if the principals choose not to fight, let the seconds serve for them both.” As he said the words, his gaze went to Vicente, who was frowning.

  “No!” Aldo shouted. “It is my fight. My sister—”

  “And my bride!” Vicente said sharply. He glared at Aldo, and his usual control was plainly worn thin.

  “Not yet!” Aldo said furiously. “Not until this afternoon.”

  “Does a husband not supersede a brother? If harm is dealt the lady, does a husband not have the obligation to defend her?” Vicente argued.

  “It is my duel,” Aldo said.

  “And your opponent has not shown,” Vicente retorted. Then he seemed to catch himself. Still frowning, he faced Noel again. “I do not understand you. First you attack us, then you warn us of plots, now you wish to fight. What consistency is there in these actions?”

  “The devil take consistency!” interjected Aldo. “Maledizione! He means us evil. That is all we need know.”

  “And why did he risk arrest last night to warn me?” Vicente asked.

  Behind Noel, Leon cleared his throat in warning. Noel frowned. He did not want to fight. It was against history. Vicente had to live, had to marry the girl. Too much would be affected. Noel rubbed his eyes, feeling bewildered. What was he doing here?

  Leon cleared his throat again. Noel turned his head to glance back and something seemed to hit him in the face. It was nothing tangible, nothing he could describe. He swayed a moment and turned back to face the Contarini cousins.

  Catching Vicente’s gaze, Noel stretched his lips in a smile. “The lady is sweet to the touch, is she not?”

  Both men stiffened.

  Noel pressed it, still holding Vicente’s gaze with his own. “Your little bride looked fatigued last night. She is very young. Tell me, does she admire an older man for her husband? Does she know you will not fight for her?”

  Vicente’s lips thinned.

  “Does she know you failed to protect her from my brother?” Noel gestured at Leon. “Does she know I escaped your prison? Does she know I flaunted your authority last night by approaching you in front of your guards? Does she know you let me go again? Will she know you stand here now, unwilling to fight for her?”

  “I will kill him,” raged Aldo. “I will kill him now!”

  He rushed forward, but Vicente’s arm slammed across his chest and held him back.

  “Stay,” Vicente said in a low voice.

  Aldo stared at him. “You cannot fight this flea of a creature! You are on the Council, sworn to forbid dueling. That you stand at my side is risky enough. You are—”

  “What am I?” Vicente snapped. “An old man? You think I cannot defend her as well if not better than you? Do you think my sight is failing, my arm is weak? Che diavolo!” He drew off his glove and flung it at Noel. “Let us settle this now.”

  Noel inclined his head. “Agreed.”

  At once Leon and Messer Tibo drew him back to the opposite side of the courtyard. While Aldo argued furiously with Vicente and their companions joined in, Leon was busy stripping off Noel’s cloak and doublet. Standing in his linen shirt and hose, Noel shivered. No sunlight reached this place. He stared up at the sky, and it was like looking up from the bottom of a well.

  Leon shook him. “Pay attention!” he said in an urgent undertone. “If you keep letting your mind wander like this, he’ll spit you on the first thrust.”

  Noel looked at Leon and wished he would go away. “I’m not a skilled duelist, you know,” he said quietly. “I’ve fenced in competitions, but in the French school, not the Italian.”

  “What does that matter?” Leon drew the rapier from his belt and handed it to him.

  “If you knew anything about fighting, you’d know.”

  Leon drew him close and pressed his face right up to Noel’s. “Like it or not, we are prisoners here. You know now what Tibo can do to you. Do you want to go back to that?”

  Noel frowned. “I—”

  “Of course you don’t! Now concentrate. Forget the future. We can’t go there anyway, so it doesn’t matter. Leave your training behind. It means nothing now. Nothing! Just kill the man any way you can and get it over with.”

  “But I—”

  “I’ll distract him with—”

  Noel gripped his arm. “No,” he said fiercely. “None of your tricks. And keep Tibo out of it too.”

  “What difference—”

  “A lot! I mean it, Leon. This will be done with honor, or—or I don’t care if Tibo kicks me back to hell.” Noel heard his voice shake, and he broke away, going to stand by the wall. Shudders he couldn’t control ran through him. “I don’t care.”

  “Easy,” Leon said. “Don’t fall apart on me now.”

  “What is wrong?” Messer Tibo called sharply.

  “Nothing,” Leon said. “Just some last-minute coaching.”

  “He looks unwell.”

  “Nerves. He’ll be fine.”

  Leon turned Noel around and pointed him toward Vicente, who stood in his shirtsleeves, impatiently flexing his sword. Leon’s hands poured energy into Noel, and his mind pushed hard enough to make Noel wince. “You will kill him, Noel. You will kill. Remember that.”

  “I remember,” Noel said dully. His head was throbbing. He wanted to pull free of Leon’s grip, but he could not.

  “Say it back to me.”

  “I will kill,” Noel said.

  “You swear?” Leon insisted. “You promise me that you’ll do it? Promise it, Noel. I know you never break your word. Promise.”

  Noel stared ahead through a haze. “I promise,” he heard himself say. “I will kill.”

  “Good.” Leon gave him a little push. “Now go for it.”

  Vicente’s powerful shoulders were squared and ready as he waited for Noel to join him. His dark eyes burned with a fire that betrayed the heat of his temper. Vicente had been slow to provoke, but now that he was finally angry, he would stay that way throughout the fight, using it for an advantage. He looked fit and trim, not yet grown heavy and slow with middle age. He was a man in the physical prime of life, mature, skilled, and savvy. He held his rapier in his right hand, a dueling dagger in his left.

  Noel faced him, aware that as they stood across from each other their sword arms were going to be on the same side. That immediately rendered fencing more difficult but gave Noel the advantage. As a lefty, he was used to fighting this way most of the time. Right-handers like Vicente seldom did. Several of Vicente’s defenses would be automatically useless. He would have to reverse his feints. Noel’s mind sifted and discarded strategies, but he wasn’t thinking fast enough. This was too soon after what he’d gone through. He felt shell-shocked and unsteady, not centered, not sufficiently alert. He reminded himself to keep his concentration.

  They saluted each other and took position.

  “Wait!” called Aldo. He strode forward, confusing Noel, who straightened and blinked at him. “This man has only a sword. Here,” he said and extended his own dueling dagger to Noel. “If this must be done, at least let it be fair.”

  Noel looked at the dagger. He didn’t know how to fight the Italian way. The dagger would distract him. Starting to refuse it, he met Aldo’s eyes and saw all the anger and dislike burning there. But Aldo’s personal code shone through. His extended hand, with the dagger’s hilt politely held toward Noel, never wavered.

  Reluctantly Noel took the weapon with his right hand and hefted it, feeling awkwardly balanced now. “Thank you,” he forced himself to say, wishing he had not been interrupted.

  Aldo gave him a stiff, hostile nod and stepped back.

  “Begin,” Vicente said.

  He attacked in a flurry, his front leg reaching in a series of quick lunges. His ra
pier was a blur, feint and thrust, feint and thrust. Noel, not expecting this much aggression this quickly, could only retreat, blocking and defending clumsily.

  Vicente bared his teeth and pressed harder, sensing he had an inadequate opponent. Noel continued to retreat, and switched directions barely in time to keep himself from being pinned against a wall. Leon and Tibo scattered to get out of their way.

  Vicente locked their swords, the blades ringing as guard crashed against guard. They stood there a moment, both breathing hard as they strained against each other. Vicente thrust with the dagger, and only luck made Noel block it in time with his own. He felt a cut burn across the web of his hand, and his dagger went spinning.

  With a grunt, Noel shifted his grip on his sword, disengaging with a suddenness that left Vicente off balance. Noel swung the sword saberlike, back and forth, nicking Vicente beneath his sword arm, then slashing at his chest. Vicente parried and retreated, staying in defense now while he sought to rally. Noel pressed him hard, lunging less and feinting more, using the clever tricks he prayed had not all been invented yet, trying to confuse Vicente with circular feints and reverses, even dropping to the basic beat attack and thrust.

  He nearly broke through Vicente’s guard and his point stabbed harmlessly over Vicente’s left shoulder, parried barely in time. A collective gasp from the onlookers told Noel how close he’d come. Finding his wind and his old rhythm now, he steadied. His arm flashed with a strength he did not know he had, although a burning in his muscles warned him it would soon be expended. He rode the adrenaline, however, his mind split between the battle happening now and old practice bouts in the Institute gym.

  Vicente fought with absolute concentration. That he’d not expected this kind of skill from Noel was evident from his frown, but he’d recovered from his surprise. Both had failed to hit their mark in the initial minutes. Now they had gained acquaintance with each other’s styles, and the fighting grew grimmer as it continued. It was a question now of a mistake or a muscle cramp. Otherwise, they were too well matched for it to end quickly or cleanly.