The Codex of the Witch: Fantasy Novel

by Federico Negri

  “Hybrids,” Guild Poe mutters.

  “What?”

  “I’m answering your question. Those ships are populated by hybrids.”

  “What nonsense is this? Hybrids have never shown a capacity for higher reasoning. They’re unstable, violent, and unreliable. How could they steer a ship from the other side of the ocean no less?”

  “For your information, what my suitcase contains is a diary, written in coded language. So putting me in the stocks won’t help you at all. What’s more, I’d like to stay on the bridge to keep informed of what’s happening around me. And perhaps even to help you save everyone’s lives.”

  “Girls, take your bowls of soup and leave me alone with Mr. Guild Poe. You too, Hansi.”

  “But Auntie, are you sure—” one of Riger’s hands falls on Alina’s shoulder, persuading her to let the sentence die on her lips.

  The captain needs support, not insubordination. There’s an intercom on the bridge and Silla or Riger will set themselves on the other end to make sure there aren’t any dangerous incidents. If Kasia wanted to confer with Guild Poe in secret, she would have taken him into her cabin. Old merchants’ tricks—there’s no manual to learn them from, there’s no procedure to follow.

  Without a sound, the three witches and the young German leave them alone.

  “You were saying?” Kasia picks up, tossing her head of curls.

  “The circumstances of magic hybrids in my country were similar to those in Europe. They lived and reproduced at the margin of inhabited regions, robbing and frightening the unprepared. Some isolated acts of violence, a few episodes of cannibalism, followed by campaigns to suppress them with torches and pitchforks, and little else. Anyway, around forty years ago something in their behavior changed. They began to make themselves more elusive, to be noticed less, until they disappeared almost completely. I’m giving you a very quick summary, in reality this process lasted for years. No one paid it much attention; it was just one less pain in the ass.”

  “Right, if they were to disappear here too, no one would be rending their garments.”

  “At a famous university,” a smile stretches across his face, “well… famous in our parts, a professor grew curious. It had been almost ten years since the hybrids allowed themselves to be seen. This professor had studied hybridization techniques, he published various scientific articles on the topic, and all of a sudden he lost the subject of his life’s inquiry. So he managed to snag a grant and he set about searching for them. With little success, moreover, since it seemed they truly vanished from the face of the earth. The professor then decided to go to Salem.”

  “That place really exists?”

  “Of course, witches have always loved that place. Anyway, in our parts they are more, uh, wild than here in Europe.”

  “Wild? Meaning?”

  “Maybe because the social fabric is more tightly woven here, distances are shorter, or maybe because of your governments; the English especially, from what I gather, have always tried to make use of your abilities. Anyway, you European witches are more integrated with people that don’t have the gift. Your lifestyle is on the whole similar to theirs. Before the war, I’ve been told, you traded profitably with all the European merchants. Our witches, on the other hand over the decades, the centuries, became increasingly isolated, retreating into autonomous communities.”

  “But that’s impossible. Magic isn’t inherited. We became merchants in part so we could always look out for new recruits, new witches to drop into our clans.”

  “Life in America is very different from here. There are developed cities, like the one I came from, which have universities, factories, academies. And then there are huge desolate expanses, inhabited by ignorance and superstition, where the population has degenerated to a medieval culture. There are rural communities, isolated from the rest of the country. When the witches need new recruits or want to celebrate their Sabbath, they just set up camp at the gates of these villages. Out of fear, the weakest individuals—young women without a husband or men unable to work—are thrown into their arms by their own people, so they don’t have to face them.”

  “I don’t believe it. Recruitment only makes sense if you choose girls under twelve, fourteen at most. If they’re older it becomes impossible to reawaken the gift inside them. And magic is only present in one woman out of every ten thousand.”

  The man shrugs his shoulders and bends his lips into a frown. “From what I gather, the witches of Salem are in no hurry. They’ve focused their arts on unnaturally extending their lives, well beyond the already very long lifespans you have here. What’s more, I believe they also train women of a more advanced age; I’ve met witches who were chosen at thirty.”

  “Go on. It seems incredible to me, but go on. Having arrived at Salem, what did you do?”

  “Ho, ho, ho! You are sharp, Captain. Perhaps I was wearing a bit too smug an expression while I recounted my little story, eh? Yes, the professor who went to knock on the door of the terrifying witches of Salem was me. I set up camp a few miles outside the city, and I waited. Luck had it that the first witch I came into contact with—she was a gentle soul, a witch who recently arrived in the city—still had an ounce of human charity. I could write a book just on those months I passed in the shadows, anticipating my secret meetings with that delicate creature who protected me from her sisters and allowed me to slowly learn their—your—world.”

  “It would be a romance novel,” Kasia remarks.

  “Maybe. Anyway I’ll spare you and come to the point. Arabel had only recently begun attending the witches’ counsels, however owing to my persistence, I managed to pick up an interesting piece of information. Some witches believed the hybrids had assembled in an impenetrable region, far from populated centers, close to Glover Peak, a name which probably means nothing to you. They were amassing there by the thousands, hundreds of thousands maybe, under the guidance of a mysterious master. And furthermore it even seemed some witches had joined their cause.”

  “And you decided to go have a look. Dragging your new friend along with you?”

  He nods, putting his bright teeth on display. “Just as you say. I organized an expedition with a few colleagues desirous of adventure, and we went to study this remote place. We soon had to change tactics. There was indeed something unusual in those mountains, but it quickly became clear to us, from the stories of the people who lived nearby, that if we went up into them, we would never have gotten out alive. Arabel decided to go ahead, it seemed witches could be admitted into this conclave. She had her own way of deciding things, through trances. Intuition, I’d call it.”

  “It’s actually a form of magic. A very difficult one; she’s a gifted witch.”

  “I was convinced of it. Arabel headed up the mountain and she didn’t come back again for four weeks. By then we were in despair and received a message from her. She decided to go undercover, pretending to be there of her own will. She asked us to wait for her though, since she had information of vital importance. Again we waited until, after almost two months, she managed to get another message to us, very different in tone. She asked us, implored us rather, to come save her.”

  “And who knows how many cloak and dagger adventures to save your beauty you could tell me about at this point. You’re subjecting me to a load of fairytales without telling me anything of value. What in the devil did Arabel find on that damned mountain?”

  “I’m telling you what you need to understand the story. Certain particulars might seem irrelevant to you now, but when you line up all the information, you’ll see everything will be useful. Arabel found the hybrids. And witches too, naturally. But above all there was a man in command of a brigade. A man with great magic powers.”

  “A warlock?” Kasia sits up straight in her chair. “Of all the things you’ve said, I think this is the biggest whopper. Magic doesn’t manifest itself in men. Or at least it hasn’t manifested in the last thousand years. And before that you’re only talki
ng about legends.”

  “There’s always a grain of truth in legends. I also thought it impossible, but naturally after having seen it with these eyes,” Guild Poe says, pointing his index finger at the center of his nose, “I became much more inclined to believe it.”

  “So this warlock managed to herd up all the hybrids in your country and gain their obedience. And then he built an airship using unknown technology able to cut across the oceans. In my opinion there’s a piece missing from your story that you’re keeping to yourself. Nevertheless, when we encountered that ship bizarre events occurred. They seemed incredibly lucky to me. Exceedingly lucky.”

  “You’re very observant, Captain.”

  “Magic on the roll of the dice, possible in theory, in practice a chimera. Dozens of witches dedicated their lives to researching spells capable of improving luck, of moving an event from the sphere of possibilities to that of probabilities. From what I know, they never managed to achieve significant results.”

  “The hybrids have very humble magical capabilities. The experiments they created were aimed at forging magical beings whose genetic legacy could be passed down from generation to generation. The price was a loss of superior intellectual functioning and above all of more powerful magical abilities. Creating a subhuman race. But perhaps their master found a way to direct their limited capabilities in a new direction.”

  “I’ll drink down all your absurd conjectures, down to the last drop. But what did they come to do here in Europe?”

  “That I haven’t found out yet,” Guild Poe adds, shaking his head gravely.

  “Oh really? You’re putting my faith to the test. You must have some idea, right?”

  “Of course. As I told you, the goals of all living beings are easily predictable. Survival, supremacy. The perpetuation of the species. And I think they too, for some obscure reason, steered themselves here to Europe in pursuit of these ends.”

  Kasia hits her palm on the table. “Okay. We’ll come back to this conversation, Guild Poe. Now though I need to rest. My head is on fire, and I advise you to do likewise. In four hours, we need to be in action and think up something to say to the Baron. Come, I’ll take you below deck.”

  Kasia leads her guest down the airship’s narrow corridors, walking like a zombie. Her eyes close, but too many unanswered questions stir in her head. A hybrid coalition capable of acting in unison to achieve abstract goals? Everyone always considered them little more than animals. During the last war, countless experiments were conducted on them, to make them into acceptable soldiers. With the help of some unscrupulous witches, armies of those poor creatures were subjected to every sort of spell, implanting magic instruments and accessories into their bodies, as was done to those two wretches in the Frank Fort warehouses’ underground. In the end, all those experiments failed; the hybrids displayed a degree of obedience only under threat of corporal punishment. As soon as they found themselves in a position to flee or to liberate themselves, they had no qualms; all the attempts to instill in them a modicum of commitment to fight for a common cause were in vain.

  Kasia bids goodbye to her guest and closes the door of the hold, turning the key in the lock. Guild Poe is too uncertain a variable to leave him to wander the ship freely.

  Having reached her cabin, she walks up to the brass horn of the intercom. “Bridge?”

  “Yes, Captain?” Silla answers in a drowsy voice.

  “One of us needs to stay on guard, the others will rest. I can take the first watch.”

  “Captain, Riger and Alina are below deck. I’ll take the first one.”

  Kasia wants to protest, but she feels the strength leave her. She just answers, “Okay. Call me when it’s my turn. Over and out.” She lets herself fall face first on to her soft mattress, without even removing her clothes.

  ***

  “Captain?”

  After a moment of darkness, Silla’s voice radiates from the intercom.

  “Uhmpf. Yes, I’m coming up to the bridge.”

  “I called you because the emissaries from the Scourge are on the pier.”

  “Eh?” Kasia jumps and sits up on the bed. “What the devil, we told them we were on stand-by for six hours.”

  “It’s been seven.”

  “O-ho.” Kasia grabs the clock sitting on the small dresser next to her bed. “Damnation, you should have called me for my turn on guard.”

  “We covered it for you, Captain. How long until you’re on the bridge? Should I let those guys outside know?”

  “Yes, tell them in ten minutes the Captain will come down to greet them.”

  “On the pier?”

  “I’d prefer not to let them come aboard.”

  Kasia gets up with the irritating feeling of sweat under her heavy sailing clothes. A captain must always be well put together; it’s all necessary to earn the respect of those she meets. She quickly undresses and races under the tiny cabin shower. She stubbornly keeps the handle turned to jet cold water. She needs to be clear headed. The future of the Needle depends on the next few hours. The life of her crew is in precarious balance. Lili. She didn’t ask about Lili. But if her conditions had worsened, her sister would have alerted her to it. She vigorously rubs herself down with the horsehair glove until she feels her skin sting.

  With her hair still soaking wet, she looks in the closet for the navy-blue velvet top, with the opal buttons. Underneath she puts on an immaculate white shirt and a pair of snug, crème-colored pants.

  “Bridge?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Send Riger to get Guild Poe from the cargo hold and bring him to Lili. I want his evaluation of her state of health.”

  “Right away, Captain. I went down to see her ten minutes ago and she was breathing calmly. She even moved her eyelids, it looked like she wanted to wake up, but I tried to soothe her and let her sleep.”

  “Good.” Kasia takes her worn boots, cursing that she doesn’t have a better pair, and starts to furiously shine them. Her ankle’s swelling has gone down a lot and, although it still hurts, standing in front of the mirror, she feels newly firm on her feet.

  Kasia stares into the eyes of the refined, young captain reflected in front of her. If she weren’t a witch she might be twenty-five, thirty at most. A more attentive eye would notice something, a hunch of her shoulders or a hint of disenchantment in her eyes, capable of betraying her true age.

  Kasia gathers her curly hair in a very tight ponytail. She straightens out her jacket, pulling its hem lower. Not quite a model, but sufficiently elegant. She picks up the pencil sitting on the table next to the mirror, to go over the contours of her eyes with two thick black lines.

  “Captain?” Silla’s voice on the intercom.

  Kasia casts a last glance at the fearsome adventuress in front of her.

  “I’m ready.”

  ***

  Kasia waits for the man on the pier to finish tying the fragile gangplank to the steel ring. A light blunderbuss waits in her hand. Behind her is Silla, armed to the teeth. She too is dressed in her best jacket. The lay-abouts on the docks can’t help but see two dangerous outlaws, who it’s best not to upset. The weapons are illegal in the port, but this doesn’t seem like the time to go for subtlety.

  “Captain Santuini,” Von Thieg greets her, pushing his long black hair behind his ear. With him are two other men with no weapons in view, but covered in long overcoats that could conceal any sort of tool. The masked woman is sheathed in a stylish doublet, with pants tucked into her white leather shoes. Her clothes are so tight they don’t seem like they could hide anything, apart from the long knife whose balance she’s testing, passing it from one hand to the other. Another woman completes the party. She has long ash-blonde hair with black streaks, and a cape of purple velvet. Two black leather gloves cover her hands and forearms folded across her chest. Her eyebrows knit with an expression of displeasure.

  “Good day, Captain Von Thieg. And good day to you as well, sister,” Kasia says tilting
her head toward the woman in purple.

  “Santuini, I can’t say your arrival was discreet,” she responds.

  “I see you two know each other,” Von Thieg interjects.

  “There are people one can’t help but recognize,” answers the woman on the pier.

  “Right,” Kasia says. She would have liked to answer with a savory retort about the witch Jillian Cerriwden’s not so innocent past, of her clan’s tendency to turn their banner according to which way the wind blows. Regardless, at the moment they are in desperate need of allies, as many allies as possible. She continues in the most courteous tone she’s able to muster. “Greetings, Sister Jillian. It’s truly a pleasure to see you.”

  Try to understand, sister. Try to read between the lines of what I’m saying, thinks Kasia. There’s no need to link telepathically to guess we’re in danger, both of us.

  Cerriwden stares into her eyes for a moment, then closes them. “Of course. It’s a pleasure for me as well to find another witch at such a sensitive time.” We’ll play your game, Santuini, she seems to say. We’ll see how far it takes us. Explain to me why I’m tangled up in this story with these Dutch carrot-eaters.

  “Baron Dietrich wishes a friendly meeting with your guest,” Von Thieg interrupts.

  “Right. But, as you can see, we’re in an operational emergency situation. Our airship is in urgent need of repairs. A member of my crew is in critical medical condition. So I too have my priorities.”

  “This,” Von Thieg removes a scroll from his double-breasted coat, “is an order from the port authority to proceed with an inspection of your vessel. For the moment, the baron is vouching for you, keeping the inspector waiting. If you prefer he can withdraw his guarantee. I assure you in that case I’ll be in a position to be the first to climb aboard, together with a squad of port troops.”

  Kasia moves a few steps down the gangway, swaying in the wind. She holds out her hand to take the paper and Von Thieg gives it to her.

  “Perhaps,” she says, after skimming the order, “the baron might come aboard, unarmed.”