The Floating City

by Craig Cormick

  “Wait for Otello,” the young man said.

  “Yes, Otello,” the commander answered. “That is what I would do too. We must summon him at once.”

  But the younger man shook his head. “He will be here as soon as he hears of the Othmen ship.”

  He was right, of course, and the commander turned his telescope to look towards the Floating City, expecting a vessel with the Moor on board to come rowing out to them at any moment. He swivelled back to look at the Othmen launch and then back to the city, but the only vessel he could see approaching was the Othmen one.

  “Why doesn’t he come?” he asked – and nobody could answer him. “The launch will be here momentarily.” But then he saw, to his continued consternation, that the Othmen launch was not even making its way towards them but was heading directly for the city.

  “I wonder if we should fire on it?” the commander asked, as if it were a rhetorical question.

  “I wouldn’t,” suggested the young man. “What if it is a messenger?” He looked at the commander who seemed not to understand. “With an important message,” he added.

  “Or an assassin?” asked the commander.

  “Or carrying a treaty?” said the young man.

  The commander chewed his lip. He wanted to sit down and have somebody tell him the ship had gone away. He would be removed from his position for letting the Othmen go past. But he might be punished worse if he killed a messenger. “It’s some Othmen trick,” he said. “Why else does he not surrender to our investigations, as is custom?”

  “Who can understand the ways of the Othmen,” the young man said. “He must be important though, to presume to just bypass us and head straight for the city.”

  “Important, yes,” said the commander. “But it could be a hellish trick too.”

  “He’ll be met at the docks by over a hundred guardsmen,” the younger man said. “No single Othmen warrior could face that many men. He’s more likely a messenger.”

  The commander chewed his lip for some moments and then snapped his fingers at an underling. “Quickly. Take a message to the city. We are letting a representative of the Othmen pass.”

  The underling looked surprised. “Letting an Othmen into the city?”

  “No,” the commander said sharply, as if addressing a simpleton. “We are letting him pass. The city guard will decide if he is to set foot into the city. Now go!” Then he turned his telescope back to the launch. He could now make out six large black men rowing at the oars and a single figure standing, becloaked in a dark garment, in the rear.

  He then sent a strict order to all the assembled troops that none was to fire on the launch unless they were fired on first. Then he sent another order that none were to mock it or call out insults. Then a third, that men should keep their weapons ready nevertheless. He watched carefully as the launch got closer, but the figure did not even turn his head to acknowledge the existence of the marine guard with their weapons pointing at him as he came alongside them and then rowed past.

  The tall figure in the rear of the launch had a dark turban wrapped around his head with only his eyes showing, and stood as aloof as a regent or prince.

  “What if he’s a Djinn?” the commander heard one of his men ask. “What if we’ve let a Djinn into the city? What will become of our families?”

  The commander, having already let a plague ship into the city that morning, could only turn his telescope to the city dock where he could see a small army had assembled, and pray that his day was not going to get any worse.

  As the launch approached the city, those vessels moored closest to its path lifted anchor and moved further away as either the wind or oarsmen would allow. Word of the Othmen vessel had spread through the city faster than a flood tide, and several of the council members and Seers had lodged themselves by windows in the buildings nearby to witness events. They had even decided to temporarily restore their faith in Otello as the city’s delegate to meet this Othmen menace. The Moor chose only ceremonial armour and went unarmed, except for a single curved knife, hidden in a sash behind his back, and pushed his way through the ranks of the nervous guardsmen to be closest to the water’s edge. The men around him whispered and shuffled like nervous horses smelling blood or fire, and he held out and arm and bellowed, “Silence. And be still. You are the protectors of the Floating City.” The men paid him immediate heed, as men always did, and stood ramrod straight. All eyes were on him and he nodded his approval. Just once. Then he turned to watch the slow progress of the launch making its way towards them.

  It was moving almost leisurely and Otello knew that was deliberate. The six large black men he could see at the oars would put a small sailing skiff to shame in a race, he was certain, if they chose to. Or were ordered to. These were men who had been castrated and had had their tongues ripped out, and only lived to obey orders. He wondered if he would have to kill any of them today.

  Then he turned his attention to the figure in the rear of the vessel. He watched how he moved his body just slightly with the rocking of the boat, and it seemed to Otello that he was searching the crowd of soldiers to seek him out. So he took a step forward and put his hands on his hips. He knew the Othmen considered black-skinned races inferior and were dishonoured when he had defeated them in battle. And he was determined that whatever type of battle ensued today, he would dishonour this Othmen.

  The launch was soon within hailing distance, but neither did the figure in the vessel call out to anyone standing on the stones of the city, nor did anyone in the city call out to the Othmen. The boat rowed right up to the stone stairs at Otello’s feet and one of the black-skinned slaves turned to cast a rope and make it fast there to an iron ring. Then the figure in the rear leapt lightly out of the boat, landing on the steps like a cat. Then he strode up the stairs boldly and at the top of the steps, paused a moment and looked around at the city buildings, completely ignoring both Otello and the hundred or more guardsmen assembled there. He took a few steps to the right and then the left and Otello noticed the way the guardsmen backed away from him as he did, and knew that if the figure had chosen to walk through the city, the guards would part before him like darkness fleeing from light.

  He wondered if the man were smirking under that black cloth turban mask. Otello noted he was as tall as himself and very lithe. He also noted the sword the Othmen wore at his side and the richness of his dark clothes. Jewels were stitched into the edges of them. The figure then turned and met his eyes. Otello was surprised to see emerald green eyes regarding him, for Othmen had eyes as dark as coal.

  Otello knew he should step forward and introduce himself, but he chose to wait. The figure regarded him a moment longer and then lifted a hand to the black material wound tightly around his head and began unwinding it. So slowly. And the face, when it emerged, surprised. Otello heard the gasp from the ranks of men behind him, at the feat of enchantment they witnessed. The figure had long dark hair and thick red lips. Had the face the shape of an Othmen, but the colour of a Grecian. The face was haughty, but was beautiful.

  She turned and looked at the men now, and saw them wither a little before her glance. Then, finally, she turned back to Otello. She regarded him carefully, and smirked. Then she stepped closer to him. He found he had to contain himself from a sudden maddened impulse to draw his dagger and lunge at her, as he saw remarkable strength and danger in the way she moved. What a piece of work this woman was, he thought.

  “I am Shakri al Basak,” she said in a slightly gravelled and accented voice, and with a slight bow of her head.

  “I am Otello,” he replied. “I stand here for the city.”

  She nodded. “I know you. In other times we would be enemies. But today we are not. I am the new Othmen envoy,” she said. “The old one will be taken out to my ship in a cage within the hour.”

  XLIX

  THE STORY OF DISDEMONA

  The ensign had been trying to concoct an excuse to get close to Disdemona for most of the day. He’d
had more success in concocting the Othmen potion that he was feeding Otello in his drink to fuel his madness and jealousy. It had been a valuable find at the island of the Guild. But Otello had been withstanding it. A lesser man would have long ago succumbed to it fully, and have been putty in his hands, unable to resist the poisonous whispers he had been feeding him.

  He needed something more. He needed to ignite those fires of madness and jealousy in him, the way a barrel of oil could be ignited by as simple a thing as a candle flame. And his flame would be a simple strawberry-engraved kerchief. If only he could get his hands upon it.

  But Disdemona wore it close to her breast, almost never being without it. And that would take a master of distraction and the subtle hands of a thief to procure. Fortunately he knew where to obtain both – but finding an opportune moment would be a lot harder. That was until the Othmen ship arrived. The story went around the city faster than any of the council’s decrees ever had. A single ship had arrived. Six ships had arrived. An Othmen fleet had arrived. A single small boat was making its way to the city. A single Othmen was riding a Djinn into the city. A half-human half-Djinn Othmen had emerged from the waters in the harbour, demanding a truce. Declaring war. Surrendering lands the Othmen had captured from the Floating City. Seeking a trade treaty. Wishing to form an alliance against the Mongol empire. Wishing to end their conflict through hand-to-hand combat of champions.

  Everybody wanted to see what the Othmen looked like. They were afraid and they were intrigued. The ensign knew it would be like the way people were drawn to the scene of a violent accident. And Disdemona would be no less likely to want to see this Othmen than any other citizen of the city. More so, most likely, since the Othmen were the part of her husband’s life that she was least likely to ever understand – and if she found she needed to understand her husband more than at any other time, she would be drawn to see this Othmen as he arrived at the city.

  The ensign gathered two men to him, who went by the names of the rat and toad, and they made their way to the Bridge of Sighs, where the curious and horrified would have to cross to find a safe viewing vantage in one of the houses around the harbour. Only those who had friends whose houses actually overlooked the harbour would actually have a chance of witnessing anything, he knew, and that meant more nobility would be on the streets and plazas, to visit a long-neglected friend or relative, than had been out and about in many weeks.

  It would be a good day to be a pick-purse, he mused, knowing that if he did not have the two men in his employ they would be busy enough on their own. The first man, the rat, was a small thin fellow with fingers that could reach into the deepest pocket undetected, and the other, the toad, was a stout ugly fellow, handy in picking fights and ending them with a hidden blade. Both regularly sold their services and their silence.

  The ensign had them assemble just in front of the bridge and he made his way up onto its arch, where he could observe the crowd and sight Disdemona. The crowd pushing their way past him was strong, but he growled at those who jostled him so that people stepped around him. The populace pushing past him were little more than sheep, he thought. People like him had a right to rule them and if not for a trick of fate, having him born to a lesser family, he knew he would have been a ruler of men. He should have been the one giving the commands that the sheep followed, not men like the Duca or Otello.

  He turned his head and spat into the canal. The Moor wasn’t even a believer. He was a heathen. And black skinned. Every time he touched the beautiful pale skin of Disdemona there should have been an outrage across the city. But that time would come.

  He scanned the crowd for her. The city was alive today, its citizens like a garland of different-coloured flowers moving about, bringing the cold stone and brickwork to life. The people were all buzzing with talk of the Othmen. Merchants were leaving their stalls and school teachers were leaving their classes. Servants were finding excuses to leave their households and others snuck away. Strangers on the narrow streets were asking each other what they had heard or knew, and the ensign occasionally told a passing citizen that he had it on good authority that the city guard had declared they would cut off the heads of any Othmen who stepped foot on the Floating City, and they would be able to witness the deaths of many Othmen today. But only if they hurried to beat everyone else.

  He scanned the crowd again and then he saw her, moving her way through the crowd with just one handmaiden beside her. He made a quick hand signal to the two men to let them know she was approaching and saw them readying themselves. The ensign wished it was himself who was going to put his hand into her bodice and grab the kerchief, but he knew he would not be able to do so without grabbing, and cruelly squeezing, her pale breast. Since she had spurned him he had dreamed many nights of violently having his way with her. But he would hang for that. Far better that she suffered at the hands of her own husband the Moor.

  The ensign took his passions out on cheap whores, paying them more for their bruises. He had tried to seduce one of Disdemona’s handmaidens for a time, thinking he would use her to get to her mistress, but she had rebuffed him too. He would bide his time to be avenged on her as well.

  He looked to the rat and the toad and looked back to Disdemona, as if this was a chessboard before him and he was moving all the pieces around so it would play out just as he wished. First the toad would jostle her violently and then turn to apologize, while the rat would dart a hand in and steal the kerchief. The toad could then stand there with his bare hands open if she felt something. The feeling of knowing this made him grin like a lunatic. He was filled with the elation of it.

  If they were as good as they claimed he would not even know the moment it happened, but he doubted it. Then she was in front of the bridge, being squeezed by the crowd, her handmaiden pushed back a little behind her. She was moving her hands about, trying to get the people to stand back from her, but the crowd would not be parting for her today.

  He saw the toad move to step in front of Disdemona, and then suddenly a hooded figure blocked his path. The toad tried to push him aside, but the man did something to the toad and he disappeared beneath the crowd. Then he saw the hooded figure step across to block the rat, and he too disappeared from sight. He blinked rapidly and shook his head a little. What was happening? This was not how it should be playing out.

  He now saw Disdemona move onto the bridge, with the crowd pushing her along, and the hooded figure was gone. He felt his elation turning to dread. Then he heard a squeal as someone in the crowd called out, “Murder!” And he watched the crowd part around two places where men obviously lay on the ground, dead. It would be the rat and the toad.

  He was confounded. What had just happened? And before he could regain his composure, Disdemona was standing before him and was then pressed into him by the surging panicked crowd. She didn’t even recognize him as she tried to turn her head and find her handmaiden. He looked down into her handsome chest, pressed against his, and felt his hands rising towards it.

  The crowd pressed again, with more calling out ‘Murder,’ and she was pressed so tightly against him that he was bent back over the railing of the bridge. He could have bent down and placed his head between those breasts and suckled like a babe. He could have grasped them in both hands and squeezed. He could have put his arms around her and pulled her tight to him. But then the crowd had surged again and she was pushed past him, squashed into another man, and then another.

  He watched her as she was jostled across the bridge and spilled out onto the other side, and then saw her reach into her bosom for that strawberry-embroidered kerchief, perhaps to press it to her mouth and stifle her distress. He saw the consternation on her face when her hand came away as empty as his own had. The look on her face may have mirrored his own, and then the crowd carried her out of sight.

  L

  ELSEWHERE IN THE FLOATING CITY

  The Seers were preparing for a ceremony that had not been conducted for many decades. “Everything will
change tonight,” the female of the Spring Seers said as she sat the two youngsters down in a twin seat in the middle of a darkened chamber. “You will realize your full power over time, but it all starts this evening.”

  “Yes, today everything changes,” said her husband.

  “Will it hurt?” was all the boy Mario asked, and the Seer smiled back at him as if he was a simpleton. “Many things in life hurt,” she said. “But that does not mean they are bad.”

  Her husband, with one hand still in hers, stood before the young girl, Rosa. He laid a hand on the side of her cheek and said, “So pretty.” She drew her head back from his a little, having seen the types of looks he was giving her in many men’s eyes before today.

  “Patience,” said the female Spring Seer, giving her husband’s hand a slight squeeze. She turned to the girl and said, “Do not be afraid.”

  “I’m not afraid,” the young girl said. The Seer nodded her head and smiled, though she was thinking that the young girl had plenty of reason to be afraid, but it would be better if she was not.

  The Summer Seers stood by a small fire burning in a brass pot, into which they were casting herbs, filling the room with a sickly-smelling smoke.

  “It smells,” said the boy.

  “Many things smell,” said the female Spring Seer. “If you don’t like the smell, breathe through your mouth.” She smiled again. He nodded his head and did so.

  “We are ready,” said the male Summer Seer.

  “Come,” said the female Spring Seer, holding out her hand for him to come and take it. He and his wife walked across, and all four then joined hands, forming a circle around Mario and Rosa. They shut their eyes and began mumbling in a strange tongue and Mario felt a shiver run up his spine and the sudden urge to flee the room. He looked across to Rosa, and saw her eyes were wide. He wondered if she felt it too. Or was he feeling it from her, through their hands. Since they had been holding hands for such long periods they were starting to feel things from each other.