“I heard you the first time,” said the Duca softly.
“But you didn’t answer me.”
“No,” he said to the man, watching the way he thrust his fists onto his hips. Then the Duca turned and looked at the large map of the Floating City that was spread out on the council table before them. Signor de Abbacio had been showing the Duca the areas of the city that were now underwater. Many of the best citizens were having to wade into their homes and move to upper floors.
And more boats had arrived from Kaffa carrying plague people. They had all been relocated to the Isle of Sorrows, but attempts to keep them there were not proving effective. They snuck across at night, risking the Djinn, to hide themselves in the city. Already there had been several cases of plague reported from the poorer quarters.
“You must turn back the boats!” Signor de Abbacio said.
“Many are our citizens,” the Duca said softly.
“Plague victims are nobody’s citizens,” Signor de Abbacio said. “The plague does not respect nationalities and neither should we.”
“And yet, when they sent riches back from the city of Kaffa we were proud to call them our citizens.”
“That was different,” said Signor de Abbacio.
“No. It was only different because the besieging Mongols had not yet started catapulting their plague dead over the walls of the city. Trading death rather than silks and spices.”
“We must turn back the boats,” Signor de Abbacio said again, like it had the power of an incantation. “You are condemning our citizens to death. And that will weaken our city and leave us vulnerable to Othmen attack.” He strode across and smacked his hand on the tabletop. “You are an old fool,” he said. “Don’t you see every time you fail to make a decision it leaves us weaker and more vulnerable to Othmen infiltration? They will not even need to invade us, they will just appear on the horizon one day and wonder where our city has gone.”
The Duca smiled at the idea of that. But it seemed to enrage Signor de Abbacio. “They will find smoking ruins, a few towers sticking out of the water and corpses floating, bloated and stinking,” he said.
“And they would turn and run away, I think,” said the Duca, and he saw Signor de Abbacio’s eyes fill with hatred for him.
“Are you telling me that this is a deliberate tactic of a man so afraid of the Othmen that he would rather see our city destroyed than face them?”
Now the Duca banged his own hand on the table. Then he held up the golden chain that was fastened around his neck, pulling on it with one hand as if choking himself. “What do you think this is?” he demanded. “A toy? It is the symbol of my rank of office, and you should respect it rather than covet it.”
Signor de Abbacio did not even lower his eyes at the accusation.
“It looks like a chain,” said the Duca, “but you have no idea what it really is. It is a burden that is heavier than you could ever know. It does not just confer the title of Duca of the city, but it binds one to the ancient knowledge about our city that is revealed only to the Duca!”
Signor de Abbacio looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”
“Something I fear you will never understand. You could easily place this chain around your own neck and proclaim yourself Duca, but you could never understand the responsibility that comes with the knowledge that goes with it.”
Signor de Abbacio sucked in his cheeks a moment and said, “We must turn back the boats.” Turning the conversation back to something he understood and felt some power over.
“Ha,” the Duca said. “Do you really think that will change anything?”
“The people are scared and they want the plague stopped. We have a responsibility to the people of the city.”
“Our responsibility is to all our citizens.”
“But if you fail to act you will have let plague take our city.”
“And if I act it will lead to the death of our citizens.”
Signor de Abbacio looked churlishly at the map of the city. “It is a simple matter of numbers,” he protested. “Like adding profits and losses. If we stop the ships, those from the city of Kaffa will die, but less of the citizens of our city will die.”
“Can you be so sure about that?” the Duca asked. “Have you asked the Seers if they can treat or prevent the plague? Which decision will actually be sentencing more citizens to death?”
Signor de Abbacio stared fixedly at the old man.
The Duca sighed and said, “Let me tell you a story about our city. This was at a time before you were born I think. My father, who was also Duca of the city, was dying. He was a great man who was loved and respected by everyone. Well, by most people. He had his enemies as we all do.”
Signor de Abbacio did not respond to that.
“He had me when he was quite old, and I was about sixteen years old when he lay on his death bed. It was he who told me the secrets of the city, long before I became Duca myself. He was dying of the black lung disease that he had contracted from the Isle of Sorrows. He had gone to visit the people personally, to hear their grievances, one of which was the city’s lack of interest in treating people there who had contracted the sickness.”
Still Signor de Abbacio did not say anything.
“My father told me that he had two choices. He could put the island to the torch, cauterizing the wound to protect the Floating City from the disease. Or he could quarantine it, refusing to let anybody come or go, until the disease had run its course. And do you know what he did?”
Signor de Abbacio shook his head. “No. What did he do?”
“He told me that he hoped I was never faced with the same choice, and if I was that I would make a better choice than he did.”
“What did he do?” Signor de Abbacio asked. But the Duca turned his back on him and started to leave the chamber. “What did he do?” Signor de Abbacio called after him, shouting now, as if it were vital to know as the key to his gaining the chain of office. “Tell me, what did he do?”
LXIII
THE STORY OF DISDEMONA
“Come,” said the ensign to his commander, Otello, and the general followed him like he was in a trance. He led the Moor out of the barracks and down to the canal and they took a dark small boat around to the water gate at Otello’s house.
Otello seemed not to be listening as he told him that he finally had proof of the captain’s treachery against him. He saw the Moor looking up at his house.
“It looks so grand from the outside,” Otello said. “But did you know that there are many chambers that are not safe to inhabit? There are walls that are unsound and there are some floors that are rotting. When I was appointed general of the city and given this house I thought it a palace. I, who was used to sleeping in soldiers’ quarters to have my own palazzo! But only slowly did I discover it was granted to me because nobody else wanted to be responsible for the cost of restoring it. I had thought the city had accepted me. Was rewarding me.” He laughed. “Like I believed that she really loved me.”
The ensign said, “We must be silent. Even your servants should not know that we are here.”
“I grew up in a small village of stones and tents, did you know?” Otello said, as if still not hearing him. “Life was cheap. You could as easily be killed for looking at a warrior the wrong way as you could by disease or enemy raiders. You might be killed for the price of a single copper coin.” He looked at his house again and then turned and spat into the waters. “It is only in wealthy cities like this that life is considered worth so much more and to be valued accordingly.”
Then he turned to the ensign. “How much would you consider your own life was worth?”
The ensign looked uncertain and scared for a moment.
“Or how much would the life of my wife be worth?”
“I could not hazard to guess,” the ensign said quickly.
“Many, many hundred gold pieces, I’d wager,” Otello said. “If I had carried her away as a hostage rather than won h
er heart, I dare say her father would have paid that sum to get her back safely again.”
The ensign steered the boat up against the water gate and tied it securely. “We must be quiet, my lord,” he said.
But Otello said, “And yet, in the village I grew up in, honour had an inestimable worth. You could not place a price on a man’s honour and certainly no amount of gold was considered recompense for insulting a man’s honour.”
“Yes, my lord,” said the ensign in a whisper, trying to bring his thoughts to a close.
“But in this city honour is worth nothing,” Otello said. “It can be besmirched without a second thought. Perhaps that is why so many citizens like to go masked, because they are constantly losing face to even their closest friends and family.”
“My lord does not deserve the way he has been treated,” the ensign said. “He has been raised up by the city when they needed him and cast down now they no longer value him. The same way your captain pretends to be a loyal friend, but is wooing your wife all the while.”
Otello turned and reached out a strong black arm, seizing the ensign by the neck. The man squeaked and gurgled. “You shall not put voice to these thoughts that plague me,” he said. “It is bad enough to have them flying around in my head.”
“I take them back,” the ensign said quickly.
“If only you could,” said Otello. “Once spoken, words cannot be re-caged. They are not doves to fly away over the mountains. They stay like mosquitoes, buzzing around your ears.”
“My lord,” said the ensign, worried he had been drugging the Moor too much and his madness was likely to be unpredictable, even dangerous to him. “You should not dwell overly on this. It only causes you pain.”
“If I am not to dwell on this, then why have you brought me here?” he asked. “Would you be a better friend if you had never told me of your suspicions and left me to stand on the outside of my palazzo believing it to be sound and beautiful within?”
“That is for my lord to ultimately decide,” the ensign said, starting to sweat a little with anxiety. “I am only the instrument of truth.”
“Yes,” said the Moor, seeming to focus a little more properly now. “The truth. It is time to know it.”
“Yes, my lord,” said the ensign and led the general into his own rear courtyard. They were in the garden and the ensign put a finger to his lips. The Moor just nodded. The ensign led them across to a garden house that had a white latticed wall on one side. The two men stood in the shadows inside. Disdemona was on the far side of the garden, sitting on a chair reading a book.
“How beautiful she is,” said Otello. “I find it hard to believe any treachery ever filled her heart to see her like that.”
The ensign put a hand on his general’s to warn him to be quiet. “Such is the skill of her treachery,” he said softly, “that it is not easily seen.”
The two men stood silently for some time, watching Disdemona ask a handmaiden to fetch her a drink and then resume reading in solitude again. “How did you know she would be here?” Otello asked in a whisper.
“It is her habit to read in the garden at this time each day,” the ensign said. “The hour when callers are most likely to come.”
Otello just nodded and they waited. As a hunter in a hide might wait for his prey. As a warrior in ambush might wait for the enemy. As a doubting husband might wait for any sign of his wife’s unfaithfulness.
Finally their prey, their enemy, the proof of unfaithfulness arrived. A handmaiden came to bring news to Disdemona, obviously of a caller, since she put her book down, smoothed her dress and hair. Otello felt the blood pounding in his temples at this sight of her preening herself.
Then the captain entered the garden and came and stood before her. She offered him her hand and he took it, seemingly to linger overly long with it. She patted the seat beside her but he did not sit, he dropped to one knee as if he was going to offer her a present of great worth. And with a grand flourish he reached into his breast and pulled out a white kerchief with red strawberries on it.
Otello stopped breathing. The ensign felt the air around him start to boil. Disdemona jumped to her feet and took the kerchief from him and pressed it to her bosom. As if she was pressing him there. And then she took his hands in hers and drew him close to her.
Blood filled Otello’s eyes and left him blind to anything other than what he chose to see. The ensign leaned closer. “Leave the captain to me. I will kill him to avenge your honour and prove my loyalty. But Disdemona I will leave in your hands.” And he watched with bitter pleasure the way the Moor’s large hands opened and closed, as if they were around her thin beautiful neck already.
LXIV
ELSEWHERE IN THE FLOATING CITY
The Othmen envoy’s eyes opened just a crack. The rest of her body remained completely motionless. She was suddenly wide awake and listening for the sound again. The soft hiss of a roof tile being moved. She waited. Then she heard the sound of cloth brushing wood.
Now she knew what to listen for she could almost feel the weight of a man being lowered onto a ceiling joist above her head as the wooden beam gave the slightest of creaks. Then the sound of a padded foot adding weight to the beam with infinite patience.
Very slowly she moved her own hand up under her pillow, her fingers encircling the dagger hilt there. Then she waited again. Listened to the sounds of the waters lapping against the building. Listened to a distant bird call. Listened to a nearby house creak a little like the call of some distressed night animal – as it undoubtedly settled a little lower into the water. And she heard the sound of a hatch in the ceiling cautiously sliding open.
Her breathing did not change though. Her eyes opened a little wider and she looked for the slight change in the light in the dim room made by a dark figure lowering itself from the ceiling. She waited. Then she saw it. As soft as the change made by a thin cloud crossing the moon.
And still she did not move. Did not turn. Did not cry out. She waited.
Then the figure dropped, landed lightly next to her bed and she felt the dagger suddenly against her throat. The same instant she had her own dagger up and under the chin of the figure looming over her. The figure paused and she heard him take a short and sharp intake of breath. Then she felt the sudden pressure of his chin against her dagger, moving his head closer to hers.
She felt the dagger prick the skin and then she moved her hand. Back. Let the man’s face come closer. She held the dagger there, slowly retreating as he advanced on her, both knowing that just the slightest pressure would cut deeply into his throat.
But he kept moving until his lips were a whisper away from hers. A breath. A heartbeat. A blood drop. Then he said her name. Her real one. The one that no one else knew. And she leant forward herself, feeling the blade at her own neck give way just as it broke the skin there.
Then she was kissing him. Biting his lower lip until she could taste blood. She heard the sound of the daggers both falling to the bed. Heard his feet move on the floor. Heard the bed creak a little at the addition of his weight to it. Heard herself say his name.
She looked into his dark and familiar eyes and felt his hands moving firmly up her body, grasping her breasts and then moving further, up to her neck, grabbing it just as tightly.
“I have missed you,” he said.
“And I you,” she said. “I expected you earlier.”
“I was busy,” he said. “Slaying Djinn.” And they both laughed. A soft and intimate laugh that wound its way around the dark corners of the room and slipped out the open hole in the roof into the chill night.
LXV
ELSEWHERE IN THE FLOATING CITY
Vincenzo drifted in and out of sleep trying to understand if he was dreaming or recalling a story he had read, or perhaps creating one in his mind. He was standing before a rank of soldiers. Maybe they were Othmen. Maybe they were something other. They had swords drawn and shields up. They wore metal helmets and were advancing on him cautiously.
As if they feared him.
And he looked down into his hand and found he held a sword. Held it as casually as if it was an extension of his arm. He looked at the soldiers and knew they would cut him down easily. He looked around and saw the Shadow Master standing beside a stone column casually watching him. He wanted to call out to him, but no voice would come.
He looked back to the soldiers and tried to cast the sword from his hand, but it would not come away from his fingers.
The first soldier stepped out of the rank and slashed at him and Vincenzo threw up an arm to catch the blow. It fell upon a metal arm guard, numbing his arm. He took a step back and looked to the Shadow Master. Why wasn’t he coming to help him? The soldier swung his sword again, and this time Vincenzo held up his own sword to parry it. The force of the blow almost knocked it from his grasp and he fell to the ground.
The soldier advanced on him, his comrades circling him, as if each was keen to be the one who dealt the death blow. He saw the sword descending and tried to cry out, as though if he could just find his voice it might somehow deflect it. The sword sparked loudly in front of his face, striking another sword. Vincenzo looked up and saw a dark figure step over him, spinning in close to the soldier, rolling down along the length of his sword arm, and coming up hard against his shield. The soldier tried to push the figure back, but already his sword was coming around, striking the soldier under the base of his metal helmet, almost severing the man’s head from his shoulders.
Then the second and third soldiers were upon him, closing in on either side. But the figure didn’t even hesitate. He stepped through them and right amongst the soldiers, forcing the remaining men to bump and clash as they tried to keep their shields up but still engage with him. He bent low and slashed at two of the men’s exposed legs. One fell and he was through the gap, cutting and hacking at the soldiers from behind. They struggled to spin around, their shields too entangled to move quickly.
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