The Floating City

by Craig Cormick

  “Is it him?” the young boy asked and the young girl closed her eyes, as if sharing her vision with another. “It is him,” she said.

  “We have dreamt of your coming,” said the boy, taking a step closer. “We have been waiting for it.” The Shadow Master did not move and the boy, leading the girl, took another step towards him. “We know why you have come to our city,” he said.

  “To die here,” said the girl, and her eyes snapped open and fixed on the Shadow Master like weapons ready to fire. He took a quick step to the right, just as a scorching white light leapt from the girl’s hands and blasted the brickwork where he had been standing.

  “I am not here to harm you,” the Shadow Master said. But the young girl only laughed. “You cannot harm us if you tried,” she said. “Do you know who we are?”

  “Yes,” he said. “You are children playing with adultso toys.”

  That seemed to make the pair of them angry and two streaks of white light blasted out at him. He moved quickly though, rolling across the rooftop and standing behind a chimney.

  “You cannot hide,” said the girl. “We have seen you and now we have marked you.” Then a wind began to blow around the Shadow Master, a wind that tugged at his cape and then wrapped it around him. It bound him tightly and as he struggled to free himself it lifted his very body from the rooftop and slowly turned him around in the air. There stood a very old man and woman on the far side of the rooftop, who had not been there a moment before.

  “I have seen you,” said the old woman, “riding the four horses of the doom of our city. You must not be allowed to live to destroy us.”

  “You need only look into a mirror to see the destroyers of your city,” he called back. “You know in your hearts what I mean.”

  The old woman seemed enraged when he said this. “You dare to insult us? We are the sole protectors of this city from the evils that assail it. We keep it afloat. We keep the Othmen beasts at bay. And we destroy threats to us like you.”

  “Are you talking to me or those creepy children there?” he taunted them.

  The elder Seers said nothing for a moment and then the Shadow Master saw the younger pair walking across to join them. The four of them, two very old and two very young, all held hands in a chain and began mumbling an incantation.

  “Such poor diction,” the Shadow Master called to them. But his taunts did not give them pause, they concentrated more and the winds about him increased, wrapping him tighter. He laughed though and with a sudden twist, dropped free of his cloak, leaving it caught there above the rooftops, suddenly crushed in by the winds.

  The Shadow Master rolled again as the Seers let the wind drop and sent out another beam of glaring white light at him, this one stronger than any of the previous ones. It left a burning smell in the air and crackled as it leapt towards him. But he had moved before it hit the rooftop where he had just been standing. They sent another one after him. Then another.

  The four Seers let go their hands and moved around the rooftop to encircle the Shadow Master and prevent him leaping to a new roof top.

  The elder male Seer bent and placed his hands on the roof itself and it came to life under the Shadow Master’s feet, trying to ensnare him and trip him as he ran. He moved quickly, but finally they had him, cornered against one of the many chimney stacks on the roof. The four Seers moved in closer, walking slowly towards him.

  “Where will you run to now?” the elder lady asked him. “I see no horse to carry you away.”

  “Again, look in the mirror,” he mocked.

  She glared at him and cast a bolt of white light at him. He ducked and it shattered the chimney top apart behind him.

  Then he did something most unexpected, he stood and held his arms out wide. “Do it now,” he said. “If you can.”

  The four Seers held their hands out towards him and strong blinding light seemed to spring from each of them, converging on the point where he stood. There was a tremendous flash of light and suddenly there was nothing. The chimney, the roof covering and the Shadow Master were all gone, leaving nothing but a hole that had been erased of all colour.

  None of them said anything and they all walked back to the roof’s edge to watch the sun rise past the dark clouds there.

  The scribe watched as the Shadow Master read the account he had witnessed. “I like the style of this,” he said eventually. “And thank you for not mentioning how difficult it is to clean soot out of clothing. Nor the indignity of having to creep back and retrieve my cloak. But of course no one will ever believe it happened.” He paused for a moment, as if thinking. “Although I think it would make a fine parable.”

  “A parable?” asked Vincenzo. “But this is what happened. This is how I have written you out of death again. Written an escape for you when it seemed you had been destroyed.”

  “Never underestimate the power of metaphor and parable,” the Shadow Master said.

  “You are impossible!” said Vincenzo. “Did I or did I not save your life by my telling of the story?”

  “Do you believe that you did? Belief is important.”

  “Give it back,” said Vincenzo. “I’m going to change the end so that you get a whipping from the Seers. Like a naughty child. With your pants pulled down. Using willow switches.”

  “Oh no,” said the Shadow Master, holding the manuscript page high above his head, out of Vincenzo’s reach. “Too late. The writing hand writes and moves on.”

  Vincenzo glared at him. “And besides,” said the Shadow Master, “we’re getting close to the end of things now. The convergence. You really need to pay attention to the disparate streams if you’re going to be able to bring them all together. That’s where you’ll be able to save your city. Like stopping all the floating islands of your city drifting apart.”

  Vincenzo paused and thought about that. “That’s good,” he said. “I never thought of it like that, but yes, the many islands of our city are like a collection of stories in danger of drifting apart as these battles are waged.”

  “And you are the one to save them,” the Shadow Master said. “So sharpen your pen. We have much still to do!”

  LXX

  THE STORY OF GIULIETTA

  Giulietta had spent much of the evening deciding on what position she should be in when her parents found her and presumed she had died. Her first thought was something very dramatic to make them regret all the times that they’d been cruel to her, such as refusing to buy her a particular new gown or pair of shoes. She might dress herself in her oldest dress that was ill-fitting and then they’d feel so bad that they hadn’t bought her more new clothes that they’d… She thought about that and decided it wasn’t such a great idea. They’d probably rush out and buy some ghastly dress that they thought was all the style and take her to the family crypt in it and she’d awaken and Romeo would be there and the first question he’d ask her was, “Where did you get that ghastly dress?”

  She then thought about dressing herself in her most exquisite gown so that she would be entombed in that. But that presented a few problems as well. If she tossed around after taking the death-like potion she might crush it. Her parents would decide it was ruined and go out and buy that ghastly dress again.

  Finally she decided she would be found lying in bed in her nightdress, with her face made up as nice as could be, and her favourite dress hanging by the foot of the bed, clearly indicating that she had planned to be wearing it the next day. They’d have to dress her in it. Surely.

  She had toyed with the idea of writing a note that could be found with her body, but in the end decided against it. It was far better if her death seemed mysterious rather than deliberate. She would like to have written that she had died out of love for Romeo, and the letter would become famous amongst young lovers for centuries to come, but he would then be blamed for her death and if he was caught when he snuck back into the city to fetch her it would turn out ill for him.

  A pity though, she quite liked the idea of beco
ming a martyr for all the other young women of the world.

  Finally, her mind made up, she took the vial from where she had hidden it between her breasts and unstopped it. She gave it a cautious sniff and then swallowed it in one go. It didn’t taste pleasant, but certainly didn’t take like near-death. Then she cast the vial out the window into the canal, blew out her candle, and gently lay down on the bed.

  She had been expecting some pain, but instead found a gradual numbness creeping over her, dulling her mind until she felt she was in a dream state. She felt some awareness of the passing of time, but it was as if some incidents went slowly and others came very fast.

  She was aware of the arrival of the morning and the long wait until somebody came into her chamber to rouse her. Then there was a leap forward until she was surrounded by her parents wailing and weeping over her. Her mother lay on top of her body and kissed her, as if trying to breathe some life back into her body. She cried her name over and over and even shook her as if trying to waken her and wailed when she could not. She had expected to feel sad about that, but found she did not feel anything, as if the drug had not only robbed the life from her, but had robbed her feelings as well.

  She was being laid out and washed and clothed, but had no idea what dress they were putting her in. Then there was a long period of nothingness until she was aware of being surrounded by people all mumbling sadly to each other. That seemed to go on forever. Then she felt hands taking her up and lifting her into the air. She was borne aloft and felt herself floating. Felt herself drift down the stairs of the palazzo and out onto the streets where the commoners walked and traded and talked noisily like cattle. She floated like a ghost and felt the lap of water beneath her until she felt hands upon her again.

  The air about was chill and she knew it was the family crypt on the island of the dead. She was aware of the smell of candles and incense and prayers and more soft mumblings and tears. Then finally she was on her own. In the dark. Feeling nothing but the expectation of waiting for her lover to come and rouse her. Never doubting for a moment that he would.

  LXXI

  THE STORY OF ISABELLA

  Isabella had expected her betrothed to come back to her palazzo confident and assured, and to take her in his arms and perhaps even lead her back to her bedchamber once more. But when he did return, near dusk, he looked like a poor cousin of the man she had lain with the night previously. He was pale and bent over as if he carried a vast weight upon his shoulders. As if he had some perilous news that he did not wish to have to share with her.

  She led him to a seat in one of the sitting rooms, gave him some wine and asked, “What has happened?” So many possibilities ran through her mind. He was married. He had a disease and had infected her. He had to go away somewhere. He had a huge debt and needed money.

  But he put down the cup of wine and came to her and held her. And she knew, then, that if his solution to the problem was to hold her tightly, then it should be nothing she should fear. “What has happened?” she asked again.

  “I am a murderer!” he said.

  Her body stiffened a little and she asked him slowly, “Who have you murdered?”

  “My godfather, Ansaldo the merchant,” he said. “My tardiness has killed him.”

  “Tell me,” she said. And he looked her in the eyes and explained how he had beseeched him to borrow money from one of the city’s moneylenders to finance the third ship of trade goods he had come to her with, and how the moneylender, a Child of David, had insisted on a pound of flesh as the bond for the loan, and now the moneylender was insisting on it. “I did not return within the given time,” Giannetto said. “The bond is forfeited.

  “I don’t understand,” said Isabella. “What does a pound of flesh mean?”

  “It means a pound of Ansaldo’s flesh, to be cut from anywhere on his body.”

  Isabella pushed back from him a little. “How could you make such a bargain?” she asked.

  “I was assured it was simply a traditional clause that would not be acted upon,” Giannetto said.

  “Who told you this? The moneylender?”

  “No. The man who introduced me to him. He was a fellow named Marco who I met in an inn.”

  “A stout fellow with a scar under his ear here?” she asked, running a finger down the side of his face.

  “Yes. That’s him. Do you know him? He could clear this all up.”

  Isabella shook her head. “I know him,” she said coldly. “He worked for the previous Othmen envoy. I feel his hand behind all this.”

  “I even offered up a pound of my own flesh to pay the debt, but he would not take it.”

  Isabella shivered and wrapped her arms about him protectively. “He should take no one’s flesh,” she said.

  And Giannetto almost sobbed, “But he will have a pound of Ansaldo’s flesh in punishment for my being spellbound by your flesh.”

  Isabella was silent for a moment, and then placed a hand gently on his face. “And I your flesh,” she said. He leaned his head into her shoulder.

  “Go back to the moneylender,” she said. “Give him the ship and goods you brought with you as payment, and I will give you another to match it to give him as well.”

  “He will not take them. I have begged him to accept all manner of riches. He has some evil sense of victory over my godfather that even gold and treasure will not rob him of.”

  Isabella looked at the pain in his eyes, and felt it in her own heart. “Offer him ten ships,” she said.

  He looked at her and smiled, but then shook his head. “He will not take it. Not ten-fold the loan. Not twenty-fold nor more. These were his own words.”

  Isabella thought for a moment and then said, “This is a cruelty beyond description. The magistrates will not allow it.”

  “He has it in writing,” said Giannetto in dismay. “Signed by Ansaldo’s own hand. And he has done this out of his love and trust in me.” Then, “You see, I am his murderer.”

  “You are not yet a murderer,” Isabella said.

  But Giannetto could not be consoled. “It is only a matter of time now,” he said morosely. And at that she put a hand to the back of his head and grasped his hair tightly, pulling his head closer to hers.

  “Listen to me carefully,” she said. “I have long since learned that nothing comes to pass until it has come to pass – and I will not see you so unmanned by something that may yet be averted.” She held him and let him feel the strength in her arms, reinforcing the strength in her words.

  He met her eyes and said, “I do not know what to do.”

  She nodded her head. “Would you slay the Son of David to save your godfather?” she asked.

  “I have in truth considered it,” he said. “But I would not.”

  “Because you are afraid to?”

  “No,” he said. “Because it is wrong to.”

  “And if it was me whose life was at risk? Would you kill to save me?”

  “Only in that I would offer up my own life to save yours.”

  “But if you killed the moneylender your life would be forfeit and Ansaldo would live. Would it not be the same?”

  “No,” he said softly. “It would not. For then I truly would be a…” He paused.

  “A murderer?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “So now you tell me that you are not in fact a murderer.”

  “No,” he said. “I am not.”

  She held his head a moment longer and then pulled him closer still. And kissed him. “And I am glad to hear you say it,” she said. “If it is Ansaldo’s love for you that has gotten him into this perilous situation, then it is my love for you that shall get him out of it. I know a man who can help you.”

  “What type of man?” Giannetto asked.

  “A very good man,” she said.

  LXXII

  ELSEWHERE IN THE FLOATING CITY

  “You are unreasonable, ignorant and present a danger to the city,” Councillor de Abbacio sho
uted, slapping his hand on the council table.

  The councillor sitting opposite him, Signor Tegalliano, stared back at him, so outraged by the insult that he could not get words into his mouth. “That’s an outrage,” he finally spluttered.

  “It’s an outrage that you are allowed to continue sitting on the council,” said Signor de Abbacio, “when any man off the street has twice your intelligence and at least three times your backbone.”

  Signor Tegalliano’s eyes bulged and he went red in the face. “You insult me, signor,” he said.

  “Well done,” Signor de Abbacio retorted. “I was beginning to think that observation had escaped you.”

  “You go too far,” said Signor Tegalliano.

  “You don’t go far enough,” said Signor de Abbacio. “And the further from this chamber the better.”

  The Duca held up a hand to try and bring some type of order to the council meeting. “Please,” he said. “This is all a distraction.”

  Then Signor Hermino, seated next to de Abbacio as ever, interjected, “I think this is important to the council. If indeed Signor Tegalliano lacks either the ability to cast a vote, or the bravery to challenge Signor de Abbacio to defend his honour when it is insulted, as he claims, then how can he claim a seat on this council? Our numbers are already dangerously reduced and we have need of stout and true citizens sitting here with us.”

  “Abstaining from voting has never been an issue in the past,” said the Duca.

  “But our city has never been so imperilled in the past,” Signor Hermino said. “I suggest that any member of the council who finds himself unwilling to cast a vote, should step down from the council at once.”

  “You should stand down yourself,” said Signor Tegalliano, spittle flying from his mouth as he shouted across the table. “You are nothing but de Abbacio’s lap dog, mouthing whatever he asks of you.”