The Shadow Master (20 page)

“I hear stories,” said the guardsman, “Of a great army of the plagued who are roaming the land like vermin, overwhelming each city they come to, be it free of plague or not.”

“Just stories,” said Sergeant Cristoforo.

“They say that this army is so large that when it moves across the land it is like one of the plagues of rats from the era of the ancients that moved like a giant black cloud many leagues in length.”

“Just stories,” said the Sergeant again.

Both men stood in silence a while longer. Then the guardsman said, “I have heard the plague will last eight years and will then leave the lands.”

“I have heard that too,” said the Sergeant.

“How many years now has it been?” asked the guardsman. “Five?”

“Six,” said Sergeant Cristoforo.

“Two years then,” said the guardsman. “We can last two more years.”

“Of course we can,” Sergeant Cristoforo replied. As long as the war between the great Houses did not continue that long. As long as there was no army of the plagued out there. As long as ships were able to continue trading without losing too many to the maelstrom. Then he turned to the guardsman and asked, “What do you see when you look out upon these wretches below?”

The guardsman shrugged. “I am a guard. They are the enemy trying to get into our city.”

Sergeant Cristoforo thought upon that a moment. Wondered if thinking of them as the enemy made the task of standing here on the wall more bearable. “So would you attack them and drive them away?”

“I would.”

“Would you put a case to the City Council that to defend our walls we must kill them?”

“No,” said the guardsman, and spat over the ramparts. “No point in killing them. They are dying already. We just need to stand here and wait.”

It was an interesting logic, thought the Sergeant. Then he asked, “But what happens when the number of plague people outside our walls is greater than the number of people inside the Walled City?”

“But that has already happened,” said the guardsman. “That's when I gave up counting them.”

 

 

XXXVII

The Nameless One had been standing outside Lucia's door, watching her through one of the spy holes for at least a quarter of a small candle's length. He wondered if the letter he had sent to Cosimo Medici had been an error. He must find out. When he finally gave a quick tap on the door and stepped inside he was surprised to see how startled she was. He had been watching her so closely, surely she had felt him there. Surely.

But perhaps she was just good at masking her feelings from him? Not all masks were made of leather, he knew. He had watched every breath she had taken and watched the way her long hair moved when she turned her head. Surely she suspected she was being watched and was showing him how beautiful she was. Some of his guests had sat on the bed with their head in their hands for the whole duration of their internment here. Others had lain on the bed and cried, or hidden under the covers. But not this young woman. She was brave. She was willing to stand up to him. He admired that. And more. Of course more.

But what did she think of him? He had to know. “How is my little bird today?” he asked her. “Do I detect a sense of sadness in you?”

She stared at him coldly. “Do I detect a little conceit in you?” she asked.

He smiled. “Perhaps it is just that the little bird wishes for a warm scented bath, or some fresh air. Anything can be arranged,” he said.

“Birds do not have warm scented baths,” she replied. He pulled a mock sad face as if he was going to miss a treat. “Neither do reptiles,” she said, “So we can both go without.”

From anybody else he would have grown angry at that insult, but he smiled again. “And what type of reptile might I be?” he asked. “A dragon?”

“A lizard,” she said.

“Yes. One who can disappear into the walls, and when its tail is trapped it still escapes.”

“A snake then,” she said.

“A silent foe that lies in wait and strikes with deadly accuracy.”

“A scorpion,” she said.

“An armoured warrior that fears nobody.”

She stopped. “You are not a reptile,” she said. “You are a rodent.”

“But what type? A rat that lives beneath the city and emerges when it pleases? A mouse, that can move into a kitchen and steal cheese so stealthily that it is never seen nor heard?”

She clamped her mouth shut, refusing to play any more of his games, and the Nameless One shrugged and walked along to one of the few pictures on the wall and moved it a little one, way and then a little the other, as if it had been crooked and he needed to straighten it. Then he turned back and asked, “And what kind of bird are you, my dear?” But she would not answer.

“I will tell you,” he said. “You are a most rare bird. Probably there is no other like it in the world. One of the most beautiful birds even held in captivity. Undoubtedly the bird has a beautiful song too, but this is the sad thing about this bird. When it is in captivity it will not sing. It deprives all who would capture it and hear its beautiful song the pleasure of its music.”

Lucia narrowed her eyes and stared closely at him. “But I think the bird just needs to realise that it is not in captivity,” he said. “The bird needs to realise that it has freedom, but within the limits of a new master.”

“This bird will sing for no master,” Lucia said. “This bird only sings when it finds dead reptiles and rodents to feast on.”

That was too far. The Nameless One tried to control his temper but felt his face reddening. He clenched his fists by his sides, working his jaw a moment, and asked carefully, “Do you know what I am offering you?”

“No,” she said. “I do not.”

The Nameless One came and sat down on the bed beside her. She moved away a little. “I am a very lonely man,” he said. “I'd give all my wealth for a chance to live in solitude with a song bird to keep me company.”

“Then buy one in the markets,” she said.

He shook his head a little and then reached up and touched her hair. “Think again,” he said. “Do you know what I am offering you?”

“I don't care,” she said.

He reached for her hand, but as soon as he touched her she pulled it back, as if bitten, and then slapped him on the face. He made no move to stop her. Let her hand connect with his jaw and he even closed his eyes a moment as if wanting to prolong the feeling of her touch.

But then he stood slowly and looked down at her, feeling the heat from the blow, feeling the heat of his anger filling him again. He reached out quickly and did grab her hair, pulling her a little off the bed. Then he saw the angry plague scars on her neck there and let go quickly. He stood up and remained completely still for a long time, the sound of their breathing suddenly loud in the room. He was aware that she was now watching him as he had watched her. Carefully monitoring his every small move to see what he would do next.

“You have made me very angry,” he said eventually, in as calm a voice as he could manage. “I am at times a violent man and you do not want to make me angry. You would do much better to make me happy. I am a very generous man when I am happy.”

“I don't care,” she said again, though much softer this time.

“Do you know what would make me the most happy of men?” he asked. Perhaps she guessed, but she did not say so. “It would make me the most happy of men if you would ride away into the hills with me and sing your bird songs to me.” And I could pretend I was twenty years younger once more, he thought. I could pretend life was other than it is. Even if for only a short time.

“I do not wish to leave the city,” she said softly. “I do not wish to sing for you.”

“Consider it carefully,” he said. “And don't respond so readily with haste and hot words. The city is falling into a war that will end badly for all involved and we may be the only two who can hope to hear a bird's song rather than the drums of war.” When she said nothing still, he added, “Or the drums of death!” Then he turned and stepped back out the door. Returned once more to the peep holes to see how she would react. Would she drop her head to her hands now, or throw herself onto the bed, or just sit there and glare around the room, hoping to defiantly meet his eyes somewhere?

 

 

XXXVIII

The City Councillors had never felt more like impotent old men. Well, there was that one time of the mid-summer's feast when the dancing girls had been arranged, but they had collectively vowed never to talk of that again. Apart from that evening, they had never felt more like impotent old men.

There had been a time when their word was not just law, but it was a law that was trusted and followed by the citizens of the Walled City. But that had not been for some time. The only power and authority they now held was at the Medici and Lorraines' bequest. They had less troops in the City Guard than the two families had. They had less money in their coffers than the two families had. And they held less sway over the citizens of the city than the two families had.

It would have been good to point the blame at some city statute or some individual, and say, “That is what caused this. But we can turn it around.” But in truth they were all guilty of trading away their powers. For small favours. For gems. For spice wine. For a private dinner with the Duke or the Medici. For a pageant or a portrait or a fresco. All small vanities really.

The current Head Councillor, an elderly man called Signor Pacciani
,
who had particularly embarrassed himself on the night of the dancing girls, waved the slip of paper in his hand at his fellow councillors as if it were a large sword, and said, to bring them to order, “The City Guard reports the number of plague people at the gates has increased again. We must make a decision as to what is to be done.”

The men around the table looked at him, waiting for him to make a suggestion. It was his turn in the chair, after all, so all responsibility for failure should be his. The City Council rotated leadership every two months, which was ideal in better times because it allowed no one to scheme too much or demonstrate too much corruption, and it also meant that almost no decision was in the hands of a single leader as the implementation of any decision generally took more than two months. But since the plague people had arrived it seemed a good excuse for the Head Councillors never to have to make a hard decision – just wait out their turn and pass the problems to the next Head Councillor.

“What do you propose?” the man to his left, Signor Narducci, asked. When he was Head Councillor, Narducci had overseen a failed scheme to bribe the plague people to leave the city walls.

“Well perhaps we should turn the City Guard on them,” the Head Councillor said.

The men around the table made as if they were considering this, but it had already been discussed at previous meetings and they knew the idea would not work, for if the plague people resisted and they lost guardsmen they would be even more powerless to the two families than they were now. “If only we could have the two families fighting the plague people instead of amongst themselves,” a man to his right, Signor Fabbri, said.

Everyone around the table looked across at him and frowned. It was not his turn in the Head Councillor's chair for another two months and he had no right to be making such suggestions before his turn. “Yes,” said the Head Councillor. “That would be a wonderful thing to see indeed, as would seeing the city rise up into the sky and float away to another place where there were no plague people.”

“But this city is the only place in the known world where there are no plague people,” said Narducci.

“The problem is not one of taking the city to a new place, it is one of
sending
the plague people to a new place,” said another man, Signor Spezi, further around the table. “Perhaps we can put them on ships and take them over the seas?” The Council frowned at him too. He would not be Head Councillor for at least six more months. “We could leave them in the ports where we trade for the spices,” he said.

“Except that we have no ships sailing due to the war between the families,” said the Head Councillor. He looked across the Council Secretary to make sure that his comment was being recorded. He smiled and turned back to the Council. “It seems to me that any solution is going to be based around finding a way to stop this escalating war between the families.”

“What do you propose?” the man to his left, Narducci, asked once more. The Head Councillor stammered a little and said, “Well. Obviously we just need to convince them to make peace.” He watched the other members of Council snigger into their beards and turned to the Council Secretary and made a small hand signal to indicate that his response should not be recorded. “What I mean is that we need to invite the members of the families to a Council meeting where we can discuss in confidence issues of the war, and what to do about the increase in plague people and decrease in the effectiveness of the spice.”

“Do you suggest we hand over all our remaining power to them?” Narducci asked. The Head Councillor made the small hand signal to the secretary again and said, “Of course not. I am suggesting that we let them know of their responsibilities to the city. We let them know that we alone cannot solve the pressing problems before us. We let them know that we need their cooperation to make the city and its citizens safe.”

The Council considered this for a time and nodded into their beards at the possibility of the idea, until Narducci again asked, “How do you propose to convince them it is in their interests to attend such a meeting?”