The Shadow Master (11 page)

Sometimes a family might arrive, carrying a cart of their combined produce, which they would offer up just so that one of them, usually a sickly young boy or girl could be admitted to the city. At such times Sergeant Cristoforo tried not to imagine what he would do if he were outside the walls with his own wife and three children. He was, after all, a citizen of the Walled City and that was that. The plague victims were people from other lands. They had no given rights to entry to the Walled City, as the citizens of the city had no obligation to allow those not from the city to enter it.

But when his youngest daughter had been taken ill with a temperature two moons past he had woken from a nightmare in which the Council decreed that all sick children had to be put out of the city. He was trying to save her as his own guardsmen dragged her away. Most dreams faded away from him in the moments after waking, but the terror he had felt from this one still stayed with him now. He had told his wife and she had wept as if it was not a dream but a premonition, so he had kept his thoughts to himself after that.

He scanned the crowd and found the ten largest offerings he could see and had them loaded onto the carts. “We will take more offerings tomorrow,” he called to the crowd below, and before they could be become restive or ill-tempered about missing out he called, “Assemble for the lottery.” This always prompted more jostling amongst the plague people, but his men were ready for it and assembled tightly around the carts while they withdrew into the city and the large gate was closed behind them.

“In two lines,” Sergeant Cristoforo called down to the plague people. “Two lines or there will be no lottery.”

They complied with the obedience of the desperate, standing there with a small scrap of cloth or parchment in their hands. A guardsman, facing a particularly severe punishment, walked down each line with a bowl and let the scraps be thrown in, never touching them. When that was done, they carried them in through the small door and up onto the wall above the gates. The Sergeant himself was the one who made the draw each day. He held the power over them and it gave them more reason to obey his commands.

But it was a hollow sort of power, he felt. Obedience from a mass of stinking plague victims. It amazed him, sometimes, to discover there were citizens within the Walled City who had never seen a plague victim. Had never ventured up onto the walls to stare down at the putrid mass of humanity that gathered there, like half-creatures that had once been human, now disfigured and tormented by pain and pustules. It would certainly be easier to sleep soundly at nights never having seen it, he supposed. To never have seen what might become of the Walled City if they were not able to ensure the supply of spice wine that warded it off.

He knew they had not had a ship arrive since this war between the two great families had begun, but the City Council claimed there was sufficient store in the city, as they claimed there was sufficient grain in the warehouses. But he also knew that if their stores of food were as sufficient as the City Council claimed they would not need to be taking offerings from the scabbed hands of plague people each morning.

He had heard the types of stories that people told about the plague. That it spread from your fingers and everything you touched became infected with it. If you rubbed your nose it would fall right off your face. If you scratched your arse giant pustules the size of a pig's bladder would appear there. Or if you had a piss and touched your fountain of relief, it turned black and fell off and the roads to the city were lined with shrivelled black members.

The two guardsmen climbed up to him and presented the bowls. He pulled on a thick metal gauntlet and reached into the first bowl and pulled out a scrap of linen. Those who had no paper tore off bits of their clothing and wrote their names on it. Those who could not write paid others to write their names for them, even though more often than not the rogue with the pen would put his own name on the scrap. Sergeant Cristoforo looked carefully at the smudged name and had to steel himself to call it out. It was his daughter's name. Just a coincidence he told himself, nothing more, though he feared it would prompt another nightmare as a result of it. An elderly woman wailed and sank to her knees in thanks, kissing the ground and calling upon the old gods and new for delivering her to salvation. A guardsman prodded her to her feet and she stumbled in through the door. The Sergeant turned his head so as not to meet her eyes.

Now for the second name. The lines dissolved now, as ever, as desperation overtook order. The guardsmen held a tight formation. “Order, or there will be no second name called,” Sergeant Cristoforo called down from above and the crowd made something of an attempt at order. Some were on their knees praying, others were pushing forward to be closer to the gate as if it might somehow increase their chance of having their name called.

The Sergeant reached into the second bowl and pulled out a small piece of parchment. It was clean and white and the name written upon it had been done with a careful and well practiced hand. Obviously a nobleman. Well, once a nobleman, now a plague victim wrapped in rags. He called out the name, and, as sometimes happened, more than one person raised a hand, claiming it was them.

He sighed. This was always unfortunate. He had at one time toyed with the idea of making all the claimants write their name again on a piece of paper and the one that most closely matched would be let into the city, and the others would be slain in front of the others, but this was made difficult by the fact that the scrawl of most peasants looked rather similar and many of the names were written by the scribes amongst them. And of course several people invariably had the same names.

It didn't matter. The Captain of the Guard had decreed that in the case of multiple claimants the gates were simply to be closed and all would miss out. The guardsmen below knew what to do; they retreated through the narrow doorway and the cogs spun quickly so it closed tightly behind them, leaving the mob screaming and banging on the gates. Sergeant Cristoforo watched them for some moments, letting the anger die down and then he threw them all a thin crust of hope.

“There will be another lottery tomorrow morning,” he called, dropping the bowls to his feet so the contents could be burned. Then he descended back down the stairs to lead the oxen and the few fortunate chosen back up the streets into the city.

 

 

XIX

Lorenzo readied himself for another leap. He had studied the rooftops of the Walled City and had the route carefully mapped out, to reach the Lorraines' house as the first dim light of day arrived. The first few jumps were the hardest, but he was getting the hang of it. Using a short magnifier he had taken from the workshop he was truncating the distance between buildings and leaping across. Only once had he picked a distance too far and had almost fallen.

It required careful work, and jumping with a magnifier against one eye and the other eye closed truly was a leap of faith. There would be a total of twelve jumps, with each one taking him closer into Lorraine-held territory, but he had charted a course that avoided the buildings that would be occupied by Lorraine soldiers, and the sight lines of the main Lorraine towers.

It was a pity that Lucia could not see him coming towards her in the fading light of day, leaping across the rooftops like one of the ancients, but he had to approach the Lorraine household from the rear if he were to reach it. He was certain she could feel him getting closer though, just as he could feel her through the flutter in his chest the nearer he got. He had already made nine jumps and could feel the apprehension in his chest building as he approached. It was like this when he had climbed the tower to Lucia's chamber. The closer he got, the more dangerous it was, but also the more thrilling it was, as he knew he was getting nearer to her with each step and hand-reach. He had entered her chamber with his arms feeling like lead. He supposed it was the effort of the climb, but he was feeling something similar now in his limbs again. Particularly, his right hand, which had a single metal gauntlet on it. Unlike the gloves that he had used to climb to Lucia's tower, this one was made of copper bands, set with and springs and cogs.

He turned his attention back to the roof top he was standing on. It was red-tiled like most in the Walled City, but the roof across the street ahead of him was flat-topped, with a small wall around it. He scanned it carefully to make sure there was no door to the roof that soldiers could come pouring out of to attack him. That would be a major setback to his careful plans. He could not see all of the roof because of a set of chimneys, but it looked clear. Then he peered down into the street below. There was nobody there to see him. The streets of the Walled City were more often empty than not these days. It was dangerous to be about if you did not have an armed guard.

Lorenzo gauged the amount of steps he needed for a run-off and then placed the magnifier to his eye with his left hand. The distance closed up and he could see the rooftop just a long leap away from him. He moved the magnifier away from his eye and watched the distance restore, and then took four fast steps and thrust the magnifier back to his eye on the last step. The roof top was right in front of him and he felt himself launching through the air and then landing heavily. He almost dropped the magnifier as he stumbled and fell with a thump, knocking the wind from himself. He clutched the precious device to his chest to protect it. If he were to break it he would not be able to continue, and Galileo would be furious with him. The only thing worse would be if it were to fall into the hands of the Lorraines.

He rolled to one side to get back to his feet and saw four guards staring at him with surprised looks on their faces. They all wore thin moustaches, and had been sitting there boredly behind the chimneys. Probably getting some warmth from them to make the long lonely guard vigil a little more bearable. Lorenzo and the guards all tried to get to their feet at the same time. Lorenzo knew he would have to jump back or onward again quickly. He was so close. Only a few more jumps. But his limbs were too slow to respond. They were stiff and awkward. He should have had time to escape while they fumbled for their pikes, but he could only wriggle away from them, trying to get to his feet again. The closest guardsman stepped across to him and prodded him with the butt of his pike. Lorenzo got to one knee and punched at him with the metal glove and its force sent the man flying across the roof. The other guardsmen immediately became more cautious. Keeping back and pointing their pikes at him. He needed more time. But he had that as well. He reached into a pouch around his neck and pulled out the chronometer, winding it as the guardsmen circled him with their pikes at the ready.

“Who are you?” one of them demanded.

“He's a Medici spy,” another said.

“Or an assassin,” said a third.

“Kill him,” said the first. “There'll be a reward in it for us whoever he is.”

Lorenzo held the chronometer out before him on the flat of his gloved hand, waiting for time to slow around him, waiting to see the guardsmen move like they were half-asleep, giving him time to jump away. But nothing changed. The first one said, “Eh… What's that?” cautiously, as if unsure if Lorenzo were offering them something valuable or was threatening them with it.

“Kill him and then find out,” said the second.

Lorenzo looked down at the chronometer and saw that it was not ticking. Something was wrong with it. He must have knocked something out of alignment when he fell. “No,” he said. “Wait!” But the men didn't look interested in waiting. They moved their pikes closer to his chest and he scrambled back until he touched the small wall around the rooftop. So, he thought, he could stand up and be tipped off the roof top to the streets below, or he could stay there and be run through. Trying desperately to think of something to say that would save him, all he could think of was Lucia – holding out a hand to him.

“Lucia!” he said.

“Lucia Lorraine?” one of the guards asked, and lowered his pike a little.

“Yes,” he said. “Lucia Lorraine. I have an important message for her.”

“Who are you?” one of the other guards asked, not lowering his pike at all.

“It's important,” said Lorenzo. He could see at least one of the guards was wavering, not sure if they should kill him or not. If he could just say the right thing to him, he might be saved. But before he could say anything else a dark figure landed on the rooftop behind the soldiers. He had jumped across the wider gap to the south and he landed in a rolling motion, coming up next to the closest soldier. The man barely had time to register his presence before the figure struck him heavily in the throat and he fell with a gurgling sound. Lorenzo saw the dark figure was wearing a cape and hood as he rolled under the pike of the second guard and came up heavily under his chin, knocking his head back as he struck him. The guard fell like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Lorenzo watched the two remaining guards looking around them as if they were being attacked from all sides. The figure moved so fast they might as well have been. In close their pikes were too clumsy to be of much use and the third guard fell while trying to bring it down on the dark figure's head. The fourth guard had the presence of mind to drop his pike and pull a small sword that he had at his belt. The caped figure stood before him, not moving and the guard advanced on him, waving his sword menacingly. “Prepare to die,” the guard hissed.

“Neither of us dies this evening,” the figure said and then suddenly stepped to one side as the guard slashed at him, missing, and then the caped figure reached out one hand as fast as a snake, appeared just to touch the guard on the neck and he fell to the ground. “Although,” he said to his opponent, “you might look a lot less ugly and more peaceful if you were dead.”