The Water Mirror (19 page)

Serafin crouched lower behind the flower tub until only his eyes peered over the edge.

Flames were flickering within the fissure. At first they seemed to burn evenly, then they moved gradually from both ends toward the middle, and there they pulled themselves together into an unbearably bright ball of flame.

A figure peeled itself out of the firelight.

It floated upright and bore something around its head that at first sight looked like a halo. The appearance was
reminiscent of the representations of Christ on altarpieces, images as he ascended to heaven after his death, the hands crossed gracefully. But then Serafin saw that the figure had the face of a newborn, fleshy and swollen. The halo revealed itself to be a sort of circular saw blade, with teeth as long as Serafin's thumbs; it was attached to the back of the creature's head and appeared to be fused with skin and bone. The crossed hands were gigantic chicken claws, gray and scaly and segmented. The creature's plump body ended not in legs but in something long, pointed, that was wound with wet bandages; it looked like a trembling reptile's tail, which was prevented by the bandaging from thrashing around uncontrollably. The creature's swollen eyelids slid back like night snails and exposed pitch-black eyeballs. Also, the blubbery lips opened, revealing teeth filed to a point.

“Hell presents its greetings,” intoned the creature. Its voice sounded like a child's, only louder, more penetrating. It echoed over the whole piazza.

The guardsmen raised their rifles, but the messenger from Hell laughed at them. He was now hovering six feet over the fiery crack, and still its flames bathed him in garish flickering light. Tiny tongues of fire danced up and down along the bandages of his lower body, without burning the material.

“Citizens of this city,” cried the emissary so loudly that his voice even carried over the crackling. “My masters have
an offer to make you.” Green spittle poured from the corners of his mouth, spread itself into the folds of his double chin, collected on his crop, and dropped down below. The heat of the flames evaporated the drops as they fell.

“We wish,” he said, and he bowed, with a crooked grin, “to be your friends from now on.”

Something shook the world.

Just a moment before, the swarm of mermaids had been quietly floating in the water several yards under the surface. Then an earsplitting bang had sounded, and a shock wave seized them and whirled them around in confusion, as if an angry god had hit the sea with a fist. Merle saw the gondolas over them being thrown against each other like paper boats; some were wedged together, others broke into pieces. Suddenly an invisible force tore her away from the two mermaids holding her hands. First she was sucked down deeper below, and then spat up again into a dense jumble of gondola pieces. She opened her eyes wide, saw the sharp keels rushing toward her like black sword blades, was about to scream—

The round helmet of hardened water took the blow. A hard jolt went through Merle's body, but the pain was bearable. The water was as roiled as if a hurricane were storming over the surface. Suddenly a mermaid's hands grasped her by the waist from behind and swiftly maneuvered her under the gondolas and through to the pilings of
a nearby boat landing, only a few yards away. The mermaid's face was strained. It was costing her all her strength to withstand the alternating play of pressure and suction. Merle reached the pier and before she could react, she was catapulted to the surface, in her head the Flowing Queen's scream,
“Hold on tight!”

She threw open her arms and clung to a slimy pile of the landing stage, slipping down it a little ways until her thrashing feet found a toehold. In no time she clambered up onto the steps, collapsed onto the dock, and coughed up saltwater.

The surface of the water around the landing was still turbulent, but it seemed to be quieting gradually. Merle took off the helmet, saw a hand stretching out to her from the waves in farewell, and threw the sphere into the water. Delicate fingers closed around the edge of the neck opening and pulled the helmet into the depths. Merle watched a swarm of bright bodies shoot away under the water.

“I feel something . . . ,”
the Queen began slowly, but then she fell silent again almost immediately.

Merle turned and looked over through dripping strands of hair to the piazza.

At first she saw only the fire.

Then the figure. She saw it as clearly as if every detail, every horrible detail, had burned into her retina within the space of a second.

“. . . be your friends from now on,” she heard the creature saying.

She picked herself up and ran onto the pavement. But there she stood still. She hesitated. Guardsmen were gingerly gathering around the hovering creature, way beyond its reach, yet still close enough to reach it with their bullets.

Hell's messenger paid no attention to the soldiers but directed his words to his audience behind the columns of the arcade and around the edges of the piazza.

“Common folk of Venice, Hell offers you a pact.” Luxuriating, he allowed the words to reverberate. The echo transformed his child's voice into a grotesque squeal. “Your masters, the councillors of this city, have rejected our offer. Yet hear it yourselves and come to your own decision.” Again he allowed a pause, punctuated by commands of the captain of the Guard. A second, then a third troop hurried forward as reinforcements, accompanied by a dozen riders on stone lions.

“You fear the wrath of the Pharaoh's kingdom,” the messenger continued. “And that rightly. More than thirty years long you have warded off the Empire. Yet very soon now the mummy armies of the Pharaoh will launch a great blow and sweep you from the face of the earth. Unless it should happen . . . yes, unless it should happen that you have powerful allies on your side. Allies like my masters!” A pant worked its way through the fleshy lips. “The hosts of our kingdom are a match for those of the Empire. We can protect you. Yes, that we can.”

Merle appeared to be spellbound by the disgusting appearance of the fiery figure. More and more people were streaming to the edges of the piazza from all directions, lured by the flames, the noise, and the prospect of a gigantic spectacle.

“We have no time to waste,”
said the Flowing Queen.
“Quick, run to the Campanile!”

“But the fire . . .”

“If you run past on the left, you will make it. Please, Merle—this is the best possible moment!”

Merle ran. The tower rose in the inner corner of the L-shaped piazza. She had to run along the entire length of the fiery fissure, behind the messenger from Hell, who was floating over the flames with his face toward the palace. The stench of sulfur was overpowering. The messenger continued, but Merle scarcely heard him. At first, going along with the offer from the princes of Hell might seem appealing—but just looking at the nauseating creature was enough to make it clear that such a pact would take the Venetians from frying pan to fire. True, it might succeed in beating the Empire and keeping it out of the lagoon. But what new governors would seize the palaces of the city instead of the sphinx commanders? And what sacrifices would they require?

Half the distance to the Campanile was behind her before Merle realized that the entrance was unguarded. The tower guards had joined the troops in front of the
Doge's palace. At least a hundred rifle barrels were now pointed at the messenger, and new ones were being added every minute. The lions on the ground, all wingless and of granite, pawed angrily, their claws scratching furrows in the pavement of the piazza. Their riders were having trouble keeping them in check.

“From every inhabitant of the city a drop of blood,” cried Hell's messenger into the crowd. “Only one drop from each, and the pact is sealed. Citizens of Venice, think! How much blood will the Empire demand of you? How many of you will die in fighting around the lagoon, and how many dead will the hosts of the Pharaoh later claim?”

A young boy, seven years old at the most, tore himself loose from his horrified mother and ran on his short legs past the soldiers up to the messenger.

“The Flowing Queen protects us!” he cried up to the creature. “We don't need your help!”

The panicked mother tried to run after him, but others held her fast. She struggled, flailed around her, but she could not get free. She cried the name of her child over and over again.

The boy looked defiantly up at the messenger once more. “The Flowing Queen will always protect us!” Then he simply turned around and ran back to the others without the messenger's hurting him at all.

Merle had felt a pain in her chest at the child's words. It was a moment before she realized that it wasn't her own
feeling. It was the pain of the Flowing Queen, her despair, her shame.

“They are relying on me,”
she said tonelessly.
“They are all relying on me. And I have disappointed them.”

“They don't have any idea of what has happened.”

“They will soon find out. At the latest when the Pharaoh's war galleys anchor in the lagoon and the sunbarks spray fire from the sky.”
She was silent for a moment, then added,
“They should accept the messenger's offer.”

Merle almost stumbled over her own feet in fright. Only twenty more yards to the tower.

“What?” she cried out. “Are you serious?”

“It is a possibility.”

“But . . . Hell! I mean, what do we know about it?” And she added quickly, “Professor Burbridge's exploration experiences alone are enough to . . . oh, well, wish them to the Devil.”

“It is a possibility,”
the Queen said again. Her voice was unusually flat and weak. The little boy's words seemed to have touched her deeply.

“A pact with the Devil is never a possibility,” contradicted Merle, gasping for air. Running and arguing demanded too much of her stamina. “The old stories have already told us that. Everyone who's gotten himself into something like that is the loser in the end. Everyone!”

“Again, they are only stories, Merle. Do you know whether anyone really ever tried it?”

Merle looked back over her shoulder at the messenger in the midst of the flames. “Look at him! And now don't give me wise sayings, like ‘You shouldn't judge a person by his looks'! He isn't even a human being!”

“I am not one either.”

Staggering, Merle reached the door of the Campanile. It was standing open. “Listen,” she gasped, exhausted, “I don't want to insult you, but Hell—” She broke off, shaking her head. “Perhaps you really aren't human enough to understand about that.”

With that she gave herself a shake and entered the tower.

Serafin could have seen Merle running on the other side of the piazza, but his eyes were firmly fixed on the messenger—and on the ever-increasing crowd of soldiers gathering in front of him.

The part of the Piazza San Marco directly in front of the basilica was now also filled with people who had hurried there from everywhere to see what was going on. Some might already have heard that a messenger from Hell had appeared, but probably they hadn't believed it. Now they could see the truth with their own eyes.

Serafin kept fighting the urge to just run away. He'd only escaped prison by a hair, and now with every minute he spent here, the danger increased that someone would recognize him and take him prisoner. It was dumb, so
dumb to hide here behind the flower tub while the Guard were looking for him!

But the soldiers had other concerns at the moment, and Serafin, too, pushed out of his mind the danger he was in. He must see with his own eyes how this matter ended, he must hear what the messenger had to say.

And now he caught sight of something else: Three men had come out of the palace. Three councillors in splendid robes. Purple, scarlet, and gold. The traitors. The councillor in gold ran up to the captain of the Guard and was talking excitedly to him.