Laughter rises and falls like the ever undulating waters of the Adriatic and the Lagoon, and aboard the old caravel, glasses and voices are raised at the end of another successful bidding. There is something Verdi about the ebb and flow of the sound as it swells and falls away, competing with the sounds of the busy Canal.
The piers of Lido Island are full of fits and starts of tourists -- moments of riotous color and sound, moments of emptiness. The Excelsior sparkles, a Moorish mirage. Near the canal itself, away from the beaches, the traffic thins.
It is late enough that those on Lido are likely staying on Lido -- apart from those glittering few upon the top deck of the caravel. Taxi traffic is more concentrated from St. Mark's to the Grand Canal. Carnival continues. The masquerades, the parades, the regattas only change direction...
Between glittering globes, blown glass from Murano illuminated cleverly with interior torchiers, a lone gondola, a larger gondola with four red leather seats instead of the more typical two, approaches, water rippling, lifting beneath the bow as if it were born there. The pilot standing straight, his clothing traditional 17th Century, the better part of his face hidden by the silk of the tabarro.
The gondola awaits in the promised location, as if conjured by the voice that does not sound. The Voice, La Voce...
Sometimes, Paolo thinks, you have to play cards with The Devil. Sometimes you must let The Devil win a hand. Sometimes one must tempt one's own Fata for the better of all...
He arrives, in the lead, not saying much to the gondolier. Perhaps he does not know Italian. Edward stiffly nods at Paolo, then steps into the gondola, immediately turning about to watch the two behind him step in as well.
However, Cesare does know Paolo, and the young man's eyes narrow slightly, as if to ask 'what are you doing here?' "Miss..." Cesare says in English, not really knowing the woman, but even that word gives away the fact that he appears to be a local.
The woman wears her centuries well. She has been told so before; by her three sisters, all of whom have long since passed to what rest might be allotted them, or what torment; she has always been most careful not to inquire too deeply. It is disturbing, after all, to witness demons' smiles...
She is garbed in black, as for mourning, though the cut of her clothing suggests an elegant inclination towards remarriage, shall we say. The widow's veil nonetheless conceals her features, even if not the shape of her, nor the red lips. Beneath the veil, she is immobile - as if turned to stone, where no heart might beat, no grief might rend, as unreachable and implacable as the earth itself.
Thus far she has made no effort to escape her ... escort. What the future holds is as veiled as she, perhaps...
Karoly turns her face towards Cesare at the word - English is a language she knows, yes. The crimson lips firm, then part, voice sounding from a distance. "Yes?" English for English, in these very un-English surroundings. How ... empirical. And not inappropriate.
She has taken note of Paolo, though without recognition - one simply can't keep track of every magician in a wide world, and Italy is not a place she has been since the Second World War; Venice, not since even longer gone by. And she has had other points upon her mind... But she does not step in, instead turning her head to regard Cesare. Waiting. For words, or an opportunity - quien sabe?
Cesare does not say anything again. He simply motions to Karoly for the delicate step down into the gondola and onto the canal itself. He's a bit of a fashion plate, dressed well for the auction, and others there could not have imagined such an attractive young Italian doing enforcer duty for some unseen master.
Oh, wait. But this is Italy.
The woman simply inclines her chin downwards. That one word, evidently, is all she feels a need to offer, and she enters the gondola. Her chin rises as she does so, and she takes her seat as proudly as if it were a throne.
Karoly's gaze is hidden - perhaps she glares daggers, but she does not weep; no tears become visible at the veil's edge.
The larger man takes a position near the gondola's prime ferry. After Cesare enters safely, Edward looks ahead, expecting the gondola to take them to their destination.
There is a look of recognition between the gondolier and Cesare. Each has a question in his eyes: What are you doing here? What are we doing here? But nothing more than this passes from one to the other. The pilot waits for all to sit and then the gondola eases backwards...
Back upon the currents of two canalways that converge here, one snaking around Lido to the Lagoon, the other becoming the most famous street in the world, The Grand Canal. With the shift of his body weight and some maneuver hidden from your eyes beneath the murky, dark waters, Paolo di Santo brings the gondola around to face the illuminated Basilica of St. Mark and the Doge's Palace...
Water sounds, lapping in constant conversation against the black swan body of the gondola. The gondola moves ... smoothly... despite the pilot's motions, moves ... swiftly ... despite the slow, rocking nature of such travel. But it is as if the water parts before you, offering no resistance to the motion, as if it folds beneath this vessel, propelling it further than it should go. As if it were a matter of surfing, rather than poling...
The gondolier says nothing...
There is no whisper of La Voce now...
Not to him...
Not to any of you...
There is only the illuminated spectre of the Bridge of Sighs, the prisons adjacent to the Doge's Palace, and the darkness beneath it to which this vessel seems drawn as if on a line...
It is a path not taken frequently these days...
It is the path of The Criminal...
Behind the veil, there is a change occurring. It is not an act of magic, so much as ... a release of magic ...
As if untying a corset ...
Or wiping away cosmetics ...
Only one being has seen her face as it was in the intermission of centuries from one point and another. No matter her thoughts - those she keeps locked away as chastely as a saint might her virginity.
She will wait. Perhaps she has come to the end of a very long life. And ... perhaps there are surprises yet left in store - for her or others.
More than one criminal has escaped having a stretched neck, after all, at the last moment.
Cesare frowns, looking over at the woman next to him. He then looks to Paolo, not sure if he should say something about the shifting air.
The pilot only turns his head, slightly, and above the silk tabarro that hides half of his face, an eyebrow arches pointedly as a buttress over dark eyes. "Signora, potreste desiderare conservare la vostra resistenza," the voice is quiet, deep, smooth as the waters, with that same sort of soothing intonation.
As he turns, the crosswind of the Adriatic and Lagoon, the winds that whip the waters that cause the floods, moves against him, lifting his dark layers, cloaks upon cloaks it would seem, and even the water is strangely silent as you pass beneath the arched Bridge of Sighs, passing beneath Casanova's Cell, and to a canal that narrows quite suddenly.
Even with the tourist traffic during the day, at night the Via del Criminale still retains the sobriety of imprisonment, torture and death. The backsides of the Doge's Palace and the Palace of Justice do not wear such glittering masks as is shown to the world in the Campo. No, here the centuries hang heavily, the water is dank, and the illumination is scant.
Perhaps, too, hope...
Or such is the metaphor this via conveys, no?
From nearby, the sound of an old gate lifting. Water sounds suddenly, loudly, as the gondola moves swiftly, the gondolier still -- no motion making as the vessel sails forward upon lifting waters, dipping, turning suddenly and disappearing into an old entrance not to the Doge's Palace (though there are yet hidden ways of accessing it) but the long abandoned prison. Paolo di Santo bows as the arched ceiling of this passage demands.
Well, there is a question answered. The larger of the two enforcers looks over at the woman, then to the gondolier. He makes no sudden moves or threats, but simply turns his attentio ahead to the chamber the gondola enters.
The woman says nothing, offering no indication save one that she has heard or understood. Briefly, Karoly cants her chin downwards, then her face rises once more. The surroundings do not comfort her, but if she is afraid, she has her stoic face atop it. Briefly, indeed, the crimson lips curve - into a small sardonic smile, as of recognition.
There is illumination ahead and the low ceiling opens outward. In such darkness, perhaps there is light to be found. Or perhaps it isn't a metaphor at all, but merely creepy...
The gondolier rises, the water beneath the vessel smoothening, lowering, falling away as the chamber is revealed, not catacombs but the underground 'receiving area' of the ancient prisons. The canalway ends into a circular pool interrupted by old, and in some places crumbling, stone. Standing on the stone, the Council of Ten: Vincenzo Cantato, the Doge of Venice, Ambrosi di mari, Ilario Campisi, Valerio, Raimondo di Cambrisi, Iniga Montagna, Fabrizio the Fabulous (in full Fool regalia), Giovanni Genovese. With them, standing ahead of them in fact, his long dark hair, curly, unbound and loose about his shoulders, his face so striking it should never have belonged to any man born, his hands folded placidly before him, Girault-Antonio di Medici...
Toreador Himself...
The gondola is halted at the stone, turned so that those within it may disembark. And he would rather prefer that they do so, so that he may leave.
"Guardiano di Venezia, li dobbiamo per il vostro servizio. Parli domani sera noi ed avrete vostro accordo," Girault speaks. La Voce. Soft, but filling this chamber. Soft, but with a musical cadence.
The Gondolier nods his head, but does not make any other outward motion. His eyes turn toward the woman, Cesare his friend, and the other, large gentleman. A Fate moves for one of them here...
He may have to pay a visit to Cosimina tonight...
Cesare is the first to step onto the stone, moving aside so that the woman may arrive. He does not offer his hand -- perhaps he knows better -- despite the etiquette of Italian courtesy. There is a glance at the Council, but no stare. Maybe he should. But prudence is the better part of valor. And so, Cesare keeps close to the path of his carriage, without engaging or interacting too much.
Again, there is no overt indication of her comprehension, though she moves - unhurriedly, though not haltingly, every motion as smooth as if it had been rehearsed some hundred years in preparation for the moment. Smooth, but without unnecessary flourish - a pragmatism of motion.
Cesare is given a very slight nod, but no other motion does Karoly make. Perhaps she prays to her lord. Or perhaps she merely waits for an opening...
But it is certainly true that past the veiled mesh of black, the pale gaze moves from one face and costume to another - without recognition, however. Council of Ten? There are ten fingers upon her hands and ten toes upon her feet, but of this council, she has known nothing.
Perhaps she would have preferred it remain that way.
There's no need to announce an arrival. Edward stands, remaining as silent as he has since leaving the auction. When he rises, the gondola bobbles. Edward is slow to depart, having Karoly ahead of him. From him, there is no glance to the Ten. In fact, of the four from the gondola, he perhaps reacts the least to their presence.
"Qualunque viene di questa notte, non e miniera da sapere," Paolo di Santo speaks, his voice lifting clearly. "Ne il nostro a testimone," a glance to Cesare before returning his averted gaze to the Council of Ten, this ruling body of immortal Venice. "...Il Consiglio, I ed il mio fratello li affideranno al vostro commercio." The Gondolier holds out his gloved hand, motioning to Cesare and gesturing to the gondola. "Venuto..."
There is a nod from the other heads around the stone. Girault's attention is already shifting, landing squarely upon the woman. This face, this face out of paintings, brushed beautiful with the strokes of Raphael's own hand, it does not ripple as the woman comes forward. But he does not speak...
Not yet...
Not until those ... without involvement in this business have a chance to depart.
Cesare's expression flashes some slight confusion. A glance to the the Council, then to Edward who stands on the other side of the woman they attend. But his questioning does not last for long. Edward gives the faintest tilt of his head, saying, "They're right."
The young Italian brushes his chestnut brown hair from his face, and after an exhale, he takes the hand of the gondolier -- ah, they are rather acquainted -- and steps again into the gondola. Dark eyes look to the woman, though Cesare maintains a neutral expression. Whatever has happened and whatever her fate may be, he will not be there to witness it.
Near the council of Ten, there is a ripple in the air. Visible waves of energy and magic, expanding from a point of nothingness.
The same strangely ironic smile remains on the woman's lips, poised below the line of the veil. Her chin lifts, her cheek turning towards the council, but still she says nothing. Stoicism or bravura? Karoly's voice is swathed in silence. And after all, to her captors who are departing, what is there to say? 'Thanks for the ride'?
The English one gives a wan affirmation to his departing associate. A clench of his jaw. Thanks given between two who have known each other for some amount of time. Edward's attention moves towards the Council, and he steps out of Karoly's path, to allow her to walk ahead of him towards where the men stand.
No... no indeed...
The gondola is swiftly turned once Cesare Perilli takes a seat. Paolo di Santo murmurs, and the waters shift beneath the vessel, gurgling as it carries them away. Swiftly after one stroke of the Gondolier's pilum...
From the stone corridor there comes the issuance of Italian...
O Venezia...
The sound of the gate...
And then nothing...
There is a drip-drop cadence of water, like the ticking of a metronome. To that rhythm, Girault is in motion, smooth motion that is not natural. He steps forward to meet the woman and the enormous wall of Britain that accompanies her -- known, but not addressed.
The stone chamber rings with one sound. That of his hand striking her face. As a cuckolded husband might strike his whore of a wife. With it, his condemnation. With it, his mourning. With it, his power. With it, his judgment. You deserve no better treatment than a rat of this sewer. There goes one now...
"For the murder of Johannes of Saarbruken," comes the voice of the Doge, standing to Girault's left shoulder, "Death..."
"Death," echo the voices of the Council in nearly musical unison.
Where Girault once stood, the space continues to press upon the world. A connection is made, and beyond the point of Infinity, a color forms. A royal red, flush, grows rapidly, gaining height and breadth. A form coalesces, and that form materializes into the Here, eclipsing the lurch and open of Space.
Instantly, the man looks around. Perhaps 6'4, he's broad-shouldered, but he tapers quickly at the waist. Dressed in a red cloak, the fabric is rather ornate with a brocade applique and golden stitching. He has dark brown hair that hangs past his shoulders, with high cheekbones and rather aquiline features. Thin-lipped, his skin is almost marbled, and his eyes are a vibrant orb-blue.
The cloak opens partly, revealing a white shirt and a broad belt seemingly of gold and stars. In addition, he wears crimson-brown trousers, that in truth, and in the right light, may actually be the dark color of dried blood.
It jerks her back, her face turned sharply by the blow. The ironic smile disappears; the impassive mask reappears. Behind the veil, the pale gaze is hidden by similarly pale eyelids for a moment, a pain echoed which is not shown as physical.
"Dann so sei es." Not Italian, no. Karoly speaks, and it is a German older than the modern tongue spoken in Berlin and Frankfurt. Why this curious acceptance? Perhaps the actress does not choose to upstage the Doge.
Or perhaps - what difference does it make? If anything, mingling with the resignation, there is a fatalistic amusement.
The Englishman's attention is not on the scene nearest him. Instead, he looks past to the Council, and where the Arrival has manifested.
Because she is already Damned. Death but brings her to her Fate, it is not her Fate, not in and of itself. It is the chariot that will carry her to it. Such is written on the heavens above her soul's fate.
The hand that struck her balls into a fist before her face, and the beauteous visage of Girault-Antonio di Medici is tight and drawn in furor. He does not speak but he holds that clenched fist before her face, the sparkle of his many ancient rings upon his perfect hand.
He does not speak but he opens his voice and out from it comes La Voce. One perfect note. The perfect note. Greater than that which would shatter glass.
To all those in attendance, the sound is merely perfect and perfectly loud...
To the Witch, the sound is the pitch, the frequency of her own soul, like a tuning fork striking the very center of her being. It radiates outward. Stronger. Stronger. Heart. Brain. Cells. Atoms...
Vibrations of sound, pure sound, resonates with its own frequency until it begins to shatter itself... her flesh... to become the glass...
There is blood in her vision, the red haze that has appeared so many times over so many centuries. There have been many times when she has known this...
Eyes like crystal blink themselves closed, squeeze shut, as the mind undesiringly goes to other places, other times. Blood wells up in the back of her throat, appears in deep-set crescents in her palms where her hands come together. The flaxen hair is disarrayed now, tumbling loose from beneath the veiled hat, smeared with blood.
She is bloodied - her shoulders dip slightly for a moment, and then retake their previous position. It isn't just any woman who could stand to meet her fate - whatever it proves to be, here and now - in Prada heels and Donna Karan suit.
But then, as has been remarked, Karoly has never been just any woman.
And the Witch speaks, below the pitch of the note, perhaps inaudibly, lips moving with effort despite the trickle of blood which drips from the corners of that already incarnadine mouth.
"Markos. Lizbeta. Adam. Arnulf. Rebeka..."
The Arrival is the only one among the Council to move. He strides forth, his cloak trailing behind him. The air parts for him, and his blue eyes remain fixed upon the scene near the stone bank near the water.
As he walks, the open cloak reveals more. The tiniest of roses upon his cloak and belt. With them, the scent of rosewater lifting into the air. Also present, a sword, whose hilt and blade are no less elaborately covered and etched in crawling roses.
The Arrival does not speak. This moment belongs to Girault di Medici. How could he break the silence of Death - perhaps his constant companion - with words? Yet there is a slight tilt of his head as the words spoken, and a simple communication, pressed into the speaker's mind:
Silent.
A courtesy, the Arrival would explain, not given to Johannes of Saarbrucken.
The Englishman does not waver. He stands near the woman, and even in the face of violence next to him, he remains calm. Violence in his very space, makes no impression.
His arms lower, causing his jacket to open. Beneath the linen is a holster at the left of his chest, and another at his right. Apparently metal is his weapon of choice.
The Council and its Doge stand still, hands clasped, even Fabrizio the Fabulous in his full Fool regalia says nothing. Though the sound is piercing, and to senses most sensitive is even more so, they say nothing, nor do their expressions so much as ripple. Their faces are stone, cold in judgment no less than the walls and flooring of the Palace of Justice itself.
There is only the barest moment where the sound does not roar from his throat in such perfection. A half a moment, no more, and then it begins renewed. The virtuoso's searing rendition of her soul, its agony, redoubling back upon her, stronger, stronger, louder, and with the intensity of his performance shining in his eyes. His fist shakes from the force of it momentarily and then that force falls down upon her, rips her apart from within. Not Farinelli. Not any virtuoso of any time opened his voice with such power as Girault-Antonio di Medici does now.
While her voice has fallen silent, the lips continue to move, a steady litany of names - fifteen in all. But who is counting, other than Karoly herself? She is bleeding - dying, perhaps. It is not the first time that she has been close to death. For her sins or her virtues alike, she meets this occasion as she chooses...
Without begging.
Once all fifteen names have escaped her lips, with or without sound behind them, the red mouth closes as if it will never open again. Perhaps it will not.
There is pain, yes... and it shows, in how she huddles in on herself, drawing herself inwards as if by so doing she would reflect outwards onto others that agony, even while it joins the anguish which she already feels - which she has always felt for long years. But even as old as she is, for all her past, there is a limit to what mere human flesh can bear.
The note of Girault's voice is marked by a percussionist's sound as the witch topples to the floor. Stained with blood though she is, her chest yet rises and falls, betraying a need to breathe which the witnesses in the chamber lack.
Edward finally breaks from his cocoon when the woman falls near him. He turns his head and looks down, then glances to the two men - one near and one approaching - who appear to have some sway in this chamber.
As the cloaked one approaches, Edward's head bends slightly in a cursory bow, indicating some station far beyond his own.
The Arrival continues forth, along the stone edge. He, too, sees the woman fall, though like the others of marbled visage, it affects him not. Instead, from beneath the cloak, long fingers appear, almost translucent. They draw forthwith the hilt of the rose-encrusted sword, whose metal gives a crimson hue.
The man comes still near Girault di Medici, unaffected by his Song. The sword is pulled further from its sheath, singing resonantly as its fully drawn forth and the rosen blade exposed.
And suddenly, the sound stops...
He stands over her, his arm lower, his hand unclenching. His color returning to its normal almond. The furor turned off like a light as she falls. She is still alive, though damaged internally, externally. She still lives, an aberration to his senses. "Death," he whispers, his voice echoing off each stone wall.
Girault turns to look at the man bearing the scent of rosewater before him, the sword of the rose unsheathed. With placid expression, he makes a wave. The dismissal of her presence from this earth.
Girault turns, his longcoat catching the air a moment as he does so, his motions so much faster than the corner of the cloth that covers him. He disappears in darkness, followed by the Council of Ten. Only the Doge remains to oversee the finalization of Toreador's judgment.
"Death," he says again.
The Arrival does not watch Girault depart. Instead, he comes to the fallen woman's side, appraising her for a long moment. In his downturned left hand, the Arrival keeps the singing blade of roses, the hilt of latticed vines and thorns wrapped around his clenched fingers. Some cuts slice into his skin, for droplets trickle on the golden metal, threatening to trail down to the blade itself.
"A Rose most beauteous, clipped from Us by most unworthy hands," the Arrival whispers firmly, unmindful of the scent of blood filtering through the rose fragrance. "Vengeance We shall have, for We," he declares, "...can never be made whole again."
In a blink, the man moves. His open hand reaches down, crushing bone and exploding the tender flesh of the stricken woman's chest. Inside her body, his tightening arm twists and wrenches, and he lifts, holding a ripped heart in his hand.
"An inequitable exchange..." the Arrival laments, lifting the heart to eye-level. He stares as it, as if wondering much of so little and easy a thing, held in his immortal grasp.
Edward turns away, giving his gaze to the Doge remaining where the Council once stood. He closes his eyes a long moment, then opens them again, sure once more to see the Doge safely at a distance.
Somewhere else, curled tightly inside a ring of black ice, perhaps a set of pale eyes blink open sightlessly - and perhaps not. It is so difficult from the plane of mortals to know what happens to those who transcend.
The woman's body lies where it has fallen. There is no defense from the assault upon ribs. The once-beating organ which was Karoly's heart is indeed a small thing, small to have survived so long, small to have done so much harm to so many.
What is left of her? She is not clothed within the flesh she wore any longer. There are her possessions - those which once belonged to the Queen of the North, the Ice Queen, Karoly, servant of the Demon Count of Games - Lazrenaias' favourite toy...
But flesh is as grass...
The Doge is where he has been all night, several steps away, at the left of the memory of Girault's shoulder, the house of Death in many legends and religions, particularly those spiritual paths followed by sorcerer's. It was no accident.
As the heart is taken, the woman's life by that done, his expression relaxes. Judgment is made and it is final.
He is silent as the Justicar has his moment with the vessel beating its last, reflexes of torn nerves. Vincenzo Cantato exhales, his hands loosing one another.
"It is Just, though we are incomplete." He looks at the body of the woman. From behind him, from either side, two hulking mounds of moving flesh and rock and moss are in sudden animation. "Dispose of the rubbish," the Prince of Venice commands. The mounds of moving flesh and rock and moss open dark eyes, cavernously dark, and mouths full of overly extended canines. Nosferatu.
The Doge pivots toward the Justicar. "Your Eminence, we are yours to command," he says softly.
"And you," he says suddenly to Edward Meurelle, "... thank you, signore, for your continued assistance to my City, and to seeing this matter, so close to Toreador's heart, to its conclusion without damage or upset to our people."
Suddenly, spontaneously, the body at his feet combusts, exploding into flame.
If there was something to take, in a few moments, there will be nothing.
The Arrival twists, still holding the heart in his hand and unflinching from the flames at his feet. The two are met with bared fangs, a hideously crimson snarl given to them both.
In his hand, the heart is crushed, muscles rendered like so much gelatin in his palm. The fruit of life is, drained of any form and substance, is dropped onto the fire.
The left hand, still holding the sword, swings upward, across the floor where the body lay, and upwards into the sky. In the makeshift pyre, the woman's head is severed, yet continues to burn as the rest of her form.
The Doge raises eyebrows. On that academic face, it does make for a rather funny expression. He wasn't expecting the fire. Vincenzo clears his throat, making a subtle wave to the hulking masses of moss, stone, flesh and fangs. They return to their sentinel positions, becoming still again, and finally disappearing...
No wonder the Englishman has been still.
The Doge speaks, and Edward gives another bowed head. "Our Clan expresses regret at the Roses' loss. Our presence and friendship is the least we could do, Your Excellence. Please extend Our Regards to All." Apparently his Italian is fine. Edward gives a glance to the Arrival, consumed now in the moment. He shall not speak to Him. Instead, Edward bobs his head, and turns about to depart the cavern, his duty there seemingly fulfilled.
The Doge nods, a simple nod. Acceptance of Edward Meurelle's words as well as agreement upon his departure. He, on the other hand, waits for the Justicar's will, hands sliding in his pockets.
Much like His Excellency is waiting for a train at Santa Lucia's...
The Arrival lifts his head finally, open hand and sword arm slack towards the stone floor. He stretches his neck, turning his face to the ceiling. Eyes close, and bloodied hand is lifted to draw across his mouth. At his hand, the hilt of vines and thorns has grown, wrapping slowly up his sword arm and rooting beneath his skin.
He exhales loudly, unnecessarily.
"Tell your Council and associates that they should be awares: they know that some," though burned, vanquished, and decapitated, "...may linger." He trusts nothing.
"And tell Everyone...even the most delicate rose will have justice."
Posted by rowan at March 01, 2004 06:59 PM
