Faces Under Water Page 9

  “The Master, or his Captains.”

  “That’s warlike. Why’s that?”

  “These are the proper titles,” said the lackey.

  The strong men stood in a well-made fence.

  Furian nodded lovingly. “We will write.”

  Outside he stood and grinned, on the narrow pavement. He did not know why he grinned.

  The water wheel churned the water.

  Somewhere there was a violin player who distorted the Song of Cloudio del Nero, and perhaps it was he who had aimed at him, from jealousy. And somewhere were the husband and the lover of ugly Messalina, who both might wish her gone. And elsewhere, one year back, a dead man who might have had countless enemies, each powerful enough evidently to write to the Mask Guild, to meet with the Guild’s Master, or his Captain.

  A mask was made for friend or lover, either as a gift, or because they were persuaded to take one. And as the artisan worked, he worked out too how to accomplish a death. A very clever death, by madness or suicide…

  For such a mask, so wonderful, there would be many fittings, choices. Talk, probably, things let slip.

  And from these things the artisan, who was also the assassin, devised their ends.

  But Virgo was in it, was she not? Virgo with glittering Venus on her brow and clad in alien magpie blue.

  … Was that a little movement? There, by the side of that house, where a slip ran through, one canal mating with another …

  Furian walked, not so very quickly, along the pavement.

  The Silk Market lay behind this place. He knew it well, how not, from long ago early days. There would be a crowd and obstacles, and they were not to be despised, at this moment, in the hand of God.

  4

  A COLUMN STOLEN FROM EGYPT dominated the Setapassa.

  It was crowned by a sphinx of black basalt, forty-three feet in the air. Below, the silks, velvets and brocades hung like sheets of water, sky and sun.

  At the edge of the square, the lacemakers palazzo raised ornate stone arches that rivaled the lace. West lay the glove-makers’ booths, and tiny caves of shops squirreled away along the side streets, everything tasseled and sequined as in some Eastern fairy tale.

  Furian had no interest in the market. The crowd, made up mostly of the more valuable citizens, had some attraction.

  He slipped among them, by the noble with two milk white dogs on leash, the woman in her litter, pointing, with a pale yellow glove, at cloth the color of decaying lightning.

  There was indeed someone behind him. He could mark it, the slight tumble through the crowd that followed him.

  He got close to a gambling table, under smoke-banners of gauze, paused as if to watch. When he looked up, the crowd moved at its own pace, unbroken, but there was a woman standing not two feet away.

  Furian recognized the boy first, in his grey University garment, and the plain half-mask scholars were requested to wear. Then, she.

  Her gown was black velvet today, perhaps rather hot. It had tourmaline buttons on the bodice in the image of scorpions. Her mask was a black lace fan. In the eyeholes, her dark, greedy, lovely eyes sprang from his.

  “Why, Signora,” he said.

  The boy jumped. Calypso, Juseppi’s widow, did not.

  She said, very low, “Get away, Signore. It isn’t safe for you.”

  “But wonderful for you. Juseppi must have put all his fares aside to buy you such a gown.”

  “I’ve got a new protector. What do you care? You didn’t want me.”

  “Ah, Signora, I tore a hole in my breeches wanting you. But you’re such a stinking leech. I didn’t dare.”

  “Fire be on you,” she spat, still low and throaty as a dove.

  Then he saw them coming for him again, the tell-tale crowd pleating slightly to this side and that.

  “Farewell, Gorgeous,” he said. “May God bless you.”

  “Fry and die. And fry.”

  THE LITTLE CAVES JOLTED BY, much faster now, for Furian strode at speed. They seemed full of monkeys, who called to him, and cunning paws fluttered things which shone. Where was he? Not far from Fulvia now.

  He glanced back.

  They were a blot in the general mass, about five of them, shouldering on. They looked, it seemed, like any parcel of rough men with a pocket of money, out for a day’s sport.

  Here was another open place. Veils hung down smelling of the incense of the East. Furian brushed through them. A cat on a perch spat at him as Calypso had done. Then he was up against a line of booths. The busy crowd swilled and rocked against him, and beyond lay a canal, and over there it broadened, with boats going up and down, two or three close to the bank.

  An idea was forming in his mind. It might be the fever again, (which made everything ripple and churn, made the sequins crash with nearly vocal violence, made him want to laugh), but then, there were these women, this scorpion bitch in her velvet, taken up with some wealthy man directly over the coffin; and the other one.

  The other—

  A hand clenched possessively on his arm. He had waited too long.

  Furian turned, smiling under his half-mask, and saw a friendly deadly half-masked smile returning.

  “Signore. Won’t you come with us? Eh?”

  Furian put his knife, (ready, although he had forgotten it), between this one’s ribs. The man dropped leisurely, keeping his friendly look.

  As Furian tried to step away, another hand snaked across his eyes. A snatch. The sun—

  The day was all over Furian’s face. He had been unmasked.

  The lout guffawed. And two others shouted: “Face! Face!”

  It was too late to grab back the covering. Furian saw a sea of masks turning like cannon mouths.

  “Where is it?” thundered a man, one of the crowd, playful, threatening.

  Another screamed “No excuses. He’s a bare-faced liar.”

  Hands leaped on him. They had his coat, his flesh.

  Round his throat—

  He twisted, thrust them off, danced, dived, came up through a welter of material and curses, and fled.

  The crowd was now a boiling pot. Fingers, claws, feet and punches, blows—They whistled and hooted.

  All the world of the Setapassa was after him. It was a crime to go unmasked at Carnival.

  He ran, striking out, towards the bluish break of the canal.

  The cry was up behind him: Face! Face!

  Bodies pelted aside—sweat, scent, breath—they saw what he was—lawbreaker—tried to trip and bring down. At least to impede. And they were laughing. He was fair game for anyone.

  Something hurt in his side—had someone knifed him? No, he would not be running—his lungs tore. The sun hit his forehead with the mark of Cain—

  Two women, excited, grappled him—“He’s a pretty one, no wonder he won’t mask—” their hands prying, feeling—he pushed them off—

  He reached the edge of the water. About nine men thumped into his back, chortling and swearing. “String him up with the silks. Apostasy! Bloody bugger—”

  Furian plunged out from the pavement into the nearest boat, which reared and galloped under him.

  He shouted at the wanderlier—surly, backing off, wishing him in the Inferno—“Row me. That way. Two silver duccas—”

  “Bare-face. Get out.”

  “Five. Do it.”

  “It’s not fortunate. Stupid fucker—”

  “Six—”

  The men on the street were leaning down, light-hearted murderous brawny arms. Furian pounded them off. They came back. To use his blade now would mean death anyway.

  Behind the lethal merriment, he marked the masked grins of the gang who had followed.

  “Seven duccas. Or I swim.”

  The wanderlier slashed the tether away. Still bucking, they spun out on to the canal.

  Furian sat down and put his arm over his face.

  The crowd cat-called and maligned him. There were no other boats filled yet. There would be.

&nbs
p; “I’ll take you to the Lace Palace back door, over there. No further. Show us your coins.”

  Furian flung them on the planks between the seats.

  Hoofs of the few horses kept in Venus pounded through his skull.

  Another boat had drawn close to the pavement. A knot of men dashed over into it, yelping their vigor. At least three belonged to the following gang.

  If the crowd took him now, he would be helpless, and then, so simple for someone to cut him, slip away.

  Even a romantic glass dagger—who would see until it was too late? The bastard’s dead. Serve him right for going unmasked. The punishment of the gods.

  These vulnerable, malnourished and pathetic people, for whose misery he had thrown away his life. These scum—

  They passed under a bridge.

  “No further. Get out. They’ll hole my boat.”

  Above, the whey-pale palace with its lacy arches.

  Beyond, an alley.

  He left the boat and raced for it.

  He was sure where he was going now. The only place possible. He recollected that other walk, the necessary waterway. He had a start on them. The alley twisted.

  They always did.

  A woman on a balcony saw him and squalled, “Face! Face!” It ran from side to side over his head. Inside his head.

  He stumbled, and a thin dog rushed from his path, snarling.

  His heart was a stone, which beat.

  AS HE RAN, HE RENT AWAY part of his shirt sleeve. Under the lea of a dripping wall, he cut two eyeholes, tried to tie it over his upper face, succeeded. It might last.

  He identified these byways from instinct only.

  He might be wrong.

  The chase had seemed to draw off, but he was not sure for the buzzing and hammering of the forge in his head.

  Another wanderer. Dipping … dipping alloy of … water.

  “Where you want? Who after you?”

  “Mask slipped,” he panted, “an enemy.”

  The man accepted him, rowed off up the backwater.

  Furian saw, near, far off, the mirror faces of the houses repeated, and, in the depths, Venusian weed that clung and floated like hair. The mermaid hair of Venera.

  “City of Met Darkness,” Furian said.

  “What you say?”

  “That turn there.”

  “That’s a bad canal. Got bad reputation.”

  “I know. It’s why I’m going there.”

  “Get out here and walk.”

  Furian dislodged himself from the second wanderer.

  “Pay me, you bastard drunk.”

  Furian smiled and cast down some coins.

  “Not enough.”

  “Enough to buy something to poison yourself.”

  To the ring of threats and maledictions, Furian swung on.

  The pavement became so narrow he could slip over, and in. Did not want to quite yet.

  He coughed. No blood. That was encouraging, and a surprise.

  No pursuit either.

  Meant to chase him here? Back to the source. Why oh why?

  Pavement too narrow now to walk on. Into this alley. Round, and along. High stones, blind windows.

  Somewhere a woman sang in a thin, hateful voice. Not the Song. Some hymn to deaf God.

  Back up from the alleys. There, across the widening strip of water. A garden behind iron gates. A window behind an iron lattice.

  How to cross. A puzzle. No bridge, no boat, no wings to fly.

  Furian looked at the canal. If he went into it he might not come up again. But there was no other way, and for this moment he did not care. He would care tomorrow, if he lived.

  The canals had already done most of their worst to him.

  He eased over and took the water with a curious liquid agility that he was much aware of, seeing himself from far above, swimming couthly, barely stirring the water, the ripples of juicy green spreading like carving in chalcedony. And already… the bank.

  But he could not pull himself up now…yes, but he could. His muscles were made of white fire, and would do anything, and there was music in his head, the Song at last, going too quickly.

  Up the bank—it was done. Now only the gate to scale. The Black Gate of the Blue Trollop.

  He put his foot into the gate’s mesh and climbed. Pain lanced through him. It did not belong to him. He had two tops of the gate in his hands, pods or acorns. He dragged himself again upwards. Somehow the garden was there, and he dropped over into it. He landed on his feet. The impact met the impact of the hammers in his head. For an instant there was nothing. Then he was there again.

  Furian slung himself against the sideward door of the house. Once, twice. He kicked it, and the door gave way.

  The old servant was running at him, cat-mask lopsided.

  Furian stopped. He said, hearing himself, voice clear and sound as a bell, “Out of my way, old man.”

  The servant stopped, too. He whined, ridiculously, “One day you’ll be old.”

  “If I am, old man, you’ll be dead.” Furian felt the water of Venus sliding like glass over his skin and soul.

  “But celebrate. One day, I’ll be dead too.”

  He went past the old man, who allowed it.

  Furian walked up the stairs. He felt light as air and pain did not count. Minute diamonds lit and went out across his eyes, but at the top, after a little, when he reached the door of the sala, they cleared.

  He could hear a harpsichord. Probably only in his brain. He opened the door.

  The room was just as before, a haven of blue. Yet set now, motionless, inside a pane of ice. The drift of white ice was at the window. There before it, the frozen harpsichord, and the figure seated, playing slowly, somehow without movement.

  The notes dripped and rippled. Water notes. Had she not heard him? No, he was made of liquid. He was a ghost.

  But so was she.

  The pale hair with its lines of grey, he saw it, drip-rippling like the water and the water-notes, as her shoulders tensed and rested and tensed. Strange melody, without form, a wandering descent. It was very sad. It was a mist, and these crystalline uncurlings in the mist, a search for what might never be found, a loss that might never end, a question, offered over and over, unheard, unspoken.

  He realized his makeshift sleeve-mask had come off in the canal. His hair hung wet-heavy round him, made of lead. Water shimmered along the floor. It had no aroma, only something faint, like burning leaves—he could smell burning—

  He spoke to her clearly, as he had below.

  “Here I am.”

  She left off playing, and the ice-pane cracked.

  For a moment her head glimpsed about, he saw the line of her cheek, the insane blueness of one eye.

  She wore a gown like that, also, deep, drowning blue.

  “Won’t you greet me, Madama. I came all this way.

  You could say I was herded here like a sheep. Where do you run when the City’s on fire? Into the fire’s heart.”

  She turned. All at once. One second he saw the back of her, and then the front of her.

  He had noted already she was unmasked.

  She made no attempt to hide her face.

  Furian felt his blood rush down within him like a flight of comets.

  Her face—

  She was as white as white marble, and she had been carved from it. She was like the women at the room’s corners. She was not alive.

  In the perfection of her pallor, the blue eyes scorched. Large, unblinking, the color of ecstasy or exquisite pain.

  She was so beautiful, so unconscionable, that she was terrible as the face of the moon. She was not real. She was truth that was not real. Reality that was not real. She was not alive, yet she lived. Nothing of her moved. She was a statue. Medusa, changed to stone.

  He must—he looked away. He saw the floor, and great circles of it were rising and splashing upwards, and as they did so, soft as a cloud, the ceiling came down.

  Furian fell to his knees,
then forward. He lay stretched on the blue marble at the feet of unliving life, unreal reality. But did not know it any more.

  5

  CANCER THE CRAB, its genderless human guise and smoky Eastern veil put aside, walked sideways through the sea. Scorpio the bronze warrior stood on a column. The two fishes played, revolving in esoteric patterns. Furian swam strongly, against the silken current. It stroked his face with coolness. Eventually, he would need to come up for air. Not yet. It was so pleasant here, the City seen only far above, through half a mile of water. One day, the ocean would cover all Venus. It would be like the Flood. Then the City would lie looking up, as he looked up. Safe under the sea for ever. Streets and domes, towers and squares. The boats grounded. The beautiful faces under green drifting layers, like a flowery paving of lilies, or masks. All struggle done. It would be marvelous to sleep here. But he had better go up, and breathe.

  Furian surfaced slowly, without tumult.

  The bed was hard and smooth. Under his cheek, the warm silk pillow, firm and ungiving, yet oddly not hard. And the current, still stroking, cool and rhythmic, his forehead and his face. There was a low floral scent. He opened his eyes. He moved his hand, across the living firm pillow of skirt, and woman.

  Furian knew at once. He was not amazed. As if it had been prearranged.

  “How kind of you,” he said. “You’re too generous.

  I haven’t even promised to pay you yet.”

  The scent was her young, fragrant body. Irresistible delights. He was in her lap. like a child that had fallen. She had been stroking his face, quietly.

  But she stopped. A shame, he had liked it. Now what?

  His muscles gathered themselves—and nothing happened. He lay just as before.

  “It seems I can’t move,” he said.

  Her gentle hand came down and touched his lips with one finger.

  At her touch, one part of him did move after all.

  The uselessness and ribaldry of this made him laugh softly. He had not seen her face again, thank God.

  A bell was ringing. It penetrated his head and every thing broke in shards and went floating down.

  When he came to once more, a pair of men in comely cat masks were carrying him up a staircase. This struck him as very funny, and his laughter now was louder, and put him away again.