The Masked City

Shadows descended from above, plummeting down in whirls of dark cloaks, landing on the gondola and setting it rocking violently. The gondolier swore, then crossed himself, and Irene sat up abruptly, letting Zayanna sag to one side. There were three of them: two in front of her, balanced on either side of the gondola, and one behind. She could see their boots and cloak out of the corner of her eye. ‘What is this?’ she demanded.

The gondolier crossed himself again, then frantically turned back to his oar, flinching away from the new arrivals. They might have been male or female. It was impossible to tell. They wore black: heavy black doublets and breeches, black scarves around their throats, black tricornes and plain black masks without any ornamentation at all.

Zayanna cuddled sleepily up against Irene’s side, dropping her head in Irene’s lap.

‘We are the black inquisitors,’ the one standing behind her whispered in Italian. The voice could have belonged to either gender. It carried the length of the gondola, before the fogs dampened the sound.

‘The lords of the night,’ the one on her right whispered.

‘The servants of the Council of Ten,’ the one on her left murmured.

‘We come by darkness to put you to the question,’ said the one behind her, with a terrifying lack of inflection in that voice. The boat creaked as he - or she - shifted his weight, bending down towards Irene in a ruffle of heavy cloak. ‘And nobody will ask where you have gone, because they know better than to ask.’

Irene swallowed down panic. Her first thought was, They’re just trying to frighten me - what’s the best way out of this? Her second thought was, There might not be a way out.

‘I didn’t do anything,’ she said, hastily, non-specifically and untruthfully.

The two dark figures in front of her folded their arms, dark statues at either side of the boat.

A small sound came from the one behind her. It might have been the noise of metal against leather, barely audible over the lapping of the canal. Imagination supplied the image of a knife being drawn. ‘Nevertheless, you will tell us everything you know - here or when we reach our destination.’

Do they know who I am? Or am I just the unlucky tenth tourist who gets threatened by masked secret police? ‘Please tell me what you want to know,’ Irene whispered. She let an artistic wobble come into her voice. ‘I don’t know this city, I only arrived today …’

‘Lord and Lady Guantes entered an establishment.’ A creak as the figure behind her shifted its weight again. The voice, she thought a male voice, seemed closer now. ‘A few minutes later, the two of you left by the back door. Why? We want answers. You’re going to give them to us.’

So these were either servants of the Guantes or somehow connected to the city authorities. But the gondolier’s reaction suggested the latter.

The canal seemed endless. The fog formed curtains on either side of the gondola, hiding drawn knives and muffling possible screams. They were in a little bubble of silence, in the centre of the canal, where nobody would see or hear what happened to them. Irene hadn’t thought it was possible to be so alone in a public place.

‘My friend was drunk,’ Irene said. She felt Zayanna’s muscles tense against her leg. She’s awake. Or waking up. ‘I had to get her out of there.’

The two in front of her shook their masked heads in unison. ‘Not good enough,’ the one behind her crooned. ‘Such a noble lady and gentleman wouldn’t be surprised by a little drunkenness. Let’s hear something better, or you’re for the Prisons.’ He lingered on the word, caressing it with his voice.

She could have tried knocking him backwards, but then she’d have been vulnerable to the two in front; and vice versa, if she’d lunged at them. They had the high ground, and she had nothing except the bottom of the boat to work with. ‘My patron and the Guantes have a feud!’ It didn’t take any effort to sound desperate, and it was almost the truth. ‘Yes, I admit it, I took an excuse to get out of there before they saw me - but they’d have made an example of me, to send a message. I had to run!’

‘Plausible,’ said the one on her right, ‘but not proven.’

‘Notice that she isn’t giving any names,’ said the one on her left. ‘I think she should tell us some names, don’t you?’

‘How about it?’ Again the sound of metal on leather from behind her. ‘Tell us some names, woman. Tell us some secrets.’

Irene weighed the options. If she gave them Silver’s name, then they’d question him, and he’d possibly sell her out to save himself. But if she just made up something at random, they’d probably spot inconsistencies, and she’d be in even deeper.

And she wasn’t convinced they were going to let her go, anyhow. Whatever she told them. However much she confessed. ‘I can’t say,’ she quavered. ‘I’d be punished.’

Zayanna was tense against her thigh, muscles coiled under her cloak.

‘Bah!’ The one behind her kicked Irene square in the back, sending her sprawling in the belly of the gondola, trapping a suddenly squirming Zayanna under her. ‘Get the thongs and sacks—’

Tangled in her cloak, her mask slipping loose, Irene tried to get her hands underneath her, but Zayanna wriggled to one side and knocked her off-balance again. She banged her head against the planking of the gondola and felt the man behind her plant his foot in her back, holding her down.