by Carmel Rechnitzer
Don Constanzo Scarpa’s villa garden was overflowing with joy. Silk banners and flower wreaths danced in the joyful wind, guiding the guests below to do the same. Musicians poured heart and soul into the most raucous music ever put to ear. Hundreds of wild birds and wilder children swarmed the overflowing dining tables, stealing bread and sweets, chirping and giggling at each other. Everywhere, the decadent joy that only mountains of money could buy just… exploded outward. It was everywhere. Joy! Joy! Joy! So much insufferable joy!
Angelo took another sip of wine, and it tasted like vinegar, sugar and bile. Thankfully, he was on the parapet of the outer guard wall, so he had the privilege of spitting it out over the side. Except the villa wasn’t some countryside estate. On the other side of the walled garden were the slums of the Voddace district. His spit-out wine splattered down on the same run-down hovels he’d been born and bred in. The poorest of the poor were also joyful tonight. The cooking scraps, the stale bread, the silty dregs of the beer, and all the worst Don Constanzo had to offer were being given out as generous charity.
Angelo turned to the other side of the wall, to the inside of the garden, back to where he supposedly belonged. He looked down, and found nothing but horror to gawk at. There was the young son of Conditorre Grimaldi, at the center of the celebrating throng. His father was a ruthless mercenary, a true terror during the War of the Cross. But the son, soft as a ripe cheese and twice as pale, danced like a man who’d never held a blade. The son was draped in clothing Angelo would never afford no matter how hard he toiled or how much he stole. Clothes this misbegotten cur hadn’t worked a day to earn. Angelo’s father died in service of Conditorre Grimaldi… And the soldier’s pension was never paid, because the Conditorre technically “lost” more wealth than he gained over the course of campaigning. A taxman asked about this math, about a year after the War ended. The fishes dined well that evening, and no one brought the question up again. Angelo’s mother stayed poor and lonely.
The fortunate son was dancing with the daughter of Viscount Jean Fouquet-Saulcy. Another warmonger. He’d raged across Eisen, taken town after town, pillaged and reaved and worse. He’d been enough of a monster that polite society demanded he retire to somewhere out of the way and suitably scandalous. Where else but the City of Five Sails? The Viscount was never asked to give up his noble titles. Or give up the gold teeth and wedding bands he’d ripped off the corpses of Eisen tradesmen.
The two children – surely they were in their late twenties, of age with Angelo, but certainly as soft of mind and as weak of spirit as children – danced beautifully. They were so well versed in the steps. They moved like… like flower petals on water. It was so graceful, Angelo understood why the idiots of the world bought into the idea of nobility. Look at those graceful little ducklings! Of course they must be of higher breeding! Of better destiny! Who else could be so beautiful?
And of course, who came over to introduce himself to those two? Servo Scarpa. Angelo’s best friend under the whole damned firmament. The man who hadn’t said a word to Angelo since this party started. He came to those two, a joyful smile smeared on his face, acting like their equal. Dressed like it, too. His ostentatious silks used to be cut sensibly, at least… each of his outfits sleek but mobile, ready for the crossing of foils. Now, Servo paraded around in pumpkin pantaloons. The night was hot enough to boil eggs, Servo’s face was as red as his embarrassing bottoms, but he still donned an ermine-fur cape.
“You also hate them, don’t you?” someone asked. Her voice was poisoned honey, the kind of husky alto tone that would normally fry Angelo’s brain instantly. For once, the fire didn’t rise in him. Fortuna herself could strut through the party bare chested, Angelo supposed, and he’d still feel cold and nauseous.
Angelo turned towards the intruding woman, wondering which of these bluebloods had the patience to speak to a lowly street rat like him. Short brown hair. Unassuming sailor’s clothes. A Captain’s tricorne hanging from her belt, so she wouldn’t catch it on every hanging garland. It clicked. Angeline ‘de Bouchere” Demone. Renowned for fleeing Montaigne after slaughtering a gaggle of corrupt noblemen. She earned fame and fortune as a pirate afterwards, but that streak of violent justice never left her bones. She was both the queen of all scallywags and righteous vengeance made flesh.
Angelo felt an instant pull of camaraderie. They shared a namesake, and they shared a common enemy. She was the only person at this party, out of some twelve hundred people, who was worth talking to. Theus clearly had some sympathy in His heart, to send her Angelo’s way.
“It’s more than hate,” Angelo admitted. “It’s… It was jealousy, when I was young. Then pity, just a year ago. Here were mewling kittens, pretending to be their tigers, just like thier parents! But they’ve never taken a life! I was better than them. I was a conqueror! My mother survived the War, and I survived the streets, and I’d earned my place more than they ever did. My life had a purpose, two nights ago.”
“And now?” she asked. Demone didn’t sound intrigued. Her tone was flat, almost accusatory. He searched her face, and realized he was being judged.
“Now, I realize I’m the fool,” he said. “A noble name only means a legal right to kill and steal and cheat. The Red Hand Gang – that was our way of getting to do it, too. Of spitting in Fate’s eye, showing the nobles we could do it, too. That we are strong. They couldn’t make us into peasants. Our blood was red and boiling and worthy. That’s what Servo used to say. We saw the rules were crooked, so we refused to follow them.”
He waited for another question, and it didn’t come. An agitating chil ran up his spine, dispite the weather. He leaned his weight on the parapet, ran his finger across the mortar lines between the stones. The rough and sandy mortar crumbled, because it was cheaply made and cheaply applied. The Don clearly got what he paid for, with this villa. The silence made his teeth clench and his mouth water. He hated staying quiet up here, listening to the joy down in the garden below. He continued, vomiting the words like he’d spat out the wine.
“It was life on our terms!” he said. “But really, it’s on theirs, isn’t it? Servo’s just like them. Wants to be them. Wants to be loved by them, doesn’t he? Don Constanzo is just a new… Don. A new Duke. A newly reborn and crowned taker. I think I’m just a… a hunting dog, in this simile.”
“Metaphor,” she corrected. Her tone was encouraging, like a mother teaching her child. He certainly deserved it.
“Servo lied to women so he could take their modesty. I guess he lied to me, so he could have my dignity. So he could have my violence. Except I got paid. I sold myself. Oh Theus help me, I’m just some common-”
“Don’t insult the harlots of the world,” she cut him off. “You’re beneath them. They know the client doesn’t love them. They knew Servo whispered nonsense.”
“I love him, like a brother. I was so stupid. I should hate him.”
She made no effort to comfort him. Stood her distance, looked down at the people she hated. He saw her eyes flit across the crowd, mark out targets like a hawk marking out mice among the tall grass.
“Is that why you’re here? Hate? To dish out vengeance?” he asked her.
“Retribution. Theus damn the lot of them, but I’m here for one specific man,” she let him know. “A privateer. He strangled a woman I respected, because she did not love him. Not that he loved her, of course. Just coveted her. I’ve been tracking him for a year or so. Of course he’d be here.”
“If you threw your knife down there,” he mused, “it would be proper retribution for something equally as sinful. So help me, if you tipped me off the parapet… Theus would celebrate the cracking and popping of my skull.”
He looked directly down, and saw an Ussuran noble hitch up his codpiece and spill his piss against the stone. He scooted further left. If she was going to toss him off the parapet, he’d rather land on clean cobbles. She grabbed his shoulder, pulled him back into the same position by his plain, sweatstained tunic. Panic struck him. He’d talked too boastfully. He wasn’t ready to die!
But the look in her eyes scorched him like cinders. The fury in her glare just bored right through him, like a carpenter’s bow-drill.
“I’m not going to throw you down, little nobody,” she said. The tone in her voice wasn’t soothing. “That’s the coward’s way. If you’re not a heartless villain, it means there’s hope for you. Go be better. And that starts without self pity. Don’t do good because it’ll anger Servo. Go do good, because it’s worth doing.”
He couldn’t help but laugh. She smacked him. Her leather glove left quite a sting.
“You won’t stop being a killer. You won’t stop being a piece of shit. You’ll never fix that. But if you know how to kill,” she said, “there’s people worth killing.”
“I don’t know what suits you better,” he said, voice full of awe and terror. “Your title, or your name.”
“Angeline?” she asked. “I think ‘angel of retribution’ is a bit too high praise for the work I’m here to do.”
“I meant ‘Demone’,” he explained.
“Fair.”
She let go of his tunic, and turned back to scanning the crowd. Her terrible focus left him completely. She wasn’t afraid he’d retaliate, or even rat her out to the Scarpa guards. She’d judged him that lowly. Offered him the thought of turning snitch, of doing good, like a cat offered freedom to a mouse. Out of bored curiosity. She didn’t believe he could do it.
Angelo took a moment to wonder if he could. The warm night air left him. The music dropped away from his ears. He took another sip of wine, and the flavor was even more revolting. What could he fix, about such a crooked world?
A memory haunted him. The forum. Standing at the forum. Letting El Gato steal a ring off his finger, in front of a crowd of three thousand people. Knowing he and Servo murdered that Musketeer, and El Gato would now be called the culprit. The moment Dufort’s ring was spotted in El Gato’s possession, every District committed itself to war against the wrong enemy.
With that memory, came guilt. El Gato was a new creature, but their methods were old. There’d always been an element of charity to the Cat’s Paw Gang. To the crooks and beggar-thieves of Castille. In that district, anything stolen was immediately and joyfully shared. On days when he couldn’t beg enough food for himself and his mother in the Voddace district, he’d always crossed the border over there.
He’d never do good by killing anyone, and unfortunately, that’s all he was ‘good’ at. Redemption wouldn’t come by the sword. Theus’ priests were right. There was power in confession. Angelo took a few quick strides, caught up to Angeline, tapped her shoulder. She spun to face him. Her eyebrow arched with all the malice Vittoria Anselmo wished she could muster.
“I shot Dufort. In the stomach. After Servo shot him in the chest,” Angelo confessed. “We shot a Musketeer, who was trying his best to save lives. The fight had been ongoing, he’d spent the better part of that hour crossing blades with anybody and everybody. Never killed a soul. He made a very delicate point of that. And we shot him.”
“Why are you telling me,” she asked. He felt good, regaining her focus. It felt good being judged, because he deserved it.
“You’re Montaigne, so you like Musketeers, right?”
“Absalutely not,” she explained. “But now I have to help them. Fuck you, stranger. I can’t believe I need to go and help Jean Urbain. Help Odette DuBois d’Arrent. Theus help me, you’ve put a bomb in my lap.”
“Oops.” …What else was there to say?
“Those fools are going to try and kill El Gato, and really it was you!” she hissed.
“Yes. That’s what I’m confessing.”
She looked at him with more disdain than ever. But there was an ounce of respect there, and that was close enough for redemption. She stepped away, ran her thumb across a naked blade hanging from her belt. Blood dripped from her fingers, and started circling the air. The spiraling red drop grew into a howling maw. Angelo realized he was looking into Hell. He raised a finger, pointed at his own face, began to lean forward towards his just desserts.
Angeline waved him off. The other end of the maw opened, like light peaking at the back of a tunnel. The red tear led from Don Constanzo’s parapet to some training yard. Some faraway place that was quiet and still and cool. Angeline stepped through the portal. She didn’t turn back. Didn’t give him a word of advice. Didn’t say good job. The maw closed behind her with a magical ‘pop.’ That explained how she’d entered without alerting the guards, at least.
Angelo collapsed on his backside, leaned heavily against the parapet. Let the sounds of riotous joy wash over him. A breeze came by, ruffling his hair. The smell of seasalt was strong enough to overwhelm the scent of wine, beer, piss and sweat. What a pure world Theus gave to man. Angelo wished he could leave. Waltz his way past Murad without explaining himself, without being reported on. Walk out to the pier, down to the sands, out into the waters. Swim, float away, relax, just one last time.
A tug pulled lightly at his chest. His shirt ruffled and puffed out, as if someone was pulling on a loose thread. He didn’t know why, but it was a familiar feeling. Another tug came at his chest, and with it, confounding de javu. He ran his hands across his chest, looking to grasp at whatever pulled him. His hands found nothing.
A delicate silk slipper kicked his boot. He looked up, drinking in a night-black gown with silver needlework that crisscrossed it like spiderwebs. The wind played at the hem, setting the dress to dancing. The collar wasn’t white ruffle, as would normally be expected. It was a purple gossamer, which also floated and waved in the hot summer air. Long, black hair framed the young woman, also swaying playfully in the breeze. At the center of all this freeform movement was a face like stone. No expression, whatsoever. Cold, thin lips. Eyes with no light behind them. It was disorienting, how the face refused to move or to emote. Sibella Scarpa couldn’t be human.
“My lady,” Angelo bowed. It was an awkward gesture, since he was already seated. He bent his torso between his splayed out legs, like a marionette collapsing after its strings were cut.
“Stay down, Angelo,” she said. Her voice wasn’t ice or fire. Had no variance in pitch. “You’ve done something massive. Tell me what.”
“What do you mean?” he asked. He knew what she meant. He knew she was a witch, and could read the strings of Fate. Mostly, he wanted to know how she saw the world change and turn. If he could play his cards well, that unmoving face would crack, and he would find out if his confession meant anything.
She gently dropped to her knees in front of him. Tucked the skirt of her dress over the backs of her heels, to act as a cushion. She knew she was safe, and he wouldn’t lash out at her. That he’d never be that brave. There was no need to fear coming closer. Now that she was eye level with him, she asked again:
“You changed all of our Fates, Angelo,” she said. “Over the course of twenty seconds at best. This is the most important night of your life. Somehow, you’ve made it the second or third most important night of mine. Of my family. How?”
Angelo laughed. He didn’t need to play a single card, so it seemed. His confession was a success. “Is it a good change, my Lady? Can you tell if it’s a good or bad change?”
“No, which makes me very mad,” she admitted. That emotion didn’t show, though. “If you tell me which direction the change goes… If you explain what happened, we’ll kill you quickly.”
It was a sober reminder of who he worked for. The Scarpas really were no different to lords or kings. It didn’t matter if he changed Fate positively. He’d risen above his station and changed it at all, and this was an insufferable insult.
Angelo reached into his pockets, and pulled out his garrote. It had been fashioned for him, back when he was just a boy, by Don Constanzo himself. Back when he was just a man, and not a king. Back when he was just Constani, a lieutenant of the Red Hand Gang. It was a nice bit of proof that nobility was powerful, but just a charade.
“Make Servo do it,” Angelo said. “With his own hands. I ratted him out, unraveled the El Gato scheme. I sicc’d the Musketeers on him. But tell Servo! Make Servo do it! I want to see if he feels a twinge of guilt. If he cries.”
“He will,” Sibella answered. “Servo is still… he hasn’t learned what pawns are. He doesn’t realize you aren’t supposed to mourn every time you make a calculated play of chess. It’s good. I think if he was like me, he couldn’t rule. Papa says I’m too off-putting.”
As she spoke, she took the garrote in her hands, ran a thumb across the sharp razor wire. For the first time, her eyes lit up in curiosity and anticipation.
“Not you,” Angelo insisted. “Servo.”
“I know. It’ll be a good lesson for him,” she said as she stood. She began walking away, completely confident Angelo wouldn’t get up and run. He wanted to, of course. There was a rat inside his brain that wanted to flee the sinking ship. Instead, he stood and leaned back out over the parapet.
Underneath him, he saw two dozen Red Hand agents weave through the crowd in absolute panic. They knew something changed. All the Fate witches were whispering and murmuring cryptically, so the Red Hand Gang understood that something was wrong. They were running in every conceivable direction, trying to learn what disaster was unfolding. Anselmo. His old friend, Buratino. All of them, like ants sensing that the hive was starting to flood.
Angelo took it as a sign that he’d done some good in the world. If every evil person in a two hundred meter radius was losing their marbles, that was probably a ‘good’ sign.
“I loved you like a brother!” came an anguished whisper in Angelo’s ear. He felt Servo’s breath, hot and angry on the back of his neck. “We were going to rule this town together!”
“No, we weren’t,” Angelo said. He could say it with complete and utter confidence. He was never going to be somebody. Never going to be like the Scapras, like the lords and ladies and grand merchants below. It felt good – it was a genuine joy – that for maybe a minute at most, he was so much better than the lot of them.
Servo didn’t offer him any other words. His best friend was crying too hard to speak.
“I hope Theus finds you, too. In the end,” Angelo let Servo know. “Let’s be better people, and better friends, in the next life.”
Angelo felt the ice-cold line of garrote wire press against his neck. Felt Servo’s fists against the backs of shoulders. Felt Servo’s knee press into the small of his back.
How fast it all came to this, Angelo mused. Five minutes ago, Angelo assumed he’d live forever. Death hadn’t entered his mind as a possibility at all, much less as a possibility for tonight. He realized that was probably true of Dufort, the day Angelo and Servo shot him. Maybe that’s how everyone died. Surprised death was here, completely unprepared. So it goes.
“See you in the next life,” Servo managed to squeeze the farewell between snarling teeth.
Angelo cleared his mind and gave his final prayer.
