It was becoming very rare for any of the council members to be walking the streets either in the dark, or with less than half a dozen guards – and yet here was Signor Faliero loitering furtively along one of the quieter walkways of the Floating City, under the Bridge of Smiles, wondering if what he was doing was wise, or incredibly stupid. The city seemed larger from down here, or perhaps it was that he felt smaller, tucked away in a dark cranny out of the light. He spun his head slowly at every sound and felt his stomach lurch whenever another person walked into the alleyway, but so far they had all walked slowly past him.
He tasted sweat on his upper lip when he licked his lips quickly and decided the likelihood of folly was rising over the likelihood of wisdom with each passing moment, and he exhaled heavily and turned to make his way back home.
“Don’t take another step,” a voice suddenly hissed at him from the shadows at his side.
He froze and felt his buttocks tighten in reflex. “Don’t… don’t hurt me.”
“Just step back to where you were,” the voice hissed.
“What… what… do you want?” Signor Faliero asked.
“For you to stay where you are.”
“Don’t hurt me,” he said in a voice full of fear.
“I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to save you.”
“What… what? I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to understand. You need to be quiet.”
“Who are you?”
“A man who is clearly better at following instructions than you are. Be quiet!”
Signor Faliero nodded. Then he said in a much lower voice. “What are we waiting for?”
“Assassins,” said the voice.
Signor Faliero gulped heavily. “I was invited here by Signor Tradonico,” he said. “I trust him fully. He said he was going to reveal a conspiracy against the city to me. I still have his letter.”
“Show me,” hissed the voice.
Signor Faliero reached into his robes and pulled out a small envelope. He held it out and a hand stretched out from the shadow and took it. Then he saw a man step out of the darkness and hold it out to the night light. He knew this man. He had seen him somewhere before, he thought.
“I know you,” he said.
The other man didn’t respond. He held the letter closer to his face and then said, “This is a forgery.”
“Yes, I know you,” Signor Faliero said again. The man looked at him and met his eyes. “Vincenzo the scribe.”
“The historian!” he replied.
“How are you involved in all this?” Signor Faliero asked him.
“That’s a good question,” he replied. “To which I myself have more questions than answers.”
“So what are we to do now?”
“We wait,” Vincenzo said.
“For what?”
“For me,” said a sudden deeper voice and Signor Faliero was startled to see a dark figure in a hood and cloak descend rapidly from the rooftops above and land lightly on his feet beside them. Signor Faliero drew back in alarm and held his hands up before him. But the man didn’t even pay him any attention. He said to the scribe, “There is no one out there.” Then he turned to regard Signor Faliero and said, “At least nobody intending you harm.” He bowed just a little, and said, “Show me the letter.”
Vincenzo handed it over and the stranger held his hand up and a soft light seemed to glow from his fingers. “I would have sworn it was Signor Tradonico’s hand,” Signor Faliero said.
“Vincenzo is the superhero of handwriting,” said the stranger, handing the letter back. “If he says it is a forgery then it is.”
“The super what?” asked Signor Faliero, looking to Vincenzo for explanation. But he looked as confused.
“That’s not the question,” said the stranger. “The question is, why would someone trick you into turning up for a meeting that didn’t exist and then not try and kill you?” He looked to both the citizens of the Floating City, but they still looked a little confused.
“Unless…” said the stranger, and then smacked his forehead with his palm, the way they did in Umbria. “Unless it was to keep us out of the way.” He looked at Vincenzo and said, “Oh dear. Come. We must hurry.” The stranger set off at a run, followed by the scribe, trying his best to keep up with him, and Signor Faliero further behind.
The stranger led them down several alleyways, pushing his way politely past citizens they passed, and over some footbridges until he stopped at a larger bridge, peered down into the canal from the centre and then leapt right over the railing. Signor Faliero saw the scribe run up to the spot and peer over the edge, and then continue running over the bridge.
He was panting heavily and sweating more than he thought healthy for him when he finally reached the same spot on the bridge. He looked over and saw the stranger on the small stone walkway by the canal’s edge under them, leaning over a body. He rested one hand on the stone railing, thinking he was going to throw up. Perhaps from the effort, perhaps from recognizing the bloodstained body down below him. It was Signor Tradonico. Undoubtedly also lured here by a forged letter by the assassins who perhaps knew that he had uncovered their conspiracy.
He saw the scribe now come out from an alleyway and join the stranger by the body, panting almost as much as he himself was. “Do you know him?” said the stranger, in a voice that showed no sign of being puffed.
“Yes,” said Vincenzo. “It is Signor Tradonico. Of the Council of Ten.”
“Council of Seven,” corrected the stranger.
“Let me guess,” said the scribe. “This wasn’t meant to happen, no?”
Signor Faliero felt his head spinning and his heart beating heavily in his chest. He had to sit down or it would be the Council of Six in a moment. He slumped to the ground and then waved away a young man who walked past offering to help him to his feet. After recovering his breath somewhat he stood and looked over the railing, expecting to see the scribe and the stranger. But they were gone. Only the body of Signor Tradonico was there. And whatever secret about the conspiracy against the Floating City that he had uncovered hidden within it. Then he noticed the masks on the stonework below him and recognized where he was. They were at the carved weeping masks of the Bridge of Tears.