It had started raining on the way back from the Isle of Sorrows, just confirming to the Duca’s small retinue how ill-advised his idea to visit the island had been. He had stayed overlong as well, talking to the plague people and listening to their grievances about being kept isolated from their families on the island where they could see the Floating City, and often their family homes, but not visit them.
The bright lights and city colours that must have taunted them each evening now turned to dull grey in the rain and his physician started mumbling and grumbling again. The man was perhaps overly old for his position and the best that could be said of him was that he was quite an expert on a wide variety of ailments since he suffered from so many of them himself. He had been most reluctant to make the trip in the first place and had said repeatedly that it would be dangerous. Said the plague people might take them all hostage. Said they would have to burn all their clothes and even the boats they had travelled in when they returned to the city.
The Duca was thinking that he couldn’t burn the things he had seen or heard though. The plague people were kept under constant guard. They were housed in overcrowded ramshackle buildings. There were families with children and old men and women there. They were treated like prisoners or enemies captured in battle, he thought.
He had heard it said that plague people were sneaking into the city at nights, rowing across on any old debris they could find and then hiding with family and friends who would take them in. And why shouldn’t they? The miserable have no other medicine than hope. The guards on the island denied anyone had ever escaped, of course, but the Duca doubted they even kept a head-count on who was there. They had no desire to come into close contact with the plague people and huddled in a single quarter as if besieged.
“Are we quite sure the waters are still safe?” he heard his physician ask, peering around at the dancing rain-pelted waters about them.
“The Djinn-slayer assures us they are,” said the captain of the city guard. Normally General Otello would have had the duty of accompanying the Duca on a visit like this, and the Duca missed his quiet presence. The physician was intimidated by him too, and would have most likely kept his complaints to himself.
Soon they were approaching the city’s edge where they had departed and the Duca looked into the rainy darkness to see a small party there waiting patiently in the rain for them. The Duca’s boat docked first and the men waiting for them bent down and started fiddling with ropes and things. The Duca was eager to be in out of the rain, and stood, assisted by the captain, and just for a moment wondered why there were only three men to greet them. There should have been many more.
Then the three men lifted their heads. They wore the grinning white masks of the assassins.
“Stay down,” said the captain, pushing the Duca back into the boat, drawing his sword and stepping between the Duca and the men who had now drawn daggers. He blocked the first dagger thrust and then punched the man hard in the face with the pommel of his sword. The assailant fell back and a second stepped over him. He was quicker than the first and his dagger thrust cut the captain on the arm. He cried out and dropped his sword. The Duca’s eyes went wide as the assassin turned his face towards him.
But the captain caught his sword as it fell, with his left hand, and brought it up to block the next thrust that was made towards him. The move caught the attacker by surprise. The captain then swung at the man, but it was a clumsy blow and landed on his mask, cracking it.
The attacker stepped back, suddenly more interested in protecting his identity than in defending himself. But the third man was already stepping forward, weaving his dagger in the air like it was a snake, mesmerizing its prey. The captain did not look at the blade though, instead focusing on the eyes of the attacker. He waited until he saw them ready to strike and flicked his sword out in a long thrusting stroke that brought him close enough for the man to drive his dagger into his eye.
But he did not. For the captain’s sword had pierced his heart. He fell to his knees with a gasp and the captain fell too, trying to pull his sword out as the first assassin slashed at him again. The dagger cut deeply into his leg and the captain cried out in pain, almost falling into the water. The assassin stood, but he was too late. The second boat had come alongside them now and guards had drawn their swords and leapt at the assassin, quickly striking him down.
The Duca looked now for the second assassin, expecting to see him make one last attack, but he could see the man scuttling off into the darkness across the cobblestones, cursing and holding his broken mask to his face. Then everything was chaos as the physician started calling murder and the other boats were alongside them and men were taking his arms to lead him to safety.
High above, in the window of a tower that was protected from the rain, the scribe Vincenzo watched the Shadow Master lower his raised arm and retract the small crossbow that had been affixed to his wrist.
“You could have got him before he reached the shadows,” Vincenzo said, indicating the assassin who had escaped.
“Only if the Duca was in real danger,” he replied.
Vincenzo was taken aback. “That looked like real danger to me,” he said.
But the Shadow Master shook his head. “You’ll know real danger when it comes. Time will slow down as if by enchantment, and you’ll remember every detail in crystal clarity.”
The scribe smiled. “I never thought I’d say it, but I’d like to experience that,” he said. “Though perhaps without the danger.”
The Shadow Master shook his head. “The two are as much a part of each other as… well, as…” He paused.
“Yes?” asked Vincenzo.
“It doesn’t matter. Metaphors were never my strong point. You’ll come up with a good one when the time comes.”