The air overlooking the canals was something vaguely unpleasant. A mixture of tars, tepid waters, sloshing perfumes and the stink that came off the end of day Markets when the food, unsold, was disposed of. Custodian Sweepers moved through the marketplaces, collecting the organics of the various vendors and pushing them into the Mangiare-Carro (Most of the English within Venice simply dubbed them the Goblin Wagons), which was simply a large box of black tar, thick wooden beams of ash and a half dozen brass feed tubes, gunked and stained by the various black remnants of ages old produce. It's wheels were banded iron and each was built with the sturdy utility of an armoured Siege-engine.
(A fact supported by all the populations of Venice, since the early times of this dubious invention, saw the make of a much lighter and much more decay susceptible vehicle, each of which had the penchant for bursting open on a hot day like some gaseous-plugged corpse, fouling a good four blocks of laneway and alley with the ripened stench of it's innards. Policia had been forced to evacuate whole sections of the City in some circumstances, for fear of mass fainting spells among the population, incapable of breathing beyond their own out-turned stomachs and clogged airways)
He often found himself resisting the urge to spit off the edge of the Belfry's stonework, just to cleanse his pallet. Not out of some noble sense of propriety, but more for the possibility of discovery.
Assassination, afterall was hardly a work supportive of anything but secrecy.
His fingers, draped in fine leather gloves, ran across the delicate fixture of the object they had given him. A fine piece of artifice, the likes of which had yet to make the shores of the public eye or mind. It had been assembled in a half dozen different European cities, the power-source developed and appropriated from some American institute with an unhealthy obsession and attitude toward the Weather. He had yet to hear much more about the Technology he was now holding and quietly clamped down on a budding giddiness to put it to use. Still, professional courtesy and reflex kept him still and quiet in the dark of the Belfry, overlooking many of the broad blocks and walkways of the Plaza below;
The markets stretched in a half-hundred different directions, from the very base of the Church he had been occupying for the last three days, all the way into the higher plumbed areas where the palazzo's made their homes and the rich and well-off fancied themselves safe from the depravities and debauchery of the less fortunate or mindless. One could walk the length of a hillside's down-slope and see the none-to-gradual decline of the architecture from it's archaic wonder of ruins and well aged demesnes to it's lower heights, where steam gouted from the sides of buildings, staining the walls of their neighbours in peeling grout and shifty mortar. The dampness beyond Fastol Avenue hung so thickly in the air, that the fluidic cough was a common ailment among the population. Mornings could be heralded as much by the mucus filled cough of a hundred waking souls as it could be by the Cock's crowing.
The distant sun was beginning it's easy descent for the day, gleaming reds and pungent oranges, diluted against the grainy press of clouds, beneath which had been broken by a momentary clarity to the far West, where the Oceans began to peel away from the land and sported a vast unknown quality even in these unenlightened times. He cradled his newly acquired contraption closely to his chest, feeling the weight of it settle firmly against one hip. The Stock was made from a light wood that nonetheless, dug into his side. He could feel the density of the metal inside the smoothed wood, a pressure that made the long length of the piece, rear-heavy but then he remembered the twitchy fellow with the spindly hair and the eyes too wide to sleep mentioning something about the Current Dynamo embedded in the stock being what's going to keep him on the right side of the weapon's reaction.
He felt more then heard something shift below his feet, the ancient stonework of the Belfry subject to subtle and heavy motions. The steam engines littering much of Venice's underbelly and structural framework had a strangely tectonic mimicry that shook his bones on occasion, depending on which part of the city he found himself in. He felt a vague cringe in his guts at the thought of all that pent up pressure, one day, shaking Venice to pieces and sending it crashing into the river but it was his vague unease versus a thousand Austrian opinions and Italian artificers over a few hundred years. He didn't blame the population for choosing to believe the latter.
He felt the Tower shiver, the bell behind him creaking suddenly on a timber thick enough to dwarf the width of his shoulders and resisted the urge to turn and look at it. Dusk was approaching and with it the wandering footfalls of the evening mass would begin to fill the deserted markets, eagerly seeking out the communion blessing at the Church's front doors. The clergymen were often the doddering, forgetful and well-aged, bringing their sense of peace and goodwill senility to those who might listen to their ancient and stutter filled ramblings about a true Faith, beyond Austrian Rule, Purity of the Self and Somnambulist Hypnotism (Austrian nobility had brought with them a disturbing amount of Sleep doctors, who specialized in expelling the threat of disease and psychosis from their patients, VIA sleep induced psychotropic states of stress and will reduction; this often involved lengthy sessions of blacked out fever dreams at the hands of questionably sane MDs incapable of speaking outside of their native tongues. Still, the practice's popularity could not be denied).
Many of the nobility partook of these moments, deigning to escape the cloistered confines of their proper world, to pay homage and faithful tribute to Saint-Ives of Blunders who presided over these very grounds; a Saint of Impeccable taste, Saint-Ives had been a devout Catholic some seven hundred years ago, who, in his fervour to find God amongst the clouds, enough that he walked off an unfinished bridge and drowned while staring at some clouds. Prayers and tribute were paid, many for the guidance to seek God in all things, but mostly to ward against accidents, stubbed toes and potential mis-steps in etiquette'd conversation.
He felt the building shiver again, the coiled rope twitching slightly, a wound tongue jutting from the broad mouth of the iron bell that fed to the curtained station below. Come the failing of the last rays of the Sun, the rope would be plucked at by a young balded cloister child and the bell rung to announce the beginnings of the Sermon proper. Most of the mass knew the requisite times and it was often a hotly contested effort to be the first ones to arrive who did not seem rushed in the process. Often times, furiously calm patrons could be seen flooding the streets for nearly half a league, marching with the deliberately tense slowness of the faithfully competitive. No few communions were heralded by the odd tension of a mob approaching the large banded doors of the church, however eerily silent it was. The torchlight and candles didn't help any to dis-spell that image.
With the inevitable presence of many of the nobility, fresh from Austrian Borders marking the frontlines by way of station, presence and sheer gadfly eagerness.
He reached into a side pouch, plucking out several sections of soft wax, the malleable white gel pasted generously over either ear until the volume of his surroundings and the power of the distant winds off the water, were a muffled whisper lost somewhere by the edge of his earlobes. He tilted his head, yawning slightly to pop some of the pressure that had gathered, resisting the urge to plug his nose and mouth to blow it out. The discomfort was minimal and he was already beginning to catch sight of several torches in the distance, winding their way solemnly through the carved out guts of Venice's many bridges, walkways and lanes.
He brought the weapon up, setting it's coiled barrel on the edge of the stonework, being sure to place the hardened resin rubber against the mortar to ensure none of the metal made contact. The spiralled copper was near as long as his arm and the assortment of wires attached to it were so prolific, he had trouble deciphering the solid shape of the coil beneath them all, wrapped snugly around where the copper filaments fit into neat little grooves concentrically filed all along the strange 'barrel', while their opposite ends fit into a sooty black set of rings that jutted at regular intervals over the revolutions of the coil; one every five rungs, all the way back to the weapon's base, where one hand gripped a secondary resin-rubber grip, thick and heavy with internal windings and coglinks. He paid careful attention to the strange jutting bulbs atop the resin chamber he was holding, slanted out like a pair of pointed rabbits ears, their interior filaments as thin as hair fibre, as frail looking as a stand of powder.
The Torchlight below was beginning to seep through the various openings that led into the market-square, emptied of all but these patrons to Saint-Ives who shuffled into place alongside one another with predictable familiarity. No few of the less fortunate halted their progress briefly as the veiled and stately looking individuals, some in military dress, others in the finest of Austrian Fashions (which were somewhere between a laced carnival motif and the rebel flag for a bloody coup) and many others yet dressed in the traditional whites and reds of Faith that had been the tradition for decades among the Italian families, who still had some place within the occupied streets. Candles could be seen, gripped in the hands and ornate holders of several family collectives, the bonneted and capped children clutching their parents hands with the earnest unease of disquiet.
He took several steadying breaths, settling into a crouched position that was comfortable, ignoring the creak of his aging bones and the flush of fluids that locked his left knee into place. It would be painful getting back up and he silently released the grip of tension in his jaws, eyes slipping shut in anticipation-
Clang!
Came the bell's toll, a rumble behind him that concussive broke against his cloaked shoulders and spine. He felt his heart hum in response, a quickening that drove the breath out of his lungs and sucked it right back in again a moment later. He flicked the indented switch, a tiny tear-shaped bit of metal that clacked against it's metal alcove, hard enough to reverberate in the pinched fingers of his grip around the resin-stand. The air suddenly whined to life around his head and he felt the pressure gather under his jaws, unbidden this time, his ears thrumming as the captured pressure behind the wax grew to it's own concussive balloon. Quite suddenly the discomfort had become a dull ache that was spreading from some nebulous pinpricked spot somewhere in his brain, outward.
Below, the great doors of the Church, fit snug into the darkened trench of the dull masonry blocks that made up the foundation and walls, swung wide, showering the cobbles ahead of them with a wavering orange light. Faint wisps of white smoke, poured out and pooled on the cobbled stretch of the market square and sent a tremble of order through the gathered numbers in the crowd of worship. A neat semi-circle formed amongst the noble ranks, which went nearly two bodies deep, children thrust up front of their parents, held before well-tailored cuffs of gold and embroidered brown or laced gloves of candy-stripe pink and white.
The censor smoke gave way to kindly, bent and corrugated priests, decked in the white robes and red mantles of the Church, swinging the false gold chains and orbs with slow and deliberate strokes, pink tongues tucked in concentration, between teeth and lips, while the man upfront, his head decorated by a the symbolic hat of Saint-Ives, a pair of white cloth fronds, frilled at their tips, spread as if in offering to either side, the humped shoulders of each depicting a shrug of helplessness and harmless mercy. The priests spread out, with slow methodical steps to gather at the fringes of the crowd, the censors continuing to swing as they reached out free hands to grasp and clasp with those arms and hands that reached out toward them, seeking comfort and reassurance.
The pressure was beginning to flood his senses and his lips had been driven back from his teeth, gritted as they were molar to molar with the rising cord of his neck and spine. The weapon hummed in his hands, oddly still even under the pressure of the tolling bell behind him, with it's concussions of regularity driving new tremors through him. He fit the Stock to his shoulder and settled his chin on the upraised stirrup that sighted one eye down the length of sooty rings until his gaze was focused on the crowd below. He turned slightly in place, hunching one shoulder until a muscle spasm locked it down next to his ear. The ache had become a throb and he snorted an exhaled blast to relieve some of the tension. It returned all too quickly.
The head clergyman stopped before the gathering, a mere few feet away, raising his hands out to either side with a patting motion demanding silence. The wave of kindly authority spread with the help of the nobility, who's nudging elbows and over-the-shoulder glares at the less fortunate, flooded obedience in the agitated number still looking for recognition from the Faith. Soon enough, torches were raised high and the assembled were at a hush he thought only capable before Queens and Kings. Reverence had it's power, it would seem.
The priest garbled something he couldn't hear, not over anything, least of all the wax in his ears keeping the worst of the pressure and tolling at bay. He knew, for the presence of a small family stepped forward at some unseen sign. The woman wore a demure hat that bent upward on either wide brim's side, Tied in place by a broad scarlet scarf, which bobbed at the top of the hat, her dress the frilled pink and red of hemmed sin, trimming the edge of a glittering white he swore was worth the lives of at least a dozen or more in the crowds. The man was a stately sort, sporting a broad moustache that eliminated nearly the entire lower half of his face behind it's enunciation proclamation of business and solemnity. His hair was a waved partition to either side of his head. His collar was high, depicting the pair of golden symbols too distant to make out but could not be anything else but a military designation. His white jacket over dark brown pants, was resplendently sophisticated or might have been had the garish gold of his cuffs not been the ruination. Lastly, was the young slip of a thing, clutched at the shoulders by her father's large, brutish hands. She wore a dress similar to her mother's, with white stockings and a pair of slippers one might be tempted to call dainty. Her hair was brought up into a neat pony tail and braided down one shoulder, while her face turned up in an obvious mask of courage hiding a looming fear of the wrinkled creature standing infront of her and her family.
He sighted down the coiled barrel, over the edge of the hundred and one filaments attached to it and past the slender cross at the tip of the coil which, he swore, sparked quite suddenly. The tension was growing toward an unbearable level and he could not unhinge his jaw from it's current grit. His knee was beginning to buckle and all noise had been replaced by a dull roar.
The Priest bent forward to receive the family and they in turn looked as if they might bow to their knees, the Mother taking a brief moment to spread something infront of them, that the dirt of the market floor not soil any of them in the benediction.
He exhaled through his teeth and flicked the tear-shaped switch once again, the clack profoundly audible or...perhaps that was simply his relief:
The weapon discharged, though his indication came not from the piece in his grip but from the sudden, almost explosive swoop of released tension, flooding down his limbs, through his muscles and into the contraption which hummed under his grip with the subtle and gentle sibilancy of a poised snake. Some sort of warped distortion ricochetted through the centre of the oddly spiralled barrel and struck the tip before vanish in the open air before the Belfry. It took a second for something to happen and then, calamity struck it's chord with the next Bell Toll.
The Family was halfway to the ground, when the man suddenly seized in place. Bolt upright, he seemed to tremble in his uniform, which suddenly took on the appearance of flexed stiffness, as if a space had suddenly been created between his flesh and it's cloth. The little girl and the Mother turned as one and backed away from him with horrified alarm, while the crowd's concentrative faith was sent a tremor by the disturbance in the air; as if the palpable quality of this moment had reached out to all, even those without eyes on the front of the procession.
The priest's head was bowed forward, his eyes more than likely closed for he did not move or shift place. The military man's moustache flexed and bristled, sprouting outward on a reddened face, while his hair climbed upward with a life of it's own, the orderly wave turning into a frazzled mess that sought to escape into the night air.
Someone nearby was screaming. A sound that was joined by several others.
He felt something in his chest grow erratic for a few moments, could not fathom that it was his own heart in the aftermath of an adrenal exhale. He tried to calm his body, leaning forward against the ledge of stone slightly, the weapon swinging into his lap, still and calm once more. His gaze found the scene below, rapt and attentive.
The Man was raising his limbs with some measure of fierce difficulty, spittle flecking his lips and his eyes bulging in their sockets. His face was the colour of pale pomegranate and he stumbled to the left a few paces, almost colliding with his daughter who shrieked in response and turned to dash toward the far end of the Semi-circle. The man's wife made a move forward, shouting something in their Native Austrian, dropping the candle she'd been clutching as she moved to chase the young thing. The Husband's hands reached out toward his Wife, while the Priest finished whatever benediction he'd been murmuring about and raised his head.
That's when the dropped candle slid under the Husband's foot and sent him pitching backward, his hand snagged in the ribbon binding his wife's hat into an upturned curve. His wife reached up toward her hair, exposed and bundled atop her head, shrieking anew. The Priest gave a confused shiver and the Military Man fell backward with a strangled groan, striking the ground with a concussive thud.
A thud that suddenly turned into a wet sploosh that sent a spray of arterial red, flecked white and burst pink up and outward, across the crowd for a good thirty feet in all directions. The wife was painted a rich smear of Scarlet Husband and the Priest layered thickly by the sudden detonation. Their stunned silence infected the crowd which stared at one another in muted but rapidly growing shock.
A few precious heartbeats passed and then-
Clang!
The Bell tolled again and Calamity returned with a rich clarity. The Wife began to scream, uncontrollable and triggered the same in the crowd, which wavered, buckled and broke in a hundred different directions, this great moving mass that clogged the alleys and lanes and streets with moving, breaking and crashing bodies that left no few trampled in it's wake. Torches were dropped and sent pin-wheeling through the air while the howling insanity of the mob spilled out into the city to share and infect the grisly news with every Inn, Bar and neighbour's window passed. Lights were already beginning to strike the distant streets of the Constabulary even as the market emptied of all but the dead, dying and catatonic.
He just sat there for a time, staring, ignoring the throbbing pain in his knee and the distinctly hollowed out sensation in his skull and chest. He tried to swallow a few times and managed on the sixth. Then he sucked in a slow breath that was meant to calm and steady and, with shaking hands, began to carefully take apart the various sections of the weapon, his grip inside the gloves having turned his knuckles white, as if his own blood feared his fingers and what havoc they might unleash next. He reached up to dig the wax from his ears as best he could, flicking the remains against the wall, before blowing out the rest with plugged nose and closed mouth.
Whistles were sounding in the distance now. He could hear the disorder rousing the city from it's early evening home-life. All at once, reflex took over and he creaked to his feet, wincing with the flare of pain that bounced through his knee. The components were tucked safely into their travelling, the segments locked and folded together. He began to drag it toward the nearby window and the six foot drop down to the Bailey roof.
Behind him, down in the square, a woman dripped and screamed in the street. They would dub her clinically insane and after several weeks of attempted therapies, lock her away.
And of the young girl, there would be no sign.
A Job Done. His employers would be pleased. He had earned his sovereigns, which was good. He'd need them to drown the hollow that had been left behind.
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