The doge and the council huddled together, there was much whispering and nodding, until a few minutes had passed, and Shylock looked forlorn that his red-hot knife had cooled off.

The council took their seats again and they signaled to the bailiff to mark his words. “We find these men to have acted, although unwisely, in the interest of Venice, therefore, the suit against Antonio is dismissed, and the republic awards him the nine thousand ducats to rebuild his business. The failure of a merchant of Antonio’s stature is the failure of our nation, so he must not be permitted to fail. As there is no evidence that Antonio traded with the Muslims, as forbidden by the holy father, he is free to procure ships and trade with the full protection of the Venetian state. You may go, Antonio.”

Antonio thanked them, then scrambled away more quickly than I thought possible, although he was looking for someone to help him carry his gold.

“Iago,” the doge continued. “It is recognized that you, too, have acted to further the interest of the state, and there is no evidence that you have disobeyed your general, even when he sank into madness. While we will hold our judgment on what your position is to be in our service in the future, you are absolved of any charges and are free to go. Fortunato and Shylock are to be arrested by the guard for carrying and brandishing weapons in public, and are to be taken to the prison adjacent to our palace.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” said I. Four guards, bearing spears, advanced on me from the rear doorways. Another pair from either side of the dais moved in as well. Shylock had fallen to his knees, dropped his knife, and was shaking his head in disbelief.

I ran straight for one pair of guards, then faked toward the other, then when they had leveled their spears I ran and jumped upon the table before the doge and whipped two paper packets to my feet, which exploded with a loud pop, sending two of the council over backward in their chairs. The guards paused, but as the smoke rose, resumed their advance. I threw two more of the paper bombs at their feet, and they leapt back. The four guards from the rear doors had reached the floor and I cast two more bombs right at the breastplates of the lead two. The explosions so terrified one that he dropped his weapon and fled; the other, blinded by the flash and smoke, screamed and pounded at his chest.

“If I could have your bloody attention!” I shouted to the room. The gallery was trying to clear, and was clogging the doorways to exit. “Magic powder from the Orient,” I explained to the doge. I flipped off the table, landed a few feet from Iago, and grinned up at him as I lit the fuses on two of the paper cylinder bombs. I ran at two guards who had backed away to the side, and barked at them. They jumped out of my way and I slammed two bombs into the mouths of two great wine amphorae that had been set by the walls for decoration. I skipped by Iago, the council, the now very uncertain guards, and lit two more of the paper cylinders and slammed them into amphorae at the other corner.

“Dragon powder, they call it,” I pronounced. “Brought to Venice by Marco Polo, rescued and ransomed by, of all people, the alien Shylock. Pardon,” said I. I raised a finger to mark the place in my oratory, then put my fingers in my ears just as the first two amphorae exploded, peppering the room with shards of pottery, sending great silver mushroom clouds of smoke to the vaulted ceiling. Terrified shouts filled the hall, onlookers dog-piled on each other to get through the doorways. The council was on their feet, but didn’t appear to have an idea what to do beyond standing up. “But a thimbleful,” said I. “And two more.” The second two amphorae exploded with a fury similar to the first pair. Even Iago, hand on the hilt of his sword, flinched

“Thimbles full, Your Grace. Yet even now, loaded into catapults and trebuchets on a fleet of warships, are hundredweights of dragon powder, packed into great steel and stone balls to be launched on your city by Othello.”

“Othello is dead!” shouted Iago.

“Is he, Iago? Did you see him fall? Did you see his body?”

Iago’s eyes danced at the edge of their sockets, trying to search his memory.

“Blood!” said Iago. “My wife—”

A trumpet sounded outside, echoed from the harbor and Arsenal. The bells of St. Mark’s began to toll.

“A call to prayer?” I asked. “At this hour?”

“The signal of arrival of the fleet,” said the doge.

“Well, as you said, Your Grace, Iago acted for the republic. When he betrayed Othello, he was acting on behalf of the city, and now brave Othello, vengeful Othello, the alien, the Moor, with a hundred ships armed with dragon powder will rain deadly hellfire down on your beloved city until it is little more than flaming rubble and a distant memory. Venice, Your Grace, is no more. This was the test. You have failed.”

“Fortunato,” the doge pleaded. “We did not know about your queen.”

“You know now, and I’m off to your prison. Quickly now, while you still have walls. A thimbleful.” I held up one of the paper cylinders I’d tucked in my belt.

“Plead mercy to the Moor. We did not know. We made him our general.”

“Arrest Iago,” I said.

“Arrest him!” said the doge. Guards moved on Iago and as he reached for his sword I held one of my daggers at the ready to throw. “I will kill you where you stand, you villainous wretch.” He let the guards take his arms.

Now the onlookers had calmed in their escape and had turned back to watch.

“Issue pardon to Shylock, and restore his fortune.”

“It is so decreed,” said the doge, the council nodding like pecking chickens. “The nine thousand ducats are so awarded to Shylock, and he is absolved of all charges. Now, please, Fortunato, go to Othello, plead mercy for Venice.”

“Don’t call me Fortunato.”

“Pocket, please! Mercy.”

“Antonio has already taken the gold,” said Shylock.

“We will call him back,” said the doge. “He conspired with Iago, he will be arrested, now go. Save the city.”

I turned to run out when a familiar voice boomed through the gallery.

“Your Grace! Senators!”

The crowd parted and Othello strode through, fully draped in golden-and-white-striped silks, a great golden silk veil trailing from a bronze Saracen helmet, his jewel-sheathed scimitar in a yellow silk sash at his waist.

The doge came around the table and fell to his knees.

“Oh please, Othello, General, please spare the city, Venice is and shall be true to you. Do not destroy the city. We did not know.” The doge bent until his stupid hat touched the ground.

Othello looked at me. “Fool?”

“Moor,” said I. “Smashing togs.”

“What are you up to?”

“Stay the dragon powder, Ot

hello,” said the doge. “Please, spare the city.”

“Oh, that?” said I. I sheathed my dagger. “Just having you on. We only had what I carried with me today. I have to go catch Antonio. Ta!”

TWENTY-FIVE

Arise! Black Vengeance!

I ran out the door, under the eye of many confused onlookers. I spotted Drool, towering above the fray near the canal, and Bassanio helping Antonio load the chest of gold into a gondola.

“Drool, stop them!” I cried, but the ninny took too long to see the target of my instruction. Bassanio was pushing the gondola away from the walkway, Portia pulling him back toward the court as the boat moved away. Antonio stood amidships, grinning at me.

I shouldered my way through the crowd, drawing a dagger and plunging the pommel into my purse as I moved. When I reached the edge of the water, clear of the crowd, I flung the dagger.

It whistled over the water and thunked into the wooden seat by Antonio’s feet.

“You missed,” he said.

“Yes,” said I. “Blast and damn. Toss that back, would you, mate?”

Antonio bent down and worked the dagger out of the wood. He smiled rather smugly as he stuck it in his belt, confident he was out of knife-throwing range, but then looked at his hand. “It’s sticky.”

“Yes it is, innit?” I called. “Ta!”

The wave moved in a chevron up the center of the Grand Canal’s chilly water.

“Wot’s that?” said one onlooker, pointing to the dark missile moving under the water at the apex of the wave.

The others gathered and watched. Antonio followed their gaze and saw the thing moving at him. He looked around, looked at the gondolier, realized there was nowhere to go.

I will give him credit, he wasn’t the nancy-boy coward I’d thought him to be. He drew my dagger from his belt, crouched, and faced the oncoming wave.

She was like a column of silky tar erupting from the water, her skin shining where the sun hit it. She took his knife arm at the shoulder in her jaws and rolled him over backward into the water, his bones audibly snapping and her front claws disemboweling him before they hit the water on the other side of the gondola and he was carried down in a blossoming red stain in the green water to be seen nevermore. There had been no pause, no break in her momentum; she went through him in the leap as if she might surface again a few yards away and take another merchant, then another, as fluid and natural and irresistible as the sea—an elegant terror—a beautiful monster.

Tags: Christopher Moore Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net