Love Poison No. 13 Page 4

  And if the disguises were ingeniously hidden away? Well, then the presence of any servant becomes a benefit, for he can be easily persuaded to divulge whatever needs extracting from him.

  There was no time for hesitating.

  Guilfo slipped from his seat, indicating with the simple rise and fall of a finger that his two personal guards should accompany him. They used the back ways, ones almost as well hidden by vanishing doors as the passages marbling the buildings running off the Lane Without Name.

  It was quicker this way, if dangerously steep in the way it carved such a direct path through the theatre. To add to the danger, the narrow corridors were only partially and therefore incredibly dimly lit.

  Many of the hidden passages remained unused, partly blocked off, even forgotten, their original purpose of aiding assassins and spies no longer relevant now that the theatre attracted a more respectable clientele whom Guilfo didn’t wish to scare off. These tunnels remained completely dark, thousands of intertwining cobwebs making them virtually impenetrable to anything but the rats who scurried nosily along them. It’s no wonder, therefore, that neither Guilfo nor his men were aware that the muffled scuffling they heard coming from a corridor they rushed past was caused not by the ever-present vermin but by a man who, strangely, hauled at invisible ropes, or tried to stumble forward as if unaware that a dark wall blocked his progress.

  Ironically, any unusual noises he made that might have alerted Guilfo to his presence was drowned out by the noisy shifting of scenery, or the music thundering out from the stage.

  Bur then, even if Guilfo had come across this unfortunate man, working away at his unseen task as if enchanted, the impresario wouldn't have recognised him; for Guilfo had little time for his own people.

  And so, without realising it, Guilfo blithely slipped past an opportunity to capture Forisimo red handed in his attempt to see Cauda.

  Still, Guilfo was of a mind that this odious Forisimo would soon no longer be of any concern to him.

  The workshops would undoubtedly provide something to bring about the young inventor’s downfall, Guilfo was sure of that.

  Indeed, it might well prove to be the case that he didn’t need this love poison of Master Caputo’s after all.

  *

  Caught up in the emotion of her dance, Cauda hadn’t seen Guilfo leave his seat; and yet, when she at last noticed that his box was empty, she sighed with relief.

  A new sense of joy erupted into the flows of her dance, the audience thrilling to these new, extra moves of unrestrained elation.

  Despite Guilfo’s elaborate attempts at disguise, Cauda could never mistake the intentness of the stare that so remorselessly drilled into her, seemingly penetrating flesh, bone, and making her blood run with a shivering coldness. It would undoubtedly have affected her performance badly if she hadn’t been able to shrug off it’s most debilitating effects with thoughts only of Forisimo whom she knew – as he had promised – would always be close.

  He hadn’t yet thought it wise to reveal his presence to her; yet she had already recognised him, spotting one ago that Delfaris’s hauling of the scenery wasn’t anywhere near as accomplished as it usually was.

  She hoped Delfaris hadn’t been harmed; she was sure that Forisimo wouldn’t endanger him in anyway.

  Had Forisimo used the new device he had mentioned a few meetings back, a whirling, brightly patterned disc that sent people into a temporary daze, such that anything could be suggested to them and they would unquestioningly obey?

  And what of the contraption he had raved about even more, the one he claimed could capture her dancing for future generations to enjoy – enabling her to live on forever, at least in the minds of her many admirers.

  She wasn’t too keen on the idea of that, she had had to admit to him.

  To be thinking of her death, to be planning of how she will be remembered after she has gone.

  Isn’t that all a bit morbid? Maybe, even, tempting fate to play her hand?

  Forisimo had chuckled at her modesty, light-heartedly scolding her for her selfishness in seeking to deny people yet born the pleasure of watching her dance.

  Even so, to please her he had removed the machine he had hidden amongst the lanterns and other light projectors fixed to the framework lying in the darkness just beneath the ceiling. Just as he had had to gradually and painstakingly place it there, utilising a number of disguises to achieve this, he similarly had to take on numerous new personalities before he had safely taken down any signs that his device had ever been there.

  Her dance was of the moment, Cauda believed.

  If you weren’t here to see it, then you would never, ever be made aware of the intense emotions it elicited within her.

  *

  You could never be sure who was watching you whenever you entered the Lane Without Name.

  The first man Guilfo sent towards Forisimo’s doorway was garbed as darkly as the lane itself. He moved silently yet swiftly, such that even if you had also been walking down that lane at that very moment, and he had passed you, you would think only that a breeze had wafted past.

  He was one of the best; phenomenally expensive to employ but worth every penny.

  The door presented no problem, one of Forisimo’s own ingenious devices being aptly used against him – a hurdy-gurdy-like instrument boasting a large key of whirling, slowly expanding diamond-tipped sharp blades that sliced through the interior tumblers, a series of gears ensuring that the man’s turning of the handle was relatively easy.

  Naturally, the danger was that Forisimo had prepared some other infernal contraption that would protect his own door from being abused in this way, but Guilfo was taking the chance that the purveyors of the Lane Without Name were too confident in their sense of mutual protection and security to bother with such unnecessary obstructions.

  Besides, it would be his man who suffered any consequences, not him.

  When there were no signs that the man had failed in his attempt to break into the workshops, the second man made his way silently along the lane, his clothes every bit as simple and black as his companion’s.

  Guilfo didn’t possess their talents for blending seamlessly into the darkness. But he didn’t need them.

  He had his disguise; and, he reasoned not unreasonably, the occupants of the lane would be quite used to Forisimo returning and departing on a regular basis.

  He’d had the mask specially made a while ago, intending to use it for different purposes; to fool Cauda, maybe, although there would be a question of weight, of size. But this was an even better use for it, for here the matter of a wider girth was irrelevant, for Forisimo would simply be taken to be wearing his own concealing veneer.

  He strode down the lane with all the confidence of a returning habitant of the lane. He approached then briefly paused at the door as if searching in a pocket for a key; then, after mimicking the action of turning this invisible key, he pushed open the door and entered.

  The interior was, remarkably, even darker than outside. His men had had the sense not to light any candles that might reveal their presence.

  He fumbled his way down the corridor, cursing them nevertheless.

  When he at last caught a glimmer of light being reflected from a curving wall, alerting him to a turn in the passageway, he breathed a sigh of relief that his men weren’t lying dead somewhere amongst the darkness, brought down by one of Forisimo’s more deadly machines.

  He was relieved once more when, on turning the corner, he saw his two black-garbed men standing there; but there was a third man there, one tightly bound and gagged, his eyes wide with fear.

  Forisimo’s servant, obviously; he must have come to investigate the opening of the door, perhaps thinking his master had arrived home. He would have been no match for Guilfo’s heavily built man.

  ‘He says he’s the only one,’ this man now assured Guilfo.

  Guilfo only briefly wondered how this man could trust the word of Forisimo’s servant; t
hen he noted the firmly bound man’s ugly, malformed hand, with at least two fingers broken, and pulled back at an unnatural angle.

  Yes, he’d told the truth.

  ‘Good,’ Guilfo said with a sense of growing satisfaction, ‘he can lead us through this maze of tunnels towards Forisimo’s rooms.’

  As he spoke, he looked not towards his men but glowered directly into the already bulbous eyes of the petrified servant, making sure the man realised it was a request that would only be foolishly denied.

  As they made their way down the branching corridors, Guilfo’s men lit the lanterns they found at corners, ensuring they would be able to find their way back. Guilfo was pleased that, curiously, Forisimo’s servant didn’t seem in anyway perturbed by this sign that his role would soon be redundant, as it made their task so much easier.

  Obviously, this servant of Forisimo’s was far too trusting of human nature. He doubtlessly believed that his help, his subservient acquiescence to their demands, would be rewarded with graciousness and mercy.

  Guilfo was surprised by the simplicity of Forisimo’s rooms, one empty bar a bed and washstand, the other arranged with nothing but humble chairs and a table yet dominated by an intriguing contraption positioned in its very centre.

  But then again, Guilfo could appreciate simplicity in certain circumstances.

  It was the very simplest of indications, after all, that gave his men permission to slice the servant’s throat, the poor man’s purpose – for the moment at least – over.

  *

  Chapter 7

  Forisimo prepared for the changes of scenery, as well as the closing and opening of the curtains, required for the final dance scenes.

  He wasn’t responsible for every transition, nor was he in charge of it all, of course; he was simply following directions, but he had previously witnessed Delfaris rushing about his many tasks at this point in the show.

  Similarly, he had seen on numerous occasions the innumerable curtain calls that invariably followed the finale of Cauda’s show.

  He glanced up towards the timber scaffolding bedecked with so many lanterns and lights, most of his own invention. He regretted, as he often did, that his device wouldn’t be there to record the euphoric applause and adulation Cauda would receive.

  Unlike his other, more mechanical contraptions, his Lantern of Life – despite its obvious brilliance – tore at his notion of what sort of person he claimed to be.

  In his frenzy to capture more of Cauda’s essential essence, he had resorted to utilising less scientific means, more alchemical substances – even enchantments.

  The result was a source of pride, of ultimate joy for him; and yet also of deep shame and foreboding, for he had delved into realms he had the wisdom to realise should be best left alone.

  But since moving to the Lane Without Name, he had found the temptation to use his compatriots’ wares too increasingly strong to resist.

  The Lantern of Life’s interior wasn’t simply an elaborate system of lenses, as many might suppose, but a labyrinthine interplay of the most fabulous of crystals, some reliably reputed to have come from the moon herself. There were also sheer films of skin, the finest Seneore could produce, these taken from many animals, maybe even – he really didn’t wish to contemplate this – children. Chemicals came from what would otherwise be the secretive suppliers of both Mr Gillars and Master Caputo, their unnatural consistency achieved with a binding of blood, mercury and venom, their mining possible only because many died in the unearthing of such preciously rare minerals.

  Ah, but how wonderfully the Lantern of Life made up for such a colossal loss.

  And yet, after all that sacrifice that had gone into its creation, it had recorded only one dance of Cauda’s.

  It was such a waste; a wasted opportunity to record her every move, her every expression of emotion, so that others might be as equally enthralled by her remarkable effusion of presence as he was.

  The signal came to let the final backdrop roll down into place.

  It was a realistically rendered scene of Cleopatra’s palace.

  It was a sign to everyone who knew Cauda (and who, in this city, didn’t know of her?) that this was her final dance.

  The Writhing of The Asp.

  The crowd were rapturous in their cries of tortured agony.

  *

  The love Cauda showered upon her countless worshipers was indeed most impressive, Master Caputo had to grudgingly admit.

  He had come here thinking he wouldn't be impressed, that he would remain steadfastly immune to her charms.

  He had been wrong.

  And yet this natural effusion of her love was what he was hoping to manipulate.

  Had he set himself too high – maybe even an impossible – task?

  No; surely not.

  Even so, if he were indeed to extract only the faulty strains of love, while also retaining and safeguarding the outpouring of love her skill and her charm lay dependent upon – then he needed to know more, much more, about her and the fortunate recipient of her adoration.

  Just when he was beginning to believe that the curtain calls would continue all night, the curtains at last remained firmly closed, no matter the continuing cries for more, for an encore. There were no more flowers to throw from the boxes, unless you counted those decorating his own, which he’d never had any intention of casting towards the stage. Yet he had marvelled as he had watched even the women launching large bunches of blooms towards the bowing Cauda, those incapable of reaching the stage sure in the knowledge that the people gathered below would gradually carrying the bouquets forward on a wave that would finally cast them up around the dancer’s tiny feet.

  Exhausted yet bubbling with joy, the excitably chattering crowd at last began to exit the building. The only people slow to move now were those in the most expensive boxes, waiting for the worst of the crush from the cheaper ones to dissipate a little before they too began to rise from their seats.

  These richer admirers of Cauda, Caputo suspected, would be expecting a more personal introduction to the star. No doubt they had already sent ahead their gifts of flower baskets, delicacies and, maybe, even pieces of jewellery.

  Guilfo might wish to deter Cauda’s lover from visiting, but even he wouldn’t be so foolish as to alienate potentially powerful supporters. This was how the most successful impresarios became rich and powerful themselves, by consorting with and complying with the wishes of the city’s elite, by more or less prostituting their most favoured stars.

  Naturally, in the case of Cauda, there would be limits to just how much Guilfo expected her to grant favours to her worshipers.

  Coming himself from the level of more exclusive boxes, Caputo found to his surprise that his descent towards the basement of changing rooms was relatively civilised and organised, there being a specially constructed private staircase that facilitated a smooth and easy progress, the only possible obstruction being grim faced sentries at every door who quickly took in the state of his dress, his demeanour, and any other signs they took in to determine that he was worthy of this honour.

  He grinned, amused by Guilfo’s surprisingly inept efforts to keep the two lovers apart.

  Obviously, he hadn't bothered informing his guards of the nature of the ‘threat’ facing Cauda; and yet they’d also obviously been instructed to allow the easy passage of anyone who was apparently rich, famous or powerful.

  He must know this is all perfectly inadequate, Caputo thought, when Seneore’s masks are designed to face far more rigorous scrutiny.

  To add to all the difficulties faced by Guilfo’s sentries, the corridor running outside the dressing rooms was a scene of absolute chaos; a jungle of towering fresh flowers, a sea of excitably shouting men, each one angrily demanding that they see Cauda to congratulate her on her performance, that they had sent on pearls or gems worth the richest merchant’s ransom.

  Guilfo’s men would undoubtedly have been overwhelmed by the furious wave of eager
admirer.

  But then, suddenly, all movement and raised voices came to an immediate, expectant halt as the door to Cauda’s room opened.

  Cauda stepped out into the corridor, the throng drawing back a little as if in an obedient daze.

  She was no longer garbed as the exotic Cleopatra who had only recently exited the stage; she was dressed, rather, in nothing but the simplest and plainest of gowns, one which reached almost to the floor – and yet Master Caputo was surprised to see that her effect on the gathered crowd was far greater than the great queen of Egypt herself could have ever hoped for.

  Rather than furious cries for attention, each man here was now hanging on her every word as if it were a personal endearment she was offering him, as if they were words of love, of promises to stay together forever.

  Each man’s previously raised voice was now reduced to mumbled murmurs, to nothing more than yearning moans.

  Each smiled, as if magically entranced.

  Their eyes sparkled with joy, wonderment, made child-like once again in their ecstasy and belief that there could be no more wonderful world than this one.

  Cauda’s voice flowed as smoothly, as soothingly, as one of her dances, such that the whole was every bit as important – if not more so – as each single turn of phrase, as each acutely delivered word. It was hypnotic in its effortless beauty, entrancing in its calming appeal.

  Cauda turned and vanished through her door, closing it behind her, such that no one could really identify just how long they had been listening to her before she had unfortunately evaporated from their lives.

  With a satisfied, even grateful, sigh, the men gathered in the corridor also turned, filing away as happily as if they had been individually graced by Cauda’s presence.

  Master Caputo was amazed by the unbelievable influence this slightly built girl had had upon all these powerful men.

  He was more amazed than ever when it dawned on him that he, too, was contentedly moving away from her door; and yet he couldn’t remember a single word that she had spoken.