Tales of the Infinite City

“Consider this a graduation exercise, my dear,” Donna d’Ferrari had said to her as the coach rattled and bumped along the cobblestones of the Via di un Migliaio di Nomi, the feared Way of a Thousand Names, the coachman calling out in his croaking baritone for the locals to clear the way as the small silver bells adorning the black velvet sashes over the coach windows rang merrily, announcing to all the Donna’s passage. Those poor merchants and night-time vagabonds smart enough or lucky enough to recognize the need moved quickly, and were spared the strike of the coachman’s whip the less fortunate or less intelligent received. Although the coach was well fitted, and obviously bore someone of great wealth and status, only a true fool or a total idiot would have been stupid enough to try his luck with the two Harlequin bodyguards who sat astride the front and back of the coach, one armed with a massive blunderbuss, and the other carrying an exculpator, one of the great chopping swords used only by the alchemically-strengthened creatures who served the Houses Noble. And there were very few fools or idiots among the populace of the Hangman’s District; it was a form of self-selection for survival.

“I understand, Madonna mia,” answered Katarina Sforza, her hands folded simply on the white muslin of her dress, resisting the urge to check one more time that the fit of her brunette wig was both tight and realistic. It wouldn’t do at all for someone to see her own natural red; in Monte Scuro, the Infinite City and former capitol of the Dragon Empire, redheads were rare enough to be counted on two hands. Instead of fidgeting, she practiced breath control, as she did her best to seem calm. Inside, however, her heart was pounding, and her mind was racing ahead, trying to determine all the things that could go wrong with her assignment tonight. She inspected her mistress’ attire, the crushed black velvet and purple trim contrasted so vividly with Donna Vittoria’s pale skin and dark black hair, making her blue-black eyes and the deep shadow of her eyeliner all the more striking when combined with the scarlet of her lips and the rouge masterfully applied to her cheeks. At 36 years of age, it was widely recognized that, of all the courtesans in the vast city state of Monte Scuro, Donna Vittoria d’Ferrari was among the most desired and most talented of women. What was much less known, except among a very elite and highly discreet clientele, was her level of talent in a much darker and more dangerous profession, that of paid assassin, a High Lady of the Sicariot. In the convoluted politics of the Houses Noble, and of the even more serpentine machinations of the various Ducci and Duccesi of the city, a person could make just as lucrative a living in the fine art of removing impediments to nobles’ desires, as in the slightly more honorable and safer profession of fulfilling those desires, and the Sicariot had existed for a thousand years, long before the fall of the Dragon Empire and the rise of the rule of the Houses Noble.

All these thoughts passed through Katarina’s mind as she watched her mistress inspecting herself in a hand mirror one more time before arriving at the Tietro d’Montressi to attend the coming out party of the young Baronesse Bianca d’Montressi. Like all social events held by the Houses, it was mandatory to attend for all except the most and least powerful of nobility. For courtesans such as Donna Vittoria, it was therefore a prime hunting ground for new sponsors, as well as an excellent opportunity to remind previous sponsors who had fallen away through either becoming overly jaded or overly busy what special talents and gifts of the lady they might have forgotten. And, in a business as competitive and cut-throat as Donna Vittoria’s, it was important to always be seen at the right sorts of affairs, for, socially speaking, part of the art of being desirable was in being seen to be desirable.

“You understand your part in things?” Donna Vittoria asked, her voice even, her eyes turning from her mirror to inspect her apprentice’s form and the set of her dress. There was no expression at all, which Katarina knew was in itself a quiet form of approval. If there had been the slightest slip in either her clothing or comportment, Donna Vittoria would have quickly corrected it. At first, as a young maiden of 16, newly purchased from her innkeeper father, that correction was draconian, physical, either the lash of the crop or the sting of her mistress’ hand. Later, as she had grown, and learned all her teacher required, there was a night when, after completing a particularly challenging lesson, her mistress’ face had changed, her voice softened, and the soft caress of her lips and fingers had shown Katarina the true bliss she could expect when Donna Vittoria was satisfied with her pupil’s progress. Since that night, the crop had been relegated to a spot by Donna Vittoria’s bed, only to be taken out when used in play, when she or Donna Vittoria felt its use would bring a little spice to an evening’s proceedings.

“I understand, milady,” she said, her voice as settled and even as she could make it.

“Tell me,” her mistress ordered, flicking open the lace-draped curtain to glance outside the coach.

“I am your lady-in-waiting tonight,” Katarina recited. “You will entertain the Duc d’Montressi’s eldest son, Guiseppe, while I am to wait on you until you and he adjourn for privacy. Until then, I am to pass unnoticed by all.” This was a crucial part of the plan, as she understood her mistress’ wishes. It wouldn’t do for others at the party to remember a pretty young stranger, even a mere servant, when there was going to be blood spilled. At least not in any way that might attract attention to Donna Vittoria’s household. “Once the young Baron has claimed your time, then I am to change and make my way to the kitchens, posing myself as one of the servants.”

“And then?” The mistress sounded bored, as if the recital were a mere formality. From years of experience, Katarina knew that was precisely when her mind was at its sharpest, and when her interest was truly peaked by a matter. Show your true heart to no one, my pet, she had said once, after a rainy afternoon in bed. Let your enemies believe you weak, frightened, clumsy, slow and stupid, and they will find your knife in their guts soon enough.

“Find my way up to the library, and locate the Duc d’Gambretti’s Master of Arts, Signore Licavoli, who has a weakness for the ladies. I am to seduce him and discover if he also has a weakness for gold other than his master’s.” I hope he isn’t plug-ugly, she thought idly. It was no effort to seduce a willing man, but it would certainly be more pleasant if he weren’t a sixty-year-old fat man with large nose hair. The d’Gambrettis were vassals to one of the d’Montressi’s sometime rivals, the d’Seppa, who were in turn a House Helot of the dreaded d’Giovannis, the most powerful of the Houses Ascendant. If she could turn Licavoli, any information he could provide to the d’Montressi through Donna Vittoria would be of value.

“And if he doesn’t?” Donna Vittoria let the curtains fall back into place, and raised her fan to her face with a snap, covering all but her eyes as she watched Katarina’s face. She’s looking to see if I’m scared of it, Katarina realized.

Determined, she finished her orders, almost rushing them. “Kill him, steal his necklace and his account book, and then escape back to the coach, where Malvolio will take me home to await your return.”

She must have avoided showing any nerves, for her mistress snapped the fan shut as quickly as she had opened it, and slid it away into her sleeve. Donna Vittoria leaned across the seat, reaching out to lay her hand upon Katarina’s face, and looked into her eyes as she gently stroked her protégé’s chin. “You must remember everything I have taught you, my pet,” she murmured, her other hand on Katarina’s knee, squeezing gently. “As it has always been with our profession, you will do this well and come home to me as my younger sister-in-arms, and be allowed to make your own way in the world of foolish men.” Katarina felt butterflies in her stomach as Donna Vittoria’s fingers pulled her close, and their lips touched. Almost despite herself, her mouth opened to accept her mistress’ tongue, the kiss building in passion quickly as she felt the hand slide under her dress, Vittoria’s fingertips slipping along the inside of Katarina’s thigh, her fingernails scratching the skin as she pressed down on her apprentice’s nakedness. Katarina raised her hand and curled it into Vittoria’s hair as she felt herself moistening at her mistress’ touch.

Donna Vittoria pulled away abruptly, her face dark, as if upset, and Katarina felt an ache of emptiness as her body screamed for more of her lady’s attention. In accordance with her training, however, she mastered her own desire, smoothing the seam of her simple dress back down and refolding her hands in her lap. She was privately pleased that her mistress’ cheeks showed some color other than the rouge, and she imagined what might await her when she came home after her mission was completed successfully.

Donna Vittoria settled herself, then scowled at Katarina, probably upset at her own reaction to the young woman who sat across from her. “Do not embarrass me, Katarina,” she warned. “Many of our sisters have made much of the rapidity of your training, and of my indulgences of you. Among our order, it’s rare to take a peasant as an apprentice, and unheard of for a High Lady of the Sicariot to take a personal interest in her training.”

“Thank you, milady,” Katarina responded. She wondered what message the Donna was sending to her.

Donna Vittoria waved her hand, dismissive. “There are those of my competitors who feel my training of you has been overly familiar, that by taking only one apprentice, and not four as is our custom, I have somehow made your training easier, for fear of losing you. That my attachment to you is tinted by what lies in my heart, and between my thighs, and not by what is best for the Order. Because of this, I have been to make your final exercise much harder than others’ apprentices would have been. I can tell you nothing, except this one thing.”

Donna Vittoria’s face was very solemn as she raised her finger and held it up in front of her. A small silver glint appeared near her fingertip, and Katarina realized in horror that it was the tiny needle of the Courtesan’s Kiss, whatever poison it held already coursing through her bloodstream from the tiny scrape on her thigh. Foolish, stupid girl, Katarina raged at herself, angry to have not noticed such a simple device. “You will succeed, Katarina, or I will let you die,” Donna Vittoria warned her, a cold smile on her lips.

Katarina wondered what venom the mistress had selected, and made herself consider it as an intellectual exercise, distancing herself from the terrible thought that this venom was already killing her. It will be one of the August Tinctures, the poisons reserved for use over time, she decided. She will have been poisoning me for days with it, and only now introduced the second ingredient. Something that kills in days, without the antidote. She tried to ignore the chill in her hands, preferring to believe it was the wind, and not fear. The anger may have made her response a little more heated than she would have liked. “I would have succeeded for you without the added incentive, milady,” Katarina said, and Donna Vittoria nodded.

“This way, my pet, when you succeed despite this impediment, and the story is told, your enemies will fear you all the more,” Donna Vittoria answered, the sound of whipcracks from outside ceasing as the coach turned and rattled up into the narrow gates of the Tietro d’Montressi, the high stone walls around the estate guarded by dozens of well-paid and well-trained family soldiers.