I opened the door leading into the council chamber, where all my subordinates sat in throne-like chairs with high backs, locked in a heated dispute, fervently debating one of the new cases.
A vast, imposing table of black bog oak stood at the center of the room, polished to a mirror-like sheen, its legs massive and elongated.
The walls were draped in solemn dark-violet tapestries bearing heraldic emblems and mystical symbols. The ceiling was painted with astrological markings and precise charts of the starry sky; at its center hung a wrought golden chandelier with dozens of candles, shimmering with an enigmatic, flickering light.
The air was thick with a rich, resinous scent of sandalwood.
Voices sounded muted, and the dark silhouettes of the conversing figures cast deep shadows across the tapestries.
I took my seat, settling comfortably into the velvet chair — the tallest among all the others. I asked for the parchment detailing the case to be passed to me, and as soon as Aaron Falcone complied, I immersed myself fully in its careful study.
The text stated the following:
"My name's Carlo. Carlo Lucchini. I'm twenty-seven years old. I live out here on the edge of the city, where the houses are peeling and the people are even more peeled and battered by a hard life. My father was a fisherman, and I followed right in his footsteps.
I've been used to the water since I was a boy — to nets, to the smell of ponds and rivers, to hard labor from dawn till dusk. The work's no honey, that's for sure, but I love it all the same, no matter how you look at it
My father was a fisherman, and I followed in his footsteps. I've been used to the water since childhood — to the nets, to the smell of the waters, to hard labor from morning till night. The work's no sweet thing, of course, but I love it all the same, however you look at it.
I live alone — no wife, no children. No time for family happiness around here. Things are different here. If there's noise in the street, it means someone's fighting again. If it's quiet, it means someone's already lying there — wounded or dead.
Drunks gather at someone's place every night, drink and drink till they see devils, and then it starts: fists flying, and sometimes a knife ends up in someone's side. Things like that happen. I'm used to it.
But this time it's different — there's a shiver running down my back. At first I thought it was the usual thing again: someone nicked someone else's bottle, maybe a girl got fought over. But it became clear right away — it wasn't that simple.
This was something that makes even folks like us, used to anything, feel a cold pull in the chest…
It was about two weeks ago when my brother came to visit me, from Friedrichsdorf. That village is a tiny one, part of the Nemetsian Union, and my brother serves there honestly as a hunter — brings hides to the local craftsmen so they can sew their foreign goods, and they pay him in gold pieces, silver coins, bronze bits…
We were sitting together, drinking — properly, mind you — passing the time in talk. The night had already grown deep, and neither of us could sleep. And then, right in the middle of that darkness, like thunder out of a clear sky… a scream.
A scream that sent ice down the spine. A child crying — thin, pitiful — the very air rang with it. We sobered up in an instant, rushed to the window, and so did the neighbors.
There, at the house next door — the one I'd always thought abandoned — some people were moving about. Definitely not locals. All of them alike, wearing these cherry-dark, wine-colored cloaks, with strange symbols stitched into them, things I'd never seen before. There were six of them… bustling about like they weren't right in the head, and then, all together, they went inside that shack.
Me and my brother, well, of course we got scared. And how could we not? Nights around here are restless enough as it is — but something like this had never happened before. And that wailing, too…
They weren't in there long, but when they came back out, they started looking around, every last one of them — like rats, like they were afraid someone might catch them in the act.
And in the morning… oh, come morning, there was such a stink in the street! Heavy, with something mixed into it — something me and my brother had never smelled before. Not coal, that's for sure, and not burnt meat either. Just some foulness — makes me sick to even think about it.
We went straight to the knights who patrol the city, keep watch over things. Told them everything we'd seen. And what did we get back? Strange excuses, slippery words. Said we'd imagined it — fishermen and drunks, they said — the sea fogs the head.
My brother went back home, and now I'm left alone to live with this filth. And exactly a week later — it happened again! Screams again, rustling, and this time it was worse still — the house went up in flames.
Through the window I saw the tongues of that dreadful fire, dancing like some kind of unclean thing. And what if it spreads to my place? Or swallows the whole street?
So my brother left me five gold pieces and two silver coins.
"I'm helping you, brother, so you'll go to people who are learned and important and capable, and ask them to sort out these troubles — otherwise it'll come for you too, one day."
So I went. I'm asking you — please, deal with that hut. It's rickety, like it wants to fall apart on its own, built from logs already eaten through with rot.
But that's not what's truly frightening about it. What's frightening is what goes on inside…"
I finished reading, my gaze sliding to the lower part of the parchment, where the street on which the events had taken place was written in a very crooked hand, in ink.
I lifted my eyes, looking through the strands of hair that had fallen over my face, damp with sweat from the heat of the room.
I entered into conversation with Matteo De Luca — a man of about twenty-five, with thin eyebrows and sharp, intelligent black eyes. He wore stubble; he shaved his head with a blade, but the hair grew back quickly enough. His mustache and beard were the same length as the hair on his head, running along his cheeks almost up to his eyes. Matteo had a solid build, somewhat thicker than average, with broad shoulders and a thick neck, which gave him a rather intimidating appearance.
He held the position of my deputy and advisor.
"Matteo, I think we should take this case."
"Completely agree," came a rough, hard, emotionless voice.
"I suggest assigning Aaron Falcone to the case, and I will go as well, in case matters take an unexpectedly complicated turn."
"That is an excellent choice, honored Alighieri, but I believe we should take a third — someone to serve as your support. A fighter. For instance, Salvatore Caprini."
"Right… Caprini," I thought of that hulking man, only slightly shorter than the tallest person I knew — Vito Battista. He had been sitting idle within the Bureau for a long time, the most simple-minded man among us, his range of possible duties severely limited. Yes. It would have to be Big Salvo.
He sat opposite me, on the far side of the table.
In sheer size, he surpassed every other member of the Bureau, sporting strange, long mustache, a completely bald head, and plump cheeks that made it difficult to discern his eyes.
He was dressed in a shirt stretched beyond all reason, crumpled and worn, its buttons barely restraining the staggering mass of his body.
He seemed less descended from men than from giants.
Together with my two companions, I descended into another room — dark, hidden from prying eyes, and smaller than the council chamber.
The low, vaulted ceiling pressed down oppressively, and an unpleasant smell of dampness lingered in the air. In the far corner, a single dim candle flickered in a leather holder.
Against the wall stood a narrow table covered with parchments and ink blots, and we all took our seats on simple chairs with worn seats. A thin rug lay on the floor, barely masking the cold of the stone beneath.
We launched into a heated discussion of the case — more precisely, Aaron and I did, while Salvo listened. From the look in his eyes, it seemed he barely understood what was being discussed at all.
And so it went on until evening: through the tiny window set just beneath the ceiling, the weak, murky light finally faded, and the moon appeared in its place.
We brought the debate to a close. We decided to gather near the Bureau building on Friday evening, head out together toward the hut, set up an ambush in Carlo Lucchini's house, and if the cultists returned a third time — again on a Friday — we would seize them, learn why they wanted that house, and then either kill them or be forced to go all the way to the officials to ensure the fisherman's safety.
In truth, the case seemed rather simple: there was none of that particular tension in the air that arises when matters reach a dead end.
We parted on a calm, peaceful note.
By then, the others had already left the Bureau and gone home; the council chamber stood completely empty. We went downstairs, I closed the entrance doors, locked them, and set off for home.
The silhouettes of lush trees swayed against the black-and-blue sky, almost completely obscuring the incomplete moon. Yes, it was the park; my shoes struck each paving stone loudly, drowning out the next chorus of crickets.
In my mind, a calm, measured symphony was playing, expressing the untroubled atmosphere of this late evening — when I, brushed by a light breeze, made my way through the empty expanses of New Milan toward my beloved home.
At last, I turned into a very narrow, elongated passage.
A strange feeling hung over this part of the city.
I knew — something was wrong, though I could not tell what.