Knowledge Aforethought, page 11
Against the Medici…
Who had used their influence with the Church to get us arrested…
"Is Savonarola favoured among the clergy here?" I asked. I started spinning my phone in my hand again, the familiar weight firing the synapses in my mind.
Machiavelli smiled. "The nobility, the landed gentry, did not find him particularly likeable, but he has a very large following amongst the populace. His influence is considerable."
I nodded, the plan forming in my mind too. "And if we were to inform them that we were under the protection of Savonarola…Would it work?"
"I have been to hear him talk. He is very charismatic. His words are perhaps honeyed, perhaps too formed for the masses, but he is extremely capable. That influence could very well be the means to our escape."
I nodded. This sounded like a very good plan. "Now we just need to tell the Church, that Cardinal in particular, no?"
"Yes,” Machiavelli said. He stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles, straightening his tunic thing and brushing off some dirt. I rose to my feet, prepared to shout for guards and demand an audience with the Cardinal. I looked at Machiavelli in confusion. He folded his fingers together, looking for all the world like he had no intention of doing anything other than taking a nap.
“Aren’t we going to go talk to the Cardinal?” I asked, waving at the iron bars keeping us imprisoned. Machiavelli shrugged.
“I have a feeling that they will not come and talk with us for a very long time. The Church is not a fast moving creature. I would suggest you get comfortable. We might be here a while."
With that, I sighed in disgust and sank back down to the floor. “Do you know, I’m beginning to really hate your time.”
“Ah, yes, but we have good wine,” Machiavelli pointed out. I narrowed my eyes and clutched my phone tighter. “Tis a pity there is none to be found at the moment. That would make the waiting more bearable.”
“None of the books I’ve read about you said you had a sense of humour,” I grumbled.
“And now that you know the truth?”
“I would say they’re pretty accurate.”
Machiavelli snorted and shook his head. “You are a strange man, Cal. I find that I am pleased to have gotten to know you.”
“Even though I introduced you to a world of magic and terror?” I asked, somehow actually curious. Machiavelli considered. I saw lines form at the corner of his eyes and his mouth twitched into a frown. He looked at me, finally focusing on the phone in my hand. Machiavelli swallowed, closed his eyes, and said nothing.
Fair enough.
We had been sitting in that cell for several hours, each of us taking the time to doze as best we could. It was not terribly comfortable, but the moss at least provided some cushion against the stone. But after a while, Machiavelli and I just sat there, waiting for something interesting to happen. He figured that they would have to bring us food at some point, but I wasn’t quite so certain. After all, I had read stories about the Church and their treatment of people. It wasn’t always pretty.
“Describe again to me this…sand-ish,” Machiavelli said. I sighed and shook my head, probably getting moss in my hair but not really caring.
“It’s a sandwich, okay? Named after the Earl of Sandwich. He was the one who lay claim to Hawai’i and you have no idea what I’m talking about. Anyways, you take two slices of bread. You put mustard, mayonnaise, whatever, on the bread. Then lettuce. Tomato. Onion. Meat. Cheese. Then you put everything together in one great stack and eat it.”
“It sounds complicated.”
“A sandwich sounds complicated? Geez, wait until I try to explain a pressure cooker!” I said. Machiavelli looked like he was going to ask—and considering we had nothing else to do, I would have attempted to answer despite the fact that I really didn’t understand how the technology worked—when I heard something. I held out my hand, signalling for him to stop talking. He closed his mouth, looking about.
“What is that?” he whispered. I shook my head; I didn’t know.
It sounded like a hiss, coming at us from many different directions at once. The sound grew louder and I could finally identify the source. It was coming from a drain set in one of the corners, too small for any human to climb through. Something was in there, and it was coming straight for us.
I looked around for a weapon of any sort and came up with nothing. So I stood and walked over to the drain, waiting for whatever was coming through to emerge so I could squish it. Or, at least, determine if I needed to—or would be able to—squish it. What came out gave me pause, enough so that it had lunged at me and sank its teeth into my leg before I could do anything.
I shook the creature from my leg, throwing it into the corner. It didn’t seem at all fazed, gathering itself and letting out a hiss twice as loud as before. Machiavelli whispered in my ear, making me jump, “What is that?”
“I have no idea.”
The thing looked like a tiny dragon-wyvern thing. It had a long neck, four legs tipped with needle-sharp claws, a tail only slightly longer than its neck. It was obviously a dragon. Except that it had the face of a cat. A very angry, very intelligent cat. At our words, the creature huffed and sat back on its hind legs, its tail twitching in an extremely cat-like manner.
“I am a Tatzelwurm, you ignorant humans!” the creature said. I covered my mouth with my hand, holding back a snort of laughter. Machiavelli failed in his own attempt, chuckling audibly. The creature straightened its neck, visibly affronted. “Why do you laugh?!”
“We’re sorry,” I said behind the smile. “But… you sound like a tiny kitten!”
The Tatzelwurm arched its back and hissed, spreading foul breath and probably-poisonous venom. Machiavelli crawled backwards, holding an arm over his mouth. I just waved away the fog and the venom. “Wrong move, buddy,” I grumbled. “I’ve had a bad day.”
The Tatzelwurm screeched, its ears flat against its head. It lunged for me just as I lunged for it. All my experience with magical creatures in the last year hadn’t taught me as much as it should have, but I was quite good at putting my hands on slippery creatures like the Tatzelwurm. Its head slipped past me enough that it was able to sink its fangs into my shoulder. But that left me free to wrap a hand around the base of its head and the middle of its stomach. With a wrench, I pulled the creature from my shoulder, leaving two gashes that I probably should have felt more than I did.
“No!” the thing yowled, wriggling as best it could. I held it at arms’ length and the tiny legs of this cat-dragon-wyvern-thing couldn’t manage to scratch me. It was completely useless. “Unhand me, cretin!”
“Not until you tell me how you managed to find us in here,” I said.
“Cal,” Machiavelli said in a warning tone. “Perhaps you should let the poor creature go.”
That, as it turns out, was the wrong thing to say. The Tatzelwurm started wriggling even more than it had done. Its scaled skin slipped through my hands until it managed to catch a claw in my sleeve. I pulled away, the Tatzelwurm pulled away and both of us ended up stuck. The Tatzelwurm tugged on the snagged claw, but was firmly fixed in my sleeve. A moment later and it started making the strangest noise.
It took me a few seconds to realise that the creature was crying. “J-just let me go!” it mewled.
“Answer my question and I’ll let you go,” I said. The thing pulled helplessly at its snagged claw, but the good craftsmanship of 1494 cloth held firm. It wasn’t going anywhere. The Tatzelwurm stopped struggling and nodded.
“You have bested me,” it hiccoughed. “You…may have a boon.”
“Alrighty, then,” I said. I let go both of my hands, the Tatzelwurm fell through the air, but it managed to un-snag its claw and landed, as all cats do, on its feet. The thing hissed and edged towards the tiny drainage hole.
“Oh, no you don’t,” I said, stepping over the hole. The wurm slunk backwards towards Machiavelli. To my surprise, the future political genius reached out and touched the Tatzelwurm behind its ears. It squeaked, but Machiavelli’s fingers scratched it gently. The creature seemed to relax almost immediately. Even Machiavelli seemed calm.
I gaped.
“We had many cats on my father’s estate,” Machiavelli explained.
“I am not a cat,” the Tatzelwurm complained, though it leaned into Machiavelli’s touch. “I am a Tatzelwurm!”
“And how did you find us, Tatzelwurm,” I asked, trying to sound calm. I even put on a smile, though this one, like many others recently, felt off. My normal good cheer and affability were waning. I hoped it was just to do with being trapped in a dungeon in Renaissance Italy.
The Tatzelwurm sniffed, just as I’ve seen cats do a hundred times. “I heard you through the drains. It was easy enough to climb up and find you. You are far more entertaining than the other two. They just keep complaining at the loss of a sword or something.”
“The other two,” Machiavelli breathed, his fingers pausing in their ministrations. The Tatzelwurm shook itself, scales rustling, then stepped a few paces away, licking its claw. “Charlotte and Mary.”
I nodded. It wasn’t entirely surprising that they should be trapped down here, too, but I had half thought that they would be taken somewhere else, being that they were women. I turned to the Tatzelwurm and pointed my phone at it. It blinked. “I need you to go find those two and deliver a message.”
“Why would I do that? I have already answered your question. I have half a mind to just go find entertainment elsewhere,” the creature said loftily. “You are not even suitable eating.”
“What would you consider suitable eating?” I asked, having an idea. This creature was part cat, yes, but it was also part dragon-wyvern-thing. And their appetites were notorious. Even mentioning food had this creature’s tongue darting out to lick its muzzle. It disguised the action a moment later by giving its face a thorough bath.
“You cannot tempt me by such means.”
“Lamb? Cream? Fish?” I asked, trying to think of the sorts of food a cat would like. At the last, I saw the Tatzelwurm’s eyes widen. It gave its scales a shake, winding its sinuous body towards me.
“Perhaps we can come to some sort of arrangement after all,” it said. It looked between Machiavelli and myself. “I would require payment from the both of you.”
“As you like, Tatzelwurm,” Machiavelli agreed. “But we really must pass a message on to our friends.”
“Agreed,” I said. “You will have your fish.”
The Tatzelwurm nodded and extended its tail to me. I took it and shook it gently, watching as it repeated the process with Machiavelli. Then, it sat back and curled its tail several times around its claws. “Very well, speak your message.”
I looked at Machiavelli and he explained in a few succinct phrases about Savonarola and our plan to use the unsuspecting friar to win our freedom. If the guards came to Charlotte and Mary first, they were to say a few key things and then loudly declare themselves devoted assistants of Savonarola. After all, why else would the Medici have us imprisoned? If the guards came to us first, we would do the same thing and then come fetch them. The Tatzelwurm nodded, showed us its fangs in a yawn, and lunged past me to dive into the drain and disappear into the dark. I stumbled backwards, nearly dropping my phone.
“Geez, a little warning would have been nice,” I said, frowning. I wiped my phone on my tunic and sighed at the resulting smudge.
“It was a cat,” Machiavelli pointed out. “They are not often in the habit of providing warnings. What is that thing you keep playing with?”
I sat back down beside Machiavelli and turned my phone on. “It’s a means of communication and, uh, stuff. We can capture pictures, talk to people all over the world by voice or by text or by seeing their face. And there’s the internet.”
The screen lit up, causing Machiavelli to jump. I glanced at the battery: 50%. Not bad, actually, considering I’d been stuck in pre-electricity Italy for a couple of days, now. Granted, it had been off for much of that time, but still. Machiavelli reached out to touch the screen, poking at the internet browser button. It activated and Machiavelli jumped further.
I took a selfie of Machiavelli and myself, showing him the resulting image. His eyes widened and I thought he was about to pass out. “This is astonishing! To have such a realistic representation, without having to sit for a painter. It is as though you and I exist in this tiny machine. I...This is impossible.”
“Not impossible,” I said, “just very cool.”
He coughed uncomfortably and moved an inch away. “Tell me about this internet.”
“Well, it’s sort of like…a library. It has all of this information about history, about finances, about current events. People put their lives on the internet and sometimes they become famous. That’s my specialty, making sure people are seen. And the thing that you opened, Google, is like the ability to search for whatever information you want and finding it in an instant.”
Machiavelli nodded, obviously still not terribly keen on this whole concept. He pointed at the screen. “Can you search for what appointment Death is meant to miss?” he asked. I started to shake my head and say that it didn’t work like that when I considered. Maybe Death’s appointments were on the internet.
“I don’t know,” I said, but my thumbs were already flying. I searched for Death, appointment and 1494, hit enter, and only then realised that I shouldn’t be able to do such a thing. I shouldn’t be able to have access to Google at all, yet there I was, searching away. And the thing was loading, too.
I had access to the internet.
This changed everything.
The search results popped up a moment later. A bunch of it was to do with the Medici—been there, done that—and some still to do with the Black Death, not a pleasant time. But then I found a mention of several poets and authors and writers who had said that they (or their characters) had an appointment with Death.
Death’s appointment wasn’t with Life. It was with a person. His missed appointment was with a person who was supposed to die.
I hunched over my phone, typing furiously away and hoping that that internet didn’t vanish a moment later. I spent perhaps five minutes digging through records of Florence in 1494, looking for deaths. And then, I found one.
“Have you heard of a Giovanni Abrami?” I asked, looking up from my phone. I pushed my glassed up my nose and saw Machiavelli’s confusion plain as day.
“No,” he said. “But that does not necessarily mean anything. I am still fairly new to the city and have not made as many connections as many years here would bring. Is he important?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Apparently, he’s a mildly capable fur merchant who succumbs to the Black Death and leaves some money to the Church. Google barely thought him worth a mention, but he’s the only person who makes sense. Mildly important, enough so that perhaps he would be difficult if he remained alive.”
Machiavelli brushed off the front of his long tunic, nodding. “Very well then. We shall go find this Giovanni Abrami and make certain that Death finds him also.”
I held up my phone with a cry of triumph, which is exactly how the guards found us a moment later. Charlotte and Mary were standing behind the slightly-cowed guards, looking not the least bit surprised at our predicament. Charlotte had her sword back and Mary was scribbling at her scroll, glaring at the guard.
“I take it you have a plan,” Charlotte said while the guards unlocked us. “One that does not involve that strange creature you sent our direction?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, feeling a little bit more like my normal self. “I have a plan.”
Time’s Up
Machiavelli insisted that we stop by his house before we went running off after this Abrami fellow so that we could change clothes and get something to eat. I wasn’t feeling particularly hungry, but the other three were flagging. And we were all wearing clothes with varying amounts of blood on them. My own were the worst, but as my long over-tunic was black, it was harder to see. Still, it was a prodigious amount of blood.
Charlotte and Mary sank happily into the chairs at Machiavelli’s table. I went up the stairs to the tiny bedroom that had been mine for the last day and washed my face and neck while Machiavelli fetched some other clothes for me. Unfortunately for me, the hose and codpiece were still relatively clean. All I had to change was my undershirt, doublet (another contraption that hit me mid thigh and this time in a horrid green), and long tunic thing. I grumbled the entire time I was putting them on, knowing full well that I was getting all the names wrong and driving Machiavelli crazy.
If I was right, though—and I was right—then I would soon be rid of this terrible clothing and back to my own home where I could lounge about in sweats and a t-shirt for at least a month, bingeing on television shows and popcorn. A perfectly normal existence. Death and Time and Life and everybody else would just have to leave me be for a while. I could even go out to the mortal realms and wander around like a normal person.
Pure bliss.
The imaginings faded away as Machiavelli led the way back down the stairs. Charlotte and Mary had put a sizeable dent into one of the dead birds I had seen the day before, now cooked. I took a few pieces and some bread, putting them together in a makeshift sandwich before moving to the door. “Come on, gang, we’ve got things to be doing!” I said.
“Cal, cannot you wait for a few minutes?” Machiavelli grumbled, but he was already copying my sandwich and striding towards the door. Charlotte and Mary were only a few steps behind him.
“I don’t imagine that we’ll have a whole lot of time,” I said. “After all, why else would I have been dropped in the here and now? No, we have to go do this as quickly as possible.”
“You propose walking into the house of a plague victim to be certain that he expires,” Machiavelli said. Mary halted, bringing out little group to a stop.
