1966 06-125 Death comes in hot
PREVIOUSLY: After eliminating the guards in the courtyard of the Doge’s Palace, Channah and Rivqah race along the loggia towards their assigned entry door near the front of the palace. Chava and her little boy separate from them near the middle of the palace, while Miryam remains behind in disguise, in place of the dead guards. NOW:
Channah and Rivqah didn’t pause until they reached the double entryway to the Stairway of the Censors. Checking quickly for any sign of movement or human presence, and detecting none, Channah pulled open one door even as Rivqah tumbled through it, landing on her feet on one side of the door while Channah tumbled to the other, both of them trying to minimize the time they would be framed in silhouette against the lesser darkness of the courtyard.
After a tense moment, scanning the darkness as quickly as possible—ideally, before any Venetian guards spotted them and attacked—they relaxed as soon as they determined they were alone here and undetected. The palace seemed quiet and deserted, except for muffled cries coming from somewhere up the stairs.
With a glance, Rivqah transferred her crossbow and bolts to Channah, drew her sidearm in her left hand, a falchion with a short curved blade, and darted up the right side of the stairway. Like most of Channah’s operatives based in the West, she was most familiar with the curved swords that dominated the wealthier, better-educated, more-civilized Muslim world most of them occupied. Channah herself was considering relocating from Cairo back to Constantinople; and normally used a shamshir. But the sight of such a blade would have attracted attention in Venice, so Rivqah carried the ancient Greek falchion, undergoing a revival in Italy and other parts of Europe. She had been trained in a wide variety of swords.
Channah waited, scanning and listening, until Rivqah reached the tenth step, then began moving up the left side of the stairs after her. Rivqah peered carefully around the landing at the top of the staircase, waiting tight up against the right-hand wall at the base of the second flight, while Channah reached the landing, sweeping broadly to the wall on the opposite side of the stairs and slipping along it to the far corner, crossbow trained on the top of the stairs, where the low flickering light of candles or torches coming from somewhere further on gave them the advantage, down in the darkness of the stairwell.
Rivqah then began moving again. As she approached the top of this staircase she moved to the left, motioning Channah to the right as she remained on the top stair watching to the left. When Channah reached the top of the staircase, she saw what Rivqah had seen: a third, short and much narrower stairway to their left. From here, the cries were much louder, and between them lower groans of pain were now audible, overlapping with two other, impatient voices demanding information and cooperation between the screams.
Channah slipped to the right, across the landing in front of them, crossbow aimed at the top of the third staircase. With another glance, and a slight nod, Channah raised her crossbow to the ceiling while Rivqah crept up the third staircase. If she fired into the stairway now, the only thing she could reasonably expect to hit would be her own sister. She moved to the bottom of the stairs, keeping only her eyes trained at the third floor. Rivqah ducked as she approached the top, stopping in a crouched position with her eyes barely above floor level as she scanned what she could.
With a glance back, she signaled 2 to the right, unknown to the left, suggesting she didn’t have a direct line of sight to the left without exposing her position to the two on the right, but there were voices coming from that direction. Not the best situation to face; but on the bright side, it wasn’t like they were interrupting a church service. The occupants of this room were torturing another human being, without any effort to muffle their screams. In her experience, most humans who hadn’t become completely inured to torture preferred to move out of earshot whenever it occurred, because they found it unpleasant. And the minority who enjoyed it were drawn to it like flies to manure; they’d be in the room, almost on top of it. All of that gave the succubae a lot of latitude for making noise. They could, quite literally, scream and still blend. Well, more or less.
Missiles? Channah signaled.
None to the right, unknown to the left, Rivqah responded.
Considering the width of the building, Channah couldn’t imagine there was too much open distance to the left. Still… She crept up behind Rivqah, pressing up against her back to see nearly what she saw in the crowded space at the top of the stairs. On the right was a long desk, three chairs wide, closed in front, with a candelabra sitting on it to provide light. Behind the desk sat a gray-haired man in elaborate robes of expensive fabric, talking to an equally gray but otherwise lesser man—in proportions, in status, and certainly finery—who wore a neat but simple and unexceptional robe, standing with his back to them.
The seated man, she knew immediately, was the Capo, a member of Venice’s ancient and privileged patrician class, rulers of the Republic for the better part of a millennium. Knowing from her mission planning, exactly who he was, she felt the faint ache of her horns, claws, and fangs straining to erupt, an instinct she was barely able to restrain in the nick of time.
The other man would have to be, she thought, the Venetian Lord of the Night for San Marco—night commander, judge, and all-purpose representative of the Venetian state in this district of the city during the hours of darkness. He had five counterparts in the other districts of the city; and some nights their business brought them together here. But evidently not tonight; if it had, they would all be gathered around that table, or outside the torture chamber altogether. If she’d seen this fellow on the street, she would have guessed he was a shopkeeper or clerk, perhaps a merchant on the make but not yet worthy of consideration for marriage into or other admission to the ruling class. She tended to doubt the Venetians would tolerate giving anyone other than a patrician the title “Lord.” So perhaps he was of an ancient family that had fallen on hard times.
Both of the men were old, for humans; and would be unlikely to pose a grave threat. They were both examining a parchment as they talked, so their attention was focused elsewhere. She doubted the standing man could turn around before she was upon him.
Leaning into Rivqah’s neck and enjoying the smell of her, she whispered “I’ll try to take both of them alive. You take the left; I doubt any of them will matter. If you need me, shout at me to turn.” Rivqah nodded her understanding, managing to tickle Channah’s cheek with her hair. With a final “on 3,” Channah slipped back to give her room.
Literature Section “06-125 A Murder of Crows III”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 125 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—Abridged 1150 words—Accompanying Images: 1964-1967—Published 2025-06-25—©2025 The Remainderman. This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions. It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.
