Cicero: Part 6: Farq / Vende’s story (Part 2)

The old sailor felt like he was in the crow’s nest again, the cold night’s wind sweeping in under the thin black hood; instead of a tranquil sea he watched it was a tranquil master, but this time far more intently. Cicero was a master of subversion and revealed only what he needed, this meant he had to keep a constant eye on his subtle patron unlike a plain ocean. 

The short, gaunt goblin, Vende or Farq…

[i]…I never remember my new title…[/i]

…had stood outside the Vampire’s grand hall in the bitter, crisp night at his master’s command. He did this at every masque watching them all twirl round and round in their long elaborate gowns and dresses dyed in vibrant and opulent colours and patterns; laughing, and sometimes killing. 

[i]But they had an obsession with those Venetian masks, why?[/i]

The goblin had never understood, Cicero commonly commended him on his sly political dealings but usually berated him for his lack of culture. 

[i]What more culture did he need than a few sea shanty’s, a love of rum and the knowledge of every ship and its parts from New York to Tokyo...?[/i]

His camera’s were positioned to look through the huge 18th century windows, past the flowing crimson curtains that bequeathed them and survey the hall in all its hedonistic and decadent glory. The wine flowed like a river; the women were marveled, groped and talked at like prize pets; while the remainders spoke of politics, feuds and income in close circles. For a highly sophisticated race of elites, the Nyctari looked oddly like the unruly members of a school playground to the wizened sailor.

All of this was to be expected however, a common occurrence in Farq’s new service to the mysterious Spanish Vampire; it was unlike any sailing job and sometimes he still questioned why he had been chosen for such a trusted and prestigious position, if not the only position in Cicero’s service. What he hadn’t expected was the intervention of the concubine, he had served his new master long enough to know he never met with women.

[i]Why this sudden change then?[/i]

Farq had been watching, casually, when Verdarrio and this lady fell over into a tight bundle like a ship ramming an unsuspecting enemy; Cicero’s eyes, body language and movement changed immediately. Farq had learnt to follow the slightest changes in a man, this meant in one of those tavern brawls you could expect what he’d do; with Cicero it was a whole new level of obscurity. He noticed the tiny jittery movements of his fingertips signaling the Spaniards nervousness. When Verdarrio dropped the girl however he saw the flash of three fingers at his side communicating an assassination. 

[i]Quite an extreme exercise for a harmless concubine…[/i]

Despite his uncertainty, Cicero’s steward pulled out a small cell phone from his pocket and a leather bound fax file; inside he looked at the numbers and picked one which he speedily dialed; as the phone rang he crossed out the number with his left hand, holding the phone with his right. Farq had learnt quickly of this underground world, the rules and codes; assassin’s never kept their numbers and changed phones for every contract, so under his master’s orders he kept his phone book full and updated. Somebody picked up on the other end and Farq spoke rapidly into the mic. “453, 284…grand window, Farq.” He recited each command as he had practiced; coordinates, visual marker, patron. The assassin made no reply and dropped the call immediately. Looking back at the CCTV screen he watched Cicero firstly give the lady his hand before offering his hand to Verdarrio, in his polite and well-mannered stance. His left hand twitched behind his back, at his second courteous gesture giving Farq a vital piece of information.

[i]Cicero wasn’t after the girl, but her violent aggressor.[/i]

This made slightly more sense, Farq thought, Verdarrio was an arrogant and snobbish Nyctari cousin who managed to quarrel with Cicero at almost every gathering despite his master’s lack of speech. He was still unsure of the Spaniard's extreme measures, but as sure as the North Star, Farq knew Cicero always understood exactly what he did.

“Whom?” said a dark and silky voice from behind him; without turning around the steward replied.

“Verdarrio Nyctari.” He knew she had gone by the time he turned around to grab the small stool which had been knocked over. He bent over to knock off the leaves, grass and water that had accumulated on the seat then he promptly sat upon it.

Another dead man, Farq shrugged, in Santa Somabra it was as commonplace as waves on a sea. Morality to him was like a spinning compass trying to find north and while Farq knew he was lost on a calamitous sea of criminality, deep in his old bones he knew that this beacon he followed lead North.

[i]Everybody’s killing everybody else here; father kills son just so he can feel strong again; the poor are stolen from because everyone else is just as fucked; and the aristocrats keep twirlin’ in silk gowns. On this gloomy sea called Santa Somabra, pirates prey on dinghies and fishermen fight over dead, rotting fish while on the galleons they dance; but above em all is an eternally flaming ship. One that eats at itself but will never die, and while many ignore it for another poor soul, others look to it for guidance as they once looked at the stars that were lost so long ago in a smog ridden sky. Cicero commandeers that ship, a glimmer of light on this diabolical sea…[/i]