The Echo Part 1

Fantasy Noir Story

It was late evening when Isaaco the Chronicler sat inside the small tavern in the city of Canaletto’s artisan district. On the wine barrel being used as a table, he was nursing a small wine he had bought to soothe his nerves. When he took a sip, it tasted fruity and sweet, leaving a tangy aftertaste on his tongue. The tavern was lit by low-hanging copper lanterns that cast shadows across the dark wooden beams holding the ceiling up. They were so low that some of the taller craftsmen, who mostly filled the tavern, had to duck to save their heads. Smoke rose from the cooking fire where the tavernkeeper tended a large pot, and the smell of wine and garlic was heavy in the air.

All in all, it wasn’t an unpleasant place to wait, even if it was a bit loud. He didn’t much frequent taverns. Truthfully, he didn’t much frequent anywhere public if it wasn’t absolutely necessary for his job. People made him nervous. Especially when they spoke as loudly as they were right now. He much preferred to be locked up in his office, focused on nothing but writing.

Isaaco breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Marco walk into the tavern. The man looked around briefly, then, when Isaaco lifted a hand, he walked towards him. Marco was dressed in an off-white loose linen shirt, open at the collar, underneath a sleeveless leather jerkin. His leggings were colored with red and black stripes, and he wore a red rounded cap, which Isaaco recognised as being in the style of boat workers. Marco was anything but. It contrasted rather drastically with Isaaco’s dark brown woollen tunic underneath a short faded blue academic robe, grey wool leggings fitted to his legs. Diagonally across his body, he wore a leather satchel that held all his materials: ink, parchment, quills, wax tablets, and more. Anything he figured he could possibly need. Marco grinned as he approached.

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“Ah, writer! Well met, friend.”

Isaaco stood to meet him, and they clasped forearms. “Good morrow, Marco,” Isaaco said quietly.

“Deep in your papers as always, I see,” Marco said, gesturing at Isaaco’s ink-stained fingertips.

“It is my job,” Isaaco said rather seriously.

“I jest, Isaaco, relax. You look tense, huh?” They both sat down.

“I am tense,” Isaaco hissed to Marco. “I don’t know if I can do this, Marco. It’s too much.”

Marco waved his hand dismissively. “You will be fine. It’s simple. Plus, the Captain asked for you specifically.”

“I know, I know, but…” Isaaco was starting to sweat. “Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to this. Doesn’t Dante Mara—”

“Eh, no,” Marco interrupted quickly, “We don’t say his name, Isaaco.”

Isaaco gulped at the venom in Marco’s voice. “Sorry,” he squeaked.

Marco’s face had turned serious, but now he smiled wildly. “All will be well, Isaaco. Trust me, you are under my protection.” He glanced at the cup of wine. “Are you going to finish that?”

Isaaco nervously shook his head, and Marco immediately grabbed the cup and downed the contents in one gulp. He sighed and burped.

“Great. Let’s go. Don’t want to be late.” Then he stood abruptly and started striding to the door. Isaaco rushed to follow. They exited the tavern into the cool evening air. The sun was setting, casting an orange glow across the winding street they stood upon. Marco immediately turned left. Isaaco, a much shorter man, had to push to keep up.

“So how’s the wife?” Marco asked as they walked.

“Oh, she is well. We’re expecting, I don’t know if I told you.” Marco stopped and turned with a grin.

“You didn’t tell me. Congratulations, Isaaco.” Marco pulled him into a hug, and before Isaaco could even register it, he turned and started walking again.

“Th…thank you,” Isaaco uttered, jogging slightly to keep up. “I um… could we not tell anyone else that… you know….I have a wife?”

“Oh, the Captain already knows,” Marco said casually as they crossed a small bridge over one of the minor canals. Then, they turned into a covered passageway tunnelling through a grand building.

“He knows? Did you tell him?”

Marco turned to look at him. “Of course not. I would never give out your personal business like that. The Captain knows everything about everyone he decides to deal with. He likely knew your wife was pregnant already.”

“Oh,” Isaaco uttered. They reached a wider canal, and after Marco exchanged a few words with a rower, they got on a small boat to cross. Isaaco listened to the water lapping at the wood of the hull in an attempt to settle his nerves. He had grown up in the floating city of Canaletto. He was comfortable on the water. But then the city's church bells sounded, marking the beginning of a new hour, and it sent his mind spiralling, realising they were getting closer and closer.

“Do I… you know… Should I be worried?” Isaaco asked as they exited the boat on the other side of the canal and made their way through increasingly labyrinthine streets.

“Worried? No, of course not. You are a civilian, Isaaco. Just follow the rules and you will be fine.”

“Okay,” Isaaco said. “And what are the rules?”

“All will be explained,” Marco told him. The air grew more humid the deeper they went into the city. They passed places Isaaco had never been before. Instead of the light smells of perfume from the women in the streets or the cooking odours from houses, the air was thick with the smell of decay, faeces and salt water. The streets they walked down were not as busy as other areas. Anyone Isaaco saw was either whispering suspiciously in dark alcoves or lying on the ground, seemingly drunk, sometimes in puddles of their own vomit. Isaaco’s skin was starting to crawl.

“We are almost there,” Marco said as he guided Isaaco through a particularly tight passage. The chronicler tried to keep his breathing calm. He felt trapped. He wasn’t fit for this. Why had he agreed? Then, the tight passage opened into a vast space overrun with people. Isaaco was overwhelmed with the racket of shouting, laughing, and conversation. Marco spread his arms wide.

“Welcome to The Resonance!”

Isaaco stared in astonishment. He stood at the edge of a triangular arena with extremely high stone walls rising over 30 feet into the air, creating the perimeter. The space was big enough to hold two hundred people comfortably, and the top was open to reveal the darkening sky, with torches along the top edges of the walls. How they were lit, Isaaco had no idea. There were three raised stages, one in each corner, with ornate chairs and tough-looking men sitting on each, hazy smoke rising from their cigars as they watched the game intently. They were not the only ones watching, however.

There was a large crowd, clearly split into three sections. One section wore all red, another green, and the third blue. All sections were filled with men and women drinking and arguing, and some seemingly tapping their hands in rhythm to the game that was happening in front of them. Large men with wooden batons were positioned around each section, and young boys could be seen running between them holding messages. Marco took a red cloth from his pocket and tied it around Isaaco’s arm.

“Come,” he said when he was done. “We will see the Captain now.”

Isaaco followed, but he barely watched where Marco was taking him. Instead, he was transfixed by the game that was going on in three parts. Three young men, one in each of the colours present, stood on circular platforms slightly raised from the floor, each holding a distinctive mallet, again in the colours of red, green and blue. Their respective balls matched the colour of their dress and mallet, and each man was intensely focused on it.

Each struck their balls with the mallet, aiming at specific metal plate targets on the walls at different heights and sizes. When the ball struck a plate, a distinct tone echoed around the arena as the ball rebounded back to the player, and he hit it again to a different plate. The combination of all the balls being struck and the plates making their notes created a wonderful melody of such uniqueness that Isaaco almost forgot why he was there.

The song being created resonated like the ripples of the canals, the rustling of leaves through the wind, punctuated by the vibrancy of a garden tended to show a range of colours in the springtime. Isaaco had always appreciated good music, but this was something else. Now he understood why they called this game The Echo. He was so transfixed that he didn’t notice the man in green lose control of the ball until it was already coming straight towards his head.

On instinct, Isaaco flung his arms up to block. But then he felt Marco's rough grip on the scruff of his neck. He was pulled out of the way and sent sprawling to the floor. The ball passed him, hit the wall, and then rebounded off to the side. The crowd jeered, and the man in green slumped his shoulders and stalked off the platform.

Marco helped Isaaco to his feet.

“The most important rule. Never touch a rival gang’s ball,” he said seriously.

“Oh…but it was coming at me.”

“Then get out of the way or let yourself get hit in the face. But if you purposely place a hand on it, then not even I or the Captain can help you.”

Isaaco’s blood ran cold. “I am not part of a gang.”

“You have been invited here by the Reds. Therefore, as long as you are here, you are one of us and are subject to the same rules. Trust me, Isaaco. It’s better to be hit in the face than to block it with your hands. Come. The Captain is waiting.”

Isaaco nodded as he brushed himself off and followed Marco to the red corner. There, seated on the central elevated chair, was a middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper beard, his muscles visible through the dark red doublet he wore. Isaaco noticed the man’s left pinky finger was missing, replaced with a silver cap.

Dante Marangona, the most infamous organised crime lord in the city.

Isaaco gulped as the man, whose name people dare not say, looked at Marco and Isaaco with calculating eyes. He gave a nod to Marco, who grinned and led Isaaco onto the platform, no one stopping him.

Marco bowed once he was in front of Dante.

“Captain, I present Isaaco Trevisan, the chronicler you requested. Believe me, he is the finest writer this side of the Grand Canal. His accounts of the harbour disputes are still quoted in court to this day.”

Dante looked Isaaco up and down. Isaaco wasn’t sure what to do, so he half bowed, half nodded his head with a smile, but then thought better of it so made his face look serious. Dante raised a finger and beckoned Isaaco closer. Marco put a hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him forward.

“It’s um…a pleasure to meet you…Sir… Mr...Captain…” Isaaco stumbled over his words.

“So you are the one who writes what others dare not say,” Dante said, his voice low and silky.

“I just try to write the truth, sir,” Isaaco responded in a small voice.

“Indeed. I came across your account on the floating market some years ago. Quite a revealing piece, I must say.”

Isaaco frowned. That was one of his earliest chronicles, many years ago. “But… how? That was, um… suppressed by the Great Council.”

“I have my ways,” Dante told him. Thinking back, Isaaco was rather proud of it, despite the fallout almost ending with his death. It started with an innocent chronicling of the inner workings of the most famous market in the city, located on a collection of boats. However, as he investigated, he uncovered how children were used as slaves to increase the profitability of the merchants, who the noble families often funded.

The noble families already knew how the floating market worked, so when Isaaco published his account, they worked hard to ensure his work didn’t get into the hands of many. The only reason he was still alive today was thanks to the deal he had made with them. They would allow him to live as long as he didn’t write about the floating market again.

“It was a riveting piece of writing,” Dante continued. “One that showed me you are able to write well, and also, based on what happened, that you are able to follow orders. Are you going to follow my orders, Isaaco Trevisan?”

“Oh, of course. I am here at your invitation, Sir.”

“Good. Your wife must be anxious about your visit to us, especially in her condition. We would not want to give her any real reason to worry now, would we?”

Isaaco could recognise a threat when he heard one. He gulped. “Certainly not.”

“Good,” Dante said, the flicker of a smirk touching his lips. He gestured with his hand at the platforms where three new players had started hitting the balls with their mallets, creating a new song that echoed through the arena. “For ten generations, our game has been played but never properly documented,” Dante said. “You will record The Echo: every strike, every pattern, every victory. I want it all preserved.”

Isaaco nodded.

“Not just the moves,” Dante continued. “The meaning behind them, the traditions, the feelings.” He clenched his fists and held them to his chest. “You will attend every game for the next three moon cycles.”

“Understood,” Isaaco said as one of the men standing behind Dante tossed him a small pouch of coins. Isaaco caught it and was surprised at how heavy it was.

“Some things that you see here are not for your chronicles, however,” Dante said sternly.” When I raise my finger,” he lifted the silver cap that had replaced his missing little finger, “you will set down your quill.”

Isaaco nodded rigorously.

“I have organised for you to be able to speak with the Greens and the Blues as well. However, you are considered a red. Hence, you shall not touch either of their balls, and you may not ask them any questions outside of the game. As long as you are here, you are a Red. We are your family, and you answer to me. However, be careful of how you act. Our protection extends only within these walls.”

“I understand, um…Captain.”

Dante snapped his fingers, and the red player on the platform stopped and caught his ball. He then quickly came to where Dante and Isaaco were and presented Isaaco with the red ball they had been playing with.

“This is the only ball you may touch. Do it now, your work begins.”

Isaaco hesitated at first and looked over at Marco, who nodded encouragingly. He reached out, and the gang member placed it in Isaaco’s hands. It was surprisingly heavy for its size, like holding a solid piece of dense wood. It was slightly warm to the touch, and an almost imperceptible vibration was going through it, as if it were almost alive. The texture was smooth, but not slick, firm, but not rigid. It was unlike anything Isaaco had ever touched.

“What is it made of?” he asked, looking at Dante.

“That, I’m afraid, is lost to time,” Dante said, “which is why I want to chronicle The Echo now, before future generations lose even more of what makes it special. However, we do know that it was made with the blood magic of old.”

Isaaco scoffed, but when Dante narrowed his eyes at him, he quickly turned it into a “hmm” as if he was thinking.

“You don’t believe in the old magics, Isaaco?”

Isaaco thought carefully of what to say. “I do not judge those who do believe, Captain. However, I am a man of logic and science. The old magics have never been proven to be real. They are just stories made up and told from parents to children throughout the generations. There is no proof.”

“A man of science, hmm. There is your proof right there in your hands.” Dante gestured at the ball Isaaco was holding.

“Not knowing how something was made does not mean it was magic. However, in my writings, I will record your beliefs as you tell them. That is my job.”

Dante smirked fully now. “I have a feeling your opinions will change by the end. Lots of things will.”