Hi! My first piece that I'm offering for a critique. This is the opening two scenes of a short story "about revenge", set in a near-primary "clockpunk" alternate Venice, in 1618, just after the War of Gradisca.
I'm particularly interested in views about whether the style, which has some pastiche elements in it, works, and whether the initial hook is good enough, but any comments are gratefully received - thanks for your time.
*****
The young man's body hung by the ankle from the end of the halyard and swung lazily in the breeze. A small trickle of blood still seeped from the gaping wound in his throat, running down his upturned chin before dropping as a fine spray, pitter-pattering onto the spreading lake on the deck below.
“Who would have thought he had so much blood in him?”
The droll commenter could not have known I was within earshot. Even if he were one of Grimani's family, or a hanger-on, there are standards to which all Venetians adhere. In recent years we have become, if anything, even more fastidiously polite. Our children may be dying in the streets, but our etiquette is impeccable. I shook my head a fraction, swatting the remark away like an insolent fly, and scanned the balconies on the houses across the harbour. Grimani would be there, somewhere. He would be standing and watching, just as I had stood and watched as his son tried to hold his own intestines inside his ruined belly, barely a month ago.
A movement distracted me. The hanging body, still swaying and no longer my son, began to be slowly hauled up, the visible length of rope inexorably shortening until the foot it gripped was pulled into the winching mechanism mounted at the head of the mast. The gears continued to mesh, continued to turn, grinding into the lower leg until, finally, what must have been a particularly strong piece of shinbone, or maybe even the knee, jammed them. The machine growled its displeasure before being abruptly silenced.
The crowd, and there is always a crowd, exhaled together in an orchestrated release of tension. Perhaps they thought his whole body might have been dragged through, and we would be forced to bury a pile of ground meat. It would not have been for the first time.
I was about to turn away when I at last saw Grimani, alone on a balcony. Our eyes met, and then, before I had a chance to react, he shook his head and showed me his back, stepping into the house and away from my sight. I looked down at my hand and saw the marks of my nails, oozing blood onto my palm. I was numb even to this pain.
***
“Venetians,” I felt the wobble creep into my throat before it reached my voice, and I clamped down upon it viciously. His coffin lay on a trestle, feet towards our family crypt, the eye of a dark-clad crowd. Not mourners, though. Not even his sisters, hiding their mouths behind coy handkerchiefs. Not his mother. Mourning requires grief, and repetition dulls grief into a miasma of undifferentiated misery. “Venetians, of five valiant and honourable sons, just a tenth of the number that King Priam had, behold the last remains: all dead.” This time the anger took me, and I rode that wave with the confidence of long practice. Unlike grief, anger is always a willing visitor. “For me, henceforth all will be night, for no son have I left.” They shifted at that, the braver among them casting uncertain glances in my direction. I didn’t care. If it took inappropriate humour to discomfit them then I had plenty. “Open the gates; bear him along the conduit to rest in the warm tomb, following the course that has carried all his brothers.” Too much? The uncertainty had transformed into outright shock, at least in the eyes of those with sufficient wit to understand. Too much? It was not nearly enough.
The family automata, my most reliable servants, carried him from me, and for all that my anger obscured the sight, I did not have the strength not to watch him go. My last son, unshriven with tears, imprisoned in the damp embrace of Venetian clay.
“A fine speech.”
I turned, readying chastisement for the insult, to see my own angry humour reflected in the eyes of Benasuto Foscari, Captain of the Doge’s guard and one of my few remaining friends.
“Suto,” I said. If the smile wasn’t on my lips, I could hear it in my voice. “I’m glad you liked it.”
“I’m sure it will be talked about,” he said, stepping forward and lifting his arms to embrace me. But the humour had gone from him, and I saw warning.
I shook my head, and took a step away. “You’re not here to mourn.”
“No more than you,” Suto said. Then he sighed heavily, dropping his arms. “No, Richa, I am commanded.”
There are few people I let call me by my given name, fewer yet by a diminutive. Suto was still one of them, but only barely. “What does he want?”
“Peace,” Suto said, and then held up his hand to forestall me. “No, you’re right. Not peace. Just… no reprisals.”
I let silence answer him.
“I’m serious, Richa. There is movement you can’t see. We … he … cannot tolerate this feud anymore.”
I flared my nostrils, old anger and new, but I finally nodded. “I will raise no hand,” I said, begrudging him even this concession.
“I’m glad.” He didn’t sound it. After a moment stretched uncomfortably, he sighed again. “I'm sorry, Richa. Really, I am."
"I know you are." Yet I was no longer sure of him, and for the first time in a long while I felt something.
That night, not two hours after the crypt had closed, Francisco Caravello, second cousin to Nicolo Grimandi, lifted a cup of wine to his mouth in a taverna, and found the taste not to his liking. His friends watched aghast, I imagine, as he first choked, and then vomited blood all over his table and down to the floor. They say poison is a women's weapon, but I raised no hand to harm him.
I'm particularly interested in views about whether the style, which has some pastiche elements in it, works, and whether the initial hook is good enough, but any comments are gratefully received - thanks for your time.
*****
The young man's body hung by the ankle from the end of the halyard and swung lazily in the breeze. A small trickle of blood still seeped from the gaping wound in his throat, running down his upturned chin before dropping as a fine spray, pitter-pattering onto the spreading lake on the deck below.
“Who would have thought he had so much blood in him?”
The droll commenter could not have known I was within earshot. Even if he were one of Grimani's family, or a hanger-on, there are standards to which all Venetians adhere. In recent years we have become, if anything, even more fastidiously polite. Our children may be dying in the streets, but our etiquette is impeccable. I shook my head a fraction, swatting the remark away like an insolent fly, and scanned the balconies on the houses across the harbour. Grimani would be there, somewhere. He would be standing and watching, just as I had stood and watched as his son tried to hold his own intestines inside his ruined belly, barely a month ago.
A movement distracted me. The hanging body, still swaying and no longer my son, began to be slowly hauled up, the visible length of rope inexorably shortening until the foot it gripped was pulled into the winching mechanism mounted at the head of the mast. The gears continued to mesh, continued to turn, grinding into the lower leg until, finally, what must have been a particularly strong piece of shinbone, or maybe even the knee, jammed them. The machine growled its displeasure before being abruptly silenced.
The crowd, and there is always a crowd, exhaled together in an orchestrated release of tension. Perhaps they thought his whole body might have been dragged through, and we would be forced to bury a pile of ground meat. It would not have been for the first time.
I was about to turn away when I at last saw Grimani, alone on a balcony. Our eyes met, and then, before I had a chance to react, he shook his head and showed me his back, stepping into the house and away from my sight. I looked down at my hand and saw the marks of my nails, oozing blood onto my palm. I was numb even to this pain.
***
“Venetians,” I felt the wobble creep into my throat before it reached my voice, and I clamped down upon it viciously. His coffin lay on a trestle, feet towards our family crypt, the eye of a dark-clad crowd. Not mourners, though. Not even his sisters, hiding their mouths behind coy handkerchiefs. Not his mother. Mourning requires grief, and repetition dulls grief into a miasma of undifferentiated misery. “Venetians, of five valiant and honourable sons, just a tenth of the number that King Priam had, behold the last remains: all dead.” This time the anger took me, and I rode that wave with the confidence of long practice. Unlike grief, anger is always a willing visitor. “For me, henceforth all will be night, for no son have I left.” They shifted at that, the braver among them casting uncertain glances in my direction. I didn’t care. If it took inappropriate humour to discomfit them then I had plenty. “Open the gates; bear him along the conduit to rest in the warm tomb, following the course that has carried all his brothers.” Too much? The uncertainty had transformed into outright shock, at least in the eyes of those with sufficient wit to understand. Too much? It was not nearly enough.
The family automata, my most reliable servants, carried him from me, and for all that my anger obscured the sight, I did not have the strength not to watch him go. My last son, unshriven with tears, imprisoned in the damp embrace of Venetian clay.
“A fine speech.”
I turned, readying chastisement for the insult, to see my own angry humour reflected in the eyes of Benasuto Foscari, Captain of the Doge’s guard and one of my few remaining friends.
“Suto,” I said. If the smile wasn’t on my lips, I could hear it in my voice. “I’m glad you liked it.”
“I’m sure it will be talked about,” he said, stepping forward and lifting his arms to embrace me. But the humour had gone from him, and I saw warning.
I shook my head, and took a step away. “You’re not here to mourn.”
“No more than you,” Suto said. Then he sighed heavily, dropping his arms. “No, Richa, I am commanded.”
There are few people I let call me by my given name, fewer yet by a diminutive. Suto was still one of them, but only barely. “What does he want?”
“Peace,” Suto said, and then held up his hand to forestall me. “No, you’re right. Not peace. Just… no reprisals.”
I let silence answer him.
“I’m serious, Richa. There is movement you can’t see. We … he … cannot tolerate this feud anymore.”
I flared my nostrils, old anger and new, but I finally nodded. “I will raise no hand,” I said, begrudging him even this concession.
“I’m glad.” He didn’t sound it. After a moment stretched uncomfortably, he sighed again. “I'm sorry, Richa. Really, I am."
"I know you are." Yet I was no longer sure of him, and for the first time in a long while I felt something.
That night, not two hours after the crypt had closed, Francisco Caravello, second cousin to Nicolo Grimandi, lifted a cup of wine to his mouth in a taverna, and found the taste not to his liking. His friends watched aghast, I imagine, as he first choked, and then vomited blood all over his table and down to the floor. They say poison is a women's weapon, but I raised no hand to harm him.
