Love Poison No. 13, Page 3

  ‘Even so, I know enough of love to know that sometimes it’s not a love potion we need, but some way of destroying the love,’ Caputo responded thoughtfully. ‘So tell me, have you ever considered any means to turn her against him; you know, the spreading of false gossip, and such forth?’

  ‘Naturally; when I realised what was going on between them, and he refused my demands that he stay away from her – for the good of her career – I brought his employment to an end, with the added threat that I would ruin him. He would return to being the kind of pauper even Cauda would have the sense to stay away from.’

  ‘And yet…he was successful by some other means, obviously?’

  Guilfo nodded bitterly.

  ‘And the more I try to dissuade her from continuing to see him, the more it poisons her mind against me!’

  He was surprised when Master Caputo grinned; and yet he was more surprised than ever when Caputo reached out to place a consoling hand upon his shoulder.

  ‘Indeed, indeed, Impresario Guilfo; it seems we are of a like mind after all!’ Caputo exclaimed warmly. ‘For I think the solution to your problem really does involve the poisoning of the mind!’

  *

  Chapter 4

  Cauda’s every move, as expected, was flawless.

  The twirls, the leaps, were especially enthusiastically cheered.

  But even the flowing transitions between one form of dance into another were warmly applauded.

  The more thrilling moves, particularly the ones that were renditions of emotions – of sorrow, of rage, of joy, of love – were met either with awestruck gasps or sighs of longing.

  She possessed an unbelievable litheness, allowing her to throw her body into poses that anyone else would struggle to accomplish even if they had all the time in the world to achieve it; whereas Cauda, of course, moved from one impossible stance almost directly into another, throwing another one in between as the linking transition.

  Naturally, although the packed auditorium relished every delicious move, the atmosphere up on the stage was at best one of muted enthusiasm, at worst an almost murderous bitterness, for every dancer had found either her- or himself relegated in the pecking order: they cursed Cauda her good fortune, her unnaturally supple body, or her courting of the impresario – their level of generosity or otherwise dependent purely upon which rumours about her they wished to believe.

  The dancers performing the parts of what had become secondary characters were undoubtedly the most sourly envious, having been effectively stripped of their own starring roles. They flattered themselves, of course, that there was little difference between the quality of their dancing and hers, yet the size and elation of the audience should have forced them to admit this was nonsense; even those amongst the crowd who had attended earlier shows, and indeed been visibly impressed by the previous dancers, now wondered if they had only been imagining that the girls possessed great skill, simply because they had originally had nothing to compare them to.

  Cauda danced fluidly from scene to scene, the backdrops almost magically, rhythmically changing (this theatrical spectacle was itself hailed as a work of art of great ingenuity, one so dependent upon perfect timing that it wasn’t driven by brute muscle – as was usually the case – but rather by the most elaborate systems of ropes, pulleys, ratchets and cogs, all of it powered by pendulums, falling weights, water clocks and delicately balanced or coiled metals). She danced amongst the pyramids, upon the decks of Greek galleys, across the walls of Constantinople and even before Genghis Kahn and his Mongolian hordes.

  It wasn’t from just the city itself that people now flocked to see her dance. On a regular basis, ships would pull into port, with any passengers on board fully intending to make sure they attended a performance as a part of their visit, whether they were originally here for business or pleasure.

  The Impresario Guilfo loved it, of course. Not just the phenomenal increase in his audiences, and therefore his profits; he also loved the performances themselves. He never missed one.

  Not that anyone was aware of this. It’s one thing for an impresario to show favouritism to his star; another thing completely to display an infatuation.

  For that, of course, would also be a display of weakness; a weakness a rival could possibly manipulate to their advantage.

  And so the impresario only attended a few of the shows as himself, the unmasked Guilfo. As such, he could be assured of being waved through to the best box, of being served the prize delicacies on offer free of charge; it was his theatre, after all.

  Despite these obvious advantages, for every other attendance he was masked, becoming for the night just one more member of the highest echelons of the city who were totally enamoured by Mistress Cauda. He paid his way, as any man of the respectable classes would (the Impresario Guilfo, after all, offered none but the most powerful any special deals regarding pricing).

  Naturally, it was far harder to disguise his great weight than it was his face; but a great many of the wealthy were similarly well fed. And so, quite naturally, he blended in seamlessly amongst the upper ranks of the theatregoers.

  In this way, he could see and experience for himself the way that Cauda was truly venerated by all those who flocked to see her: these were genuine comments of praise he overheard, not just the overly flattering yet usually false acclaim for his acts that he had become accustomed to receiving from those hoping to gain his good favour.

  From his high, ideally situated box, he could not only watch the unfathomably, wonderfully talented Cauda, but also the intense adoration she instilled within her audience: people entranced, rapt in the attention they granted her, as if hypnotised by her every elegant move, her every refined gesture.

  The people below him, the ones nearest the stage, had to stand, of course; yet they swayed as they followed Cauda’s leaps across the boards, many almost swooning in their ecstasy. The whole effect was like the waves of a tumultuous sea, especially when whole groups rose excitedly into the air, ineptly attempting to emulate one of Cauda’s swooping, pirouetting leaps.

  The gallery of the second level was again set aside for those unable to afford a seat, but within the third level of lushly decorated boxes the wealthier patrons were no less entranced by Cauda, some even foregoing their comfortably padded seats to mirror her rises into the air, her twists of a head, a hand, even a delicately twirled wrist.

  There was a particularly handsome man amongst them, Guilfo noted with a displeased frown; a man whom, despite his proud bearing, his efforts to appear unimpressed, was observing Cauda with a noticeably close attentiveness.

  Could it be…?

  Would he dare to…?

  No, no; of course not!

  He’d be a fool beyond belief to appear here disguised as a handsome admirer: if he were hiding anywhere amongst the crowd, it would be in the guise of someone unnoticeable, someone who blended in and drew hardly any attention to himself.

  The handsome man was entranced, but then, who amongst the crowd wasn’t?

  She had bewitched them all, Guilfo thought; and none, of course, more than him.

  *

  Guilfo was right to suspect that the handsome man might be someone whom he had previously met.

  A man who wore disguises, like so many of the more-important and wealthier citizens.

  Today, however, he had forgone his usual persona.

  This, surprisingly, was the real Master Caputo, creator and purveyor of the world’s finest poisons.

  *

  Like many artists, Master Caputo adored his own creations.

  It was the very complexity of their formulae that made them all so effortless to use, so potent in their effects.

  Yes, it was indeed an art, the creation of poisons.

  He had a feeling for the way you could mix certain liquids, the way solids could be gently warmed until they became a part of those liquids. The way poison could be caressed from the most innocent of substances; the castor oil bean, the apple pip, even nutmeg.

  Hadn’t someone quite wisely commented that everything was ultimately a poison; it was all just a matter of degrees of consumption?

  Not, of course, that all Master Caputo’s poisons had to be consumed.

  The finest ones could be absorbed through the skin, deadly when mixed in with face creams, but none the less active when administered through simply brushing against someone with an infused cloak or glove.

  Others had to be merely breathed in, subtly working as an unwanted addition to perfumes, or imbued within presents of apparently delightful handkerchiefs or ruffs.

  And yet Master Caputo’s proudest achievement to date was a poison that the victim only had to stare at too long to succumb to its murderous effects, a mixture that could be mingled in with the paint of portraits, the dyes of clothes: and its invisible vapours entered through the eyes, absorbed into an admiring, watery gaze, transforming tears into an unintentionally suicidal concoction.

  Ah, it was all so intriguing, so satisfying, developing new potions, their subtle means of delivery.

  And yet now Master Caputo had set himself a new problem to solve; how to administer a poison that didn’t kill the intended victim but, rather, killed her love for another.

  A love poison.

  Was it possible to create such a thing?

  If it were, then only Master Caputo could ever be its creator.

  *

  Chapter 5

  Master Caputo realised he had been wise to insist, as he usually did, for time to study his subject before accepting (or refusing) Impresario Guilfo’s brief.

  He had, of course – and despite Guilfo’s insistence that the man couldn’t be named – considered that his task would be easier if he were allowed to administer his potion to the man, thereby killing the man’s love for the woman without suffering any anxieties over any unfortunate side effects.

  However, there was one truly worrying side effect of such a move: a girl suffering anguish over the cooling – let alone the complete eradication – of a man’s love for her can end up being all the more infatuated with him.

  Moreover, this Cauda was a particularly special case, Master Caputo could now see.

  Any anguish she suffered might well ruin her very own unique brand of magic.

  The skill she displayed on stage, Master Caputo was wise enough to realise, the spell she put over her audiences, all revolved around not just her remarkable suppleness but also her even more ingenious talent of tapping into her emotions and bringing them to life as gestures, movement, dance.

  How delicate was such a wondrous construct?

  If you remove any card from a house of cards, then…

  And so, if you remove its base, the table it is built upon…

  Surely Impresario Guilfo wouldn’t want that?

  His little caged bird, no longer capable of performing.

  Of drawing in ecstatic audiences.

  Truly, it was most fortunate in this exceptionally distinctive case that he had not been introduced by his client to the intended victim, perhaps prompting him to start his preparations (he would never be so foolish as to act) too hastily.

  But then, even the alternative, of administering an extra special potion to this Cauda herself, was similarly fraught with difficulties.

  To destroy her ability to draw upon a deeply felt emotion was to risk bringing down her whole repertoire of intensely moving dances.

  His potion would have to be as finely accurate in its effects as the finest stiletto; its administering as veiled as the most unnoticeably brilliant of Seneore’s otherwise spectacularly wonderful masks; its nature every bit as uniquely inventive as any wondrous innovation this young upstart Forisimo could produce.

  But to produce something so particularly focused in its intent and actions, Master Caputo would need to carefully unravel the specific nature and details of Mistress Cauda’s love; and that meant he had no choice but to discover the identity of the lucky recipient of her love.

  *

 

  As usual, Forisimo delighted in Cauda’s Dance of The Unveiling.

  He swayed with her through every dying move of the Swans of Urgenstein.

  He was ecstatic as she took on the fluidly of The Alchemist’s Watersprite.

  It wasn’t the best view he’d ever had of the stage.

  That had been when Impresario Guilfo had unknowingly invited him into his very own box, believing him to be a Tsarevich of Jurenski.

  Even so, it was undoubtedly the most prized of positions that he’d found himself in, one that anyone in the audience would gladly swap their seat for.

  Every now and again, Cauda would have to pass him as she exited the stage for a costume change, a break, or a refreshing drink of champagne. Then she would pass him once more as she elatedly darted back onto the stage, naturally oblivious to his attentions, his presence.

  He would catch the merest waft of her entrancing fragrance.

  He would be so close to those lips as they curled into a smile, as they opened to receive the drink, as they closed, wet and seductive.

  He saw the dance of her natural actions, the sitting down on an old wooden chair transformed into the most graceful of arts, the swift slipping out of a slight gown possessing all the elegance of ancient sculpture brought miraculously to life.

  Ironically, the only unusual move in this otherwise continual flow of elegance was the way she would, every now and again, turn her head this way then that, glancing about herself but in a way that the truly observant would recognise as an attempt to hide the fact that she was looking for something, or rather someone.

  Her face would even crease slightly in frustration, bemusement, or a mingling of both.

  She was looking for him, for Forisimo, of course, hoping she would spot whatever identifying signal he was using today to alert her to his presence.

  He had so far delayed offering her that signal for far longer than usual.

  He was worried that, today, he was too close, too near her to prevent them from divulging signs of elation and love that others might also recognise.

  As it was, he himself had already had to restrain himself a number of times from reaching out towards her, from whispering his love, his agony that they spend so much time apart.

  It tore away at his soul, this pain of being in love with a girl whom he could only watch, not touch, not kiss.

  Soon, he hoped, his own fame would be enough to draw in the wealthier clients to his establishment on the Lane Without Name. The support and protection of people holding positions of power within the city would be essential if, as he and Cauda had planned, she were to at last join him, leaving behind the enviously vengeful Impresario Guilfo.

  His home wasn’t magnificent, as befitted a purveyor of necessary items; yet he saw this as a blessing, fearing that the sheer size of such a place would naturally (and despite the presence of the many servants required to keep it running) only add to his sense of loneliness. He lived simply, having taken up residence in nothing but two adjoining rooms hidden amongst the labyrinthine corridors, exhibition halls and workshops of his establishment.

  He worked as much as he could, if not actually constructing his devices then at least refining or developing his designs for new innovations, or when necessary either attending to visitors to his shop or fulfilling the requirements of his clients. At some point, however, even he had to admit he was exhausted, retiring miserably to his rooms to eat whatever food his sole servant had purchased and prepared for him.

  When the servant had left, Forisimo would douse the lanterns, the candles.

  He would stride over to what he regarded as being quite easily the most remarkable of his innovations.

  It was similar, in many ways, to the remarkable construction he had developed to help Cauda practise her dance moves.

  Yet this device was far far superior to that relatively crude instrument.

  Naturally, its core, the elaborate system of lenses, remained, albeit improved beyond measure. But it required no cumbersome rotating wheel, no chemically treated linen sheets. For it was the flame itself – the flame that in all his previous devices had provided nothing but the illumination – that was chemically treated.

  It was flames, rather than the linen, that now captured the essence of the dance, the spirit of the dancer.

  So when Forisimo lit his flame, there was no handle for him to turn, no more levers for him to pull, for it was the flame itself that danced; and it was this dancing flame that the elaborate system of lenses now took and projected upon a deliberately plain, blank wall of the room.

  And it was here that Cauda would dance for him once more, brought to life amidst the darkness as if captured here forever.

  *

  Chapter 6

  Impresario Guilfo was suddenly stuck with a notion: What a fool he was!

  Here he was watching his darling Cauda, the whole atmosphere of delight and ecstasy totally ruined for him by the knowledge that somewhere, somehow, her lover Forisimo was either close by or drawing closer by the minute.

  But if Forisimo was here – then who was keeping guard of his establishment on the Lane Without Name?

  At most, no doubt, nothing more than the odd servant or maid, perhaps at worst a young apprentice.

  Easy prey for no more than, say, two of his own, more robust men.

  Yes, yes: despite his many talents, Forisimo hadn’t been operating long enough to generate the money to afford a larger staff.

  Similarly – unless Forisimo has uncovered a peculiarly generous trait previously hidden deep within that scoundrel Seneore’s soul – then what money he does earn is swiftly vanishing in his purchasing of all these accomplished disguises.

  What, though, if Forisimo’s many disguises were uncovered – then, maybe, even destroyed?

  (Or, perhaps, even marked in such a way that Cauda’s guards could be warned to watch out for certain revealing signs?)