A Sol, a Blaze

The boatman smiled at the woman at the gondola slip. Her dress more suited to a fisherman than a lady, yet her speech lilted with noble accents, and coin enough to pay twice the due for a tour of the city.  

“I hear Venice est très belle, ce printemps.” Solange took a flirtatious tone.  

“Masquerade season brings beautiful sights, signorina.” He was intrigued by the girl’s trusting nature, though he could have been done with her in breath.

Solange sat from the pillows in the gondola. “Masquerade? Tu sais.” A  dreamy expression crossed her face. “I have always wanted to attend.”  

“Si, there are several every evening. But proper attire is required.”  

Solange narrowed her gaze. “Well, I would imagine so. Mais, It is no trouble.”  

“And what would an urchin such as yourself have in the way of a gown?” In response to his query he was made to dodge a pillowy projectile.  

The cushion flopped into the river with a harmless splash.  

“Take me to the nearest and best costumer. He best be quick with his needle or I’ll be quicker with mine.” Solange shifted the folds of her long coat to reveal the glint of a narrow blade. 

The girl grew intriguing with each new movement. It might be interesting to keep her alive after all.  

With minimal persuasion of the verbal, physical, and financial variety Solange acquired a dress. The brocade sheif was meant for another, but she favored the blushing hue and pearl trim. The skirts, by their volume as fluffed as meringue, hid her effects, and her inability to obtain formal footwear. As she stepped into the boat with the gondolier’s aid, he noted a weathered boot beneath clouds of lace and taffeta. Her appearance betrayed nothing of the crude sea-maid.  

“It is as I guessed.” He kissed Solange’s fingertips. “You are indeed a noble lady. My curiosity lusts for your story.”  

“Is it only a lady’s story you lust for?” Solange smiled as she settled her skirts. 

“Most women in your position would not be so bold.” 

“Perhaps you would like to show me one I may be so bold.” 

His ears burned with the woman’s intentions. She was indeed the one he had been seeking. But how to be certain without asking directly.

“So, mon consort, quelle fete suits this costume?” Solange pulled a white lace fan from the folds of the dress. “Take me to the best masquerade in all of Venice!”  

“That is a request I cannot grant.” The boatman laughed. “Money and force will not gain you an invitation to the Count’s Homage to Lily. Only the most trusted friends are allowed near the front entrance, and you have no mask. I will take you to one of the fountain dances. They are equally amusing.”  

He might lose her there in the crowds, but such was the thrill of a good chase. And he could not let two of his assignments within such proximity of one another.

“I am sure they are not.” Solange had no intention of spending her one night in Venice at some common street fair. “I am certain, mon  amour, you are acutely aware of the less obvious entrance to the count’s estates.” Solange opened the fan to its full span.  

Though he was not fluent in the language ladies spoke with their fans, he could not miss the meaning of the gaze above the device. 

“I know one. But there will be a cost.”  

He moved as a shadow along narrow walks of the canals. They were used to maintain routes or rescue capsized vessels, but this was quite the opposite of this venture. 

The shadow held position as a solitary gondola skirted silent ripples in  its wake. Only one other guest would take this secluded entrance. The figure drew a grinning Venetian mask over his features. His eyes flashed through the sockets of the false face.  

The boatman slowed to a practiced and faultlessly silent halt in the slip at the base of the count’s estate. “The count uses this entrance for the red ladies and courtesans he entertains.”  

Solange let a sly look cross her face. “And how is it that a humble gondolier knows of such private liaisons?”  

He smoothed his dark hair into place. “If you will not tell me your story, lady, you will be denied mine.” 

The boatman offered a hand to guide his passenger to solid ground.  

“I will not be baited. There are stories greater than yours. They await within these walls. My story did not become what it is by passing greater things for small.”  

Solange waved her fan, pivoted, and sashayed into the secret tunnel leaving the young boatman wanting everything from a woman he knew so little of.  

With his passenger gone the gondolier set the oar and drew a long dark coat from beneath the stack of cushions. He dusted the wrinkles from the garment and whirled it onto his shoulders. From the pockets of the coat a  glint of metal cut through the darkness. The boatman bowed once more into the space his passenger had claimed and withdrew a black venetian mask. 

He scowled at the crack that raced the length of the hooked nose. “It will still suffice.”

The light ahead set Solange at ease. The boatman had not steered her into a trap that would end in his getting more than she offered any man. Even still she turned at a sound in the narrow tunnel. It would be wiser to keep moving than risk a fight.  

The boatman had given more than entrance to the masquerade through his knowledge. The tunnel opened to a corridor of apartments, silent, but full of the tools a courtesan a noble could desire, or a count of his mistresses. A mask, a dance card, and a few fine glittering objects made their way into Solange’s possession as she made her way from room to room. Satisfied, she adjusted the trinkets to match her attire, and pulled the alabaster and pearl mask to replace her deviant grin with a demure soulless moon face. 

Following sounds and servants, the ballroom bloomed before Solange’s vision. The captain would not believe it if she described it to him, which of course she would not, but to Marrick she might.  

Blaze followed the courtesan in pink and white. She would lead him to his target and if need be, he would deal with the both of them. No one would be closer with the count than one of his paramours. Among the finest examples of Italian nobility she seemed younger and less demure. If she appeared new to the trade she would draw even greater focus from the count.  

Solange crossed the floor from partner to partner as the evening crawled on. Her fascination however continued to drift to one man in black mask and leather coat. He had watched her from her first sight of him and seemed unduly interested in whom she turned to partner. Yet, his dance was solely to  continue deftly from alcove to alcove. No other guest appeared to take much  heed, but Solange, ever vigilant to danger, watched.  

“Monsieur, I notice you do not dance.” Solange secreted beside the man in black.

Her sudden appearance had failed to startle him. “And I notice you dance with all the guests without attention to your duty or your master.”

“I am sorry?” The statement and demeanor of the man confounded Solange.  

Blue eyes dazzled Solange from behind the dark mask. “You are not a guest here any more than I am.” 

The glinting gems darkened.

“Who are you?” She was faster than with the question. 

Though she had the upper hand, she could not break the spell his eyes cast. 

“Enough with this game.” Blaze grabbed Solange's wrist and drew her into the recess of the alcove. 

Their sudden appearance startled an amorous couple with masks askew. The lovers scurried to the safety of the light with a glare from the dark mask.  

“I will ask the same of you.” He hissed.  

“But I asked first.” Solange returned with equal venom.  

The masked man frowned even as he released her. Solange rubbed her wrist and sized her opponent. 

“You are not here on benevolent orders, monsieur.” Solange stepped closer.  

He expected the woman to run with warning at discovery of his motive, or recognize him. Her almost amorous advance was unexpected. He had wanted to deal with her away from this objective, but if opportunity stood so present, how could he deny the follow through.

“I’m here on paid orders, but can practice my craft on you.” Blaze pushed his coat aside to reveal a row of blades.

Solange had glimpsed prior, though not fully. “Oui, so you are indeed an assassin. I have found a more exciting story than a boatman.”  

Solange put a hand on the assassin’s chest. “The count. I know which one he is. He recognized my face.” She tapped the mask. “Though  he does not know who is behind it. I can get him alone. You must promise me something  for my part.”  

“I can do my job without assistance.” Blaze protested.  

Before he could shift his position the assassin felt the cold press of metal through his shirt. Solange held Blaze by the barrel of his own small, ivory handled single shot pistol. It was a lady’s gun by creation, but it served the  assassin well for its discretion. The gold barrel reflected in his blue eyes.  

“Your name, monsieur, will allow you passage. Your cooperation will allow you to complete your orders.”  

He glared at the woman who was growin to be a nuisance. “Blaze. Now, my gun.” 

He held an open palm.  

“Sol.” She offered only half her name and the gun not at all. “You have another, and the knives will do the job with more silence.”  

Blaze was more than annoyed with this deviant pickpocket wench. He did not ask, though he wondered viciously, how she knew of his other weapons and wondered what other information this Sol had.  

Solange tucked the pistol with the other souvenirs of the evening and made it through the crowd to partner with the count. She turned the target with a flick of her fan and a gaze into the hallway.  

The count trailed this favored courtesan, or so he thought. Solange glanced beyond the shoulder of the count as they entered the tunnel. She  locked eyes with Blaze and dropped the fan to her side.  

The count caught Solange by the waist. “Of course we are friends, my dear one. I should hope we are so much more by now.” 

The older man’s thick fingers tugged at the lacing of her bodice, his breath, a blend of soured wine, foul cheeses, and spiced meats turned Solange’s stomach and expression making her glad for the ever-pursed lips of the mask.  

She did not suffer the undesirable advances long. Blaze turned the count’s chin in his hands and pulled his finest blade the breadth of the count’s throat. It was a move with as much grace as the language of the fan, but the resulting effect was far more visceral. 

Solange sidestepped to avoid spoiling her gown with the gore of the count’s blood. The assassin released the count’s limp body to flop lifeless between them. 

Solange stared at the assassin from across the fallen count. Her eyes shone. In Blaze, she had discovered something new.  

“You will ruin your slippers.” Smoothed his hair. He cleaned the blood from his blade and returned it to an empty pocket in his coat beside the others.  

Solange broke her gaze to look where he gestured. The steadily growing pool crept to her skirt. She lifted the hem.   

Blaze looked at the worn boots revealed as Solange stepped away and around the count. “You are fortunate no one else noticed your footwear.”  

Solange dropped her skirt. 

Blaze took a step toward Solange. “My gun.” He opened his hand.  

Solange shook her head. “Non, monsieur.”  

“You have no use for it.” He advanced, his eyes flitting the tunnel.  

Solange drew the gun level with the tall man’s chest.  

Blaze paused.  

“Don’t think I won’t.” Solange steadied. “I want to know more about what you do. I want to know why you killed this man.”  

“What?” Blaze scowled at this turn of events. 

If they did not vacate soon the search would be on for the count, and he did not care to end his career delayed by a princess in boots. “Fine. But not here.”  

He would take her to his temporary home. There he would again have the upper hand. He would reclaim his weapon and maybe end the brat quickly.  

Solange followed as Blaze skirted down the tunnel. Her feet took two steps for each of the assassin’s. Solange guessed the man would lower his guard in a location of his choosing. She could learn  more about the pistol then, possibly, more about this mystery man.  

Both Blaze and Solange frowned at the sight of a masked boatman awaiting in the gondolas they had arrived on. 

“I thank you for waiting.” Solange stepped into the boat with no aid from the boatman.  

“Halt.” The boatman raised an oar as Blaze ventured to board the vessel.

Blaze glared at the boatman’s oar. 

“I did not hear the lady ask for your company.”  

“Fool.” Blaze shoved the man aside and dropped into the boat. 

He flashed his row of blades. The boatman gave a curt nod but pushed them from the slip. The men watched the shore and Solange alternately.  

“Take this turn.” Blaze ordered the gondolier.  

The gondolier obeyed the confusing turn-by-turn directions of the assassin.  Blaze did not bark the orders but maintained a smooth tone. He had never been disobeyed, except by the girl contentedly draped among the pillows, the glint of his pistol winking in the moonlight.  

“My jobs are organized, executed one step at a time, flawless,” Blaze stated before he gave the order for the boatman to slow. “You’re outside of that plan.”  

“Not everything plays by the same book.” Solange let a sly grin crawl across her lips. “I have until daybreak. I will return your weapon, if you teach me how to use it.”  

“Stop.” Blaze ordered the gondolier.  

The gondola slid into a stop that would have been bustling in daylight  hours. Now in the black of night, other gondolas swayed empty as they bumped and splashed gently against one another.  

With the grace of a feline, Blaze stepped from the vessel. He did not assist Solange from her seat.  

“You should not go with him.” The boatman’s tone was a familiar plea.  

But Solange looked from the boatman’s masked face to his hand roughly coiled around her arm. 

“I thank you for all you have done, but we part ways.” Solange leaned and kissed the mask. “Adieu.” 

Solange waved, but the gondolier made no motion of farewell as he pushed the boat into the darkness.  

She was caught in the grasp of the assassin as she watched the boat slip away. The blade at her collarbone was chilled by the night air.  

“I’m going to ask once more, nicely, for my gun. Then I'll take it from your corpse.”  

“Was that not your intention all along?” Solange leaned into the assassin and away from the metal.  

“I don’t like to leave loose ends.”  

“Though you would if the money were right?” Solange put her hand between the blade and her throat.  

Blaze’s hand hesitated. Payment or no, he would kill to protect his weapons. This woman had his favored pistol for more time than he allowed his victims to see it, and still she was breathing. And he was breathing her. Lost in thoughts atypical, he failed to notice the girl press against him.  

“Let me keep it a small while. As souvenir of our meeting.” Solange smiled into the face of the assassin.  

She was trying hard not to lose her concentration. 

She locked eyes with his blue gems before pressing her lips to his.