The Mosaic

Prologue

Might save. Only if he'd succeed in leaving a clue. A hint to what he had found lurking in the shadows ...

The assassin's confidence was Alvino's chance. The man took his maliciously sweet time crossing the hall, time Alvino could use to leave a warning ... Someone would find it. Someone would stop this reaper and all those whose evil gold he accepted for the blood of men like him. Men that knew too much. Four of his brotherhood had fallen victim to the assassin already. Only three left ...

He straightened up, clenching his jaw and nodded to himself. Focus. He had to hurry now, before the man reached the ladder and climbed up to the platform he was working on.

His assassin was crossing the room mockingly slowly, stopping to muster a crystal chandelier here or contemplate a golden framed painting there.

Alvino's hand, rough and wrinkled from decades of fumbling with little, sharp tiles, ran over the ceiling. Standing on the wooden platform, his head was always craned backwards, neck straining, arms numb from being held in awkward angles above his head, fingertips cold from the blood slowly leaving them. Thousands of glass tiles twinkled in all colors ships could carry from each end of the world. His mosaic.

The mosaic that would be his revenge. The mosaic that would be the light in the rising dark.

He knew what to do. He had planned this long ago. When his brother had started dying one by one in strange accidents.

One stone, just one stone! Where was it? Somewhere here! No, no there! Where? There! His fingertips circled an area, drawing closer and closer circles. Like vultures around a dying man... It had to be here! Why couldn't he remember? He had to!

A clack just below him made him freeze.

The assassin was close now. The clicking of his shoes on marble, as cold as his eyes and as hard as features of iron and murder, had stopped.

Hurry.

Alvino could feel the man's slowly stretching smile. To the assassin it must look like he was searching for a weapon.

The artist was on his knees now, sweaty hands patting the platform, searching for a chisel, his fingers bumping into all kinds of tools. Wrong, all wrong.They were discarded without a second look, he needed a chisel, where was his chisel, no not the damn hammer. He turned a toolbox upside down, inside out. He tossed other devices away carelessly. A little knife cut his thumb. He flinched at the sudden sting.

It didn't matter. Hurry.

He rummaged through the mess until finally, finally he felt cool, familiar steel. A breath Alvino hadn't realized he had been holding left his lips in violent, triumphant relief. Focus. Hurry.

Alvino raised the chisel, aiming for one little stone in the mosaic to taint his work with a missing piece. His fingers brushed one last time over a sea of polished stones glittering and glinting in the light of the candles. Alvino scoffed. They were laughing at him, the unfortunate fool.

If this was the wrong spot, just by millimetres ... he'd have failed. Betrayed the Republic. Let it fall into the hands of those vultures that paid for convenient deaths of inconvenient people.

He wouldn't fail. He wouldn't! He never had. Never until this night, when he had been so drowned in his work he had noticed death stepping in too late ...

Alvino drove the chisel into the careful pattern of little stones. It slipped, creating ugly scratches on the small tiles. His hand had been shaking. Again he pressed the edge of the metal against the ceiling, moving it ever so slightly back and forth -- not one other tile must fall out. Come on! The little thing shivered in its place on the high ceiling, then fell into his waiting hand.

Alvino kissed it, tenderly, like the good night kiss he had pressed to his infant daughter's forehead when he had left a few hours ago to work on the mosaic -- just the ghost of a touch, a butterfly wing brushing skin.

Stop. Those thoughts were dangerous. They would take the strength he needed now to do the only thing left for him to do.

The artist put the tile in the pouch on his belt, hiding it among the merrily jingling coins. He hoped they would give the money to his wife when they found him. His visitor wouldn't check his purse, he didn't need money. He wasnt a thief, not one of the many cutthroats stalking Venice's dark and foggy streets at night.

The man was here for him. Only him. But he wouldn't get him.

Alvino whispered a prayer. Took a deep breath. Looked up at his master piece, a giant world map, the tiles twikling down at him like stars, watching over him. Spread his arms, like wings. And tipped over the edge.

For a second, plummeting like a stone from a cliff, after that short moment of flying, panic seized his chest.

Why had he -- he caught a glimpse of the assassin, his foot set onto the first rung of the ladder wanting to climb slowly to his victim. For a split second, their eyes locked.

He knew why.

Alvino smiled, satisfied. He couldn't do more. He prayed it had been enough, that -- his body hit the marble, his head smashed against the waiting stone and his chest exploded in agony.

Then his eyes went as empty as the little glass ornaments he had so lovingly placed among the tiles on the ceiling -- shining in the light of a dozen candles, but not on their own.

The assassin turned slowly, tilting his head -- as if he was slightly surprised. "Very well." He turnt, stepping over the pool of blood slowly spreading around the fallen brother, slipped through the bronze gate and blended into the night like a fading nightmare.

----------------------------------------------------

OOof, first part done!

What is your theory? Why did he have to die? Who is the assassin and how did they meet before? What about the brotherhood? Will his clue be found? I'd love to hear your thoughts.

I love you guys so much for giving 'The Mosaic' a try, stay awesome, have a nice day!

Avis