Bad Wolf
After the final curtain call at the opera house, Norma's last tragic chords still lingering in memory, the party exits beneath a sky the color of smoked indigo and silk. The streetlights shimmer amber against the stone façades and archways, but ahead lies only water and shadow.
To reach La Marea di Velluto, there are no land-bound options. The Old Canal Quarter, older than even the city's youngest myths, refuses to be tamed by pavement. Its bridges are narrow, the alley's sunken, and its elegance timeless. The First Order, in their rare moments of deference to beauty, preserved it. They raised aqueducts high overhead, veins of water lit by filtered starlight, and re-channeled tributaries through the city's blueprint like brushstrokes of mercy.
A gentle descent brings the Grand Vizier, Ivalyn, and their company to a low, marble quay where gondolas wait in velvet silence. Ivalyn's company that evening, her beloved Merryn Sellek, the Minister of Order Madelyn Lowe and her guest Allyson Locke.
Their gondolier was young, late twenties, maybe with sharp cheekbones and a quiet grace. His skin glows faintly violet-blue beneath the paper lanterns; his eyes shimmer a faint garnet in the candlelight.
Half Keshiri, half Chiss, his name might be Veren Tal'Orin, though he doesn't offer it unless asked. His jacket is neat, naval-inspired, embroidered at the cuffs in silver. He nods respectfully to Ivalyn as he helps her aboard with practiced care, then gently steadies the others.
Once they're seated, he uses the long, lacquered oar to push away, the gondola gliding like a whisper between moon-slicked buildings.
From small, built-in speakers near the lanterns, a soft track begins — never loud, just enough to color the air. It's an old song — a classic — rendered in velvety Huttese-accented Galactic Basic by crooner Deeno Martanelli.
The track: "O Marenariello" — not operatic, not theatrical. Simple. Devotional. A fisherman's serenade made timeless. The string section sways behind his voice, and his accent turns the vowels just slightly enough to feel like home.
It was the kind of song that had been made for moments like this. The gondola as it slipped through the old canals, the way the water gently tapped at the edges. Shadows of the aqueducts arcing high above, bridging night to night. The way the light breeze lifted silk from shoulders, and perfume from wrists. "I hope you both enjoyed the show, Norma was an old Ord Trasian opera. It has clearly found a home here at the Solennewater." The opera house's full name was Teatro di Solennewater, locals hardly used it though.
Ivalyn breathed in the moment, the lingering memories of the opera. The faint salt scent of the Old Canal Quarter, and the curve of a smile that gently appeared on the Vizier's features when she thought no one was looking. The same smile she had as she looked at Merryn. Ivalyn was in love and she'd been in love for quite some time.
She gently ran her fingers along the back of Merryn's hand. There was no posturing, no performance, just warmth, the real, ordinary and deadly warmth. Ivalyn leaned in and whispered, "the soprano absolutely ruined me. Perhaps I should defect to the arts."
Turning to her guests, "you'll see up ahead, our restaurant." The final turn of the gondola revealed the floating platform where the restaurant glowed like a palatial drawing room cast adrift. Velvet banners hung from the columns; petals drift on the water's surface. The candlelight flickered, giving way to a golden shadow across the glass. The sound of a string quartet could be heard somewhere within La Marea di Velluto.
Veren their gondolier anchored the vessel. Then with reverence, "your table awaits." A gentle smile dappled on his face, his voice was unhurried and the night was still long as he helped the ladies up onto the platform. Ivalyn addressed Veren, "Grazie a voi, Veren. Scivolava come seta sull'acqua." A beat as he gave a bow of respect, she added, "Spero che il mare ti sia sempre gentile."
The hostess a Keshiri-Human woman, greeted them with charm and a smile, she introduced herself as Signora Dameli. She was dressed in deep plum with a silk collar, and a broach shaped like a ship's wheel. The kind of ship's wheel Ivalyn had only been familiar with from Galidraani stories. "Buona sera, Signora Dameli. Il vostro lume è una bellezza stanotte."
"Grazie, Viziera," Signora remarked with a smile and bow of respect, gesturing for the Grand Vizier and her party to follow.
They were led by Signora Dameli to their alcove. The alcove floated slightly apart from the main dining hall. Accessed by a narrow (just wide enough for carts and waiters), lantern-lit wooden walkway taht shifted gently with the water. The heavy brocade curtains in seafoam and indigo framed the entrance. Staff knew to draw them closed once the party was seated. There was no cieling here, only a trellis of vines, flowering night-blooms, and the stars above them with the sea air drifting through.
Their table was set on a platform of old driftwood lacquered to a mirror sheen. Inlaid in the center is a pearl mosaic map of the Old Canal Quarter as it was before Passeri's modern founding. A soft reminder of the old power that was still present.
The Grand Vizier and her party, as they were seated would be cared for the evening. Ivalyn's Belisarius Guards were on patrol for starters.
The floor of the alcove itself was rigged with subtle pressure sensors. If anyone approached too closely from the water or service routes, a signal was sent silently to the maître d'. A curved stone bench along the back wall contains a discreet security panel, keyed only to the Grand Vizier's biometric ring. It controls environmental dampeners and communications privacy.
The musicians do not play directly nearby. Instead, a single glass harmonica piece is piped in from a distant terrace, giving the alcove a shimmering, otherworldly soundscape, soft, slow, and reverent.
Signora Dameli made sure the women were comfortable and then leaned over to the Grand Vizier. Her voice low enough, "Per voi, Grand Vizier… Il Balcone degli Annegati. No ears but the sea, no light but the stars."
She left a small low bell with the Grand Vizier, quietly she mentioned just before departing, "If you require anything, tap twice on the low bell."
Once the Signora had departed, and the sommelier appeared. The sommelier was something of an androgynous figure, human and perhaps Mirialan? Ivalyn didn't put much thought to it, they were cloaked in a deep sea-glass green, the color old Anaxis wine bottles and myth. Their coat was double-breasted with silver-thread knots, and their left hand carried the engraved Menu del Mare, bound in dark leather with mother-of-pearl corners.
Around the sommelier's neck, a traditional Passeri tovagliolo della cantina, an embroidered napkin that denotes certification, respect, and silent readiness. They approached with a deep nod, eyes downcast in deference, and presented menus one by one to the Grand Vizier and her guests.
The candlelight danced low across the table, and reflected off the etched pearl inlays as the breeze brushed through silk curtains. The string quartet's music was slow, restrained but never enough to compete with conversation. There on the center of the table, just beneath a low, floral centerpiece it read.
Per i nostri ospiti stimati,
Tonight's selections are gathered from the heart of the sea and the edge of the harvest moon.
Please inform your sommelier should you desire pairings, clarification, or an alternative course.
No request is too small. No taste is too grand.
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