Cicerone: A Novella

By Oskar Leonard

‘Oh, domina.’ You laughed ... ‘A cicerone is the highest person in Vivus, and this city will aid me to the end.’

You are January; you are a cicerone. From a young age, you acquired a connection with your mystical city, Vivus, which tends to move around as it wishes. From day to day, you guide clients around its shifting locations, but as Vivus' influence on you strengthens, your own mind begins to fall into question.

You could have never guessed that Fleur, an unassuming new client from outside Vivus' walls, would appear and turn your comfortable life upside down. Embroiled in a complex murder investigation, you have to wonder whether you truly know yourself - and if you ever have.

Cicerone is a dark fantasy novella by Oskar Leonard set in a mystical, living city. It explores the issues of cold-blooded crime and fragmentation within shared minds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oskar Leonard
• Release date: Apr 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005649845

Oskar Leonard

Oskar Leonard is a trans author, poet and illustrator from the UK, as well as a senior creative writer at TUGZ Magazine. He has written fourteen books: six novels, five poetry collections, two novellas and a short story collection.His short works have been featured in publications such as The Meadowlark Review, The Bibliopunk Lit Zine and Juven. He is studying a BA in English Literature with Creative Writing at Edge Hill University.

Book preview

Cicerone

Copyright 2022 Oskar Leonard

This Edition Published By Oskar Leonard at Smashwords, 2022

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favourite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table Of Contents

Dedication

Chapter One – Radix

Chapter Two - Succession

Chapter Three – Evocation

Chapter Four - Hermeneutic

Chapter Five – Apotheosis

Chapter Six – Denouement

Afterword

About Oskar Leonard

Other Books By Oskar Leonard

Connect With Oskar Leonard

Dedication

For Caner – thanks for making poetry so interesting on Monday mornings.

~ RADIX ~

Your Present

You didn’t think it would be anything more than a normal job when you went to meet the woman off the 4.50 coach, which Vivus had positioned just a mile or so from your rooms that day. Your agency boss warned you that she was from outside the city walls, but many of your clients were, so that made no difference to you.

However, he failed to mention a great number of other things about her, which you noticed all too clearly when she hopped down onto the cobbled street. Her heel-less shoes tapped against the ground as she danced up to you, keeping time with the melody of the coach's horses' snorts and stamps. There was a smile on her lips and genuine – yes, genuine! How naive – excitement and curiosity twinkling in her almond-shaped eyes. They were highlighted by the thick black paste that ladies of high society so often loved to paint their faces with.

But this was no lady of high society, to be sure. You could tell that much by the way her light beige dress hung above the ankles, not close enough to the knee to be deliberate, and the fact that she was wearing a dress at all. Everyone who was anyone knew that tight-fitting waists and corsets accompanied by flowing sleeves and pant legs were in fashion, not the shapeless dresses of yesteryear. But you weren’t about to call her out on her terrible sense of style; you had other, far more important, matters to worry about.

'You’re my cicerone? January?'

On any other day, you might’ve been a little perturbed by the way those eyes flew directly to you, and perhaps also how they maintained your unblinking gaze so unabashedly. Today, however, as you were the only other person in the vicinity and your gaze still hadn’t left the stoutly built woman, you forgave her, whilst idly noticing that her shoulders didn’t work with those short sleeves at all.

'Please – call me J, domina, everyone does.' That much was true, at least. You let the words roll off your tongue, setting her immediately at ease with their smooth, calming nature, and a slight wave of satisfaction rolled over your mind. 

You straightened your back, removing yourself from the coach-stop pole you were standing against and placing the brass pocket watch which you had been passing from hand to hand in your pocket.

Holding out your now-free left hand, you said: 'I believe you have an appointment on the hour. Shall we take our leave?'

'Yes, yes, I’m sorry for cutting it so fine – this was the first direct coach I could get.'

You reined in your tongue, not chiding her as you so wished to. Direct coaches were pointless, especially when they only left you ten minutes for a twenty-minute journey – ah, well, you had dealt with worse. 

At least she was apologetic, collecting her bags quickly and still murmuring something or other under her breath when you finally began your journey to the building she needed to be at in nine minutes. Luckily, your city – oh, it was your city, your muse, and your love; that was Vivus – decided to entertain your wish for movement, and aligned the streets into a form that you remembered.

Still, she could have gotten a connection and given you a little more time to work with. No matter – you hurried her along, setting off down the side of the road at a reasonable pace after she waved the coach off, even after you informed her, with little more than a mirthless chuckle, that there was really no need for her to do so. People from outside the city were so… you wanted to say uncultured, but maybe amusing would be a better term. 

In any case, there were far worse ways to spend dull afternoons such as this one – that, you knew for sure.

'So, J, have you lived here long?' Ugh. Small-talk. There was nothing you hated more, but you forced an agreeable expression onto your face and turned your head ever so slightly, regarding the woman beside you for a few moments before responding.

Even in the murky light of the dead hours, you could make out the freckles littered across her dark cheeks, which looked, although you could not back this up with anything concrete, rather soft. There were hairs settled on the skin, lighter than the darkness which fell from her scalp to her chest – this was hidden, somewhat, by the altogether unflattering dress that she had drowned her body in. 

If you weren’t so preoccupied with keeping to her strict time frame, you might’ve bundled her into a tailor’s shop yourself. Sorting out the terrible state which her wardrobe was so obviously in, however, would have to wait for another time on another day. 

'Lived in the city, I mean, not this exact spot, ha!'

'I’ve never left.' Again, it was the truth – you were beginning to make a habit out of this, and it was almost humorous.

She nodded in response, adjusting the strap of the plain canvas bag that she had slung over her shoulder. Its shape was incredibly bulky and awkward, as if she was carrying around folders for papers or something else of the like, but you knew it was none of your business, so you left it. You were quietly relieved that she hadn’t asked you to help her yet – the fingers beneath your snow-white gloves, newly crisp from being washed and dried successfully, trembled at the thought. It wasn’t fear – certainly not – but rather, a sort of apprehension.

As ever, the risk of discovery caused trembles of exhilaration to shoot through your veins, but you knew you would not be caught. Especially not, you realised, by this doe-eyed newcomer, who was still watching every coach that passed with bated breath, as if she had never seen a horse or coach before. For a slight moment, you wondered what she would do if she happened to slip, and perhaps…

No, it was too early an hour for such thoughts. With a simple hand gesture, you moved her to your other side, just as you reached a main road. Coincidentally, a veil of misty rain began to fall – the type which was light enough to swirl and get into every nook and cranny. 

'Just across the road, domina.'

'Please, call me Fleur – everyone does. Or Fleur Miller, if you’re my mother and I’ve been up to no good.' The mischievous glint in her eye caused nausea to pound its fist into your stomach.

However, you forced a laugh, taking her offered hand and bowing your head to brush your lips against it, as was customary in greeting. You kept your eyes on hers, yet she still didn’t look away. It was almost annoying.

'Your voice does not betray your motherland.' You commented, rising and letting go of the calloused fingers, gazes still matched and expressions polite. 'You are from Rosis, to the south?'

Somehow, you didn’t believe it could be so, even as the words left your lips. There were too many rough edges for her to be from such a beautiful place, filled to the brim with perfectly polished, beautiful people. A place like that churned out artists and romanticists like there was no tomorrow, but people like… her? Still, it was only polite to ask the question – only polite to wait through the giggles, and not mention the time frame which she had clearly forgotten.

'My mother wished we were, but I’m only from the hills.'

That sentence meant literally nothing to you – which hills? Where? The world outside the city was filled with hills – but you nodded and smiled anyway, barely containing the relieved roll of your eyes when she informed you that she really had to go.

It was no problem, you assured her, and it really, truly wasn’t. It seemed that your bad habit of telling the truth was firmly here to stay.

The uneven hem of her dress swished a little as she turned away, practically skipping over the cobbles in those plain, shape-less shoes – if you were going to wear shoes at all, you could at least put some effort into choosing a decent pair – not even looking to see if there was any traffic she should’ve been aware of. It irked you.

So, all of a sudden, with the scream of an alarmed horse and a sort of muffled, thudding crash, a coach appeared with the steed in a canter which was brutally interrupted by its trampling of Fleur. Her awful dress got caught under