by Mary Hoffman
What happened instead was that a big, grey-haired man, so similar in appearance to the boy that he must be his father, came into the stable and looked at her in amazement.
‘Who’s this, Cesare?’ he asked abruptly, but not unkindly.
‘I don’t know,’ said Cesare truthfully. ‘He was suddenly just – here.’
‘I’m Georgia O’Grady,’ she said, realising that Cesare had no idea she was a girl.
‘Giorgio Gredi,’ said the man, and Georgia realised that she had again been mistaken for a boy. But there was no chance to put it right now.
‘I am Paolo Montalbano, Horsemaster of the Twelfth of the Ram,’ said the man formally. ‘And you seem to have met my son, Cesare. Now please tell us what you are doing here.’
*
In another stable in the city less than a mile away, a new groom was being introduced to his charges.
‘And this,’ said Riccardo, ‘is Benvenuto, our choice for the Stellata.’
The new groom cast an appraising eye over the bay. He scratched the horse between the ears. He was enjoying being back among animals; it had been unnatural in Bellezza with nothing to ride. In fact he was glad to turn his back on the whole poncy, trumped-up city, with its elaborate life-style and its crazy worship of its woman ruler.
Enrico was off women; give him horses any day. His one serious relationship had led to disaster: his fiancée had disappeared in mysterious circumstances, run off with another man, as he now suspected. But her father had given him half the dowry anyway, and his old employer, Rinaldo di Chimici, had paid him handsomely for services rendered in Bellezza. Enrico didn’t really need this job in Remora.
But spying was in his blood. And he was coming closer to the beating heart of the di Chimici family. His new employer was the Pope, Rinaldo’s uncle, member of the senior branch of the family. And Enrico’s job, nominally to work in the stables of the Twins, was really to ensure that their horse won the Stellata, by whatever means necessary.
‘Siamo a cavallo,’ he said softly to Benvenuto. ‘It’s in the bag,’ and the horse whickered back.
*
It was about halfway through Georgia’s story that the Montalbani, father and son, realised their intruder was a girl. ‘But why do you dress as a boy?’ asked Paolo.
Georgia looked down at what she had on – grey tracksuit bottoms and a baggy T-shirt – her usual nightwear. She shrugged.
‘This is the sort of thing boys and girls both wear where I come from,’ she said.
‘Girls wear pantaloons?’ said Cesare, disbelievingly. ‘And they cut their hair like that?’
‘Not all,’ admitted Georgia, running her hand across her spiky head. ‘But they do all wear pant ... I mean trousers. Jeans, usually, during the daytime, leggings or tracky bottoms at night.’
Then she had a thought. ‘It’s not night-time here, is it?’
For answer, Paolo threw open the stable door and the bright sunlight flooded in. The cat strolled over to the doorway and started washing her ears in the sunshine. Cesare gasped. Georgia saw that he and his father were both staring at her open-mouthed, amazed by her all over again.
‘What?’ she asked, feeling very self-conscious.
Cesare pointed behind her. ‘You haven’t got a shadow,’ he said.
*
After his courtesy visit to the Twins’ stable, Niccolò di Chimici crossed the city to the Twelfth of the Lady. His route took him into the no man’s land of the Strada delle Stelle, which ran from the Gate of the Sun in the north of the city to the Gate of the Moon in the south. It was a broad thoroughfare, wide enough for two horse-drawn carriages to pass one another. At the halfway point, the centre of the almost circular city, lay the Campo delle Stelle, the spacious round Piazza, divided into fourteen sections, where the annual Race of the Stars was run.
Niccolò paused on the edge of it, surveying the bustling life of the Campo. In the dead centre was the fountain with its circular stone parapet which provided the best view of the race. Rising up out of the fountain, surrounded by its spouting fish and its marble nymphs with overflowing water-pots, was a tall slender column, little more than a pole, surmounted by the figure of the wild lioness suckling Remus, founder of the city, and his twin brother Romulus, who had wandered further south and set up the rival city of Romula.
The houses around the Campo and the grand Palazzo Papale where Niccolò’s brother Ferdinando lived all had elegant balconies overlooking the racetrack. In a few weeks’ time every balcony would be draped with the colours of the Twelfth they supported – white and rose for the Twins on the Papal balcony, green and purple for the Lady, red and yellow for the Ram ... Niccolò ground his teeth at the thought of the Ram.
‘Some refreshment for your Grace?’ said a bold stallholder, coming up to the Duke with a tankard of iced lemon sherbet.
It was a timely interruption and Niccolò drank deeply, tossing the man silver far in excess of the cost of the sherbert. Then he paused to wonder if he should have been so reckless. He didn’t normally eat or drink anything outside his family’s palaces, where he had tasters to check for poison; he was getting careless in his old age. But today he was lucky – it was just a drink of lemons.
Niccolò crossed the Campo and plunged into one of the narrow passages on the other side that led to the main street of the Twelfth of the Lady.
‘Careless again,’ he muttered, looking over his shoulder. But no assassin was following him and the Duke proceeded along the Via della Donna to the main Piazza of the Twelfth, passing many statues of the Lady, who in some places looked like an Eastern goddess, in others like the gentle mother of the baby born to be the world’s king. The discrepancy didn’t bother Niccolò. He was a Talian through and through and used to believing in two religions simultaneously, or at least paying lip-service to them.
He felt more at home in the Twelfth of the Lady than anywhere else in Remora. Its allegiance was given to Giglia, just as every Twelfth owed allegiance to one of the city-states that made up the country. So it was a little slice of the City of Flowers here in the City of Stars. Niccolò would have his money on the Lady’s horse, even though his brother’s household would of course cheer for the Twins’. That Benvenuto of theirs was a good-looking animal; it was time he visited the Lady’s stable to see what his own people would be running.
*
Paolo was trickling the remains of Cesare’s lunchtime ale into Georgia’s mouth. She had gone very white and sat down suddenly in the straw when she saw that she cast no shadow.
‘What does it mean?’ she asked now. ‘Does it mean I am not really here?’
‘In a way,’ said Paolo seriously. ‘It means you are a Stravagante.’
This meant nothing to Georgia, but she saw Cesare making what looked like the sign of the cross, as if he had been told she was a witch or devil.
‘What shall we do?’ he asked. ‘We can’t hand her over to the authorities.’
‘Certainly not,’ said Paolo calmly. ‘We shall merely get in touch with another Stravagante.’
‘How will we do that?’ asked Cesare, clearly very worried. ‘Aren’t they dangerous and powerful magicians in places like Bellona?’
‘Not necessarily,’ said his father, smiling. ‘For example, I am one myself.’
Now it was Cesare’s turn to sit down suddenly.
Georgia didn’t know what a Stravagante was, nor how she and this broad-shouldered man could both be one, especially since he clearly did have a shadow. But she could see that Paolo’s information had been a terrible shock to Cesare.
‘Come,’ said Paolo. ‘It’s time that you knew. I had been thinking of telling you for some time. Two of my brethren will be visiting here in the city in the next day or two and they will advise us what to do about young Georgia. In the meantime, we must find her some clothes that will make her less conspicuous.’ He turned to Georgia. ‘But because of your hair, I’m afraid you must wear boy’s gear. And you’d better continue to be Giorgio
while you’re here.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Georgia hastily. She dreaded to think what girls wore in this ancient-seeming place she had somehow fallen into – wimples perhaps, definitely corsets.
Cesare went off at his father’s bidding to find her some spare clothes and Georgia went to take a closer look at the winged filly. She showed Paolo the model.
‘It’s uncanny, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘It must have something to do with why I’m here.’
‘It does,’ said Paolo. ‘It’s a talisman. All Stravaganti have them. They’re the key to travel between our worlds. But if I were you I’d keep it hidden. Particularly here in Remora. The city is a stronghold of the di Chimici and they are very interested in stravagation.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Georgia. ‘You must think I’m very ignorant. But can you go back a bit? I don’t know what stravagating is or why you think it has anything to do with my being here, or who these kimmy people are. And how long will I be here, by the way? My mother is going to go mad if I’m not there in the morning.’ She stopped. ‘Or would it be morning there?’
Paolo shook his head. ‘I don’t have answers to all your questions,’ he said. ‘But I’ll tell you what I know and what I suspect. The Stravaganti are a brotherhood of scientists, scattered throughout the city-states of Talia. I am the only one in Remora. It is a dangerous calling, so I mask my involvement in it by also being a Horsemaster. Even my family don’t know that I am a Stravagante – at least they didn’t till I told Cesare just now.’
‘He looked horrified,’ said Georgia. ‘Why is it dangerous to be one?’
‘The first Stravagante came to our world from yours by accident,’ said Paolo. ‘He was the founder of our brotherhood. He came from what you call England and we call Anglia. He was a natural philosopher, an alchemist as they were also known, and he found his way here as the result of an explosion in his laboratory – an alchemical accident.’
‘What was his name?’ asked Georgia, making a mental note to look him up on the Internet.
‘William Dethridge,’ said Paolo. ‘At least that was his name then. He first came to Talia twenty-five years ago, when the grip of the di Chimici was beginning to tighten on the whole country. Ever since then, he has been training Talians to use talismans he brought from his world to travel to it themselves. More importantly, they have taken other talismans from Talia to your England, to enable new travellers to make the journey from your world to ours.’
‘Talismans?’ said Georgia. ‘You mean like my winged horse? It came from Talia?’
‘Yes,’ said Paolo. ‘I took it myself.’
It was Georgia’s turn to shake her head. Though with her it was more like a dog shaking water out of his ears so that he can understand what his master is saying to him.
‘You’ve been to England?’ she said disbelievingly. ‘To my world? When? And how? Mr Goldsmith sold me the horse in his antique shop. He said it came from an old lady’s house in Waverley Road.’
‘A few months ago,’ said Paolo, ‘matters were coming to a head between the di Chimici and the Stravaganti.’ He ran his hands worriedly through his dark grey hair. ‘There is so much to explain to you, that you must understand. A new arrival like yourself is like a new-born lamb among wolves, especially since you’ve been brought straight to one of the di Chimici’s centres of power.’
‘You keep saying that name,’ said Georgia. ‘Who are they and why are they a threat to the Stravaganti?’
‘They are a powerful family,’ said Paolo, ‘the most powerful in Talia. Members of the di Chimici clan are Dukes and Princes in most of the city-states in northern Talia. In those places where they don’t hold power, they have alliances with city-rulers. Here in Remora, which was the capital of the great Reman Empire, the Pope, who is also our Prince, is the second son of the current generation of di Chimici. They are fabulously wealthy and their ambition is without limits. They want to rule all Talia. They’ve been pretty successful in the north, with one exception, and they are turning their attention to Romula and Cittanuova in the south. Once all the twelve city-states have joined their Republic, you can be sure that the Republic will become a Kingdom. And you can guess which dynasty will supply its first king.’
He looked at Georgia expectantly. She answered slowly.
‘The di Chimici? I’m sorry, but I really don’t see what any of that has to do with me. I don’t know anything about politics and yours seem so different from ours. I mean, what century are you living in?’
In Georgia’s world this would have been an insult not requiring an answer, but now she really wanted to know.
‘The cinquecento,’ said Paolo. ‘The sixteenth century. I know that you come from more than four hundred years later. Remember, I have visited not only your world but your time.’
‘That’s another thing,’ said Georgia, frowning. ‘This Talia of yours seems to be some version of our Italy, going by all your names, but I can understand what you’re saying and I’ve never had an Italian lesson in my life.’
‘Stravaganti can always understand the language of the country they travel to,’ said Paolo. ‘Though so far the gateway has been only between your England and our Talia.’
‘Then why is it hundreds of years ago here?’ asked Georgia. ‘I mean, for me? Sorry, there’s still so much I don’t understand. You said I was brought here, but why? I’m just a kid, younger than Cesare by the looks of him. What can I do to help the Stravaganti against a rich and powerful family? I can’t even handle one member of my own.’
At that moment, Cesare came rushing in with an armful of clothes.
‘Sorry it took so long,’ he gasped. ‘There was a visitor in the house. I’ve persuaded him to take some wine with Teresa, but we’ve got to get Georgia out of the way. And not just Georgia. He wants to see the horses.’
‘Who?’ asked Georgia and Paolo at the same time.
‘Duke Niccolò,’ said Cesare. ‘Niccolò di Chimici is in our kitchen. And he’ll be here any minute!’
Chapter 3
A City Divided
Duke Niccolò had been impressed by the Lady’s racing mare Zarina. She was a spirited brown three-year-old, ready to do her all in the Stellata. But something had been nagging at the back of his mind about the Twelfth of the Ram and he had decided on a whim to visit their stables too.
Just as the Lady was associated with Giglia and the Twins with Remora itself, so the Ram was the Twelfth which owed allegiance to Bellezza and he was particularly keen that their horse should come nowhere in the race. Not that he would allow any such feelings to show, of course. It was an honour for these humble stable people to be visited by the great Duke of Giglia and he was courtesy itself, as behoved an aristocrat among his inferiors.
And they did seem sensible of the honour, the Horsemaster and his son. They were quite flustered at his presence in their stable and eager to show him their star horse – the idiots. If they’d had any sense they would have told him they were racing some other animal! He was certainly a handsome brute, this Arcangelo of theirs.
‘Splendid, splendid!’ he said heartily, every inch the gracious patron. ‘The Lady will be hard-pressed to beat him, though we have a good horse too.’
‘Well, your Grace,’ said Paolo politely, ‘it’s early days yet. Much can happen before race day and indeed on the day itself.’
‘Very true,’ said the Duke. He was tired now and keen to get back to the comforts of the Papal palace. But on his way out of the stable he stopped to look at the grey mare with her black foal. It had a blanket over it.
‘What’s the matter with the little one?’ he asked.
‘A slight fever, your Grace,’ said Paolo. ‘We are just being careful, because she was born only last night.’
Niccolò nodded. ‘Best to be on the safe side,’ he said and waved his hand vaguely as he left the stable, stooping slightly as his head almost grazed the top of the door. Paolo went with him to see him off the premises. As soon as the
two men had gone, a massive sneeze from above his head sent Cesare up the ladder and into the hayloft in a trice.
Georgia had seen the whole encounter through a gap in the floorboards.
‘Good job you didn’t sneeze when the Duke was here,’ said Cesare, and they both started to giggle, feeling silly with relief that the visitor hadn’t seen either Georgia or the little filly. At least, he had seen the foal but hadn’t known what he was looking at.
Paolo’s grizzled head appeared through the trapdoor. ‘All clear,’ he said. ‘But that was close. The sooner we get Merla up to Santa Fina the better.’
‘We’re taking her and Starlight out of the city,’ Cesare explained to Georgia. ‘My father thinks it will be safer. The other Twelfths would be jealous if they knew what had happened here in the Ram and might try to kidnap her.’
Georgia had pulled on the boy’s clothes while Duke Niccolò was in the stable. She and Cesare were much of a size. Either he was short for his age or Talian boys were not as big as their twenty-first century equivalents. Paolo looked at Georgia critically. ‘You look more like a Remoran now,’ he said. ‘Though people might still wonder at your silver jewellery with your stable-boy’s clothes.’
‘Well, I’m not a Remoran,’ said Georgia. ‘And I still don’t understand anything about your city and this race that seems so important. And you haven’t finished telling me about the Stravaganti.’
‘Time enough for that later,’ said Paolo. ‘But you do need to find your way round the city. If your stravagation is like the last one from your world, you’ll need to be back off home at nightfall. That still gives you a few hours. I think Cesare should take you out for a tour around Remora. He can tell you all about the Stellata.’
*
In the Papal palace the Pope carefully removed his silver brocade cope. He was now in his rose silk soutane, cutting an impressive figure, even though he was not as tall as the Duke, his brother. Ferdinando was less ambitious than Niccolò too. He liked the good life, his fine wines and exquisitely prepared food, his soft bed and his library of rare manuscripts. He didn’t mind not having a wife and family. The fires of passion had flared only briefly in his youth and he would rather have a glass of Bellezzan red and a debate with his cardinals on theology than the chore of keeping a woman happy.