City of Stars

by Mary Hoffman

  Diego was pleased to see his new friend Enrico. His duties at the moment were quite boring. Diego was used to spending all day on his feet, preferably out of doors, tending to horses, riding them, sometimes moving them down into the city or out to further pastures. But now he spent most of every day guarding the little miracle. Not her fault, of course. He was as attached to the black filly as anyone. And she was a marvel – there was no doubt about that. But he couldn’t see why she had to be kept such a secret.

  Diego wasn’t from Remora; he was Santa Finan born and bred. He’d seen the Stellata a few times as a boy but he didn’t concern himself with the politics of the city. He liked longer races, run in a straight line, where you could bet on the outcome and have some chance of winning. He had no time for the Remorans’ way of doing things. Making deals and fixing results – that just made it too difficult for an ordinary punter to stand a chance of winning.

  Enrico agreed. ‘They’re all mad down there in the city,’ he said in a friendly conversational way, making himself comfortable on the bale of hay beside Diego. ‘Secretive too,’ he added, taking a swift glance at the groom.

  ‘That’s the Reman way,’ nodded Diego. ‘They’d keep their own mothers a secret if they could. In case their rivals benefited from the knowledge.’

  ‘Are they all as bad as one another, do you think?’ asked Enrico. ‘Or are some worse than others? What about the Ram, for example?’

  ‘Ah, the Ram!’ said Diego mysteriously, tapping the side of his nose. ‘I could tell you something about them.’

  ‘I wish you would,’ said Enrico. ‘It would get my master off my back. He’s sure they’ve got something up their sleeve for this year’s Stellata.’

  Diego hesitated. Then shrugged. The secret filly couldn’t have anything to do with the race. Although she was growing faster than any normal foal and would be big enough to ride by then, the Ram’s jockey would never be allowed up on a winged horse. So what could it hurt to tell his new friend about her?

  ‘They’ve got something up their sleeve right enough,’ he admitted.

  *

  When Georgia next got back to the stables of the Ram, there was no sign of Cesare or Luciano, but Paolo was waiting for her.

  ‘We must talk about why you are here,’ he said, leading her into the house. ‘And about our brotherhood. How are you finding your way about Remora?’

  ‘Well, thank you,’ said Georgia. ‘I mean, there’s a lot I still don’t understand. But Cesare explained it well and I’ve made a sort of a map at home to remind myself of all the Twelfths. It’s a very complicated city, isn’t it?’

  ‘Complex, certainly,’ said Paolo, ‘and not just in the way it’s arranged. I’m sure Cesare told you about all the rivalries between Twelfths?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Georgia. ‘I’m trying to keep all that in mind too.’

  ‘The di Chimici exploit those rivalries, you know,’ said Paolo.

  They were sitting alone in his homely kitchen. Georgia wondered where all the family were, but Paolo said that Teresa had taken the children to visit her mother in the Lioness. It seemed unnaturally quiet without them and Georgia was too shy to ask about the visitors from Bellezza.

  ‘You said yesterday that it might be time to drop the old enmity,’ she said now. ‘Do you think it’s all right for us to be friends with the di Chimici princes?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Paolo. ‘I don’t think they are trying to exploit you.’

  He looked at her intently and she realised that this broad, strong man, with his capable hands and smell of the stables, was probably as astute and clever as Duke Niccolò himself.

  ‘I must tell you something,’ said Georgia. ‘Those two – Gaetano and Falco – they know about me. And they know about Luciano too. He told them. But only because I’d been stupid and given the game away earlier,’ she added loyally.

  Paolo looked thoughtful. ‘And what do you think they will do with this knowledge?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m sure they won’t tell their father,’ she said immediately. ‘They took a solemn oath not to – swore by their weapons and made Luciano taste their blood.’ She shuddered slightly at the memory.

  ‘Then I’m sure you’re right,’ said Paolo. ‘It remains to be seen what else they will do with the information though.’

  Something stopped Georgia from telling him that Falco planned to use it to get to her world. And in days to come she often wondered if it would have been better if she had. But now she felt it was too soon. Nothing had been definitely decided.

  But Paolo wanted to talk about something else.

  ‘Things are coming to a head with the di Chimici,’ he said. ‘They have gained power in all save a few northern cities. Bellezza resists them, as you know, and that is one of the reasons the Duke has invited the young Duchessa to the Stellata. We do not know exactly what he means to do and she will be well protected by her friends, but we must all be on our guard. He must be intending to influence what he believes will be an impressionable young woman about the wisdom of joining forces with his family.’

  ‘And she isn’t an impressionable young woman?’ asked Georgia. This was her chance to find out more about the girl who was her rival, while Luciano wasn’t around.

  ‘Hardly,’ smiled the Horsemaster. ‘I think it unlikely that any daughter of Silvia, Duchessa of Bellezza for quarter of a century, and Rodolfo, one of the greatest of our brotherhood, would be anything other than stubbornness and guile incarnate.’

  ‘Have you met her?’ asked Georgia.

  ‘No, but I know both her parents,’ said Paolo. ‘And the fruit does not fall far from the tree, as we say in Talia.’

  ‘We say it too,’ said Georgia, thinking for the first time of what that expression meant. You don’t get apricots from apple trees, she supposed; children were meant to be like their parents. But she didn’t feel much like Maura. Maura didn’t really like horses for a start. Maybe Georgia had got that from the father she had hardly known. And what about Russell? His father was a nice enough person – perhaps Russell’s mother had been really awful. But perhaps it had something to do with how he had been treated too.

  Georgia felt suddenly confused. Remora, with its rigid divisions and distinctions, was in some ways easier to understand.

  ‘Why do you think I am here?’ she asked now.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Paolo. ‘We never know who will be found by a talisman when we take one to the other world, and we never know what they will be called on to do. Rodolfo thought that Luciano might have been brought to save the Duchessa, but he paid a heavy price for it, as I think you know.’

  Georgia nodded. ‘But I thought he couldn’t save the Duchessa in the end. The di Chimici killed her anyway, didn’t they?’

  There was silence, and then Georgia heard a muffled throbbing noise from the street.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘Some of your questions are easier to answer than others,’ said Paolo. ‘That sound is the drummers of the Ram rehearsing for the Stellata. You will hear them often now until the race is run. Come, let’s go for a walk and you shall see.’

  The sound of drums got louder as soon as they were out of the house. Georgia soon recognised the cobbled street leading to the square with the silver fountain. She gasped when they reached it. The Piazza del Fuoco was full of yellow and red twirling banners, bearing the image of a ram crowned with silver. Two strong young men were weaving their banners in intricate patterns in time to the insistent beat of a drummer.

  Over the next few weeks the sound of those drums as the players and standard bearers of all the Twelfths rehearsed day and night would burrow its way into Georgia’s brain, so that she heard it wherever she was, whether in Remora or London, in bed or at school, sleeping or waking. It was the sound of the Stellata. Every Twelfth had its company of young people who were responsible for putting on a splendid show in the procession which would wind round the Campo before the race. The drummers and ensign
bearers would lead each company, Paolo explained to Georgia, and it was a great honour to be chosen to be of their number.

  ‘Isn’t Cesare one of them?’ she asked, thinking that it would explain his absence from the house.

  ‘No,’ said Paolo. ‘Cesare is our jockey this year, for the first time. But he marched in the parade last year.’

  The flags and drums moved out of the square and wound round the narrow lanes of the Twelfth, the sound getting louder and softer as they traced a meandering pattern through the Ram. Young children ran after them, entranced by the noise and colour, but Paolo and Georgia remained sitting on the stone ledge round the fountain.

  It was an idyllic scene. The strong sun, the blue sky, the sound of gently splashing water and the picturesque surrounding streets reminded Georgia of a TV travel programme. But she knew there was a lot lurking under the surface of Remora and that appearances were deceptive. It was still hard to think that she might be one of the major players in the complex contest of Talian power politics. It was a bit like being given a computer game without knowing any of the rules. Cesare was a great substitute for a manual but neither he nor she knew what weapons she possessed.

  ‘You keep mentioning the “Brotherhood”, and all the Stravaganti I’ve heard of, apart from me, are men,’ she said now. ‘You, Senator Rodolfo, Doctor Dethridge – Luciano even. Am I the only female one?’

  ‘No,’ said Paolo. ‘There is a very fine Stravagante in Giglia called Giuditta Miele. She is a sculptor. And at least one in Bellona, whose name I don’t know. But you are the first woman Stravagante to come from your world to ours. I admit I was surprised at first, particularly since – if you will forgive me – you look more like one of our young men. But the talisman does not choose lightly. They always bring us the person who is most needed.’

  If only I knew what for, thought Georgia.

  *

  The Manoush were in the Twelfth of the Lioness. Not at the stables but a house nearby, where an old woman called Grazia lived. She had, unusually for their tribe, married a Remoran and renounced her heritage. True, she still rose at dawn with her face turned to the sun and bade it farewell again at every nightfall. But she had compromised her beliefs so far as to live inside a house and give up her wandering days.

  Now a white-haired widow, though still a tall and handsome figure, Grazia had, in the early years of her marriage, slept with her husband in a string-bed on the loggia of their house, to ensure that their children would be conceived under the stars. Those children – four sons and three daughters – were now all grown up, with children of their own, and all but one daughter had reverted to the Manoush way of life. Such was the star they were born under.

  Aurelio and Raffaella brought news of Grazia’s children to her from many places in Talia, and so were assured of a welcome in her home whenever they came to Remora. The Twelfth of the Lioness was linked with Romula, the city way down in the South of Talia, where the tentacles of the di Chimici clan had not yet reached. That was where Grazia had met her husband, as they were both visiting Romula. Love had flamed in the City of the Dragon between the beautiful young Manoush and the visitor from the Lioness’s lair. A love powerful enough to keep her within the walls of her husband’s house, even after his death. It was a long time since Grazia had moved back into a bedchamber under the roof of her house.

  But she still observed the great festivals of her former way of life and the coming feast of the goddess was the greatest of them all. The Stellata meant almost nothing to her, though she would cheer the company of the Lioness on the day and hope for their horse to win. But by then, for her and the visiting Manoush the climax of the festival would be over. They would stay up all night to worship the goddess reigning over the starlit sky. And they would wait for the sun to rise on that morning in the Campo, where they would greet the goddess’s consort as his first rays climbed the heavens and bathed it with the light of dawn.

  *

  ‘Fantastic!’ said Enrico, and meant it. He was fonder of horses than almost anything else, and when Diego showed him the miraculous black filly, he thought first only of her delicate beauty and unbelievable attributes. But then his baser instincts took over and he considered the reward he would get when Duke Niccolò heard of this marvel.

  And the even bigger reward that would come his way once he had captured her for the Lady. Or the Twins. Whichever offered the more silver.

  Chapter 12

  A Circle of Cards

  Georgia found out where Cesare had been all morning. He came back to the stables in a state of exaltation: he had been riding Arcangelo on the practice track outside Remora.

  ‘He’s in great shape,’ enthused Cesare, rubbing the horse down with straw. ‘I really think we have a chance.’

  ‘Goddess willing,’ said Paolo quickly, making the gesture that Georgia had seen before which was like the sign of the cross but not quite.

  ‘Why do you swear by the goddess?’ she asked now. ‘I mean, you have a church in each Twelfth and you celebrate saints’ days, but all the people I’ve come across in Remora seem to believe in an older religion – it’s not just the Manoush.’

  ‘Talians are superstitious by nature,’ said Paolo. ‘We cling on to the past when all we people of the Middle Sea worshipped a ruling goddess. When the new religion came, with Our Lady and her Son, it was natural for us to put the two together. The Woman Encircled with Stars, that’s her. She looks after our city and doesn’t mind what we call her.’

  Georgia did not feel much the wiser. She returned to something she understood better.

  ‘Tell me more about the race,’ she said. ‘How does it work? It’s not just the case that the best horse wins, is it?’

  ‘No, nor the best jockey,’ said Cesare, ‘although of course every Twelfth hopes to have both.’

  ‘You must remember,’ said Paolo, ‘that we’ve been running the Stellata in some shape or form for about three hundred years, and there’s no reason to suppose we won’t go on running it for as many more.’

  Georgia thought about what Mr Goldsmith had told her about the Palio; if Remora really was the equivalent of Siena then the crazy horse race would still be going for more than another four centuries.

  ‘All the Twelfths have their own stables, as you know,’ continued Paolo, ‘and they select the horse that is going to take part in each year’s Stellata. It can be bred by themselves or bought in, but it is the very best horse that they can afford. Then the jockey is also chosen by the Twelfth.’

  ‘It’s not always a member of the Twelfth like me,’ said Cesare, bursting to let Georgia know that he hadn’t just been chosen because he was his father’s son. ‘It’s the best rider they can find.’

  ‘In a few weeks,’ said Paolo, ‘the dirt will go down in the Campo and it will be turned into a race-track. Lots of horses and jockeys will ride in the moonlight and each Twelfth will finalise their decision about who is going to ride in the race. Not many are as certain as we are at this stage.’ He gave his son and Arcangelo a proud glance.

  ‘I’d love to see that,’ said Georgia, then stopped, confused. Father and son were both giving her the same compassionate look. ‘But I can’t, can I? I mean I can’t be here in Remora at night.’

  ‘There are other heats you can see though,’ said Cesare hastily. ‘And you’ll be here for the race itself, won’t you?’

  ‘Depends what time it is,’ said Georgia. She looked at Arcangelo and remembered something else. ‘Do you race bareback?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Cesare. ‘We have a bridle and reins but no saddle.’

  ‘It dates back to our ancestors, the Rassenans,’ said Paolo. ‘They were great horsemen and racers and always rode bareback.’

  They were the Talian equivalent of the Etruscans, thought Georgia. Out loud, she said, ‘I’ve never ridden bareback but I’d love to try.’

  ‘Come with me this afternoon,’ said Cesare. ‘I won’t be riding Arcangelo again today, but we have p
lenty of other horses.’

  ‘Really?’ said Georgia, her eyes sparkling. But then she remembered her promise to Falco. ‘Only, Luciano and I must visit the di Chimici before I go back home.’

  ‘There’ll be time for both,’ said Cesare. ‘Talk to Luciano about it. He’ll be here in a minute; the carriage takes longer than a horse.’

  ‘He was at the practice track with you?’ asked Georgia. ‘But I thought he wasn’t interested in horses.’

  ‘He and Dottore Crinamorte were both there,’ said Cesare.

  The wheels of the carriage clattered over the stableyard cobbles.

  ‘Ah, the wolf in the story,’ said Paolo. ‘Speak of the devil!’

  Luciano sprang down from the carriage and helped his foster-father out. Georgia thought he was looking better than when she last saw him. His eyes were bright and his whole body animated and alert, as if ready for an adventure.

  William Dethridge was likewise full of the races. ‘Ah, bot it was a sighte!’ he said, clapping Paolo on the shoulder. ‘Youre sonne is a marvele – like unto a centaure!’

  *

  ‘Do you think they will come?’ Falco asked his brother for the fifteenth time.

  ‘They gave their word,’ answered Gaetano, as he had all the times before. But in his heart he hoped that the young Stravaganti would think of a way of breaking their promise. He knew they were not keen to help Falco with his plan. But he himself had made no headway with his young brother; Falco was more determined than Gaetano had ever known him. And now time was running out; Gaetano would soon have to make his embassy to Bellezza and he was terrified that Falco would persuade the young Stravaganti to help him in his brother’s absence.

  ‘Even if they do come,’ he said now, as gently as he could, ‘you must give up this idea of yours. It is madness. Why give up the life you know and everyone who loves you to travel to another world where you will be a stranger? You don’t even know that the doctors of the future will be able to help you. Even Luciano and Georgia were not certain of that.’