An Illusion of Thieves

by Cate Glass

  “As you wish, Your Grace.”

  Gallanos paused a moment as they turned to leave the room. “My man will be with you shortly to express my thanks more fully, professoré, damizella,” he said. “As we agreed.”

  Then he took the grand duc’s arm and strolled through the open doorway. “I’m afraid Boscetti is the one who comes out worst in this matter. That does not break my heart…”

  In moments, a very large man of striking appearance joined us. Though his weathered face indicated he was no older than Vincenzio, his bristle of hair was purest white. Well armed and clad in expensive leathers, he closed the door and offered me a hand up.

  Vincenzio remained on his knee, unmoving, as if lost in meditation. I nudged him, for the man held out a sizeable leather purse that clinked gloriously. “Attention, brother.”

  Vincenzio shook off his thoughts and leapt to his feet, startling the man when he overtopped his height.

  “Il Padroné’s payment, as agreed.” The man passed the purse to Vincenzio. “He thanks you for your efforts and believes your dealings are now concluded. As this bag is heavy and we’ve rogues in the neighborhood, I’d be pleased to offer you an escort to wherever you wish.”

  “We shall do very well on our own,” said my brother, his customary assurance recovered, “though I thank you and offer my gratitude to il Padroné.”

  “At the least I’ll show you out by a more discreet way than you arrived.”

  He guided us through a long passage of storage rooms and servants’ quarters, past a kitchen courtyard to the gate where wagons and carts were lined up to be emptied by an army of servants.

  “This exit is not meant as a slight, professoré, but a measure for your safety.”

  “We appreciate your care,” said Vincenzio, offering his hand. “What is your name, sir?”

  “Gigo, professoré. Segnoré di Gallanos’s bodyguard.”

  “I am honored, Gigo. Good day, sir.”

  We left through the delivery gate and hiked briskly through the city. We were approaching the Cambio Gate when I finally broke the silence. “Vincenzio, were we not supposed to go up to the Academie to meet Laurent for lunch?”

  My brother turned his face to the blue sky and bleated a laugh that sounded very like our mother’s ram. “By the Sisters, you do get lost, don’t you?”

  He laid his hand on my cheek. “Ah, Scribe Romy, be careful what you ask me to do next time. If I’d run off to leap into the river as I would have preferred, I might have left you as Tarenah di Guelfi forever. And here we are rich, with our partners and your brother surely frantic by now!”

  My steps faltered as the screen of Tarenah’s perceptions was ripped away and the morning’s events exploded in my memory with perfect clarity. Every image, every terror, every emotion, every question. Romy’s perceptions and reactions had been waiting like a dammed river. The scent of leather-bound books. The coffee and pine bark smell of the man who had shaped my life. The powerful grace of Eduardo di Corradini’s presence; the gleam of the ancient ring I had kissed—a modest silver band of rubies on his warm, elegant hand. The husky quiet of the duelist beside me as he knelt to Eduardo. The abiding question: How did the grand duc know the bronze was true?

  I glanced up at the man holding me upright. The grief writ on him so clearly made it impossible to ask him the questions I ought. Like whether it was possible the grand duc of Riccia was a sorcerer. Like why our meeting with that same grand duc made him want to drown himself. Mercifully, he did not ask how it felt to see my portrait yet hanging in the Shadow Lord’s private library. Sandro …

  “I think we should buy some wine on our way back,” I said.

  “I support that entirely. A great deal of it.”

  And that we did.

  20

  Not only wine, but a plump goose, a wheel of Kairys cheese, fresh lettuces, and a pastry of green plums and raspberries arrived at Dumond’s house with us. After an hour of feasting, toasts, and the tale of our morning, I emptied the purse in the middle of Vashti’s table.

  First, we dispersed repayment for the cost of our costumes, Placidio’s discarded bow, and Dumond’s expenses for metal, alchemical salts, and bribes. Vashti insisted on taking her customary payment for her needlework, rather than a share of the remainder.

  “We couldn’t have done it without you,” I protested. “You certainly bore a share of the risk, as well offering us your wisdom and opening your larder.” I poked at Neri, who had finished the last of the pastry and was returning to the half-devoured wheel of cheese.

  Vashti was adamant. “My provision and my wisdom are available to any who enter my home. My small risk is my eternal pledge to Basha, which has no price. The four of you, though—your pledge to each other is your blood. It is that pledge must reap the prize of your deeds.”

  Her insistence imparted a proper solemnity as we counted out the four shares. How could we not sober when considering the dangers we’d faced and could still face?

  What if Fermi brought in sniffers to investigate our escape from his palazzo? How long did traces of magic remain?

  What would become of the counterfeit bronze? Dumond had destroyed the molds for the counterfeit, and believed the heat of the firing ovens would have destroyed any trace of magic on the false statue itself. But Boscetti would be enraged at the upending of his bargain with the Shadow Lord. Would he recognize some detail in the counterfeit that proved different from the statue he’d brought from Mercediare? What if he probed too deep?

  And there was still Gilliette, a vicious, unpredictable child.

  Vashti dropped four empty canvas bags on the table as I shoved equal stacks of coins to Placidio, Dumond, and Neri.

  “We must be careful spending our pay.” Vashti nudged a thoughtful Dumond.

  “Indeed,” he said, brightening as always when he looked at her, “but ’tis a certain boon to have a bit to put away for the girls.”

  Neri rolled his eyes when I raised a brow at him. “Yes, yes. I know. Extra silver spread around breeds curiosity. But what an adventure, right? Even without the coin? Racing down those steps, knowing you two were there hidden and Dumond ready to work us an escape, and that those stronzi couldn’t possibly imagine how I could get away. By the Sisters, I’d do it again in an eyeblink!”

  A shower of groans followed this pronouncement, and a mock strangling from Placidio that exposed wicked bruises about Neri’s neck from his struggles with the Fermi guard. We filled our cups again.

  Vashti tilted her head and fixed her gaze on Dumond.

  “You’d work another scheme, Basha, wouldn’t you, if another worthy matter rose? I’ve not seen you so lively since we birthed Aria and Enia.”

  “Pssh. I’ve a full tenday ahead of me, getting out work I’ve promised and delayed. Ask me after.”

  Which was not a no. My answer would not be no, either. After such an adventure, returning to a life of copying others’ words held no particular charm.

  “What of you, swordmaster?” I said. “If we were to come across another problem needed solving, one that our talents might address—a worthy matter, as wise Vashti says—would you be willing?”

  “Only on conditions.” Placidio drained his cup and leaned forward to wag a finger at my brother. “Observing Neri in a real fight tells me we’ve a deal of work to do. And you, lady scribe”—the finger shifted my way—“I’m guessing Dumond’s daughters could place a thrown dagger better. So I would require you continue your lessons. Beyond that: I don’t promise ever to dress up again, but my sword can always be had. Cheap.”

  He flashed his ever-brilliant grin, and smothered it again almost before one could note it.

  “We’re more like to see dangers from this scheme we’ve just worked than any future ones,” Placidio continued. “Your message drop served us well. I was thinking to hire a box for myself to collect dueling solicitations. If Dumond did the same—and checked it regularly—we could keep each other apprised of rumor or inquiries, and
ensure we’re not seen in company more often than our professional relationships require.”

  “A fine suggestion,” said Vashti and Dumond together. “How much to rent?”

  Pleased, I shoved their offered coins away and drew a ring of small keys from the bag I’d brought from Lizard’s Alley the previous day. “For you, no charge.”

  I pulled two keys from the ring and passed them on. “Number twelve for Placidio. Eighteen for Dumond and Vashti. Number six will remain my own. Anything else you ever need, anything within my power, you’ll have it. Your help has saved my life and Neri’s and likely many others’.”

  One more toast and Dumond left to fetch the children from one of Vashti’s regular customers. Placidio collected his weapons from Dumond’s shop and returned to don his own shabby cloak and scuffed cap, the black silk rose replaced by the scraggly grouse feathers. Neri helped Vashti wash cups, while I cleaned the paint from my face, washed the curls from my hair in one of Vashti’s dye pots, and scrubbed in the blacking she said would keep my hair dark again until it grew out to its natural color.

  Placidio, Neri, and I soon bade Vashti farewell and walked out together on the Ring Road. The bright afternoon had been devoured by thick gray clouds. Whether it was the oncoming night, the threatening rain, or a natural reaction to the afternoon’s exuberance, we talked very little as we rounded the Beggars Ring.

  My mind refused to relinquish the recent days’ strange events. The bizarre visions when I touched the Antigonean bronze returned with shivering clarity. Knowing that I had been subsumed so deeply in Tarenah di Guelfi’s invented mind that I needed a third hand to bring me out made my breath come short.

  “Fesci’s expecting me tonight.” Neri broke our quiet as we neared the river. “Suppose I’d best give you this.”

  He chunked his heavy little bag in my hands.

  “Who’d have thought I’d ever have my own stash?” He patted it fondly as I tucked it under the cloak Vashti had lent me. “And earned by doing what was forbid so long. And Romy the harridan approving it.”

  His spark illuminated the gloomy evening.

  Placidio grunted. “It’s still forbidden, cockwit.”

  “I know; I know.”

  “I’ve not told you two what’s happened with my magic,” I said.

  “You forget, Romy-zha”—Placidio leaned his head down confidentially as we walked—“I was touching your face both times I spoke your name.”

  His face was exasperatingly impossible to see in the deepening gloom.

  “What touching?” Bristling like a very young wolf, Neri stepped round in front of Placidio and me, blocking the path, his hand perilously close to his sword hilt.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Neri.” What made male creatures start preening their feathers around women—even their elder sisters—the moment they learned to fight?

  “A magical touch … all as a part of the lady’s plan, of course,” said Placidio with a lustful growl. “Be off to your work, boy. I’ll see she gets home safely with your provisions.”

  “Not until you tell me exactly what you mean. Romy?”

  “Ignore the baiting, idiot-child,” I said. “He’s talking about our brother-sister playacting. I’ll tell you everything when you get home. Not that my behavior is any of your business.”

  “And keep your fool hand away from that weapon when someone picks a scab,” snapped Placidio. “Keep your mind engaged. Can either of you tell me how many beggars were sleeping in the alley we just passed? One could have been a thief and noticed that purse you passed. You each put the other at risk. Two climbs up the Boar’s Teeth tomorrow. And for her on the next day.”

  “Always training,” I said, once Neri had swallowed his humiliation and taken himself off.

  “Don’t want him cocky. It happens easy when you’re coming down from your first combat—whatever kind it is. The fight doesn’t stop. You feel invincible.”

  “I don’t,” I said. Our pace slowed as I explained how it had felt being Tarenah—and the strangeness after. “Magic is the only explanation,” I said, “a deeper form of the story lies I’ve told. I need to understand how to control it, so if a friend’s hand is not there, I can find myself again.”

  “It’s no doubt you triggered magic. Both times I felt the clear relinquishing. ’Twasn’t shocking or huge or ungainly either time. Fine, though. Can’t say I’ve experienced much of anyone else’s power, but I’m guessing you’ve still used only a part of what you’ve got.”

  “Not sure I want more.”

  “Certain, you do. You want to know all the aspects of your particular gift, as well as whatever else your body can make from the magic that lives in you—light, fire, healing maybe. Then you make the choice to use it or not. Control is the keystone. We’ll talk more at your next lesson … after the fighting, of course. Get Neri to work with you. It’ll make him think about such things without me beating on him about it. He’s a good lad, but reckless. That’ll kill him surer than any blade.”

  I might have been poised at the border of two worlds, speaking of such dread matters—of intentionally violating the First Law of Creation, while lamplight and the raucous music of pipes and tabors spilled from the Duck’s Bone just up the Ring Road. My mundane scrivener’s shop and the turning to Lizard’s Alley lay just beyond the light.

  “You’ve been good for Neri. Exactly what I’d hoped.” I extended my hand. “Fortune’s benefice, Professoré di Vasil. I can find my way home from here.”

  He refused my hand and made his mocking bow. “By Virtue’s children, damizella, I shall not leave you before making sure no threat awaits—with all respect to your improving skills. This is a fraught night.”

  I wanted to kick him. But my determination to make my own way in the world must not make me stupid. Talking about risks did not dissolve them. “As you will.”

  The clouds had finally relinquished their burden and produced a steady rain. We strolled companionably down the Ring Road past the tavern and the dark shop. Placidio scouted the alley and the vicinity of the house, finding nothing suspicious. Once inside he waited, politely turning his back while I lit a lamp and stashed my money bag and Neri’s.

  “Now I’ll take my leave,” he said, once I’d told him all was well. “Seems I’ve an early call tomorrow.”

  “Peaceful night, swordmaster. Fortune’s benefice.”

  “And Virtue’s hand.”

  He retraced our path down the alley. I’d have sworn his dark shape grew larger with the distance. Such an odd man. So variable. So secretive. Perhaps a friend, I thought, which surprised me, as I’d never had one, nor imagined I ever would. Sandro, of course, had been something else, though I had always imagined friendship to be part of it. So sheltered, I had been. So naive, despite my harsh beginnings. I closed the door on the night.

  As I unpacked my clothing bag, my keys fell out. Two days since I’d checked message box number one, which I used for common business. I’d given the number to several of my regular customers. I ought to look before I slept.

  So I threw on my wet cape and whisked up the alley and around the corner. The cloudburst had ended as quickly as it had begun. Not bothering to open up the shop, I unlocked the box from the outside. No messages waited. As long as I was there, I opened number six, as well, not that anyone outside my circle knew of it, save the Commission on Public Artworks and its most prominent member.

  A scrap of folded paper sat in the dark box. A shiver rushed down my back.

  The outreach of light from the Duck’s Bone revealed that there was nothing written on the scrap. It happened frequently that children stuck things in the slots, curious at the use of the row of boxes. But this paper was fine and clean.

  Nerves aflame, I stared at the blank page as if it might speak.

  “I couldn’t decide what words to write. Not until I was sure.”

  I whirled about—voice useless, spirit shredded at his first intonation.

  “Cataline, my glorious chim
era.”

  21

  He stepped from the deepest shadow, cloaked and hooded. But I didn’t need to see his face to know him.

  Sandro. In the moment of my mind’s utterance, I knew I could not speak that name aloud. Not because he had forbidden it, but because doing so with him so near would be my undoing. No magical shield protected me either from his recognition or from the maelstrom that rose in my spirit—a storm of hatred, longing, lust, devotion, fury, hope, grief, betrayal. Was he testing me?

  “There is no one here named Cataline, segnoré.”

  He closed the distance between us, until the scent of the coffee he so relished had my heart racing. “Had half a century passed since I saw you last, I would know you.”

  I blessed Vashti’s insistence that I wash the red and the curls from my hair, and my Moon House tutors for teaching me outward composure despite terror wreaking havoc within. Sandro had certainly not recognized me when Tarenah di Guelfi walked into his house. I would have seen it. But had he learned something since?

  “A year can bring many changes. I cannot imagine what half a century would do.”

  “Let’s not spar,” he said. “Not tonight.”

  Reason commanded I stay silent until I could set my mind to this moment. I dared not fail to consider every word, every implication. This man would condemn my brother, my friends, and even Dumond and Vashti’s daughters to the Executioner of the Demon Tainted if he believed it necessary. He would take no pleasure in it, but he’d do it. He had let Neri live, but had given me fair warning. The message boxes had always been a risk.

  He tipped his head to one side. His examination buzzed my skin like scurrying ants. “Will you walk with me? I know this is not easy.”