Sancia crept over to the crater in the center of the floor, and cautiously stooped and picked up the orb. She’d expected it to be either hot or cold, for some reason, yet it was neither—it was the same temperature it’d been before.
She looked at the latch on the side, and its little hinge.
Oh, please. Oh please, oh please, oh please…
She braced herself, unlatched the little orb’s lid, and swung it open.
Clef’s golden form winked from within. Sancia slowly sat down on the pulverized stone, her legs shaking, set the bronze orb in her lap, and laid one finger to the key’s shaft.
Silence.
She waited, and waited. But nothing came.
Still silence.
She felt her fluttering heart suddenly slow, and she leaned her head back, her eyes shut.
“Not again,” she said. “Not again, not again…”
“Is it working?” called Orso from the open basement door. “San?”
“No!” she said. She was on the verge of tears. “No, it didn’t. He’s not talking he’s not—”
She opened her eyes.
“Huh?” she said quietly.
“It failed?” said Gregor. “It truly failed?”
“Wait!” she said. “W-Wait, wait just a minute!”
She took the key in her hands, clasping it tight, listening as hard as she could.
That voice—if it even was a voice—was it Clef? She found it hard to tell. It didn’t sound like the product of sentient thought, but more like a noise someone might make in their sleep.
The low, unearthly groan continued for an impossibly long while, a constant, sustained
She listened to it, eyes wide. It had to go on for at least half a minute straight, growing louder and louder all the while.
And then it finally erupted.
“Oh my God!” she said softly.
She heard Berenice in her mind, speaking as well:
“He’s back!” she cried. “I…I think he’s back!” She burst into tears.
“I just hope,” said Valeria weakly, “that it is not too late.”
29
Alfredo Participazio stared around at the partygoers in the Hall Morsini and did his best to ignore the sweat trickling down his back.
He had never been to the Morsini House campo before, neither as an ambassador nor a trade representative, and he found the entire experience discomfiting. Everything was so strange, so threatening, so different, even here at the campo illustris, the Hall Morsini. Though the checked floor was packed with costumed elites and casks of wine and glittering crowds, it still felt like a dour, cramped building, all frowning, brutish pragmatism and tiny windows: a hostile place, built by a hostile people, and even their abundant merriment couldn’t conceal the threat.
He knew they weren’t simply celebrating for carnival, of course. While the rest of the city shivered at the whisper of war between the merchant houses, the Morsinis were absolutely delighted. The Michiels and the Dandolos were now both begging them for an alliance, so they could pick and choose which house lived and died—and extract considerable payments from whichever house they backed. The opportunity was so tremendous that the de facto head of the house, Rodrigo Morsini, grandson of the estimable (and now disease-riddled) Torino Morsini, had felt obliged to celebrate.
And now Participazio sat at the table with the rest of their diplomatic deputation—ten elite scrivers, none of whom would discuss their orders with him—and watched as the many costumed revelers milled about, some dancing to the pipers, some retreating to the corners to indulge in open acts of carnal pleasure.
He couldn’t help but feel overcome with misery. What am I doing here? What horror have I been assigned to now?
He observed the many wild costumes, variations on the traditional classics: the Cup-Bearer of Storms, the Herald of the Waves, the Vanguard of Wind, the many Drowned Ones…
And of course, the countless Papa Monsoons, dressed in their black cloaks and their black masks and their black three-cornered hats.
Participazio studied these, unnerved. Then one of the Papa Monsoons looked at him, cocked its head, and began to amble across the floor to him. The partygoers thoughtlessly made way for him, some of them shivering slightly, as if the backs of their necks had been grazed by a chilly breeze.
Oh no, thought Participazio.
“It’s been some time since I’ve been to a party,” called the man in black in his deep, rich voice. “I’d hoped no one would wear the same apparel as I, but…I shall have to bear it, I suppose.”
Participazio stood and bowed as he approached, trying to ignore the queasiness suddenly churning in his stomach.
“Good evening, boy,” said the man in black, sounding bemused.
“Evening, s-sir,” said Participazio quietly. He glanced up at the blank, black eyes, and his heart juddered.
The man in black turned his mask on the rest of the Dandolo deputation, who looked back at him uncertainly. “And these are the scrivers I requested?”
“Y-Yes, sir.”
“The ones with the most experience in lexicons?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good!” He reached into his cloak, produced a small, unremarkable-looking wooden box, and held it out. “These are for you.”
Participazio took the box with trembling hands and placed it on the table. He braced himself, flipped back the latch, and opened the top, convinced it held some abomination…
Yet it did not. Within were a dozen white leather masks, but they were of a very curious make: they were completely smooth and unbroken, and would envelop the whole of a person’s head, with no openings for their eyes, nor their noses, mouths, nor ears.
“Your costumes,” said the man in black.
Participazio took one mask out and held it, bewildered, as the scrivers took their own. “Do…Do you want us to put these on now, sir?”
“Now? No, no. Now’s not the time.” He sat next to Participazio, lounging in his chair, and looked out at the crowd. “But soon, I suspect. Now, let’s wait.”
They sat and watched the celebrations. The evening became a blur to Participazio: the slosh of wine, wicked and dark in the lantern light; carven masks glimmering amidst the columns, faces fixed, eyes vacant; the constant swish and swirl of silken robes; and hands bedecked in jewelry slipping out from beneath the rush of costumes, eager to snatch up a goblet of wine, or seize a shoulder, or caress a bared neck.
The cries and moans beat upon Participazio’s mind. I am in one of the wealthiest places on earth, he thought. And yet, I feel as though I am in some bowel of hell.
Then finally there came a blast of piping, and a sound of trumpets. Everyone stopped dancing and talking and turned to the western entrance to the hall, and they watched respectfully as the procession began to enter.
It was quite expansive, led by a series of women dressed as shore doves, and then men wearing the costume of the Cup-Bearer of Storms, their spears raised high and their crowns glittering—and they were pulling something along by silvery ropes.
It was a throne, Participazio saw finally, nearly ten feet high and painted bright gold and set on wheels, and seated on the throne was a man in a Papa Monsoon costume.
But it was not any Papa Monsoon costum
e. This one was painted bright gold like the throne.
“Oh my,” said the man in black dryly. “Isn’t this ironic.”
* * *
—
Sancia winced. She still felt elated at the sound of his voice—the exact same voice as she’d remembered it, the very voice that had haunted her memories for the past three years—but explaining their predicament to a newly awakened Clef was proving a lot harder than she’d anticipated. Not only had their whole situation proven knottier than she’d realized, but Clef kept interrupting with
said Clef. A pause.
A pause.
Sancia and Berenice looked at each other, surprised. whispered Sancia to Berenice.
<…but she still can’t hear when we talk between the two of us,> whispered Berenice. This seemed a valuable thing to keep in mind.
There was a long, long silence—so long that Berenice and Sancia exchanged a nervous glance.
But Orso could take it no more. “This is frustrating as all hell!” he shouted. “I can’t hear a damned thing! You all can’t keep a whole conversation running among yourselves, it’s bullshit!”
“I concur,” said Gregor.
“Oh,” said Sancia. “Right.” She’d forgotten Orso and Gregor couldn’t experience what they were saying. “I’ll just…repeat the important stuff.”
They told Clef of Crasedes’s wrappings, and the bone hidden in his hand, the one that allowed his wrappings to convince reality that he had never truly died. Sancia found herself talking so much she often felt out of breath.
There was a long silence.
said Clef.
Sancia and Berenice shot a worried look at each other. Sancia had forgotten that Clef could perceive or even access the plate in her head so easily. But then, it did make sense: Clef was always good at tinkering with scrived things, and Sancia was, in essence, a scrived thing.
Sancia’s heart twisted as she heard the worry in Valeria’s voice.
A cold horror was seeping through Sancia’s belly.
“Something’s gone wrong,” said Gregor quietly, watching Sancia’s face.
Berenice looked at Valeria.
But now Valeria would not answer.
* * *
—
The crowd of Morsinis roared their approval at the sight of the golden Papa Monsoon, the King of All Storms, the Lord of Floods, and Emperor of the Surging Seas. The man in the costume had to be Rodrigo Morsini himself, Participazio thought: not only was he unable to imagine who else would be the focus of such a procession, but he’d heard rumors that Rodrigo was an enormous man, both tall and broad, and the golden Papa Monsoon seemed so large that he threatened to crush the throne beneath him.
“Well,” said the man in black, stepping away. “This is my moment. I suppose I should get a move on.”
“W-What?” said Participazio. “What do you mean, sir?”
“I mean,” said the man in black over the roar of the crowd, “that I have business to attend to with M
aster Morsini.”
“You want to approach Rodrigo Morsini?” said Participazio, horrified. “Now?”
He shrugged. “I see no better time.” He began to amble toward the rolling throne, but then he paused, turned, and said, “Oh, I should remind you all…Please don’t forget your masks. That would be disastrous.” He tapped the side of his head. “As I remove mine, you should put on yours.” Then he turned and continued toward the center of the hall.
The golden Papa Monsoon waved joyfully as his retinue hauled him around the floor. They turned down one stretch, the crowd cheering them on…
All except one small figure in black, who walked out to stand in the center of their path, blocking the way.
The wheels of the Morsini throne squeaked to a halt.
Participazio watched, overcome with helplessness. Oh, please, he thought. Please don’t get us all killed…
The crowd stared. The Cup-Bearers of Storms paused, unsure whether they should shove this man aside.
The golden Papa Monsoon leaned forward and peered down at the black one, who looked back with his empty, dark eyes.
“What the devil are you doing?” demanded the golden Papa Monsoon. “Someone get this idiot out of the way!”
And yet for some reason neither his Cup-Bearers of Storms nor any of the people in the crowd seemed to have any desire to approach this man.
“Do you know me, Rodrigo Morsini?” said the man in black, his deep voice hard and clear.
“I certainly do not!” said the golden Papa Monsoon. He looked at the crowd around him, gesturing to the guards. “Someone do something! Knock him down, haul him away!”
“No,” said the man in black, quieter. “You know me. You all do.”
He lifted his hands, and removed his hat. And then he began to remove his mask.
To Participazio’s surprise, there was no face beneath the mask of the man in black: rather, his head was draped in a long black cloth, tied by a black string running around his neck.
The man plucked at the string with his thumb and forefinger, and gently began to pull it away.
And then, though he couldn’t understand why, Participazio suddenly felt himself filled with terror—and he realized the purpose of their white masks.
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