Mist, Metal, and Ash

by Gwendolyn Clare

  Righi cleared his throat. “Now. As I’m sure you are aware, the individual known as Elsunani di Jumi da Veldana no longer qualifies for asylum here.”

  Gia rested a hand on her husband’s arm, but her frown was all for Righi. “What in the world are you going on about, Augusto?”

  “Montaigne has escaped—not two days after we hear, from your very own daughter, that the Veldanese girl has sided with Garibaldi. Someone broke him out. As coincidences go, it stretches the imagination.”

  “Hold on, hold on.” Alek held up his hands at the absurdity of this accusation. “There is no love lost between Montaigne and Elsa. I simply cannot imagine any reason she would want him free. We wouldn’t have even had him in custody in the first place were it not for her.”

  Alek glanced at Filippo for support, but the head of the Pisano family just gave him a helpless look, as if this battle had been lost before they’d left Firenze.

  “I’m of course willing to consider the possibility of a misunderstanding,” Righi said magnanimously. “But we cannot ignore such a potential threat to the integrity of the Order. Until we determine the truth, the Veldanese girl is to be taken into custody at a more secure location, so if you have any knowledge of her whereabouts—”

  The double doors slammed shut behind them, making everyone jump. In the silence that followed, Gia and Alek exchanged a despairing look.

  “Oh, Augusto, you old fool. You shouldn’t have said that,” Gia said.

  Righi bristled. “What exactly is going on here? What have you done?”

  Casa’s voice seemed to enter the room slowly, as if it were oozing down the stairs or seeping up through the cracks between the floor tiles. “It is not what they have done.” Low and soft, menacing. “It is what you have done.”

  In six places around the room, spiderweb cracks appeared in the plaster. There was a muted whirring noise, and all six patches of plaster buckled at once, filling the room with dry white dust. Alek coughed, squinting, trying to make out what Casa was doing. At his elbow, Gia let out a cry of dismay, as if she already knew.

  “The children belong to me,” the house growled. “You will not have them.”

  When the plaster dust settled, Alek saw they were surrounded by six mechanical arms protruding from the walls, each one aiming some sort of long-muzzled rifle at them. Gia clung to Filippo, burying her face in his shoulder.

  “Wheat from the chaff,” the house said, and fired.

  16

  THERE WAS A DOOR TO WHICH I FOUND NO KEY

  THERE WAS THE VEIL THROUGH WHICH I COULD NOT SEE

  —Omar Khayyam

  As she left her chamber for the dining hall, Elsa felt trepidation settle heavily in her gut, leaving no room for food. She knew from Colette that Garibaldi, who had been mysteriously absent yesterday, was due back for lunch. Surely both his sons would be expected to attend him, and she dreaded what might happen with the Garibaldi boys together in the same room.

  At the door, Elsa discovered she was only the second to arrive, and she took a chair across the table from Vincenzo. She sat with her spine straight and her shoulders stiff, incapable of relaxing.

  Vincenzo said, “So how’s the alliance going?”

  Elsa searched his expression, wondering if he was making a coded request for information about their true mission, or simply making small talk. His face gave no hint either way. “Well enough, I suppose,” she said. “This is Veldana’s first political alliance, so it’s not as if we have much to compare it to.”

  “You ought to draft a formal document. That’s what governments do.”

  “Garibaldi isn’t a government—at least not yet.”

  One corner of Vincenzo’s mouth drew up into a lopsided grin. “I wouldn’t tell him that, if I were you.”

  Then Aris sauntered in, wearing an easy smile. He nodded a greeting to them both. “Vico, Elsa.”

  He pulled out a chair next to Elsa and sat down so close beside her that their arms touched. Elsa froze. Vincenzo started to frown but caught himself and wiped away the expression. The air seemed to ring with a tension she didn’t quite understand the source of.

  With feigned innocence, Aris asked, “Are you feeling quite well, Vico?”

  Vincenzo showed him a lazy, unbothered smile. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Aris shifted his arm to rest on the back of Elsa’s chair, and she felt sick. He was not touching her like a person craving contact with another person; he was touching her like an owner showing off a new toy. A muscle in Vincenzo’s cheek twitched, which seemed to delight Aris.

  Elsa wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but instinct told her Aris was acting deliberately horrible, and it made her skin crawl. The sympathy she’d felt for him yesterday evaporated. She was struggling to stop herself from pushing his arm away when Garibaldi came striding in, breaking the tension; Aris dropped his arm from her chair as quickly as he dropped whatever game he’d been playing, his attention instantly drawn to his father.

  Elsa felt a swell of relief, and at that she needed to stifle a laugh. Relieved at the arrival of Ricciotti Garibaldi—who would have thought it possible?

  Colette immediately appeared and served plates of small spinach dumplings swimming in melted butter. A ghost of a smile crossed her face, timed carefully so only Elsa would see.

  Bolstered by her new conspirator, Elsa turned to Garibaldi. “I know your business keeps you quite occupied, but perhaps it’s time to discuss the terms of our alliance.”

  She forked a pair of dumplings into her mouth, hoping to project an air of calm. There was cheese cooked into them as well, she discovered, and the butter was flavored with sage, and the intense strangeness of the food threatened to distract her from the conversation.

  She barely heard Garibaldi reply, “There are those who consider it distasteful to discuss politics over a meal. But for you, signorina, I think we can make an exception.” He smiled as if he were doing her a favor. “So tell us: what can we do for Veldana?”

  She swallowed. “What I want is a powerful ally willing to support Veldana’s independence if it ever comes under threat. I thought the Order of Archimedes would be that ally, but now I fear they’re more likely to try to control us than they are to support us.”

  Garibaldi nodded. “Pazzerellones have such potential to be a force for change in the world. Instead, the Order ensures we hide ourselves away, dans une tour d’ivoire, removed from society. I have no doubt they are afraid of what you might do if you remain beyond their influence.”

  Elsa paused, planning her words with care. “In return for your support, I am prepared to offer this: I will personally scribe the changes you wish into the editbook.”

  He shook his head. “That won’t be sufficient. I need you to instruct Aris in Veldanese scriptological technique.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot agree to help unless you allow me at the very least to supervise the editing process,” she insisted. “The Veldana worldbook exists on Earth; if you were to deal catastrophic damage to the real world, it could in turn affect Veldana.”

  “But surely you don’t believe our goal is to destroy reality. We do, after all, live in it.”

  “Your goal? No. But I do believe you might destabilize the world by accident.” She turned to Aris. “No offense.”

  “Absolute offense.” He bristled. “I’m a polymath—I do not make errors when I scribe.”

  “Veldanese grammar is full of subtleties and variations, and so to scribe in Veldanese requires syntactical precision. I cannot teach it to you in a day.” This was entirely true; it was also a convenient excuse to demand access to the editbook.

  Garibaldi chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. “I will consider your proposal,” was the best he would allow.

  Leo never joined them. Colette made the empty plates disappear and replaced them with a second course of thinly sliced liver and onions. Elsa made herself eat, Aris’s sidelong glances weighing heavily on her, as if he intended to read her
secrets by sheer force of will. Across the table Vincenzo was the opposite, refusing to meet her gaze. He excused himself early and fled the dining room.

  Elsa envied his rudeness but didn’t dare emulate it, needing as she did to ingratiate herself to Garibaldi. So she waited until the meal was over, and only then pursued Vincenzo up the stairs to his guest chamber. She could use some advice on how to proceed, and sulking Leo didn’t seem a likely source.

  Vincenzo’s door stood open, so Elsa started to say, “What did you think of—”

  She stopped short in the doorway, taken aback at what she saw inside: Vincenzo was packing his things. He glanced up at her, raw hurt in his eyes.

  “Where are you going?”

  He shrugged, looking away. “When you need me, I’ll be there.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re needed now. Continuously,” Elsa said. “Is this about Aris?”

  She was so accustomed to Vincenzo’s devil-may-care bravado that the wounded look now crossing his face gave her a profound sense of disorientation. He could laugh at the prospect of death, but shied away from subterfuge? Wasn’t he supposed to be a spy? Elsa stared at him, baffled.

  “You can’t expect me to stay here and watch”—he waved a hand vaguely at her—“this happening.”

  The muscle in his jaw clenched, and understanding finally dawned on her. Vincenzo saw Aris as more than a childhood friend. “Oh,” was all she managed to say.

  “I’m not asking you to stop,” he said. “So please don’t ask me to stay.”

  Elsa wanted to tell him that whatever happened between herself and Aris, it was only a game—an elaborate chess match of emotions and truths and lies. A game she would happily quit, if they weren’t playing for such an important prize. She wanted to say she was glad Aris had shown an interest in her instead of Vincenzo; whoever got close to Aris would eventually have to stab him in the back—metaphorically, if not literally—and better it was Elsa who carried that burden.

  She couldn’t risk saying any of that aloud, though, in case their conversation was being monitored. Instead, she simply rested her hand on his arm. “I am sorry if I’ve hurt you. It was not my intention.”

  “I know.” Vincenzo quickly turned his attention back to his bag, pulling the strings tight with more force than was strictly necessary.

  “Wait here a minute before you go—I have something you should take with you.” This was an opportunity, at least, to get the fake portal device away from Aris’s prying eyes. She’d already caught him going through her bags once, and the last thing she needed was Aris getting his hands on the doorbook.

  Vincenzo threw her a quizzical look, but said, “As you like.”

  Elsa ran to her room to grab the receiver, but when she returned, she overheard arguing in his chamber.

  “Vico, you’re overreacting. Wait.” Aris’s voice. Elsa pressed herself against the wall of the corridor.

  “Wait? Wait for what, exactly—for you to just once in your life discover a shred of sympathy? I’ll hold my breath, and die suffocating.”

  “I was trying to make you jealous. Isn’t it obvious?”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised that Garibaldi’s son can’t tell the difference between loving people and toying with them.”

  “But you’re the one I really want,” Aris said, a sulky undertone to his words.

  Elsa felt like the breath had been knocked out of her. There were times when getting close to Aris felt easy, but what if it was foolish to even attempt to sway him? What if there was no goodness inside Aris to appeal to, no room left for a conscience amongst all that possessiveness and raw need?

  “I know this is going to come as a shock,” Vincenzo said, “but the world doesn’t revolve around what you want.”

  Aris snorted. “I beg to differ.”

  Elsa retreated to the empty room across the hall and waited there, hidden, watching as Aris stalked angrily out of Vincenzo’s room. When the sound of his footsteps faded, she rejoined Vincenzo.

  “Here,” she said, passing him the receiver disguised as a portal device. “Can you hold on to this for me?”

  “I’ll protect it with my life,” Vincenzo said. She wasn’t sure if he was being gallant or ironic.

  Elsa turned to go, but then reconsidered. “I haven’t forgotten why I’m here, you must know that,” she said earnestly.

  “I believe you.” He waved a hand at his packed bag and added, “This is a … a self-preservation thing. You pazzerellones wouldn’t understand.”

  His crooked smile landed on her like a slap. Was it true that pazzerellones played with hearts as casually as they played with volatile chemicals? Was she that sort of person now?

  Elsa didn’t know the answer.

  * * *

  Alek de Vries was still in one piece, but the same could not be said of everyone.

  Filippo had neared hysterics at the sight of the blood and the broken bodies, the stench of spilt viscera, the enforcer bots reduced to smoking piles of shattered gears. Gia, grim-faced and determined, had asked Alek to draw him away. He had led Filippo to the sitting room in the front of the house, primarily because he’d anticipated it would be an easy place to locate alcohol.

  There was something morbidly funny about the menfolk withdrawing to the parlor while the lady of the house saw to the carnage, and Alek did not like himself very much for being amused at that particular moment. Though perhaps it was the best way to cope—he also did not like to think too closely on what they’d lost. Righi, head of the Order, plus two other regular members of the council. It was a terrible blow, which could weaken their influence not just in the Kingdom of Sardinia but across Europe.

  Alek poured Filippo another glass of grappa, on account of how he’d downed the first like a shot of whiskey. He wrapped Filippo’s shaking fingers around the stem of the tulip-shaped glass and resumed his seat beside his shocked friend.

  “Righi had an apprentice, did he not?” Alek had some vague memory to that effect—an apprentice not much older than Elsa. When his question met with no reply, Alek said, “Filippo?”

  “Eh? Oh, yes, he does—did. Did,” Filippo said again, as if to cement the past tense in his mind.

  “There’s a blessing, at least.” Thank God the boy had not been dragged along on his master’s last fateful errand. “We should send word to Bologna. Will the boy come here, do you think? Or does he have family?”

  “He can’t come here,” Filippo said, aghast.

  “No, of course not … I didn’t mean now.” Alek marveled at himself, at what an irredeemable pazzerellone he could be. He was already thinking ahead to a time when all this was fixed; his automatic assumption was that science would prevail, and Gia would effect the repairs, and everything would return to normal.

  In truth, there was no guarantee. Alek and the Pisanos knew this better than most, or at least they should, after the terrible loss of Filippo’s brother Massimo.

  Alek sighed. “We should send word to Firenze—the Order needs to know what happened.”

  “The wireless telegraphy machine is off-limits,” Casa snapped, the house’s voice making Filippo jerk in surprise.

  “You don’t want any further intrusions, do you?” Alek said. “If you allow me access to the wireless, I’ll warn them away, and then no one will try to take your children. Won’t that be good?”

  Grudgingly, the house admitted, “I suppose that would be preferable to making another mess in the foyer. Very well, Signor de Vries.”

  Alek levered himself out of the armchair and gave Filippo’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. He hated feeling useless; at least sending a wireless message was something constructive to do. Something to distract himself from the obvious fact that everything was falling apart.

  * * *

  Leo had taken the lunch hour to check and reset all the leaf pieces in the doorframes. He wanted to confirm which rooms were in frequent use before involving Elsa in the search. It felt oddly satisfying to act in defianc
e of his family, and he almost wished he would get caught. He wanted them to hurt the way he hurt. But he finished checking the doors without incident, his success both a relief and a disappointment.

  He returned to his room and stopped short at what he saw within—Ricciotti was seated in his reading chair.

  “Father,” Leo said cautiously. He couldn’t help shifting his eyes around the bedchamber, checking for signs of a trap. Maybe he had not gotten away with all that sneaking, after all.

  Ricciotti said, “We need to talk.”

  “So I gathered.” Leo swallowed. “Regarding what, exactly?”

  “Aris has always been a selfish boy…,” Ricciotti began.

  Though Leo might have said those exact words himself, when his father said them he felt an irrational urge to rush to Aris’s defense.

  “It’s not fair, I know,” Ricciotti continued. “But he only wants what’s yours because he wants to feel close to you. You can see that, can’t you, Leo?”

  Leo shook his head, stunned. Were they really discussing his romantic life? “What I can’t do is believe we’re having this conversation.”

  “I expect much of your brother—perhaps too much, sometimes. But do not interpret that to mean I can’t see him.” Ricciotti leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You are my sons, and I do love you both, and I want what’s best for you.”

  Leo stared. This could be a manipulation; Ricciotti was certainly capable of that. But it terrified Leo more that it might be sincere.

  Slowly, he said, “So … you’re saying you want me to remove myself as an obstacle to Aris’s happiness?”

  Ricciotti waved a hand, dismissing this idea. “Not at all. A little healthy competition between brothers is a fine thing, so long as it doesn’t turn to animosity. I’m simply hoping you won’t let that girl become a wedge between yourself and Aris. He … may not have the sense to drop the bone, so to speak.”