Irenicon

by Aidan Harte

  “I loved him,” Sofia said more to herself than to the historian.

  “You—aha ha—”

  She could feel it even as she stood there: the Darkness was regenerating, more powerfully this time. Anger is stronger meat than grief. She was angry at herself, angry at the nun for keeping the truth from her, but most of all angry at him—she would not say his name—angry for making her love him, for making her grieve him.

  She held the paper to the candle.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Blood matters,” she whispered as she walked back to the coffin, dragging the burning scroll behind her.

  The historian watched as scraps of paper lit up in her wake. He tentatively touched the dagger’s handle, but the pain was too great. As the hungry flames climbed the bookshelves, as the towers tumbled, he wept.

  Levi breathed a sigh of relief as the star ascended once more.

  “We should leave,” he said quickly.

  “This is Bernoulli’s tower, Levi.” When he looked at her blankly, she shouted, “We have to burn it!”

  “Are you all right? You seem—”

  “Just help me!”

  The angel watched impassively as they took torches to the tapestries of the great hall.

  As the library became an inferno, Tremellius’s fear of death routed his fear of pain. The Apprentices would save him. He wrestled the blade out and scrambled to the glass column. The engine room was empty but for the Third Apprentice, who was serenely cleaning the slate.

  “Scoundrels! They have left us to burn!” the historian cried.

  “Be calm,” the boy said. “The others are in the lantern.”

  Sofia rammed the glass column with a candelabrum until great cracks splintered up the shaft.

  Levi had to pull her away before she hurt herself. “That’s enough, Contessa. The heat will do the rest.”

  Scraps of burning paper were falling from the distant dome. They pushed the massive doors closed as they left. Sofia gave the angel no final glance. It would not see her cry.

  Tremellius was unconvinced. The “lantern” was the Grecian mausoleum crowning the Molè’s triple dome. “Perhaps we’d be better off going down.”

  Far below, the water shot up though the pit. When it reached the great hall, the pressure was enough to finally shatter the fissured glass.

  Tremellius toggled the coffin’s handle ineffectually. “It’s not working. We’re trapped!”

  “Just follow me,” the boy said, walking to one of the walls. He turned and watched the pendulum as the historian waddled over to join him. The wall parted for a moment, a piston lowered, and the boy stepped into the darkness. The historian scampered after him. They ascended from piston to piston in the space between the inner dome and outer dome. The noise was deafening and the light was dim, but the boy, comfortable as a sewer rat, led the way confidently.

  Finally he threw open a trapdoor to a breathtaking night. Tremellius was gasping already from the climb, but the sky was so fretted with stars that he fancied he could pry his fingers into them and tear night aside for day. He felt he could breathe freely for the first time in decades, that he had escaped Girolamo Bernoulli’s mind. Red and orange, the First and Second Apprentices stood in the open door of the mausoleum, watching.

  “My Lords, what are you thinking?” he asked. “That is Bernoulli’s tomb.”

  The First Apprentice answered, “I’m surprised there are rumors you haven’t heard. The tomb is empty. It will be our refuge from the fire.”

  “Calm yourself,” the Second Apprentice added. “He has not returned; he waits where he always has, in his real tomb. In the real Molè.”

  “This is not the Molè?”

  “The Beast is the real wonder of our age. This imperfect reflection shall burn.”

  “You knew this was coming?”

  “Bernoulli told us the Signs that would herald his return. The destruction of his greatest lie was one. His monument is concealed, just as his secrets are revealed only to initiates.”

  Tremellius’s eyes widened. “I am an initiate?”

  “You are redundant. There is no need for historians at History’s end.”

  “Then—what shall I do?” he said with a nervous laugh.

  The man in red gave a smile worthy of a wolf. “You shall be free.”

  They picked at random one of many long stairways winding from the mountain’s summit to the canals and were lucky. At the bottom, Levi untied one of the boats while admiring the layout from a soldierly perspective. “It’s a citadel. Even if you took the city, you couldn’t hold it without the Molè.”

  Sofia couldn’t bring herself to look back at it, still less praise it.

  Levi soon discovered that the canals had parallel currents, leading to and from the mountain, and once he got the boat into the right one, they speedily crossed over the new city.

  “They made it so hard to get in,” Levi said. “Getting out will be easy!”

  He glanced back nervously at Sofia, who was staring at the water passing by them, clutching her banner tightly. Once they reached garrisoned city walls they could no longer count on mere luck. They’d have to fight their way out. Was she up to it?

  Through a sea of thick fog below, Sofia finally saw the great city again. Its smooth streets were set in a perfect grid, the few curves allowed graceful and restrained. Marble columns gleamed, their cold beauty illuminated by orbs of blue fire. Everywhere there was proportion and order, balance and harmony. It was an alien beauty, and her soul shrank from it. There were no citizens abroad, only soldiers. It was a city remade as a prison for its population, and for a terrifying moment she saw the world from Girolamo Bernoulli’s remote perspective, a beautiful sphere infested by swarming pests, perfection riddled with human maggots with all their corrosive lies and hopes.

  She risked a look back at the Molè and was startled to see the sky empty, washed white by fog, and tall columns fading into nothingness like tired brushstrokes. The Molè’s upturned whale’s belly left no impression on a sky it should have dominated.

  “Levi, where—?” she began.

  “Should be a big enough distraction,” he chuckled as the dome became suddenly illuminated by flames.

  “Look, the lantern,” she said, pointing at the summit of the third dome.

  A man slid and rolled and bounced and finally shot though the wall of flames at the base of the last dome, emerging into the empty air, burning like a falling star. They were too far away to hear his scream. All over the city, bells rang out.

  The city walls emerged from mist.

  “Get down, Sofia,” Levi said in an undertone.

  A sentry called out a challenge, “Hey, who goes there?”

  Levi saluted casually. “Me. Tie this off, will you?” he said, preparing to throw the rope.

  When the sentry reached out for it, a noose fell around him, and he yelped as he landed in the water. The cold would finish him before the buio could get there.

  Levi helped Sofia out of the boat. “What happened up there, Contessa?”

  “Nothing. I’m all right,” she said.

  “You don’t look all right. I don’t know how you did that trick with the water, but it obviously costs something. We’re going to have to get down and out as fast as possible. I need you to keep up. Got it?”

  Sofia rubbed her arms, trying to get warm. “Is it the only way? How many men are down there? I’m weak, and you’re half starved.”

  “Just the odds I like. Just stay behind me, kid.”

  Levi opened the door and then closed it just as quickly. “Hmm, this could get ugly.” He made the Sign of the Sword and said, “Madonna, help us out and I swear I will live a better life. Contessa?”

  “What?”

  “Swear!”

  “Oh, right. I swear.”

  He opened it again and leaped in with a yell. A guard coming up the stairs got kicked in the chest, brawler fashion.

  “You weren’t kidding—
that was ugly.”

  “You going to be this helpful all through this escape?”

  “Look behind you!”

  Levi gave an involuntary cry as two more guards bundled up from the landing. He slipped, luckily, as the first guard swung. He kicked, and the guard fell to the ground, clutching his groin. His helmet came off when he landed. Levi scrambled to his feet, just avoiding the second soldier’s sword. The blade sparked on stone with a clang. Before the swordsman recovered, Levi had grabbed the helmet and whacked him.

  He rubbed his hands with satisfaction and winked at Sofia as he reached for the door at the end of the corridor. “And that’s how condottieri do it.”

  His smile faded. The room was full of guards drinking and playing cards. Levi stood there as the laughter stopped. Behind him, Sofia quickly sized up the situation. Levi was doing well for a civilian. But they were both weak and now outnumbered. If even a single guard escaped to raise the alarm, they were done for.

  “Catch,” she said, throwing Levi her bundle.

  Before any of the guards had moved, Sofia was inside, striking with precision, bouncing between preselected targets. She knew where every blow landed, what effect it had. A moment later, all the guards were on the floor and Sofia was filling a satchel with food from the table. She threw Levi a chicken drumstick.

  “And that is how Rasenneisi do it,” she said with a grin. “What’s the matter? Not hungry?”

  Levi lost the dazed look and cleared his throat. “All right, I’ll admit you’ve got some skills, but stay behind me next time! I don’t need you hurt before I break us out.”

  “Sure thing.” She was glowing; it was good to be in a straight fight again. “What are you looking for?”

  “Someone you haven’t concussed. This fine fellow will do!” Levi threw a mug of beer in the moaning soldier’s face. When he started struggling, Levi held a sword to his neck and brought him to the window. A red glow lit up the night.

  “See that? That’s not the sun coming up early; that’s the Molè. This nice young Signorina did that. You don’t want her angry. We need fast rides out of town.”

  “Heralds get the best horses. Their stable’s on the other side of the Ponte Bernoulliana.”

  “How do we open the gate?”

  The solider explained, and Levi thanked him with a whack of the tankard.

  Before they got to the bridge, Levi had several more opportunities to admire Sofia’s skills. Only when they reached it did she hesitate. Like the statue, it was a reflection: a dark mirror of Giovanni’s bridge. She remembered talk of a Rasenneisi Engineers’ Guild with a shudder.

  “Sofia, we can’t wait for sunup,” Levi said urgently. “Come on!”

  They galloped away from the dark white city, swift hooves echoing in the night, not stopping to rest until they’d had an hour’s hard riding. Dawn broke, but the air was still frigid with winter sparseness and snow blew down from the northern mountains. They didn’t notice; they were too glad to have left that unnatural desert surrounding Concord behind.

  “We made it!” said Levi with a savage whoop. “Can you believe it? The only man to ever escape from the Beast! Levi, you are an immortal!”

  Sofia slumped in the saddle, more tired than she had ever been.

  “Going home, Contessa?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Southeast. The Hawk’s Company’s rendezvous was in the Ariminumese contato—they might not have gotten there in one piece after Tagliacozzo, but that’s where I’ll start looking. If there’s truly a traitor in the Company, I’d be partly responsible if I didn’t warn John Acuto.”

  Sofia gave no indication of having heard. The emotional rush of the escape was fading, leaving her with a host of truths she’d sooner not face.

  Giovanni had lied to her. He had hidden his name, his past, and who knows what else. He was capable of betraying his own father to the engineers. What else had he done—what else had he planned? She had accused the Doctor of betraying her, but how much worse was her own betrayal? Whatever Doc’s methods, at least he always fought for Rasenna.

  She had never before questioned if she was worthy to be Contessa. Now the answer was unavoidable.

  “I can’t go back,” she whispered.

  Levi pretended not to notice her tears. She’d been strong for him, so he’d be strong for her.

  “You want to keep fighting? Come with me.”

  “I’ve got nothing worth fighting for.”

  “Don’t they have money where you come from? There’s a home for anyone who can fight in the Hawk’s Company, and Contessa, you can fight!”

  “I don’t want to be a condottiere,” Sofia said, wavering.

  “You get to fight Concord,”

  That settled it.

  “Send your horse south anyway. Two tracks will slow them up if they try tracking us.”

  She did it and then begged a favor: “Never call me Contessa again. It’s Sofia, just Sofia.”

  CHAPTER 53

  Mad-dog winds chased each other through the dusky streets. Lucia had retired to the chapel to meditate, she’d said. Instead she was spying on the three men though the broken stained-glass window. Giovanni was trying to fend off Fabbro’s and Pedro’s arguments; the more insistent they became, the more reluctant he got.

  “I’m just not the right person.”

  “You’re the only person!” Pedro insisted. He was still sore from his beating, and he wanted to press the question, but Fabbro, the more experienced salesman, knew when to give a customer time to consider.

  Lucia’s vision had come suddenly and told her much—too much. But what dreams she had prayed for were dust now; only the Virgin’s will mattered. Seeing Giovanni walking toward the chapel, she returned to a serene pose of meditation: that was what History expected of her.

  “They asked me—”

  “—to be podesta. You must accept,” she said.

  “It can’t be me.”

  “It can only be you, Giovanni.”

  He saw her trembling. “Why are you crying?”

  “Because I have seen my death!” she said, her breath escaping in sobs. The truth was a lie; her vision was not the reason she cried—but she must now be as selfless as the Reverend Mother had been. History made no allowances for foolish girls who fell in love.

  Giovanni was silent for a moment. “I thought I would die when I went into the river. Yet I didn’t. Maybe it’s the same—”

  “Giovanni, listen—” Lucia took a breath and composed herself. “The Virgin’s will is manifest in us all, but in you Time’s river divides.”

  “That’s what the Reverend Mother said, but what does it mean? That I have two destinies?”

  “I cannot tell you in words, but I can show you.”

  “Sister, stop!” Giovanni cried. “I cannot be taken into any more confidences! I am not who you think I am—I told Sofia that I came to build the bridge for Rasenna, but I built it for myself, to salve my conscience, never thinking of the bloody consequences. Sofia died for me, and now they want me as podesta. I don’t deserve this trust. Lucia, I must tell you who I am or be damned for it, if I’m not already.”

  Lucia said, “The Contessa lives.”

  Giovanni slowly sat down in front of her. “I wish it were possible, but I know better than anyone what Concord does to its prisoners. My name is—”

  “Giovanni Bernoulli was your name. You are something else now.”

  “How—? How do you know who I am?”

  “One cannot understand water without faith. Now you must begin to believe. Sofia will return, and she will be changed. And when she does return, you will have to make a choice yourself, to save yourself or save her”—she held up the glass of water—“but to make that choice you have to know—”

  “What?”

  “That you are the contents of this glass. You are trying to make sense of it,” she said. “Don’t. You are water, and unless you believe that, Rasenna is doomed. Imagine a worl
d where you are not heir to the beast but simply the contents of the glass. Imagine.”

  She released the glass, and it shattered against the stone floor. For a moment there were no other sounds but the tinkle of the glass shards coming to rest. Slowly Lucia breathed out and then said briskly, “Good.”

  Giovanni said nothing, only staring at the water floating in a slowly shifting column in front of him.

  “You’re here for a reason, Giovanni. The buio were pure, and we spoiled them, as we will spoil everything, given time. You’re coming to see how we are connected to them. The buio have lived with that knowledge since the beginning. It defines them. In our Salvation is theirs; in theirs, ours.”

  At the door, she looked back. “Contemplate water for a while. I will keep watch for you.”

  Night fell on Rasenna, but the Doctor could not sleep. A scent in the air, auguring something awful and imminent, kept him awake. He took to the roof, hoping fresh air would clear his senses, knowing it would make no difference. There would be blood tonight.

  The moon’s reflection on the river quivered with the same anticipation.

  Movement on the bridge caught his eye—two figures running south, chased by a bandieratoro with a Bombelli banner. The first was a boy with a head start; the second was a tall man, limping and carrying a torch.

  The boy made it to the safety of Piazza Luna and disappeared into the night without a glance back at his lagging partner. The bandieratoro caught up with the limper. There was a moment’s struggle. The limper dropped his torch but knocked down the bandieratoro before hopping away. When the bandieratoro recovered, he picked up the torch and took the time to aim carefully.

  The torch stuck the limper’s back squarely, and in the moments he lay prone the flames caught. He might have screamed, but the sound did not reach Tower Bardini. He crawled to the balustrade and pulled himself onto it, then lay still.

  The bandieratoro approached the smoldering carcass, poked it, then turned back north. The Doctor’s gaze followed. Bombelli’s tower was obscured by smoke.