by Toby Frost
“You think this Portharion would be willing to help us?”
Elayne opened her slim, soft hands. “I don’t know. But I know he’s respected. If nothing else, the Watch would have to listen to him. There’s not much solidarity between wizards, to be honest, but – well, it’s worth a try, isn’t it?”
“Right now,” Giulia replied, “I think pretty much anything is.”
As Giulia left the Old Arms, she pulled her cloak tight against the morning air. She paced down the road, heading south. She passed the little bridge from which they’d hauled Father Coraldo in to land, then followed the thin canal deeper into Averrio. Houses rose up on either side like cliffs flanking a river: it seemed to Giulia that she was walking into a tunnel, or the main gate of a castle.
The shutters were open in the tenements on either side. A man burst into song above her. Third floor, second window, she thought. The song followed her down the canal.
There was a little staging-post further up. The path dipped almost to the level of the water, and a thin boat had moored up there. The boatman sat in the stern, eating a chunk of bread.
He saw Giulia, put his food down and waved. The boat hardly rocked. “Good morning, milady! Need a ride to somewhere?”
“Yes, please.”
“Anything to get away from that God-damned singing, eh? He makes that racket as regular as tides. Where to?”
“Do you know somewhere called the Cornello Scola?”
“Scola san Cornelio? Big place off the Great Canal. Where the painters go. I’ll take you there for six saviours.”
“Four.”
“Done. Climb in; careful, now.”
I should have held out for three, she thought, and she settled into the cushion-covered chair at the bows.
The boatman pushed them away from the canalside. Unusually for Averrio, he used a pair of oars instead of a punt. There was something strange about his rowing style: she realised that he was strapped to the back of his seat by a wide belt.
“How come you use oars?” she asked.
“I’ve got bad legs.” He pulled back the blanket that covered his legs, and she saw that they were thin, as if starved, held in place by leather straps. A pair of crutches was stashed beside them. She also saw a wheellock pistol by his hip. She reckoned that he wanted her to see it, too.
“What happened to them?”
He hauled on the oars and shrugged. “I don’t know. I was born like that.”
“That’s bad luck.”
“It’s not easy, that’s for sure, but I’ve seen worse things happen to others. I may be slow on land, but on water, I’m like a swan. I’m no alms-case, not me. I always tell people that I’ve got no problem with my alms – it’s my legs that bother me!”
He laughed at the pun, and she made herself chuckle along with him.
They slipped through the canyon of houses and weaved left into a wider canal. The oars dipped into the water as regular as a machine. Giulia watched the buildings go past. The water-marks on the old stone made her feel both tranquil and sad, although she didn’t know why. Voices called and laughed in a distant, echoing square. Everywhere smelt wet and slightly stale.
Another boat slid past, and the boatmen greeted each other as they passed. “What cheer, Mattia?” “All’s good; what cheer with you?” Giulia glimpsed the passenger in the other boat – a curly-haired, moustached man – and they were gone. “Saints watch your back, pauper!”
The boatmen talked like street-gangers back in Pagalia. She remembered how she’d been rowed into Pagalia, ready to take her revenge on the men who had scarred her and left her to drown. She’d been the hunter then. Now she looked at the damp sprawl of Averrio and wondered who, and where, her enemy was.
The canal widened and twisted. More boats appeared; cranes loomed over the water like huge wooden storks. “You’ll like this,” Mattia the boatman said, nodding at the bows. He gestured grandly. “This, madam, is the Great Canal.”
It was as wide as a pasture, a bottle-green expanse of rippling, slapping water. Vast bridges spanned the canal, big enough to support entire streets.
Boats swarmed the canal. She saw thin passenger craft, like her own; wide barges piled with sacks, chests and heaps of food; floating houses covered in a rash of balconies and jury-rigged improvements; Customs skiffs with cannonets and grappling ballistas; even an ocean-going merchantman being guided towards the Arsenal by clockwork paddle-boats like a fat trader protected by his sons.
Along the far bank, a row of great houses stopped at the waterfront itself. To the left, a stone dome loomed over the skyline. Beside it stood a bundle of towers, each topped with a hemisphere like that of the main building. It made her think of pictures she’d seen of the Holy Land, of temples and minarets.
She pointed. “What’s that?”
“Palace of the Hundred,” the boatman replied. “Where the Council meets. The Decimus lives in there too.”
“It looks like something from Jallar.”
“That’s not surprising. They get the stones from Dalagar, out east. We own it.”
Dalagar. Another place I’m not going to. Morning light twinkled on the domes. Giulia sighed. How many people must live here? How many of them could have killed the priest?
A ship picked its sluggish way towards them, a high-sized floating castle, incense billowing from the bows. Its figurehead was Saint Allamar the Fisher, trident raised, and the sail was painted with an archangel. Boats swerved to let it through; sailors stood up and made the Sign of the Sword as it passed. The air twinkled: people were throwing pennies onto its deck.
It’s a church!
“Can we pull up here?” Giulia asked.
“’Course,” the boatman replied, and they drew up beside the floating chapel. The boatman called out, and a monk threw a rope down. “Stay here,” Giulia said. A sailor helped the monk pull her on board, and she climbed onto the painted deck.
“Good day, sister,” said the monk.
Giulia dipped her head to him. “Holy brother. Can I pray for help here?”
“Certainly. There’s a chapel in the forecastle, just there.”
He opened the door for her and she ducked inside. It was low-ceilinged and dim. The walls were riddled with niches for statues and collection-plates. Giulia felt uncomfortably close to God, as if trapped in here with him. The planks moved gently under her feet.
A small altar stood at the far end, and above it was a painting of the heavenly court. Candles the length of femurs burned on either side.
She found Saint Senobina at the edge of the picture, depicted with a smile on her lips, as though the celestial host struck her as slightly absurd. Giulia knelt and touched the saint with her fingertips.
Blessed Senobina, patron of thieves. I’m sorry I’ve not come earlier, but, well, I’ve been busy. I need your help again. I need you to guide me to the truth. Show me who killed Father Coraldo. And keep me hidden from my enemies. Bless me and watch over me. Amen.
She took a few coins from her purse and laid them on a collection plate. It’s not much, but I stole them, like the tradition says.
Giulia left the chapel, bowing to the monk as she left. Her boat lay waiting for her. She felt ready now.
The Scola san Cornelio was four storeys of off-white stone, surrounded by a high wall that ended right at the waterside. The building’s facade was covered in scrollwork, ornaments and little reliefs, as though challenging Giulia to climb it. There were poles outside for tying up boats, and a jetty about three feet long.
Giulia got out, told the boatman to wait, and knocked on the door in the wall. A man opened a slit in the door. Suspicious eyes watched as she explained why she had come.
“Lord Portharion?” The eyes in the door narrowed. “He’s not here. He’s gone away.”
“I’ve got a message to give him.”
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“Put it through the hole and he’ll get it when he comes back.”
“It’s not written down.”
“Wait there.” The slit clacked shut. Giulia looked at the canal and thought, What else can I do? Swim away? Just looking at the water made her feel cold.
The door opened. “Come on,” said the man, and Giulia walked in.
She followed him through a garden, towards the house. The grounds were curiously unkempt, as if forgotten. They passed a small glade of stubby trees, which would have been pretty had someone trimmed it back. Perhaps the artists of the Scola thought it looked dramatic. She’d seen almost no other trees in Averrio.
They reached the back door, and the servant ushered her into a hall. Giulia listened to him trudging away. The walls were white, and the pale statues that stood against them looked as if they had grown out of their alcoves. She waited.
A man entered the room at the far end. He was slight and tanned, his eyes shining and hair fluffed up, as though by the wind. He wore a smart jacket and a shoulder-length cape, and his bootheels clicked as he approached.
“Battista Iacono, madam.” He stopped and bowed with a quick, birdlike dipping of the head. “I live here.”
“Giulia Degarno. Pleased to meet you, sir.”
“Likewise.” Iacono smiled and rubbed his hands together to warm them. It made him look conspiratorial. “I understand you wanted to pass a message to Magister Portharion, am I right?” Without pause he added, “I’m afraid he’s not here right now. He’s in Montalius for a wedding: we don’t expect to see him until next month.”
“I know; your servant said. I need to get a message to him. It’s from Elayne Brown. It’s very urgent.”
Iacono looked blank.
“She’s a wizard. She’s a student of Doctor Dorne, from Anglia. He’s also a wizard.”
“I know of Doctor Dorne. He advises Queen Gloria. Technically, he’s a mathematician, but I’ve heard of his interest in matters spiritual.” Iacono sounded mildly annoyed. “Look, I can take a message and pass it on if you’d like. I’m sure Portharion would be interested in anyone skilled in the Art; goodness knows they’re rare enough…” Iacono grimaced. He seemed to be undergoing some sort of internal struggle. “You’d better come through. Could you follow me, please?”
“Thank you,” Giulia said, and he squinted at her as if he could spot sarcasm in her eyes. She realised that he hadn’t looked at her scars yet. Perhaps he was too polite to stare, or perhaps she wasn’t important enough to merit the attention.
Iacono turned and Giulia followed him across the hall. “So,” she said, “is this your house, then?”
“Oh, no. I have a bursary to work here. It’s one of the privileges of being the secretary of the Scola. Portharion is one of our patrons, you see.”
“Does he live here too?”
“No. He has his own island.”
“Oh.”
The corridor opened into a well-furnished, warmer room. A maid knelt before the fire, feeding it coal.
The pictures on the walls depicted a range of scholars. They brandished sextants, scrolls, books, holy signs and more; behind them, there were boats, armies, great buildings.
“Those are people who’ve addressed the Scola,” Iacono said. “We have a portrait painted when they lecture: it’s something of a tradition, you see. Do sit down.”
She took a seat. The chairs were very soft. “Who’s that?” Giulia asked, pointing. A tall, messy-haired woman smiled out of a picture, gesturing awkwardly at an easel.
“That’s Amelia Brunelli,” Iacono replied. “A painter. She’s known for her portraits and religious scenes.”
Giulia turned to look at him. “Do you paint?”
“I’m a cartographer. I make maps. As a matter of fact, I was the first person to map out the entire city. Look, can we—”
“That’s very interesting. I’m a thief-taker by trade. I use a lot of maps.”
“Is that so?”
Ah, that’s got your attention. “I doubt I’d have used yours, though. They’d be too expensive for someone like me. I would see them more as things of pure art.”
“Well,” Iacono said, “they are known to be of quality, you see. Who knows, maybe one day you’ll be able to afford one. I always think that a map can look just as pleasing as a painting, provided it’s framed properly.”
“Definitely. Sir, I really need to send a message to Lord Portharion. I have to tell him that Elayne Brown is in great danger and needs his help.”
“What sort of danger?”
Giulia paused a moment. Why not? Now’s hardly the time to hold back. “She’s accused of murder. At the end of the week, the Watch will take her to the court-house, and she’ll hang that afternoon.”
“And she hired you to send this message?”
“No. I’m accused as well.”
“I see.” He leaned forward, as if only just starting to listen.
“Elayne, her husband, my friend Hugh and I were all accused. It’s because they’re from outside the city. The Watch think they’re an easy mark.”
“Go on.”
“A priest was killed outside the inn where we’re staying. Someone stabbed him and set a dog on him – or at least that’s what the Watch said. I think it’s bullsh— I think it isn’t true. They’ve pinned it on us because we’re an easy catch.”
“I’m shocked.” He wasn’t.
“Look,” she said, “will you tell Portharion that? We don’t have much time. We have to act soon.”
Iacono said, “I can’t promise anything.”
“Could you try? It’s very important.”
His eyes hardened, and for a moment he seemed never to have spoken to her before, as though she was something he’d only just been forced to see. He glanced away and sighed. “I’ll try my best. You have my word on that.”
Giulia swallowed. His complacency annoyed her; she had been close to raising her voice. It wouldn’t help to get angry. “We’re staying up at the Old Arms, in the north quarter. If you need anyone to vouch for me, once this is all sorted out they can talk to Marcellus van Auer or Grodrin of the Forge back in Pagalia. Either of them can testify to my good name.”
“Van Auer, eh?” Iacono nodded. “I’ve heard of him. Is he a printer?”
“That’s his father,” she said. “Marcellus is a natural philosopher. He works for Princess Leonora.” She made herself smile. “Perhaps one day he’ll have his portrait on your wall.”
“Perhaps so. Well,” the cartographer added, leaning forward, “rest assured that I’ll try to get Magister Portharion—”
“Please. It’s very urgent.” Giulia stood up, and Iacono did the same. “Thank you for seeing me.” Even though you’re going to do shit-all about it.
“A pleasure.” Iacono gestured gracefully towards the exit. Giulia took the hint.
The door closed behind her, and the old servant led her back to the canal. She stood on the tiny jetty and scowled at the far side of the Great Canal.
So much for the wizard. Now we really are alone.
Boats of varying sizes crawled past: on the back of one, a fat woman reclined under an awning, propped up on one elbow like a Quaestor’s wife. A man, perhaps her husband, was showing her a bottle of wine. Giulia tried not to pull a face.
The boatman looked up at her. “Where to now, milady?”
She reached to her purse. “Take me to Ricardo Varro, the boatbuilder. And go quickly.”
***
Iacono stood by the door for a few seconds, enjoying the quiet of the hall. He was glad to have got rid of Giulia Degarno. She had been too quick, too clever – especially for a woman, and especially one from the lower orders.
He saw a slim figure in the doorway to the right. The newcomer’s huge, almond-shaped eyes were calm, but Iacono s
till felt as if he were being judged. “Sethis.”
The dryad stepped forward and stood before the fire. “That was interesting,” he said. He turned around, warming the backs of his legs. Sethis raised a hand and rubbed his smooth, pointed chin with fingers longer than a man’s. “What an unusual woman.”
“You should have seen her face,” Iacono replied. “She had two huge scars on her cheek.”
“She sounded honest, though.” The dryad crossed his arms. He was a little taller than Iacono.
“I thought she sounded like a lunatic. Were you listening in?”
“Not deliberately. I just happened to overhear a little.”
“Hmm. You’ve been to Anglia,” the mapmaker said. “Do you know this Elayne Brown she was talking about?”
“No, but I know of James Dorne. He’s a very powerful wizard, if a bit – well, odd. But Grodrin of Pagalia is a good person. If he can vouch for her, this Giulia Degarno can’t be all bad.”
“That’s as may be, but I didn’t trust her.” Iacono scowled. “I mean, is this the sort of person we want to be dealing with at all?”
“I can’t see why not,” Sethis replied. “The fact she merely looks unusual shouldn’t preclude us from talking to her. After all, I hardly look like the most normal of folk, do I?” He waited a moment before he smiled.
“You think there’s some truth in what she said? All of that about Portharion’s friends being in danger?”
The dryad shook his head. “Probably not. But what I think isn’t really the question, is it? The question is whether, on the off-chance that it isn’t nonsense, we should tell Portharion. And, I suppose, what we’d do if it turned out that she was right.”
“So where is Portharion right now?”
Sethis shrugged. “Probably on his island, I suppose.”
“Can you find out? You know people…”
“I can ask. It’s been a while, though. Some of them don’t trust me very much these days.” Sethis nodded several times. He seemed to have come to a decision. “I’ll see what I can do. It’s rather more my side of things than yours. After all, where Portharion lives, maps don’t work.”