The statue atop the volcano was no different from a beauty scroll, or whatever spell had been written to change the crown prince into a tyrant. Destroy the Lady, the mountain would erupt.
Instilling a nameless object like a glazier’s bunter with magic was much more difficult. It almost always required the bones of a person or object that had carried that intention in life.
“If she made the hammer, she paid dearly,” the Erinthian corporal said. “And if that’s what killed her—well, a blow from that thing is to be avoided at all costs.”
“Agreed,” Parrish said. “Bad enough when someone was smashing statues with it, but this—”
“It might be better if someone shoots the fellow from a distance,” Gale said.
“Ambush, Kir?” The corporal flushed. “It’s a coward’s way out.”
Gale was looking at the body. “Cowardice, son? Or common sense?”
* * *
Whoever was running security for the festival apparently agreed with Gale, because there were archers on the rooftops of the palazzo by the time the sun set. From the murmurs in the street, the Primo was getting blamed for giving that order, too.
That didn’t mean anyone was giving up on the party. By dusk, music was playing in every corner of the mercato. Groups of musicians played by the light of glass blown lanterns. Red silk balloons on cobweb-thin tethers shimmered in the air, lofted by white-hot flame, arranged to evoke the twist of the Fiumefouco. The people wore undercoats of black, wrapped round with vivid scarves and glittering jewelry: glass and gold-seeded beads. Children crowned with wreaths of flowers handed out cards imprinted with Secondo and Rosalia’s official engagement portrait. Penitents with glass beggar’s jars solicited money for various causes: marble quarry widows and widowers, the orphanage, hospital, and generic poor.
“The army came to the same conclusion you did,” Parrish said, indicating the shadows on the rooftops. “Spot the leader, shoot him from a distance.”
“They’ll be firing into a crowd,” Gale said.
“Pot’s a-simmering,” Sloot said. “I did expect people to show up masked, despite the edict. I’m surprised they ain’t.”
Gale was between the two men—having been scripped inconspicuous, she tended to get trampled in crowds. But as they moved toward a fire-juggling display, it was Parrish who got bumped, by a bare-armed woman in a glazier’s apron, dressed in work clothes and a scowl.
“Pardon me,” Parrish said.
“Scusa,” she replied. As she continued into the throng, her hand drifted to the satchel at her hip, as if checking he hadn’t picked her pocket. Her gaze rose, seeking the bristle of crossbows on the rooftops.
“There’s another,” Gale said. Two more bare-armed glaziers, with satchels, were pacing by the jugglers. “What do you want to bet they’ve got bunters in those bags?”
Royl whistled. “Clever. You get the whole trade association out in the street, waving hammers. Anyone the archers shoot is martyred.”
“And the fellow with the scripped hammer can operate freely,” Gale added. “That’s why they’re not masked.”
Plainly dressed artisans were everywhere, standing apart from the crowd, faces sober, arms crossed. The celebrants gave them a wide berth; the atmosphere was becoming tense.
“We have a little time,” Gale said. “They won’t make a move until the Royal Family makes its appearance.”
“What move?” Sloot demanded. “How do we counter it?”
She turned a slow circle, taking it in. “We’ll let Parrish decide.”
Parrish felt a shock, as physical a jolt as when the statue had shattered.”Gale, no. You can’t expect—”
“You understand the problem, don’t you?”
“Of course. They’ll start waving the bunters, probably at a prearranged signal. The archers will almost certainly start firing. The crowd…” He could see it: the civilians fleeing in every direction, some shot and falling, others trampled. Whoever had the inscribed hammer would have cover to make some gesture.
“They want a mess they can blame on Primo,” Gale said. “It’s a tactical problem, Parrish.”
“It’s your tactical problem,” he said.
“This is important work,” Gale said. “This is what the Fleet Charter is all about.”
“Sailing around sorting out dissenters for dictators?”
“Protecting the islands which signed the compact,” she said. “Keeping the peace. Isn’t that part of the Oath?”
“They released me from my oath,” He looked away, suddenly furious. He’d upheld his honor and that of the Fleet, and he’d been thrown away. So much for acceptance. “I don’t have to do anything.”
“That’s true enough,” she said, pleasant and unhurried, as if she had all the time in the world, as if disaster wasn’t about to strike. “I’m sorry you lost your position, son, but this is the work you trained for … if you choose to see it that way.”
“Look at the people,” Royl said. “What do we do?”
Parrish bit his lip, staring at the crowd. Despite his anger, his eye fell on three glaziers. They were probably told to carry the mallets as a gesture of protest. “They’re decoys,” he said slowly. “They won’t know the whole plan. It’s all whispers and secrecy.”
“Blood theater,” Gale agreed.
He reached into the flow of pedestrians, snagging a wiry man in a glazier’s apron. “It’s time,” he said, trying to seem shifty. “Make for the caldera path. They cannot keep us from the mountaintop tonight.”
The man stared at him blankly.
Oh. A rush of frustration.
Before he could turn to Gale, Tonio appeared at his side, uttering a stream of whispered Erinthian.
The glazier looked suspicious. He grunted at the boy.
“They were told to gather around Primo’s carriage,” Tonio said.
“The plan changed.”
More grunts.
“Who says so, he wants to know?” Tonio translated.
“The…” Parrish floundered—then, inspired, he pointed. “Her. The ugly woman. Secondo’s old love.”
“Il Haggio, il Haggio!” Tonio said.
The man’s disbelief broke. He started away, excitedly, but Parrish didn’t release him.
“Tonio, have him tell all his friends. And quickly.”
Another whisper and with a nod, the man hurried off.
“Who’s your friend?” Gale asked.
The boy broke out an elaborate bow. “Antonio Cappodocia at your service, Kir. May I say, your face—”
Parrish interrupted. “I hope you don’t mind my invoking your … legend.”
Gale smiled. “The rule in this game, Parrish, is do whatever works. Let’s get to it.”
“Come on, Tonio,” Parrish said. “We’ve got misinformation to spread.”
They went in different directions, approaching glaziers, diverting them toward the caldera path, away from the celebration. They’d be out of the archers’ sights there, behind the palazzo, away from the crowd.
The fewer of them there were, the easier it would be to spot the person who had the magical bunter.
For twenty minutes they moved through the crowd, whispering to glaziers, sending them to gather up their friends and colleagues, leaching trouble from the mercato, lying to draw them from the main thrust of the parade.
“Here come the carriages, Kir,” Tonio said. “What now?”
“Let’s see who’s left.” The mercato was filled with people, jostling in time to the music. Parrish lifted Tonio to a wall, above their heads, out of danger. “Point me in the right direction.”
“Si.”
Trumpets sounded a long call, and the crowd cheered. Elaborately decorated carriages were rolling down from the palazzo now, accompanied by rows of mounted soldiers.
Tonio scanned the bobbing, dancing heads.
“See anyone?”
“We fooled a lot of the glaziers, Kir. They’re gone.”
“
Gale—find Gale.” Parrish said. “She’ll be where the trouble is.”
“There! Moving toward Secondo.”
“Stay where you are, Tonio.” Parrish angled through the mob.
Primo’s the villain in this particular pantomime; all this is aimed at disinheriting him. He edged around the thin crowd surrounding the first royal carriage, Primo’s, noting the tepid shouts of goodwill. The Prince didn’t have the good grace to look unruffled by it all.
Secondo and Rosalia were in a great black swan of a carriage, drawn by black horses. The cheers for Secondo were a good deal more wholehearted.
Man of the hour, Parrish thought. That had been him at one time, first in his cadet class, all the grand predictions about his future. Despite being raised by monks who didn’t believe in pride, he’d let it go to his head, hadn’t he?
But Gale was right—this was real work, outmaneuvering chaos.
Tonio was pointing. His lips moved, but Parrish couldn’t hear him. Where?
There. A big fellow, face bare, body cloaked from shoulder to toe, was bulling his way toward Secondo’s carriage. He held the cloak shut … to hide the bunter?
Lost your camouflage, Parrish thought with satisfaction. A few glaziers remained within the crowd; they were near the Primo, shouting, “No fees!” Creating a distraction, possibly drawing fire if those archers panicked.
“Cognomo Primo!” The cloaked man made a rush for the carriage.
Parrish was too far away.
The cloaked man reached one of the soldiers encircling the carriage. He pushed him aside …
… and tripped.
He sprawled, hands flying from his cape, and there it was, the deadly hammer, spiked with bones, its handle wrapped in dirt-stained cotton bandages. It slid across the cobbles, breaking them to dust as it scraped past, toward Parrish.
And of course that had been Gale, up to her usual tricks, just sticking out her foot to trip the man.
Any second now, she’ll sit on him.
But the glazier wasn’t alone; another cloaked man was grabbing for the hammer.
Parrish moved, ducking under a soldier’s extended arm, snatching a cane from a young-old man, swinging it like a bat. The cane made contact with the hammer, then shattered in his hand. Needles of stonewood and glass tore into his forearm. Pain washed through him.
A curse, near his ear. The cloaked man, face wet with Parrish’s blood, clambered after the hammer.
He was close enough to kick it, but didn’t dare. Groaning, he groped with his left hand and then flung the first thing it found—his old flask, as it turned out—at the bunter.
The flask swelled and popped, like a balloon, spraying water everywhere. The hammer bounced away, under the heavy carriage wheel.
For a breath, Secondo’s carriage seemed suspended, wobbling like a vase at the edge of a table, equally likely to fall or steady itself. Would the whole carriage go? What of the passengers?
Then the weight of the wheel bore down, and the porous volcanic stone of the hammer broke with a crunch.
Parrish’s ears popped. A flash of white blinded him, and he smelled burnt metal, lava.
A series of sconces up the mercato broke into pieces.
Reversion, Parrish thought. Sometimes breaking a magical inscription entirely undid all of its workings. The sconces that had been shattered in that first riot must have reassembled themselves in their old positions. Since they’d been replaced, and since two sconces couldn’t occupy the same space, they were breaking again, flinging shards up and down the road.
People were crying out in fear, some probably imagining that the thunder of the spell reverting was the sound of their marble Lady, or even the volcano going up.
The statue of the dancing boy reassembled itself on its plinth.
A peculiar, intense sense of pleasure rolled through Parrish’s arm as the broken walking stick reconstructed itself on the cobbles at his feet, its splinters withdrawing from his flesh. The scrapes left by the statue breaking the day before were gone, too, the flesh of his palm whole. His blood-stained tunic was clean again.
Clock ran back, he thought, feeling a bit dizzy. Somewhere in an Erinthian church or morgue, the ruined body of the murdered spellscribe would be restoring itself too, drawing breath.
“’Urrah! Rah! Salute Secondo! Salute Haggia!” That was Sloot, roaring in approval. It worked: applause and cheers rippled out across the square, calming the panic.
Gale, meanwhile, was wrestling with the wall of muscle that was the lead agitator.
With a feeling almost like happiness, Parrish ran over to pile onto the fray.
Next morning, Gale took him to meet the Contessa.
The stone wall that hid Strumpet Walk from prying eyes ran alongside an old irrigation ditch. The air was pleasantly humid, greenhouse-warm. The wall was lined with little birdhouses and potted ferns, the ditch populated by ruby frogs that looked like hearts with vivid green eyes.
Erinth’s Contessa looked like an ordinary, if wealthy, woman of perhaps sixty years. She was sitting with one of Primo’s children, reading him a book, when Gale and Parrish arrived.
“Presenting Garland Parrish,” Gale said. “My first mate.”
He bowed.
The Contessa examined him. “This is your new Royl?”
“Parrish is his own man,” she said. “He was instrumental in preventing the trouble last night.”
“If you want an apartment for him, too, he’ll have to sleep with Tetra.”
“Ah…” Parrish said.
“She’s joking,” Gale told him.
“Dear Lady, he’s blushing. Was I ever so young?” The Contessa kissed the top of her grandson’s head and sent him off. “So, you’ve come for your sailor?”
“For the truth,” Gale said. “All this was meant to have happened because someone’s scripped Primo. Changed him from his old sweet self into an ill-tempered tyrant.”
“Yes?”
“Secco told me about a portrait of him, as a child—it was slashed the day he changed.”
After a long pause, the Contessa nodded. “He was a troubled child. Volcano-tempered, we say. He seemed unfit to succeed me.”
“You scribed him to be mild-mannered, all those years ago,” Gale said. “The painting was the inscription. You hid it under the portrait, and someone cut it to shreds.”
“Rosalia, almost certainly. I should have known you’d guess.”
“Now he’s his true self, what will you do?”
The Contessa spread her hands, as if to say she was helpless in the matter. “He’s still the heir.”
“Will you have him scribed again?”
“I’m not sure I have the stomach for it. To change a person’s nature; it was a terrible spell. To lay that heavy an intention on my son twice…”
“It might break him,” Gale agreed. There was a limit on how much magic a person could endure.
“Besides, I think your boy sailor would think ill of me.”
Parrish said: “It’s not my place to judge.”
“Would that stop you?” The Contessa laughed. “But Gale, I must ask another favor. That scribe who was dead—people won’t want her around now she’s reverted.”
“I’ll take her away.”
“Erinth will pay to start her a life somewhere,” she said. “Will you return soon, amicha?”
“I’ll have to skip the wedding, won’t I?” Gale said. “Since Secco and I—”
“Ah, yes—damn tradition, and all its shackles. Perhaps at Winterfest?”
“That should give people time to forget I was ever here.”
Tonio turned up before they could disembark. “I found your flask, Kir.” It was in sorry shape: it had been restored after the bunter broke, but something had mashed it flat. “I’m afraid a carriage rolled over it. Perhaps it can be repaired.”
Parrish turned it over in his hands. “You knew a flask vendor, didn’t you? What was he, a cousin?”
“The importer�
��s daughter is engaged to my uncle’s youngest son,” Tonio said. “He uses a secret formula to seal the cupgrass and has them blessed by the friars who watch over our mountain. It’s fine work. But your keepsake—”
Parrish took a last look at the old flask, the Fleet insignia, his scratched initials and dates of his promotions on the bottom. Then he handed it back. “Have the new one sent to Nightjar.”
“Blessing and all?”
“Why not?”
Tonio beamed. “She eased your heart, didn’t she—the Lady?”
“The lady did,” he said, and if Tonio took that as an expression of faith in that big statue up the mountain, watching over the volcano, holding back the inevitable for as long as she could, maybe that was just fine.
Copyright (C) 2014 by A.M. Dellamonica
Art copyright (C) 2014 by Richard Anderson
The Ugly Woman of Castello di Putti Page 3