Path of Smoke

by Bailey Cunningham

  They kept to the rose-tinted shadows as they climbed the stairs. None of the builders were paying attention to them. The tower might have been on fire, and the artifices would have kept working, oblivious to impending doom. They squinted at tablets and old fragments of papyrus, tightening bolts or simply observing their creations, like stern dancing-masters.

  “Builders,” Fel said beneath her breath. “They always smell faintly of piss and last night’s meal. Don’t they ever wash?”

  “You’re not exactly a flower beneath that armor,” Babieca said.

  “At least I haven’t spilled wine on it.”

  “Do you even drink?”

  “When it’s appropriate.”

  “You and Morgan would make a lovely couple. Sober and awkward.”

  Morgan gave him a cold look but said nothing. To his surprise, Fel reddened and looked away. He’d never realized that she could blush.

  “Forgive me,” Babieca murmured. “That was a thoughtless comment.”

  “This is why I prefer guard duty,” Fel replied. “The quiet.”

  “Honestly, though—”

  “I don’t care what you think of me, trovador.” She looked straight ahead, negotiating the pile of parts, some moving, that covered the stairs.

  Babieca didn’t reply. It seemed wise to drop the matter, and Morgan was already glaring a hole in the back of his head.

  At the top of the tower, they found a group of artifices milling around Fortuna. They’d built a miniature version of the clepsydra, whose wheel revolved slowly, singing with each pass. Her expression was impassive. Rather than throwing coins into the pool at her feet, the builders tossed old parts: exhausted gears, stripped bolts, springs that no longer endured tension. A few glass eyes floated in the embrasure, queer without the context of a face. Artifices clustered beneath the high red-glass windows, trading gossip and tools. Julia was not among them. Babieca searched for her red hair, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  “Odd,” he said to Morgan. “I was certain that she’d be paying her respects.”

  “Perhaps her faith is wavering. Or she simply wants to avoid the crowds.”

  “We can try the Brass Gear. She might be working on a commission.”

  “A tavern,” Fel said. “At least you’ll be in your element.”

  Babieca shrugged. “We all have our chaos. Mine happens to be wine.”

  “We could also make a bit of coin,” Morgan said.

  “Not at the Gear. It would be like playing to a room full of statues.” He gestured to the artifices, who were currently ignoring them. “I could start playing right now, and they wouldn’t even look up from their tablets.”

  Wanting to test his theory, Babieca removed the lute from its case.

  “What are you doing?” Morgan hissed.

  “Just watch. I’ll demonstrate.”

  He sat on the edge of the pool, tuning his instrument. He could sense Fortuna’s gaze like moonlight on his hair. Once the strings were warm, he began to play something simple. It was one of his own compositions. He’d written it a few nights ago. Felix had unexpectedly fallen asleep, and rather than waking the house father, he’d strummed by the window instead. It was a pleasure to get lost in the music, to feel the sweet sting in his fingers once again. The notes reminded him of lazy flies, hovering unsteadily before they left through the open window. The reeking summer wind had carried them beyond the Subura, a flake shaved from the sweating ice of his memory. Some blue day from long ago, when things had been less opaque.

  This time, as he played the tune, he could feel a subtle difference. The vaulted ceilings offered an unexpected thunder to the music. The little staff of notes grew more profound, until they seemed to be coming from all directions. The tower hummed with his song. The music was doing what it wanted, what it needed, and he was little more than a conduit. The builders had ceased their conversation. Morgan was trying to signal him, but he couldn’t stop.

  Once, while he’d been practicing, Roldan had placed a twist of dried fruit in his mouth. Unable to focus on anything but the song, Babieca had let the fruit crumble down his chin. He could hear Roldan’s laughter, and he played that as well. The notes were summer, strong wine, baking bread. He knew that if he just kept playing, if he never stopped, then the world would slow down and finally let him catch up. The hot drag of grief and bitter joy, so close that they might have been the same note, would lie down and reconcile, if only he could play them right.

  When he stopped, everyone was looking at him. The builders had put away their tablets and were staring with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. Babieca felt a presence at his feet. He looked down, and his stomach nearly flipped. All of the machinae were gathered around him, a tight circle of rapt spectators. There were mice with tails of coiled wire, spiders that trembled on articulated legs, and small lizards clinging to the edge of the pool. A mechanical sparrow had settled on his foot. There must have been a hundred creatures, a wild menagerie of moving parts, all gathered before him like expectant children. They whistled, preened, and gently scratched the ground, waiting for him to continue. For the first time, Babieca felt as if they were more than clever toys. In their dark, patient eyes, he could see something like a coal-glimmer of life, more than reflex, and it made him profoundly nervous.

  “We have to go,” Morgan whispered. “Now.”

  They hurried back down the stairs. The artifices watched them go but didn’t say anything. Babieca turned and saw that the machinae were still in a circle. They didn’t follow him, but neither did they return to their builders. They seemed to be locked in a silent exchange, a language of turns and bright flashes that he couldn’t decode.

  When they left the tower, Babieca was momentarily blinded by the sun. He felt slightly feverish and tried to steady himself. Before he could move, Fel grabbed him by the arm, dragging him into the cool shadows of a nearby alley.

  She nearly slammed him against the wall. He could feel the moss on his back, the sharp stones digging into his bare skin.

  “What was that?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Have you lost your mind? That was one of the last places where we could move unseen. Nobody knew us. Now, they’re going to remember the idiot trovador who charmed all of their machines, like Fortuna herself was playing through him.”

  “I don’t know,” he repeated, lamely. “I didn’t think that would happen.”

  “You’ve well and truly fucked us.”

  “Fel—” Morgan tried to interpose herself between the two of them. “I don’t think he knew what he was doing.”

  “He never does. That’s exactly the problem.”

  “No. He has a gift.”

  He blinked at this. He’d always thought that, like most people, Morgan saw him as a poor nemo with no talent to speak of. His songs had been a means to an end, a way to generate quick coin. Nobody had ever used the word gift to describe his abilities. He looked at her, a bit strangely, as if she were just now coming into focus.

  “Do you really think so?”

  Morgan sighed. “You’re shit at controlling it, but every once in a while, I can hear something in your music. Something that moves me.”

  They were silent for a few moments. Babieca stared at the walls of the alley. He knew that Anfractus was trying to tell him something, but the words lay just out of reach. His fingers were beginning to smart. As he felt the pain, he knew that the dream was over. Like Felix, the music was done with him. Somewhere in his gut, Babieca felt an animal clawing to get out. He pushed it down, and it screamed. But it wasn’t strong enough to resist. He swallowed. The song had left him bloodless, yet he was still alive. That made everything worse.

  Unexpectedly, Fel placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  Had she seen his expression? Had she felt the hoarse pain, struggling to e
scape? Babieca simply nodded.

  “It’s fine. You were right. I’ve fucked us again.”

  “Well”—her mouth betrayed a smile—“some of us could use it.”

  He laughed in spite of himself. “Dear miles. I never knew.”

  “For now, you’d do best to shut up, and keep that lute in its case.”

  “I solemnly swear.”

  “We can make use of your other talents,” Morgan said, leading him into the sunlight. “The less dangerous ones.”

  “Like what?”

  “Being a shameless strumpet.”

  “I can do that with one hand tied.”

  They walked to the Brass Gear, which had one foot in the entertainment district while the other balanced on more respectable ground. Artifices had once occupied some of the highest positions within the city, a select few advising the basilissa herself. Now they practically shared a spoke with trovadores and meretrices. They were entertainment. Still, the gens cleaved to their academic image. Along with the spadones, they archived and protected knowledge. Babieca remembered wandering through their undercroft with Julia, gazing at the parts and sleeping machinae that no longer functioned. Sulpicia had emerged delicately from the hoard of gears and broken charms, and her presence had startled them both. He wondered what she was doing at the moment. Probably keeping an eye on Eumachia, the daughter of the basilissa. How strange, to be a mechanical fox with the spark of life, wandering through the Arx of Violets on swift feet.

  The common room of the Brass Gear was sparsely populated. At this hour, most of the builders were still paying their respects at the tower. It would be imprudent to remain here for too long, since many of the builders who had witnessed his musical event were probably on their way to the caupona. He squinted. Great brass discs were positioned in the corners of the room, and they reflected the lamplight in a way that dazzled him, for a moment. When the spots cleared from his eyes, he saw that only a few of the tables were occupied. An older woman in a patterned stola was working on a mechanical dove. Beside her, a boy was scowling at a tablet. The scattering of parts before him suggested that the design wasn’t going too well. The ale-wife moved behind the counter, serving drinks from a cracked amphora.

  “I’m going to ask her about Julia,” Babieca said. “Give me some money.”

  “Absolutely not,” Morgan replied.

  “I need something to bargain with.”

  “Just use your body, like any decent person would.”

  “Fine. If she wants a bribe, I’ll show her the cobwebs in my purse.”

  Morgan rolled her eyes. “Just lift up your tunica and be done with it.”

  “What sort of crass world are you living in? Do archers simply grunt and lift their tunicae whenever they meet each other on the battlements?”

  She gave him a light shove. “Just go. Be creative in the face of adversity.”

  He smoothed his hair and approached the L-shaped counter. The ale-wife was pouring hot chickpeas into a clay vat.

  “Let me help you with that,” he offered.

  “You’d only smash your fingers.” She smoothly replaced the vat, which fit into a round opening in the counter. “What’s your pleasure?”

  “I could name several.”

  She gave him a flat look. “What do you want to drink? We’ve got spiced wine, hippocrene, and barley beer so thick you could balance a knife in it.”

  “I’m actually looking for some information.”

  Her expression didn’t change. “I don’t know what cheap scrolls you’ve been reading, but I run a caupona. I’m too busy to fuck about with intrigue. Go to court if you’re looking for that.”

  “I can respect that you’re busy—”

  “Drink something, or go away, nemo.”

  The insult stung him, but only slightly. “Fine. I’ll have—”

  She’d already poured him some wine from the amphora. “One maravedi.”

  Babieca reached into his purse. This investigation was growing more expensive by the moment, and the whole point had been to avoid spending anything. He handed over the coin, and the ale-wife snatched it quickly, as a bird might snatch a seed from your hand.

  “Enjoy,” she said, and started to walk away.

  “Wait. Please.”

  She turned, now looking annoyed. “Fortuna preserve us, boy, is this your first drink? Just drain the cup, and I’ll get you another. It’s not so difficult.”

  He cleared his throat. “As I was saying before, it isn’t intrigue that I’m looking for. It’s a young artifex. A woman, about my age, with red hair.”

  “I see a lot of women. She doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “She’s Naucrate’s daughter.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “That’s a significant name, boy. Don’t throw it around unless you can prove what you claim.”

  “Did you hear about the bee that nearly killed Basilissa Pulcheria?”

  “That’s old news.”

  “Well, the bee was Naucrate’s design. She gave it to her daughter, and then a fat spado took it from her. Is this starting to sound more plausible?”

  “Not really.”

  “We need to talk to her. I’ve seen her in this tavern, building birds.”

  “You’ve just described half of our patrons.”

  He touched her hand, lightly. “Let’s talk about this upstairs.”

  The ale-wife looked at him curiously for a moment. Then she burst into laughter, sliding her hand away. “This was your plan? To seduce me?”

  Babieca struggled to maintain his composure. “I assure you, it was no jest.”

  “And I assure you, fuckwit, that your tiny cock holds no interest for me.”

  “Really? You haven’t even seen what it can do.”

  She shook her head and returned to pouring drinks. “I’ve no interest in whatever games you’ve taught the little brain to play. I chase the velvet, not the fur.”

  “But I’m not a—” He bit down on the word fur as realization dawned. “Oh. You’re in search of a different type of refreshment altogether.”

  For a moment, she looked at Fel, who was standing by the door. Babieca knew that look very well. Then she returned to her task. “No time, anyhow,” she said. “Someone’s puked in the necessary, and after I clean that up—”

  “Leave that to me,” Babieca said smoothly. “If you give me one moment to speak with my friend, it’s possible that we can work something out.”

  Before she could reply, he grabbed his drink and walked back to the entrance. Morgan gave him an expectant look.

  “Well? What did she say?”

  “She knows who Julia is, but she’s not quite willing to tell us. Not yet.”

  “What does she want?”

  “Fel.”

  The miles stared at him. “What?”

  “Do I need to draw you a picture? She wants to peel off your lorica.”

  Fel reddened, staring at the floor. “Out of the question.”

  “Just go and flirt with her for a while.”

  “That was supposed to be your job.”

  Fel’s voice had a strangled quality to it that Babieca hadn’t heard before. He tried very hard not to smile. “I have to clean up a pile of puke. I assure you that your task will be far sweeter. Now go. Make us proud.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Fel muttered.

  “Once we’re a company, we won’t have to resort to these sordid activities.” He could no longer keep himself from smiling. “For now, we’ve got to—how did Morgan put it—be creative in the face of adversity?”

  “I’m sorry,” Morgan whispered.

  “I despise both of you right now,” Fel said. “I hope you understand that.”

  Cleaning out the necessary was no joyful task, and by the time Babieca finished, he was covered in sweat
and unsightly stains. He’d also torn a hole in his tunica, which would do nothing to improve his appearance. When he emerged, Fel was still talking with the ale-wife. She saw him, disentangled herself politely, and walked back to the entrance of the caupona.

  “You stink,” she said.

  “What a triumph of logic. Did you find out where she is?”

  Fel looked embarrassed. “Yes.”

  “Well done! You must have really—”

  “Finish that sentence, trovador, and I’ll carve out your guts.”

  “Understood.”

  “It was very sweet,” Morgan said beneath her breath, as they followed the miles. “She definitely has a soft side.”

  “That threat goes for both of you,” Fel said, without turning around.

  They circled the edge of the Subura, until they came to Aditus Claustrum. The street was packed with squat, three-story insulae. Laundry hung from lines suspended over the alleys. The vici wasn’t precisely disheveled, but it was a far cry from the northern part of the city. This was where people with shaky prospects tended to settle. The ground floor of each insula was rented out by various shopkeepers. Babieca saw mercers, silk merchants, and scent-peddlers. The dyers had to work at the edge of the city, on account of their stink. Urine was used to fix most dyes. A concession was made, though, in the form of bottles placed outside the shops. Occasionally, a passerby would stop, piss into one of the bottles, and then continue on his way. At the end of the day, the shop owners would deliver the bottles to the outskirts of the city and collect a few coins for their malodorous gift to the dyers.

  Fel stopped outside a small workshop fronting one of the insulae. A tablet affixed to the wall proclaimed that the builder could fix anything. A shattered organ leaned against the wall of the workshop, attesting to the fact that the sign wasn’t completely accurate.

  “She must have earned herself an apprenticeship,” Morgan said. Her expression betrayed a flash of remorse. “Maybe we should just leave her alone.”

  “I don’t think so.” Babieca squared his shoulders. “You know that she’s a part of this. No amount of hiding will save her, in the end.”