Turning the Storm

by Naomi Kritzer

  Michel sighed. “I met with the guy who runs stuff, Placido.”

  “And?”

  “Placido wants to know why Eliana didn't come up to meet with them, or Giovanni. I told him that we've got a spy at court—not who, of course—and he wants to meet you.”

  “Out of the question,” I said.

  “That's what I said. He didn't like that answer. They're putting me up and giving me cover, but they're not letting me into their counsels. I'm not noble enough for them.” Michel glared at his wine cup.

  “Tell them I'm not up to their standards, either.”

  “I don't think it matters. I think they just want to prove that we're at their beck and call, and not the other way around.”

  “Well,” I said. “We're not. Michel, stand straight and look them in the eye! You're better than they are. You've led soldiers in battle, you've faced the Circle, while they've slunk around Cuore holding meetings and appointing generali.” I punched his arm gently. “But don't worry about it too much. All we really needed from them was a way for you to stay safely in Cuore, so that you could carry messages if needed. They're giving us that, right?”

  Michel nodded.

  “So, if Placido takes his head out of his asshole, great. If not, he's the one who has to live with the smell.”

  Michel laughed, and poured me more wine. “You're right.”

  Neither of us had anything else to report, so I bid Michel good-bye and got up to leave. As I slipped through the door, I came face-to-face with a tall young man with beady eyes and a round, piglike face. Pig-boy gave me a poisonous glare, then shouldered me out of the way to enter the inn. He was greeted by several people who raised their wine cups enthusiastically and shouted, “Placido!” I turned around briefly to take a better look, but he'd already turned his back on me, moving into the tavern with a bright smile and a handclasp for all. If pig-boy was the leader of the university reformers, I decided, I was glad that Giovanni was the worst I ever had to deal with.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Take heart: I am with you in the night as in the day, in your weakness as in your strength. Wherever you are, look for my face, and it will shine on you from the smile of a stranger. Reach for my hand, and I will touch you with the lost feather of a bird. I am ever with you.

  —The Journey of Gèsu, chapter 31, verse 2.

  Apage wearing the Emperor's sigil delivered a small scroll to my room the next morning. I took it to breakfast to show Valentino and Quirino. “Is this for real?” I asked them.

  “Oh, the banquet?” Valentino peered at the scroll briefly. “Yeah, everyone gets invited to one of those when they first arrive. Don't get too impressed. It's nothing all that special.”

  “But with the Emperor—”

  “Hey, what do you suppose he does all day? He goes to banquets.” Valentino winked, then shrugged. “He might be there, he might not. At my banquet, he showed up long enough for us to raise our wineglasses and toast his health, and then he left.”

  “So how many people will be there? Are they all musicians?”

  “Hundreds,” Quirino said, “and no, they won't all be musicians. These banquets get held every week or two, and all the new arrivals with some status are invited— musicians, counselors, petty aristocrats, scholars, priests, Circle apprentices. It's quite a mix. You could end up sitting next to some noble from the northern border, or a fresh-from-university physician, or anything.”

  “I sat next to a young lady from Marino,” Valentino said. “Lovely girl.”

  Quirino snorted. “Didn't she slap you?”

  “No, of course not,” Valentino said. “Or—wait, no, maybe she did. I forget. It was either her or that flute player I tried to get to know my first week.”

  “In any case,” Quirino said, “you're expected to go, but fortunately there's a decent chance it will be entertaining. When is it?”

  I checked my scroll. “Tomorrow afternoon. Do I—” I hesitated; would a boy ask his friends what to wear? I decided I'd better risk it, and hunted for a boylike phrasing. “Do I have to dress up for it?”

  Quirino looked me over. “What you have on should be fine. You're supposed to look like a musician. Don't bring your violin, though, or someone might make you play and you'll never get to eat your dinner.”

  The morning rehearsal went well; after the noon meal, I walked back to Valentino's room so that he could put away his violin and get his cloak. It was draped over a chair, on top of several sets of hose and what looked like a Midwinter mask; he picked up the cloak, then froze.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “It's not mine,” Valentino said. “I swear by the Lady! It's not mine! I don't know how it got here!”

  I strode over to the chair and looked. Under the cloak, someone had tucked a simple wooden cross on a green ribbon. Valentino threw his cloak down over it and backed away.

  Quirino appeared in the doorway, his own cloak draped over one arm. “What's wrong?” I gestured toward the chair; Quirino closed the door behind him and came over to look. He grabbed up the cross in one hand and turned in fury on Valentino. “This is Clara's doing,” he said. “I told you Sura was trouble!”

  “It's not Sura's fault,” Valentino said. “She wouldn't do anything to hurt me.”

  “Maybe Sura wouldn't, but Clara would,” Quirino said. “Now will you believe me? Now will you stay away from her? This is just a warning, you idiot; she left this where you would find it. Do you have any idea what the Fedeli would—”

  “Yes,” Valentino said.

  “Then stay away from her.” Quirino pocketed the cross. “I'll take care of this. Why don't you stay in and practice this afternoon? It'll do your playing some good.”

  Valentino flung himself onto his bed, still upset. Quirino left him to his misery, and I decided to follow Quirino. Back in Quirino's room, he built up his fire, barred the door, and slipped the cross into the flames.

  “You promised me an explanation,” I said.

  “Right.” Quirino poked at the fire a bit; the cross was already almost unrecognizable. “The big dispute at court these days is what the army should do about the trouble in Verdia.”

  “You mean what tactics they should use?”

  “Not exactly.” Quirino went over to peer out the window, then came back and sat down. “The Circle prevented the army from crushing the rebellion this summer. The general suspicion is that the Circle is afraid that the army has gotten ideas about being able to defeat an enemy without the Circle's help. The Circle told everyone that they'd crush the Lupi in their own good time—of course, no matter what the Fedeli said, everyone knew that meant, ‘once those dogs leave the wasteland, where they're safe from us.’ And sure enough, the Lupi came out of the wasteland and the Circle destroyed half of them. But not all, and not their leaders, and now they're back in the safety of the wasteland. The Circle seems to think this was good enough, that after that blow, they'll go limping back home. But the Fedeli don't want to take any chances. They want the army sent in right now. And if the army isn't strong enough to do it, they want a new army raised. The army answers to the Emperor, and nobody knows for certain what he wants. For now, though, he hasn't sent the army down.”

  I nodded, thinking about Giovanni's plans to move what was left of the Lupi to one of the ruined villages. I hoped that he was able to keep their movements secret.

  “So. There are two factions of the nobility—the ones who want to send in the army immediately, or the ‘golds.’ And the ones who want to wait, or the ‘greens.’ Ulisse is a member of the green nobles; Clara is a ringleader of the golds. Since Valentino is good friends with Ulisse, he's assumed to be a member of the green faction.”

  “Oh,” I said. “What does Sura have to do with it?”

  “Not much, except that her father is also a gold, and Clara has plans for her. There are a lot of alliances sealed at court through the Lady's coerced blessing. You tell the young lady in question who to sleep with, and if you're lucky the
Lady also thinks it's a good idea. The Fedeli don't exactly approve, but they wink at it. It's part of life at court. Clara does not want Valentino going and spoiling that.”

  “What about you?” I asked.

  “I'm just a musician,” Quirino said, “and unlike Valentino, I manage to look neutral.”

  “Is this something I'll need to worry about at the banquet tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Depends,” Quirino said. “If your table companions are wearing blue, you don't have to worry. Much.”

  The following afternoon, I dressed in one of my new tunics, arranging the high collar to hide my girl's throat. Tucking the scroll under my arm, I walked through the gardens to the Imperial Palace and showed the scroll to the gatekeeper. He glanced at it without much interest, then summoned a page to lead me to the banquet hall. Another page met us at the door of the hall and showed me to a seat at the table. I felt rather like a sheep being herded to shearing; it was clear that this was a daily routine for the palace staff.

  Waiting for the other guests to arrive, I took a look around the room. The banquet hall was huge and brilliantly lit. I realized that servants lined the walls, holding witchlight in hands cupped at their waists, so that the guests didn't have to go to the trouble of making their own light. Only the ceilings fell into shadow; the room was windowless.

  The man to my left was clearly an aristocrat, and was also clearly more interested in the young lady to his left. I listened in on their conversation for a few moments, but they quickly became so overwhelmingly boring I started passing time by checking out the fashion choices of the people on the other side of the banquet hall. A lot of the newcomers had already picked sides, although I saw one puzzled figure wearing a green tunic and gold hose.

  I heard a rustle of silk and smelled cinnamon and rose petals, and glanced over my shoulder to see the page seating another guest to my right. It was a young woman with dark hair and piercing eyes, gleaming white teeth like a cat, and black robes with a silver sigil on her left shoulder. She sat as the page held her chair for her, adjusted her robes, and turned slowly to smile at me. A chill ran down my spine. “My name is Daniele,” I said. “I play with one of the string quartets.”

  “What a pleasure to meet you,” she said in a voice like cream and velvet. “My name is Rosalba; I am a priestess with the Fedeli.”

  “You are also new here?” I asked, reaching for my wine and almost knocking it over.

  “Yes. I have been out of seminary for three years, but I have been working in Varena. Is this your first placement as a musician?”

  “Yes. I've been attending the conservatory in Pluma.”

  “How lovely,” she said and smiled again. I kept expecting to see pointed teeth. “I used to play the flute, before I heard the Lady's calling.”

  “Where are you from originally?”

  “A village near Varena,” she said. I glanced at her hands; they were smooth, but with the echo of calluses, a harder skin on her palms.

  I smiled at her. “Like me, then, you're—” I gestured. “A farm sparrow that's stumbled into the aristocrat's aviary.”

  “Indeed,” she said with a laugh, and at my urging spent most of the meal describing her farm and her family. Family was possibly the one safe topic; the last time I'd seen my family, I was not a reformer and I was not Redentore, and while I was not a boy, either, most of the details could stay the same.

  Rosalba's life was strikingly like mine in some ways, although she did have one sister, much older than she was. “I think my family hoped one of us would have a calling,” she said. “More for the money than anything else, alas.” She smiled into her wineglass. “But, the Lady forgives the baser motives for the correct desires.”

  I nodded knowingly, and looked down at my own wine. “My parents had to settle for a musician, but I know what you mean. They won't be displeased with the money I'll be sending home.” A lump rose in my throat and I choked it back with a swallow of wine.

  We concluded the meal by toasting the farmers. “The Lord and Lady bless your family,” Rosalba said.

  “And yours, Mother Rosalba.”

  The aristocrat to my left had still not said one word to me. Rosalba clasped my hand and we went our separate ways.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Valentino and Quirino were loitering by my door when I returned, and they followed me into my room as I hung up my cloak and pulled off my boots. “How was it?” Quirino asked, and Valentino added, “Did you sit next to anyone pretty?”

  “It was an interesting evening, and yes, I suppose the young lady next to me had a nice face.” I gave Valentino a dubious look. “I think even you would have had the sense not to flirt with her, though.”

  “Why?”

  “The young lady next to me was a Fedele priestess.”

  Valentino blanched at the thought, and Quirino smothered a laugh. “Don't count on it,” Quirino said. “He probably would've noticed the face and not the sigil.”

  “So what did you talk about?” Valentino asked.

  “Our families,” I said. “She's also originally from a farm.” Now that the ordeal of making conversation with a Fedele priestess was over, I felt relaxed and almost giddy. I sat down on the edge of my bed. “What an evening. The gentleman on the other side of me ignored me for the whole meal.”

  “Was the Emperor there?” Quirino asked.

  I tried to remember. “I don't know,” I said. “I honestly didn't notice.”

  “I can see why,” Valentino said. “Was she nice, at least?”

  “She seemed like someone who would be very nice, so long as you stayed on the Lady's good side,” I said.

  “Did you—” Quirino started, but he was cut off by a knock at the door. I got up to open it.

  There was a messenger boy outside; he handed me a sealed scroll. “I'm to wait for a reply,” he said.

  I broke the seal and opened it. Daniele, a flowing cursive script read, I greatly enjoyed our conversation at dinner and am most anxious to engage your professional services. I am particularly fond of solo violin music. If you have no other engagement, I would appreciate it greatly if you would attend me at my office tomorrow; I would like you to play for me for an hour or so. Please come at an hour past dinner; the guard at the Citadel will show you the way to my office.

  “What is it?” Valentino asked.

  “It's an invitation to a solo engagement,” I said. “Does the quartet have any plans for tomorrow afternoon?”

  “No,” Valentino said. Then, “A solo engagement? Already?”

  I decided I'd better get rid of the messenger before explaining to Valentino exactly why his jealousy was misplaced. “This is my reply,” I said. “I know relatively little solo music, but if she doesn't mind my limited repertoire, I would be happy to play for her tomorrow.” The messenger nodded and I closed the door.

  Valentino was still gawking at me. “Who wants you to play?” he demanded.

  “Mother Rosalba,” I said. “The Fedele priestess,” and if my blood hadn't just turned cold I would have laughed at Valentino's look of panic. “I guess she liked me.”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  There has to be a way to turn this to my advantage, I told myself as I walked up the steps into the Citadel of the Fedeli, showing the invitation from Rosalba to the guards. They summoned an escort who would take me to her office. Some way. I'll think of something.

  “Daniele!” Rosalba said as I came in. “I'm so glad you were able to come. I certainly don't mind a limited repertoire. The truth is—” she lowered her voice, “I rejoice in serving the Lady in whatever way She can make use of me, but this is a rather boring job and doesn't require that much concentration. The hard part's been done by the time I'm brought in. The music will be a lovely diversion.”

  “Isn't it your first week?” I asked. “How can it be boring you already?”

  Rosalba sighed. “I had the same job in Varena. I write quickly—that's my curse. Excuse me. I mean, of course, that this is the
way that the Lady has blessed me to serve Her.” She sat down at a large desk. “Sit or stand, as you like. I had them bring in a comfortable chair for you, if you want it. You'll have to play a little quietly, since I have to be able to hear the confessions, but … well, you understand. Just remember,” and she smiled, “for me you aren't playing for cover. I'm not doing anything secret, I just want music while I work and thought you might do me the favor.”

  I sat down in the chair and tuned up my violin. We were in a small, narrow room with two doors but no windows. One chair faced us, at the opposite end of the room.

  The door opened and two guards came in with a thin, fearful woman. “Sit,” Rosalba ordered her, and took out a piece of parchment. “What do you have to confess?”

  The woman spoke in a quavering voice. “I, Faustina, do confess to the crime of heresy.” Rosalba's hand flew across the parchment, writing as the woman spoke. “I said to friends that I did not believe the Lady could have possibly meant to bless the match between my daughter and her sweetheart, because I don't like him.” She paused. “I don't like him because he beats her, because he leaves her with bruises all over her body, but of course the Lady knows best.” Her voice dropped to dullness again. “I renounce my heresy. I make my confession.”

  Rosalba finished writing and looked up at the guard. “Is this certified as sincere?” He nodded. “Stand up and come over here,” Rosalba said to the woman. “Make your sign,” she said, and handed the woman her quill. The woman drew a circle where Rosalba pointed. Rosalba signed her own name, then the guard who'd certified Faustina's sincerity signed. Rosalba blew on the ink to dry it, then dripped wax onto the paper and pressed the seal of the Fedeli into the wax. “Very good,” she said, and gave the paper to the guard. “Take her to Penitence.”

  For two long hours, I played through my solo repertoire and listened to the confessions that Rosalba diligently wrote down. The heresies were largely trivial, the heretics mostly terrified but not injured. Arrest by the Fedeli was usually enough to persuade run-of-the-mill malefactors to confess and accept whatever penance the Fedeli decreed necessary—fines, most often; public flogging or some other corporal punishment, less frequently.