They’d set Istrella up in her own suite of rooms, since she’d be staying in the garrison for several days. In the scant hour or two since we’d arrived, she’d already turned the sitting room into a workshop. Equipment, tools, paintbrushes, and oddments were scattered across the once-serviceable furniture. Istrella sat on the floor, bending over some project spread out on a low table. It resembled a lady’s fan, if a fan were constructed from brass knives, scribed with runes, and tangled up in beaded wire. Marcello hovered over her, turning a pair of pliers in his hands.
“Come in, Amalia,” Istrella called. “This design isn’t coming out well, so you may as well join the party.”
“Where’s Zaira?” I asked.
“The kitchens.” Istrella pushed her glasses up onto her forehead. “Eating dinner number two, I believe. I’m glad I’m not a warlock. I’d never have time to build anything if I had to eat that often.”
I examined her work. It didn’t seem to be very far along; there wasn’t enough of a pattern to the curls of wire for me to guess its purpose, though the runes seemed focused on protection. “What’s that?”
“Well, it was going to be a shielding fan, but I need to think some things through before I try again.” She pushed it away, sighing dramatically. “If only I had some new and interesting project to begin. An assignment from the doge, perhaps.”
I stared pointedly at Marcello. He grimaced and cleared his throat. “Yes, well. About that.”
Istrella perked up. “Oh, are you finally going to tell me?”
Marcello nodded, misery in his eyes. But instead of telling her, he laid the schematics and instructions for the cannon down on her table.
Istrella studied them for a moment. Her brows drew down into a frown.
“This is a weapon,” she said.
Marcello winced. “Yes.”
Istrella traced the lines of the schematic with a fingertip. “It’s a good design. So efficient. My designs always use too much energy. And look how precise these runic circles are.” She sighed. “This must be the doge’s Master Artificer’s work. The one who does the jesses. I’ll never be that good.”
Marcello reached out a hand halfway to Istrella, then dropped it. “Aren’t you … Are you all right with making a weapon?”
She cocked her head. “That depends. Who will they use it on?”
“No one.” I grimaced. “I hope.”
Istrella lifted skeptical brows. “They don’t make weapons to not use them.”
“That’s true.” I glanced at Marcello, but the look he gave me was helpless with anguish. If I left it to him, he’d panic and tell her the cannons would shoot rainbows and everyone would be fine. “The doge wants these weapons here in case Ardence rebels. But it’s more likely than not they won’t. In that case, the cannons might either stay here to protect the city or get moved to the Witchwall Mountains to defend against Vaskandar.”
“I see.” Istrella stared at the diagrams. Her fingers moved as if twisting wire. “I suppose I’ll have to trust the Empire to use them well.”
“I’m sorry, Istrella,” Marcello blurted.
She blinked. “What for?”
“You shouldn’t have to do this.” He waved a hand at the schematics. “This wasn’t what I wanted for you. It isn’t …” He struggled a moment, then said the words. “It isn’t right.”
Istrella shrugged. “It’s an interesting design. It’s better than making yet more courier lamps. The Empire gives me everything I ask for, Marcello. If it wants cannons in return, I can give it cannons.”
The careless acceptance in Istrella’s tone as she pulled tools toward her didn’t make me feel any better. I could tell from the devastation on Marcello’s face he wasn’t reassured, either.
The gates of Ardence stood wide-open, and traffic flowed through the massive brick wall surrounding the city with the casual ease of peacetime. We passed through without any trouble, Ardence admitting the knife the Serene City held to its throat.
Our driver navigated streets wide and crowded with people, merchant lords rubbing elbows with poor wool-dyer apprentices. Raverra’s secret-hoarding alleys and webwork of canals separated out space into guarded islands, a hundred tiny little provinces. Ardence, on the other hand, jumbled everything together in a heady mix of experience and ideas. Coming here to study had been like opening the door of my golden cage and flying out into the world.
We passed the Wishing Fountain; a mother, scolding her children for trying to climb in, sat on the rim where I’d once studied with Venasha. Farther down the street, I glimpsed the statue of The Grace of Victory Defeating the Gorgon, which Domenic had climbed when he was more than a little drunk to put a knitted hat on the gorgon’s head. A while later, we approached the grand columns of the University of Ardence, and the street corner with the bronze bust of the first Bergandon duke, with its usual complement of pasted-on scraps of satirical poetry. That was another thing I loved about Ardence: the riot of art adorning every plaza and crossroads, full of life and motion, capturing a fever of the imagination that struck Ardence a century ago and thrived there in the days of the city’s greatness.
But that greatness had passed. The facades of the buildings were chipped and stained, the gilding worn off, the shop signs faded. Grand palaces that once housed Ardentine river-merchant lords were now let out to visiting Raverrans, or had been broken up into shops and inns. Litter and grime besmirched the streets once walked by some of the greatest artists and thinkers of Eruvia. Perhaps it was my conversation with Lady Savony, but I seemed to notice more Closed signs and quite a few more beggars than I had two years ago.
On one corner, a handful of tradesmen gathered around a broadside posted on a hostelry wall, talking animatedly. I peered at the large blocky print and got as far as THROW OFF THE SHACKLES OF EMPIRE! FOR THE SAKE OF OUR CHILDREN before the coach rolled past. And someone had painted GO HOME RAVERRAN SHARKS across the boarded-up windows of a defunct artifice charm shop, with a crudely drawn domino mask beneath. That was new, too, and it left an unsettled feeling in my stomach.
Our coach turned from the route I expected. I almost protested, but caught the words behind my teeth. Of course we weren’t heading to the Serene Envoy’s Palace this time; Ignazio was no longer the envoy.
By the tightness of his jaw as he looked out the window, Ignazio was thinking the same thing.
If the brick town house Ignazio had rented for us disappointed him with its faded grandeur, the same could not possibly be true of his welcome back to Ardence. The day of our arrival found us at a fete celebrating his return to the city.
Ignazio was not a dancer. Lord Waldon, the Ardentine noble hosting the affair, seemed to know it; the soft strains of music were calculated to support pauses in conversation rather than to inspire dancing. Ignazio stood radiant, surrounded by the Ardentine elite, each of them seeking his attention with serious faces and thinly disguised anxiety. As I lingered by the wine table, looking for people I knew, I kept hearing his voice drifting across the crowd:
“Well, as you know, I’m no longer in a position to say anything official, but …”
“I can’t make promises in my current situation, of course, but I’ll see if I can …”
“Naturally I no longer have the intelligence access I did as envoy, but my understanding is …”
I suspected Ignazio’s claims that Lady Terringer wouldn’t notice he was in town were optimistic. Lady Terringer herself did not appear to be in attendance, though I glimpsed Lady Savony stalking about like a long-limbed stork, with a sour expression that suggested she’d rather be working. By the way she glared at some of the more excessively garbed nobles, with enough jewels dripping off them to ransom a king, she probably thought the party guests would be better off working on solving Ardence’s problems, too. Some of them grimaced and slipped away when she approached, like children avoiding their governess.
The room hummed with a restless energy, voices rising and falling with open agitation in a
way I never saw in Raverra, where everyone played their cards far closer to their chests. I heard fear in their voices, and sometimes anger. Repeated words and phrases plucked at my ears: missing children … an outrage … Shadow Gentry … Vaskandar. And Raverra or the Empire, always with a sigh, scowl, or curse.
I instinctively searched the gathering for the familiar line of Marcello’s shoulders or curl of his hair, but he was off at the garrison coordinating with the local imperial military and getting Istrella and the other Falconers set up with everything they needed for the projects the doge had set them. Zaira lingered by the buffet, eating like a starving wolf and flirting with Domenic. Much as I wanted to say hello to my old friend, I headed in the opposite direction; Zaira’s presence tended to have a dominating effect on conversation.
A familiar voice called my name. “Amalia! I thought it was you!”
I whirled, delighted, to face my old study partner. “Venasha!”
I barely glimpsed her brilliant smile and bouncing curls before she swept me into a hug.
“How are you?” I asked a mouthful of her hair.
“Fine, fine!” She held me back at arm’s length, grinning. “I have a new position in the Ducal Library, and I love it. Their magical-theory section is incredible. And I have students to shelve for me! I get to just do research and acquire books.”
“Perfect! I’ll have to visit you there.” The thought of all those books was enough to distract me from my worries. “How are Foss and the baby?”
Her smile flickered. “They’re well.”
“I’d love to see them.”
“Well, ah … of course.”
I gripped her arm. “Venasha, don’t tell me something’s wrong with the baby.”
“Oh, no! Though Aleki’s not really a baby anymore. You won’t believe how much he’s grown. He’s walking and talking now, and getting into everything.” Her voice turned cheerful again, though worry still pinched her brows. “Foss is exhausted from running around after him while I’m at the library. He delights in pulling books off shelves and dumping them on the floor. Little barbarian!”
“I can’t wait to see him.” Hesitancy clouded Venasha’s expression, and I quickly added, “If it’s not an imposition.”
“No, no.” She let out a long breath. “I really want you to see him. He’s gotten so big. All right.” Determination gleamed in her eyes. “How about we meet in the public gardens by the River Palace tomorrow? Foss brings Aleki there most days so I can slip away from the library to see him.”
“Excellent. I can’t wait.”
“How about you? What brings you to Ardence?”
Now it was my smile that became strained. “Well …”
Venasha grimaced dramatically. “Let me guess. The Situation.”
I laughed, despite myself. “Is that what you call it?”
“That’s what they call it in the River Palace. I pass through the halls on my way to the Ducal Library every day, and the nobles are always talking about it. All very serious. I mostly ignore them.”
“Probably for the best.”
Someone tapped my shoulder. “Amalia! There you are.”
It was Domenic. The slightly panicky look in his deep-brown eyes belied his welcoming smile. “May I speak to you privately a moment?”
Venasha gasped in pretended shock. “Already sneaking off together! Amalia has barely set foot back in Ardence, Domenic.”
I blushed. There were reasons besides treason to speak to a lady alone, and Venasha no doubt remembered all too well how I’d felt about Domenic during my stay in Ardence, given how much I’d prattled on to her about him.
Domenic bowed to Venasha. “If you let me borrow her, I’ll show you the new bookshop where I found that Callamornish epic you were looking for.”
“Loan me your copies of Orsenne’s histories while you’re at it, and we have a deal,” Venasha laughed.
Whispers followed us as Domenic and I stepped out into the little courtyard garden, an uninspired jumble of confused statuary and square-trimmed bushes. The lights from the party fell across the black lawn, shadows and laughter passing across the bright arches of the windows.
I shivered; my velvet cape was inside, and the night air sucked the heat right out of the low neckline of my gown. Domenic didn’t notice. I couldn’t help thinking Marcello would have.
He drew himself up, as if bracing for opposition. “I want to introduce you to my brother.”
I looked around the empty garden. “Is your brother a shrub, then?”
Domenic laughed, but it came out a bit forced. “Oh, yes, didn’t I tell you? He’s a rosebush. Comes from my mother’s side of the family.” He made a face. “Some days, I wish he were a shrub. He’s been at it night and day, circulating through court, telling everyone how our wonderful friends in Vaskandar will solve all our problems for us if we just stand up to Raverra.”
“I take it you haven’t been able to convince him this is a terrible idea?”
“No, Grace of Wisdom help me.” He sighed. “I met with the Shadow Gentry last night, and I have to admit, it didn’t go quite as I’d hoped.”
The shadows laid across the garden seemed suddenly darker, sharp-edged with the implication of treason. I tried to keep my voice light. “Oh?”
“I should have known better, I suppose.” Domenic cast his eyes up at the clouded sky, as if hoping for guidance from the Graces. No light shone through the deep black overcast. “I keep hoping Gabril is doing this for the right reasons. To help the mage-marked, and make Ardence a better place. And maybe some of the Shadow Gentry are. But mostly what I heard in that room was pride and anger.”
Pride and anger could drive people to do hard things. I hoped Gabril’s name wasn’t one of the ones with which Baron Leodra had planned to buy his life. “I’m sorry.”
“Gabril is hosting a party for his Shadow Gentry friends in a few days.” Domenic’s voice dropped lower. “I think it would do them good to see not everyone in Raverra is hostile to Ardence.”
“Of course we aren’t! Do they really think that?”
“Well, not all of them. Half the Shadow Gentry are caught up in the idea of Ardentine glory and Ardentine independence. They see Raverra as holding Ardence back from what it could become. The other half …” He shook his head. “You don’t see it here, because it’s a party for Ignazio, but there’s a fury among many of the nobility about the children. The Shadow Gentry ride the wave of that fury. They believe Raverra has taken everything from them—first their fortunes, and now their cherished heirs—and they’re willing to fight to get it all back.”
“That’s a terrible idea.” I twisted a lock of hair in my fingers. “We have to resolve this diplomatically. There’s still time.”
“I hope so. Maybe you can help me convince them there’s still a peaceful solution. That it has not yet come to swords and fire.” He extended a hand. “Will you come to Gabril’s party and meet them, as my guest?”
So it was treason after all.
I could refuse his invitation, keeping my honor intact. I could tell him I was a loyal servant of the Serene City, and would not attend any gathering where a secret society plotted against her.
But if I did that, I would lose my only opportunity to infiltrate the Shadow Gentry.
I reached out and took his proffered hand, with the miserable reluctance of fishing a dropped glove out of a puddle. “If it will help avert war, I would be happy to attend and talk to them.”
Domenic squeezed my fingers and released them, the quick pressure of a grateful friend. “Good! And you’ll bring Zaira, too, I hope?”
“I must. She’s supposed to be near me at all times.”
“Excellent.” He hesitated, then continued with less confidence than I’d ever heard from him. “She’s an amazing woman, Amalia. I’ve never seen such a bold spark in a lady. She speaks the truth without fear, and there’s more fire in her eyes than magic alone can account for. I … Well, I think she’s …” He sw
allowed and drew himself up into a more formal posture. “I have a great admiration for her.”
My guilt over using him to spy on his brother folded double. “She certainly is unique.”
“Do you know …” He grimaced. “I gather her family is of less than noble birth.”
“Rather less, yes.”
“Still, that shouldn’t be important. Rank is a mere footnote in matters of the heart.”
His words pricked me in a Marcello-shaped sore place. I couldn’t even manage a nod. Had the Graces sent him to this party explicitly to make me feel like a terrible person?
Domenic took a deep breath. “Amalia, in all honesty, tell me, as a friend—what does Zaira think of me?”
I wished I could be anywhere but this vile garden. I had no stomach for more lies. Zaira was a terrible match; as his friend, I couldn’t in good conscience encourage him in his affections.
But if I pushed him away from Zaira due to differences of rank and class, I’d be no better than my mother.
“She …” She thinks you have a firm … stride. A nervous giggle fluttered in my stomach. “She admires you, Domenic.”
His eyes glowed at the words. “She does?”
“How could she not?” I lightened my tone, pushing past the stiffness in my throat. “Everyone does. You possess an exemplary assortment of fine qualities.”
Domenic laughed. “You flatter me, Amalia. But thank you. And in that case, I very much look forward to seeing her at the party, too.”
“I look forward to it as well.”
I refrained from adding, with dread. But I thought it, rubbing my arms to warm them against the cold night air.
Late in the evening, when the older and stodgier guests had gone home and the food was running out, I pulled Zaira aside into the chilly marble foyer, currently empty.
“What do you think?” I asked her, my voice low.
Zaira leered. “The girl in the peacock-blue gown packs a fine corset, but I’d still go with Domenic. He has the nicest—”
“I mean do you have any suspects?” I interrupted.
The Tethered Mage Page 24