* * *
Carlo stared down at his father in mute horror.
Watch Carlo. Remember your promise.
“It was you,” he whispered, still clutching his father’s hand as the old man labored to breathe. “It was you putting Amadeo and Livia up to it. You never wanted me to inherit your throne.”
His grip tightened on the pope’s hand, almost cracking his frail bones.
“Livia will help,” Benignus wheezed, squinting up at Carlo but not seeming to see him at all.
“Father,” Carlo said, “it’s me! Me, Carlo! Your son! How could you do this to me? I know I wasn’t…I wasn’t always the best of sons, but I’m the only one you have! You said you loved me!”
Benignus shoved his hand away and rasped, “Go.”
Carlo stood there, mouth agape, shaking his head slowly as the old man’s head flopped on the pillow, his near-sightless eyes fixed on the flame of the bedside candle.
With one last, rattling gasp, Pope Benignus died.
“To the Barren Fields with you then,” Carlo whispered, his lips curling with disgust. “You lost, Father. Your throne will be mine. The throne and all that goes with it. When the histories are written, it’ll be my name they remember, me they’ll be talking about for generations to come. You’re nothing but a footnote.”
He stormed out of the room. In the little office outside Benignus’s bedchamber, Sister Columba puttered in the linen closet. She looked up at the sound of the door slamming in Carlo’s wake. He stopped, glaring at her, and pointed back toward the bedroom.
“He’s dead,” Carlo snapped. “Deal with the body.”
Then he was gone, leaving the elderly woman alone with her sudden tears.
Chapter Forty-One
Freda walked the docks in the hour just before dawn, down in the Alms District. The freckled urchin didn’t have anywhere else to be, and she loved the way the sky glowed when the morning sun peeked its head up over the sleeping city. Winter’s hand hung over the streets. Not long before it would tighten its grip, and there’d be no time for indulgences. She’d have more little ones to bury, she knew, the ones who died from the frost or the hunger. She buried them so no one else would have to.
She walked on the edge of a dock, as close to the brink as she dared, holding her arms out and putting one ragged shoe in front of the other like she was a tightrope walker in the carnival. Down below, the waters were black, reflecting the icy sky. By the edge of the pier the water was choked with trash, discarded boxes and bottles and slops the fishmongers couldn’t sell. A rotten odor hung in the air here, clinging to the wet and slimy wood.
Under the dock, a corpse slowly floated by.
A corpse in a priest’s cassock.
Freda dropped to her knees on the wood and reached down, grabbing the hem of the cassock in her fingertips and holding fast. A few docks down, sailors were loading a barge with goods for the south. She looked back over her shoulder and screamed for help at the top of her lungs, waving frantically with her free arm. One of the men, a dark and sweaty islander, dropped his crate and ran over. Once he saw the body in the water, he shouted to the others.
Freda bit back a second scream when the sailors hauled the man out of the filthy water and she saw Amadeo’s face.
They laid him on his back on the dock. One of the sailors, another islander, waved for room and straddled Amadeo’s chest. He shoved down on the priest’s ribs, digging calloused fingers in his throat. Freda stood to the side and watched, her hands clamped over her mouth, every muscle in her body tense as a steel cord.
Amadeo’s chest spasmed. The sailor rolled him onto his stomach, and Amadeo vomited up a torrent of seawater and blood, spilling across the weathered planks. He coughed, sputtering, and fell limp.
“Is—” Freda said. “Is he—”
“There is more water in his lungs,” the sailor said in a thick Enoli accent. “And cold in his bones. With blankets and a fire, he might live.”
“Might?”
He shrugged. “Flip a coin.”
* * *
On the far side of a nightmare, Amadeo slowly opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was the light of a crackling fire, warming his cheeks as he nestled under a pile of scratchy blankets woven from cheap, coarse wool. It took a moment for his vision to swim back into focus, but he knew there were faces all around. The first one he saw was Freda’s.
“I knew you wouldn’t leave us,” she whispered.
All around her, the orphans of Salt Alley nodded, with grimy faces and wet eyes. They stood in a dirt-floored cottage, more of a one-room shack with rough timbers overhead and ill-hammered walls, and they weren’t alone. Gallo Parri stood at his bedside, the barrel-chested guardsman looking grave and pale.
“They came and got me as soon as you were fished from the drink,” he said. “Tell me you had an accident, Amadeo. Tell me you slipped and fell, and this wasn’t what I think it was. Comfort my worried mind.”
“You know it was no accident,” Amadeo said, groaning as he pushed back the blankets and forced himself to stand. His ribs ached with every breath, and his stomach muscles burned. “And I have no comfort to give, not this day. Where is Livia? It’s urgent that we—”
He froze, staring out the window of the shack.
Higher up the hill, far away and over the rooftops, he could make out the curve of the dome over the papal estate. And the thick, black curling plume that rose from the chimney there. A chimney only used two times in every generation, to send a message to the world in the form of colored smoke.
“What does it mean?” asked one of the children, standing at his side and following his gaze.
A single tear rolled down Amadeo’s cheek. His hands clenched helplessly at his sides.
“It means my friend is dead,” Amadeo whispered. “And I wasn’t there for him when he needed me most.”
The shack door swung open on rusted hinges, and another child led Sister Columba in by the hand. Amadeo swept her into a wordless embrace and held her tightly, pushing away his own tears while she soaked his shoulder with her own. She finally pulled back, wiped the sunken lines of her face with the back of her hand, and took a deep, shuddering breath.
“Livia?” Amadeo said.
“Imprisoned in her rooms. Safe for now. Carlo’s gone mad, Father. And Rimiggiu is dead.”
“By whose hand?” Gallo demanded, stepping toward them.
“By the ‘knights’ guarding the papal estate,” Amadeo said tiredly. “The same ones who tried to murder me. They’re frauds, mercenaries hired by the Banco Marchetti. Lodovico Marchetti and Carlo are plotting together. They aim to seize the throne by any means necessary.”
“Cardinal Accorsi betrayed you,” Columba said. “I’ve overheard him talking to Carlo.”
Amadeo’s hands clenched even harder. “Decided to back the winning team, I’m sure. He offered us up as a sacrifice to weasel his way into Carlo’s good graces.”
“I have to get back to the estate,” Columba said. “It’s dangerous for me to leave the grounds at all. Carlo is…you’ve never seen him like this before, Father. He snarls at every shadow. He’s convinced he’s surrounded by thieves—”
“But Livia is safe? You’re certain?”
Columba nodded and clasped her hands together. “I bring her meals. She’s strong. Livia is always strong.”
“I know.” Amadeo forced his hands to unclench, reached out, and gently squeezed her shoulder. “Best get back before anyone notices you’re gone. Keep your head down. I’ll send word when I’m ready to move.”
“Move?” Columba said. “What are you going to do, Father? Carlo has killers at his beck and call, the resources of the Holy City at his fingertips…soon he’ll be pope, and his word will be law. You can’t fight him.”
Amadeo let go of her shoulder. He turned away and took another step toward the window, looking up at the plume of black smoke. His heart was strangely peaceful as he came to his resolution.
“Benignus was my best friend in the world. I failed him. I will not fail his daughter. I swear this. I swear it by water, soil, and sun. No matter what it costs, no matter what it takes, I will set Livia free. And I will see Carlo pay for what he’s done.”
Chapter Forty-Two
All of Mirenze flooded the streets for the Feast of St. Scarpa. Scarpa was a martyr, his legacy a grim tale of penitence and pain, but all that mattered to most of the city was that he was Mirenzei. He was their saint, compared to the hordes of dour-faced Murgardt that looked down from every church fresco, and by the Gardener they’d celebrate his day as they liked. Over the years, the holy occasion had given way to a raucous, merry carnival, an easy excuse for the rabble to shed their inhibitions and their sobriety in one wild, mad night.
Gangs of youths walked the streets in leather masks and brightly colored sashes, declaring themselves the “official and royal army” of their home neighborhoods. When rival gangs met in the streets, the outcome could be anything from ear-blisteringly vulgar but cheerful insult wars to all-out battles with fists, rocks, and branches. On the north bank, packs of self-appointed scholars and troubadours accosted the unwary, demanding gifts of beer and wine. If refused, the empty-handed unfortunates were either subjected to improvised and insulting verse or put through the “learned man’s gauntlet,” a barrage of questions about Mirenzei history—where errors meant a sacrifice of clothing and dignity.
The upper classes had their own parties, more expensive but no less drunken, celebrating up on feast-hall belvederes, where they could look down on the city below from opulent platforms. That was where Felix found himself that night: on the green and gaily appointed rooftop of the Duke’s Bequest, clutching a wine cup in one tense hand as servants lit torches along the ivory-inlaid balustrades to push back the growing shadows. He stood off along the edge of the rooftop, with the other wallflowers, while a few daring couples took to the center of the platform in their finery and danced to a reeling bit of lute song.
On the far side of the rooftop, Aita Grimaldi stood in a gown of spun silver silk, surrounded by a small gaggle of admirers. My bride-to-be, Felix thought bitterly and tossed back another swig of red wine. It tasted like ashes in his mouth.
“Hmm?” he said, realizing someone was talking to him. Terenzio, the tannery master, was already half past drunk and slurring his words. He nodded at the sash that wrapped around Felix’s head under his cap, covering the stump of his ear.
“I asked if it hurt,” Terenzio said.
“Now, or when it happened?”
“Wounds are funny things. One of my men, he did some soldiering years back, helping the Empire beat down those Terrai savages. Got his hand lopped off at the wrist. Funny thing, he says it didn’t even hurt when it happened. The next morning, long after they’d burned the stump closed and wrapped it all up neat as a present, that’s when it started to hurt.”
Felix stared at his cup.
“It hurt plenty,” he said.
“And yet you returned home, in honor and strength,” said Lodovico Marchetti. He approached with a small box in his white-gloved hands. He held it up, showing off the delicately carved sandalwood. “We may be rivals in business, Felix, but courage is something I greatly respect. I’ve heard the whole story about your little adventure in the frozen north—you know how people talk in this city. Few men have the stones to make a move like you did. I only wish you’d have come to me first. My family investigated that rumor about the alum mines years ago. I could have saved you all that trouble.”
Who had the best motive to send an assassin after me? Felix thought as he looked into Lodovico’s eyes. Who benefits most if my family falls?
You do, Lodovico. You do.
He took Lodovico’s hand and gave it a firm, slow shake.
“I wish I had, too. Have you ever been to Winter’s Reach?”
Lodovico shook his head. “I haven’t, no.”
“They say it changes a person.”
Lodovico looked into Felix’s eyes and hesitated, frozen for a moment. Then he cleared his throat and held out the box in offering.
“A gift. Dried salamander root, from the Oerran Caliphate. Mostly for the relief of joint ache and gout, but it should help speed your recovery along quite nicely.”
He leaned in and cupped his hand to one side of his mouth as he added softly, “And if you steep a piece in wine for about half an hour, then drink the wine? It’s an experience not to be missed, trust me. You’ll thank me later.”
“Lodovico, good Lodovico,” Terenzio said, nearly spilling his cup as he tried to bow. “Could I steal you away for a moment?”
“Of course. Good seeing you again, Felix. Please, enjoy the gift, and welcome home.”
Felix nodded tightly and forced himself to put on a pleasant smile. The second Lodovico’s back turned, the smile vanished.
A footman wearing the black-trimmed tunic and crest of the Grimaldi family approached Felix with a decanter of wine. He filled Felix’s cup, then reached over with his other hand to press something into Felix’s palm. A folded scrap of parchment. Sensing the need to be discreet, Felix edged over to the railing, put his back to the crowd, and hunched his shoulders a little while he unfolded it and read.
“We need to talk. Tonight, midnight, room 8 at the Guildsman’s Seat. Tell no one. Come alone.”
He looked across the rooftop. Aita stared back at him. She gave one long, slow nod, her eyes grave, then turned away.
* * *
It took an effort for Lodovico to wear his easygoing smile as Terenzio led him away. He hadn’t known what to expect when he’d brought Felix his little make-peace gift. A broken man, maybe. A whipped dog, drowning in failure.
Instead, for a heartbeat—just a heartbeat—he thought Felix might lunge for his throat. A new darkness was hiding behind Felix Rossini’s eyes, the kind of darkness that drove a man to extremes.
He knows, he thought, and if he doesn’t know, he suspects. Damn it all, Simon!
Terenzio threw an arm around Lodovico’s shoulder. Lodovico tried not to wrinkle his nose. No matter how much Terenzio scrubbed and perfumed himself, the odor of the tannery still clung to him, buried deep in his pores.
“Just wanted to say, m’boy, you’re doing a bang-up job with the Banco Marchetti. Your father would be proud.”
“I hope you’re not just saying that because you need another line of credit,” Lodovico said with a chuckle. He spotted his mother on the edge of the crowd and took the opportunity to politely extract himself from the tannery master’s clutches. “Mother! You made it!”
Sofia approached them and gave Lodovico a kiss on each cheek. Her lips were as cold as her eyes. The obligatory show of affection complete, she turned her attention to the other man.
“Terenzio,” she said, favoring him with a nod. Terenzio took her hand and bowed, brushing his puffy lips against the backs of her fingers. He inhaled the scent of her perfume like it was a glass of pure springwater, and rose.
“I was just telling your son that I’m sure your husband would be proud, seeing his family thrive so.”
“Thank y—” Sofia started to say, but Lodovico cut her off.
“We’re not really thriving yet, though, are we? Terenzio, I understand there’s a vacancy on the Council of Nine.”
Terenzio ran a finger along his collar. “That, ah, that is so, yes. But we shouldn’t talk of business at a celebration like—”
“I assume that I’m in the running,” Lodovico said. “The Marchetti family hasn’t been represented on the Council since my father’s death. There’s hardly anyone in the city better qualified for the post.”
“Of course, of course,” Terenzio said, nodding quickly. “In fact, I sponsored your nomination myself.”
Lying prick, Lodovico thought.
“Excellent,” he said. “And do you know when the Council will be making its decision? I assume it’s only a formality.”
“At our meeting next month. I’ll ac
tually be out of the city for a couple of weeks, leaving tomorrow morning. Trade run to Murgardt, sourcing some new suppliers for hides.”
You mean the Caliphate, Lodovico thought, trying to cut me out of the alum market. But I’ll smile and nod and pretend I’m the ignorant pawn you think I am.
You think my father would be proud of me, Terenzio?
You haven’t seen anything yet.
* * *
Felix wasn’t coming. That was the fact Renata finally had to face. He’d been back in the city. He’d had every opportunity to come see her at the Hen and Caber or any of the secret nooks they shared, but he hadn’t. And if he hadn’t by now, he wasn’t going to.
That wasn’t the Felix she knew.
Something had to be keeping him away, but what? He’d risked his father’s anger and the disapproval of “polite society” in the past, and he’d done it with a wink and a laugh. What could have changed? She’d heard rumors about his trip to the Reach—that he’d been hurt, cut up, but she was the last person in the world who would turn him away. He knew that.
The servants at Rossini Hall barred her path at the door. Felix was only to have visitors under the strictest supervision and the approval of his father, they said. He had a wedding to plan for, after all.
Renata was trudging off, at a loss for answers, when a matronly woman in a flour-stained apron caught up to her on the walk.
“You’re her,” the Rossinis’ cook said, “aren’t you? The one Felix used to sneak out at all hours to see? He doesn’t think we know, but…we know.”
She nodded simply. “I am.”
“Side door. Five minutes.”
The cook let her in, shooting a furtive glance over her shoulder, and hustled her through the run-down kitchen to the pantry.
“We have to be quiet. I’ll lose my job, or worse, if anyone finds out I helped you, but…oh, miss, there’s some terrible trouble afoot.”
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