by V. Briceland
The servant inspected the fruit and lifted the bowl slightly, as if he was looking for a concealed weapon. He opened the note that she had enclosed, and read it to himself:
Mama—
All is well. I am taking your sac-
rifice to the temple later, so
don’t worry. I hope you
and papa enjoy your
visit to the palace. Fita
sends her love, too, and a big
hug from Mattio and me.
—Risa
Satisfied that there was nothing in the basket beyond fruit and glass, the servant replaced the bowl and nodded. Risa sighed with relief. At least the bowl would let her parents know she had packed the hampers herself and that she was thinking of them.
As the last of the servants disappeared, Risa’s shoulders slumped. For over a week she had been feeling helpless and grim. The last time she had seen her father, they had argued—and badly. She knew that if anything ever happened to them, she would never forgive herself.
Milo leapt onto the cart’s front bench next to his sister. As Camilla nudged the mules forward, he turned around and looked at Risa. “It’s going to be all right,” he said, his voice trying to give her the same courage she’d wished for her parents. “This will turn out to be one of those things that you’ll laugh about when you realize how worried you were for nothing.”
She nodded. “I hope.”
“I think you really need a change of scenery. Let’s give Cam a treat and take her to see that big strapping beau of hers.” Risa was about to protest when Milo added, “Oh, don’t say no. It won’t take any more than twenty minutes. They’ll moon at each other, he’ll kiss her when she thinks we’re not looking, then you and I will have a good laugh and we’ll be on our way. You still want a laugh, I think. Ow!” He rubbed the spot on his shoulder where Camilla had punched him with her knuckles.
“I need to be home,” she said, feeling urgency grip her like a vise.
“Why?” Milo said. “So you can watch that cousin of yours strut around like one of the king’s peacocks? That would make you feel better, wouldn’t it!” He pulled down his face and pushed up the tip of his nose with his fingertip in imitation of Fredo. Though she could not laugh, Risa responded with a wry pucker of her mouth. “Or that housekeeper of yours! You’d feel better hearing that voice of hers shrilling in your ears, wouldn’t you?” He turned to his sister. “She sounds like a cat with a stepped-on tail.”
Risa snorted. “She does not.”
“She does too!” Milo averred. “Made me want to pick out my ears with a dagger so I wouldn’t have to listen.” He swiveled in his seat once more, nearly catapulting off the side when the cart hit a rut. “So don’t worry. I can see why you’d want to go home instead of taking Cam to see her big manly man with the enormous hands.”
“Milo, don’t drag me into this,” said Camilla, not at all amused. “You just want to see Ricard and his crew. And Amo does not have enormous hands.”
“They’re like big … really big legs of mutton,” Milo mock-whispered over the bench, measuring out a length an arm’s span apart. Camilla attempted to push him from the cart. “You see how she treats me!”
Their antics were intended to liven her spirits. Risa wished that she knew her older siblings better; the Seven and Thirty never had the luxury of this kind of closeness. And Milo was right. There was no telling how long it would be before Romeldo arrived from the insula. Watching Fredo revel in triumph would be bitter medicine, indeed. “I don’t mind a detour,” she said. “A short detour.”
Had they been afoot, Milo might have turned a cartwheel, so happy was he. “Thank the cazarrina, Camilla.”
“Thank you, Cazarrina,” repeated Camilla, not turning her head but bobbing it in a quick nod. “And no thanks to you,” she said to Milo. “It’s obvious she’d rather be home than out with the likes of us.” She heard the girl add, in a quieter voice, “Though I don’t know what all the worry is about with her parents. They’re just there to bestow the crown to the new king. How bothersome can that be?”
Milo raised his eyebrows, asking Risa permission. She nodded and pretended to watch the gondolas passing below.
“That’s not the whole story.” Milo began to murmur in his sister’s ear.
14
—
I have just seen a play, written entirely in rhyming couplets,
called Barnacle Barabbo: A Nautical Tragedy in Seven Acts, written (I use the term loosely) by someone claiming to be the
“Poet of the People.” The only tragedy is that I shall never
have back that evening of my life again.
—Amaretta Di Ponti, in a letter to Renalda Settecordi
of the Thirty
I don’t think we should go inside when we’re on duty,” Camilla said as they pulled to a stop in front of the antiquated building. “It wouldn’t be right.”
“I’ll just nip in and see who’s there,” Milo suggested, leaping up from his seat and swinging to the ground with athletic grace. “We won’t have to go in at all. If any captains walk by, tell them we’re picking up a jug of cider for your cousin,” he said to Risa with a wink.
“He’s only joking,” Camilla said, turning around slightly.
“I know,” Risa watched as Milo ducked under an arch and disappeared down a narrow cobbled street. She had never before ventured into this maze of tight roads and centuries-old canals with cracked walls where grew moss and grasses. The streets here were muddy, the buildings worn and crooked. Two children with dirty hands and faces stared at them from across the street. When Risa tried to smile at them, they turned their heads and ran away on bare feet.
Camilla cleared her throat and looked directly at Risa for the first time. “I’m sorry you’re worried about your parents,” she stammered. Risa nodded, both appeased and embarrassed by the sympathy. “If Milo gets too much—I think he—I know you’re of the Seven and we’re just—”
“I like Milo,” Risa said simply.
“You are different,” Camilla said, seeming surprised. “I can’t imagine anyone else from the Seven and Thirty saying they liked a guard.” She paused, looking for the right word. “We’re not the usual kind your sort socializes with, you know.”
Although she knew Camilla meant it as a compliment, Risa resented being held accountable for the bad behavior of others. Apparently the people of Cassaforte thought the Seven and Thirty to be arrogant and aloof. Many of them were. “My family … we don’t participate in the social functions of the Thirty. Few of the Seven do,” she said. “The Seven are families of craftsmen. We work. Many of the Thirty are different.”
Camilla shot her a sideways glance and nodded awkwardly. For a moment Risa feared her flat statement of fact had been taken as a rebuff. Before she could clarify, a clatter of rapid footsteps echoed from the enclosed street, followed by Milo’s laughter. He came barreling out from under the arch, breathing heavily. “Beat you,” he said to the boy following.
“I let you win, fool!” said the boy. He was Milo’s age or a little older, and wore a formal tunic of bright colors trimmed with bright yellow braid. It was a costume intended to catch the eye—the costume of street entertainers. He stopped short when he caught sight first of Camilla, and then of Risa, both still sitting in the cart. His eyes locked upon Risa, taking in her prim dress and the long red-brown hair hanging over her shoulder. “Fair lady,” he breathed, his mouth open in rapture. He touched the shock of black hair hanging over his brow and stooped low. “I would die for thee.”
“Oh no,” groaned Camilla.
The boy shot her a quelling look before turning back to Risa. “Beautiful thou art, and fair. Like a perfumed poppy’s fragrant air!” He moved closer to the cart, placing his hands on its rail and peering up at them in wonder. “My heart doth beat—nay, leaps and
skips! To think of kisses from your lips!”
Appalled, Risa stared at the boy. He turned his head sideways. “Milo,” he whispered. “You did not tell me your lady was so beautiful.”
Risa looked at Milo in appeal. He had an expression on his face she had not seen before; she thought it was the first time she’d seen the young guard half-angry. She finally found words. “He didn’t,” she said. When she heard her voice tremble, she took a moment to breathe before continuing. “He didn’t, because I am not.”
“Oh lady, but you are,” said the boy. “Were this another day, battles would be fought in your honor. Men would fight for even a snippet of your hair. Empires would be lost for the honor of kissing that fair-skinned hand!”
“Ricard,” Camilla said, “Stow it. This is the Divetri cazarrina you’re speaking to, not some giggly serving girl.”
“Poor Ricard! He only falls for the unattainable ones now, Camilla,” said another girl. She emerged from the street accompanied by a tall, scowling man. “The serving girls aren’t much of a challenge.”
The boy turned and frowned. “The Poet of the People begs thee desist, sister,” he intoned frostily.
“Oh, desist yourself! I hate when you start in with the blank verse. It makes my teeth ache. Hello! I’m Tania. Ricard’s twin, believe it or not.” The girl leaned over Ricard’s shoulder and extended her hand in greeting. “And you’re the cazarrina. Milo told us about your adventure yesterday.” Risa caught Milo looking at the ground, embarrassed. “Just ignore the Poet of the People,” she advised. “He’s easily smitten.” Ricard mumbled something inaudible.
“Haven’t I seen you somewhere?” Risa asked her. Ever since Tania had stepped out from under the arch, she thought she knew her. There was no mistaking that curly black hair cascading down her back, the full lips, or the laughing eyes.
“You may have,” said Tania. “I’m an artist’s model. And an actress.”
“Oh, of course! Lena’s handmaiden!” Dana Buonochio’s oversized painting had been hung in the great anteroom of the goddess’ temple the previous year. A study of a young woman prostrated before a statue of the moon goddess, it was widely acclaimed to be among the cazarra’s finest work. And here was the handmaiden herself, looking not the perfect picture of mute adoration, but blossoming with life and vitality.
“Among others, yes. I’m so pleased you recognize me! Hello there, Cam. You’re looking well.” As Camilla jumped down from the cart, Tania gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.
Ricard stuck out his hand, palm up, waiting for Risa. “Descend to earth, goddess divine. Take this poor hand, for I claim you mine!” Tania made a rude noise.
The poor hand in question had dirty fingernails, Risa noticed. “Ah … I don’t think so.”
“Leave off, Ricard,” Milo said gruffly, pushing him aside. “Let her alone. Pay him no mind,” he added to Risa. When Milo held out his own hand to assist her down, she accepted, trying to ignore Ricard’s unwavering stare. “That’s Amo,” Milo murmured, nodding in his sister’s direction.
Camilla was standing close to the tall man, murmuring to him with a rare and shy smile upon her face. He could not seem to take his eyes from her, nor she from him. When Milo led Risa over to the pair, a sour look briefly crossed Amo’s heavy features.
“Risa, allow me to present Amo Stilla. Amo is a glass maker too,” he said. Judging from Milo’s expression, she realized he intended the news to be a pleasant surprise.
“You’re a Divetri?” he asked, his manner abrupt.
When she nodded, he said nothing. Obviously conversation was up to her. “Are you with a workshop?” she asked, looking down at his hands. They were indeed large and callused from hard work, but nowhere near the size of a mutton shank.
“I blow glass for the Anaplezzis,” he said, almost defensively. “I do well enough.”
She had not heard of them, and felt badly for it. There were many makers of glass for common use throughout the city, yet she knew little of the workshops beyond those of her family and of the insulas. “That’s wonderful,” she said with enthusiasm. Camilla glanced up at Amo with pride.
“You know all the proper enchantments, then,” Amo said. “What they do to containers and windows?”
From behind, she heard Ricard’s lilting voice. “She is an expert in enchanting men’s hearts as well.”
“No. I haven’t learned any of that.” Risa looked around at the astonished faces, flustered herself. They didn’t know. Save Milo, none of them knew what a failure she really was. “I never will.” Perhaps they would stop questioning her now.
“But you’re a Divetri,” said Amo, not comprehending.
Why didn’t these people just leave her alone? She wanted to go home. “I was told by the gods that they did not need me. I am not insula-trained, nor will I ever be.”
She expected looks of shock and dismay. All she saw were expressions of interest. “No big loss there, is it?” said Tania at last, her perfect teeth gleaming as she smiled. “I mean, everyone knows the insulas exist to keep the unimportant relatives occupied with a trade.”
“The younger relatives,” Milo corrected, one eye on Risa. “Not unimportant.”
“The Poet of the People ne’er was trained by an insula-bred tutor,” exclaimed Ricard.
“The Poet of the People ne’er has earned a luni, either,” Milo retorted, making Tania trill with laughter.
Amo shook his head. “Never heard of a Divetri not insula-learned,” he said. “But they’re right. There’s plenty of good craftsmen who never saw the inside of an insula or a fancy Divetri workshop, no offense. You’re none the worse off.”
She could not believe her ears. There had not been a day of her life she had not dreamed of entering one of the two insulas. She couldn’t conceive of a life outside it. When Milo had told her that not everyone saw the insulas as the most desirable place in the world to be, she thought he’d been trying to make her feel better, in a ham-handed way. Yet here were all his friends, similarly shrugging away the setback as if it were nothing.
Could it be possible that a life in service to the gods was not what she had dreamed it was? She would have to think carefully on that, later.
“We don’t mean any harm, love,” Tania was saying to her. A number of bracelets studded with cheap and colorful stones clattered around her wrist as she briefly stroked Risa’s hair. “I’ve known many good-hearted people from the insulas, especially among Caza Buonochio. I can tell that you wouldn’t enjoy being among their number, though. Especially today!”
“What rhymes with Divetri?” asked Ricard suddenly, looking up from a folded paper on which he was busily scribbling notes with a piece of fine-pointed charcoal. Milo pressed his lips together and refused to answer.
“Why especially today?” Risa asked, trying her best to ignore the self-proclaimed Poet of the People.
Tania’s bracelets jangled once more as she dropped her hands. “Haven’t you heard? The insulas are under siege.”
Three voices exclaimed as one, “What?” Risa, Milo, and Camilla looked at each other and then at Tania.
“No one’s allowed in or out of either insula. It has something to do with Prince Berto’s orders.” Tania was obviously startled at their response. “I found out when I showed up to model for a Penitent’s drawing tutorial and was turned away. City guards were posted there,” she said to Camilla and Milo. “Don’t you know what the other guards are doing?”
“I hadn’t heard a thing about it!” exclaimed Camilla.
“The last two days have been nothing but confusion,” Milo said. He looked at Risa. “Are you all right?”
Risa felt anything but all right. Her legs were trembling. Had her summons to Romeldo reached him before the siege started? Her father had always promised that if he were unable to complete the rite, Romeldo woul
d be there. He was her last hope! Everything was spinning out of control too quickly.
“Why are the gods so set against me?” she cried, giving voice to all the dread and anguish that coursed through her. Milo’s friends looked disturbed at her sudden outburst.
Tania once again placed her hand on Risa’s arm, but comfort from a stranger was the last thing she wanted. Trying not to seem curt, Risa moved away from the model and got back into the cart, taking the reins in her own hands. “I’ve got to see for myself,” she told Milo. “We have to leave now.”
“I’ll drive.” Milo sprang into the cart without hesitation. It almost seemed as if he were anxious to atone for reassuring her earlier. “You have enough to worry about.”
I have nothing to do but worry, Risa thought to herself. It was going to be a very long ride.
15
—
What are the sweet sounds of the horns at sunset but a daily reminder of the harmony upon which our city was built? The ceremony is living proof not of any deep magics—for they do not exist—but of the pact between monarch and working man, and the balance that must exist between them.
—Martolo the Sceptic, in Cassaforte’s So-Called Enchantments Debunked: A Thinking Man’s Rational Manifesto
When first erected hundreds of years before, the high-walled Insula of the Children of Muro had sat serene and alone in a wildflower field northwest of the city. Two canals had been built to provide it with access and supplies. In the centuries since, countless markets had sprung up along with pretty neighborhoods of respectable houses, many belonging to members of the Thirty. The two original canals had been lost among a complex of newer channels. Today, the western quarter of Cassaforte was indistinguishable from any other section of the city, save that the buildings were not as wind-worn and the canal bridges were more lavishly ornamented, in the elaborate styles popular in recent decades.