by V. Briceland
Milo brought the cart to a halt just across the canal bridge from the insula, and Camilla and Amo quickly crossed over to talk to a few of the guards clustered before the closed main gate. More guards stood at attention around the perimeter of the massive structure, spaced twenty or so feet apart, unmoving and alert.
“You shouldn’t worry,” Tania said, leaning forward to murmur in Risa’s ear. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”
“To her I would pledge my trow, though worry’s creased her noble brow,” Ricard was mumbling to himself, scribbling on paper once more. “That’s quite good, isn’t it?”
“No,” snapped Milo, while Tania simultaneously said, “Do keep quiet, Ricard.”
Without really hearing either of them, Ricard went back to mumbling and composing his verses. Risa watched tensely as Camilla continued to talk to the guards. “You shouldn’t fret about your family,” Milo told her. “The insulas were designed to stand up to siege. During the Azurite invasion the people inside the Insula of the Penitents of Lena managed to survive for two years without supplies from the outside, remember.”
“I know,” she said, only slightly comforted. The windowless wall that protected buildings within the insula was intended to withstand the most brutal of attacks. “I just can’t help it. Every time I think the day can’t get worse, it does!”
“Will you try something?” For a moment she thought it was another of his jests, but when she looked into Milo’s eyes, she saw that he was entirely earnest. “It’s nothing bad. Sometimes when I’m nervous, it helps.”
“You, nervous?” said Tania, listening in. She seemed surprised. “You’ve always been the coolest character I’ve ever seen, Milo. I didn’t think there was anything you couldn’t do.”
Milo narrowed his eyes slightly. “I can think of one thing I can’t bring myself to do, actually. And it’s none of your business,” he added quickly when Tania opened her mouth to ask. When he looked at Risa again, it was with a shy slant to his eyes and mouth. “My mother taught this technique to me. Now, close your eyes. Go on.”
His voice, warm and soft, encouraged her. She lowered her eyelids to block out the late afternoon sun. “I know it won’t be easy,” he said, “but you need to imagine yourself in a place where you’re totally confident and comfortable. Someplace you feel most yourself. All right? Where are you?”
Risa thought hard for a moment, then realized what Milo meant. Trying to ignore the sun’s heat and the noise of the crowds was difficult, but she focused on a single image: a picture of herself standing before the caza kilns, using the poles to retrieve one of her works. It had been gradually moved away from the heat of the flames to the very edges of the furnaces, and although it was hot to the touch, it was not so hot that it would instantly shatter from room-temperature air. In her imagination she envisioned removing the large platter. Thick gloves protected her hands. She placed the glass disc on a table, knowing that although she should be modest about her skills, she had created a thing of beauty—and more importantly, she had the talent to do it again. “Where are you?” Milo repeated.
“In the workshop,” she murmured, concentrating on the image.
Beside her, as if from a distance, she heard Tania whisper, “On the stage.”
“Take that feeling you have of absolute confidence. Capture it. Now imagine it’s something physical. Something you can touch. What does it look like?”
“A butterfly,” breathed Tania.
“A marble.” Just like the marbles Petro played with. Beautiful marbles worked in an open flame were Mattio’s hobby, when he was not blowing vessels with her father. She saw her favorite of them all, a perfect globe of clear glass with scarlet streaks. When younger, she had always wondered how those ribbons of flame came to be trapped in the glass.
“I want you to take that object and put it in a box,” Milo continued. “Somewhere safe, where you can find it again when you want. Close the box. When you’re frightened or worried, you can take it out, open it up, and look at the marble. You’ll remember the feeling, I promise. Open your eyes.”
When Risa opened her eyes, the image of her marble seemed to linger for a moment. Milo regarded her with his head cocked forward, his face wearing a question. “Well?” he finally said.
Risa shook her head. She still felt apprehension, but its edge had dulled. The nervous excitement that had made her stomach twitch and her palms sweat seemed to have ebbed away. She could not truthfully say she was completely free of anxiety. Her mind, however, did not race around in the crazy circles that had distressed her all afternoon. “Does it really work?” she asked him.
“If you let it.”
For the first time in several minutes, Ricard spoke from the back of the cart. “When in repose sweet Risa sleeps, my heart, it aches, it droops, it weeps … ”
“She was not sleeping,” Tania snapped. “Honestly, Ricard. If you have to write your terrible poetry, write it about someone else. Risa will think we’re all lunatics because of you.”
Privately, Risa already thought that Milo and Camilla’s friends, with the possible exception of Ricard, were among the nicest people she had ever met. Aside from Petro and her older sister Vesta, Risa had never known many people near her own age. These people had been working, planning out what they wanted to do with their lives for years now. She had been merely sitting by, waiting for hers to begin. It amazed her how competent and self-assured they all seemed to be.
Camilla nodded at the guards and started back across the canal bridge toward the cart. Amo trudged a few steps behind her. Anxiety flared up inside Risa like flames; they must have news. To quell her panic, she thought of the marble. She remembered the marvelous feeling of proficiency she’d felt when Milo was murmuring to her. Her breathing returned to normal just as Camilla reached them.
“They’re under the prince’s orders to keep both insulas under guard,” Camilla announced without a hint of emotion. “No one’s allowed to come out.”
“Or go in,” added Amo. “No messages, no deliveries. It’s supposed to be for their protection, until the crown and scepter have been bestowed upon Prince Berto.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Risa.
“There’s nothing we can do about it,” Camilla told her.
“You city guards are holding people hostage,” Risa retorted. Camilla’s flat acceptance angered her. “Just like you’ve invaded my caza. There’s no reason for it. No one’s in danger but my parents!”
“We’re just following orders,” Milo said to her.
“I wager there are guards outside my parents’ dungeon saying the same thing.”
“What?” said Tania, alarmed. “Dungeon?”
“Camilla, what’s going on?” Amo asked, obviously alarmed.
“Later,” said Milo. “And there aren’t any dungeons in the palace. Don’t imagine such things.”
The argument did not fill Risa with despair, as it might have an hour ago. She felt recharged and energetic and full of righteous anger. “It doesn’t take a dungeon to make a prison. I know that better than anyone. Even Tolio said that you guards shouldn’t be taking orders from anyone but the crowned king. But look what you’re doing!”
Camilla had the decency to seem a little ashamed. “You’re right about that, but Prince Berto is the heir. He’ll be king soon. None of the captains wants to be in a position of disobeying someone who’ll be king any moment now.”
“Soon doesn’t make him king yet,” Risa pointed out. “No king in history has ever given such orders! It’s as if—”
Realization stung her like a bucket of ice water poured over her head. She reeled at the enormity of her notion—for a moment all she could hear was the thud of her heart and the heavy coursing of blood through her veins. “No. It’s evil!”
“Will someone explain to me what’s going on?”
Tania complained. “It’s very intriguing and I must say it’s all miles ahead of the last play I was in, but I haven’t a clue what’s happening.”
“Prince Berto wants the cazas to fall,” Risa murmured, remembering the possessive look she’d seen in his eyes that morning of the blessing. “He does. He wants them to be destroyed by demons, one by one.”
“That’s impossible,” Camilla said quickly. Her face, however, had turned white. Milo hushed her, listening intently.
“Not impossible. He’s kidnapped the cazarri.”
“What?” exclaimed Amo and Tania and even Ricard, almost in unison.
“He’s shut up the insulas. Almost all the caza heirs live in the insulas. Even the ones who work in the cazas daily live here.” Milo’s eyes widened at her words. She knew her logic was persuading him. “Romeldo never received my summons this morning. He probably doesn’t even know Divetri’s cazarro is gone and he’s needed.”
“But that’s crazy,” said Camilla.
“I don’t know why, but Prince Berto wants the cazas to fail.”
They were quiet for a moment. “I never liked the prince,” Tania said softly. “I’ve seen him—he looks at people like he’s a snake and they’re his dinner.”
“But that’s outrageous!” Ricard said, for once not rhyming. “It would take a monster to do such a thing.”
“Mother didn’t like him, either,” said Camilla. “But I can’t believe … ”
Risa looked over her shoulder with panic. “It will be sunset in less than an hour.” Her throat rasped as she voiced the words. “We have to get back to the caza. Now.”
She thought she would have to argue more strenuously, but Milo was already collecting the reins.
16
—
To trust is wonderful. Not to trust is sometimes wiser.
—A common Cassafortean saying
How pleasant you could join us, cousin.” Cousin Fredo stood on the balcony arrayed in a set of formal houppelandes that belonged to her father. They were much too large for him and nearly swallowed his feet and hands whole. If she had not been so thoroughly out of breath from running, Risa would have gasped at his audacity. “In honor of your father’s absence, I think we will have none of the usual waywardness from you this evening? Or from your … little friends?”
Milo had burst onto the balcony side by side with Risa; they had hopped from the mule cart when it had pulled close to the upper bridge and run as quickly as they could. Camilla, Ricard, and Tania had followed, their eyes drinking in the spacious expanse of the caza and its furnishings. They now stood in the doorway to the caza, panting.
“Fredo, this is serious!” Risa yelled at him.
“Gently … gently!” Fredo replied, touching his fingers to his temples. His fingers twitched in the direction of his metal box of tabbaco da fiuto. “My nerves … ”
“Curse your nerves!” Risa cried, just as the palace horn blew from the domed roof.
With fingers that felt like steel knives, Fredo grabbed Risa’s shoulder and leaned his face close to hers. “Do not presume to use an insolent tone with me, girl,” he hissed. “I am Cazarro in your father’s absence. He would not be pleased at your impertinence, and you know it. You will obey me or suffer the consequences.”
“Release her,” Milo barked out, his voice resonating more deeply and more maturely than she had previously heard. Her cousin’s talons slackened, but their tips still dug into her flesh.
“There’s no call for that,” Fredo said in a quiet tone. “I’ll inform your captain.”
“And he’ll inform you that we were ordered to protect the cazarrina,” Milo proclaimed.
“Even from her cousin,” Camilla added with authority.
The silvery cry of Cassamagi’s horn seemed to cut through the air between herself and her cousin. Risa stumbled back as he released his grip, and Camilla kept her from tripping. When she looked around, she saw that the brother and sister guards had drawn daggers from the sheaths in their belts. Both still regarded Fredo with hostility.
The confrontation had clearly shocked those who witnessed it. Several of the servants were murmuring nervously at the perimeter of the balcony. Mattio looked as if he wanted to brandish a dagger of his own. Even Fita, who had been smug at Risa’s tardy appearance, looked drawn and wan. “Let us speak of this later,” intoned Fredo, trying to calm everyone through gestures and a soothing voice. “We must first conduct the rite. It has been a stressful day for us all, but would that my cousin Ero could see how well you all have carried on in his absence. It warms my heart to belong to this family. It truly does.” He tugged to adjust the shoulders of his robe, which were far too broad for his own narrow frame.
“In my profession,” Tania murmured in Risa’s ear, “we have a name for your cousin’s acting style. Pure ham.”
A rumble sounded in the east, as of distant thunder. Risa looked up in surprise, for it was a cloudless night. The colors of the western sky were the pure reds and pinks of the finest glass.
“I accept it as my humble duty to act as cazarro in my cousin’s absence.” Fredo unfurled the blue and green silks of the Divetri banner. He attached it to the rope that in mere moments would take it into the heavens. “For years have I labored in the Divetri workshops without thought of personal gain. This moment, brief as it is, will be reward enough.”
Risa agreed with Tania. Fredo’s speech sounded practiced and insincere. If her parents returned—when her parents returned—she felt certain he would never let any of the family forget how he got to blow the Divetri horn this night.
For a moment, she thought it was her anger that produced the rumbling sound that once again echoed to the east, but with a start she realized it was a much more ominous noise. It rattled them all to the bone.
“Something’s happening at Portello,” said Milo, leaning in behind her. He pointed east, at the next caza.
“Why haven’t they sounded their horn?” Risa asked. She had heard Cassamagi’s several minutes ago.
Tania gasped; Ricard and Amo ran forward to the rail. Something indeed was happening at Portello—the entire caza seemed to be rumbling, producing the thunder-like shaking that Risa had heard just moments before. The first two tremors she’d heard had been low and quiet; Caza Portello now seemed possessed by the force of an earthquake.
“Good gods,” she heard Fredo say.
Several of the female servants watching the sight clapped their hands to their mouths, smothering cries of horror. From Mattio’s direction, Risa heard a shout. A moan swelled and died in her own throat. No one said a word, however. The iron loops of the Divetri banners, forgotten, rapped metallically against the hollow pole.
The delicate stone spires that distinguished Portello from the other cazas were rocking as if fashioned from playing cards. Often during the rite of fealty, Risa had felt as if she sensed an invisible tie connecting each caza with the palace; now, as the tremors grew stronger, she felt an invisible rope snap, disconnecting Caza Portello from the center of the city.
A covered portico, which extended beyond Caza Portello’s southern extremities and over its rocky beach, buckled. Like twigs, its graceful pillars splintered one by one. The supports that held it over the waters crumbled to dust, dashing the entire walkway into the sea. Portello’s great stone gates, which had faced the city for centuries, now toppled forward, crashing onto the bridge that connected the caza to the city.
A number of servants and craftsmen were running from the Portello residence, barely escaping the great stones as they fell. Risa bit her lip as she watched a man sweep a tiny girl into his arms, his legs trying to propel them both to safety as the first section of the bridge crumbled into the canal. A second section followed, and still the man ran on, not looking behind him. Run! Risa thought. Run!
One of the spires slid from t
he caza’s roof into its courtyard just as the third section of the bridge disintegrated and fell, smashing onto empty gondolas below. A woman standing at the bridge’s end screamed at the man as he ran on; her shriek was audible even over the earth’s terrible roar. A moment later and the man and girl were in the woman’s arms, safe in the piazza in the city. The last section of the bridge disintegrated into pebbles. The traces slowly disappeared under water.
The rumbling stopped. There was a moment of silence.
Screams and crying began to echo through the streets and canals of Cassaforte. In the Piazza Divetri, women and men wailed. A flickering light leapt ablaze at the southern end of Caza Portello, where the portico had been, licking flames along the tinder. Risa gaped in horror at the shell of Portello—a ragged silhouette of rock and fissure against the twilight sky. Architects, the Portello family had been. They were left with little to show for their centuries of labor.
Beneath her own feet, Risa felt a rumble. She looked down to see a pebble dancing across the red and black tiles of the balcony. She stared at it, her mind scarcely comprehending what was happening.
Caza Divetri was beginning to shake. They had not raised the silks. The horn had not been blown.
Mattio spoke first. “Fredo—the banners!”
For a moment Risa thought her cousin might be ill. He had witnessed the destruction of Caza Portello as silently as the rest. She saw that he was trembling.
The tremor subsided. It had been a warning, Risa realized through her fear. They had to act.
“Raise the banners!” several of the household cried out in alarm. Fredo sprang for the flagpole. With shaking hands, he yanked furiously at the rope. It clanked and jerked to a stop as the Divetri silks reached their summit. With the rest of those assembled, Risa looked up into the slate blue sky as their flag flapped in the sea wind.
A second tremor struck the house, much stronger than the first. Its buckling was so intense that Risa’s knees threatened to give out from under her.