The Golden City

by J. Kathleen Cheney

  It was a childish reaction, she knew, but when she occasionally saw him, she felt such a welter of conflicting emotions that she always kept her distance. She only hoped that no one else realized he was her father. Heriberto might use that information to force her hand if he learned of it—he could turn her father in to the Special Police—and she didn’t want to give her master that sort of advantage over her.

  No, she must simply find some manner of work, a position that would allow her to stay in the city and pursue the person who had ended all of Isabel’s dreams. She could go to an agency, perhaps, or start checking with dressmakers to see if any needed a seamstress. She glanced down at her worn black skirt. She wouldn’t make a favorable impression wearing this.

  A voice broke into her musings. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  Oriana glanced back at the store she’d just passed. Tucked into the first level of the building beneath an overhanging balcony, the tiny shop sold lace and fabrics and ribbon. The man waiting for her there could not look less like one of their patrons. An older man with graying hair in untidy curls, he dressed like a fisherman in worn brown trousers and a stained white tunic. A red kerchief hid his throat from view.

  Ah gods. He was the last person she wanted to see now. Oriana mentally steeled herself, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. “Heriberto. How did you find me?”

  The sereia spymaster stepped out of the shadows into the lesser shadows. In this part of town, the cobbled streets were jumbled and narrow. With the buildings tightly packed on either side, reaching up four stories high, it was a wonder anyone here ever saw sunlight. Heriberto gave Oriana a false smile. “Your employer eloped, I hear.” He leaned closer, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “And you missed your scheduled report. Why?”

  He hadn’t answered her question, Oriana noted. This wasn’t an ideal location to have a private discussion anyway. Escura Street was busy this time of day, with pedestrians wanting to get past them and on to their dinners. Laundry flapped in the murky breeze overhead, run between and along the balconies, snapping and spraying them with fine droplets of water. “I have something I need to take care of.”

  He raised one scarred hand to touch a finger under his eye, the gesture for disbelief. “You have no business other than what I tell you to have. You had an appointment with Dr. Esteves Saturday afternoon. Remember? I set it up for you, yet you’re still dragging your feet about getting your hands cut. Gods, you’re useless.”

  Oriana was as tall as he was, so she could look down her nose convincingly. “You forget, Heriberto, I’m the only one you’ve got with access to the aristocracy. Who warned you that the navy was moving out on exercises last April?” she whispered. “Who told you that the Marquis of Maraval has friends among the Absolutists?”

  They had been important bits of information, whether Heriberto wanted to admit it or not. The first had come from a naval officer who’d wanted to impress Isabel at a ball, puffing on about how the exercises—which would have taken the navy far too close to the islands—couldn’t proceed without his navigational skills. The other tidbit had come from Isabel herself, simple chatter while Oriana had been repairing a rent in one of Isabel’s dresses. Of course, Isabel didn’t see the Absolutists as a threat—after all, her own father was one of them. But the Absolutists believed in the divine right of the royal family, and therefore that the prince’s ban on the sea folk was perfectly legitimate. The Marquis of Maraval, the powerful Minister of Culture, was supposed to be neutral. If he shifted his views in favor of the Absolutists, it might adversely affect her people. Northern Portugal had always leaned in that direction anyway.

  Heriberto ignored her reminders. “Your access to the aristocracy just fled to Paris. The papers claim you went with her, but I hear her mother threw you out on your ear.”

  Her blood pounded in her ears, and Oriana pushed down the sick feeling that welled up at his claim. How did he know? She glanced down the street at the door of the boarding house. Her expulsion would have been fodder for servants’ gossip up and down the Street of Flowers for the past few days. It wouldn’t have cost him more than a beer or two to hear that tale, but only Carlos had known she was coming to stay with his elderly kinswoman. He must have told Heriberto where to find her. Oriana lifted her chin, trying to appear confident, and lied through her teeth. “When she gets back, Isabel will give me a reference. I’ll find another position then. I just need a couple of weeks to get my feet under me.”

  “Weeks?” Heriberto snorted and made an obscene gesture with his hands that, fortunately, no human would recognize. “To get your feet under you? I heard you’re going to be spending that time on your back to pay your rent. Are you stupid enough to trust a human with the color of your stripe?”

  Most sereia had skin too thick to blush. Oriana was grateful for that at the moment. The warmth flooding her face wouldn’t show. People were passing them on the street, none looking very interested in a petty squabble. Fortunately, the reference to the color of her dorsal stripe—a euphemism for promiscuity back on the islands—wouldn’t mean anything to the passersby who overheard it.

  Oriana had no doubt Carlos had claimed she’d agreed to become his lover, but Carlos had never had a chance of seeing her dorsal stripe. “Don’t believe everything you hear,” she told Heriberto.

  “Oh, I never do.” He stepped closer, grasping her sleeve to keep her from escaping. He kept his voice low. “No one’s ever seen your stripe, from what I hear. You know, I could make your life here a great deal more comfortable, girl, if you’re interested. And I’m well liked back home. I could get you a better position in the ministry.”

  She’d heard that other girls who’d come to the city had done just that, taking Heriberto as a lover in exchange for easier assignments and faster advancement. It bothered her that he had that much influence. Not because he was male. She had no problem with males in positions of authority. But no one should have that much influence over his workers, especially when he was inclined to abuse it. He made a mockery of his posting. She would take Carlos as a lover before Heriberto. No, she would rather turn herself in to the Special Police first.

  He laughed shortly, as if he’d read her mind. “I’ll give you two weeks. If you don’t have a sound position by then, I’m sending you home. I’ll even make another appointment with the doctor for you, next Friday. I expect you to show up this time. My superiors aren’t as tolerant as I am, and I’m tired of making excuses for you.”

  “I understand.” Oriana jerked her arm free and turned away before Heriberto could say more, almost colliding with a burly carter carrying a cask on his shoulder. She managed to sidestep out of the man’s path, an awkward dance set to the sound of Heriberto’s laughter. Clasping her notebook closer to her chest, she strode away.

  “Be there Friday at three,” he called after her.

  She glanced back and nodded sharply in acknowledgment. She’d won one concession.

  “And someone is hunting for you on the streets,” he yelled. “Asking for you by name. Don’t bring trouble back to my door.”

  There was little chance of that. His “door” was a little fishing boat moored on a quay farther from the old town center. She had no intention of going there. Oriana strode out of the narrow, confined street onto wider São Sebastião. When she glanced back over her shoulder, Heriberto was nowhere in sight.

  Her ire faded. Heriberto set her teeth on their sharp edge—he always had. But now that she was out of his sight, the sick and hollow sensation in her stomach returned with a vengeance. Now she had more to worry about. She stopped on the corner and pressed one mitt-covered hand to her belly. Who’s looking for me?

  Surely it was too early for Nela’s mysterious Lady to be doing so, and Carlos already knew where to find her. Could it be Silva, the prince’s seer who had pulled her out of the river three nights before? Or could Lady Amaral have gone to the police after all and blamed her in some way for Isabel’s absence? The last thing
she needed was the police hunting her.

  A gentleman in a dark suit brushed against her as he passed, startling her. He tipped his hat apologetically before he went on his way. Oriana shook herself. She couldn’t afford to be standing here on the street corner like a lamppost. She walked on, feeling shaken.

  She waited for an opening between the carriages traveling São Sebastião, and headed toward the quay. Once there, she stood on the quay in the noontime sun, gazing up toward the old tile roofs of the houses that lined the river. The smell of the water was comforting

  It had seemed clear at first. The police had no inkling of Isabel’s fate, so it was up to her to seek retribution, wasn’t it? She’d been angry. She hadn’t questioned what it would cost her to find the artist and expose him. She hadn’t allowed herself to doubt. But now she knew she was hunting a necromancer. Not only was she hiding from the police, as always, but now she had to duck Heriberto and Carlos as well. She had little money and few friends and no idea where to look next. But none of that would stop her.

  She’d never been able to avenge Marina. She wasn’t going to fail Isabel in the same way.

  * * *

  The library of the Ferreira home was Duilio’s favorite room. It housed a collection of items his father had brought back from his travels. An array of giant clam shells, bleached almost white, sat atop the middle of a large circular table covered with marquetry, supposedly liberated from a pirate’s lair in the South Seas. A chandelier hung above that display, delicate branches of white coral holding two dozen candles—a fixture too fragile to refit for gas lighting. That came from the street bazaars of the desert city of Marrakech. Many of the books that lined the room claimed equally unlikely origin. His father’s desk in the corner—his desk now—supposedly came from Brazil, but Duilio had no idea if that was true either.

  Cardenas had left a telegram atop that desk, and Duilio picked it up. Sent from Paris, it told him exactly what he’d expected. Marianus Efisio was there, but neither Lady Isabel nor her companion had ever arrived. Efisio intended to remain there until he received word from Isabel. Duilio tucked the telegram into a pocket, uncertain whether he felt sorry for Efisio or not.

  Felis, his mother’s maid, appeared on the threshold of the library and fixed him with her hawklike eyes. “What is this about you wanting to see me, Duilinho?”

  Her voice had an angry edge to it, as always. But the woman’s bark was, as it was said, far worse than her bite—most of the time. Duilio smiled at her and withdrew a small bundle from his other coat pocket. The bribe should definitely come first. He’d seen a woman selling barnacles on the quay—Felis’ favorite treat. “Please, Miss Felis. I’ve been looking for a few days now, and I can’t find someone. I thought perhaps you could help.”

  She exhaled loudly but walked over to the chair he held out for her, her eyes on the bounty of barnacles. He closed the door, and when he returned she was happily chewing away on one of the briny treats. She drew a tattered box of cards from her apron pocket, removed the deck, and slid them toward him. “What do you need to know, Duilinho?”

  Felis wasn’t a witch, he felt sure. Her talent lay in getting someone to organize their thoughts around the cards she presented, making it seem as if the cards knew what was in their subconscious. At least, that was what Duilio suspected she did. While his gift usually only told him yes or no, her card work seemed to bring out more complete answers for him. He didn’t often ask this of her, though, as he didn’t want her to think he took her for granted.

  He picked up the deck, shuffled it, and put it back in her wrinkled hands. “There’s a woman. I need to find her.”

  Felis withdrew one card and lay it facedown on the polished surface of the table. “This is your card, Duilinho.” She started to deal the cards out into three piles. “Is she a criminal?”

  “No,” he said quickly. Many would argue that point since she was in the city illegally, but he didn’t see Miss Paredes that way. “A witness. A victim.”

  Felis picked up one of the stacks and turned over the first card, the two of spades. “Yes, she’s under a cloud. Is she in hiding?”

  He wasn’t familiar enough with Miss Paredes to predict her actions, but hiding was a good guess. “I suppose.”

  Felis discarded one card and laid out another. “In her place, what would you do?”

  He sat back. If he’d been captured and nearly killed, he would have been trying to find the person responsible, investigating. But a woman would be more likely to seek assistance, the police or . . .

  He shook his head, annoyed with himself. Why was he assuming she would ask for help? If she was a spy, that implied an intrepid nature, a self-reliance he’d not been factoring into his expectations. If such a thing had happened to him, he wouldn’t have known whom to trust. He would have tried to solve the problem himself.

  “Seven of diamonds,” Felis said, drawing his thoughts back to the cards. “Traveling near water, perhaps?”

  Miss Paredes might return to her people’s islands, he reckoned. “A sea voyage?”

  “No, not the sea.” Felis continued to deal out the cards, ending up with several facing upward. She spread them wider and scowled down at them. “The river. Hmm. Why would she do that?”

  Duilio reached to flip over the first card she’d laid down, only to withdraw his hand hastily when she slapped it. “You said it was my card,” he protested.

  “They’re all my cards, boy, so leave it alone.”

  That seemed unfair. One of these days he was going to find a book that listed the supposed meanings of each card. For all he knew, Felis was making it up as she went along.

  She slid the jack of clubs out from where it had been hidden behind another card. She scowled and said, “There’s a man involved. A man with ill intent.”

  Well, he had to agree that the man who’d put Miss Paredes in the river had ill intent. Perhaps the card represented the artist, Espinoza. “I knew that,” Duilio said. “Any ideas where I can look for her?”

  “Back to the water, boy. She’s going back to the water.” She looked up then, clearly at the end of her reading. “That’s where you’ll find her.”

  Duilio sat back, puzzling over that claim. It was so vague as to be useless. Felis began to retrieve her cards, apparently ready to leave. When she picked up the last card—the hidden one she’d said belonged to him—she chuckled to herself. Duilio leaned around and saw the king of hearts in her fingers. “What does that mean?”

  Felis tucked it in among the others, slid the box back in her pocket, and gathered up her handkerchief full of barnacles. “Remember, boy, you don’t believe in the cards.”

  He felt a flush creep up his cheeks. Her tone wasn’t remonstrative; more teasing than anything else. But he didn’t believe in fortune-telling. Not exactly. He wished he’d thought to dissemble instead of admitting that as a child. He helped her to her feet and opened the library door for her. “I believe in you, Miss Felis, which is more important.”

  The old woman snorted and walked out without a backward glance.

  Duilio paced around the library once, trying to settle his anxious mind. In the far corner, the normal collection of social invitations waited on his desk for his attention, but he didn’t sit. The prayer niche between two bookshelves offered no answer at the moment. He contemplated the liquor cabinet and decided that wasn’t the answer either; that had been Alessio’s favored response to problems, and it had never served him well.

  Somewhere on the library shelves, Duilio recalled, there should be a volume in French that told of the strange and barbaric society of the sereia out on their islands, supposedly penned by a sailor who’d been there. His father had brought the book from Lyons or Marseilles, and Duilio had read it a dozen times as a boy. He halfheartedly scanned the shelves, aware that the answer wouldn’t be between its covers either. He couldn’t find the book, though. It was probably sitting next to the copy of the Camões epic that Joaquim claimed should be in this library;
he still hadn’t found that.

  Duilio finally flung himself onto the sofa and stayed there, fretting.

  If he were to seriously consider the fortune Felis had laid out before him, then he had to believe Oriana Paredes would go back to the water. Not her home, not the islands, but to the river. Could she be swimming in the chill waters even at this moment, living in the rough, as selkies did? That didn’t seem right. Every time he’d set eyes on her she’d seemed to fit in perfectly, not chafing at the restrictions of human society. He could no more imagine Miss Paredes hiding among the moored boats along the quay than he could his own mother. No, Oriana Paredes was living in the city. She was going to the water. Returning, Felis had said.

  Duilio sat up abruptly. He knew exactly where he would find Miss Paredes; his gift told him he was right. She was going to return to the scene of the crime.

  CHAPTER 8

  MONDAY, 29 SEPTEMBER 1902

  The sides of the submersible groaned, an eerie sound to hear while trapped inside its metal body. Oriana pressed closer to the viewing window. She clutched her hands tighter about her handbag to still their shaking. She didn’t trust this creaking metal fish.

  She could have simply swum here but couldn’t afford to risk being seen. And she hadn’t wanted to breathe in that death-laden water, so she’d sold her best pair of embroidered silk mitts to old Mrs. Nunhes at the boarding house to purchase a ticket aboard this rickety contraption. Now she’d begun to question that decision.

  Set every few feet along the walls of the submersible’s viewing room, the white-painted casings of small round windows dripped water onto the decking, whether from leakage or condensation, Oriana didn’t know. Either possibility suggested poor workmanship. Even so, she was only one of nearly a dozen paying customers crammed into the small vessel. Finely dressed citizens of the Golden City pressed against those dripping windows, straining to catch a glimpse of The City Under the Sea.