Prize of Night

by Bailey Cunningham

  He fastened the dagger to his belt, whose fake gemstones were chipped. The buckle was supposed to resemble a boar, but it looked more like a flattened-out dog. The chain that held the dagger was coming undone, and he had to keep checking to ensure that it was still attached. Not that the dagger was particularly useful. The cheap wire grip bit into his palm and was probably sharper than the blade itself. He hadn’t used it in some time. He couldn’t imagine plunging it into something that was actually alive. Mostly, its job was to cut apples (if he could manage to steal one) or to scratch graffiti on unguarded walls. Perhaps he wasn’t a real trovador, but he did enjoy carving his name into various surfaces.

  Babieca replaced the bricks in the wall. Now there was no trace of him left in the alley. It might have belonged to anyone. The moment that his life ended, this safe space would be given to someone else, some terrified nemo who was making the transition for the first time. After retching all over the cobblestones, they’d look up, trying to figure out what had happened. They’d see the moss on the bricks, the arterial shadows on the faded red wall, and wonder why it all felt so familiar. Have I been here before? Did I ever leave? Naked and disoriented, yes, but also on fire with hope. It was intoxicating: the realization that you’d shed your skin, that you could be anything in this reckless place. And they’d never stop to wonder if this lacuna—their alley, now—had once belonged to someone else.

  He drew his knife and carved a capital B into the wall. The moss was slightly offended but made no visible protest.

  Then he stepped out of the alley, joining the crowds as they merged onto Via Rumor. Brackish water flowed down the street, and he stepped onto the paving stones to keep from soiling his feet. A meretrix had done the same, and she regarded him for a moment. Her mask was carved with animals that blurred into one another, shadowed by foliage. He inclined his head. She gave him a half smile and then kept walking. The soles of her sandals had been carved with arrows, which she left imprinted in the dust of the street. Follow me.

  He didn’t, as much as he might have wanted to. There was no time, and the last thing he needed now was to run into Felix. The house father wasn’t precisely an enemy, but whatever alliance they’d once shared was clearly a thing of the past. He was working with the oculus. Babieca didn’t even know his name. He was just another mask. Someone he’d never really known in the first place.

  The roar of the clepsydra brought him back to the world at hand. The giant water clock loomed over one half of the great piazza, thundering as it powered Fortuna’s wheel. He watched her guises revolve. She danced, stole a loaf of bread, polished a knife against a whetstone. She was everything that they hoped and feared themselves to be. And she wanted them to change, to leap to another spoke, narrowly avoiding the crush of the wheel as it screamed past them. Day gens and night gens both held possibilities. Like peculiar families, they kept the city of Anfractus humming. The faces and blood ties were older than anyone could properly remember. Older perhaps than the imperium, which had either fractured or been broken, depending on the story that you heard. Some considered Fortuna to be an upstart goddess, while others maintained that she’d always existed, in one form or another, taking on whatever raiment they gave her.

  Babieca liked the feel of the spray. He watched the ceramic vessels as they moved along a track, emptying themselves into the great tank. The wheel turned. For a moment, he thought he saw his own face, under shadow. But it was only a trick of the dance. When he blinked, the image was gone.

  “I hope you aren’t thinking of lifting anyone’s purse.” Julia materialized next to him, wearing a head scarf. A few orange curls were faintly visible around the edges. “I don’t feel like starving to death in the carcer.”

  His expression hardened. “I’m no fur.”

  “Of course not. That’s why you’re being sent to the hidden tower. Because your morals are clearly impeccable.”

  “This wasn’t my plan, in case you’ve forgotten. Pulcheria seems to think that we can enlist the aid of the Fur Queen, however impossible that might be. It’s a pretty desperate throw, but I’m not going to argue with royalty.”

  “You were outvoted.”

  “Thanks awfully for reminding me. I enjoy reliving the moment.”

  She pulled him behind the shadow of an empty fountain. A few coins and wheel tokens gleamed in the gray water. “You may not be one of them,” Julia said, “but you’re the closest thing that we’ve got. You need to commit, or else it isn’t going to work.”

  Julia had always stood at the edge of their company. It was her artifact that had propelled their first quest—a mechanical bee that had nearly killed Basilissa Pulcheria. The daughter of a master artifex, she’d always belonged more to Anfractus than any of them. As a result, she had the most to lose. For the first time, Babieca realized that some small, bleak part of him blamed Julia for Roldan’s death. Her stupid device had started all of this. If they’d never met her, they still would have been haunting the Seven Sages taverna. Not a real company, but still, somehow, complete. Now they were broken, and still she refused to pick a side.

  “Since when are you qualified to talk about commitment?”

  “Listen, you arrogant shit. You may think that I’m not part of this, but you dragged me into it. Before I met you, I had a profession, a future. That’s all gone, thanks to the dumbshow that you call a company.”

  Babieca shook his head. “You can only blame us for so long. You made a choice, artifex. It was a wild throw, but you made it, all on your own. And now you’re a part of something. It may not be what you expected, but don’t tell me that you aren’t the tiniest bit satisfied with your decision. It sure as shit beats making mechanical frogs.”

  Julia started to say something sharp in reply. Then she sighed. “That was getting pretty dull. And the pay was awful.”

  “You’re the daughter of a famous builder. This is where you belong.”

  “With a trovador who stinks?”

  “It’s the tunica.”

  She sat on the rim of the fountain. “You’re not a fur. But Morgan’s right. They aren’t going to meet with someone who isn’t at least slightly debauched. You’re the best chance that we have.” Julia blinked. “Now that I’m saying it aloud, it does sound bloody unlikely.”

  “That’s a stirring speech.”

  “It’s all I’ve got at the moment. Aside from a bomb in the shape of a pomegranate.”

  His eyes widened. “Really? Where is it?”

  “I’m not telling you.” She inched away. “And don’t shake me, or this fool’s errand will be over long before it begins.”

  “Does that mean you’re ready?”

  “It means I’m as daft as the rest of you.”

  He smiled. “That’s what makes us special.”

  They headed toward the Subura. As they neared the infamous neighborhood, the ground began to slope downward, and they had to dance along the paving stones to avoid the dark effluvia below. Crumbling firewalls had been built around the entrance, to ensure that it could be cut off from the wealthier vici should disaster strike. Wolves and gamblers were considered acceptable losses, so long as the lavish homes on the hill remained untouched. They walked past the street popinae, which smelled of burning chickpeas. Every gens fought for space at the sun-warmed counters, while the exhausted owners ladled out bowls of questionable stew. Taverna were packed and spilling out crowds onto rickety patios, which made the street all the more congested. Through the shuttered windows, he could smell cheap wine, blackened mushrooms, and the reek of sweat. It was delicious. He spotted an unattended mug and plucked it from the counter. It was cheap terra-cotta, but the pornographic scene engraved upon it was still quite interesting.

  “What are you doing?”

  Babieca drained the cup and quickened his pace. “Just getting into character. Would the furs really expect a sober singer to darken their door?”


  “You’re unbelievable.”

  He tossed the mug into an unsavory corner, where a young man in a wreath had already passed out and was snoring lightly. “You might want to loosen up as well. At best, they’re going to think that you’re a lupa.”

  “Do I look like a whore?”

  “That question feels rhetorical.”

  They kept walking, until the black basia was in view. An indistinct figure was leaning over the second-floor balcony while a steady stream of people moved below. It might have been Felix, but he was too far away to tell. More likely, it was Drauca, the house mother, who often surveyed the vici from her crow’s nest. Felix was probably in the tabularium, balancing the ledgers and avoiding confrontation.

  The paving stones grew more uneven as they continued past the basia district. After a while, the road itself became theoretical, crumbling into mud and unsavory patches. Broken things glimmered in the dark water: a cracked amulet in the shape of a matrix, a legless doll, a bundle of rags better left undisturbed. A few wolves had set up shop in the long shadows, and they waited on stone beds, reading or patching their clothes. One boy played the flute, and his country song, though tremulous, was true. Babieca thought about stealing a few of the notes, but decided against it. Small betrayals were often the worst kind. He nearly tripped on a phallus carved into the disintegrating road. Fitting punishment. Julia snorted.

  “They really are dangerous,” he said.

  “I don’t know. I like the decorative ones that hang in doorways. I saw one the other day with lots of little bells, and it looked rather friendly.”

  “They’re a relic of the old empire. Back when people still had a sense of humor.”

  “What do you know about the empire?”

  He stepped over what looked like a nest of twigs or small bones. “Only what Felix used to tell me. When he felt like talking.”

  Julia made no response. The street gave up its battle and descended into marsh. They were close to the necropolis. He remembered gambling by the gravestones, while a few wolves attended to their offices. He could smell the decaying flowers and see the small speckled eggs left on the plots belonging to children.

  “I’m missing something,” Julia said finally.

  “You’ve forgotten what happened the last time we visited this place? There was a silenus, and a good deal of running.”

  “Not that. I meant what happened between you and Felix.”

  “That’s not a very exciting story.”

  “Morgan seems pretty annoyed by it, though she refuses to tell me anything.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be fun if it didn’t annoy her.”

  Julia stopped walking. “Is that why the meretrix won’t help us anymore?”

  Babieca could feel himself growing angry. The wine wasn’t helping. He didn’t want to talk about any of his catastrophes. “I’m not the only reason.”

  “We’re not going to get very far if you keep fucking us out of potential allies.”

  “I didn’t—” He closed his eyes for a moment. “It wasn’t that, all right? We may have collided once or twice, but it was just a bit of play. It meant nothing.”

  “To you? Or to him?”

  He scowled. “This line of questioning may be why you have so few friends.”

  Julia smiled and made an expansive gesture. “I have a whole company.”

  They fell into silence again. Babieca tried to avoid the marsh, which hungered for his sandals. He thought of the baby bats, asleep in the crypt, and the still line of graves that resembled ivory dice. Each soul was a pip. He had no die to work with. Just the dagger, which might escape him at any moment. He thought of the fine blade that Felix had given Roldan, elegant and perfectly balanced. Was it somewhere in the ashes of the house by the wall? Latona had burned it down, to keep them from escaping, but they still found a way out. The bones of the house remembered, even as the flames devoured them. Not even a basilissa could prevent them from doing what they had to. It’s not my knife, Felix had said. It’s yours. The delicate incongruity of watching him lift the weapon, so carefully, as if it were hot and alive. It was probably melted now, a congealed pool of silver among the ruins.

  “We were entangled,” he said, after a time. “Briefly. I suppose we were both looking for something else. Though we forgot precisely what that was. It may not have existed.”

  “You sound like a tragic poet.”

  He shrugged. “A poet would craft a story. I don’t really have one. I’ve never thought in terms of an epic narrative. I just crawl from line to line.”

  “That wine has turned you maudlin.”

  The anger broke free. Babieca turned on her. “What in Fortuna’s name do you want from me? A song? Something you can dance to? It doesn’t work that way. I’m an idiot. I ruin people. I’ve disappointed everyone who ever gave a shit about me. I’ve lied and stumbled and fucked my way through two lives, and neither of them is working out.” He leaned against a brittle wall whose topmost part had fallen away, revealing a pulverized core. “The only person who ever truly saw me is gone. And before the body was even cold, I returned to the black basia for a bit of pointless trim. Even the sheets were judging me. How am I supposed to turn that disaster into music? Nobody would listen to it.”

  Julia was startled into silence for a moment. Then she began to laugh.

  Her reaction threw him off-guard. “What’s so amusing?”

  “You talk like you’re the first person who’s ever been in love. It’s always a disaster. If it weren’t, then you’d have nothing to sing about.”

  “I think you’ve missed the part of the story where everything I touch turns to shit.”

  Julia took his hand. For a moment, he expected her to squeeze it tenderly. Then she jerked it sharply, slapping him across the face with his own palm.

  “You seem fine,” she said.

  “You’re mad.” He touched his cheek, wincing. “And mean.”

  “And you’re acting like a spoiled puppy. Wake up, trovador. You’re alive.” She pointed at the necropolis. “Those poor bastards in there have no hold over you. They’re nothing but a pile of grave goods. You can still change the world. Your song may be ridiculous, but it’s far from finished. Snap out of it and start playing. Otherwise, I’ll leave you here to commune with the dead. I could use an extra pair of sandals, and that lute will fetch a price, even if it is cracked.”

  Babieca grinned slowly. “You can be quite motivational when you’re tearing a man’s heart out. It reminds me that I hardly know you.”

  “I’m not that complicated. Neither are you.” She started walking again. “Come along. This place is starting to stink.”

  They followed the crumbling wall that separated Anfractus from the forest beyond. Babieca could almost feel the silenoi on the other side, twitching their spears. They were always spoiling for a hunt. The basilissae had upheld the treaty that kept them from hunting during the day, but Latona wanted to change that. She seemed perfectly willing to trade the lives of her subjects for a chance at re-creating the imperium. Whatever that might mean. Shrines and frescoes were all that remained of the glorious empire, along with whatever agreements had been made to keep the hunters at bay.

  He saw a flicker of something on the path ahead of them. Sunlight gleaming against metal. He grabbed Julia’s arm, pulling her behind an anemic tree whose branches did little to conceal them.

  “Someone’s waiting for us,” he whispered. “I just saw them.”

  “How many?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How extraordinarily helpful.”

  “At least—” He bit down on his retort. “Never mind. I think it’s a small patrol. Three at most. What’s the range of your pomegranate?”

  It took her a moment to register what he was asking. “It’ll have to be close. And we’ll need adequate cove
r.”

  He scanned the surface of the curtain wall. Large sections of it had crumbled away, revealing the original stonework. A bad patch job had resulted in an uneven section, which afforded a small niche where they might hide. At least, it appeared to be wide enough for two people. He couldn’t be sure, and there was no time to measure the space.

  Babieca pointed at the crumbling lacuna. “Get in there and wait for my signal. Then throw that thing as hard as you can.”

  “What’s the signal?”

  “My screaming.”

  Julia frowned. “Maybe you should hide. An artifex is more respectable than a trovador. They might let me pass.”

  “They’re looking for a female artifex. They’ll stop you for sure. But there’s nothing unusual about a wandering singer. I can blend in.”

  “Babieca.” Her voice wavered. “If they realize who you are, they’ll crack you open like a lobster and nail your lungs to the wall. If Fortuna happens to be watching, you may already be dead when they do it. But there’s no guarantee.”

  “That’s a lovely image to put in my head. Thank you.”

  She grabbed his hand, this time in earnest. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

  “Someone needs to reach the tower. You’ve got Pulcheria’s token. If things go badly, wait for them to disperse, and then head for the cloaca.”

  He removed the lute from its case and kept walking. He didn’t look back. His instinct was to run or creep forward, but he willed himself to keep an even gait. He began to play an old song. “The Amber Tunica.” He threw in some false notes. He could feel the slight weight of the dagger, still hanging from his belt. Would there be time to draw it? He tapped the surface of the lute, focusing on the tempo rather than the terror. As he neared the spot where he’d seen the flash of steel, he began to stumble and curse beneath his breath. He was a drunken singer who posed no threat. He repeated this to himself, until he believed it. Meanwhile, a silent, secretive part of his mind was constructing a more dangerous song.