Prize of Night

by Bailey Cunningham

  A man and two women emerged from a bend in the city wall. He expected them to be wearing scale loricae, but they weren’t miles. Instead, they wore gray tunicae with curious white embroidery around the sleeves. Their cloaks were fastened by silver fibulae, and as he drew closer, he realized that each of the pins had been carved with a pair of eyes. The pupils were winking garnets. They were speculatores. The spies of the basilissa. Not quite a gens, but invested with considerable power. In her mother’s day, they’d been an oppressive force, hated throughout the city. This was the first time that he’d ever seen them up close. Two of them had daggers fastened to their belts, while the woman in front carried a gladius with a decorated scabbard. She also had a scroll case, fixed to her belt by a delicate chain. He wondered about the documents inside.

  “Stop.” The speculator leveled her blade. “Where are you going?”

  Her black hair was tied back, revealing a neck crisscrossed with small, delicate scars. Babieca was so distracted that for a moment he forgot who he was supposed to be. Then he slouched slightly, letting the lute dangle from his right hand.

  “Just coming from the necropolis.” His speech was slow and heavy. “Played at a funeral. Sad affair. Now I’m looking to pay for some trim.”

  Her expression hovered between disinterest and revulsion. “You’re going the wrong way. The basia district is behind you.”

  “It’s kind of you, Domina, to think that I could afford a mask. There’s a taverna by the wall that rents out rooms by the hour. Not that I’ll need so long.”

  “I’m no domina,” she said, though her tone had softened. “Where is this place of ill repute that you mentioned?”

  “Begging your pardon, but, seeing as it’s unlicensed, it doesn’t have a name. Patrons simply call it the hole in the wall.”

  That last part was a bit much. He could see it in the way that her expression hardened again. But this was all part of the character. He had to be slightly repugnant. They were looking for a trovador who belonged to a company, not a pathetic scop who earned his keep by singing at funerals.

  “You’re awfully brazen about breaking the law.”

  He inclined his head. “Apologies, fair lady. I’m a bit in the cups already.” He leaned against the wall. “If you’d prefer, I can turn right around and head back to a more reputable place of business. I promise to sing the whole way.”

  She grimaced slightly. “I’ve little desire to hear you, nor smell you. Be on your way.”

  He bowed, stumbling halfway through. “Fortuna smile on you.”

  Another speculator murmured something that he couldn’t quite hear. The woman shook her head and made a dismissive gesture. Babieca kept walking. He made sure to lean slightly as he moved forward. He couldn’t believe that it had worked.

  “Wait.”

  He closed his eyes. Damn the wheel. I was so close.

  Babieca kept his eyes on the ground and mumbled: “How can I be of service?”

  “Show me your purse,” the speculator said. “It’s bad enough that you’re charging mourners for folk songs. I want to see how much coin you made from their suffering. Hand it over so that I can count it.”

  “Beg pardon, but I really didn’t make very much—”

  “—now, piss-for-brains. If you’re very lucky, I won’t throw you in the carcer for petty extortion.”

  This was turning ugly. Babieca tried to hold on to the tune that he’d been crafting. If he could play a single staff of notes, they might just listen. The trick was getting them to stand still for that long. They were more likely to break his fingers. He made a show of searching through the inside of his tunica, adjusted his belt, then checked the lute case for good measure. Fel carried the company’s coin. He didn’t have a single maravedi to show them.

  He was about to spread his hands in a defeated gesture, hoping that the speculator would think that he was damaged in the head. That might at least buy him some clemency. But then he heard footsteps, and cursing. Babieca turned, just in time to receive a blow to the face. He staggered backward, tasting blood. For a moment, everything turned upside down. Then he realized that Julia was standing over him, one hand still raised.

  “You miserable son of a bitch!”

  He spat out blood. “What’s happening?” It came out as a sort of wheeze.

  “Are you so drunk that you don’t even recognize your own wife?” She shook her head in disgust. “We were married in the sight of Fortuna, and you promised to cherish me.” She kicked him in the ribs, and he doubled over. “Cherish. Not leave me in that shithole of an insula, while you drink and whore your way across town!”

  The speculator regarded her with mild interest. “He belongs to you?”

  “Aye, Domina. This stinking pile of human refuse, I acknowledge as my own. My dear distracted husband.” She gave him another kick, though it was slightly less vehement. “Any coin he makes, he gambles away.”

  “Apologies . . . lamb.” Babieca struggled to rise. “I was thinking of you the whole time. I swear by the wheel.”

  “What cursed tavernae have you been haunting, wretch?”

  He was impressed by her commitment to the role. “None, sweet wife. I was playing at a funeral. But I seem to have lost what meager coin I made there. This thrice-patched tunica is full of holes. It must have fallen out.”

  Her nostrils flared. “Now you’re insulting my needlework?”

  Babieca could see that the speculator was growing annoyed. This new development had intrigued her for a moment, but now she was liable to arrest both of them. The others were absorbing the performance in stoic silence.

  “I swear—” He gave Julia a sharp look. “I played sweetly for the mourners. The very song that I used to play for you.”

  “You’re a liar and a whoremonger. Play it, then. I doubt you even remember how. Your fingers are as numb against the strings as they are in the bedroom.”

  The speculator rolled her eyes. “This has gone far enough—”

  “Play, damn you.” Julia moved as if to kick him again. “With these sober, goddess-fearing folk as your audience. Prove your worth.”

  Her eyes were full of hope. You can do this.

  Before the speculator could protest, Babieca cradled the lute and began to play. It was an ancient reel—something that he’d heard once, in a smoke-filled taverna. More elegant by far than its surroundings. He’d snatched it that night and tucked it away, silently adding to it. Over time, held close in the dark, it had become his own composition. It was limned by his anxieties, his intensities and wild hopes. It was a summer storm, a kiss in secret, a whirling, unstoppable wheel. He felt it move through him, until every atom was spinning. His fingers danced along the strings. This was faster than he’d ever played before, and he could feel the cut of each note, but he wove that into the song. Blood in his mouth, ringing in his ears, spasms of pain and joy that made him tremble. The song was playing him now, turning him in its arms. He was the instrument whirling in the lathe, faster and faster, about to fly apart. It was love that kept him spinning, kept him together, soaking the strings in blood. He was alive and on fire. It was too much and everything that he wanted.

  To be played. To be heard.

  He opened his eyes (he didn’t remember closing them) and saw the effects of the song. The speculatores were dancing. Not in jerky movements, like marionettes whose strings were being pulled. They had given themselves to the reel, and their movements were smooth, inevitable, as if they’d always been dancing. The women glided alongside each other. The subordinate officer spun her commander around, and she laughed richly. Her delight was high and trilling, a girl’s laugh, startled by her own pleasure. The man danced by himself, turning and spinning to the beat, as if he had a ghostly partner. Their expressions were far away but also extraordinarily present, swept up in the song. What they were doing wasn’t merely important. It was
everything. They were dancing for their lives.

  His fingers were bleeding now, and he could feel the pain. Sweat was getting in his eyes. His hand slipped, and he played a false note. The song shattered. The speculatores blinked and stared, as if they’d just woken from a long sleep.

  “Throw the fruit!” Babieca cried.

  Julia drew the mechanical pomegranate from her tunica. “Step back!”

  “What are you doing?” The speculator reached for her blade, which she’d left on the ground while dancing. “In the name of—”

  Julia threw the bomb at their feet. It detonated as she was running, and Babieca grabbed her by the arm, pushing her ahead of him. The artifact shuddered as it hit the ground, then exploded into a hundred buzzing pieces of metal. It took him a second to realize that they were mechanical bees. They swarmed in a cloud that enveloped the speculatores. Their roar was strangely metallic, and it made him shiver.

  He saw flashes of blood and metal within the cloud. The speculatores were screaming, trying to get to their weapons. Then Julia was pulling him forward, and he could no longer see through the stinging cloud.

  They ran until the road had almost disappeared. The marsh encroached on all sides. Nettles and osiers whipped him, but he kept running. He tried not to think of what they’d left behind. The song and the sting. His fingers ached. That was something to concentrate on.

  He was gasping by the time they reached the entrance to the cloaca. Julia leaned against the crumbling wall. Neither of them seemed to register the smell.

  “Are those things lethal?” Babieca asked.

  “I don’t think so.” She was breathing hard. “They’ll tire. Eventually.”

  “And then what? They’ll attack some innocent bystander?”

  “No. They only have a bit of life in them. It won’t last.”

  He stared at the iron grate that led to the sewers. “Good for them. I suppose they’re fulfilling their purpose.”

  “So are we.” She withdrew an L-shaped key from her tunica. “This belonged to my mother. They used to call her the queen of the sewers.”

  “If you squint, it’s nearly a compliment.”

  Julia unlocked the gate. “She engineered the great cloaca, along with the tunnels underneath. If her schemata are correct, then one of those tunnels should take us where we want to go.”

  “Want is a strong word.”

  “Stop dithering and get in here, before they find us.”

  He stepped through the open grate. Dark water poured across his sandals. Now his eyes were burning from the smell. Julia locked the grate behind them and pocketed the key. As they pushed forward, the ordure rose to his ankles.

  “I’m so glad we decided to visit this place again,” he murmured.

  “We’re safer down here than up there.”

  “Have you seen the size of the rats?”

  “I’ll protect you.” She paused. “Though what you did back there was pretty great. The way you had them dancing? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  His hands still ached. “It was something.”

  “Could you do it again?”

  “What—make the rats dance?”

  “I’d love to see that.”

  He rubbed his jaw. “You hit me pretty hard.”

  “Hush.” She led him forward. “I knew you’d be fine all along.”

  2

  “Are we interesting?”

  Julia paused in the middle of wiping something ominous from her sandal. She was leaning against the filthy wall of the cloaca, her balance precarious. “Excuse me?”

  Babieca watched the river of ordure as it flowed past. Dark shapes were visible beneath the surface. Occasionally, something glimmered. A button, or a bit of colored glass. Detritus that was oddly beautiful in its state of decay.

  “I mean, as characters.” He took a step back from the edge. “Are we the sort of heroes that they write songs about?”

  “You’re the singer. I just tighten bolts.” She replaced her sandal. “I suppose that armies have crept in through the sewer before. Cities have fallen. But those heroes probably weren’t lost.”

  “Are we lost?”

  “Not entirely. But all of these tunnels do look alike.” She stared at a square of parchment. “My mother built this place, so she didn’t need a map. Some of her notations look more like ink blotches.”

  “Characters in a real epic wouldn’t be having these kinds of navigational problems.”

  She stared at him. “I don’t know what tablets you’ve been reading in your spare time—or where you found any spare time at all—but we aren’t exactly in the middle of a narrative poem.” She gestured to the foul water. “This is as prosaic as it gets.”

  “Maybe prose heroes have their own set of problems.”

  “I don’t understand what definition you’re working from.”

  He shrugged. “People in songs are convincing. Shite at love, for certain, but at least they know what they’re doing. I feel like one of your mother’s inkblots.”

  “Your only problem is a crisis of confidence.” Julia took him in with a glance. “That, and the fact that you can’t fight.”

  “This coming from the woman who stabbed someone in the foot.”

  “It wasn’t pretty, but it saved your life.” Julia sighed. “Babs—”

  “Never call me that.”

  She smiled in the dim light. “Just try not to lose your weapon. And keep your sandals out of the shit. That’s all we can ask of any hero.”

  The lantern threw their hopeful shadows against the walls. Babieca read the occasional graffiti. Diotima is a false friend. Felix belongs to every man. He wondered if it was the same Felix. The name was probably common. Then he grew distracted by a drawing, which depicted a man wearing a cock helmet. There was no caption, which was a shame. Babieca wondered how many people had followed these tunnels. What had led them here, trying to outpace the filth at their feet? If Julia was right, then the furs took advantage of this underground nest. They were probably the artists in question.

  “Do we even know that she exists?” Babieca’s eyes watered, from both the smoke and what it was covering. “Has anyone seen her?”

  “That’s hardly relevant. Until recently, nobody had ever seen a lar of the air. But I watched more than a few palace guards shit themselves at the sight of one. They’re as real as a house fire. I imagine the Fur Queen is something like them.”

  “I hope not. There’s no way that I’m riding another dragon.”

  “Well, strictly speaking, it was made of smoke.”

  “My bruised parts would beg to differ with you.”

  They followed the dark flow of refuse and memories. Babieca had to admit that the cloaca was something of a marvel. The founders had built these tunnels when the imperium was barely a spark, and they endured, stretching the length of Anfractus. They could take you anywhere, if you didn’t mind rolling the dice. Furs, animals, and other things nested here. They were well out of their territory, and if Julia’s plan didn’t work, they might never leave. Blind and wet things, used to the darkness, would dispose of them.

  “Maybe this is where the old basilissa’s lampreys ended up,” he observed, glancing leerily at the water. “I don’t imagine they’ve grown friendlier.”

  “The furs have made nice pets out of them,” Julia said. “Like tame dolphins, only with a lot more teeth.”

  “You’re not helping.”

  She paused at a junction. The lamplight was inadequate. Both tunnels ended in blackness that might have signaled the end of the world. “The map isn’t helping, either. My mother’s notes resemble a broken mosaic. I’m not sure which way to go.”

  “Haven’t we been following the aqueduct?”

  She made a face. “Possibly.”

  Babieca closed his eyes for a mome
nt. The chosen darkness was somehow more comforting than what waited for him in the tunnels. “This seemed easier when we were still a company. At least we knew what direction to take.”

  “Back then, we were simply looking for an entrance to the Patio of Lions. All roads lead to the arx—even these. But the furs don’t want to be found.”

  “Do you think they’re watching us?”

  She held the lamp a bit higher. “I’ve no doubt. They’re like cats, just waiting to see which hole we’re going to scurry through.”

  “Did you ever think of becoming one?”

  “A fur?” Julia looked thoughtful for a moment. “I suppose, on my darkest nights, I thought about giving it all up. Sometimes it felt as if the machines had betrayed me. That I’d been doomed from the start. On those nights, I peered down the blind alleys and thought about giving myself to the night gens.”

  “What stopped you?”

  She reached into her tunica and withdrew a small device. It was a mechanical bee, a wonder of gears and graven silver, affixed to a small pedestal. Babieca almost reached out to touch it, his eyes widening in surprise. He remembered standing with her, in the undercroft of the artifices, digging through piles of rich debris and forgotten toys. Sulpicia, the sly-tongued fox, had shown her how to complete the mechanism. That little bee had quite nearly brought down the city of Egressus, when Basilissa Latona used it to draw the silenoi. Now it was still, but he’d watched it tear through the fading day, a scrap of quicksilver. He remembered the reckless joy they’d felt as they chased it through the streets. Nearly flying. A company dancing across the hot, uneven paving stones.

  “Follow that bee,” he murmured.

  Julia smiled. “I remember.”

  “Why did you bring it?”