We Are Bound by Stars

by Kesia Lupo

  ‘Late night for a young wolf,’ a voice says from the shadows. ‘Glad to see you safe.’

  ‘Jack,’ I say as Old Jacobo steps into the moonlight, a huge pipe hanging from his lips. The outlandish red velvet cloak he was wearing earlier has been replaced with a plain black version with a glimmer of something expensive at the collar. Jack has a penchant for everything bright and sparkling; he especially can’t resist a brooch. ‘Can we talk?’

  His expression is grave as he puffs out another stream of smoke along with his words. ‘Follow me.’

  A small crooked shop stands a few buildings down – once a watchmaker’s and now a pawn shop, displaying an assortment of valuables, heirlooms and oddities behind its square-paned glass. We ignore the Closed sign on the grimy door and step inside.

  Behind the counter, the door to a small back room is ajar, spilling a narrow vein of light into the dusty shop. Old Jacobo leads me through, the candles wavering as he pushes open the door. Although small, the room is luxuriously furnished: walls covered in tapestries threaded with gold, gilt mirrors and outrageously decorated porcelain; floorboards covered from wall to wall with luscious rugs; the table crammed with ornaments; and a candelabra dripping with beeswax. Despite the opulence, the overall impression is cluttered, incoherent, mad. I love it.

  A boy slouches on the overstuffed velvet armchair by the empty fireplace but stands when we enter, his cheeks flushing red.

  ‘Bring us some panacea, there’s a good lad,’ Old Jacobo says to him. ‘And tell Gambo I’m back, will you? He can come down in an hour to discuss the latest shipment.’ And while the boy slips out gratefully, my host gestures for me to sit down at the fine wooden table in front of the cracked-open windows.

  The thing about Old Jacobo is he’s younger than he pretends to be: behind the big stomach, the grand clothes, the bushy grey-speckled beard and the kindly bluster is a keen and calculating mind. He cultivates the idea of himself as ‘Old’ Jacobo. Perhaps people underestimate him as a result – and that suits him perfectly. But in reality, he’s probably not much older than Father would’ve been, if he’d lived.

  He leans against the mantelpiece, gazing down at me kindly. ‘Now, what’s all this about, Livio?’

  My jaw tightens as I accept the seat. ‘You shouldn’t call me that,’ I say.

  He smiles an insincere apology. ‘Slip of the tongue. Apologies.’

  I nod. Old Jacobo is, as far as I know, the only person in Vico’s life who has discovered his true identity. When I first started sneaking out into the city – and back again – I wasn’t so good at not being followed. But, to the best of my knowledge, he hasn’t told a soul in three years. Nor has he asked anything of me in return.

  I know I shouldn’t, but I’ve found myself trusting him.

  ‘There was someone in the crowd tonight,’ I begin. ‘Tall, long black cloak. And a gold pendant. Do you know who I mean?’

  ‘I saw them too,’ Jack says. ‘But I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’ve no idea who they were.’

  I sigh in frustration.

  ‘But I got a good look at that pendant,’ Old Jacobo says. ‘Interesting, wasn’t it?’

  I glance up. ‘The Santini sun – but incomplete. Elisao tells me it was a symbol from long ago. When Scarossa was the capital of an independent kingdom.’

  He smiles genially as the door opens and the boy brings us our panacea, filling two glasses and leaving. All the while, we’re silent. When the door clicks shut, Old Jacobo brings me my glass and sits down on the chair opposite mine, cradling his drink.

  ‘I’m no scholar like your friend. But I do know we’ve been seeing that symbol a lot recently, around the city. Painted on to walls. Carved on to lintels.’

  A chill runs through me, and I sip my drink. ‘I saw it on the walls at the docks, not long after we left tonight. The paint was still wet. And there was a line of writing …’

  ‘Revolution is coming,’ Old Jacobo supplies. ‘Yes – we’ve seen that too.’

  ‘How long has this been happening?’

  ‘Difficult to say exactly. Weeks – perhaps longer.’

  I pause. ‘And what does it mean?’

  Old Jacobo rests back in his chair, swilling his untouched drink around his glass. An earring glitters above his collar. ‘There’s the real question. I have my suspicions. But I’m not sure it would be entirely wise to tell you what I‘ve heard.’

  I blink. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve been good to you, boy. Saved you from a scrape or two. Helped you train for the Battaglia. Kept your little secret. Would you agree?’

  I feel cold, even my thoughts are frozen, but somehow I force myself to nod. Where is he going with this?

  ‘Never had a son of my own,’ Old Jacobo continues, then pauses, takes a sip. ‘And you without a father.’ He smiles slightly. ‘Well, it’s only natural we should feel a sort of bond. So let me tell you, Livio’ – he leans forward, lowering his voice, so close I can smell the panacea on his breath – ‘if the rumours I’ve heard are true, you do not want to be asking these questions. If I were you, in fact …’

  ‘What?’ I barely move my lips.

  Something in his expression hardens. ‘If I were you, I’d be thinking of … travelling.’

  I frown. ‘Travelling.’

  He leans back in his chair. ‘There’s far more to the world than this walled city. Don’t you want to see it? No time like the present. All too soon, your youth will vanish like panacea in sunlight. Trust me.’ Despite his light tone, his face is as grave as I’ve ever seen it. ‘I won’t be able to protect you, Livio, if you stay here. And neither will your grandmother.’

  I swallow my fear at the sight of his uncharacteristic expression. Run away? Never. Especially when I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be running from. I down my drink, relishing the warm bravery running through me, the anger burning away all other emotions.

  ‘Listen,’ I say, standing up and leaning against the mantelpiece. I’m glad to see my reflection in the mirror appears strong, determined. ‘I’m not the travelling sort. And I’m not a helpless child – I don’t need your protection. So I’d be grateful if you’d tell me what you’ve heard. In fact, I won’t leave until you do.’ I lift my chin, meet his gaze.

  Old Jacobo smiles – though his eyes remain sad. His fingers tighten around his glass. ‘I thought you might say that. I’ll tell you, then – but you didn’t hear it from me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He takes a deep breath. ‘Word on the street is that Shadow has returned.’

  I shake my head in frustration. ‘Shadow? Who’s that?’

  Old Jacobo lifts an eyebrow. ‘Sometimes I forget you are not from my world, boy. He’s a great, powerful crime lord. Perhaps the greatest of us all … A pirate king – or so he calls himself. They say he has the biggest crew of any of us – and every one of them is a Rogue.’

  I frown. Rogues are dangerous mages who aren’t part of the temple system. By law, every new mage who discovers his or her powers must be initiated into one of the nine temples, first experiencing a ceremony – the Binding – which tethers their power to one of the gods, keeping it safe and controllable. Rogues, for one reason or other, have bypassed this law. But without the binding, a Rogue is in danger of losing hold over their power, of being overwhelmed by pure magic – the malign, wild energy of Chaos – at great danger to themselves and everyone in their vicinity. ‘Surely that’s not possible.’

  Old Jacobo watches the fear and doubt pass over my face and shrugs. ‘There’s more. They say Shadow won’t stop until he is King of Scarossa.’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘Really – king? He thinks he can rule the Wishes?’

  ‘Apparently so,’ he continues, swirling the drink around his glass once more. ‘Trouble is, none of us have set eyes on him – only on the effects of his presence. The graffiti, for instance. Magical attacks, too – but no evidence left for us to follow, no revenge. Yelic was assassinated two nights ago.�
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  Old Jacobo’s gang is relatively small, despite its outsized influence in the underworld. But Yelic had a huge network which outnumbered all of his rivals’.

  ‘Now his gang is fighting to determine who will be leader – and who is benefitting?’ Old Jacobo shakes his head. ‘Not me. Not any of the others. And yet, resources disappear. Swallowed by shadows …’ He smiles slightly at his play on words. ‘Shadows, I suppose, are all we have. Hard to understand a shadow. Harder still to fight it, bargain with it. I’ll hand him this – it’s clever. We see what he wants us to see. But I’ll tell you this, boy. I don’t like it. He’s hiding some place none of us have found.’

  I’m shocked that none of the crime lords have been able to locate the newcomer – no one knows Scarossa’s secret, hidden places better than they. ‘Where can he be?’

  ‘Rumour is he’s found a way into Dark Scarossa.’ Old Jacobo shrugs. ‘Make of that what you will.’

  I scratch the back of my neck, raising my eyebrows in disbelief. Dark Scarossa is the mythical city said to be under this one – the new built upon the old until its whole network of streets and buildings was buried, hidden underground. But as far as I’m aware, no one’s ever found more than a room or two of the old city, concealed in cellars or off the sewers. What’s been found, the crime lords already inhabit. I shake my head, dismissing the thought for now and returning to the question of motives. ‘So this Shadow is responsible for the graffiti?’ I think about what Jacobo said: he won’t stop until he is King of Scarossa. ‘He’s whipping up fervour against the Contessa, isn’t he?’ I say, answering my own question.

  Old Jacobo nods. ‘Implying that she’s under the heel of the temples and the King, drawing on old feelings – feelings that run deep as blood … Revolution is coming,’ he quotes.

  ‘He thinks he can get the people on his side. Or at least use them to exploit the Contessa’s biggest weakness – her remoteness.’ I shut my eyes, roll my shoulders. Suddenly I feel incredibly, witheringly tired.

  ‘He won’t stop at graffiti though, young wolf,’ says Old Jacobo slowly. ‘Understand? Revolution is one part of the puzzle. But it’s in removing the Contessa that he’ll find his true opportunity.’

  ‘He’ll have to go through fifty True Masked mages to get into the palazzo. Hundreds of mage guards.’ Even I can hear the note of desperation in my voice.

  Jack’s face is stony as he shrugs. ‘I know nothing of magic. But I know something of crime lords and pirate kings.’ He stands up. ‘We have our ways of finding a path through the toughest defences. I have told you everything I can for now. If you won’t leave, then you need to be ready.’

  I stand up too, setting my glass on the mantelpiece. ‘So the figure in the crowd tonight … it was one of Shadow’s people?’

  ‘So I’m guessing. But what they were doing there, what they hoped to achieve …’ Old Jacobo shakes his head. ‘They’re circling, Livio. But if they’re expecting easy prey, they won’t find it in me.’ Unexpectedly, then, he pulls me into a hug. He smells of spices, of bitter blacklung and – faintly – of seawater. ‘Be careful, boy,’ he says as we pull apart. ‘Keep your lips shut and your eyes open.’

  Outside, Old Jacobo’s boy tells me there’s a young man waiting for me on Cutpurse Lane, adding a quick description including a pair of gold spectacles. I breathe in sharply. There’s no one it could be but Elisao – but unlike me, he’s not well known in the jewellery quarter. He’s put himself in danger even being here: the crime lords don’t like strangers.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I hiss as I walk up to Elisao, taking him by the arm and pulling him gently out on to the main street. ‘It’s not safe.’

  ‘I had to see you. And I knew you wouldn’t be sleeping tonight without answers,’ Elisao says. ‘You talked about asking Old Jacobo …’ He’s wearing a hooded cloak. Beneath the shadow of the cloth, his eyes look scared behind his spectacles.

  My heart softens. ‘Come on – let’s get out of here before you get more than your pockets picked.’

  We don’t speak until we reach the palazzo square and – in wordless agreement – sit on the steps of the library. My thoughts are spinning fast as a top – but what to say? There’s yet more silence as we both measure our words. I can feel Elisao fidgeting – he hates silence. A clock strikes four somewhere behind a cracked window. Lights are starting to flicker on in the palazzo bakery.

  ‘What did you want to talk about?’ I ask. But at the same time, Elisao says, ‘You went to Imris temple.’

  We both smile a little, the tension easing slightly.

  ‘Your nose. It’s fixed.’ He frowns at it. ‘A tiny bit crooked, but I think it’ll look roguish. Hope it wasn’t too expensive.’

  ‘Yes. Imris temple,’ I say, shoulders sagging with the weight of yet another lie.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me that’s what you were going to do?’

  ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘It doesn’t. That’s the point. Why not tell me?’ He removes his spectacles, rubbing the glass lenses on his shirt. ‘Sometimes it feels like you’re a stranger, Vico. You know everything about me – from my address to my eldest sister’s middle name. But you’re still a mystery to me. Why can’t you trust me?’

  I gaze up. The stars are shining bright, despite the late hour. The tiny pinpricks of light shimmer as my eyes fill with tears – until it appears they’re a shining web of prisoners, connected and trapped by chains of silver. And I know, in spite of everything I’ve learned tonight, in spite of the world shifting beneath my feet … ‘I can’t do this any more.’

  ‘Do what?’

  I blink my tears away. ‘Vico’s not my real name, Elisao.’

  He stares at me. I glance around the square to ensure we’re alone.

  ‘I’m Livio Santini,’ I say quietly.

  Elisao blinks. Laughs. Blinks.

  ‘It’s true,’ I add, frowning.

  ‘Gods,’ he curses softly, shaking his head. ‘I thought … I thought maybe you were the son of a nobleman … but this!’ He meets my eyes, and I watch as he blinks again. ‘The grandson of the Contessa!’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. I—’

  But he’s not listening – I can nearly see the cogs of his mind whirring. He interrupts me as another thought strikes him. ‘Does this mean you’re a mage too? You shouldn’t really be fighting in the Battaglia.’

  I snort. ‘Technically, yes. But I’m no good at it. Even if I wanted to use magic to help me in the Battaglia, I’m not sure I could.’ I feel light, floating on a cloud of pure relief. I’ve told him – and he’s still here, sitting next to me, talking to me, gazing at me …

  On impulse, I lean forward and press my lips to his, feeling the roughness of our stubble, the slightly awkward clash of our mouths. And yet, my heart is racing. I’ve been longing for this for so long. He relaxes into the kiss, and I feel … desire, yes. But peace. Calm.

  The feeling, deep down, that this is right.

  We pull apart, breathless. For a few moments, we stare at each other in pure delighted surprise.

  ‘Look …’ I say at last. ‘You’ll hear about it soon enough … so I might as well tell you. My cousin has died. I’m the heir of Scarossa now.’

  Elisao’s eyes widen. ‘Vico … I …’ He shakes his head. ‘I mean, Livio. I’m so sorry about your cousin.’

  ‘Thank you. But I never knew her,’ I murmur, shrugging a little. ‘Honestly, when Grandmother told me, the only thing I could think about was that I would lose this life … lose you.’

  Elisao’s mouth flickers in a half-smile. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. It’s always been wrong for me to sneak out into the city, to live this other life. But now, with all my new duties …’ I reach out, lifting his hand in mine. ‘But I can’t give it up. I don’t care. This is just as important. I sacrifice my daylight hours for Scarossa – but night-time is for me. For us. Somehow, I’ll figure it out – I’ll do both.’

  He put
s on his spectacles, a frown worrying at his brow. ‘But when will you sleep?’ he says with genuine concern.

  I laugh. ‘I’ve managed so far. I can do it.’ And – as if to prove it – I kiss him again, long and gentle. When we pull apart, we linger close for a long moment. Reluctantly I say, ‘I should go …’

  ‘Can we meet tomorrow?’ Elisao asks breathlessly.

  ‘Midnight, right here,’ I say, a smile playing at my lips as I stand up. ‘See you then, Elisao.’

  His eyes shine as he smiles back. ‘I’ll be waiting.’

  SIX:

  Red Magic

  Beatrice

  I wake suddenly, my breathing fast and shallow. It’s still dark: I can’t have been asleep for more than half an hour.

  Something woke me. But what?

  A floorboard creaks nearby, and all of a sudden I know that someone – someone else – is in the room with us. My heart races as I try to pick out an unfamiliar shape in the darkness. I tell myself it’s a bad dream, that this old house always shifts in the night, but my body won’t listen. Every muscle in me is sprung tight, and there’s a swirling, sick feeling in the hollow beneath my chest.

  A second noise. It’s very quiet – but this time, it’s unmistakeable. I peer into the gloom – the darkness is shifting, a figure separating itself from the shadows. If I scream, the palazzo guards will hear – but my throat is tight and dry. I can barely breathe. I clench my fists.

  The figure solidifies as it nears the window, faint moonlight outlining long robes, a hood with shadow beneath. Tall and broad, it’s surely a man – but he moves with the silence of a cat.

  He stops at Valentina’s bed, the closest to the door. He raises his hands. From his palms, a bruised light flickers like the last rays of a stormy sunset, shifting and sparking. A mage. My eyes widen.