Wandering Star (The Quintana Trilogy Book 1)

by Michael Wallace

  “If she’s upset, there’s a reason,” Carbón said. “Iliana isn’t prone to overreaction.”

  “I wouldn’t have said so either,” Mercado said, “which is why I’m inclined to take her seriously. She’s organized half the upper terraces in the search and is offering a large reward. An imprudent amount, in fact.”

  “I’ll cover it if she can’t.” Carbón nodded at Salvatore. “I think he might know something about it.”

  Salvatore sniffed. “I won’t be questioned by the likes of you.”

  “Do you know anything about this?” Mercado asked sharply.

  “Why would I?”

  “Because Lord Carbón says so.”

  “He is impious, disrespectful—”

  “Now you’re not questioning his piety,” she said, “you’re questioning mine. I have a chest of fifty gold quintas I meant to take to the temple this afternoon. Shall I leave the chest in my vault, or will you answer the question?”

  Salvatore drew himself up. “No, I did not have anything to do with Captain Diamante’s disappearance, if that is what it is. Which I doubt. I’m sure he’s drunk and unconscious, probably in the arms of a dumbre gutter whore.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Mercado nodded solemnly. “If that’s all it is, you’ll have no trouble lending me some of your cabalists to aid in the search.”

  He didn’t look pleased at this. The Guardian of Secrets, Carbón suspected, was not used to taking orders from anyone. Not from the Quinta, not from within the Luminoso itself. He seemed to answer to nobody, except perhaps the Master of Whispers, but Carbón had no idea who that man—or woman, possibly—could be. Perhaps Lady Mercado herself, for all he could guess.

  “I cannot possibly do that,” Salvatore said. “For one, that would mean disclosing the identity of my cabalists.”

  “For one?” she asked. “Is there anything else?”

  By now, several others had arrived. Included among them was Lord Torre, leaning on a cane, moving stiffly in the company of his son, his daughter-in-law, and the young Pedro Torre y Curiel, his nephew. The boy worried at a small carving of a bird hanging from a thong around his neck. Most of the paint was gone, having been rubbed off, but there was a bit of yellow on the wings that showed it had once been a finch.

  Salvatore eyed the newcomers, and something flickered across his face. Discomfort, or possibly worry. “For another, my people are engaged in other pursuits.”

  “That is preposterous,” Mercado said. She turned to Carbón. “Surely he can manage assistance when two lords of the Quinta are asking for it directly, don’t you think, Lord Carbón?”

  “Absolutely,” he said, enjoying Salvatore’s discomfort and seeing no need to stand in the way of Mercado’s anger. He was tempted to feed it a little bit, even. “Although now that Lord Torre is here, we can say that there are three of us requesting the master’s assistance.”

  Mercado flushed beneath the ash on her face. “Yes, three of us. Do we need to send for de Armas and Puerto to make it official, Salvatore, or will you help us?”

  Iliana arrived, together with her sister and mother, perhaps drawn by Mercado’s raised voice. A few others picked their way through the garden paths, including two of Mercado’s guards, Torre’s steward, a pair of servants, and Mercado’s oldest daughter, a girl of about sixteen. About twenty people in all surrounded Salvatore, Mercado, and Carbón. The cabalist looked increasingly agitated at the attention, and glanced toward the edge of the terrace as if he wished he could jump over the edge, flap his arms, and fly away to safety.

  Someone coughed behind Lady Mercado. The sound came from a large stone planter in the corner of the terrace, snugged up against the railing. A short tree—about fifteen feet high, with a carefully trimmed, bowl-like canopy—sat in the middle of the planter, surrounded by a box-like hedge. Someone had apparently climbed over and was hiding there, concealed by the hedge.

  Mercado turned about with a scowl. “Who was that? Who is in there?”

  There was no immediate answer from behind the shrubbery.

  “Late-night revelers, no doubt,” Lord Torre said.

  “Show yourself! Mota,” Mercado said to one of her guards, “if he doesn’t show himself in two seconds, you can shove your sword through the hedge until he does. So help me, Salvatore, if this is one of your cabalists, spying on me—”

  “My lady, I would never,” Salvatore said.

  Someone rose from behind the hedge, and Carbón was suddenly convinced that it wouldn’t be a cabalist after all, but Iliana’s missing brother. Dead drunk. But it was neither Rafael nor a cabalist, but rather a young woman, who climbed out of the stone planter, running fingers through her leaf-tangled hair.

  “Looks like you were right,” Daniel Torre said to his father.

  “Who are you?” Lady Mercado demanded.

  “I—my name is Tilassa, Your Grace.” She made a clumsy attempt at a curtsy.

  “From what family? What ill-bred parents have . . . ? Wait, you’re not from the upper terraces, are you?”

  “No, Your Grace. I . . . that is, I’m from the Thousand. My father is a shingler.”

  Carbón groaned inwardly, Iliana drew her breath next to him, and others exchanged glances.

  “Then you are in the Quinta under penalty, aren’t you?” Mercado said.

  Her tone last night, so filled with cheer and welcome, had turned as cold as the icy breath of a lemure, and had much the same effect on the girl, who began trembling violently as one of Mercado’s guards approached with a scowl.

  Naila cleared her throat. “Who was in there with her?”

  Mercado glanced at Torre’s daughter-in-law. “What?”

  Naila’s tone was smooth, innocent, but there was a glint in her eye that Carbón didn’t like. It looked like malice. “I can’t be sure, but it seemed to me that it was a man’s cough I heard.”

  Mercado grabbed Tilassa’s arm. “Was someone in there with you?” She gave her a shake. “You can only make it worse for yourself by lying.”

  “No, I . . . There’s no one. I fell asleep. I didn’t hear anything, I swear. I drank too much, and my head is cloudy. I swear, I don’t know what’s happening, what you were talking about, and I would never tell anyone.”

  “This isn’t about what you heard or didn’t hear, child,” Torre said. The old man’s voice was firm, but not unkind. “You should not be here, not today of all days.”

  “I didn’t know it was so late,” Tilassa said.

  “It seems a harmless mistake,” Carbón said, anxious to cut this off before it got ugly. “And it’s barely dawn. A few minutes earlier, and we wouldn’t even be having this conversation, we’d be sending her off with a warning.”

  “I agree,” Torre said. “A stripe or two should teach her a lesson.”

  “It is a day of penance!” Mercado said, her pious outrage only seeming to grow. “And this one was found profaning the Quinta, asleep and indolent.”

  “Then punish her quickly and send her away,” Carbón said. “We have other things to discuss.”

  He had no desire to see the girl crying out as Mercado’s men stripped her and gave her five or ten lashes, but he was quite sure that Naila’s malicious observation was correct. There was a man in there, someone who had reason enough to stay hidden while his lover took a beating on his behalf.

  Better to move this discussion elsewhere before he was discovered. Meanwhile, Naila walked around the planter, looking over the hedge that ringed the small tree at the center. Carbón jerked his head at Iliana, who stood closer, trying to encourage her to intervene. Recognition dawned on Iliana’s face, and she made a move.

  “Ah, there you are!” Naila exclaimed. “Yes, there’s a young man hiding in here, Lady Mercado. Someone had better fetch him out.”

  The guards moved to obey as if ordered by Mercado herself. A figure exploded over the hedge before they arrived. It was a young man, wearing only a pair of short clothes. He hit the ground barefoot, tumb
led to his knees, then rose and made a run for it.

  One of the guards seemed caught unaware, off balance, but the other had the presence of mind to stick out his boot. The young man tripped and went sprawling in front of Carbón. The guards dragged him to his feet, and he thrashed about, eyes wild with terror. Carbón got a good look and groaned inwardly as he recognized the boy.

  It was Rodi, the young man from the dumbre who’d gained entrance to Lady Mercado’s party on sheer swagger. He wasn’t swaggering now. Dawn had caught him on the Quinta Terrace.

  Oh, Rodi. How could you be such a fool?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Torre stared in alarm as the guards dragged the young man to stand in front of Lady Mercado, a hand on the back of his neck, others gripping him by the arms. The boy struggled, trying to free himself, until one of the guards slammed him in the belly with a fist. The other drew a dagger and held it to his throat. The young man stopped struggling.

  Mercado was quivering with fury. She pointed a finger in his face. “I told you. I warned you.”

  “What?” the young man managed. “I didn’t hear it, I swear.”

  She swept her hand to indicate the small crowd. “People standing here heard. Didn’t you all?”

  Naila nodded. “‘Dawn will arrive before you know it.’ That’s what Her Grace said. That’s what we all heard.”

  “Yes!” Mercado said. “Yes, that is exactly what I said.”

  Torre leaned in to his son and whispered, “Do something about your wife, dammit. She isn’t helping.”

  Daniel only gawked, looking helpless to intervene as Naila stood with her arms crossed next to Mercado, nodding solemnly as if she had been witness to a great crime. Carbón was whispering urgently in Iliana’s ear, but looked bewildered, as if not knowing what to do. Or perhaps not understanding the gravity of the situation. This was going to end badly if someone didn’t stop it.

  “I’m sorry, please. Too much wine. Too much black apple, I didn’t know.”

  “Go on,” Mercado said. “Tell me all of your excuses. Maybe one of them will cover for your crime.”

  The young man took that as a literal invitation, and began to babble a string of nearly incomprehensible excuses: he’d fallen asleep, he’d forgotten what day it was, he hadn’t noticed the sun rising, the girl had seduced him when he was trying to leave, and so on.

  “Do something,” Pedro whispered in Torre’s ear.

  Torre shook his head at his nephew. It was too late now. “Mercado will have her punishment.”

  “I know, but you can deflect it.”

  Daniel spoke, voice too loud. “Stay out of it, Pedro, or you’ll get yourself in trouble.”

  That brought a glare from Mercado, which silenced the side talk. “Keep going,” she told the young man. “Tell me how you were scared of witherers. How a lemure infested your soul and made you do it. How we’re all asleep and only dreaming that you’ve abused my hospitality and befouled my estate with your presence. I’m only imagining that you broke the code and blasphemed the sanctity of the Quinta. Go ahead, tell me.”

  The young man—now only a boy in Torre’s eyes, not much older than his nephew, Pedro—could only gawk. He was no longer struggling. The guard had withdrawn the knife and was watching his mistress, awaiting her proclamation.

  “Come now,” Carbón said. “Give the boy ten lashes and send him on his way. We are here to find Captain Diamante, and this is a pointless distraction.”

  “Ten lashes?” Mercado said. “Are you mad, Carbón?”

  Torre understood now what his nephew had been getting at. He couldn’t stop this, but maybe he could turn it aside.

  “I agree with Lady Mercado,” he said loudly, and was relieved when his voice didn’t quiver with age. “Ten lashes? Twenty wouldn’t be enough. Give him thirty and cut off his ears. One ear, if you are feeling particularly lenient. But he must be made an example to others.”

  The boy closed his eyes. “Oh, God. No.”

  Carbón was frowning, and Torre gave him a sharp look. Carbón’s eyes widened, and he gave a slight nod, seeming to catch Torre’s intention.

  “Yes, I see,” Carbón said, tone thoughtful. “If this dumbre goes home unpunished, he’ll tell them the Quinta is soft. He’ll tell them the Quinta is in no condition to rule the city. And then we’ll have trouble from the lower terraces.”

  “I won’t say anything like that!” the boy said. “I honor you, lords and ladies! I will go home and tell them to worship the Quinta, to do what they say without question. That they are wise and merciful and—”

  “Very well,” Lady Mercado said. She nodded at her guards. “Send this fool back to the lower terraces.”

  “Oh, thank you!” the young man said.

  “The fast way,” she added.

  The guards grabbed the boy’s arms, and his eyes fell open in recognition, even as his legs gave out, and he collapsed. The two guards, much bigger and stronger than their thin young prisoner, heaved him up and hauled him toward the balcony.

  “No, wait!” Iliana said.

  At the same time, the young man’s lover—Torre had forgotten all about her, as she had remained trembling in the background, not trying to intervene beyond her initial lie, nor escape in the commotion—opened her mouth and screamed. It sounded like a cat being torn apart by a pair of dogs.

  The boy was gasping, trying to beg, but unable to get his voice out through his terror.

  “Lady Mercado!” Carbón said over the screams. “For pity’s sake!”

  She folded her arms and turned away. Her expression was stone.

  The guards lifted the boy and tried to toss him over the edge. The boy grabbed the sleeve of a guard with one hand, and the other hooked onto the edge of the stone balustrade. Cursing, the men pried and hammered at his hands. He flailed, clawing and grasping, and then they got him loose and heaved him into the void.

  And now the boy found his voice. A long, harrowing scream trailed off as he plummeted into the Rift. Then a thump, the scream stopped, and another thump, with the scrabble of dislodging rocks and gravel that echoed along with the body as it tumbled against the cliff toward the bottom of the Rift.

  Torre glanced around him in horror. Most of them looked stricken, including Iliana, who had grasped her mother’s arm, and been grasped by Rafael Diamante’s wife in turn. Carbón stood rigidly, mouth slack.

  Torre’s nephew, Pedro, looked all of his eighteen years, as frightened and terrified as a child. His lower lip trembled as if he was on the verge of tears. Daniel shook his head in horror, and he looked weak and scared.

  And then Torre’s eyes fell on his daughter-in-law. Naila had a gleam in her eyes, a wicked upturn to the corner of her mouth. She was more than amused, Torre realized with disgust, she was delighted by the spectacle. Like a child who had found a bird’s nest and taken pleasure in feeding the chicks to a cat.

  The young man’s lover had stopped screaming, and Mercado fixed her with a hard stare. The girl’s face was gray as she realized she was now the focus of the woman’s wrath.

  “As for you . . .” Mercado said.

  “No, please.” It came out in a whisper.

  “You are from the Thousand, so you won’t die. But you must be punished. Lord Torre’s punishment seems appropriate. Take her down to her own people, give her thirty lashes, and cut off her left ear. And be grateful that I am feeling lenient.”

  Mercado’s guards moved to seize her. The girl stood trembling as if paralyzed as they took her arms. They didn’t seem pleased by what they’d done, nor excited by what they still needed to do.

  Torre looked once again at Naila, who was still wearing that gleeful look on her face. It was sadism, nothing more.

  And Torre knew then, if he hadn’t already known before, that he would never give his son the ring, nor command of the Great Span, nor any of the other responsibilities. Because he was weak, and Naila was strong. Strong in a way that terrified him.

  Instead, his neph
ew would take the ring. Pedro wasn’t ready yet, but Torre swore he would hang on for a few more years until he was. And then Pedro would be the new Lord Torre of the Quinta.

  Not Daniel. Never Daniel. Let him make his way among the Forty with his wife.

  As this last thought occurred to him, Naila looked up and met his gaze. The pleasure on her face smoothed into a neutral nothing. Only a slight hardening around the eyes gave her away. It was almost as though she had been peering into his head and listening to his private thoughts.

  A chill worked its way down his spine. And then he felt himself hardening in turn. That final look in Naila’s eyes only confirmed his decision.

  Enjoy your moment, daughter-in-law. Your days in the Quinta are limited.

  Chapter Nineteen

  By nine bells, Captain Rafael Diamante still had not been discovered. The city was stirring, hungover or still inebriated from late-night drinking. Most people slept through the gongs, couldn’t be roused by the clankers going up and down the streets, banging their tin bells, or even by trumpets from the Luminoso temple, proclaiming the start of three weeks of penance.

  What did wake them were watchmen from the two city walls rattling gates in the Forty, banging on doors in the Thousand, and shouting angrily for the dumbre to rouse themselves in the lower terraces. The people were sullen, resentful at having their sleep interrupted, and threats of violence met the watch in turn.

  Lady Mercado, after seeing to the punishment of the pair found sleeping in her garden, was reminded by Lord Carbón of her feud with Salvatore. The Guardian of Secrets had slunk away, and she stomped down to the temple to find him. Her servants carried a chest filled with fifty brass pennies, which she flung open.

  “This,” she said, “is all the money the temple will see from me until your cabalists have found the missing captain. I swear this by the First, Second, and Third Plenty.”

  Salvatore, perhaps thinking better of angering Mercado after seeing her display a few hours earlier, insisted that he’d already put several cabalists to work, and promised he would have the whole of the Luminoso looking for the wayward captain just as soon as they finished their cleansing rituals.