“What kind of something?”
Daniel remained at the hearth, and Naila settled into his chair to study him. He really didn’t want this, did he? Even if he somehow managed to pull it together and convince his father to change his mind, it wouldn’t take long before Daniel found a way to sabotage it again. And she had no doubt the old man would throw his own son out rather than turn over his position in the Quinta to someone who would only see it slip through his fingers anyway.
The bracelet was warm on her wrist, the egg a cool, smooth object against her side, where it weighed through her pocket. And there was another artifact now, wasn’t there? Perhaps she could put it to use.
“Naila?”
“Forget what I said before. Stay out of your father’s way, don’t give him any more reason to turn to your cousin. I have a better plan. Leave everything to me.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The train came screeching to a halt halfway across the Great Span. Iliana, waiting for it on the city side with Carbón, thought at first that there was either a problem with the boiler or a warped rail on the track.
Figures dropped from the cars and began moving about. Fog shrouded the span above the Rift, and she struggled to understand what was going on, trying to pick out the raised voices across the distance and above the wind.
Iliana and Carbón weren’t alone in waiting on the platform at the edge of the Thousand Terrace. Mercado’s purchasing agent was with them—a sharp-eyed fellow by the name of Rodarte—along with the tall young guard, Mota, who’d been involved in the incident the previous week when the amorous couple was discovered hiding on Mercado’s estate.
Mota had only been obeying his mistress’s orders when he tossed the boy into the Rift, but Iliana felt an instinctive bristle of dislike seeing him standing with his hand on the pommel of his sword, surveying the bridge as if he were a captain of the guard.
Carbón frowned. “Why has Torre’s man stopped the train? Is this about money?”
“I’ve paid all applicable duties,” Rodarte said. “I can’t see what would hold up the shipment. Come on,” he said to Mota, and the pair took the metal staircase down from the observation platform and set off across the bridge.
“Maybe it’s about the foreigner,” Iliana said when Mercado’s men were gone.
“Basdeen isn’t a foreign land. Not really.”
Basdeen was foreign enough to Iliana, who had only crossed the Great Span a half dozen times in her life, and then traveled only so far as the water station at the third tower of the Quintana Way. She’d never even been to Dalph. It was hard to imagine the bustling river port, all on flat land, let alone a coastal city like Basdeen. The ocean—a vast, plain-like expanse of water—was something she struggled to understand.
Carbón grimaced. “We’d better follow those two out, in case Rodarte decides to negotiate on our behalf. There’s a reason Mercado is so rich, and it’s not because her agents spend freely.”
Iliana didn’t understand his grimace until they’d set foot on the span. He moved to the center of the bridge and walked slowly, almost wobbly on his feet, like he was drunk or fighting nausea. She gave him a look.
“No need to stare,” he said. “Yes, I’m afraid of the bridge.”
“You go into the mines easily enough—that’s a lot worse. All the dark and tight quarters.”
“Except I’m not scared of the dark or tight quarters. I’m not fond of them, mind you. But the span terrifies me. I feel like I’m going to stumble all the way to the edge and throw myself over.”
“Why the devil would you do that?”
“I didn’t say it was rational.”
It seemed to be a real phobia, so she made her voice soothing. “You’re twenty feet from either side. That’s a long stumble.”
He glanced at her through half-squinting eyes. “Don’t try to make sense of it.”
“Stay in the middle. You’re safe here.”
“I know that intellectually, Iliana. I really do.”
“Sorry.”
His worries had ignited her own. Not that she was generally skittish of heights—hard to be that way living on a cliff-side city—but there was something about the void yawning below them and the empty sky above that inspired such feelings. And there was the subtle motion of the bridge itself, as the wind made it sway gently.
“Distract me,” he said. “Tell me a joke or something clever.”
“Here’s a distraction.” Iliana glanced behind to make sure no one was following, although how could she be sure of that anymore? “Naila Roja tried to recruit me into the Luminoso.”
“Wait, Naila? Are you saying Daniel Torre’s wife is a cabalist? Are you sure?”
“Very sure. I was caught out last night, and a witherer found us—or would have if Naila hadn’t hidden us somehow.”
She told him about the bracelet, the slithering creature of shadow that had nearly sniffed them out, and how Naila had demanded a piece of information to be initiated.
“She’s not just a cabalist, then, but a master in the Luminoso,” Carbón said. “Only the masters have artifacts.”
“How do you know that?”
“The cabalists keep their secrets,” Carbón said, “but not perfectly.”
Mercado’s two men had reached the train, which sat huffing as several people stood in front of it, arguing. Carbón took Iliana’s arm and slowed her pace.
“And did you give her anything?”
“Of course not. I’d never do that—I’m loyal to you.” Something occurred to her. “You don’t suppose she knows about the artifact in the mine, do you? And that was the secret she’s digging for?”
He shook his head. “If the Luminoso knew what we’ve found, they’d have already shut us down to get their hands on it.”
“We’re practically shut down already,” she pointed out. “Scraping old seams and propping up shafts with tree trunks so we can knock down the support columns and buy a few more days.”
“All the more reason the cabalists can’t find out.”
“I could join them, or pretend to join. With your knowledge and approval, of course,” she added hastily. “Give you inside information about what I learn.”
“If the cabalists could be infiltrated so easily, don’t you think the Quinta would have people on the inside already? Besides, that would open you to blasphemy charges. No, Iliana, it’s too dangerous.”
He fell silent, a thoughtful expression on his face as they came upon the train. At least he didn’t seem to be fighting vertigo anymore, thanks to the conversation. She kept studying her master as he eased up to the knot of arguing men and women. Listening, first, gathering information before he barged in, unlike Mercado’s buyer, who was already in the thick of it, gesticulating wildly, his voice rising to be heard above the others.
Alan Carbón was a good man. She’d known that by reputation even before she’d taken his examination and become his chancellor—a dream position for anyone in the Forty, a way of cementing one’s place in the upper terraces—but had confirmed it firsthand over these past six months in his service.
The question now itching at her mind was not whether she could respect and honor him, but if she could love him. She’d been wondering that ever since Patricia proposed it two nights ago while they were hanging lead and pinning garlic.
Rather cynical, wasn’t it? Her family was struggling, ready to crumble and fall down the hillside, and so Iliana was scheming about marrying into the Quinta so she wouldn’t face the filth and poverty of the lower terraces.
Maybe she was looking at it wrong. It was hardly cynical to look for a good man and a good match. If she found that, why couldn’t she fall in love? She thought she could. In fact, looking at Carbón now, maybe that foundation was already laid. Getting him to love her back was the trick.
She paid closer attention to the argument, which was indeed about money. There were several spectators—other agents and guards, as well as passengers coming up
from Dalph, who opened the windows and leaned out to listen—but the protagonists were Rodarte—Mercado’s agent—and Torre’s man, a sly looking fellow by the name of Aquino, who had a reputation of absolute loyalty to his master. They were not shouting, but neither did either man back down.
Rodarte waved a sheet of paper in Aquino’s face. “Authorized by Crespo, and carrying Torre’s seal. I paid the entire duty demanded by your people.”
“And not a black coin more,” Aquino noted, with scarcely a glance at the paper.
Rodarte thrust out his chin. “Why should I pay more? I provided a list of goods. You took it with you, you fulfilled it yourself.”
“Along with a list of alternate goods. We were unable to get salted cod, and the hides came up short. That left mother of pearl and more brass hinges to fill your order.”
“I wasn’t expecting the price to be so high. Why did our agent on the coast overpay?”
“Apparently because you left her no clear instructions,” Aquino said. “In any event, she said you would cover the difference.”
“How much are they short?” Iliana asked Carbón.
“A duty of seventy-two escudos.”
“That’s all?” she said. “I’d thought we’d be talking about gold, not a little silver.”
Torre’s man, Aquino, turned from his argument and looked down at Iliana across the length of his slender nose. “Seventy-two is enough. One escudo would be enough. It is the prerogative of Lord Torre. He collects no debts, only coin. You want to cross the Great Span and enjoy the protection of his towers, then you must settle with gold and silver before your shipment returns to the city.”
“Ridiculous,” Rodarte said.
“Are you disputing the amount?” Aquino said.
“I’m disputing the insistence on advance payment. I don’t have the money, and I’ll need authorization.”
“Then find your mistress, get authorization, and dig into that vault of yours—much as it pains you to do so—and bring back the coin that you owe.”
Rodarte shook his head. “The problem is Mercado—you know how she gets during sack and ash. She’s at the family shrine. It’s the Day of the Dead, and she’s honoring her ancestors. If I interrupt her . . .” He shuddered.
Iliana lowered her voice this time, not wanting to be a focus of the argument. “I have money. Could we loan it to him?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“You mean the code.”
“Exactly. We need another solution.” In a louder voice, he said, “How about me, Aquino? Do I owe extra duty?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Twenty-two and eight. I’ll take that now, if you please.”
Iliana raised her eyebrows as she accepted the bill of goods that Aquino removed from a satchel at his waist. She glanced over it. They’d received a great price for the outgoing shipment of coal. Their agents in Dalph and on the coast had done extremely well, and the sum was being held in vaults, awaiting instructions.
By code, Carbón paid his duties not based on the weight of coal passing over Torre’s bridge, but on the price per ton received at the end of the journey. An estimate was paid, then the overage or underage corrected when the train returned to the city. Since Torre also collected on the returning goods, he always made out well.
She fished out a quinta, two silver, and eight brass pennies and handed them over. They felt heavy and cool in her palm, and she couldn’t help but think of the food and supplies they could have bought for the Diamante household.
Rodarte eyed her purse as she shifted it, clinking, back inside her cloak. “Help me, here,” he said, pleading not to Iliana, but to Carbón. “I wasn’t expecting an extra duty—maybe five or ten escudos, but nothing like this. Lend me the money, will you?”
Carbón looked reluctant. “Alas, I cannot.”
“Why not?” Rodarte demanded.
“Tell him,” Carbón said to Iliana.
“That would be a violation of code,” she explained. “No combined business operations—that is a restriction placed on all of the Quinta. No mingled funds.”
“I’m not talking about either of those things,” Rodarte said.
“And moneylending is forbidden to Lord Carbón.”
“It isn’t moneylending, not really. Only a few coins borrowed until evening.” Rodarte’s eyes narrowed, as if something had suddenly occurred to him, and he turned to Carbón. “You need the trains back, don’t you? Need to get them up to the plateau and loaded again? So it’s in your interest to see the cars cross into the city—it’s not mingled business at all.”
“That is true,” Carbón said. “Iliana, how much do you have?”
She counted. “Two quinta, three escudos, a few black coins.”
Rodarte snapped his fingers at Mota, who produced a purse. Rodarte nodded as he counted it. “Close, very close. So we’d be short about ten pieces of silver. That’s nothing.”
“Ten is still ten too many,” Aquino said.
Rodarte groaned. “Oh, come on!” He looked around. “Is there anyone who has ten escudos?”
“I have better than that,” a woman said from among the passengers who’d gathered around to listen to the argument.
She pushed her way forward. She was about forty, thickly built, with strong forearms and that light complexion you sometimes saw from coastal people, as if their skin, hair, and even eyebrows had been bleached by the salty air.
“Who are you?” Aquino asked.
“The name is Anne Grosst. I’m an engineer with business in the city. Your master already clinked good silver to haul me down the coast by coach. Up the river by paddler boat, then again by rail. Part of this shipment is Lord Torre’s responsibility. Yours, in other words. I’d say that’s good for ten of your silver coins, cut straight from the toll.” She spoke with a nasal accent and clipped some of her words.
“You’re Grosst?” Aquino said.
“That’s what I just said, didn’t I?”
“But you’re not wearing an engineer’s chain. And shouldn’t you have a counting frame at your belt?”
“Are all of Torre’s men as slow as you? I’m from Basdeen, you dolt. Listen, I’m covering the cost of the duty, and the lord can pay me back later. Ten escudos, you say?” Grosst fetched a purse from her belt and loosened the drawstring. “I’ve got twenty silver half-moons. That’s about the same, yeah?”
“More or less, but I don’t think . . . that is, I’m not sure what the code says on this.” Aquino looked around. “Carbón?”
“You’d have to ask at the temple to be sure,” Carbón said, “but I don’t see how it would be a violation. She’s your master’s cargo, so it seems valid to have her pay the duty.”
Grosst waved her hand. “Blast your silly code. You can worry about that later. I have business on the Quinta Terrace, and I’m too tired to hike up those infernal staircases you call roads. I want to go up in the train, and that means settling this now. Take the damn money, will you?”
There was some more back and forth, but in the end, Aquino accepted payment from Iliana, Rodarte, and Grosst and called the debt good. Someone shouted up to the engineer to stoke the engine, and the rest were soon returning to the passenger car. Carbón eyed it doubtfully and waved off Aquino’s offer to climb aboard.
“You’d rather walk?” Iliana asked as the train huffed into motion. “What about your vertigo?”
“It’s worse on the train. Feels like it’s going to drive over the edge.”
“You realize that’s all in your mind, right? It’s on rails, for one.”
“I accept that it’s all in my mind, that it’s a silly fear, and yet I’m also convinced that the train is going over the edge all the same.”
Iliana laughed and shook her head. They set off on foot as the train eased into motion. The weight of the train—not so heavy as when it departed carrying coal, but heavy enough—made the bridge vibrate underfoot.
He stopped and closed his eyes. “How old is the Great
Span, anyway?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Five hundred years old? Six?”
“Exactly. Really, really old.”
“And in all that time, nothing has ever happened,” Iliana said. “Earthquake, high winds, frost—Torre doesn’t even paint the metal parts to protect it from rust, that’s how much magic is in it.”
“Yeah, well if the ancient wisdom is right, not even the stars last forever.”
“And someday the bridge is going to fall into the Rift.” She made her tone soothing. “But I’m reasonably sure it’s going to hold up until we get back to the Thousand.”
“You’re probably right.” He glanced at her through squinted eyes. “All the same, do you mind taking hold of my arm so I can shut my eyes?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Later that afternoon, now eleven days into sack and ash and roughly midway through the dreary three weeks of penance, Carbón brought Torre up to the mines. It was a relief to finally have the engineers who could move the blasted artifact. He’d exhausted his stockpiles of coal, and if he didn’t get the artifact out soon, there would be serious trouble. His crews were working a couple of tapped out seams, chiseling out what little they could find, but that would buy him very little time.
There were eight in the company, not counting the drivers, with six in the carriage up front and the two Quinta lords alone in the rear carriage.
The carriages stopped midway up the Quinta to stay clear of a train of rail cars easing slowly down the mountainside on its way to the Great Span. This was only a cog railroad for hitching up and down the city, and the coal would need to be transferred to a regular train before it crossed the Great Span and continued to Dalph.
Miners—men and boys coming off shift—sat atop the coal-filled cars. They peered, raccoon-like through masks of coal dust, staring at the carriages. Rag-wrapped hands gripped the sides of the cars as they descended so they wouldn’t be thrown clear with each jolt against the cogs.
Several other men, clean and dressed in the gray and gold of the city watch and armed with swords and muskets, clung to the sides of the cars, and they kept an eye on the passengers to make sure none of the workers jumped off to do mischief while they were passing through the upper terrace.
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