Mine. Not the family’s, not the clan’s. So much death over so many years in the name of our family, of our Claim, and he exulted in casting them aside to take what he viewed as his own.
Chapter Six
SPRING PASSED SLOWLY. I spent most of my days masked, shackled to Per’Secosa’s business and family concerns as he prepared for the coming fulfilment of his centuries-old grudge against the Verocci. My hands had not healed well from scrabbling about in the dirt and stone, so he had taken to wearing gloves regularly to conceal the marks. The burn on my right arm had always disquieted him, and he had taken the excuse of the bruising and cuts on both hands to be fitted for a new pair of gloves—long assassin’s gloves in dark leather, with the Vetruvi crest stitched in minuscule detail on the cuffs. They pleased him, and hid what he saw as imperfections from those who called on him.
I was only really allowed to be myself when I was asleep. The release of night came rarely, and I had little enough reserve in body or mind to do anything but collapse in an exhausted heap whenever his presence was removed from me. Day and night, at all other times he was there, chiding and cursing me while he worked quietly on his plan to bring the entire Verocci line low, and to see Antonos dead once and for all.
It was a simple plan. Per’Secosa Vetruvi had little patience for unnecessary complexity, and saw to it that as little as possible could go wrong. Centuries of control had left him with little faith in anything that did not depend directly on his action, and centuries of frustration had left him greedy and impatient for power and respect.
I would go along with Perro’s request and appear to betray my family, substituting the false mask for Per’Secosa to be burnt. When the mask was destroyed I was to cry out, letting our own assassins among the kitchen staff strike. I would then be reunited with the Claimant, who would take the attempt on our lives—on his life, truly, for that was what outraged him—to the King, and have the Verocci censured. It was a simple plan, old and brutal and steeped in blood. All it required me to do was to betray the man I had loved, and who had betrayed me in his turn, to the ghost that had stolen my life.
I spent the months leading to the dance in silence, trapped within the numb quiet of my own body as Per’Secosa drank and joked with the ghoulish council of masks that made up the inner circle of our family. I saw them—my cousins and nephews, my brother Vellis and little Sameri—hands meekly folded while the dusty old masks made their own calm and terrible plans to slay generation after generation of their enemies, to pack them away in boxes of pine and see them planted where no dirgewood would grow over their bones.
All this death meant nothing to them. Elders and Crones would carry on as always in a different body. If an arrow or knife or poison took Demetria or Vellis or even Sameri, then it was no more an inconvenience to the old masks than losing a good suit to hungry moths. They would bond again, and it did not matter if they lost one bearer. The ledger was so heavily weighted, as they saw it, to their enemies’ detriment that the price they paid by losing a bearer was a true bargain.
One by one the masks slunk away over the weeks, trusted lieutenants and old drinking comrades of the Claimant, to plan assassinations or draw up the necessary legal papers to formulate their new challenge. One by one his brothers and sisters, the dead who laughed and joked in the bodies of the living, faded into the city’s shadows to make their plans for bloodshed and to set the stage for the last summer of the Truce.
In my dreams I saw them—the masks, bone-fingered on the skeletons of their original selves, as they stalked through fields of tombs. Their steps were meticulous, each set in time to music centuries old and dressed in ancient and dusty finery, all faded and pale and caked in the earth of the grave. Thin pale roots wound around the bones, driving into empty eyes and binding the sickly wooden masks to their polished skulls.
In time, Perro would be one of them. Even were he to die at the dance as Per’Secosa planned, the tree would twine with his tomb and the wood would take on his spirit. He would live on with the masks and plot with them in the long years to come—years after I was dead and gone.
I continued to sleep little in the weeks leading up to the dance. I prayed often, and to whatever gods would listen. I don’t think any did.
The day of the last Truce Dance came in the blistering heat of high summer. The retreat to the valleys alone was a relief—away from the stifling air and choking, rank fug of Terazzio and its canals, rattling down wide leafy lanes in a carriage with the windows thrown open to allow a breeze to pass through. Per’Secosa cared little for overland travel, so I made the long trip to the Palace bare-faced. When I could I leaned out of the window, feeling the fresh air on my skin and listening to the horses puff and whinny as they pulled the carriage along. The endless rolling green fields, shimmering under the summer’s heat, seemed changeless and untouched by our families’ feud. Vineyards were arranged in neat rows, prizes greater than jewels in our feud, parting respectfully for domed temples and hunched, red-roofed farms. As I sped through the lanes that led me on to the Palace, to the ballroom and the kitchens and what had been ordained for me in those places, I wished I could just call out to the coachman and bring it all to a stop. If I could, I would unbolt the door and run away into the fields and never be seen in Terazzio again.
I blinked away a hot tear and looked out at the distant silver ribbon of a stream. The coachman would know better than to listen to me—I was just Untrusted, just Carra and nothing more. My wishes would never be heeded. To listen to and obey an Untrusted was more than his life was worth.
Soured even to the simple pleasure of travelling on a bright summer’s day, I slumped back into the shade of the carriage and waited for the narrow spires of the Summer Palace to come into view, pinning down the swollen filigreed dome of the Grand Ballroom that dominated the East Wing. It would already be thronged with family members—those who had arrived early, politely but diligently working to make sure that no misfortune befell their kin during the days of the Truce. I knew a second contingent of our own were already deep within the Palace, having taken on their roles years ago and working silently in our service ever since.
Eventually I caught sight of the Palace: bone-white towers like needles reaching out into the endless blue vault of the sky, its immaculate walls of smooth Tiresian stone almost monastic in their cold precision. Within, I knew, the King would be waiting to receive us, head bowed under the weight of his own heavy golden mask, hands folded neatly in his lap. It was said he could barely move on his own, and that soon it would be up to the dukes to choose a worthy successor to the Throne. The Duke of Terazzio, of course, was the most senior of those titles by precedence, and his word would bear a heavy weight in deciding the future of the King’s line.
More blood then, I thought wearily to myself as the carriage deposited me in the Courtyard. The coachman and guard stood patiently at my side as I stepped down from the carriage, clutching a lacquered box with gilded scrollwork in my dark-gloved hands. I flipped open the catch and tied Per’Secosa’s face in place with clumsy fingers. His spirit rushed into me, pushing me aside as he swept into the Greeting Hall and presented himself to the Chamberlain before I had the chance to smooth the creases out of my dress. I felt my heart race with his excitement as we were swept into the formal pageantry of the Truce Dance, dragged along behind the Chamberlain to our quarters for a few light refreshments before we would make obeisance to the King that Per’Secosa hoped one distant day to replace.
He could wait—after all, he had waited over three hundred years just to rid himself of Antonos Verocci. My palms were sweating. Per’Secosa ground my teeth together, baring them in a fierce animal smile that held more threat than it ever had charm.
Evening came slow to the valleys in high summer. The light bled from the sky, turning it the colour of dark honey. A chill soaked through the world as the Sun dipped below the horizon and the cloudless night crept slowly up, pushing its way over the hills beyond. In my chambers I stood
by the window, my unsteady hand pouring another glass of dark wine. Per’Secosa cursed as a drop splashed over the rim, darkening the cream silk of my glove.
I stood on the balcony of my—of his—suite, sipping wine I could barely taste. I could feel the presence of the travelling case behind me, sitting heavy on the table. The false bottom beneath the cushions shaped to the contours of the mask was there, and within it the counterfeit mask. That replica, I had been schooled, would be my weapon, a weapon precious beyond any other in the Vetruvi arsenal. Everything in the Claimant’s plan depended on my ability to convince Perro that the counterfeit was the real thing.
It was close enough in every aspect. It had been made at the same time, carved by the same hands and stained with the same lacquers. It had even been treated to ensure it would smell like dirgewood, look like dirgewood, and burn like dirgewood. In the early days, much would have been gained from convincing an enemy that a mask had been destroyed. It would give them the luxury of time to plot their revenge, and the eye-watering expense of creating a duplicate was nothing when weighed against the advantage of surprise against an enemy who thought you long ago defeated.
It only differed in a few key aspects—it had never been worn by a Vetruvi, so it did not bear the marks of generations of wear on its brow and temples. It was not soaked in the sweat of my ancestors, but the ghost had weighed and then dismissed that concern. In the low light of the kitchen on that night, it was hoped that such faults would go unnoticed—that our deception would be aided by urgency and darkness.
“My Lord?” The servant girl’s voice annoyed Per’Secosa. He despised provincial accents. I felt my shoulders stiffen at her words, and in my spirit I was cold. I am not devout—I have never felt a strong connection to the gods, neither those of my own land, or those of others. On that night as Per’Secosa stood, my cheeks flushed with wine and a masked eye on the setting Sun, I prayed. I prayed for the life I had never known, for the family I had lost, and for the man I had been foolish enough to love. I prayed to any god that would listen as the servants laid out my dress for the Claimant’s approval. Soon I would set him aside and take up my place at the ball. I would stay, it was agreed, for five dances. I had tried to plead fewer, but Racalla, our house’s Mistress of Etiquette, had insisted in her disjointed sibilant tone that being seen to be in a rush to leave would be both suspicious, and greatly insulting to the King.
“Good.” Per’Secosa marched down the line of hanging dresses like a general inspecting his troops. “The cream one,” he said in my voice as he rapped a knuckle on the pale, delicate fabric. “It is bright and cheerful. Innocent.” He gritted my teeth, chuckling quietly. “Unlike her.” A sniff. It will more fully display their infamy. Those words were silent, unspoken. They rattled around inside me, sickening and bitter. Out loud, he spoke to the servants. “Did you not hear me? The cream one. Make it ready and leave me.” He looked down at my hand, at the spot of wine that had seeped, faint and pink, into the silk of my glove. “And fresh gloves to match,” he shouted after them as they walked, bowing, out of the door.
“It is time.” He reached up and undid the ribbons that held the mask in place. I felt the tendrils of his old spirit pulled up from my heart. I could now taste the wine on my tongue. The fading light was almost too bright as I tucked the mask away inside its case and slumped back against my dressing-table. Taking a deep breath I walked over to the case once again, flipping it open to check on the mask. Running a finger over a lacquered cheek, I could feel Per’Secosa’s muted bloodlust whispering through the stained silk of my glove. I arranged the mask a little, fussing over it inside the box. Satisfied, I allowed myself a smile before stepping back and stripping off my gloves. I looked at my hands, still bruised and calloused and scarred. The nails were healing, and the bruises were starting to fade. By autumn, they would be whole again—whole, save for the burn that twisted the skin of my right hand.
One last prayer, and I called in the chamber-servants again. It was time to dress for the ball.
An hour later and I was ready—stiff and formal in a dress I could barely move in, laden with jewellery that had more meaning for men and women centuries dead than it did for me. I could feel the pull of the mask where it lay hidden in the concealed pocket woven into my skirts. A deep, shuddering breath nearly choked me. I closed my eyes and nodded to my cousins, Larya and Ceria, who opened the doors to my chamber and swept out before me into the hall.
The Chamberlain’s rod sounded like thunder on the tiles of the Palace floor. I could feel them cool and smooth beneath my slippers, even though the Palace itself was uncomfortably hot and the darkening evening was stifling. “Make way!” His voice echoed through the halls as Larya and Ceria strode before me like an honour guard, fans fluttering. “Make way for Carra Vetruvi, bearer of the Vetruvi Claimant to the Ducal Signet!”
At the sides of the hall, lesser nobles stepped back and tilted their heads in polite deference. Larya regarded them icily, the disdain and irritability of Damma Casala etched in the lines of her young face. Beside her Ceria walked with a subdued grace—the mask she wore was that of her own mother, a bully who saw her children as nothing more than the next step in her ages-long life. Ceria had submitted meekly to the mask when it was brought to her, but I could hear her weeping at nights when she thought herself alone.
My escorts swept aside to join the pack of masked nobles in their finery. Only the Claimants went bare-faced for the first day of the celebration—it had been suggested as a mark of trust in each other and respect for the King, though I suspected it had been part of Antonos’ design all along to woo an impressionable bearer and so undermine his enemy.
I shivered and looked around the hall, hairs raised on my forearms. Four of the King’s honour guard stood to attention by me, their officer bowing stiffly from the waist. Ornate, heavy box-bows were slung glinting over their shoulders, ceremonial in their adornment but no less lethal for it. I smiled thinly and curtsied to the guards, holding out my hand to indicate that they could escort me to the podium where Perro and I would sit while the King declared the first dance of the summer.
Perro had arrived before me and stood patiently next to his chair. He smiled as I approached, his warm honest face lighting up with delight to see me in my finery. This was the man I had fallen in love with, and even as I took his hand and bobbed, holding his gaze as we adjourned to our seats, I refused to believe that it could all have been a lie. He held my hand up for a kiss, brushing my knuckles gently against his lips. I felt heat and pressure through the silk of my glove, and it sent a single needle of cold sweat creeping down the back of my dress. I held my smile.
“Are you ready?” he said, eyebrow arched mischievously.
“Always,” I responded in a whisper that was little more than a breath. My heart still stirred at the sight of him, so strong and tall and confident.
“Shall we begin?” he said, his voice as soft and gentle as the memories I held deep inside. I nodded in happy agreement as I ran through the positions of our retainers and assassins, our waiting and bloody hands, in my head.
“I want nothing more,” I said. My cheeks flushed as I smiled. Perro beckoned me forward, and we gripped each other’s hand tightly as we bowed before the King.
Perro was shaking, as was I.
The night passed swiftly, with the gold-masked King declaring the dances in a thin, tired voice that echoed dimly around the hall. The chamber musicians played beautifully well, their artistry inspiring wonderful movement and colour and life in our two families as they spun and whirled around the room before us, grins fixed and strained as they tried to prove to their enemies that they did not hate every moment of their time in this place.
Perro and I danced twice. For our second dance I remember resting my arm on his shoulder and wondering if I would ever be happy again. He caught my eye.
“What’s wrong?” I felt him stiffen in my arms.
“Nothing.” I looked away, to where a pair of Perro
’s maiden aunts were watching us from behind their fans, eyes glinting from deep within the hollow sockets of their expressionless masks. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just—it’s such a big change.”
“It’s for everyone’s good. Without us—without the masks—the Claim falls apart. The Crown will have to decree a new Duke, and we can live as we wanted to. Together, Carra. Peace for the land, peace for us. Imagine.” He whispered the word into my neck. I held his hand tightly as we spun, the room’s heat and flickering amber-gold light making my head swim.
After our dance I made my excuses. Pale and sweating, I retreated to the cooler reaches of the Palace for some air and a glass of wine.
HE FOUND ME in one of the arterial colonnades, wrapping his arms around my waist and nuzzling into my back.
“Is it with you?” His voice was giddy.
“Yes,” I said, laying down my long-stemmed glass on the stones beside a heavy pot of strong-smelling roses and turning to face him. “Do you know where we’re going?” If I closed my eyes, I could still see the routes from the Lesser Courts to the kitchens. I knew, give or take five paces, exactly how far I was from the furnaces.
He laid his hand on his chest and looked hurt. “Carra, it’s me. Of course I know where we’re going.” He took my hand. “Now, come on. We’ll be missed before too long. We must hurry.”
I held back. A little reluctance made sense, of course. “Perro. Is your carriage ready?”
He faltered. Amateur. “Yes. Yes, of course. Of course it is.” In a second his smile was back in place—but I had seen his true face for a moment. I was disappointed at how easy it was to make him show it.
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