Shadowheart

by Laura Kinsale

  There were others, but he was already certain that the Riata had not discovered them. What secret ways they had found had been blocked or destroyed. Allegreto had spent the past day and night surveying passages and traps that he well-remembered—his father’s exacting tests had burned the mysteries of Navona into his mind and his bones. He knew where Zafer and Margaret were chained; he knew where Franco Pietro slept with five guards around him and a mastiff at his feet.

  He knew that Franco would comprehend at any moment that he had fallen into a trap. Allegreto left the spy hole and slipped lightly down a set of stairs between the outer walls, counting his steps in blackness. At the first sliver of light above, he hiked himself up by handholds and found the opening at the peak of a storehouse roof. He squeezed himself through—not as easily as he had done in childhood days—and felt his way down the slant of a beam to the heavy wooden column that held up the roof.

  He was losing all light as he made his way across the trusses, landing off-balance and catching himself twice. But he had a cold exhilaration in him now, to move silently above the confusion he had caused below. He found the opening into the false ceiling as if the hidden ways of Maladire were drawn on some map within his blood. Crouching down on his ankles, he crawled between the double rafters until he could smell smoke again and see faint light between the planks.

  He was near the courtyard—outside the shouts were louder and the fire rumbled. An orange-tinted glow illuminated the barred window in the door of the storeroom below. He could just see Zafer sitting on a bare floor, looking up, one fist gripped around the chain that held him to the wall, the other holding Margaret’s arm.

  Allegreto pushed a straw between the boards and let it fall. Zafer gave the clear signal and leaped to his feet, urging Margaret up silently. Allegreto laid back a sham ceiling plank and dropped through the hole.

  * * *

  It was the sound of evening service that befooled Elayne. When they could not return through the bronze door, she had guessed that they must be under the church that overlooked the piazza. The smell of bitter smoke began to fill the stairwell, ominous enough to drive her up toward the faint light and some hope of another way. The stairs ascended a great distance, but only led in the end to an arched cavern—a dark cistern full of water, strangely lit by reflections from the small drain above. The single ledge was so narrow that she had to pull Nim back from falling into the black water.

  Matteo stood behind her, holding her skirt and peering past. "Don’t let Nim go!" he said.

  "No." She wet her lips. There must be some opening to this cistern—they could not be trapped here. It was impossible to judge the depth of the water, but she feared from the size of the pool that it must be deep. She could not see the far side well enough to discern if there were another ledge or door. The smell of smoke and the shouts were much stronger here, sounding almost as if they were overhead. She swallowed a rising sense of terror.

  This must be the cistern for the fortress. She much feared that they were under Maladire itself, and the castle was burning.

  "Your Grace," Matteo said. "Look at this."

  She could barely see as he tugged her skirt, turning her back toward the stairs. But there were no stairs now. There was only wall, until he moved his arm quickly up and down. She nearly leaped backward into the water as she saw a pale shape in the wall move with it.

  "Mirrors, set to befool the eye," he said. "Like the castle at Il Corvo."

  Elayne stared at the wall. If he did not move his arm, she could make nothing of it but more stone in the dim shadows, but when he waved his hand in a certain direction, she could see the pale flash appear and vanish and appear again. She put out her fingers and found nothing where she expected wall to be. But when she took a step forward, and stretched, she found it an arm’s length beyond, where she touched the silver reflection of her hand and her skirts in a series of small glassy plates set at angles in the stone.

  "This way!" Matteo said confidently, and led her into a passage where it seemed no passage should be.

  * * *

  They could not discover a way that led back out of the castle. The narrow steps Matteo had found went into darkness again, the walls closing upon Elayne’s shoulders as they climbed blindly. She began to feel smothered, as if the whole weight of the towers and fortress above pressed upon her throat and lungs; as if she would be trapped in this black maze until she screamed to get out. She gripped Nim’s leash in one hand and Matteo’s shirttail in the other, not to hold him back now but to know she wouldn’t be left alone in this crushing darkness.

  The boy stopped suddenly. "This is the end of it," he whispered.

  "The end?" Elayne felt a spurt of dismay as she looked up, seeing nothing. The shouts had faded, more distant now.

  "I think—" Matteo moved up a step. "I can see a little. There’s a peephole. I think it is a church."

  "Let me look!"

  They stumbled over one another, trying to exchange places in the tiny stairwell, while Nim entangled herself between Elayne’s feet. She found the crack and looked through into a tiny candlelit chapel.

  They seemed to be close to the altar, opposite a pair of choir stalls. In the steady glow of the candelabras, Elayne could see painted frescoes covering the walls and the golden gleam of a large crucifix. She glimpsed no priest or congregation—the service abandoned while everyone ran to the fire.

  She felt over the wooden barrier. Her fingers touched metal, and without a sound, the panel before her sprang open. The sensation of being freed was so strong that she barely glanced around before she gathered her skirts and crawled through.

  She emerged onto the seat of another choir stall. The empty chancel and nave were small but richly decorated, tiled in black-and-white marble and painted over every inch of the walls with the saints and gilded halos of some biblical cycle that Elayne did not pause to identify. She only made certain that there was no one in the nave and then took a madly struggling Nim as Matteo lifted her through the open back of the stall.

  Elayne wished now that she had her mantle and veil; in the confusion of the fire, there might be some chance they could reach the widow’s house without notice. The smell of smoke was dense and peculiar here, a sharp foul scent overlaid on the sweet incense of the candles. With Matteo and Nim close at her heels, she hurried down the vaulted nave and pulled open the door a crack.

  In the last of twilight the tower of Maladire loomed directly over them, a turreted silhouette against black smoke that billowed across a rose and steel-blue sky.

  Elayne stepped back and let the door fall shut.

  They were inside the fortress.

  Matteo stood looking at her expectantly. She had seen no one outside, only the tower and a snow-covered court that looked as wild as the mountainside, full of steep outcrops of gray rock, with the castle walls and buildings rooted into them as if the stone had grown up naturally into shapes of man’s desire.

  She was certain that Allegreto had caused the fire—he had made sure the garrison was lightly manned, and now diverted by the blaze. He was here somewhere, hunting Franco Pietro. If he succeeded—when he succeeded—he might see the open window seat in the widow’s house and search the secret tunnels and find them.

  She thought of the dark, and the walls pressing upon her. She could not do it. Nothing would make her go back into the narrow passages between the walls, trapped into the lightless tunnels by dead ends and mirrors.

  "There must be a crowd of townspeople at the gate," she whispered. "We’ll try to look as if we’ve come to gawk."

  Matteo nodded, wide-eyed now and willing enough to take her direction. She grabbed his hand and pulled the door open quickly before she could be paralyzed by second thoughts and guesses.

  They slipped and slid down uneven steps carved in the rock. The column of smoke and commotion of voices made it easy enough to head toward the fire; once they found the crowd, they would see where the townsfolk came into the castle and escape that
way. Elayne went down the steep court, following a path of footprints in the snow, keeping her eyes on the ground to avoid twisting an ankle on the icy surface.

  Nim had no such concerns. She ranged at the end of the leash, threatening to pull Elayne off her balance at every step. Elayne managed to keep her feet halfway down the courtyard, until the puppy lunged forward with a happy bark. Elayne slipped and skidded and shrieked as her feet flew from under her. She hit the cold ground hard, an impact that sent pain from her back to her teeth. As she sat stunned, Matteo slid past her, chasing the loose dog. A pair of men strode around the corner below, their torch flaring light over the court.

  Elayne scrambled to her feet, trying to back up and turn away. Her heels slid without purchase; she was only saved from another fall as one man took her arm roughly, his mailed hand digging into her skin to hold her up. She kept her eyes down, watching Nim roll in submissive ecstasy under the nose of a great brown mastiff, her plumed tail flinging snow. The other man had caught Matteo.

  "Lying bitch!" he roared, and reached to grab Elayne’s jaw while he held the boy tight. "I’ll—" He jerked her chin up, and then as suddenly let go.

  She did not look up, but she had already seen the dark patch over his left eye. Her heart was pounding frantically.

  "Nay, it is not the infidel’s whore," Franco Pietro snarled. "God send they’re still locked up, then." He made a gesture, as if to order his man up the court, and then paused. Under the glare of the torch, his face was distorted and puckered along a scar from his lips to the eye-patch, the shadows making it an evil mock of Matteo’s delicate features. But they were frighteningly alike, the boy wrenching and struggling and the father who gripped him easily in an unknowing grasp,

  "Hold her," Franco said to the guard. He caught Elayne’s chin again with a brutal hand. "You aren’t from the castle. Who are you?"

  She kept her eyes down, afraid that even in the dark their color might betray her. She answered nothing.

  "My lord," the guard said, his hand so tight on her arm that her fingers tingled with pain. He lifted the torch. "My lord—look at this boy..."

  "He’s my brother!" Elayne said quickly. "He ran away from me at the fire, chasing the pup."

  But Franco paid her no attention now. He was frowning at Matteo.

  "He was only following the dog, my lord!" Elayne said, her voice high-pitched with strain. "Let me take him home, and he’ll suffer our father’s wrath!"

  Franco Pietro was staring hard, his big hand clutching the boy as he strained to pull away.

  " ’Tis no child of the town," the guard said. "And they must have been inside before the blast at the gate. They’re some of his."

  "Nay." Franco’s voice held a peculiar note. He grabbed the boy by both shoulders, turning him toward the torchlight. He put his mailed gloves on either side of the child’s face and leaned close over him. "Matteo?" he whispered.

  Matteo wrenched at his father’s grip. "I hate you!" he cried. "I hate you!"

  "Matteo." The Riata stared down at him an instant. "What miracle is this?" He looked suddenly more fretted than angry or amazed, glancing quickly around the walls. Then he glared at Elayne. "Your brother, eh?" He spit into the snow. "Are you another lying Navona whore?"

  Elayne could think of no reply that could retrieve this disaster. She could think of nothing now but to struggle foolishly like Matteo, shrinking back as Franco Pietro turned his face aside, moving near her and jerking her by her hair. He looked intently down at her face with his good eye.

  "Blood of Christ," he muttered. He let go of her as abruptly as if he had just seen a specter. He started up the court, hauling Matteo with him as his boots sank in the snow. "Bring her to the Turk," he commanded. "If they’ve swindled me, they’ll all die for it, and curse the bastard of Navona to the lowest rung of Hell!"

  TWENTY-TWO

  Allegreto rose to his feet at the creak of footsteps in the fresh snow. In the faint wavering glow from beyond the barred door, he stood alone in the storeroom, dressed in Zafer’s infidel clothes. The youth had wound his own turban around Allegreto’s head, tucked the tail of it with swift skill, then balanced upon Allegreto’s shoulders to hike himself through the false ceiling and follow Margaret into the secret passages.

  From the sound of the footsteps outside the door, there were more than two coming. Torchlight danced and twisted on the walls, but Allegreto kept his gaze averted from it, preserving his night vision. He placed the open manacle of the chain around his wrist and gripped the links in his left hand. As a key fumbled into the old lock, he turned aside in the corner, hiding the long length of steel that he held behind his leg.

  The door scraped open. Allegreto did not turn. He staked everything on foretelling Franco’s fury, that the Riata would not send some minion but come himself, fast and enraged, when he realized that Zafer had lied.

  The shadow of a figure fell across the walls.

  Allegreto ducked his head and lifted his arm, as if he hid his eyes from the glare of the torch. Over his sleeve he saw flickering light fall on the familiar torn features, the patched eye, while Franco Pietro shoved the smoking torch into a wall ring. In the instant that the Riata turned and took in the details of the room, in the moment before he would realize there was something amiss, Allegreto moved, dropping the chain and sweeping his sword upward, lunging to make the kill.

  He seized himself short in the midst of it, barely driving aside the point of his sword as a woman stumbled into his path, shoved through the door by another man. Allegreto’s body and mind froze as if he had been struck by a storm-bolt. Elena stood between him and Franco. And Matteo, his cheeks bright red, his small body resisting the soldier’s hand with every step.

  Allegreto did not drop his guard. Under the cruel discipline of a lifetime, he held still, taut, facing them with his blade at the ready.

  No one spoke. Elena stared at him with her eyes wide and unblinking, terrified. Allegreto felt the wall and the corner at his back, all of his advantage evaporated in the instant he had hesitated.

  Franco gave a sudden bark of laughter. "Of course!" he said, in a voice that was strangely mild. "It is Gian’s godless bastard. I smelled the rot from your stinking fire." He drew his sword with a hiss, thrusting Elena and Matteo back toward the guard.

  Allegreto made a slight feint, a twitch toward the wall, to draw him further from her. But Franco Pietro was no fool to run himself wildly on an enemy’s sword point. They knew one another.

  "Has your scheming gone awry?" Franco grinned, his lip pulled back like a dog’s snarl, a distortion in his scarred face. "By chance you did not mean for me to discover Matteo, or this maiden with the pretty eyes. This noble maiden. This bride that you thought to steal from me!"

  Allegreto closed one eye in the same instant that he hurled a glass vial to the floor. A flash and a brilliant light filled the room as Franco leaped forward in murderous reaction. But he was blinded by the flare; Allegreto slapped the point aside with his blade and slipped past, heading for the guard.

  While Franco’s man stood dazzled under the failing torchlight, Allegreto slid a dagger between his ribs, thrusting hard through the links of chain mail, straight up into the heart. The guard’s head snapped back and struck the stone wall. He crumpled to the floor, releasing his hold on his prisoners.

  "Elena," Allegreto hissed. "Get out! Now!"

  "I can’t see!" she cried.

  He grabbed her arm. She scrabbled for the boy’s hand as Allegreto dragged them together and pushed them toward the door. Already Franco had found them through the afterimages, still blinking, but he swiftly marked his target. Allegreto brought his sword up to guard, covering Elena’s escape.

  "Bastard!" Franco lunged forward, feinting to the left and then thrusting toward Allegreto’s right side. Allegreto made a backward leap over the guard’s body as he parried. He realized the trap too late as he collided with the wall, his feet restricted to a narrow space behind the dead man. He could retreat no
further as Franco renewed his attack.

  Allegreto made a sweeping parry, knocking Franco’s sword aside. He dived forward under the return cut, tucking and rolling to his feet. In one unbroken move he pivoted toward Franco’s back with a killing thrust. Franco just managed to turn and beat the blade aside.

  Allegreto paused as his enemy did, both of them shifting their footing, seeking advantage. There had been other ways to murder Franco, simpler ways. But it was long since they had fought in duello, well-matched as they had always been, long enough to brood on every offense and dream of taking retribution face-to-face, to count every insult in blood.

  Franco grinned and made a quick cut towards Allegreto’s face. He blocked, but the Riata drew a long dagger and drove forward, forcing him to block again. Franco slid his blade along Allegreto’s until the hilts locked, then tried for a disemboweling thrust with the dagger.

  Allegreto swept his left arm down and caught the stabbing attack on his arm guard, but he felt a fiery sting as the tip of the dagger scraped along his stomach. He back-handed Franco with his left fist, knocking the man half off his feet.

  As Franco staggered, Allegreto slid his own dagger from its sheath. He could feel sweat down his back. His throat burned with smoke and exertion. The shallow cut bled in profusion, soaking his infidel’s sash. They had trained together under the same masters; they knew each attack and parry. It would be a match of endurance and wind soon enough if he did not alter his stratagem, and he had no aim to let such chance decide the outcome.