by Cate Glass
My gut twisted. My vision was creased with fire. My body shook with anger. “Get home to your lover, else folk will have risked themselves for a cursed fool. How dare you question fate?”
“No! I just need to—” He shoved my hand away.
Stumbling, I reached for him. But the human flood caught me up and carried me onward.
When I reached the road, I dragged myself homeward, grieving for the ironmonger, a generous man who must live with memories of horror he could not reconcile, and for those living and dead we had forced him to leave behind. My skin burned with shame. How could I have spoken to him so cruelly?
3
THE MONTH OF SMOKE
THE HOUR OF RESPITE
A sevenday after the earthquake, the city had begun to heal. The earth had quieted. Rubble heaps were hauled away. Repairs begun. The dead buried. Rumor claimed only two hundred—most of them from the coliseum collapse—had died. A modest toll by history’s standard. The grape harvest had begun, always a healthy portent.
But the usual late-summer indolence had been broken. Certain, I had a difficult time shaking off the event. Every night I dreamed of ruin—crumbling walls and crashing roofs in some nameless city or hillside village. I woke in the middle watches filled with rage, shivering as if it were midwinter, and unable to breathe. Rather than improving with the passing days, the nightmares worsened. Now, the cracked pavement, the fallen towers, the crushed houses were always Cantagna.
Guilt forbade me mention my restless sleep to anyone. Many had lost kin or friends or seen their houses crumble or businesses damaged. Parents had children to comfort. I knew it wasn’t just me. The signs were everywhere.
As I hurried through the city on an afternoon sticky with late-summer warmth, it was impossible to miss the change. Almost every window and door was hung with a ghiri—a spiky knot of pomegranate leaves supposed to filter out bad luck. In every piazza, red-robed philosophist advocates harangued citizens about the need to renounce the evils of fortunetellers, spiritists, and potion makers, practices they claimed led ordinary folk to accept the supreme deviance of magic. Even people who spoke too enthusiastically about the return of the Unseeable Gods were accused of undermining the Confraternity’s teaching that no gods remained to protect us. Only human vigilance would keep the descendants of Dragonis from setting their progenitor free to ravage the world.
Praetorians, the enforcement officers of the Confraternity, roamed the markets and shops, hunting for evidence of deviance. Worse, like lizards in summer, sniffers scuttled out of every corner and crevice.
A head sheathed in green silk poked out of an alleyway just ahead of me. His chain leash rattling, he dragged his nullifier from the alley into the middle of the Ring Road and spread his silk-clad fingers as if to catch magic flying past like leaves on the smoky breeze.
I ducked my head as I passed but did not alter my pace, and I gripped Dumond’s bronze luck charm in my pocket as if to imprint my fingermarks in it. Someday perhaps we’d understand whether sniffers could actually detect the dormant magic in our blood or if the charms truly prevented it. Maybe we were simply lucky. Sniffers were captive sorcerers given the choice to die or to live out their days at the end of a chain. They were gelded and kept naked, sheathed in green silk, their eyes and ears covered. We knew nothing else about them.
The sniffer yipped, animal-like, and dragged his handler down another alley. I breathed easier as I circled the last bend in the road.
We four of the Chimera had stayed apart since the earthquake. Neri slept in the deserted woolhouse outside the walls, coming into the city only to work his shifts at the Duck’s Bone alehouse. Even there, where most people knew us, we rarely spoke. Taverner Fesci pursed her lips and tut-tutted whenever I came in; perhaps Neri had told her we had argued. I heard not a word from Dumond or Vashti. Presumably Placidio carried on with his dueling schedule, but he’d not summoned me to our regular sword training, nor had he shown up at the Duck’s Bone for his usual post-match refreshment.
As for our neighbor the ironmonger, he no longer called a cheerful greeting to those who passed by. Rather than singing or drinking at the Duck’s Bone, or lending his help to someone needing the loan of a tool or a strong arm, good Germond spent his evenings sitting on a bench in his workyard, silent, his hands idle, a subdued Basilio ever at his side.
My writing work had provided me useful distraction … until this afternoon when I discovered a folded square of parchment in the sixth message box in the row of them outside my scrivener’s shop. It bore a plain seal and the notation Box 6 in a fine, bold, and most familiar script.
A message so soon after the dreadful events at the coliseum threw me off-balance. Was the Shadow Lord offering a new mission? Or was he calling an end to our brief adventures in these fraught days? Unsure of which I wished for, I’d not opened it as yet. Rather I had dispatched Figi, the trustworthy child of a Duck’s Bone tap girl, with a message to the other three to meet at our usual place at the Hour of Gathering. Our usual place was Dumond and Vashti’s house.
When I reached the end of Cooper’s Lane, I nodded politely to the lanky barrel maker, whose business gave the rutted road its designation, and I waved at Dumond’s dark-eyed daughter, Cittina. The girl, a year younger than Neri’s seventeen, minded her father’s covered stall most afternoons. She nodded my way, while showing an elderly woman her father’s silver jewelry and small bronze castings.
Off an alley behind the cooper’s yard, hidden behind stacks of barrels and a string of ramshackle workshops, stood an ugly blockish stone house. I hurried across the shavings and sawdust of the yard, entering the alley just as my brother hurried in from its far end and my bedraggled swordmaster rapped on the plain door.
“Came soon as I got your message.” Neri blotted his forehead with a sodden sleeve, sweeping aside a mop of dark curls dripping with sweat. “Had to dodge three sniffers on my way. What’s going?”
Placidio, unshaven, unwashed, and his stained leather jerkin stinking of wine, cast a mournful gaze over his shoulder. “Dumond and Vashti haven’t run off and left us to tend their houseful of chittering sparrows, now have they? I was just settled into a most delectable mutton pie at the Limping Bull after a dastardly morning.”
“No, it’s—”
The gray door swung open with a rush of air that fluttered my limp hair.
“Romy-zha, what’s happened?” The web of creases that fanned out from the small woman’s dark eyes were tight with concern. Behind her Dumond’s bristle-brush eyebrows came together in a near solid line.
“Sorry! I didn’t mean my message to fret you all,” I said as Dumond and Vashti stepped aside and waved us in.
“Very little new blood on the swordmaster,” said Vashti, her sharp gaze taking in old stains on Placidio’s abdomen, limbs, and backside. “That’s reassuring.”
Indeed so, and it was a good reminder. Only a half a season had gone since Neri had hauled Placidio into this house awash in blood and very near death. Our joined magic had saved him, just as we’d saved one-and-twenty souls at the coliseum. We were not demons.
“Couldn’t trust this to a messenger.” I raised the sealed fold of fine parchment. “And I couldn’t—I thought we should be together when we opened it.”
“It’s his hand?” asked Placidio, staring at the missive.
“Unmistakably.”
Our first adventure had been forced on us by il Padroné’s young wife. The second had been a request from the Shadow Lord’s own mouth as he sat in my scriptorium. But he’d made clear on that night, and the one time I’d spoken to him since, that we dared not meet again. My partners and I used magic in his service. He knew it, intended it, and trusted us to keep that secret as he kept ours. But if he had recognized any of us at the coliseum and sniffers had picked up traces of magic there, he might have decided to end our association. The First Law of Creation allowed no ambiguity. Suborning sorcery, even to good purpose, reaped a death sentence as inexorably as w
orking the magic … even if you were the Shadow Lord of Cantagna.
“Let’s hear it then,” said Neri, as we sat on threadbare cushions around Dumond and Vashti’s low table.
I waited for Vashti to reappear with her ever-available teapot and cups. Vashti would not allow us to count her as a partner of the Chimera, because she had no gift for magic and did not actively participate in our schemes. But we could not accomplish anything without her own gifts: a generous anticipation of others’ needs, her impeccable skill with needles and fabric, and a talent for seeing straight to the knot at the center of a logical tangle.
As she filled our cups, I broke the seal. The missive bore no greeting or signature, but as I read the words, I could hear Sandro’s pleasing baritone. The wry good humor. The intensity of belief that could push him into such a dangerous undertaking as employing sorcerers. Especially in the fraught aftermath of an earthquake.
An urgent matter has arisen of perhaps a less inflammatory nature than our last dealing, but I hope you find the circumstances worthy of your unique skills.
A virtuous young woman, my vicino-figlia, has just discovered that she is subject to a marriage contract that predates her birth. The young man in question is a stranger to her and familiar to me only by name and family—thus his state of personal virtue is unknown.
It has been made known to me that the young woman wishes to refuse the match for Most Serious Reasons, unrelated to the young man’s state of virtue.
Her parents wholly support this contract, which, on its face, seems a most excellent arrangement that will provide their daughter and themselves a comfortable living for the rest of their days. Yesterday, the young man’s family claimed the girl and took her to their formidable residence. The wedding is scheduled for the Feast of the Lone Praetorian.
My influence—personal or public—wields no merit in this case, and every conventional solution leaves the young woman’s parents in devastating forfeit of contract and our independency’s governance with dangerous instabilities. If the contract remains unbroken, the particular circumstances of the marriage will most certainly deprive the world of an extraordinary young woman’s work. If you choose to take up this cause, the necessary details will be conveyed in the same fashion as before.
There was no signature.
“A marriage contract!” Neri’s disappointment could have clouded the sun. Just turned seventeen, he’d only begun to realize how many charming young persons found his thick curls, onyx black eyes, and persistent good humor immensely desirable. He viewed permanent attachments as unpleasant, if not unfathomable, and dealing with one was evidently not near exciting enough for a magical adventure.
“To arrange children’s marriage before they are born is a vile custom,” said Vashti, flicking her spread fingers in the air in dismissal. “One thing I had no regret for leaving in Paolin. I’d no idea … is it widely practiced here?” Her glance at Dumond encompassed every emotion of one with four beloved daughters.
“Old families adhere to old ways like contracted marriage,” said Placidio, his brow so clouded in thought he might have been speaking to himself. “And the very rich, like the man who wrote this, often do so. Also those who work the land … tenants, say … who don’t have leave to go round courting partners willing to share such a life. And one more group that I know of; did you notice the day set for the event?”
“The Feast of the Lone Praetorian,” I read, trying to piece together a puzzle intended to intrigue us.
“The remembrance of the Lone Praetorian is the most solemn feast day of the Philosophic Confraternity,” said Dumond. “And the Confraternity is very particular as to marriage arrangements.”
“The Confraternity is involved.…” The ancient society of philosophists was dedicated to two objectives: providing rational education for the people of the Costa Drago and protecting humankind from the depredations of sorcery. The Feast of the Lone Praetorian celebrated their victory over a sorcerers’ rebellion two centuries past.
The words of Sandro’s message might have been standing atop the page, each holding secrets and portents, burdens of significance il Padroné did not want to commit to paper.
“Certain, there’s more here than a reluctant Confraternity bride,” I said, mulling each word for hidden meanings. “For one, Alessandro di Gallanos is the girl’s vicino-padre.”
Vashti and Neri both looked confused.
“Her near-father,” I said. “She is his vicino-figlia, his near-daughter. At some time her parents asked him to take a benevolent interest in her welfare throughout her life, and he agreed. Or perhaps they asked his family, and he inherited the responsibility when he became the Gallanos segnoré. I didn’t know he had that relationship with anyone, which makes the circumstance curious.”
“And then there is this bridegroom’s formidable residence,” said Placidio, holding out his cup for more tea. “If the man’s family is attached to the philosophists, as the celebration day suggests, then it’s well to note that the Villa Giusti, here in Cantagna, is the only fortified property of the Confraternity. It serves as the residence of their three directors general.”
So were more words unpacked, their secrets laid out for us to view. The directors general of the Philosophic Confraternity were three of the most powerful people in the Costa Drago.
I tapped my finger on the page. “Which leads us to the consequences of a broken contract that concern Sandro—these dangerous instabilities in our city’s governance. Sandro always said that every interaction with the Confraternity Directorate is like dancing on a precipice, because offending them—”
“—can get you falsely accused of sorcery. Drowned. Dead.” The dueling scar that creased Placidio’s face from brow to chin pulsed red. Normally near invisible, the scar was a measure of his ferocity.
“The consequence might be more direct than that,” I said. “For years, the Confraternity has been seeking more influence in official appointments and stricter laws regarding activities they disapprove. The young woman’s family would owe a huge debt to the Confraternity for a broken contract. What if she’s kin to a member of the Sestorale?”
Nine years of watching the Shadow Lord maneuver through political tangles had taught me certain indisputable truths. One of them was that influence with Cantagna’s governing body was a bargaining chip as valuable as coins, especially regarding uncomfortable matters like mysticism and belief.
Placidio rapped a knuckle on the message, much as I had done. “Whatever this woman’s serious reasons, whatever political entanglements fret the Shadow Lord, this is no trivial matter for the woman herself, either. Atladu’s balls, what if she’s one of us?”
The bride a sorcerer?
All of us fell quiet for a moment, imagining. Every day I had lived with Sandro—no matter how dear, how joyous they had become—was also a day fraught with terror. One slip, one question demanding my secrets, and I knew I would be undone. Eventually, the unthinkable had happened, but he had neither sent me to the Executioner of the Demon Tainted nor killed me himself. He had kept my secret because he did not wish me dead. A philosophist of the Confraternity, especially a director general or his kin, would have no such compunction.
“Nah! Surely that can’t be the case.” Neri interrupted the awful visions by shoving the letter across Vashti’s table in my direction. “Maybe he’s talking of magic, but more likely something else, right? What kind of work would an extraordinary rich girl do? I’m guessing she’s rich, if she’s wedding a director’s son.”
“Certain, the phrasing is odd,” I said, “but then he’d never dare mention magic in a written message. But even if it’s not magic, she’s well educated … and some men dislike educated women.” I’d experienced a bit of that in my years in Sandro’s house, though thank the universe Sandro had been just the opposite.
“All serious business,” said Dumond. “Difficult for the young woman. Perhaps breaking it off is a worthy endeavor, but I’m leery. For one, the eart
hquake has made it riskier than ever to use sorcery for anything. For another, if the Shadow Lord can’t solve the problem, how in the blighted universe are we going to do it? Steal the woman away and everyone will believe it a ploy to break the contract. Feign her death, perhaps, but then how does the world benefit from whatever work she may do any better than if she were married to a philosophist?”
“Assassinating the groom might void the contract,” said Neri with a sidewise glance at me. “But the Shadow Lord clearly doesn’t think that would work, as he’s got henchmen far more suited to assassination than we are.”
“The praetorians would never let a killing of one of their own rest anyway,” said Dumond. “Seems like the only thing’s left is to convince the groom or the families to stop it, and I’ve not a notion of how one might do that. This message so much as tells us that’s the case. And the feast of the Lone Praetorian is … what … four days hence? Not much time.”
“Hmph,” Placidio grunted an acknowledgment.
I’d no logic to refute these assessments. The crowds in Cantagna’s streets cheering the philosophists’ harangues certainly increased the danger of using magic. And sniffers everywhere. And yet … the thought of a girl pledged to any man before she was born rankled my every bone.
“No, Basha. You must find a way to help this girl. This marriage custom is barbaric.” Vashti might have pulled the thought right out of my head, brushing aside our quibbling like the first winter wind sweeps aside the smokes of autumn. Her complexion glowed with a fire the hue of burning sand. “And think … a season ago you put yourselves at risk because il Padroné had an instinct that the Assassins List posed a danger to Cantagna. He was right, far more than he or any of us imagined. This sounds very like. Something about this young woman—or her work, whatever it is—sparks his belief that she must not be made subordinate to this bridegroom’s family. He believes this marriage is wrong, and his own incapacity pushes him to risk using your skills. An intelligent man as he is cannot be unaware of the increased danger so soon after the earthshaking. How will you sleep if you dismiss this, and he’s right again?”