The Orphan of Florence

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  “It makes no sense,” I said, “that he should need me of all people. The Magician was too important to risk—he should have broken in another apprentice years ago, in case anything happened to him. That he should have chosen me, and only after things had become so dangerous because of the war—”

  “He did have another,” The Nubian said, and retook his chair as I settled on the stool in front of a completed wax mold and stuck dowels in it. “He died of fever five years ago.”

  “Why not Niccolo, then? Ser Abramo raised him.”

  The Nubian tilted his head as he decided whether it was safe to reveal such information. “Niccolo can’t read.”

  I frowned as I reached for the plaster powder. “Abramo never taught him?”

  He shook his head. “It wasn’t that. Abramo tried. But the letters always appeared jumbled to Niccolo. And he hadn’t an artist’s hand. He made a far better fighter…” He trailed off, unwilling to say more about Niccolo, but decided to add: “Abramo’s talent is amazing.” He blinked rapidly, trying to disperse sudden tears, to contain the sudden well of emotion. “Was amazing. His apprentice was skilled enough, but not enough to approach the quality of his master’s work. Abramo had given up hope of finding a talent like himself to fill his shoes one day. And then, you…”

  He said no more; he didn’t have to. Perhaps he knew that I was Abramo’s child; perhaps not. But he had real feelings for the Magician, at least, feelings that might sway him to my side if I was skillful. Feelings that might eventually convince him to release me to take revenge.

  Instead, I said, “Niccolo kills his own mentor, the man who raised him. Yet here I am, a prisoner, only because I tried to avenge Ser Abramo.”

  He let go a short laugh of disbelief. “Niccolo? Now you are lying.”

  “Niccolo,” I said, my tone heavy and venomous, “is a spy for Rome. And he killed Ser Abramo. I saw it with my own eyes. I saw…” I suddenly couldn’t speak. I closed my eyes, and the image of Abramo bleeding to death in the cold street stole my breath.

  When I opened them again, the Nubian’s expression was cold and guarded. “Ser Abramo was murdered by brigands,” he said flatly.

  “That’s what you were told,” I said softly, struggling to regain control of myself. I wasn’t going to let myself break down, especially not in front of someone who would think I was playacting. “Believe whatever you want. I was there. And if I survive—I will kill Niccolo with my own hands.”

  Something in what I said, or the way I said it, gave him pause; the tiniest glimmer of doubt passed over his features.

  “I speak the truth,” I pressed, my voice calm and low. “Ser Abramo must be avenged. You could help me do that.”

  He frosted immediately at that and narrowed his eyes at me. I had gone too far, of course.

  “You fool,” he said slowly, deliberately. “You total and utter fool. Your morals have been so twisted, you can’t imagine anyone could be trying to help you. I’m not here as your jailor. I’m here to protect you.”

  He may have been right about my morals, but I was offended all the same—as was he, and so we gave up our efforts at conversation. We remained silent as I set to work on creating a plaster mold around the second talisman and said no good-byes as the golden-haired guard came to relieve him.

  * * *

  His replacement was a burly lad named Albrecht, in whose pink plump palm rested what looked to be a coin but was not. It was a brass talisman, clearly not from Ser Abramo’s hand: the planetary symbol for Venus was crudely wrought, and the choice of metal was cheap, the more powerful and expensive copper compromised by the presence of zinc. The magician who made it (if indeed a magician at all) had left no identifying mark, but I recognized the out-of-place symbols and letters at once. Code.

  “They told me to say that the mistress of the house wanted you to have this,” Albrecht said, with a hint of a German accent.

  “They want me to translate it for them?” I asked, frowning down at it.

  Albrecht looked a bit bewildered by the question. “No. They only said that she wanted you to have it.”

  I should have eaten and drunk, and returned swiftly to my assignment, but the cheap charm and its hidden message were impossible to resist. I went at once to the cipher wheel, and slid the wheels within wheels so that the letter L corresponded with the element for air—the setting on the day I’d discovered it in Ser Abramo’s secret chamber.

  The numbers on the back of the talisman slowly began to spell out a message:

  Via … our royal vessel … La Perla … to Resina. Date … point of rendezvous.

  Date and point of rendezvous. A request for information, which I was at the moment encoding into other talismans.

  4 Dec sunset, arriving Livorno 16 Dec dawn, (signed) the Fool.

  9 Dec dawn, arriving Ancona 19 Dec sunset, (signed) the Fool.

  30 Nov sunset, arriving Grosetto 4 Dec midday.

  Grosetto was in Tuscany, inland and dangerously close to the fighting, a poor choice for a rendezvous. Ancona was on the eastern coast and made sense if Lorenzo had been going to meet with Venice. But Venice was a republic; any vessel they sent would never be referred to as royal. But Livorno … Livorno was on the west coast, as was Resina. And Resina was nestled on the shore immediately next to the city of Naples.

  Naples, our sworn enemy, ruled by King Ferrante, whose mighty army had joined with Rome’s, making the defeat of Florence’s pitiful handful of mercenaries inevitable. Crazy King Ferrante, who mummified his dead enemies so that he could visit them and lord his victories over them. But his rumored insanity was tempered by political shrewdness, which had caused him to throw his lot in with Rome in an uneasy alliance.

  Via our royal vessel … Lorenzo was going to visit the king. Lorenzo was going to risk his neck to try to charm Ferrante into becoming our ally. With Naples on our side, Rome could not win. True, Lorenzo was a silver-tongued charmer, a diplomat of considerable skill—but all King Ferrante had to do was lop off Lorenzo’s head the moment he arrived.

  The pope had never wanted to rule Florence; all he’d ever wanted was vengeance on Lorenzo for killing off his brother’s assassins (who happened to be the pope’s bankers) and for imprisoning and scaring the piss out of his nephew (read: the pope’s son). With Lorenzo dead, the war would instantly be over.

  Which meant that whether Lorenzo lived or died, Florence would be saved by his taking the bold risk of going to Naples.

  I looked down at the surface of the worktable without seeing it. Lorenzo was anything but a traitor—far from it. He was risking his neck by committing an act so audacious that even if our Roman enemies got wind of it, they’d never believe it.

  “What’s wrong?” Albrecht asked. He had taken the Nubian’s chair and was leaning forward, his chubby hands on his thighs, oddly concerned. “Does it mean something?”

  I realized my mouth was gaping open and closed it. “Nothing,” I said lamely. “It’s … nothing.”

  Donna Lucrezia had sent this to me, entrusted me to deduce the explosive secret that Lorenzo was going to meet with the King of Naples. Surely she had done so without Lorenzo’s approval or even knowledge.

  Obviously, she had wanted to unquestionably secure my undying loyalty. Perhaps she had wanted me to be willing to risk my life in order to keep this information from the enemy.

  If that had been her plan, she had succeeded a thousandfold. I launched into my work with new dedication and zeal. I now believed what the Nubian had told me about Lorenzo’s character; I was being protected. Which meant that wherever they were, Tommaso and Cecilia and little Ginevra were safe.

  By the time another food tray appeared (at midmorning the second day, I presumed), I was shaking with hunger; unfortunately, Albrecht devoured most of it. I had to fight for a bit of bread and tiny chunk of cheese. I took only small sips of wine, as it added to the tears prompted by exhaustion and unreleased grief—tears that forced me to grit my teeth, lest they spill. I had arr
ived at that uncertain state of mind that left me wondering if I was half dreaming, even though my eyes were open, my body awake. I couldn’t have drunk more if I’d wanted it. Albrecht drained the flagon in short order and called up for another to be lowered. As a result, he was no stranger to the open privy at the farthest corner of the cellar. Modesty compelled him to turn his back to me, but each time, he would draw his sword with his free hand, and bellow, “I have eyes in the back of my head! Mind you behave yourself!”

  By then, another talisman had been cast in the furnace and was cool enough for magical charging. A second was freshly plastered, and the front of the last beeswax mold had been partially carved. Too tired to announce my intention, I stood, the warm lead talisman of Saturn in my hand, and walked over to procure a small lump of frankincense from the apothecary. The resin would burn more evenly if ground into powder, but there was no time for perfection. Talisman and incense in one hand, the lamp in the other, I headed for the magical tent.

  Albrecht, his already-pink face flushed cherry from the wine, set down his goblet. “Here now!” he growled. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “To work magic,” I said over my shoulder, too busy trying to concentrate on the task at hand to worry about whether my captor might take alarm and skewer me.

  He rose, drew his short sword, and followed me hurriedly. I opened the flap of the tent and proffered the corner of the velvet to him. Just as the Nubian had, he balked; unlike the Nubian, he held his hands chest level, palms out, and waved them at the fabric.

  “I’ll not touch that!” he exclaimed, his blue eyes wide. “It’s accursed.” Apparently no one had told him about the occult aspect of my task.

  I was so tired I didn’t understand at first. “You’re not coming in?”

  He shuddered at the thought. “The devil’s in there. One look at him, and I’ll die.”

  Unlike the Nubian, he was entirely uneducated and amusingly superstitious, probably the son of one of the poor German weavers who made the Florentine silk trade so lucrative for its Italian masters. Despite my despair, I gave a feeble laugh. Albrecht took no offense at my mirth. Indeed, he still looked terrified.

  “Then keep the flap closed while I’m in there, because I’m going to be talking to him,” I said cheerfully. “And no peeking, else I’ll cast a spell on you.”

  He leaned forward, squinting at my face and started as if suddenly seeing me for the first time.

  “Your eyes!” he blurted. “You have a witch’s eyes!” He crossed himself and stepped back as I entered the tent and let the curtain fall behind me.

  “I’ll be right outside,” he said, with forced bravado. “No funny business.”

  I went to the altar, set the frankincense in the thurible and ignited it; a camphorous churchly smell filled the air, as did a light film of smoke. I then lit the white altar candle, sad at the sight of Ser Abramo’s final missive to me.

  Despite my exhaustion, despite the weakness in my voice, the holy words vibrated so strongly in my chest that the circle I cast seemed the most powerful ever, the very air the most alive, as if the towering theoretical archangels surrounding me were not theoretical at all, but tangible if only I dared reach out with trembling fingers, as if the sewn thread-of-gold stars were real ones, and I stood not on earth, but in the starry heavens. Albrecht and my imprisonment disappeared, as did all terrible events in recent memory. There was only the power that emanated from within me and without, from every atom, from every pore.

  And after the holiest powers had been invoked, I knew that the talisman was true, that no harm would come to him who wore it.

  When I opened the circle and returned to the altar, a pang of pure emotion struck me as I thought of Abramo writing how he had poured his love into the talisman he’d made me as a babe. Moved, I closed my eyes and set my hand down upon the black silk where the message had lain.

  And touched not soft cool silk, but paper.

  I opened my eyes. The altar had been completely bare save for the chalice, pentacle, and lamp. The folded letter that lay beneath my palm had not been there when I had entered. In disbelief, I examined the area around and behind the altar, searching for an opening in the tent’s velvet wall that Albrecht could have used to slip the letter in while I was distracted or a secret compartment that might have sprung open. I found nothing that could have explained the letter’s sudden appearance.

  Yet here it was. I lifted it with hands that shook so badly, it dropped upon the carpet in front of the altar. I sank down and sat, choking back curses at unsteady fingers that fumbled several times until they finally unfolded the paper, revealing the Magician’s unmistakable script:

  Trust Lorenzo with your life, and you and yours will encounter no danger. Keep silent regarding Niccolo.

  I cannot say how long I sat staring at the paper, too stunned to feel, to think—to do anything but believe.

  At some point, my weary mind grew skeptical: An extremely convincing forgery—this letter, and the one from the day before. Some shrewd plot by Lorenzo to win my trust, some cruel joke of the guards.

  But my eye for words and alphabets was keen. The forger’s talent would have to be as remarkable as Ser Abramo’s, and such men are rare. And tired as I was, I had been alone in the tent and the letter had definitely not been on the altar when I arrived.

  Against every instinct of mind and heart, I let myself believe, just long enough to whisper:

  “Help me, then. Help me to escape. Help me to avenge your death.”

  I sat there for a time, shivering, though not from the cold. I refolded the message and slid it inside my undergarment, next to the bare skin at my waist.

  When I pushed myself up to my feet, my fingers pressed against the carpeted floor along the very edge of the altar.

  Everywhere I had stood inside the tent, I had experienced the sensation of carpet set over bare earth—the same earth that formed the floor of the rest of the cellar. But at that moment, my fingers found a fingernail thin depression in the ground, where earth gave way to something harder.

  I stooped down and ran my fingertips along the bottom edge of the cube-shaped altar where it met the carpet. There was definitely a fine seam there, a depression in the rug. I pushed the altar back a thumb’s breadth, sliding it quietly so that Albrecht would not hear.

  I ran my palm over the exposed area. It felt not like earth, but hard wood. I grew bold, and pushed the altar farther back, and touched what felt very much like a leather handle.

  No sound came from Albrecht outside, so I pushed the altar as far back as I could, and rolled back the carpet to expose a wooden hatch smaller but very similar to the one that led down to the cellar.

  Mind reeling, I quickly covered the hatch with the carpet again, and slid the altar back over it as quietly as I could. After snuffing the incense and candles, I returned to find Albrecht waiting a respectful distance away. He accompanied me back over to the worktable, keeping sufficient space between us, as though afraid my very touch was dangerously devilish.

  Perhaps it was, for him, as I had already begun to hatch a plan, one simple enough for my sleep-deprived brain to grasp.

  Sitting at Ser Abramo’s worktable—my worktable, now—I must have looked ghoulish, the flickering lamp illuminating my wan, weary face and casting faint, wavering panes of light upon the earthen walls, broken only by my sharp, larger-than-life shadow. The cellar was vast, and the light from our lamps too feeble to illuminate anything save the little circle wherein I worked and Albrecht sat, cup in hand. The magical tent and corners of the room had disappeared into blackness.

  When my touch revealed that the second talisman of Saturn had cooled sufficiently, I turned from the shelf to smile crookedly at Albrecht. “Another one ready to be charged. Time to go to the tent.”

  I immediately moved to the apothecary. Albrecht did not know that I had left enough frankincense in the thurible to charge the remaining talismans, and, giddy from extended wakefulness, I fumbled
with the drawers until I found the one marked, not with the word poppy, which would make it too tempting for uninvited visitors and myself, but with a single P.

  I took a pinch and pressed it against the back of the talisman; the warmth allowed it to stick. Then it was simply a matter of charging the talisman again while Albrecht waited nervously outside the tent—and then a matter of waiting until he drank sufficient wine to force him to the privy again. As he waved his sword, roaring warnings with his back to me, I slipped the poppy into the half-finished flagon of wine and stirred it well with a long engraving tool.

  He was quick, but I was too, and forced myself to keep my eyes focused on my work—that of administering the final touches to the beeswax mold of the fourth and final talisman—as he returned to his chair and refilled his empty cup. As the furnace had been well-stoked for more than a day, the worst of the chill had eased in the work area, though it was still far too cold for me to be sweating as I was. By the time I was patting the cold, mixed plaster around the last mold, Albrecht had finally begun to nod, but each time I stirred, he would pull his head back up and stare at me with squinting pale eyes.

  He was still drowsing as I rose and melted lead in the little doweled pot on the furnace floor, half closing my own eyes at the near-painful heat. Lead melts faster than most of the other metals, and by the fourth medallion, I’d grown quite efficient at casting. I watched the beeswax spill like water out of the holes in the bone-white plaster, then used the levers extending out of the furnace to tip the little pot over so that the lead poured, dark quicksilver, into the plaster orb.

  I sat listening to Albrecht’s blatant snores and the ringing in my tired ears as I waited for the mold to cool. A quarter-hour was obligatory if I wanted the medallion to set properly. Enough time to notice, with the odd detachment of the sleepless, that I could feel the strong, too-rapid beating of my heart: apparently I was frightened. There were things I hadn’t thought through—things I couldn’t clearly think through, given my stunned and foggy mental state—such as what I’d do if the hatch was simply a storage closet and not, as I’d assumed, a tunnel leading to escape, or what I’d do if Albrecht woke up, or another guard came to replace him and realized that he’d been drugged.