by S G Dunster
Offerings. Power.
A rich possibility. And a burden she felt, as if it were the Espada itself resting on her shoulders.
Chapter 5
T
hey pulled into the docks at Genoa just as the sun crossed the middle of the sky and began its slow sink to the western horizon. The light made everything golden—the forest of masts crowding the docks, the great stone warehouses with their yawning doorways and beyond them, the sweep of hills on hills, folding back and back into the continent, lined with roads, furred with patches of forest and scattered over with houses, great and small. Fields of green crops, and rows of vineyards and orchards. Thessaly was remembering, and the memories carried a bite of foreboding.
The Sforza court was rich, fast, and crowded.
But the cloud that hung over Thessaly was Umbra. Her aunt. It was almost as if she could feel her notice already, heavy and expectant. Waiting for her, and scented of cloves and myrrh.
The men on all three of Antonio’s ships spent several hours unloading goods into the spice warehouses before Thessaly, Guzal, and the remaining officers were finally allowed ashore. Then they were whisked into a retinue of grand carriages painted lively colors with wheels filigreed in gold flake. The insides of the carriages smelled of Sforza. Thessaly remembered the smell immediately—candle wax, eau de rose, jasmine, and the odd metallic smell of the pale substance ladies smeared over their skin to gain the translucent glow that was so admired.
It brought memories.
Thessaly shivered in her rose-colored silk, the intricate lace overdress gathered in puffs along her arms, with a trail of lace at her wrist that covered her hands completely.
Guzal had done her hair up in a net this time—lace too, spangled with rose-colored ribbon rosettes that matched the color of Thessaly’s gown. Antonio kept giving Thessaly looks of grim approval, so Thessaly imagined she must look very proper and maidenly.
“You glow, my lady,” Guzal had exclaimed after dressing Thessaly, circling her enthusiastically. “You look a proper lady. One the poets’d write of.” Guzal’s amber, tilted eyes gleamed. “Mayhap if he were still living, Senior Leonardo would take it on a whim to paint you.”
“Murky chance of that,” Thessaly said. “He couldn’t even be bothered to finish what he was paid to start at my Uncle’s house.”
It was true. The Sforza’s master of painting had dabbled for years at a wall in the chapel, but the whole time Thessaly had lived at that court, Leonardo Da Vinci had picked up his brushes at a whim only, and, if court gossip were to be believed, spent the rest of his time in melancholia and tempers. Thessaly had met him directly only once. The encounter hadn’t been much to speak of. He’d given her a narrow-eyed look, brushed past her and continued to jabber away in his peasant-Italian to Lady Sforza, who also didn’t have much use for Thessaly. Never had. Thessaly had been only of interest to Umbra in that house. And Umbra’s interest had driven Antonio to banish Thessaly finally to the most far-flung corner of the world.
Thessaly let out a long, blustery sigh.
The mansion loomed. Tall, pale walls. Black iron gate. Hordes of people passed through the gates as the sun disappeared, either headed out to their small farms or inside to their beds.
The carriages drove through the portcullis, stopped only once by armed guards who carried tall spears with many spiked points. They wore gleaming armor and looked grim, but seemed to recognize Thessaly’s father. After calling up to the castle, a mounted escort led them into the courtyard.
Inside was as vast and domineering as the castillo’s edifice. A sweep of pillars and pavement, stone, statuary. Severely curated flowers and grass and, in the main bricked courtyard, a fountain topped with a stone figure--a lean sculpted man wearing only a cloth.
Thessaly didn’t remember that. Was it new? She stared a few moments until Guzal elbowed her with a hint of a smile.
They drove around to the main entrance, passing more expanses of grass and shaped bushes and trees, some bearing fruit—peaches and pears. There were grapevines, too, with clusters of ripening globes glowing red in the pointed glare of the sun’s last rays.
They were stopped in front of the great doors that marked Castillo Sforza’s entrance. Several men in bright velvet doublets and hose stepped out to hand them down from the carriage—Thessaly and Guzal both, held carefully by hand and elbow as they stepped to the ground.
The doors opened, and there he was. Her uncle Francesco, who wore her father’s same expression—wary temper, keen intelligence, and above all, drive. Desire.
Not one to try to stop, Thessaly thought, shivering. She tried not to look at Guzal, who seemed to shrink beside her in the carriage.
“Hello, younger brother.” Francesco announced the words like a herald, and held a hand out to Antonio, who leaned forward and kissed him, receiving a kiss in return. “Come into my house and welcome.” He gave Thessaly a slow, studying look, nodded, and walked back through the doors. Thessaly’s father followed, then Thessaly and Guzal, and then the officers from the Espada.
“It is with great gladness we receive you,” Francesco said. “Enter. Stay as long as you wish. We appreciate the cargo you brought to our bays. We’re in sore need of cinnamon. Christina has been missing it on her pears of a morning.”
Antonio bent his back in a gracious bow and followed his brother through the vast, yawning entrance.
The inside of the castillo was no less grand. In fact, Thessaly couldn’t stop looking. She’d been here before, lived here for years, but there were new things to see—bright paintings of saints, of Sforzas past, and gilded medallions all along the vaulting. The men’s boots echoed in the huge hollow space like thunder, and Thessaly nearly slid out in her soft leather slippers. The floor was polished marble and reflected clear as a mirror. Guzal gave her a steadying elbow and a warning look.
A woman came out to meet them, gliding on the marble as smoothly as if she were a boat sailing on a calm sea.
Countess Christina, Thessaly’s aunt, was a northswoman, a princess of the Norwegian court, and so her coloring was different. Her face was pale, her eyebrows invisible, the rosebud of her mouth standing stark in comparison.
She looked, Thessaly thought, like an angel from a monk’s book. Francesco’s stern expression relaxed when he saw her, and he put a hand on her cheek. “We have visitors, mia Bella,” he said.
Christina smiled back, lips closed and hiding her teeth, which Thessaly knew were crooked and yellow—her one mean trait. She pulled her husband, the count, by the hand around to her side, and brought up one delicate, flowing sleeve to her mouth. “It is not yet the hour of eating, brother.” She gave Thessaly a glance of acknowledgement as well, and her gaze, lighting on Guzal, shifted to something more resigned. “You have caught us at the end of the court’s siesta. If you do not mind, we shall show you to your rooms. Will you join us in an hour at cena?”
“We shall,” Antonio declared, and gave her a deep bow. “Christina. It has been a long time. You are lovelier than a lotus blossom.”
“But not near so exotic,” Christina smiled, close-mouthed again. “Thank you. Come.” She put a hand out, and Thessaly took it.
Christina’s hand was cool and soft, delicate as the flower her father had mentioned. She led them into a hall, leaving Guzal and Cerdic and the swains to follow slightly behind through several doorways into gaping rooms full of splendid tapestries, more paintings, more gilded portraits, and finally, through an iron-fitted wooden door.
The room was small and smelled of ripe wheat. Thessaly thanked her aunt.
“You look lovely,” Christina replied. “You shall wear that same lovely gown of yours to the evening meal? There are many young men of the family who would appreciate such a picture.”
Thessaly managed to smile pleasantly. “Thank you, Aunt. You are kind.”
Christina flashed a dazzling close-lipped smile and left. Cerdic bowed to both of them. “I am being sent back to the Espada,” he said.
He glanced at Thessaly. “You’ll come say goodbye?”
Thessaly’s breath caught in her throat. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
Guzal helped her off with the lace, then the silk underskirt. She carefully took off the hair net and spread the clothing on a chair, which rested by a curved window overlooking an herb garden.
Perfect, Thessaly thought as she lay down. Umbra’s apartments can’t be far. Here she was, backed right up against the gardens. There were flower beds under the window. Her mind fuzzed in the sweet smells, the warmth. She dreamed flits of things, oddities. It took her right back to when she was thirteen and lived here. She’d blossomed here. She’d been taught here, by Guzal, and also by Umbra. About craft and the ways of womanhood.
And here she was again. Being paraded.
Like a fine beef, Thessaly thought as she drifted. She never could quite sleep in the middle of the day, heat notwithstanding. But she let her mind rest, and was comforted by the deep breathing of Guzal, who, again, bunked with her.
They were summoned for the evening meal hours later.
The Italians liked to eat late, and it was more of a fête than a meal, these evening gatherings. Outside was velvet dark and studded with stars when Thessaly buttoned on her bodice and the flattener, allowing Guzal to comb through her waves before putting them up again neatly in the net. A few sprung up in coils around her face like lamb’s wool; the water in the air didn’t allow for the smoothness that was more fashionable.
Thessaly didn’t care. She was grumpy as they walked into the great hall, now set out with long tables.
She did not want to sit through Umbra’s sermon about why bound magicks were her proper choice. Umbra was a forbidding, overbearing person. Thessaly did not intend to let her aunt convince her; she knew what she desired. She did not know why she hadn’t already reached in to touch the cord of sea silk at her waist.
Every time she moved to do it, though, her aunt’s words and expression came into her mind.
Would she be able to learn from Margarida, if she were to be disobedient and chose before speaking to Umbra? If she hid that fact from her mentor?
Thessaly shook herself and nodded to the sentries that stood at the doorway, gorgeously gowned in black with gold braiding, the hilts of their swords polished to a gleaming brightness.
She was gritting her teeth, making them creak. She took a deep breath and let it go, feeling for the reassuring lump under her skirt.
I can defy Umbra, Thessaly told herself. I am no small sparrow. Nor am I loyal like Nur. I am my own person.
Inside the great hall there was seating for more than a hundred: all the nobles and advisors and townsmen the Sforzas dealt with daily. Several men and ladies were seated already. As one, they rose when Thessaly entered, then sat as she settled herself down the table, away from the crowds. Several eyes lingered on Thessaly, most of them male. Thessaly ignored their stares.
She looked up at the ornate scaffolding above, painted all over with bright colors and romantic figures. Leonardo’s work. How many hours had he spent lying below this ceiling? Leonardo was not a man to be moved, either. What had bent him to the will of Il Moro, Thessaly’s formidable grandfather, the man who had employed him? Umbra had inherited her father’s incorrigible will, as well as his dark and powerful features.
Thessaly shook herself and touched the silver at either side of her plate. There were spoons, knives, and forks—a utensil yet unknown most places outside courts in Italy like her uncle’s. Thessaly had been taught its use, however, and appreciated the delicacy it afforded in consuming such rich and heavily sauced foods as the Sforza tables offered.
Guzal sat down next to Thessaly, clicking her tongue. “It doesn’t do to be unsociable,” she murmured. “It’ll seem to them like you think yourself above. Your face is hard as an anvil, sharp as a meat knife, girl. Come now, smile.”
“What if I do wish to be unsociable?” Thessaly muttered, then caught Guzal’s arch look, and stared down at the folded cloth by the plate. She picked up the fork and pricked at the back of her hand with the tines.
“Stop that,” Guzal scolded, taking the fork and putting it back on the table.
Men and women were flooding the banquet hall now in velvet and silk, ribbon and jewels. High, folded boots and delicate bespangled slippers that matched gowns and cloaks. Several of the men glanced at Thessaly, clearly curious, but went to sit along the table, starting at the head, the most desired places filling quickly. The women stared too, though not directly. More out of the corners of their eyes.
Thessaly’s father swarmed in with all his swains: Bellccior, Anrrique, Jacome, and Rauel. Thessaly saw with a pang that Cerdic was absent. Would her father let her go back to the Espada to say goodbye?
Antonio’s officers seemed quite glad to be included. Their eyes roamed the crowded tables, gleaming with excitement, Bellccior’s especially, taking in all the ladies in their elegance. His face gained that wicked look it sometimes had, his strong features and wide smile lighting him up in a room full of stars. Many of the ladies gave him looks in return.
“Looks like you’ll be bathing in roses tonight,” Anrrique commented idly to Bellccior as they settled themselves en masse around Thessaly and Guzal.
Antonio gave Anrrique a good glare.
“Beg pardon,” Anrrique gulped, reddening and giving Thessaly an embarrassed glance.
“Ha,” Thessaly said. “I hear you say worse every day on deck. Just because I’m wearing roses doesn’t mean I need to be treated like one. Papa.” She grated the last word and glared.
Her father gave her an oblique, absent look. His attention was focused elsewhere. He was looking, but not for anyone in the room. His eyes constantly roamed, wary.
Umbra, Thessaly thought. He’s looking for Umbra.
“Gossip and talk and news,” Anrrique said, a satisfied trill in his consonants. “It’s been too long we’ve been asea.”
“Rumor I’ve heard already,” Jacome said, “the trouble’s coming back. Trouble of a Charlesian nature.” He smiled. “Glad we can ride along off in the ocean.”
“Don’t be a fop,” Antonio barked. “We need the trade of Milan. We’ve lost Joao.”
The officers all looked at each other and went quiet, turning their attention to their food. It was plain their captain was in a foul temper.
With chatter like the sea’s roar, and perfumes, and the heady fragrance of rich foods, Thessaly was almost grateful when the musicians trooped in—lyre, flute, mandol—and began to play. A voice rose, sweet and high and rich over all of it. A cut man, Thessaly thought.
They won’t cut me to make me sweet and compliant.
She’d managed to slip on the pouch under her shift before coming down to dinner. She had it right there. At any moment she could touch her skin to byssus, and the loose magicks would choose her. She wouldn’t be compelled.
The courses were rich and varied. Stuffed pastas with sauces made of herbs and fruits. Nuts pickled with dates. Greens and fat olives drenched in spirits. Cheeses of varied color and hardness, and fruits of every kind: pomegranate, peach, pear, and citrus, all with creams and sauces to pour over them if one liked. Plus there were clear bowls of golden honey, saltcellars of salt and pepper, as well as expensive spices such as her father traded in—cinnamon, cloves, nutmegs, saffron, and best of all, pepper.
Thessaly enjoyed a few bites of each thing and gradually warmed up to the room’s mood. Two men a little further down the table were debating Plato. She listened with great interest.
Her uncle and aunt sat at the head of the main table. They were like gods presiding over a sort of heaven, a heaven filled with men and women of sharp intellect and learning, of good things to eat, desirable scents, and music to make the heart weep.
“You’re in your third cup,” Guzal murmured to her, nudging it away from her.
“I miss Italian wine.”
“Clearly, too much. And you forget it’s headier than port.”
The man sitting across and to the left of Guzal laughed and turned his gaze on them. “A Tatar,” he boomed jovially, nodding at Guzal. “And a pretty one at that. What is your name, girl?”
“She will not speak to you,” Antonio replied tersely. “She has not had a proper introduction.”
The man fingered his short-cropped beard, a little mystified and clearly amused. He turned his attention to Antonio. “Allow me to introduce myself, then.” He gave a slight head-tilt. “Mauricio de Nato.”
“Antonio Vasco de Sforza.”
“Ah,” the man laughed, his cheeks pinking up. He’d been a little too much in his cups, too, Thessaly thought. “One of Ludovico’s bastards, eh? Welcome.”
Antonio’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but he nodded. The man waited a few moments, his gaze moving to Thessaly and Guzal, clearly expecting an introduction. When it didn’t happen, his lips curled slightly. He shrugged and cut into the slab of sauced veal on his plate.
The music swelled. Couples began to dance in the middle of the room. As Thessaly remembered, the dances were more lively here than at Joao’s court; there was laughing and swirling, even some men lifting women off the floor by their waists. Here, there was a great deal more grace than at Joao’s court, too, Thessaly thought. She was diverted from her angst, watching. Flower-pale skin, gleaming smiles, expensive fabrics, and jewels glowed in the candles from the chandeliers, the ladies’ faces like painted saints in the warm candlelight.
A hand stretched out for her. Thessaly started, looked up—it was a pleasant enough face. No hook-nose. And the man was swarthy, not pale. His eyes gleamed like ink in his face, and his beard had a jaunty little twist at the end, curling off his chin. “Allow me this dance?” He asked.
Thessaly turned to her father. She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking and made herself keep from biting her lip.
“Of course, nephew,” Antonio said, gesturing so the white ruffle on his cuff covered his fingers. He flicked it back and turned to face Thessaly. “You remember your cousin, Pietro.”
