The Golden City

by Cheney, J. Kathleen

  “What are you doing?” a soft voice asked from the doorway.

  Duilio sighed inwardly. It was Genoveva Carvalho. He pulled the coil from under his coat and walked to where she stood. He could see Miss Paredes and Captain Pinheiro watching from farther down the hallway. “I need to make a trade, Miss Carvalho, and don’t have time to stop by my own home to find something suitable. Your father can send me the draper’s bill.”

  She nodded and stood to one side of the doorway to let him pass. He moved to join the others, but she laid one hand on his arm. “Thank you for going after them,” she said. “This is my fault. I let Constancia fall back to talk to Tiago. I shouldn’t have, but they’re friends, and he’s too kind to take advantage of her naïveté. Please . . . bring her back.”

  Duilio patted her hand. “We will do our best, Miss Carvalho. I promise.”

  Her hand slid off his arm, and he hurried to join the other two. Miss Paredes gave him a strange look, but said nothing about the encounter. A few minutes later they were all in the captain’s carriage again, heading in the direction of the Bicalho quay.

  Duilio figured Pinheiro had never met a sereia before, but the man seemed unfazed by the revelation of Miss Paredes’ identity. “So, what will happen to Silva?” he asked Pinheiro cautiously.

  Pinheiro sighed. “He’ll probably get several fine meals out of this, have a nice nap, and gather a lot of gossip to spread about. I’m sure he’ll come out of this smelling like springtime.”

  Duilio almost laughed at Pinheiro’s vexed tone.

  “Do you know Silva well?” Miss Paredes asked the policeman.

  “I didn’t tell her,” Duilio inserted quickly.

  “Ah,” Pinheiro said. “I have the distinction of being his son, although he wasn’t aware of that until about three years ago, when my mother died.” He crossed himself at the mention of his mother’s death.

  “I’m so sorry,” Miss Paredes said politely.

  “That makes Captain Pinheiro my cousin,” Duilio told her. “And it puts a different complexion on the theft at our house three years ago.” He explained about Silva’s attempt to create an inheritance for his son and its tragic, even if unintended, consequence. Miss Paredes shot a glance at the captain’s face, possibly noting the resemblance to Silva. “So, some collector has my mother’s pelt.”

  “Yet she still blames Silva,” she said.

  “It is, ultimately, his fault,” Pinheiro said. “I won’t make any excuses for him. I think larceny just comes more naturally to him than honest effort.”

  “So, how do we find this collector?” she asked.

  Duilio was pleased that she’d automatically said we.

  “My father,” Pinheiro said, “has had an ongoing feud for decades, he claims, with the Marquis of Maraval, who has been slowly eroding his influence with the prince. Silva claims that Maraval has a huge collection of magical items secreted away in a basement, but that the item you want isn’t there. He’s checked; I’m afraid my father has a side career of breaking into others’ homes. I expect Maraval knew he would come looking for it and hid it elsewhere, along with the stolen strongbox.”

  “And Silva knew my family would never deal with him while we suspected he had my mother’s pelt,” Duilio told her. “None of us would believe him if he claimed innocence, because he did arrange the theft in the first place.”

  “He didn’t want to admit he’d lost that round to Maraval,” Pinheiro said. “He hadn’t told anyone until I became involved in this investigation. He told me only then to convince me that Maraval is behind these evil acts.”

  “I see,” Miss Paredes said. “And Silva’s not behind any of it?”

  “To be honest, miss,” Pinheiro said, “he’s not clear of all of this. He suspected that murder was happening for a long time but wanted to tie it to Maraval first. He didn’t report the crimes he suspected. Then again, to whom could he have reported them?”

  Duilio had to agree. Silva couldn’t report it to the Special Police because he wouldn’t know which of those officers were part of the Open Hand, and the investigation by the Security Police was shut down. The carriage rattled to a stop. They’d reached the quay where his family’s boats were moored.

  “We’ll just be a few minutes,” he warned Pinheiro, and then opened the door and invited Miss Paredes to join him.

  His family kept three boats here in a small marina that had been used by his father and his grandfather before. One of the three was a shallow-drafted paddleboat, one of Cristiano’s experimental designs. It was good for river traffic and for travel near the coastline when the water was glassy, but in rough water the thing was prone to capsizing. There was also a twenty-six-foot sailboat, but the family’s pride was the yacht, a long, graceful ship that Duilio had learned to sail as a young man. Commissioned by his grandfather, the Deolinda was nearly sixty years old, yet still tugged and bobbed at its moorings.

  Miss Paredes seemed suitably impressed at the sight of the yacht. Duilio honestly preferred the smaller boats; they felt closer to the water. So the yacht had spent most of the last year moored here, only going out when Cristiano or Joaquim had the time to sail.

  Fortunately, Aga was on the yacht with João, who rose when he saw them approaching. “I hope you don’t mind my bringing her out here, sir,” João said quickly, “but she was interested in the boats.”

  Not a surprise. His own mother found boatbuilding a subject of endless fascination. “I’m certain she would make an excellent boatman. Perhaps you could take out the sailboat tomorrow and show her how it handles under full sail.”

  João’s eyes lit. “Yes, sir. She would love that.”

  “Good. I need you to gather any bolt cutters we have, and if you could have the dory ready by sunset, that would be helpful. Also, I need to ask Miss Aga a favor.”

  The young man nodded and held out his hand toward where she sat coiling a line on the deck. The girl was barefoot, wearing a pair of trousers, a man’s shirt and vest, and a woolen cap. They weren’t hugely oversized, so they must be João’s spare garb rather than Erdano’s. Aga took one look at Duilio and turned up her nose. Evidently she hadn’t forgotten being passed over.

  Duilio held up the tieback he’d liberated from the Carvalho library. “Aga, I need to ask a favor. Please?”

  Her eyes flicked toward the heavy braid, and she returned to her coiling as if he hadn’t spoken. Duilio handed the tieback to Miss Paredes. “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask her.”

  She leaned closer to him. “Why won’t she talk to you?”

  “She’s effectively queen of João’s harem now, so she won’t take gifts from me.”

  “I see,” she said, a smile tugging at her full lips. “And what do you need asked?”

  “I need her to go and fetch Erdano for us. We need his help tonight, and any of his harem that’s willing. They can meet us here at sunset.”

  Miss Paredes crouched next to Aga. She asked the question, offering the braid in exchange. “It would make a nice belt,” she added.

  Duilio noted that she’d taken Aga’s measure quickly enough.

  Aga snatched the length of braid from her hand. “Now?”

  “As soon as you can,” Miss Paredes said. “Please.”

  Aga immediately began to unbutton her borrowed shirt, provoking João to rush over and launch into a lecture on where and when it was proper to disrobe, which made Aga turn her pretty pout on him. Feeling they’d created enough chaos for one day, Duilio led Miss Paredes off the yacht and up the ramp to where the carriage waited.

  “She’s very pretty,” Miss Paredes noted as he helped her up the last step.

  “Not very clever, though,” Duilio added. “I’m afraid Erdano’s father wasn’t known for his deep thinking.”

  “My people tend to think of selkies as . . .” Her lips pressed into a thin line.


  Duilio raised one brow as he opened the carriage door. “As?”

  “Well, rather savage,” she admitted. “They choose to live on the sea rather than in homes, as we do.”

  He helped her up. “Anything different is barbaric, Miss Paredes. You should see the Scots.” He stepped up after her, to be greeted by Pinheiro’s quizzical look. “Of course, the Scots invented the steam engine, which shows that generalizations are made only to be defied.”

  “Did they?” she asked. “Amazing. Wearing skirts all the while?”

  “Kilts, Miss Paredes,” Duilio corrected. “Kilts.”

  Pinheiro rolled his eyes. Duilio had a distinct feeling that as much as he disliked Paolo Silva, he was going to find Pinheiro an excellent addition to the Ferreira family. “So, Pinheiro, do you sail?”

  • • •

  Oriana changed to the most worn of her clothing, the shabby black skirt and black shirtwaist that had made up her housemaid costume. It was the same garb she’d worn that night, bringing a sense of completion to the choice. She checked the knife’s sheath to make certain it was securely strapped on, buttoned the sleeve, and tugged on her mitts. Everyone who would be on that patrol boat tonight already knew she was a sereia, but she didn’t intend to rub it in their faces.

  A knock at her door heralded Teresa’s entrance. The maid waited until Oriana had emerged from the dressing room. “There’s a woman in the sitting room who wishes to speak with you,” she said. “A Mrs. Melo.”

  Oriana felt like the world shook. She gripped the edge of the door. “Is she alone?”

  “Yes, miss,” Teresa said.

  She took a deep breath. “I’ll go down directly,” she said. “Could you advise Mr. Ferreira as well?”

  Teresa headed off to find one of the footmen to talk to Mr. Ferreira, who must still be changing clothes. Oriana stripped off her mitts in case she had to get at her knife quickly and headed downstairs to the front parlor. When she pushed the sitting room door wide open, she found the woman from the church sitting comfortably on the couch.

  Oriana stopped at the threshold. Should she go in? Would that put her in a more vulnerable position than standing in the doorway? But surely remaining outside would tell this woman she was afraid. She leveled her shoulders and stepped inside. “Mrs. Melo, I believe it is?”

  The woman had been watching her, dark eyes hard as stone. She was an attractive woman, but not striking enough to draw attention. Her brows were thick, which lent her a look of intensity that Oriana had noted before. “You’ve done well so far, Oriana.” The woman surveyed the contents of the sitting room with an appraising eye. “I have to say, I’m impressed that you managed to land in a wealthy household following the incident with the Amaral family.”

  The incident with the Amaral family? Is that how she saw Isabel’s death? An incident? Oriana forced her fists to unclench. “What do you want?”

  “I want to know if Silva spilled everything I told him,” the woman said as she rose. “Did he tell you that we’ll be putting out the new house tonight?”

  Oriana suspected her reaction—or lack of one—gave away the answer to that. “Yes.”

  “And will Anjos and his collection of freaks move to rescue the girl?”

  Collection of freaks? What an odd thing to say. “I’m sure they’ll try.”

  “You’ll have to leave here,” the woman said, her eyes fixing on Oriana’s. “You know that, don’t you? Once the press gets wind of Isabel Amaral’s death, they’ll want you hauled in and questioned. You’ll be exposed for certain, and the Special Police—well, most of them—haven’t given up their persecution of our kind. I don’t want to see someone who’s done so much for the cause hanged.”

  Done so much for the cause. “You let them kill Isabel. You were there and didn’t stop it.”

  “Oriana,” the woman said softly, almost gently. “If you hadn’t been there, the Open Hand might have succeeded with this insane idea. Yes, your employer died, but sacrifices have to be made.”

  Oriana couldn’t look at her any longer. “She was my friend.”

  “Making you carry her handbag and read to her? I think not. One of the first rules of this occupation, Oriana, is never get too close to anyone. Never become attached to anyone. You haven’t been in this game very long, so I understand your making that mistake. But there are some things you have to give up for your cause. People like us don’t have friends or family. We can’t afford them.”

  Oriana wanted to close her eyes, but didn’t dare put that much trust in this woman. She felt ill, a minute away from casting up her lunch on the fine rug.

  “I’ll make arrangements,” the woman continued, “for your extraction. I’ll leave word for you here as soon as those arrangements are made. I expect them to be followed explicitly. Do you understand?”

  She didn’t have an answer. She wasn’t ready for this. She didn’t want to leave.

  “And if you don’t go,” the woman continued in a reasonable tone, “I’ll make certain that the press turns up enough evidence to prove that your father . . . well, let’s say that it will make his life most uncomfortable.”

  Oriana looked up. “Leave my father out of this.”

  “Remember, Oriana, family is a liability in this occupation. You came to us with a built-in failsafe. I’ve always known that. Now . . . Heriberto, he’s soft. All he wants is to gather enough gold to run away to Brazil, the impetus behind all his petty crime. I promise you, I am not soft. I will do whatever’s needed.”

  No, Oriana had no doubt of that. Maria Melo must have witnessed, even participated in, the deaths of dozens of innocents in the last year. She’d handpicked the people who’d died. She’d chosen Isabel. If Oriana had been discovered by the Open Hand, this woman would have stood silently by and watched them kill her too . . . or done it herself. “I understand.”

  The woman inclined her head. “I’ll send word.” She walked around the sofa and paused while Oriana stepped aside to let her out of the sitting room. “You do have your mother’s look about you,” she said. “Unfortunately she didn’t understand the rules of the game either.”

  And with that parting shot, she walked past a stunned Oriana and down the hallway. Cardenas opened the door, and Maria Melo strode down the steps as if she were queen of the world.

  • • •

  Duilio only caught the last few seconds of that conversation. He’d been half-dressed and still eating his dinner when Gustavo came in to tell him of Miss Paredes’ unexpected visitor. He’d thrown on a jacket, bolted down the mouthful he was chewing, and run down the stairs to see that Miss Paredes was safe.

  He’d been about to enter on the pretext that his mother wished to speak to Miss Paredes when he’d realized the visitor was emerging. He ducked into the library instead. Miss Paredes didn’t need him to interfere, but he wished he knew what had happened. When he came out of the library, she seemed shaken by whatever her visitor had to say.

  “Miss Paredes?”

  She jerked to attention, her jaw clenched tightly. “Sir?”

  Duilio wondered what it would take to get her to call him by his name. “Why don’t you join me in the library? You look like you could use a brandy.”

  “I could, actually.” She followed him meekly down the hall. He grabbed the decanter out of the liquor cabinet, and she settled in the chair while he poured. “Can you tell . . .” she began. “Do you know if someone will die tonight? If I can’t save them?”

  Duilio closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to call his gift into order. He posed a question to his mind, but his gift only had a tentative answer for him, as if there were too many variables that could change. He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Ah,” she said, sobering.

  “It’s not just your responsibility, Oriana,” he said. “There will be several of us out there, all working on i
t.” She didn’t object to his using her name. Perhaps she hadn’t even noticed.

  “She fed Silva all that information. She wanted to be sure he’d repeat it to us.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “If she’s the saboteur, then she wants them to be brought down. She just doesn’t want to be brought down with them, or have anyone know that she brought them down.”

  Miss Paredes nodded shakily. “She said that once the press gets hold of Isabel Amaral’s death, I’ll be exposed as a sereia.”

  He’d expected that, but had already planned to pay off anyone necessary to keep her name out of the press. “That can be worked around. I can assure you that your name, and possibly Isabel’s, won’t appear in the papers.”

  She shook her head wearily. “She’s making arrangements for my extraction. If I don’t go, there will be repercussions.”

  Duilio felt all the threads he’d pulled together slipping loose out of his hands. Why had his gift not warned him? He’d known she had a life beyond this household, but he hadn’t seen her walking away so soon. “When?”

  “I’m not certain,” she said softly. “She’ll send word.”

  Duilio reached across and touched her chin, trying to get her to meet his eyes, but she seemed determined to avoid his gaze. Leaning that close to her, he felt a sudden, wild desire to press his lips to her jaw. He need only lean forward a few more inches. He wanted to smell her skin, tangle his hands in that tightly braided hair. He firmly reminded himself that he was a gentleman in whom she’d placed a great deal of trust. She wasn’t one of the demimonde to be pawed, or one of Erdano’s girls looking for a night’s entertainment. Oriana Paredes was as much a lady as his own mother. So he sat back, putting some distance between himself and temptation. Heaven knew they had other things to do tonight than entertain his currently hotheaded desires.

  “What sort of repercussions?” he asked. “Can I help?”

  “No.” She gazed down at her hands. “I’ve been used as a tool, nothing more.”