The Golden City

by Cheney, J. Kathleen

  Oriana turned her attention back to her lone pursuer: a slower swimmer moving doggedly in pursuit. Clutching the pelt to her chest with one arm, she sank lower. Then she started back to the beach, cutting around her adversary with a dozen feet to spare. It was Maraval.

  Was this her chance? She could use her call to draw him down in the water, to cause him to follow her deeper to his own death. It would be a proper repayment for what he’d done to Isabel, a death by drowning. She could pull him down and then release her control of him when it was too late for him to make it to the surface but not too late to understand that he was drowning. It would be justice.

  She could almost feel the pleasure that watching the terror on his face would hold. Her free hand curled into a fist, nails digging into her palm.

  They needed him. If they were going to find everyone involved in this plot, they needed the head of the serpent. So Oriana swam back toward the beach, coming out of the water at the side of the pier.

  But Duilio was no longer alone. A petite woman dressed and veiled in black stood near the water’s edge, easily visible on the pale sands.

  Duilio grabbed Oriana’s arm and drew her back away from that dark form. “What happened?” he asked, pointing with his chin toward the sodden pelt clutched under her arm.

  Oriana could sense the tension in him. “Erdano gave me this. Maraval’s still out there.”

  The woman turned her black-veiled head in Oriana’s direction and in accented Portuguese said, “Bring him back.”

  Her voice was flat, without emotion. Oriana felt a chill not due to the cold air, until Duilio set a hand on her shoulder to steady her. “She’s on our side. She’s with Gaspar.”

  Had Gaspar managed to find them with his compass? She spotted him then, walking along the path toward the beach.

  Reassured, Oriana took a deep breath, turned to face the sea, and called again. Duilio turned his head, plugging one ear with his free hand; he held his revolver in the other. Apparently her call had some effect on him, but Duilio managed to resist her, keeping his gun trained on the waves lapping at the edge of the beach. Gaspar seemed completely unmoved. After only a few minutes Maraval stumbled onto the sands, his fine clothes ruined. Oriana closed her mouth, letting him go.

  Duilio kept his gun trained on the man. But upon seeing the woman waiting for him on the shore, Maraval struggled to his feet. Grimacing, he swung one arm toward her. She merely touched him with one slim hand. Maraval whimpered. She said a word in a foreign language, and he collapsed to the sands. His ragged breathing showed he was still alive, but the black-veiled woman knelt down, apparently unconcerned by any threat Maraval might pose. “I can take your life away,” she told him, “bit by bit, drag you down into the waters and hold you there till you drown in my arms. But first you and I have much to talk about.”

  Oriana felt ill. Hadn’t she just thought of doing the same thing?

  Gaspar strode directly over to the woman’s side and proceeded to put cuffs on the prone Maraval. As if they’d been waiting, Joaquim and Pinheiro appeared at the end of the path, both tugging wads of cotton or wool from their ears.

  “Don’t try anything on me, old man,” Gaspar said as he dragged Maraval to his feet. “It won’t work.”

  Oriana suspected Maraval was too worn or too terrified to try anything on anyone. He was clearly frightened of the slender woman in black, who walked away toward the burning building without a backward glance.

  Gaspar dragged Maraval to his feet. “Pinheiro, take your team and search the area for any others. We’ll send the regulars out to investigate further when there’s light. I’ll take this fellow and Miss Vladimirova back to the city. Mr. Ferreira?”

  “Yes?” Duilio said.

  “There’s a storm coming in. That flat-bottomed thing you came out here in won’t like that. You should probably tie it off and come back for it in a day or two.”

  Duilio looked seaward at the dark sky. No stars were visible through that thick cloud cover. “I think you’re right.”

  Two more police officers appeared at the end of the pathway as a carriage drew up to the edge of the beach, its dark sides gilded by the fire’s light. A second carriage drew up behind it. “Tavares, why don’t you head to the city with them? Get some rest,” Gaspar suggested as two of the officers wrestled the marquis into the carriage. “Anjos will want you back on the beach tomorrow.”

  Inspector Tavares looked relieved to be joining them instead of heading back in that coach with Maraval and the strange Miss Vladimirova. He volunteered to help Duilio secure the paddleboat while Pinheiro and his crew boarded the moored yacht to look for evidence. Duilio took off his soot-stained coat and settled it around her shoulders, saying, “You must be freezing.”

  “Thank you,” Oriana managed without her teeth chattering. She was cold now that she was out of the water. The pelt she clutched against her chest was still wet. Her clothes were sodden, and if they hadn’t been headed back into the city she’d remove them, but she didn’t want to cause further consternation.

  So Oriana stood on the sand, her skirts dripping onto her bare feet. She just wanted to leave this place. She didn’t want to be around to watch the bodies of the three police officers she’d lured to their deaths wash in on the tide. It was a cowardly thought, not wanting to face up to what she’d done. But she would do it again if it meant keeping Duilio safe. What sort of person did that make her?

  Returning from tying off the paddleboat, Duilio took one of her hands in his. “Let’s get back to the city.”

  She had the strongest feeling he knew exactly what was bothering her. She nodded wordlessly.

  After walking up to the burning workshop, they transferred the wooden box with its blood compass to the carriage. A handful more of Gaspar and Anjos’ officers had arrived to help with the search. Apparently Tavares knew them already and verified their identities. Then they were finally in the carriage, heading back to the city.

  How late was it? Ten? Midnight?

  Oriana wearily settled next to Duilio while his cousin took the seat facing backward. He took the pelt from her and arranged it on the empty spot on the bench, allowing some of the water to drain off. She listened while they talked of Anjos’ effort to convince the City Council to allow the floating houses to be pulled up from the river’s grasp. Apparently the inspector had been persuasive, and the effort was scheduled to begin as soon as the storm passed. The police suspected few of the bodies would be identifiable, so they were counting on Joaquim, with his knowledge of the case, to give names to the victims and help contact the families involved. She didn’t envy him that job.

  They went on to talk about newspapers and which were sending writers and photographers out to cover it, whether the prince himself would comment on the whole affair, and whether Maraval would be charged or if he would quietly disappear. Just as long as he doesn’t go free, Oriana thought.

  And that was the last thought she remembered until Duilio shook her shoulder to wake her.

  CHAPTER 36

  MONDAY, 6 OCTOBER 1902

  Oriana had been sleeping, her head on his shoulder, for most of the trip. When they reached the house Duilio hated to wake her, but she probably didn’t want to sit there in damp clothing any longer than necessary.

  Joaquim had been a font of information, mostly about what they’d learned in going through Maraval’s private papers. The papers cleared up any doubt of his having Alessio killed, as he’d kept thorough records of all Alessio’s movements for a few months prior to that date. Maraval had feared that Alessio might—at the infante’s request—seduce the prince out from under Maraval’s thumb. Ironically, it was Alessio’s death that had led the infante to bring in Anjos and his people, ultimately causing Maraval’s downfall.

  Over the past few days, Joaquim had also learned a great deal about Anjos and his people. Having spent more time with them, he had
several interesting observations. Duilio was most interested in Miss Vladimirova, though, whom Joaquim told him was a Russian water nymph called a rusalka. Camões might have referred to Oriana’s people as sea nymphs, but Duilio suspected the similarity ended there. According to Joaquim, Silva had apparently been correct in calling Miss Vladimirova undead. And while Duilio had read several lurid stories about vampires, he wasn’t sure he believed that something could be both dead and alive.

  “All I know,” Joaquim said, “is that I’m glad I’m in this carriage, not the other. Just being around her makes me nervous.”

  That Duilio did understand. Of course, if Joaquim had been in the other carriage, then he might have had a chance for a private talk with Oriana. He could tell she was shaken after what had happened at the cove. He didn’t know whether she’d ever caused another’s death before, but he suspected not. He understood that. He’d never liked killing, no matter the situation.

  But the carriage had been standing for a couple of minutes now, and they should let the driver get his horses back to the police stables. Duilio sighed and gently shook Oriana’s shoulder. She blinked at him but obeyed his instructions when he helped her down onto the cobbles behind the house. He dragged the nearly dry pelt out as well, and then sent the driver on with orders to take Joaquim to his apartment. They could talk more later.

  • • •

  It was the one thing Duilio didn’t think should wait until morning, so in the early hours of the morning they stood next to his mother’s bed. The lady slept silently, looking almost like a painting in a museum, her braid trailing off the edge of the bed. Oriana touched her shoulder lightly. “Lady Ferreira?”

  The lady moved as if in a dream, sitting up and stretching out her arms. Her eyes never saw Oriana there. She looked right past her.

  Duilio held out the pelt. “See what we’ve found, Mother?”

  He surrendered the damp pelt into her hands . . . or perhaps it moved into Lady Ferreira’s arms; Oriana wasn’t certain which she’d just seen. The lady gathered it close to her chest and curled around it like it was a lost child finally found. Under her fingertips, it seemed almost as though the pelt came alive, the fur shining again. “Mother, there are nail holes in it,” he warned, “so don’t try to wear it immediately.”

  “No wonder my fingers always hurt,” Lady Ferreira said under her breath.

  Tears stung Oriana’s eyes, and she wiped them away with the side of her hand. Now Lady Ferreira’s life could resume. It must be an incredible relief to be able to move on. Oriana didn’t know when, if ever, her own life would be hers to direct again. She sorely wanted that.

  “It’ll be better soon, Mother,” Duilio said, touching her hair lightly. “Rest now.”

  The lady breathed in the scent of her pelt as if it were the sweetest perfume. She seemed too enraptured to speak at all.

  “I’ll stay with her for a while,” Duilio told Oriana as he dragged over a chair and set it next to the head of the bed. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”

  She nodded, feeling dull and drained. She left him there and headed to her own bed, only bothering to remove her waterlogged garments before crawling under the warm coverlet. And then it was morning, a dim light piercing the curtains and bidding her to wake. Oriana crawled from her borrowed bed and dressed in her black serge skirt and blue vest. She braided her hair and was relieved when Teresa showed up with her morning coffee tray.

  A short time later she left her room, unsure whether anyone would be awake this morning. Before she reached the stairs, Cardenas came up. “Good morning, Miss Paredes,” he said cheerily.

  “Is anyone else up?” she asked.

  “Mr. Duilio has an early caller,” he said, “but the lady apparently plans to sleep late.”

  It was early for a caller, but Oriana supposed it might be his cousin, Inspector Tavares. Or Gaspar or Pinheiro. “Very well.”

  Cardenas reached into a jacket pocket and produced an envelope. “I have a letter for you, Miss Paredes. It was left last night, but . . .”

  Oriana cringed inwardly. She knew what that letter must be. She took the envelope Cardenas handed her and thanked him, and he walked on toward the end of the hallway. This card had a different seal from the other, Oriana noted as she made her way more slowly down the stairs. In fact, it looked like Heriberto’s seal and wax. Oriana stopped halfway down the stairs and popped open the envelope.

  There will be a ship waiting for you, south-southwest of the mouth of the river. Be there by noon on Monday, or I will do as I promised. MM

  Oriana sighed and closed her eyes, fighting back the sting of tears. Today. She had known this was coming. She had known it would be soon.

  She turned to head back up the stairs when she saw Duilio emerging from the front sitting room with his guest. It was Genoveva Carvalho, her companion trailing behind her, clutching a parasol in her hands. Miss Carvalho lifted tear-filled eyes toward Duilio, then leaned up and kissed his cheek, one of her gloved hands lingering on his coat lapel. Oriana couldn’t make out what the young woman said, but the admiration in her eyes was plain to see. Duilio was likely blushing. Then Miss Carvalho turned and led her companion out the front door.

  Miss Carvalho was from a wealthy family, an aristocratic one with ties here. And there was an understanding already, was there not? Even if Oriana had the time left, even if she wanted to court Duilio Ferreira, he had other choices for a mate—much better choices than a sereia with no money and no prospects.

  Swallowing, Oriana darted back up the stairs, not wanting him to turn and catch her watching. But Felis stopped her at the landing and asked if everything was well. Oriana managed to blurt out something about packing because she had to leave. She edged past the elderly woman to reach the privacy of her bedroom. Once inside, she closed the door and rested her back against it.

  She was nearly out of time. If she was going to swim the distance from the city out to the mouth of the river and from there to wherever the ship waited for her, she needed to go soon. And she hadn’t swum a long distance since coming to the city. What would have been easy when she was two years younger seemed daunting now. She was already so tired. She covered her face with shaking hands and began to cry in earnest. The note slipped to the table, atop the other, unopened note, forgotten.

  • • •

  Duilio ached all over. His back hurt now too from when he’d slammed into one of the miniature houses, slid over its top, and then dropped to the floor. His hair was singed on the ends. Fortunately, he hadn’t lost his eyebrows, which would have made him look ridiculous.

  He sat back, moaning when his sore back touched the chair. He’d had to endure an uncomfortable interview with Genoveva Carvalho, who seemed to believe he’d saved her sister single-handedly. He told the girl that Miss Paredes had done the difficult part, but she must have mistaken that for modesty on his part.

  She’d called at his house far earlier in the morning than was proper, apparently on her way to Mass. Duilio sighed. Apparently she had transferred her affections from Alessio to him, which might have been desirable a year ago. Now it only seemed an annoyance. He was going to have to start avoiding her.

  He picked up the newspaper Cardenas had left on the table. The Porto Gazette had run an article on the front page, complete with a photograph of young Tiago Coelho, the footman, taken while he was still bound to the table in the house, blood staining his swollen features. In the photographer’s flash Duilio could make out a few of the now-familiar symbols on that table. Markings ran along the pedestal of the table and across the visible walls of the house as well. The Lady had been correct about that—there was far more to the spell than just the table itself. And despite the scripture binding the edge of the table, it was clear that this was the sort of magical invocation that the Church found unacceptable.

  The people of the city wouldn’t permit this to go on, no m
atter how their prince felt about the work of art. The City Council had recognized that fact. The City Under the Sea wouldn’t be growing. According to the paper, the police were making plans to dismantle it. They would bring up the houses and their contents onto the Gaia beach near the breakwater, far from the city, where fewer eyes would witness the grisly sight of bodies that had been in the water too long. Setting aside their usual antagonism, the Jesuits and the Freemasons were set to take possession of the houses to study the spell written on the tables and the walls, determine its intentions, and decide whether it would work at all.

  He should be elated. They’d won. No more bodies would be buried in the river, and his mother had her pelt back. He’d even found his missing slippers hidden under his pillow last night, no doubt thanks to Miss Paredes.

  Instead he felt a vague worry, as if his gift couldn’t yet define the threat that waited for him. Their actions tonight had unleashed something to wreak havoc on the city. He asked his gift for some guidance but got nothing. He didn’t know what questions to ask. He’d just lifted his glass of brandy to his lips when Felis strode into the library, a militant expression on her face

  Duilio wondered what he’d done to offend his mother’s maid. He rose, fully expecting to get his ears boxed.

  Felis set her hands on her hips. “Duilinho, Miss Paredes tells me she has to leave. For God’s sake, boy, stop her.”

  He had hoped it wouldn’t be so soon, but somehow, given the way things were going, he wasn’t particularly surprised. He was shocked that Felis had used such strong language. “She needs to return home, Miss Felis. I’ve known for some time she would have to leave. I can’t force her to stay.”

  The elderly maid thrust one hand into her apron pocket and drew out a tattered playing card. She held it up in front of Duilio’s face—the king of hearts. “Don’t you know what this means, boy?”