Irenicon

by Aidan Harte

  He frowned. His unkindly brow was at odds with his shepherd’s eyes. Normally pseudonaiades moved sluggishly out of water, as awkward as men were in their world, but he guessed normal did not apply to a river not meant to be: a residue of the charge that had called up the Wave must still be present, though much depleted. As the errant partials tried to get home, so the water tended to stray—that was his theory, at least, and it was as good as the next when the pseudonaiades’ very existence was so at odds with Bernoullian Wave Theory. Among so many imponderables one thing was certain: without a safe place to work, nothing could be built.

  He searched his bag and took out a silver egg and a small belt strap. He unscrewed the narrow end of the egg, which remained connected by a fine wire, and slotted the tip into a notch in the belt. He found a small piece of old masonry by the bank to fasten the belt around, then, using the belt as a sling, he launched the lump of brick into the air while holding the egg tightly in his other hand. The brick splashed down thirty-five braccia away, half the river’s breadth.

  That was sufficient.

  He rotated a second dial on the egg; its clockwork shuddered to life, and it shot from his hand the moment he released it, skimming the water’s surface until it reached the point where the brick had landed. There it stopped, vibrating and bobbing on the surface. He crouched and gingerly held his hand over the water once more and waited. The dog growled to see such folly.

  Nothing happened.

  The egg was a phased-current transmitter of his own design that induced density to a depth of three braccia, which in theory—and now in fact—repelled pseudonaiades. He was pleased. Men immersed in this hostile water would still drown, of course, but this would prevent watery hands from pulling them in—and it would also prevent Strays, a more serious concern.

  Giovanni stood and pushed the hair back from his brow impatiently. Now, information. The glass rod was a Whistler; it calculated distance based on how long it took to hear its song echo. He repeated the procedure at five-braccia intervals along the uneven bank for the next hour, considering what Rasenna’s Signoria would want to hear and what he should tell them.

  The dog tagged along.

  Sofia had no destination; anywhere was fine as long as it was out of Tower Bardini’s shadow. She needed distance from the Doc’s hypocrisy. He was too smart to believe he could just hand over Rasenna to her as a birthday gift. Whoever ruled Rasenna had to be ready to fight for it or they wouldn’t rule for long. He let himself be irrational only when the subject was her.

  She was not allowed to be involved in raids, but she knew about them. True enough, some of the stories shocked her, but at least the Bardini didn’t stoop to attacking family towers. She had learned to countenance the other violence, just as the Doc obviously had. It was for the greater good, and so for peace, for the Bardini and for her. Really, no excuse was necessary. It was enough to say: this is Rasenna.

  Even without taking to the rooftops it was still easy to cross northern Rasenna quickly. The narrow interlocking paths winding downhill to the river overlooked one another, a tiered arrangement offering shortcuts aplenty. The sorrowful chime of a bell made her notice she had reached the limits of Bardini territory, and she hastily changed routes. Her last visit to the Baptistery was a fresh memory and still painful.

  The morning was dying when Sofia came to the abandoned towers before the river—the gauntlet, as it was known—and discovered the body at the entrance of an alley. There was nothing remarkable in a dead dog, but this animal had not starved to death: its fur was still wet. Local animals knew enough to avoid water, yet somehow, at a distance from the river, this dog had drowned.

  “Signorina?”

  Sofia looked around and saw a Concordian coming from the direction of the river. She instantly raised her flag. Her face showed hostility even as her body went taut, ready for fight or flight.

  Keeping an eye on the alley, the engineer crept toward her stealthily. He touched his lips. “Shhh, Signorina, be careful.”

  “Where’s the buio?” she said with loud aggression.

  At first Giovanni was confused, then he realized the term must be local dialect for the pseudonaiades, what the rest of Etruria called waterfolk. He explained, “On its way back to the river it took fright. The dog chased it.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and a sharp crease divided her brow. “Who the devil are you anyway?”

  He was taken aback momentarily. “My name is Giovanni.”

  “A dog scared a buio? I don’t think so.”

  “Not the dog, a machine.”

  “It scares them into our streets?” Sofia said, growing angry now. “Why would you want to keep buio away from the river? It’s where they belong.”

  “I know. My machine is designed to protect people.”

  “Great job so far, but I’ll take it from here. Which way did it go?”

  Giovanni pointed.

  “Cretino!” Sofia smacked him on the head and ran in the direction of Tower Bardini.

  Giovanni watched her go, blinking stupidly. In Concord women were demure, closeted creatures, to be admired from a distance and most certainly never to be spoken to without an introduction—but whatever the local customs, something dangerous was wandering the streets and it was thanks to him. He cursed his carelessness for not considering that a Stray might be loose before turning on the transmitter.

  “Signorina, wait!”

  There were too many streets to search for the buio before children found it—and young Rasenneisi delighted in risky games. Sofia stopped and listened; she could hear voices, catcalls, from the level above her. She climbed up and found them throwing rocks and shouting, herding the creature into a small alley. The children had made a game of it already, hitting the buio with their training sticks and retreating before it could launch itself at them in wave form. When the buio re-formed as a pillar, another child would take the dare and leap in. Strays were as dumb as animals, but if they were kept too long from running water, they lost cohesion and dissolved into lifeless puddles—which was exactly what the children wanted to see.

  “Get out of here!” Sofia grabbed one by the collar and kicked him in the ass. “Leave it alone, little stronzo!”

  The boy ran off bawling, and the others pursued him, content with a new victim.

  Sofia turned to face the buio as it re-formed like a tower rebuilding itself. It shuffled toward her. She wasn’t worried until she took a step back and felt the alley wall at her back.

  “Signorina! Don’t make any sudden movements!” The Concordian was on the level above, brandishing a burning torch.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Saving you!” he said, leaping into the alley awkwardly, and spoiled the moment’s heroism by dropping his torch. He kept his eye on the buio as he picked it up, and he spoke over his shoulder, “Now, very slowly, climb onto my shoulders and—”

  Sofia nimbly vaulted up between the walls and then sat looking down at him with a sweet smile. Giovanni looked more impressed by her acrobatics than by the danger. “How did you—?”

  The sizzle as the buio advanced into his outstretched torch reminded him of his priorities.

  “I’m a little confused. Is this part of the rescue? What happens next?”

  “I was in this situation before. It’ll attack.”

  “Oh, so you’re used to it.”

  The children’s sadism had vexed Sofia, but the chance to make a Concordian squirm, one she didn’t have explicit orders to protect, was too rare to ignore. Her vague plan was to let the buio attack, then rescue him before he drowned.

  Giovanni backed up against the wall. “Signorina?”

  “I’d help, but this arm,” Sofia said, showing her sling. “Sorry!”

  “Can you give me your flag?”

  Sofia’s smile faded. What kind of Concordian was he that he didn’t realize she might be enjoying this? She felt a twinge of conscience. He had tried to save her life—ineptly, but he had tried. She was
about to help when it struck her that the buio had not attacked and didn’t look as if it was about to. It just stood there, neither advancing nor retreating.

  “”

  Both Sofia and Giovanni looked at the alley’s entrance, where an old woman had appeared. Sofia raised her flag and leaped down. “You’re not supposed to be here. These are our streets!”

  The nun looked scornfully at Sofia before again speaking: “!”

  It sounded like the Ebionite tongue, but something about the tone made Giovanni’s hair stand on end. Whatever it was, the buio obviously understood, for it slowly shuffled toward her. The old nun was a hardy one with callused, rough hands and wide, sturdy hips and a large bosom beneath a shapeless black habit. A chain of prayer beads hung from her belt like a mace.

  Sofia glanced back at Giovanni, who looked surprised to be still alive.

  “Where are they going?” he asked.

  Sofia turned and saw the nun had gone. “Come on! Let’s see what that strega does with it—aren’t you curious?”

  “Strega? She saved me!”

  “She should have asked permission.”

  “Permission?”

  “These are Bardini streets. Besides, I was about to. I was just having some fun.”

  “You think she’ll be all right?”

  “Oh, she can take care of herself, that one,” Sofia said.

  They walked in silence for a moment, and Sofia glanced over shyly. Looking down at the foreigner in the alley, she had noticed that he was no weakling. It was not bandieratoro muscle, finely modeled and honed by daily practice. His chest and upper arms had substance, but it was crudely carved bulk, like the farmers who came from the contato after harvest.

  “Look, back there, I—” she began.

  “That’s all right. What’s your name?” he said.

  Sofia had hoped for anger so that she could respond in kind. Why did a Concordian care what a Rasenneisi was called?

  “Honestly, I wouldn’t have let it hurt you.”

  “But you object to someone else preventing it?”

  She gamely tried to take offense. “Well, you’ve got a nerve, walking around Rasenna without permission, unannounced.”

  Giovanni wondered how to respond politely. “But I have permission—that’s why they opened the gates to me. And I have been announced, so I understand. Your Signoria has been informed of my mission: I’m the engineer.”

  “And I’m the Contessa. What mission?” She said it coolly, though she was fuming: yet another instance of the Doc’s secrecy.

  “The bridge?” said Giovanni uncertainly.

  “There’s no bridge in Rasenna.”

  “Not yet there isn’t. I’m here to build one.”

  She stopped walking and for the first time really saw the engineer’s uniform. “You’re going to bridge the Irenicon?”

  “For Rasenna.”

  “Let me get this straight: Concord sent you to bridge the river Concord itself sent twenty years ago? For Rasenna? Don’t be patronizing—Concord needs a bridge, and Rasenna happens to be where you need it.”

  If she’d been looking for a reason to be offended, Giovanni saw she’d found it. Her reaction didn’t bode well for his mission. “My brief’s very limited,” he said. “They don’t tell me why, they just tell me what.”

  “I’m wondering how you intend to build this bridge without getting yourself and a whole lot of Rasenneisi killed. You had better talk to my guardian.”

  “I’m supposed to report to your Signoria first.”

  “My guardian is Doc Bardini. Is he in your brief? If he isn’t, they left out something important.”

  “General Luparelli mentioned him. Is he the gonfaloniere?”

  “No, but he’s part of the Signoria. If you’re trying to get something done, you need him onside. Better idea than chasing buio into our streets.”

  She sounded determined to pick a fight; was it personal or simply that he was Concordian? He attempted to change the subject. “What happened to your arm?”

  “None of your business.”

  The buio had stopped at the river, simultaneously drawn and repelled. The Reverend Mother was trying to coax it.

  “Excuse me, Contessa. I need to tell her what’s stopping it.”

  “I’m not stopping you,” said Sofia, twirling her banner casually.

  Giovanni introduced himself to the nun and, after thanking her, tried to explain what was keeping the buio from the river. “The signal’s too strong at this point,” he said, gesturing at the crystal rod. “If you lead the creature away a few braccia, it falls off in strength.”

  As Giovanni spoke, the Reverend Mother was studying him with interest. He could only guess that she had not seen many Concordians in her cloistered life. Stranger, though the buio was just a faceless column, he got the disquieting sense that it too was interested in him.

  The nun thanked him and led the buio away.

  Sofia walked over. “Looks like you made an impression on the buio, Concord. Must be attracted to cold blood.”

  “Signorina, my name is Giovanni. Have I done something to offend you?”

  “Let me think—oh, wherever did that river come from? That’s inconvenient. Never mind; I’m sure they’ll bridge it presently. I’ll just wait twenty years or so.”

  “I’m just an engineer—”

  “And who sent the Wave? The Cobblers’ Guild?”

  “I wasn’t even born then!”

  “Neither were you, Contessa,” the nun interrupted. “Don’t confuse blood with water under the bridge. He tried to save your life, didn’t he?”

  “Bit generous, but I suppose you could say that,” Sofia said evenly. “Who asked for your advice anyway? Not me.”

  “Not yet. But the offer stands.”

  Sofia laughed hollowly.

  The nun shrugged, and Sofia watched her, scowling, as she walked away. When she finally turned around, Giovanni’s attention was on the far side of the river and the boy standing there.

  Pedro was red-faced and out of breath; he had run back to the riverbank after seeing Fabbro Bombelli safely home. He didn’t need his magnifier to know that the engineer could see him too: the foreigner was shouting and waving at him.

  “I thought engineers were supposed to be smart. He can’t hear you,” Sofia said.

  “I just want his attention.” Giovanni took from his bag a bundled rope and another metallic contraption, a cone with two thin scallop shapes and a spring grip, like praying hands, on opposite sides. Completing the resemblance to a toy angel, it had a golden sheen and was crowned by a small hoop.

  “Well, I should be going,” Sofia said very casually.

  He didn’t look up. “Good-bye, Contessa.”

  He unrolled the scroll he had been jotting measurements in all morning and tore off a corner to scribble on. He pried the angel’s “hands” apart and placed the note in between.

  Sofia studied the stranger as he worked, reminding herself that this was the real enemy. He might be a clumsy climber, but his thick fingers were dexterous and efficient. The Concordians they trained in the workshops were soft sons of soft fathers, but the engineers were a different breed. They had not inherited their authority; they had taken it.

  When Giovanni glanced up, she was still standing there. He held out the rope. “Want to help?”

  “Not unless you tell me what you’re doing.”

  “Making a temporary rope bridge. How else am I going to get across to the Signoria?”

  “The Midnight Road, of course.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The ruins of the old town wall. Enough still stands to jump across.”

  Giovanni looked down at his measurements. “Sounds like the long way around.” He was looking at her again. “Will you help me?”

  Sofia was surprised. Rasenneisi made do, and Concordians took what they needed. Nobody asked for help. She took the rope and slowly knotted it around the broken statue’s base while Giovanni s
killfully tied the other end to the angel’s bottom half.

  After consulting his notes on the river’s breadth he began winding the halo. “Tied off?” he asked.

  “Madonna, wait!” she said, then, “All right, now.”

  The angel shot up into the air, and she laughed despite herself.

  As the contraption hovered across the river, Pedro laughed too. He’d heard descriptions of mechanical carrier pigeons—annunciators, they called them—but he’d never imagined he’d get to see one.

  Suddenly his smile vanished. He looked around. If he could see it, so could other southsiders, and Virgin help anyone the Morello saw associating with civilians or, worse, northsiders. But it was early yet, and no one else was around. Most people avoided the river anyway, preferring to imagine it—and Rasenna’s other half—did not exist. He knew his father would warn him to avoid entanglements with strangers, but he had to know how the contraption worked.

  As it passed the halfway point, the wings’ rhythm slowed and it started to descend. It was going to undershoot. Bracing himself on the remains of a wall, Pedro caught it before it fell into the water.

  The note was written in a small precise hand. Please help, it said. Tie rope off, rotate halo 25 times, face north & release. GB

  “What’s he doing?” said Giovanni.

  Sofia squinted. “Did you think flags were just weapons? He’s signaling. It’s how we primitives communicate between towers.”

  Giovanni ignored the sarcasm. “You can read it?”

  “Of course. He says, ‘Why should I?’ Cheeky little—”

  Giovanni brightened. “Can you answer for me?”

  “And say what?”

  “Tell him I want to build a bridge.”

  Sofia waved the message and read the reply: “‘Is that an order?’” She laughed and explained with a shrug, “Southsiders . . .”

  Giovanni frowned, attempting to employ the logic he’d studied for so long. He knew he had authority to give orders—all Etruria had learned to fear Concord and thus to comply with its agents. He didn’t know if the Contessa was a typical Rasenneisi—she didn’t seem a typical anything—but she was not being in the least cooperative. It would be illogical if the towns that had suffered most were the least afraid, yet. Giovanni just knew that the boy would balk at an order, and that wasn’t logical either.