Irenicon

by Aidan Harte

  “Enough!” Sofia pushed her plate back and stood. “I don’t care about your bridge. I care about my friend who died on it. Bardini fight our own battles. Shove your family connections up your—”

  “I beg your pardon.” Valerius attempted to stand, but Sofia pushed him back.

  “Concord encourages our feuds to keep our nails sharp,” she said, glaring at him. “And who are you kidding anyway? Engineers run Concord; nobles are the help! Your blood’s blue enough to bleed for the Empire, but that’s all it’s good for.”

  “Sofia! I’m a guest!”

  “You’re no more a guest than the bridge is a gift.” She sat back down, still glaring, taking savage bites of her bread.

  After a prudent minute, he tried again—he couldn’t help himself. “Small People at Concord’s helm gall me too. The Scaligeri and the Luparelli—we’re both noble families under their thumb—”

  “We have nothing in common!” Sofia threw down her fork. “Excuse me, your Lordship, I’ve been appointed guard dog on your paesani’s bridge.”

  Before the door slammed, Cat was on the table finishing her meal, leaving Valerius to ask in dismay, “What did I say?”

  Sofia assembled her men, who wondered at the cause of her sudden anger. It wasn’t Valerius—she had accepted the rules of that game a long time ago—nor was it Doc’s machinations. At the bridge, she saw the foremen talking to the engineer. He had told her he was no one’s man, and like an idiot she had believed that things could be different. How quickly he’d learned the rules. How quickly he’d adapted.

  It was early, but Hog Galati was already covered in sweat. He hadn’t started working yet; the sweat was stale. The Morello wouldn’t stand for it, he opined to anyone who’d listen. “That’s why the Captain didn’t use a bird for the opening prayer. He wanted to sacrifice one of us. We’re building a real Concordian bridge now, boys.”

  Hog spotted the Bardini bandieratori as soon as they arrived. He dropped his hammer and asked loudly, “Why is that here?”

  Vettori said, “Keep working—and show some respect. That’s your future Contessa.”

  Hog spit and went back to his halfhearted hammering.

  “Captain, this is a problem,” Vettori said in an undertone.

  Giovanni looked up from the stone delivery he was examining. Other southsiders had noticed Sofia and her men too. She wasn’t trying to be inconspicuous.

  “What else can I do?” he asked his foreman.

  Vettori knew the strain Giovanni was under, but he started, “Well, the Bardini and the Morello—”

  “I know how it works!” the engineer interrupted. “You think Rasenna is unique? Every town Concord’s conquered is overrun by borgati—that’s how we prefer it. I wanted to keep colors off the bridge, but I have to make my deadline. Black flags will be bad for morale, but more murder would be worse.”

  Vettori shook his head sadly. “Captain, in a town like this there’s going to be killing whichever way, and now that you’ve reached out to Bardini—”

  “Doc’s only interested in helping himself,” Fabbro finished.

  Giovanni saw Sofia walking toward their huddled conference and dropped his voice. “I see that, but what other choice is there?”

  Fabbro shrugged nervously.

  Vettori put an arm on Giovanni’s shoulder. “If that’s the way it is, that’s the way it is. I’ll explain it to the southsiders. They won’t be happy but—”

  “Let’s just keep an eye on it,” Fabbro forced a smile, “and hope the Virgin does likewise.”

  “Thank you,” Giovanni said sincerely.

  The two men went back to work, leaving him alone with Sofia. She thrust the box at him.

  “Little gift. Hope you like it.”

  He opened it warily, lifted the cloth, flinched, and dropped it.

  “Compliments of Doc.”

  “Sofia, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t waste lies on me, Concordian.”

  “I mean it.”

  “You say plenty you don’t mean. This bridge is no-man’s-land; remember that?”

  “You saw what happened to Frog!”

  “If it wasn’t him, it would have been someone else. Morello was baiting you, and you, cretino, you took it. When you made the Doc back off, I thought you had some salt, but that was just your opening move, wasn’t it? You figured it was what the Small People wanted to see.”

  “Please, keep your voice down.”

  “No—I take orders from Doc; that’s why I’m here, remember? You ran to him the moment your schedule was threatened.”

  “I had to do something!”

  Sofia pointed to the Woolsmen around Hog.

  “See all those friendly southsiders? This is a Bardini bridge now, whether you’ve realized it yet, and the Morello are obliged to respond.”

  “I’m sorry to involve you in this.”

  “You think you’re sorry now? Just wait—oh, look, here comes the welcoming committee. Maybe you won’t have to.”

  Gaetano Morello was marching across Piazza Luna, a decina of his own in tow.

  Before Sofia went to head him off, she looked back. “I really thought you were different,” she said bitterly.

  Gaetano’s decina didn’t step onto the bridge. That would be a provocation too far.

  “Look. The engineer’s got a pet Rasenneisi already.”

  She ignored the taunt. “Who came over the night Tower Vaccarelli burned?”

  “That’s not why we’re here. By the terms of truce, you can’t be here.”

  “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, Tano. This time. Tell your father and brother that they crossed a line.”

  “I’m not your messenger. If you’ve got something to say, cross and take your chances.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  They looked into each other’s eyes. It was unfair but undeniable: the day had come, and now they were set against each other—by Gaetano’s father, by the Doc, by the engineer and his damned bridge—and there was nothing left but to voice but the formalities:

  “Stay away.”

  “Try stopping me.”

  CHAPTER 22

  The southsiders filing in under the black flags the next morning felt like prisoners, a feeling Sofia’s decina did everything to enhance.

  Even before noon came, Giovanni tried again to apologize.

  “You don’t get to say that. I know how precise engineers are: you don’t make mistakes; you take calculated risks. When being nice to the natives didn’t work, you didn’t think twice, just moved straight on to your contingency plan.”

  “It’s not like that—I’m not like that.”

  “Because you’re different? That’s what all Concordians think. It’s how they breed you!”

  “If the bridge isn’t finished on time, the Apprentices will blame Rasenna,” he said, desperate to make her understand.

  She laughed drily. “There’s that rod again.”

  Neighboring towers were used to the third floor of Vanzetti’s being lit up into the early hours, but tonight its usually tranquil working atmosphere was absent.

  Giovanni swore softly as his quill blotted.

  “You all right, Captain?”

  “Fine, Pedro. Fine.”

  He threw the worn-out feather down on the plans and groaned. “I messed up, didn’t I?”

  “There’s no right answer in this situation.”

  “Bardini was the wrong answer. How much worse will he make it? That’s the question.”

  The boy shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “I do—the Apprentices told me before I came here that once killing starts, there’s no limit.” He suddenly walked away from the table. “I had to do something!”

  “But you were!” Pedro held up a new design. “Listen, the Families can’t do this! They only know how to tear things down. You can’t beat them at that game.”

  Giovanni was surprised, hearing an echo of Sofia’s accusations.

  “Sorry,
Pedro. I let you down too. The Doctor told me strength’s all Rasenneisi understand, and I believed him.”

  “Morello says that too—it’s the only thing they’ve got to offer. They want us as incapable of learning as they are—but we Rasenneisi can understand other things when we get the chance. Since you came, I’ve learned enough to know that another life is possible.”

  Giovanni paced back to the window, taking Pedro’s consolation as a reproach. “And damn it, I’ve thrown it away.” He saw the northern towers’ reflection in the river. “And now Sofia’s involved.”

  “The Contessa?” Pedro laughed cynically. “If she’s part of the Bardini borgata, she’s part of the problem.”

  “But she’s not a Bardini, is she, Pedro? And you know what’s funny? I told her she had to show people the distinction between Scaligeri and Bardini. I told her it’s how you act that matters. Madonna, I’ve been a fool. Can I fix it?”

  “Doc Bardini and Quintus Morello would say no. My father would say Small People can’t stand against the Signoria.”

  “What do you say, Pedro?”

  “I think we can do better.”

  Giovanni nodded slowly. “Let’s get back to work then.”

  Pedro looked at him. “There is one thing you can fix tonight.”

  Sofia awoke from the same dream about the Baptistery and that day. It was still dark and her bedchamber was silent, no shadows looming, yet instinct had woken her and she knew better than to ignore it. She held her breath and let her eyes adjust to the darkness as her fingers searched.

  There! A whirring and movement at the tower window, a glimmer of moonlight on gold. She rolled onto the stone floor and grabbed her flag. The dark shape hovered outside, the size of a bird, though it didn’t move like one. She crept toward it, keeping her flag up. The whirring tempo slowed, and the shape began to drop.

  She dropped her flag, thrust her arm out the window, and grabbed it before it fell. It was the annunciator, and there was a note between its “hands.”

  She read it, then looked over the balcony.

  “I should drop this on your head!” she said, wanting to shout but trying to keep her voice to a whisper.

  “Then I’ll be back tomorrow with another,” said Giovanni, pale in the moonlight and smiling.

  “Will you shut up? You’ll wake the Doc.”

  She quickly pulled on hose under her linen night rail. “Stay there; I’m coming down.”

  The moonlight was bright enough to light her way, but Sofia had done this a thousand times and needed no guide. She stopped at the second-floor window. She could see Valerius’s blond curls on his pillow and hear his snoring. He always woke up later than the other students, and for once she was thankful for his sloth.

  Giovanni watched her descend. It reminded him of the controlled falling of a cat. She landed soundlessly in front of him.

  “Have you gone crazy?” she hissed, looking around at the shuttered windows of the surrounding dark towers. “You can’t show up in the middle of the night and send notes through my balcony. I’m the Contessa Scaligeri! Towers have ears and eyes and tongues!”

  “You care what people think?”

  “I’m still mad at you, remember? Doc’s got me watching your bridge, but I finished work hours ago. Keep it up and we recommence hostilities.”

  “Sofia, I made a terrible mistake. I’m sorry. I came here as an engineer, not a conqueror, and I do believe in my mission: I think the bridge will bring Rasenna together, and I didn’t want anything to delay that. We saw Frog—whatever it was—rise up. It might not have scared you, but it scared me! And I saw more innocents being sacrificed because I’m not leader enough to stop it. I forgot what I promised the crew and you. I acted like any engineer would in any other town, but this isn’t any other town. It’s different—it’s the edge of things.”

  “All right, stop blathering. So you messed up: you’re not a liar, just a deficiente. The crew’ll come around too. Whatever happens, my men won’t make the first move. Satisfied?”

  “Contessa, you have my gratitude,” said Giovanni with a courtly bow.

  “Oh, Madonna. Do you have any idea how this looks? Get the hell back to Tower Vanzetti, will you? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Thank you!”

  “Go!”

  Sofia clambered back up, keeping her eye on the Doctor’s top-floor window. She didn’t check on Valerius again.

  She got back to her chamber and laughed. “Idiota,” she whispered, crumpling up the note. She put the angel on the windowsill and got back into bed. After a moment, she threw the sheets back and found the note in the corner. She flattened it out, refolded it, and placed it back in the angel’s hands.

  “Idiota,” she repeated, smiling in the dark.

  CHAPTER 23

  The weeks of spring melted into one long pitiless day of summer.

  The Doctor said he’d remove Sofia’s splint soon. Though he trusted his web of stratagems to protect them, she feared the imminent war would be a storm, coming suddenly and at no one’s convenience. She spent evenings in the workshop becoming dexterous with her left hand, horribly conscious of how vulnerable she would be in a real fight.

  So far she had not kept her promise to visit Isabella. She told herself practice was more important—told herself it wasn’t fear that kept her from the Baptistery—but her dreams, deaf to those excuses, returned her repeatedly to the garden to refight the fight: that whirlwind of sleeves around her, that leisurely final snap. She practiced.

  Vettori passed Fabbro on the bridge, and they shared a look of dread that the bridge, having tasted blood, might thirst for more.

  The midday sun hung stubbornly immobile, pouring molten heat on the water and on the land and on the men who moved over it, scheming and fighting and toiling. The no-man’s-land between the river and the northern towers, abandoned since the Wave, was all hustle and bustle: a fire fed by men, material, and machinery.

  Sofia was sitting on her usual perch between the broken statue’s paws, fanning herself with her cap, pondering once more the nun’s uncanny technique. Her reflections were brought to a stop by a sudden awareness that something was out of place.

  She’d been around fighters all her life and she was attuned to the bitter reek of a brewing quarrel. Tools slipped from the sweaty hands of heat-drunk workers shoulder bumping against one another, with no apologies voiced or even curses.

  Yet there was another spirit moving too. Since Giovanni’s apology, she made sure her men behaved discreetly. She compared his method to the Doctor’s as he went from station to station, exchanging quiet words with his foremen, meeting questions, suggestions, and obstructionism from the crew with the same composed intelligence. The Doctor might grunt opaque Etruscan proverbs if pressed, but he remained impatient and distrustful of words, a teacher who preferred that students fight for their epiphanies.

  Experienced masons, carpenters, and smiths who thought themselves entitled to professional informality were disappointed and intimidated by the engineer’s detachment. The Woolsmen were used to being spoken down to; they appreciated his impartiality.

  The Bernoullian Re-Formation was traditionally dismissed as an ungodly rebellion, but the engineer spoke of the new mathematics, of action and reaction, balance and tension, with a preacher’s conviction, and they were surprised at the common sense of his hierarchy of verifiable principles. Consistent if not beautiful.

  Firm foundations rose from cofferdams, defying the rushing waters. The wooden template was complete, a skeleton prophecy of the bridge’s eventual silhouette. It grew like a body disintegrating in reverse: dry bone became covered in muscle, blood unclotted and pumped once more, dust to flesh.

  Two spirits; which would triumph? Gut told her that Rasenna always chose blood, and to confirm this black instinct, she caught Hog Galati’s malicious stare directed not at the engineer but at her. He met her stare and turned aside and spit before going back to work.

  Sofia grabbed her
flag—and then stopped, realizing in that moment what was out of place.

  “You must be distracted.”

  She spun around to find Giovanni standing there awkwardly. “Didn’t think I’d be able to sneak up on you,” he admitted.

  “I was thinking.”

  “Me too. You first.”

  Sofia glanced around to see if any of her men were nearby, then held up her splint. “When this comes off, I’m going back to the Baptistery.”

  When Giovanni looked at her with despairing exasperation, she laughed. “Not for a rematch! I’m going to ask her to teach me.”

  “I thought you hated her,” he said skeptically. “And anyway, you can fight already.”

  “Not like her.”

  “Think she’ll have you?”

  “I have a strange feeling she’s waiting for me to ask.”

  “Doesn’t the Doctor know Water Style? I got the impression he knows the Reverend Mother.”

  “He told me once that Water Style was ineffective, and besides, nobody knew it anymore.”

  “Why would he lie about that?”

  Sofia looked around again. “I come into my inheritance in a few months. I need to be ready. Doc won’t let me—Well, he won’t give me certain responsibilities even though I’m his best student. And lately we can’t agree on anything.”

  “You can’t agree to differ? He cares for you, I think.”

  “This is Rasenna. He was fine with me being Contessa when it was years away, but I’m not a little girl anymore. If he’s gotten used to being number one, I can’t just wait to be given power. I have to be able to take it.”

  “But how can she train you without him knowing?”

  “He’ll think I’m here, watching over you. Bringing me to the next point: I should go. I’m not helping.” She stopped. “What’s funny?”

  “That’s what I wanted to say, but I couldn’t think of a nice way to put it.”

  Sofia picked up her flag and said, “I’ll check in every day, and I’ll keep the rest of them watching from a distance. Doc just wants to see black flags.”

  As Giovanni watched her leave, Vettori came up to him, smiling. “Bravo! You finally told her to go.”