by Aidan Harte
Vettori snapped the garment back and studied it. “Is it the cross-stitch? I can assure you—”
Fabbro chuckled. “It’s too fine! We can’t keep up this standard, surely.”
“Vanzetti have weaved for generations,” Vettori affirmed proudly. “Of course we can keep it up! The question is, can you sell it?”
“Sell it? Yes! And for more than those Frankish rags retail. You must explain how you make such vivid colors.”
“Pedro experimented with the dyes.”
“Inventive as ever, that boy. He’s recovered, then?”
“Yes, and with his help, I’ll finish the rest in a month.”
“If I send this example, they’ll trust us with a bigger order.”
“Slow down, Fabbro: for that, I’d have to make more looms, rent more space. I don’t have—”
“I have money, enough for that.”
“That’s not the only issue,” he said, and looked north. “An attic business smuggling in small loads can be kept secret, but—”
“If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing big. So word gets out—”
Vettori crossed his arms starchily. “So word gets out—and what then, protection?”
“Feed the wolf, he’ll keep coming back.” Fabbro beat his belly like a drum as he thought it out. “And part of the service will be wrecking equipment and product on the ‘wrong’ side of the river.”
“Even if we ask them not to?”
“Nobles taking orders from the Small People? Vettori, the idea!”
After another day’s training, Sofia once more contemplated the window. That conceited angel was oblivious to Our Lady of Artful Subterfuge’s scheme.
The nun finished praying and began to stretch. Sofia’s hand shot out and grabbed—
—nothing. She hadn’t seen the nun move, yet—
CRASH!
That sound was becoming tediously familiar.
Next day, she affected indifference to the proceedings until the second the glass dropped. The nun caught Sofia’s hand in midair.
CRASH!
SMASH!
BASH!
tinkle. . .
As Fabbro walked Vettori home, he remarked how vulnerable he would have felt crossing Piazza Luna in the old days.
“I’ve been thinking about the thing,” Vettori interrupted. “Be honest, old friend. Will the Signoria really let us import and export without interfering?”
“Certainly not.”
Vettori took a deep breath. “Then I’m sorry. I can’t get involved. I’ve got my son to think of.”
“I’ve got seven!”
“You’re used to risk—how can I invest in equipment that’ll be destroyed to prove I need protection?”
“Vettori, all I know about business is if you don’t risk anything, you don’t get anything. It comes to this: If you let a man steal from you, he owns you, but pay him for what you want and you own him. Stay frightened and you’re a slave. Now, here we are!”
As Fabbro reached for the door handle, a snub-nosed dragon with its tail entwined around its neck, Vettori realized whose palazzo this was. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked.
Fabbro put a finger to his lips as the door opened. He slipped a coin to the servant, who led them through a courtyard of practicing bandieratori, their gold flags shimmering like windswept corn, and up the stairs at the back. Fabbro whispered, “Since the Wave, Rasenna’s only export is violence. And the Signoria has a monopoly.”
The door of the study opened to reveal Valentino Morello dictating a letter over his father’s shoulder. The gonfaloniere looked up eagerly, relieved to escape his son’s attention, if only momentarily.
Bowing neatly, Fabbro said, “Gonfaloniere, we need protection.”
“How serendipitous!” Quintus exclaimed. “No need to propose union when Bardini’s own people come to us, eh?”
Valentino looked them over coldly, saying nothing. Vettori doubted this wolf could be satisfied with scraps.
CHAPTER 29
She made a habit of stopping by after training so she could later report on progress to Doc. And if she spoke only to the engineer, why, who better to talk to?
“Then you’re on schedule?” She tried imagining the bridge a year from now. The Irenicon would be as much a part of Rasenna as its towers.
“No—ahead of it.” He spoke without modesty or pride. Sofia had grown up in a town defined by what it had lost. Now, thanks to him, the Wave’s shadow was retreating.
“Where do you go when it’s finished?”
“Wherever they send me—if I finish ahead of time here, I am to conduct mineralogical surveys. We like to know everything we can extract from our subjects.”
“Oh . . .”
“I have a different plan. Look”—he pointed—“that’s not a river, it’s a herd of wild horses, and with the right expertise, Rasenna could harness them together. Whisper it, Contessa, but Pedro Vanzetti and some others working on the bridge have real talent.”
It took her a moment to understand. “A Rasenneisi Engineers’ Guild? If you’re feeling suicidal, you could just dive into the Irenicon. They’ll label you traitor—”
“Let them!” he said with vehemence. “I won’t be the first.”
“Maybe not, but countries are like families: you don’t get to choose.”
“Engineers don’t have families,” he said quietly. “We’re not supposed to, anyway . . .”
She didn’t expect him to continue, but—
“A few years after the Wave there was a plot against Girolamo Bernoulli.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“It’s not part of our glorious history. The plan was discovered, but Bernoulli let it go ahead to draw out the conspirators. The Nobility was involved, of course, but also some engineers who felt the Re-Formation had veered off course. My father was executed in the purge.”
Sofia touched his shoulder and heard herself say, “My father was murdered too.”
He looked at her strangely and said, “I’m sorry.”
“Everyone says my grandfather was special, but he drowned like everyone else. My father survived. He and the Doc were like brothers—our families had always been close. Ten years after the flood—Rasenna wasn’t as bad then—there was still traffic across the river, and friendships were possible. My father wasn’t the politician my grandfather had been, but he tried. He married Quintus Morello’s sister.” She kept her eyes on the river and added with bitter humor, “Building a bridge, I suppose. When I came into the world, my mother left it, and the alliance died with her. Morello wore black with my father, feigned friendship, and waited.”
“For what?”
“The hour, I suppose. It’s my first memory—I don’t know what that says about me.” She laughed softly. “I was three, maybe four? The cart burning commemorates the capture of Concord’s carroccio at Montaperti.” She laughed. “Ancient history is all we’ve got! Anyway, that year Morello organized a spectacular show—sweets, entertainment, music, the lot. I loved to sing. Even the lowering clouds couldn’t dampen the crowd’s sprits. When the cart—it’s shaped like a lantern—was pushed out of Palazzo Morello over the cobblestones, I remember worrying it would tumble. Across the river, the Baptistery bell rang. Quintus Morello was waiting on the steps of the Palazzo della Signoria—of course, he knew what was going to happen.”
Giovanni followed her glance to the Signoria’s silent, empty loggia.
“There was a high-pitched squeal that ended with a loud bang. Fireworks shot up, beating out a rhythm, and people clapped along with the explosions. There was another big bang, and a flock of pigeons flew up from the palazzo, and everyone applauded as if he’d arranged that too! The Signoria was hidden behind colored smoke and lit from underneath—it looked hellish, and I started crying. Papa just laughed, and he lifted me onto his shoulders so I could see better. The rhythm of the explosions grew faster, then, with a funny little pop, a miniature Morello banner unfurled from the lantern’
s spire. Everybody laughed; it was nicely done. The Doc would have understood, but my father was no fighter. He just clapped along with the crowd.”
“You don’t have to tell me this,” he said softly.
“I want you to know who I am!” She glared at him fiercely. “When the show ended, it began raining—more immaculate planning; he’d even organized the elements to suit his needs! I sang the Virgin’s hymn along with the choir as Morello servants distributed red umbrellas, and when they were opened, gold confetti rained down. I remember my father shielding my eyes from the spokes. I remember peeking out between his fingers; the umbrellas were like a rolling sea.”
She gave a short sad laugh. “It was beautiful. When the choir began their procession to the river, we followed. I saw a man standing ahead of us, and the crowd parted and moved around him—there was time to warn Papa. I kept singing.”
She looked at the river for a long time.
“You see, holding me like that, his ribs were exposed. He let me down gently. It was like sinking under a red sea. The crowd moved on, and I stood there, holding the umbrella. His blood spread over the cobblestones. I thought it was searching for me, but really it was just flowing down the slope to the river. Then the wind got stronger, and I cried when it took my umbrella. I was too weak!
“The Doc came looking for me. Eventually he found me, still standing there on the cobbles. He brought me up, but not soft like a noble, not weak like Papa.”
“I’m sorry, Sofia.” His voice was gentle. “That’s horrible.”
Her voice was hard. “That’s Rasenna. The one bold act of Morello’s life, but he didn’t have the salt to follow through and kill me. He never expected a commoner to oppose him, but the Doc remembered his promise to the old Count.”
She stood abruptly. “It’s late. Doc’ll be waiting.”
“Sofia, wait!”
But she had gone. She would not let him see her cry.
Later, in the warmth of Tower Bardini, Sofia went to sleep looking at the annunciator, still surprised that she had dropped her flag the way she had. Like her senses, her dreams had grown more intense, more real, in the last few weeks, and for the first time in years, she dreamed of her father’s murder. No matter how she ran from the spreading blood, it followed, sentient like a buio, until finally darkness swallowed her.
She left the tower with another stolen glass and as usual glanced back to see if she was watched. The day’s first sunlight was glinting off the angel on her balcony. Valerius’s window was dark, as always.
Today. If Giovanni could harness the river, if northsiders and southsiders could be civil, if a virgin could conceive, surely she could reach the glass before this doddering crone? Sofia’s attention narrowed to that single object. Her universe was the glass.
Who cared how Our Lady of Hopeless Causes was feeling? The miracle of God made flesh was trivial compared to that glass of that water on that table.
CRASH!
“Cazzo!” Sofia swore.
The Reverend Mother opened her eyes sleepily. “I’m sorry. I think I dozed off.”
She seemed not to have moved. The broken glass said otherwise. “Why are you standing? I haven’t dismissed you.”
“I quit! Every day we do the same thing. Am I making progress? No. Have I learned anything? No.”
The nun pointed to the shattered glass. “Is this not progress?” She leaned closer to the broken shards. “Yes, very impressive.”
“You’re crazy! Why didn’t I see it till now?”
“Fine, go—but clean up your mess first.”
“You spilled it, you clean it up!” She didn’t care that she sounded like a petulant little girl.
The nun closed her eyes. “I did not spill it. Good-bye, Sofia.” She resumed her prayer.
“All right, then,” Sofia said, interrupting her droning, “so who spilled it?”
The nun opened her eyes and looked at Sofia. “You did.”
“What are you talking about? I didn’t touch it—”
Presently the nun opened her eyes. Sofia was sitting once more.
“Good. I keep my glassware in the same closet as the mop. Lucia will direct you.”
Five minutes later, Sofia was watching a glass filled with water with a new absorption. The nun turned the glass upside down so fast that she almost missed it, pressing its rim down tight on the table. No water had spilled.
“What happens when I remove the glass?”
“Nothing—the water will spill,” said Sofia.
“You are the contents of this glass. Why do you not spill?” The Reverend Mother slowly lifted the glass away. “I too am water.”
Sofia stared. The liquid did not spill. Its surface was still molded to the shape of the absent glass.
She held her breath. If she let it go, the world would collapse.
The Reverend Mother placed the empty glass on the table, then held her hands to each side of the column of water. “Faith is the reason,” she said. “We live in a world we see only darkly, Sofia. Learning to see it all is the next stage in your training. You are ready.”
As she spoke, she moved her hands, and the water moved with her. She pulled them back as if dropping a great weight, and the water splashed into the glass once more. “You were born with great power—and I do not mean your name. You came here to learn to fight, and that is well, for a great and terrible battle is coming. But before that battle, you must pass into a darkness that cannot be fought, and to reach the light, you will need faith.”
The colored light pierced the glass, as before. The particles floated in the water, as before, circulating somewhat faster perhaps. Sofia felt like she was tumbling with them. Had she seen what she had seen?
The nun got up slowly, like an ordinary old woman. “Why are you waiting? You’ve been thirsty a long time. Drink! We’ve finally emptied your mind of illusions. Tomorrow we start filling it with truth.”
CHAPTER 30
Uncertain what to do without her, Sofia’s decina went to report the unscheduled docking to the Borselinno. Secondo raised his flag and led them back to the bridge. Mule stayed behind; he had an intuition of where Sofia might be.
Giovanni confronted Secondo at the river. “I told you to stay away.”
“It’s nothing to do with you, Concordian.” Secondo pushed by him, telling his men to hang back.
“You’ve no right—the bridge isn’t complete!” Giovanni was about to follow when Fabbro pulled him aside.
On the southside, Gaetano Morello had arrived. He too left his bandieratori off the bridge as he stepped onto it. Workers parted, making a path for the capodecini. Flags up, focused on each other, neither noticed Vettori waiting in the middle.
“We defend this barge,” Gaetano shouted.
“Like hell you do, Morello. The shipments are under Bardini protection.”
“Now, just hold on,” said Vettori, trying to keep them apart.
“Gentlemen,” Fabbro said as he ran between them, “let me explain—”
As soon as they understood that the merchant had sought both Families’ protection, they turned on him.
Fabbro was implacable. “My dear boys, this is but part of a delivery. I have large orders to meet. The work requires the skills of both north and south, so I sought shelter of two great houses, north and south. Was that wrong? Our need for security is genuine—as, I trust, is your protection.” He smiled, as if anything else was highly improbable.
“I will pay for protection,” he continued, “just as I pay my taxes. I don’t interfere with Signoria business, but without my money, how will it pay the tribute?”
There was no answer.
“Gentlemen, quarrels cost more than we can afford. Please, lower your banners.”
“I don’t take orders from tradesmen,” Gaetano said.
“Go home, then! Let your masters decide if Rasenna should survive and what price we must pay for that favor,” Fabbro said.
Mule brought Sofia from the Baptiste
ry in time to see the standoff.
“We were looking for you,” said Secondo angrily.
“I’m here now.”
“What should we do?” whispered Mule.
She answered him loudly. “Signore Bombelli is right. If we can’t pay tribute, we won’t have a town left to fight over. Lower your flags.”
“Is that an order, Contessa?” Gaetano said.
“This isn’t the time to show me what a hero you are.”
“Doc won’t like this,” said Secondo.
“Who’s the Scaligeri heir, me or him? I’ll answer to Bardini. What do you say, Tano?”
“I’ll take it to my father.”
Giovanni wondered whether it was Fabbro and Sofia’s words or the unprecedented spectacle of united angry Woolsmen that made the borgati retreat.
“Where have all the glasses gone?”
Cooking l’ampra dotto usually calmed the Doctor, but this evening he was livid. “How did things get to be such a mess?” He took a few bites, then threw his fork down. “Shared protection? This really stumps us—if we fight, we lose the Small People. Bombelli’s a wily one: he’s balanced us against one another. And Morello went for it! That’s the difficulty when your opponent is a fool; sometimes they make the right move without knowing it.”
He raised his wineglass. “When you’re Contessa, Sofia, I wish you intelligent enemies.”
“Thanks!” She took a sip herself and said, “Have you ever considered that protecting the Small People is in our interest?”
The Doctor couldn’t disguise his frustration. “A couple of months ago you were thirsting for southside blood—now you’re the friend of the working man?” he growled. “I wouldn’t be bleeding wind now if you’d watched the bridge like I told you.”
“I’ve kept my flag down so as not to antagonize the southsiders.”
“I didn’t tell you to do that! And where are you if you’re not on the bridge? Not the workshop anyway.”
“You’ve got the Borselinno.”
“And they idolize you, Sofia—all the students do. In a few weeks the Twelfth comes, and you come into your inheritance. The hour’s at hand. I hope to do it neatly, but flags blow where the wind takes them. If things go awry, I need every student at their peak.”
