by Jan Siegel
‘When you go,’ said Jinx, ‘take the Teeth. History shouldn’t affect them: they’re an object. They can remind you who you are – or where you’re supposed to be.’
‘What?’ said the Teeth, slightly muffled by the pocket of Pen’s jacket. ‘We’re not going into the past. Too dangerous. Let us out, or we’ll chew our way–’
‘Shut up,’ said Pen, batting her pocket. ‘Be quiet, or I’ll... I’ll take you into the past and leave you there. You could end up in the mouth of some old man with halitosis, or gum disease, or – they had lots of diseases, in the past. Behave yourself. I thought you were meant to be helpful.’
The Teeth subsided into a mumble of complaint which everyone decided to ignore.
‘You know, you’re right,’ Gavin said. ‘We haven’t been thinking straight. Someone has to stay by the door – to keep it open. What if it closed while we were on the other side? The time zones change, don’t they? We’d be buggered.’
There was a minute of horrified silence as the implications sank in.
Then Pen said: ‘We should wedge the door somehow. Just in case. Or maybe Stiltz–’
‘No,’ said Jinx. ‘You never rely on a goblin. Never. Not even a reliable one. One of us must wait by the door. Always.’
‘I think we should have a trial run,’ said Pen, ‘before we go looking for the boy. Re-visit somewhere familiar. Or somewhen.’
‘Like?’ said Gavin.
‘The Italian Renaissance wasn’t too bad...’
THE WISHING STONE had three white bands, denoting maximum power. Otherwise it looked – and felt – like an ordinary pebble, fitting snugly into the palm of Pen’s hand, taking warmth from her touch. Although she was the youngest they had conceded a sort of token leadership to her, partly because she was the custodian of the house – because she had assumed the role and no one could be bothered to argue – but mostly because both Gavin and Jinx preferred following Pen to following Jinx or Gavin.
‘You need to face south,’ Gavin reminded her, turning her in the right direction.
‘Do I rub the stone three times or seven?’ Pen asked.
‘Well, try three first,’ Jinx said, ‘and if that doesn’t work keep rubbing.’
‘What do I say?’
‘I’ve no idea!’
‘But–’
‘Make it up,’ said Gavin.
Pen thought of reiterating: ‘I don’t believe in magic,’ but decided it was rather late for that. She focused her mind on the prince – his voice, softened with moonlight and desire: ‘Tesoro – tesoro–’, the way he had called her useful, the feel of his hand on her throat. The image of his face came to her very vividly – the face everyone said was so beautiful, even her aunt, who wasn’t the type to notice such things. And in her thought she was already Penella, child of the Renaissance, caught up in a dark web of politics and perfidy, vain ambition, broken dreams...
She opened her eyes and saw the twenty-first century, in the shape of Gavin and Jinx, only for a second or two they were Gasparo and Teo the clown-girl, who came to town with the travelling players and was rumoured to be a witch – or a spy...
‘Get on with it,’ said Jinx. ‘Wish!’
‘I want to see Cesare,’ Pen said. ‘Cesare Borgia. Behind the door...’
I want to be Penella again.
She rubbed the stone with her thumb, three times widdershins. Its grey colour paled; it became translucent, like crystal, and began to glisten with an unholy pallor which spilled between her fingers. In her pocket, the Teeth champed in protest. She pushed open the door, just a crack, handed the stone to Gavin, and stepped through.
Beyond the Doors
Italy, fifteenth century
SHE WAS ON the long gallery in the Borgia palace – she’d been there once before, at a party, but there was no party now. Instead, there was a sword-fight. The time zones were overlapping in her head and she thought in a confused way that it wasn’t like any sword-fight she had seen on screen, elaborate and stylish, with the swift clash of rapier on rapier and cloaks swirling and someone swinging from a chandelier. This was the kind of fight that made you realise swords were sharp pointy things which could kill you. It was ugly and untidy and vicious. There were four participants, two against two; one was already bleeding from a slash in the arm, another took a lethal thrust to the belly even as she watched. She picked up a footstool to use as a shield and dodged past, knocking into one of the combatants, who stumbled and swore and collided with a dagger. But Pen didn’t wait for the final outcome. She had to find the prince. Lorenzo di Giordano had given her the message; in her vagabondo boy’s clothes no one would pay her any attention, she knew she could get through.
They said he was ill, ill and dying, but she didn’t believe it. It was a ruse to fool his enemies. The prince couldn’t die – he was going to rule all Italy, and she would be there in his train, not a pawn to be married and bedded like other girls but a trusted agent, loyal and resourceful. Utile... She ran down a short flight of stairs, along a corridor, through a chamber where a servant was doing something with a flagon of wine. She knew there could be an assassin behind every curtain, poison in every cup. In another room two women were talking, one with her back to Pen. The other looked young and frightened: she had a puckered-rosebud mouth and red-gold hair, brighter and fairer than Pen’s, crimped into a myriad of tiny waves and woven with flowers or jewels.
‘He asked me to come,’ she was saying. ‘With him, to request is to command. I had no choice. He could die...’
‘It is poison,’ said her companion. ‘He may suspect you. You have had cause enough to wish him dead.’
‘I have done nothing – nothing...’
Pen ducked past the doorway and ran on.
Up another stair, along a passage... She guessed she’d found the right room because there was a guard on the door.
‘Let me in!’ she panted, breathless from running. ‘I must see the prince! I have a message–’
But the guard thrust her away, drawing a poignard; she dodged the blade just in time. Behind him, the door opened, and a man in black robes emerged. For a second she thought it was Death himself – he was lean and cadaverous, hollow-cheeked and hollow-eyed as a skull – but he carried a bag, not a scythe, and she realised he must be the doctor. The guard moved aside to let him pass and she seized her opportunity, slipping behind the doctor into the room. The guard turned and shouted after her, an oath or a threat, but he was too late.
She had expected the prince to be in bed after what she had overheard, but he was on the couch, with an embroidered coverlet thrown over him and his boots tumbled on the floor. He wore only a shirt and hose and his face was almost as white as his linen; there was a dew of sweat on cheekbone and brow and his hair straggled in damp elflocks across the cushion which supported him. But when he saw Pen he lifted his head: a faint warmth of recognition came into his eyes.
‘Penni...’
‘Sire,’ said the guard, ‘mi scusa – he sneaked past when the dottore–’
‘I know him.’ For all his latent fever, Cesare spoke with his usual cool hauteur. ‘Leave us.’
The guard returned to his vigil outside the door.
‘Lorenzo sent me,’ Pen said. ‘He came to our house to ask assistance but my uncle is a traitor: he saw a messenger from the Orsini last night. I think... he gave him gold. He’s holding Lorenzo, but I said I would find you. I can always slip away without being missed. Lorenzo says, now your father’s dead your enemies are moving against you: the Orsini, Urbino, Malatesta... There are assassins in the palace – I saw two guards killed. Someone could come here–’
‘I am done.’ His hand closed over hers, gripping so tight she thought he would crush her finger-bones. ‘Without my father’s patronage... Too much depends on the Papacy. Whoever takes over may not be my foe, but he will never be my friend. Envy is the price of success. I know what they are saying, the backstabbers and the gossipmongers – I have risen like a star; like a star I may fall..
.’
‘No!’ she whispered. ‘Not you. You’re too clever for them – you always have been. Too clever and too lucky. They fear your luck...’
‘Luck can change.’ He smiled without humour, a smile as thin as a knife-blade. ‘So why are you here for me, little one? You’ve denounced your uncle’s treachery; if I live, I will make him pay. You must know that.’
‘He hasn’t asked for my loyalty, or earned it: I’m not important to him. We made a bargain, you and I, that night in the garden. You keep my secrets, I keep yours. I will never betray you.’
‘I believe you.’ His grip on her hand gentled. ‘If I had the time, I would make a woman of you. But our time is running out. Still, we will try what remains of my luck.’ He raised his voice, summoning the guard again. ‘Fetch Don Michelotto. And see to it my sister goes back to Ferrara, with an escort. Whoever can be spared. She is in danger here.’
‘But sire, I cannot leave you unprotected–’
‘I can protect myself.’ He had thrown off the coverlet and Pen saw that even in sickness he wore a long knife in his belt; the hilt was a single ruby. ‘The boy will stay with me. Go!’
The guard left. Cesare dragged his boots on with an effort and pulled a black satin jacket over his shirt, though he made no attempt to fasten it. When he got to his feet his gait was uncertain; he hooked an arm round Pen for support.
‘You’re tall for a girl,’ he said. ‘Are you sure–?’ He felt her breast with his other hand, as if confirming something; Pen’s whole body flamed in response. In that instant she would have given herself to him without hesitation, asking for nothing – but he was walking towards the far wall, half pulling her with him, half leaning on her; the urgency of the situation excluded all else. He tweaked a boss under the mantle and a panel swung back, revealing a dark aperture and a descending stair.
‘Come,’ he said, not waiting for an answer. Together, they staggered down the steps.
The arm that encircled her shoulders was hard with muscle but she sensed his fragility, the aftermath of fever. She thought: ‘I’m the only one left’ – last of his followers, faithful to the end – and her heart seemed to swell until she felt it would burst her chest. It was a feeling beyond any she had ever known – a feeling to live for, to fight for, to die for. ‘I won’t live long here,’ she said to herself, oblivious to the strange use of the word here, ‘but I will live.’
Life is measured in passion, not in years.
They emerged into a chamber which might once have been a private chapel, though the customary religious symbols were gone. There were no windows; the walls were draped in red silk and the light came from tall candles ranged down either side of the aisle. In the space where the altar might have stood there was a pentacle drawn on the floor, surrounded with various intricate runes; above it hung a gilded Venetian mask with the horns of a goat. Cesare halted in front of it, still leaning heavily on Pen. He began to speak in a language that was not Italian nor any dialect she knew, though there were words in it she almost recognised. The outline of the pentacle and the runic sigils gleamed briefly as a streak of flame zoomed from line to line and then shot up the wall without leaving a burn. For a moment Pen thought nothing had happened – then she saw the glow behind the eye-slots of the mask. A glow which came from nowhere, irradiating the whole face, turning it from gold to pallid green, filling the empty eyes with a white dazzle. Pen had seen magicians at the fair and had heard of alchemists who could conjure gold coins that turned to sawdust once they were spent, but she had never seen anything like this. She told herself resolutely that there could be someone behind the wall lighting a flare and thrusting it through a hole – but Cesare would never be implicated in cheap tricks. He was too intelligent and too subtle.
Then the mask spoke.
She saw the gilded lips move, saw the ripple of animation travel across the moulded features. The chamber was warm but suddenly she felt very cold.
‘Czesarion.’ The voice was deep and grainy, as if it had been scraped over stone or splintered through wood. It was not a human voice.
‘Azmordis.’
‘You will call me master!’
‘Not yet.’ The strain in Cesare’s tone was not due to malady; his fingers dug into Pen’s arm. ‘That wasn’t our bargain. You promised the lordship of all Italy would be mine.’
‘If you had the strength to take it. It is not my fault that your strength has failed.’
‘You swore no poisoner could kill me, but my father is dead, and without his support–’
‘You live. Your father was beyond my protection.’
‘His life was important to me!’
‘It was not in our contract.’ The voice was as inexorable as fate. ‘Your course is almost run. Soon, you will belong to me.’
‘You said I would be immortal, invulnerable – I would outlive my enemies – my good fortune would be a byword among men–’
‘So it was.’ The voice sounded almost bored. ‘But now the word is gone by. You will indeed outlive your enemies, though they will not know it. Your immortality is in thrall to me: you will be my vassal, my creature, until your doom runs out. That was our bargain. I offered you dominion, but it is slipping from your grasp.’
‘Not quite.’ Determination hardened him; Pen could sense the steel in his soul. What was left of his soul, anyway. ‘There are those who will stand by me. I can still scheme, and bribe, sign a pact, break a bond. The common people welcomed my rule: they knew I was fair and just.’
‘The common people!’ The mask laughed until the gold cracked. ‘When did they ever matter? The common people!’
‘I am not finished yet,’ Cesare insisted. ‘My supporters will rally to my aid–’
‘And is this the calibre of your support? This pale child you lean on, more girl than boy?’
‘She is a girl,’ Cesare said. ‘She has kept my secrets, and betrayed her kin for me. She is a useful tool.’
Useful... That word again. It sounded less good with strumento.
‘Kill her,’ said the mask. ‘She knows too much.’
Pen stared. The phrase was familiar, if only she could remember why. She wanted to laugh, though there was nothing to laugh at.
‘She is faithful,’ said Cesare. ‘I reward fidelity.’
‘Kill her,’ said the mask, ‘before she changes her mind.’
‘I told you–’
‘She brought you the bad news; she can serve no further purpose. And she has seen me. Do you dare trust her now? Trust is a luxury only the poor and base can afford. It is beyond the reach of the powerful.’
Pen felt Cesare hesitate, knew when he was persuaded. He drew away from her, still unsteady on his feet, reaching for the long knife. She wasn’t afraid; there was no time for fear. The fantasy of her love and loyalty vanished like smoke on the wind.
‘I am sorry, little one,’ Cesare said. ‘But the demon is right. You know... too much.’
I will not live long here, Pen thought again. And: If he had made love to me, he would still have done it. And I would have let him – I would have bared my breast for the knife...
She jumped back, needing a weapon, reaching a hand in her pocket as if she might find something there. But there was only the toy Teodora had given her, the set of teeth the puppeteer manipulated on stage, throwing his voice to make it seem they talked. She pulled them out, having nothing else. Cesare almost laughed.
‘What are those? Would you scare me with a witch’s bibelot? I am not so feeble–’
He lunged at her, adrenaline giving him strength, seizing her by the hair – the knife was poised to stab between her ribs up into the heart. But the thrust never came. The Teeth leaped from Pen’s hand as if imbued with unnatural life, snapping in mid-air, plunging into Cesare’s neck. The knife dropped; he gave a cry of shock and pain. Blood started to run down his throat, dyeing his shirt. The Teeth released their grip, springing back into Pen’s hand, cackling maniacally. The mask began to curse in th
e same unknown language that Cesare had used for the summoning – the eye-slots brightened to a stinging dazzle – but Pen didn’t wait to see what followed. She bolted for the stair, racing back up to the bedroom, opening the panel with a hasty shove.
‘Shut up,’ she told the Teeth. ‘You’ll bring every guard in the palace down on us.’
The Teeth ceased cackling and began to chant something incomprehensible on a low note of exultation. We – are – the Teeth! We – are – the Teeth!...
Pen stuffed them back in her pocket and left the room, glancing quickly round outside the door, sprinting along the passage. The Teeth seemed to be telling her something else but she couldn’t understand them. It was curious how unsurprised she was that a toy should come to life and rescue her, almost as if she had expected it, though she knew that was impossible. Perhaps it was some kind of demonic possession, like the mask, except this time the demon was on her side. She’d seen such possession before, with a rabid dog, or the village idiot near her uncle’s country house who had fits – only she didn’t know it could happen with an object. She wondered what the priest would make of it, and decided it was best not to ask.
Now she was climbing the stair to the gallery. Teo and Gasparo were waiting for her by the door at the far end; in the excitement of her meeting with Cesare she’d forgotten. I’ve been ages, she thought, Gasparo will be furious...
The sword-fight was long over. The principal survivor – whichever side he was on – had fled, two were dead or dying, the one with the slash in his arm was tying a makeshift bandage with his free hand, holding one end in his mouth.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘I’ll do that.’ She tied a rapid knot for him, as tight as she could – ‘You should get this cleaned properly or it might get infected’ – and ran on, leaving him a prey to bewilderment. She could see Gasparo’s face through the half-open door: it was odd that none of the combatants seemed to have noticed. As she reached him he caught her arm, pulling her through – Teo was there, and everything was different, and as the door shut behind her she saw he was angry, so angry, just as she knew he would be...
