Path of Smoke

by Bailey Cunningham

  Andrew shrugged. “Sometimes it feels like the horrors outweigh the blessings in this world. But there’s also the great stuff. Baby universes that are just learning to walk. Raspberry ginger ale. The sloth sanctuary in Costa Rica. The smell just before it rains. Getting a whole bus to yourself. Parks that rise out of the ashes, like this one.”

  Carl took in the ragged edges of the park. It tugged lightly at him. It was the same thing he’d felt in Wascana Park, just before a transition. The sensation was weaker—not that irresistible drag toward another world—but he could still sense it. A pressure as light as Andrew’s hand in his own. Carl wondered, for the first time, if all parks had a kind of magic. If this little piece of greenery had its own current, then maybe it was connected to Wascana Park, somehow. Maybe they were all connected.

  “We’ll have to look out for each other,” Carl said. “I’ll take first watch.”

  “You’d sleep through an attack.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Didn’t it take four alarms to get you out of bed?”

  “If ogres or dragons were involved, I know I could stay awake.”

  “The problem,” Andrew said, “is that we don’t have rearview mirrors. We never see the bad stuff coming. It always hits us from behind.”

  “That might be a good invention. A metaphysical rear view.”

  Andrew smiled. “Monsters in mirror are closer than they appear.”

  “We could take this to Dragon’s Den. They’d be all over it.”

  “What if we could see it coming? Not just the bad stuff, but the good stuff, as well?” Andrew looked at him oddly. “What would you do? Brace for impact? Or try to swerve?”

  “I’m not sure how to drive this metaphor.”

  “I mean it, though. Aren’t we obligated to say something? To prevent the crash before it happens?”

  “I’m not sure that’s possible.”

  “It must be. It’s so easy to predict where someone else is headed. We never see our own blind spot, but with other people, it’s like the GPS voice is screaming, wrong turn.”

  “I don’t see any crashes in your future,” Carl said softly. “Maybe a flat tire, but that’s easy enough to fix.”

  Andrew was silent for a moment. Then he said: “Something’s following me.”

  “What?”

  “A shadow. I dream about it. Sometimes, I see it when I’m not looking at anything in particular. I catch a glimpse of its tail, or a flash of its eyes.”

  “You’re dreaming about cats?”

  “Salamanders.”

  Carl went cold. “Are you sure that’s what they are?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Maybe—” He searched for an innocuous response. “Maybe it’s just a stress dream. Some people dream about their teeth falling out, but you dream about newts.”

  “I don’t know what they want. Sometimes I think they’re trying to warn me.”

  Carl squeezed his hand. “You’re going to be fine. It’s just a dream.”

  “Sometimes,” he said, “this feels like the dream.”

  They sat for a while, in silence. The chokecherry shadows moved across the wall. A prairie dog emerged from the leafy depths of the sculpture. His nostrils twitched. Then he disappeared back into the undergrowth. A semitruck roared in the distance. They finished their sandwiches and left the park. Andrew said very little as they walked down Broad Street. Carl knew that he was thinking about the salamander dreams. He knew that it was probably a bad sign.

  But selfishly, he was glad.

  It meant that some part of the shadow had survived.

  PART TWO

  MILES

  1

  FEL WATCHED THE ENTRANCE of the necropolis. Aside from a few sad wolves who were working the marsh, the area remained deserted. Coming here for a quick turn must have been a last resort. Maybe if you lived in the attic of a crowded insula, with only the pigeons for company—maybe then, you’d find yourself following one of the wolves in this place. It took a certain lack of self-reflection to spend yourself on someone’s grave. Only sweepers and water-bearers couldn’t afford to visit the basia. Fel supposed that she shouldn’t judge. All of the insulae were subleased, which encouraged the worst type of competition among the poor. Not everyone had the luxury of joining a company or working in a rich domus. Many of the people in Anfractus took odd jobs, and all they could afford was an attic room, without any space for a cookstove. They ate greasy food from the cauponae and drank from the fountains. Only the most expensive homes were connected to the aqueduct.

  She’d thought about that sort of life. After leaving Domina Pendelia’s service, she could have purchased a room in one of the insulae. Her stipend from the black basia was enough to afford a stove on wheels and a peg to hang her cloak on. If she’d saved her money, she might have one day been able to hire a painter. She imagined one wall of her room painted with geometric designs, or Fortuna dueling with the first miles. A skilled painter could use tricks of perspective to make the room seem bigger. Her life might have been a series of heated arguments with the landlord, payments to the water-bearers, endless trips up and down the stairs. If she’d chosen to save money by living on the top floor, she’d have to climb a ladder. Strange to think that she’d come so close. It would have been a simple decision to turn her back on that other world, with its shadowed anxieties, its obsession with technology and performance.

  But then she’d discovered that she was with child. Although he’d been conceived in this world, she knew that he belonged to the other. He was safer on the other side. Her Clavus. The bright nail that she’d carried inside her, through all of the infinite alleys. He had another name, but to Fel, he would always be Clavus.

  She watched a boy slip into the necropolis. He wore the red-striped tunica praetexta, the uniform of adolescence. Faint moonlight struck the silver bula that he wore around his neck, which, along with the tunica, signified his childhood. The amulet was hollow and could be filled with precious things: little charms, gemstones, phalloi for good luck, a lock of his mother’s hair. For a moment, she thought of scolding him. What was a citizen’s child doing in the necropolis, just before sundown? If he was coming to pay his respects, he wouldn’t be alone. He might have been seeking physical gratification, but why not visit the basia? It was obvious that his family had money to spare.

  Before she could say anything or cross over to the entrance, he vanished into the necropolis. No matter. It would have been imprudent to address him. The last thing she needed was for a young, nervous citizen to remember seeing her tonight. She only hoped that he was gone before the silenus arrived. Sometimes they preferred children. With shorter legs, the prey could still run, but not for very long.

  Fel didn’t really know what she was doing here. They were supposed to be hiding from the basilissa, not observing her movements. If they wanted to survive, their best bet was to avoid the court altogether. But Morgan and Babieca couldn’t forget what they’d seen in the alley. If their suspicions were right—if Latona was about to make a deal with the silenoi—then the ripples would spread throughout the city. Fel couldn’t quite believe that she was willing to endanger her own people, simply to gain a political foothold. But she remembered the conversation that she’d heard, on the patio of lions. The basilissa was no longer content with holding one city alone. She wanted Egressus as well. Perhaps she wanted everything. An end to the current, decentralized model of city-states. A return to the empire of the builders, which had been dismantled centuries before, and only survived in the form of its inventions: the cloaca, the great via, the faith in Fortuna that united them all.

  From what she knew, people had suffered beneath the empire. The silenoi had been a constant threat, and the basilissae—rather than acting as diplomats—had murdered and schemed in order to secure their place in court. She wasn’t sure that things were al
l that better now, but at least it was possible to survive during the day. If the silenoi were allowed to hunt beneath the sun again, everything would change. Not even Babieca was willing to let the dice fall, and trovadores weren’t supposed to care about anything, except for their music. If he was worried, then something might actually be on the horizon.

  Her scale lorica was chafing, even with the padded tunica underneath. Fel touched the die around her neck. It promised power, but the last time she’d tried to use it, she hadn’t been fast enough. Maybe if she’d rolled more quickly, the battle would have gone differently. She could still see the miles, burning from Roldan’s charm. And the boy that she’d cut. He’d been dressed like a man, in an ill-fitting lorica, gripping his gladius with both hands, but he was little more than a boy in armor. Dimly, she remembered a conversation between their shadows. The memory saddened her. The details were obscure, but she knew—with a sick feeling—that she had destroyed some part of him. All because she’d hesitated.

  Morgan and Babieca stepped out of the rushes, their sandals squelching in the mud. Babieca swatted at the flies buzzing around his head. This was one of the oldest parts of the city, abandoned to the elements. It still resembled the primitive camp that Anfractus had once been, long before the coming of the builders. While the rich mingled on the hill of Vici Arces, the poorest of nemones gathered here, stealing grave goods to sell on the street or striking deals with starving wolves. They were denied the luxury of sleep. Instead, they shuffled along the grave plots, baring sad angles, hiding rotten teeth, pretending to peddle rags and bits of glass. Did Felix and Drauca think about these children of the necropolis? Did they bring them food, or a needle and thread? Fel doubted it. Their labor was what allowed the black basia to exist, with its posh client registry. Without the wolves, the masked ones would have no respectability.

  “She’s not coming,” Morgan said. “I knew it.”

  “Give her a few moments.” Babieca scratched at a bug bite. “She’s scared, just like us. That makes her smart.”

  “She’s no fighter.”

  “Nor am I. But for some reason, I seem to be here.”

  “This was practically your idea.”

  He scowled. “Don’t pin this on me. I only said what we were all thinking. Without Julia, we’re not a company.”

  “We’re barely a company with her,” Fel said. “What does she bring to the table? An annoying bee that will fly around our heads? If we’re lucky, it will distract one of the silenoi, while the rest of the pack eats us alive.”

  “You’re very inspirational tonight,” Babieca observed.

  Fel shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m distracted.”

  “By what? We need your concentration.”

  “Even distracted, I’m still the only person who can fight in close quarters. Don’t worry about where my mind is at. Worry about not falling on that stubby sword of yours.”

  “I’m not useless in close quarters,” Morgan said. “A sagittarius—”

  “Yes, you’re both exquisitely trained, we know.” Babieca turned back to Fel. “What’s distracting you?”

  The miles looked at the full moon. “My son.”

  “He’s safe on the other side.”

  “He’s never completely safe, unless he’s with me.”

  Morgan smiled kindly and touched her shoulder. “You’ve been at this for longer than us. You must know more about the other side. Can’t you feel that he’s protected?”

  “The basilissa no longer respects the boundary. She could send someone—”

  “If something had happened, you would know. Isn’t that what mothers always say?”

  Fel sighed. “Yes.”

  They heard footsteps. Julia emerged from the reeds. Her expression was one of profound annoyance. Fel saw that she had lost a sandal. Her foot was caked in mud.

  “You’ve a bare foot,” Babieca ventured. “Starting a new trend? I could see it becoming all the rage, if the dominae start walking around half shod.”

  “I don’t wish to talk about it,” Julia said. “Suffice it to say that a bat flew into my hair, and now I want to go home.”

  “Back to that stifling workshop?” Babieca shook his head. “This is much better. You’ve got the stars above you. Night-fliers to keep you company.”

  “Stop talking.”

  “Here.” Fel reached into a bag slung over one shoulder and removed a pair of sandals. “You can borrow mine.”

  “Do you always carry an extra pair?”

  “No. I’ve got these.” Fel lifted her right foot. She wore a leather boot with a row of spikes on the sole. “Caligae. Standard issue, for managing poor terrain.”

  “I want a pair of those,” Babieca said. “Morgan, the next time you’re in the arx, can you steal some for me?”

  “When have you ever had to manage poor terrain?”

  “You’ve clearly never been to the men’s necessary in the Seven Sages.”

  “Enough.” Fel turned to Julia. “Did you bring that—device?”

  “The bee?” She looked slightly embarrassed. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to control it. Sometimes it has a mind of its own. I brought something else, though.” She gestured to a pouch hanging from her belt. “It’s not as impressive, but it could help.”

  Babieca reached for the pouch. “It’s a frog, isn’t it?”

  She smacked his hand. “Get away.”

  “Am I right?”

  “The less you know, the better. Hopefully I won’t need to use it.”

  “We’d better go inside,” Fel said. “She’ll be here soon, and we need to find a place where we won’t be seen.”

  They filed into the necropolis. The air smelled richly of earth, and beneath that, decay. The grave flowers masked the odor slightly, as well as the smoke from a few scattered lamps, but death was still everywhere. The plots were arranged into patterns that resembled dice. The tombs were the pips, dark and solitary, with their bronze plaques and scattering of dried petals. Many of the plaques had greened with age. Though the names were barely legible, the sigils above them represented every spoke on the wheel. She even saw a tomb that belonged to a sicarius. How strange, to honor a killer with grave goods and a funerary plaque. Fel tried to read the words, but they had slipped away. Perhaps the sicarius had also been a devoted wife or an impassioned scholar. Killing was a vocation, but it didn’t have to be a life. Wasn’t she more than her gladius? The question should have been easier to answer.

  The graves of children saddened her the most, with their blue hen’s eggs, some cracked, others yet whole. She couldn’t imagine her bright nail sleeping in a place like this, next to the grave of a forgotten killer. He should feel the sky above him, the shadows of trees and careful, questing footprints of animals. Or he should live forever, among the stars, like the basilissae who were carried off by Fortuna when they died. He should drink cups of sunlight at her table, and sleep to the lulling creak of her wheel as it turned, ceaselessly, making music all night.

  They stepped over pottery shards, mysterious cloth bundles (better to leave them undisturbed), and the leavings of animals. Even in this place where the world held its breath, life gathered, with scratching claws and small bright eyes. No doubt there was also a fur or two in the shadows, waiting for them to drop something valuable. Some of them lived in the necropolis, eating the sweet bread that families left on the graves. Perhaps they shared it with the wolves, along with a bit of stolen oil. A funerary feast.

  “Why would she choose the necropolis?” Julia asked. “Her ancestors are buried beneath the arx, in a private undercroft. If she wanted to be surrounded by the dead, why not simply go down there? It would be safer.”

  “She doesn’t want to involve the court,” Fel said. “They call this place the silent city. It’s as far from the palace as you can get.”

  Morg
an held up a hand for silence. In the distance, they heard something. It might have been the boy she’d seen earlier, drunk after his conquest. But as Fel listened more closely, she could hear two distinct sets of footfalls.

  “Wolves?” Babieca murmured.

  Morgan shook her head. “Wolves make no noise. They know the terrain too well. This has to be them.”

  Fel signaled them to follow. She led the group into a corner that was thick with decaying flowers. A flickering oil lamp hung above the collection of tombs. Fel snuffed out the lamp and picked up a handful of the desiccated petals.

  “Here,” she whispered, handing them to Morgan. “Put these in your hair. They’ll cover our scent. I hope.”

  They crushed the flowers in great handfuls. Fel had the impression that she was seasoning herself with a dry rub of spices. Then she gestured for them to stand against the wall. The ancient bricks were covered in grime and spider-silk.

  “From now on,” she whispered, “don’t move, or breathe. If we’re lucky, the silenus will be distracted and won’t notice us. But his sense of smell is very keen. If he looks even once in our direction, you’d best run.”

  “I hope you’ve got a weapon in that pouch,” Babieca told Julia. “Something that you can throw in his face while we’re fleeing.”

  “I wouldn’t precisely call it that.”

  “Fortuna help us, if all you brought is a pile of—”

  “Shut up,” Fel hissed. “They’re coming.”

  A small light moved toward them. At first, it resembled a collection of fireflies. It was actually a lamp, which the basilissa held before her as she made her way between the tombs. She drew closer, and Fel saw that the lamp was carved in the likeness of Fortuna. She held the wheel in her hand, and flame sprung from the ivory matrix where the spokes met. The flame trembled in the stale air, casting shadow wheels against the ground. The silenus walked next to the basilissa, either as a sign of social parity or because she was unwilling to expose her back. From the waist up, he resembled a muscular man whose chest was covered in scars. Below the waist, he was an animal with cloven feet, leaving half-moon footprints in the dust. He had long, curly hair, and his eyes were the color of iridescent moss. Fel tried not to look at him. The silenoi were hunters, and they knew when a fox or a rabbit was watching them.