Path of Smoke

by Bailey Cunningham

  “All right.” Ingrid kissed his cheek. “Perhaps you will be our secret weapon.”

  “Like a pig machine!”

  “Exactly.”

  Carl smiled slightly. “The girl beckons you into the shadows. What is the company’s will? Do you follow her?”

  Ingrid turned to Neil. “What do you think? Should we trust the little girl?”

  Neil glanced at Sam’s piece. “Trust the brontosaurus. She is a herbivore.”

  “That’s a good point.” Ingrid looked at Sam. “You’re the newest member of the company. It should be your decision. Shall we follow her?”

  Sam held the toy dinosaur in the palm of her hand. “Why not?”

  3

  THE CLEPSYDRA THUNDERED ABOVE her. Looking up, Fel watched the faces grow closer. All of Fortuna’s guises were represented. She was sweet apothecary, death on swift feet, a gladius cleaving scale armor, an artifex struck by inspiration. Was it all a game to her? The charming little lives, rolling like knucklebone dice on the streets of her city? Perhaps that was all they were. Tallies on a celestial sheet. An army of pawns, moving across a dust-choked board.

  But what was the point of the game? When would it end? Fel had never been particularly religious. Like everyone, she kept Fortuna in her thoughts and offered a few crumbs for the hungry lares who crowded the shrines. But she’d never studied the mysteries. Once, her shadow had seen a set of paw prints appear out of nowhere. There’d been a flash of fire, then screaming. But the memory was distant. Had it truly been a salamander? It was strangely comforting to think that magic was alive in the world. There had to be something other than the silenoi, a balance of some kind. Otherwise, they were all just prey.

  She knew what they had to do next, but it seemed only slightly less ridiculous than their original plan to hide in the necropolis. Their fates hinged on the caprice of a girl who had no reason to help them. Eumachia was the basilissa’s daughter, and ultimately she would remain loyal to her mother. But why had she been skulking around the necropolis, dressed as a boy? If she’d lost faith in Latona, then they might have a chance. Unless she decided to turn them in. Fel imagined herself rotting beneath the Arx of Violets, a plucked stem, surrounded by others that had turned to sickly sweet powder. They would never see the light of day—not after what they’d done. Latona would ensure that their punishments were inspired and lasting.

  Morgan and Babieca emerged from the crowd on Via Rumor. They joined her beneath the fountain, whose spray lightly touched them all. Babieca stuck out his tongue to catch some of the cool mist. Fel wanted to scold him, but the words died in her throat. What was the point? It was like telling a child not to jump in a puddle. The point of a trovador, she supposed, was to remind them of their simplest desires. How did that old song go? Something about the small rain, and love in your arms again. What we all longed for: wine, a warm bed, some kindness now and then, like small rain.

  She looked at Morgan. The sagittarius looked back and smiled wanly. Her dark hair curled in the mist. The rust-colored cloak fluttered around her ankles. Fel wanted to take her hand, but she was afraid of leaving a smudge, a fingerprint, on that smooth surface. Perhaps their first kiss had also been their last. Morgan hadn’t spoken of it. Fel could read those signs easily enough. But there was something vaguely promising in her smile. Not an invitation, exactly, but more of a neutral gesture. It wasn’t a closed door. Fel knew next to nothing about the contours of her desire. Babieca, however—he would know more. If she got him sufficiently drunk, he might even tell her something.

  “Where is Julia?” Fel asked.

  “Working,” Morgan replied. “She’ll be at the bottegha for most of the day.”

  “Building the perfect frog weapon.” Babieca scratched his head. “Have we fully considered that angle? Instead of this wild gambit, we could hire ourselves a mechanical army. They’d be terrifying, if our enemies were barefoot.”

  “You could charm them again,” Morgan suggested. “I’m sure they’d follow you around the streets of Anfractus, if you played the right tune.”

  He looked away. “I’m not even sure how that happened.”

  “Try to remember. It’s the first useful thing that you’ve done.”

  “Excuse me? Have you forgotten how I put those archers to sleep—”

  “Honestly,” Fel hissed, “would it be possible to have a civil conversation without you two clawing at each other’s eyes?”

  “She truly loves me,” Babieca said. “She just can’t admit it.”

  “I’ve got an arrow with your name on it, if that’s what you mean.”

  Fel stared at them for a long moment.

  Babieca started to say something but wisely decided to keep silent.

  “Sorry,” Morgan said. “We’re listening.”

  “Good.” Fel drew closer to the wheel, whose roar would mask their words. “This all depends on how well each of us can exploit our influence. Morgan, you’ve spoken with the daughter before. She seems to have a soft spot for you.”

  “I wouldn’t call us sisters,” Morgan said, “but she tolerates my presence. She trusted me enough to introduce me to her fox.”

  “That’s a start. It won’t be easy to meet with her, though. We can’t walk into the Arx of Violets and request an audience. But I think I know a way.”

  “This sounds like a back-alley plan,” Babieca said.

  “Is there any other kind?”

  “In this city? I suppose not.”

  “First, we’ll need to meet with Felix. That’s where you come in.”

  Babieca looked at her in surprise. “The last time I saw the house father, he looked as if he wanted my balls in a chafing dish.”

  “And I’m sure you didn’t provoke him.”

  “I don’t like where this conversation is going.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. He’ll be meeting with me. I just need you there as a distraction, to throw him off guard.”

  “It’s more likely that he’ll throw me out of his tabularium.”

  Fel shook her head. “I know him better than you do. He’s well trained, and he knows how to conceal his thoughts. But he has his weaknesses.”

  Babieca stared at the fountains. “Whatever you think I may have meant to him—you’re exaggerating my worth. I was never the one who made him weak.”

  Of course not, Fel thought. You were only the shadow, the substitute.

  “He won’t be expecting to see you,” she replied. “That’s enough.”

  “Can he really secure us an audience? I thought he’d been forced to distance himself from the court—after what happened.”

  “He can set us on the right path,” Fel said. “As long as you don’t speak.”

  “What if I think of—”

  “Don’t speak. You’re strictly ornamental. Understand?”

  He exhaled. “Certainly. Bind the silver tongue. What could go wrong?”

  “Don’t answer that,” Morgan said. “He’s a master of sullen rhetoric.”

  Fel turned to her. “While we’re at the basia, I’ll need you to keep watch. I’ve no doubt that we’re being followed, at this point. It would be easy to plant someone in that crowd, and you have the best eyes.”

  “I can patrol the atrium, but the conditions aren’t exactly ideal for a fight. If something does happen, what we’ll need is your gladius.”

  “I trust you to protect us.”

  Morgan chuckled. “I suppose all of my training has led to this moment: target practice in the black basia.”

  “Your arm is swift and deadly. If you pick the right spot, you can do more damage with your bow than I could hope—”

  “Yes, you’re both great at killing things,” Babieca cut in. “Close up, from a distance, with one hand tied—I trust that you’ll achieve maximum carnage. Now, can we please head to the Su
bura? If I keep sweating, my ornamental status is going to fade.”

  They walked toward the entertainment district. A wall of cheap marble—not the yellow and green varieties that graced the finer homes—divided the Subura from the uphill neighborhoods. Fires were frequent in this area, and the wall was meant to protect the property of the wealthier citizens. A tired miles leaned against the marble, sweating beneath his armor. Fel nodded politely at him but kept moving, before he had the chance to register her face. Via Rumor sloped downward, and the city’s ordure flowed with the contours of the street. Decorative drains were installed at the crossroads, shaped like silenoi with gaping mouths. Fel imagined that they didn’t appreciate the artistic likeness. A wagon rumbled by, and they paused at the pedestrian stone, waiting for it to pass. Various people stood next to them, shifting impatiently, checking their portable sundials. Everyone was in a hurry. This was the hour for business lunches, meetings beneath the aqueduct, the renewal of social obligations. Roast snails, olives, and flatbread would be followed by a visit to the Hippodrome, to watch the chariot races or to exult as the sands were bloodied.

  The street popinae were buzzing. Fel wanted to stop for a plate of figs, but if they went in, they’d never convince Babieca to leave. Behind the L-shaped marble counter, a wooden shelf held amphorae of various quality—from the cheap wine that made your stomach curdle to the sweet summer vintages preferred by more discriminating customers. A rickety staircase led to a loft on the second floor, separated by a curtain. Fel could just barely hear a rhythmic thump thump thump issuing from the loft, accompanied by flakes of laughter. It seemed that many things were on offer, including some of the staff. If the customers heard the noise, they ignored it, concentrating on their plates. A server was updating the menu, scrawled on the wall facing the bar. They’d run out of chickpeas.

  Morgan stayed close to her as they walked. Babieca lagged behind, taking in the local color. It felt strange to be leading this company, if that was what they were. Morgan had been their unofficial leader until a few months ago. Now she deferred to Fel, in spite of the fact that they’d never spoken of this. No official transfer of power had taken place. Morgan had simply allowed herself to fade into the background. On a practical level, she needed to remain unobtrusive. Her face was known to the court. But it seemed to go deeper than that.

  A twinge of pain brought her back to reality. That old wound. An oil massage would take the sting away, but there was no time for a trip to the baths. Fel imagined the heat of the caldarium, which made the coffered ceiling resemble a shimmering conch shell. The pleasant murmur of conversation, while people reclined on long benches, cooking in their towels. How inviting it would be, with Morgan beside her. Dipping their toes in the hot water. Laughing at the nobles, who tried to conduct business while sweat gleamed on their bellies.

  “Fel?”

  She stopped. “What?”

  Morgan was staring at her. “You almost walked into that pedestrian stone.”

  “Sorry. I was preoccupied for a moment.”

  “What were you thinking about?”

  Pulling you into the frigidarium. Kissing you beneath the cold water. Never coming up for air, not even when we heard shouting from the crowd.

  “Nothing in particular,” she said.

  A litter passed them. The embroidered curtains were drawn, but Fel caught a glimpse of a slender hand. The flash of sunlight on silver bracelets. The domina, the artisan, the poor aquarius baking to death in his attic cell—they all shared similar desires, which could only be satisfied in this part of town. Rumor had it that Driope, the basilissa’s mother, had visited the basia after nightfall. A woman that powerful could have her pleasures delivered, if she so wished. Certain needs were highly specific, Fel supposed. The merest hint of them could not be allowed to darken the threshold of the Arx of Violets.

  They approached the black basia, the largest of the wolf dens. Customers had added more graffiti to the walls. Meretrices stood on the balconies. Most of them were immersed in conversation with each other. The sunlight made their masks glow, like newly fired steel. They drank, laughed, and made jokes in various languages. At times, they spoke with their hands, in the manner that Drauca often employed. Felix was not among them. He would be in his office, reviewing scrolls with a barely suppressed sigh. He had told her once that Drauca was the mistress of accounts. The house mother had a brilliant understanding of numbers. He was more of a social liaison, and being stuck in a tabularium made him want to scream.

  The atrium was full of clients who mingled with staff or simply studied them from afar. The masked and the unmasked crossed the marble floor, dancing cautiously with each other. Sandals, caligae, cork-heeled shoes, and even a few bare feet, all shuffled across Fortuna’s mosaic. Promises were exchanged. Offers were extended. The meretrices were under no obligation to perform. They gave only what they chose, and no amount of money or sweet begging would convince them otherwise. Fel noticed two women sitting on a stone bench. One was clearly a domina, her hair swept up in a towering wig. The meretrix who joined her was short and slightly plump, with a mask studded in opals. They sipped from their silver mugs, exchanging pleasantries, while their sandals touched. Unlike the men, some of whom were already pawing at each other’s tunicae, the women on the bench seemed to have all the time in the world.

  “I’ll stay here,” Morgan said. “I can find a spot on the second floor. That balcony has fairly good visibility.”

  “Be careful,” Fel replied. “There are miles about, and they don’t take kindly to having an arrow pointed at them.”

  “I’ll stick to the shadows.” She chuckled. “Standard practice when I visit a basia.”

  “Fortuna save me,” Babieca muttered. “Don’t play the shy flower. Plenty of people would love to take a turn with you.”

  “I wasn’t digging for a compliment.”

  “You might even catch a break, if you don’t wound anyone too seriously.”

  “There’s the sting I was waiting for.”

  “Trovadores always tell the truth.”

  She frowned. “I don’t remember hearing that anywhere. In fact, you’re the most accomplished liar among us.”

  “I’m not a liar. I’m a storyteller.”

  “Call it what you want, lyre-boy.”

  “I told you to stop calling me that.”

  Morgan turned to Fel. “I’ll be upstairs, if you need me.”

  “Good. This shouldn’t take long.”

  The sagittarius vanished into the crowd. Fel watched her ascend a spiral staircase. Her hand lingered on the polished railing. The cloak concealed her weapons. To the casual observer, she was just another client. Another person scrabbling for position on the wheel. Aside from the Hippodrome, this was the only spot in Anfractus where every spoke was represented. A spado was eating lemon sharbah. Beside him, a medicus clutched his bag of instruments, talking nervously to a masked man. A fur was making a deal. His dirty feet tapped against the floor, preoccupied, as he counted out coins. Fel looked for the two women, but their bench was empty. Perhaps they’d had less time than she’d imagined.

  The rustle of the cistrum followed them as they left the atrium. The hall that led to the tabularium was quiet and lit by hanging lamps. There was a fresco on the wall, depicting two men engaged in a precarious act of desire. One reclined on the bed, while the other squatted on top, using a leather strap for balance. In the background, someone was spying on them. Clients had written messages beneath the fresco, many of them libelous and misspelled. They excoriated or praised various members of the house. Fok well, fare well. That was her favorite graffito, which she’d seen on the wall outside. There was something cordial about it.

  They stepped into Felix’s office. Shelves on the far wall held scroll cases and bound account books. The scrolls were stacked diagonally, like oranges in the market. There were also piles of wax tablets, their f
aces sweating beneath the lamplight. Felix sat behind a table made of olive-colored marble. Its legs were shaped like a lion’s paws. He was gently holding a bound book with pumiced covers. When he heard them approach, he looked up and let go of the book. It spilled out its pages, a long, lettered tongue that struck the ground beneath the desk.

  “Was I expecting you?” he asked wearily.

  “No,” Fel said. “We were hoping to talk with you for a moment, though.”

  He waved her toward the chair. In spite of the cushion, it was uncomfortable. The taut leather strap dug into her back, and there was nowhere to put her arms. The tabularium only had two chairs, so Babieca remained standing. He didn’t look particularly happy about it.

  “Will you be working tonight?” Felix asked. He didn’t look at Babieca. His concentration was divided between her and the book, which he was trying to fix. He resembled a weaver, spinning the pages back into place.

  “Actually, no. My night is free. Unless you require—”

  “Of course not. You should enjoy the evening. There are plenty of distractions in the atrium, if you’re feeling inclined.”

  She tried to conceal her discomfort at the idea. “We’re actually here to discuss something specific. A favor, really.”

  He looked up. “A favor.”

  “Just a small one,” Babieca said. “Nothing you couldn’t easily accommodate.”

  The miles gave him a long look, which she hoped would remind him that he wasn’t supposed to talk. Babieca ignored her.

  The house father set down the book. “You’ve served the basia well. I’m happy to grant you a favor, within reason.”

  “There are two of us here,” Babieca muttered. “We’re asking a favor.”

  “I see you,” Felix said, without looking at him.

  “I’m not sure you understand what that word means.”

  He turned back to the miles. “What do you need? Our coffers are a bit stretched, but I could offer you a modest increase in your wages.”

  “Thank you, but no. That’s not what this is about.”