Path of Smoke

by Bailey Cunningham

  “She’ll take the raise, though,” Babieca said. “Effective immediately.”

  She resisted the urge to strike him. “By the wheel—trovador, what part of holding your tongue is so difficult? Shall I do it for you?”

  “I think I saw that on a fresco.”

  Felix finally smiled. “He’s right. You deserve the increase. I’ll make a note of it in the account books. Now, what do you actually need?”

  She shifted in the chair. “To arrange a meeting of sorts.”

  “This is a house of pleasant assignation. Meet whomever you choose—you don’t need an introduction from me.”

  “It’s not that kind of meeting.”

  “This is taking forever,” Babieca said. “Let’s cut through the courtly shit and simply pretend that we’ve all been extraordinarily gracious. We need to arrange an audience with the basilissa’s daughter. It stands to reason that Latona can’t know about this.”

  The house father stared at him. “I think you’ve overestimated my influence in court. I can’t simply send a tablet to Eumachia, requesting that she have lunch with two strangers.”

  “We’ve already met. She and Morgan are practically sisters.”

  “From what I hear, she hasn’t even left the arx in two days. Latona is keeping a close eye on her, for whatever reason.”

  “We know why,” Fel said. “We saw them both at the necropolis. Eumachia was dressed like a boy, and hiding. She came to spy on her mother.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What were you doing there?”

  “That’s a bit of a long story.”

  He pushed away the account books. “I suddenly have time. This sounds more interesting than the ledgers.”

  She stared at the mosaic on the floor. It was tame compared to some of the frescoes, but a few of the positions still strained her imagination. “I’m not sure where to begin, or how much to actually tell you.”

  “Are you in danger?”

  “No more than usual,” Babieca cut in. “But now the threat is— What’s the word—”

  “Diffuse?”

  “I was going to say hairy. But that works.”

  Felix was about to say something. Then his eyes widened.

  “He’s catching on,” Babieca murmured.

  “Is this— I mean—” Felix swallowed. “You’re referring to the hunters?”

  “They’re cozying up to the basilissa, from what we can tell. She’s poised to make some kind of agreement with them, and it doesn’t smell good. If she has her way, those fucking goats could be hunting us during the day.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “You really had to be there to see how possible it is. They played latrinculi and everything. It was like a picnic among the gravestones.”

  Felix drummed the tabletop with his fingers. “What does Eumachia have to do with this?”

  “Like we said—she was there, spying on Mama. She saw everything. Then she ran off, with Latona and—what was the hairy bastard’s name, again?”

  “Septimus,” the miles said.

  Felix turned to her. “She was meeting with the princep’s brother?”

  “So it would seem.”

  He shook his head. “What the hell is she up to?”

  “That’s what we’re hoping to find out.”

  “If you pursue this, you risk exposure.”

  Babieca leaned across the table. “If we do nothing, we could end up on a menu, before we know it. Whatever this is, it affects all of us.”

  “Even wolves?” His expression was even.

  “I wasn’t going to say that.”

  “But you were thinking it.”

  Babieca took a step back. “We need your help,” he said simply. “Whatever you may think of me, right now—let it go. We have to work together.”

  “You were the one who—” Fel bit down on his reply. “It matters not. Why do you want to meet with Eumachia?”

  The miles stood up. Her legs were falling asleep from the chair. “Latona is meeting with the chieftain. She took great pains to ensure that he would come to the arx.”

  “What is your presence going to accomplish?”

  “Would you rather we got drunk in a caupona, while Latona sells us out?” Babieca gestured to the shelf full of scrolls. “You can’t hide in your office and pretend that it isn’t happening. All of this will go up in flames, if we don’t do something.”

  “I’m not hiding,” he said coldly.

  “Oh? What would you call it then? A sudden desire to balance your accounts, to stay neutral and unsullied, while the rest of us actually do something?”

  “Stop spitting at each other,” Fel said. “You’re like two toms. All of this tail-flicking accomplishes nothing.”

  The house father sighed. “You really think that Eumachia can help?”

  “She’s got the foxes. They’re highly resourceful. And if she already mistrusts Latona—perhaps we can work that to our advantage.”

  Felix considered it for a moment. Then he rang a bell on his desk. They heard sandals shuffling along the hallway, and a young man stepped into the tabularium. It was the same meretrix that they’d seen speaking with Drauca. He inclined his head. Felix made a gesture with his hand, too quick to discern. The miles only knew a few words in that language, anyhow, and Felix was obviously adept. The young man nodded. Then he left the room.

  “Come with me,” Felix said. “We’re going to the undercroft.”

  “What’s there?” Babieca asked.

  “Gold, mostly. Wine. Clothes. The walls are thick. We should be able to talk there without being molested.”

  “I didn’t even know that the basia had an undercroft.”

  The house father smiled slightly. “Every building in Anfractus has an undercroft. It’s where we keep our secrets.”

  “I thought your office was secure,” Fel said.

  “It is. For the most part. But underground, we’ll be absolutely safe.”

  “I’m beginning to doubt that anywhere is safe.”

  “You must have suspected that before now.”

  She shrugged. “I hoped that I was wrong.”

  “Trust your instincts. This place is many things, but it’s never safe. The wrong alley can lead you to a grim ending. Not the happy one that you were expecting. Although—” He rose from the desk. “If you were really expecting that, it’s a surprise that you’ve lasted.”

  “I’m not that naïve. But still—” She looked at him carefully. “Anfractus hasn’t been entirely cruel. It’s given us surprising gifts.”

  “That it has.”

  His eyes met hers. There was kindness in them, but also an old pain.

  Babieca stared at them both curiously for a moment but said nothing.

  Felix pushed a tapestry aside, revealing a narrow door. There appeared to be no lock—just a shallow, square recess in the middle of the door. He reached beneath his tunica, withdrawing a polished obsidian die attached to a leather thong.

  “Die lock,” he said. “Only the housekeepers can open it.”

  He inserted his die into the recess, and it turned it to the right. There was a low, grinding sound, deep within the wall. Felix unhooked the lantern from its chain and pushed the door open. They followed him down a long flight of steps, worn by countless footfalls. The air was cool and smelled of packed earth. Spiders shied away from the light, gleaming like latrinculi stones in their gossamer webs. The walls were very close, and the ceiling dripped. Babieca looked nervous as he made his way down, step by step. If something came at them from the opposite direction, there’d be little room to fight. All Felix had to do was put out the lantern. He seemed unaffected by the darkness, the thick air, the tortuous steps. He had obviously come this way often and knew every turn with a casual intimacy.

  They descende
d the last step, and the chamber opened up. The undercroft had high, barrel-vaulted ceilings, and the walls were treated with lime, which gave them an eerie glow beneath the lamplight. Felix attached the lantern to a chain. Its light flickered across gold, silk, and giant amphorae. Masks of every color and texture gleamed on stone shelves. Faces of ivory, onyx, carnelian, and graven ash, looking out through gaping eyes. Beautiful stolae hung on bronze rods, moving slightly with the breeze that they’d stirred up. There were crimson-dyed tunicae, and row upon row of shoes with cork heels. There was even a leather chlamys, studded with emeralds, in homage to the basilissa’s ceremonial vestment. Perhaps more than one client wished to fulfill their desires with the city’s matriarch. A masked version was the next best thing.

  There were stacks of finery, which burned beneath the lamplight. Bracelets in the shape of serpents and lions, with sparkling eyes. Rings large and small, their amethyst hearts depicting scenes from mythology or famous battles. Hundreds of pins and fibulae, carved with geometric shapes, or decorated with winking tesserae. Next to them, wigs of every color formed a riotous tower that threatened to cover the entire wall. Some were teased by gold pins or pearl nets. Others had been fashioned into miraculous shapes: high honeycombs, sundials, ships with swan-headed prows, mountains of hair dyed red, azure, and gold.

  Babieca removed a kohl-black wig and put it on.

  “How do I look?”

  “Put that back,” Fel hissed. “It probably costs more than everything you own.”

  “Actually,” a voice said, “it suits you.”

  Drauca emerged from a wall of giant amphorae, stacked behind her like battlements. The house mother was dressed in a green stola, embroidered with nightingales. Her foot dragged slightly as she walked, leaning on the ivory cane.

  “Where did she come from?” Babieca asked.

  “There’s more than one entrance to an undercroft,” Felix said.

  Drauca smiled. “In this neighborhood . . . especially.” She spoke with a faint slur. Her voice was soft but confident and held a note of dry humor.

  “Thank you for joining us,” Felix said.

  “It must be dire . . . if we’re meeting in this . . . stale armpit.”

  Felix gave her a sidelong look. “Don’t pretend you haven’t come here to try on clothes or to escape from the novitiates.”

  She turned to Babieca. “F-Felix is jealous . . . because the wig looks better on you . . . than it ever did on him.”

  He replaced the wig. “Sorry, house mother. I couldn’t resist.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Babieca.”

  “I once . . . knew a horse named Babieca.”

  Before he could reply, Felix gestured to the miles. “The two of you already know each other. I believe you’ve played bandits and acedrex.”

  “On . . . slow evenings.” Drauca smiled. “Hello . . . F-Fel.”

  She inclined her head. “Mother.”

  “I suppose there’s no sense in being coy.” He turned to Fel. “Why don’t you tell Drauca what you just told me? Leave nothing out.”

  Drauca looked at her expectantly. The words froze in her mouth. The house mother had a presence that made her nervous. There was tremendous strength in her eyes. The slight tremor in her hand did nothing to belie this. Around her neck, a die made of rock crystal hung from a slender chain. There was something inside it, but the light was too dim. Like a frosted window, the die concealed its heart.

  Fel told her about what they’d seen at the necropolis. When she reached the part about Eumachia dressed in boy’s clothing, Drauca raised an eyebrow. Fel kept talking. She stopped short of describing the kiss. That probably wasn’t relevant.

  Drauca considered her words for a moment. Then she shook her head slightly. “The girl has lost faith.” Her eyes seemed to darken beneath the mask. “There is nothing worse . . . then being b-betrayed by one’s own . . . mother.”

  “What do you think of their plan?” Felix asked.

  “Foolish and . . . sh-short-sighted. They are defenseless. Not even . . . a company.”

  “Actually,” Fel said, “we are.”

  For the first time, she actually believed it.

  “You . . . are but two.”

  “There’s an archer in your atrium,” Babieca said, “and an artifex who’s building us an army of toys. That makes four.”

  Drauca looked at him closely. Recognition sparked within her eyes. “I . . . have seen you before. At the black basia. You were with . . . another.” She frowned, turning to Felix. “He was slight . . . his eyes danced. What was his name?”

  The house father said nothing. It was as if he couldn’t quite pronounce the word.

  “Roldan,” Babieca said, after a moment.

  “Yes. An auditor. Was he not . . . of your company?”

  “He passed beyond the wheel,” Felix said.

  Drauca looked first at Felix, then at Babieca. She nodded slowly. “The wheel must turn. Sometimes we are above . . . sometimes, below. It never stops. But one day . . . all of our sh-shadows may come back to us.”

  “Perhaps,” Babieca murmured.

  Unexpectedly, Drauca touched the trovador’s face. “Even y-yours,” she said.

  He reddened slightly but said nothing. Her hand lingered on his cheek. Then she withdrew it and turned back to Felix. “They want an audience with . . . E-Eumachia?”

  “That is their hope,” he replied. “Of course, it will be difficult to escape Latona’s gaze.”

  “Difficult . . . but not impossible.”

  “Can you do it?” Babieca asked. “I don’t understand how.”

  “Simple.” She smiled. “The girl may have lost f-faith in her mother . . . but she still trusts her aunt.”

  4

  INGRID LANDED IN A patch of blackberries. A few of the ripe ones burst, and the smell reminded her of summer. Instinctively, she put one of the berries in her mouth. Its silken hairs teased her tongue as she bit down. Sweet. She could almost forget the dull ache in her limbs and the pain behind her eyes. To live in a blackberry bush, under the stars. That would be her fairy tale of choice. Sleeping among the darkest of the hillside thickets, with the taste of summer in her mouth, like goblin wine.

  She could barely make out the shapes beside her. One of them swore. That was Carl. Next to him, Shelby was dusting herself off. There were thorns in her hair.

  “Rough transition,” she said. “Kind of like being spit out.”

  “Maybe we’re using the—thing—too much,” Ingrid replied. She was a bit groggy, as if she’d just woken up.

  “What thing?”

  “The—” Ingrid searched for the word. “You know what I mean.” Her brain felt like it was smothered in wet cotton. “Placey-place. With the smudge.”

  “Do you mean the house by the wall?” Carl asked.

  “That’s it.”

  She felt a hand on her shoulder. Not Shelby’s hand—Carl’s. Had he ever touched her before? It was so strange that she almost laughed. He was still naked, after all. They all looked as if they were in the middle of a postmodern porno. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw that he was frowning at her.

  “Everything okay in there?”

  “There’s no brain damage, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Sorry. Just checking.”

  She leaned against a tree. “Does anyone else feel incredibly hungover?”

  “Well—” Shelby grimaced. “My head is a bit wonky. Carl? What about—”

  He was throwing up behind a bush. Once that was over, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then turned to Shelby.

  “What was the question?”

  “How are you?”

  “Oh. Well—a bit better, now.” He examined the bush and made a face. “I guess you really can’t bring anything
from Anfractus. Not even dinner.”

  “Gross.”

  “I’m just stating facts.”

  “Could it be the house?” Shelby asked. “Felix did warn us not to use it too much, right? Maybe it’s messing with our equilibrium.”

  “I think we left too early,” Ingrid said. “The transition is supposed to occur with the rhythms of the sun. But we were only on the other side for a few hours. Our bodies were still adjusting. When we leave unexpectedly—it’s kind of like jumping out of a moving car.”

  “It feels worse this time. I’ve never seen Carl purge before.”

  “I put some leaves over it,” he said guiltily.

  Ingrid reached for her duffel bag, which was hidden in the tree. “Let’s just get dressed. I think better when I’m clothed.”

  “Really? I’m the opposite.” Carl pulled on his boxers. “If it were up to me, I’d only wear shoes. And—maybe some kind of fanny pack, to hold my cards.”

  “That image is going to stay with me,” Shelby muttered.

  “I like my body.”

  “Yeah. You like it too much. That’s the problem.”

  “Excuse me for having self-esteem.”

  “I think she’s stuck on the fanny pack,” Ingrid said. “I have to admit, that’s creeping me out, as well.”

  “Then where will I put my change?”

  “I can think of one place.”

  “Okay, even if I had the square footage—and I’m not saying that I do—”

  “Be quiet,” Ingrid whispered. “Both of you. Listen.”

  Something was moving, beyond the trees. Ingrid looked around. Several pairs of glowing eyes looked back at her. The ducks were listening, as well. They knew that something was wrong. Could ducks sense evil? Was that a thing?

  “What is it?” Carl asked softly.

  Ingrid put a finger to her lips. All she could hear was the wind. Then a plane moaned overhead. It was so loud, she nearly screamed. When the sound of the engines had receded, they all looked at each other. Shelby tried to stifle a laugh.

  “I really did hear something,” Ingrid said.

  “Yeah,” Carl replied. “It’s called a 747.”

  “There was something else. I swear it.”