“What’s he doing here?”
A girl in a violet dress was standing at the foot of the stairs. Her soft shoes had holes in them, and her hair was in disarray. Only half of it was swept up in glittering pins, while the other half sagged, like a deflated cake. She must have been about ten years old, though her expression had a shrewdness that he wouldn’t have associated with a child. She had the eyes of a royal daughter, expectant, freighted with a thin sadness. It wasn’t ultimately the girl that drew his attention, though. It was the two mechanical foxes that crouched on either side of her.
He took a step forward. The foxes whirred as they regarded him, their black eyes swiveling in delicate brass cases. One was slightly smaller than the other. He heard a faint growl and realized that it was the salamander. It approached them warily. The foxes didn’t move. It was clear that they could see the lizard, but they weren’t about to offer a salutation.
“Quickly,” Felix said, “come over here, before she catches sight of you.”
The girl joined them in the shadows. “What are you doing here? And who is—” She frowned, looking at him. “Wait. I think I know you.”
“Not exactly,” Felix replied. “It’s hard to explain. You shouldn’t be here, Eumachia. It’s not safe.” He turned to the larger fox. “Propertius, can you take her somewhere less exposed? I have a key to one of the hidden cells.”
“We merely advise,” the fox answered. His voice was low and had an odd, mechanical purr to it. “We can’t drag her down the stairs.”
Felix sighed. “This is about to get ugly.”
“Are they alive?” He couldn’t stop looking at the foxes. “Or is it some trick?”
“You have a short memory,” the smaller fox said. “When last we met, you knew the measure of us. Even after you’d just—”
Felix raised his hand to cut her off. “I don’t mean to be rude, Sulpicia, but now isn’t the best time to revisit that night. The shadow that you remember is no more.”
“I can see that.” She inclined her head. “My condolences.”
Eumachia stared at him again. “Oh. The auditor’s dead.”
“That’s what they tell me,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” she added. “I didn’t mind him.” Before he could respond, she returned her attention to Felix. “I don’t understand, though. Why aren’t you with the others? Wasn’t that why I gave you the note?”
He frowned. “What note?”
Felix didn’t answer. Instead, he approached the edge. Something was happening. The foxes drew closer, silencing their gears. Eumachia followed. Below, he saw a round figure in a green tunic approach the raised throne. It was Mardian. He held something bulky, wrapped in embroidered silk. It was long enough to be a sword. He heard a thrum as the chair lowered itself on the metal cylinder, until she was at ground level. Then the basilissa rose, and all eyes were on her as she received the gift. Mardian didn’t look up. He bowed slightly, and stepped back.
We’re well positioned, Felix had said.
But what was the note? Why did the girl seem confused?
Something wasn’t right. It occurred to him that he couldn’t see the entirety of Felix’s plan. Only the mask saw everything, while the others remained in the dark. Even the foxes might have been uncertain, though their flawless eyes registered no emotion.
He couldn’t say why he chose to look away from the scene below. Everyone was waiting for her to unwrap the silk. But for some reason, he stared across the room, at the mirror image of the clerestory where they were hiding. There was another staircase, joined to another landing, with its own ruined fountains and pile of bones. He could barely make out four figures, leaning over their own shadow edge. Watching.
Most of them, anyhow.
Their gaze was fixed on the strange tableau: monsters on one side, armed guards on the other, and in the middle, a woman holding something in her hands that might have been a weapon, or a body, some secret that had lain in an undercroft for centuries. A riddle that someone had borne to the woods, rain-soaked, never whole to begin with.
He felt a shock of recognition move through him. This was his company. Or it had been, in some dark before. There was a sagittarius in a rust-colored cloak, leaning against her bow. She had dark, tangled hair, and her eyes were fixed on the throne. Beside her, a miles stood, one hand resting on her sword. The lamplight caught her lone greave, making it shine like quicksilver. She was studying the guards. Next to her, an artifex was fiddling with something—he couldn’t be sure, but it looked almost like a frog. Her hair was tied back, and she seemed entirely distracted by the device in her hand. She had no clue that across the gap of smoke and wavering light, two mechanical foxes were examining her workmanship.
But the fourth member of the company was looking at him. A trovador in a torn cloak, embroidered with what might have been dancing tigers. He held a lute, ridiculously, as if it were the closest thing he could find to a sword. They saw each other, he on one island, the trovador on another, fen-fast, worn down by pitiless tides. The smoke was all that joined them, parting momentarily so that they could gaze across these margins, which neither had chosen. The singer looked as if he might say something.
Then the basilissa raised her voice.
“This treasure was separated from its rightful home. It brings me great satisfaction to return it. Let this exchange mark a new age of cooperation for our people.”
She held a horn, which looked as if it had been carved from a mammoth’s tusk. It was gilded with silver bands, and carved figures moved along its surface, engaged in some secret colloquy whose details remained elusive. If he squinted, the forms might have been lares, dancing to the edge of the horn’s gilded tip. Mardian was staring at it with undisguised hunger.
The silenus in the gold chain approached. For the first time, he saw streaks of green in the creature’s fur and gemstones in his long hair. The basilissa displayed the horn but didn’t quite give it up. She was still in control.
“We share this world with wonders,” she said. “Spirits that emerged from the void, long before we built our cities. They are Fortuna’s children—the lares.” She wore a wry smile. “Of course, I have never seen them. I was never touched by that dark gift. But I am told that we all have our chaos. The air that we breathe is not ours alone. It once belonged to those exiled spirits of the air: the caela.”
The silenoi looked uneasy when she spoke the word, if monsters could be said to look uneasy. All except for the one with the gold chain. His eyes never left the ivory horn. Even the singer was watching it, now. The night seemed to pivot upon it, a salvaged star from another world, slowly burning the edges of their own.
Latona raised the horn. “I am the daughter of imperium. Some say that rule has fallen, that our cities stand ruined, like the work of giants. But imperium cannot die. It has only slept, waiting for the return of its heralds.”
“She means to do it,” Felix whispered. “We must act now.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Look around. There are no auditores, no oculi. The gens aren’t here. This meeting was never sanctioned. It’s just us, and her. That means you have a chance.”
He looked across the throne room. “Why aren’t we with them?”
Before Felix could answer, he heard a murmuring below. Latona was passing the horn to the silenus. The guards held themselves absolutely still. Mardian stood behind the throne. Suddenly, he realized that Pendelia should have been there. Nothing was right. The tapestry was fraying at the edges, and he didn’t know where to leap.
The lares had begun to creep into the chamber. Salamanders were drawn to the lamps, while undinae dipped their webbed hands in the finger bowls. Gnomoi crawled along the ground, leaving claw marks on the flagstones. All of them were staring at the horn. They hissed in unison, and the sound made him feel as if the world were ending. It cleaved eve
ry part of him, a vibration that threatened to shake the walls of the arx. But nobody else seemed to hear it.
Shadows moved beyond the high, tempered windows. No. Not shadows. Clouds. A storm that had quite suddenly taken notice.
“When the horn sounds,” Latona said, “all our ghosts are mended. The lares of the air will return, and with their power, we shall heal imperium. A new age begins tonight.”
“What do I do?” He stared at Felix. “Tell me what to do!”
But even as he said the words, he felt everything slow to a crawl. Thunder shook the glass. Lightning flashed them all into startling relief, and for a single moment, he saw the pattern. From edge to edge, he saw it, and knew what came next.
The silenus put the horn to his lips and blew a single note.
The glass broke, showering the throne room in colored shards. They skittered in drifts across the marble floor. The smoke poured in, blacking out the lanterns, spreading across the chamber until everything was in shadow.
He saw the dragon open its jaws. His death was beneath its tongue. He saw the miles raise something into the air, an impossible glitter. It was a die.
He reached out and tore the die from Felix’s neck.
Then he was shouting.
Then he was flying.
4
A ROLL ON A stolen die.
He stood on the edge of the stone landing, arms out for balance. The chaos revolved below him, little fireworks that were people with weapons, a woman in pearls, a rain of glass fragments swept up in dark clouds. Bows aimed at shadows, blades grim under lamplight, whispering out of bronze scabbards. Every pommel a head of Fortuna, chipped or worn smooth by hands, greening now with age. The heads moved in a bizarre puppet show. He saw her down there, watching, even as she spoke to him from above:
A double roll, no less. When was the last time such a thing happened? I can’t remember, which is strange, because I remember everything.
One of his sandals fell, striking the floor. Boom! It was a thunderclap, landing on the black-and-white mosaic. Latona looked up, her pearls a net of fire beneath the lamps. At first, she couldn’t quite see him. But then she was able to make him out, a stick of a thing with one bare foot, waving his arms. Her eyes narrowed, and he could feel her opening a small, inlaid box that contained extraordinary deaths. He expected her to shout, but she didn’t. She was waiting to see if he would fall.
Impudence is what I call it. A nemo’s roll. What could be more dangerous? And now three are involved. Oculus, meretrix, and miles. Let the smoke sort it out. Let the twilight rider take them all. Why not?
Time moved slowly, trapped in amber. Latona was forever looking up at him. Felix was frozen in his surprise. Where the black die had hung, there was only his bare throat. Eumachia was a child’s statue in purple slippers. In the mirror clerestory, his old company was reflected, unable to move. The singer looked sad. His fingers hovered over the lute strings. The smoke shimmered below, a curtain of black scales. He could feel himself begin to slip, but the descent would last forever. They were all caught in Fortuna’s blink. He knew, without being able to turn, that the eyes of the lion-head fountain were upon him. The stone mouth twisted into a smile as the rats looked up from their nest of bones, and the foxes watched the rats in turn.
What do you really want? In the settling dark, in the moment just before sleep, when the words fall—what is it? Do you even know? All I see is a child with a missing sandal.
Now he was leaning, about to fall. And his body would make no sound. It would surrender to the mosaic, until he was just another tessera. How could he be more than a tile in this story? By what right did he ask for something different? The stone was slippery. It bit into his left foot, a salamander’s kiss. Was the creature still behind him? There was no way to look. The others were coiled in golden hoards. The lares would tear him apart. No reasoning with something older than language. Smoke would devour what was left.
They’re ghosts, you know. It’s their world too, and you’ve got to share.
“Share what?” he asked. But he already knew the answer. The mosaic waited. It was growing larger in anticipation. Smoke strained against the roof. The die in his hand was sucking in all of the light. It was a piece of the night gens. Though it didn’t belong to him, it still knew him, responding to his touch with frost. On the other side, the second die radiated heat. They were stars meeting for the first time, circling each other warily.
Are you ready?
“I don’t know!” He clutched the die with its freezing white pips. “What if this isn’t the answer? What if I’m wrong?”
There was no response.
He couldn’t tell the difference between flying and falling. The stone lion was silent. He knew nothing. Then Fortuna blinked. The smoke rushed up. The lute sounded a note that made the whole arx tremble.
He leaned into the song. He may have only been a tile, but he would not shatter. He was volcanic glass, euphony, stardust. Life was a swallow’s flight through a well-lit hall, surrounded on all sides by measureless dark. But he was more than a tessera. They all were. They contained mosaics, defiant in their color. Not one story. A dazzling floor of possibilities, where pale marble touched aquamarine. Fate moved as it must, but you could still leap. And your doom would lift you on wings of cinder and smoke.
The mosaic turned, black on white on black, his tumulus. He closed his eyes. But the impact never came. The smoke was holding him, curiously, almost carefully. Hundreds of eyes watched him from within the cloud of ash. Eyes and wings and tongues, moving roughly down his body, as a lioness might wash her cub into shape. He hung in the dark, unable to move or speak, while bright eyes took the measure of him. Beyond that hungry curtain, he could make out the outlines of the throne room, pinpoints of lamplight, shadows, all gauzy and indistinct. It was getting harder to breathe. His eyes watered, and he thought he might sneeze. It seemed rude to sneeze in front of all those eyes. The lares were currently holding him over empty space, and any sudden movement might cause them to let go.
The eyes flickered, staring first at him, then at each other. Some of them watched the ivory horn, which the chief of the silenoi was holding. The silenus was trying to gather his brethren, most of whom were scattered across the room, snarling at miles who had drawn their green-headed blades. Others advanced upon the ring of sagittarii, who struggled to keep everyone in sight of their bows. The horn was the clearest thing in the room, beyond the veil of smoke. It shone like a quartz filament. The chieftain almost seemed to have forgotten what he was holding. He was too busy growling commands across the wide mosaic.
He strained to see the landing, where the other company waited. They were gone. He could just make out four shapes, running down the stairs.
This was the gift of the stolen roll. This blink of a moment, riding on wings of smoke. The chance would never come again.
He returned the gaze of the caela. He looked into the ruby window of eyes, all of which were attempting to translate his position. What was this fly, dangling before them? Should they hold on, or let go?
What do you really want?
Fortuna’s question applied to them both, oculus and ancient cloud. He still wasn’t sure that he could answer for himself, but he knew what they wanted. It was in their grasp, and they only hesitated because of what he was. A seer with one sandal, twirling in the wind. A nemo whose greatest trick had been stealing a wolf’s die.
He pointed to the horn. “Take me to it,” he said, “and you’ll have what you want. More than this city of alleys. More than you’ve dreamed of, locked in cells of smoke for a thousand years. It’s your world too. And I’ll give it to you. I swear it.”
The eyes regarded him for a long moment. They blinked in unison. He heard thunder in his ears, but he couldn’t tell if it was a storm or his own heart struggling to beat.
Then he was racing downward. The smoke no l
onger held him in its core. He was riding the black dragon, its catastrophic wings unfurling around him, beating the air. The lamps blew out. All was dark, save for the moss-colored eyes of the silenoi, and the gleaming horn.
The caela shrieked, and the hammer of their voice broke Latona’s chair. It burst into sparks and deadly metal snowflakes that spun across the room. He realized that it was also his scream, but the sound was pierced with joy. He raised both of his arms, forgetting to hold on to the insubstantial dragon as it swooped down, laughing as the throne burst asunder.
The princeps of the silenoi looked up. Who knows what he must have thought as he saw a transparent dragon rushing toward him, with a pale, whooping creature on its back? They skimmed close to the black-and-white floor. The tesserae rushed past, and he reached out, so far that he nearly fell. The horn was a flash of moonlight that didn’t belong. It froze the air, just as the die had, after Fortuna breathed on it. For a moment, they were both touching ivory. His hand brushed the silenus, and the dark hair—which seemed coarse from a distance—was surprisingly soft. He had only a second to marvel at this.
Then the horn was in his grasp, and he pulled with all of his strength. He couldn’t say what made the creature let go. Simple astonishment, perhaps. Those green eyes fixed on him, and he was terrified. But there was no time to hesitate. The horn froze his fingers as he lifted it, and the wings carried him away. He couldn’t believe his luck. The patterns in the ivory had been carved by some unearthly stylus. They formed the very dragon that he rode upon, breaking free of a dawn-forged chain. Fortuna watched the wings as they unfurled, her expression impossible to read.
Bright pain raked across his arm. He cried out and saw that the chief of the silenoi was directly below him, claws outstretched. He was screaming something, most likely an imprecation, but the dark vowels were meaningless. He reached for his spear, just as the pillar of smoke leapt upward and away. The spear was a line of barbed beauty. Then it was receding.
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