“Look,” Babieca said. “At the corner table.”
A woman with red hair was studying a tablet. Her table was covered in springs, cogs, and tiny brass wheels. Her food—cabbage and salted pork—remained untouched. It didn’t look as if she’d changed her tunica, or slept, since they’d seen her at the Hippodrome.
Babieca started to make his way forward, but Morgan stopped him.
“Wait. What are you going to say to her?”
“Remember us? You gave us a crazy fibula that caught fire when our friend touched it. Care to explain why?”
“We’re in a caupona full of artifices. All she has to do is say the word, and they’ll be shoving our charred bodies into some oily undercroft.”
“You have a wild imagination.”
“This is their territory, Babieca. Furthermore, we have no idea what her place is within the gens. It might not be the best idea to annoy her.”
“We could terrify her instead. You’ve still got your hunting knife. Roldan could threaten to burn the place down—there must be a salamander here.”
“There is,” Roldan confirmed, “but she’s asleep on the grill. I doubt she’ll be much help. Lares hate to be woken up.”
Morgan put a hand on Babieca’s shoulder. “I’ll admit that you did a good job charming Domina Pendelia. Some people actually like you. In this case, however, I don’t think your sparkle is going to have the desired effect. Let me talk to her.”
“Your gens and hers aren’t exactly bosom friends. The sagittarii look down their noses at virtually everyone.”
“Don’t pretend to know anything about us.” Morgan looked at Roldan. “If this doesn’t go well, be prepared to create a diversion.”
“The salamander—”
“It doesn’t have to be a fiery diversion. It just has to be something.”
He wanted to say that it didn’t work like that; lares wouldn’t simply create a spectacle for you at a moment’s notice. They needed to be convinced. Her look told him that he shouldn’t argue further, though, and he simply nodded. At least she wasn’t asking him to light something up again. He hated feeling like a lamp.
Morgan approached the corner table. Babieca and Roldan stood discreetly behind her. Roldan tried to listen for any lares that might be hiding under tables or in shadows. The room was quiet enough to hear a cog drop, but aside from the snoring of the salamander, he couldn’t make out any of the usual murmurings. It was strange. Gnomoi loved metal, and the miniature fountains were creating enough humidity to attract undinae, yet the caupona was almost entirely free of lares. Perhaps the machinae repulsed them on some level.
“Salve,” Morgan said. “Do you remember us?”
The artifex didn’t look up. “You’re standing in my light.”
Morgan shifted to the left. “Could we have a moment of your time?”
“I’m generally paid for my time. Do you need something built? If so, I charge eight maravedies for a consultation.”
Babieca started to say something, but Morgan stepped on his foot. “Right. I’m sure you’ve very good at what you do. The truth is—”
“—that I’m very busy, and you’re interrupting my dinner. The rate for people who interrupt my dinner is twelve maravedies.”
“You’ve barely touched it,” Roldan observed.
At this, she looked up. “An auditor with a sense of humor. How odd. Don’t most of you go crazy from listening to invisible monsters?”
“You’re thinking of vigils. Auditores just tend to develop ringing in their ears.”
She looked at him more closely. “As I recall, you’re not actually a member of the Gens of Auditores. You’re a nemo.”
Morgan sat down. “I promise this won’t take long. We just have a few questions about the item you gave us.”
“I have no reason to tell you anything.”
“No. Of course you don’t.” Morgan was silent for a beat. Then, casually, she picked up a metal disc from the table. “What does this do? It looks important.”
“Don’t touch that.”
“Why not?”
“It’s delicate, and I need it.”
“What are you making?”
The artifex reached out to snatch the component. Morgan drew her hand back. The woman stared at her in disbelief.
“Give it back.”
“I don’t think I will.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re surrounded by my people. You don’t even have a bow. Did you forget it somewhere?”
“What does this piece do?” Morgan repeated. “It’s a simple question.”
She sighed. “It turns a mechanism.”
“What kind of mechanism?”
“A bloody dove’s beak, all right? It’s part of a ridiculous machina that the basilissa wants for her throne room. Water enters through small pipes, and the dove sings. Half of the builders in here are working on similar toys—machinae designed to impress idiots.”
“But you’d rather design something different.”
“Of course I would. But this is what they pay for. Cooing birds, hooting owls, cute little frogs that hop about on mechanical lily pads. When rich people watch them, it makes them feel like they’re living in the past, when machinae were real. But they’re not. They’re empty.”
“That fibula wasn’t.”
“Fortuna. Keep your voice down.”
“What—don’t your people know all about it? Or was that a commission you’d prefer not to speak of in public?”
The artifex stared at Morgan, saying nothing. Roldan saw something more than annoyance cross her face. She was actually scared. She put down the lens. Morgan gently replaced the disc on the table. The woman looked at it, then chuckled.
“It’s the smallest pieces that can be the most dangerous.”
“What was it?” Morgan asked. “What did we deliver to the basilissa?”
“I—don’t fully know. I didn’t make it.”
“Who did?”
She looked at the table. Roldan could feel her weighing something in her mind. He couldn’t tell if she was crafting a lie or working out a sequence of events. Most likely, it was a bit of both. Finally, she swallowed, then spoke:
“I found it—a long time ago. I don’t remember where. It never did anything. It just sat there, looking plain. I live with other apprentices. A few of them were curious about it, but mostly we keep to ourselves. There was nothing I could tell them. It was just a fibula. Then one day, I came back to my cell and found a note.”
Morgan leaned forward. “What kind of note?”
“It was in the hand of Narses, the high chamberlain. I guess the basilissa was interested. She’d heard about the fibula—I don’t know from where, but artifices like to gossip. She wanted it, but first, it needed to be appraised. I was supposed to find an auditor”—she looked up at Roldan—“but not from within the gens. That part was explicit. The transaction would be made at the Hippodrome, where Narses could watch.”
“He was watching,” Morgan said. “From his customary place. But why all of this evasion? Why couldn’t the spado just deliver it himself?”
“I know little of arx intrigues. It seemed best not to ask questions.”
Morgan gave her a level look. “A note appeared in your chamber, written by the high chamberlain, and you didn’t once think to ask: Why me?”
“That can be a fatal question in this city. Besides”—she managed to look slightly uncomfortable—“I needed the money. What was I supposed to do? It was a large sum, and all I had to do was hand over an ugly brooch. I don’t know why she wanted it. Maybe bees are in fashion now.”
Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “The basilissa could have any gem that she wished. Why would she send her most trusted advisor to buy your ‘useless’ fibula?”
The artifex stared at her pile of shining gears. “I thought—maybe—it had to do with me, not the bee. That it was because of my talent. I had the audacity to think that someone had noticed me. I was tired of making
water features, and then this happened. What would you have had me do—ask the high chamberlain about his business, in front of the entire Hippodrome? I did what I was told and used the money to buy more parts. That’s where my story ends.”
“It lit up,” Roldan said.
She looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“I showed it to a salamander. I’ve never seen a lar so interested in something made by human hands. She took my blood and gave me some of her fire. When it touched the fibula, the whole room filled with light.”
She blinked. “The whole room?”
“We all saw it. I felt it.”
“It’s still possible to infuse machinae with a bit of power,” she said. “Something to make them move on their own, to increase the life of their parts. An auditor would perceive it as a spark—nothing more. That’s what I figured—” She shook her head. “Our ancestors could forge machinae that came alive. The process required a soul—or something—I don’t really understand. But that art was lost.”
“What about the basilissa’s foxes?” Babieca asked. “Isn’t she supposed to have two mechanical foxes who follow her about, like ladies in waiting? They breathe, and speak, and sometimes cast judgment on her enemies.”
“I’ve never been to the Arx of Violets. I always assumed those machinae were just a story, like her movable throne.”
Babieca turned to Morgan. “Have you seen the foxes?”
“Of course not. If the basilissa truly had machinae that walked and talked, do you think she’d let them wander around the battlements?”
“The point,” Babieca continued, “is that some of them still exist. The clepsydra, the throne, maybe even the foxes. And this fibula. It didn’t just make a spark—it practically burned the house down. Aren’t you the tiniest bit curious about what it might do?”
“Of course I am,” the artifex whispered. “But I could lose my head just for having this conversation with you.”
“You must have examined it,” Morgan pressed, “before handing it over. You’re a builder. Weren’t you curious about how it was made?”
“I—” She stared at the table. “I only looked at it a few times. It seemed deceptively simple. But a tremendous amount of precision went into making it. And I think there was something inside. Perhaps a hidden mechanism.”
“That hidden mechanism is on its way to the Arx of Violets right now,” Morgan said. “It could be a weapon. It could be anything. All we know is that the high chamberlain wanted it appraised and delivered. Of course, everyone trusts a spado. Right?”
“What do you propose to do?” The artifex chuckled. “Knock on the basilissa’s front door and ask if she has a moment to talk about her jewelry?”
Morgan managed to look uncomfortable. “We haven’t quite smoothed out all the wrinkles in our plan.”
“You don’t have a bloody plan.”
“At least we’re not sitting in a caupona building water-powered birds,” Babieca said.
The artifex started to say something sharp in response, then rubbed her eyes. “I’m so tired,” she said, almost to herself. “Tired of making shit.”
“Help us, then.” Morgan touched her hand lightly. “Was there anything else in that note? A clue about who made the fibula, or what it might be for?”
“I don’t know who made it,” she snapped. “I received instructions about where and how to deliver it. That’s all.”
“Narses just left the note in your room?”
“I suppose. People are always coming and going. The caretaker has a set of keys to every cell. Someone could have slipped him something for the room key. Either way, it matters little. You don’t cross Narses. He could have you thrown in the carcer with a snap of his fingers.”
“Well—this is something. We know a bit more than we did earlier.” Morgan rose. “Thank you. We won’t take up any more of your time.”
“You never told us your name,” Babieca said.
“No. I didn’t.” She looked at Morgan. “Please don’t come back here. I can’t be involved in this.”
“You already are,” Morgan replied. “But I understand. We’ll leave you in peace.”
She picked up her lens and returned to studying one of the tablets. Roldan saw a slight tremor in her hand as she manipulated the glass. Then he heard a voice—it was the sleepy whisper of the salamander, rising like steam from the grill.
She knows more.
He started to say something in response, but then a faint snoring filled his ears. The salamander had drifted back to sleep. He followed Morgan and Babieca out of the tavern. The rain continued to blanket everything.
Babieca turned to him. “You had a look back there—a listening look. I’ve seen it before.”
“The salamander spoke to me.”
“I thought she was asleep.”
“She woke up for a second.”
“What did she say?” Morgan asked.
“‘She knows more.’”
“I didn’t need a fire lizard to tell me that. Let’s go.”
They still had some time to kill, so Babieca decided to play at the Seven Sages. It was busy when they got there. The original entertainment—a bit of mummery involving masks and dirty pantomimes—had evaporated at the last minute, and the crowd was restless. Babieca spoke briefly with the ale-wife, smiling and lightly touching her arm.
What’s it like, he wondered, to have a perpetual charm fountain? To get everything you want just by winking and knowing where to put your hands?
He played a few ballads, then a more somber piece, something Roldan hadn’t heard before. He was all focus as he played, his fingers gliding across the strings. He stared at something that only he could see. The notes seemed frozen with melancholy, but the barest trace of a smile played across his face the whole time. When he finished, there was an unexpectedly still moment, a beat of confusion, during which nobody moved or breathed. Roldan heard the hearth chewing through tinder. He saw smoke hanging in wreaths made of untouchable blue petals. Even the salamander had crawled from the oven to listen, cocking her wrinkled red ear toward the music. Finally, as if waking from a dream, the crowd began to cheer.
That was Morgan’s cue. She stood up and made her way around the common room, collecting money. Roldan knew that she hated dealing with soused and surly men, but the music had pacified them somewhat. They were always happier to part with coin when the collector was a pretty, dark-haired woman. If they got too fresh, she’d simply flash her hunting knife, reminding them that she knew how to gut large animals.
The sun was beginning to dip as they left the tavern. Roldan was nervous about visiting the basia. He wanted to see the meretrix again but didn’t know what he should say. Talking with lares was easier, because they always got to the point. Besides, nobody else could hear their side of the conversation. Talking with people was a game whose rules escaped him, full of false moves and pieces that leapt when he wasn’t looking.
“I liked that last song,” he said to Babieca, as they walked toward the Subura. “Was it one of your own compositions?”
He chuckled. “My compositions are shit. That was ‘The Amber Tunica.’ It’s a bit obscure, and there’s a lot of complex string work, so I was worried that I’d ruin it.”
“You didn’t. Everyone loved it.”
He shrugged. “I made some mistakes. I always do.”
“Your compositions aren’t shit.”
“How would you know? I’ve never played them in public.”
“I just know.”
The Subura was noisy and full. Vendors sold ale and sausages from popinae whose bars crowded the street. The rough music of fucking sounded from open casements, while streams of people made their way down blind alleys in search of indefinable pleasures. After nightfall, the streets became a dangerous labyrinth, but now they rang out with laughter, obscenities, and the clamor of people in motion. “Fur!” The cry was distinct. “Fur in the water!” Moments later, a boy in rags burst from the entranc
e to the nearest balneum, running as fast as he could. Two wet and naked men pursued him, cursing as the cobblestones bit their tender feet. Nobody reacted to the spectacle. Passing by the open door of the balneum, Roldan heard water, singing, and the faint, open-handed slaps of the masseuse working over some tense body.
The road sloped as they neared the basiourm district, which some called the wolf’s den. Lupa, or she-wolf, was slang for a female prostitute who belonged to no gens, working instead from a windowless cell barely large enough to hold a stone cot. Lupo, the name for men who worked in the same manner, had a sense more ironic than predatory: a wolf who rolled over, once a few base coins had been exchanged. Meretrices had a certain measure of status, but lupae were seen as a class of fur, thieving through sex rather than skullduggery. A well-known phrase had emerged to describe their unsanctioned business. Fucks unmasked.
The largest basia was fronted in black marble. The main building was two stories tall, and connected to nearby tenements via a series of covered walkways. All in all, it must have encompassed at least four separate structures. Women and men lounged in various states of undress on patios, drinking, fanning themselves, occasionally waving at passersby. Although the marble-fronted building was pristine, its satellite structures were covered with graffiti. Here I focked Felicia. Viktor—fok well, fare well. Pharsia eats women’s middles.
They approached the door to the basia. A miles was leaning against the wall, looking extremely bored. Light from the setting sun flashed against her single bronze greave. Roldan glanced at the chipped hilt of her sword and was struck by recognition. She was the victor from the Hippodrome, the one who’d bested her opponent without hardly trying. Now that she wasn’t wearing a helm, he saw that she had close-cropped hair and gray eyes.
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