Pile of Bones

by Bailey Cunningham

  Morgan cleared her throat. The miles looked up. She didn’t smile, but something like bare amusement played across her face. Morgan stared at her for a beat. She didn’t say anything. It was as if she’d lost the ability to form words. Babieca stepped in front of her.

  “Salve,” he said. “We were hoping to visit this fine establishment.”

  She looked him up and down. “You’re a nemo.”

  His smile wavered for a second. “Yes. We have coin to spend, though.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  He handed her the pouch full of tavern booty. She opened it, counted the coins, then handed it back to him.

  “This isn’t enough to purchase a look from the worst meretrix in the basia. Get out of here. Come back once you’ve made something of yourselves.”

  “Ah—” Morgan had finally found her voice. “Domina Pendelia sent us. She mentioned that, as a personal favor to her, you might be able to let us in. We have an important matter to discuss with the mother and father of this house.”

  “Pendelia? What’s that crafty bitch up to?”

  “She said that you used to work for her—and that you still owe her something.”

  “I don’t owe that woman a fur’s turd.”

  “She seems to think differently.”

  The miles gave her a long look. Then she sighed. “I suppose she did help me when no one else would. She said that if I let you pass, we’re square?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well—the house mother isn’t here. She’s at the arx, drinking nectar with the fucking basilissa herself. I can take you to speak with the father, although I can’t promise that he’ll give you more than a minute. The house is practically full tonight, and with Drauca gone, he’s got twice the amount of work to do.”

  “We won’t take long.”

  She shrugged. “All right. Come with me.”

  The miles led them through a narrow passage, which opened into a bright atrium with vaulted ceilings. The black marble floor was decorated in mosaics, some tasteful, others that made Roldan blush. Lush murals decorated the walls, depicting various pairs and threesomes engaged in passionate play. Musicians sat on recessed benches, playing citharae and cymbals, while a woman in a violet tunica sang something lovely and indecipherable. The syllables were liquid and reminded him of low, languorous purring. Her golden armbands clinked as she swayed in place, and the high ceilings gave her voice a wild echo.

  They followed the miles down another chamber, which led to a smaller, more densely packed room. He saw two men whose tunicae were halfway undone, kissing against a pillar. One had a smooth chest, white and slightly flushed, while the other’s body was dark-skinned and dusted with hair. Various others reclined on couches or sat on stone benches, drinking, touching, murmuring things to each other. A large woman was playing a drum, and beads of sweat gleamed on her cheeks as she pounded out the sinuous rhythm. People danced around her, barefoot and shining, wreaths in their hair and mead on their lips. The cadence thrummed across the ground, teasing Roldan’s feet until he wanted to join in the dance. He was overdressed, though, and half-afraid of knocking someone over with his clumsy gyrations.

  The miles pointed to an opening in the southern wall. “The father’s office is through there. I can’t promise he’ll be in, though. He might be somewhere else entirely.”

  “That’s fine,” Morgan replied. “We don’t mind waiting.”

  “I’ll stay here,” Babieca said, eyeing the drummer. “I think I can do some serious investigating in this room. You and Roldan go on ahead.”

  “You’re unbelievable.”

  “I’ll let you know if anything turns up,” he said with a grin.

  Roldan and Morgan passed through the entrance. They walked down a hallway lit by multicolored lamps. Roldan could still hear the drum, and more faintly, moaning. He wondered where the actual cells were. They were probably grand, with carved wooden beds and braziers to keep the clients warm. He saw a few glittering coins, discarded in the corner. They were tokens stamped with lurid images, rendering words unnecessary. Language didn’t matter when your coins possessed an extensive vocabulary.

  The hallway terminated in a door, which was slightly ajar. Cautiously, Morgan pushed it open, revealing a modest room with a stone desk in one corner and a small tabularium in the other. Unable to stop himself, Roldan walked over to examine the books and scrolls. They were various: poetry, legal texts, a few scientific treatises, and heavy tomes that were probably meant for recording accounts. A mural on the far wall depicted a group of naked undinae, locked in suggestive embraces beneath aquamarine waves.

  “So this is the office of a house father,” Morgan said. “Not nearly as tacky as I thought it would be. I was expecting phalloi everywhere, perhaps a chandelier of crystal nipples.”

  “We used to have one of those,” a voice said from the doorway, “until it decapitated one of our clients. Then we had to settle for less dangerous lighting.”

  He stood in the entrance, wearing a black tunica and a silver mask. The garment was sleeveless, and Roldan tried not to stare at his arms. He looked down instead, at the house father’s bare legs, which proved to be equally distracting. Finally, he settled for staring at an invisible point directly above the man’s shoulder, which seemed safe, if a bit odd.

  “I’m Felix,” he said, walking over to the desk. “The father of this house.”

  “We know who you are.” The words came out before Roldan could stop them.

  Felix smiled. Then he sat down and poured himself a cup of wine. “Of course. Everyone knows who I am.”

  Morgan gave him an expectant look. Although she normally would have taken charge, she was clearly leaving this up to him. Roldan wasn’t sure if the trust was well placed. Carefully, he withdrew the knife and placed it on the desk.

  “I believe this is yours.”

  Felix looked at the knife. In the lamplight, Roldan could see that a faint scar crossed his eyebrow, like silver thread, exposing the flesh beneath. The meretrix pursed his lips, as if considering something. His brown eyes flicked from the knife back to Roldan.

  “You’re mistaken,” he said. “This isn’t mine.”

  Roldan frowned. “You left it.”

  “No. The knife isn’t mine. It’s yours.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Felix picked up the knife. “It’s beautiful. That’s what makes it so deadly. People see it and think it’s merely decorative. But the hilt is perfectly weighted, and the blade is tempered steel, folded dozens of times by a master smith. With just a few pounds of pressure, you could shear off a finger.”

  “I doubt it.” His voice trembled slightly. “I’m awful at shearing, cutting, anything related to disarticulation. I’m a listener, not a fighter.”

  “Everyone has to fight eventually. Here. Give me your hand.”

  Roldan extended his hand, willing it not to shake. Felix touched his palm lightly. The tips of his fingers were cool.

  “Soft,” he said. “But soft doesn’t necessarily mean weak.”

  He placed the knife in Roldan’s palm. Gently, he curled his fingers around Roldan’s own until they were both holding the knife. He smiled.

  “See? It was practically made for you.”

  “But—it’s yours.”

  “No. I’ve never seen this blade in my life.”

  “Oh? What about us? Not even a hint of recognition?”

  He looked at Roldan, still smiling. Then he took his hand away. Roldan nearly dropped the knife—which was heavier than he’d expected—but managed to hold on to it.

  “Perhaps a hint,” Felix said. “I see a lot of people in my line of work, though. You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t remember every face.”

  “This is a fun game and all,” Morgan replied, “but we didn’t just come here so that you could give him a knife. We were hoping you had some answers.”

  “In this house, an answer is like a kiss. Both have their price.”
/>   “We need to know more about the fibula,” Roldan said.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m sorry if your memory fails you,” Morgan interjected, “but have you considered the possibility that this thing could be dangerous? Brooches don’t normally catch fire when an auditor touches them.”

  “Sounds like your bauble put on quite a show.”

  Morgan approached the desk. “This isn’t a game. There’s something very odd about that thing. It may have some kind of hidden mechanism.”

  “Are you an expert in machinae? A rare skill for a sagittarius.”

  “You saw how it lit up,” Roldan said. “Maybe you can’t admit it, but I remember the look in your eyes. Nobody could forget something like that.”

  Felix looked slightly uncomfortable. “I’m not sure what your intentions are, but let me give you some advice. Don’t meddle in the affairs of the basilissa.”

  “Or we’ll end up a foot shorter. Right, we’ve heard that before.” Morgan put both her hands on the desk and leaned forward. “Only I don’t quite believe it. I may not know much about the woman who controls Anfractus, but I do know that she isn’t her mother. She’s not going to feed us to lions for being insolent.”

  “You’re right about one thing—you don’t know much about her.”

  “I don’t know much about you, either, but I can still tell that you’re spinning lies like spider-silk right now. And someone of your status would only do that if he were afraid of something. Or someone.”

  He stared at her coldly but said nothing.

  “Felix,” Roldan said. “If the fibula truly is dangerous, we need to warn her.”

  “Why would the basilissa order something that might harm her?”

  “She didn’t order it. Narses did.”

  His eyes widened.

  “Didn’t know that, did you?” Morgan stepped back. “It looks like we aren’t the only ones in the dark.”

  “You’re certain that the chamberlain is involved?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “Absolutely not. But trust us—he hired the artifex to deliver it. He arranged for us to meet in the Hippodrome. His hands are all over this.”

  Felix stared at the desk for a moment, lost in thought. Then he folded his hands and looked at them. His expression was, if anything, wary.

  “All I know,” he said, “is that it has something to do with a celebration that she’s having, two nights from now. She has an important guest coming, and everyone who craves her favor will be there. I don’t fully understand how this item relates to the festival, but she told me to ensure that it was safely delivered.”

  “Did you mention to her that it was glowing like an unholy candle?” Morgan asked. “That seems like something she’d be interested in knowing.”

  “I didn’t give it to her directly.” He looked slightly cross. “We were supposed to meet, but then it turned out that she was indisposed. A young spado met with me instead, and I gave him the item in question.”

  “I wouldn’t call Narses young.”

  “It wasn’t him. It was one of his servants—a youth. I didn’t catch his name.”

  Morgan gave him an incredulous look. “You handed it over to some freshly gelded boy, without any questions?”

  “He bore the seal of Narses. And he seemed very efficient.” A note of defensiveness crept into his voice. “I had to return to this house, to ensure that all was in order. The basilissa wasn’t going to see me, and I didn’t have time to interrogate an unknown spado.”

  “Impressive. You clearly have a mind for espionage.”

  “Careful, sagittarius.”

  “This is all going in a crazy direction,” Roldan said. “Let’s pause for a moment and think about how we might proceed.”

  “Can you get us into the banquet?” Morgan asked.

  Felix laughed. “Don’t be absurd. Even the greenest spado—a freshly gelded boy, as you so poetically put it—would recognize that you didn’t belong there.”

  “Not if we were dressed for the part.”

  Roldan looked at her in surprise. “I thought you didn’t really want to pursue this. Babieca and I don’t have much to lose, but the arx is where you work.”

  “I think I’m done with the battlements. This seems far more satisfying. If Felix could just procure us some fancy tunicae—”

  “I’m not about to dress you so that you can infiltrate the basilissa’s banquet. Even with the right clothes and the proper ciphers, you’d never get close to her. And what would your presence even accomplish?”

  “Nobody else is prepared for the possibility of chaos or carnage,” Morgan replied. “Except for maybe Narses. If something terrible does happen, we’d be the only ones there with a chance of stopping it.”

  “You’re not even a company.”

  “Yes we are,” Roldan said. “We may not look it—we may be only three—but this is our quest. This is our time. And you know it. Why give me the knife, otherwise?”

  Felix looked at him thoughtfully. He was about to say something when Babieca stumbled through the doorway, half-naked, mead dripping from his hair. The drummer appeared behind him, one of her breasts exposed, along with a man wearing nothing but a torque.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Babieca said. “The sun’s going down, and someone puked on my tunica. We’d better go.”

  PART TWO

  SAGITTARIUS

  1

  SHELBY WOKE UP DAMP AND ANGRY. SHE’D sweated through the comforter again. It was the old dream, the one where her mother pushed her out the window. You have to be more independent, she said, before shoving her into empty space. It took forever to fall. Like Alice, she passed all sorts of people in slow motion. Andrew sat on a cloud, reading intently. He still noticed her out of the corner of his eye, though, and waved as she fell. Carl had tied himself to a flock of birds and was heading west. He gave her a thumbs-up, then returned his attention to the foldout map he’d been studying. Finally, she saw Professor Laclos, addressing a cirrus cloud. You’re spread too thin, he was saying. You need to consolidate. Did you do the reading?

  She checked her pockets, looking for anything that might break her fall. But she only had a pack of Starburst, a rusted arrow, and her ATM card. As she was pondering what to do with these things, the ground rushed up. She laughed. Then she screamed. Then she opened her eyes. It was hard to move—she’d rolled herself up in the comforter, like a piece of sushi. For a moment, all she could do was lie there, breathing hard.

  The phone rang. She managed to free one arm.

  “Hello?”

  “Morning.” It was Andrew. “Were you falling again?”

  “What else is new?”

  “There’s a coffee waiting for you. I said your name was Carlotta, because I thought it sounded empowering, so the barista wrote it on your cup.”

  “I can’t believe you’ve already left the house.”

  “It’s nine forty-five. I’m already downstairs.”

  Shelby looked at the clock. “Motherfuckit. My alarm failed.”

  “Did you set it?”

  She peered at the clock’s innocent display. There was no little bell icon. The alarm switch was in the off position.

  “Why do you ask questions that you already know the answer to?”

  “We’ve all done it. I once slept all day because I set my alarm to nine P.M.”

  “That sounds amazing.”

  “It was.”

  Shelby got out of bed slowly, as if pulling herself from quicksand. The comforter was still partially wrapped around her feet. Shaking it off, she looked in the hamper.

  “Oh no.”

  “What?”

  “These sweaters are bullshit.”

  “It’s too hot for a sweater.”

  “You know it’s my instinct to layer.” She dug to the bottom. “What would you think about a black sweater over my Earl of Rochester shirt?”

&
nbsp; “Do you mean the sweater with the safety pin—”

  “That’s in the back. You can barely see it.”

  “Well, the shirt is solid. Will you be wearing pants?”

  “No. I’ll be naked from the waist down.”

  “That should increase attendance in your tutorial.”

  She pulled on a pair of jeans. There was an ink stain on the knee, but she decided not to mention this. “I think I should wear the boots.”

  “They give you blisters.”

  “But the pain makes me stand up straight. That’s good for something, right?”

  “Just wear comfortable shoes.”

  “Sorry. You cut out there for a second, or maybe you were talking crazy and I didn’t understand you. I’ll be right back—I have to put on Band-Aids.”

  She eventually made it downstairs, still shoving papers into her bag. Andrew gave her the coffee, which she took with her free hand.

  “Remember when you were drinking tea?”

  “Nobody likes a smartass.”

  “I sincerely hope that isn’t true.”

  The first time they’d spoken to each other was at a colloquium series called Liminal Encounters, which had attracted visiting speakers from several major schools. Shelby and Andrew had come for the food, along with a clutch of graduate students from various disciplines. They lingered on the edges of the room, waiting for the crowd to part so they could strike the buffet table. She’d seen Andrew before but had never talked to him. Unlike the other members of her cohort, he didn’t cleave to a particular group. In fact, she’d only ever seen him alone, grading papers, reading, or frowning at a computer screen. Once, while walking past the shared TA office, she thought she heard him talking to someone. But when she looked in, he was alone, staring out the window.

  They both reached the buffet at the same moment. He looked at the warming tray full of Swedish meatballs, then at her.

  “Four left,” he said. “Want to split them?”

  “That’s okay. You can have them.”

  “I only want two. Four will make me sluggish, and I have to get some writing done later tonight.” He studied the buffet. “If we take four meatballs, two mini quiches, a Nanaimo bar, and a handful of carrot sticks, we’ll basically have dinner for two.”