Pile of Bones

by Bailey Cunningham

  “I’m not an automaton, you know,” Babieca replied. “My fingers are still raw from the last time I played.”

  “Trovadores are supposed to bleed for their art.”

  She walked away before he could respond. He’d play well—not because he wanted them to succeed, but because he was in love with music. His fingers had no choice. And if the crowd was too drunk to care, Roldan would persuade a salamander to make the lamps dance. That always loosened a bit of coin. She supposed that most people thought the lares were a kind of miracle, the only magic left. They made Morgan uneasy. She didn’t like the hold that they had over Roldan, or the fact that they always did what they wanted. As queer little gods, they were powerful, but not to be trusted. She supposed that she’d be difficult as well if people tore down her lararium to reuse the pink marble, leaving her with nothing more than a scattering of crumb-dusted roadside shrines.

  She walked along the edge of the market, which was no less crowded than the center. The tang of sulfur hit her nose, rising from the impluvium of the fullonica. She heard the clothes being beaten inside. There was a line of people waiting to drop off their laundry at the window. Underneath the sulfur, she smelled the urine that was used to fix colors. Morgan loved the idea that tunicae belonging to rich citizens were soaked in piss. Color required sacrifice. Hundreds of sea snails had perished for the red fringe on her gens-issued cloak. Thousands of madder berries were plucked for the cheaper scarlets, and a certain unoffending insect, when pulverized, yielded up the indigo currently in fashion.

  As Morgan crossed the street, the smell changed to baking bread. She closed her eyes for a moment, standing before the pistrinum where she used to work. That was when she’d first arrived in the city and couldn’t find a wage anywhere else. Now the rumble of the grinding stones made her feel oddly reassured. She’d enjoyed pouring grain into the neck of the hollow stone, although the smell of the mules that turned the mill was somewhat less appealing. Still, furs lingered nearby, hoping to steal a few rings of freshly baked bread. Her stomach did a flip, but she didn’t want to brave the line. There was a free ration waiting for her at the arx—not fresh by a long shot, but she couldn’t argue with the price.

  She needed a bath. Her tunica smelled fine, but the heat was making her sweat. It would be unseemly to visit the tower without bathing first. Fortuna didn’t mind, but the sagittarii would wrinkle their noses and avoid her. Morgan headed to the Stabian baths, which were cheaper and less appointed than those in Vici Arces. You could still purchase food, receive a bracing massage, or visit the love cells in the next building. The entrance, floored in sea-green tesserae, offered a picture of sandals with the message Bathing is a virtue.

  Morgan paid the attendant, then headed to the apodyterium to change. Men and women bathed during separate periods, which meant that there was a single room for changing. She undressed and placed her clothes in a stone cubicle, next to a picture of a leaping fish. Some women laughed at the dirty pictures on the opposite wall. Laughter deflected jealousy, and it was hard not to snicker at the painted man riding a double-ended dildo. Morgan glanced again at the fish, which would aid her in recalling where she’d left her clothes. Then she walked toward the tepidarium, beginning to relax as the damp air touched her skin.

  Women sat on benches or stood beneath the window. Morgan recognized several dominae, laughing, trading stories, or merely watching each other from a calculated distance. The boiler in the next room warmed the walls, while a bronze chandelier cast heat from above. Morgan sat by herself for a while. She tried not to stare too openly at the women, even though scrutiny was never discouraged. A few gave her promising looks. It’s my gens that rouses them, she thought. Not me.

  After a while, she went to the caldarium. The hypocaust cooked everything from below, mystifying the mosaics with pliant air. The women nearby seemed hazy, as if she were looking at them through steamed glass. The hollow walls flickered and breathed in her ears. She crossed the platform in the center of the room, descending the worn steps that led to the pool. Swimming turned her into a radish. Outside, she could hear the din of weights coming from the palaestra. When she could no longer stand the heat, she rose and walked to the basin, pouring water from the round labrum over her head. A dark woman with pinned hair took the ladle from her, smiling. Morgan fled to the frigidarium to cool down. Then, returning to the change room, she dressed quickly and walked back outside.

  As she approached the Arx of Violets, she noticed the growing presence of miles, perspiring beneath their scale loricae. They ignored her. The gens weren’t exactly rivals, but each liked to cast aspersions at the other. The miles didn’t respect the bow, seeing it as an auxiliary weapon at best, while the sagittarii considered themselves more versatile in combat. Miles were standing targets for the javelin, while sagittarii had freedom of movement and could bite at the edges of a phalanx indefinitely. One of the tasks of the miles was to cover the sagittarii, but when relations between them were especially strained, they might allow the enemy to pick off a few unlucky archers. It was best to stay polite.

  She followed the road uphill until the crowded insulae gave way to boxwoods and flowering lemon trees. A steady stream of human and wagon traffic surrounded her. Ahead, she saw a gold-canopied litter being supported by four women. Courtiers liked to brag that litters came cheap, but the arabesques proved that this one wasn’t. Morgan couldn’t make out who was inside—only a gauze of light moving behind the curtains was visible. The line moved slowly, pressing against the stone walls on either side. Now that they were higher, she heard the hiss of the Iacto striking the rocks below. The harbor looked empty, but it was probably teeming with undinae that she couldn’t see. Going down there was a wild throw. They might ignore you, tease you, or sing you to your death underwater.

  The violets began as she neared the gates. At first they resembled fine purple napkins, then pennants, then curtains that flamed in the air. The first gate was entirely covered in them. The miles let her through with a bare nod, which was more than she usually got. The temperature dipped slightly as she walked beneath the first arch. The corridor narrowed, forcing the crowd to move slowly. Above them, sagittarii stood on platforms, their bows trained on the mass of visitors. They acknowledged her silently. The corridor took a sharp left turn, and Morgan found herself squeezed into a corner. She looked up and saw another group of sagittarii, crouched before murder-holes in the ceiling.

  The corridor turned again, then opened into a reception area whose ceiling had been carved to resemble stalactites. It was supported on all sides by red horseshoe arches, engraved with delicate rhombuses. A group of meretrices were gathered around a reflecting pool, deep in conversation. A mock naval battle had been arranged with toy ships, bobbing like a spiral of painted apples. Morgan couldn’t imagine a time when Anfractus would have had enough ships to form a navy. Now the porta was haunted. When the rare ship did arrive, it was ushered in and out as quickly as possible, like an unpopular relative. The water lares were unpredictable, and it was dangerous to wander about, even if you could see or hear them.

  Morgan walked by an impluvium, feeling the heat of the sun from the open space above. The battlements would be cooking by now. The Tower of Sagittarii was busy when she got there. Sagittarii lingered on the stairs, comparing strings, eyeing one another. They were trained to be a pair of eyes, and for them, surveillance had grown habitual. She was breathing a bit quicker by the time she reached the top floor, awash in light from its bank of windows. Morgan knelt by the statue of Fortuna, lightly touching her wheel.

  After paying her respects, Morgan descended the spiral staircase. The tower’s undercroft was where they kept supplies. A sagittarius that she didn’t recognize greeted her at the entrance to the chamber. She looked new. Morgan nodded to her, then stepped into the vaulted room full of weapons and missiles of every kind. Short recurved bows lay on shelves, while imported longbows were stacked carefully against the walls. Quivers plain and painted sat in rece
ssed panels along the walls. Naked shafts were stacked, ominous little pyramids with their sharp heads piled above them. She saw all kinds of arrowheads: brass and iron, some slender as reeds, others like fat thorns. The half-moon heads, reserved for the arquites, were particularly devastating at close range.

  Morgan exchanged her short bow for one of the flatter longbows, nicknamed the battlements bastard. It took everything she had just to string it, using her boot as a kind of fulcrum, and the effort reminded her that she should have visited the palaestra. She swapped out her arrows for a more piercing bouquet, then placed her own bow on a marked shelf, along with the others. It was just like visiting the baths, only there was no leaping fish painted on the wall. The longbow was heavy, and she tried to nod gracefully to the woman guarding the door as she left, but it came out as more of a grimace. She much preferred the short bow, especially on the rare occasions when she’d used it on horseback. When she turned to fire over one shoulder as the horse shot forward, she felt like death on the wind.

  On her way to the battlements, Morgan reviewed the plan. It probably wouldn’t work. They couldn’t get close to the basilissa, not even if Felix drew her into conversation. There would be spadones behind every pillar, miles at every entrance, ready to seize upon anyone who didn’t seem to belong. If Narses had singled them out, it meant that his loyal attendants were already their shadows. Morgan didn’t sense that anyone was following her, but the arx was full of hidden places, and sagittarii weren’t the only ones who’d been trained to move quietly. She looked up at the patterned stonework of the ceiling, expecting to see a pair of eyes. She saw only colored stalactites, which didn’t mean that nobody was there. Living among lares had accustomed her to the presence of invisible things.

  Lost in thought, Morgan nearly walked into a girl when she rounded the corner. They surprised each other. The girl, about ten years of age, wore a saffron-dyed tunic with a trapezoidal belt covered in stones. One of her earrings, a web of pearls, had gotten caught in her wild black hair, and she was trying to untangle it. When she saw Morgan, she froze for a second. Then her expression faded to a kind of disinterest.

  “Oh. It’s only one of you.”

  Morgan inclined her head. “Eminence. May I offer you assistance?”

  Eumachia was the daughter of the basilissa. Technically, she shouldn’t have been wandering the halls of the arx, but few had the nerve to stop her. The girl had never taken much of an interest in her mother’s affairs.

  “I doubt it,” she replied. “Unless you’re an excellent fox hunter. Propertius’s hiding somewhere. Probably in the walls.”

  Like Babieca, Morgan had heard of the basilissa’s foxes but had never seen them. As far as she understood, one of their tasks was to keep an eye on Eumachia. Once, she’d almost heard what might have been brass paws on the stone floor, but there’d been nothing there. It made her anxious to think of mechanical foxes hiding in the walls. That was just as disconcerting as the stalactites with eyes.

  “I’m afraid that I’ve got the wrong bow for it. I’d only end up piercing one of your mother’s tapestries.”

  “That’s fine. I work better alone.”

  “Very good, Your Highness. May Fortuna bless your hunt.”

  “And your watch.”

  For a moment, Eumachia looked far wiser than her ten years should have allowed. Then she smiled and kept walking. Morgan watched her recede, a frail yellow flame in search of a clockwork animal. If his gears made any noise against the stones, Morgan was sure that the girl would detect it. Like her mother, she had excellent hearing.

  Finally, she climbed up to the battlements. The sun was high, and the blasted stone shimmered uncertainly before her. Anfractus boiled over with sound and smoke. Morgan took a seat by her favorite crenellation. She placed the longbow beside her. This was where she’d been sitting that first night, when she heard the noise that didn’t belong. The same spot where she’d almost died, blood streaming from her head as she groped for a weapon in the dark. She would always remember the hunter that had stepped out of thin air. Green eyes and cloven feet.

  Morgan touched the die once more.

  She’d never thought of using it until now.

  3

  NÔSISIM.

  Her grandmother was calling.

  Nôsisim. Granddaughter.

  Shelby opened her eyes. Light streamed in through the blinds, and she realized that it wasn’t her grandmother’s voice. Instead, it was a clash of ravens, which seemed to be happening on the roof of a nearby building. Shadows moved down the wall, flickering across her posters. The screaming of the ravens filled up every part of the room. Shelby tossed away the comforter and stood up. Her legs were sore. For a moment, she wasn’t sure why. Then she remembered her watch last night. Even though nothing had climbed up the battlements, she’d remained tense, fingers itching to grab an arrow. Sometimes her bow felt like a missing limb. She didn’t need it here, and probably couldn’t even string it. Morgan was stronger than her. She had proper instincts, while Shelby got lost in the supermarket.

  The bow didn’t belong, but she missed it. For some reason, it was easier to remember Anfractus when she was back home. The other way around was much trickier, because the park took control of them. Sometimes, when she was there, a fragment would return. But it was hard to interpret, like scattered memories after a night of heavy drinking. Maybe citizens lost those memories completely. Shelby understood the appeal of starting over in a place whose rules you could comprehend. The park was logical. The prairies were not. A silenus might eat you, but he wouldn’t force you to talk about building a stadium with a retractable roof.

  Her phone was blinking. She had two missed texts from Andrew. The first was a screenshot from the episode of The Borgias that he’d been watching. It was a close-up of Jeremy Irons looking enraged. The second was a description of what he’d just had for breakfast: coffee, saltines with peanut butter, and a Kozy Shack tapioca pudding. She called him on speakerphone while searching the bedroom for something to wear. He answered while she was pulling on the same jeans that she’d worn for the last two days. They didn’t smell yet, and most academics had poor pattern recognition, so she doubted that anyone would notice.

  “Hey. What’s that noise?”

  “Raven fight. Sounds like it’s happening on the roof of the comic store.”

  “Who’s winning?”

  She peered through the blinds. “I can’t see anything. I can only hear them, and they’re both pretty fired up.”

  “Did you get that screenshot?”

  “Yeah. What was going on?”

  “Jeremy Irons was just raging at everyone in that episode. His papal disapproval was crushing. Even Lucrezia got the stinkeye.”

  “How many episodes did you watch last night?”

  “Three. Then I lost consciousness.”

  “My sleep was bullshit.” She didn’t mention the sound of her grandmother’s voice. It wasn’t the first time that she’d heard nohkô in her dreams. “Then I woke up to the raven smack-down. I wonder how long it’s been going on for.”

  “Maybe they’re fighting over a graphic novel.”

  “It’s weird to see them in the city. In my head, there’s this rivalry between them and the geese, which is why they don’t hang out by Wascana Lake.”

  “They might also be wary of the lake’s radioactivity.”

  “It’s contaminated, not radioactive.”

  “Are you kidding? We’ve all heard about the three-eyed fish. That sort of thing has to be the product of gamma rays.”

  Wascana Creek was dammed in 1883, which made the false lake. In the 1930s, the city drained and then deepened the lake, as part of a make-work project. Now it was surrounded by nine kilometers of park, designed to complement the university. The idea of a false lake girdling a false park seemed odd. Maybe that was why she’d been drawn to it at first. That, and the fact that many of its features—including plaques, walkways, and a contained island—reminded h
er of playing Myst. Nothing about Wascana felt entirely natural. The trees were barely teenagers; the lake wasn’t even supposed to be there, and the bridge that crossed it was ornamented with terra-cotta buffalo heads gazing at the profile of Queen Victoria. Before she arrived, this had all been Oscana, pile of bones, named for the buffalo skeletons that covered the ground.

  “Where are you now?”

  “Just passing the light sabers.”

  The light sabers were giant blinking sculptures that had been installed across from Victoria Park, along with a series of hollow rectangles that she’d originally thought were ineffective trash bins. The facing street had also been closed to traffic, but the city’s answer to this was simply to create a detour using flowerpots, which only confused most drivers. They would slow down and stare at the path of pots, as if it were a group of will-o’-the-wisps attempting to lead them astray. The old traffic lights, rather than being removed, were simply taped up and left in their original position. Strange casualties of the renovation, they had no advice to offer.

  “Oh, man. I need seven minutes. Maybe twelve.”

  “Sure. I’ll be in Tramp’s.”

  “You can finally buy that doll.”

  There was a pulse of cold silence on the phone. “He’s not a doll. He’s a chamberlain Skeksi action figure with movable parts.”

  “I’ll see you in a bit.”

  Fifteen minutes later, she made it to the hallway, which smelled like baking tofu. The Deli Llama was preparing its lunch menu. She checked the mail: only a bill from SaskPower telling her what a valued customer she was. They would have valued her more if she didn’t carry a perpetual balance on her account. When she got to the comic store, Andrew was among the toys sealed in their plastic habitats. There were endless variations of Milla Jovovich from Resident Evil, along with superhero busts and obscure Japanese products that she couldn’t identify. Andrew was examining his fantasy figurine of choice, as if he hadn’t already memorized every inch of it.