“Not a chance,” Fel replied. “Aside from the sagittarius, you’re the only one with any knowledge of this place.”
She stared at the ring of filth around her hands. “Sweet Fortuna, why is it green? What could possibly—”
“Don’t think about it. Just keep going.”
They left the latrine and walked down a corridor. The ceiling had a stalactite vault, brimming with irregular stones. Rhombus patterns were carved along the walls, and their foliated borders held secret inscriptions that Babieca couldn’t decipher. The corridor gradually widened, supported by red stilted arches. It opened up entirely, and moonlight guided them onto the Patio of Lions. The night was warm, yet still held the possibility of rain. A reflecting pool bisected the patio, its waters motionless. The lions stood on an island in the center, six of them in all, carved from marble. They clustered around a fountain, each one favoring a different line of sight. They were supposed to represent the six spokes of the day gens, Fortuna’s bright wheel.
“My mother said there used to be another fountain,” Julia whispered, “made of black marble and consecrated to the night gens, but Latona’s grandmother had it removed.”
Babieca studied the colored tessellations that made up the floor of the patio. Red and green birds flew across a white sky, mingling with stars and crescents, until he couldn’t tell where one shape finished and the next began. When he stared at them too closely, spots flickered before his eyes, and he had to look away from their infinite dance. Circular stone benches had been placed around the pool, lit by hanging lamps, while lotus flowers drifted in the water. All Babieca could think of was the possibility of washing his filthy tunica. He was on the verge of stepping into the pool when he heard footsteps.
“Back against the wall,” Morgan whispered. “Don’t even breathe.”
They waited in the lengthening shadows. Two figures emerged from the north end of the patio, walking side by side. They approached the pool, and he resisted the urge to swear softly beneath his breath. The first was a young spado in a green cap and tunica. He had a wispy beard and slender hands, which he kept folded in front of him. Basilissa Latona was at his side, dressed in a mantle of leather whose hem brushed her pointed slippers. Gems and silver spangles decorated the front of the gown. Her pearl diadem caught the light, casting trails of nacre across her shoulders, like milkweed.
“Double the guards at her door,” Latona said to the eunuch. “I don’t care if they think the north wing is haunted. If they hesitate, show them the old capon’s seal. That should pacify them. Not even miles are daft enough to cross the chamberlain.”
“Their hesitation would be less, my Basilissa, if you gave the order.”
“No. I’ve already gone too far. My seal could be used against me, but Narses doesn’t have long to live. It won’t matter if we pervert his word.”
“He’s not completely blind. I think he’s been talking to the aedile.”
“His arrogance will undo him. His first mistake was to underestimate you, Mardian. He allowed you to suffer in his shadow.”
“I was loyal to him, my Basilissa, until he questioned your will.”
The ruler of Anfractus watched the lotus flowers drifting by. For a moment, she seemed diminished, a woman struggling beneath the weight of her finery. Then her eyes narrowed, and the aegis crept back into her features. Her mouth compressed to a thin line. She seemed remote and immeasurably ancient, daughter of a ruling class whose beginnings could no longer be traced with any kind of certainty. Her ancestors had built this palace, along with the magnificent sewer upon which it stood. They had built her throne and, presumably, the mechanical foxes that slept at its base. The founders were responsible for her position, their blood ran in her veins, yet those archaic grandmothers were barely ghosts to her.
“We’ve slept for too long,” she said. “Afraid to reach for anything, terrified of our own shadows on the wall. Something has to change. Otherwise”—she made a gesture encompassing the patio, its lovely tesserae, its clever hydraulics—“we’ll languish in this beautiful, torpid place, like virgins afraid to leave their father’s halls.”
“I am no virgin, my Basilissa,” Mardian said.
“No.” She smiled thinly. “Your cold passions obey no limit, do they?”
“I work with what I have.”
“When Narses falls, you shall have all that you desire.” Latona considered the stars. “Egressus will be mine—all of its resources and its loyal subjects. All of the ancient power that sleeps beneath it. Then the lares will finally listen. The old frontiers will fall.”
“They shall march for you,” Mardian agreed.
“My mother didn’t have the nerve. She threw away the relics and pacified the gens, day and night, but taking Egressus never occurred to her. She was content with Anfractus. I have always wanted more.”
Mardian bowed his head. “My Basilissa—gladly would I see this plan fulfilled. Make me your die, your hallowed instrument. I will not fail you.”
Her eyes wavered for a moment as she looked down at him. Latona seemed to mistrust his fervor, to draw back slightly from his conviction. But she steeled herself and nodded.
“You will be chamberlain by morning. For now, keep the old capon distracted. There’s one last secret that I must pry from Pulcheria. Then you can throw her out the window.”
“Nothing would please me more.”
Mardian and Latona exited the patio, disappearing through the north entrance. For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Fel said, “It doesn’t sound like we have much time. The basilissa is being held in the north wing. If we can get to her before the guard is doubled, we might stand a chance of freeing her.”
“What did she mean,” Morgan asked, “about the lares marching?”
“She said that the old frontiers would fall,” Roldan said. “She’s planning some sort of invasion. Egressus isn’t her only target. She’s after something else.”
“But where are we even supposed to take Pulcheria?” Julia asked. “It’s not like we can smuggle her out of the city.”
“She must have come on a ship,” Roldan said. “If we can reach the harbor—”
“Are you hearing all of these ifs?” Julia shook her head. “What’s to keep the undinae from drowning us, or the city guard from cutting us to pieces?”
Babieca smiled. “Just luck.”
“You’re all crazy.”
“I don’t see you running in the opposite direction.”
The artifex sighed. “I guess I’m just stupid enough to stay.”
“That’s the spirit.”
They headed north. Morgan was familiar with the miles and their schedules. They avoided the lamplight as much as they could. Whenever the sagittarius halted, they would stop short behind her, keeping silent. Babieca felt like the stones must be able to smell them. More than anything, he wanted to pour a bucket of clean water over his head, to rip off his clothes and scrub every inch of himself with sea sponges. When he’d imagined going on a real quest, he hadn’t factored in the possibility that he might be terrified and covered in shit.
Of course, he hadn’t expected a lot of things. A miles with one greave. An artifex with a mechanical bee under her tunica. A struggle between men who were not men precisely, whose cold passions obeyed no limit. Now he remembered seeing the young eunuch at the Hippodrome, seated not far from where they’d first met Julia. Surely, he was the spado that Felix had spoken of, carrying the authority of his master’s insignia. Narses may have had a fierce reputation, but Mardian—a shadow, Latona called him—had outmaneuvered the chamberlain. He’d arranged all of this without dirtying his hands. He must have been a descendant of the old spadones, those grim gardeners who pruned the court with blades dipped in aconite.
When they were certain that Mardian and the basilissa had gone on ahead, they crossed the patio. Morgan’s knowledge of the arx was useful but incomplete. All she could do was steer them in what felt like the right direction. She was, however, famil
iar with the most heavily guarded areas. These they avoided, sometimes stopping short around a blind corner, inches from a group of miles. The few archers whom they saw were on their way to the battlements or the towers, distractedly counting arrows or making minute adjustments to their bows. They tended to dislike confined spaces and were more comfortable atop the arx than within it, like birds clinging to the sides of an aerie. Babieca tried not to think about what would happen if they were caught. Musicians weren’t known for their ability to withstand torture.
They came to a junction. Lamplight flickered against the rhombus patterns in the walls, throwing long shadows across horseshoe arches. Morgan stopped. Her eyes narrowed. Silently, she drew an arrow from her painted quiver. She notched it, took aim, and spoke:
“I know you’re there. I can here you breathing.”
There was some light scuffling. Then Eumachia stepped from the shadows. Her girl’s tunic, decorated with green fringe, was wrinkled and dusty. She wore a tortoiseshell comb in her hair, along with a rock crystal pendant that gleamed in the semidarkness.
“Chasing foxes again?” Morgan replaced the arrow. “You should be careful. Everyone’s a bit agitated tonight.”
“My mother searches for you.” She managed to look haughty, but only for a second. Then her eyes filled with worry. “You’re to be stripped of your die, repudiated by your gens. Before, they were just going to hurt you a bit, then let you go. But now—”
“Don’t concern yourself with that.” Morgan gave her a sly look, as an older sister might give to a younger. “Can you keep quiet about seeing us?”
“Where are you going?”
“What part of ‘don’t concern yourself’ haven’t you grasped?”
Eumachia folded slim arms across her chest. “Tell me.”
“Morgan,” Fel began, “this isn’t a good idea.”
The sagittarius looked thoughtfully at the basilissa’s daughter—a short, scrawny girl, somewhat resembling a dusty arras. “The last time we saw each other, she had the chance to make things a lot worse for me. Yet she didn’t. Her fox trusted me, and so did she. I think we can trust her now.”
“Brilliant,” Fel murmured. “We’re basing our decisions on automata now.”
“We need to find the other basilissa,” Morgan said. “She’s being held in the north wing.”
Eumachia frowned. “There are only rats in the north wing. Pulcheria’s in the west wing, under heavy guard. They’ve converted one of the guest apartments into a cell.”
“We just overheard your mother saying that she was in the north wing.”
“You heard what you were meant to hear. My mother is accustomed to having people around her, listening to whatever she says. No ruler tells the truth in public.”
Morgan considered this for a moment. She turned to Fel.
“I know you’re not happy with how this is going, but—”
“Point taken,” the miles said. “The girl’s obviously smarter than us. We might as well listen to her.”
“What’s the quickest way to the west wing?” Morgan asked Eumachia.
“Follow me.”
“Swear that you won’t lead us straight to Latona.”
“What do you take me for?”
Morgan gave her a long look.
Eumachia sighed. “I swear it—on my grandmother’s ashes.”
She turned to the right, and they followed her. The corridors narrowed and widened, seemingly of their own accord, like living veins. Eumachia knew exactly where she was going and didn’t hesitate for a second. Babieca, significantly less sure of what was about to happen, found himself sweating. The tunica clung to his back and shoulders. The cithara in its case felt twice as heavy, a burden weighing down his every step. What were his weapons—a harp and a crooked short sword? Fel and Morgan had weapons that could inflict serious damage. Roldan, he supposed, could call out to the lares. Even Julia seemed like she might be good in a fight, and the bee in her tunica would certainly be a surprise.
They rounded a corner, and Eumachia stopped. It wasn’t a pause—the girl stopped short in clear surprise. Narses, the high chamberlain, was sitting on a stone bench. His pose was casual, as if he’d been reading, or resting his legs on the exedra. He was not surprised to see them. His dark eyes took them in calmly. His beard, red-gold in the lamplight, was uncommon for a spado. His limbs were long, which was usual, but he also had a broad chest. A falchion hung from his belt, fastened by a series of delicate gold chains.
“Well.” He spoke in a thin, slightly nasal voice. “I see you’ve chosen to be recklessly stupid. That takes some measure of courage, at least.”
Eumachia inclined her head. “Chamberlain. We were—ah—”
“About to commit treason?”
“No. I mean—fine, perhaps a bit of treason, but not—” She turned to Morgan. “This was your plan. You talk to him.”
“But you were doing so well,” Morgan said dryly.
Narses turned to regard her. “You fired the shot.”
“Yes, Chamberlain.”
“That must have been a costly roll indeed.”
“It was.”
He rose from the exedra. “Whatever Latona is planning, I am on the wrong side of it. I have known that for some time.”
“Did you try to capture us?” Babieca asked suddenly. “When we were testing the fibula, someone called the aedile. Was it you?”
His eyes glittered. “That was when the aedile still listened to me. Now, like the arquites, he is only receptive to orders carried out in my name.”
“Mardian betrayed you.”
“Our students often do. They outgrow us and decide that we no longer deserve our position. A little ambition can be a remarkable incentive.”
“Will you help us?” Eumachia demanded. “At this point, it’s not as if you’ve got a choice. My mother will have your head in a basket, come morning.”
Narses smiled. “Children get to the point, don’t they? I suppose you’re right though, bobbin. Latona has decided that our views are incompatible. That usually doesn’t end well for the one not wearing a diadem.” He drew his sword. “I’ll take you to her cell. I don’t have the key, but I suppose an old spado couldn’t hurt your company.”
“Couldn’t hurt.” Julia laughed. “The high chamberlain is too modest. He’s an accomplished fighter. He’s led troops into battle.”
“That was another life,” Narses replied. His eyes told a slightly different story, though. He still remembered the chaos of the battlefield, and his arm didn’t tremble beneath the weight of such a fine sword.
They followed the spado. How ironic, Babieca thought, that they’d seen him as the enemy, the puppet-master. All along, it was invisible Mardian who’d been working against them, forging letters, waving about his master’s seal. Now it was the chamberlain leading them by uncertain lamplight, blade drawn, more a soldier than a courtier. Not like other boys. The snatch of song drifted through his mind. He’d heard it long ago. Some things couldn’t be held by a song. They were sharp and complicated. He looked back. Roldan caught his gaze and smiled a little, as if to say, Aren’t we having a fun night?
Narses held up his hand. They stopped. Morgan and Fel joined him, hugging the wall and trying to soften their footfalls.
“Six miles,” the spado whispered. “One for each of us.”
“We’re seven,” Eumachia insisted.
Narses gave her a stern look. “You are the basilissa’s daughter. Your life is worth more than ours, and when the battle begins, you will hide. Am I understood?”
“I’m not hiding.”
“We could bind your hands now, and settle the matter.”
Flushing, she looked down. “I’ll hide.”
Julia drew her dagger. Her hand wasn’t steady. Roldan did the same. His weapon, at least, was finely balanced. Julia’s dagger looked as if she’d made it out of spare parts, like the fake fibula. He drew his own blade, trying to make it look as if the gesture were na
tural. He was sweating so much that it nearly dropped from his grasp.
Narses saw him and shook his head slightly. “Your talents lie in the musical realm, my boy. Stay behind us and play something to distract them.” He looked at Roldan and Julia. “The same goes for both of you. Play to your strengths. Don’t just start stabbing with those things. You’re barely holding them the right way.”
The spado reached beneath his gold-fringed tunica. Carefully, he drew out his die, which hung from a leather thong. Babieca had never seen a night die before. It was carved from flawless obsidian, and its pips were like sunken eyes. Narses touched the die for luck. Then he surveyed the ragged, hilarious company before him.
“We have only one chance,” he said. “If they call for reinforcements, we’re lost. Move fast, and follow your instincts. Understood?”
They nodded.
“Very well.” He raised his sword. “May Fortuna have mercy on us.”
Babieca swallowed. He felt as if he might puke and hoped that he wouldn’t. Julia was also frightened—it shone in her eyes. Roldan’s expression was impossible to read. As always, he seemed to be listening for something. His eyes were far away.
Then they were moving.
Fel swung around the corridor, with Morgan and Narses by her side.
“Chamberlain—” One of the miles stepped forward. When he saw Morgan, his eyes widened. His hand went to his sword. Yet he hesitated. He was the only one of rank among them, and he’d been trained to take orders from the spado. Whatever Latona might have told him, a shadow of that instinct remained. His hand paused on the hilt.
Narses, however, did not pause. He burst forward, slashing at the scalloped hem of the man’s lorica. There was a narrow line of flesh visible in the gap between cuirass and greave. It was a small target, but the spado had no trouble finding it. His blade cut into the man’s thigh. Blood sprayed his tunica, vibrant like cherries against the costly fabric, and the miles cried out. He tried to draw his sword, but the strength left him, and he sank to one knee. His eyes widened in pain and astonishment. Without hesitation, Narses drew the wet edge of the blade across the young man’s throat. Babieca saw a flash of white bone. It reminded him of driftwood, or a day die, brilliant and smooth. The miles choked, mailed hands going instinctively to the ruin of his throat. Blood painted the ground in irregular arcs. He fell forward.
Pile of Bones Page 24
