by V. Briceland
“Watch him for a minute,” the boy instructed. He climbed back up on the canal wall and crouched.
“Where are you going?” she sputtered. The beggar sat down hard on the street and leaned against the wall.
“Back down,” said the boy with a grin. He disappeared into the water with a leap and a splash. Risa ran to watch him as he swam out into the middle of the canal, where a red hat bobbed like a toy boat atop the water. He snatched it and once more paddled his way back to the ladder. “I don’t suppose I can wear this now,” he said mournfully, when once again he’d climbed up to the street. He turned the hat upside down. A cup or two of water spilled from it.
Risa couldn’t help but laugh, both from sheer relief and at the boy’s mock-sorrowful expression. As she studied his uniform and his long blond hair turned dark from the water, she realized where she’d seen him before. “You’re the city guard who was staring at me in the Via Dioro.”
“My name is Milo Sorranto, Cazarrina,” he said, bowing slightly. “I heard your cry for help.”
“How do you know who I am?” she asked, troubled.
“Surely you know the pride Cassaforte has for its Seven and Thirty,” he said, grinning at her.
As she’d suspected earlier, she was merely a curiosity for him. You’ll never guess who I saw sobbing her eyes out today … the Cazarrina of Divetri! “I see,” she said, not at all pleased. “And what story will you be telling your mates tonight? That you rescued a helpless cazarrina from the canals because she was stupid enough to fall in after a beggar?”
He reached up and pulled his hair into a ponytail, wringing water from it before letting it fall loose again. “Stupid? Helpless? Gods, trust me, you’re neither of those, Cazarrina!” He shook his head. Risa studied him closely. She didn’t see a single sign of deception in his expression. Somehow, his utter lack of guile put her at ease. “It seems to me you’re plenty able to rescue yourself,” he continued. “If I tell anyone anything … and I suppose I’ll have to give some kind of report, if I’m to have a replacement uniform … ” He looked down at his ruined clothes, his mouth quirked.
“You’ll tell them what?” Risa asked, curious despite being very much drenched. His lips were almost too thin, she decided. It was the only thing that kept him from being handsome.
“That you’re so pretty,” he blurted out. After the words tumbled, unbidden, from his mouth, he colored deeply and coughed. Risa felt as if she turned equally red. She’d never had a compliment like that from a stranger. “Or—that you were.”
With his gesture, she realized instantly what he meant. Her hair had once more come untaped and hung like seaweed about her face. Her gown, utterly ruined, clung to her like a wet sheath. One of her sleeves was missing entirely. She almost laughed—both the truth of his statement and the shocked expression on his face at actually making it. She looked nearly as awful as the beggar himself.
Turning quickly back toward the old man, Risa saw that he was racked with shivers as he folded in on himself in a huddle. In a flash of inspiration, she remembered that the cart held a mule blanket. It smelled of animal hide and of the perfumes with which the Seven and Thirty disguised the odors of their beasts, but at least it seemed to give the old man comfort when she wrapped it around his shoulders.
“Poor man. What will happen to him?” she asked, kneeling beside the beggar.
“I’ll have to take him to the jails for vagrancy, unless someone takes him into their home,” the guard replied.
Risa was instantly outraged. “To the jails! The man was a victim of a crime. Those boys were beating him!”
“Unless someone takes him into their home, that’s what the law requires,” the guard repeated. She met his glance, and observed the tips of his mouth curve upward. “Cassaforte’s Seven are reputed to be unstinting in their generosity, I’ve always heard.”
Was he needling her? It was impossible to tell. Risa couldn’t imagine explaining to her father how she’d managed to bring home a vagrant. However, there was no way she could allow the old beggar to be taken to jail. She could just imagine how the guard’s story would end: Just walked away, she did, nose up in the air. You know how they do, the Seven. Thought a mule blanket was good enough for the likes of him.
He had bitten at her pride. Did he really think he had to shame her into behaving honorably? “If you’ll help me put him into my cart,” Risa said stiffly, “I would greatly appreciate it. What are you called again?”
The guard smiled, obviously pleased with her decision. “Milo, Cazarrina.”
“A common enough name,” she said, kneeling down to put the beggar’s arm around her shoulder.
Milo swept wet hair away from his face, bowed low, then pulled the cap back onto his head as he knelt down to help her. “Surely you mean for an uncommon young man, Cazarrina?” he murmured, shooting her a wink. Together they began to lift the shivering beggar to his feet.
Risa had to smirk. A common enough name for an impertinent young man, at the very least.
8
—
It seems cruel that they are of the Seven and we only of the Thirty, does it not? Were it not for the random choice of an ancient king, it could have so easily gone another, more favorable way. Yet, my dear, I have heard that the winds of change are blowing. Who knows what good fortune they might tumble into our laps?
—Ruliette Vincinzi of the Thirty,
in a private letter to her sister
It was impossible not to notice the colors of each caza rising around her as the sun slid below the horizon. The poles upon which the cazas’ banners flew were set on the highest point of each of the seven islands. At the sound of the palace horn, the beggar stirred beside her. Risa was already traveling slowly, for the old man’s head bobbed alarmingly with each jolt in the road.
“So much has gone wrong,” he murmured, opening his eyes to a slit. “So much … wrong.”
“You’re safe,” she assured him. Where in the world would he sleep? She couldn’t just leave him in the Divetri courtyard. Perhaps there was an empty servant’s room where he could stay. It might be that he could even perform light servant duties until he was once again able to take care of himself. “Do you have a name?” she asked.
He was drifting off to sleep again. “Dom … ” he murmured. “Dom.”
For a while there were no sounds save for the caza horns pealing their fealty to the heavens, Dom’s labored breathing, and the steady clop-clop-clop of the mules as they pulled their burden forward. It was strange to think that only a week ago, the musical sounds had thrilled Risa to her very core. Tonight, sitting nearly alone in the cart as it moved through the quiet and darkening streets, she felt nothing. Cry after cry of loyalty flew over the city rooftops, until at last all seven had been heard. The palace trumpet issued its benediction. Night began to settle over Cassaforte.
Legend had it that only once, in all the city’s history, had a caza failed to complete the rite of fealty—Caza Legnoli, three hundred years ago. A family of wood workers. So fine was their craft that the carved Legnoli screens in Lena’s Temple were still a popular destination for pilgrims from across the country. Its cazarro, however, had been quarrelsome and disruptive. He regularly argued with the other six cazarri and the crown—just to hear his own voice, said most people.
Risa had heard several variations of what happened to Caza Legnoli; it had happened so long ago that those who witnessed the event were long in the arms of the gods. What was certain was that the cazarro disagreed strongly with the king, and declared his intention to remain in his caza yet ignore the rite of fealty. Some people said that when his colors failed to rise and when he left the house’s horn untouched, a great demon descended from the clouds and destroyed the caza and all within. Still others claimed that a great bolt of lightning struck the caza and decimated its contents and all those foolish enoug
h to remain inside. Whatever the outcome, what Legnolis remained abandoned the caza. From among the Thirty, the king elevated the Dioro to the Seven, and chose an aspiring family from the common populace to replace Dioro among the Thirty. The chances to advance the fortunes of a family were exceedingly rare; should such an opportunity arise again, there would be no shortage of people vying to replace the dishonored.
Risa cast an eye toward Caza Dioro as the cart turned from the piazza onto the low bridge leading to Caza Divetri. Dioro, proud family of weapon makers. Their caza still stood proudly against the deepening horizon, its stone walls looking older than a mere three centuries. It was impossible to believe Caza Legnoli had been reduced to rubble by lightning, much less by a demon. It was all myth. Just as Muro and Lena, the gods she thought had abandoned her, were nothing more than pretty stories based on the two moons in the sky. Two cold and distant chunks of rock, their stables mere clusters of stars that surrounded them in a random pattern.
“Birds,” muttered the vagrant. For a moment it did sound as if distant wings fluttered above. As the noise grew louder, however, Risa realized that what they heard was a carriage’s rattle as it flew toward the city on the upper bridge. When the two vehicles passed each other, high and low, with a clatter of wheel rims upon stones, Risa heard the familiar jingle of the bells worn by her parents’ best horses.
Where could they be going at this time of the evening?
9
—
Blessed Lena, grant us your peace, so that our lands may be harmonious. Grant us your wisdom, that we might prosper. Above all, grant your penitents mercy to others, so that we may have the serenity to be merciful to ourselves.
—From the Prayer Book of the Insula of the
Penitents of Lena
What?” Risa hated being awakened by cold. She had been warm, despite the city’s chilly night, beneath her quilt. “What is it? Stop shaking me.” For a moment, through her waking fog, she thought that Petro might be teasing her. As she reached consciousness, she remembered that her younger brother had been at the Insula of the Penitents of Lena for over a week.
Fita stood over her. The old servant had brought a breakfast tray laden with hot rolls and fruit. It was unusual enough that Fita bore the tray herself; more remarkable still was the fact that she was actually shaking Risa awake, something she had only done once before, on the dawn of Prince Berto’s so-called blessing. When finally Risa sat up, Fita crossed her hands primly. “I’ve brought you a tray,” she said unnecessarily.
Risa stared at her breakfast for a moment, her stomach grumbling lightly at the aroma of the fresh sweet bread and the jug of squeezed juice. “You never bring me a tray. You’ve told me trays are for children.”
It might have been her imagination, but Risa thought she saw the corners of the housekeeper’s lips twitch. “You’re obviously not a child any longer,” she said. “Going off and doing what you please without your father’s say-so.”
Breaking open one of the rolls seemed a wise course. Fita might change her mind and snatch them away, given her current mood. “What’s this about? You’ve obviously something on your mind.”
“It’s about that beggar you brought home, that’s what.” Fita’s tone was gruff and offended. “The smell! Honestly, Cazarrina, how could you!”
It was Risa’s turn to draw up her shoulders and show offense. “His name is Dom. He was thrown in the canals by vandals. The guards would have arrested him if I’d not brought him home. What would you have me do? Send him to prison? Let him sleep outside another night?” When Fita did not answer, she grew suspicious. “Where is he now?”
“In the stable yard, I believe,” Fita said, her manner stiff and formal.
“Still? Don’t tell me he slept there!” Risa stood up and rapidly began to dress, anger making her actions swift and bold. “I told Allandro last night to ask you to find a place for him among the staff.”
“It is not the stable boy’s place to tell the housekeeper her business.” When Risa looked as if she was about to protest, the woman added, “Only the Cazarro or Cazarra can instruct me to hire someone.”
“You are not usually so unfeeling!” Risa commented. When the housekeeper shrugged, Risa pulled on her slippers. “Where is the Cazarro?”
“Your mother and father have not returned from the palace,” murmured Fita. Risa made a noise of astonishment at the news—it was extremely rare that her parents spent the night away from the caza. “Will they be staying past the midday meal, Cazarrina? If so, it will be necessary for the kitchen staff to prepare a hospitality offering. Your mother is always careful to adhere to custom,” she added at Risa’s astonished stare.
“Why are they at the palace?” Risa demanded, finally assimilating all of Fita’s news.
Fita threw up her palms. “I do not know, Cazarrina. They were summoned last night, after the rite of fealty.”
“Did they know they were staying so long?” Another shrug. Frustrated beyond belief, Risa tied a shawl around her shoulders. “You don’t know why my parents are at the palace, or why they’ve stayed overnight. You don’t know why my friend Dom spent the night in the stable yard.”
“That I do know. He was not allowed in the house because I did not receive an order from the Cazarro or the—”
“My order should be enough!”
“And if I might say, Cazarrina,” said the housekeeper with some temper. “To call such a figure a friend, even loosely, when you are of the Seven—”
“You may not say!” Risa’s voice rose above the housekeeper’s. Ignoring the woman’s prim silence, she gathered the tray and stalked from the room.
She found Dom huddled beneath the blanket still, smelling strongly of mule and perfume, canal water and offal, and a certain rank sweetness she associated with his age. She tried to hide the emotions that warred within her as the man turned his face toward her, a face lined with wrinkles and speckled with age spots. “You went away,” he said, his eyes pitiable.
“I’m sorry,” she said, angry once more with Fita. Though the housekeeper could be generous when inclined, she was a frustrating woman when determined to get her own way.
“I slept out here.”
“That won’t happen again,” Risa promised. “I’ve brought you breakfast.” She placed the meal down on the bench next to him. “See? It’s all right. We’ll share.” She took half of the roll she had already broken and took a bite. It was impossible not to see the hunger and longing in his eyes. He seemed to hesitate. Risa suspected he was too proud to eat while she watched. She turned her head and consumed her own portion. She heard him take one of the sweet rolls and begin to consume it ravenously.
His hands were still trembling a few minutes later when, with Risa’s gentle insistence, he finished the last of the rolls and gulped down the last mouthful of fruit juice. “You’ll have regular meals from now on,” she told him. “We just have to find something for you to do.”
She had not noticed how many red veins lined the old man’s eyes until he turned them to her in fear. “I … there’s nothing … ”
“Have you ever worked with glass?” He shook his head. “Have you ever worked in the stables? Have you served at the table?” As she worked her way through the list of possible functions he might perform around the caza, he continued to shake his head.
Why was she trying so hard to help him? With every job at which Dom shook his head, she wondered more and more if she had not picked up some true good-for-nothing from the street. He might have idled away his entire life begging, for all she knew. There were no skills to which he would admit.
She remembered the first time she saw the beggar’s face in Pascal’s shop, and how she felt his helplessness mirror her own. Now she could aid him, if she could think how. “You can’t think of anything you’ve done before that you might do here?”
H
e clasped his hands together in his lap in an attempt to hide their trembling. “I’ve never worked as … ” His cracked voice lapsed into a feeble whisper.
“We’ll find something,” she said kindly, wildly casting about for inspiration.
“Guard,” he whispered.
“What?” Dom had been a guard? Perhaps he could keep an eye on the furnaces, then, or some other task that required little action but much attention. Her musing ceased once he raised his hand and pointed through the arch to the road beyond.
Over the lower bridge washed a tide of dark red uniforms. A contingent of city guards approached. When Risa swung her head around in alarm, she could see the caps and spears of another set approaching the caza on the upper span above.
Her first thought was that something was wrong. Her parents had been hurt. Ero was dead, and palace guards had come bearing the bad news. Panic clutched at her chest, making it difficult to draw air into her lungs.
Rising to her feet proved an exercise of will. Her steps, leaden at first, took her closer and closer to the guards, but she could not force herself to run. Finally she stopped and waited for them at the mouth of the bridge. They trudged toward her, faces grim.
“What’s wrong?” she asked the first of them, a young woman with a crossbow slung over her shoulder. She searched the faces of the rest as they gathered around her. “Is something wrong?”
“You’ll have to ask Tolio, Cazarrina,” said a young man. “We just follow orders.”
“Who is Tolio? Where is he?”
The man pointed toward the upper bridge. “He’ll be in the courtyard even now.”
