by V. Briceland
“What pact?” Risa asked. For a moment, in her curiosity, she forgot the fetid closeness of the carriage.
“The rite of fealty is a pact, child. Have you never heard the story? No? It is an agreement between the crown and the people, established eight centuries ago by one of my ancestors. She was fierce as a lioness, and just as brave. Allyria Cassamagi, her name was.” He said the name in much the way he might have whispered the name of a girl he loved in his youth.
“Tell me about the pact,” Risa prompted, a little afraid to break his reverie.
He startled slightly. “Your mother never told you this story? She is half Cassamagi. Charming girl. Well, there were none like Allyria before, and there has never been another since. She had power—the true power of enchantment—not the mere trifling talismans we have left to us. You see, there was a time when the kings of Cassaforte were not as benevolent as those we have known. They were proud, cruel men who murdered their enemies, even those who were part of their family. These tyrants were constantly declaring war, hoping to increase their own coffers of gold. There came a time, however, when a gentler man took the throne. King Nivolo. He looked at the poverty of his people and at his savage, warring forefathers and decided that if Cassaforte were to prosper, all its abuses had to stop.”
“Allyria? Like the Bridge of Allyria?”
“It was named after her.” He paused, looking out the window in the direction of Portello once more. Risa, fascinated by his story, gave him a moment to breathe before he began again. “Nivolo prayed to Muro and Lena. They heard his pleas and sent Allyria to help him. She took the two badges of the king’s office, the Olive Crown and the Scepter of Thorn. With them she created a great magic—an enchantment so massive in construction that it dwarfs any other we know. She transformed them from mere symbols of power into items that could protect and unite the city—for as long as there lived just men and women to defend it.”
“How?” Risa could scarcely contain her impatience to hear the rest of the story, though she could not have expressed why.
With a shaking hand, Ferrer removed the spectacles from his face and blinked at her. “Do you really think Cassamagi exists solely to enchant flints and toys and household objects? The how of it is what my caza has studied, has striven to relearn for the better part of eight centuries. We simply do not know the how. Yet we know what she did. She enchanted the crown and scepter so that they granted the king long life and health—on the condition that the ruler was not separated from them for an extended period of time. Most importantly, they granted him a right to reign, a right that could only be bestowed upon him by seven families from Cassaforte.”
“The Seven,” breathed Risa.
“They became the Seven, yes.” The old Cazarro sighed and put on his spectacles once more. “At the time they were the families of six reputable craftsmen. And my family too, of course, known for scholarship. Their responsibility was to remain loyal first to Cassaforte, and then to their king. Only they were allowed to bestow the crown and scepter upon the chosen heir. A ruler could not even so much as touch them without their unanimous consent. And if the families all agreed that the king was overstepping his powers, they would also have the power to remove him from the office.”
Risa was so entranced that she utterly forgot her surroundings. “And the rite of fealty was Allyria’s doing?”
“She crafted the seven horns herself, and invested them with great magic. The rite is part of the scheme’s great balance,” the old man explained. “You see, the seven families were given a grave and heavy responsibility. In return, however, they were granted two rewards. The first was the seven islands—upon them they built their cazas. The city began to grow between the palace and the cazas, and beyond.”
“What was the second reward?”
“As long as the seven families completed the rite of fealty every night, they would find themselves able to perform certain small enchantments in their craftsmanship—such as the protection enchantments of Portello’s buildings, or your mother’s windows, or the learning enchantments of Catarre, or the novelties of my own caza. When the Thirty were established among their grandsons and granddaughters, the privilege was granted to them as well.”
“But the enchantments aren’t small at all,” Risa protested. “They’re marvelous.”
Ferrer shook his head. “Many share your opinion, yet they are mere tricks. Your father keeps furnaces, child. Think of Allyria’s grasp of magic as the roaring fires within them, bright and hot as the sun itself. She could do amazing things. She could see and speak to people from afar, and rise in the air like a phoenix. She could craft horns that could peer into the hearts of those who attempted to play them, so that only the right man or woman or the king himself could make them sound. Compared to her burning glory, the enchantments you think so marvelous are but tiny sparks from a campfire. Despite what you may have learned at your insula, they are insignificant in scope.”
Risa sat still for a moment. The heavily padded interior of the Cassamagi coach reduced the bustle of the city streets beyond to a muffled hum. “I have not learned any such thing from the insula, Cazarro.”
To her surprise, the old man smiled. “Ah, yes. You are the one who went unchosen, am I correct?”
She nodded and said stiffly, “The gods said I was not needed there.”
“It may be that you are not,” he replied. She stared at him with such unveiled hostility that he was at last moved to rusty laughter. “Do not be offended, young Cazarra. The insulas are good for many things, but they were not able to save Portello or Dioro last night.”
Immediately she felt ashamed. Ferrer had not meant any harm, that much was obvious. “I have friends,” she said tentatively, “who say the insulas exist merely to keep the children of the Seven and Thirty occupied.”
The corners of Ferrer’s mouth crooked into a smile. “Between us, your friends are not far from wrong. The insulas have their place—they educate, they inculcate ethics, they foster independence away from the homes of the Seven and Thirty so that their children will not develop rivalries for house control. And I have lost too many wagers over the years over their bocce tournaments. But not everything important is learned within their walls.” Risa was thoughtful for a moment at that news. “We have a more serious matter to discuss, I am afraid. Your parents are at the palace. My heir, who went in my stead, is there as well. All the cazarri are at the palace. I do not wish to alarm you, little one, but I suspect they are being held there against their will.”
“They’re hostages,” Risa confirmed, feeling oddly relieved to be able to say the words to someone. “I’ve known since yesterday.” At Ferrer’s astonished inhalation of breath, she nodded and told him about the coded message sent by her mother.
“Clever woman, to have sent such word in her note,” he breathed. After a moment, he added, “Clever girl, to have noticed it.”
“The prince wants the cazas to fall. But why?” Risa lowered her voice instinctively, though she knew no one would hear them outside the stuffy enclosure of the carriage.
“Because the cazarri, or some portion of them, do not wish to award him the Olive Crown,” Ferrer said in a rasp. “They must be unanimous in their assent. They are not, and it angers the prince. He will wait for the seven cazas to be loosed from Allyria’s pact, one by one. Then he will be free to appoint seven more families in their place—seven families from the Thirty who, out of gratitude, will award him the crown and do his bidding.”
“He’s evil!”
“His actions are obscene. They are an abuse of the rite of fealty and all it was meant to prevent.” Spittle flew across the old man’s lips with the accusation. The carriage was quiet for a moment. “And we are all in danger, for the prince will move to destroy those of us who can defend the cazas. That, child, is why you must keep your profile low. Does anyone outside the caza k
now your father trained you to blow the horn?”
The laugh that escaped Risa’s lungs was scarcely more than a breath. “My father would never allow a woman to complete the rite,” she said. “It’s inconceivable to him.”
“And to many others. An antiquated notion, true. Yet one that will work to your advantage. We must all keep out of the prince’s clutch. Buonochio’s new acting cazarro, Baso, is a mere boy who happened to be staying the night in his caza rather than his insula. Catarre has one old man to blow its horn, the cazarro’s infirm uncle. And my house … I am no protector, child. I am too old.”
Risa’s instinct was to protest otherwise. But as she looked at the frail old man sitting with dignity across from her, wrapped against any possible draft, she realized that he spoke nothing more than the unadorned truth. “We are all very fragile, then,” she said.
“We are,” he agreed. “Like glass.” Impulsively he reached out and placed his hand over hers. “There are many who wish to see us fail. Thirty houses, hungry for advancement. Not all of them will be disloyal,” he added. “No. Not even most. But it will only take seven. Be careful, child. You must be careful!”
19
—
Every object has its natural and primary purpose. The blessings of the gods can only enhance that one natural purpose.
—From An Introduction to Supplication:
A First-Year Primer for the Insula Initiate
After the stifling heat of the carriage, the sea-blown breeze felt like a cool bath. Smells from the streets assaulted Risa’s nose while the crowd’s noises attacked her ears. Flowers and fruit from the vendors in the piazza, stones baking in the sun, the damp canal waters—all the scents erased the carriage’s sharp and acrid aroma. She had scarcely set foot in the piazza when Ferrer’s vehicle began to ease away, his team trotting across the bricks toward the east. It was with genuine regret that she watched the old man go—he seemed one of her few true allies.
“Cazarra,” murmured a voice in her ear. Surprised, Risa realized that Camilla’s hand was upon her wrist. Milo stood on her other side, silent and alert. She had forgotten her guards were so close at hand. “If I might beg a favor.”
Camilla looked so uncharacteristically nervous that the hairs on Risa’s neck prickled in alarm. “Is something wrong?”
“No, not at all. My—Amo, that is, is here, and he wonders if he might … ”
While Camilla struggled for words, Risa looked past her. The girl’s enormous suitor stood a few feet away. “Oh, does he want to visit our workshops? Mattio won’t mind.”
Camilla flushed and looked embarrassed. “It is a little more than that, Cazarra. Amo was dismissed when he did not return to his master, last night. We were so frantic to return you here—”
“Oh no!” Risa suddenly understood. His firing had been her fault. Amo looked at the ground.
“I cannot ask you for anything, Cazarra, but if you might … ” Camilla bit her lip.
Milo spoke up. “A cazarra has the right to employ whom she chooses, you see.”
Risa felt a momentary twinge of annoyance. She knew the rights of the cazarri without being reminded. She put her own hand atop Camilla’s. “I owe Amo, after his assistance yesterday. Present him to Mattio. If Mattio thinks he may be of assistance, he may stay. With my father gone, they will appreciate a skilled craftsman.”
Amo bowed low before her. “I will not disappoint you or your father’s men, Cazarra,” he said to her. “I ask for nothing more than a chance to prove myself.” To her surprise, he smiled.
Camilla appeared relieved as well. “Milo, keep by her side. I will not be long.” Her step was light as she beckoned to Amo and led him down the sloping street to the lower Divetri bridge.
“You have a knack for solving people’s problems,” Milo commented once they were out of sight.
“Me?” Risa was surprised that he should say such a thing.
“Take Amo. His work is his life. It was his choice to come with us yesterday instead of returning to his workshop. You really didn’t owe him anything.”
“He’ll have a chance to show his skills. I did it for Camilla, just as much as for Amo,” Risa admitted. “She’ll be happy, knowing he’s nearby.”
“The day goes by faster when you’re close to the one who makes you happy.”
“Who else do I make happy?” she asked him, suddenly curious.
The question made him startle; his eyes rapidly flicked away from hers, then back. “Why, Dom, of course,” he said. “And your caza. It’s happy to be here still.” Then he signaled in the direction of a small crowd milling in the center of the piazza. “You’ve made Ricard very happy.”
“Ricard?” Some part of Risa’s mind had noticed the crowd, earlier, but she had failed to notice the Poet of the People at its center. He was again dressed in a tunic of brightly colored patches, with braid at the hems. Fringe dangled around his wrists. It was a marvel the long strings of yellow did not interfere with his lute. The bells on his multi-colored cap tinkled in time to the tune he played on the stringed instrument.
The crowd had left some space for Ricard to perform. Risa noticed Tania, her curly hair tied with ribbons, dancing at the crowd’s margin, keeping occasional time on a shallow tambour. The crowd had thrown a number of coins into her little drum, and continued to do so as Ricard sang and Tania danced. The coins rattled and jingled as Tania added to the noise by beating the stretched skin from its underside. “What are they doing?” Risa asked, the fun distracting her from her conversation with Ferrer Cassamagi.
“He’s written a new song,” Milo said. As usual, a grin was broadly splayed across his face. “People actually seem to like it, for once. This is the third time in a row they’ve had him play it.”
This Ricard was quite a different figure from the Ricard who had mooned around her the day before. Wild expressions animated his face as he sang. His eyes seemed alight with the sheer joy of performing. She drew closer to the perimeter of the crowd. “He’s so alive,” she marveled to Milo.
“That’s Ricard,” he murmured to her. “He just loves an audience.”
Ricard drew a deep breath and launched into the next verse of his song.
“The caza’s so empty, my brothers are gone.
No sisters I have I can turn to!”
Tears fell down her cheek, so pale, soft, and fair.
To stroke them away, men would burn to.
The rhythm of the song was irresistible. Risa found herself grinning at it. Several of the spectators were already humming along with the simple melody. “He’s good!” she told Milo in surprise.
“There’s more.”
She stood ’neath the moons. They cast down soft rays.
A goddess in white, yes, I thought her.
“Yet no harm will come here. Oh gods, hear my vow!”
Cried Risa, the glass maker’s daughter.
Her toe stopped tapping at the sound of her own name. Never before had she heard it used in public, much less in song. Even in the late morning sun, she could feel a prickle of chilly premonition across her shoulders. When she turned her head to look at Milo, he was smiling at his friend and bobbing along with the music. It took a few moments before the confused jumble of bells and coins and tambour and singing and lute resolved again into a more comprehensible muddle:
A rumbling shook poor Portello that eve.
Foundations were rocking like thunder.
And Risa’s poor cousin and servants took fright:
The girl spoke as they looked on with wonder.
“I’ll not let my caza see such dire fate!”
And just as her father had taught her,
She took up the horn. Everyone marveled
At the brave, fearless glass maker’s daughter.
A blossoming to
ne deafened all who stood round
As she blew in the marvelous horn.
“Cazarra am I!” she cried loud, without fear,
And she looked at her cousin with scorn.
The caza she saved, that night of dark fate—
Every brick stayed firm in its mortar.
And the masses sang loud, round the beautiful maid,
This tale of the glass maker’s daughter!
There could have been no more perfect a setting for his performance than the background of ruined Portello. The crowd burst into rapturous applause at the end of the song. Ricard bowed several times with a flourish, then placed his lute on the ground and leapt to help Tania retrieve the coins that were still being tossed from the back of the crowd. Milo let out a whistle that pierced through the clamor.
“Milo! Risa!” Tania jumped into the air at the sight of them. When she turned to point them out to Ricard, however, Risa froze, horrified. She did not want to see Ricard, nor him to see her. It was her life he’d been singing about—and it was not his for the plundering.
It was too late. Ricard’s face lit up; he began to push through the crowd in their direction. He held up his hands. “Quiet! Quiet!” he said. “I, Ricard, the Poet of the People, am but a simple recorder of events. It is my great pleasure to introduce to you all my muse, my goddess upon earth … ”
“Oh, gods,” Risa breathed.
“ … and oh, I would wish her to be more than that, if I dared court her.” The crowd rippled with amused laughter. Milo’s lips pressed together tightly; for a moment Risa thought she was looking in a mirror, as his expression seemed to reflect the impotent anger she herself felt. “It is my great honor to present the glass maker’s daughter, Risa, Cazarra of Divetri!”
