Elsa sighed. “At least there are plenty of papers to look through—I wasn’t sure he was the type to save his correspondence. I’ll start with the desk.” Leo had already begun opening cupboards and drawers to investigate, so she just said, “Porzia, do you want to take the bookcase?”
It felt strange to sit in the familiar plushness of Montaigne’s leather-upholstered desk chair when she knew the original one was, in fact, reduced to ashes. She sorted through the loose papers scribbled with notes, then checked all the books on the desk. A few were scriptological references, but two of them appeared to be journals. One was older and filled to the very last page, the other more recent with a fair number of blank pages left in the back. Elsa opened the more recent journal and began to read.
Some time later, Porzia threw a book down on the floor, startling everyone. “Ugh! This is pointless. I’ve done two shelves, and all I’ve learned is Montaigne had a fondness for the trees and shrubs of southern Europe.”
“Not much here, either,” said Elsa, flipping to the next page as she scanned the journal. “He goes on at length about someone named Garibaldi, who’s obsessed with uniting the four states of Italy. Does that mean anything to anyone?” Anxiety roiled in her gut, and the longer she sat there, the more poignantly she felt the need to jump up and do something, anything, to find her mother.
“Garibaldi?” Porzia came around to read over her shoulder. “He must mean Giuseppe Garibaldi, the general. But he died in 1860.” To Elsa, she explained, “Garibaldi was a highly respected general for our king—the Sardinian king—and a proponent of Italian unification. He sailed to Sicilia to support a popular uprising against the Kingdom of Two Sicilies, but his ships were set afire by Archimedes mirrors before they could land in Marsala.”
“Archimedes mirrors?” Elsa asked.
“Giant convex mirrors designed to reflect and focus sunlight. They were first conceived of by Archimedes—the same man for whom the Order is named—though they weren’t actually built until this century.”
“So … a pazzerellone built them. For the Sicilian government. To use as a weapon.” Elsa was beginning to understand why the Order worked so hard to keep pazzerellones out of politics. She had never considered using her talents for destruction instead of creation, and the thought chilled her.
“I think we can rule out Garibaldi as a suspect,” Faraz said dryly, “on account of immolation at sea.”
Elsa scowled. “So we have nothing?”
Porzia reached over her to flip the page. “What if this isn’t so much about the man as the ideology? Maybe Montaigne got involved with the unification movement somehow, and those people were the ones who killed him and abducted Jumi. The Carbonari, perhaps?”
Leo, who was crouched in front of the bottom shelf of the display case, stood suddenly. “The Carbonari aren’t terrorists. They don’t kidnap and murder pazzerellones.”
Porzia cast him a skeptical look. “Whatever you may like to believe, violence is a tool in their kit.”
“The Carbonari have an understanding with the Order of Archimedes,” he insisted. “Each group stays out of the other’s way. They can’t have been involved—it would violate their agreement.”
Elsa tilted her head back, exasperated. “Would anyone care to explain who the Carbonari are?”
“A secret society of revolutionaries.” At this Porzia snorted, but Leo persistently added, “They’re dedicated to achieving Italian unification and promoting the interests of the people.”
Elsa looked at him sharply, suspicious of the ease with which he rattled off the explanation. She knew that was how she sounded when she was parroting some shred of wisdom taught to her by Jumi. Did Leo have some personal connection to these Carbonari? But all she said was “I see.”
Porzia said, “The Kingdom of the Two Sicilies would call the Carbonari terrorists.”
“A king’s ‘terrorist’ is the common man’s freedom fighter,” Leo argued. “The Carbonari fight to give Italians the power to rule themselves—not the French or the Austrians or the Church.”
Elsa spoke up. “I thought the Order eschews politics. Why would they have any kind of agreement with a bunch of political radicals?”
In unison, Porzia and Leo said, “Nobody likes the Papal States.”
Elsa blinked, still confused, so Faraz explained, “The Catholic Church runs the government of Roma and the surrounding regions, called the Papal States. They have a nasty history of beheading pazzerellones for so-called heresy. To them our madness is unnatural.”
Leo folded his arms. “And if the Order would fight with the Carbonari, instead of merely stepping out of their way, we could put an end to the rule of anti-intellectual tyrants once and for all and rule ourselves.”
Porzia rolled her eyes in a fashion that suggested this was a well-worn argument. “And then we can spend the rest of our lives fighting wars instead of actually doing science.”
Faraz held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture before Leo could respond. “We don’t even know yet if the Carbonari are involved.”
“Hold on,” said Elsa. She had flipped ahead to a later journal entry. “Listen to this: ‘I am unsure it is wise to give Garibaldi what he wants.’”
Leo leaned in. “Does it say what he wants?”
Elsa read on for a bit, then reported, “No, Montaigne keeps it fairly vague. But the entry is dated March 3, 1891—that’s not even two months past!”
Porzia said, “The timing is suspicious.” She thought for a moment, then planted her hands on her hips and took on a commanding tone eerily similar to Signora Pisano’s. “Faraz, could you send a wireless to the Order’s archives department, asking if there are any living Garibaldis registered with the Order? It’s a risk contacting them, but we need their information, so make up an excuse—tell them we’ve found a lost book or something inscribed with the name Garibaldi.”
“Right,” said Faraz.
“I’ll work through Casa’s library and see what I can dig up on Montaigne, the Carbonari, and anyone named Garibaldi. Elsa, why don’t you bring Montaigne’s journals back with us and see if we’ve missed any important details.”
Elsa’s first instinct was to snap at Porzia’s bossiness, but she clamped down on that urge. She didn’t understand this world, or its politics, or how best to acquire information on a potential abductor. So if letting Porzia take charge was the price she had to pay to find her mother, she would pay it and be grateful.
“What, no task for me?” said Leo dryly.
Porzia raised her eyebrows at him. “When we need something skewered with a rapier, I’ll let you know.”
Porzia picked up the portal device and opened the way back to the library. Elsa quickly stacked up the journals and loose papers, her heart hammering against her ribs. At last she had a direction in which to investigate. That infuriatingly ambiguous Oracle may have refused to provide her with any specifics, but now she had a concrete detail to sink her claws into. Now she had a name: Garibaldi. She hoped that would be enough.
* * *
Leo leaned in the doorway of the tiny room at the top of the house where the wireless transmitter lived. It was more of a closet, really, with a single wooden chair and a desk holding the teleprinter input—two rows of little piano keys with the alphabet written across them. Behind that was the large cylinder of the induction coil attached to the spark-gap transmitter, with wires snaking up the wall and through the ceiling to the antenna on the roof.
Faraz sat at the desk typing the message, each depressed key triggering a staccato electrical bzzz bz-bzzz. Music to Leo’s ears. Jokingly he said, “Hold on, shouldn’t the mechanist be the one operating the wireless?”
“It’s not as if Porzia asked me to build a Hertzian machine,” Faraz said, pausing as he tapped out the message. “Besides, I’m faster at typing and you know it.”
“Hmph. I admit nothing.” Leo folded his arms but failed to muster even a little annoyance at Faraz, knowing from experience how
impossible it was to stay vexed at him for any length of time. And anyway, Faraz actually was the faster typist.
“Done,” Faraz said, pressing the last key and leaning back to wait dutifully for a reply. “I told them we found a book marked ‘property of Garibaldi’ and wondered who to return it to.”
Leo said, “You know, you needn’t do everything Porzia tells you to.”
“This is her house, Leo, or it will be soon enough.” Faraz threw him an arch look. “At least one of us ought to be a courteous guest, don’t you think?”
Leo suppressed a grin. “I think no such thing.”
“Obviously not.” Faraz raised his eyes to the heavens in a long-suffering expression, but a smile pulled at the corners of his lips. “Frankly, it’s baffling Gia considers you a candidate for inheriting Casa, given how much damage you cause on a regular basis.”
Leo made a face. “Porzia’s not going to marry me—I’m practically her brother.”
“A fact universally understood by everyone except Gia.” Faraz flashed a teasing grin. “She must really be desperate.”
“Thanks a lot.” Leo gave Faraz’s shoulder a good-natured shove.
Together they waited. Anxiety started to set in, and Leo struggled not to fidget. Faraz stared at the roll of ticker tape on which the reply would be printed, but no reply came.
“Huh,” said Leo, trying to hide his unease. “I guess the Order’s too busy to bother checking their receiver.”
“They’re probably waiting for some poor, hapless apprentice to run up the stairs and fetch the message for them,” Faraz replied, but there was a crease between his brows that belied the joking ease of his tone.
“Well, if they’re not in a sharing mood, I suppose we’ll just have to get the information some other way,” Leo said. “How are your robbery skills? Do you think we could break into the archives without getting shot?”
Faraz regarded him with a healthy dose of side-eye. “Proving your worth to Elsa won’t mean much if you get yourself killed in the attempt.”
Leo felt his best friend’s words landing in him like an arrow to the chest. Leo did not care to acknowledge the part of himself that craved approval.
He composed his features and feigned ignorance. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m saying you’re running a bit low on self-preservation instinct, and it’s likely to get you killed,” said Faraz.
“As is the custom of our people,” Leo joked. “Really, Faraz—with all your caution, are you sure you’re a pazzerellone?”
Faraz opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by the Hertzian receiver whirring to life, the metal typeface characters tap-tap-tapping against the ticker tape. Faraz held out a hand to catch the message as the tape unspooled from its roll, and bent his head to read from it.
“‘All materials pertaining to Garibaldi are to be viewed exclusively by the Order.’” He paused, staring at the message. “You’re not going to like the next part: ‘Sending courier to acquire.’”
“What!” Leo said, indignant at the Order’s presumption. “They can’t just steal all our clues! We worked hard to find Montaigne’s journals.”
Faraz raised his eyebrows, mild as ever despite the news. “Apparently we’re not talking about a dead general, after all. They must consider this Garibaldi fellow a serious threat.”
“Thank God for the Order of Archimedes,” Leo grumbled. “Interfering in everyone’s business since 1276 AD.” His well of patience had run dry. He pushed away from the doorframe and strode down the hall.
Faraz called after him, “Where are you going?”
“To my lab, of course. Where else?” Leo’s hands were itching to hold some tools. Perhaps he would repair the training bot Elsa had shot with her revolver when she’d first arrived. Even if he was powerless to solve Elsa’s crisis, he felt an urgent need to fix something.
* * *
Alek de Vries entered the office of Augusto Righi, the current elected head of the Order, and found Filippo already seated across the desk from the man himself. Righi was a portly gentleman with a prominent nose and a dramatic oxbow mustache. He looked close in age to Filippo, making Alek his senior by a decade or more, though Alek did not expect much deference from him; Righi carried with him the full authority of the Order and all the pomposity that went with it.
Filippo looked up, and Alek detected worry in his gaze. “What’s happened?” he said, even before easing himself down into the last empty seat.
Righi leaned forward in his fine leather desk chair. “Tell me, Signor de Vries: when Signorina Elsa arrived at Casa della Pazzia, did she bring anything with her?”
Alek flicked his gaze over to Filippo, wondering where Righi was going with this, but his old friend held his tongue. Reluctantly, Alek said, “Yes, she had a stack of Charles’s books. And a Pascaline mechanical calculator, which is how I learned about her other abilities.”
Righi raised one thick eyebrow. “And you didn’t mention this to the Order why?”
“The house was on fire, she grabbed some books at random … I didn’t expect any of them to have relevance for the Order’s investigation.” This was the reasoning he’d told himself when he left Pisa without the books, but now Alek recognized it for the excuse it was. Even before arriving in Firenze, some part of him was already hedging his bets—leaving Elsa the chance to investigate, in case the Order proved unhelpful. Which, apparently, was exactly what she was doing with the help of Casa’s other wards. He didn’t know whether to rue the day he’d urged her to befriend them, or to be grateful that at least she wasn’t chasing this danger all alone. Really, he had no one to blame but himself.
Righi did not look pleased with his answer. “Well, apparently one of those ‘random’ books contains recent correspondence from Garibaldi.”
Alek felt as if a shard of ice were piercing his heart. He hadn’t heard that name in twenty years, and could have happily gone to his grave without ever hearing it again.
Beside him, Filippo said, “Ricciotti Garibaldi? I’d assumed he’d gotten himself shot in the head by a Papal executioner, or something of the sort.”
Righi pressed his lips together in an expression of grim humor. “Oh come now, Filippo—when have we ever been that lucky?”
Alek swallowed the lump in his throat so he could speak. “You think he’s been in hiding this whole time? Why resurface now? If that is indeed what’s going on.”
“How much do you know of him?” said Righi. “If I recall, you were hiding in Holland the last time Garibaldi confronted the Order.”
Alek did not appreciate Righi’s insinuation of cowardice. He’d run from the acute agony of Massimo’s death, not from his responsibilities to the Order. Still, that was ancient history, so he let it go and said simply, “I was not much involved at the time, no.”
“They say the worst threats always come from within.” Righi’s eyes turned hard with disapproval. “Garibaldi was one of those—a pazzerellone who believed, devoutly, that we’re meant to use our abilities to plot the course of history. Who could not see the dangers of applying science to warcraft—either the dangers to the world, or the dangers to the scientists themselves.”
“Italian unification at any cost,” Filippo added quietly. He shared a weighted glance with Alek.
Alek knew all this already—knew it intimately—but he let Righi speak his piece.
“If Garibaldi makes a play for power and fails, it could be catastrophic for us,” Righi continued. “Widespread loss of intellectual freedom, as governments the world over slap chains on their pazzerellones. It could even cost us the Order.”
Privately, Alek thought the world over was a bit of an exaggeration. The Order served pazzerellones throughout Europe and the Near East, as far south as India even, but it was far from all-powerful. Alek held up his hands. “Hold on, let’s not jump to conclusions. It could be a mere coincidence.”
“Or it could mean Garibaldi’s back,” said Righi. �
��We can’t take that chance, not with evidence of direct communication between him and Charles.”
Alek sat back in his chair. “What exactly are you saying?”
Righi broke eye contact, as if he knew Alek would not like what he had to say next. “I’ve decided to put a hold on the investigation into Jumi’s abduction until we know if and how it relates to Garibaldi. We need to focus the entirety of our resources and efforts on him.”
Alek felt the news land like a punch to the gut. He did not know Righi well—they were barely acquainted—but still it felt as if the Order itself had betrayed him. Filippo was already protesting Righi’s decision in the typical argumentative fashion of the Italians, but Alek himself could find no words. His mouth had gone as dry as a desert.
It was true, Alek had not been here for the final schism, but he remembered the first time Ricciotti Garibaldi pleaded his case to the Order. It must have been 1862, or ’63? (And Alek was usually so good with dates.) In either case, Ricciotti was hardly out of boyhood, no older than Elsa, and full of the hot righteous indignation of youth. He’d lost his father and eldest brother to war, and he sought vengeance against the Kingdom of Two Sicilies—not only for their deaths, but for using pazzerellones to build the weapons that had killed them.
Young Ricciotti wanted to fight fire with fire, mad science with mad science. The Order, of course, said no.
But Massimo’s eyes had lit up at the idea, and later he confessed his interest to Alek in private. Alek still remembered Massimo’s exact words: The kid’s right, you know. If we put our heads together, we could be the ones running this continent instead of living in fear of those who do.
The world-weary old Alek who sat in Righi’s office wanted to shout at the memory, You have to be careful! But there was no way to change the past, and the younger Alek of 1863 had not dissuaded Massimo from that path. He had, in fact, supported Massimo’s pursuit of such ideals.
Massimo met with young Garibaldi in secret. The two of them went to Napoli to change the world, but only one of them ever returned. By the time Garibaldi made his final plea to the Order, Alek had already fled his grief.
Ink, Iron, and Glass Page 14
