The Golden City

by J. Kathleen Cheney

  What was she thinking, coming to a man’s bedroom in the dark of the night?

  “I need to show you something,” she blurted out before he mistook her intention. She held out the journal, opened to the diagram.

  He took it, eyes fixed on the page. “They’ve altered the verse.”

  “What?” She leaned closer to peer down at it over his arm.

  He seemed to shake himself. He stepped out into the hallway, closed the door to his bedroom, and went and turned up the one light in the hall. “Come here.”

  Oriana joined him under the hissing light fixture.

  “That last word in the Latin verse,” he said, pointing. “See? It should be Domino, but they’ve exchanged that for regi.”

  “King?” she guessed.

  “Exactly,” he said. “That’s probably what gave Espinoza the idea that they wanted to make Prince Fabricio into a king. I guess the writing in the next ring is magic runes, but what in Hades’ name is this business in the center?”

  Oriana flicked her braid back over her shoulder. “I hoped you might know.”

  The center symbol was a grouping of perpendicular lines forming two Ts, one large, one small, with the tops parallel to each other. Between those were two parallel lines, one short, one long. And under one arm of one T there was a dash—or rather a minus sign, she suspected, since the other T had a plus sign under one arm. She pointed at that. “Could it be . . . mathematical?”

  He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it just a bit. “I don’t know. But I know someone who would. Do you mind if I take this? I’ll show it to him first thing in the morning.”

  As if the journal is mine. “Not at all, sir.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell. It was one thing for her to sneak out to report to Heriberto at night if needed. It was another thing to wake Duilio Ferreira in the middle of what must have been a sound sleep. He was a gentleman, and gentlemen lived by very specific codes of conduct. She’d had to study those rules before coming to Portugal. Meeting in the middle of the night with a woman not his wife—in his nightclothes—broke several of them. That was why he’d closed his bedroom door; he didn’t want to invite impropriety.

  She glanced down and noted that his feet were bare. They were nice feet. His dressing gown covered him to midcalf, and given that she’d seen him shirtless a few days before, she’d now seen almost as much of him as would be bared should he wear a pareu—little more than a length of fabric wrapped about the waist—as most of the males on her islands did. She could almost picture him wearing one.

  She felt her cheeks growing warm. What a strange thought! She wasn’t certain why that image had popped into her head.

  “I couldn’t find my slippers,” he said in an apologetic voice, perhaps believing she was offended. “My valet has hidden them from me.”

  Oriana almost laughed then, at the image of Duilio Ferreira henpecked by his own valet. Of course, the elderly Frenchman was very snooty. She drew up the hem of her borrowed dressing gown to show her own silver feet. “I cannot reproach you, sir. By the way, are they black felt slippers, rather worn ones, with gold embroidery on the uppers?”

  That got Mr. Ferreira’s attention. “Yes.”

  “They’re atop the high cabinet in the servants’ workroom,” she told him. “I wondered what those were doing there. I’ll see if I can retrieve them for you tomorrow.”

  He took one of her hands in his own and lifted it to kiss her bare fingers. “I would be forever indebted to you.”

  It was done in a joking tone, so she knew better than to read anything into that gesture. He let go of her hand with acceptable readiness and stepped back, the journal tucked under one arm. “Thank you, Miss Paredes.”

  She headed toward her own room but turned back. Duilio Ferreira stood at his own door, apparently watching to be certain she made it there safely. Oriana took a deep breath. “The woman called Maria Melo? She’s a sereia. A spy, but much higher in rank than I . . . or my master, evidently.”

  His lips pressed together as if he recognized the seriousness of what she’d just done. She’d exposed a member of her own government. She’d committed treason, although no one would ever learn of it. Duilio Ferreira would never betray her confidence. And she felt worlds better for having alerted someone else, someone other than Heriberto. It was as if a weight had lifted from her shoulders.

  “Do you think she’s the woman you saw at the church?” he asked after a moment.

  Oriana shrugged. “I don’t know, but I can’t imagine why anyone else would be watching me. My master pointed out that she can’t afford to let the Open Hand recapture me. That would endanger her mission.”

  Mr. Ferreira licked his lips. “Do you understand, then, why I had Gustavo follow you?”

  Yes, he’d worked out that possibility—that she was in peril from both the Open Hand and the saboteur—when it hadn’t even occurred to her. She was clearly in far deeper waters than she knew how to handle. She nodded. “I hadn’t thought it through.”

  “So I’m forgiven for my interference?”

  As if he needed her forgiveness. “Of course, sir.” With a nod, she made her way to her bedroom and opened the door.

  “Miss Paredes?” he called after her. “Is that even your name?”

  Oriana paused on the threshold of her bedroom, bemused. Isabel had never thought to ask that question. After less than a week Duilio Ferreira seemed more of a friend than Isabel had ever been. “Yes, it is.”

  He smiled. “Good night, then, Miss Paredes.”

  “Good night, sir.” She went inside her room and closed the door.

  He’d said once he would like to visit her people’s islands. Out of curiosity, that was all he’d meant. As a tourist. But it would be interesting to see how he adapted to her people’s ways. Of any human man she’d met so far, he was the one most likely to be able to pull it off.

  CHAPTER 27

  SATURDAY, 4 OCTOBER 1902

  Duilio left the house before breakfast with the journal tucked under his arm. He caught a tram heading toward the parish of Massarelos and got off in time to head down Campo Alegre Street toward the Tavares boatyard. When Joaquim’s father had left the sea to pursue boatbuilding, Joaquim hadn’t chosen to enter the nascent family business, but his younger brother, Cristiano, had. Now twenty and just returned that summer from the university in Coimbra, Cristiano possessed a genius for engineering and mathematics that Duilio could only admire.

  Through the large open doors on the side, he entered the shop where the smaller boats were constructed and was immediately surrounded by the aroma of fresh-sawn wood and resins mixed with a hint of cigarette smoke. Several workmen were currently assembling the ribs of a smallish boat, no more than thirty feet long. It was, to Duilio’s untrained eye, another of Cristiano’s fascinating experimental designs. Duilio spotted Joaquim’s younger brother standing above the pit where a boat was being assembled and called out his name. “Cristiano!”

  The young man grinned widely and came around the pit to embrace Duilio. He resembled Joaquim very little, having a more angular face, like their father’s. “Cousin, it’s been too long. How is your mother?”

  “She’s well,” Duilio assured him, “although not changed from the last time you saw her.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Frowning, Cristiano waved at the workmen to continue their tasks and then drew Duilio to one side toward the office. “I haven’t seen Joaquim in weeks. Tell him he needs to come for dinner.”

  “I’ll nag him,” Duilio promised. “Although I must admit now that I’ve come here for reasons other than social, to drag you into our investigation.”

  Cristiano opened the office door and gestured for Duilio to go in. A brown-haired English girl wearing dainty spectacles and an expensive tweed suit sat at one of the half-dozen wide drafting desks, a pencil behind one ear, scowling down at the page in front of her. Miss Atkinson was a scion of one of the British wine-trading families over on the Gaia
shore, Duilio recalled, who’d come to work for the Tavares firm after leaving the university at Coimbra. She’d been the very first woman to study mathematics there. Although a couple of years older than Cristiano, her petite size made her seem younger.

  Cristiano shut the office door. “Is this about the underwater houses?”

  “Good guess,” Duilio said, glad he didn’t have to explain.

  “Joaquim mentioned the investigation last time I saw him. Many of the same principles as submersible crafts or submarines,” the young man said, “and I’ve been studying those. So, how can I help?”

  One of the nice things about Cristiano: he didn’t waste time. Duilio opened the journal, searching for the page that held the diagram in question. “My question is actually mathematical.”

  “Miss Atkinson’s grasp is better than mine.” Cristiano gestured for the English girl to join them.

  As Duilio hunted for the right page, Miss Atkinson rose and nearly tripped when her skirt was apparently caught under the leg of the stool. She jerked it free with one hand and came to join them, murmuring imprecations under her breath.

  “According to this,” Duilio told them, “the houses have walls of cork, thinly covered with wood, which is why they’re still floating despite filling with water.”

  “I told you those buoyancy charms were meaningless,” Cristiano said a bit smugly.

  “I recall.” Duilio finally located the page near the back and stuck on a finger to hold the place. “This is secret, so you can’t say anything about it to anyone.”

  The girl nodded dutifully, and Cristiano did likewise.

  Duilio opened it out to the diagram. “Is this symbol in the middle something mathematical? Some bizarre formula? It has a plus sign in it.”

  Cristiano and the girl exchanged a glance that appeared to condemn Duilio’s ignorance. “No, sir,” she said, “that’s not mathematical.”

  “It’s more my field,” Cristiano offered. “Electrochemistry. That’s a schematic for a pile.”

  “A pile?”

  “A voltaic pile,” Cristiano said, “although it might mean a different form. The symbols aren’t standardized across Europe.” At Duilio’s blank look, he continued. “It’s a form of battery, a way to convert chemical energy to electrical energy using two disparate metals, usually silver and zinc, with saltwater as an electrolyte—”

  Duilio held up his hand. “Wait. Chemical energy converts to electrical energy?”

  “Yes,” Cristiano said patiently. “The two elements in each cell . . .”

  “You’re just going to say more words I don’t understand. Let’s go back. This is a symbol for a battery. Two parts linked by seawater, right?”

  “That’s one form,” Cristiano said. “It depends on your needs. Dry-cell batteries—”

  Duilio held up his hand again. “What if it converted something like life force?”

  Miss Atkinson’s brows rose. She cast a glance at Cristiano that plainly said Duilio was losing his grip on sanity. At his nod, she went back to her desk. Cristiano waited until she was out of earshot. “Are you serious?”

  “Sadly enough, I am,” Duilio said quietly. “We think there’s one of these in each house. The middle ring is some form of necromancy. When the person touching the ring dies, their half of the diagram lights up. Two people die, it all lights up.”

  Cristiano gazed at him disbelievingly. “This is part of those houses? Sitting underwater? Most of them have been there for months, Duilio. Any electrical charge would have dissipated long ago.”

  “But this is magic, not electricity, so the rules wouldn’t be the same, would they?”

  “I have no idea,” Cristiano said dryly. “We don’t study magic at Coimbra.”

  Duilio closed his eyes, trying to figure out what was important here. “Each house had two people in it. Two elements in a cell, you said. So how many cells would they need to do something? If it were electricity, I mean.”

  “Just one,” Cristiano said. “But more cells stacked together increase their power.”

  “How many cells would you need if you were planning something big? If you already have twenty-six.”

  Cristiano’s lips pursed. “I guess for style’s sake I would use thirty-two.”

  Hadn’t Oriana's elderly friend said that the choice of two languages in the spell was a matter of style rather than content? “Why?”

  Cristiano shrugged. “Twenty-eight is your next perfect number, thirty-four is your next magic number, but I would lean toward thirty-two. It’s a power of two, which works well with current.”

  Duilio didn’t know what he meant by perfect number or magic number, but he did understand powers of two. “One last question. Say one of the cells was broken. Only halfway lit. What would happen then?”

  “That cell would be useless. I would just try to bypass it,” Cristiano said. “It depends on how the cells are wired together, but if each is discrete, as those houses are, one cell should be easy to cut out.”

  “And replaced by another?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “But that wouldn’t be tidy, would it?”

  “No,” Cristiano said. “I would just replace the broken cell . . . or recharge it.”

  Recharge. Which would mean finding Miss Paredes and sticking her back inside. Duilio closed the journal and stuffed it back into a pocket. He wasn’t about to let that happen.

  * * *

  Oriana had enjoyed a leisurely breakfast with Lady Ferreira and had just settled in the front sitting room to read to her when Mr. Ferreira strode in, the leather-bound journal in his hand. He gestured for Oriana to join him at the doorway. She excused herself to the lady, who nodded vaguely, and went to go speak to him.

  “It’s a battery,” he said. “The whole thing is a battery.”

  Oriana glanced back at Lady Ferreira to see if she’d overheard, but the lady’s attention had wandered. “What?”

  “This symbol in the middle is a schematic for a voltaic pile, which takes one sort of energy and converts it to another. But the energy isn’t converted until the connection between the two halves is made by . . .” He closed his eyes. “Damn! I forgot what he called it.”

  “Duilinho, watch your tongue,” his mother said softly from across the room.

  He actually flushed at his mother’s mild rebuke. “My apologies, Miss Paredes. Cristiano was speaking of seawater, although in this case I don’t think that would be it, since we’re dealing with magic and not silver and zinc.”

  Zinc? Hadn’t the Lady said something about silver and gold being used for magic? “I don’t understand.”

  He took a breath and visibly forced himself to slow down. “A battery doesn’t do anything until you connect all the parts and then connect it to . . . a light, for example. What if The City Under the Sea is the same? It’s not doing anything until everything is connected together and there’s something to turn on. The Lady called it a recipient, right?”

  “Yes,” Oriana verified.

  “So the table’s storing the power,” Mr. Ferreira said with a nod. “For now. I guess the plan is to use it all up at once.”

  That made sense in a twisted way. And it would neatly deal with the Lady’s concern about a lack of a recipient. The recipient just hadn’t shown up yet. “Would that be enough power to make the prince into a king?”

  “I don’t know . . .” A knock sounded on the front door, and they both turned to look. Cardenas came bustling down the hallway past them in response. The butler opened the door, and a voice outside said, “I need to speak to Mr. Ferreira immediately.”

  The butler drew himself up to his full height. “May I have your name?”

  “Captain Pinheiro, Special Police.”

  Mr. Ferreira tossed the journal onto the ground and gave Oriana a not so gentle push. When she stumbled back a few steps, he swung the door closed, leaving him in the hallway, where the officer would surely see him.

  What has he done? Heart po
unding, Oriana pressed one ear against the door, hoping to hear what passed in the hallway. There wasn’t any yelling going on, nor could she hear the sound of a scuffle. She could make out low voices talking, Mr. Ferreira and this newcomer, the officer of the Special Police. She wasn’t going to be able to hear anything specific. She sighed and leaned back against the wall. She would have to hope he could manage the man on his own.

  * * *

  Duilio glared at the officer who stood in his hallway. Pinheiro was alone, a strange choice if he was planning to drag Miss Paredes away by force. The man was near his own height, although heavier. Near his age too, at best guess. “What can I do for you, Captain?”

  “Anjos said it was up to me whether or not I told you, but I figure the best way to get you to trust me,” he began, “is the truth. The seal pelt stolen from your house three years ago? My father doesn’t have it. He never did, but he won’t admit that to you. He knows you—rightfully, I have to point out—blame him for its theft in the first place.”

  Duilio felt as if a fog had abruptly filled his brain. “Your father?”

  The captain shrugged again. “Yes. He told me about the theft only a couple of days ago. Inspector Anjos had questioned me about it because of my relationship to him. In a way this is my fault. When he found out about me he wanted to set things right, so to speak. He intended to have some paperwork stolen from your house, papers that might contain an acknowledgment by his father of his birth. But the man he hired took the pelt as well, intending to sell it to a collector. That collector apparently took the pelt and the paperwork and then killed the man for good measure, all before my father could get his hands on it.”

  Was this the evidence that made Anjos doubt Silva’s culpability? Duilio could see a resemblance in the lines of Pinheiro’s face—the square jaw and wide brow. His eyes were hazel, which he’d not inherited from the Ferreira family, but their shape was familiar.