The Seat of Magic
Page 38
That had been their last job that night, to transport the mutilated body of Marta Duarte to the Brothers of Mercy. Serpa had believed the girl’s body should be preserved so that the Medical-Surgical School could study her at length. Instead, the girl had been given a proper burial in a pauper’s grave. Duilio had no regrets over that piece of lawbreaking, and neither did Joaquim. Unfortunately, the police were not as sanguine about it.
The infante caught Joaquim’s eye. “There was a hearing scheduled for Monday about your possible involvement in that, Inspector Tavares, but after a discussion with Police Commissioner Ribandar, that hearing has been canceled. I do have some influence.”
Joaquim shifted uncomfortably. “Thank you.”
Duilio wasn’t sure if Joaquim’s discomfort stemmed from disregarding the proper channels of justice, or being overtly singled out by the infante. Probably both.
The infante acknowledged his thanks with a nod. “There’s also the matter of the Special Police. Since the ban will be lifted, their previous directives are being . . . modernized. I have no use for a body meant to hunt nonhumans. I would be better served by a body helping manage discontent between the different races if we are all to be back in the same city. I think, Inspector, that you know all the right candidates to replace recalcitrant members of that force.”
“I could make several suggestions,” Joaquim said hesitantly.
The infante sighed heavily. “I meant that you should head up such a body, Inspector.”
Joaquim shook his head. “No, sir. I’m not an administrator. Commissioner Burgos of the Special Police is the man for that position. He’s inclined to support your mandate and is already familiar with those officers. But I would be pleased to work for him, should the opportunity arise.”
“I understand.” The infante stopped walking and turned to Duilio and Oriana. “I spoke frequently with your uncle, Miss Paredes. My understanding is that those who are exiled from your people’s islands are no longer citizens. You are dead to them, and essentially have no home. Is that correct?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“One of the things I intend to do is to offer citizenship to nonhumans who’ve been living in the Golden City. They would become Portuguese citizens. I was hoping you would consider accepting, Miss Paredes.” He held up one hand. “It would help to have someone come forward and accept citizenship visibly, to prove it’s not a trap.”
“I understand, Your Highness,” Oriana said.
“In addition, Prince Dinis and I mean to jointly reestablish diplomatic ties with your people’s islands. We will need to appoint an ambassador to take up residence there. We don’t have anyone trained for that position, I must admit, but we intend to appoint someone for a temporary term, perhaps a year or two. I had hoped that you might be willing to accept that position.”
“Me?” Oriana asked blankly.
“If you were willing to accept Portuguese citizenship, of course,” the infante said. “I’m aware that your people are ruled by the women and would be more responsive to a female ambassador. And would you not be a better interpreter for us of the situation there? I, of course, expect Duilio to accompany you, as your legal advisor.”
Duilio was taken aback by the offer. “Your Highness?”
“Alessio told me long ago that diplomacy might be your true calling,” he said with a rueful smile. “Your relationship with Miss Paredes affords me a rare opportunity. You understand our laws and the political situations between the various countries of Europe. Miss Paredes understands the customs and beliefs of the sereia. And both of you know there’s a threat looming over the relationship between our peoples. I cannot think of a better choice.”
Duilio glanced over at Oriana, whose eyebrows rose expectantly, then turned back to the infante. “May we have time to consider, Your Highness?”
Bastião strode out of the door of the new part of the palace and crossed the patio to the infante’s side. He leaned close and whispered into the infante’s ear. The infante’s lips pressed in a thin line and he nodded to the guard. Bastião walked on toward the clock tower.
The infante sighed and said, “Unfortunately, I have to leave you now. Please give your mother my apologies, Duilio. Bastião will be back in a moment to escort you to the gates.”
His mother had invited the infante to the dinner party that would follow their wedding in a week. The infante had already sent a note excusing himself, but Duilio thought his mother would appreciate the personal apology.
After one more regal inclination of his head, the infante turned and walked back into the palace. The bell in the clock tower began to ring, a slow knell. Duilio drew out his watch to check the time. It wasn’t the hour, or the half hour. Then another bell began to toll—the cathedral’s. And soon the faint sounds of other church bells joined in. Prince Fabricio was dead.
From the palace’s patios, Duilio gazed out over the city’s red-tiled rooftops. Tomorrow the city’s men would don black armbands as was proper, but this was still a day of celebration. “Long live Prince Raimundo,” he said softly.
In the Golden City, everything was about to change.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J. Kathleen Cheney is a former mathematics teacher who has taught classes ranging from seventh grade to calculus, with a brief stint as a gifted and talented specialist. Her short fiction has been published in such venues as Fantasy Magazine and Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and her novella Iron Shoes was a Nebula Finalist in 2010.