Wandering Star (The Quintana Trilogy Book 1)

by Michael Wallace

  “Kara didn’t touch it, either. The archivist brought it out in a lead-lined box, and she didn’t go near it.”

  “Ah, then it knows. It senses why it has been retrieved from the vault.” Salvatore leaned back against the balustrade. “This artifact might be more sophisticated than I thought. I’d supposed it to be a relic of the Third Plenty. Could it be from the Second? Never mind that—do you know how to use it?”

  “Me?”

  “Is there someone else here I might be speaking to?” Salvatore said in a peevish tone. “Yes, you, boy. You’ll apply the device to your brain, and I’ll give you the mathematical formulas.”

  “Master, it might not be . . . that is to say, I don’t think it’s entirely safe.”

  “Of course it’s not safe. Why do you think I’m having you do it, and not me? Which would be a greater loss to the Luminoso? A young geometer or the Guardian of Secrets?”

  “You would be the greater loss, of course, but—”

  “And a knowledge of the wanderers is greater than either of us. It is worth the risk to be sure. So go ahead, put the prongs to your head. Think of a complex mathematical calculation first. How about the surface area of a pentagonal cupola. You know that by memory, yes?”

  “Of course. It’s one of the catechisms.”

  “Good. Then think of it and try to relax.”

  Relax? All Thiego could think about was how the urchin girl tried to use the artifact and collapsed with convulsions. He assumed the child had survived, but who knew what lingering effects she suffered? He thought about confessing the incident to Salvatore, but that would only cause Thiego trouble without getting him out of the current predicament.

  He lifted the artifact toward his head, and his scalp tingled as it approached. He paused with the prongs just above his skull and swore he could hear numbers whispering through his mind. He thought of the formula Salvatore had mentioned, and saw the whole formula for the surface area of a pentagonal prism appear as if written in the air.

  A = 1/4 * [ 20 + 5√3 + √5 * ( 145 + 62√5 ) ] * a²

  He instinctively began feeding in edge lengths and calculating areas.

  Salvatore made an impatient sound in his throat, and when Thiego looked at the Guardian of Secrets, he swore he could see the exact mathematical proportion of limbs to trunk, the distance between the man’s eyes (a fraction of a degree below average), and found himself counting eyebrow hairs in multiples of eight, for some unknown reason.

  “Does your head feel warm?” Salvatore asked. “Touch it.”

  Thiego hadn’t remembered actually placing the prongs against his head, thinking to keep them above the scalp until the tingling sensation had passed, but somehow they were in contact, pressed firmly into place.

  He did as the master commanded, using his bare hand to touch his forehead, as if to a feverish child. “Yes, quite hot. But I feel fine.”

  “Then we’d better hurry. I’m going to give you numbers and formulas. Let me know if you need anything repeated. This first number is a numerical constant. One-nine-nine-four-zero-three . . .”

  Thiego needed nothing repeated. He held the numbers effortlessly, one after another. When the time came to run the calculations, he did them quickly in his head, and paused only to return the results of the calculations to Salvatore, who scribbled them onto a sheet of paper and fed them back to him later. Finally, the master stopped, stared at the paper, and leaned back on his heels.

  “Are we finished?” Thiego asked.

  “Yes, take the artifact down before you turn your brain into baked oatmeal.”

  He felt flushed and dizzy as he did what the master commanded. Nevertheless, there was a pang of regret as the sensation faded away. Pure genius had been flowing through his mind as he ran the numbers. He had seen the connection between the formulas, understood them at a deeper level, even pictured the three-dimensional space overhead where the wandering stars would be progressing. There were vast distances up there, and he could instinctively sense how everything fit together.

  Salvatore made an L-shape with his thumb and forefinger and held it up to the sky. He aligned the digits with some celestial object, then rotated his hand a quarter turn counterclockwise. “Two wanderers tonight. The third would be . . . will be . . . ah, by the ancestors. Yes!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Someone was following Iliana, and had been for some time. She wasn’t sure when it had begun. Not before she’d slipped through the back gate from Mercado’s estate and onto Carbón’s property; she was as certain of that as she could be.

  She also thought she’d passed through the Forty without attracting notice, so the unwanted attention must have found her when she moved through the open gates of the upper wall and descended to the Thousand. There, she caught her first impression that she was being watched.

  It began with a shifting shadow against a wall, a glimpse of movement from the corner of her eye that was gone when she turned to look.

  Iliana joined a group of revelers, who were singing and drinking and eating steam buns filled with spicy sausage. She allowed a pair of young men to drag her into a house party, then followed them out to one of the overlooks of the Rift when the fireworks started up again. She let one of them kiss her, and only moved away when his hand strayed to her breast.

  As the crowd grew, she slipped away. Down a dark alley, practically running, into another square, then into another house party and out the back door. She reached the lower wall, climbed swiftly to the wall walk, and flattened against one of the towers, staying hidden in shadow. There she stood watching the stairways to the wall walk until she was satisfied that there was no pursuit.

  A moment later she’d reached the tower gate. She drew back her cloak and fumbled in her pocket for the large brass keys given to her by the watchman and slipped one of them into the padlock, but it was the wrong key, so she tried the other, and it turned the tumblers. The padlock popped open with a creak, and then the gate itself gave a horrible screech as it opened.

  Nice. You’d think they’d oil the hinges if they used this gate to slip into the lower terraces unawares. On a normal night, that screech would have awakened half the dumbre. Thankfully, this night was anything but normal, and the sounds of drunken revelry were audible even here.

  She slipped into the tower, closed the gate and the lock, and waited in the darkness. This was one last chance for her pursuer—if he were still out there—to show himself. If he didn’t, she was in the clear.

  Who had been following her? Had to be a cabalist or a thief. Nobody else would have motive tonight. If a cabalist, he must have spotted her leaving Mercado’s party, and somehow she’d missed the pursuit at first.

  Better a thief. Someone who’d spotted her, maybe bumped her in the crowd and felt that she had a full purse tied to her belt beneath the cloak, then set about to relieve her of it. The purse was still there, still heavy with coin, so if that was his motive, he’d failed. In any event, whoever had followed her, thief or cabalist, was gone.

  She was almost convinced that the whole thing was her imagination when a face pressed up against the metal grill. Heavy breathing. Iliana jerked back.

  “Who is it?” she said, voice coming out in a squeak.

  “Ili, is that you?”

  Fear bloomed into anger. It was her brother.

  “Rafael! You idiot. I thought I was going to have my throat cut.”

  “Sorry about that. Wasn’t my intention.” He rattled the door to the tower. “Here, let me in.”

  “And how did you follow me, anyway?”

  “Huh?”

  “I went through all that business in the Thousand. In and out of houses, watching. Never saw anything more than a shadow. You’re good. Where did you learn that?”

  “I have no idea what you’re going on about. I’ve been here for the past two hours, waiting for you to show. Didn’t want to be seen, so I hid behind one of the merlons. I heard the door screech open and came around.”


  “You didn’t follow me through the Thousand?”

  “No, of course not. Come on, let me in.”

  So it had been someone else, unless Rafael was lying, but she didn’t think so. He was too painfully earnest for that, and whoever it was had been good. Quiet and sly. Not like her brother, who’d shoved his face up to the grill without even making sure it was she who’d entered.

  “Why are you here?” Iliana asked.

  “What do you mean, why am I here? I can’t let my favorite sister go down among the dumbre without protection.”

  “Did someone put you up to it?”

  “Nobody put me up to it. Come on, Ili, let me in.”

  She didn’t know if he was telling the truth, or if he’d let slip her plans, and his wife had insisted Rafael follow. Or maybe Iliana’s parents; they would worry, too, if they knew. But there was genuine concern in his voice, and she softened.

  “Rafi, I’m going down alone, and that’s that.”

  “No, you’re not. And I don’t care if it’s the Festival of Fools or not—it’s dangerous down there.” He rattled the gate and clanked the padlock. “Open up!”

  “Will you shut up,” she hissed. “For God’s sake, stop it. I was followed through the Thousand, and for all I know, they’re still looking for me. If you want to help, stay here and keep watch.”

  “I could do more good guarding your back.” Rafael sounded more uncertain. “What do you mean you were followed?”

  “No, you wouldn’t. Now go back to wherever it was you were waiting and keep watch. Look for anyone suspicious. Keep your pistol at hand, just in case.”

  “Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Rafael disappeared. She waited to make sure he wouldn’t reappear with one last plea. Her fool brother was far too loud. How did he rise to be captain of the upper watch, anyway? It wasn’t through subtlety, that’s for damn sure.

  A breeze moaned up the tower staircase. It was warm, but that didn’t stop the prickle on the back of her neck as her ears pricked up at an unexpected sound from below. She’d been here only yesterday, on the outer side of the gate, and she’d heard something then, too. Like a leather boot scraping stone.

  More noise from the depths of the tower, this time a low thump. Iliana froze, heart pounding. But as the thump repeated, she realized she was just hearing distant fireworks, caught and echoed in the hollow spaces within the tower. She gave a final glance through the metal grill to the wall walk to make sure her brother was gone, then began to pick her way down the tower stairs.

  It was dark and damp smelling, and she had to feel for every step, one hand on the wall for guidance, the other outstretched and groping at the darkness. This was ostensibly to feel for low ceilings so she wouldn’t brain herself. But she found herself expecting to touch flesh. A face, someone lurking there, waiting for her.

  Her mouth was dry, her stomach fluttering, and her heart pounding by the time she’d descended a dozen steps.

  Get hold of yourself. There’s nobody in here.

  Still, it was with relief that she reached the bottom, where a patch of gray light entered from a grated window high on a wooden door reinforced with bands of iron and fell onto the floor of the small entry room. She got the key right on the first attempt this time, and was soon stepping gratefully into the night air.

  Immediately, a stench hit her like a wave, and she clamped a hand over her mouth. To the left was a fat pipe that descended into the alleyway, held to the wall by rusting iron brackets, some of them hanging loose. It carried effluvia from the upper terraces.

  The pipe wasn’t leaking, as the guard had claimed, but it did empty into a cistern that appeared to be buried beneath her feet. Some sort of system for collecting solids and draining out liquids. Another cistern opened farther along, with a ladder dropping into it and a wheelbarrow on the ground above heaped high with night soil.

  The stench was unbelievable. Like a slap, it hit her so hard. She couldn’t imagine what sort of men would shovel out that filth for a few coins. Whoever they were, the evening festivities had called a halt to their labors, and they’d left the stinking evidence of it open to the elements.

  Iliana lowered her hand tentatively from her mouth and nose when she reached the far side of the alley. Better here, but not great. There was a smell like chicken entrails, and urine from men peeing in the street, but at least she didn’t feel like she was going to swoon.

  Iliana found herself on a rope bridge, crossing between one rickety wooden building and another. There were people in the buildings, leaning out windows, holding tankards, staring across the Rift to watch the fireworks. Candlelight flickered from pane-less windows.

  A rocket went off overhead, briefly illuminating the Great Span, which stretched above Iliana and to the right. The people cheered. Giant bats filled the air, darting back and forth in the night, but they retreated from the light of the rockets, and when another went off, they vanished entirely.

  The view soon collapsed in on itself, until she couldn’t even see the stars. It was a maze down here, with buildings clinging to every available spot on the cliff, and a makeshift system of wooden walkways, steps carved into the cliff face with ropes for railings, and even buckets on pulleys to hoist people across the numerous gaps. Carbón had told her to find any old walkway and follow it down.

  All walkways eventually reach the Wood Road. It girdles the lower terraces.

  Iliana continued, doubtful, sure she was lost. Getting back up should be easy enough—follow the thin trail of gaslights that led up to the wall, making sure she was climbing whenever given the chance—but finding Santi’s house seemed impossible.

  And then she stumbled onto the road. A platform jutted from the hillside, planks heaving out over the blackness below. Fifteen feet wide, and packed with people. Men hauling handcarts, women with baskets on their shoulders. Children, dressed in little more than rags, selling rounds of flatbread.

  And revelers. People playing pipes, men and women with interlocked arms, singing, passing bottles and food. They jeered at those who were working, accosted individuals and tried to press them into their parade.

  Iliana got caught up in one group. Someone shoved a bottle to her lips, and she didn’t dare refuse, in part because she was afraid they’d hear her accent and know she was from up top. A woman carrying a lamp in one hand swung an arm around her waist, then groped Iliana’s breast. Her breath was boozy, her words slurred.

  “Come along, lovey, don’t be shy. We’ve got something going up at the Red House. Come with us.” The woman held up the lamp to look in Iliana’s face. “What’s the matter, can’t talk? Are you . . . ah, you’re a slummer, ain’t you?” She raised her voice. “We got a Thousand girl right here! Someone come down to see how we do it in the dumbre.”

  This brought cheers and jeers.

  The Thousand? Hardly. She was from the Forty. And if they knew the truth, they’d be all over her.

  Iliana fended off the drinks, the well-wishes, the gropes, the pleas for kisses from men and women alike, and pulled away. She fought her way back into the crowd. They were too drunk and happy to pursue her, thank God.

  The noise and smells and crowds of the lower terraces left her stunned, like a blow to the head. So many people, so much movement and chaos flowing around her. Some of these people had been born in the upper terraces, had once enjoyed the security of the Thousand, or even the wealth and leisure of the Forty or beyond.

  And that was a terrifying thought. Her own financial situation was precarious, entirely dependent on her position with Lord Carbón. A narrow walkway was all that separated her from the lower terraces. A stumble, and down she went. Money gone, status destroyed, privilege nonexistent. And once you fell down, you never climbed back up.

  That jolted Iliana from her stupor. She pushed her way clear and continued on the Wood Road as it hooked around the lower reaches of the city.

  The woman had mentioned the Red House. That was where Santi liv
ed, which meant she was on the right track. The mob had slowed as fresh rockets burst over the Great Rift, and when the flashes of light and echoing booms stopped, they didn’t seem anxious to continue, but clogged the middle of the wooden road. Iliana pressed to the edge to get around them. And here she made another discovery.

  The Wood Road had no railing, nothing to keep someone from stumbling over and falling to their death. Worse still, the impatient pressed right out to the edge, and sometimes, she swore, leaned out to hook a leg around the edge of the crowd, dangling right over the void to get ahead. Iliana didn’t dare, and so she struggled up next to a man pulling a cart laden with turnips and managed to squeeze between him and a woman hawking sweets on the inside.

  “Watch it, ya dumb twat,” the turnip man said. “Yer gonna force me right over the edge.”

  “Sorry. Excuse me.”

  There, ahead, the Red House, a five-story monstrosity seemingly floating in the air above the inner lip of the Wood Road. Really, it was propped with stilts on an improbably small spit of stone that jutted from the cliff face. Men stood on its balconies, sending kites into the brisk air, each one dangling hooks baited with melon and strawberry. Airfishers, hunting bats.

  Light gleamed from open windows, and smoke leaked from a series of wobbly, drunk-looking chimneys. All of it was painted a faded, flaking red, from the walls to the balconies to the roof. Other, smaller buildings above and on either side seemed to cling to it for support, as if lacking rocky outcrops of their own, and it made a single mass that must house hundreds of people.

  Someday one of those chimneys would catch fire, or maybe heavy rains and rotten supports would send the whole thing crashing through the Wood Road and tumbling down the hillside. And all those people would die.

  Rope bridges connected the Red House and its cluster of tributaries to the Wood Road in what looked like a ramshackle copy of the Great Span and its towers, and she counted to the fourth bridge. Go up three flights, then find the second door on the right, Carbón had told her.