by Cate Glass
The Garden House had begun as a single modest residence in Quartiere dell Alba of the Merchant Ring—the Sunrise Quarter, a neighborhood of bankers, cloth merchants, and ship and caravan owners. As the Gallanos family prospered, Sandro’s grandfather bought a number of neighboring houses, joining them to his with covered bridges, underground passages, and graceful colonnades. The whole was likely twice the size of Palazzo Fermi now, yet conveyed the same image of modesty and gracious hospitality it ever had.
“There should be two house guards just inside the street entry gate,” I said, bending over to examine a pot of jewel-colored iris, giving him the opportunity to look. “More than that means the house is on alert. One house archer should be posted at each corner of the main house roof. More than one, or more than one standing post on each of the adjacent roofs, would also be a signal of something brewing.”
Placidio settled his hands at his back and surveyed the street, as if bored with his sister’s preoccupation. “The numbers are as you say, maybe one or two extra on adjacent rooftops. But the archers are roaming, not standing post, and a thick bar is blocking the streetside gate. Maybe precautions for today’s birthday feast?”
“Perhaps. A little extra is not alarming.” Though Sandro had always insisted his guards be discreet. He believed too obvious defenses made him appear weak.
I took Placidio’s arm. We allowed a slow carriage and two parties of horsemen to pass before we ventured the avenue. “They are all house guards, yes? In Gallanos green and yellow?”
“Gate guards in green. Some archers in green; some in scarlet.”
My stomach clenched a bit harder. I leaned close. “Captain di Lucci’s condottieri wear scarlet tabards. If he’s brought in mercenaries, the house is on heightened alert.”
Placidio’s sinewy arm tightened to steel. “The next person you invent for me to play, lady scribe, must have reason to carry a sword.”
“And this time, when we’ve finished playing Vincenzio and Tarenah, when you’re sure it’s safe … be sure to speak my true name as you did last time. I get a bit lost in my playacting.”
There had been no time to try my magic again since we’d visited the Arts Commission. I needed to learn how to keep hold of my own mind—Romy’s mind—so I could shake off that other skin and step back into my own when I was ready to. And if I were to use it very often, surely I’d need to rely on my own judgment, my own experiences, my own knowledge of the world to determine my actions. Though the power to sink so deeply into an impersonation was thrilling, having Tarenah—or a drunkard woman—determining my actions made it all a bit terrifying. When there was time, I’d ask Dumond or Placidio for advice.
Placidio stared at me for a moment. “I’ll do that. But what—?”
The midmorning anthem rang from the city tower.
The avenue cleared. We crossed to the gate and rang the bell.
“Professoré Vincenzio di Guelfi and his sister to see Segnoré di Gallanos,” announced Placidio when a gentleman appeared at the gate. “We have an appointment.”
“Fortune’s benefice, professoré. Damizella. A moment only.”
The gentleman who had answered the gate bell was a gray-haired steward, not the house guard who remained on post just behind him or some condottiere. But straying from Garden House custom, the steward did not welcome us into the small forecourt garden to wait while he dispatched a page for instructions. The gate remained barred. We waited in the street.
I felt exposed. Devoutly wishing I could command the gate be opened as had once been my prerogative, I clutched the heavy bronze under my cloak.
Placidio casually shifted his big body between me and the street. He must have felt the same unease, as he faced outward, pressing his back to mine.
Tucked behind him, I peered through the barred gate into the courtyard garden. The gray-haired steward waited patiently for his instructions at the far end of the gate walk, talking with a second well-armed house guard who wore a captain’s badge. Neither were men I knew.
Another armed man ambled through the garden from the house to join them. To my dismay, his red livery was not the solid scarlet of Lucci’s mercenaries, but the blue-trimmed red of the Fermi.
“Pardon, sir,” I said to the house guard standing just inside the gate, shadowed by the sturdy brick arch. “Can you say how long we must stand out here? My brother has been ill…”
He stepped closer—a young man of something like my own age and Dumond’s general shape and size. His square jaw sported a beard redder than Vashti’s washing could ever produce.
I could not hold a smile. This man I knew very well.
“Excuse the delay, damizella,” he said. “’Tis no slight to you. We’ve firm orders.”
A chill draft hit my back as Placidio stepped away. A glance down the avenue revealed a pair of men-at-arms had emerged from a walkway between two of the joined houses. Red and blue livery. Fermi’s men.
“You, there!” One of them pointed a menacing finger at us. “What’s your name?”
“By whose authority do you challenge me?” Placidio’s question boomed with aristocratic offense, a bit severe for Vincenzio di Guelfi.
“By the authority of the Cantagnan Sestorale on behalf of public order and Segnoré Alessandro di Gallanos, the owner of this property.”
“I am a guest of the Philosophic Academie of Cantagna, have been welcomed by the Sestorale’s Commission on Public Artworks, and have been invited to this house by its master. Yet I am forced to stand idle on a public byway and be questioned by thugs? On what principles do you base your right to interfere with me?”
Placidio blathered at the approaching Fermi soldiers like an experienced Academie debater. I returned my attention to the gate. The red-haired house guard had returned to his post.
“Ssst! Guardsman! Come here. You must open the gate.”
“I’m sorry, but I cannot—”
“We are beset by Fermi ruffians. I don’t trust them. Can you not help us, Cillian?”
He peered through the barred gate, his freckled face crinkled into a puzzle. “As I said, I’ve orders. How is it you know my name?”
“A dear friend of mine who once frequented this house told me that Cillian from barbarian Eide, the fierce, handsome guardsman with the red beard, is actually the dearest of young men. She said you have a fancy for sweet wines, and she used to provide them for you in return for your help to move her chairs or fetch flowers to surprise … her gentleman.”
“Move her chairs … You speak of the Damizella Cata—” His cheeks colored a match with his beard. “We’re forbid to speak her name since she died so sudden. ’Twas such a sorrow. The most beautiful woman I ever saw and so kind. But you were friends with her?”
“I was.”
He tilted his head and peered at me closely. “Indeed, save for your red hair, you’re very like.”
Fermi’s men were but a few steps from Placidio. Placidio bellowed that the Academie would make complaints to the Sestorale about the treatment of traveling academicians. Passersby gathered in the lane.
“Face to the ground, shitheel, or we’ll prick that puffed chest and let out your humors.”
When one of the soldiers pawed at his arm, Placidio shifted a few steps and swept aside the soldier’s hand and his partner’s pike that was lowering into a dangerous position.
“Look who he’s been hiding!” said the red-faced soldier. “What is a philosophist buffoon doing with a fire-haired doxy? I do believe these are the two we were told—”
I almost fell through the gate when Cillian yanked it open behind me and yelled at the Fermi men-at-arms, “Mind your manners, you two. You’re not here to harry il Padroné’s guests!”
Grabbing Placidio’s cloak, I dragged him through the gate after me, still spouting bombast. “By the Twin Sisters, who are these foul-mouthed fellows to lay hands on scholars?”
Cillian slammed the gate in the faces of the Fermi soldiers, who rattled the iron bars.
>
“I must inform my captain and Steward Ventoli,” said Cillian. Then he swallowed hard and whispered sidewise. “Damizella, are you her kin?”
“What have you done, Cillian?” snapped the gray-haired steward, fury written on his face.
Desperate to protect both kind Cillian and our identities, I laid my hand on the young soldier’s cheek and reached for magic. Holding in mind all that I had told him, I whispered the replacement. “It was a righteous deed to protect Damizella di Guelfi and her brother from these Fermi ruffians. You risked all to protect il Padroné’s honor as you are sworn to do. They showed you his invitation, and you could never permit his invited guests to be murdered on his doorstep.”
I snatched my hand away, as the steward, the guard captain, and their companion in Fermi red joined us.
“Your orders were specific,” said the house guard captain.
Cillian stood at attention. “’Twas not righteous to leave il Padroné’s honor or his guests at the mercy of those Fermi ruffians, sir…”
As the young man gave his testimony, I squeezed Placidio’s arm with two sharp bursts. He patted my hand, as any concerned brother might, and laid it on his sleeve. Reassured that he understood, I abandoned Romy and reached for Tarenah.
Our rescuer stood firm in his resolution, offering to assure that we could step no farther than the gate walk until we received il Padroné’s permission. It would be dreadful if his kindness got him in trouble with his superiors.
“Vincenzio,” I said, “we must put in a good word for this noble young soldier. We could have died out there.”
A page boy trotted into the garden. “Steward Ventoli, you are to—”
“—admit my guests at once.”
Segnoré di Gallanos himself followed the page boy into the garden and laid a hand on the child’s shoulder. “You will be well rewarded for informing me of the altercation outside my gate, Page Tito. Come to me this evening at the Hour of Gathering, when the day’s accolades and punishments are handed out. Now off with you.”
The boy scampered away.
I clung to Vincenzio. Dread infused everyone in that garden, save my brother and, perhaps, the red-haired guardsman who had protected us.
Gallanos—no, surely the clouds gathered in his visage named him the one of whom people spoke in whispers. The Shadow Lord strolled toward his hirelings. “Did I not pass you the professoré’s name, Ventoli?” he asked softly. “And to you, Captain Enzio? Did I not say he and his sister were to be brought to me at the moment they arrived? Explain yourselves.”
“We received the names, segnoré,” said the guard captain. “But when we came on duty this morning, Steward Ventoli told us that the exception had been rescinded.”
The gray-haired steward lifted his chin bravely, but did not meet his master’s gaze. I was not sure that I, wholly innocent, could have met that steel gray gaze.
“Indeed you gave me the names last evening, segnoré,” said the steward, his voice not so steady as his chin. “But that was before our other guests arrived and informed us of the attack on Palazzo Fermi.”
Captain Enzio chimed in. “They told us that the thieves might be masquerading as an academician called di Guelfi and his red-haired sister. I thought it best to be diligent.”
“No orders supercede those issued from my lips, unless they, too, issue from my lips. Captain Enzio, Steward Ventoli, you both are relieved of duty and will appear before me at the Hour of Gathering. Guardsman Cillian, I commend you for preserving my honor—yes, I heard your defense and wholly approve it. You will now hold the gate closed until I send you better comrades.”
The red-haired guard saluted crisply and returned to the gate.
The sour-faced man in Fermi red and blue had said nothing throughout. Gallanos had not deigned to notice him. Now he waved the Fermi man after the disgraced steward and guard captain.
“Return to your master, Nesco. We’ll have words about thugs in the street later. For now I’ll see to my honored guests.”
Only when we three were alone did he speak to us. “Professoré, damizella, I cannot fully express my regret at this rude welcome. I have been anticipating your arrival with great pleasure. Are either of you harmed in any way? Should I send for a physician?”
Vincenzio acknowledged his concern with a graceful bow. “Nay, segnoré. Though unpleasantly surprised at the brutish assault, we never believed the ruffians’ prating that it was your will. I feared they were impostors—thieves! But I am left quite unharmed. And you, Tarenah, the same, I think…”
“Indeed. The young guardsman’s quick work and good service prevented any harm.” I revealed the canvas bag under my cloak.
Gallanos’s smile infused the garden air. My cheeks heated so fiercely, I dropped my eyes in embarrassment.
“Excellent,” he said and extended his hand to a corner of the vine-draped colonnade that circumscribed the fragrant garden. “I have a private study close by. Will you come?”
We followed him into a small, elegant chamber, furnished with a few velvet-cushioned chairs, several shelves filled entirely with books, and a few small artworks. On one wall hung the portrait of a lovely, dark-haired young woman reading while seated in a different garden. It must have been painted when she was not looking, as her expression was so very unaware of anything around her, save the pleasure of her own dreaming.
He stepped to an interior door. “May I offer you some refreshment? Coffee or a refreshing tisane, fruit, pastry?”
“Many thanks, segnoré, but no. We learned that one of my colleagues from the Varela Academie is in Cantagna today and have made plans to dine together. We have hopes—” Vincenzio beamed at me in his brotherly way. “He is a most honorable and intelligent man and admires my sister greatly. I think she takes pleasure in our meetings as well.”
Gallanos gave me a small bow. “Never would I think to interfere with a young woman’s pleasurable engagements,” he said. “We should be able to conclude our business quickly.”
He offered us a seat, then excused himself and stepped through the interior doorway to speak to someone just beyond.
Vincenzio remained standing, tugging on his hat, brushing his lip with his hand. I supposed it was the assault outside the gate had left him so nervous about this dealing. If Gallanos decided that the bronze was not what he wanted, it would be hard, but seeing my dear brother so ill as he had been, and in such danger as on this day, had made me reassess our venture. Money or not, validation of our work or not, I would be satisfied, as long as he was safe and well.
“We should set it out,” he said softly. “Keep his attention on the bronze.”
I unwrapped the statue and Vincenzio set it on the low table that centered the chairs. I followed his lead and remained standing.
When Gallanos returned, he caught his breath and paused in the doorway. “It is lovely, is it not, professoré? The moment I saw it I believed it to be a work crafted with divine inspiration. Twenty imitations have I examined over the years, and not one got the wings right. But this … so graceful … so fluid … as if the artist had sculpted the wind itself. I’ve only one test of any meaning still to do.”
A gentleman had come up behind him in the open doorway. He was taller than il Padroné and slimmer than Vincenzio, but equally imposing. His white doublet was embroidered in silver, the collar enclosing his long neck encrusted with pearls. A diamond fibula pinned a short satin cloak at one shoulder. A long nose and wide brow shaped an intelligent and well-proportioned face, if not one ravishingly handsome. Yet his visage glowed with purest wonder.
“Ah, Segnoré di Gallanos, I didn’t imagine I’d see another work so superbly crafted so soon after the other.”
Gallanos held back as the man in white knelt beside the marble-topped table and reached out a slender hand, ringed with a band of rubies. Closing his eyes, he drew those well-manicured fingers along Atladu’s back and Dragonis’s wing and held for a breathless moment. Even before opening his eyes again,
his smile illuminated the room.
“After last night’s disappointment, I dared not believe you. The other looked so fine. The merchant had convinced Fermi and me of its provenance with his tale of dodging Mercediare officials, outwitting smugglers, bribing caravans, but when I examined it closely … As I’ve said before, there are subtleties in design and crafting that uniquely identify the work of Antigoneas of Sysaline that are telltale to the fingers even more than the eye.”
Laughing in pure delight, he rose, turning the statue, weighing it, lifting it to the light while examining every surface, every flaw. “Glorious. Everything I imagined. Ah, Alessandro, someday this could change our understanding of the world.”
Reflecting his guest’s pleasure, il Padroné extended his hand to Vincenzio and me. “These two are your benefactors, Your Grace. Professoré di Guelfi and his sister, Damizella Tarenah. Professoré, it is my privilege to introduce His Grace Eduardo di Corradini, grand duc of Riccia-by-the-sea.”
I curtseyed deep and held position. Vincenzio had already dropped to one knee. He properly kept his head bowed, while I found it impossible to draw my gaze from the elegant young duc.
“It is our honor, Your Grace and Segnoré di Gallanos,” said Vincenzio, so soft and hoarse I could almost not hear him.
The duc offered each of us a hand. As I kissed his jeweled ring, he said, “Professoré and my young lady, I am most grateful for your efforts to get this to my good friend Gallanos. I grieve with you for the loss of your father who recognized the virtue of this work, a treasure I’ve sought since my youth. You have my word that I will care for it, preserve it, value it, a wish il Padroné tells me you share. May you have great success in your future endeavors.
“And Alessandro”—when he turned to il Padroné, a great weight lifted from my shoulders—“such a gift for my birthday, a day that has never been of much pleasure to me. I am forever in your debt.”
“It is my sincere delight, Your Grace.”
The grand duc wrapped the bronze in its silk covering and nodded to the door. “Shall we show it to Fermi, Padroné? We can honor his diligence at searching for it, while laughing with him at those pitiful thieves who risked their lives to steal a counterfeit. You must be more discreet when offering a bounty for a work of art. Everyone knows that your purse is very well stocked and your generosity unmatched.”
