by Cate Glass
Dumond grimaced in wry discomfort and scratched his balding head. Neri pursed his lips as if he’d bitten into an unripe cachi. Placidio blew a long exhale and mumbled, “This wise lady has a point. Would have been nice to be given a bit more time, but certain, I’ve naught better to be at just now.”
I winked at Vashti, and said, “All right, then. I’ll send our acceptance to the Shadow Lord’s contact tonight and plan to meet him tomorrow. We’ll hope his information suggests a workable path. If not, our agreement with the Shadow Lord will hold. He’ll bear no ill will if we fail.”
Assuming we survived, we would punish ourselves quite enough.
4
THREE DAYS BEFORE THE WEDDING
BEFORE DAWN
I wandered through the shower of dust and grit. Hunting. Listening.
The earth shuddered as if in the last throes of its dying. My arms clung to a slender, toppled pillar until the movement stopped. But even in the stillness that followed I could not move or lift my head. What was the use? There was nowhere to go. The Palazzo Segnori had collapsed in upon itself. The Bank, the Academie—the Cambio Gate—all in fragments. If those sturdy bones of my city were crumbled, what hope was there for the fragile ones—the Beggars Ring shanties, the market stalls. The last cries for help had long died away as my bleeding fingers had scrabbled at broken stones, uncovering my brother’s crushed limbs—the hour my heart had died.
My tears had long dried, scorched away by anger. Why was I still living? It wasn’t fair. Why could I not find my way out of this maze of destruction?
“Because you have a purpose, O lovely one. You have outlasted all of them—the scholars who condemned you … the men who bought and sold you, corrupted you … those others who live as leeches on your talents…” The woman’s voice rippled through the dry dustfall like spring water, cool and clear. Like a soft finger gliding on my naked skin, caressing my eyelids, my lips …
I shot upright, shaking. Clutching my fists to my chest, I rocked back and forth, whispering, “Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream.” My eyes could scarce focus through the clouds of horror and despair. Our scuffed table. The clay brazier. The sturdy stone walls. Intact. Neri’s pallet empty but still smelling of him.
Why could I not be rid of the dreams? Why did my insides seethe with fury in the midst of such ruin? The woman was new. So seductive, so dangerous, like poisoned honey.
Sunlight streamed through the cracks around the shutters. Perhaps bathing in its warmth would banish my shivers. It was past time to be up and about. Four … now three … days until the Feast of the Lone Praetorian. The Chimera had a mission. Focus on that and maybe I could get over the damnable earthquake.
Information was waiting.
NOONTIDE
The Shadow Lord’s consigliere—his advisor in all matters of law—took a stroll every day at the noontide bells, always ending at his favorite tea shop. I trusted he would be watching for me as before, ready to pass on the necessary details of this venture—names, locations, and whatever else might help. Details that, I hoped, would give us a hint how to stop a wedding that everyone but the bride and her vicino-padre wished to go forward, while leaving all parties satisfied with the outcome, no matter broken contracts, repayment of bride gifts, disappointed grooms, offended philosophists, or whatever specific instabilities in governance the Shadow Lord worried could come of the disruption.
The warm, damp weather had me panting as I hiked up Cantagna’s hill through the gates that marked the boundaries of the city’s rings. From my home in the Beggars Ring bounded by the outer walls and the River Venia, I ascended through the brothels, artisan workshops, and cheap lodgings of the Asylum Ring, and the Market Ring shops of cobblers, tailors, glovers, spice merchants, and the like. Alehouse wags called the Via Salita “the Road to the Realm of the Blessed,” referring to the home of the gods before the war with Dragonis sent them into the Night Eternal.
I kept my eyes open along the way, and not only for sniffers. The Cavalieri Teschio had expanded their crimes to the Market Ring since the earthquake. They stole children from slightly more prosperous families. Asked slightly higher ransoms. The victims might be five years old or seventeen, girl or youth, but always a pretty one who could bring a good price from certain caravans that paused outside Cantagna’s walls on their way south to Mercediare or Tibernia, or so the terrified parents believed. The fortunate children—the ones returned home—recalled nothing but black hoods painted with white skulls. How did child-snatchers stay hidden as they went about their foul work?
A third gate passage took me into the Merchants Ring. Only the Heights—the heart of the city—surpassed the Merchants Ring in prestige and elegance, as well as altitude. This was a district of elegant bathhouses, stately guildhalls, luxurious gardens, and fine markets, as well as home to wealthy merchants, commissioners, magistrates, and bankers such as Alessandro di Gallanos. Il Padroné’s modest childhood home now encompassed an entire neighborhood, housing his aunts, uncles, cousins, and even a few favored friends. Off one of the pleasant Merchants Ring boulevards, tucked away behind a vine-draped lattice, was a fine little shop: Mercurio’s Coffee and Teas.
I strolled past the entry, expecting Lawyer Mantegna’s clerk to pop out and ambush me in all his doughy pomposity, as on a previous occasion. When that failed to occur, I reversed course and strolled into the shop, happy I’d taken care to don garments slightly more respectable than an ink-stained shirt and leather jerkin. After an unrewarding glance into the shop, I sat myself in a shady corner of the lattice porch where I could see anyone who entered.
A serving man thumped a steaming pot on the tiny table beside me. “Red, flower, straw, or fruit?”
Evidently my dress was too out of fashion to earn courtesy. “Small leaf from southern Paolin, with a hint of dried raspberry—fruit not leaves.”
The specialty tea would cost a good deal more, but it was worth the astonishment on the surly man’s face. And when it came, every copper was justified.
Certain sensual things—the glissade of true silk across my skin, the scent of hot coffee, and the taste of small-leaf Paolin tea touched by dried raspberry among them—were intensely sharp reminders of the unexpected life I’d once led. Certainly, life as the Shadow Lord’s mistress had never been so sweet as memory claimed. Magic had ever weighed on my spirit like the tiny death’s-head symbols hidden in great artworks as reminders of mortality. The irony that magic now fueled my true life—the one set apart from the drudgery of pen and ink and careful husbandry of coins, bread, and coal—was not lost on me.
A sniff drew me out of my head. “You, girl, a gentleman in the back room asks for your attendance,” said the tidy servant, pursing his lips. His disdain had, no doubt, been renewed by an assumption that I occupied a certain lewd position in the ever-shifting order of male and female.
I laughed as he snatched up my teapot as if I might sully it—or him—for future customers. Even as I held firmly to my cup to thwart the twit, my heart skipped a beat. Which gentleman—consigliere or padroné?
A full breath, a last swallow to drain the glorious tea, and I followed the twit’s pointing finger through an arched brick passage to the back room. A lattice ceiling, open to the sky, spread dappled shade over vine-draped walls, two comfortable chairs, an unlit hearth, a small table set for tea, and, in one of the chairs, Cosimo di Mantegna.
“Lawyer Mantegna, a pleasure,” I said as he rose and extended a meaty hand.
Mantegna was a formidable gentleman. Jowls to intimidate the stoutest witness. Heavy black brows over blade-sharp eyes. A trumpet of a nose, large enough to sniff out the sweat of fear. And oversized ears with hairy lobes that had caused endless humorous speculations when I was seventeen and newly confident that Sandro would enjoy my private observations of his friends, no matter how rude or silly.
I accepted his proffered hand, laden with ornate rings that were his only vanity.
“Damizella.” He smiled and his warm g
rip firmed. “It is a great pleasure to see you. Well, it appears. Flourishing, I think.”
“And you, segno. I hope your good wife and children flourish.”
“Indeed they do.”
His expression sobered, and he did not offer me a chair. “I profoundly apologize for the nature of my dismissal a few moments from now. A diversion, you understand. Execrable.”
Ah, so there was a reason the tidy servant had assumed my unsavory status. Mantegna wanted to make sure none would view me as his friend, acquaintance, or client.
“I understand completely, segno. Life drags us in strange directions, imposing necessities we might wish other.”
“Indeed. I have been instructed to deliver these few pieces of information without committing them to paper, else I’d have spared you such ignominy.”
“No matter. Go on.” I didn’t remind him that I had actually been living as a whore for most of our acquaintance.
“The woman in question is Livia di Nardo, age nineteen years.” His voice had dropped to a volume only I and the nearby chair might hear. “The only child of Piero and Andreana di Nardo—yes, that Piero di Nardo whom you’ve certainly met. Livia is a studious young woman of incisive mind and strong opinions who has traveled widely with her uncle, Marco di Nardo, now deceased. She has written a treatise on the formation of mountains.”
He raised his formidable brows in question.
Clearly I’d no time to fully assimilate the range of astonishments he presented. The girl was a traveling scholar with a historical … or perhaps scientific … bent. That was curious. But my earlier misgivings about the debt the bride’s parents would owe a Confraternity director for a broken contract had burst into appalling life.
Piero di Nardo, an honorable man, was the steward of Cantagna. The steward appointed and controlled the magistrates, constables, architects, street cleaners, street builders … all the functionaries who kept the city running. A steward deeply indebted to a member of the Directorate would be a certain impetus for more Confraternity influence in the city. Magistrates would punish fortunetellers and any others whose professions bordered on the mystic … and clamp down on artists, writers, and scholars whose works challenged the Confraternity’s views of the Creation stories … and hound anyone who cherished hopes that the Unseeable Gods might return to succor the world. A most definite instability in Cantagna’s current governance.
Mantegna continued. “The young gentleman involved is Donato di Bastianni, called Dono, aged one-and-twenty, eldest son of Rinaldo and Diani. Dono has completed a course of philosophy and rhetoric at the Academie. He spent one year at the Philosophic Academie of Tibernia, but otherwise he has not traveled, and never beyond the Costa Drago. As Donato is in his twenty-second year, he will be assuming his red robe as an initiated philosophist with a position of responsibility on the Feast of the Lone Praetorian—the same day he is to be wed. His area of responsibility is unknown, though we can be sure it is a prestigious position, as his father, Rinaldo, as you know…”
“… is a director of the Philosophic Confraternity, and both friend and philosophical sparring partner of your client,” I said, my dismay overflowing.
Another reason il Padroné could not interfere. I’d heard many a friendly debate between the two from behind the painted screen in Sandro’s house. Without question, Rinaldo di Bastianni had most definite ideas about how Cantagna should be run. Even if the marriage contract remained unbroken and the young couple wed, he would wield influence with the steward. Piero was getting old and would be grooming a successor. Who better than a devoted son-in-law of impeccable pedigree? The whole business was fraught with risk for Cantagna.
“I understand your client’s concerns,” I said. “Most definitely.”
With a nod of somber approval, the lawyer moved on. “The Bastianni family claimed young Livia two days ago on the basis of a marriage contract made two years before her birth. In that year, Piero’s only daughter by his first wife was murdered by the girl’s new husband—a soldier of unsavory origins. A tragic story that affected the gentleman deeply.”
I could guess a finish to that story. “It created the desire for an unbreakable marriage contract with an ultimately respectable family for any daughter he might sire in the future. Most likely it also encouraged him to see that child become il Padrone’s vicino-figlia.”
“That appears to be so. Piero himself claims not to recall the exact circumstance, but admits that he was so ensnarled in rage and grief in that year he certainly could have made such a contract. He and the contract witnesses have verified his signature on the agreement. My client’s relationship to the girl actually commenced in her twelfth year when she embarked on her travels with her uncle.”
His eyes darted to the passage doorway, as if he suspected someone might be eavesdropping on our meeting. “Livia is now in residence, properly chaperoned, at Villa Giusti. As required by the contract, the groom’s family has verified her … maiden status.”
“Fortune’s ever-blessed dam,” I spluttered in disgust. Knowing that Sandro’s family had done the same for his contracted wife made the practice no more palatable. Courtesans were endlessly inspected for signs of disease all their years in the Moon House, and there was no circumstance which made it anything but degrading. Certain, those who purchased courtesans or wed virginal young women were not inspected.
“Indeed so. Once certified, this status is not revocable by claim or purposeful incident without breaking the contract. Even a lamentable event is not a contractual impediment, unless Dono refuses her as too damaged. That is unlikely, as the contract does not specify that this marriage ever be consummated.”
So we could not contrive a sham assault or offer Livia a willing partner to alter her maiden status.
Thus we advanced to the only relevant question. “So how in the cursed world can this contract be dissolved without invoking penalties or unpalatable consequences?”
Mantegna sighed. “As I’ve told my client repeatedly, there are only four provisions that could apply. First, if the two parties are discovered to be brother and sister. Not even with Mother Gione’s help is this going to happen. Second, if the bride is proved to be dead, which does not help the dilemma of her future work whatsoever. Third, if both sets of parents agree to dissolve the contract. Fourth, if the two young people are both come of age and freely—in front of their families and impartial witnesses and entirely without coercion—agree to dissolve it. As to the likelihood of three or four, I would sooner lay a wager on the moon being hung from my bedpost when I retire this night.”
Mantegna fidgeted with one of his multitude of rings—a measure of his agitation, especially as its bulky design, topped by an arrow of gold and a shield of a single emerald, suggested it was a poison ring. Mayhap the kind that opened up to dispense a few toxic droplets in a cup of wine. Or the little arrow might rotate upward with a flick of a thumb and inject poison when plunged into an enemy’s vein.
I sympathized.
“When is the girl’s birthday?”
“Four days hence. The day after the wedding.”
“Which likely inspired the rushed timing.” Livia would come of age at twenty. “Would they enforce this brutal contract with a dead groom?”
Mantegna did not even bother to huff at my despairing cynicism. “Indeed, a dead Donato would not interfere. With some gift of foresight, these contract writers included a provision that if the eldest son is deceased, the next would be party, and so on. Dono has three healthy younger brothers—ages eighteen, fifteen, and twelve.”
Two decades past, the Confraternity had judged the possibility of such a union an opportunity and locked it up securely. Piero was already the steward, but had not yet married Diani, the girl’s mother. That was odd. Odder still, neither family had enforced the contract when the girl was fifteen or sixteen—the more usual timing of arranged marriages. Why now?
A last effort. “I know you’ve gone over it word by word, Cosimo, but coul
d you provide me a copy of the contract?”
A shake of the lawyer’s formidable head told the answer before he spoke it. “As the agent of the girl’s vicino-padre, I was permitted to review the document. Under supervision. I was not permitted to bring a copyist with me. Both families view this as a sacred match, meant to heal wounds of a generation of misunderstanding and disregard between the Confraternity and Cantagna’s civil authorities. Now, damizella, we must call an end. Too much time together could be suspect…”
I nodded.
He guided me gently through the passage into the tea house, still whispering in my ear. “I cannot emphasize how concerned my client is. We just received word this morning that the Bastiannis plan the ceremony of betrothal—the giuntura—tomorrow at half-morn. You see the urgency.…”
Before I could fully comprehend his whispered message, Mantegna shouted, “Get this impertinent female out of my sight,” and shoved me into the tea shop.
Much too gentlemanly a shove. I tugged my hair over my face and stumbled forward.
“You are neither witness nor claimant, but only a charlatan,” he called after me. “Back to the stews where you belong!”
This awkward performance would not enhance his reputation as a ferocious, incisive legal adversary, but I scurried away, head bent as if properly chastised. His last message provided fire under my feet.
Giuntura … tomorrow half-morn. Throughout the Costa Drago, the hour of the giuntura was considered the official interweaving of the two families, no matter when or if a public wedding celebration occurred. Most commonly the two were done together. We didn’t have three days to stop the marriage. We had twenty hours.
5
SIXTEEN HOURS UNTIL THE GIUNTURA
