by Cate Glass
Soon the flurry of gate crossers died away.
My nerves were as threadbare as Gacci’s. What a waste this had been for such paltry information. The time until our mission was speeding past. And the longer we sat here and the more people who heard a story of stray foreign students, the more likely someone would take a closer look at us or ask a few simple questions and discover we didn’t belong. I tried to form more inquiries—to learn something to make use of the time—but my every movement elicited another glare from Gacci.
When the next hour bell rang—seven strikes—Gacci burst into a most foul malediction. I near jumped out of my skin. His waving fist might have been a hammer nailing us to the bench. “I cannot stay longer. You will sit here. You will not move a toe. Someone will return immediately to take you back to the Academie.”
I rose, motioning Neri to the same. “We can return on our own, segno. We’ll ask for direction. No need to trouble yourself.”
“You cannot pass the gate without escort. Tano, may the daemoni discordia gorge on his bowels, knows that. Now sit.”
“Certain,” I said. And we did.
His strides devoured the courtyard. As Tano had, Gacci headed for the west wing of the house. Perhaps that was the location of Director Bastianni’s household. Three directors. Two wings and the main house. A reasonable place to start a hunt for Donato. Maybe we’d learned something in this tedium.
Neri leapt from the bench and circled it twice, spluttering in exasperation. “I suppose we daren’t go exploring.”
“No,” I said. “Though it sounds like there might be things besides unhappy brides and wedding preparations that are worth a look. Like what books do they hold so close in this Athenaeum—whatever it is? But someone’s going to burst out of that house at any moment, ready to scoop us up. I’m hoping it’s only an usher.”
But we didn’t have to wait for that. Halfway across the yard, Gacci encountered a serving girl carrying a great bundle over one shoulder. His gesticulations in our direction made the conversation clear.
“I think we’re about to be scooped up,” I said, turning to see Neri examining the flared base of the hexagonal tower. “Get back over here.”
Neri flopped onto the bench, drew his feet up under his gown, and hugged his knees. “At least I’ve a clear image of that fountain, so’s I can come back to scout later if need be. And there’s a dandy hiding place between the tower foot and the wall.”
“It would have to be late, if you came back. Any one of those windows could hide prying eyes.”
We stood as the maidservant approached. A green rag tied up her tangle of rust-colored hair, and she squinted in annoyance as she pointed us to the tower.
“Sorry if escorting us intrudes on your work,” I said. “Usher Gacci said students weren’t allowed to pass the gate on our own, which seems strange for a walkway between the Academie and this lovely house.”
“I got to take this clean laundering tae the ‘sophists’ closet, doan I, damizella student? Just another task fer the high and mighties. Mustn’t see them wrinkled or spilt on while tending brightness the likes of you.”
“We thank you,” I said, as we trailed after her up the twisting stair. “We’re new to the Academie and got ourselves lost on our first day.”
She snorted. “Missed supper. Poor little hungered sheep, they are.”
I was happy she had her own grievances and cared naught for us.
We were soon back to the guardroom. Naturally, the guard had changed. When they challenged us, the maidservant waved her hand at us. “Explain yerselfs, young studentfolk. Usher Gacci was not so clear as he might have been.”
We told our story, referencing Master Tano and Usher Gacci, and the maidservant told her own. “… and all on us are gettin’ feathered inta tasks unfamiliar because of the hurly-burly, and I’ve got to be back in time to serve the dinner.”
One of the guards pulled open her bag, pulled up a fistful of nicely ironed red fabric. He grinned at the girl as he shoved it back into the bag in a wad.
“Prick.” She spat on the floor, just missing his boots.
The guard—one of only two on this shift—raised a warning hand. But he glanced at Neri and me, raised the beam, and unlatched the door. “Be on your way, then.”
I stepped aside so the maidservant could lead us through, but the sniffer blocked the way.
The praetorian kicked him aside. He was the same sniffer as earlier, and he crawled back to our feet, head wagging. A low grating burr came from him, tightening the stretch of my nerves.
I focused on his feet. As with so many of his kind, his feet were crusted with dried blood. Rough cobbles and dirt and filth tore the silk fabric and the naked skin underneath. Human feet. Not pads or hooves or claws. Sniffers were human men. Perhaps wicked. Perhaps mad. His breath wheezed, and a white crust stained the silk over his mouth.
“Spirits, how could you choose this?” I murmured.
His attention jerked my way, and my skin shriveled.
The maidservant led Neri and me onto the bridge. The sniffer did not howl. Every step away from the tower left my spirit ten times lighter.
“So some wedding rite has caused all this confusion?” I said, catching up with Neri and the red-haired girl.
“’Tis a merging more like,” she said. “Two planets colliding in the bowl of the sky.”
The comment struck me as odd, but no matter how I prodded or wheedled, the girl refused to say more. Odder yet, once down the stair she marched straight through the rotunda. Every step lengthened her stride. We had to dodge statuary and straggling students to keep up. By the time we realized she wasn’t delivering us to anyone, her determined tread had taken her through the front doors and down the steps, where she plunged into the evening maelstrom of the Piazza Livello.
“Wait!” I called after her, but she had vanished in a stream of costumed dancers trying to lure the pleasure-minded to some kind of festival.
Neri stood on tiptoes, peering through the dancers’ giant masks, swirling ribbons, and twining chains of flowers. “Over to the fountain,” he shouted over the skirling pipes.
We shoved through what seemed like half of Cantagna’s population to reach the great bronze of Atladu and his Leviathan, but the girl was nowhere in sight.
Neri crouched down and pulled a gray bag, sodden and empty, from the fountain pool. Then a few wet red robes and a soggy knot of bedsheets.
He glanced up, stunned. “Is it possible?”
“Spirits of the ancients,” I said. “I think we just met our unhappy bride. After her!”
7
THIRTEEN HOURS UNTIL THE GIUNTURA
EVENING
We scoured every lane that branched off the Piazza Livello. Neri left a dozen vine-draped walls ragged from his scramble to the top to get a wider look. I dashed into alleys and through colonnades, then back down again to the next street. If Livia ran away, the marriage contract was broken, bringing all its consequences down on her father the steward, the city he had served so faithfully, and whoever gave her refuge. Did she understand that?
If we could grab her before anyone suspected she’d left on her own, we could alter our plan—put our Cavalieri snatch on her instead of the groom. Then we could find out what in the universe was so special about her, and whether she understood the situation she was creating. But first we had to find her.
Ladies and gentlemen in feathered hats and tall, starched ruffs scowled as we barged through the press to peer around a corner. More than one threatened to report our rude behavior to the Academie before we had the sense to pull off the instantly recognizable Academie gowns. A doubly wise move, as we began to see praetorians everywhere, knocking on doors, in conversation with market sellers and watchmen posted at private homes and businesses. At least half an hour had gone. They’d surely discovered the girl missing.
Neri and I met back near the Cambio Gate, empty-handed.
“Where do we look next?” I said, yanking at my ha
ir as if it might sharpen my wits. “Perhaps the bathhouses or the Cat’s Eyes. I can’t imagine she’d have gone to her family or anyone known to her family; they’d be marching her up the steps of the Academie right now. Perhaps she knows someone else … or plans to get away on her own. She’s traveled widely. In truth, she could be anywhere in the city by this time, which means we’ve likely lost her…”
“… and our mission’s done,” said Neri.
Though discouraged, I wasn’t ready to declare us failed. “Then again, she could be lurking in a coal bin, waiting for full night and thinner traffic to find her refuge, as there are so many damnable praetorians about.”
“I don’t think she’s left the Heights,” said Neri, catching my arm. He nodded at the towered gate.
Except for the Shadow Lord’s secret way through the Street of the Coffinmakers that no one but he, his bodyguards, and the Chimera knew of, the Cambio Gate was the only way in or out of the Heights. Unlike most of Cantagna’s inner gates, it was patrolled at all hours by wardens of the Gardia Sestorale—the city’s own guard. Tonight, two alert praetorians stood post just inside the shadowed gate tunnel as well.
“They’ve been there since we started searching,” Neri said.
“You’re sure of that?” Silly that I’d not thought to look.
“Aye. Certain, she’d not risk them spotting her.”
A spark kindled my hopes. “Truly. If she thinks to get out of the city tonight, whether on her own or with help, we may still have a chance to grab her. If we dawdle here in the piazza long enough, we might spot her play.”
Neri grinned. “Throw one of these student’s robes over her, and we could bundle her off to the Via Mortua passage and away.” Sandro’s passage.
Thus, instead of trying to outguess a young woman we didn’t know, Neri and I strolled arm-in-arm around the grand piazza. Along with the hundreds of others taking the evening air in the heart of the city, we bought tea and sat beside the Leviathan fountain. We stood alongside gawkers as three adults and five children juggled fire at one end of the piazza and costumed players enacted a lewd farce on the other. But instead of the entertainers, we watched the watchers, observing every person who might be our quarry, whether walking, hurrying, or lingering. Though we poked our noses into stray nooks and crannies where someone might hide, we kept our closest watch on the Cambio Gate.
When the bells told us an hour had passed, Neri grumbled that we were wasting time again.
“A little while longer,” I said. The bustle of evening had slowed. Torches yet brightened the open areas, but the shadows in empty corners and side streets grew deeper. “Certain, she can’t wait until everyone’s abed or she’ll stand out like one of these mummers on stilts. If we’ve lost this gamble, there’s no business left to rush us.”
We began yet another circuit of the fountain.
We were no more than halfway round when two praetorians stepped smartly through the Academie doors, down the wide steps, and across the piazza. They whistled at the two on post and met them just outside the gate tunnel, joining in animated conversation.
I tugged Neri toward them. If we could hear what they were saying …
Neri squeezed my arm sharply. A dark figure darted from behind a shuttered flower stall and into the gate tunnel right behind the four men. The woman wore servant’s drab gray; a green turban wrapped her hair.
Hurrying into the tunnel, we closed in behind just as she slipped between the wall and an oncoming horseman. The portly merchant guided his oversized mount slowly through the passage. As linkboys flared the torches flanking the exit into life, the nervous beast jinked, reducing the already cramped passage to nothing safe. Were we not desperate, I’d never have risked a trampling to squeeze past.
“You’re loony,” breathed Neri as we emerged unscathed into the Piazza Cambio.
“There,” I said, pointing. The girl was vanishing into the Street of the Cloth Merchants. If she got away again, our mission was over.
Using every skill Placidio had taught us, we shadowed our quarry through the Merchant Ring evening market. A flat leather bag over her shoulder, she made a pretense of examining the fine woven linens and richly dyed woolens—better than anything one would see in the Market Ring, unimaginable to those who had never shopped anywhere but the rag shops of the Beggars Ring. She would drift to a new stall, hold a length up to the lamplight, shielding her eyes so that her face was shaded, and turn just enough to glance back the way she’d come. Someone had taught her how to spot a spy on her tail.
“Do you think she’s noticed us?” I whispered to Neri, tucked behind a pillar carved with the emblems and noble promises of the Cantagnan Wool Guild.
“Don’t think so,” said Neri. “She’s not running.”
The girl moved on to a lacemaker’s stall, let her hand trail through the hanging samples until one slipped off the stretched cord. Then she ducked down out of sight as if to pick it up.
Neri jerked as if to run after. But I grabbed his arm.
“Watch!” I snapped softly. “She’ll pop up somewhere else.”
And indeed the next time she came into view, she was disappearing into a side lane farther along the street.
As soon as she vanished into the lane, Neri and I raced through the shadows behind the market stalls. The Street of the Bookbinders. One of my customers lived about halfway down the row. There was no way out besides the way she’d gone in.
“Do we go after or wait to snag her when she comes back?”
“Wait here,” I said. “If she comes back, follow her as before and I’ll join you. If she’s gone to ground, I’ll fetch you and we’ll decide how to take her.”
“Right.”
Lamplight from the glazed windows of my customer Falzi’s fine house and those of his prosperous neighbors softened the growing darkness. Wafting smokes smelled of roasting meat and candles instead of the ever-present stink of city streets. Muted conversation, the clanking of dishes, an occasional shout only emphasized the quiet. In the third house down the lane, someone was arguing.
Livia had visited here before. Without hesitation she hurried up the light-dappled street. I scuttled from shadow to shadow, flattening myself to a wall when she raced up a steep stair on the side of a small house tucked into the far end of the lane. Her urgent knock on the upper door carried easily through the quiet.
A splash of dim light outlined the doorway where Livia waited. I crouched low, not daring to move.
She glanced around behind as if she sensed my presence.
Another knock and a third. I imagined I could hear her heartbeat racing, feel her disappointment. Her fear. Or maybe those were my own. I shrank into a squeeze between two walls, wishing some magic could make me invisible.
A door creaked open, spilling light on the stair landing. Livia vanished inside. I gave thought to creeping closer, at least as far as the front of the house where I might see a signboard such as Lawyer Falzi displayed, or a plaque bearing the name of the house—anything that might help me identify it.
But at my first move, the door opened again. A moment of muffled voices and steps hurried down the stair. I sank deeper into the squeeze. Livia darted past. The house wasn’t a refuge, then.
When Livia was almost out of sight in the murk, I pelted down the street after her. Delayed by a boisterous party of men, women, and children just rounding the corner, I scurried into the Street of the Cloth Merchants well behind. The girl had vanished.
Neri crouched behind a notary’s signboard where the Via Salita opened into the piazza fronting the Cambio Gate.
“I’ve lost her,” I said, frantically scanning the downward road. “Did you see her pass?”
“See the queue up to the Cambio? Third from the end.”
And there she was.
“The Cambio Gate? She’s returning to the Heights? Why would she?” Such a risk to return to the neighborhood of the Confraternity.
“Looks as if. She dodged out of the rank when
a troop of praetorians came through, but then scooted right back into line.”
“She spoke to someone in a house at the end of the Street of the Bookbinders,” I said. “Perhaps she was turned away and hopes someone in the Heights will take her in.”
But who? Avoiding detection would be much more difficult in the Heights with more people, more Gardia wardens, more praetorians about.
Cautious, we sauntered toward the gate just as our quarry disappeared into the gate tunnel. We joined the queue behind her, chafing at every slow step. No praetorians stood watch inside. Once through, a bronze of Sandro’s grandfather on his favored horse served as our observation post. From my perch overlooking the milling crowds of the Piazza Livello, it was not difficult to find her. A red-haired woman, dressed in a slim, elegant gown, climbed the steps of the Philosophic Academie in company with other well-dressed folk on their way to a lecture or a musicale or a poetry reading as often happened this time of the evening. A green scarf was looped about her neck and tucked modestly in her bodice.
The world twisted in a new direction. “She’s going back!”
“That’s her? How did she change—?” Neri jumped down from the plinth and ran. When I joined him beside Atladu’s fountain, I wasn’t at all surprised to see a shabby gray servant’s dress awash in the water. A flat leather bag had sunk to the bottom. It was empty.
Instead of escaping from her incipient betrothal, Livia had returned to the Academie. Instead of seeking refuge with a friend—I fingered the sodden leather bag—had she delivered something to a person in the Street of the Bookbinders? Something she could not entrust to a Confraternity messenger?
What exactly was the “treatise on the formation of mountains” Mantegna had mentioned? I’d thought it might be a history of mountain life or mountain warfare, or perhaps a work of natural philosophy, like those which described alchemical reactions or the causes of seasonal weather patterns. But formation meant origins, so maybe she’d written some overview of the Creation Wars, how the monster Dragonis’s tail had shattered our coastline into rocky islands and crumpled the land’s midsection into a spine of craggy mountains. Had she written of volcanoes or … by the Twins … the earthquakes which often accompanied them?
