A Summoning of Demons

by Cate Glass

  Not another sound came from beyond the door. I glanced a question at the swordmaster, who stood at the ready beside Dumond.

  “I told him to shut his mouth and be alert, as a commander was planning an inspection.”

  We spoke softly so as not to undo his good work.

  “But the specific words were so odd. How did you—?”

  “Might have been a praetorian once. Briefly. Pay was good.” Placidio’s past was a sporadically unspooling mystery.

  As Dumond’s swift brushes shaped a simple oak and iron door in the center of the actual one, Placidio kept watch through the arrow loops in the passage walls.

  The scuffle on the floor had torn the green silk on the sniffer’s cheek, exposing what appeared to be red paint on the pale skin underneath. Only … My finger caught a frayed edge of the silk and pulled it away. Not paint. Ink. I wrenched away more of the tight sheathing to reveal half the man’s face. As with Teo, symbols were inked into the sniffer’s skin. But unlike the pleasing variety of Teo’s black or silver designs, these marks were all the same. Each blood-red mark comprised two concentric ovals, the centermost halved by a sawtooth line—like a horrid mouth. On his cheeks, his shaven head, his neck. I tugged at the torn wrapping of his feet, exposing foot, ankle, leg … More of the same. Even if a sniffer got free of his captors, he could never hide what he was.

  “Is it the library they’re hiding with all this defense?” I said, joining Placidio at the arrow loops. “Or is it the structure with the sleugh around it?”

  “Both, I’d say,” Placidio murmured, staring at what I’d revealed. “Whatever mustn’t see the daylight. As folk don’t think making sorcerers into chained slaves is all so terrible, I don’t like imagining what anyone thinks would offend. Never imagined that.”

  “So in your brief time, you didn’t…”

  “Praetorians don’t know aught of sniffers. The two are different arms of the enforcers.”

  It was impossible to tell whether the sniffer was twenty or fifty, whether he had once been plain or pleasing to the eye, whether he had ever laughed or sung or kissed a lover. The marks took on a life of their own, as if they pulsed or crawled around the bare flesh.

  “Almost done,” said Dumond, dabbing at details that gave his painted wood its grain and bulk. Even before he invoked his magic, his fingers and eye worked marvels with his paints. “Be ready.”

  Placidio and I shed our Confraternity gowns and stuffed them in a cloth bag. Our black tunics and hooded capes would help obscure us in the villa courtyard. We would wait until later to expose the white death’s-heads of the Cavalieri.

  Dumond wiped and stowed his brushes, then jumped to his feet and shed his philosophist robe. Meanwhile, I strapped the lids on his paint pots and replaced them in their case. The paint case went on Dumond’s back, the garment bag on mine. Placidio’s sword and my dagger were in our hands.

  “Sien vah,” Dumond murmured when he glimpsed the sniffer. Only a few times had I heard him utter the Shadhi malediction, calling down the fate of soul’s death on the one responsible for a deed. I could not disagree.

  But we had business to attend. “You’ll signal Neri from the tower if I can’t,” I said to Dumond. Neri had taken his own route into Villa Giusti.

  He nodded. “And the reverse. Long life to us all!”

  As one, the three of us nodded. Dumond raised his hands, closed his eyes, and in moments blue flames flared from his hands. The wonder of it never got stale.

  “Cederé,” he said, and pressed his palms to the painted door, extinguishing the fire and transforming art into the reality of a smaller door in the middle of the existing one. “Go!”

  We pulled up the black scarves that served as masks and Placidio laid his boot to Dumond’s door. The explosive entry wasn’t necessary to open it, but rather to distract and surprise those on the other side who might notice a very odd change in the gate they guarded.

  We swarmed through the opening.

  One man, sitting dazed on the floor of the tower guardroom with blood dribbling down his face, appeared to have been slammed in the head by the opening door. I added the insult of my dagger’s hilt to the blow and he collapsed. Placidio engaged the fellow’s two companions. They dodged, ducked, and slashed with short swords in the tight quarters of the tower guard room. I planted a boot in one man’s backside, throwing him off-balance, which gave Placidio respite enough to crack his elbow into his other opponent’s ear. Once that one was down, he plowed his ham fist into my staggering victim’s chin.

  With all three down and groaning, Dumond pressed his hands to the now closed false door and whispered, “Sigillaré.”

  All evidence of the magical portal vanished, leaving both sides of the iron-banded door intact. More importantly, Dumond’s magic was no longer active. Like Neri’s, Dumond’s magic was a living tether. As long as the painted portal existed, providing us a way back and forth, a sniffer could detect it. How long it took for the invisible residue to fade once he had closed the way, we had no idea.

  I pulled the tincture bottle from my pocket, ready to dose the three before they regained their wits. In a moment’s quiet, we heard stealthy footsteps descending the spiral stair. A fourth person must have been in the guardroom when we burst in. Someone who might have seen Dumond closing off the breach in the gate. Placidio took out after, his boots thudding on the stair.

  Be ready, little brother. Neri’s task was just this—to be waiting in the courtyard to prevent anyone leaving the tower guardroom but the three of us.

  Dumond held each stunned guard still while I shoved the dropper into his mouth. The third man, the one with the bleeding forehead, scuttled crablike away from us. His hand flailed, trying to capture one of the dropped swords.

  “Who are you?” he croaked, glancing from the solid door to our masked faces. “How—?”

  Realization drained his face of blood just as I knelt on his flapping hand. He hissed in pain, still managing to squeeze out, “Magic.”

  “Not magic,” I said, as Dumond held him, and I forced the drops into his mouth. As I kept a firm grip to prevent him spitting out the potion, I drew on my own power. The Cavalieri Teschio broke through our iron-bound gate. What picklocks they must be! Such stealth. Only two of them it took to defeat our three …

  I planted a description of two Skull Knights who looked nothing like any of us. Then I released my magic. I’d no opportunity to do the same for the other two. They were already out of mind asleep. Their stories should be confused enough. More worrisome were the grunts and curses now coming from the bottom of the tower stair.

  Dumond and I hurried quietly down the steps and peered out.

  A body lay uncomfortably still, sprawled on the grass near the base of the tower. Not Neri. Even in the courtyard’s dimness, a praetorian’s yellow badge glared from the man’s tabard.

  A few paces away, a ferocious Placidio grappled with a hulking opponent, muzzling him and shoving him inexorably backward toward the protruding bulk of the tower. With a release and a twist, he slammed the brute to the ground and threw his full weight on the man’s back. This one wore the yellow shoulder stripe of a guard captain.

  “Give the proper reassurance to all within hearing,” Placidio growled through his teeth. “And tell them to hold positions. If I’ve the slightest doubt as to your accuracy, I’ll snap your neck as if ’twere your daughter’s stick dolly.” He lowered his mouth to the struggling man’s ear. “I’ll know if it’s false. It’s grind time, praetorian. By the Lone. You can survive it or not.”

  The victim stilled. “Give me a breath … bastard traitor.”

  Placidio let up slightly, and the man yelled, “Status—virgin night. All stand.”

  From high atop the defense wall, the call echoed, “Virgin night. Clear and clear.”

  As soon as the words were out, Placidio grabbed the captain’s hair, yanked his head back, and set his knife to his throat. “Now where’s the lad?”

  My hear
t lurched.

  The man grinned, blood oozing through his teeth. “What lad would that be? The one what appeared out of nowhere and shone a light into the guardpost, though he’d no lamp, no lantern, nothing natural to make it? Such a fine specimen, he is. He’ll have a long career on the chain. Sniffing.”

  Placidio pressed the knife harder. “Best tell me, else my blade’ll decide you’re no use.”

  The captain laughed through clenched teeth. “You’ll never—get—out. Already—more—on the way.”

  “Witch.” The call was not from the bleeding guard captain, and it was so soft that Placidio with the fury of battle raging in him would never hear it. Nor would anyone five steps farther away. Only Neri ever called me witch.

  Frantic, I abandoned the tower doorway and spun around. Where would he be? What was it he’d found when we’d sat here for an hour waiting? A dandy hiding place … the tower foot.

  Each corner of the hexagonal tower was supported by a buttress that flared outward at its base. I examined one, the next, the next. Ensconced in a dark little nest of weeds grown up between the flaring buttress of one tower corner and the thick footing of the wall, I found Neri. His left arm clutched his right tight to his chest.

  “I’m all right,” he said, preempting my question when I touched his black tunic and found it warm and soggy. “Didn’t ought to shout. Are we still on?”

  “For the moment,” I said, holding him down. “Let me see it.”

  “Just needs tying up.”

  “Hold on.” I darted around the pier to signal Placidio and Dumond that I’d found him.

  Placidio landed a blow to his captive’s head that would blur his vision for a year and climbed off the man’s back. “Do we abort?”

  “Wounded, but awake … and himself.”

  Dumond blew a relieved exhale.

  Placidio glared down at the unconscious brute. “Can you adjust this man’s perceptions?”

  “Not when he’s unconscious,” I said. “You’ll have to make sure he can’t get away.”

  A flick of Dumond’s knife provided strips of gray student’s gown to bind the gouting slash in Neri’s upper arm and bind the arm itself to his chest. He had lost a great deal of blood.

  “You’ll enjoy the cesspool with me, lad,” said Dumond, helping him to his feet. “You can hold my paints.”

  “But I can—”

  “No. You’re done for the night,” I said, slipping my arm under his left shoulder to hold him up. He was quivering. “We’ll make do.”

  “Does that one need the tincture?” I said, as Placidio dragged the captain past us and crammed him into the weedy niche.

  “No. What of that other one?”

  The sprawled praetorian had not moved since we’d arrived. Dumond had his cheek to the man’s mouth. He sat up and shook his head. Dead, then.

  “Didn’t mean to kill him,” said Neri. “But he was right there when I walked in—bad luck—and he ran for the tower. He’d have warned them. I chased him, muzzled him, but then the captain came out the tower, and I just … demons … wasn’t anything else to do … but I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s done,” said Placidio, laying his solid hand on Neri’s unwounded shoulder. “Isn’t the first. Won’t be the last. It’s the way of the world. The way of spies. We’ll talk of it later.” He hauled the body around and stuffed it atop the captain. I suspected the captain was dead, too.

  With a somber touch of hands all around, Dumond grabbed our bag of robes and Neri. They vanished into the shadows, heading for the cesspool to make us a way out.

  “Hard part’s done,” said Placidio. “We’ve got till the captain fails to show for rounds. Less if someone discovers the tower gate’s not manned. Half hour at most.”

  10

  SIX HOURS UNTIL THE GIUNTURA

  The bell tower of the Palazzo Segnori might have been perched atop the Villa Giusti. When the bells rang the Hour of the Spirits, their clamor masked our entry to the cellar at the outer end of the west wing. Neri hadn’t mentioned the creaking metal doors with hinges older than the Confraternity itself.

  How could anyone in the house stay asleep?

  The outside torches gave us a bit of light, filtered down the stair. A convenient shelf of small oil lamps, candlesticks, and firepots, ready for servants’ use, offered a chance to do a quick scout of the cellar before setting out to find Donato and Livia. We might need a bolt-hole.

  We found storerooms. Linen cupboards. Candle rooms. Bathing tubs and shelves of towels. Buckets and mops and baskets of rags. Everything you might expect for a very large house with plenty of servants. An L-shaped turning led into a long hallway.

  A bump and a clang, quickly silenced, drew my attention to a row of bells mounted on the low ceiling. Placidio grimaced and rubbed his head. Summoning bells. This was the servants’ quarters.

  We retreated to the stair and doused the lamp, holding our breath to make sure the cellar remained quiet. We couldn’t wait long.

  Then it was up the stair … ground floor … second floor … and a door that took us from the plain, cramped utility of the servants’ stair into a long hall. On our right was the orderly row of windows so harmonious on the house facade. And even in the dimness of night lamps, one could have spent a year examining the beautiful tapestries and artworks hanging on our left, in between the elegant doorways. Instead, we pulled up our hoods and checked our masks.

  I pressed my ear to the first door. Hearing no hint of movement, we quietly peeked inside. A skinny boy in slops sprawled atop his rumpled sheets. Without doubt the twelve-year-old. The youngest Bastianni brother.

  We backed out and hurried to the next, creeping inside to get a closer look. The chamber stank of boy and horse. Riding clothes were scattered everywhere. This youth was slightly older, but no hair on his chin and only a scattering anywhere else that we could see. Fifteen, he was. The same age my brother was when he saw his father’s hand lopped off for Neri’s own crime. As we backed away, the boy turned over and mumbled in his sleep.

  The third room was quiet as well—or perhaps I wasn’t listening carefully enough. When I opened the door, a faint light filtered through bed-curtains, a youthful male giggle along with it. “Silvio, wait…’s too quick!” A gray tunic and breeches lay in a heap on the floor.

  Heart pounding, I shut the door softly. The bridegroom was not named Silvio.

  We moved to the next. A plain, leather-padded bench sat outside the door. The leather was slightly worn, slightly dented, and slightly warm. Recently occupied, then. This occupant’s status merited a night usher. Placidio and I both pressed an ear to the door before opening it. All was quiet. We slipped in soundlessly, and were grateful for a nightlamp beside the bed that revealed no attendant lurking. Maybe he was the one sharing a romp with Silvio.…

  Donato di Bastianni slept sitting up and wore a linen nightshirt. Unlike his brothers’ rooms, his bedchamber was orderly. Clothes chest shut. Dressing table bare. Chairs set in perfect symmetry on either side of a small hearth. A writing table with clean parchment and bottles of ink that showed no evidence of having ever been opened. No books. No art. No anything of a personal nature. His finery for the next day—brocades, ruffs, lace-trimmed sleeves, plenty of wool for stuffing his trousses—had been laid out in perfect order on a velvet divan. He must be the dullest, tidiest young man in Cantagna.

  I remained by the door, dagger at the ready.

  Quick as a cat, Placidio climbed onto the high bed, reached across the slim body, and rolled Donato onto his chest. Then he sat on him.

  The young man squirmed, moaned, scrabbled his arms, kicked his feet, and yelled. But one of Placidio’s huge hands crushed the rising protests into the pillows as their owner spoke in the fellow’s ear. “I can press a bit harder and cut off your air, and then you’ll stay quiet. Or you can shut your mouth and I’ll let you breathe a little whilst we prepare you for a little adventure. Which is your choice?”

  Donato kicked harder a
nd tried to reach backward, but Placidio just pushed his face deeper into the pillows until the young man’s trembling hands flew upward in surrender. I bound his ankles, wrists, and elbows with leather straps, while Placidio gagged him with a scarf. Once done, we rolled him to his back and let him see our masks and hoods and the death’s-heads Vashti had painted on them.

  His eyes—deep set and black as burnt coals—grew to roughly the size of Placidio’s outsized palms. Though his mouth opened around the gag, he didn’t even squeak. Instead, he fainted.

  “Well, I’ll kiss a toad.” After this quiet expression of astonishment, Placidio checked Donato’s blood pulse and shrugged. “He’s alive.”

  To be sure he wasn’t playing us, I chose a most sensitive part of his anatomy and pinched it. Hard. His body twitched, but no sense returned, and he remained limp as a dead fish. We rolled him in a sheet. After making sure the missing attendant had not returned, we carried him down to the cellar and left him in the candle room.

  Now Livia. Would that her capture could be so easy. Would that the house might stay quiet and the halls deserted. We had assumed Neri would be with us to create a diversion if need be.

  Back upstairs and grateful for the strip of carpet that silenced our steps, we sped past an ornately outfitted vestibule that Neri had told us led to Director Bastianni’s own chambers. Two gray-clad ushers snored on a bench just like the one outside Dono’s chamber. Farther down the corridor, the north end where Neri had said we’d surely find the bride, doorways opened to vacant rooms. At the farthest end of the hall, four pillars marked the right turn from the west wing to the main house. Just round the corner was a pair of painted double doors. No usher or maidservant, but a praetorian stood post outside them.

  Placidio and I made a soundless retreat into one of the empty chambers. I felt a bit breathless and greatly disappointed.

  “New plan?” I whispered.

  Placidio tilted his head. “Mmm … Mistress Cataline?”

  Perfectly clear. Perfectly clever. Romy of Lizard’s Alley, dressed in scuffed black trousers and tunic, could certainly distract a praetorian. But Mistress Cataline of the Moon House, a courtesan who could assume any attire and any role her master desired and still be alluring, had been trained to melt the resolve of a stone pillar. Over the past year and a half, the distance between Romy and Cataline had grown wide. Reclaiming that self, that conviction, required an impersonation, magic … wherein lay the ever-present risk.