A Conjuring of Assassins, page 15
His abrupt halt signaled otherwise. “Segna?”
Nothing for it. I dashed at full speed in his direction, halting only at the last possible moment before bowling him over.
“There you are, clerk! You’ve taken so very long and I thought you would have come back to ensure that you had every detail of my plan correct. But I failed to mention that my sister’s wedding processional will involve at least twelve canopied litters so we cannot use avenues that are too steep like that horrid Street of Threads that approaches the Domata Ponds. Because you’ve taken so long, you must work up the plan yourself. I shall return tomorrow to examine your plan, because I am near fainting for lack of coffee, and I am to meet Segna di Mesca to pry out more details of who it was provided extra swans for her daughter’s stop at the Ponds.”
I patted him on his confused head and swept through the door ahead of him and out of the office, ensuring my mantle billowed enough to mask the strange bulge at my back, but not enough to expose it.
His whine wafted after me. “But, Segna di Lac, the City Architect does not provide—”
My progress on the upward stair muted his voice and left me alone. I stripped off the gray mantle, wrapped it around the bag of books and rolls like a sack, tossed in my hat, and tied the loose ends into a knot. Reaching under my skirt, I yanked the plum-colored folds back through the slashes, as clever Vashti had taught me, leaving my skirt plain black again.
As I loosed the knot of my hair and shook it out, clattering footsteps brought a pair of well dressed young gentlemen down the stair. I threw the knotted gray sack over my shoulder, stepped aside, and dipped my head as a servant would, making sure my hair frowsed over my face.
They passed without a look. Once they rounded the corner at the bottom, I raced upward and out into Piazza Livello. Neri would get an earful for leaving me to do this on my own.
Busy Cantagnans still churned around the fountain. The bronze Leviathan still threatened the sky. I slowed my racing heart, breathed deep, and pushed through the throng toward the wide gate. It led me downward toward the Merchants Ring and the tea shop where I would meet Mantegna. Likely the lawyer only, and not his most private client. Likely.
Yet my blood warmed, and my feet moved a little faster at the imagining. I hated that.
* * *
“Damizella Scrittóre?” The puffed-up young man in black stepped in front of me before I could pass the vine-draped lattice that barred direct view of the tea shop’s outer tables.
Bathed in the fragrances of brewing lavender, lemon balm, and rose hip tisanes, I peered over his ribboned sleeves into the sun-dappled dimness beyond the lattice. Impossible to see anyone.
“And who are you?” I said, though his emphasis on my lack of any name but a profession hinted at all there was to know about him. A glance confirmed my impression. Oiled curls. Ill-fitting doublet. Stained teeth. He was no one.
And he had no idea who I was—or had been. His puffy lips pursed as his puffy eyes narrowed to slits, assessing my plain garb, my tousled hair, and my breasts.
“Segno?”
“Uh—” He blinked and regained his wits. “I am Tommaso di Minimo, clerk to Segno Cosimo di Mantegna. You are the person I addressed—the scrittóre?”
I maintained a sober dignity. “Indeed I am the law scribe granted a interview by Lawyer Mantegna.”
His mouth shriveled as if he’d bitten an unripe pear. “With apologies, my employer is unable to see you. He asked me to pass along the document you requested.”
Minimo held out a sealed scroll—only a page, perhaps two.
I’d counted on a face-to-face meeting, so I could ask for more information, learn things Mantegna might not have wanted to commit to paper, such as why Sandro only received word of the prisoner transfer two days after it happened. I wanted to pass on the news that the prisoner was Rossi. But in no wise dared I pass such information through this man, even in code.
Harnessing my disappointment, I reached for the document. Minimo’s soft fingers tightened as if he wished he could ask for a witness to verify my worthiness to receive something from such an elevated personage as himself.
My finger tapped the scroll. “Tomasso, if you please…”
Evidently the shock of hearing his personal name from my lips unhinged him enough to loosen his grip.
I picked up the gray sack I’d set beside the lattice wall. As I slung it over my shoulder and turned to go, a derisive sniff came from Minimo’s direction. There was a time when such behavior at my detriment could have cost him his balls from one of Sandro’s attendants—not that such had ever happened to my knowledge. Not that it would have been right or just. But it gave me a certain satisfaction to think that the person who would have happily done that for me would never in the world trust young Tomasso. The boy, so foolish as to display his personal feelings about an assigned duty, had risen as far as he would rise. Unfortunately, the damnable clumsy sack of scrolls and books made it quite difficult to retreat with dignity.
Only a few steps down the sloping avenue on, I stopped for a moment and broke the seal on Mantagna’s scroll. The report comprised two closely written pages. I stuffed it in my waist pocket and glanced around.
A very tall man with shoulders wide as the Palazzo Segnori and a shock of white hair that jarred with his pale, unlined complexion loitered just inside an alley between the tea shop and the next house—a spot from which he could observe all comings and goings. His pale eyes met mine, and before I could drop my gaze, he nodded ever so briefly.
Gigo. The Shadow Lord’s bodyguard. Gigo, who held his master’s complete trust, would know that Mistress Cataline yet lived and would be able to recognize her in any situation—unless she drew on the magic she couldn’t get herself out of.
So il Padroné was inside the shop. Certainly he could not be seen with any woman who might be unmasked as a spy or a sorceress. I understood that. But every time I thought I was well healed, events would sting the bitter wounding of my exile yet again.
The walk down to the Beggars Ring and around to Dumond’s house was long and empty.
12
THREE DAYS UNTIL THE PRISONER TRANSFER
EARLY AFTERNOON
“Where’s Neri?” The question burst from me the moment I spotted Dumond in the alley outside his house.
“With you, I thought,” said the smith, opening his front door. “That’s what he said when he left here at first light. I’ve been up to the forge, though, so maybe he’s come back.”
Astonishing how quickly fear could erase fury. “What was he up to so early? We weren’t to meet until half-morn.”
“No idea.”
I entered the house on Dumond’s heels, praying to see Neri at Placidio’s bedside. But it was Vashti sitting at the table sewing, while a pale, drawn Placidio lay asleep on the pallet.
“How is he?”
“Restless earlier in the night,” said Vashti. “Accepted a few drops of my infusion for pain. In the last hour he’s not moved.”
“Can. If I need to.” The words issuing from the motionless body might have been spoken by a tree frog. “Prefer not.”
“Neri’s missing,” I said, setting the bag of maps and books by the door. “Never showed up this morning. He was so angry yesterday … and then I was so angry when he didn’t come. But now…”
“My fault.” Placidio muffled a curse as he rolled to one side and attempted—without success—to sit up. “About the healing. Should have thought.”
Keeping his breath shallow and regular, he gripped his pillow and buried his face in it.
“I know exactly why you refused him,” I said to his back, “and you were right to do it. But I never expected he wouldn’t show up this morning.”
“I thought he might head home to meet your aquatic friend,” said Dumond, shedding his leather apron. “His britches were burnt about that, too.”
“Teo was up when I woke, taking his leave,” I said. “Neri hadn’t been there.”
“Boy’s not a fool,” said Placidio from the depths of the pillow. “He’ll be—”
A hammering on the door shot Dumond, Vashti, and me to our feet. Placidio struggled onto his knees, one arm clutched tight about his middle, the alter hand gripping his dagger.
“Sword. Dumond,” grunted Placidio. His unsheathed blade lay beside his pallet.
Dumond snatched up the sword, more adroitly than I expected for a man I’d never seen draw a weapon. “Who comes?”
“Let me in! Cursed crazies … lunatics!”
Rolling his eyes, Dumond returned the sword to its place, drew his heavy latches, and opened the door. “You didn’t lead any lunatics here, did you, boy?”
“Wouldn’t never.”
“Then again,” murmured Placidio, his face a knot of pain as he eased back to the pallet. “His wit’s not entirely ripe.”
Relief allowed me to indulge my annoyance. “Just when I think I can trust him, he demonstrates that again.”
Neri burst into the room hissing like a burnt cat, one eye purpled, shirt torn, balled fists bleeding. “Crazies out there this morning. Two of ’em tried a snatch near the Nittis’ sausage stall, chased me halfway round the Ring till their partner showed up and they funneled me down Fig Alley, doing their best to make sausage out of me. I got loose and climbed over the wall into the old laundry. Hid under a rusted tub. Stupid place to hide as I couldn’t walk … You know. To get away. And the stronzi wouldn’t leave. Kept circling, shouting, hunting, but too stupid to look under the tub. Likely couldn’t lift it. Hours I was under that blighted iron cauldron. That’s why I didn’t come.” His rant faded and he looked at me squarely. “Wasn’t gonna ditch you, Romy. Wouldn’t.”
“I didn’t want to believe you would.”
Neri dropped to the floor, peering at the overlarge knot that was Placidio. “Are you all right, swordmaster?”
“Alive. No estimates beyond.” Placidio didn’t lift his head. “Who was chasing? Anything to identify them?” Belying his state, the question was as hard and cold as a frostmorn. I’d not want to be any person Neri named once Placidio was on his feet.
“Don’t know who. My age. Drunk. Fierce. Kept hollering cheat and coward at me, along with some other names that don’t bear repeating if Dumond’s nubbins are anywhere around.”
“Could any of them be Pizottis? You know, Buto’s lot from the day you didn’t stay hid?”
“Could have been. Maybe.” Neri’s high color faded. But he firmed up his jaw and continued. “But before all that, before they started chasing, I took a peek at our prisoner. He’s still there where we left him. Asleep in that bed with swollen nose and a bandage around his head. The baldric’s not out in plain sight anymore, and there’s lots more guards.”
“Again, Neri?” I spluttered. “I know you can get in and out fast, but—”
“Basha!” Vashti called from the kitchen, sparing Neri my tongue lashing. Idiot boy. Though I wasn’t sure who exasperated me most—Neri or Placidio, whose drunken insult had drawn the ire of the Pizottis.
Dumond retreated to the kitchen and emerged with a tray holding a basket of bread and four bowls of basil-scented broth. “Vashti says eat, don’t talk. She’s bringing something plainer for the invalid.”
Neri swooped in on the food. Grateful, no doubt. We all obeyed Vashti.
“I thank you both. But not yet,” whispered Placidio. “Soon though.”
Observing carefully, I judged this comment was more about soothing worries than predicting the future.
“Is it the gut or the rib?” I said quietly, as Dumond joined Neri at the table.
“Both. Fiery snakes today. But improving. Truly.”
“Your gift is truly glorious, but it would be nice if it worked faster.”
“Up tomorrow.”
Once we soaked up the broth with the stale bread and cleared away the bowls, I fetched my bag from beside the door. “While Neri dodged crazies and Placidio snored this morning, I played messenger, thief, and supplicant. First off, we received il Padroné’s signal that the prisoner had arrived alive. That’s likely why Neri observed more guards.”
Neri waved his spoon. “All of them wore Gardia colors.”
That made sense. Using Gardia Sestorale regulars rather than a House Gallanos cohort to boost the prisoner’s security demonstrated no overt interference in the transfer, as Sandro intended.
I spilled my morning’s bounty onto the table. “Thanks to a very confused clerk at the City Architect’s office, we should be able to find our way in and out of the Quartiere di Fiori and the Mercediaran embassy if we choose to do so.”
“Terrain!” Excitement erased Neri’s resentments.
“And”—I tossed Mantegna’s little scroll on top of the books and rolled maps—“we received a reply from the Shadow Lord’s consigliere. Mayhap we can glean a reason why Rossi thinks to diddle the ambassador.”
“Good work,” said Dumond.
Neri still refused to sit down for lessons in reading or writing, but Dumond had a skill for goading him into it. As he and Neri unrolled the maps and drawings and began sorting them into some order, matching areas of interest from one to the other, Dumond would point out words and make Neri guess what they meant.
I returned to the floor cushions beside Placidio, where Vashti sat teasing a few spoonfuls of tea into his mouth. Only a few and he shook off more, and buried his face again. Frowning, Vashti set the bowl aside and felt his hands. Apparently the result was better.
“Shall I summarize Mantegna’s report for you as I read?” I said to Placidio’s hunched back.
“Certain.” The words found their way through the pillow. “If I snore, you can kick me. Gently, please.”
Vashti and I laughed, and I began reading.
After scanning a few paragraphs, I reduced the lawyer’s verbiage to the essentials. “Ambassador Egerik di Sinterolla, a widower with no children, is aged nine-and-forty. He studied rhetoric, philosophy, and art at Mercediare’s Philosophic Academie, apparently with the ambition to shake off the nastiness of his birth family, who traded in mysenthe and bawdy houses. He rejected all contact or identification with them, but only after he’d come of age and taken his proportionate share of their fortune.”
“Not stupid then,” said Placidio.
“Clearly not. Mmm … he made his own fortune in a merchant house that specialized in medicinal wines, using his cleverness to expand their wares to new uses and to marry the owner’s daughter, Oriana. He even took her family name, Sinterolla.”
“Well played.”
Vashti winked at me, approving Placidio’s quick response.
I perused a little more, my interest rising. “Listen to this. Shortly after his marriage at age thirty, he took on a succession of tasks for the Protectorate and has maintained his usefulness for an unbroken succession of Protectors since that time. His support in the bureaucracy was key to Protector Vizio’s ascent to power.”
Placidio’s cinder-gray eyes emerged from the gray, rag-stuffed pillow. “A man of opportunity more than belief. And agile.”
“Agile, indeed,” I said. “That’s nineteen years he’s survived. At least eight Protectors in that span…”
Mercediare’s Protectorate bestowed immense opportunities for wealth on whatever family, faction, or tyrant was strong enough to win it. Some had lasted only a few days; some a few months. Vizio’s ten years was by far the longest since Dedino di Rossignoli, Mercediare’s last king, was overthrown a hundred and fifty years since.
“… so Egerik manages both to make himself useful and to avoid assassins.”
“Loyal to Vizio for now,” said Dumond. He and Neri had left off map-shuffling to listen.
I tapped the report. “Others certainly judge him loyal. Members of the Sestorale and city commissioners note Egerik as mannerly and thoroughly faithful to the positions of his employer.”
“Which leads us back to why Cinque the spy is not afraid of him,” said Neri. “Blackmail?”
“I’ve not seen an answer to that as yet,” I said. “This affirms what I heard after Egerik came to Cantagna. He is man of elegance with very expensive tastes and had a wife who was an extraordinary beauty. Only a few people ever met her—this Oriana. Supposedly she was very pleasant, but quite frail and never left the house. She died only a few months after arriving in Cantagna. The ambassador refused all social invitations after her death, pleading mourning. Mantegna says here that no mistress or other romantic liaison has been identified since, nor is it known whether he prefers women or men in his bed.”
“Maybe he killed his wife for her father’s money,” said Neri.
“Possible,” I said. “Mercediaran family intrigues are notorious. But they’d been together almost twenty years. And with no liaison since her death…”
“… perhaps his mourning was sincere.” Vashti finished my thought.
My eyes darted further down the page. “Here’s a piece that’s curious. His personal attendants and bodyguards are all his countrymen and extremely loyal. He does hire local house servants, but few stay on because he is so exacting in his requirements with regard to household duties, cleanliness, and adherence to an elaborate system of wards, talismans, divinations, and other mystical practices unusual in a man of his education and stature. The ambassador stipulates that anyone in his employ must sever all ties with friends and family.”
“All ties. Truly?” said Vashti, shocked. “I never heard of this.”
“Nor have I. Not in any house, foreign or other,” I said.
People did odd things for fear of disease or other sorts of bad luck. But insisting his servants sever all ties? And to adhere to mystical practices like divination? Very odd.
“He wants perfectly loyal servants,” said Dumond. “Sounds like he’s hiding something.”
“Anything else?” said Placidio.
“A list of affiliations: the Philosophic Confraternity, the Society of Public Men, the Fellowship of Poets, and such like.” Similar to those of every person of status in Cantagna. “Something called the Brotherhood of the Exquisite, which I’ve not heard of.”
