A Conjuring of Assassins, page 17
Certain, the key had been the interior voice that influenced Tarenah’s actions. Her respect and love for her brother had been her guide. It could just as easily have been the voice of her mother, a mentor, her conscience, or a deity. So, for Monette it could be the voice of Lady Fortune herself. Even more so than the real cloth merchant’s daughter, Monette must be a true believer, waiting to hear the voice of her goddess. Maybe then she would interpret Romy’s wishes and Romy’s interpretations of events—even Romy’s fingers manipulating the needles—as divine Espe’s influence.
“Inventing new human beings is complicated,” I said.
“Does your anxiety have more to do with what happened at Bawds Field or with this situation?” Dumond glanced in Placidio’s direction, making clear what situation he was talking about.
For an instant, the room blurred and shuddering emptiness gaped in front of me …
I shook it off. “If Placidio is well enough to go,” I said, “I trust he’ll be able to do what’s needed for me. Push me when I need it. Keep me from heading off in the wrong direction. Certain, you could do the same. Mostly my jibbers are simple uncertainty about what we’ll face. But … yes. Recalling what happened that day, I wish I had more time to prepare. To build a way back to myself.”
Dumond laid his hands firmly on my shoulders and focused on me with those Shadhi eyes, until I was near lost in their gleaming black. “Be sure of this, Romy-zha,” he said. “We will always bring you back. Always.”
Just then I understood why his daughters were such happy children, even when shuffled off to friends in the middle of the night or when their parents spoke in hushed tones about things they could not know. I believed him.
A weight akin to the Boars Teeth rocks rolled off my back. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak my thanks.
Neri shrugged and went back to perusing the maps. “Anyways, if you didn’t use your magic, you’d be wasting the best trick you’ve got.”
“Which reminds me,” said Dumond, who vanished immediately out of the front door.
Before I could guess what he meant, he returned with a small roll of leather that he passed to me. “For the Chimera,” he said. “A new trick.”
I unrolled it to find nine beautifully wrought, wrist-to-fingertip length bronze needles. The points on either end were exquisitely sharp, the embossed symbols so perfectly defined that I could identify each one with my eyes closed.
“Dumond, these are beautiful,” I said. “Yesterday afternoon, I spent several hours with the cloth merchant’s daughter. When I professed my devotion to Lady Fortune with a donation of silver to her purse, she taught me the lore of the Ascoltaré and even allowed me to practice casting her needles. Hers were not half so easy to distinguish.”
Eyes closed, I ran a fingertip over each needle and tested its balance.
“Each one slightly different, you see,” said Dumond. “Practice to learn how they fall, and you can lay them exactly as you please.”
“I’ll have to do nothing else until we arrive at Palazzo Ignazio.”
I placed one needle between each pair of fingers and the ninth between my thumbs, held for a moment, then spread my fingers all at one. The needles fell in a tangle, ready for interpretation. Surely a month would not be enough to master them. I had a day.
“We’ve got to figure out what to do with these tunnels,” said Neri. “We could make things appear and disappear. We could take this ambassador on a walk to someplace he don’t expect.”
Dumond rejoined him at the map table. “You and I will go scouting, lad. If the tunnels are clear, they could be useful for many things. Not one of the other maps shows them. I’ll vow they’ve been forgot.”
“Collapsed they are, sure as rabbits rut.” The voice from across the room startled us. “And I approve your choice to become your true diviner self, Damizella Monette, daughter mine.”
As one we spun to see Placidio sitting up, propped precariously on one quivering arm.
“What do you mean, collapsed?” blurted Neri.
“If they’re the same tunnels as those down to the old barracks in the Asylum Ring, they’re not going to take you anywhere you want to be. Back when I was training Gardia recruits, fellows would duck in those caves to cool off, hoping no one would notice they’d miss a round or two. Couldn’t go ten paces in without finding a rockfall. Half of my boys came out spooked from the dark, the damp, and the wind howling through. And could someone please come catch me before this arm collapses and sends me bawling into the Great Abyss.”
Placidio’s voice was strong if naught else.
“Told you he’d wake,” murmured Neri to Dumond, after they’d got Placidio not only supported, but out to the alley to relieve himself. The swordmaster now sat on a bench, a blanket across his lap, his naked back propped on Dumond’s wall, and his head back and eyes closed as he contemplated the rigors of that journey.
“Leviathan is with us!” said Vashti, returning from her errand with a whoosh of damp air.
We all stared at her mystified.
“A fighter, yes?” she said, pointing at Placidio. “Dormant, waiting for the world’s need. Is that not your Costa Drago legend of the great beast?”
“Indeed so,” I said. “The beast Leviathan swept Dragonis from the sky so that Atladu and Gione could prison the monster under the earth and sea. I just never thought of Leviathan as a human beast.”
“I’ve seen him shown that way,” said Placidio, his head still back, eyes still closed. “He’s always naked. Like Atladu. As am I under this sheet. You have been generous beyond measure, good Vashti—and I do thank you immensely—but I am a modest man and would appreciate breeks at the least. I understand there are delightful ones awaiting the input of my warlike ass.”
No, Placidio did not sleep sound. He was always listening … like Teo.
As Neri and Dumond approved Placidio’s attempts at good cheer, and Vashti flew up the stairs to fetch garments that might fit Placidio, my thoughts shifted back to Teo, who had waked in my bed surrounded by candles while I was getting ready to leave the previous morning. He’d been startled at first, and then he seemed to close himself off. No more whimsy. No curiosity. No emotion at all.
I’d said something about a friend recommending a ring of candles for those with terrifying dreams or injuries to the head. He didn’t argue it, but didn’t accept it either. When I offered him cheese or eggs for breakfast, he bowed politely and said it was far past time to take his leave. To find work, he said. So he could repay me.
“Are the candles bothersome?” I had asked. “I didn’t mean to offend.”
His smile was genuine, but distant. “How could I take offense for a well-meant gesture from a woman who has gifted me so much?”
Which was no answer at all. I could not but feel that I had hurt him deeply, and I was too shamed to ask why. But if ever I saw him again, I would ask. The moment he’d left, taking his mysteries with him, the world seemed … less. Thinner. Paler. Transient. It was impossible to explain, even to myself, how the man affected me.
I shook my head and tied up my hair. Today our minds must be on Chimera business.
Vashti offered Placidio some of Dumond’s slops and hose. Neri volunteered to fetch some of Placidio’s own garments from his rooms in the River Quarter.
“Before we install your backside anywhere, swordmaster,” I said, “or proceed with this plan, you must prove you can stand and move without falling.”
Dumond loaned Placidio a hornbeam cane wrought with a brass horse’s head as its handgrip. The metalsmith was supposed to shorten the cane for a diminutive buyer, but had not as yet. It worked perfectly.
Wearing only his blanket-cape, Placidio walked around the room without grunts or groans or fainting. Carefully though. His left arm protected his injured ribs. After the demonstration, he unbandaged the burnt red slash across his torso. Though ugly, the wound showed no signs of sepsis, swelling, or seepage. He left off the bandage.
The bells rang a single strike—the first hour past the Hour of Business.
“This time tomorrow we need to be sitting in the ambassador’s residence, showing him our wares. We know you’re strong and determined,” I said. “And clearly your healing is well on its way. Now tell us honestly if you will be able to keep your mind focused, recall what we’ve planned, and do this thing. We’re your partners and value your desire to take part in something you do so well, but we also share your risk. You can’t decide alone.”
It was a measure of the seriousness of his injury that instead of blustering, bullying, or teasing us for holding back in the face of risk, Placidio considered deeply.
“I can play the part,” he said at last. “My head is clear, though, kind Vashti, please give me no more of your tipsy tincture. If it were today, I’d doubt I’d have the stamina to walk up the damnable hill. But if I’m as much improved tomorrow as I am from yesterday, all should be well.”
My spirits plummeted. If Placidio couldn’t walk up to the Heights, we were left with Dumond, wholly unpracticed in impersonation. Or me alone.
“Before deciding,” said Vashti. “I’ve a friend owes me a favor. He has a kieyu to lend, and two loyal workers who, for no more than ten coppers each, will carry it. Basha, kieyu”—she wagged a finger at Dumond—“chair. To carry.”
“A sedan chair!” I guessed.
“That is it. The workers speak only the Invidian tongue, so would not be discomforted by your talking. Would that be acceptable?”
“More than acceptable,” said Placidio. “Papa Baldassar might display a touch of gout—and if he is deemed nonthreatening by these Mercediarans and spies, all the better.” He glanced at me. “And they will be wrong.”
“I’ll see to it,” said Vashti. “And now we must finish the costumes. Damizella Monette can practice her needle casting, while I ensure Papa Baldassar’s warlike ass is resplendent.”
None could hold back laughter at genteel Vashti’s bawdy humor. But while she gathered her sewing case and costume materials, Placidio sobered quickly.
“We’ve one thing not yet decided,” he said. “What if our gambit fails? What if this Egerik ends up with this cursed list, whether by purchase or partnership or torture, or Rossi walks away with his secret intact, through extortion or murder or whatever. Romy and I addressed this issue once, but did not solve it, and now the Chimera’s leader has bespoke the spy and found him no nameless rogue, but a onetime friend. It’s time to talk. Do we allow either man to control a document with consequences we cannot see clearly?”
Silence ruled for a few moments.
Dumond broke it. “Killing one or the other will violate the treaty interference clause. But I can’t see trusting Cinque’s word to keep it from Vizio. For myself, I think Treaty fines and hard times are always preferable to Mercediaran fire cannons. And, if we’re choosing, ’twould be better to kill the spy before he gives over the list than the foreign ambassador after.”
“It might come down to killing both,” said Placidio.
“I’ll kill him,” said Neri. “Whichever one or both. Give me a place to find them, and I’ll walk in and do it.”
“No.” The answer burst from me like a bolt from a crossbow. “You are not an assassin, Neri, and the Chimera is not an assassins’ cover. We’ll find another way. Trickery, blackmail, diversion … those are our weapons. We are sorcerers, not murderers. Not demons.”
“Sometimes there be no choice,” said Placidio, blunt as a horse’s hind end. “Sometimes you have to let people reap the harvest they’ve sown.”
What he said made terrible sense, but I was far from ready to concede the point. “We’ve too little time to argue.”
“There’ll be no time later. Think on it.”
14
ONE DAY UNTIL THE PRISONER TRANSFER
THE HOUR OF BUSINESS
The fires of Palazzo Ignazio burned perfectly in the center of each hearthpiece, stoked to emit heat that was perfectly comfortable for those sitting just in front of it, yet expending no wasteful fuel on anyone occupying the vast portion of the room that remained behind them. It was an oddity in a house filled with them.
Dumond and Neri had faded quickly into the side streets of the neighborhood as soon as the Palazzo Ignazio gates came into view, the dolphin-and-hammer ensign of the Independency of Mercediare whipping in the gusty wind. They planned to explore the routes and passages they’d learned from the maps, and hoped to locate the tunnels from the old fortification drawings.
Antone and Vargo, Vashti’s Invidian friends, carried Placidio and our sample case in the kieyu—the upholstered chair supported on twin poles. I trudged alongside, as we were admitted through the Palazzo Ignazio gates, where we faced the widest, deepest household sleugh I had ever seen—the first oddity of the morning.
It must have taken buckets of oil and water to fill the deep, iron-lined trench as custom dictated. We had to cross it on an iron footbridge. Egerik must worry about a veritable host of demons wanting to cross his threshold. It nicely affirmed our choice to prey upon the ambassador’s superstitious bent.
A guard in gleaming armor had escorted us to a stone welcome hearth approximately the size of a temple, with a tiny fire precisely in its center. Placidio and I were seated on stone benches set close, with our backs to the rest of the massive stone entry hall that had likely not been truly warm since the fires of Dragonis scorched the earth.
After a slightly longer than comfortable wait, a slim, handsome woman in flowing white had introduced herself as the housekeeper, Mistress Mella. Polite but brisk, she escorted us to the “invited guest reception chamber.”
Vargo remained in the entry hall with the kieyu, while Antone followed us with the sample case to our second tidy fire. Tall, straight-backed armchairs drawn up close to the dark walnut hearth were intricately carved into shapes of beasts. The design of the chair arms was very like iron teeth and just as comfortable. No one would be tempted to linger. Nothing encouraged me to admire or even notice the rest of the room. Odd.
Our present waiting location in Ambassador Egerik’s outer chamber was a green velvet couch set only a few paces from a marble hearthpiece twice my height, containing, yes, a third small, neat blaze exactly in its center. Such tedious waiting time was not the usual in Cantagna, where business was conducted with brisk efficiency. Perhaps the languid airs of southerly Mercediare made such the custom.
The peculiar arrangements of seating and fire in the three chambers could simply signify a miserly conservation of fuel. But why occupy such an extravagant residence if the cost of wood or coal was a concern? If Ambassador Egerik wished visitors to admire the magnificence of Mercediaran culture, then why did he not care whether his guests viewed the entirety of his chambers?
No other visitors were in evidence. Perhaps ours was the merchants’ entry, and diplomatic or personal guests waited elsewhere. Certain, the house upheld Egerik’s reputation for cleanliness and particularity, from perfectly polished floors to perfectly groomed servants. Not a dust mote dared show itself on either one.
Placidio, resplendent in the canary satin trousses stuffed as wide as his shoulders, stiff matching doublet, billowing ribboned sleeves, and high, ruffled neckpiece, sat very still on the green couch, keeping his breathing shallow. No matter Antone and Vargo’s smooth gait, the crack in Placidio’s ribs had forced us to stop three times on the long climb to the Heights to let him vomit up whatever ginger tea remained in his belly. Vashti’s rouge ensured he displayed the florid complexion expected of a prosperous merchant, but the colorless knuckles gripping his cane’s brass horse head gave a truer estimate of his state. He swore it was only the rib, that the gut wound was well healed and painless. I was pleased he was upright.
The housekeeper had vanished beyond the twin doors of cast bronze at the far end of the chamber to announce us. Antone stood patiently behind the couch with our sample chest. I, incapable of staring at a fire for another moment, strolled around the room seeking to settle nerves already overstretched.
With Dumond’s clever forging and my determined practice over the past day and night, the Needles of the Nine Mysteries should fall exactly as I wished. But interpretation of the ritual cast was fluid, and any hint of the ambassador’s true nature, desires, and interests that I could channel into Monette would make her divinations more useful.
Our hope to get the Assassins List was to interfere in the dealings between Rossi and Egerik. So I would use the divination to sow a wariness of dealings with the prisoner and suspicions of the prisoner’s loyalties—whatever Egerik supposed those might be—using only oblique references to the document itself. The best result would put us in the house when Rossi was delivered. After Placidio’s sobering reminder of failure, I was determined to make our plan work without assassinations.
“This house is something different from the Palazzo Segnori, eh, daughter mine?” Placidio’s booming baritone reflected no weakness. “Peaceful.”
I cringed at his bellicose intrusion on the quiet. The shaven-headed footmen who stood at every door wore crimson slippers that made no sound on the marble floor. The brisk housekeeper wore slippers as well, and spoke in softly measured tones swallowed by the high ceilings.
“Indeed so, Papa. This room is so different from the usual,” I said. “Interesting.”
Certain, it was a very odd chamber for someone so particular about his surroundings. The mosaic floors were uninspired, abstract patterns of wheels within wheels set in gray, dull blue, and white. The wall on the left as one entered from the reception chamber was striped with five floor-to-ceiling windows of clear, paned glass, too narrow for a view of the gardens beyond or to admit much light at this dim predawn hour. The plain wall opposite the windows was hung with long, narrow silk tapestries. Rather than an exuberance of scene, each huge hanging contained but a single image. A peacock. A leaping fish. A gnarled tree. Each of them lovely, expensive no doubt, but cold. They told no story.
