A Conjuring of Assassins, page 27
“I’ve come to ask a simple favor. A friend of mine, a notary, has been offered a position as a local agent for the Mercediaran ambassador here in the city. The pay is better than my friend’s other contracts, yet I’ve had a mind to warn him off. Somewhere in my … elevated years … I heard rumor of a scandal involving Ambassador Egerik when he was posted to Cuarona. I told my friend I knew an insightful person who might shed light on that history—without mentioning any name, of course.”
“Egerik di Sinterolla?” Her awkward features took on a lively flush. “Oh, my! Yes, there was quite a story.”
“Would you tell me? It would be a kindness.”
She needed no more encouragement. Perhaps she’d not found another safe outlet for her gossip since my downfall.
“I only met the man once. It was at one of my first official functions after taking a position with the Wool Guild—a reception for representatives of our guild’s best customers. I thought Segnoré di Sinterolla a cold man, pinching his nose at all of us as if we were sheep farmers, not landholders. He scarce had a word for anyone but his wife. But she—Oriana—was charming. Warm, friendly, good humored, truly lovely inside and out, and gloriously with child. Their first and only child, a boy, had died in a terrible accident when he was but three years old. Fell out a window! Oriana clearly adored Egerik. That gave him a bit of grace in my opinion, as did his clear devotion to her. I would say they were one of those matches Lady Virtue uses to show us true worth.”
My horrid, lingering hope that Egerik’s wife was the malignant spirit he feared crumbled. Though the dead son … “So what was the scandal?”
“It was not so much a scandal,” said Lenore, “as dreadful tragedy. Only a few days after we met, Oriana was attacked and robbed as she shopped in the spice market. She suffered terrible injuries, and though she survived, her unborn child did not.”
“How awful!” I said. Meaning it. No wonder Egerik had named Cuarona an undisciplined society ruled by rabble. His wife assaulted. A child dead before taking a first breath. Were the natalés we’d seen some lingering protection for his children’s tender spirits? Though why he would install them in his chambers instead of the children’s resting places remained a mystery.
“But that’s not the whole of it,” said Lenore, her smooth cheeks flushed deeper than their natural rose. She had never been one to leave her stories incomplete. “The thief was apprehended and thrown into gaol to await trial and execution. But after only the one night, he was found dead in his cell, beaten and slashed, and— Well, the details of his demise are too dreadful to speak. Wild dogs could have done no worse. The hint of scandal came when a gendarme reported that one of the ambassador’s servants had been seen outside the gaol that night. A youth—scarce more than a boy. Stories grew that he was the lady’s secret lover taking his vengeance.”
“Whyever would people think a boy her lover?” I asked.
“For the same reason he was recognized; he was most extraordinarily beautiful! For a year every woman in Cuarona—and quite a few of the men—had made fools of themselves over the youth. Wrote him sonnets, drew him, painted him, sighed and moaned and composed dreary love songs. The ambassador never allowed him into company. I assumed the fellow was a dullard or had a voice like a donkey’s bray, else why would Egerik hide him away? And having witnessed how Egerik doted on Oriana, and she on him, I never imagined any doings outside their sheets. But all that was before the murder.”
Her words stung my hearing like a hot knife. A servant youth. Extraordinarily beautiful.
“Whatever the truth,” she continued, “the ambassador refused to let the magistrate question the youth, and they had no witnesses or evidence to suggest he had truly done the deed. No one ever saw the handsome fellow again.”
Cei.
“Poor Oriana never fully recovered. Oh, she was still lovely, but grieving and sickly. It was not long until Egerik whisked her and, presumably, their murderous servant back to Mercediare. Though Egerik could hardly disapprove the prisoner’s demise, I never believed the other rumor that rose among the men of the city—that he had goaded the boy to do it. Though cold and condescending, the ambassador was ever a gentleman.”
Certain, I could believe Egerik ordered Cei to do the murder. Was that why Egerik kept him in the house, but could not look at him? If it had been a clean execution, I would understand that; sometimes summary justice was the only recourse. Yet to retain the perpetrator of such savagery so near his wife while she yet lived, a reminder of her pain and their sad loss, seemed cruel. What was exquisite about that?
“As for your friend’s query…”
As my mind raced to make sense of the story, Lenore continued her musings, absentmindedly tapping her pen knife on her journal.
“… though I attribute no fault or scandal to the ambassador, I don’t know that I would recommend anyone to work for him. He is most strict with his household, excessively concerned with cleanliness and petty details. And without Oriana to open his heart, it could be a very chilly situation.”
“A certain consideration,” I mumbled.
“Is there anything else?” Her glance flicked to me and then to the open doorway in growing unease. “My secretary will be returning shortly.”
Collecting myself, I rose from the bench. “I appreciate your frankness, Lenore, and will pass on your recommendation to my notary friend—without referencing your name or the awful details, of course.”
We exchanged a few farewell pleasantries. Lenore did not rise to see me out, and though we mouthed politenesses about meeting again for coffee or supper, I knew we never would. Lenore was devoted to her work, and she was clever enough to realize that companioning the Shadow Lord’s supposed-to-be-dead mistress could hardly enhance her city’s interests.
My feet flew over the cobbles as I descended to the northern arcs of the Beggars Ring. I hoped to find my partners at Dumond’s house, as I wanted to tell them what I’d learned. Egerik may not have murdered his wife, but Cei … the savage murder … there was something there.
22
THE DAY OF THE PRISONER TRANSFER
MID-MORNING
A noisy processional, celebrating someone’s birthday or coming of age, clogged the eastern quarters of the Heights on the morning of our second venture to Ambassador Egerik’s palazzo. Troupe after troupe of musicians, acrobats, and dancing children twirling ribbons crowded passersby to each side. Finely dressed celebrants riding expensively caparisoned horses were in no hurry at all to let ordinary citizens pass.
The festive group funneled into the grand boulevard of the Quartiere di Lustra, the residence of some of the oldest and wealthiest families in Cantagna. So much expensive glass had been installed on the great houses of the neighborhood, the glitter in the afternoon light had given the quarter its name—the Shimmering Quarter.
As the city bells rang ten strikes, I turned onto a steep lane that angled away from the processional route. At the far end of that lane stood the gated and guarded entry to the Quartiere di Fiori where Palazzo Ignazio awaited us. Rather than proceeding directly to the gate, I took a dirt path that plunged into a bit of ancient orchard that had survived as the city grew.
Not a breath of air stirred in the olive grove. Early summer poppies made a red splash amid the gray-green trees, though the blooms hung their heads as if napping in midsummer heat.
No one was there. Spirits! This was the twentieth day, the day Cantagna must turn the prisoner over to the Mercediaran ambassador. We had a great deal to talk about.
Only Vashti had been at home the previous evening. She had helped me with a fresh costume for this morning and with my practice casting the needles. But I’d not been able to tell even her of Lenore’s news, as her daughters were at home doing lessons and eating supper.
“Anyone here?” I called softly.
“Mind your back, student.”
I spun toward the spitting whisper.
Placidio loomed behind me, sheathing his dagger. Had he been an assassin, I’d be on my way to the Night Eternal.
He yanked me into the shadow of a gnarled trunk as broad as my armspan and pressed the brass horse head to his mouth in warning. After a careful interval, he sneaked a glance back the way I’d come. “Anyone follow you?”
I didn’t like admitting I wasn’t certain. Thus, I fell back on the world’s most ancient strategy for diverting uncomfortable questions.
“Did anyone follow you?” My words were as quiet and snappish as his. “Where did you run off to last night?”
“I had things needed doing.”
I folded my arms across my chest and gave a clear signal that I was waiting for more.
The rattle and flutter of a woodpecker diverted his attention. He cocked his head, listening carefully until the sounds of the grove settled back to the quiet buzz of insects.
“’Tis none of your business.”
He gaze darted from me to the lane and back again. I didn’t blink.
“All right. Jumping around rooftops set the rib fussing. Pix has remedies for customers who have to fight again sooner than they’d like. I slept the night through.”
“Eventually you have to pay the price for such remedies,” I whispered. I knew the kind he spoke of. “But something’s got you jumpy…”
Most of the time, Placidio’s big body, exceptional fighting skills, and magic-assisted prescience made a reassuring bulwark against lurking dangers. His twitchy distraction was unsettling.
His shoulders sloughed off concern, even as another furtive glance darted toward the lane.
“What’s going on?”
“Pssh.” He screwed up his mouth in resignation. “Damnable Pizottis around every corner. Caught up with me in the streets after I’d left the Bull.”
“Spirits, they’ve called vendetta!”
“Only till I get the matter straight with the referees. The duel was registered. The fool who ended up dead was the named partisan—thanks to Lady Fortune for that. The others Neri found were none of them dead right away and can be shown to have attacked me inside the city—which should rightly get them hanged.”
“Bawds Field wasn’t registered.”
“Buto’s uglier, but still alive, so Bawds Field doesn’t matter. But that lot’s like a swarm of blood-sucking mosquitoes. Can’t round a corner without finding some lurking. Fortunate there’s not a wit amongst them. But either I retire from Chimera schemes or we needs must keep an extra sharp watch for a while.”
A public rebuttal to the charge of the Pizotti vendetta would focus unwelcome attention on Placidio. But it would also force magistrates to uphold the law banning the ancient custom. Until then, there were enough members of the Pizotti family—and enough fat purses thrown around for bribes—to discourage anyone who dared call them to account. Most definitely a complication the Chimera didn’t need.
“We’ll help watch. I’ve learned more about Egerik’s wife—”
“Sssh.” Placidio shoved me against the tree, and plastered himself against another.
Tucked away behind the broad trunk, I held my breath.
Turf-muffled footsteps sped toward us through the grove. I readied my dagger. The steps drew closer. Halted. A short, repetitive whistle—a mediocre imitation of a warbler’s chirrup—intruded on the insect hum.
Placidio’s rendition of the birdcall was astonishingly accurate.
“Mother of Mountains,” he grumbled, as he stepped out from behind the tree. “Thought I taught you two something about stealth.”
“Thought I might be too late.” Neri, breathless, swiped a sleeve across his forehead, smearing the black smudges already there. “There’s things to tell, things you need to see. We found—”
Placidio’s wagging finger stopped him. “You brought my weapons?”
“Did.” Neri unhitched a slim canvas-wrapped bundle from his back and dropped it at Placidio’s feet. “As you said.”
Placidio made brisk work of unrolling the canvas and installing a Varelan stiletto in his old boots and another slender blade up his right sleeve.
“Where’s Dumond?” I asked.
“Still working on a portal inside the Via Mortua tunnel,” said Neri. “It’s the only way he could find to get us out of the tunnels and into the streets. The Ring Wall above the collapsed end of the tunnel is too exposed for him to paint. But did you know that if he paints one side of a door on one wall, and the other side of the same door in a wholly different place, he can take you somewhere that’s not the other side of the wall you started through? Takes a lot more work and a lot more magic to make them connect, but gods balls, ’tis a certain wonder!”
Neri’s enthusiasm had Placidio halfway to smiling, even while his gaze darted in search of stray Pizottis.
“I’d always wondered how Dumond made that family bolt hole in his cellar,” I said. Of course, Neri vanishing through a wall and Placidio countering a move when his opponent’s was scarce begun were certain wonders, too. It was Teo’s magic threatened to eclipse all we knew.
Rising from his crouch, Placidio glared at the horse-head cane, then waved his hand at the rumpled canvas. “I suppose gouty Baldassar must have his walking stick with him. You’ll have to keep the rest for now.”
Neri rewrapped the remaining weapons, a main gauche and Placidio’s spada de lato—his one-hand-two-hand, slash-or-thrust, ready-for-any-kind-of-fight weapon. As my brother tied the bundle to the straps on his back, he inspected Placidio head to toe. “Are you well, swordmaster? Easy in the gut? Clear in the head?”
“I’ll be glad when folk have better things to talk of than my head and my bowels. Such as, where do we get out if we need to make a hasty exit from Egerik’s domicile? Did you leave any gifts for our ambassador friend? And are there any clues about this Rossi—the prisoner or guest or spy or whatever he is—and whether he’s on the premises yet? And for the lady scribe, what is your news and what in the Mother’s name is your plan?”
“Neri’s answers first,” I said. “You found the reception room?”
“Aye. Your description took me right there. Left a little straw doll on the shelf under the window, as you told me. As no one was there, I did a lookabout, too.”
Foolish to think he wouldn’t do more than the task we’d agreed on.
“It’s only good strategy,” he snapped, before I could protest. “You’ve got to scout the way, right? Got to examine the terrain, see what’s there, what’s in the way. That’s what I was taught.”
He eyed Placidio. “I figured that if there’s a space behind that brass grate you told of, then there must be a way to get in there. You’d said some of the panels on the wall opened like doors, so I tried some. Being careful for sure. Ready to bolt.”
Behind his indignation rose a glow like the morning sun.
“You found it!” I said.
“Two panels rightward of the grate. A latch hidden in the left-side molding opens it into a stair closet. A few steps would take you up to a plain wood platform behind that grate. A bit of a scrunch, but someone could sit right there and watch what’s going on, just as you said. The stair goes down to the cellars. Which means it connects to the tunnels eventually. One way out of the house. The stair also leads upward to a cross passage. Narrow. Dusty.”
“A second level inside the walls!” I said. “A silver solet says it leads to the squint in the odd waiting chamber.”
“Didn’t have time to explore it. People were coming in and out of the room, servants bringing in chairs, setting ’em outside a circle of candlesticks.”
“For Monette’s divination,” I said. “How many chairs?”
Neri sat back on his heels. “Four when I left.”
Who would Egerik invite to hear Monette’s augury? Rossi, perhaps. Egerik had suggested he would have Monette cast in the presence of the arriving guest and the oathsworn friends he thought might be responsible for the danger I foretold. But who?
“What of Rossi?” said Placidio.
“No signs of a prisoner transfer anywhere I looked.”
“A decent scout,” said Placidio. “But don’t get cocky, lad. You charged into here about as quiet as a contessa bit by a swarm of wasps. Was there a dark corner in that stair closet where you could hide a weapon?”
“Aye. Certain.”
“Having the main gauche close to hand could be useful for either Romy or me. If it was found, they’d hardly imagine it was Merchant Fabroni or his daughter stuck it there. Mayhap they’ll think it left by an unquiet spirit.”
Neri appeared to grow half a head taller. Placidio’s trust was better than gold. “I could do that, if the business in that room slows down. Maybe leave another plaything about at the same time.”
“Then do it. Careful, as before.” Placidio’s warning finger was far more effective than any words. “Do we have a clean way out to the street?”
“I’ll show you,” Neri cleared a spot of dirt with his boot and knelt, sketching lines in the dry earth.
“Here’s the main house—and the window in the reception room where Romy sent me. Dumond had me flash a glass from the window so’s we’d have it exact.”
He tapped on his drawing.
“Here’s the back steps come down from the main house. Servants are on those steps and in and out that door all the time. Across the yard here is the kitchen house. Thirty paces left of that is a wellhouse, and right behind the wellhouse”—he poked a finger in the dirt—“most convenient, is a tangle of old trellises and dead vines, like somebody tried to grow grapes there years ago. The smith painted a trapdoor on a square of wood we found and we planted it square in that dead vineyard, just here under the trellises.”
Another tap showed us the spot.
“He painted a matching trapdoor in the tunnels, so he livened it with his magic and we tested it. You’d think it had been there since the tunnel was built. Yank on the ring outside or give a shove from the inside, and it will get you in or out of tunnels that will take you all the way to the Ring Wall and the front side of the door he’s finishing in the Via Mortua passage. We’ll have the way marked.”
