A Conjuring of Assassins, page 30
The only slip in the housekeeper’s deportment was the flare of her nostrils as she took stock of our wilted appearance. My shoes and hem were caked with mud, grit, and a kind of ash that did not bear thinking about. Placidio’s ruffled neckpiece had sagged into something that looked like a noose, and his yellow silks were frayed and streaked with dirt. Both of us were beaded with sweat from our foray into the burial chambers.
“My master asks that I provide his hospitality before he meets with you himself,” said Mistress Mella.
I dipped my knee in humble courtesy, but immediately regretted it. Spirits! I must keep my wits about me. Monette had left here believing that Lady Fortune had truly spoken through her. That her destiny was coming to fruition as the voice of the divine. She would not be humble before a serving woman. Not anymore.
Placidio rapped his walking stick solidly on the floor three times, arresting Mella’s attention. “I must speak to His Great Excellency about his intentions with regard to my daughter. She has been most agitated about his insistence on a particular divination after a long morning’s business. He must understand that she is delicate, and that the Lady Espe speaks at her own time, not at her servants’ command.”
“I will report your request, merchant. But I’ve been instructed to inform you that you will be compensated appropriately for the girl’s service. This is an opportunity that will come to such folk as yourselves few times in this world—to have your talents so perfectly rewarded.”
“Hmph.”
Placidio’s skepticism reflected mine exactly. Even as myself, Mella’s responses insulted me. How stupid and insignificant this woman believed us.
I appreciated Placidio’s attempt to introduce a delay. A few hours to explore our new theories would be most welcome. But he knew as well as I that the world would not wait.
Mella led us briskly through the waiting rooms we’d traversed so slowly on our first visit, and up a modest, open stair to a less ostentatious hall than we had seen so far. Wood plank floors. Wall panels covered not with murals, but figured fabric. Clerestory windows provided a diffuse light. And four rooms—two on either side—opened from the hall. Between the two solid doors on each wall, a wood bench and a side table holding a pewter candelabra provided the hall’s accommodation. No squints. So safe for now.
“Be seated, merchant. I’ve dispatched a servant to bring ale for you.”
“Wine is my preference,” said Placidio with dignity. “And my daughter keeps to cider when she is communing with divinities.”
He waved his stick at the doorways. “Is one of these where we will meet with the ambassador?”
“You may inform Emilio of your preference for wine when he arrives. And no. These are householder accommodations.”
She laid her pale hand on my shoulder and urged me insistently toward one of the doors. “Come, damizella, I’m sure you would appreciate a chance to freshen yourself. His Excellency has guests for the evening.”
“Papa, would you keep my mantle? I could certainly use a moment to brush off the day.”
Unsure of what freshening myself meant in Mella’s eyes, I dropped the thing on the bench beside Placidio. An inside pocket of my mantle held my small dagger and my needle bag. I didn’t want Mella to notice the dagger, and I dared not lose the ascoltaré needles Dumond had modified. More than ever today, either Romy or Romy’s voice in Monette’s head must tell my hands how to direct their fall. I must not go too deep.
Placidio affirmed my deposit with a jerk of his head, and sat, back straight, hands propped on the brass head of his stick.
“We’re to meet guests?” he said. “Who would that be? Some of them may already be my customers; all will have heard of our most excellent collection. We did not bring our sample case, but perhaps you could send a servant…”
“That will not be necessary,” said Mella, not deigning so much as a glance as she held open a door and herded me through. She closed the door firmly behind us, breaching protocol again with a hiss of disgust. Placidio would enjoy knowing he’d driven her to it.
The chamber surprised me. I’d thought Egerik’s householders would sleep in hermit cells. Rose-colored fabric covered the walls, and a brightly woven blanket dressed the modest sling bed. A long dressing table was set with a brush, hand mirror, and a selection of small jars and vials at one end. At the other end sat a wide clay bowl painted with roses. Everything clean. Everything harmonious. The whole struck me as a modest echo of the exquisite burial chamber not so far away. I wanted to be sick.
“First a wash,” said Mella. She filled the bowl with water from a painted pitcher. “The day is warm. Sit here, so I can do it. We must have you ready when the bell rings.”
“But, mistress, I’ve no need—”
“Do not argue.” She scooped dried rose petals from a dish and tossed them into the steaming bowl, and then pressed me down to the stool beside the dressing table.
“Of course this seems strange to a person like you. But His Excellency has great admiration for your beliefs, great respect for your closeness to the Lady.” Her flat insistence made clear these were sentiments Mella did not share. “He understands you would not wish to insult your divine Mistress with filth or shabby attire. He raises you up in honor to her.”
“All kindness, but truly … I…”
How would Monette answer? I’d never understood how entirely my impersonations grew from the magic. While I stammered, Mella’s brutal efficiency had me washed, stripped, and sheathed in clean linen. My hair was unbraided and brushed until it spread about my shoulders in a black cloud. My dirty garments were left in a heap, and she had me step into a soft flowing undergown of deep blue. The high neck and front panel of the bodice were overstitched with a spiderweb of silver, the slim sleeves banded at the wrists with more of it. She attached a mantle of gauzy indigo at my shoulders with silver clasps in the shape of lacewings—like the lacewing pendant that she returned to hang at my breast, the sign of Lady Fortune. I’d worn no garments so lovely since the harsh midnight I was banished from il Padroné’s house.
“I must say, damizella,” said Mella as she clipped a simple twist of silver to hold my cloud of hair from one side of my face. “You wear this very naturally, as if you’ve had other occasions to don such finery.”
“Only for customers. To show our fabrics.”
A good thing Mella had met me before I became Monette on our first visit, catching only a glimpse of Monette on our way out. Who could have known I would endure such intimacy?
She tossed my cheap earrings onto the heap of soiled clothes, replacing them with knuckle-length drops of tiny sapphires. Egerik wanted me to make an impression on his guests.
Who would Egerik invite here tonight? The carriages and linkboys belied a gathering of mercenary captains ready to provide a legion should Egerik give the word. The guests could simply be members of the Brotherhood come to watch him torture a prisoner fool enough not to fear him. But I didn’t think so. I’d seen the crown on the banner.
“Mistress, I must know what quality of guests will see me this evening. Who—and how many. My Lady’s truth is often of quite personal nature. Too many observers can confuse my hearing, obscuring the clarity needed for accurate interpretation. And I see no need for such apparel, beautiful though it be and so generously meant. The Lady demands a certain modesty from her communicants.”
Mella bathed my hands again, taking her time, paying careful attention to my nails and the red needle pricks from the day before. “You will see whomever the ambassador chooses and wear the garments he sees fit. Those are the conditions of his favor. You will come to understand the rewards of such a life.”
“Such a life?” Monette’s naivete must be clear. “Mistress, surely I cannot stay here. My father has forbidden—”
“Surely your father has wit enough to defer to the ambassador’s desires. Our master is a most determined man. If he wants you, he will have you.”
So Egerik did mean to collect Monette. I must make sure she had good reasons to accept it, while keeping her wits about her.
Mella pushed my feet into soft blue slippers—the kind she and the rest of the staff wore that kept their steps so quiet. “Now a little darkening about your eyes, a little rouge to highlight the cheekbones.”
“Your master’s favor honors me and my Lady. Certain, I must trust her bidding.”
Moon House instruction rose up from the wastelands where I had buried it. Of course Egerik wanted submission.
For yet one more of ten thousand times, I thanked whatever power in the universe, course of luck, or fortune’s benefice had sent me to Sandro. Against every custom of our world, he had allowed me choice in everything from what to wear to the hour in which he came to my bed for the first time. He had nourished my mind and spirit so generously that I’d been able to see multitudes of choices I never imagined. Never had I wanted to walk away, nor broached the subject. But what would he have answered if I had asked him to set me free? Even now as I looked back, recalling how much I adored him, knowing how sincerely he cared for me, I could not guess that answer. I had been his bound servant under the law, but to my good fortune he had seen me as a thinking person. Life as Egerik’s collected diviner, I guessed, would be very, very different.
More than two hours had passed by the time Mistress Mella judged me fit.
“You clean up decently. Our master may wish you veiled, but we will let him judge.”
“Indeed, a veil might ease my worries, Mistress.” Entirely truth. But I could not delay my impersonation magic indefinitely. Egerik’s belief in Monette’s true gift was essential.
She draped a filmy length of indigo gauze over her arm, smiled, and opened the door. The smile did not extend to her pale eyes.
I followed her out. “Papa, have they told you—?”
Placidio had slumped to one side on the bench, one arm dangling limply to the floor. Asleep? Or …
Please all divinities, not this. A wine cup lay on the floor, its dregs staining Baldassar’s puffed yellow trousses and soaked into the planking. An empty pitcher sat on the side table. A half-empty ale flagon and tumbled mug sat in a puddle at his feet.
“Papa! Wake up!” I shook his shoulder. It jostled a mighty snort out of him, but his eyes did not open. Don’t you dare be drunk, you damnable sot! I need your eyes and ears. I need you to wake me if I go too deep …
No, no. He’d never go back on his word. The armaments in the tunnels had shaken him. But Placidio di Vasil was another man who did nothing by accident. This was playacting, surely, or … By the Night Eternal, had they put something into his wine?
A bell chimed faintly from a distance.
“Come, damizella,” said Mistress Mella. “The ambassador wishes you brought to him. Now.” Her lip curled, showing not the least surprise or concern at finding Merchant Fabroni insensible. They wanted him out of the way.
“My divining needles are inside my mantle,” I said, fighting off panic. Without Placidio I’d have no one to direct Monette’s attention to items of importance, no one to fight my captors if the plan fell apart. Without Placidio …
The terror of Bawds Field rolled through me yet again, a cold wind whistling through my ears, the memory of a yawning emptiness where Romy’s soul should be.
Desperate, I shook his shoulder. Then dropped to my knees. His stertorous breaths smelled only faintly of wine. He was certainly not drunk. I well knew how much it took to drive him to oblivion.
“Papa, I have to go with Mistress Mella. But my mantle’s underneath you, and I need to get my needles.”
Placidio lay awkwardly on his left arm. I had to shift it out of the way to get to my mantle and the red silk needle bag. It weighed like a dead man’s. As I tugged on him I squeezed hard, twice in rapid succession, our signal that I was ready to invoke my magic. Though I laid my fingers in his flaccid hand where Mella could not see, he did not squeeze back.
My heart stuttered. This was no playacting.
A prick of blood on his finger made me cautious as I rummaged underneath him for the red silk bag of needles. It was not tucked away where I’d left it, and indeed four needles had slid out of the bag’s mouth.
If anyone else discovered such a circumstance, that might appear natural. But as I practiced the casting, it was Placidio himself who had suggested that I knot the drawstring, so that none would fall out and be lost. And he did nothing without purpose.
Careful to hold the bag tight enough the protruding needles could not move, I rose and frowned at Placidio. “I must apologize for Papa, Mistress Mella. He’s been suffering from gout, as you saw yesterday, and it appears he has drowned his pain in drink. To be honest, he is a bit unnerved by my intimacy with Lady Fortune. But if he could be made more comfortable, close by until I’m free to see to him, it would put my mind at ease.”
“We’ll find a place he can sleep off his wine before sending him home. Men oft give in to pain rather than standing firm through it.”
Not Placidio, though. He could endure more than Mella could imagine.
“Now you must come, damizella. Emilio will be at the bottom of the stair. We’ll dispatch him to take care of Merchant Fabroni.” She swept across the room.
I dared not fuss over him more. He’d not thank me for upending this venture for sentiment. Surely he would have suspected a taint in the wine. His profession had taught him of all the ways people could seek advantage over their opponents. So if he’d risked it, there was reason.
Thus, I hesitated just long enough to verify the telltales that ensured these were indeed the needles Dumond had made for me, and to identify the embossed symbol and raised rings of each protruding needle that would tell me which end was sticking out. Sacred spirits …
Somehow, over the hours it had taken to dress me, Placidio had contrived to learn the answers we needed most. The four exposed needle points were the primary ends of Presence and Relationship, and the obverse of Jeopardy and Order. Arrival. Friend. Danger. Chaos.
I did not need Lady Fortune’s voice to interpret, but only Placidio’s and mine as we had articulated the most important answers we needed. And here they were. Rossi was here. Rossi and Egerik were aligned in purpose. And their partnership was as dangerous as we feared. Chaos.
As Mella turned back to see if I was coming, I bent over and kissed Placidio’s forehead—my sincere thanks and an apology for misjudging his state and for abandoning him here.
I dared not delay my magic. Cold sweat dribbled down my back as necessity drove me to the verge of the precipice and I gazed out on the void.
Whatever Egerik’s plan, Monette had to do the disrupting. I had to believe Placidio could fight off what they’d done to him. I had to believe my brother and Dumond would keep themselves safe. Dumond had promised they would not abandon me. I had to trust.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I erased the vision of horror and focused on Monette. Interlacing her story with everything I had learned, everything I needed to remember, and everything I needed her to heed, I reached deep for magic. My body and spirit became Monette di Fabroni, ambitious diviner, while Romy settled into place as Lady Fortune’s voice.
25
THE DAY OF THE PRISONER TRANSFER
AFTERNOON
“His Excellency is completing his dressing, Damizella di Fabroni.” The manservant Cei, eyes properly lowered, tripped the latch on the paneled door. His hands were slim, smooth, and fine-boned, his nails clean and perfectly trimmed.
Cei had forced himself into my thoughts all day. So deliciously handsome and yet so humble. Yet with Papa’s example ever with me, I knew better than to trust such a show; servility could hide innumerable vices. Besides, the Lady’s favor, so distinctly clear and so nicely recognized by the ambassador himself, set my place far above a barefoot serving man. My aspirations should be higher.
My hand strayed to the luxurious silk and silver gown and to the sapphire drops dangling from my ears. Mine, if I wanted them. And much more beyond those if I worked matters properly. The imagining left me breathless.
Nonetheless, at some time Cei would lift his eyes, and I could judge more clearly what kind of man he was. His skin and bones were so lovely.
Cei stepped aside to let us pass. As before, his shapely feet were bare.
“Move, girl,” snapped Mella under her breath. “Eyes down.”
Cold Mella clearly saw herself as the lady mistress of this widower’s household. I smiled a little as I lowered my eyes. I would choose my own time to defy her.
The gleaming wood under my blue slippers gave way to a thick carpet; the dimness of the short passageway to pooled lamplight. The faint aroma of warmed lavender and hair oil erased the mundane scent of floor polish.
Mella pinched my arm to halt my steps. Her skirts draped as she bent her knee. “Excellency, you said you wished to see the merchant’s girl alone before you display her for your guests.”
I stood straight, choosing not to imitate her servantly obeisance.
“Just as I expected.” Egerik’s sigh of satisfaction could have launched a ship. “The deep sapphire, indigo, and silver show her to excellent advantage.”
“Do you wish her veiled?”
“No. She wears her belief as naturally as she wears this costume.”
I disliked them speaking of me as if I weren’t there. Mella’s disdain was insufferable. Yet Lady Fortune herself had chosen the ambassador as the instrument of my elevation. Until I understood her intentions, I should do my best to please him without shame.
Dipping my knee but a finger’s breadth, I boldly raised my eyes. “Your Excellency, such a gracious welcome. Your generosity humbles me and honors my Lady mistress.”
The ambassador was resplendent in red-gold brocade with blackwork embroidery at his wrists and a ruff of stiffened lace at his neck. His deep-red trousses cut a generous figure, but unlike my father’s canary monstrosities, were tastefully unstuffed. Oh, Papa.
