A Conjuring of Assassins, page 7
“That’s always been a risk, no matter what the plan,” said Dumond.
Neri was bouncing on his toes. “The guards won’t see us. And the prisoner won’t remember we were there. Your magic will fix that, right?”
My stomach squirmed. “Right.”
From the age of three until these last few months, I had believed my only gift was the ability to corrupt a mind. If a person shared an experience or a story with me, I could deliberately replace it with a falsehood. All I had to do was touch the person’s flesh while I willfully told a new version, and the lie replaced the truth. Forever. Just as I had done with Lawyer Cinnetti a year ago.
But I didn’t know how to seal off every thread of those stolen truths—the feelings, motives, or beliefs that shaped them, or any other associated details—so my victim could be left broken or confused by a memory that made no sense. Like my father who could never recall the hero tales he’d loved to tell me when I was small. Like my onetime maidservant who would forever be confused when considering the events on the day of my dismissal. Such confusion and unresolved conflict—empty spaces where there should be a piece of life—could drive a person mad. After my experience at Bawds Field, I knew exactly how that felt.
It was Neri, Dumond, and Placidio had taught me the true wonder of magic and encouraged me to reach deeper for the truth and wholeness of my gift. Not only had I embraced it, the strange experience with the grand duc’s statue had left me eager to discover more. But I had vowed to use that loathsome offshoot of my talent only for direst necessity. Bawds Field had strengthened that resolve.
And yet … The Shadow Lord knew this venture was a risk. He was hamstrung and had asked me to try, trusting my judgment. He would assess no blame if we failed, though if we were caught in the doing, he would deny any knowledge of our actions and do nothing to mitigate our punishment. I had to weigh that risk against the considerable benefit of striking early before the situation changed.
The goal was worthy. The opportunity too good to be missed.
“All right. We go.”
* * *
Torches flickered at each corner of the Palazzo Segnori’s roof and above each graceful arch of its harmonious loggia fronting Piazza Livello. Oil lamps burned in the stained glass windows of its famed tower, as if providing an incandescent stair should the Unseeable Gods decide to return from the Night Eternal. The result was an impressive view of the Palazzo itself and a well-lit venue for those taking a stroll on a pleasant evening. The light also allowed sneakthieves like the three of us to see the Gardia warders at their posts—four of them—and to note the absence of any nullifiers or their leashed magic sniffers. For the moment.
The concentration of light on the Palazzo’s facade meant that the cobbled lanes threaded between it and the huge Gallanos Bank building on its right and the Philosophic Academie on its left were abandoned to shadows that seemed darker than they might otherwise. Long-needle pines had been planted down the middle of the side lanes to discourage cart traffic squeezing between Cantagna’s greatest edifices.
As a result, the stretch of windowless wall nearest the rear of the Palazzo was as dark as a nullifier’s heart and as deserted as an alehouse when its barrels were dry. Some time earlier in the day, Dumond had found a secluded venue behind a trio of long-needled pines to paint the image of a splintery, half-height wooden door just above the Palazzo’s ancient foundation stones. Any daytime passerby who glimpsed it through the branches would think it a sewer access or some equally uninviting portal. Anyone curious enough to touch it would realize it was not wood at all, but merely solid masonry beneath a layer of paint.
As for me, I viewed it by the light of blue-white flames flickering above Dumond’s spread palms. Magic.
“Céderé,” whispered the smith as he laid his hands on the door.
The flames were snuffed instantly, but with the snap of a latch and the drag of old wood on masonry, the metalsmith opened the door to a rectangle of paler darkness. Unlike Neri’s magical pathways that allowed him—and only him—to bypass any obstacle to reach an object he desired, Dumond’s painted doorways simply opened a hole in a wall that anyone could walk through to the other side.
My brother and I pulled on the black masks Dumond had supplied us. Then Neri, sword in hand, ducked and scrambled through the opening.
“All clear,” he whispered.
I followed on hands and knees. The dark passage on the other side of the wall smelled of old stone and dusty corners. To my right, stone steps led upward toward a pale illumination. To my left, a tight corner led deeper into the dark—a ground level passage through the Palazzo.
As I followed Neri up the age-scooped steps, Dumond dragged his door closed behind. He used no magic to seal it yet; it was our way out.
The dim light revealed a landing above. Neri reached it first and vanished around a corner. Dumond and I held below the landing until my brother reappeared to wave us onward. We slipped past the dark passage leading into the first level, and followed him up to the second landing, where a small oil lamp provided the dim illumination.
With the surety of any good scout, Neri motioned us to stay quiet and follow. The short sword in his right hand had been joined by a main gauche in his left. Small weapons, as Placidio advised. A youth wearing a longsword in the city was always at risk of questioning.
The three of us slipped soundlessly along the passage wall so the lamp from the stair would not expose us. Another lamp gleamed a hundred paces ahead. My stomach lurched as a dark bulk moved in front of the light.
We halted and held our breath.
Mumbled words in a deep voice elicited a quiet laugh. Guards.
The body passed in front of the light again and all fell quiet. As if in intentional unison, we breathed again and moved forward.
A few steps farther on, the wall we traversed ended in a black void. Much to my churning belly’s alarm, we crept past the open doorway and ever closer to the guards and their lamp. When I believed I could smell the wine on their breath, a second void gaped in the wall. Neri dodged through this opening. Dumond and I followed, feeling our way cautiously into the pitch dark room next door to the prisoner.
Neri laid a hand on my shoulder. A signal to stay still.
I obeyed, even while marveling that my rash, angry sixteen-year-old brother had acquired such calm assurance. Placidio’s good teaching—even if all the lessons weren’t yet learned. For the thousandth time I approved the desperate choice I’d made to hire the swordmaster in days we weren’t sure we’d be able to eat.
A quiet shuffling occurred at the doorway and then a soft light sprang from Neri’s hand. His black cloak and Dumond’s were hung across the opening to the passage, preventing the ivory beams from escaping to give away our presence.
“You mastered the hand light,” I whispered, gazing in wonder at the glow that had no source but Neri’s own magic. Of course he had. That’s what he had used to illuminate Bawds Field when they were hunting me.
His eyes sparked as he illuminated a dusty stone wall where Dumond was already wiping down a rectangle to prepare it for paint. This doorway would get us directly into the prisoner’s locked room without any guard the wiser.
I took Neri’s short sword so he could help Dumond, drew my own dagger, and positioned myself beside the cloak-hung doorway. The chamber was a windowless closet, adorned with cobwebs, a rolled rug that looked as if it might disintegrate if you touched it, and a broken stool. A servant’s chamber, perhaps.
Only a few moments and I wanted to scream at Dumond to work faster. The sound of each brush stroke inflamed my nerves. Would the magic not work if he put in fewer details? We’d never talked of that. Surely he’d not insist on perfect shading and color if it wasn’t necessary. But logic didn’t make the time go faster. This door would be taller than the first, so we didn’t have to crawl. Better for a quick retreat.
I pulled down my mask to hang around my neck. The wool itched my face and was near suffocating me in the stuffy chamber.
A distant voice snapped a command and determined footsteps sounded from the direction of the stair. Dumond’s brush stilled. Neri’s light winked out. I pressed my back to the wall as if it might absorb me. I dared not breathe as we waited to hear the chink of a chain and the shuffling of silk-clad feet that would announce a sniffer.
In moments the footsteps—two men in boots, matching strides—passed by the doorway. No rattling chain accompanied their passing. No wordless howl—the sound of a sniffer who detects his prey. Would they detect the acrid fumes of Dumond’s paint?
Still we waited. Interminably, it seemed.
Keys rattled. A door slammed. An easy laugh and the clink of pottery—mugs and pitcher—followed. This was no hunt, but a standard changing of the guard. Nerve scraping, nonetheless. Spirits … if we’d been a quarter hour later …
More tramping boots, less brisk than the previous, passed by and receded toward the stair.
Quiet descended once again. Neri reignited his light, and Dumond resumed his work, dabbing on an extra wash of yellowish brown for the latch. A new strip of black along the lower edge had me curious, until I closed my eyes and opened them again to see the new door as a whole. He’d left a gap at its base, so it wouldn’t scrape, and layered a tinge of oil on the hinges and latch.
Before my nerves could settle again, Dumond closed the lids of his paint jars, buckled their holding straps, wiped his brushes, and stowed all in his bag. As he rolled up the spattered cloth he’d used to catch stray dabs of paint, he glanced at me. His hand waved at his door and his eyes widened.
I knew what he was asking.
I nodded that I was ready, though assent was a certain lie. Not at all ready. How would I even begin to explain my presence? If the prisoner was sleeping, I’d have to wake him, muzzling him before he shouted. Placidio was supposed to be here for this part.
Dumond shouldered his bag, stood before his artwork, and spread his arms. Blue-white flame appeared above each of his cupped hands. Sisters! How does he do that?
Neri pointed to his mask and then to me. He took back his sword.
I pulled up my mask and stepped up close. Neri’s ivory light winked out.
Dumond laid his flaming hands on the door. “Céderé.”
No squeak of hinges or splintering wood intruded on the quiet, as the door opened to a dimly lit chamber. Dumond stepped aside. He’d stay behind to keep watch.
Neri took Placidio’s role, entering the opening first. But he moved aside as I followed him.
After brief impression of a comfortably furnished room—chairs, bed, washing cabinet, writing desk, a gleaming brass lamp mounted high on the wall above the bed—my eye focused on a dapper gentleman in his shirt sleeves. Wide awake, he was seated in a cushioned chair, his stockinged feet propped on a footstool. Gold hooped earrings and eyes of brilliant ebony gleamed amid tight curled black hair and beard. Diamonds and rubies sparkled in the lamplight from a wide strip of brocade that lay on the bed alongside a velvet cloak and doublet.
“Gracious,” he said softly. “Who in the names of the Nameless are you two? And where did you come from so late of a night … or early of a morning? If you think to assassinate me, it might be a bit more difficult than you think.”
He twirled a silver poignard.
For the first moment of my astonishment, I could only gape and flounder. Then sense returned, and I dropped my hood and yanked off my mask.
“Rossi!” I said with a grin. “Now you’re a pirate?”
6
FOUR DAYS UNTIL THE PRISONER TRANSFER
HOUR OF THE SPIRITS
Few pleasures in the world can match knocking a supremely confident jouster off his high horse. Though our only field of honor had been the chambers of the wealthy and our only weapons words, playing cards, and bits of information, Fernand di Rossi and I had spent many an hour in determined, delightful combat.
“What do you—?” He sat up sharply. His ebony eyes blinked. But his scrutiny quickly softened into a wondering amusement.
“I am visited by an apparition, it seems, the ghost of a dead woman and her, mmm”—he gave Neri a sharp appraisal—“protective demon from the Night Eternal? Yet you both appear quite substantial.”
“I have, indeed, departed the life where you knew me,” I said.
“So facile with words, my friend. Yet even if you are unattached to that life and certain terrifying men who came with it, I’m guessing that I am still not permitted to carry you away on my noble steed to hunt Frost Wraiths in the Mountains of the Moon or to forge masks of gold in the dragon lairs of the Land of Smoke and Silk.”
How could I have forgotten that the tales of a diamond-and-ruby baldric were attached to this man, the most fantastical storyteller I had ever encountered? No one of il Padroné’s acquaintance ever inquired about the origins of a Moon House courtesan; we were born on the day our masters or mistresses claimed us and would never be so crass as to speak of our private lives. But every host or hostess in the Costa Drago begged Rossi to grant their guests the story of his origins.
Never boring, the tale differed hugely from one evening to the next. One night he claimed to be the natural son of a Lhampuri mangalla, run away before he could be executed when he came of age. Another day he was a beggar’s child, adopted by a traveling philosophist. I’d heard variant versions of his being raised by wolves beyond the mountains to the north, a fifteenth cousin to the grand duc of Riccia-by-the-sea, or stolen from his crèche by the dancing fae and spirited away to the isle of Eide.
The mundane truth had always been apparent. Rossi was the most common family name in the Costa Drago, the majority of its bearers sturdy, freckled farmers, laborers, or washing women with red hair. With his tight ebon curls and skin the hue of smoked bronze, Fernand would never be mistaken for a Rossi. Forever short of money, he lived and dined comfortably in great houses throughout the Costa Drago by virtue of the delights he brought to any company. His manners were flawless, his dignity unbreachable, his erudition undeniable, and his very expensive garments reeked of impeccable taste, though worn at the seams and sorely out of fashion. He was universally assumed to be the scion of a great house fallen on hard times. Guessing which one provided amusement almost as intriguing as the man himself.
“Even if I were willing to ride along, it does not appear you can ride away just now, Fernand, unless your fae kin come to spirit you back to Eide.”
He smiled and leaned back in his chair, laid the poignard in his lap, and raised a glass of wine from a chair-side table.
This was no frightened prisoner, no hardened rogue, no simple turncoat. Rossi changed the game entirely. The poignard and the glass of wine belied his status as a prisoner, no matter window bars or guards.
“You assume I wish to run away, lovely Cataline. Yet here I sit, comfortably secure. This cup is filled with a decent Cantagnese vintage; my bed is good down and wool; and I am promised a fine omelette for breakfast. While you, my dear, arrive in company with a young ruffian and.… tsk, tsk … so shabby, so unlike the luminous woman who had every wife in Cantagnese society plotting her ruin. Not dead, it seems, but banished to your origins, perhaps? I’ve heard rumor of such, though never spoken beyond whispers in certain … dangerous company.”
A grimace of mock terror widened his eyes, exposing their whites. But even such bald humor could not mask his curiosity.
His hand waved at a nearby chair. “Come sit. Sorry I’ve no more wine. My kindly caretakers did not leave me the flask.”
I declined. Rossi’s greatest weakness was his vanity. The few times I had bested him in our contests of wits had distressed him inordinately, but even more he had resented that I was a finger’s length taller than he. So I remained standing and stepped even closer, where he’d have to push me aside to rise from his chair. Instinct had made me unmask, promising that our history of friendship would easily convince him to trust me. But I was less certain of that by the moment.
Neri flattened his back to the outer door, his eye on Rossi and me, his ear listening for hints of movement in the passage.
“Have you turned assassin, mistress? Or”—his gaze darted to the baldric and his left hand curled into a fist about his ring—“thief, perhaps? The condottieri captain warned me it was foolish to wear my pretties into this building. But I chose to enjoy the symbolism of it—entering on my own terms and not those of my captors.”
In many of his stories, told with the exquisite detail induced by his host’s brandy, Fernand featured his inherited family treasures: a gold bracelet fashioned in the shape of a dragon, a gold ring engraved with laurel sprays, and a baldric sewn with diamonds and rubies. He always wore the first two; even now they gleamed at his wrist and finger. But I’d never seen the baldric and assumed it existed in the same mythical realms as his kin, the fae.
Though I knew some essential things about this man, I clearly didn’t know everything.
“Consider me a benevolent phantom in search of opportunities,” I said. “I’ve come in response to a rumor about this new-arrived prisoner, though I doubted its truth. He was arrested fifteen … now sixteen … days ago for selling stolen shipping schedules to an Invidian pirate, and I was most intrigued by his situation. Infinitely more so now.”
“Go on. You had my attention at benevolent. And opportunities are always of interest.”
Of course they would be. An eagerness lay beneath his relaxed posturing, just as when someone proposed the rules for a new challenge of wits.
Returning my dagger to its sheath, folding my arms as if ready to scold a naughty child, I wrinkled my brow at him. “Piracy reaps a quick hanging in Cantagna, so it doesn’t surprise me that you claimed foreign citizenship right away. That the affiliation was to one of the parties of the Triumvirate Treaty also made sense, as it gave you twenty days to figure out a strategy to prevent your neck being stretched. The astonishment is that, of the choices available, you claimed Mercediaran citizenship. Not only do Mercediarans hang pirates, they do so in dreadful fashion, with ropes and knives and fire…”
