A Conjuring of Assassins, page 8
Neither his amusement nor the spark in his black eyes dulled in the least with my lurid references.
“… which suggests that you are a common tool of Her Most Ferocious Excellency Vizio, the Protector of Mercediare, and believe she will protect you.”
“Oh, my dear, you of all people know what I am … and am not,” he said. In my mind’s eye, I saw him make a mark to his favor on a scoring tablet.
“Exactly so. I can no more accept that Fernand di Rossi is a bootlicking servant of Cerelia Balbina di Vizio than that you’re a stepson of fairies. Indeed over the years you’ve expressed your opinion of her often and with far more sincerity than you told the story of your origins.” I bent down a little. “Such deep-seated loathing could not have been feigned.”
The Protector’s ruthless corruption had been the only thing I’d ever seen heat Rossi’s blood beyond a simmer. I’d never asked what past events caused him such pain, fearing he might consider it an invitation to pry into my own resentments.
He did not acknowledge my saying. Neither did he deny it. A tick mark in my column perhaps.
The notion that Rossi was more sharp deceiver than impoverished gentleman was disheartening, but far worse was imagining any person I’d ever called friend to be Vizio’s lickspittle. Her depredations equaled those of Sandro’s depraved uncle Lodovico—and her ambitions were more grandiose.
“Which means that you are something else altogether, and that perhaps the whispers I’ve heard of the new prisoner’s identity are true.”
He set his wine aside. Paid closer attention. His hands were nowhere near the poignard. “I am perched on this chair like a bird on a branch, awaiting the winds of spring. Tell me who I am.”
I did not need to see the scrap of Cinque’s handwriting the Shadow Lord had shown me or match it again to the script on an intercepted message from the prisoner to his pirate customers. Of course Rossi was Cinque. How perfect a disguise. How perfect the opportunities of a shabby aristocrat to listen, to overhear, to snatch important papers or intercept messages while being discounted in the games of power. He could meet contacts at any time in any house with no one to suspect he was present for any reason but a free dinner and an audience for his stories. Even il Padroné dismissed Rossi as a charming, slightly desperate man, one of his own circle to be welcomed as he himself would like to be welcomed did Lady Fortune ever turn her back on him. But il Padroné had never sparred with him, and it was Rossi’s determination to best an opponent who had exposed a dazzling intellect.
“You, segno, are the notorious purveyor of secrets who uses the nom de plume Cinque, a man no more beholden to Protector Vizio than to your hundred other employers. Am I right?”
“A most interesting supposition. Though to be sure, if I were such a cynical merchant, whyever would I admit to it?” His eyes glittered in the lamplight.
“You might not—not to me—but the Protector will command her minions relieve you of all your secrets before you die. I understand she’s very good at it.”
“Even if she believes me to be the notorious—and likely quite useful—Cinque?”
“Because of it,” I said. “Surely Protector Vizio has heard the same rumor that came to my ears—that over a number of years, Cinque has gathered a list of witnessed signatures, notable personages committed to assassinating her very self. Vizio would bleed her own child to possess that list.”
Rossi gazed up at me, a sly smile touching lips, eyes, and brow. “I think you attribute more maternal feeling to the Protector than she has ever owned. There are many things that she would bleed her only child to possess. But you can only spend blood once, and that bargain was made many years ago. Maybe her ambassador knows what became of him.”
Vizio’s child? Blood spent years ago? No time to pursue that mystery.
“I’m curious, Fernand. Why would notable personages sign such a pledge? And why would Cinque let such a document lie fallow?”
“Notable personages with large treasuries think nothing of committing a portion of that wealth to furthering their aims—an investment, like buying a new sailing ship or a new horse or a new magistrate. It might pay off. It might not. Spies, I would guess, must bide until they can get maximum value for their information.”
A glib answer, quite the same as I’d given Vashti. What value did Rossi expect to gain? Something more than his life?
“You’re to be turned over to Vizio’s loyal ambassador,” I said. “No matter whom you’ve bribed to bring you wine and omelettes and silver poignards, if Vizio discovers the truth of you, you will exist in torment until she gains possession of that list. Then you will die in torment, because more listeners than I will have heard your true opinions of her, and because you’ve only offered her the list when you are in her power.”
Rossi took my hand in his. “Cataline, you are kind to worry about me—and bold to insert yourself and your young companion between one you believe a notorious purveyor of secrets and the Tyrant of Mercediare. But I assure you that I have many bargaining chips to play before I die.”
I wrenched my hand away. “No matter what you offer, Vizio will never trust you enough to leave you alive. And even if so, none of your other clients, especially those signatory to the Assassins List, would trust you, knowing you were once in her hands and walked away unscathed. To violate those clients’ trust to save yourself would ruin Cinque’s reputation forever. You’ve no good way out.”
No one would expect a hardened spy to quiver in terror or vomit at the reminder that the consequences of a life of perfidy were imminent—and horrible. But his calm both astonished and fascinated me.
“So your purpose here, damizella, is … what?”
“To ensure that the Assassins List never reaches the Protector.”
His brow creased. His fingers twitched as if to grab the poignard. But he did not reach for it. “To kill me, then, or kill this Cinque, should we prove to be one and the same?”
“If that’s the only way.” Please, universe, let that not be the only way.
“Ah.” Rossi settled deeper in his chair. “He desires to own this list. Alessandro. I must say I never thought of the Shadow Lord using his discarded mistress as his hunting hound. That’s a bit crass.”
The pointed jibe could not wound. Its target had long grown numb.
“My former owner does not know I’m here. My break with him was permanent and irrevocable.” No lies there. “I’ve plans for my own future and will not allow your schemes to stand in my way. But I would much rather destroy the Assassins List than destroy you.”
“Destroy it!” His exuberant laughter was unforced. “Certain, I’m guessing, but the kind of information you speak of could bring you a considerable fortune to ensure that future.”
“I’ve no stomach for the kind of life you must have led all these years. Work with me, Rossi. You know enough of Protector Vizio—more than enough. She would launch a vendetta against every family represented on that list. We’ve seen this before. Her thugs would spread throughout the Costa Drago, and there would be no end to the murder, torture, rapine, hostage-taking. I prefer to live out my days in peace.”
“Perhaps you believe one of the names on this list could buy you this peaceful future.” He beamed at me as if I was Lady Fortune herself, assuring him of a lifetime of good luck. “Are you offering me rescue in exchange for this inflammatory document?”
The thorny question.
“Tell me where I can find the Assassins List and your freedom can be arranged.”
He propped his chin on his hand, and his gold-ringed finger rubbed at his lip. His gaze did not leave my own. Assessing. Considering his next play.
I pushed harder. “You know the danger of ink and paper, Rossi,” I said. “Spoken knowledge is ephemeral, because lies can serve as truth, even under mortal duress. But a written page itself does not lie, not with authenticated signatures. You would not have destroyed such a valuable document before you fell into misfortune and got arrested, and the Mercediarans will pry its location out of you. I’ve seen the horrors powerful men can wreak on each other, and though you feel safe here with your little knife, there are locks on the outside of your door, as well as inside. The guards are awake and very well armed. If you’ve misjudged your position—your bargaining chips—you condemn a great many more than yourself to a terrible fate. I cannot let that happen.”
With everything in me, I willed him to believe me.
A soft exhale signaled an ending to his contemplation. “I think you are quite naive, Cataline.”
Spirits, what can make him listen? So arrogant. Was he so greedy for payment and reputation that he would gamble with such disastrous stakes?
No. I was spitting into a desert, trying to make it bloom. Rossi relished games of skill, not chance. He truly was not worried, which meant he had a play in mind …
“Sssst.” Neri twirled a gloved finger at the door. A stirring in the passage outside. It could be nothing, but I’d already drawn this out too long.
Rossi’s sideways smile was undiminished. “You should go. I am not afraid, dear lady, and I need no rescuing. Though Egerik is quite formidable, I have gamed with him before. Yet neither do I wish to die this night, especially at the hand of woman I admire. So what if I offer you this? The Assassins List is nowhere you would ever think to look for it. I will not turn it over to you—not for money or love. Nor shall I refrain from using it to my own purposes. But I swear upon the hours your generous spirit offered me friendship without judgment, thereby turning the tedious necessities of a lonely life into pleasure, that list will never find its way to Protector Vizio’s hand.”
He held out his hand. We clasped wrists as was the Cantagnese way to seal a contract. His hand was warm, his pulse steady. He either believed what he said, or he was the finest liar in the universe.
“I would so like to believe you,” I said, “but there is the matter of this other use you have for it…”
Neri jerked an urgent thumb toward Dumond’s door. We’d no time to discover Rossi’s plan.
I was no murderer. Nor was I a torturer who could persuade the man to yield what he would not. What made him so confident? Allies or secrets or covert friendships that could force Mercediarans to withhold their worst? Blackmail? Or was it Egerik—not Sinterolla or the ambassador or the more distanced this man Egerik—with whom he had gamed before? By the Night Eternal … had he given me a clue, encouraging me to pursue the hunt to prove how clever he was? That was just like him …
All the more reason Rossi must not remember that Mistress Cataline was here questioning him about the Assassins List and hearing his clever play.
My spirit curdled at the thought of what I had to do. But I forced my speech steady. “May I offer you a farewell blessing before I go, Fernand? Sadly, I do believe this parting will be our last.”
“Every man can use a blessing. I’m only surprised to hear the offer from one I believed a pure skeptic in matters of divinity. Have you gained faith in Lady Virtue or her divine ancestors since your path diverged from il Padroné?”
“I’ve gained faith in many things since my downfall,” I said with an exaggerated sigh. “Not so much in the Lady, but in friends—honorable men and women, maybe even a few who are not so honorable. I fear for you, old friend. I can withhold my own dagger on your promise, but there are other assassins who don’t know you as I do.”
“Then a blessing, by all means.”
“Close your eyes,” I said.
He glanced up with a merry squint, flicking his gaze to the pocket that accessed my pearl-handled dagger. I had scandalized him when I mentioned that the Shadow Lord allowed me to keep a weapon sheathed to my thigh. “This is a blessing, you say, and not a blood sacrifice?”
“A plea for Lady Virtue to share her wisdom with you.”
With our hands yet linked, I reached into the pool of magic that lay inside me and released its warm, thick otherness into my veins.
“All blessings of the Lady Virtue and her sister on you, Fernand di Rossi or Cinque, whichever … whoever … you are…”
I paused as one does when offering a prayer. But my mind raced, considering Rossi’s surprise to see his onetime acquaintance, everything he had heard from me in this hour, his every question and every answer, every reaction. Sadly, I knew too little about the Assassins List—its shape, size, wording, or provenance—to erase that from his memory.
Once all was gathered, I devised a new story to overlay the truth, and whispered it on a stream of magic: Such a vivid dream when I drifted off to sleep. The Tibernian Contessa … such a lovely woman … we were playing piquet. But the cards had no numbers, and every face on the knights and queens was the same, so how could I make sets or sequences? And she played her tricks so fast I could not see if her cards were distinguishable. I had promised her a tale of Eide if she won, and she had promised me a kiss, and my pride was sorely stung that she defeated me so roundly, one capet after another. But she felt sorry and granted me the kiss anyway when I finished the story of my fairy kin and a blessing thereafter. So it was a fine dream … but such a shame I spilled the wine as I woke. My kindly caretakers did not leave me the flask …
I glanced at Neri and nodded him to our entry door. He pressed his hand on the latch.
Smoothing Rossi’s brow, I swept my hand over his eyes to keep them closed. To seat the new memory, I spoke the finish of the blessing aloud, as if it were but the lingering of his dream.
“… and may the divine Lady grant you wisdom throughout a long and healthy life. We Tibernians believe our land is the Twin Sisters’ earthly home, leaving us always in their hearing. And this last is because I won our game…”
Bent over him, I kissed Rossi’s forehead, released his hand, and reached under the side of his chair, upending the chair and the man himself. The poignard in his lap went flying. His nose and his wine cup slammed onto the hard tiles. I dropped the heavy chair on his back.
“Ow!” Rossi yelled. “Contessa?”
Fists thundered on the outer door, and keys rattled in the lock.
Prostrate, hand to his bleeding face, Rossi raised up his head. But all he would see was the shattered cup and spreading pool of blood and wine. I yanked up my mask and darted through Dumond’s open door.
As soon as Neri pulled it tight, Dumond slapped his hands on it and snapped, “Sigillaré.”
The door vanished—wood, metal, paint, and all—leaving the bare wall as we’d found it.
As Neri unhooked the hanging cloaks, anxious voices clamored in the passage. The door to Rossi’s room scraped open. When we peeked into the passage, no one was in sight.
Without a word, we raced toward the stair, down, and out into the dark lane. Another “sigillaré” and the door in the foundation vanished as completely as the other.
Like phantoms, we hurried silently about the peripheries of the Piazza Livello. As we halted to unlock the Via Mortua grate, a screeching yowl like that of a great cat split the quiet night, leaving a skim of ice sheathing my skin.
The sniffer’s hunting cry spurred us downhill. We made sure to run through a pond—because rumor said traces of magic could not be followed through water—and we snatched berries from junipers and crushed them as we ran to remove the taint of magic from our fingers. Rumors, stories … after millennia of extermination, there were no books of lore or academies of sorcery to teach us what we were. How long did traces of magic last? How long did we need to be afraid? Spirits, I needed to interview a cursed sniffer!
Once in the jumbled stews of the Asylum Ring we three went our separate ways. We’d meet at Dumond’s in an hour. Then we’d have to decide if our mission had been a success or a failure or perhaps had only just begun. I had an uneasy sense it was the latter.
7
FOUR DAYS UNTIL THE PRISONER TRANSFER
BEFORE DAWN
For a good part of an hour I huddled at the deserted ruin of the Leguiza Hospice to ensure I’d not been followed. Only then did I trudge through the last few streets and across the sawdust litter of the cooper’s yard just outside Dumond’s house. Neri was already waiting.
“A successful exercise of burglary, thanks to you two,” I said, when Dumond joined us. “This prisoner is most definitely the spy called Cinque, and he most definitely possesses the Assassins List. But he refused to turn it over. He claims he needs no assistance, and is not at all concerned about torture or execution.”
“A stupid man, then,” said Dumond, we followed him inside. “Bad luck, that.”
“No, not at all stupid. That’s the difficulty. I used every argument I could think of, even intimated I was willing to kill him. He wouldn’t yield the list, but at the end made me this promise and dropped what I think could be an important clue…”
While we consumed the food and drink Vashti had waiting, I recounted my past dealings with Fernand di Rossi and everything I could recall of the night’s interview.
“You see the dilemma. The Assassins List still exists in a place unknown, and he intends to use it—sometime. For who knows what? I do believe he despises Vizio, so I’m tempted to believe him when he promises she won’t see it. But in four more days, he’ll be in the ambassador’s hands. A man he has gamed with, as he always gamed with me. No word Rossi spoke was unconsidered, so I believe his use of the ambassador’s personal name Egerik meant something. I’ll wager my house that Ambassador di Sinterolla—this Egerik—is more than a mere functionary in a prisoner transfer.”
“But are they opponents or allies in this game?” Dumond blew a tired exhale.
“That is the question.”
We were all exhausted. It was foolish to address the conundrum without sleep.
“We should gather this afternoon to decide on our next moves,” I said. “For now, we all need a nap, and I’ve something I need to see to…”
