Children of Earth and Sky (42 page)

“Thank you,” she said. Then she slept.

A day later, still going south, Niklas's wound, where Tico had bitten him, became inflamed. He couldn't move that arm. It began to make a crackling sound, weep pus. He died in pain, feverish, two days after that. She hadn't intended to kill him, but what you intended didn't always come to pass.

Shortly before they reached Asharias, Marin Djivo ordered a halt for a midday meal and said he wished to speak to all of them.

It was a beautiful day, a high sky, late spring now. Birds called warnings to each other. Pero looked up and saw why: a hawk was soaring. It was strange, to feel sunshine and see blue skies and understand them as a threat. He knew the weather here didn't tell them anything about what was happening to the north. They needed rain there, and had no idea if it was falling. Neither would the khalif and his advisers, he thought. His thoughts had, in truth, turned more and more to Grand Khalif Gurçu as they journeyed. He'd also begun praying more.

Djivo cleared his throat. They'd gathered away from the road. The Seressini merchants might be arrogant (of course they were) but Marin Djivo had been here before and none of them had. They'd be growing nervous, would listen.

No one could overhear him where they were. There were people on the road, a great many of them now, including soldiers going both ways. They were very near the city, after all.

City of Cities, Sarantium had been called.

Pero was nervous himself. He had reason to be, didn't he? He was the one who would be separated from the others and expected to achieve a likeness of the khalif that pleased Gurçu the Destroyer. Not a man one desired to displease. He had heard that no one spoke—no words at all—in the presence of the khalif.

That would be a problem for a painter with his subject. One of many problems. He was also expected to gather whatever information he could, to share when he returned home. That return was, Pero Villani thought, not remotely a certainty, given the other task he'd been given. Should the opportunity arise when he reached Asharias, the council's clerk had said, smoothly.

He forced himself to pay attention to Marin Djivo. “We will receive an escort tomorrow or the next day, that happens with Jaddite merchants, so I thought I'd speak today. We will, as you likely know, go our separate ways in the city.”

“What? Why?” said the youngest of the Seressinis. He wasn't, it appeared, one of those who likely knew.

Djivo said patiently, “You'll be escorted across the strait to the other shore where Seressinis and other Jaddite merchants have their warehouses and reside. Dubrava has a . . . different relationship. We are permitted to remain in Asharias itself.”

“How convenient for you,” said the young one. His name was Guibaldo Ferri, and Pero didn't like him.

“It can be,” Djivo agreed equably. He grinned. “You'll find pretty women on your side, too. But the guards do watch you. They watch all of us.”

“So I've heard,” said the oldest of the merchants. “How closely?”

Djivo looked at him. “That's what I wanted to talk about. I do this as a courtesy, you understand. What happens to you doesn't really affect me or my goods, but we have travelled together.”

“We have,” said the older merchant, one of the Grilli family.

“And so I urge you to say nothing at all, even when you think you are among friends, of what happened on the road. And impress this on your servants, if they want to get home.”

“Oh. Skandir, you mean?” Ferri's voice was too loud. Pero looked quickly towards the road.

Djivo kept his expression grave. “Yes, that. Please understand. They will imprison you, and torture you for information, and then kill you if they learn you were present when soldiers died.”

“Kill Seressini merchants? Travelling with safe conducts? I think not.”

“Trust me,” Marin Djivo said. “It is worth your life.”

“And yours?” Ferri grinned.

“And mine,” Djivo agreed. “And your family will never trade with Asharias again. Think on it, signore.”

That had an effect. Marin Djivo, thought Pero, was an impressive man. He'd be sorry to part with him, but his own journey would continue differently now.

“Was there anything more?” Nelo Grilli asked. He was paying close attention.

Djivo hesitated. “One thing, yes. I offer this as another courtesy, signore. Please believe me, I imply nothing at all. Understand that they will search us carefully, our persons, our goods, our rooms. If it has occurred to any of you that you might secret some trade items to avoid the tariffs, I urge you to think otherwise. The tariffs are high, but Osmanlis punish our people heavily for offences—and more so in wartime.”

“I have no such goods,” Grilli said. “But I understand what you are saying.”

Djivo looked briefly at Guibaldo Ferri and at the last merchant, of the Bosini family. Ferri shrugged, Bosini nodded.

They dispersed to their meals. Pero was turning to do the same—he saw that Tomo had set out food—when Djivo called him back.

—

HE LIKE
S PERO VILLANI,
and is fairly certain the artist will die here.

He doesn't think that means that he will himself, but there are no certainties in Asharias. They are far from home, and whatever Dubrava might do to stay safe and accepted, they are among enemies here, and there is an army in the field. It is, in fact, why these journeys can be so lucrative. Profit measured by risk. Skirting around the edges of a war.

The two of them are alone. Marin says, in a grassy field by the road, amid purple and yellow flowers, “I am uncertain if we will see each other once inside the walls.”

“I understand that. I am grateful for your guiding us here.”

He hesitates, still. You can like a man and be wrong about him. Then he decides he isn't wrong. He says, “Signore, I am leaving this party tonight. I'll be going ahead with my servants and goods. We will reach our next inn before sunset. I will leave in the dark.”

Villani stands very still, thinking. In Marin's experience, Seressinis tend to be quick, too sure of themselves. The artist isn't. Eventually, he says, “Why are you telling me?”

The right question. Marin says, “Because I am inviting you to come with me. I believe . . . I have no knowledge, but I believe that at least one of the others will likely be in difficulty once Osmanli guards arrive as escorts.”

“Hidden goods?”

He nods.

“You warned them.”

“Yes. Merchants try to avoid tariffs. Sometimes it succeeds and foolish men hear that and decide to risk it. I think you may be endangered if you are with them when you enter the city, given your own tasks.”

He says
tasks
, deliberately. He doesn't say
painting
.

“Going into the palace, you mean?”

“To the khalif. And . . .” He needs to say it, Marin realizes.
There is no point to this conversation otherwise. “Perhaps with a purpose beyond a portrait?”

Villani goes pale. Not surprising, really.

Marin says, “I mean you well, signore. I have no knowledge, only some understanding of the Council of Twelve, and perhaps the world . . . and from observing your servant.”

“Tomo?”

“Yes. It is possible he has his own tasks. Is not just serving you. And that you might also be at risk because of those. I am sorry to say it, but I am not certain the council would value your life over . . . other things.”

Villani looks shaken but not, Marin judges, entirely surprised. “The life of the khalif, for example.”

“The end of that life, yes.” He does lower his own voice, saying those words.

“And Tomo . . . ?”

“Is he a true servant?”

Villani frowns. “He knows what servants do, but he is . . .”

“More?”

“Perhaps. Yes. How much more, are you thinking?”

This is
such
a dangerous conversation. He shakes his head. “I am not the one to say.”

“Shall I?” asks Pero Villani. He smiles faintly.

“Not to me. I don't matter.”

Villani shakes his head. “Are you not also at risk if someone you journeyed with tries to kill the khalif?”

Marin can't help it: he looks quickly around. They are still alone, far enough from the road and from the other merchants.

“I might be. But I am not Seressini.”

“You could even warn them.”

“I could. I won't. It is not how I see myself.”

Villani nods. “Thank you. Again.”

Marin clears his throat. There is another thing he needs to say. “They will search your paints and supplies, Signore Villani. Before you are anywhere near the palace complex. Signore, you should understand that in Asharias they know . . . they are very familiar with poisons.”

The man grows pale again. He says, “I only desire to do a portrait, as best I can. And then go home. What you suggest . . . it is not how I see myself, either.”

Marin says, “I imagine that is so. Others might have placed you in such a role?”

They hear laughter from the road. The birds are singing now. There had been a hawk. It must be gone. Marin doesn't look for it. He watches the other man.

Villani says, “I will come with you tonight. I will be . . . I am honoured that you have offered this.”

Marin nods, manages a smile. “Perhaps you'll paint my portrait one day, if we both go home.”

“Another honour, gospodar,” the other man says. “Let us both contrive to go home.”

“Let us,” Marin says.

Inwardly, regretfully, he still doesn't believe the other man will do so.

—

PERO VILLANI WAS NOT AN INNOC
ENT
. You couldn't live in the tannery district of Seressa among the cutpurses and the canal-side poor, the artists, the whores of both sexes, the particular friends he had, and remain sheltered in your view of life.

Still, he was shaken by the conversation with Marin Djivo. It was as if he'd come all this way through Osmanli-ruled lands and not considered certain things at all. Which, at this moment, seemed foolish beyond words. Djivo had been calm (he usually was), not judging, only . . . being a friend, it seemed.

And putting Pero to a difficult decision. Not about leaving in the night. That he had known he'd do the moment the offer was made. He was Seressini. If he arrived in the company of others from that widely mistrusted city and they did, indeed, try to conceal goods from the officials, his own fate could easily be bound up with whatever happened to them, and it was unlikely to be pleasant.

No, his decision concerned his servant, and the paint pots they'd carried across Sauradia, carefully wrapped, on one of the pack animals. One ceramic pot, in particular. He was bringing lead white paint with him, already mixed—it was used for undercoats and sometimes to alter another colour's intensity. He had three full containers of it. Well, two full ones, in truth.

The third had a sealed alchemist's vial of white arsenic hidden in the thick paint. The outside of that jar had two scratches on it, not quite parallel to each other, very faint.

It had not been suggested, by the clerk to the Council of Twelve who'd advised him on this added dimension to his mission, just
how
Pero was to place poison in the food or drink of the Grand Khalif Gurçu. Evidently, assassins deployed by Seressa were expected to use initiative in such matters. And to accept the near certainty of their death. It was hinted (delicately) that Pero might wish to save some of the arsenic for himself if he proceeded with this. Should such an action come to pass successfully, he was told, his name would long reverberate with honour in the republic and his family be supported by the state for generations.

“I have no family,” Pero remembered saying.

He'd asked why Seressa would want the khalif dead. And, to be fair, the clerk did answer. When khalifs died there was chaos in Asharias and among the army leaders. Successions were never smooth if more than one son was alive, and sometimes even if there was only the one. Others might think themselves better suited to the throne. The djannis often rioted in the city and in garrison
towns, demanding extravagant gifts from whoever succeeded, in return for continued loyalty. Rebellion might also emerge among restive tribes in the east, chafing under rule from Asharias.

There was, in brief, extreme disruption. A new khalif's siblings, the ones who lost any power struggle, were invariably killed. Living brothers were a bad thing for khalifs. Various wives, viziers, and eunuchs would also need dealing with, or disposing of.

Trouble in Asharias tended to mean peace in Jaddite lands. No Osmanli army of forty or fifty thousand pushing northwest in the spring. That interlude might end when the new khalif felt a need to show his prowess. But in the interval, trade was safer by land and sea, and for Seressa it was always about trade. And it was entirely possible that whichever son (there were two alive, it seemed) followed the Destroyer might be less ferociously bent on conquest in the west.