Children of Earth and Sky (56 page)

Pero was aware—and always would be—that his being alive was astonishing. You could call it a miracle. He ought to have died in Asharias, or on the way home, at best.

He had been sketching and drawing compulsively since they'd left the city. At every stop for the night, even when they halted by the road for a rest or meal, sketchbook on a table or his knees, charcoal in hand. He was recording memories of the court and the city as rapidly as he could. There had never been anything like this urgency for him.

He did drawings of the khalif. The marketplaces. Cemal, as he had been in that room beyond the tunnel with the quick blue flames. He sketched those flames. The Courtyard of Silence: fountains, orange trees. Stars hanging from the dome in the vastness of the temple. Fallen marbles in the Hippodrome. One of the reliefs he'd seen there he kept trying to capture on paper. But you couldn't do that, could you?

He kept drawing hands.

He didn't speak much, though Marin tried to draw him out in the first days and nights. Pero could read concern in the other man's expression. He had a friend, it seemed. It ought to matter more, he
told himself. Perhaps one day it would. Or perhaps, the way lives tended to unfold, they'd never see each other again after he went home to Seressa.

He was alone in the room the two of them were sharing at an inn, upstairs, when the attempt on his life took place.

He was supposed to be guarded. They had eight djannis escorting them—not entirely happily, but it was obvious the soldiers had been given extremely clear instructions that the Jaddites were to arrive home safely. Pero understood by now that failure in this would be a mortal one for the guards.

He was standing at the window late in the day. He had the shutters pushed back against the outside wall. He was sketching again, using the late light, sketchbook on the window ledge. A drawing of the vizier: soft cap and neat beard, heavy, fur-trimmed robe, belt of office, the hooded, watchful eyes.

The arrow hit the shutter beside his head. No one had defended or saved him. He was not a difficult target, framed in an open window. The distance was not so great—only across the courtyard, from near the stables, it seemed. There was no real wind and the light was fine, good enough to sketch by, good enough for killing a man.

The archer had simply missed.

Pero scrabbled back into the room, almost falling. A second arrow—loosed quickly—flew through the window where he had been and hit the far wall. That one would have killed him had he not moved.

He heard shouts below, running footsteps. He stayed where he was. The sketchbook was still on the window ledge, fluttering slightly.

The man was found in the back of the stables, trying to twist through a loose board he'd discovered or created. When the djannis caught up with him, he apparently drove a knife into his throat and died there. The bow, Pero was told that evening by Tomo, was a soldier's.

Prince Cemal had indeed decided that the artist from the west was not to be allowed home to tell a story. He had said as much to Pero in that room in his brother's palace.

That night—and every night after—Marin Djivo kept his sword by him in the other bed and two guards were outside their door.

They continued west. Pero kept making sketches.

This had been expected, hadn't it? You couldn't let fear define you, he told himself. He told Marin that, too, when the merchant asked how he was.

Something had happened to him, Pero now felt, while he was painting those two portraits. One of them would have been destroyed by now and the other he would surely never see again. But he knew they had been strong work. He
knew
what he had done, what he might be able to do going forward, if allowed. He had journeyed to Asharias and had been changed by that. He didn't yet know exactly how, but he knew it had happened. Silence was a way of guarding this feeling, just as the djannis were guarding him.

On the road now he was always bracketed by four men, against an arrow or gunshot from the woods or meadows. The djannis scanned fields and trees all the time.

They didn't save him, however, when the second attack came.

Two assassins that time, as they came up to another inn, late in the day, as always. There was a delay entering. A party of travellers was ahead of them, Kindath merchants, waiting for their mules to be taken to the stables.

It wasn't another merchant party, and they weren't Kindath. Not all of them.

The djannis were checking the courtyard inside and the rooms they were to take. Nodding their heads and smiling, two of the merchants walked over towards where Djivo and Pero were standing. Tomo was attending to their baggage on the mules.

“
Swords
,” Marin Djivo said.

Looking back, Pero wondered at how calm the man's voice had been. It was more a crisp announcement than a shout. But Djivo had his own blade out before the two men did. They pushed back their blue hoods. They were not Kindath merchants: those of that faith could not carry weapons in Osmanli lands or they died.

These two did die.

Pero remembered Marin on the
Blessed Ingacia
, crossing the deck to fight the raider who'd killed the doctor. Later, Drago Ostaja had told him that Djivo would surely have slain the man if he'd been allowed a fight. Which had not been likely that day.

Marin had drawn his sword another time on the way east—to defend Danica as she loosed arrows at soldiers not far from here. Marin had killed men that day, but not in a fight, just dispatching them in tall grass. A man not afraid to end a life.

And, it appeared, skilled at doing so. They were djannis he faced now, but they hadn't expected resistance, and one of them was dead—of a sword in the chest—before his weapon cleared its scabbard.

The other did draw from beneath the deception of his Kindath robes. He twisted away from Marin, turning to Pero—who had no weapon, of course.

He heard Tomo shout a warning from by the mules. He backed towards his voice. He could use the animals as a shield, was his thought.

He didn't need to. Marin Djivo engaged the assassin, forcing the man to turn to him. Djannis were the best of the Osmanli army. Taken in childhood, trained all their lives, only the very best elevated to rank.

This one had to know he was going to die here, Pero realized after. There were noises from the courtyard, the guards would be rushing out any moment. Better to end in glory? Doing your duty? The man did do that, but it had nothing to do with other djannis coming for him. He fell to a sword thrust from an infidel, someone
not even a soldier: a merchant from Dubrava. It didn't even take long. It was a difficult thought for Pero Villani, but what came to him outside that inn yard was that dealing death could be elegant.

Later that evening he asked Marin, “How did you know how to do that?”

It had been so smooth, too fast to follow for an eye not trained to combat. Djivo had been breathing quickly when it was over. He'd cleaned his sword, then sheathed it again.

He said, by candlelight, “Two winters in Khatib, waiting for the weather to let us sail. I took lessons, beyond what I'd had at home. Two different masters, different styles. I was young. I didn't want to be a target in the world. I wanted to be one of the others.”

“The ones who kill?”

“Almost,” Djivo said, after a moment. “Say, one of those who can.”

There had been screaming earlier in front of the inn. Their djanni guards had killed the rest of the Kindath merchant party, six of them and their servants. An ugly slaughter. And unnecessary, in the event. Afterwards, the innkeeper would vouch for those merchants, they were often on this road, staying here. The assassins had, obviously, joined them approaching the inn. For safety on the road, they would have said.

But his assigned guards had failed twice now, and people really did need to die because of that. Better that they were only Kindath, Tomo said, later. He said it bitterly.

Djivo was the quiet one that night. Pero left him alone. He did say thank you before they put out their lamps. The other man still had his sword by him. Pero wondered how many times Djivo had killed. Eventually he fell asleep.

There were no other incidents. They didn't stop at the village where they'd spent a night on the way to Asharias, and they didn't leave the road, or slow, when they passed the place where a battle had taken place a little farther west. They had no reason to. None at all.

Their guards took them right to the walls of Dubrava, arriving late in the morning on a sunny day. The djannis did not enter the city with them. Pero was asked to sign a document affirming that he had been delivered safely. He did so. Djivo witnessed it, and affixed his family seal. The djannis turned and started east again, the long road.

Pero Villani and Marin Djivo watched them a moment, then they turned and entered together through the gate, walking along the Straden, past the last fountain. They went into the sanctuary near the walls. It had new frescoes, Pero saw. He remembered being told about these, meeting the artist. They knelt and signed the sun disk and prayed.

“Thank you,” Marin said when they stood up. “You saved my life and I will always know it and remember.”

“I didn't . . .”

“You did. I'd have died in Asharias if you hadn't arranged to take me out with you.”

It was likely true. Others had died. Word of violence had caught up to them, carried by mounted men on their way with instructions for governors and the retreating army. The khalif had told Pero what might be coming. It was why he'd asked to bring his friend.

“Anything I can give you. As long as I'm alive,” Marin Djivo said.

Pero found he had nothing to say for a moment, no words came. He was still guarding what had changed, what was still changing within him. He would need to leave that inner space now, he thought, given where they were. He nodded.

“And anything I can give you,” he said. “Wherever I am.”

Men and women were waiting for them in the street when they came out. They had been seen, of course, and there were loud, excited greetings, and questions. Impossible questions, Pero thought.

He left Djivo to deal with them—this was the other man's home, not his. He told Tomo to take his goods, including his gifts from the khalif, to the Seressini residence. He walked down to the harbour and found a boat to carry him to the isle.

—

HE WAS CHANGED,
she could see it. She felt unexpectedly anxious. A heightened feeling to the morning, as if her senses were sharpened.

She had greeted him, he had bowed to her. They were on the terrace now, shaded from the sunlight. He was looking at the water. He was quiet. He had grown up by the sea, she thought.

She poured wine. She said, “Did you do what you went east to do, Signore Villani?”

He turned to her, courteous, grave. He was dusty from the road. He had come straight here, it seemed. A man who'd said he loved her before he'd gone away. He would be, she thought, dealing with where they were sitting, with what she was now. That was part of what lay underneath this morning.

“I did, my lady.”

“And so you met the grand khalif?”

“I did.”

“And are you pleased with your work? Was he?” She smiled. “I know the two do not always have the same answer.”

She was trying to make him smile. She wasn't sure why. It wasn't like her. She sat down.

He said, “Both are true this time, I believe. He was good enough to say as much. But I . . . signora . . .”

She looked at him. Really not the same man who'd gone away, and he hadn't been such a long time east. Men went back and forth to Asharias all the time from here, didn't they?

“Tell me,” she said. “If you are willing to.”

A pause. She did feel anxious, there was no denying it. She put her hands in her lap.

He said, “I still love you, Leonora. I told you I was not an inconstant man.”

A rush of colour to her cheeks, she could feel it. She hadn't expected those words. Not this way, perhaps not at all.

He said, as if he was carrying a thought forward, “I shouldn't be here. I should be dead. In Asharias or on the road.”

And suddenly, remarkably, she didn't feel anxious or doubtful any more. Something became startlingly clear, vivid as the sea beyond him in this light. She felt changed herself, or . . . she felt as if she understood a change, at last.

She said, “I don't believe that, Signore Villani.” And as he looked at her, she said, “Pero, you should be exactly where you are. On this terrace. With me.”

She saw him smile then, or the beginning of one. She could cause there to be more than just a beginning, she thought. She said, before she could stop herself, “We will take a midday meal, you will tell me what you feel you can share. I want to hear, and I have stories to tell you. Then, but only if it pleases you, signore, we can retire to . . . to my chamber and . . . entrust ourselves to each other.” She could feel the colour in her face again. She kept her eyes on his.

“If it pleases me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He shook his head, as if in wonder.

“Beyond words,” he said.

A new thing in his voice. Hearing it, she was startled by desire. Yes, startled. That would be the word for today, Leonora thought.

—

LYING BESIDE HIM,
after, she understood that there were many truths arriving swiftly. You could call it (she would call it) a memorable afternoon.

She had wondered if her life had taken her to some place far
from certain intimacies. But . . . it wasn't so. It wasn't, she now knew, lying on her bed with him.

Also, it appeared that artists from Seressa, or this one, might be more experienced and attentive in some matters than the boy she'd loved in Mylasia, however wonderfully urgent and ardent, or a doctor known only for days but defined by gentleness, remembered that way.