Children of Earth and Sky (9 page)

She was the one who was kind that first night. There were things she had learned (in joy) from the boy she'd loved and been loved by. These could be shared. It was necessary, what she did in the dark of Miucci's room. They were to pass as husband and wife, newly wed, and their assigned servants in Dubrava would be watching them, and listening. But Leonora discovered, with surprise, that eliciting gratitude carried a different sort of pleasure, and she permitted herself to feel that, accept it, a form of mercy after a shadowed year.

The sun would emerge from the sea on a different world for her. She would still wonder, then and every single morning when she rose with the god's light, where her child was that day, if it was alive, cared for, if it was loved, if Jad was good enough to permit that to be so.

—

JACOPO MIUCCI,
PHYSICIAN,
found himself experiencing many unexpected emotions in his bed at night beside a woman he had not even known in the morning—emotions over and above, well
past desire. He was weary in the darkness but not sleepy, his mind shuttling from thought to thought, over-engaged. So much had happened. He had lived a very quiet life.

He found himself remembering that other man's voice, behind them in the council chamber, shouting fiercely: “How
dare
your guards accost me!”

That had been reckless. But it needed to be acknowledged that it was also a showing of courage in a room where it was difficult to be brave. Men could rise to courage. This was the thought that came to Miucci, in the dark beside a strange woman. He wondered if that other man was dead now, or progressing towards death in an underground chamber equipped with implements. He shivered.

He felt the press of the woman's body next to his. He was aware of her perfume, lingering. If he turned his head, his face would touch her unbound golden hair. He listened, lying very still, and from her breathing decided she was not asleep.

He said, softly, “I believe I understand what you have done, why you accepted the council's offer.”

“Do you, doctor?” she murmured, after a moment. He couldn't see her, there was no light.

“I might . . . or some of why. But I . . . I am also of the view that they have not properly attended to you.”

“Attended to me? Surely you just did that,” she said, still softly. He could hear amusement—or the feigning of it. He wasn't sure.

He cleared his throat. “No. But I would like to, signora.” A breath. “Is there a reason we cannot be wed in the morning, properly? I have little to offer a woman from a noble family but I—”

Fingers to his lips in the dark. When next she spoke he realized that she was fighting tears. It caught at his heart like a hook. He was not a man for whom such intensity had occurred very often.

She said, “It cannot happen. Thank you, though. Thank you. That is more generous than words can say. I . . . had no expectation
of this at all. But no, signore. The council can ask us to simulate a marriage, ask me to work for them. But doctor, they cannot take my father's power from him. I cannot marry without his willing it.”

“How old are you? If I may ask.”

She was silent a moment. He thought he'd offended. Women were easy to offend, in his limited experience.

“I was nineteen in the winter.”

He had thought older, she was so poised. That happened among aristocrats, he supposed. He'd had few dealings with aristocrats. He hadn't had a medical practice for long. He was hardly known in Seressa. Was that why they'd chosen him? He hadn't considered that. It might be so.

He said, “And he will not consent? Your father? He would not accept if I asked and affirmed truly that—?”

The hand to his mouth again. She left her fingers there, gently, then withdrew them.

Eventually he slept.

When he woke to sunshine through the shutters he was alone in the bed. He found her downstairs discussing with his servants (their servants) which belongings of his—books, clothing, instruments and compounds—would need to be packed for a sea voyage, and how this should best be done.

She greeted him with a kiss, like a bride.

As the door closed behind the doctor and the spy, the Duke of Seressa turned his attention to the artist he'd had investigated, then summoned at night.

He had intended it to be discreet. Was there nothing done properly any more? Was that the way of the world in which they now lived?

He was tired and vexed, reminded himself to be careful this did not undermine their purpose here. He had thought to allow
more time for this particular devising, but you couldn't always do that, and there was an opportunity worth seizing—if they could. A part of governance was planning ahead; another was responding to what was handed to you, however unexpectedly.

They had needed someone without ties, without reasons to refuse them—as had been the case with the Valeri girl and the doctor. This young man—Viero Villani's only son—was another such person. On the other hand, his entrance just now proclaimed him extremely unhappy. It was fair to note he had reason to be.

“Be silent until you are addressed!” Lorenzo Arnesti snapped at the artist from halfway down the table.

Arnesti was one of those here with ambitions. He wasn't troubling to mask them. A mistake. Too soon to be so transparent.

We don't wear masks only at Carnival
.

The duke remembered his uncle saying that. Years ago. Time could run away from a man. He raised a hand now, a ringed finger lifted in admonishment. Arnesti looked quickly at him, then smoothed his features. Masked them.

The duke said, “The council apologizes for the manner of this, Signore Villani. There is a reason why your presence has been besought in this fashion. I trust you have not been injured and that you will permit us to explain?”

“Do I have a choice, my lord duke? May I turn now and leave?”

Perhaps a little too much bristling after a courteous greeting from power. The duke allowed his gaze to linger a moment before he replied. He marked, by the lamps to either side of the artist, that the pause did register.

“Of course you may go. Our hope is that you are at least curious as to the proposal we wish to make, and will listen before you leave us.”

Proposal
was the word that mattered. If the man was intelligent he'd catch it.

He was, he did. Duke Ricci saw Villani's son lower his gaze and take a moment to steady himself. His shoulders settled a little. He was quite young. It was a part of why he was here, of course. When he looked up it was with a different expression.

“Proposal?” he asked, as expected.

Men were, Duke Ricci thought, not difficult to control most of the time. You just needed to have been doing it long enough. And have power, of course. You needed the ability to have them killed. His uncle had said something like that, too. The duke's father had been one of those killed. Also many years ago.

He said, “Let me say first that the council were all admirers of your father's work, may Jad shelter him in light. In my own view he was a great master.” Flattery was almost always effective.

Almost always. “Say you so, my lord duke?” said the younger Villani. “A great master? Such a shame that none of such a master's work adorns the ducal palace.”

There was, even after all these years, pleasure to be derived from encountering spirit and intelligence. He preferred it in a woman, or he had, but it tended to matter more in men. He didn't have
time
for this tonight, but it did spark interest. He didn't recall the father, met two or three times, being like this at all.

“But one of his works hangs even now in our envoy's residence in Obravic,” he said. “The Arsenale seen from across the lagoon.” He was pleased with himself for remembering that. He doubted Lorenzo Arnesti would have.

Villani's son shrugged. “I know the work. It was part of the forced disposition of his property after death. Taken for a pittance. I understand the republic bought it for little more than that.”

The duke managed a smile. He lifted a hand again, because Arnesti looked ready to interject. He said, “We Seressinis are well known for frugality in our purchases. But Signore Villani, I call your father to mind as a good man, loyal to the republic. Is his son the same?”

Sometimes direct questions worked best. They could also unsettle a man. He watched this one. They were committed to nothing here; this needed to be assessed.

“Emperor Canassus in Rhodias, in the early days of their empire, has a comment on that in his
Journals
,” said Pero Villani to his duke, at night, in the chamber of the Council of Twelve.

The duke blinked. Then smiled again, more widely. “He does, indeed! ‘The son grows next to the father's tree or seeks higher ground away from it.'”

He saw the artist was startled, in turn, that he knew the passage. Which was amusing. That
his
classical knowledge should surprise. He paused. This was enjoyable, but they did not have unlimited time.

He let his voice harden. “Which are you doing, Pero Villani? Staying close, or breaking away?”

—

PERO HAD THOUGHT
to win a debating point with a quote. Which was about as foolish as possible, given where he was. Debating points?

The duke was fascinating and terrifying and old. There were so many stories. Some might be true. If all of them were, he was a monster. Actually, if all of them were true he had died long ago and the Council of Twelve was led by a demon from the half-world.

The flattery, patently insincere, had irritated him, however. It was true that two of his father's works had been bought from creditors by the republic, but they would have been saving money on art, not making a statement about mastery.

But it had become more difficult to sustain anger.
Proposal
had been unexpected—and a relief. He was here to be offered or asked something? But what? And why at night? Why seized in the street?

He made himself speak calmly. “I honoured my father in life and I do so in death. I pray Jad grants him light. What is it you want
of me?” And then, as he heard those words in his own ears, how brusque they sounded, he added, “How may I assist the council?”

The duke's face was narrow, wrinkled, seamed. It was hard to discern its colour in the shadows there, but Pero imagined it pale like parchment. He saw the old man smile again. He wasn't sure what was amusing. Perhaps his bravado?

“Would you be willing to paint my portrait?” Duke Ricci asked.

Pero fought to keep his mouth from dropping open. It took some effort. He said, “You seized me at night to ask
that
?”

“Of course not!” snapped another of the council, to Pero's left.

The duke glanced coldly at the other man, then turned back to Pero. “The portrait of myself would be for this room, among the other ducal portraits. Done in due course, by way of a reward, with payment of eighty gold serales, if that is acceptable.”

Acceptable? It was what the very greatest artists were paid for a major work. It was ten times what he'd received from Citrani. And for this room, the council chamber? As the formal portrait of the duke to hang among the work of masters on these walls? Pero felt faint suddenly. He needed something to support himself, or a drink.

“How do you even know my work?” he managed.

“I don't,” the duke said frankly. He shifted papers in front of him, adjusted the spectacles on his nose. “But we have reports from other artists, and from,” he glanced down, “a man named Sano, a bookseller, for whom it seems you work at times? He has paintings of yours?”

“Yes,” said Pero. He was fighting dizziness. His own work?
In this room?
“Why did you seek reports on me?”

“Because we need an artist with two qualities.”

Pero realized he was expected to ask, like words exchanged in an antiphonal litany.

He asked: “And these qualities are?”

“He must have talent and he must be young.”

“Talent. Yes, well . . . yes. Why young, my lord?”

His heart was beating fast.

“Because our painter must appear too youthful, too eager, too ambitious for his career to be a spy. Although he will be one, of course.”

Pero wondered if the others could hear his heart beating, if the room was loud with it. The duke, he noticed, seemed to be enjoying himself.

“A spy on what? Where?”

No smile this time from the tall old man at the head of the table. The council members were silent, watchful. The duke said, “We have been requested to send a skilled artist to someone. It is not without risk, but it is a rare opportunity for our republic. We need a man loyal, and with courage.”

“And who is it who wishes a painter?” Pero asked.

There was a shifting, a stir of anticipation around the table.

Duke Ricci said, his voice thin but extremely clear, “The Grand Khalif Gurçu in Asharias. He desires his portrait done by a western hand. We wish, in turn, to send someone to do that. Signore Villani, will you go to the Osmanli court, for Seressa?”