Irenicon (24 page)

“Yes, my Lord.”

“You’re a Galati—Hog’s boy?”

“Uggeri is my name.” The boy had always been serious, but something had changed. There was a silence about him now, tense as a storm’s eye.

“Your father wasn’t much, but your brother was. He stood with me to the end.”

“I know. I’m on my own now.”

“We all are. Who gave you that eye?”

“The Doc.”

“Bardini flag’s flying again?” said one of Gaetano’s bandieratori, a tall flat-faced boy.

“Dangerous time to have the wrong partners,” said Gaetano.

Secondo shrugged. “Just curious, Lord Morello.”

Gaetano turned back to Uggeri. “Well, is he?”

The boy met his stare. “Maybe. It was a hijack. He let the mark go.”

“Do you know why?”

Uggeri shook his head.

Gaetano said sadly, “Does this town never learn?” He turned to the others, focusing particularly on those, like Secondo, who’d once been Bardini affiliates. “He’s playing the patriot since my father’s not around to play it. He’ll let everyone get comfortable, earn a little, then make a loud noise, and those shopkeepers on the bridge will beg him to take their money. Rasenna will sleepwalk into tyranny if
we
let it, Uggeri.”

“That mean we’re in?” the bigger boy said.

“Show me what you’re capable of,” he said, throwing Uggeri a flag. “Things have changed. I only want killers.”

CHAPTER 47

Sofia swore when she saw the coffin drop. The historian had already brought food that day; she hoped that he hadn’t come back for seconds.

Over the week she had negotiated a new bargain: he fed her in return for an audience—the problem was that Tremellius often tried out several drafts a day. Sofia, knowing she was finished as soon as the text was, tried keeping him distracted with irrelevant questions. Luckily, he liked to talk about himself.

But instead of the fat little man, the Third Apprentice emerged with a tall, dark-skinned prisoner. The scarecrow of a man was shackled and hooded, but his rapidly moving jaw was working fine. “Kid, don’t be naive,” Sofia heard him say. “Every prison I’ve been in the guards did favors.”

She went to the window. The voice was familiar.

“Look, we can do business—you have something I need, and I’ve got disposable income.”

“But not at your disposal,” the Third Apprentice said equably. “Why should I believe you?”

“Every condottiere has a stash in case he’s taken hostage.”

“We don’t trade hostages,” the boy said, removing the hood.

“And is that really economically responsible?”

The last time she had seen him, he had been in armor. That was gone, but he wore the same green neckerchief, and he had the same cajoling manner as when he’d visited Workshop Bardini a year ago. His patter had not persuaded the Doctor then, and it did not seem to be working on the boy now.

Colonel Levi, close to panic, was talking fast. “Look, the market’s big enough for everyone. Your engines give you an edge, you exploit it: I respect that. But war’s an expensive business. When Concord stopped returning hostages, it overturned the right of the Etrurian market to regulate itself. That’s barbaric.”

“Not to mention all the people they kill,” Sofia hollered.

“That’s bad too,” Levi agreed. “Hey, I know you! Rasenna, right?”

The Third Apprentice searched for the cell key, not really listening. When he opened the door, the body of the previous owner slumped against his feet.

“
Cavolo!
Was he shocked to death?” Levi asked.

The boy examined the corpse briefly. “No, looks like cardiac arrest. Stress-aggravated, I imagine.”

“Stressed? Here?”

Apparently impervious to bribery
and
sarcasm, the boy hauled the corpse over the railings. The splash’s echo in the darkness galvanized the condottiere.
This
was his last chance. He lunged, but the boy just stood aside and let him hit the railing, then dropped low with a sweeping kick. Levi landed facedown and gave no further trouble.

Sofia was staring up at the disappearing coffin when Levi’s befuddled face came to his cell window.

“Contessa!” he shouted over, “nice to see you again. Shame about the circumstances. Doc Bardini was wise not to team up with us after all.
Madonna
, the Company took a hiding at Tagliacozzo!”

“I’m here too. Didn’t make much difference.”

“I guess not. Hey! My wall moved. What’s that sound?”

“Get ready for lights out.”

“Isn’t it early for that?”

Tap

Levi groggily stumbled to his window. Across the void he found Sofia looking back. “Contessa? Oh, I forgot where I was.” He pulled on the window bar. “Unfortunate. Dying’s not part of my five-year plan.”

“Didn’t you say you’d escaped from lots of prisons?”

“I’ve been
in
lots of prisons. I got out the civilized way,” he said, rubbing his thumb and two fingers. “This is the Beast, kid. Even if you get out of your cell, there’s nowhere to go. I don’t know how to call that thing down. Far as I can see, there’s only one way out of here.”

“You don’t seem too worried.”

“Well, what’s the point in getting upset? Not everyone in Etruria is as emotional as Rasenneisi. Occasional imprisonment is just the cost of doing business as a condottiere. We accept that. The problem, as I tried explaining to the little fellow, is when the competition changes the rules. It’s killing us. They just march in and take over!”

“As opposed to?”

“As opposed to marching in and
threatening
to take over, like civilized people.”

“Contractors profit from war more than anyone. You don’t have much to complain about.”

“I’m not doing much profiting over here, you know.”

“So how
did
you find yourself in the position of a lowly soldier?”

“Don’t ask.” Levi sighed.

“Come on. I’m curious; I thought that condottieri drop flags at the first sign of trouble.”

“That’s a classic small-town misunderstanding. Yes, we have been known, on occasion, to make tactical retreats. And what’s wrong with that? We’re paid to win, not to get killed or taken prisoner. One ransom can eat a condottiere’s whole season’s pay packet.”

“The horrors of war.”

“Some of my bills are horrifying! Armor, mail, squires, horses, repairs—I could go on—”

“No thank you. Don’t you just steal from civilians?”

“Nothing to steal these days,” Levi said slowly, “and by the way, go easy! This hasn’t been a great week so far, and we just met!”

“How long does it usually take?”

“I get it: you don’t like condottieri.”

“No matter who suffers,
you
prosper. You bleed towns of their last soldi, then leave them to Concord. What’s to like?”

“Well, I wish life was as simple as Doc Bardini explained it. You think he became boss of Rasenna though eloquent oratory?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Sorry, kid,” Levi said quickly. “Didn’t mean to bring up a sore spot.”

“Just for that, when I break out, I’m leaving you here.”

“Come on. We’re neighbors. We should be making friends.”

“Right. So how
did
you end up here, Colonel?”

“Call me Levi. Seriously? I think we were betrayed.”

“I know the feeling.”

Levi told her about the Hawk’s Company’s defeat at Tagliacozzo. John Acuto had attempted to meet Concord on its own terms, and though he’d conscientiously prepared his alliance and strategy, everything had come undone in a moment. Sofia listened with an odd sense of déjà vu.

Before she could tell him about it, Levi cut himself off. “Oh,
Madonna
, what’s that sound? Not a visit of the blue fairy?”

“Relax,” Sofia said. “This is my own private torture: the death of a thousand footnotes.”

Levi sank back into the darkness of his cell as the historian pulled himself free from the coffin.

“Now, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve brought some more chapters of my book,” he said as he saw her. “It’s so rare to find a good listener!”

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

“We need new samples. If buyers don’t see our product, they won’t know they want it.” In Tower Bombelli, Fabbro was finishing his morning briefing. “That’s it.
Avanti!
”

“Someone to see you, Pop.”

Fabbro’s daughter Maddalena showed in a dark-haired boy wearing a combellotto. The dark-haired boy had never seen anything like it—the counting room was the eye of the mercantile storm brewing in Rasenna. Nothing had its own place, so everything vied for space on every available shelf or flat surface, in every chest and basket; even the ceiling was hung with camphor pomades. There was a gleaming mound in one corner: the crests of bankrupted families, silver and gold beaten into strange shapes: pyramids and stars, whales and worms. They would soon be melted down to something more universally appreciated.

The merchant himself, getting stouter, was squashed behind a desk buttressed with a collection of scales; Etruria was as incontinent with currencies as with dialects, and a town needed someone who could accurately and cheaply change concordi to soldi to grossi to fisoli to keep the money flowing in all directions. Bombelli’s integrity was unquestioned—after all, he gained most from Rasenna’s new reputation for trade.

“Young man, how can I help you?” he asked, looking the boy over.

Uggeri waited for Fabbro’s children to leave, then dropped a large purse on the desk.

Fabbro didn’t blink. “What’s this?”

Uggeri’s deeply furrowed brow was odd in a boy of his age. “Sample of
our
wares. Lord Morello knows you’re investing in boats and equipment. He wants you to know who to come to if you need extra capital.”

When the merchant frowned and went back to writing, Uggeri thought he had blundered somehow. Lord Morello had given him this job so that he could show his range, show he was more than a brawler. He spread his arms wide, smiling this time. “It is a gift, Signore Bombelli. No interest, understand?”

Fabbro looked up. “I keep track of everything in this book, you see? One line for sales and one for purchases, so I know how I earn money.”

“He doesn’t want anything in return,” Uggeri repeated more hesitantly.

“He steals his from southsiders, people like Pedro Vanzetti’s employees, doesn’t he?”

“Why should that concern you?” Uggeri said with just a touch of menace.

Fabbro put down his quill. “I understand now. It’s a token of
friendship
. And if I ever need a silent partner, the door is open.” He smiled, his restless hands at rest.

The boy sighed with relief. “Signore, you understand everything.”

Fabbro stood up. “Just business.”

It was noon, and the bridge was packed with tradesmen and merchants. Pedro was haggling over crushed lapis when the old dye trader broke off and asked, “That boy’s a southsider, isn’t he?”

The crowd parted for Fabbro’s sons. They threw Uggeri to the ground at Pedro’s feet.

“This thief stole from you,” said Fabbro, throwing him the purse. “Check it.”

Business casually stopped to watch the scene play out; some variety of fracas was a daily diversion. In the silence, the coins’ jingle was painfully audible.

“Now get off our bridge!” Fabbro shouted. “It’s for Rasenneisi.”

“Fake Rasenneisi,” the boy said, dusting himself off and giving Pedro a parting look. “
I’m
real.”

Fabbro watched the boy saunter away. After the uprising, when anger had outstripped fear, the Small People had turned away from the Families. Now, to keep them from turning back, he ensured that money flowed to both sides of the river. Morello’s attempt to bribe him with his neighbor’s wealth undermined the very meaning of the bridge, so it was easy for him to rebuff. But Rasenneisi were so used to deferring to the Families that slipping back would be easy.

He addressed the crowd. “Sorry for the upset. Please go about your business.”

“Don’t be a traitor, Bombelli,” a southsider said. “You’re siding with one of them.”

Fabbro pushed the man away. “Young Vanzetti is one of us,
idiota
. Morello stole from my partner. That means he stole from me.”

“You’re only loyal to money,” a voice jeered.

The old dye trader shuffled over. “You think it’s just northsiders suffering? We get raided too!”

“Workshop Bardini’s defunct,” the northsider disputed.

“Exactly—and left to their own devices, Doc’s bandieratori cause more trouble than before.”

“Oh, for the good old days,” a northsider jeered.

“Well, at least no one tower cast its shadow on the rest,” the southsider returned. “It was better than anarchy!”

As arguments flared around them, Fabbro studied Pedro carefully. “You thought he was working for me, didn’t you? I hire bandieratori to protect my stock, not extort from my partners.”

“How could I know that?”

“Because I paid you more so you could keep your workers—why would I steal it back?”

“It’s what the Families have always done.”

“You insult me; your father—”

“Died on these streets! I know how Rasenna works. The Small People get pushed around, and you’re growing bigger.”

“This is ridiculous.” Fabbro looked around the bridge. “If we can’t trust each other, we can’t do business. I was crazy to think it could work.”

As the intermingled Rasenneisi separated, the foreign traders belatedly realized that today’s squabble wasn’t one to watch safely from the margin.

“People, quiet!” The voice cut through the squabbling. Fabbro, most of all, was surprised at the sudden authority in Pedro’s voice. “If we can’t agree, we can take our problems to the Signoria.”

There was a scattering of laughter. “They burned it down, remember?”

“They burned a palazzo. Before he died, my father told me something that I didn’t understand until just now, when we started arguing like the Families used to.
We
are the Signoria.”

Pedro looked around the faces; all of them were listening now. “We can’t blame the Families for Rasenna’s problems anymore. If it needs fixing, we’re going to have to fix it. We can’t buy security by hiring more flags—that’s what the Families did. The Small People
are
Rasenna, so if anything’s wrong with Rasenna, it’s wrong with us. And if we can change, then Rasenna can too. My father also told me that the Empire installed a Concordian as head of the Signoria after the Wave.”

“A podesta—my town still has one,” said a bearish Tarquinian trader.

“I remember that unfortunate fellow,” said the old dye trader gruffly. “Maybe Vettori’s bedtime story had a happy ending, but the podesta was assassinated within a year.”

“By persons unknown,” his neighbor chuckled.

Pedro said, “Yes, and do you know why Concord let us rule ourselves afterward?”

When no one spoke, he continued, “Because our feuding made a garrison unnecessary. I don’t say it was wrong to kill him—a partisan leader’s worse than none. I say we need someone who doesn’t have a side to take.”

“So who do you suggest?” the old man interrupted. “Nobody’s innocent in Rasenna.”

Pedro looked at the skeptical crowd, northsiders, southsiders, and foreigners, all together on the bridge. “The reason you’re standing where you’re standing. Captain Giovanni.”

Pedro expected accusations of betrayal and outrage, but instead there was only a thoughtful silence. People looked for each other’s reactions, not necessarily trusting their own: that it seemed right, natural.

“The Concordian?” the dye trader said doubtfully.

“I never saw Rasenneisi work as well together as here,” said Fabbro.

People murmured agreement.

“I’m too old and too poor to chase dreams,” the dye trader said irritably. “He’s a good man, certainly, but is it practical? Would a Signoria led by the Captain have legitimacy? Hell, I’ll say it straight—without strong men, would anyone listen to us?”

“Where does authority come from,” said Pedro, “if not us? Our fear gives the Families power. If we reject both banners, we take that power away. That’s what Giovanni showed us: it wasn’t the bridge that brought us together, it was fear that kept us apart.”

“If it were true . . .” the old man said with a wondering whisper.

Fabbro clapped his hands together. “Right, then! All in favor, say aye.”

The shout of approval, heard from Tower Bardini to Palazzo Morello, relit hope in the Doctor’s heart.

It kindled Gaetano’s into a blaze. Deciding that it was time to remind the Small People of their vulnerability, he gave his crew a list of names. Once more Pedro found his workforce not showing up to work, and once more he went knocking on doors. He returned despondently home hours later, wondering what to tell Fabbro tomorrow. Behind the few doors that had opened he saw frightened employees with fresh bruises and broken bones. The doors that remained closed were the most ominous of all.

Pedro realized something was wrong when his own door swung open. A flag struck the back of his legs.

“Pick him up,” said Gaetano.

Secondo and Uggeri yanked him up by his shoulders.

“Shopkeepers form a parliament? Is it a joke?”

No answer was expected; the question was followed by a gut punch.

“You make me laugh. You’ve got some money now, so you think you own Rasenna? You think I’d let you take it?”

“It’s our decision,” Pedro mumbled.

“Small People are too witless to appreciate how Concordians work. Don’t you see he planned this? That bridge is cancer, destroying us from inside. All you see is the money it makes you!”

Another punch, this time to the face.

“You’re a relic,” Pedro said.

Gaetano laughed. “You’ve got more salt than your father, I’ll give you that. Here’s how it is: you don’t go to work tomorrow—you wait for my permission. If you want a new Signoria, you petition me to form it. Got it?”

Pedro spit out a tooth. “No, come again?”

When Pedro awoke, he sat up too fast and had to wait for his eyes to clear. It was evening. The workshop was thrashed. There was wool everywhere, fabric shredded, and, worst of all, his father’s looms broken apart. He lay back down and groaned. “Business costs.”