Irenicon (29 page)

CHAPTER 57

No screaming. No groaning metal. No sound in the pit.
Not even the drip.

She walked to the door. Her cell had almost reached the water. The surface churned as the platform rose up and stopped at her row. She looked up for the coffin, but the darkness was empty. The lake’s surface began to churn once more, and the coffin rose slowly
from
the water.

“Who’s there?”

The coffin door opened with a sibilant hiss. Black water oozed, sloshing, out. She saw fingers, white maggots with black fingernails, curl around the door. She backed against her cell wall. She heard a rasping wet noise: drowned lungs breathing. The sodden steps came nearer. The bolt shot back; her cell door moved slightly on its hinge. Tired of waiting, the Darkness had come to her.

She woke screaming.

“Porca miseria!”
Sofia struck the flint again but got not even a spark. Spring had arrived, stubbornly inclement, and the rain was unrelenting. Getting warm was more pressing this morning than cooking, but the straw was damp and the wind was howling; it was never going to get light. Until the Contract was signed the Dwarf had stopped paying salaries, a policy that worried Levi. Bored soldiers need money, because if they can’t gamble or whore, they find amusement in ways that cause discipline problems. He advised Sofia to stay close to Yuri and to wear her hair in a bob. Sofia cut it. She’d hated it long anyway.

“Can I help?”

Sofia looked up with a scowl. “What do you want? I’m still not a nun, before you ask.”

“It was not my intention to offend, Signorina. My name is—”

“I know who you are: John Acuto’s pet fortune-teller. And you can’t help unless you fart fireballs.”

“Rarely—but if you are trying to boil that water . . .” The priest held his hand out, and the water shuddered and abruptly started bubbling.

“You know Water Style?” she gasped.

He smiled. It was a strange sight with his piteous weeping eyes. “I believe I’m not alone.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, regretting opening her mouth.

“You mean to say you’re
really
not a nun?”

Sofia searched his clouded gray eyes and saw he was genuinely puzzled. “I studied with one. She’s dead now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that and sorry for not believing you—traditionally, we don’t make initiations lightly. For most people it’s a lifetime’s commitment.”

“She had her reasons, I suppose.”

“Maybe she saw her end coming.” The priest was thoughtful. “The water’s stopped boiling. Why don’t you try?”

Sofia looked into the cauldron. As before, the water was perfectly still, with only a few wisps of vapor to show it really had been
boiling. She had avoided meditation since she’d learned who the engineer really was—the Reverend Mother had told her to have faith, but it had been a mistake to trust her: if she hadn’t realized Giovanni was blood to the devil who sent the Wave, then what good was Water Style? And if she did know who he was—well, the Doc was right: blind faith in
anyone
was foolish. Even the Doc, even the Virgin—they were all liars, manipulating her for their own ends.

The Hawk’s Company was different; here everyone was anonymous, all violence impersonal. Here she could do the only thing that made sense anymore: fight Concord.

“Look, I just want to be normal,” she started.

“You needn’t be afraid of the dreams, you know. That’s how the Virgin shows us the future in motion. It’s ours to accept or change.”

“Damn it, I said no!” she shouted.

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Better get those vegetables in.”

The water was boiling again.

“I don’t believe it—you’re doing that.”

“You’ve almost given up on yourself, haven’t you?”

“I already told you, I’m not interested in fortune-telling.” She stirred the pot aggressively. After a moment she glanced up.

“Boiling is easy,” he said patiently. “It’s much harder to cool it down. Whoever you are, you’re not a cook.”

“You want to hear my confession? I’m a traitor, all right? Happy?”

The priest tutted quietly. “Well, you’ll fit in if you stay. Everyone is guilty to one degree or another.”

Sofia changed tack. “You want me gone? You’re threatened by someone that knows your tricks.”

“I could sense your power even before I saw you. It’s as big as the sea out there! Whoever taught you recognized that you’re special. But if you stay here, sooner or later, special or not, you’ll make choices that will tarnish you forever.” He turned and began to walk away.

“What did you choose?” Sofia said.

He turned. “You’re afraid of what you might see. For me, the water’s always clouded.”

“You don’t know me!”

He was gone, and the pot was still boiling. It
was
her. Could she stop it too? Sofia held out her hand and concentrated.

It was waiting, suckling on anger, swollen like a louse, the Darkness that had a name now: Giovanni Bernoulli the liar.

She came up gasping to find the water boiling furiously, spilling over the top, and tears pouring down her face. She was exiled; there was no going back. It was worse than any torture she’d endured in the Beast, because then she had believed her punishment unjust. Now she knew better.

In the Sala dei Notari, Levi studied the town’s mascot. You know where you stand with griffins—they show their teeth from the start. The Ariminumese were infuriating. After weeks of offer and counteroffer they said they were ready to sign, but the terms were still insulting.

Or, Levi thought with another glance at the griffin, perhaps they were as good as the Company could expect in a world where only Concordians paid top prices. If they accepted that, it would be only a matter of time before condottieri questioned the logic of perpetual war against Etruria’s top payer. Would Acuto have an answer? In the accounts, Harry was just another written-off solider. The Company’s purpose was to make money, not to make Etruria a better place.

The doge pushed the counteroffer away like a meal without salt. “No,” he said without ceremony. He walked out, followed by the Signoria.

The notary cleared his throat. “The Signoria reconvenes in a fortnight. In the interim, there is the matter of your camp supplies . . .”

CHAPTER 58

“We’re back to the start if we pay.”

“And if we refuse, it’s war. We knew it was coming, but we’re not ready. In a few months, maybe, but now? Whether we consent or refuse, we doom ourselves.”

Couched in congratulations for Rasenna’s growing wealth, the letter was the clearest threat yet.

“There’s another option,” said Giovanni.

“What?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“You want me in on a Signoria meeting? Bad idea, Podesta. Sends the wrong signal to southsiders.”

“The right signal. If towns can change, people can.”

The new Palazzo della Signoria echoed with lively discussion. The notary, straining to keep up, wondered if perhaps the old days were
better before deciding no, nothing could be better than having a say in what one wrote.

Conjuring up visions of burning towers and empty purses, Fabbro advocated paying the larger tribute, and Pedro agreed that there was no other option.

“What’s the alternative, Podesta?” asked Fabbro impatiently.

“Dally.”

Fabbro was nonplussed, but the Doctor laughed.

Giovanni explained, “Paying
without
procrastinating would draw Concord’s attention. We allay suspicion by doing exactly what they expect of paupers. We write as groveling a letter as we can compose, quibbling with the amount, asking for another extension, begging to pay in installments. They will reply sternly. We will equivocate. They will insist. We will plead, and then—”

“They will demand another ambassador to send back mutilated!” said Fabbro.

“Only if we send one, and we will not. We will say we have to elect a new ambassador.”

“But what does it give us?” said Pedro.

“Time!” the Doctor answered, clapping his hands together, “After Tagliacozzo, Concord has turned from Etruria to Europa. When someone forgets to watch their back, that’s an opportunity.”

Giovanni held up the letter. “This isn’t a tax; it’s a declaration of war. A war we cannot avoid, only delay. To pay would be to drop our shield even as the blow falls. We must use the money and time we have left wisely. The stronger our walls, the sounder our defenses, the fitter our bandieratori, the better our chances when Concord realizes we mean to defy them. Before the giant moves, we must grow large enough to defend ourselves.”

“Or,” the Doctor remarked, “make friends with other giants.”

Afterward, Giovanni walked the Doctor to the bridge. “It isn’t the stuff of Homer.”

The Doctor shrugged. “Whatever works, that’s the best strategy. If you can’t be Achilles, be Odysseus.” He caught the direction of
Giovanni’s wary glance. “You didn’t expect everyone to behave just because some shopkeepers agree they like money, did you?”

Since Gaetano’s banishment, the burned-out shell of Palazzo Morello was like a slumbering monster in their middle. Around the dragon’s cave, groups of boys loitered. Instead of Morello gold, there were a dozen different banners: a dog pack that only watched, but that was enough; people coming and going from the bridge felt their hungry stares.

“That’s cynical, Doctor. I thought that after we exiled Morello—”

“I’m telling how I saw it a year ago.”

“How can they still stand apart? Even if we delay, Concord will be at the gate before the year is out.”

“Children don’t think about tomorrow.”

“Can’t you reason with them?”

The Doctor laughed. “The only thing a pack understands is strength. It’s not just this side of the river; every day, a different bandieratoro whispers in my ear about what an opportunity this is.”

“What do you tell them?”

“I tell them to shut up, and I keep Bardini banners north.”

A boy pushed his way through the group in the doorway. The Doctor recognized Uggeri and noticed that even the older boys showed deference. Calmly, Uggeri watched them walk by.

“Isn’t that Hog Galati’s son?”

“He’s the last of Morello’s crew of killers,” the Doctor said. “Got some salt too.”

Uggeri spit and turned his back on the Doctor to enter the ruined Palazzo. Most of the other boys followed.

“A Rasenneisi needs something to love so he can fight for it,” the Doctor said. “They don’t remember the Wave. They hate each other more than Concord.”

A balmy evening swaggered on, and the bridge stalls closed up as merchants went to waste money in Rasenna’s hostels, taverns, houses of gambling and other activities.

“Unity can’t wait until Concord’s at the wall. By then—”

“Like I said, children don’t think about tomorrow. The Bardini banner can’t unite them either. Now that Morello’s gone, hating me is the only thing southsiders have in common.”

“So what do we do? Exile the ringleaders? That boy—”

“Stick a crow’s head on a stick?” The Doctor laughed. “A show of force would unify them, but against us. The Scaligeri flag was the last thing that unified all Rasenna. For a long time that was the only choice—to be slave or master. They don’t have a leader anymore, but it’s only a matter of time before one of them raises colors. Still, we’ll figure out something. Coming up?”

“Not tonight. Work. Golden dreams, Doctor.”

Giovanni had opened his floor in Tower Vanzetti to Rasenna’s young engineers. They called it the studiola, and even this late he knew they would be working. Delaying Concord was only logical if every hour was used to prepare for the inevitable confrontation.

Doctor Bardini climbed the steps, brooding on the violence promised in Uggeri’s stare, not afraid but unsettled by the boy’s resemblance to the young man he himself had been.

The Doctor hadn’t dreamed in years, but that night he was immersed in a twenty-year-old memory:

The air in the Doctor’s chamber was stifling, reeking of guilt and disappointment. Why did his youth come back to him now? After Count Scaligeri, he’d never sought another leader. And what had he achieved? Nothing. He’d failed to keep any promise he’d ever made—his career, a record of things lost: banners, battles, and a daughter in all but name. And now, after all this time, he’d put his trust in another leader—what chance that he’d chosen wisely this time? What chance he’d picked a fight he could win?

He slowly lay back down on his sweat-damp mattress and cursed himself—sleeping without a banner to hand was apprentice stuff. As his hand silently searched the floor beside his bed, he spoke to the darkness:

“What are you waiting for, an invitation?”

The boy stepped into a shaft of moonlight. His skin was ghostly blue, the knife he held a purer white. It burned with the same intensity as his eyes.

“Not surprised, old man?”

“It’s what I would do.”

The Doctor waited, but the boy just held his knife ready.

“Uggeri, isn’t it? Why did you really come?”

“You’re fake, aren’t you?”

He sighed in the darkness. “Not anymore.”

“You used the Contessa. Now you’re using the engineer. This fake Signoria thinks it’s in charge, but you’re whispering in the ears that matter, aren’t you?”

“You won’t believe me, but no.” Even as his hand touched his banner, he kept talking. “I wouldn’t if I was in your position, but then, in your position, I’d be dead by now!”

He rolled out of the bed. Uggeri threw the dagger, but it struck his banner. He kicked the bed, slamming it into Uggeri’s shins. The Doctor pried the blade out of his stick and advanced. Uggeri watched calmly as the Doctor aimed. The knife landed in the floor beside him.

“Take it and go.”

“What’s the matter?” Uggeri said casually. “No wind in your flag?”

“I said get the hell out.”

The boy left through the window he’d entered. The Doctor watched the shadow scramble over the rooftops, knowing what would come next as well as he knew himself. Uggeri would raise his flag. He couldn’t let that happen. He’d failed Count Scaligeri; if blood needed spilling to keep his promise to Giovanni, well then, blood would spill.