The Golden City (9 page)

Smithson was the fourth inve
st
igator Duilio had hired in the pa
st
year, hoping an Englishman might be able to bring fresh conne
ct
ions to the search for his mother’s pelt. Duilio answered the man in his own tongue. “Any idea who hired him?”

“None,” Smithson rumbled, shifting as if the
st
one wall was digging into his bony backside. “There
are
people who colle
ct
magical artifa
ct
s. Mo
st
of them are secretive about it. They don’t want the others to know what they have.”

Duilio didn’t a
ct
ually believe that his mother’s pelt was in the hands of a
colle
ct
or
, but it was a possibility he had to consider. “Do you have any names or not? I’ll pay what you want.”

Smithson’s shoulders hunched as he leaned closer. “What I have is a neatly worded note, Mr. Ferreira, left on my desk in my own sitting room, informing me I was to drop the matter. Whoever left it easily entered my home without leaving any trace behind.” He glanced about nervously. “A witch. It had to be. That means I might wake up dead one morning.”

Duilio had
never
seen evidence that a witch exi
st
ed who could transport himself into a locked room—it was the
st
uff of fantasy. However, he’d met plenty of thieves who could get in and out without leaving a sign. Either way, though, Smithson wasn’t going to be any more help to him. Duilio sighed and pushed himself off the wall. “Please send your bill to my man of business, Mr. Smithson.”

Smithson rose and shook his hand, his expression sheepish, likely embarrassed by having been frightened off. Duilio headed back to where his driver waited with the carriage in the vintner’s front court. He climbed into the carriage and settled back again
st
the leather seat. The ride across the bridge and up the
st
eep
st
reets to his own home gave him time to think.

It was intere
st
ing that the man was so determined to keep the pelt that he chose to interfere with the inve
st
igators Duilio hired . . . and to do it in such a dramatic way. He could have bought off the inve
st
igators rather than writing cryptic notes. That spoke of an obsession with secrecy . . . or a childish
st
reak of melodrama.

Duilio hadn’t been able to
prove
who’d hired Martim Romero, the fake footman, but he had a good idea. There was one man who’d disliked Duilio’s father enough to
st
rike at him by hurting his wife: Paolo Silva. It wasn’t for anything Duilio’s father had done, but because Duilio’s father had been the legitimate son, whereas Paolo Silva was merely his ba
st
ard brother, gotten on a housemaid. Silva had spent his fir
st
ten years in the house that Duilio now owned, kept out of sight of the Ferreira family. Then his mother had died of a fever and young Paolo had been shunted off to a di
st
ant relative out in the countryside. Alexandre Ferreira, only seven at the time, hadn’t even known that the boy who lived in the servants’ areas was his half brother.

But Silva had never forgotten his expulsion. He had disappeared for years, only to return to the Golden City ju
st
as Prince Fabricio ascended the throne. Silva quickly wormed his way into the young prince’s favor. He’d become the prince’s favorite seer, displacing Alexandre Ferreira as an adviser. While always polite in public, Silva had privately told Duilio’s father that it was his intent to ruin the whole Ferreira family for their treatment of him.

If only his grandfather had been a little kinder—or faithful to his wife—Duilio suspe
ct
ed he wouldn’t be hunting for his mother’s pelt in his spare moments.

I
n the slanting light of late afternoon, Oriana walked along Escura Street, clutching her notebook to her che
st
as she headed back to the boarding house. Her feet ached. Her shoes had been too small before, but the soaking they’d gotten in the river meant they were tighter now.

She had hoped that the sketch would tell her something definite, but Nela’s words had only left her with more que
st
ions. Her time searching the newspapers sugge
st
ed that the creator of
The City Under the Sea
had fled the Golden City. How was she supposed to hunt him down if he was miles and miles away?

None of the newspaper articles had mentioned that Gabriel Espinoza was a necromancer, but that didn’t surprise her. The Portuguese Church forbade this type of magic, so if he
st
udied necromancy he certainly wouldn’t tell anyone. But it was far more likely he wasn’t working alone. There had to be workers to build the houses, others to lower them into the river at night, and someone to dive down to affix the chains to the weights on the river’s floor. Surely she could find one person among those willing to talk. Surely
one
of them found this mon
st
rous.

But she was nearing the end of her rope.

She couldn’t go to the police. She’d considered po
st
ing an anonymous letter to them, but no matter how she imagined that playing out, every possibility led back to them asking her why she had lived when Isabel had died. The truth would land her fir
st
in the Special Police’s holding cells and then on the gallows.

There were other possibilities. Her father lived in the Golden City . . . but she wouldn’t go to him. Not unless she became
truly
desperate. Not having made such a mull of her life. Not after Marina’s death. She didn’t know if she could ever face him, having failed to keep her si
st
er safe. And he had a new life here, a fresh
st
art, where he was allowed to pursue his own goals and dreams without the government’s disapproval of a male getting out of his place. Her father was a businessman now. Oriana was proud of him for his enterprise . . . and was equally furious that he had replaced her dead mother with a human lover, one of his employers, Lady Pereira de Santos. Oriana had heard it whispered in the Amaral house—one over from the home of the lady in que
st
ion—and it
st
ung.

It was a childish rea
ct
ion, she knew, but when she occasionally saw him, she felt such a welter of confli
ct
ing emotions that she always kept her di
st
ance. She only hoped that no one else realized he was her father. Heriberto might use that information to force her hand if he learned of it—he could turn her father in to the Special Police—and she didn’t want to give her ma
st
er that sort of advantage over her.

No, she mu
st
simply find some manner of work, a position that would allow her to
st
ay in the city and pursue the person who had ended all of Isabel’s dreams. She could go to an agency, perhaps, or
st
art checking with dressmakers to see if any needed a seam
st
ress. She glanced down at her worn black skirt. She wouldn’t make a favorable impression wearing this.

A voice broke into her musings. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Oriana glanced back at the
st
ore she’d ju
st
passed. Tucked into the fir
st
level of the building beneath an overhanging balcony, the tiny shop sold lace and fabrics and ribbon. The man waiting for her there could not look less like one of their patrons. An older man with graying hair in untidy curls, he dressed like a fisherman in worn brown trousers and a
st
ained white tunic. A red kerchief hid his throat from view.

Ah gods
. He was the la
st
person she wanted to see now. Oriana mentally
st
eeled herself, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. “Heriberto. How did you find me?”

The sereia spyma
st
er
st
epped out of the shadows into the lesser shadows. In this part of town, the cobbled
st
reets were jumbled and narrow. With the buildings tightly packed on either side, reaching up four
st
ories high, it was a wonder anyone here ever saw sunlight. Heriberto gave Oriana a false smile. “Your employer eloped, I hear.” He leaned closer, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “And you missed your scheduled report. Why?”

He hadn’t answered her que
st
ion, Oriana noted. This wasn’t an ideal location to have a private discussion anyway. Escura Street was busy this time of day, with pede
st
rians wanting to get pa
st
them and on to their dinners. Laundry flapped in the murky breeze overhead, run between and along the balconies, snapping and spraying them with fine droplets of water. “I have something I need to take care of.”

He raised one scarred hand to touch a finger under his eye, the ge
st
ure for disbelief. “You have no business other than what I tell you to have. You had an appointment with Dr. E
st
eves Saturday afternoon. Remember? I set it up for you, yet you’re
st
ill dragging your feet about getting your hands cut. Gods, you’re useless.”

Oriana was as tall as he was, so she could look down her nose convincingly. “You forget, Heriberto, I’m the only one you’ve got with access to the ari
st
ocracy. Who warned you that the navy was moving out on exercises la
st
April?” she whispered. “Who told you that the Marquis of Maraval has friends among the Absoluti
st
s?”

They had been important bits of information, whether Heriberto wanted to admit it or not. The fir
st
had come from a naval officer who’d wanted to impress Isabel at a ball, puffing on about how the exercises—which would have taken the navy far too close to the islands—couldn’t proceed without his navigational skills. The other tidbit had come from Isabel herself, simple chatter while Oriana had been repairing a rent in one of Isabel’s dresses. Of course, Isabel didn’t see the Absoluti
st
s as a threat—after all, her own father was one of them. But the Absoluti
st
s believed in the divine right of the royal family, and therefore that the prince’s ban on the sea folk was perfe
ct
ly legitimate. The Marquis of Maraval, the powerful Mini
st
er of Culture, was supposed to be neutral. If he shifted his views in favor of the Absoluti
st
s, it might adversely affe
ct
her people. Northern Portugal had always leaned in that dire
ct
ion anyway.

Heriberto ignored her reminders. “Your access to the ari
st
ocracy ju
st
fled to Paris. The papers claim you went with her, but I hear her mother threw you out on your ear.”

Her blood pounded in her ears, and Oriana pushed down the sick feeling that welled up at his claim.
How did he know
? She glanced down the
st
reet at the door of the boarding house. Her expulsion would have been fodder for servants’ gossip up and down the Street of Flowers for the pa
st
few days. It wouldn’t have co
st
him more than a beer or two to hear
that
tale, but only Carlos had known she was coming to
st
ay with his elderly kinswoman. He mu
st
have told Heriberto where to find her. Oriana lifted her chin, trying to appear confident, and lied through her teeth. “When she gets back, Isabel will give me a reference. I’ll find another position then. I ju
st
need a couple of weeks to get my feet under me.”

“Weeks?” Heriberto snorted and made an obscene ge
st
ure with his hands that, fortunately, no human would recognize. “To get your feet under you? I heard you’re going to be spending that time on your back to pay your rent. Are you
st
upid enough to tru
st
a human with the color of your
st
ripe?”

Mo
st
sereia had skin too thick to blush. Oriana was grateful for that at the moment. The warmth flooding her face wouldn’t show. People were passing them on the
st
reet, none looking very intere
st
ed in a petty squabble. Fortunately, the reference to the color of her dorsal
st
ripe—a euphemism for promiscuity back on the islands—wouldn’t mean anything to the passersby who overheard it.

Oriana had no doubt Carlos had claimed she’d agreed to become his lover, but Carlos had never had a chance of seeing her dorsal
st
ripe. “Don’t believe everything you hear,” she told Heriberto.

“Oh, I never do.” He
st
epped closer, grasping her sleeve to keep her from escaping. He kept his voice low. “No one’s
ever
seen your
st
ripe, from what I hear. You know, I could make your life here a great deal more comfortable, girl, if you’re intere
st
ed. And I’m well liked back home. I could get you a better position in the mini
st
ry.”

She’d heard that other girls who’d come to the city had done ju
st
that, taking Heriberto as a lover in exchange for easier assignments and fa
st
er advancement. It bothered her that he had that much influence. Not because he was male. She had no problem with males in positions of authority. But no one should have that much influence over his workers, especially when he was inclined to abuse it. He made a mockery of his po
st
ing. She would take Carlos as a lover before Heriberto. No, she would rather turn herself in to the Special Police fir
st
.

He laughed shortly, as if he’d read her mind. “I’ll give you two weeks. If you don’t have a sound position by then, I’m sending you home. I’ll even make another appointment with the do
ct
or for you, next Friday. I expe
ct
you to show up this time. My superiors aren’t as tolerant as I am, and I’m tired of making excuses for you.”

“I under
st
and.” Oriana jerked her arm free and turned away before Heriberto could say more, almo
st
colliding with a burly carter carrying a cask on his shoulder. She managed to side
st
ep out of the man’s path, an awkward dance set to the sound of Heriberto’s laughter. Clasping her notebook closer to her che
st
, she
st
rode away.

“Be there Friday at three,” he called after her.

She glanced back and nodded sharply in acknowledgment. She’d won one concession.

“And someone is hunting for you on the
st
reets,” he yelled. “Asking for you by name. Don’t bring trouble back to my door.”

There was little chance of that. His “door” was a little fishing boat moored on a quay farther from the old town center. She had no intention of going there. Oriana
st
rode out of the narrow, confined
st
reet onto wider São Seba
st
ião. When she glanced back over her shoulder, Heriberto was nowhere in sight.

Her ire faded. Heriberto set her teeth on their sharp edge—he always had. But now that she was out of his sight, the sick and hollow sensation in her
st
omach returned with a vengeance. Now she had
more
to worry about. She
st
opped on the corner and pressed one mitt-covered hand to her belly.
Who’s looking for me?

Surely it was too early for Nela’s my
st
erious Lady to be doing so, and Carlos already knew where to find her. Could it be Silva, the prince’s seer who had pulled her out of the river three nights before? Or could Lady Amaral have gone to the police after all and blamed her in some way for Isabel’s absence? The la
st
thing she needed was the police hunting her.

A gentleman in a dark suit brushed again
st
her as he passed,
st
artling her. He tipped his hat apologetically before he went on his way. Oriana shook herself. She couldn’t afford to be
st
anding here on the
st
reet corner like a lamppo
st
. She walked on, feeling shaken.

She waited for an opening between the carriages traveling São Seba
st
ião, and headed toward the quay. Once there, she
st
ood on the quay in the noontime sun, gazing up toward the old tile roofs of the houses that lined the river. The smell of the water was comforting

It had seemed clear at fir
st
. The police had no inkling of Isabel’s fate, so it was up to her to seek retribution, wasn’t it? She’d been angry. She hadn’t que
st
ioned what it would co
st
her to find the arti
st
and expose him. She hadn’t allowed herself to doubt. But now she knew she was hunting a necromancer. Not only was she hiding from the police, as always, but now she had to duck Heriberto and Carlos as well. She had little money and few friends and no idea where to look next. But none of that would
st
op her.

She’d never been able to avenge Marina. She wasn’t going to fail Isabel in the same way.

•   •   •

T
he library of the Ferreira home was Duilio’s favorite room. It housed a colle
ct
ion of items his father had brought back from his travels. An array of giant clam shells, bleached almo
st
white, sat atop the middle of a large circular table covered with marquetry, supposedly liberated from a pirate’s lair in the South Seas. A chandelier hung above that display, delicate branches of white coral holding two dozen candles—a fixture too fragile to refit for gas lighting. That came from the
st
reet bazaars of the desert city of Marrakech. Many of the books that lined the room claimed equally unlikely origin. His father’s desk in the corner—his desk now—supposedly came from Brazil, but Duilio had no idea if that was true either.