The Nascenza Conspiracy (26 page)

“He’s down,” Petro yelled. Then, “He’s hurt.”

Petro was the first to arrive at Narciso’s side. The man’s rib cage was pinned beneath the broken pole. He struggled to breathe from its weight. “Let him rot,” spat Adrio, from where he lay several feet away. The underside of his chin still dripped with blood, and his forehead swelled with a knot from where he’d hit the marble moments before.

More of the moon charms ignited, closer than ever. A few of them took out chunks of the tapestry, which was burning more rapidly than Petro could have imagined. Surprisingly, Narciso seemed to agree with Adrio. “I want to die,” he choked out. “I want to die a hero.”

“A hero to your cause?” Petro asked, standing above him. “Terrifying your own countrymen to advance your own stature isn’t a hero’s game. In your heart of hearts, if you have one, you know it,” he added. “Let’s lift this pole before it sets us all ablaze,” he called to the others. Emilia and the guard remaining both grasped the pole, joining Petro at the base where the stand had splintered. Vico shot over to take his place by Petro’s side. After a moment, Adrio stood and grudgingly joined them.

Once freed of the oppressive weight, Brother Narciso didn’t attempt to run away. He lay there while the retired guard sat him up, glaring at them all. One of his arms appeared to be broken, but he didn’t complain. Indeed, even as several of Emilia’s army sprinted down the stairs to assist them, he didn’t say a word more as they joined arms and hands to form a human cradle to carry him. Not until Emilia gave the command to take him away did he speak again. “You people have no idea what terror is.”

“Perhaps not,” Petro retorted. “But soon you will.” He took a few steps forward and spoke directly into Narciso’s ear. “Because my sister is Risa the Sorceress, and I would very much dislike being in the same room with her when she meets the man who attempted to ruin her wedding.”

A few minutes later, they had cleared the dangerous area and were sitting on the first tier, far away from the radius where metal scraps were still flying. Petro had checked Vico over a dozen times for any signs of nicks or cuts, or for the pierced skull the boy ought to have had from dancing so close to the tiny missiles, yet he found no trace of injury. “I have told you repeatedly,” said Vico, showing the slightest touch of impatience, “that I am fine.”

“Vico.” Petro held him at arm’s length and stared in his face. “You were amazingly brave. You may never be crowned ruler of Cassaforte, but you have the heart of a king.”

“Hear, hear!” cried Adrio.

The boy flushed a little from the praise, but before he could preen over it, Petro added, “And you have the head of an absolute fool. If you ever do anything like that again, I swear by the gods I’ll tan your backside raw. You could have been killed!”

“I wasn’t.”

“People with good sense run away from danger. Not directly into it.”

Vico blinked, then said, with the utmost simplicity, “But you run directly into danger all the time.”

“That’s not
…
” Petro had to pause.
That’s not who I really am, though
, he’d been about to say. Now that he thought about it, however, perhaps he couldn’t say that any longer. Not truthfully. Softening slightly, he tried a different argument. “Emilia was ready to sacrifice you!”

The former prince wore the most smug expression that Petro had ever seen. “She was not.”

“You didn’t know that!”

Vico crossed his arms. “I knew it. She’s not a very good liar, your Emilia.”

Down below, near where the last burnt remnants of Lena’s banner still glowed on the marble, Emilia and her army were having a consultation. Deftly she pointed in three directions, one after the other. Six of the burly men, all of whom were more than twice her age, peeled off in pairs to follow whatever instructions she’d given. Another ran up to ask a question about the fire, still blazing out of control both in and out of the bonfire pit. She answered the question with another definitive set of instructions, punctuated by gestures to the altar and to the banner of Muro, which still remained standing.

Petro watched while the guard summoned several men from the crowd to help move the remaining banner far from harm’s way. Emilia stood at a distance, her hands on her hips, observing her instructions being carried out to the letter. Once the job was done, a delegate of the group went to her for further instructions. The former guard stood in a posture resembling attention and saluted.

Emilia nodded curtly, said something, and turned away. Petro could see her face now, flushed and pleased. Somehow she seemed aware of Petro’s gaze. She looked up and returned it with a smile, her hand raised, half-waving to him. Then she brushed the hair from her eyes, pinkened, and turned away before she began barking out more orders. There was much left to do that night.

No, his Emilia was not a very good liar. Somehow, Petro preferred her that way.

Lorco Fiernetto had the kind of face that always looked as if it were fuming. Even when he spoke in the most reasonable and controlled of voices, as he did now, he appeared as if he might thunder out obscenities at any given moment. “And what of the spy?”

“Sir,” said Emilia, nodding ever so slightly to acknowledge the question. “At no point did we encounter Gustophe Werner. None of any of the loyalists we detained have ever seen him in person, though they have been in communication through his emissaries.”

For the first time in over a week and a half, Emilia was completely washed. In her fresh crimsons, with her hair tucked beneath her uniform cap, she positively gleamed. All four of the youths, upon their arrival in Cassaforte the night before, had been immediately escorted to separate apartments within the royal residence and placed under heavy guard, allowed to eat and bathe and sleep in the first real beds any of them had seen in some time. The boys had emerged from their royal cocoons merely as handsome moths, while, to Petro, Emilia had become a butterfly. He stared around at the assembly gathered in the palace’s star chamber, where the highest councils met, astonished that none of the rest of them were agog with how stunning Emilia was.

No less than a dozen people sat around the mighty table, fashioned from the trunk of a single blackwood tree from the royal forest. Emilia and Petro stood together, facing the curious assembly that consisted not only of Fiernetto and a number of King Milo’s advisers, but also Elders Gina Catarre and Arnoldo Piratimare (brother to the current cazarro), who was her counterpart from the Insula of the Children of Muro. King Milo sat at the table’s head, the tips of his fingers pointed at each other as he silently listened to the reports. Perhaps most fearsome of all, Risa Divetri sat next to him, her arms crossed, her eyes glaring daggers in her younger brother’s direction.

“I always thought the damned Werner fellow was a myth, myself,” said Elder Piratimare. “The more we know about him, the more of a fabulist’s dream he seems.”

“A myth doesn’t dream up the destruction of a rival country by making it exhaust its resources and then eat at itself from within, Elder.” Risa’s inflections were icy cold. “The man exists.”

“The boy, Vico, would seem to be a testimony to that,” said Emilia, inclining her head in Risa’s direction. “He is a creation of his uncle’s. But if I might speak on his behalf,” she added, “I believe he would rather be a creation of his own.”

“What do you think, son?” boomed Fiernetto, speaking to Petro this time. “Is what she says true?”

“Fossi is one of your guards, High Commander.” Petro had intended to be polite to the man, but his voice emerged more stiff, formal, and chilly than he’d expected. “As such, it would be beyond her to misrepresent matters of such import.” Risa exchanged glances with the King. Petro wasn’t finished, though. “In fact, I’d venture to say she’s the finest guard in all the force. No offense, Camilla,” he added, in apology to the crimson-clad woman sitting on King Milo’s other side.

“None taken, chipmunk,” replied Milo’s bodyguard generously.

Camilla Sorranto’s casual use of this old nickname was slightly embarrassing, but it was all forgotten in seconds, thanks to the High Commander. “Your majesty,” he said to the King. “We must redress this frontal assault by Vereinigtelände with all due haste. I suggest that our forces—”

“We don’t have the forces, Lorco.” King Milo had not spoken during the long minutes in which Emilia had relayed their story, bolstered by occasional contributions from Petro. He had sat silently, taking in every word. When Petro had first met Milo after Prince Berto’s coup, he had only been a mischievous guard with energy to spare. These days, while just as smooth of face and fair-headed, his smiles came less often. He seemed leaner and taller—less the boy Petro had first known, more a real man. Four years had made quite the difference in him. “Even if we were to conscript guards from every household in the city, we’d not have enough to march on Bramen. You know that.”

Fiernetto seemed slightly taken aback by the king’s vehemence. “There must be retaliation.”

“Vereinigtelände knows that its plan to sow fear and force us into a false alliance has failed. They know we are aware of their intentions. They know that we are in possession of their weapon.”

“He’s a boy, Milo,” said Risa. Who was she angry at? Petro could never tell with his sister. “A mere boy. Not a weapon.”

“I’m well aware of what he is and isn’t. The matter remains. What are we to do with this Vico?”

“Ship him to Portoneferro,” growled Fiernetto.

Outraged, Elder Catarre sat up in her seat and said, beseechingly, “Exile is no solution! Let the youth come to one of the insulas. We have the room, and if I might speak for Elder Piratimare, we would welcome him.”

“Indeed we would,” echoed the other elder. “Most certainly. Indeed.”

“Prince Vico will not be exiled.” King Milo was most certain about that point. “Nor will he be taken in by the insulas, Elder. He is not of the houses of the Seven nor the Thirty, and he has not been scrutinzed by the gods for admittance.” Elder Catarre subsided in her seat, grumbling a bit to herself though she accepted his point. “It would not be out of place to have him live in the royal residences, but I fear it might spark further loyalist fervor for the legitimacy of his claim. I don’t wish, though, to force him to conceal who he is. It’s a bit of a paradox.”

“He needs a family.” Heretofore, Petro had only spoken when asked for his opinion. On this matter, however, he needed to be heard. “I would like to offer him mine.” Murmurs of astonishment rose from around the room. Over them, Petro continued articulating his thoughts. “He needs a normal place to live, where he won’t be waited on hand and foot and where he can learn to do things by himself. Perhaps he could learn to blow at the furnaces with my father, or work at cutting and piecing glass windows in my mother’s workshops. Mama’s always talking about how lonely it’s been around the caza with us gone, Risa. You know that.” Her expression was unreadable. “I think they’d rise to the challenge. Besides. Vico needs a big brother. He already trusts me. And I like him.”

He bit his lip at the very end of his speech, afraid that it would be shot down immediately. No one said anything to counter his proposal, however. Indeed, both the elders seemed to nod at each other in approval. “If you could visit him often, in the early months,” King Milo said at last, raising his eyebrows at the one woman who might object, “it might help him to settle in.”

“That would be no problem,” said Elder Catarre.

The King smiled. “Risa?”

After a moment, she nodded. “I’ll ask Mama and Papa.” Petro had been holding his breath for her answer. When it came, he let it out slowly through his nose.

“And what of Vereinigtelände?” Fiernetto wanted to know. He still sounded angry. “What of the Thirty who conspired in this plan?”

Milo had already thought over the matter. “We will question the loyalists that Guard Fossi was clever enough to detain.”

“And the boy.”

“Gods, Lorco! What a monster you are!” He dropped his stern demeanor and laughed at his advisor. That was the old Milo whom Petro once had known. “You’d torture the boy if I let you. Yes, by all means, question Prince Vico.
Gently
. And I do mean gently. Never mind. Your idea of gentle likely involves brass knuckles. I’ll do it myself.”

“And me,” said Risa.

“And my lady,” agreed Milo, amiably. “We already know a handful of the families that assisted the loyalists. Catardi. Falo. Gaudi. Di Angeli. One by one, over the course of the next few weeks, we will gently suggest they leave. To depart from the Thirty, and from the country. Their stink will be extracted from our streets, our insulas, and our outposts.”

The High Commander wasn’t satisfied with that solution. “Publish their names! Let everyone know what traitors they are.”

Milo was serious once more. He placed his fingertips together. “To do so would publicize their cause. To know how close we were to allying with our enemies would frighten too many of the people. I will not give wide exposure to the extreme and hateful views of a very tiny minority. Publicity would legitimize their claims, in some people’s minds. And this is why, my friends, I must ask a great boon.” The last was addressed to Petro and Emilia. Milo stood from his chair at the table’s head, addressing them with outstretched hands. “No one beyond this room will ever know of what you’ve done.”

“What?” Risa narrowed her eyebrows.

Milo ignored her, and spoke only to Petro and Emilia. “Beyond a few flesh wounds, none of the pilgrims at Nascenza suffered injuries or death, thanks to your actions. Already we have spread the word that what happened at Nascenza was the result of country hooligans with too many Scillian candles at their disposal and too much wine in their bellies. They created a ruckus, but did no real harm.”

“That tapestry of Lena was over four hundred years old!” Gina Catarre demurred mildly.

“And it will be a fine project for the insula craftsmen to replace or better it,” Milo proclaimed. “We next shall announce that we have found King Alessandro’s grandson, and will welcome him as he is due. Of the loyalists’ plot, and of what you discovered, nothing shall be said.” He cleared his throat. “You are both heroes to this country. Some heroes, alas, must go unsung. I am very sorry for it, but there it is.”

He gave them a moment for the announcement to sink in. “Myself, I don’t care,” Petro said at last. He meant his words. “I really don’t. I don’t want to be famous, or infamous, or whatever it is when you’re a hero. I don’t want people looking at me the way
…
” He’d been about to say
the way they look at her
, meaning his sister, but he thought the better of it. “And besides, Risa would absolutely
kill
me if someone wrote a song about The Glass Maker’s Son. But Emilia
…
I mean, Guard Fossi
…
” He wanted to tell them that Emilia deserved better. It was all very well to shunt him back into the shadows. He was used to it. Emilia, however, had worked hard and proven herself.

Milo seemed to sense his hesitation. “Thank you, cazarrino, from the bottom of my heart,” he said. “Indeed. On that matter, we will have words with Guard Fossi in private, if you don’t mind.”

“Thank you,” Emilia whispered, laying a hand on his arm as he turned to go. When their eyes met, he knew she realized what he’d been longing to say.

The hand on his other arm, however, belonged to his sister, who’d shot up like a rocket the moment Milo had dismissed Petro. With a grip like a falcon’s talons, she hauled him across the floor, yanked at the silver handles of the double door that led from the star chamber, and allowed the guards standing outside to close them after her as she dragged Petro into the waiting rooms beyond. “Ow, ow, ow!” he yelled once alone, twisting out of his sister’s grasp.

“Gods!” she spat at him. “Mama and Papa thought you were dead! I thought you were dead!”

“Are you trying to finish the job yourself?” he complained, hugging his arm tight. “I was here last night! Why didn’t you come torment me then?”

“Because Milo didn’t dare tell me anything until minutes before this council. He knows I would have done something rash. Your face looks
awful
.”

“So does yours, with that duck nose,” he retorted. “I’ve got the advantage. At least mine will heal.”

For the briefest of moments she glared at him. Then he found himself smothered in the tightest embrace a sister ever gave a younger brother. “Gods,” she repeated, kissing his head while she ran her fingers through his hair. “If anything had really happened to you, I never would have been able to live with myself.”