The Nascenza Conspiracy (7 page)

It had never happened to Adrio, no. Petro answered as truthfully as possible. “It often happens to the Cazarrino of Divetri, when he’s out of the insula and recognized,” he admitted.

Elettra shook his head. “Madness,” was all she said, as she and Petro pressed their backs against the wall. “You must be glad it’s not you. I know I am.”

Amadeo at least had the presence of mind to fetch the guards standing outside. One Eyebrow and the Bearded Lady shoved their way in and somehow, without offending anyone or breaking any old-lady bones, managed to extricate Adrio from the press of his well-wishers and clear the shrine of its villagers. By then, however, even in a small village such as Eulo, a midday crowd had accumulated to watch the ruckus. Housemaids and signoras alike had hastened near, still carrying their willow brooms and their bowls of dough, or had approached half-drenched from their washdays to see what was happening. The village’s men, though they tended to hang back and not crowd in as much as the women, were no less interested in the proceedings. As the guards made a path through the assemblage for their charges, Petro felt a bit as if he were part of a menagerie—an elephant to be stared at as he lumbered by, or an exotic bird that the locals had never before seen.

“Do we need to call in … ?” he heard the Bearded Lady ask his colleague over the babble. He pulled what looked like a tiny cylinder wrapped in red paper, with a short weighted stick projecting from one end, out of his pocket. Petro recognized it immediately as a device known as a Scillian candle, a type of firework that left behind a dense black trail before it achieved a great height and flared into a bright red light. Insula aspirants were allowed to set them off during festivals.

One Eyebrow turned his head and looked back into the crowd, as if looking for something or someone. When Petro looked at the mass of people, though, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. “Put away the candle,” One Eyebrow finally said, shaking his head. “They’re nearby, and everything is under control. Leave it be.”

While Petro and Elettra and Amadeo waited by the cart, the guards had a serious chat with the priest and the would-be cazarrino, some distance away from the shrine. As they waited, Petro continued to watch the assembly of villagers. For what purpose would a pair of palace guards require a Scillian candle? And who was nearby? Already the crowd was dispersing and going back to its business, but Petro looked around for anyone out of the ordinary. Two young boys, twins from the looks of it, sat watching on a watering trough with their chins in their hands, plainly intending to outlast the pilgrims. A gaggle of young women remained in the shadow of a grain storage barn, perhaps the same young women that Petro had overheard earlier, though they were too distant to tell.

Then his eyes caught another pair, far across the square. They belonged to a woman with a large-brimmed hat, a rucksack, and a walking stick. No, not a woman, Petro realized … it was a girl, very likely a pilgrim like himself. Her hat and short-cropped auburn hair had disguised the fact that she was only three or four years older than himself. She was looking at him, though, directly and frankly, with no small degree of interest. Something about her face made him catch his breath. Though she wasn’t traditionally beautiful, her strong features and determined chin convinced him she was the loveliest girl he’d ever seen.

And then she lowered her eyes and turned to speak to another man, ten years her senior and clearly her traveling partner. Or her husband. They exchanged words and began to move away. Petro pursed his lips with regret. After years of living among insula chits who looked in his direction yet never really saw him, the interested frankness of her regard was refreshing. That young woman was someone he wished he could know.

When the guards returned with Narciso and Adrio, all four of them were still visibly shaken by the event and its aftermath. Narciso was pale as he spoke. “We have been advised to reach Nascenza in as short a time as possible. By tonight, ideally.” He glanced over to One Eyebrow and got an affirmative nod in return. “Our most genteel and wise escorts are of the opinion that our devotions must suffer in the name of expediency. Therefore there will be no more visits to local shrines, no matter how educational. And after the Midsummer High Rites, we shall be returning to Cassaforte as quickly as possible.”

“For the safety of the cazarrino,” prompted the Bearded Lady, who didn’t seem to like Narciso’s tone.

Narciso acquiesced. “For the safety of the cazarrino,” he agreed, with a bow in Adrio’s direction.

“Go on,” the Bearded Lady growled. Obviously there was more.

“I have made the decision that, for the remainder of our journey, it may be to our advantage to remain as discreet as possible.” The priest cleared his throat. “We shan’t lie if someone asks who we are. But neither will we announce our identities. It would seem to be unwise.”

Elettra seemed no more convinced that the priest was giving them the entire story than Petro was. “We have never said a word, Brother,” she said, cutting to the point. “You mean that
you
won’t be telling them who the cazarrino is.” Petro suppressed a grin at her forthrightness. If they had been in the same insula, they undoubtably would have been friends.

Brother Narciso looked distinctly uncomfortable at being put on the spot. He pulled out his handkerchief and mopped at his expansive bald head. “Signora Leporis. Impertinence scarcely becomes one of the Thirty. Now, if we could proceed on our way
…
”

Elettra shook her head and seemed about ready to become impertinent again, unbecoming for the Thirty or not. After thinking about it, though, she merely smiled and attempted to brush off the dust from her clothing. Her lips twitched in a half-smile. “I’ve often wondered if the gods were testing me, by choosing me for the Children,” she told Petro. “I’ll unhitch the donkey.”

As Brother Narciso joined Elettra at the hitching post, Adrio rushed over to Petro. His eyes were wide. “My gods,” he whispered, still seeming overwhelmed. “Have you ever seen anything like that?”

“A few times. When I’ve made appearances in the city with my family.” Petro crossed his arms. “Scary, wasn’t it?” When Adrio seemed too awed to answer, Petro felt oddly smug. “I hope it’s cured that jealousy of yours. It’s only going to get worse when we get to Nascenza. All the pilgrims at the High Rites are going to be staring at you. Crowding in on you. Trying to get something from you. You’ll hate it.”

“Hate it?” Adrio looked astonished at the thought. “Are you jesting? Look at what I got.” He pulled up his outer robe and revealed the bulging hips of his breeches. He produced a screw of paper. When he untwisted the ends, it proved to hold several handfuls of hard-baked ginger biscuits. Their pungent, spicy aroma told Petro’s nose that Adrio somehow had managed to come out of his close encounter with pockets stuffed with sweets. “You can eat Narciso’s nasty fish stew for the rest of the trip, but I’m all set!”

Without a word, Petro stumbled away, shaking his head.

Not until later, as they traveled a road leading north from Eulo, did he think about what he’d heard inside the village shrine. Scorn of the Seven and Thirty was not a new concept to Petro, but he felt sure that the two young women had been talking about something entirely new. It piqued his curiosity. An hour or so into their journey, he separated himself from the cart and Elettra and Amadeo and let his steps lag, until he was walking in the rear with the palace guards.

Petro couldn’t tell which of the two guards was the more senior. One Eyebrow looked a few years older, but it was the Bearded Lady who seemed to be giving most of the orders. Three nights of short sleep shifts had left them both incredibly fatigued, however. “I wondered if you might answer a question for me,” he finally ventured. The guards looked at each other, then at him, without making reply. They wore wary expressions. “When we were in Eulo, several women were talking about loyalists. What are they?”

“They’re people who stick their snoots in places they don’t belong,” One Eyebrow growled.

“Bah, don’t be so sullen,” rebuked the Bearded Lady. How he kept his shining fall of hair so clean on this very dirty trip was a mystery. It was tied back into a long ponytail now, to keep it out of his way. “The lad’s only curious.”

“The very thing that killed the cat.” One Eyebrow didn’t seem genuinely angry. Perhaps he was merely sleep-deprived.

The Bearded Lady swung his hair over a shoulder and ignored his partner. “Loyalists are crazy folk who don’t agree with the customs of the land.”

“Scofflaws, more like,” One Eyebrow said. “The king of Cassaforte decides who his heir is to be. That’s what’s written. He decides upon an heir, and if the cazarri of the Seven approve, at the king’s death they bestow the Olive Crown and the Scepter of Thorn upon his successor. That’s how it’s been done for centuries with no cause to change it. It’s always worked.”

The way he spoke sounded certain and clear-cut. Petro still didn’t understand what he was adamant against, though. “Which part of that don’t loyalists believe?”

“None of it!” said One Eyebrow with unexpected volume. Both Elettra and Amadeo turned at the noise. Elettra looked nervously in Brother Narciso’s direction, but the priest was too absorbed to hear.

The Bearded Lady was more helpful in his explanation. “Modern loyalists believe that the crown should have gone to Prince Berto, although King Alessandro never appointed him the heir.”

Confused, Petro said, “But Prince Berto tried to kill his father. And besides, Berto’s dead. He took his own life rather than live in exile.”

The Bearded Lady nodded and seemed about to say something more, but his companion jumped in before he could speak. “Exactly. You’d think there’d be the end of it, but no. It’s all because King Milo was a guard, that’s why. The Sorrantos are from a long line of guards, and these people don’t like a commoner ruling them.” When Petro remembered that King Milo’s mother had been King Alessandro’s personal bodyguard for many years, the guard’s partiality toward him made sense. “Loyalists want some namby-pamby on the throne. Someone raised to do nothin’. That’s what they want. No offense, young signor,” he added hastily, as if mindful of offense.

“No, it’s all right,” Petro assured him. He was too busy thinking through the new information to take any affront. It seemed to him that any loyalists out there wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. After all, Prince Berto had passed away three and a half years before. He’d had no wife, no heirs of his own, and he had been the last of King Alessandro’s line. “But
…
”

He was about to inquire whom the loyalists would like to see in the prince’s stead when he realized that their caravan was at a standstill. The cart had drawn almost to a stop. Adrio was stuffing a ginger biscuit into his mouth while Narciso wasn’t looking. The priest himself had his head turned over his shoulder so he could stare squarely at Petro. In tones so cold and sour that they could have made lemon ices for all of Eulo, he inquired, “Are we lame, Ventremiglia?”

“Ventimil
…
” Petro gave up on the correction. Let the priest call him what he liked. It wasn’t his name to defend. “No, brother.”

“Then l suggest we keep up.” After waiting for Petro to rejoin the other youths, he flipped the donkey’s reins in his hands and started them all forward again.

Amadeo shook his head, as if he’d known Petro was trouble from the start. “Behave!” he scolded.

Petro looked back at the guards, who didn’t seem any more enchanted by the group’s leader than he was. They were muttering between themselves, but Petro didn’t dare fall back to rejoin them again.

A voice spoke into his ear, tickling it with its soft syllables. “I wager you’re wondering if the gods are testing you, too,” Elettra whispered.

Petro winced as he accidentally stubbed his toe on fieldstone that had fallen into the road from a boundary wall. Yes, that was a wager Elettra would safely win.

Think thrice, speak once.

—A common Cassafortean saying

Three men sat on a wall of moss-covered old brick that ran along the wheat field they’d been circumambulating for the better part of an hour. “Thadeo, it looks to me like someone got lost,” said one, the smallest. His face was as red as his hair and pear-shaped, as if someone had sat on his head for too long a time. He was a compact pug-dog of a man, muscled and mean-looking. Like the others, he appeared to be eating his dinner from a tin pail tucked between his thighs.

Another of the trio was a veritable giant, with a thick mop of black curls. Save for a leather vest covered with dried mud, he was shirtless, and sported more hair than any man Petro had ever seen. Not a bit of his chest, shoulders, or back had escaped the carpetlike growth of wiry black fur. “Ayup, Simon,” he agreed, in a deep bass so profound it seemed to vibrate through the soles of Petro’s feet. “I believe you’re right.” Without any emotion whatsoever, his massive jaws opened wide and crashed through the flesh of an early summer apple.

The third man said nothing. His cap was pulled so low over his face that he appeared to be little more than the tip of a nose and a pair of thin lips wrapped around the stem of a clay pipe. He stared at the travelers from under the brim as if he and his fellows had been waiting for them.

Which, Petro had to admit, they probably had. Their entire party had been traipsing along the edge of the field for a very long time, kicking up chaff and wheat dust so vigorously that even Adrio and Brother Narciso were filthy. They might have even been more dirty than the others, as the donkey had been cranky at not having a firm road to walk upon and had stomped up an enormous dust cloud that the three men must have seen from a league away.

Then, to their disbelief, Brother Narciso descended from the cart and approached the men. “Friendth,” he began, before he became involved in trying to clear his lips and mouth of bits of debris. He tried again, this time using what Petro had learned to recognize as his public voice, used for loud prayers and community addresses. “Friends. We have indeed, as you say, lost our bearings, thus finding ourselves adrift and, well—”

“Lost,” supplied the man apparently known as Simon.

“Lost,” agreed Brother Narciso, not very happily.

Perhaps Narciso had been rattled by their unceremonious exit from Eulo, for scarcely had they set out upon the road north from the little village than the afternoon began to unravel. At first, Narciso appeared to have problems finding their location in the little atlas he had brought along with him, though he swore up and down that on his last pilgrimage to Nascenza’s High Rites, he’d followed a similar route with much success. The guards, who were not supposed to be acting as navigators, had demanded to know exactly how long ago that trip had been. Upon learning it was a decade prior, they glowered and exchanged angry remarks among themselves.

Narciso became even more flustered when, three leagues out of Eulo and without warning, the dirt road disappeared completely where it met a streamlet branching eastward from the Sorgente. The party managed to cross the rocks and water without problem, but found nothing save wilderness on the other side. Not even so much as a hiking path indicated how they might rejoin the main road.

“We don’t see many folk from Cassaforte city out this way, do we, Thadeo?” Simon commented.

“No, Simon, we surely don’t,” said the giant, neatly snapping another third of the apple between his teeth. He munched and looked the travelers over. The third fellow blew out a flume of smoke that seemed to fill the meadow with the sweet, sickly scent of
tabbaco da fiuto
leaves.

“They look unfriendly,” Petro murmured to Adrio. Perhaps tired of having the flotsam from the wheat field kicked into his face, Adrio had jumped off the cart to join the other aspirants soon after they’d begun circling the seemingly endless pasture.

“What a thorough snob you are,” was Adrio’s immediate reply. Petro tensed at the reappearance, once again, of that word. “You can’t deny it,” Adrio added. “These are the kind of people I grew up with. They don’t look unfriendly to me.”

“What a good friend you are,” Petro hissed back, keeping his voice low. Brother Narciso was speaking to the men, however, and didn’t notice their argument. “Calling me a snob for saying that someone looks hostile, while you’re exploiting the Divetri name for ginger biscuits and sucking up to Brother Narciso. Never mind that he treats me worse than the donkey, thinking I’m you. He’s no snob, no. It’s all
me
, isn’t it?” He’d meant the rant to sting a little, and judging by Adrio’s pinkening cheeks, it had. “I’m tired of your nonsense.”

Adrio’s head tilted to one side. By now his entire face was red. “Why not come out and say you’re tired of me?”

A dozen replies instantly flew to Petro’s tongue. Most of them were variations of
perhaps I am
. He was sick of the petulance and the arrogance and the constant jibes, and all the things that had made the journey so far a misery. He wouldn’t commit himself to saying anything more, though, not when they both were hot and so weary, dirty, and tired of walking. Saying something hasty would end in no good.

Adrio interpreted his silence in the worst way possible. “Oh. Now I see how it is,” he snapped.

“Don’t be such a fool.”

It was the wrong thing to say, at the most wrong of times. Adrio’s eyes flew wide open at the supposed insult. Any explanation Petro planned to make, though, was cut short when Amadeo lifted a finger to his lips and shushed him, pointing at Narciso, who was still speaking to the strangers.

“Yes, Adrio.” Adrio stepped over to stand by Amadeo. “I may be a humble fool, but I know better than to disrespect our elders.” He spoke with as much volume and maddening sanctimony as possible.

His voice seething with anger, Petro dabbed at the tip of his nose. “I beg your pardon, Cazarrino, but you’ve got something on
…
”

Adrio automatically mirrored the motion, grabbing at his nose and finding nothing coming away in his hand. “There’s nothing there.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” Petro growled. “I thought I saw something stuck to the end. Something
sticky and
brown
.”

It took Adrio a moment to get the insult, but when he did, he drew close and hissed, “This
prank was your decision.”

“It’s gotten out of hand.”

“You should have thought of that before you decided we’d do it.” Adrio stalked away.

The red-faced Simon was looking at Brother Narciso’s pocket atlas and laughing at something he’d said, though without any real mirth. “Aye, that’d be the Campobasso Road, heading north from Eulo.”

“But it stops!” Narciso sounded as frustrated as Petro felt at that moment. “It just
…
stops!”

“That it does.” Thadeo had finished his apple while Petro and Adrio had been arguing. He hauled back his arm and tossed the core far, far into the swaying stalks of wheat.

“We folk in Campobasso weren’t any too keen on the notion of a road from Eulo coming this way.” The chicken bone upon which Simon had been sucking proved to have no more marrow, so he dropped it into his tin with a clatter. “What was it, Thadeo, our fathers’ fathers who told them they’d meet them halfway?”

“Our fathers’ fathers,” Thadeo repeated. The third man, who was still silent, offered him a drink of something dark and bitter-looking from a squat glass bottle. Thadeo used the hem of his vest to wipe its mouth clean, then took a swig.

“They built their half of the road, and we laughed at ’em and went about our business. That’s what we think of Eulo,” said Simon, spitting sideways from the corner of his mouth.

“That doesn’t seem very nice.” Elettra seemed none too impressed with the trio either, judging by her expression.

“Nice? We in Campobasso keep to ourselves, Signorina. That’s what we call ‘nice.’ ” Simon hopped down from the wall and put his dinner pail on the ground. When he moved toward them, it was obvious to everyone that one of his legs was shorter than the other by the width of three or four fingers, though whether from birth or accident it was impossible to say. “But I’ll tell you what ‘nice’ is. Nice is a good bed beneath your tired and weary body, when you’re leagues away from Cassaforte and have been on the road a good spell. Nice is a bath in hot water when you’ve only washed your face in river mud, and a plate of hot sliced pork and roasted turnips when you’ve had nothing but muck and your own cooking.” Petro could almost hear an audible noise as all seven travelers’ stomachs rumbled in unison. “Nice is a mug of ale and a laugh, that’s what nice is. Wouldn’t you say so, Thadeo?”

“That I would, Simon,” replied the giant in his booming monotone. “Indeed I would.”

Though small in comparison to Thadeo, working in the fields had left Simon brawny on his own merits. When he crossed his arms over his chest and took a step closer to the group, they took an involuntary step back. Even the guards retreated, their hands twitching in the direction of their hidden swords. Only Adrio remained in place. With his own arms stubbornly crossed, he looked like Simon’s twin. “I’ll say that sounds nice,” he announced, almost challenging anyone to oppose him. “So, where do we get all that?”

“Campobasso has an inn,” Simon told him. As if talking about a comely woman, he outlined a shape in the air and whistled. “A little beauty of an inn, with soft beds, a kitchen, and plenty to eat and drink.”

“I like the sound of that,” Adrio said, while Brother Narciso stepped forward to his side. Petro liked it too, but Adrio’s enthusiasm made him reluctant to agree.

Both guards stepped forward, and the Bearded Lady spoke up. “We beg your pardons.”

“This plan won’t do, Caz—young signor,” One Eyebrow said at the same time.

They both hesitated, realizing how close One Eyebrow had come to announcing Adrio’s supposed rank. The Bearded Lady gestured for One Eyebrow to continue. “We feel it best to press on to Nascenza,” the older guard continued, looking to his companion for agreement.

“We’ve tarried too long as it is,” added the Bearded Lady. His fingers riffled through the growth of hair on his chin. Petro thought he might be keeping his hand in the vicinity of his mouth the better to shut it in case he, too, began to say something wrong. He nodded at Brother Narciso, eyebrows raised. “We agreed.”

“Yes
…
” Narciso seemed to be wavering. It was obvious he had no desire to cross the palace guards again, but at the same time, something about the oasis of pleasures promised in Campobasso seemed to call to him. “We really must be on our way to Nascenza.”

Simon snorted. His companions chuckled to themselves as well. “And that donkey will speed you there, you’re thinking? You won’t get to Nascenza by nightfall from here.”

“Not even close,” opined Thadeo.

“Tomorrow, maybe, with a fresh start in the morning, after you’ve dined and washed and slept in a nice feather bed at the inn,” Simon added. Elettra let out a soft sigh; she seemed positively entranced by the visions of comfort Simon offered. Amadeo appeared wistful. Brother Narciso had unconsciously wrapped himself in a hug at the mention of washing. Even the guards, weary from half-rations of sleep, seemed slightly wistful. “All you’ll have to do is head northeast and you’ll be in Nascenza before your dinners,” Simon assured them.

“So you Campobassans were fine with building a road in that direction, were you?” Petro wanted to know. He still didn’t like the man and didn’t bother overmuch to disguise it. It wasn’t a matter of how much money the fellow did or did not have, or what sort of labor he performed to earn his coin. There was simply something insincere about him. He seemed like what boys like Pom di Angeli might grow up to be, right down to having his own version of the Falo twins by his side. Whatever honeyed words poured from Simon’s mouth, Petro was more than certain that a bitter agenda lay hidden behind them. “You must think more of the rest of the countryside than you do Eulo,” he observed. Brother Narciso let out a loud shushing sound.