Pile of Bones (9 page)

“That can be a fatal question in this city. Besides”—she managed to look slightly uncomfortable—“I needed the money. What was I supposed to do? It was a large sum, and all I had to do was hand over an ugly brooch. I don’t know why she wanted it. Maybe bees are in fashion now.”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “The basilissa could have any gem that she wished. Why would she send her most trusted advisor to buy your ‘useless’ fibula?”

The artifex stared at her pile of shining gears. “I thought—maybe—it had to do with me, not the bee. That it was because of my talent. I had the audacity to think that someone had
noticed me. I was tired of making water features, and then this happened. What would you have had me do—ask the high chamberlain about his business, in front of the entire Hippodrome? I did what I was told and used the money to buy more parts. That’s where my story ends.”

“It lit up,” Roldan said.

She looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“I showed it to a salamander. I’ve never seen a lar so interested in something made by human hands. She took my blood and gave me some of her fire. When it touched the fibula, the whole room filled with light.”

She blinked. “The whole room?”

“We all saw it. I felt it.”

“It’s still possible to infuse machinae with a bit of power,” she said. “Something to make them move on their own, to increase the life of their parts. An auditor would perceive it as a spark—nothing more. That’s what I figured—” She shook her head. “Our ancestors could forge machinae that came alive. The process required a soul—or something—I don’t really understand. But that art was lost.”

“What about the basilissa’s foxes?” Babieca asked. “Isn’t she supposed to have two mechanical foxes who follow her about, like ladies in waiting? They breathe, and speak, and sometimes cast judgment on her enemies.”

“I’ve never been to the Arx of Violets. I always assumed those machinae were just a story, like her movable throne.”

Babieca turned to Morgan. “Have you seen the foxes?”

“Of course not. If the basilissa truly had machinae that walked and talked, do you think she’d let them wander around the battlements?”

“The point,” Babieca continued, “is that some of them still exist. The clepsydra, the throne, maybe even the foxes. And this fibula. It didn’t just make a spark—it practically burned the house down. Aren’t you the tiniest bit curious about what it might do?”

“Of course I am,” the artifex whispered. “But I could lose my head just for having this conversation with you.”

“You must have examined it,” Morgan pressed, “before
handing it over. You’re a builder. Weren’t you curious about how it was made?”

“I—” She stared at the table. “I only looked at it a few times. It seemed deceptively simple. But a tremendous amount of precision went into making it. And I think there was something inside. Perhaps a hidden mechanism.”

“That hidden mechanism is on its way to the Arx of Violets right now,” Morgan said. “It could be a weapon. It could be anything. All we know is that the high chamberlain wanted it appraised and delivered. Of course, everyone trusts a spado. Right?”

“What do you propose to do?” The artifex chuckled. “Knock on the basilissa’s front door and ask if she has a moment to talk about her jewelry?”

Morgan managed to look uncomfortable. “We haven’t quite smoothed out all the wrinkles in our plan.”

“You don’t have a bloody plan.”

“At least we’re not sitting in a caupona building water-powered birds,” Babieca said.

The artifex started to say something sharp in response, then rubbed her eyes. “I’m so tired,” she said, almost to herself. “Tired of making shit.”

“Help us, then.” Morgan touched her hand lightly. “Was there anything else in that note? A clue about who made the fibula, or what it might be for?”

“I don’t know who made it,” she snapped. “I received instructions about where and how to deliver it. That’s all.”

“Narses just left the note in your room?”

“I suppose. People are always coming and going. The caretaker has a set of keys to every cell. Someone could have slipped him something for the room key. Either way, it matters little. You don’t cross Narses. He could have you thrown in the carcer with a snap of his fingers.”

“Well—this is something. We know a bit more than we did earlier.” Morgan rose. “Thank you. We won’t take up any more of your time.”

“You never told us your name,” Babieca said.

“No. I didn’t.” She looked at Morgan. “Please don’t come back here. I can’t be involved in this.”

“You already are,” Morgan replied. “But I understand. We’ll leave you in peace.”

She picked up her lens and returned to studying one of the tablets. Roldan saw a slight tremor in her hand as she manipulated the glass. Then he heard a voice—it was the sleepy whisper of the salamander, rising like steam from the grill.

She knows more.

He started to say something in response, but then a faint snoring filled his ears. The salamander had drifted back to sleep. He followed Morgan and Babieca out of the tavern. The rain continued to blanket everything.

Babieca turned to him. “You had a look back there—a listening look. I’ve seen it before.”

“The salamander spoke to me.”

“I thought she was asleep.”

“She woke up for a second.”

“What did she say?” Morgan asked.

“‘She knows more.’”

“I didn’t need a fire lizard to tell me that. Let’s go.”

They still had some time to kill, so Babieca decided to play at the Seven Sages. It was busy when they got there. The original entertainment—a bit of mummery involving masks and dirty pantomimes—had evaporated at the last minute, and the crowd was restless. Babieca spoke briefly with the ale-wife, smiling and lightly touching her arm.

What’s it like,
he wondered,
to have a perpetual charm fountain? To get everything you want just by winking and knowing where to put your hands?

He played a few ballads, then a more somber piece, something Roldan hadn’t heard before. He was all focus as he played, his fingers gliding across the strings. He stared at something that only he could see. The notes seemed frozen with melancholy, but the barest trace of a smile played across his face the whole time. When he finished, there was an unexpectedly still moment, a beat of confusion, during
which nobody moved or breathed. Roldan heard the hearth chewing through tinder. He saw smoke hanging in wreaths made of untouchable blue petals. Even the salamander had crawled from the oven to listen, cocking her wrinkled red ear toward the music. Finally, as if waking from a dream, the crowd began to cheer.

That was Morgan’s cue. She stood up and made her way around the common room, collecting money. Roldan knew that she hated dealing with soused and surly men, but the music had pacified them somewhat. They were always happier to part with coin when the collector was a pretty, dark-haired woman. If they got too fresh, she’d simply flash her hunting knife, reminding them that she knew how to gut large animals.

The sun was beginning to dip as they left the tavern. Roldan was nervous about visiting the basia. He wanted to see the meretrix again but didn’t know what he should say. Talking with lares was easier, because they always got to the point. Besides, nobody else could hear their side of the conversation. Talking with people was a game whose rules escaped him, full of false moves and pieces that leapt when he wasn’t looking.

“I liked that last song,” he said to Babieca, as they walked toward the Subura. “Was it one of your own compositions?”

He chuckled. “My compositions are shit. That was ‘The Amber Tunica.’ It’s a bit obscure, and there’s a lot of complex string work, so I was worried that I’d ruin it.”

“You didn’t. Everyone loved it.”

He shrugged. “I made some mistakes. I always do.”

“Your compositions aren’t shit.”

“How would you know? I’ve never played them in public.”

“I just know.”

The Subura was noisy and full. Vendors sold ale and sausages from popinae whose bars crowded the street. The rough music of fucking sounded from open casements, while streams of people made their way down blind alleys in search of indefinable pleasures. After nightfall, the streets became a dangerous labyrinth, but now they rang out with laughter,
obscenities, and the clamor of people in motion. “Fur!” The cry was distinct. “Fur in the water!” Moments later, a boy in rags burst from the entrance to the nearest balneum, running as fast as he could. Two wet and naked men pursued him, cursing as the cobblestones bit their tender feet. Nobody reacted to the spectacle. Passing by the open door of the balneum, Roldan heard water, singing, and the faint, open-handed slaps of the masseuse working over some tense body.

The road sloped as they neared the basiourm district, which some called the wolf’s den.
Lupa
, or she-wolf, was slang for a female prostitute who belonged to no gens, working instead from a windowless cell barely large enough to hold a stone cot.
Lupo
, the name for men who worked in the same manner, had a sense more ironic than predatory: a wolf who rolled over, once a few base coins had been exchanged. Meretrices had a certain measure of status, but lupae were seen as a class of fur, thieving through sex rather than skullduggery. A well-known phrase had emerged to describe their unsanctioned business.
Fucks unmasked.

The largest basia was fronted in black marble. The main building was two stories tall, and connected to nearby tenements via a series of covered walkways. All in all, it must have encompassed at least four separate structures. Women and men lounged in various states of undress on patios, drinking, fanning themselves, occasionally waving at passersby. Although the marble-fronted building was pristine, its satellite structures were covered with graffiti.
Here I focked Felicia. Viktor—fok well, fare well. Pharsia eats women’s middles.

They approached the door to the basia. A miles was leaning against the wall, looking extremely bored. Light from the setting sun flashed against her single bronze greave. Roldan glanced at the chipped hilt of her sword and was struck by recognition. She was the victor from the Hippodrome, the one who’d bested her opponent without hardly trying. Now that she wasn’t wearing a helm, he saw that she had close-cropped hair and gray eyes.

Morgan cleared her throat. The miles looked up. She
didn’t smile, but something like bare amusement played across her face. Morgan stared at her for a beat. She didn’t say anything. It was as if she’d lost the ability to form words. Babieca stepped in front of her.

“Salve,” he said. “We were hoping to visit this fine establishment.”

She looked him up and down. “You’re a nemo.”

His smile wavered for a second. “Yes. We have coin to spend, though.”

“Let’s see it.”

He handed her the pouch full of tavern booty. She opened it, counted the coins, then handed it back to him.

“This isn’t enough to purchase a look from the worst meretrix in the basia. Get out of here. Come back once you’ve made something of yourselves.”

“Ah—” Morgan had finally found her voice. “Domina Pendelia sent us. She mentioned that, as a personal favor to her, you might be able to let us in. We have an important matter to discuss with the mother and father of this house.”

“Pendelia? What’s that crafty bitch up to?”

“She said that you used to work for her—and that you still owe her something.”

“I don’t owe that woman a fur’s turd.”

“She seems to think differently.”

The miles gave her a long look. Then she sighed. “I suppose she did help me when no one else would. She said that if I let you pass, we’re square?”

“Exactly.”

“Well—the house mother isn’t here. She’s at the arx, drinking nectar with the fucking basilissa herself. I can take you to speak with the father, although I can’t promise that he’ll give you more than a minute. The house is practically full tonight, and with Drauca gone, he’s got twice the amount of work to do.”

“We won’t take long.”

She shrugged. “All right. Come with me.”

The miles led them through a narrow passage, which opened into a bright atrium with vaulted ceilings. The black
marble floor was decorated in mosaics, some tasteful, others that made Roldan blush. Lush murals decorated the walls, depicting various pairs and threesomes engaged in passionate play. Musicians sat on recessed benches, playing citharae and cymbals, while a woman in a violet tunica sang something lovely and indecipherable. The syllables were liquid and reminded him of low, languorous purring. Her golden armbands clinked as she swayed in place, and the high ceilings gave her voice a wild echo.

They followed the miles down another chamber, which led to a smaller, more densely packed room. He saw two men whose tunicae were halfway undone, kissing against a pillar. One had a smooth chest, white and slightly flushed, while the other’s body was dark-skinned and dusted with hair. Various others reclined on couches or sat on stone benches, drinking, touching, murmuring things to each other. A large woman was playing a drum, and beads of sweat gleamed on her cheeks as she pounded out the sinuous rhythm. People danced around her, barefoot and shining, wreaths in their hair and mead on their lips. The cadence thrummed across the ground, teasing Roldan’s feet until he wanted to join in the dance. He was overdressed, though, and half-afraid of knocking someone over with his clumsy gyrations.

The miles pointed to an opening in the southern wall. “The father’s office is through there. I can’t promise he’ll be in, though. He might be somewhere else entirely.”

“That’s fine,” Morgan replied. “We don’t mind waiting.”

“I’ll stay here,” Babieca said, eyeing the drummer. “I think I can do some serious investigating in this room. You and Roldan go on ahead.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ll let you know if anything turns up,” he said with a grin.

Roldan and Morgan passed through the entrance. They walked down a hallway lit by multicolored lamps. Roldan could still hear the drum, and more faintly, moaning. He wondered where the actual cells were. They were probably grand, with carved wooden beds and braziers to keep the clients warm. He saw a few glittering coins, discarded in
the corner. They were tokens stamped with lurid images, rendering words unnecessary. Language didn’t matter when your coins possessed an extensive vocabulary.