Spira Mirabilis (29 page)

Leto put a steadying hand on Torbidda’s shoulder. ‘I think you’re worrying about nothing. Most likely she’s dead in the Oltremarine desert.’

‘If she was dead, I’d know it!’

‘How?’

‘The way I know it’s night or day.’ Torbidda pushed his hand away. ‘
Ack!
I might as well describe red to a blind man. Being First means I don’t have to explain.
Ever
. Find her, Leto – because I say find her.’

‘I’m not an Apprentice,’ Leto said coldly, ‘and I never sought that honour. I
know
you’re privy to secrets I am not, but
surely
it is common sense—’

‘I’ve heard enough! Do as I say, or I’ll find someone else who will follow my orders! You have presumed on our friendship for too long. I need soldiers willing to take risks – and for all his faults,
Lord Geta knows when that’s necessary. You see that mob down there? They’re carrying stones of such weight that their bones are deforming. It is not Reason that makes men toil till their bodies collapse! When Varro made us dissect the human heart he never told us of the power of dreams. I’ve shown them my dream, and I’ve let them
share
it. I’m asking you now to dream a little too.’

Leto straightened his uniform and tried to maintain his composure. He had always been instinctively wary of this kind of Naturalist nonsense, but to hear it spouting from Torbidda’s mouth was shocking. The exhausted young bodies scattered dead and dying across Monte Nero’s cold, sharp stones were like a parody of the Guild Hall’s annual cull, hardly any cause for celebration.

Torbidda’s new talkativeness disturbed him too: he’d never been one to chatter or share. Other Cadets and Consuls bragged and joked, told stories, related plans – but Torbidda was silent. He listened and pondered, and when the time came to act, he knew the right course; that was how he’d navigated the crises of his youth with the world against him and come out on top.

‘Besides, Veii can be made to surrender by other means,’ said Torbidda with his new smile. ‘Shall I tell you why Bernoulli’s legions were so successful?
Fear
. No town wanted to be another Rasenna or Gubbio. After we sent the Waves, the other towns got into line. Etruria’s memory is short. A fresh example is overdue.’

Leto had been growing more and more appalled at Torbidda’s plans, but this idea made him forget all his reservations. ‘Make it Rasenna!’ he exclaimed with sudden inspiration. ‘What better place to destroy than the city that destroyed the Twelfth?’

‘You’re really angry with Geta, aren’t you?’ Torbidda laughed. He turned his back. ‘You’ll need men if the Moor proves less than agreeable. Ready the reserves to go to Ariminum tomorrow.’

‘Is it safe to remove them from the capital?’

‘I have an army of maniacs at my command. I’ll survive.’

‘Where are you going?’ Leto asked, eager to get on now.

Without turning, Torbidda answered, ‘To the Wastes, of course. I must prepare Rasenna’s lesson.’

When Pedro left Veii after organising its defences, they gave him a trumpet chorus, in recognition of his service. Even so, he doubted that Duke Grimani would welcome a group of Rasenneisi exiles into his already crowded city, which was no doubt already suffering privations due to the siege. But Doctor Ferruccio had promised a posse of butteri to escort them to Salerno, so he sent the rest of his party across the Albula.

Pedro was able to gain entry only because the siege was undergoing a lull while the Concordians were busy constructing a vast ramp up the rolling hills, a massive task that involved shifting thousands of tons of earth and stone. When it was done, they would be able to roll their siege-engines right up to the wall.

He expected to find the duke atop the walls, seeing that his men were ready for the coming storm, but a much-amused Captain of the Guard instead pointed Pedro to the stables. The duke’s long argus-eyed cloak stood out brilliantly amidst the dun straw and leather-garbed stablehands.

‘Maestro Vanzetti! About time you gave up on Rasenna. Good blood after bad, I say. Come, let me show my latest acquisition. Beautiful, ain’t she? Apullian – look at those legs! I tell you, I’m confident that victory’s in the bag.’

Pedro soon realised he was talking not about the siege but the Palio di Veii, the annual race in the horseshoe-shaped piazza at the heart of the city. Each borough had a jockey and mount to represent its honour.

The duke, noticing his expression, grinned. ‘My condolences, Maestro Vanzetti. I discern that you are one of those unfortunate youths who take life far too seriously. As you shall see, we implemented your advice – well, those parts we could afford. The layered blockade has done well: it’s sufficed to delay the Concord-ians, which is all that is necessary. They can’t prolong a siege into winter.’

Grimani’s complacent speech was punctuated by – and somewhat undercut by – the groaning parade of stretchers carried past the stables. But he ignored them, patted the skittish horses and told Pedro to take his time surveying the walls before turning away to consult with his jockey. Pedro saw with a sinking heart that Doctor Ferruccio had been completely right. Grimani was resisting only so he could cut a better deal. After a few weeks, he’d hammer out a pact with the Concordians and solemnly promise not to interfere while the Grand Legion continued south.

*

Later, when Pedro was shown into the Castello, he found Salvatore Bombelli and the duke in heated argument. Without a trace of embarrassment, Grimani broke away to enquire about his review.

Pedro paused before speaking. Candour would not be appreciated, he guessed: it would either wound or anger this peacock, and neither would help. In the end, he said simply, ‘Satisfactory, on the whole.’

Grimani beamed. ‘I’m happy you are happy, for this is only the most recent occasion Rasenna and Veii have cooperated.’ The duke clapped Pedro on the back and said expansively, ‘Your late gonfaloniere was an excellent friend to Veii – a great customer of our alum – and a man who knew his place. I grieve for his sons, who have forgotten the base roots from which they sprang. But the young are loyal to profit only; their fidelity is as transient as the price of silver. They rush across the peninsula chasing deals,
exchanging, changing. I will not go as far as the Curia and say it is
sinful
, but it
is
unnatural, this wringing coin from coin.’

Pedro had no idea how to respond – these barbs were clearly aimed at Salvatore, not him.

But the head of the Bombelli Family was not to be cowed by innuendo.

‘I understand completely, Duke Grimani,’ he said smoothly. ‘I am often obliged to deal with those I would rather not. If my company ever grows too onerous, you could stop borrowing my money – and of course, there’s always the option of paying your debts, or even the interest on it.’

Pedro feared Grimani was about to order Salvatore beheaded, but the tension was dispelled with a round of insincere laughter from all sides.

‘We dine at eight,’ the duke announced shortly, and left the chamber.

As before, Salvatore insisted that Pedro accompanied him to his quarters to prepare. ‘That profligate Costanzo has left behind quite a wardrobe,’ he said with a laugh.

‘So where is he?’

‘Oh, I sent him and Guido down to Salerno. It never hurts to spread one’s assets. I was going to go with them, but when I heard you were on the way I decided to hang back.’

Pedro waited a beat, then asked, ‘Have you any word of the Contessa, Salvatore?’

‘Indirectly. The Tarentines trade horses with Akka in exchange for spices. The traffic’s usually pretty constant, but in recent months, hardly any ships have come from Oltremare.’

‘What is it, a rebellion?’

‘More like a civil war,’ he said with a sniff. ‘The Tarentines have been hearing Queen Catrina’s side of it, of course, but it’s clear she’s hard-pressed. She’s even been building herself a fleet.’

Pedro looked surprised. ‘Why would she need one?’

‘That
is
the question.’ He gave a generous tip to the attendant standing guard at the door and closed it behind him. ‘Well, how do you like my chambers?’

Pedro was confused: the rooms were barely furnished. There were no carpets, no tapestries, no paintings – it was all oddly austere, especially for a successful banking house. Even in Rasenna, Fabbro and his children had surrounded themselves in luxury.

Then he understood. ‘Going somewhere?’

‘Soon as I can.’

‘Not staying for the race?’

‘I only like to gamble when there’s an excellent chance of winning. Veii’s doomed, and Papa always said a viper’s most dangerous in its death-throes.’

‘Would Grimani really betray the League?’

‘Come, Pedro, you’re not a boy any more. A king must at least pretend his actions are honourable – but no such chains bind a republic’s first citizen. He and his fellows need only convince themselves that a thing is
expedient
and that gives them leave to stoop to any crime, and not even furtively, but with pride. Right now, Grimani’s still in denial, but the siege has begun to bite. He’ll be trying to buy his way back into Concord’s favour soon enough, and I have no doubt he’ll use us as honey.’

Pedro did not need much convincing that their host might betray them. ‘Like father, like son, I guess. Do you think Spinther will go for it?’

‘No,’ Salvatore said, ‘the Concordians don’t want Veii; they just want its assets – the colonies, and the Albula’s waterways. But we’ll be dead before Grimani figures that out.’

‘When are you leaving?’

Salvatore looked around the empty suite of rooms. ‘This very night. I delayed only so I could warn you.’

For years the Wastes had been slowly expanding, but lately the pace of infection had increased, and now the autumn crocuses of the Rasenneisi contato sickened wherever its dust settled. Isabella stopped at the threshold, paralysed by a terror greater than any she’d known. The night Tower Vaccarelli had burned was nothing compared to this. Behind her was home; ahead was a silence no bird could out-sing. She’d needed no map to get here: like the pole draws the needle’s eye, so the awful hum at Concord’s heart summoned her. Wherever Sofia was, she must feel it too, Isabella realised. Distance was nothing to power this potent.

Pedro might be right, that she wasn’t strong or skilful enough, but what she needed now was neither strength nor skill, but
Grace
.

With a whispered prayer she crossed into the shadows. She could see Concord’s high walls in the distance and as dusk came on, the glow-globes painted the grand structures of the new city with blue light, and from that pulsing mist arose the great black mountain. Some rot had exposed Monte Nero’s skeleton and now a great tripod arose from a web of scaffolding. Each leg was a colossal buttress that caught the last of the day’s light before the sun sank behind the northern mountains. Whatever sorcery had supported them while they were being built, they now supported each other.

There was the source of the maddening song.

‘Where goest thou, little bird?’

Isabella turned to see a man squatting in the shredded shadow
of a dead tree that she had just walked by. He blended perfectly with the rotten wood. His skin was chapped with scars and burns and liver spots, and the rags he wore were recognisably those of a mendicant. He looked at her through empty eye sockets and smiled as he raised a bloody hand in greeting. ‘Delightful to
see
you again.’

‘We haven’t—’ she began, but the words died in her mouth as she saw he was missing a thumb. She drew back in alarm, holding her forearm. ‘You!’ The scar his fingers had burned had never truly healed.

‘Silly bird, you’re in no danger – not from me, anyway.’ Before him lay a buzzard with its ribcage prised open; he went back to pulling it apart, explaining, ‘I’m looking for my brother. He’s been hiding from me for – oh, for centuries now. But I’m catching up. What would you say if I advised you that there is nothing for you in Concord but
pain
?’

‘I’d say, get behind me, Satan.’

‘You’ve mistaken me for someone else,’ he said. ‘Him, perhaps?’

Still in the distance but walking towards them was a boy, a little older than Isabella. He was dressed in rags, some yellow, some orange, some red.

‘Alas,’ the blind man whispered, ‘too late to fly now.’ His unseeing gaze followed her as she walked towards the boy.

The wind raised a wave of choking dust and the boy’s body shifted like a mirage. Could it be—? Was this the
same boy
who had played such havoc during the siege in Rasenna, the one who’d calmly riddled Doc Bardini with arrows and escaped before the Wave came? He’d worn yellow then, but that was a superficial difference.

But no, this was not the same boy; this was not a boy at all. He was a shell, and Isabella could see the abomination that was his true form.

‘Brave to face me, Sister. Brave but foolish.’

‘That one,’ Isabella gestured to the mendicant behind her, ‘is too blind to see your intentions, but I
see
you.’

‘You ought to thank me. I will stay that wheel of suffering to which the absentee landlord you call
God
has bound you.’

‘And in so doing, kill hope.’

‘There’s no greater torture than hope. I am your liberator. I will teach Man to call me God. It will be an easy task, for we are alike in so many ways. When Men anger me, I send a flood to punish them. You, fortunate child, are the first to hear my good news. I shall make you my Evangelist.’

He was the Deceiver and there was no point listening to his lies. ‘I’d rather be your executioner!’ She leaped, crossing the distance between them in a moment, and he raised his hand like a bishop giving benediction, blocking her kick. He skidded backwards. His body was unnaturally rigid as his feet dragged the dirt. He had barely settled before she was spinning towards him, and again he blocked her. She rebounded with a second kick, followed by a cascade of battering fists. Her onslaught was furious, fluid and unremitting. The dust raised made the air cloudy and he calmly retreated into the murk.