The Golden City (23 page)

Oriana spun about at that voice. She pressed a hand again
st
her che
st
to quell the pounding of her heart.

A woman
st
ood in the far corner of the room.

She wasn’t hidden. Mr. Ferreira could not have missed her
st
anding there. For that matter, Oriana had looked too.
Right in that spot
. How was that possible?

The woman walked toward them, her fine dress ru
st
ling with the movement. She had inky hair and fair skin that would have rivaled Isabel’s, although she was much older, perhaps in her forties. Her eyes were a clear, pale gray or blue,
st
riking with her dark lashes and brows. “You’ve come to see me, Miss Paredes,” the woman said, “but who is your companion?”

Oriana shot a glance at Mr. Ferreira, who nodded. She turned back to the elegant woman. Was this Nela’s my
st
erious Lady? How could she determine that? “Mr. Ferreira is my employer. I am his mother’s companion. How did you get in here?”

The woman turned her attention on Mr. Ferreira. “
Duilio
Ferreira? I met Alessio back in Coimbra, years and years ago.”

Apparently her que
st
ion was going to go unanswered.

“I was not,” the woman added, “one of his lovers.”

Mr. Ferreira hid a smile behind one hand. Oriana couldn’t see his mouth, but his eyes were laughing again. He managed a polite nod, but didn’t respond to the woman’s announcement otherwise.

The woman settled on one of the wine-colored couches, apparently unconcerned about rumpling her skirts. Her dress seemed to fade into the couch itself. “Mr. Ferreira, you spoke with one of my associates this afternoon, Inspe
ct
or Gaspar. I am also curious to know why Mata is after you.”

He ran one white-gloved hand casually along the top of the couch. “So, you’re with the Special Police as well?”

Oriana held her breath. What sort of trap had she led him into?

“Let me be clear, Mr. Ferreira,” the Lady said. “My team is here to inve
st
igate the Special Police, both abuses of authority by some officers and misuse of them by . . . well, that’s one of the things we’re trying to uncover. Someone other than the prince has been using members of the Special Police to his own ends. That mu
st
be
st
opped.”

Oriana ca
st
a quick glance at Mr. Ferreira. He didn’t seem too surprised by those claims.

“Mata is, essentially, an assassin,” she went on, “working within the ranks of the Special Police. We want to determine who’s pulling his
st
rings. For what it’s worth, we have evidence that he was paid to kill your brother.”

Mr. Ferreira’s jaw clenched, but his face didn’t relay any emotion. “Why would you think someone assassinated my brother? He died during a duel.”

The woman shook her head with a sigh and turned back to Oriana. “Miss Paredes, will you come sit across from me? I don’t think he’s going to sit until you do, and I’m tired of looking up at him.”

A valid point.
Oriana settled in a chair across from the Lady, her handbag in her lap. With a quick scowl, Mr. Ferreira sat in the chair next to hers.

“It took him three tries to kill your brother,” the Lady said, smoothing her wine-colored skirts. “We confiscated letters from Mata to a counterpart in Southern Portugal, detailing his difficulties with Alessio Ferreira. I suspe
ct
his seer’s blood allowed Alessio to escape the fir
st
two attempts unharmed, ju
st
as yours allowed you to escape la
st
night.”

Oriana licked her lips and dared to look over at Mr. Ferreira. He shrugged apologetically, and without words she knew the Lady was right. Duilio Ferreira was a
seer
. Like his uncle Paolo Silva and his brother Alessio.

Oh, dear
. She’d been rather insulting about seers, hadn’t she? Now she wished she could take her words back. Had she offended him? Her eyes fell to the handbag in her lap.

“Why kill Alessio?” Mr. Ferreira asked.

“We don’t know who wanted him out of the way, and unfortunately, Mata didn’t reveal that in his letters. If we can catch him, we have a team who specializes in extra
ct
ing information, who could get out of him whatever he
does
know.”

Mr. Ferreira’s face hardened. “Torture?”

The Lady laughed. “Not at all. They wouldn’t lay a hand on him. But he will answer their que
st
ions.”

Oriana leaned closer to him. “I could do that,” she whispered. “I could coax answers out of a human if I had to.”

His brows rose but he said nothing.

“So, what did you do, Mr. Ferreira,” the Lady asked, “that would cause this group such dismay that they would send their assassin after you?”

He ge
st
ured toward Oriana’s bag. “This might be a good time to show her the sketch.”

He didn’t look too upset, at lea
st
. Oriana opened her handbag, withdrew the sketch of the table, and unfolded it. She handed it to the Lady, who took it with careful fingers. “Are you a witch?”

“Not at all,” the Lady said. “I
st
udy witchcraft but am not a pra
ct
itioner.” She turned the sketch about to read the Latin inscription. “Where did you find this? Nela wouldn’t tell me, which makes me suspe
ct
this is a matter of import to your people.”

How much was she willing to tru
st
this woman? Oriana glanced over at Mr. Ferreira again, wondering how much she should reveal.

“Whatever you think is appropriate,” he said, as if he’d read her thoughts.

He was letting her make the call, then, of whether or not to tru
st
this unknown person. Oriana pressed her lips together, weighing the odds in the silence of the room. “It was in
The City Under the Sea
,” she finally said. “It was inscribed on a table. My hands were tied to it.”

“The place with the floating houses?” the Lady asked. “Where was this table?”

“Inside the replica of the Amaral house,” Oriana said. She hadn’t thought it would be difficult to talk about it, but it wasn’t much easier this time than it was the la
st
. “Isabel and I were both there, tied to chairs, our hands lying on the table. When the water came in, Isabel drowned.” Oriana swallowed. “Then that side of the table lit up, those words inscribed in it.”

“It’s a scripture,” Mr. Ferreira supplied. “
However, as for me and my house we will follow the Lord.
” When Oriana ca
st
a quizzical glance at him, he said. “I apologize, Miss Paredes. My cousin recognized it, but I forgot to tell you.”

Oriana didn’t know if that made any difference, as the words
st
ill didn’t make sense of what had happened. “I can’t recall what the letters in the inner ring were. They were in a
st
range script that I didn’t recognize. And I have no idea about the center. Do you know what this is?”

“The side of the table that the other young lady was touching, that side lit up when she died. Do I under
st
and that corre
ct
ly?”

Oriana nodded.

“I can shine some light on this, Miss Paredes,” the Lady said, “but it doesn’t make much sense.” She laid the sketch on her knees and touched her fingers to the edge, a visual echo of Isabel’s fingers lying on the edge of the table. “I have wondered, although admittedly not much, why someone would wa
st
e all that money building a silly colle
ct
ion of houses that would eventually rot away.”

Oriana had to agree. “Is this a spell to keep them afloat?”

“I don’t believe so. The fa
ct
that half the inscription lit when this girl died tells me we’re dealing with necromancy. You were meant to die as well, I assume. You said this was a table. What was it made of?”

Well, Nela had been corre
ct
about hunting a necromancer. That didn’t make Oriana feel any better. “It was wood,” she answered. “I think the letters were inlaid in some kind of metal.”

“Silver and gold are the mo
st
common for this sort of work,” the Lady said. “The be
st
for controlling magic. I suspe
ct
we’ll find that the inner ring contained some manner of runic inscription, as necromancers seem to prefer that for their handiwork. This center design is nothing I’ve ever seen, though, and that’s saying something.” She pursed her lips and turned the sketch around again. “The main problem I’m having with this is that there’s no apparent
recipient
. One of the basic tenets of necromancy requires that the recipient take the vi
ct
im’s life force at the moment of death. In essence, your tale makes this seem like the recipient is a table. There wouldn’t be much point to that unless the table was a
ct
ively using that power. Now, there are rare devices that can focus power or carry out a specific a
ct
ion, but this is . . . a table.”

Oriana felt tears
st
inging at her eyes. “You’re saying that Isabel died for nothing?”

“No,” the Lady said. “I’m saying that I haven’t figured this out yet. No one is going to go to this much trouble, to kill a girl, without a reason.”

“It’s not ju
st
one girl,” Mr. Ferreira said, leaning closer to hand Oriana a fine linen handkerchief. She wiped her cheeks with it while he spoke. “We have reason to believe that each replica has a pair of vi
ct
ims in it, not all female. All servants who’d worked at the house replicated. Mo
st
were never reported missing. Some had allegedly gone home to the countryside or found other positions, but when the police traced them they found false trails.”

The Lady sat back, her eyes narrowing. “Servants who worked at the corresponding house?” She turned to Oriana. “You and this Isabel worked at that house?”

Oriana nodded mutely. She didn’t see a need to corre
ct
the Lady’s misconception.

The Lady closed her eyes for a moment, as if mentally organizing what she knew. “I think what we have here is a mixture of necromancy and imitative magic, a rather unusual combination, but not unheard of.”

“Imitative magic?” Mr. Ferreira leaned closer. “Is that like voodoo?”

The Lady looked up. “Have you run across voodoo before, Mr. Ferreira?”

“In Paris, I’m afraid.”

“I see. We’ll have to chat about that one day,” she said. “In the in
st
ance that one item is used to represent another related item, yes. In this case, I suspe
ct
the houses and the people
in
them represent the will of that family. That’s why the vi
ct
ims were chosen from among servants who worked in those houses—it gives them a spiritual tie to that house and that family. As they’re using ari
st
ocratic households, I would suspe
ct
this in
st
allment,
The City Under the Sea
, is a symbolic representation of the entire ari
st
ocracy. Why they’re claiming they serve the Lord, I can’t fathom.”

Oriana covered her face with her hands. She’d heard enough of this academic discussion of Isabel’s death. She didn’t care how they were doing this or why. She ju
st
wanted to know how to
st
op them.

Mr. Ferreira’s hand touched Oriana’s elbow, a scrap of reassurance. Oriana dropped her hands to her lap again, resolved to be calm.

“Are you insinuating that the Church is involved?” he asked the Lady.

She shook her head, earrings glittering with the movement. “Not at all, Mr. Ferreira. It’s not their
st
yle, despite the use of a scripture. It’s easy to appropriate words.” She laid her arm across the back of the couch again. “And before you ask, it’s not the Freemasons either. Neither group is forgiving about necromancy.”

Oriana lifted her head and took a deep breath. “Then who? Who’s doing this?”

The Lady continued to gaze at Mr. Ferreira, her intense regard belying her casual po
st
ure. “Is this what you’re inve
st
igating? These houses? Miguel said you wouldn’t tell him.”

“I’m not sure whom to tru
st
,” Mr. Ferreira said
st
iffly.

“Miguel has been following Mata for days,” the Lady said in patient tones. “This afternoon he let Mata get away because he was concerned you might not get out of that apartment alive. He was about to go up after you when you jumped from the window.”

He jumped from a window?
Oriana glanced at Mr. Ferreira’s face. He was tense, fru
st
rated. She could see that in the set of his shoulders. She didn’t know which of the two of them had heard more unsettling news tonight.

“Yes, this is what we’re looking into,” Mr. Ferreira finally said, pointing to the sketch. “The regular police
st
arted inve
st
igating a few weeks ago. When they asked for permission to pull up one of the houses and open it, they were told to shut down the inve
st
igation.”

“By whom?” the Lady asked.

“We don’t know what level it came from. Captain Santiago dire
ct
ed the reque
st
to the Mini
st
ry of Culture, but there’s no telling how many eyes saw that reque
st
before the order was handed down.”

The Lady nodded slowly. “And if I went to Maraval and asked, he would probably say the paper had never gotten as far as his desk.” Oriana had no idea how many people worked in the Mini
st
ry of Culture, but any one of them could have alerted the killers to the reque
st
. “I’ll ask anyway. I
st
udied with him when I was younger,” the Lady added. “He’s familiar with this type of magic. If nothing else he can tell me who in the city might be able to put together a set of spells of this intricacy.”