The Golden City (29 page)

Anjos ground out what remained of the cigarette with his foot. “How the devil is that supposed to work?”

“I don’t know,” Duilio said. “But Espinoza saw
something
. That’s why Espinoza fled to Matosinhos in a short-lived attempt to hide from his patron.”

Anjos nodded. “Did Barros know who that patron was?”

“Not exa
ct
ly,” Duilio admitted. “Barros thought the artwork was funded by the Mini
st
ry of Culture, overseen by Maraval himself.”

Gaspar cursed under his breath and turned to Anjos. “She went to go talk to him. To ask about the table spell.”

The Lady?
Duilio recalled her mentioning she knew Maraval. “If he’s involved . . .”

“Then she could be walking into trouble,” Anjos said. “Miguel, go.”

Gaspar tossed the assassin’s discarded pi
st
ol to Anjos and took off at a run.

“Should we go with him?” Duilio asked.

“No.” Anjos checked the safety on Mata’s pi
st
ol and tucked it in a pocket. “If Maraval harms her, Miguel will kill him. The fewer witnesses, the better.”

Duilio wasn’t quite certain whether the Brazilian inspe
ct
or was serious. Given the unforgiving look he’d seen in Gaspar’s eyes, Duilio wouldn’t be surprised if it were true. He wondered if the man intended to run the full four miles back to the city.

That que
st
ion was answered before he asked it. Joaquim came jogging into the con
st
ru
ct
ion yard, a rifle slung over his shoulder by the
st
rap. He held his hands wide. “Where did Gaspar ju
st
go? He took the carriage.”

“Back into the city,” Duilio answered him. “Where
were
you?”

Puffing out his cheeks, Joaquim pointed back toward the row of businesses that lined the road leading up to the con
st
ru
ct
ion yard. “Rooftop.”

“Well done,” Anjos told him. “You picked a good spot.”

“Thank you,” Duilio added. Joaquim did have a talent for being in the right place at the right time. “Good shot.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Joaquim prote
st
ed. “I was aiming for his leg. Damn. Please tell me he was the one who’s been after you. The one who killed Alessio?”

“Yes,” Anjos answered him.

Joaquim rubbed a hand over his face. “Good.”

“He wasn’t going to tell us anything,” Anjos said. “I’ve seen that often enough, so I know what it looks like.”

Duilio would bet money that a Truthsayer was indeed a good judge of whether a man was going to spill information. “So, where do we go from here?”

“Inspe
ct
or Tavares, would you accompany me down to the
st
ation?” Anjos asked. “I doubt Mata has anything on his person, but you might be able to smooth things over with the locals for me if he does.”

Joaquim nodded. “Come by later,” he mouthed at Duilio.

Duilio watched as Joaquim and Inspe
ct
or Anjos headed out of the con
st
ru
ct
ion yard, leaving him
st
anding alone on the blood-
st
ained gravel. A light drizzle began to fall, a reminder that they were headed into the rainy months of the year.

He was
st
ill holding his pi
st
ol. Sighing, Duilio hol
st
ered it. Now that the initial flush of adrenaline fo
st
ered by the attempt on his life had faded, he was tired . . . and hungry. He needed to consider everything he’d learned today, and try to work in the little bits with what they already knew. Hopefully the tram ride back to the city would provide him with time to do ju
st
that.

•   •   •

O
riana walked down the alleyway toward the Street of Flowers, her nerves on edge. Someone might be hunting her, but her conversation with Mr. Ferreira late that morning had given her more to worry about. How had that woman learned she wasn’t human? The rain had
st
opped, but the
st
reet gli
st
ened with wet, a reminder to watch her footing—especially important given that the mantilla’s lace obscured her vision. And she wished she had a warmer jacket or a shawl. She rubbed her silk-covered hands briskly along her arms.

She had almo
st
reached the end of the Street of Flowers when she realized she was being followed. A man trailed behind her at some di
st
ance. She
st
opped and laid one hand on a wrought-iron fence, pretending that her heel was caught in the hem of her skirt. Turned to one side as she fiddled with the fabric, she could see the man wore a dark suit, but he was several houses away. She could lift the veil and squint to see him better, but that would surely alert him. She continued on toward the Cu
st
oms House, noting with relief that he hadn’t gotten any closer.

Once pa
st
the Cu
st
oms House, she joined more pede
st
rians
st
rolling along the tree-lined Alameda de Massarelos. She walked on slowly, being passed by workers on their way home for dinner, chattering loudly when she wanted silence to li
st
en. She tried the same trick again, pretending she had caught her heel, and glanced behind her.

Thank the gods
. Her pursuer had been joined by another man, and the two were walking companionably along the avenue. She dropped the fabric and walked on. It was probably ju
st
her imagination, along with an excessive dose of caution. While the mantilla hid her features from notice, it was
di
st
in
ct
ive
. She wished she’d thought of that before leaving the house. But it covered her face, which might allow her to evade anyone looking for her.

I need to plan better
. She
st
rode more quickly along the avenue toward the spot where Heriberto moored his little fishing boat among a dozen others. Watching her footing, she made her way onto the ramp and down to the boat. The deck smelled of gutted fish, making it clear that Heriberto did occasionally pursue his
st
ated occupation, if not tidily.

Careful of her skirts, Oriana climbed over the rail. She removed the mantilla, tucked it into her handbag, and banged with one fi
st
on the low cabin wall, clenching her jaw to ignore the jarring vibrations that set off in her webbing. “Heriberto,” she called down toward the cabin, “I need to talk to you.”

Her words were greeted with a
st
ream of inve
ct
ive that didn’t surprise her overmuch.

“Wait a moment,” Heriberto called back. A moment later he emerged from the small cabin,
st
ill tying the draw
st
ring of his rough-spun trousers. He hadn’t bothered with shoes. He wasn’t even wearing a neckerchief to hide his gill slits. His hair was mussed, making Oriana suspe
ct
he hadn’t been alone in that cramped cabin.

His eyes narrowed in the afternoon light. “What are you doing here?” He looked frazzled, which had to be better for her.

“I hear you’re looking for me.”

“Your father told you, did he?” he asked.

His casual mention of her father surprised her. After two years of never speaking of him, it was bizarre to have Heriberto say that so baldly. “I haven’t had any conta
ct
with my father since I got here, as per our orders. Not a word.”

Heriberto crossed arms over his bare che
st
. “And I went dire
ct
ly to
him
, so how else would you have found out?”

She could claim that Carlos, the footman she’d seen with him, had told her, but she was going to have to go with the truth if she wanted to get her father off Heriberto’s hook. “I followed you Wednesday when you met him at the Golden Church. I was
st
anding right under where you were talking. I believe what I heard was called extortion. If you’re looking for me, there’s no reason to bother him. He doesn’t know my whereabouts.” He didn’t deny the charge of extortion, she noted. “Who is Maria Melo, and why did you tell her that I’m not human?”

Heriberto shook his head. “You’re not entitled to that information.”

“Extortion isn’t in your orders,” she reminded him. “My aunts are high up enough in the mini
st
ry that if I should happen to mention your extra source of income, it
would
come back to haunt you. There are other ways of getting correspondence out of the city than by going through you. I can go around you.”

For her fir
st
attempt at blackmail, it seemed to work. “Do you think it’s that simple?” he asked. “There are those in the mini
st
ry who outrank me. When she demanded a li
st
of my people in the city, I didn’t ask why.”

Oh no
. Oriana
st
ifled the desire to walk away. The saboteur knew she was a sereia not because Heriberto revealed that fa
ct
 . . . but because she was a sereia herself, a member of their intelligence mini
st
ry.

She’d been put in that house to watch Isabel die by one
of her own people
.

Oriana lifted her chin. “Where can I find her?”

“Thanks to your appearance in the gossip columns of this morning’s
Gazette
,
she
knows exa
ct
ly where to find
you
.” Heriberto grabbed her arm and hauled her closer. “Don’t think . . .”

Oriana bared her teeth and dragged her arm free from Heriberto’s grasp.

He smirked. “It’s all over the
st
reet whose house you’re living in now, girl. If she wants to talk with you, she will. Take my advice: keep your di
st
ance. She’s been undercover a long time, and we’re
all
expendable if we endanger her mission.”

Did her government have agents who’d been here longer than Heriberto? That was news to her. “What mission is that?”

“You think she would tell me? A male?” He laughed, a short bark. “I learned long ago there are times it’s better to
st
ay
st
ill under the water. A
ct
like everything’s normal,
st
ay hidden, and perhaps the
st
orm will pass without all of us getting killed.”

Oriana had a sinking feeling in her
st
omach. The woman who’d handed her and Isabel over to the Open Hand had a greater mission, one so important that Isabel Amaral’s death was acceptable. Putting Oriana Paredes in danger of exposure was also acceptable. Oriana couldn’t think of too many missions important enough to warrant that much leeway, but assassination might be one of them. Perhaps Silva had been right about an assassination after all, although not about the assassin. It was hard to believe her people’s government would condone such a thing. “Why were
you
looking for me, then?”

“She ordered me to,” Heriberto said. “She claims someone’s trying to kill you. If they succeed, it would spoil her plans, whatever those are. She said she wanted to warn you.”

Oh, that much is true
. “So you threaten my father, ju
st
to warn me?”

Heriberto crossed his arms over his che
st
and glared. “Girl, I don’t like you. You think you’re better than me. You think you don’t have to do the things the re
st
of us
st
oop to because you’re superior to us, because you’ve got old family ties in the mini
st
ry.” He ge
st
ured at her mitt-covered fingers. “I notice you’re not at the do
ct
or’s appointment I made for you to get your hands cut.”

Was that today? Oriana had a vague recolle
ct
ion of him ordering her to do that the la
st
time they’d spoken, but she’d had other concerns since. “I forgot.”

“Of course.” Heriberto set one fingertip under his eye, the sign for doubt. “The truth is that I don’t like my people getting killed. Even you. If your getting killed by these other people would ruin
her
plan, then the easie
st
way to ensure that doesn’t happen . . . is to kill you herself.”

Oriana felt a chill run down her spine. Why had she not figured that out? She folded her silk-covered hands together to hide their shaking.

She’d come here to tear into Heriberto’s fins, but in
st
ead he’d given her information he shouldn’t have. If Maria Melo was his superior, he shouldn’t have divulged the woman’s intentions, not even obliquely. Yet he’d done it to warn her. It was possible he’d been guarding her all along, although she doubted that was the case. In
st
ead, she suspe
ct
ed he didn’t like this superior of his. “Thanks for the warning.”

He waved away her words. “I haven’t seen you. I haven’t spoken to you. Ju
st
get out of my sight.”

He didn’t wait for her to say any more, but climbed back down into the hold of his boat. Oriana turned and carefully walked back up to the quay. Her mind was spinning. She pulled the mantilla out of her bag and settled it over her hair again, taking a moment to put the comb in firmly.

She’d been concerned about the my
st
erious Open Hand coming after her, but not truly afraid. The prospe
ct
of being hunted by Maria Melo worried her far more.

D
uilio walked along the quay, mulling over the death of Donato Mata. His gift lay quiet now, not a hint of concern for his safe journey back to the house, although it would be foolish to rely overmuch on that.

When he reached the road that wound behind the Cu
st
oms House, he noticed a woman walking briskly some di
st
ance ahead of him.
Miss Paredes.
It wasn’t her plain black dress that identified her, or even the mantilla that covered her head, an unusual choice for a Friday afternoon. He’d recognized her walk, the faint swing to her hips that he’d always considered enticing.

And then he spotted Gu
st
avo lounging in one of the shop doorways, head down as Miss Paredes passed. Tomas mu
st
be somewhere nearby as well. He’d asked the two footmen to keep an eye on Miss Paredes. When he reached the spot where Gu
st
avo waited, he nodded to the young footman and Gu
st
avo headed back home. Duilio jogged to catch up with Miss Paredes’ quick
st
eps.

“Miss,” he called when he got close enough.

She
st
opped and slowly turned, one hand clutching at the other wri
st
, preparing to draw her knife. She relaxed when she saw it was him. That damnable mantilla kept him from seeing her expression, but he was sure she was unnerved.

“What are you doing here?” she asked when he reached her.

“I could ask the same. Are you
courting
trouble?”

She frowned at him; this close, he could see that through the mantilla’s lace. He mu
st
have had a snap in his tone. Without answering, she turned and walked on toward the Street of Flowers.

Duilio caught up to her in a few
st
rides; ladies’ shoes weren’t made for walking fa
st
on cobbles. “I apologize. I’ve had a trying day and was concerned.”

“I thought a man was following me,” she said. “I didn’t realize it was you.”

She’d slowed, so he walked alongside her. She even laid her hand on his arm when he offered it. “It probably was Gu
st
avo, a
ct
ually. Or Tomas. I asked them to keep an eye on you if you left the house. They weren’t to interfere with you, only inform us if someone tried to grab you.” She didn’t prote
st
that safeguard as he’d half expe
ct
ed she would, so he continued. “When I got off the tram near the Cu
st
oms House, I saw you walking down the
st
reet. Sheer luck.”

The mantilla rippled over her face in the faint breeze. He would rather she remove it—he preferred to see her face—but it was better to keep her hidden out here on the
st
reet. Ju
st
because Mata was no longer a threat didn’t mean Miss Paredes was safe.

She walked on in silence for a moment. “I thought that if Maria Melo knew I’m a sereia, it had to have come from him. My ma
st
er, I mean. So I went to talk to him.”

Duilio couldn’t fault her logic. “I see.”

“I wanted to know why he’d revealed my identity,” she said softly enough that he had to lean closer. “Why he’d compromised me.”

“Did you accomplish your obje
ct
ive, then?”

“Yes.” Her dark eyes fixed on his face. “I didn’t like what I heard. I have never
st
epped out of line before, Mr. Ferreira, never truly defied my orders until Isabel’s death. I have not been perfe
ct
, but I have tried. I am . . . on uncertain ground now, and don’t know how far I dare go.”

Duilio had defied orders enough times to grasp what she meant. “Doing what one is told,” he said, “is far simpler than not doing so.”

She gave him a sad smile, visible through the veil. “So I’m learning.”

There were, at this time of day, far more pede
st
rians than la
st
night. Even so, he thought they could speak safely without anyone overhearing anything important. He
st
eered Miss Paredes out of the way of a group of tired-looking girls in maids’ garb, walking down the
st
reet.

“There’s a small café near the church,” he said, pointing discreetly. “I’m famished.”

She gazed at him through the veil, and he could almo
st
make out her perplexed expression. “But it’s only a couple of hours until dinner.”

“Famished,” he insi
st
ed. He’d endured a jarring day thus far. He and Joaquim had been loaned to the Special Police, a rather dubious honor. He’d been shot at, although, admittedly, he’d set the
st
age for that himself. He’d faced the man who’d killed Alessio but learned nothing. His day had left him with too many que
st
ions. What he wanted to do now was ju
st
sit and talk.

Being hone
st
with himself, he wanted to talk to
her
. He could
st
op and eat by himself. He was supposed to go over to Joaquim’s apartment later this evening and discuss the day’s developments with him. But right now he wanted to talk to Oriana Paredes.

So he led her up São Francisco Street to the café near the Church of São Francisco. He picked a table with a view of the church’s rose window, but far enough from any other patrons to allow them to talk freely. Miss Paredes finally lifted the damned veil when they were settled there, and he ordered a meal large enough to
st
artle her, judging by her expression. She ordered creamed coffee.

“Did you not eat lunch while you were at the house?” she asked.

“Yes, but I seem to need more food,” he offered.

Her dark eyes regarded him appraisingly. “Is that inherited from your mother?”

“Yes,” he said, glad he didn’t have to explain further. “Alessio inherited it as well.”

“Ah. Your mother has a pi
ct
ure of you next to her bed,” Miss Paredes said then. “With both your brothers and your cousins. She said you were twelve then. I had only one si
st
er, so I can’t imagine what it would be like to grow up in such a large family.”

He knew exa
ct
ly the photograph she meant. His mother had it taken when his father was away so that he couldn’t argue with her inclusion of Erdano, Joaquim, and Cri
st
iano. Over coffee Duilio told Miss Paredes the
st
ory of the taking of that photograph, including his mother’s epic
st
ruggle to keep a fifteen-year-old Erdano
st
ill long enough for the exposure to take. That led to a few
st
ories about Alessio’s less-risqué adventures, and then about Joaquim and Cri
st
iano, neither of whom was risqué at all. Miss Paredes imparted vexingly little about her own family. The topic seemed to pain her. She said only that she’d lo
st
her si
st
er and mother, and apparently her father had been exiled to parts unknown, so he let the topic drop.

Once the waiter brought the food, he managed to coax Miss Paredes into taking his croissant. She picked it apart with her fingertips while he finished his soup and fish. As she
st
ill wasn’t ready to talk about her discussion with her ma
st
er, he told her in
st
ead about his trip to Matosinhos and his conversation with Father Barros.

“Maraval?” Her brow knit at his mention of the Mini
st
er of Culture. “He gave me his card. He asked me to come by his office if I had any idea where Isabel was. He’s a friend of her father’s and has been looking for her. To quell rumors about her, I mean. He said he’s been keeping her name out of the papers.”

Duilio tried to recall if he’d seen any recent mention of Isabel’s elopement in the newspapers. “He mu
st
be. I haven’t read a word about her since the fir
st
notice.”

Miss Paredes nodded pensively. When she didn’t speak, he went on to tell her about his misadventure at the con
st
ru
ct
ion yard, meeting Inspe
ct
or Anjos, and the death of Donato Mata.

She seemed to be worried for him then. Her slender brows drew together, her large eyes shadowed. “Your day was busier than mine.”

Duilio laughed. He couldn’t help it. He rubbed one hand over his face and laughed again. “My apologies, Miss Paredes. You either have a gift for under
st
atement or sarcasm. I’m not certain which.”

Her expression remained bland. “I have many talents, sir.”

Which ju
st
set him off laughing again. Duilio wiped his eyes with a finger, hoping he hadn’t attra
ct
ed unwanted attention with his amusement. “Forgive me,” he managed. “I’m not mocking you.”

Her face was all seriousness, her lips pursed disapprovingly. “You wouldn’t dare, sir.”

This
was why he’d wanted to talk to her, he realized. He’d known there was a hot temper buried under all that self-control. Now he’d discovered a sense of humor as well. How had she held her tongue all those months among Isabel’s society friends? Duilio
st
rove for an equally serious expression. “Yes, it was a busy day.”

And
then
she smiled, her dark eyes turning toward the white tablecloth. Her hands curled around her cup of coffee, only the tips of her long fingers peeking out of the silk mitts with which she hid them.

Duilio suddenly decided she was lovelier by far than Isabel Amaral or Aga . . . or Genoveva Carvalho. Her full lips were surprisingly enticing, even when he knew there were sharp teeth behind them. Although she normally wore her hair down in the English
st
yle, she’d looked quite
st
riking on the night of the ball with her hair pulled up to show off her delicate features and large, dark eyes. He would like to see her wearing something less
st
ern.

It wasn’t ju
st
that he would like to bed her. He would. He hadn’t for a moment forgotten the vision of her in her bath. But he’d had lovers in the pa
st
and would never have dreamed of telling any of them of Mata’s attempt to kill him. Mo
st
gentlewomen would be shocked and appalled. Oriana Paredes had
joked
about it.

Shocked and appalled
would sum up Joaquim’s rea
ct
ion should Duilio confess he was considering Miss Paredes as a potential . . . What
was
he considering her as? He’d already dismissed the idea of asking her to be his mi
st
ress. There was very little left beyond that: lover or wife. Friend? Did women on the islands from which she came have male friends? It wasn’t usually done in Portuguese society, and he wouldn’t be satisfied with that anyway.

Duilio pressed his lips together. Joaquim would prote
st
that Miss Paredes wasn’t a child of the Church. That didn’t matter to Duilio; he lacked Joaquim’s piety. And while Joaquim wouldn’t care that Miss Paredes wasn’t human, he would find it worrisome that she was a spy. That was probably why he hadn’t introduced her to Joaquim yet. Joaquim would immediately pick up on his intere
st
in Miss Paredes, and Duilio didn’t need to be arguing with him. They had other things to worry about.

“Mr. Ferreira? Are you li
st
ening?” Miss Paredes lowered the lace veil over her face.

That made him want to snatch the thing off again. “I apologize, Miss Paredes. My mind was wandering.”

She leaned over the table toward him, and something about her po
st
ure told him she was spooked. “I think we should go, Mr. Ferreira. We’re being watched.”

Stupid of him to forget that. “Where?”

“There’s a woman over at the church, watching us.”

He wasn’t facing the proper dire
ct
ion to see that. “Do you recognize her?”

“I saw her the la
st
time I was here,” she said. “She was watching me then. I don’t believe it was a coincidence.”

He left more than enough money to cover their fare and, offering Miss Paredes his arm, led her away from the café in the dire
ct
ion opposite the church, back down toward the quay. She occasionally ca
st
glances back over her shoulder. “Is she following?” he asked when they walked around the corner onto the Street of Flowers.

“Not that I can see,” she said softly.

They crossed to the other side of the
st
reet, where the tram was beginning its trek up the
st
eep hill. When it halted he drew her over and they both got on, which would spare her the climb. When they got near the house, she jumped down ahead of him. Once on the
st
reet, he offered her his arm again, but decided to go all the way up to the Gouveia house, then around to the alley and back down to his own. If someone was following them, it would provide a smokescreen, although not much of one.

Apparently Miss Paredes under
st
ood the ruse, as she didn’t argue when he passed the house. She kept walking at his side, her heels clicking on the cobbles. Mo
st
of the pede
st
rians were headed downhill, since it was the end of the workday, so they walked again
st
the traffic. He leaned closer to shield her from a large group of schoolboys approaching them. “What does she look like?”

“Average,” she said, her voice barely audible above the boys’ chatter. “Brown hair. Brown eyes. I don’t know. Intense?”

They’d reached the Gouveia house. Duilio indicated that she should walk around to the side. “That’s very vague, Miss Paredes.”

Her head tilted in his dire
ct
ion. He could see her dry look even through the lace veil.

“I wondered if she might be this Maria Melo,” he said.

“I did too,” she said in return. Softly, as if it were a secret.