The Nascenza Conspiracy (5 page)

Petro was relieved that the gods had replaced the sulky lout who’d been at his side with his old friend. “Told me what?”

“Did Magnus Costa mind giving me a few free samples? No. He had plenty to spare for one of the Seven. He knows the value of sharing with a Divetri. See what you could be getting if you pulled rank a little more?”

Adrio’s point might have been stronger if he’d actually been the Cazarrino of Divetri, but Petro was so grateful they were back to normal that he might have agreed to almost anything. “Yes, absolutely, you’re right. But—”

“Here, have some.” Adrio held out a handful.

Petro shook his head. The knuckle-nuts still seemed ill-gotten, somehow. He thought of explaining this to Adrio, but silence seemed more prudent. “You keep them.”

“So you see the light.” Adrio began to strut up and down the muddy road, his hands on his hipbones, energized by the encounter. Petro glanced up the sloped road that led to the city’s northwest, on which Magnus Costa had departed, and realized that he could make out a small donkey cart coming toward them. “Finally, after all these years, you see the light,” Adrio was saying. “We could have been enjoying the good life all along! It’ll be different for us from here on out, though. Cassaforte is our oyster, my friend. Free nuts. Free cakes. Free drinks wherever you—we—go, just like Baso Buonochio! Women. Real women, Petro. Gorgeous, succulent women. Like that!” He nudged Petro’s shoulder and nodded in the direction of the guards on the other side of the flooded causeway.

The replacements for Hook-Nose and Pinch-Eyes had shown up, dressed in a more rugged version of the palace crimson. Both carried substantial haversacks. Petro hadn’t seen either of them before, however. Not the older one—whom he immediately tagged “One Eyebrow” for the unbroken black line of shrubbery that lined the man’s forehead, nor the one in whom Adrio seemed to have an interest—a slender, almost delicate young thing who had her back turned to them. Beautiful, straw-colored hair hung between her shoulder blades. Then the pretty waif turned, revealing a decidedly masculine face sporting a thick beard.

“She’s a he,” Petro announced, squinting into the sun. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

“Gods. I didn’t see that one coming.” Then Adrio shrugged. His eyes gleamed as he said, “What do you think of another round of this prank?”

“What?” said Petro.

“The guards.” Adrio nodded at the two men, who were preparing to cross the flooded roadway. “They’ve never met you, right? Probably handpicked to stick with us for the fortnight? Let me convince them that I’m you. To see if we can,” he said hastily, touchy after years of having his ideas struck down. “They’ve never seen you before—it’s the perfect opportunity. Just for a little bit. We’ll tell them afterward and have a great laugh.”

“I don’t think
…
”

“You’ve been a wart lately,” Adrio said, coming dangerously close to wheedling. “Do this one thing. Then I’ll know everything’s all right between us.”

There was something about the last bit that Petro didn’t like. It felt like extortion. He was a Divetri, and naturally stubborn when it came to being pushed—particularly after being called a wart. Before he could give a firm denial, though, they heard a shout. “I say,” called a reedy, plaintive baritone. “Are you our friends from the Insula of the Penitents?”

They turned. The small cart Petro had noticed a few moments before was still wheeling in their direction. Holding the reins of a rather shabby-looking donkey was a man whose head was completely bald on the crown, although long, straggling hairs clung to the man’s temples and around the base of his skull. Petro was reminded, in fact, of a night several years ago
in the insula dormitorium when Pom di Angeli had used a pair of scissors to shear the top of a sleeping Adrio’s head, where it hung over the edge of his bunk. The man was wearing a surplice of saffron-colored linen, which indicated that he was a brother from the Insula of the Children of Muro.

Trudging behind the cart were two aspirants roughly the same age as Petro and Adrio—a girl with sandy hair and a bright face who was trying to suppress a yawn, and a freckled boy who stared at them both. Like the brother, they too wore semi-formal surplices over practical traveling clothes. The boy was covered with religious medallions. Petro remembered Elder Catarre’s stern, last-minute speech about how he and Adrio were their insula’s representatives and felt as if they were already off to a poor showing.

Neither of the aspirants said a word. The priest flicked his whip across the donkey’s back, spurring him forward, then pulled the reins in his other hand to bring the cart to a stop. “I am Brother Sclavo Narciso, of the Insula of the Children of Muro,” he announced, descending from the cart and folding his hands in a pious manner before him. “And I am ever so humbled to welcome our brethren from the Insula of the Penitents of Lena for our excursion into the
pasecollina
.”

“We were expecting Sister Beatrize.” Petro didn’t wish to sound unfriendly, but he had no idea who this Brother Narciso might be.

“Alas, Sister Beatrize suffered an unfortunate fall down a staircase yesterday. Her broken ankle will not permit her to come. I volunteered to take her place. How fortunate for us all, yes?”

“Not for Sister Beatrize,” muttered Adrio.

“After two days of incessant rain, the gods have seen fit to bless us with a resplendent day for the start of our journeys. Is it not wonderful?” Brother Narciso spoke with a vaguely patronizing quality, as if they were barely old enough to recite the alphabet. It was the voice of a brother who worked only with the very youngest aspirants and had forgotten how to talk to anyone else. “Shall we offer up a prayer in thanks?” he continued, reaching out and grabbing their hands. “Yes, we shall. Dearest Lena, pale goddess of the night, and hearty Muro, her brother, we thank you this fair morn for our good health on this most shining of days
…
”

Neither Petro nor Adrio could be said to be the most religious of youths. Once Brother Narciso was well into his prayer, they both popped their eyes open and exchanged suffering glances. The other two aspirants had obediently bowed their heads and seemed to be enduring the lengthy invocation better than either of Lena’s representatives. The prayer became so drawn out that Petro was fairly certain that at any moment Adrio would bolt into the woods and remain there for the rest of his days, living on twigs and berries rather than facing a moment more in the devout Narciso’s presence. Luckily, just as Adrio’s expression reached the point of panic, the priest brought his prayer to an end. “And so say we all,” he concluded.

“Sosayweall,” mumbled Adrio and Petro in hasty conclusion. Adrio yanked his hand back from the brother’s grasp, while Petro tried to withdraw his as tactfully as possible.

Brother Narciso bestowed upon them a brilliant smile, but it failed to keep Petro’s eyes from drifting to his spectacularly bald head. “I have something very special in store for the Cazarrino of Divetri,” he announced. Petro’s heart sank. The priest moved around to the back of the cart, which had been packed with all kinds of provisions for the trip. It seemed impossible for one donkey to pull such a heavy load in addition to the not-inconsiderable weight of Narciso, but Petro could tell from the workmanship that the vehicle had been created by the family Mecchia, of the Thirty. It had been given the natural enhancement of making the burden feel lighter to the animals forced to bear it.

“Are they ear plugs?” Adrio said hopefully. Petro kicked him.

The priest dug into a small trunk and withdrew a register similar to those the aspirants used to take notes during lectures, though this one was perhaps bound and beribboned a little more elaborately. He set a portable writing box on the driver’s seat of the cart, then flipped open its lid to reveal a number of metal nibs and a pen to hold them, all made by Caza Cassamagi. He fixed one of the nibs onto the metal tube, then unscrewed a little jar of ink set into the box’s corner. “I have a little hobby of my very own that brings me much pleasure,” he confessed, as he undid the ribbons of his register. “In the course of my duties, humble as they are, I have had the great honor to meet many luminaries and people of worth. I am well-known in many houses of the Thirty.” He began to page through the register. “See here? It is the signature of Lorco Fiernetto, High Commander of the Palace Guards, which he graced upon me during a visit to the insula.” Narciso sighed, smiling at the scrawled name as if it carried an especially good memory.

Petro shuddered at Fiernetto’s name; it was a reminder of his constant shadows of late. As if on cue, the two guards assigned to travel with them finished fording the flooded causeway and approached their group. Petro noted that their boots had repelled most of the water and mud that his feet seemed to have attracted.

“And here is the signature of the famed actor Armand Arturo himself, and that of his lady wife.
With best wishes
, it says. To think that anyone so lauded by King Milo himself would write such a thing to one as humble as I.
Best wishes
.” Narciso sighed again. “I was hoping, if it might not be too much trouble
…
”

The pen twitched between his fingers as he proffered the register. With a dread certainty, Petro realized that Brother Narciso was a collector, not simply a philographer who accumulated the signatures of the famous or notable. He wanted to collect Petro himself. For years into the future, the priest would regale friends with stories of this trip:
I say, did I ever tell you about the time that I took the Cazarrino of Divetri into the countryside for the Midsummer High Rites?
Then he would lie back, clay pipe in hand, and contentedly lap up attention while he told the tale.

If Petro were lucky and on his best behavior, he might come out of the story unscathed.
Oh, Petro Divetri was a devout lad,
Narciso might say.
A fine boy. A credit to his family
. But it might be worse.
Disgusting boy, really
, he could sniff.
You should have seen him when we first met. You would think that as they’re of the Seven, Caza Divetri would care about how they appear to the world. If that’s the sort of family they’re letting occupy the royal residences these days, it’s no wonder the country’s going to the dogs.

Petro itched. He’d been anticipating a break from his notoriety for the two weeks they were away, but now here he was, face to face with someone determined to hitch himself to his name and family. The prospect made his skin crawl. He swallowed hard and spoke up. “Cazarrino,” he said, loudly enough to be heard by everyone present, including the guards, “Brother Narciso would like your signature.”

“If you please.” Again the priest smiled, this time with broad relief, as he turned to Adrio—who at least was clean and presentable, like a member of the Seven should be. “Would you be so kind?”

Adrio looked over his shoulder at Petro, his eyes wide with surprise. Again, he seemed to be asking for permission. “Go on, Petro,” the real Divetri said, nodding. “Don’t be shy.”

“What modesty,” delighted the priest, steering Adrio in the direction of the inkwell and writing box. “Delightful. It would behoove you all to learn from his example.” To Petro, he seemed to add an extra
especially you
.

Petro watched as Adrio dipped the pen into the well and put it to the blank paper. Just as he had feared, his friend began to make the points of the letter A. “Sign it with your name,
Petro
,” he said with feigned kindness. Adrio flushed and scrawled the name. “That’s right.”

“Yes, it is right,” said Adrio. He seemed cocky, now that he’d recovered from his near mistake. “Cazarrino of the Caza Divetri. Petro Divetri is my name. I’m the glass maker’s son, and don’t you forget it. Am I right, Adrio, my good friend despite being from the lower Thirty?” He slapped Petro on the back so heartily that he nearly coughed out a lung.

“Right,” Petro wheezed. He looked over his shoulder. The guards showed no sign of suspecting that anything was amiss.

“Well, Petro Divetri, I’m sure you and I will be getting to know each other very, very well over the next fortnight,” cooed Brother Narciso. “Do you need any refreshment before we start our journey? A star-fruit? Figs? Why don’t you join me upon the cart?” A hand upon Adrio’s back, he pushed the boy toward the wagon. “It would be an honor to have you ride with me.”

“What about my friend?” the pretender wanted to know, as he was shooed forward.

“Yes, what about your friend?” The priest hovered over Petro. “What about Signor Antonio Ventremiglia?”

“Ventimilla,” Petro corrected, as he found Brother Narciso’s arm snaking around his shoulder. The man led Petro away from the group. “It’s Adrio Ventimilla, Brother.”

“Elder Catarre warned Sister Beatrize about you, boy,” the priest snarled, bending his head close. His every syllable was so intense with feeling that it set each invisible hair in Petro’s ear to tingling. “Well, I won’t have any nonsense on my trip. Do you understand?”

“I—I’m not a troublemaker, signor,” he stammered.

“As my name is Sclavo Narciso, you had best not be.” The priest’s grip had become so rigid that Petro had to rub his shoulder when the man’s fingertips finally left it. “Your friend can walk with the others,” he called to Adrio as he walked back to the cart. “Perhaps their example will humble him.”