“What is in Tribuno Candiano’s notes?” said Giovanni. “I’d be curious to see the writings of our most acclaimed genius and madman.”
“Well,” said Berenice reluctantly, “there’s all these wax rubbings of what looks like human sacrifices—a body on an altar, and a dagger above—but as for Tribuno’s notes…” She cleared her throat, and read aloud: “I again return to the nature of this ritual. The hierophant Seleikos refers to a ‘collection of energies’ or a ‘focusing of minds’ and ‘thoughts all captured.’ The great Pharnakes refers to a ‘transaction’ or ‘deliverance’ or ‘transference’ of sorts that must take place at ‘the world’s newest hour.’ At other times he says it must be at ‘the darkest hour’ or ‘the forgotten minute.’ Does he mean midnight? The winter solstice? Something else?”
Giovanni stared at her blankly. “What the hell is that?”
“Tribuno’s efforts to determine the source of the hierophants’ nature,” said Orso. “In other words, a hell of a bigger problem than what we’re trying to solve here.”
“It’s not as useful as I hoped,” said Berenice. “He just goes on and on about this transaction—the ‘filling of the pitchers’—though it’s pretty clear Tribuno himself doesn’t understand what he’s talking about.”
“But obviously it was of great value to Tomas Ziani,” said Gregor.
“Or he just thought it was of value,” said Orso, “and he’s wasting blood and treasure on nonsense.”
At that comment, Gregor froze. “Ahh,” he said softly.
“Ahh what?” said Sancia.
Gregor stared into the middle distance. “Blood,” he said quietly. A look of horrible revelation entered his face. “Tell me, Orso. Does…does Estelle Ziani ever see her father?”
“Estelle? Why?” asked Orso suspiciously.
“He’s ill, isn’t he?” He looked at Orso and narrowed his eyes. “Surely she oversees his medical attention—yes, Orso?”
Orso was very still. “Uh. Well…”
“The Mountain checks the blood of a person to make sure they’re the right person,” Gregor said. “You’d have to find a way to log your own blood with the Mountain in order to let you in.” He stepped closer to Orso. “But…what if you had access to the blood of a resident? Like Estelle Ziani—or, better yet, her father? The man who made the Mountain itself? That’s what you aim to do—isn’t it, Orso? To use Tribuno Candiano’s blood as a pass key for Sancia?”
Orso glared at him. “Well. Aren’t you a clever bastard, Captain.”
“Wait,” said Sancia. “You’re going to steal Tribuno Candiano’s blood? Really?”
Everyone stared at Orso. Finally he sighed. “I never said steal,” he said huffily. “It would be voluntarily donated. I thought I’d just…you know, ask Estelle for it.”
“You can’t be serious,” said Claudia.
“What?” he said. “It’s an opportunity we can’t pass up! With his blood, the damned thing should open for her like a schoolgirl’s legs! The Mountain’s a kingdom, riddled with scrived guards, and no guard can turn away their king!”
“And, what, I cover myself with his blood?” asked Sancia. She pulled a face. “That’s not exactly stealthy.”
“I’m sure we can make some kind of container for it!” he said, exasperated.
“Assuming Estelle even consents,” said Berenice, “surely the Candianos have rewritten all the permissions so Tribuno no longer has access, yes?”
“That would suggest there’s someone on the Candiano campo who’s a better scriver than Tribuno,” said Orso. “Which is unlikely. If I’d scrived my own massive house, I’d have put in all kinds of permissions and goodies just for me.”
“And Ziani certainly isn’t a scriver,” said Gio. “But all this assumes our boy here can actually get the man’s blood.”
“You really think that Estelle would do that for you, Orso?” asked Sancia.
“She might if I tell her you saw her husband kissing hips with some girl in a rundown foundry,” said Orso. “Or maybe I don’t even need to say that. Everyone knows Ziani is a privileged shit, and from the sound of it, he practically keeps her shackled up in the Mountain. I suspect she wouldn’t turn down a way to stick a knife in Ziani’s ribs.”
“True,” said Berenice. “Maybe it’s not as heavy an ask as we’re all assuming. In a way, you’d be offering her freedom. And people risk many things for that.”
Then a curious thing happened: a deeply guilty look crossed Gregor’s face, and he turned to Sancia and opened his mouth as if to say something. Then he seemed to think better of it, and he shut his mouth and was silent for the rest of the night.
* * *
Much later, they slept. And Sancia’s dreams were filled with old memories.
She had never known her parents. Either she or they had been sold before she could know them, and instead she’d become, like so many slave children, a communal burden on the shifting assortment of women all crammed together in the quarters on the plantation. In some ways, Sancia’d had not one mother but thirty, all indistinct.
Except one. Ardita, a Gothian woman. She was a ghost to Sancia now, and all she retained were flashes of the woman’s dark eyes, the wrinkles of her olive-colored skin on her hard, scarred hands, her jet-black ringlets, and the way her smile showed the far back teeth in her wide mouth.
There are many dangers here, child, she’d said once. Many. Many ugly things you’re going to have to do. It will be a great contest for you. And you’re going to think: How do I win? And the answer is—so long as you are alive, you are winning. The only hope you should ever have is to see the next day, and the next. Some here will whisper of liberty—but you can’t be free if you aren’t alive.
And then, one day, Ardita had been gone. It had not been commented upon in the quarters. Perhaps because such things were common and forgettable, or perhaps because nothing needed to be said.
Sometime later, Sancia and the other children had been led to a new field to work, and they’d walked by a tree full of corpses hanging from ropes—slaves who had been executed for any number of crimes. The overseer called out, “Look well, little ones! Look well, and see what’s done to those who disobey.” And Sancia had looked up into the canopy of leaves and seen a woman suspended in the branches, her feet and hands hacked off, and Sancia had thought she’d spied jet-black ringlets on the corpse’s shoulders, and a wide, toothy mouth.
In the darkness of the crypt, Sancia awoke. She heard snores and soft sighs from the others. She stared at the dark stone ceiling, and thought about what these people were proposing she do, the enormous risks they were asking her to take. Is this survival? Is this liberty?
<Beats the hell out of me, kid,> said Clef’s voice, soft and sad.
22
Orso stood in front of the closed-down taverna and tried not to sweat. He had many reasons to—for one, he was wearing quite a lot of clothes, in a clumsy attempt to disguise himself. For another, he was on the Candiano campo using a false sachet that Claudia and Giovanni had supplied him with. And for another, there was a significant chance that none of this ploy could work. She might not come—and then they’d have wasted another day.
He turned around and looked at the taverna. It was old and crumbling, its moss clay cracking, its windows broken or gone. The canal it overlooked was not the blossoming, picturesque stream Orso remembered, but a fetid, reeking mire. Nearly all of the balconies were gone, apparently fallen away—but one remained.
Orso stared at the balcony. He remembered how it had looked twenty years ago—the lights around it bright and beautiful, the smell of wine and flowers. And how beautiful she’d looked that night, until he’d spoken his heart.
That’s not true, he thought. She was still beautiful, even after that.
He sighed and leaned against the fence.
She won’t come, he thought. Why would she come to this painful memory? Why am I even here?
Then he heard footsteps in the alley behind.
He turned and saw a woman approaching, dressed like a house servant, wearing a muddy-colored dress and a dull, unadorned wimple that covered most of her face. She walked right up to him, her eyes steady and still.
“The theatrics of youth,” she said, “are unbecoming to aged folk such as we.”
“I’m a hell of a lot more aged than you are,” he said. “I think I have more right to say what’s unbecoming and what isn’t. I’m amazed you’re here. I can’t believe you still had it, that it worked!”
“I kept the hand-harp for lots of reasons, Orso,” said Estelle. “Some sentimental. But also because I made it, and I think I did a good job.” She was referring to the twinned hand-harps she’d scrived, back when she and Orso had been young and attempting to be surreptitious with their relationship. It had been their way of communicating: pluck a certain series of strings, and the other harp would make the same tune. Each note had been a code for where and when they should meet, and this taverna had once been a favorite of theirs.