“And then there is this bridegroom’s formidable residence,” said Placidio, holding out his cup for more tea. “If the man’s family is attached to the philosophists, as the celebration day suggests, then it’s well to note that the Villa Giusti, here in Cantagna, is the only fortified property of the Confraternity. It serves as the residence of their three directors general.”
So were more words unpacked, their secrets laid out for us to view. The directors general of the Philosophic Confraternity were three of the most powerful people in the Costa Drago.
I tapped my finger on the page. “Which leads us to the consequences of a broken contract that concern Sandro—these dangerous instabilities in our city’s governance. Sandro always said that every interaction with the Confraternity Directorate is like dancing on a precipice, because offending them—”
“—can get you falsely accused of sorcery. Drowned. Dead.” The dueling scar that creased Placidio’s face from brow to chin pulsed red. Normally near invisible, the scar was a measure of his ferocity.
“The consequence might be more direct than that,” I said. “For years, the Confraternity has been seeking more influence in official appointments and stricter laws regarding activities they disapprove. The young woman’s family would owe a huge debt to the Confraternity for a broken contract. What if she’s kin to a member of the Sestorale?”
Nine years of watching the Shadow Lord maneuver through political tangles had taught me certain indisputable truths. One of them was that influence with Cantagna’s governing body was a bargaining chip as valuable as coins, especially regarding uncomfortable matters like mysticism and belief.
Placidio rapped a knuckle on the message, much as I had done. “Whatever this woman’s serious reasons, whatever political entanglements fret the Shadow Lord, this is no trivial matter for the woman herself, either. Atladu’s balls, what if she’s one of us?”
The bride a sorcerer?
All of us fell quiet for a moment, imagining. Every day I had lived with Sandro—no matter how dear, how joyous they had become—was also a day fraught with terror. One slip, one question demanding my secrets, and I knew I would be undone. Eventually, the unthinkable had happened, but he had neither sent me to the Executioner of the Demon Tainted nor killed me himself. He had kept my secret because he did not wish me dead. A philosophist of the Confraternity, especially a director general or his kin, would have no such compunction.
“Nah! Surely that can’t be the case.” Neri interrupted the awful visions by shoving the letter across Vashti’s table in my direction. “Maybe he’s talking of magic, but more likely something else, right? What kind of work would an extraordinary rich girl do? I’m guessing she’s rich, if she’s wedding a director’s son.”
“Certain, the phrasing is odd,” I said, “but then he’d never dare mention magic in a written message. But even if it’s not magic, she’s well educated … and some men dislike educated women.” I’d experienced a bit of that in my years in Sandro’s house, though thank the universe Sandro had been just the opposite.
“All serious business,” said Dumond. “Difficult for the young woman. Perhaps breaking it off is a worthy endeavor, but I’m leery. For one, the earthquake has made it riskier than ever to use sorcery for anything. For another, if the Shadow Lord can’t solve the problem, how in the blighted universe are we going to do it? Steal the woman away and everyone will believe it a ploy to break the contract. Feign her death, perhaps, but then how does the world benefit from whatever work she may do any better than if she were married to a philosophist?”
“Assassinating the groom might void the contract,” said Neri with a sidewise glance at me. “But the Shadow Lord clearly doesn’t think that would work, as he’s got henchmen far more suited to assassination than we are.”
“The praetorians would never let a killing of one of their own rest anyway,” said Dumond. “Seems like the only thing’s left is to convince the groom or the families to stop it, and I’ve not a notion of how one might do that. This message so much as tells us that’s the case. And the feast of the Lone Praetorian is … what … four days hence? Not much time.”
“Hmph,” Placidio grunted an acknowledgment.
I’d no logic to refute these assessments. The crowds in Cantagna’s streets cheering the philosophists’ harangues certainly increased the danger of using magic. And sniffers everywhere. And yet … the thought of a girl pledged to any man before she was born rankled my every bone.
“No, Basha. You must find a way to help this girl. This marriage custom is barbaric.” Vashti might have pulled the thought right out of my head, brushing aside our quibbling like the first winter wind sweeps aside the smokes of autumn. Her complexion glowed with a fire the hue of burning sand. “And think … a season ago you put yourselves at risk because il Padroné had an instinct that the Assassins List posed a danger to Cantagna. He was right, far more than he or any of us imagined. This sounds very like. Something about this young woman—or her work, whatever it is—sparks his belief that she must not be made subordinate to this bridegroom’s family. He believes this marriage is wrong, and his own incapacity pushes him to risk using your skills. An intelligent man as he is cannot be unaware of the increased danger so soon after the earthshaking. How will you sleep if you dismiss this, and he’s right again?”
Dumond grimaced in wry discomfort and scratched his balding head. Neri pursed his lips as if he’d bitten into an unripe cachi. Placidio blew a long exhale and mumbled, “This wise lady has a point. Would have been nice to be given a bit more time, but certain, I’ve naught better to be at just now.”
I winked at Vashti, and said, “All right, then. I’ll send our acceptance to the Shadow Lord’s contact tonight and plan to meet him tomorrow. We’ll hope his information suggests a workable path. If not, our agreement with the Shadow Lord will hold. He’ll bear no ill will if we fail.”
Assuming we survived, we would punish ourselves quite enough.
4
THREE DAYS BEFORE THE WEDDING
BEFORE DAWN
I wandered through the shower of dust and grit. Hunting. Listening.
The earth shuddered as if in the last throes of its dying. My arms clung to a slender, toppled pillar until the movement stopped. But even in the stillness that followed I could not move or lift my head. What was the use? There was nowhere to go. The Palazzo Segnori had collapsed in upon itself. The Bank, the Academie—the Cambio Gate—all in fragments. If those sturdy bones of my city were crumbled, what hope was there for the fragile ones—the Beggars Ring shanties, the market stalls. The last cries for help had long died away as my bleeding fingers had scrabbled at broken stones, uncovering my brother’s crushed limbs—the hour my heart had died.
My tears had long dried, scorched away by anger. Why was I still living? It wasn’t fair. Why could I not find my way out of this maze of destruction?
“Because you have a purpose, O lovely one. You have outlasted all of them—the scholars who condemned you … the men who bought and sold you, corrupted you … those others who live as leeches on your talents…” The woman’s voice rippled through the dry dustfall like spring water, cool and clear. Like a soft finger gliding on my naked skin, caressing my eyelids, my lips …