I shot upright, shaking. Clutching my fists to my chest, I rocked back and forth, whispering, “Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream.” My eyes could scarce focus through the clouds of horror and despair. Our scuffed table. The clay brazier. The sturdy stone walls. Intact. Neri’s pallet empty but still smelling of him.
Why could I not be rid of the dreams? Why did my insides seethe with fury in the midst of such ruin? The woman was new. So seductive, so dangerous, like poisoned honey.
Sunlight streamed through the cracks around the shutters. Perhaps bathing in its warmth would banish my shivers. It was past time to be up and about. Four … now three … days until the Feast of the Lone Praetorian. The Chimera had a mission. Focus on that and maybe I could get over the damnable earthquake.
Information was waiting.
NOONTIDE
The Shadow Lord’s consigliere—his advisor in all matters of law—took a stroll every day at the noontide bells, always ending at his favorite tea shop. I trusted he would be watching for me as before, ready to pass on the necessary details of this venture—names, locations, and whatever else might help. Details that, I hoped, would give us a hint how to stop a wedding that everyone but the bride and her vicino-padre wished to go forward, while leaving all parties satisfied with the outcome, no matter broken contracts, repayment of bride gifts, disappointed grooms, offended philosophists, or whatever specific instabilities in governance the Shadow Lord worried could come of the disruption.
The warm, damp weather had me panting as I hiked up Cantagna’s hill through the gates that marked the boundaries of the city’s rings. From my home in the Beggars Ring bounded by the outer walls and the River Venia, I ascended through the brothels, artisan workshops, and cheap lodgings of the Asylum Ring, and the Market Ring shops of cobblers, tailors, glovers, spice merchants, and the like. Alehouse wags called the Via Salita “the Road to the Realm of the Blessed,” referring to the home of the gods before the war with Dragonis sent them into the Night Eternal.
I kept my eyes open along the way, and not only for sniffers. The Cavalieri Teschio had expanded their crimes to the Market Ring since the earthquake. They stole children from slightly more prosperous families. Asked slightly higher ransoms. The victims might be five years old or seventeen, girl or youth, but always a pretty one who could bring a good price from certain caravans that paused outside Cantagna’s walls on their way south to Mercediare or Tibernia, or so the terrified parents believed. The fortunate children—the ones returned home—recalled nothing but black hoods painted with white skulls. How did child-snatchers stay hidden as they went about their foul work?
A third gate passage took me into the Merchants Ring. Only the Heights—the heart of the city—surpassed the Merchants Ring in prestige and elegance, as well as altitude. This was a district of elegant bathhouses, stately guildhalls, luxurious gardens, and fine markets, as well as home to wealthy merchants, commissioners, magistrates, and bankers such as Alessandro di Gallanos. Il Padroné’s modest childhood home now encompassed an entire neighborhood, housing his aunts, uncles, cousins, and even a few favored friends. Off one of the pleasant Merchants Ring boulevards, tucked away behind a vine-draped lattice, was a fine little shop: Mercurio’s Coffee and Teas.
I strolled past the entry, expecting Lawyer Mantegna’s clerk to pop out and ambush me in all his doughy pomposity, as on a previous occasion. When that failed to occur, I reversed course and strolled into the shop, happy I’d taken care to don garments slightly more respectable than an ink-stained shirt and leather jerkin. After an unrewarding glance into the shop, I sat myself in a shady corner of the lattice porch where I could see anyone who entered.
A serving man thumped a steaming pot on the tiny table beside me. “Red, flower, straw, or fruit?”
Evidently my dress was too out of fashion to earn courtesy. “Small leaf from southern Paolin, with a hint of dried raspberry—fruit not leaves.”
The specialty tea would cost a good deal more, but it was worth the astonishment on the surly man’s face. And when it came, every copper was justified.
Certain sensual things—the glissade of true silk across my skin, the scent of hot coffee, and the taste of small-leaf Paolin tea touched by dried raspberry among them—were intensely sharp reminders of the unexpected life I’d once led. Certainly, life as the Shadow Lord’s mistress had never been so sweet as memory claimed. Magic had ever weighed on my spirit like the tiny death’s-head symbols hidden in great artworks as reminders of mortality. The irony that magic now fueled my true life—the one set apart from the drudgery of pen and ink and careful husbandry of coins, bread, and coal—was not lost on me.
A sniff drew me out of my head. “You, girl, a gentleman in the back room asks for your attendance,” said the tidy servant, pursing his lips. His disdain had, no doubt, been renewed by an assumption that I occupied a certain lewd position in the ever-shifting order of male and female.
I laughed as he snatched up my teapot as if I might sully it—or him—for future customers. Even as I held firmly to my cup to thwart the twit, my heart skipped a beat. Which gentleman—consigliere or padroné?
A full breath, a last swallow to drain the glorious tea, and I followed the twit’s pointing finger through an arched brick passage to the back room. A lattice ceiling, open to the sky, spread dappled shade over vine-draped walls, two comfortable chairs, an unlit hearth, a small table set for tea, and, in one of the chairs, Cosimo di Mantegna.
“Lawyer Mantegna, a pleasure,” I said as he rose and extended a meaty hand.
Mantegna was a formidable gentleman. Jowls to intimidate the stoutest witness. Heavy black brows over blade-sharp eyes. A trumpet of a nose, large enough to sniff out the sweat of fear. And oversized ears with hairy lobes that had caused endless humorous speculations when I was seventeen and newly confident that Sandro would enjoy my private observations of his friends, no matter how rude or silly.
I accepted his proffered hand, laden with ornate rings that were his only vanity.
“Damizella.” He smiled and his warm grip firmed. “It is a great pleasure to see you. Well, it appears. Flourishing, I think.”
“And you, segno. I hope your good wife and children flourish.”
“Indeed they do.”
His expression sobered, and he did not offer me a chair. “I profoundly apologize for the nature of my dismissal a few moments from now. A diversion, you understand. Execrable.”
Ah, so there was a reason the tidy servant had assumed my unsavory status. Mantegna wanted to make sure none would view me as his friend, acquaintance, or client.
“I understand completely, segno. Life drags us in strange directions, imposing necessities we might wish other.”
“Indeed. I have been instructed to deliver these few pieces of information without committing them to paper, else I’d have spared you such ignominy.”
“No matter. Go on.” I didn’t remind him that I had actually been living as a whore for most of our acquaintance.
“The woman in question is Livia di Nardo, age nineteen years.” His voice had dropped to a volume only I and the nearby chair might hear. “The only child of Piero and Andreana di Nardo—yes, that Piero di Nardo whom you’ve certainly met. Livia is a studious young woman of incisive mind and strong opinions who has traveled widely with her uncle, Marco di Nardo, now deceased. She has written a treatise on the formation of mountains.”