Authors: Aidan Harte
Jo Fletcher Books
An imprint of Quercus
New York • London
© 2012 by Aidan Harte
First published in the United States by Quercus in 2014
Jacket design and illustration by Ghost
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Contessa Sofia Scalageri
Last of the Scalageri, Doc Bardini’s ward
Head of Tower Bardini, workshop maestro
The Reverend Mother
Head of the Baptistery
Lucia (originally a southsider)
Old confederate of Doc Bardini
His young daughter
Primo “Mule” Borselinno
Head of the Morello, Bardini’s rival
Second son of Quintus, ambassador
Eldest son of Quintus, workshop maestro
Weaver, once partner of Fabbro Bombelli
His inventive son
Disgruntled bridge worker
Student at Workshop Bardini
General Luparelli, “Luparino”
Father of Valerius.
General of the 12
Marcus Marius Messallinus
Shortsighted student at Workshop Morello
The First Apprentice
Bonnacio, the “man in red”
The Second Apprentice
The Third Apprentice
Prof. Titus Tremellius Pomptinus
Historian and librarian
Long dead tyrant of Concord
Colonel of the Hawk’s Company
Colonel of the Hawk’s Company
Treasurer of the Hawk’s Company
“The Hawk”, famed Anglish general
Medic and soothsayer of the Hawk’s Company
Yuri the Giant
Russ, company cook, friend of Levi
And when the wise men returned with report of a newborn King of the Jews, Herod was exceeding wroth, and sent forth, and slew all the children in Bethlehem from two years old and under.
Among the lamentation of the mothers, the voice of Mary was heard in mourning. Her child, with the rest, was slain.
And behold, the angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream, saying, Arise, and flee into Egypt: for Herod will seek the Mother, to destroy her also.
If the boy got hurt, the Doc would mount her head on a stick next to the Bardini banner. Valerius might be a handful, but the little
was their only Contract this year. Besides, a dead Concordian would imperil all Rasenna. Sofia’s dark eyes flashed with anger, and she swore again: in her haste she had forgotten her banner. Being unarmed in Rasenna used to be merely careless. These days it was suicidal.
Valerius ran down the sloping streets with his head in the air, pursued by his shadow made strangely large by the blood-washed light. Smashed roof slates crunched underfoot like leaves in an autumn forest. He followed the trail of the topside battle as it
moved downhill toward the river, focusing on the jagged red slash of evening where the towers leaned toward each other across the emptiness.
The Concordian had the pale blond curls, the soft skin, and, when he tried, the disarming innocence of a cherub. Now, scowling, he resembled something fallen and impious. Sofia, only five years older than Valerius, watched him like his mother. He had endured this ordeal since his arrival last Assumption, but to return to Concord unblooded? Ridiculous.
The hunt was practically the whole point of a year in Rasenna—that was what his father had paid for, not endless drills and lectures on banner technique. So when this chance came to sneak out, Valerius took it, vowing to get the general’s money’s worth. Two households in combat: what a story! This was Rasenna’s real meat: raids and rogue bandieratori. He wasn’t in real danger; this was still Bardini territory. Sofia wouldn’t be far away.
He couldn’t see the individuals leaping between rooftops, just the banners they wielded. Bardini black outnumbered Morello gold six to four, and the Morello were retreating—noisily. These boys weren’t bandieratori; they were like him, just bored students looking for fun. So it was an unofficial raid, then; the gonfaloniere would never sanction such a pointless attack.
Valerius followed through one backstreet after another, concerned only with keeping up. A black flag vanished behind a corner. He turned it himself and saw nothing but swallows listlessly drifting on air rising from the empty streets.
No Morello, thankfully. No Bardini either. Valerius stopped to listen. The wall he leaned against was built around the ghost of an Etruscan arch, the gaps between its massive blocks stuffed with crude clay bricks bulging like an old man’s teeth.
He could hear the river now but not the battle. He had been in Rasenna long enough to know that most raids ended “wet.” How could so many raiders disperse so swiftly? It began to dawn on him that Bardini flags need not be wielded by Bardini.
How could Sofia be so irresponsible? He was the Bardini Contract, the Bardini’s only Concordian student, and that made him an obvious target for the Morellos; he should be protected at all times. The general would hear of this.
“Keep calm, Concordian,” he rebuked himself, just as the general would have. He knew northern streets pretty well after a year, didn’t he? Not like a Rasenneisi, not as lice know the cracks, but well enough. He looked for clues to his location. That ceramic Madonna, perched in a street-corner niche and drenched in blue-white glaze, that would orientate a Rasenneisi. The ghastly things all looked the same. The superstitions of Rasenna were not the answer; he would rely on Concordian logic. The raiders had led him down and south. If he followed the slope up, he would eventually reach the shadow of Tower Bardini and safety.
He turned around. Now that he had a plan, it was easier to fight the urge to run for it. Yes: he was impressed with his courage, even if he did keep glancing overhead. If only his footsteps wouldn’t echo so.
At last, something familiar: the unmistakable drunken tilt of Tower Ghiberti—the Bardini workshop was close after all. Valerius’s relieved laughter trailed off when a rooftop shadow moved. Another silhouette emerged on the neighboring row. And another. Lining the tower tops, above and ahead of him. He counted seven, eight, nine—a decina—but forced himself to keep walking. Whoever they were, they were interested in him alone. It was not a flattering sort of attention.
Behind him someone landed on the ground, and he was torn between two bad choices, to turn defiantly or to run.
“Sofia! What are you doing?”
“Exceeding my brief. Doc said baby-sit. He didn’t mention stopping you from getting yourself killed.”
“I wouldn’t be in danger if—”
He whipped his head around to continue the argument but went suddenly mute. Anger enhanced the Contessa’s beauty. Her dark eyes were wide and bright; her olive skin glowed like fire about to burn. She looked fabulous just before a fight.
“What do we do?” Valerius asked, his confidence returning.
Her wide-shouldered jacket was a bold red, in contrast with the earthy colors favored by most bandieratori. She was not tall, but she held her head proudly. Below her large brow and sharp Scaligeri nose were the smiling lips that graced statues of cruel old Etruscans.
But she was not smiling now, and her pointed chin jutted forward. “You’ll do as I say. I’m going to help these gentlemen get home. Give me your banner.”
“I don’t have it,” Valerius whispered, losing hope again.
This is going to be embarrassing. I’m not exactly in peak condition.”
Valerius looked down at the sling on her arm. Without a single banner, against a decina, even Sofia . . .
“What do we do?”
“When I say run, run—
Sofia led the way through the maze of narrow alleys, not looking back or up. She knew by fleeting shadows overhead and loosened slates smashing around them how closely they were pursued. She skidded to a stop when they reached Piazzetta Fontana. The alley leading north was blocked by five young men. And now Valerius saw what Sofia already knew: they were not students. They were bandieratori. Their ruckus had been part of the deception.
Sofia pushed Valerius into an alley on the right—it was barely a crack between two towers, but it led north.
“Run. Don’t look back.”
He didn’t argue.
She boldly stepped forward. “You
must be lost in the woods. You’re on the wrong side of the river.”
There was consternation as the southsiders saw whom they had been chasing. “What do we do?” asked one.
“Her flag’s black. That makes her Bardini,” said the tallest boy with assurance.
“I don’t know—if Gaetano—”
“Show some salt! There’s one of her and lots of us. Haven’t you heard who broke her arm?” The tall boy continued talking even as he approached her. “She’s hasn’t even got a flag—”
Way too casual. Sofia was ready. She dodged his lunging banner and snatched it away in one movement, and his jaw had no time to drop before she floored him with a neat parietal tap. By the time she looked up the others had vanished, gone to get Valerius before she got them. Sofia returned to the narrow alley and vaulted
up between the walls.
Etrurians said that Rasenna’s towers were different heights because not even the local masons could agree. But they made good climbing, and bandieratori jumped between towers as easily as civilians climbed stairways. The upper stories were peppered with shallow brick holes, invisible from the ground, that had originally supported scaffolding but now allowed the fighters to scale what they couldn’t jump.
With only one working arm, Sofia knew her climbing was awkward and inefficient. Even so, when she made topside she took a moment to catch her breath and scan the endless red roofs, feeling no need to hurry despite their head start. This was her territory, and she knew every roof, every crumbling wall. They did not, and in the wan light of dusk they’d have to be cautious.
In the heat of the chase the boys let one of their number fall behind, and it wasn’t long before Sofia caught up. His falling scream was cut off by the crash of broken slates.
Two down, outclassed on strange rooftops. Normally in this situation it would be each raider for himself, but these three knew that their only hope of ever getting home was to regroup and turn and fight together. They were waiting on the next tower Sofia leaped for and gave her no time to recover her balance. Two of them launched a noisy attack to make her retreat while the third slipped behind. As Sofia dodged flags, she was struck in the back of her knee.
“Ahh!” she cried as she landed on her back, sliding a little before halting herself. She had no time to rise before she felt a flag stick prodding against her neck. She lay still before the pressure crushed her larynx.
“Beg your pardon, Contessa.”
Sofia ignored their giggling. She still had the advantage. She knew every tower bottom to top, their flags, the fastest routes, how old they were. She kicked her heel, and a slate came loose; then several fell in its wake, and the tower shed its skin with a shudder that drowned out the boys’ shouts as they all slid and tumbled together. Sofia went over the side with the rest of them, but she reached out and grabbed the unseen flagpole. She didn’t look down. No need.
She heard them land with the slates, breaking all together.
Sofia hauled herself onto the flayed rooftop, then climbed back down. She found Valerius waiting streetside with an amused expression on his face, which, like his clothes, was splashed with blood. The boys’ bodies lay where they’d fallen, perfectly arranged in a semicircle around him as if hunting him even in death.
“Where’s the rest?” she asked, more to herself than to Valerius. She had been occupied, yet the others hadn’t gone for the Concordian. Wasn’t he the prize?
Valerius ignored her, more interested in rolling the corpses to see their last expressions.
“Show some respect!” she snapped. “The dead are forgiven.”
“Come here,” she said, pulling Valerius toward her.
“Oh, Sofia, I was frightened too!”
She pushed his embrace aside roughly. “I’m checking for wounds,
But no, none of the blood was his. Doc’s charge was intact, the Contract secure. “You got blooded, Valerius. Satisfied?”
It was a blade-sharp February, but this winter’s night the alleys around the workshop were ablaze with torches. Groups of Bardini bandieratori gathered on the corners, banners up, tense and jumpy.
Sofia nodded to a tall young man slouching against a wall, his hood pulled low. The other boys intended to keep darkness at bay with a constant uproar, but Mule contented himself with silence. A flat-faced boy, he had a drooping eyelid that suited his sleepy air. Nobody had ever called him stubborn, and that was enough in Rasenna to earn him his nickname.
“What’s got so many flags out?”
“Burnout,” he said. “Ghiberti’s.”
Sofia saw the ruse now and swore. “We going over tonight?”
Mule shrugged. “Check in with the Doc. He was worried about you.”
“He was worried about Payday here,” said Sofia, angrily pushing Valerius forward. “Move it, will you?”
She led him to Tower Bardini. Black flags bobbed aimlessly around the base of its ladder. The single calm face in the crowd looked up. With no neck to speak of, the Doctor’s bald head hardly broke the hill of his shoulders. He made no large gesture when he saw her, just raised his eyebrows. Sofia nodded back and pulled Valerius out from behind her. When he saw the Concordian, the Doctor paled.
Sofia patted Valerius’s cheek and held up a blood-smeared hand. “Don’t worry, Doc. It’s not his.”
“Are we safe now?” Valerius asked.
She nodded briefly, keeping her eye on the Doctor’s reaction as he approached.
Valerius stepped forward and slapped her. “Show
The Doctor leaned forward and grabbed Sofia’s arm before she could strike back.
Valerius stuck a finger in her face. “Noble or not, you’re still just a Rasenneisi!”
The Doctor put his sturdy frame between them. “We apologize, my Lord. My ward forgot her place through her zeal to protect you.” His fingers tightened around her arm. “Right, Sofia?”
“Right,” Sofia managed through clenched teeth.
Valerius looked sour for a moment, then nodded. “Fine. I’m hungry after all that. Doctor?”
The Doctor released Sofia and bowed to Valerius. “I shall await you.”
Valerius watched him leave, then turned, smiling, to Sofia, the guiltless cherub once more. “I thank you for saving me, Contessa,” he said stiffly and then, lowering his voice, “Look, sorry I had to do that. Concord’s dignity—”
“Demands no less,” Sofia said. “No apologies but mine are necessary, my Lord.”
“Oh, Sofia! Don’t be so formal. Let’s be friends again,” he said, and leaned forward to kiss her cheek.
She watched him scurry up the tower’s ladder. Had he stayed, he would have recognized the glow surrounding her. It was not her throbbing arm that had made her angry—and not even Valerius; the Concordian was acting properly, in his own way. It was the Doc and that she was party to his appeasement. Distrusting herself around either of them, she decided to retire to the Lion’s Fountain. Mule and his brother were probably at the tavern already. The smoke of another burnout tasted bad in every mouth. First, though, she grabbed a workshop flag. It wouldn’t do for the Contessa to be caught unarmed twice in one day.