Masks (3 page)

But Auria wasn’t silent. She let out a whoop that would have done an attacking Saracen proud, and rushed out the door, with Paulo on her heels. A moment later the servants stopped torturing Mircea’s former cellmates and did the same, leaving him and the others looking at each other in bewilderment.

And then as one, they hopped off their perches and headed to the door, ignoring the annoyed sounds of the tailor behind them.

Mircea reached it first, only to see what appeared to be every vampire on the property headed up the stairs, politely taking turns. Except for Auria, who had pushed her way almost to the top. And then she disappeared around a bend in the stairs, and the cat feet started not-pounding the boards above their heads.

Mircea looked up, despite the fact that there was nothing to see but a board ceiling, and then down again at his fellow prisoners, whose heads were now sticking out of the salon along with his. And then he slowly turned to stare at the front door, which was tantalizingly close.

And completely unguarded.

Mircea didn’t hesitate. In an instant he was through the door, feeling vaguely ridiculous in only the skin-tight leggings. Especially when a single length of any of the costly stuff draped around the salon would have brought him a new outfit, boots, cloak, and possibly provided traveling money as well.

But not if the tailor put up a squawk about it and alerted the whole house. Mircea decided he couldn’t risk it and ran, out the door and down the embankment outside, which fronted yet another canal. If he had to, he’d swim home, he thought—

Right before a rough hand fastened onto his upper arm.

And slammed him back into a wall, almost jerking him off his feet.

Mircea looked up wildly, expecting to see Paulo or one of the servants. Or possibly a member of the Watch, who was wondering why a mostly-naked vampire was fleeing down the street like all the hounds of hell were after him. So it was a shock to see the older of his three cellmates frowning at him out of the gloom.

Bezio,
he thought, relief pouring through him.

For a split second, until he was dragged into an alley. He started to protest—vigorously—when a group of the Watch ran by, shouting commands to their fellows on the opposite bank. Mircea stared at them—there had to be a few dozen at least, their armor splashed with light from the torches they carried.

It seemed a little excessive, for one runaway, he thought stupidly, before Bezio pulled him further back into the shadows.

“It’s not for you,” Bezio said, before he could ask. “The consul is coming. His flotilla is going to pass right by here, which is what has the house in an uproar. They’re all on the roof, trying to get a glimpse.”

“Perfect,” Mircea breathed. “Then we have time to—”

“Get back before anybody notices you’re gone? Good idea.”

“Like hell,” Mircea said, and tried to tear away. Only to find his back making the acquaintance of the bricks again, and a trailing bunch of vines did little to cushion the blow.

“What the—”

“Why do you think they allow us to come here?” Bezio demanded.

Mircea looked up into a swarthy face that appeared utterly serious.
“What?”

“The government. The senate. Why do you think—”

“I think you’re about to take a bath,” Mircea snarled, and threw him off. Only to be pinned by two hands this time, huge and calloused, and significantly stronger than they’d been the night before.

“Do you think it’s compassion?” Bezio demanded. “Altruism? They’re not like us. They didn’t go through what we have, they don’t live like we do. And you don’t learn compassion by sitting on your ass in a gilded salon!”

No, but you get caught talking to a madman in an alley,
Mircea thought. “I don’t have time for this!”

“Then answer the question: Why is this city here?”

“Get out of my way!”

“Answer the question!”

“I don’t know! It’s a port! You can’t just close it off—”

“Bullshit. They’ve closed off plenty of others. I ought to know; I had to come through half a dozen to get here.”

“You’re not Venetian?”

“Do I sound Venetian?”

Mircea didn’t know. He could barely speak the language himself, having not known a word of it when he arrived. How the hell was he supposed to tell one damned Italian from another? He also didn’t care.

“Damn it! Let me
go
—”

“I’ll let you go when you answer the question. And good luck trying to throw me in the canal. You overpowered me last night because I hadn’t eaten in weeks and didn’t really give a damn—”

“And you do now?”

“I don’t know yet. But I’d like to find out. Only I don’t think Martina is going to be much interested in keeping us with you gone.”

“That’s not my problem! I helped you—”

“And now I’m trying to return the favor. You can’t get away for another few minutes, in any case. Not with the Watch scouring the area ahead of the consul’s flotilla, to remove all the riffraff. If you’re smart you’ll stay here for a minute and talk to me.” Bezio eyed him doubtfully. “But then, maybe you’re not smart. You’re damned pigheaded, wherever you’re from.”

“
Târgoviste.” It was out before Mircea could stop it; he didn’t know why. It hurt to say; hurt to so much as think.

“I don’t even know where the hell that is.”

“Nowhere.” Not for him. Not now.

It suddenly crashed into him, as it did whenever he thought of home, the utter enormity of what he’d lost. A family, a country, a future—all gone in one terrible night. And replaced with this half-life. This cursed body that even the sun turned her back on, and that anyone he’d even known, ever loved, would reject in horror should they ever see it.

Mircea wondered why he cared about any of this.

If this was the best he could do, let the Watch catch him and be damned to them.

“We’ve all thought that way,” Bezio told him, reading his face. “At least once. I’ve pretty much made a hobby of it.”

“I don’t care what you’ve done!”

“That’s too bad. Because I’m going to tell you.” The man took out a flask, offering it to him.

“I can’t taste that!” Mircea snapped. He hadn’t tasted food, wine, anything since that night. It was ashes in his mouth. Like every fucking thing else.

“Just as well. They only keep the good stuff for the clients, apparently.”

Mircea seriously contemplated murder for a moment, while the man drank. But if he didn’t overpower him immediately, it would almost certainly draw the attention of the Watch, and any chance he had of escape would be lost. And he supposed he did want that chance, after all, because the next time Bezio handed him the flask, he took it.

“I was a blacksmith in a little town near Salerno,” the man said, without preamble. “Wife. Two daughters, one just married. Utterly typical. And then one night, I stopped by the local tavern on the way home.”

The man’s tone was light, almost jesting. And his limbs were loose, relaxed. He might have been talking about the weather. But there was something, some clue so subtle Mircea couldn’t have named it if he’d tried, that told him that wasn’t the case.

“It was crowded that night,” Bezio said. “A troop of singers had stopped in, and were giving a show. I bought a flagon and propped up a patch of wall, thinking to stay a few moments. Maybe hit up a deadbeat for some money he owed me, if I saw him.

“I didn’t see him.”

The man took back his flask. And upended it, although it couldn’t have helped. But perhaps he found the routine comforting, because he drained it dry.

“Turns out the ‘singers’ were vampires trying to draw a large enough audience to make it worth their while,” he said, wiping his mouth. “When they decided enough of us had shown up, they attacked. No one made it out alive.”

It was so matter-of-fact, so utterly without emotion, that it took Mircea a moment to realize what he’d said.

“They . . . drained all of you? I didn’t think that was permitted.”

The man smiled humorlessly. “What is permitted is what anyone can get away with. It was probably some challenge to the local master, or some act of revenge or—I don’t know. I didn’t stay around to find out. I woke up dizzy and bloody, in a room full of bodies, some dead, some dying. And stumbled outside, trying to get home, only to collapse in the forest before I’d gone twenty yards.”

“I’m surprised you survived at all.” Mircea didn’t have experience himself, but from what he understood, that wasn’t how vampires were made.

“I hadn’t. I just didn’t know it, then. One of those bastards had turned me by accident, before passing out in a blood stupor. They torched the place after I left; I guess they realized how careless they’d been. But by then, I’d fallen into a gulley filled with decaying leaves, under a copse of trees. Dark enough, anyway.” He grimaced.

“And three days later, you woke up and found your world had changed,” Mircea said quietly.

“No. Three days later, I woke up covered in bog slime and wondering what the hell,” the man said dryly. “It was after I finally struggled home and attacked my own wife that I realized I was in trouble. I tore myself away and fled, pursued by a pack of dogs, and then by a party of townspeople looking for the murderers. I finally got away only to almost starve to death before I realized I could feed without killing someone.”

Mircea shuddered slightly, because his own experience hadn’t been so different. He’d been cursed with his affliction, not made by some careless stranger, but did it matter? They’d both ended up the same way: with no past, and no future.

“We’re all the same, here,” Bezio told him, as if reading his thoughts. “You heard Jerome’s story already—just one too many babies in a household where the master was killed. Nobody wanted him, so out he went.” He shrugged. “Sanuito, now, he’s a little different—”

“Sanuito?”

Bezio flicked a thumb behind his front teeth.

Oh, that one.

“His master just wanted to win a bet. He had an acquaintance in one of the local Were families, in the countryside near here. They got to talking in their cups one night, boasting about how one was stronger than the other. Finally decided to find out.”

“Find out?”

“You know, get a human. See who wins.”

“See who . . .” Mircea looked at him, uncomprehending. Or hoping he was.

“They both bit him,” Bezio spelled it out. “But it didn’t resolve their bet. The vamp forgot—it takes three days for us to turn. And in the meantime, the Were’s bite was weakening Sanuito. And Changing a sick or weakened person don’t make for a strong vamp. In the end, the master won his bet, but ended up with a useless servant.”

“Who he then turned out to die on his own,” Mircea said, his fist clenching.

“Who he then turned out to die on his own,” Bezio agreed. “Only, he didn’t die. He made it here instead. Which brings me back to my original question. Why do you think this city is allowed to exist? Why do you think the senate mandated it as an open port?”

Mircea didn’t answer. He couldn’t see a reason. Obviously, the lives of him and others like him counted for nothing, for less than nothing, since they were treated as little more than vermin. Why bother to have a safe port for them?

“One man’s trash is another’s treasure,” Bezio said. “We’re here because they wanted to funnel all the rejects—those smart enough or lucky enough to make it this far, anyway—into one place. Where they could look ’em over like a buyer at a secondhand market stall. Those with talent get picked up sooner or later. Those without . . .” He shrugged.

“But we were picked up.”

“We were lucky. I was a blacksmith; Jerome an errand boy; Sanuito a farmer. Not highly sought-after skill sets among the undead. But we ended up in a cell with you, and you had something the mistress wanted.”

“Yes,” Mircea said bitterly. “Something to tempt the jaded palates of a debauched court tired of pretty boys—”

“That’s something, isn’t it?” Bezio asked, undisturbed.

“No, it isn’t! I wasn’t a farmer, Bezio. I was a warrior! I was a prince!”

“And now you’re a whore, and damned lucky to be one. We’re all damned lucky—”

“The
fuck
we are,” Mircea said savagely, before breaking off and starting away.

Only to find himself slammed against the wall again, this time with a fist around his neck. He knew a dozen ways to break that particular hold, but he didn’t use any of them. Because one look into the face staring into his stopped him cold.

If he’d thought Bezio without emotion, he was learning better now.

“You think you’re so different from us, because you lost a palace? A kingdom?” Dark eyes blazed down into his. “Son, I lost a kingdom, too. So did every man here. Maybe our kingdoms were smaller, just a house we built with our own two hands, a wife we loved, a child. But do you think they meant any less? Do you think we mourn their loss one bit less than you?

“My
wife
. My Jacopa. Gone, as if she’d died that day. My girls, Sonia and Mea—
gone
. I’ll never see any of them again, never see the town I grew up in, the forge I helped my father build, the—”

He broke off, face full of fury, eyes brimming with tears. And Mircea was suddenly, deeply ashamed.

Because Bezio was right—he
had
thought he’d lost more.

It had been instilled in him from birth. Not the prevailing belief that God gave those in power the right to rule; his father, the bastard son who made good through force of arms and political maneuvering, knew better than that. But rather that those strong enough to rule had a value others did not. That they had to survive, they had to prevail, regardless of the cost. For without them, their lands would be undefended and their people nothing but prey.

And if his life had more value, surely his death did as well?

But after almost two years of seeing life—and death—from a different perspective, Mircea wondered.

Did a farmer who lost everything to a passing army care whose symbol was on the banners? Did he comfort himself with the thought that his carefully tended crops would aide a battle hundreds of miles away, the end result of which might not change his life one iota? In the harsh bleakness of winter, did he praise the names of the leaders who had decided that they, and their ambitions, required letting his children starve?

What, Mircea wondered now, had they been fighting for? Would a Turkish overlord have treated the people worse than they had? Had they really made things better, as he’d always been told, or merely better for them?

And had he really suffered any more than this man, who had also lost everything?

“My life ended the day I Changed, just as much as yours did,” Bezio told him quietly. “I was just too stubborn to accept it. To lie down like the corpse I was. I came here instead, searching for some kind of meaning in all this. For some kind of sign. There had to be a reason, I thought. It couldn’t just be random. It couldn’t just be for
nothing
.”

“You lit candles in churches, to saints who didn’t hear,” Mircea murmured, because he knew. He’d haunted them, too.

“Prayed, swore, grieved, drank,” Bezio agreed. “God, I drank! And you’re right, it didn’t help. Eventually, I tried the other way, thought if heaven had damned me, might as well enjoy it.”