Path of Smoke (25 page)

The street's decline grew more pronounced, in every sense. Taverns crowded the margins. A masked woman distributed wreaths and cups of wine. As he grew closer, she favored him with a kind look and placed a wreath on his head. She had moved on before he could thank her. The smell of smoke and sour wine was thick in the air. People danced in the streets or collapsed against the paving stones, unable to continue. Love cries echoed from above. Naked shadows moved in the open windows, and cursing issued from tangled alleys. Sometimes, a person would beckon him, but he feared the denser shadows. The street was precarious enough.

They passed a high building made of black stone, with smaller satellites gathered around it. A steady stream of people climbed the steps (a few could barely walk). He noticed a silver coin discarded on the ground and bent to pick it up. Upon studying the coin, he couldn't help but blush. It depicted two men engaged in acrobatic sex. At least, he thought it was two men, but their faces had been rubbed away by use. It was hard to tell. He searched his weeping blue tunic for something resembling a pocket but found nothing. He decided to hold on to the salacious coin. Perhaps it would buy him something diverting.

He looked up and saw a masked woman sitting on a balcony. Her left hand trembled slightly, as if due to a palsy. Her long hair was tied in a braid. She was looking directly at him, and her mask reminded him of a sheet of ice. Should he wave, or smile? He wasn't sure what kind of etiquette was involved. Plus, he was still holding the silver coin and didn't want to give her the wrong idea. He simply nodded. She continued to watch him, and he finally had to look away. He didn't want to lose sight of his guide. Luckily for him, the lizard had stopped by a roadside shrine, where it was helping itself to oil-soaked bread crumbs and some orange peels.

The flies were no bother. A man passed by and tossed a scrap of meat into the shrine's shallow bowl. The lizard devoured it.

He watched the crowd. A few people glanced at him, then looked away. Most simply ignored him, registering his presence just long enough to get out of the way. But nobody seemed to see the lizard. He took an orange peel and laid it on his palm. The lizard sniffed it, then ate the peel in one bite. A man walking by gave him an odd look, as if to say,
What do you think you're doing?
But the child that he was dragging behind him looked directly at where the peel had once been, wide-eyed, as if he'd just seen something delicious and impossible.

He realized for the first time that only he could see the lizard. Children may have suspected its presence, but adults ignored it completely. He looked once again into those amber eyes, with their hourglass pupils. He was worried that he might be following a hallucination, but if it was one, it seemed to know exactly where it was going. There were probably worse things than trailing after a figment of your imagination. At least he'd found some clothes.

Having satisfied its hunger, the lizard, or shadow—whatever it was—hopped off the shrine and continued down the narrowing street. He followed it past shops and squat buildings, where armored soldiers stood by the entrances. It felt as if he'd never walked this far in his life, but since he couldn't remember his life, the pain and exhaustion were somehow irrelevant. Just as he thought that his feet might actually crumble to dust, the lizard paused outside a small house. The neighborhood had grown strangely quiet. A wall with sharp barbicans stood behind the house, and he wondered if this was the boundary of the city proper. The house had been built flush against the wall, so that it seemed to emerge from the boundary itself. The front door, painted once, was now the same color as the dust.

The lizard gave him a long look. Then it curled into a golden ball and promptly fell asleep in a patch of sunlight.

“This is it?” He looked skeptically at the peeling door. “This is where you've been leading me, all this time?”

The lizard opened one eye, briefly. Then, realizing that he had nothing of significance to say, it fell back asleep. Within seconds, it was snoring. The sound reminded him of two pieces of flint being rubbed together.

“I suppose I ought to thank you.” He considered scratching the lizard behind its ears, but something told him that this wouldn't end well. “At any rate—if I find any more orange peels inside, I'll be sure to give you some.”

His stomach was making desperate noises. He should have grabbed a few of those oil-soaked bread crumbs, but it hadn't felt right to steal from the shrine. Maybe there was food in the house, and a fountain to soak his feet in, and somewhere to lie down. The possibilities multiplied in his mind, each seeming less likely. What if the house belonged to one of the armored soldiers? What if it was simply abandoned? There'd be no food, in that case. But at least he could get out of the sun for a bit and try to devise a plan. He trusted his guide, for some reason. If not for the lizard, he might have died in the alley.

Carefully, he stepped over the snoring ball and opened the door.

The house was dark, save for two lanterns suspended by chains. Their light made everything appear tremulous. He saw paintings on the walls but could only make out their edges. A blue smudge that might have been a dolphin, arcing out of its frame. Shapes that were either dancing or tearing each other apart—he couldn't tell. The floor was made of packed earth, rather than the stone that he'd been expecting. It felt cool and soft against his bleeding soles.

“Close the door,” a voice said.

As his vision adjusted, he saw three figures, seated on stools around a trestle table. A fourth figure stood nearby, his chain-mail shirt gleaming beneath the lamps. He closed the door, and the sliver of light from the outside world vanished. He was left with the orange lamplight, which made him feel as if he might be dreaming.

“Come closer,” the same voice said.

He approached the table. As he drew closer, he saw that one of the figures was a woman. Her gown was dyed purple, and its embroidered hem touched the ground, hiding her feet. Her hair was swept up into a tower by a series of gleaming pins and combs.

“You're back,” she said, raising her wine cup. “I feared it might not work.”

“It was a gamble,” said the figure next to her—the one who'd said to close the door. He was wearing a mask, like the woman he'd seen on the balcony. His yellow tunic was made of silk, and dragonflies of vermilion thread played along the sleeves. There was an amethyst ring on his finger, carved into the shape of a wheel. It reminded him of the clepsydra in miniature.

“Everything is a gamble here,” the woman said. “It worked. That's all that matters.”

The third figure was silent. He was farthest from the lamplight, and his features remained indistinct. All he could see was a flash of green tunic, and a jeweled pin, winking. He was heavier than the other two and shifted on the stool with some measure of discomfort. But he didn't say anything. His hands were still.

“Nice wreath,” the woman said. “I see you've been through the Subura.”

“What's that?” he asked finally.

“A diversion. Like most of this great city.”

He took a step forward. “Have you been waiting for me?”

She smiled and took another sip of wine.

“You must be thirsty.” The masked man held out a cup. “Here.”

He snatched it without asking questions, just as the lizard had snatched the orange peel. The water tasted like a miracle. It dribbled down his chin, but he didn't care.

“There's food as well,” the man said. “Cakes, a bit of roast boar, and dormice rolled in honey. The latter is a bit of an acquired taste.”

He noticed the food for the first time, on a nearby table. The smell was so intoxicating that, for a moment, he thought that he was going to pass out.

“You might as well have some,” the woman said, “before your friend wakes up and realizes what he's missing. Salamanders have voracious appetites.”

“I thought only I could see it.”

“We know that it led you here.”

“Is that what it is? A salamander?”

She exchanged a curious look with the masked man but said nothing.

Before he could lose his resolve, he stumbled over to the table and began heaping food onto a gilt plate. He ate with his fingers, tearing into the cold slices of boar and swallowing dormouse whole. It tasted like candy. There was a small bowl filled with water, and he washed his hands in that when he was done. The three figures at the table watched his every move, as if he were a mosaic that had come to life. The woman with the vertical hair was smiling, but there was also something else behind her expression that he couldn't quite place. The masked man watched him dry his hands on the tunic. They came away tinged blue.

He placed the silver coin on the table. “I found this on the ground. I'm not sure what to do with it, and I don't have any pockets.”

The woman smirked when she saw the coin. “I didn't realize that you still offered this service, Felix. It seems very—athletic.”

“We offer anything that the mind can conjure.”

“That's a dangerous promise. You'll have to design a lot more coins.”

“Spintriae,” he corrected. “You can't exchange them for bread, after all.”

“The lupo who came up with that system was a genius.” She saw his jaw tighten. “Apologies. I forgot that we no longer use that term. How about love engineer?”

He raised his hand, uncertain of what else to do. “I don't mean to interrupt, but I don't really know what you're talking about. I woke up naked in an alley. I can't remember anything—not even my own name. I followed a salamander across sharp cobblestones, and my head feels like it's going to explode. Can someone please tell me where I am, at least?”

There was a chuckle from the far end of the table. It was the figure still in shadow.

“I'm always impressed,” he said, “by the consistency of magic. It never fails. He truly doesn't remember a thing.” The man's voice was high, like a soft timbrel.

He drew closer. “Do we know each other?”

The figure leaned forward. He had gray eyes and a pale, wispy beard. The skin on his left cheek was mottled. His close-cropped hair revealed little islands of scar tissue, extending a burned coastline down to his neck. His left hand was also scarred.

“See anything you recognize?”

He shook his head slowly. “No. I'm sorry.”

The man grabbed his wrist. Before he could pull away, he touched his palm to his ruined cheek. It felt like the surface of a frayed rope.

“Your salamander did this to me,” he said. “You ran and left me to burn in that library. Not even a glance backward at what you'd done.”

“Mardian.” The woman's voice held a touch of annoyance. “Leave him be. You can't scare him into remembering.”

But he did remember something. The library. It was hazy and distorted, as if someone had dimmed the lights. But he could recall the smoke and the near-kiss of the flames. Someone grabbing his hand, dragging him outside. A scream following him. Was it Mardian's?

He traced the scars with his fingertips. “I did this?”

“No.” Felix stood. “A lar did it. You were only defending yourself.”

Mardian laughed bitterly. “Of course. Why hold him responsible for anything?”

“He's paid for it,” Felix snapped. “Or can't you see that, spado?”

Mardian looked him up and down. He took in the weeping blue tunic, his bare bloody feet, the grime on his face.

“Some debts cannot be settled.” He leaned back, until the left side of his face was in shadow again. “But it's a start.”

Felix approached him. “We can tell you more. About this place, and what it means. About what brought you here. But it may be easier to show you.”

“Show me?”

“Take it off.”

At first, he didn't know what the man was talking about. The tunic? What was the use in being naked again, unless they were planning something awful for him? But then he realized what Felix meant. Gently, he touched the mask. It was graven with leaves and other things that flickered in the dim light. He hesitated for a moment. Then he lifted the mask. It was surprisingly heavy and left a faint imprint. Felix was sweating underneath. His cheeks were slightly flushed.

For a moment, he wasn't sure where Felix ended and the mask began. He looked at the mask as if he were holding a part of him in his hands. Then the man smiled, and he was struck by another memory. Felix standing in a park, leading him into the dark undergrowth. No. Not Felix. Someone else. A shadow.

“I know you,” he murmured. “Or—some version of you.”

“We all have two lives,” he said. “One is lived here, in this city of infinite alleys, which we call Anfractus. The other is lived beyond the city walls, in that other place. Some of us choose to live both lives, while others settle upon one. Twice the life means twice the danger, after all.”

“Are we friends? In that other place?”

“Felix has no friends,” the woman said. “No permanent ones, at any rate.”

He turned to her. “Do we also know each other?”

“I knew your shadow, some time ago. There's a family resemblance, but you're different. I can see that.” She inclined her head. “You knew me as Domina Pendelia.”

He frowned. “I don't understand. My shadow? Is that like—my other life?”

“This isn't your first time in Anfractus,” Felix said. “You've already met all of us. Even Tylo, who's standing guard, over there.”

He'd completely forgotten about the soldier. He wasn't quite scowling, but neither did he look impressed. He winced, and shifted position. There seemed to be something wrong with his left leg. He favored it slightly. He also kept flexing his hand, as if it pained him.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Just a little stiff,” he muttered.