Path of Smoke (3 page)

“Well done. Now, all you have to do is equip them with poison darts, and we'll have a truly interesting party.”

“That's actually not a half-bad idea,” Fel observed. “You could make a fortune if you partnered with the Gens of Sicarii.”

“I've got enough problems without involving assassins in my life.” Julia looked down at the metal amphibian, which strained against her hand. She was awkwardly silent for a moment. Then she smiled at Babieca. “Well, I should look for the rest of them, before they crawl under the domina's bed. May Fortuna smile on your music.”

“It's not mine,” he said. “But thanks.”

Julia disappeared into the crowd. Babieca felt a strange sadness as he watched her go. An artifex would make four. Not quite the same, but still, they'd be a company once more. There'd been a moment, after the grim business at the harbor, when he'd thought that Julia might join them. But she wouldn't step into the shadow of the auditor. Babieca didn't blame her. They were under the wheel now, their faces pressed into the mud. Joining them would have been folly. Better to hang on, even if it meant chasing frogs.

“I'm going to patrol the undercroft,” Fel said.

“All you'll find are people fucking in the hypocaust.”

“Well, it's a living. Are you going to be fine?”

“Yes.” He unpacked his lute. “I suppose I will be.”

Fel descended the stairs that led to the domina's dusty undercroft. He'd worked there once, stoking the hypocaust. It seemed like a lifetime ago, but really, it hadn't been so long. Breaking his back for hours so that the domina could enjoy a heated bath. Until the day that a lean shadow had wandered in.

You'll get more heat if you leave some roasted pumpkin seeds in the corner. That's where the salamander sleeps.

He took his place among the musicians, who had arranged themselves near the impluvium. Orchids danced in the water as they played. Babieca's fingers knew the melodies, and his concentration wandered. He watched the lovely, rich people seated on couches before him, exchanging gossip. They picked their teeth, cleaned their ears with tiny silver spoons, and pressed forward with their ragged alliances. Beneath the uncertain lamplight, he saw a flash of bracelets, a tall wig on fire with opals, naked feet and blurred mouths, like the lares gently disappearing on their shrine. All the duplicity and beauty in the city of Anfractus seemed to be gathered here, a storm whose perfection could destroy him.

At one point, a spado joined them. He sat on the edge of the impluvium, framed by orchid shadows, and sang. His voice was ermine. High and aching, it was beyond anything that Babieca's poor instrument could produce. It filled him with a strange sense of grief, although he couldn't say exactly what was sad about it. The song was in a language that he didn't understand. The speech of the founders, perhaps, or something from beyond the forest. He caught one word, a word that seemed oddly familiar. But before he could remember where he'd heard it, the people were clapping, the spado politely inclined his head, and the word vanished.

He saw Domina Pendelia, heading toward them. Most likely, she had some demand. She wanted them to wash plates or clean up someone's puke in the fountain. Babieca had no desire to become a good investment, so he ducked through the peristyle and into the garden. Two women lingered by the statuary. One said something soft beneath her breath. The other laughed. He stepped behind the fountain and unlatched the hidden gate, which led to the narrow alley behind the domus. The shadows were cool against the stone walls, and moss tickled his fingers as he leaned against one, adjusting his sandal. He was beginning to feel sober, which was terrible. He'd need to launch an attack on the domina's undercroft, where she kept the wine. If he could distract Fel, he'd probably be able to steal a small amphora. She'd never miss it.

Babieca heard footsteps. He started to reach for his sword but then remembered that he hadn't brought it. Only miles were allowed to bear arms at the domina's party. There was a throwing knife, tucked into the hollowed-out sole of his right sandal. He wasn't much good at throwing it, but in the dark, it might pass for a bigger weapon. Aside from brandishing his cock, it was the only option. He bent over to retrieve it but slipped on a paving stone and fell to his knees. Cursing, he tugged on the knife, but it was stuck.

“Preemptive falling. That's a good strategy. They might think you're asleep.”

He sighed. “Just help me up.”

Morgan offered her hand. She helped him to rise, then brushed off his tunica.

“You look a fright.” She wore a green stola. Her hair was caught up in a series of ivory pins, and Babieca stared at them, as if they were something unreal. He'd never seen Morgan in anything but a rust-colored cloak and a suit of leather armor.

“Your shoes,” he said, marveling at them. “Are those cork heels?”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Really? I've got nowhere to go, and I'm certain there's a story behind this.”

“I'm supposed to blend in, remember? There's a bounty on my head, but everyone's looking for a sagittarius. Nobody will notice another girl in a dress.”

“You're not another girl in a dress,” he said.

“Well—” She looked away, suddenly embarrassed. “Don't get any ideas. I can kill you with these shoes.”

“I've no doubt.”

They both leaned against the wall. Babieca heard faint strains of laughter from the garden, and more distantly, the hum of Via Rumor. The nocturnal citizens of Anfractus were moving from party to party, hunting for diversion. They assumed that their lamps and knives and connections would keep them safe as they darted between houses, avoiding the shadows. Most of them were right. But before the night was over, a few of them would disappear.

“You played nicely,” Morgan said.

“I strummed my fingers bloody, and all I have to show for it is a pocket full of dormice.” He reached into his tunica. “Want one? They're still warm.”

“No thanks.”

“Shit. I must have dropped them.” He closed his eyes. “All they're going to remember is the spado's voice.”

“It's hard to forget.”

“The worst part is that I'm sober.”

“Here.” She handed him a wineskin.

“Where did you steal this?”

“It's better that you don't know.”

He took a sip, then passed it back to Morgan. “This is usually the moment when you lecture me on public drunkenness.”

“I don't have the strength.” She took a sip, then put the wineskin away. “Is this what we've become? Entertainment for that woman?”

“I'm the entertainment. Fel's the muscle. And you—” He blinked. “Why are you here, exactly? To make us look bad?”

“I'm her eyes and ears.”

“A spy.” He smiled. “A bit like your previous post on the battlements, only you get to wear much nicer shoes.”

“I have a dagger, although I'm not telling you where I put it.”

“Good. Let me imagine.”

“I'd prefer that you didn't.”

Babieca felt the moss tickling his hair. “I saw Julia.”

“Everyone loves her frogs.”

“Do you think she'd ever—” He shrugged. “I mean, we could use an artifex.”

“It's not safe for her to be seen with us.”

“Because we're so terrifying.”

“Babieca, she still has a chance. The Gens of Artifices will support her.”

“Who's going to support us?”

She chuckled. “At least we're still getting work.”

“Until Domina Pendelia decides to throw us under the wheel.”

“If that was her plan, she'd have done it a long time ago.”

“You aren't normally this trusting.”

“What choice do I have?”

“You could roll again. Shoot another arrow.” He smiled. “Maybe if you rolled high enough, you could hit the basilissa from here.”

“Don't be stupid.”

“It was a hell of a shot, though.”

She looked at her hands. “It was.”

“You'd need another stone arrow. We could ask the gnomo who lives in Pendelia's garden. Do you think he's still there?”

“I have no idea.”

“Maybe if we listened hard enough, we could hear him.”

Morgan looked at Babieca. Then she touched his hand, lightly. She was about to say something, but stopped. They both heard the sound of footsteps. Quickly, Morgan pulled him into the shadows. They crouched in the corner of the alley. He felt better, knowing that Morgan was here. Not much better, but a little.

Two figures stepped into the alley. One was slender and wore a white cloak with the hood pulled down. The other was large and wearing some kind of dark mantle. He seemed out of proportion, somehow. When he walked, he took halting, delicate steps.
Click. Click. Click.
His sandals brushed against the stones.

The figure in white carried a lantern. As they drew closer and the light fell upon the one in the dark mantle, Babieca had to stifle a gasp. It wasn't a mantle. His body was covered in coarse fur, and his cloven feet struck the ground as he walked.
Click. Click. Click.
His horns were covered in delicate striations. Babieca prayed to Fortuna that those burning green eyes couldn't see him. Morgan was squeezing his hand so tightly, he thought she might break it.

They stopped a few feet from the mouth of the alley. Babieca was certain that the silenus would be able to smell them, but he seemed distracted. His eyes were on the figure in white.

“There isn't much time.” His voice was low, and accented.

It was the first time he'd heard a silenus use human speech. The words chilled him. It was like hearing a bear suddenly call you by name.

The figure in white lowered her hood, and Babieca felt himself begin to shake. He'd never wanted to run so badly in his life. Basilissa Latona held up the lantern.

“Does it hurt? The light?”

“No. But it is distracting.”

“You prefer the dark.”

“We always have.”

“Let's make this quick, then. I have something that you want.”

“Yes. It belongs to us.”

“Of course. And it's doing me no good, collecting dust in the arx. I'm prepared to return it to your people. But I'll need something in return.”

“It belongs to us,” the silenus repeated. There was a growl in his voice.

“Yes. I heard you the first time.” Latona's expression didn't waver. “You'll have it. But first, I need to speak with your master.”

“He will not enter the city. He despises it.”

“No bother. I'll come to him.”

“Your kind is not allowed in his court.”

Her voice grew cold. “If you wish to continue your hunt—in my city—then you will grant me an audience. I promise that I won't darken his doorstep for long. I have but a single matter to discuss with him.”

“You wish to talk. That is all?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “Talking never hurt anyone.”

“Bring what we seek. Then you can talk.”

“I'm afraid it has to be the other way around. First, I'm going to talk with your master. If we reach an agreement, then I'll return your heirloom.”

“Talk.” The silenus spat on the ground. “Always talk with you people.”

“Don't you have your own talk? Your own stories?”

“We hunt.”

“So do we. The only difference is that we tend to drink a lot, and tell ridiculous stories while we're doing it.”

“That is why you never catch anything.”

There was a sound at the mouth of the alley. The basilissa lowered her hood and extinguished the lantern.

“The necropolis,” she murmured. “Tomorrow. Return with your master's decision, and we'll see where this story goes.”

The basilissa and the silenus hurried out of the alley. For a moment, Babieca heard the
click click click
of hooves, receding toward Via Rumor. Then there was silence.

He looked at Morgan. She was pale and hadn't let go of his hand.

“We have to find Fel,” she whispered. “After that, we're getting the hell out of Anfractus, before that thing smells us.”

S
OMEONE
WAS
IN
HIS
bedroom.

He could hear them screaming. Or clanging. Was it more like clanging? It came from all directions, an impossible howl that seemed to encompass multiple registers of abrasive sound. Four banshees standing in the corners of the room, screaming for his murky little soul. Carl was afraid to open his eyes, but there was no other choice. The first thing that he noticed was a yellow Post-it stuck to his pillow.
Do
not
go back to sleep,
it said. The noise was actually a series of four alarms that he'd rigged up the previous night. His bedside clock, his phone, his laptop, and an old watch with a broken band, all screeching in unison.

It sounded like the end of the world. And it was, nearly.

“First day of term,” he muttered.

He shut off the phone and the clock. The watch and the laptop were on the opposite side of the room, balanced against a crest of dirty laundry. He knew himself too well. The laptop alarm was programmed to get louder with each passing moment, like a hysterical child in a grocery store. The watch, having nothing to lose, would beep itself to death. He crossed the room in his underwear and shut them both off. Where had he even found that watch? It was an old Casio, with a cracked face and only half a strap, but it could still scream. He held it for a moment. Owning a watch seemed outdated now, like owning a pince-nez. He replaced it gently on the pile of laundry.

The first day of term was an exercise in chaos. Every professor in the department would be frantically proofreading syllabi. Even those with eagle-eyed precision would make a scheduling mistake, which nobody would notice for months. You couldn't even get near the bookstore, the lines were so long, and the cafeteria resembled some nightmarish scenario from a high school movie. Someone was always in tears at the parking office, pleading for another spot.
Please, anywhere but Z-lot.
Everyone seemed slightly drunk as they walked into each other, attempting to study printouts while texting at the same time. The only quiet place was the library, since nobody would even think of going there until the week of midterms. For now, it was a holy oasis. The librarians murmured peacefully to each other, like monks taking the air in a silent courtyard. They hadn't yet been asked,
Where are the books?
or,
Is this a computer lab?

He couldn't remember what his first day of classes had been like. It was only five years ago, but when he tried to recall it, there was nothing but a smooth blank. Grad school had replaced everything with its deep roots. His life before—making popcorn at a video store, getting drunk in basements, endlessly driving in search of some imprecise event—seemed like a foreign film without subtitles. He could recall doing all of those things, over and over again, but the voices and colors had faded.

Suddenly he wanted to call his mother and ask her what he'd done as a teenager. That boring, burning stretch of adolescence. Mothers were archives. If he asked, she would be able to tell him who he'd been, what he'd wanted. She'd been on guard, trying to protect him from the sharp corners. He could see her as she was then, wearing a green skirt and smelling faintly of smoke, as she read him snippets of Góngora. She'd always loved
Solitudes
. There was something about pastoral poetry that moved her. Perhaps it was the comfort of a golden age that had never really happened, or the rough desire of shepherds, hurling their love-plaints across the dark expanse of fields. Góngora, Lope, Virgil—she could spend hours reading their descriptions of a clearing, or a blind cow, moved to tears.

Carl almost called her. Then he realized that he didn't know where she was. She'd been at a conference on poetics in Valencia, and there'd been talk about some writer's retreat in Mexico City, but he wasn't sure of her precise location. She was a particle floating between countries. He imagined her in the air, craving a cigarette as she edited her newest sheaf of poems. His mother was one of the most productive people that he'd ever known. She would vanish for a month or two, only to reappear with a new chapbook, or some edited volume that she'd collaborated on. Her work was internationally respected, and she always seemed to be in transit, on her way to an awards ceremony or a symposium.

Every time she arrived at a new hotel, she would send him a photo of the drapes. He wasn't sure why, but they seemed to inspire her. As a result, he had a whole folder of garish patterns on his computer, textures that resembled carpeting from an old Boston Pizza.

He got dressed and crammed his bag full of textbooks. This was the first time that he'd serve as a teaching assistant for a second-year course. History 200: The Middle Ages to the Eighteenth Century. The professor, Tim Darby, reminded him of a disheveled actor who'd once starred in films about surfing.

When he was six, his grandmother had bought him a set of
Encyclopedia Britannica
. He adored the leather binding, black and oxblood, with golden leaf on the pages. They were the heaviest books that he'd ever seen. He read them from cover to cover. It took a long time, but he didn't leave the house much, so that helped. Years later, obscure bits of information were still floating around in his head, like dust from those gilt pages. It was a useful exercise. While other kids were out riding three-wheelers and trading Transformers, he was sifting through details, figuring out what was needed and what could be left behind. His mother would hand him a sandwich and shake her head.
Why can't you just read comics?

History appealed to him, because it was a contradiction. You had the debris, which was real, but voiceless. Then you had the stuffing around the debris, the social text, which historians fluffed into patterns. It was the debris that he adored. The objects, lifted from a matrix of dirt, cooed over, labeled, and loved by archivists with delicate horsehair brushes. Even as a kid, he'd dreamed of having an apartment with objects on display.
Oh, those are my artifacts,
he'd say.

Now, his apartment had bare walls. The balcony faced Broad Street, and he could hear the murmur of traffic from below. They'd be here soon. He grabbed two granola bars and put them in his pocket. He didn't feel ready for the outside world. He wanted to strip back down to his underwear, get mildly stoned, and watch
Party Down
. But he'd run out of summer.

Now the real test would begin. It was easy to keep the lie going when they weren't distracted. They'd had time to organize, to make plans. Today, that luxury was over. They'd have to lose sleep if they were going to keep this up. All it took was the tiniest slip. At first, he'd thought that Shelby would crack. She spent more time with him, and he knew her moods. But lately, Carl was beginning to fear that he'd be the one to say something. He could feel the words like a weight on his chest. Sometimes, he'd say them silently in front of the mirror.

You died.

He went downstairs. They were waiting for him on the street.

“First day of term,” he said with a fake smile. “Who's pumped?”

Shelby handed him a coffee. “I'm not ready. My hair's fucked, this sweater smells like fries, and I can't remember what room I'm teaching in.”

“RC 111,” Andrew said. “It's in the Innovation Centre.”

“Is it a smart room? I'm intimidated by them.”

“Yes. It's full of buttons and has very little seating.”

“Perfect.”

Carl gave him a granola bar. “Put this in your bag for later.”

Andrew took it without quite looking at him. Lack of eye contact was nothing new with him, but this seemed different. Still, he smiled slightly as he took the bar.

“Kashi Crisp. Thanks.”

“They have the least amount of sugar,” Carl said. “And taste, I think. But on the plus side: ancient grains.”

“Fitting that a historian would like his grains ancient.”

“I prefer the ones loaded with sugar. But these are heart-smart.”

“According to your mother?” Shelby asked.

“She's looking out for all of us.”

“Does she still think that you're dating Tammy?”

“Hey.” Carl took a long pull of coffee. “Don't knock imaginary Tammy. She's gotten me out of many conversations that I'd rather not field.”

“Why not just admit that you're a complete rake? Your mom's a poet. I don't think she's going to judge you.”

“Poets can be surprisingly focused on grandchildren.”

“I think you'd be a good father,” Andrew said.

Carl blinked and looked at him. “Why?”

“Well, you're kind of obsessed with Lego. You like to barbecue, you call every dog ‘buddy,' and in nearly every picture of you that I've seen, you're holding a baby.”

“I've got a lot of cousins.”

“I don't know. It seems like you're halfway there.”

“It took four alarms to get me out of bed. I don't think I'm cut out for fatherhood at this point in my life.”

“Let's focus on not getting kicked out of the MA program,” Shelby said. “Then we can talk about crazy hypotheticals.”

They walked from Broad up to Albert Street. The wind licked at their jackets. By the end of the month, they'd be wearing gloves and hats with earflaps. For now, the weather seemed to balance on a knife's edge. Scraps of summer remained, but everyone could feel that winter was due to arrive. You could feel a collective sigh in the city of Regina, at the moment of the first snowfall. The time for shoes was over. The boots would have to come out, and with them, a pile of layers to fend off the cold.

He'd squandered four months of buggy, dry heat, and now the snow was on its way. He wasn't ready for anything—teaching, toques, an honest conversation with his mother. Carl wanted to run back home, but they were already crossing the park, and it was too late. In a few hours, he'd be in front of a classroom once again, explaining the finer points of a history syllabus. Five hundred years of blood, sex, and politics, condensed into a dark espresso. Most of them would be half asleep, distracted by their phones, or slowly coming to the realization that they were in the wrong class. But a few would be listening, and it was for their benefit that he made jokes, paced the room, and showed images of crumbling Roman via. Someday, they might be in his exact position, and he could think of no finer revenge.

They crossed Wascana Park. Geese wandered along the pathways, hissing at joggers. The lake was clear, reflecting the parliament building in all of its rippling, neo-Victorian majesty. The original building had been destroyed by a cyclone. Papers and desks and people flew out the windows as the foundations cleaved apart. Now it was a copy, but a brilliant one. Carl loved the different kinds of marble inside. Once, he'd gotten so turned on by the architecture that it had made him light-headed. The brutalist design of Plains University didn't have quite the same effect. The only space on campus that excited him was the room with fur on the walls. It had once been used for LSD experiments. He also liked the Pit, which resembled a dry, carpeted hot tub in the middle of the Administration-Humanities building. Students gathered there to study, and it always smelled faintly of Cheetos and ripe socks.

The park didn't talk during the day. It was mostly sedate. At night, it awoke, opened its mouth, and sang. You knew that you'd be swallowed if you listened to the song, but you couldn't help it. You'd never heard anything so enchanting, so frightening. Carl looked at Andrew, now immune to the park's pull. He looked fragile, in frayed jeans and an oversized
Community
T-shirt with Abed Nadir on it.
Cool cool cool,
the caption said. This was the outfit that he'd chosen for the first day of term.

Carl remembered the first night that he'd discovered the real park. He'd been wandering back home from Athena's, the campus pub, where he'd consumed entirely too much tequila. His tongue felt pickled, and as he walked past a rusted ventilation duct—placed inexplicably next to the pub—he thought briefly about prying off the grate and climbing down. As a kid, he'd dreamed of doing just this, in the hopes that he'd find the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Donatello would teach him how to build a siege engine, all MacGyver-like, and then Splinter could show him how to meditate and achieve satori. Which must have been harder for a rat, but he certainly made it look easy in the comics. Distracted by the thought, he'd nearly run into a weathered sculpture, which looked almost exactly like the ventilation duct. He'd stared at them both in confusion, trying to see the art, to figure out what made one of them an installation, while the other was merely a rusted-out conduit. Unable to figure it out, he'd kept walking.

This was long before he'd met Shelby or Andrew. He was still an undergrad, writing forgettable essays on the Thirty Years' War,
glasnost
, and Renaissance optics. He should have been gearing up for grad school, but already he felt himself growing disillusioned. He no longer had that roller-coaster feeling in his stomach when he read about buried artifacts. Only a few years ago, he would have wet himself at the chance to join an archaeological dig, to roam through haunted foundations in search of the past. Now he selected courses based on how many credits they offered, what time they'd been scheduled (morning classes interfered with his hangovers), and, sometimes, how close the room was to a vending machine. He seemed to receive the same mark on all of his papers, accompanied by the same comments. The handwriting was different, but the faint praise (
thoughtful discussion; good use of outside sources
) didn't change. He didn't feel as if he were being groomed for an illustrious career as an academic. Instead, he felt as if he were being managed, like an unexceptional child in a Montessori classroom.

That night, wrapped in his tequila blanket, he'd stumbled through Wascana Park. The geese shadowed him, their glowing eyes winking in the dark. Faint shapes moved on the margins of his fuzzy awareness. He heard skitterings, the crunch of gravel, the curious presence of animals watching him like something on display. The moon was full and slightly jaundiced.
Plenilunada,
he thought. His mother used to whisper that in his ear when he was little, pointing to the full moon. He'd thought, at the time, that she could control it, make it wax and wane on command. His mother, who held his small hand while offering him names for everything, first in Spanish, then in English. While he was thinking about this, he'd walked between two trees. There was nothing distinctive about them. He'd felt suddenly light-headed. The world lurched violently. He fell to his knees, retching salt, lime, and undigested nachos.