Path of Smoke (5 page)

Andrew and Shelby were lucky. They had each other. Their neuroses intersected at several significant angles. He was part of their dyad, but at a slight remove, unable to lock on to their specific frequency.

“Hello.”

At first, he thought that Shelby had followed him. Did she want to compare notes right now, under some false pretense of going to the bathroom? He turned, about to congratulate her on the daring move, but it was Ingrid standing before him.

“Hey. How goes it?”

She wore cargo pants and a blue sweater frayed in the shoulders. Her bag was held together by an ingenious system of safety pins. Carl wasn't nervous around her, precisely. He wasn't nervous around anyone—not in the traditional sense of the word. His mother had always called him shameless. But Ingrid's shadow was a miles, and he worried that someday he'd find himself looking down the edge of her blade.

“I've seen better mornings. Neil screamed like Janet Leigh in
Psycho
when I dropped him off at day care. He told me that my hug was
unappealing
. Luckily, they managed to distract him with some game involving Popsicle sticks.”

“I take it you didn't get much sleep.”

“I don't really sleep. It's more like a series of unplanned naps. I managed to get about half of the reading done”—her face fell—“but I may have read the wrong chapter. Everything got a bit surreal just before dawn.”

“Don't worry about it. Tutorials are mostly bullshit in the first week. Half of the students are in the wrong class.”

“Explaining the plagiarism policy should kill some time.”

“Oh, for sure. I do it in a series of different voices. Always gets a laugh.”

She smiled. Not because he was being funny, but because she was kind. He realized, not for the first time, that the park was the only thing he had in common with her. How must he look to this studious person, who paid a mortgage and designed crafts for her son? He was a kid with a beard, untouched by the life-altering responsibility of parenthood. He had nobody to keep him accountable, except for his mother, a voice stretched over a long-distance connection. There was nothing to stop him from self-destructing, no small, serious boy to grab his face and order him to watch
Dinosaur Train
. He recalled Andrew's words, and for a moment, something flared in him, a hot and secret wish to be needed that way.

“Are we meeting up as usual tonight?” Ingrid asked. “I might be late. Paul's going out for a few drinks. He almost never goes out, and I feel like—”

“It's fine,” Carl said. “We'll wait for you.”

The two of us,
he meant.

“Carl—” She trailed off.

“Yeah?”

“Is it—working? You know. Is it going okay?”

He knew. And it wasn't. Everything was collapsing. Everything was on fire, and he didn't know what to do. He had no survival instinct. He just stood there, watching the drapes melt, wondering if the foundation would somehow survive. He wasn't sleeping well. Every night, he saw the shadow's face, pale as boxwood, floating. He dove into the water, but it turned to stone every time, filling his mouth with blood. All he could do was leap. And sometimes he'd wake up on the floor, astonished. Sleep-diving.

“It's a day-by-day thing,” he said. “It might work.”

“I'm sorry that it's come to this.”

“Has this sort of thing happened to you before?”

“Not exactly. But I do know a lot about lying.”

“Right. Of course. And you've got two people to manage. That's got to be hard.”

“Sometimes it is.” Her expression darkened. “But sometimes—it's almost too easy. That's when I get scared.”

“Of being trapped in the lie?”

“Something like that.”

Nothing made sense. The lies least of all. But this was what they had, now. If they were going to survive, they had to become a real company. Morgan was wrong. They couldn't leave Julia alone. They needed her.

“We'll wait for you,” he repeated. “In the clearing.”

“I'll see you then. Happy teaching.”

“Thanks. You too.”

She shouldered her knapsack and walked toward the Education building. Carl rummaged through his bag for the history textbook. The granola bar was sitting on top of it. He ate it in two bites and crossed the campus green. History needed all of the help that it could get. Even a bearded kid who lied through his teeth. Maybe Paul would show him how to play hockey. It was always good to sprinkle in a little truth.

B
ABIECA
LEANED
AGAINST
THE
wall of his alley, sweating. It was always hot in Anfractus. The city seemed untouched by winter or any other season. The heat settled over his body as he pulled the familiar stones from the wall. He unwrapped the cloth bundle inside and placed his instrument carefully on the ground. He was always worried that the long nights would do damage to its surface, but it slept like a baby in that dark space. The miracle of the alleys. He looked down and sighed. Transitions always left him hard.

He counted the coins in his purse. It cost money to roll with a warm body. He'd have to sing, and that usually left him spent in a different way. Babieca slipped on his sandals, feeling taut and irritable. Desire shouldn't be so complicated. He was sure that Morgan didn't have these debates with herself. Maybe hitting things with arrows brought some kind of physical satisfaction. He'd have to ask her, the next time that she was drunk and willing to indulge him.

Babieca knew that the alleys held some kind of secret. Every visitor to the city received their own alley. It became a part of their body, a secret corner that no one could violate. If he screamed, or stabbed himself, or climbed the walls, it would make no difference. As long as he stayed within his alley, he remained invisible, unborn. The safety was temporary, though. No matter how scared and disoriented you felt, you always walked. The breath of the city, the rush of its reckless heartbeat, was inescapable.

On that first day, he'd knelt in a puddle of his own ichor, feeling like he'd forgotten how to breathe. Who was he? How had he gotten here, to this place that reeked of warm bodies, soot, and bursting fruit? Naked, defenseless, ill-named. He'd tasted a word on his tongue, but it refused to materialize completely. Leaving this protected space seemed like the worst kind of folly. But it was equally impossible to stay. He could hear possibilities revolving just beyond the mouth of the alley. He could feel the presence of objects, coins rustling in purses, fabric dragging across pockmarked stone, dirks and gladii asleep in their leather beds. The metallic whiff of cosmetics and the sweat beneath. Laughter and cursing. How could he resist that dangerous symphony? Here he was safe. But outside he could be something. He could steal a life that mattered.

It might have been easier had he simply become a fur. Then he'd have brothers and sisters, along with the support of the Fur Queen. They'd dine on leftovers in the rusty silence of the underground tower, as she looked on, perhaps with a maternal smile. Thieving and music were so close to each other, as someone used to remind him. All he had to do was shimmy up his spoke on Fortuna's wheel, and he'd find himself on the other side. He already knew how to pick an easy lock. He was probably halfway there. All that separated him from a fur's life was the cracked lute, banging against his side.

In the hands of a real trovador, it was an exquisite weapon, capable of destroying realms. For him, it was little more than a source of income. When had he last felt the kiss of true music? It must have been that night, in the Tower of Sagittarii, when he'd played the ancient lullaby. It had felt as if he might put the whole city to bed, leaving it blind and ready to be plundered. He could have passed through any door, silent as a breeze, and walked away with a small fortune. But the song had earned him nothing, in the end. A curious look from Morgan. The grudging praise of a small mechanical fox. Could that have been his only chance? Fortuna sometimes dropped a small blessing at your feet, and if you ignored it, she turned away from you forever. That was what it felt like. A blessing that he'd crushed beneath his sandal, like a pale, unseen flower.

He met Morgan and Fel at the giant clepsydra. Its ancient mechanism, driven by water wheels and whispering tanks, chimed the hour for everyone to hear. Fortuna's wheel moved with every shudder of the hidden gears. Her six daylight faces were twinned by the shadow aspects, claimed by the night gens. Babieca wasn't sure anymore if there was a tangible difference between them. Fortuna was in all of them, the drowned and the saved. By day, she healed alongside the dutiful medicus and watched over the spado as he copied out vital documents. By twilight, she sang inspiration to the trovador, matching her drink for drink. And by night, she crept behind the furs and the sicarii, grindstone to their blades. With a light touch, she guided them forward, as you would guide a sleepy child up the stairs to bed. If only she hadn't been so fond of games. You couldn't trust a patroness who might bet against you at any moment, kissing the die before she let it fall.

Morgan looked impatient. She kept playing with the worn fibula that held her cloak together, as if it were a toy. Fel watched people as they passed by the roaring clepsydra, sometimes pausing to stare at the wheel. She saw Babieca but didn't acknowledge him. The trovador had come to think of this as her natural style of greeting.
I see you. And what of it?

“You're late,” Morgan observed.

“Hardly. I came as soon as my head cleared.”

“We've been waiting.”

“Transitions vary,” Morgan said, without taking her eyes from the crowd. “His alley could be a few minutes behind.”

“That would certainly be convenient for him.”

“Why are you shitting on me already?” Babieca asked. “We just woke up. I couldn't possibly have done something to offend you.” He sniffed himself. “Granted, this tunica has seen better days, but the spray from the clepsydra is already improving things.”

“It's not you,” Morgan said. “I'm just worried.”

“You think Julia's going to say no.”

“It's not a question of yes or no. Even if she agrees—and she'd have to be profoundly stupid to join us—what are we supposed to do? We're no longer welcome in the Arx of Violets. We don't have access to any information, and there's still a bounty on our heads.”

“Quite a generous one too.” Babieca smiled. “I was happy to see that I fetched such a fair price. It's good for my sense of worth.”

“We're supposed to be running away from this kind of trouble. If we continue on this path, we'll be walking directly into a storm.”

“That's nothing new for us.”

She frowned. “You're the one who nearly pissed himself when that silenus appeared. Now you're suddenly excited at the prospect of getting killed?”

“How sweetly you exaggerate. If I remember, you were the one who held my hand so tightly that you nearly broke it in several places.”

“We can debate how terrified you both were at a later time,” Fel said. “If you want to catch the artifex, it's best to go now, when the towers are busy with patrons and supplicants. We'll have a better chance of blending in with the general throng.”

“That's a funny word,” Babieca said. “
Throng.
Vaguely obscene.”

“You sound like—” Morgan abruptly stopped herself.

Babieca saw a flash of remorse in her eyes. Then she looked away. Neither of them said anything. He knew that she'd been about to say the auditor's name.

“Let's go,” Fel said. “The only benefit I can see in your plan is that it might be stupid enough to work.”

“It's
our
plan,” Morgan reminded the miles. “You agreed to it.”

“Only because we could use an artifex.”

“Strictly speaking,” Babieca said, “she's an apprentice artifex.”

Fel looked coolly at them. “So this is what we have to work with. A horny singer, a disgraced archer, a miles with no connections, and a tinker.”

“She's pretty. If that helps.”

Fel almost smiled. “It doesn't hurt.”

“I object to the term
disgraced
—” Morgan began.

But Fel was already leading them up Via Dolores. It was strange to think that only a short while ago, Morgan had been their leader. Now her dangerous profile meant that she had to avoid too much attention. Fel pulled them along, a bunch of dazed goslings. Babieca didn't take offense to being called a horny singer. He was happy to be somewhere in the middle of their almost-company. The one in the middle rarely got attacked first.

They followed Aditus Papallona to the edge of the Subura, where the Tower of Artifices was located. As usual, builders crowded the stairs, testing out new machines. Babieca nearly tripped over a barking lapdog made of whirring cogs and shining brass plates. The dog cocked its head, and one of its ears swiveled toward him, but there was no spark of life in its eyes. The foxes—Propertius and Sulpicia—were the only living machinae that he'd encountered in the city, and whatever had forged them was lost to antiquity. Now, as Julia often reminded them, artifices were mostly cheap entertainers. They dreamed up new party favors, singing fountains, and thrilling naumachia to please the basilissa and her court. Frogs, toy boats, and bored doves who piped the hour. Julia's mother, Naucrate, had been a true artifex. She'd crafted a bee that had nearly brought down the city of Egressus.

They kept to the rose-tinted shadows as they climbed the stairs. None of the builders were paying attention to them. The tower might have been on fire, and the artifices would have kept working, oblivious to impending doom. They squinted at tablets and old fragments of papyrus, tightening bolts or simply observing their creations, like stern dancing-masters.

“Builders,” Fel said beneath her breath. “They always smell faintly of piss and last night's meal. Don't they ever wash?”

“You're not exactly a flower beneath that armor,” Babieca said.

“At least I haven't spilled wine on it.”

“Do you even drink?”

“When it's appropriate.”

“You and Morgan would make a lovely couple. Sober and awkward.”

Morgan gave him a cold look but said nothing. To his surprise, Fel reddened and looked away. He'd never realized that she could blush.

“Forgive me,” Babieca murmured. “That was a thoughtless comment.”

“This is why I prefer guard duty,” Fel replied. “The quiet.”

“Honestly, though—”

“I don't care what you think of me, trovador.” She looked straight ahead, negotiating the pile of parts, some moving, that covered the stairs.

Babieca didn't reply. It seemed wise to drop the matter, and Morgan was already glaring a hole in the back of his head.

At the top of the tower, they found a group of artifices milling around Fortuna. They'd built a miniature version of the clepsydra, whose wheel revolved slowly, singing with each pass. Her expression was impassive. Rather than throwing coins into the pool at her feet, the builders tossed old parts: exhausted gears, stripped bolts, springs that no longer endured tension. A few glass eyes floated in the embrasure, queer without the context of a face. Artifices clustered beneath the high red-glass windows, trading gossip and tools. Julia was not among them. Babieca searched for her red hair, but she was nowhere to be seen.

“Odd,” he said to Morgan. “I was certain that she'd be paying her respects.”

“Perhaps her faith is wavering. Or she simply wants to avoid the crowds.”

“We can try the Brass Gear. She might be working on a commission.”

“A tavern,” Fel said. “At least you'll be in your element.”

Babieca shrugged. “We all have our chaos. Mine happens to be wine.”

“We could also make a bit of coin,” Morgan said.

“Not at the Gear. It would be like playing to a room full of statues.” He gestured to the artifices, who were currently ignoring them. “I could start playing right now, and they wouldn't even look up from their tablets.”

Wanting to test his theory, Babieca removed the lute from its case.

“What are you doing?” Morgan hissed.

“Just watch. I'll demonstrate.”

He sat on the edge of the pool, tuning his instrument. He could sense Fortuna's gaze like moonlight on his hair. Once the strings were warm, he began to play something simple. It was one of his own compositions. He'd written it a few nights ago. Felix had unexpectedly fallen asleep, and rather than waking the house father, he'd strummed by the window instead. It was a pleasure to get lost in the music, to feel the sweet sting in his fingers once again. The notes reminded him of lazy flies, hovering unsteadily before they left through the open window. The reeking summer wind had carried them beyond the Subura, a flake shaved from the sweating ice of his memory. Some blue day from long ago, when things had been less opaque.

This time, as he played the tune, he could feel a subtle difference. The vaulted ceilings offered an unexpected thunder to the music. The little staff of notes grew more profound, until they seemed to be coming from all directions. The tower hummed with his song. The music was doing what it wanted, what it needed, and he was little more than a conduit. The builders had ceased their conversation. Morgan was trying to signal him, but he couldn't stop.

Once, while he'd been practicing, Roldan had placed a twist of dried fruit in his mouth. Unable to focus on anything but the song, Babieca had let the fruit crumble down his chin. He could hear Roldan's laughter, and he played that as well. The notes were summer, strong wine, baking bread. He knew that if he just kept playing, if he never stopped, then the world would slow down and finally let him catch up. The hot drag of grief and bitter joy, so close that they might have been the same note, would lie down and reconcile, if only he could play them right.

When he stopped, everyone was looking at him. The builders had put away their tablets and were staring with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. Babieca felt a presence at his feet. He looked down, and his stomach nearly flipped. All of the machinae were gathered around him, a tight circle of rapt spectators. There were mice with tails of coiled wire, spiders that trembled on articulated legs, and small lizards clinging to the edge of the pool. A mechanical sparrow had settled on his foot. There must have been a hundred creatures, a wild menagerie of moving parts, all gathered before him like expectant children. They whistled, preened, and gently scratched the ground, waiting for him to continue. For the first time, Babieca felt as if they were more than clever toys. In their dark, patient eyes, he could see something like a coal-glimmer of life, more than reflex, and it made him profoundly nervous.