The Nascenza Conspiracy (20 page)

“Four years older than you,” Petro recited along with her. “Trust me. I remember.”

“But after Prince Berto’s coup—with your sister playing such a huge role in it—everyone in the insula wanted to get a look at you. I remember getting mine at a prayer service. It was from far away, and you were so tiny, a little scrap of a boy. Don’t grimace like that—it makes your face look worse. You were only eleven, so you couldn’t help it. And I thought to myself,
Hmmfph. He looks quite ordinary.
”

“I am.”

“Liar,” she contradicted. “Do you know how
smart
it was for you to plan on having a decoy? As a stratagem it was perfect. Naturally, you didn’t expect your friend to end up in this position, but the forethought you showed was magnificent.”

Petro would have laughed long and loud if he’d had either the energy or the humor left for it. For a moment it was tempting, very tempting, to let her continue thinking that he was some sort of master tactician. Keeping on her good side, though, wasn’t worth the untruth it would cost. “It wasn’t forethought!” He waited for the words to sink in before he continued. “It wasn’t me being clever, or thinking ahead. We swapped identities as a joke. We were stupid boys trying to get some free nuts. It was supposed to be funny, but it stopped being funny a very long time ago. Don’t try to paint me as a hero when I’ve done nothing heroic. Trying to be anyone other than who I am was a mistake.” He turned. “I’m very sorry for it, Adrio.”

“No,” said his friend, hanging his head low. “I pushed you. I’m a dolt.”

“You didn’t.” The mere fact that Adrio seemed to be listening to him gave Petro a sense of hope. Maybe, if they ever got out of this mess, they might be friends again. “You were right when you said it was my idea.”

“Are you ladies done apologizing?” said Emilia, her voice dry. “Because I have something to point out. The first is that even if you hadn’t done what you did, nothing would have changed. A cazarrino would have been kidnapped. Prince Berto’s son would still have been in that camp.”

“What?” asked Adrio, roused.

“The ’Landers would still be plotting
…
whatever it is they’re plotting. And we very likely wouldn’t have known a thing about it until after it happened.” Now it was her turn to stare at them both, until they fully comprehended. “Wallow in blame all you like, but it seems to me that the last week is enough to make the staunchest unbeliever find faith in the notion that things happen for a reason.”

How easy it was, Petro thought to himself as he looked at her with his one good eye, to let go of the ills he’d held close over the past few days. Worn to the bone, stripped of his freedom, and with every sinew of his body crying out in pain, so many things failed to matter any longer. The heavy grudge he had carried against Adrio had dissipated like a popped soap bubble at the sight of him. The guilt that had chilled him since Campobasso had begun to melt away the moment Emilia began speaking. Soon it would be washed away altogether, as were all the mundane concerns that had plagued him for years—who disliked him in the insula, who liked him too much. With his options stripped down to nothing and a light shined so starkly upon his life, only two things seemed to matter.

He spoke his mind on the first. “Emilia’s right. All the regrets in the world aren’t going to get our hands free and us out of here to stop them.”

“Stop who? From what?”

It was obvious that Adrio knew nothing about what was happening to them. Petro allowed Emilia to give the briefest outline of what they’d discovered, grinning at her with his bloody mouth. His lips hurt like the dickens when stretched into a smile, but for the sight of Emilia he could live with a little more pain. Because the other thing of which Petro was suddenly certain, of course, was that a future without Emilia was no future at all.

He knew he barely registered on Emilia’s consciousness—she dismissed him as a mere babe. Petro also knew that perhaps he admired her for being all the things he was not: decisive when he felt as if he had no options, swift-thinking where he felt slow, and savage when he felt all too soft. Admiring her had helped him adopt a few of those qualities as his own.

The best way to repay her for that gift would be to help find a way out of their predicament.

Emilia noticed his lolling head and bloody grin as she finished talking. “What?” she asked.

“I’ve never met anyone who makes me feel more myself,” he told her, remembering his sister’s words of a week before.

She looked more annoyed than pleased with his admission. “This is not the time for your insula infatuation.”

“I’m too tired to be hungry,” he announced, shaking his head. “I’m too worn out. But closing my eyelids to sleep would be a chore, right now. I’m half-past caring what Simon Jacobuci does to me. But I care about you, and I care about Adrio. Doesn’t that sound like something more than infatuation?”

Emilia’s eyes lowered, though she shook her head in thought. Any chance that she’d give Petro the answer he wanted to hear was cut short when the tent flaps parted. In rushed cooler air and the babble of the men and women without. A tiny figure pushed through. It took a moment for Petro to realize that the boy dressed in what looked like highly formal livery was the would-be prince. “Vico?”

Vico seemed inordinately proud of his uniform. He clutched the lapels of his red coat, cut so long that its hem brushed the tops of a pair of shoes far different than the common sandals he’d worn earlier. They were pointed, and colored, and made him stand higher by the width of three fingers, thanks to the heels of stacked leather. A high collar surrounded his neck, embroidered with threads of silver and gold. Every button shone as if it had been lovingly polished.

“Now you see me in my true splendor,” he announced, parading before them and doing a little turn around one of the tent poles. “Behold, your future king.”

I have been to Nascenza and found it little more than a hole in the ground, fortified by stone and overgrown with weeds most of the year. Yet still, there is something about the place, in its solitude and tranquility, that lets one imagine that if the gods could choose a birthplace, it might be here.

—Marq di Chamballon, Nuncio of Scillia,
stationed in Cassaforte

Vico’s outfit, elaborate and gaudy as it was, seemed almost like a theatrical costume—an outsider’s conception of what the king of Cassaforte might wear. It failed to make Vico seem regal. He merely appeared as if he’d strolled onstage to perform a comic song about royalty. Adrio looked agog. Emilia raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. “I liked you fine the way you were before,” Petro said, quite honestly.

“You thought I was gullible. You thought I was a fool.” Vico’s tone was hostile, but despite the layers of finery he wore, there was something peculiarly vulnerable and even naked about him.

“Not once,” said Petro, telling the honest truth.

“You wanted to assassinate me.”

“I never did. Neither Emilia nor I intended to hurt you. If anything, we felt a little bit sorry for you, Vico.”

“That’s true,” said Emilia, nodding.

“Sorry for me? Why in the world would you feel the need to be sorry for me?” The prince sounded genuinely curious before reverting to his snooty demeanor. “And you really ought to address your royalty properly.”

Somehow Petro knew that the boy’s affectations were a defense. Honesty was the best way to get through to him. “I felt sorry for you because you must have led a very lonely life in your uncle’s
schloss
. No friends, no family.”

“I had ample friends.”

“Friends who weren’t servants?” The question made Vico’s face fall. “Servants are paid to be friendly. Real friends do it
…
because they genuinely like you.”

Unexpectedly, Adrio spoke up. “Petro tracked me down because we’re friends. He wasn’t paid to do it.”

It would have been a good argument save for one thing. The prince’s face went blank at the name. “Who is Petro?”

“I am,” the true Petro said. “My name is really Petro.”

Vico shook his head. “You’re Adrio Ventimilla, of the Thirty.”

“I’m Adrio Ventimilla, of the Thirty,” said Adrio, next to Vico.

The prince seemed utterly bewildered. He whirled upon Petro. “Who are you?”

“I’m Petro Divetri.”

“
Divetri, glass, Dioro, swords,
” recited Vico under his breath. “
And Cassamagi charms with words.
Who are you?”

“That’s my real name. By Muro’s foal, I swear. I was pretending to be Adrio—well, it’s complicated. I couldn’t let anyone know who I really was. I’m telling you now, though. No more lies.”

“You admit you lied, then!” Vico’s fingers curled into little balls, over and over, and his face was beginning to turn red, though his body was a marvel of stiff self-composure. “You’re probably lying to me now.”

Both Adrio and Emilia seemed to sense that whatever Vico sought within their tent lay with Petro. Though they both listened to every word with the fullest attention, they kept silent as the two talked. “I told you a lie about my name, yes,” Petro explained, trying to sound as calm and reasonable as possible. Within, though, he felt an urgency that made him want to beg and plead with the boy for some kind of mercy—whatever the loyalists and the Vereinigteländers were planning for Nascenza, they were planning for it to happen soon. Tomorrow was the Midsummer High Rites. “I lied to you about my name,” he continued, “but I lied to Emilia, too.” Petro looked over his shoulder, and Emilia confirmed his assertion with a nod. “And you know how much I care for her.”

“She’s four years older than you,” Vico informed him.

“Thank you for the reminder,” Petro said through gritted teeth. “I know that. My point is, though, that I thought you and I were beginning to be friends. You had fun, right? Eating berries right from the bush? Roaming around without anyone to hover over you?”

“The blackberry brambles pricked me,” Vico said, looking at his soft, white hands. “And I didn’t like having to void behind a tree.” He considered for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “At first. Is that the kind of things friends do?”

“Absolutely.” Adrio spoke up again. “Friends stick up for each other. When one of them is being bullied, the other stands up for him when he can, or gets help when he can’t. Friends make masks with each other for the Midsummer revels. If one of them gets a tin of biscuits from home, he shares it with the other. They visit each other’s families on feast days.”

“Friends have their own special places to hide and talk,” Petro said, touched beyond words.

“Sometimes they act like utter imbeciles,” said Adrio. He was no longer speaking to Vico, but to Petro himself. “And even though they want to stop being an imbecile, it’s easier to keep being stupid than it is to admit they’re wrong. I wanted to admit it to you, though.”

“I knew you weren’t yourself,” said Petro. “You’re an awful idiot, but not like that.”

“I think I am like that, and it scares me.” Adrio’s eyes were wide. “I hated myself when I was you. I just wanted to be me again, but I was afraid of what you’d say if I admitted I was tired of being you. Now I know for sure. Being me isn’t that great a lot of the time, but being you is outright horrible.”

Petro was able to follow the logic of his friend’s thoughts nimbly, but Vico’s wide eyes looked utterly lost. Anything he might have said, though, was forestalled when they heard someone speaking outside. “No, I’ve not seen the prince. Perhaps he’s in with the prisoners.”

“I’m not supposed to be here,” said Vico in a strangled whisper. Without a word more, he dove past Emilia through the arras in the back. He was small enough that he could squeeze into the space between the hanging cloth and the tent’s rear wall without giving himself away.

Scarcely was he out of sight when someone opened the tent’s flaps. The sun had set some time ago and light was scarce inside their canvas cell, but enough remained for them to see that they were being joined by Simon Jacobuci. Adrio’s expression grew hard and wary; Petro narrowed his eyes at the sight of the hated figure. Only Emilia regarded the traitor with no change of demeanor.

“What’s going on, then, eh?” he wanted to know. Their eyes were used to the near-darkness, but his were not. It was obvious that he was having problems picking them out of the shadows. “How many of you are there in here?”

“Three,” said Emilia. “That’d be one for each of your teeth, if you’ve not learnt to count that high.”

Simon pulled back his lips in a mirthless smirk. “Very funny, m’lady. Most comical. Yes, most
…
” He looked around the tent’s interior, mentally checking off the two boys and the guard, but seeming convinced that there should be a fourth youth present. “Has anyone been in here?”

“Yes,” Emilia tartly replied. “Someone large and plug-ugly. Jacobuci, I think his name was.”

She flinched when he lunged in her direction and thrust his face close to hers. Petro nearly jumped out of his skin. “You’re quite the jester now, missy,” Simon leered, his expression so feral that he resembled a hungry wolf. “But you won’t be laughing tomorrow.”

“Why?” she asked, trying to sound as casual as possible. “What happens tomorrow? Your annual bath?”

As if he were a wolf on an invisible leash that was yanked by its owner, Simon recoiled, stood upright, and laughed. “You’ll see,” he promised. “Oh, yes. You will see. Now, is there anyone else with you in here? I wonder.”

He tweaked back the arras close to the door, peeking behind the thick, patterned hanging into the darkness beyond. Petro was moved to distract him. “Who are you looking for?”

“The prince,” Simon snapped. “I believe you’ve met. Short boy. Very obedient. Until tonight, that is.”

Swallowing hard, Petro had to force himself to utter the words that followed. He knew that Vico was listening—he counted on it, in fact. Still, though, it was difficult to say the truth in front of someone who’d never heard it before. “Why are you leading that boy on, Jacobuci?” He tried to sound as confrontational as possible. “You know full well he won’t sit upon the throne.”

“Oh, he’ll be on the throne all right.”

“Never. The seven cazarri of Cassaforte have installed King Milo. They’re perfectly happy with him, as is the rest of his kingdom.”

“Well, I’m not happy with a commoner as a king. And neither are a lot of people. For all I know, he’s not even of Cassaforte.”

Petro laughed with scorn. “You’re wrong about having a
lot
of people behind you. You’re part of a very small group that spreads fear and rumor to further its own aims.”

Simon’s eyes narrowed. He was being distracted, that much was for certain. “A group who knows King Milo to be nothing more than a trumped-up scrap of common nothing, elevated far above his station.”

Petro didn’t deign to respond. Emilia spoke up, apparently equally unimpressed. “You’re common yourself. I’m common, and I’m happy for him.”

“That’s where you’re wrong again.” Simon advanced toward her, shaking his finger. “I might be common now, but I won’t be when King Vico’s on the throne. The Olive Crown should never have been taken from the Alessandro’s bloodline.”

Vico was hiding only a hand’s breadth behind where Emilia sat. “What do you mean?” Petro asked, forcing Simon to turn. “You don’t give a damn about King Alessandro, or you’d respect his own choice for his successor.”

“Maybe I don’t.” He laughed. “The ’Landers will be setting things right once we invite them in. All I know’s that there’ll be a new Seven and Thirty when Vereinigtelände has a say in this country. Out with the old and in with the new, and I’ve been told I’ll be among the new. Maybe I’ll be sittin’ pretty up in Caza Divetri, in your old chambers, son,” he said to Adrio.

“You won’t be,” Adrio retorted.

“Is this Prince Vico’s wish?” Petro asked, perhaps too loudly. “He’s said that he wants to clear out the old regime?”

“Who cares what that little bastard wants?” Simon rubbed his hands together. “He’ll do what the Emperor damn well tells him.”

“So his uncle’s made him little more than a puppet.” Emila’s words came out as a growl.

“Hah! If his uncle exists. I have my doubts, I do. None of us have ever seen him, though he delivered the puppet, all right. Snotty little piece of shite that he is.” Was it Petro’s imagination, or did he hear a small gasp at the rear of the tent? Perhaps Simon heard it too, for his head swiveled.

“That’s all Vico is to you?” asked Emilia. “You’re disgusting.”

“Don’t waste your breath over that scrap of lickspittle. That by-blow is not of Cassaforte, nor a true ’Lander. He’s not one thing or the other.”

“That’s true enough. He’s a paradox,” Petro admitted. Who among them was one thing or the other, though? He could not be neatly pigeonholed. Then there was Emilia, who was half of his society, half of the rough-and-tumble world of the guards, and seeming to fit smoothly into neither. She was like that spot in the Sorgente where they had met. Parts of her ran hot, parts icy cold, and the effect was exhilarating.

“That uncle of his won’t have him,” chuckled Simon. Petro’s attention wandered back from Emilia, though reluctantly. “Can you blame him, mincing around like a poncey little lickspittle? Why do you suppose the man locked him away, up there in the snow and ice? Couldn’t stand the sight of him. Know I can’t.”