The Nascenza Conspiracy (25 page)

No wonder the overseer at Vico’s camp had been so upset when the men had set their rigged charms so close to the campfire. He had been trying to avert the very disaster about to happen here. The loyalists had likely worked night and day to fill the little charms with the
yemeni alum
, then seal them so that they looked no different from the charms usually distributed at the ceremonies. Once the charms reached a high-enough temperature, the powder inside them would ignite and the capsules would explode, sending a rain of jagged, lethal metal into the crowd. Even a fragment of metal, propelled at that high speed and temperature, could pierce and burn through flesh and bone, killing anyone unlucky enough to be in its path. The loyalists had meant for the pilgrims to cast hundreds upon hundreds of these deadly projectiles into the fire. Blood would indeed be running thick and red upon Cassaforte’s most sacred spot unless they did something now.

“Go up the stairs!” Petro shouted at the top of his voice. “Up the stairs!” Adrio lent his voice, and so did Vico, though it was obvious he understood none of what was going on. “Get away,” Petro told Adrio and Vico both. “No, get behind the altar, it’s faster! Get behind the altar and don’t come out. Go!” He refused to hear their protests and pushed them toward the stone block where the prayers had been recited, which would protect them from the exploding charms.

From the fire came a popping noise, like that of a kernel of
grano
placed in a hot pan over a fire. It was the first of the moons reaching a high internal temperature and exploding. He’d heard that sound before, Petro realized, the night that he and Emilia had rescued Vico. If only he’d realized what had made it!

A scream pierced the crowd. Petro whirled to see a woman running from the bonfire. Blood was streaming down her arm. The man sheltering her had a gash across his temple that was dripping down his ear and onto his shirt, but he clung to his wife as he attempted to escort her to safety.

The scream had been more potent a warning than any that Petro could have yelled. At the sound of the woman and the sight of the blood flowing so liberally, a mighty retreat upward began as the hundreds crowding the floors surged back. Up the stairs they clambered and over the tiers themselves, boosting each other and pulling from above to help bring those closest to the fire to safety. Feeling helpless, Petro whirled back around to see Emilia strike Thadeo in the head with her elbow. Blood flew from his mouth onto the white marble as he fell to the ground. He did not rise again. Though she was panting heavily and sweating from the heat, Emilia was as pallid as the floor beneath her feet.

Their eyes met. She nodded, thanking him. Then they both automatically ducked, crooking their arms around their faces when another round of the crescent moons began to explode. This time, the sound of chaos erupted from the other side of the bonfire, where it was impossible to see what was happening. More screams cut through the chaos. Through the fire’s brightness, Petro managed to see some motion, as if the crowd was ebbing away from something horrible. Another volley of noises followed, so loud that for a few dreadful seconds Petro thought that the ceremonial drums were still beating. But they had been silenced long before, drowned out by the yells of the crowd and the fearful certainty that worse was yet to come. An entire bucket’s worth of charms had ignited at once, deep in the heart of the conflagration, producing a mighty boom.

Petro and Emilia watched as the explosion within the bonfire managed to shift one of the massive tree trunks stacked so precisely. It crumbled in half, causing the other logs leaning against it to shift. Within moments, the entire burning pyramid had tipped precariously, looking as if it might spill over the fire pit and onto the ground. The fires licked closer to the spilled charms on the side.

“The altar,” Petro called to Emilia, pointing in case she failed to understand. “Get to the altar. Adrio and Vico are behind it.”

He did not know whether or not she could hear him over the crowd, but she nodded and, her blades firmly in hand, began running. Petro heard a popping noise somewhere behind him, and almost immediately felt a stinging sensation on the back of his neck—little more than a bee sting, really, but the fear of what might have struck him almost paralyzed his legs. Only sheer fear and the instinct to take cover propelled him forward.

“You’re bleeding,” said Vico, who was crouched down behind the altar as Petro instructed him. His face was white with fear.

When Petro applied his hand to the back of his neck, it came away wet and bloody, but nothing seemed permanently damaged or irreparably pierced. He swallowed and tried to sound jolly. “Just another scar to add to my collection,” he told the boy. Perhaps the joke didn’t comfort the lad, but Petro’s tone seemed to reassure him. “In fact
…
” he began to say.

He didn’t get to finish the sentence. He felt an immense pressure on his neck as someone inserted a large hand down the back of his collar, grabbing hood and vest and shirt and pulling him up and back. A moment later he found himself thrown onto the ground, landing heavily on his hip and rear end. One of the skull-faced attendants standing behind the priests now hovered directly over him.

“Narciso,” growled Adrio from where he crouched. He leapt to his feet and snatched for the man’s mask, but found himself shoved heavily against the altar. He collapsed in a dazed heap.

Brother Narciso removed his mask and tossed it aside. A blast of heat from the bonfire caused it to drift off into the night. “I won’t leave without what’s ours,” he shouted. “Simon!”

Petro looked over his shoulder. At the edge of the crowd, which had made their way out of immediate danger to the amphitheater’s upper tiers, one familiar face stepped out of the shadows. Simon Jacobuci. He’d discarded his mask long ago. “I’ve got him,” he said, diving for the prince.

“Unhand me, assassins!” cried Vico, struggling, as Simon lifted the boy into the air. With a sadistic grin that made his canine teeth seem even more feral, he held the boy over the altar, exposing him to the bonfire and the exploding missiles. Vico placed his heels against the altar’s edge and pushed back as hard as he could.

Emilia let out a cry as she leapt into action, blades poised. Narciso had the advantage of surprise, however. Within seconds he’d scooped Adrio from the ground and held a dagger to his throat. “I still don’t know who in blazes you are,” he called to Emilia, “but you continue to annoy!” Petro fumbled himself up and dragged himself over to Emilia’s side.

Three of the former guards under Emilia’s command ran toward them from the nearest stairwell. Two of them had their daggers pulled for a fight. The third and brawniest of the group had no weapon but his hands were curled and twitching, ready to pummel anything she commanded. Emilia raised a hand, stopping them before they came too close. “I am bodyguard to Petro, cazarrino of Divetri,” she responded.

Narciso didn’t seem in the least concerned that he was half-exposed to the bits of metal that were still flying from the bonfire. “Then hear my terms, bodyguard,” he snarled. “Jacobuci and I offer you a simple exchange. Your precious cazarrino for the true king of Cassaforte and our freedom.”

“Don’t do it!” Adrio cried, before being silenced by a blow to the head from Narciso’s blade hand.

Petro nearly sprang forward to assist his friend, but Emilia laid the flat of her poniard before him so he could advance no further. “Your puppet king doesn’t want to go with you. He wants no part of your attempts to send our country—
his
country—into a panic!”

“I utterly refuse! I demand that you—!” Vico yelped as another round of the moon charms reached the point of explosion. The ear-splitting crackle of their explosions filled the air, and caused everyone save the two loyalists to duck. Perhaps, Petro realized they had precious little to lose.

“We’ll have what’s ours, and you’ll have what’s yours. You may be a little out of your depth, dear. I assure you that your superiors would dictate you make the trade and let us go.” To make his point, Narciso dug the point of his blade a little more deeply beneath Adrio’s jaw, causing him to yowl with pain.

“Why, I offer many thanks for the advice,
sweetheart
,” Emilia replied in dangerous tones. “You happen to be correct. Absolutely correct. My assignment is to guard the cazarrino of Divetri with my life. And I would be happy to trade him with you for your so-called prince.”

“No!” The protest came unbidden from Petro’s lips.

“If,” she continued smoothly. “You had the cazarrino, that is. But you do not. I do. Hold this one,” she commanded her guards. With a shove, she sent a stunned Petro reeling backward into their arms. “He tried to tell you once, but you refused to listen, Narciso.” Petro felt himself protesting, but it came out as a wordless cry.

“You’ve tried that bluff before.”

“You were too much a fool to recognize it was no bluff. Even now you refuse to believe you were taken in by a schoolboy prank. Hear me well, Narciso. The weak scrap of humanity you hold is Adrio Ventimilla. Of the Thirty—and barely that. ”

The revelation gave Narciso pause. He took a step backward. “You would let one of the Thirty die?”

“Do you know what I see before me, in this pretty tableau? A tanner’s son, two criminals, and a boy no one wants or cares for. To protect my charge, I’ll let you all die. And you’ll watch me,
sweet
. Protocol.” She lowered her blades, then sheathed them. “That one is mine,” she told her guards. One of them pushed Petro over to her, and he fell into her rough grasp. “Take care of the rest,” she languidly instructed the men. “I don’t care if they live or not.”

Petro was so outraged that he couldn’t speak as she dragged him away. “Keep your mouth shut,” she commanded.

He disobeyed her. “You are heartless.”

“And I’m bluffing!” she hissed in his ear.

Astonished, he went limp. He was about to ask what her plan was when, from behind them, they heard a terrible roar. The remaining tree trunks could no longer bear the weight of those pressing heavily upon them. A cry from the crowd above filled the air; hundreds of terrified voices wailed at the sight of the massive pyramid of trunks finally toppling to the side, spilling in a direction slightly to the left of the altar. The thud with which they fell caused the ground to shake and made Petro extend his arms to maintain his balance. The tapestry stands wobbled visibly. Two of the thick logs rolled toward their group, brightly alight with flames that Petro could feel even at his safe distance.

“Let me
…
go!” he heard Vico cry. The boy had continued resisting being held over the altar ever since Simon Jacobuci first hoisted him into the air. Every time the man attempted to force Vico closer to the heat, or had used the boy as a shield against the flying bits of metal that he and his comrades had put into the hands of the people, Vico had kept his feet firmly against the altar’s upper ledge. Now, however, he apparently decided to try the opposite tactic. Instead of pushing, he suddenly crumpled up and let go of his perch altogether, allowing Simon’s not-inconsiderable weight to carry the man forward. Simon hit the altar hard, just beneath his rib cage. With a mighty whuff, he let go of his captive.

Petro watched with horror as the boy vaulted off the altar and landed on its far side. One of the logs was still rolling closer and closer to the long stretch of discarded crescents that Thadeo had strewn. “Vico!” he yelled out. He started to run, but Emilia restrained him. “He’s in danger! Let me go!”

“Think clearly, Divetri!” she shouted. “I’m not losing you, too.”

“Here I am, Jacobuci!” yelled Vico, jumping up and down. Either he was unaware of the danger lying not three arm-spans behind him, or else he no longer cared. “Dare you come fetch your lapdog? Well? Dare you?”

The rolling trunk glowed with red from within as it swept over the furthest of the spilled charms. They began exploding almost instantly, the hot metal fragments creating red arcs through the air that disappeared like shooting stars. Surrounded by so many pyrotechnics, Vico looked less like a little boy and more like some sort of supernatural hobgoblin, prancing in the fires from which he was made.

Simon Jacobuci cowered, trying to protect himself from the heat and the flames. For a moment he seemed to contemplate chasing after the prince, but then gave it up. He took a quick breath and sprinted away from the group, limping as fast as his mismatched legs could carry him. Emilia snapped her fingers and sent two of the guards in her charge after him. They disappeared into the night.

“And what of you, clergyman?” jeered Vico. “Would you come claim your prize? Am I really so dear to you? Consider this your test.” He raised his arms as a boy might who hoped to be lifted up by his father.

Petro said, “He’s insane.”

“He’s brilliant,” countered Emilia.

As the tree trunk rolled to a stop, it set off a final round of the crescents. One of them must have grazed Narciso’s cheek, for with a cry of dismay he dropped his dagger and clasped both hands to his face. It took a moment for both him and Adrio to realize the weapon had fallen. Stunned, they stared at each other, until Adrio let out a growl, kicked away the knife, and in one ferocious motion head-butted the priest. Narciso stumbled backward, unable to keep his footing. He grabbed hold of the tall standard from which Lena’s banner hung.

Under normal circumstances it would have taken more than a single man to topple the pole from its heavy base. Even a man and a determined fifteen-year-old boy working together would have found it a challenge. The two of them charging in tandem at high speed, however, combined with the fire winds that were already causing the mighty banners to whip around, proved too much for mere wood to take. Lena, still gazing gently down at her book, wafted up and away as the pole supporting her splintered and took down the man still clutching desperately to its length. The stag at her feet, however, began to burn as the dry and ancient textiles landed gently atop the closest of the now-still tree trunks.