Turning the Storm (14 page)

Rosalba turned and went back to her desk. “Take him away, then,” she said to the guards, and tore up the paper on which she'd started writing his confession.

My hands were shaking; I could barely hold my bow steady. I let the last note fade away and then carefully lowered my violin. Rosalba said nothing, crumpling the shreds of paper on her desk. Finally she spoke. “They will drive the Maledori from his heart eventually,” she said, “but there may be very little left by then.”

“And then?” I asked, lowering my violin.

“He'll be executed, of course, to prevent the evil from spreading, and the Lady will take him to Her.” She sighed. “I'm sorry, Daniele; I know that was hard for you to see. Why don't you go to the chapel and say a prayer for Octavio before you go back to your room?”

Since arriving at Court, I had not set foot in the Imperial Chapel of the Lady—in fact, the last time I had been in a church was during my trip to Doratura, when Giula and I had taken shelter from the rain. The church by the roadside had been a simple building, wood and brick with a linen cloth on the altar. I found myself trembling slightly as I walked up the white marble steps into the Imperial Chapel, opening the heavy door to slip inside.

The chapel interior was shadowed and dark, even with the faded autumn sun shining through the windows of colored glass. The building was chill, almost as cold inside as out, and I tucked my hands inside my cloak, trying to warm them. I had no particular desire to pray, but I decided to walk Gaius's Circuit anyway, because I was afraid that Rosalba might have followed
me or sent someone to watch me. I paused to meditate by the first altar, the Lady's Appearance to Gaius in a Vision, raising my hands and bowing my head in a prayerful attitude.

Gèsu forgive me
, I thought, not willing to risk praying under my breath.
You know why I am truly here
. The icon of the Lady smiled benignly at me; this was one of the more insipid icons I'd seen, clearly designed by someone who strongly approved of the Lady as the Ever-Doting Mother of us all. Either that or a secret Redentore painted it to make trouble, but that seemed a little unlikely.

After an appropriate interval, I moved on to the next altar, Gaius's Return to the Old Imperial City. I wished Giovanni were here, so I could yell at him. What am I supposed to do here? How much longer do I have to take this? How am I supposed to use what I know to do anything
useful
? “You'll figure out a way,” Giovanni would have said. “You're supposed to be so
clever
, aren't you? Uncorrupted by
a university
education.”

I moved on toward the next altar on the Circuit— Gaius's Founding of the Circle—and then the next, the Lady's Victory Over Foolish Superstition. Still insipid, the smiling Lady rested her dainty foot on a broken cross. I closed my eyes.
Gèsu
, I whispered aloud, but very softly,
give your servant Octavio strength. Help him to know that he is not alone
. I knew I could never endure what Octavio had. And I wasn't sure whether to be happy or horrified that my music had given him strength to refuse them again. “There must be some way to turn this to my advantage,” I whispered. “Help me find a way.”

“How can the Lady help you, my daughter?”

I jumped in startled fear, but the priest was not
speaking to me. Of course not; I was already engaged in walking Gaius's Circuit. The priest—I sneaked a look at him from the corner of my eye—was addressing a young woman in robes who had just entered the cathedral. A young woman who now followed him down toward the great altar, her eyes downcast. I moved on to the next altar, taking a look at the young woman as I did so.

It was Mira.

I stumbled on the stones under my feet and nearly fell. The priest turned to stare at me as I recovered myself, but fortunately Mira did not. She continued on to the Great Altar without looking up.

“I am here only to pray,” she said in a clear, even voice. “I don't need your assistance, Father.”

He moved off as she knelt and closed her eyes.

The fourth altar of Gaius's Circuit is traditionally placed directly behind the Great Altar, and by a quirk of the furniture arrangements, when I turned around I had a perfectly clear view of Mira's face. Which meant, of course, that if she opened her eyes right now she would have a perfectly clear view of
my
face, as well, but for at least the next moment or two, I didn't care.

Mira
. Miriamne. Her face was pale and thin, her eyes and cheeks sunken, as if she were living in Ravenna instead of the Circle's cradle of luxury within the capital city. Was she praying to the Lady with sincerity? Or did she secretly whisper prayers in the Old Tongue, like I did? I wondered if the Fedeli would dare to accuse a member of the Full Circle of apostasy. As Mira straightened her back, I flipped my cloak hood over my face to conceal myself, but she did not see me. Her right hand flicked in a tiny, almost undetectable gesture, drawing
a tiny cross over her heart. Then she rose and strode quickly out of the chapel.

I decided I didn't care anymore whether I had been followed; I couldn't stay in here any longer. Abandoning Gaius's circuit halfway through, I fled back to my room.

U
lisse had asked me to follow Valentino, so as night fell, I watched quietly from my window. I could readily imagine that Valentino might be visiting Sura in secret, although in truth I sympathized with him. Why shouldn't he flirt with any girl who would put up with him, and be friends with anyone he chose?
That just goes to show your naïveté
, I could almost hear Giovanni saying;
yet another thing you know nothing about
.

It was a long, boring wait. The last of the stragglers slipped inside from their evening strolls, and the enclave became quiet. I could hear the gentle splash of a fountain near the edge of the garden; then, farther away, I heard the sound of a single trumpet.

There! Someone was leaving the building. I slipped out of my seat by the window, tossed my cloak around my shoulders, and went out into the night.

I caught up with the shadowy figure quickly enough, but I couldn't tell whether or not I was following Valentino. Whoever it was headed for the nearest exit,
and I quickly checked to make sure I had my badge around my neck. I did. It made sense, I supposed, to have a secret meeting outside the enclave; it wasn't as if we were prisoners here. We wound our way through the city streets. I realized, too late, that I was never going to be able to find my way back. Well, if necessary, I could hole up somewhere and then ask directions in the morning. Everyone else in Cuore doubtless knew the way to the Imperial enclave.

I was expecting to arrive at a seedy tavern, but instead the person I was pursuing made his way to a quiet street of dark buildings—warehouses, I thought. I could smell the earthy smell of unwashed wool, and the acrid smell of dye; I thought we were probably in the textile merchants' district. The man I was following stopped, and I ducked back behind the edge of the building as he tapped lightly on a door several times. I could see the faintest flicker of candlelight from the doorway as he went inside, and I moved around to peer through a crack at the bottom of the shuttered window.

I had not been following Valentino—looking at him in the candlelight, I was quite sure of that. I wasn't sure
who
it was, though, because he—like everyone else in the room—was masked. There were eleven people in the room, and every one wore a white veil that covered the lower half of their faces, obscuring their features. My first thought was that they were preparing a performance for Mascherata, which was only a few weeks away, but they seemed much too nervous to be involved in something that innocent. Then one of them lifted the candle from the table, and I saw a small plate with a white cloth over it, and a chalice of wine.
Redentori
.

I knew I shouldn't be watching this. If they had any sense, they'd check for observers before they started
their ritual, and I doubted a spy would be treated politely. I slipped back out into the street, and collided with a tall man in a black cloak. His hood fell back and I saw that he, too was masked.

“Sorry,” I said, and started to dodge aside, but his hand closed on my arm and he jerked me in to the room through the open door.

“Weren't you watching the alley?” he said sharply to the woman with the candle. The cloth over his face muffled his voice slightly. “Look what I found.” He shoved me to the floor. “Spying on us.”

My mouth went dry. “I've seen nothing,” I said. “I don't know who you are.”

The woman with the candle slammed the door and barred it. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I have a friend who's in trouble with a lady, that's who I thought I was following—”

“You followed someone here?” The man who'd caught me looked around the shadowed room, his eyes narrowing.

“We have to kill him.” It was the man I'd followed who spoke. I stared up at him; I didn't recognize his eyes or his voice, but presumably he was one of the musicians. For all I knew,
he
was a spy. Revealing myself as Redentore—let alone as Eliana—could get me killed even if they believed me and let me go.

The man I'd followed drew his knife. “I think he followed me. It's only just. I'll do it.”

“Wait!” I said. “Don't hurt me. I swear I won't tell anyone what I saw.”

“What good is the vow of a Della Chiesa?” said the man who'd dragged me in, speaking more to his comrades than to me.

There was a hush, then the man I'd followed lunged
at me with his knife. I rolled aside, drawing my own knife and throwing myself back into the corner. They'd be able to take me if they wanted to, but maybe I could bluff my way out of this somehow. I pushed myself to my feet, my back against the wall. The man who'd tried to kill me was keeping his distance with a glare. If he was a musician, which seemed likely, he wouldn't know any more about knife-fighting than I'd known before I started lessons with Giovanni.

“Just let me leave,” I said. “If you try, you'll be able to take this knife from me, but blood will be shed, and it won't all be mine. I don't want to hurt any of you. I'm no danger to you—I don't know who I followed, nor who any of you are. And I
wouldn't
turn you in even if I could.”

The man who'd caught me moved toward me slowly, his hands empty, palms up. “Our brother drew steel quickly,” he said. “We don't want to hurt you.”

I relaxed slightly—and with a jerk and a flash of reflected candlelight, his sword was at my throat, pinning me to the wall.

“Drop your knife,” he said.

I dropped it.

“It's clear you know what we are, and why we're here,” he said. “Why did you come?”

“I told you the truth,” I said. “My friend Ulisse asked me to trail his friend Valentino, to make sure he wasn't meeting a certain girl secretly. Stupid enclave political goatshit. I'm just a musician. Valentino's just a musician. Why would—”

“Shut up,” the man said, pressing the sword a little harder against my throat. “You're ‘just a musician’ like this sword is just an eating-knife. Where did you learn to fight?”

“From my brothers,” I said. “Growing up.”

The man made a sound of disgust and I saw his grip on the sword tighten.

“Wait!” I said and my voice cracked. “Don't kill me. I'm one of you. I'm Redentore.”

“Nice try,” the man said, “but I think we've heard enough of your lies.”

“
Stop
,” I shouted, and to my surprise, he did. “If I were Fedele—as you obviously think I am—why would I be sneaking around in an alley? I would have
infiltrated
your group. I would have arrived on your doorstep with something to make you trust me. I would be pretending to be one of you right now and you
would not be holding a sword at my throat
, you'd be celebrating Mass and you wouldn't even
know
that the knife was already in your back.”

“If you are one of us,” the woman with the candle said, “why did you wait till now to tell us?”

My gaze swept around the room. “Every one of
you
is masked,” I said. “I am not. For all I know, you know who I am—and one of you probably
is
Fedele, sent to spy. And you know that, or why the masks? I had hoped I could persuade you to free me, and I wouldn't have to reveal my
own
secret.”

The man with the sword shook his head. “It's too late to make claims like this.” I saw his hand tighten again, and I looked around the room desperately, searching for sympathetic eyes.

“Wait.” One of the men spoke—a short, stout man with a gentle tenor voice. “You judge hastily, brother. The boy's story sounds plausible enough to me.” He stepped forward into the circle of candlelight and laid a restraining hand on the other man, then turned to
me. “If you are what you say, sing the opening prayer for the Mass.”

The sword eased back, and I took a deep—shaky— breath. For a petrifying instant, my mind went blank, but I formed the violin fingering with my left hand and could remember again. “B'shaem Arkah, v'Bar Shelah, v'Nihor Kadosh,” I sang. I started the melody too high, and had to switch to the lower register, and my voice broke three times, but I made it through the opening prayer. I remembered just as I finished that I was supposed to be a boy. I hoped I hadn't sung too high.

There was a long, uncertain silence when I finished.

“Let him go,” said my defender. “He's telling the truth.”

“The Fedeli could learn our prayers,” said the man with the sword.

“The Fedeli, yes,” said my defender. “But not a random passerby who hoped to betray us for a rich reward. And he's right. The Fedeli would be in our midst, not peering in through a crack in the shutter.” He laid his hand on the other man's sword-arm. “
Let him go
.”

Reluctantly, the man lowered his sword and put it away.

My defender turned to me. “You are welcome to stay and celebrate with us, brother,” he said.