City of Secrets (3 page)

‘Matteo Bosco,' said the man, rolling the syllables round his mouth. ‘That is a good name for you in Padavia.'

Matt had no idea what he might mean. ‘Where is this?' he asked.

‘It is the Scriptorium,' said Constantin. ‘My Scriptorium, you might say. It used to belong to a monastery, where monks copied manuscripts. But now we have movable type and the books are printed. You could call it a “Stamparium” I suppose.'

He patted the nearest machine affectionately, as if it were a favourite dog.

‘But you must come into my studio,' he said suddenly. ‘I have clothes waiting for you.'

He took off his scholar's robe and threw it round Matt's shoulders. Matt looked down at himself, incongruous in his pyjama bottoms, his chest and feet bare under the heavy black gown. This was a very realistic dream.

It wasn't until then that he noticed he was holding the little leather-bound book in his hand.

But the Professor was leading him off towards a side door, beckoning him to be quick. Matt got the impression that Constantin didn't want the men at the far end of the Scriptorium to see him. He followed obediently, though he had no idea what was going on.

Constantin's ‘studio' was nothing like what that word conjured up in Matt's brain and he was amazed that his sleeping mind could come up with such a scene. The only furniture was a large wooden desk, a wooden armchair and a couple of stools. But every surface was covered with books, parchments, rolls of paper and printed pictures.

There were no bookshelves, which would have been the obvious solution to the clutter. Matt wondered how the Professor could find anything he wanted. There was no electric light or desk lamp but there were candle-holders on the walls and a big candlestick on the desk, which had dripped fantastic patterns of wax on to both wood and papers. And there was an unpleasant smell like old cooking fat. On one wall there was a religious picture that Matt somehow knew was called an icon. On the opposite one there was a cupboard built into an alcove. There was one window with a deep wooden window seat. Through it Matt could see a jumble of old buildings and narrow streets.

The view and the candles, together with Constantin's clothes, made Matt realise that he was dreaming of a distant past. The Professor was saying something, gathering up some clothes from a pile on a stool.

‘Put these on,' he was saying. ‘Of course, if anyone sees you haven't a shadow, your secret will be revealed. But at least you will be less conspicuous in these.'

He looked at Matt critically. ‘Apart from your hair, of course. Why do you young men in the twenty-first century wear it so short? We'll have to find you a hat. I don't suppose you'd accept a wig.'

As he was rattling on, Matt looked down at the tiled floor of the studio. The light from the setting sun was streaming through the window on to him but as he twisted round to look, he saw that what Constantin said was true: he cast no shadow.

‘What an odd detail for a dream,' he thought.

But the Professor was urging him into the clothes. Matt shrugged and put them on. It was not a bad idea to go along with things in dreams, he found. But the clothes were weird – sort of velvet trousers and a ruffled shirt. There were black leather shoes too with big silver buckles. What on earth must he look like? Constantin rummaged in the cupboard in the wall and triumphantly pulled out a dusty black velvet hat. He held it out to Matt.

‘There!' he said. ‘Now you can pass for a Talian.'

*

Barbara was petrified. It took away almost all the pleasure she felt in wearing the glorious turquoise silk dress and matching mask. Her hair was elaborately dressed, with turquoise ribbon threaded through it, and ornamented with butterfly pins of diamond and sapphire.

She was sitting between the Duchessa's father, the Regent Rodolfo Rossi, and his new wife, Silvia, at a banqueting table in the Ducal palace. Senator Rossi was making a speech but Barbara was too nervous to concentrate on what he was saying or on eating any of the fine food on her plate.

‘Her Grace, my daughter, is unfortunately unable to address you all today,' said Rodolfo. ‘Regrettably she is indisposed by a sore throat and has lost her voice . . .'

Barbara coughed elegantly into a little lace handkerchief. How on earth had milady ever thought they would both get away with this deception?

‘. . . but she has asked me to thank you for your presence here to celebrate her birthday – and indeed your
presents
, which you in your generosity have showered upon her.'

He cast his eyes towards an oak table laden with boxes and jars tied with satin ribbons of every colour, while the guests laughed at his little jest.

Barbara thought longingly of what the contents might be – the jewels and lace collars, the writing-cases and scented bath oils. If only they were really for her! But she knew that the real Duchessa did not care about belongings – perhaps because she was so wealthy she could afford anything she wanted. The only gifts that meant anything to her were the ones from her parents and her fiancé. Barbara had seen how delighted she was when she opened Luciano's present of earrings. She wondered if they were having a happy time together now; it must surely be better than what she was going through.

*

‘And now,' said Constantin. ‘You must have questions you want to ask me.'

‘Not really,' said Matt. ‘I mean, this is a dream, right?'

‘Is that your first question?' said the Professor. ‘Good. We have started with an easy one. No, it is not a dream. You are in Talia, in the city called Padavia, famous for its University. It's the second oldest in Talia, after the one in Bellona. And I am a professor at this University.'

‘OK,' said Matt, playing along. ‘And are we in the University now? I mean I thought we were in the Scriptorium or the Stamparium or whatever.'

‘The Scriptorium is part of the University now,' said Constantin. ‘It is all that remains of an old monastery next to the main university building. And it was suitable in size for my enterprise of a printing press. I like to think, too, that it has always been a place where books were produced. And on your visits here we shall say that you are one of my apprentices.'

Matt couldn't help pulling a face.

‘You don't like books?' said Constantin. ‘I see you have one in your hand.'

Matt looked again at the leather-bound book he had bought at Mortimer Goldsmith's antiques shop. It was strange how solid and real it felt in his hand, just the way it did when he was awake.

‘I like this one,' he admitted. ‘I don't know why though.'

‘Because it spoke to you,' said Constantin. ‘It is your talisman and it found you. I have been waiting for it to do so for some time.'

The strangest feeling was growing in Matt that this wasn't an ordinary dream. The leather-bound book could well have come from a time and place like this. That was it, he thought: he had made up this whole dream-world to explain to himself where the book belonged. It couldn't hurt to tell this imaginary man the truth.

‘I'm not good with books,' he said. ‘I . . . I have problems with reading.'

He felt a bit stupid, sitting in a scholar's room, overflowing with books, in a university, even if it was only a dream one, confessing that he wasn't good at reading. But the Professor wasn't fazed. He picked up a volume from his desk and held it out to Matt.

‘Have a try,' he said. ‘Things are often different in Talia.'

Matt took the book reluctantly. His heart sank as he opened it. Lines of fuzzy black type filled the pages; it was just the sort of thing he wouldn't be able to read.

And then something miraculous happened. The words somehow formed in his mind and he found he was reading, quite easily, a rather dull book about weapons. He stopped and looked up at the Professor, who was smiling encouragingly at him.

‘You see,' said Constantin. ‘In Talia you can read.'

Chapter 3

First Impressions

The alarm on his mobile phone screeched at Matt at the usual time, followed five minutes later by the even shriller sound of his alarm clock. Both phone and clock were on his desk across the room from his bed, the only arrangement that worked to get him up in the morning. He groaned under the duvet then flung it aside, staggered over to the source of the noise and pressed buttons till it stopped. He looked longingly at his bed, still warm and enticing. It seemed only minutes since he had fallen into that deep sleep.

And there was the book; just seeing it brought the whole dream back. Constantin had told him he was a Stravagante – a traveller between worlds – but what was even more amazing, he had said that Matt wasn't the only one to find his way to Talia from Barnsbury Comp. That wasn't so extraordinary for a dream – after all, Matt had seen Georgia and Nick only yesterday – but Constantin had also mentioned Sky, the boy with dreadlocks, and another boy, who had died and lived again in Talia.

Matt shook the last shreds of sleep out of his head. Maybe he was wrong to think he wasn't good at Arts subjects? If he put this dream down on paper, it would make a great story for Creative Writing. The Professor had told him he could get back to his own world any time he wanted, just by falling asleep with the book in his hand while thinking of home. His ‘talisman' was what Constantin called the book.

‘Every Stravagante has one,' he had said. ‘It is his or her most valued possession and must be guarded with their life. There are enemies in Talia who want to find out the secrets of stravagation.'

Matt picked up a book from his desk. It was a Maths textbook with little writing in it so he couldn't tell if his reading was any better. He turned instead to his childhood books on the shelf. He had always kept copies of the books his mother read to him as a kid, even if he struggled to read novels himself. Now he took out
Tom's Midnight Garden
, an old favourite, hoping to read it as fluently as he had the book in Talia.

But it was no different from before. The words still got themselves all snarled up like tangled fishing-line. That glorious feeling of extracting meaning from them without trying, like swimming underwater or flying, had disappeared.

But how could I have imagined something I've never experienced, thought Matt. I didn't think you could do that in dreams.

‘Time to get up!' yelled his mum up the stairs and Matt hurried to get to the bathroom before Harry; understanding the dream would have to wait.

Alfredo bustled about the house organising a dinner that he thought worthy of the Duchessa and roping Marco in to help cook and serve it. But Luciano and Arianna would hardly have noticed if he had provided bread and cheese and a glass of ale.

They had gone out to walk about the city, Arianna with her fisherman's cap back on, and it felt like the day when they had first met.

‘You have to be my guide now, Luciano,' she said. ‘I have never been to Padavia.'

‘I don't know it that well myself,' said Luciano, who had to stop himself from holding her hand. ‘I've only been here two weeks. It's not the same as when you explained Bellezza to me.'

‘Not so different,' said Arianna. ‘Although I loved the city, I didn't know it as well then as I do now. I lived on Torrone, remember. Bellezza was for high days and holidays.'

‘And now?'

She fetched a deep sigh.

‘Much the same. It seems as if a duchessa's days are all special in some way. There are state occasions, or sitting in Senate or Council, or meeting ambassadors or listening to citizens' grievances. There's never time for just . . . being. Well, you know how it is. You've seen me wearing five sets of clothes a day. How do you think you will bear it when we are married?'

‘I'll just have to enjoy watching you undress five times a day,' said Luciano and she punched his arm just as if she had been a real male friend.

‘You know what I mean,' she said. ‘How much time will we have together on our own to talk like this? And do you think we'd ever be able to roam the streets the way we did when you were my father's apprentice and I was an island girl visiting her aunt?'

‘Is that why you have come to Padavia?' asked Luciano.

‘I wanted to have one last birthday when I could just be me,' said Arianna pensively. ‘It's really hard to be Duchessa all the time.'

‘Come on then,' said Luciano. ‘Let's make the most of it. I can show you the basilica. It's not quite as grand as the Maddalena in Bellezza, but it's pretty impressive.'

He led her into the many-domed cathedral and neither of them noticed that they were being watched by a rather bedraggled-looking figure, dressed in what had once been a handsome blue velvet suit.

*

Silvia was watching the Duchessa no less intently. There was something not quite right; Arianna would not meet her eyes. What was she up to? The banquet had been a muted affair because of the Duchessa's indisposition but now that the guests were gathered on the colonnaded balcony overlooking the sea, there was the usual excitement about Rodolfo's fireworks.

They were launched from a raft in the lagoon while the company watched and for a while the Duchessa seemed like her normal animated self, clapping each firework and set piece. The customary winged rams flew across the sky in a shower of silver and purple stars, peacocks opened and closed their magnificent tails, two giant spotted cats leapt above the lagoon. At the same moment a groom brought the Duchessa's own two African cats up on to the balcony.

‘There is definitely something not right,' said Silvia to herself. The Duchessa seemed nervous of the cats, patting them distractedly; she would normally have flung her arms round their necks and kissed their furry faces, even when dressed in her most formal clothes. Everyone knew how the young Duchessa loved her cats, although they had been given to her by her greatest enemy.

Silvia was supposed to be Rodolfo's second wife; just a handful of people knew that she was his only wife and the previous Duchessa, Arianna's mother. So in public she couldn't behave towards Arianna with anything more than the concern appropriate for a new stepmother. But she itched to get her on her own and put her to the test.

Rodolfo made his way back to the Ducal Palace, pleased with his display but worried about his daughter; perhaps it was just her illness but she really hadn't seemed herself this evening. He said as much to his wife, as soon as the guests had dispersed and Arianna had gone to bed.

‘That's because she wasn't,' said Silvia tartly.

‘Wasn't?'

‘Herself. I had been suspicious ever since her maid told us about the sore throat yesterday, but when she was nervous of the great cats then I knew something was amiss. I made her look at me when she said goodnight.'

‘And?'

‘And what looked back at me were the brown eyes of the maid, not the violet ones of our daughter.'

‘So,' said Rodolfo. ‘She used a double. Did you not say anything?'

‘What good would it have been to chastise the maid, who is probably terrified? Do you suppose the deception was her idea? No, we shall wait till Arianna returns.'

‘And where do you think she will return from?'

‘It does not take a magician to divine that, surely?' said Silvia, suddenly weary.

Rodolfo took her hand. ‘She is with Luciano.' He felt as rejected as Silvia did. He had been reunited with his undreamt-of daughter for only two years and in all that time he had never been the most important man in her life. It still pained him to think of how he had missed her entire childhood, when she might have turned first to him for protection and love.

All he said was, ‘She didn't see the fireworks.'

But Silvia squeezed his hand in sympathy for more than pyrotechnics.

‘It's natural,' she said. ‘But so very, very dangerous.'

*

Beatrice di Chimici was lonely in the vast palace in Giglia where she lived with her oldest brother Fabrizio and his wife. It was all so different from what had been planned. Before the weddings – and the murders that would for ever be linked with them – she had been going to live with her father Niccolò, the old Grand Duke. It would have been in the same great palace, taken from the Nucci as a penalty for planning the massacre, but her life would have been so much more vivid and rewarding. Ever since her father had been killed in the duel in the palace gardens, Princess Beatrice's life had felt drained of colour.

The new Grand Duke was very close to insanity. Along with the title, he had inherited only six months ago a vast empire of wealth and influence and a position as head of the most important family in Talia. But he was only twenty-three and the weight of his responsibilities was almost too much for him. Although he was so recently married, memories of his wedding day were blighted by the massacre that had included the murder of his brother Carlo, and by early next year he hoped to be a father. The di Chimici dynasty must carry on.

But Fabrizio was still in pain from the wounds he had sustained at the wedding. Carlo, who should have been living in the Ducal Palace across the river and bustling back and forth between the two homes along the special elevated corridor that Niccolò had built, was dead. And Gaetano seemed so far away, living in the old di Chimici palace, which had been home to all of them less than a year ago.

After the duel, Beatrice had wanted to go and live with Gaetano and his new wife Francesca in the old palace but Fabrizio wouldn't hear of it.

‘I need you, Bice,' he had said. ‘And so does Caterina.'

And Beatrice had always responded to her family's needs. Her brother's plea carried more weight with her than if he had ordered her to stay with them. But ever since the terrible days after the wedding when she had nursed her two surviving brothers and Filippo Nucci as they recovered from their wounds, Beatrice had been restless.

All her life, she had been proud to be a di Chimici, a member of the most important and wealthy family in all Talia. She was a born princess and lived with the confidence and authority that her background brought with it. Fine clothes and jewels, the best to eat and drink that Giglia could afford, the obedience of servants and deference of citizens: all these had seemed to be hers by right.

But that had all changed in a few minutes in the Church of the Annunciation six months ago. It was all very well to know that a di Chimici cousin had killed a Nucci in Giglia a generation earlier. It was even possible for her sometimes to forget that young Davide Nucci had been stabbed and it was rumoured that her brother Carlo had wielded the dagger. But however much she might have tried to hide from the realities of bloody inter-family feuds, there was no escaping the truth in the Church of the Annunciation.

Carlo dead. Camillo Nucci dead. Fabrizio and Gaetano in mortal danger. Other Nucci and di Chimici dead or wounded. And all that before her eyes, in a nightmare of shouting and drawn weapons, swords flashing through the air, daggers stabbing. Beatrice thought she would never forget the sight of four brides in blood-soaked wedding finery.

And then the flood in the city and the slow nursing back to health of three young men, two she loved and one who was supposed to be her mortal enemy. That was when she had discovered that her feelings for the three were not so different. And as soon as he was well enough, Filippo Nucci had been exiled to Classe, forbidden ever to return to Giglia. She would never see him again.