Path of Smoke (6 page)

“We have to go,” Morgan whispered. “Now.”

They hurried back down the stairs. The artifices watched them go but didn't say anything. Babieca turned and saw that the machinae were still in a circle. They didn't follow him, but neither did they return to their builders. They seemed to be locked in a silent exchange, a language of turns and bright flashes that he couldn't decode.

When they left the tower, Babieca was momentarily blinded by the sun. He felt slightly feverish and tried to steady himself. Before he could move, Fel grabbed him by the arm, dragging him into the cool shadows of a nearby alley.

She nearly slammed him against the wall. He could feel the moss on his back, the sharp stones digging into his bare skin.

“What
was
that?”

He shook his head. “I don't know.”

“Have you lost your mind? That was one of the last places where we could move unseen. Nobody knew us. Now, they're going to remember the idiot trovador who charmed all of their machines, like Fortuna herself was playing through him.”

“I don't know,” he repeated, lamely. “I didn't think that would happen.”

“You've well and truly fucked us.”

“Fel—” Morgan tried to interpose herself between the two of them. “I don't think he knew what he was doing.”

“He never does. That's exactly the problem.”

“No. He has a gift.”

He blinked at this. He'd always thought that, like most people, Morgan saw him as a poor nemo with no talent to speak of. His songs had been a means to an end, a way to generate quick coin. Nobody had ever used the word
gift
to describe his abilities. He looked at her, a bit strangely, as if she were just now coming into focus.

“Do you really think so?”

Morgan sighed. “You're shit at controlling it, but every once in a while, I can hear something in your music. Something that moves me.”

They were silent for a few moments. Babieca stared at the walls of the alley. He knew that Anfractus was trying to tell him something, but the words lay just out of reach. His fingers were beginning to smart. As he felt the pain, he knew that the dream was over. Like Felix, the music was done with him. Somewhere in his gut, Babieca felt an animal clawing to get out. He pushed it down, and it screamed. But it wasn't strong enough to resist. He swallowed. The song had left him bloodless, yet he was still alive. That made everything worse.

Unexpectedly, Fel placed a hand on his shoulder. “I'm sorry.”

Had she seen his expression? Had she felt the hoarse pain, struggling to escape? Babieca simply nodded.

“It's fine. You were right. I've fucked us again.”

“Well”—her mouth betrayed a smile—“some of us could use it.”

He laughed in spite of himself. “Dear miles. I never knew.”

“For now, you'd do best to shut up, and keep that lute in its case.”

“I solemnly swear.”

“We can make use of your other talents,” Morgan said, leading him into the sunlight. “The less dangerous ones.”

“Like what?”

“Being a shameless strumpet.”

“I can do that with one hand tied.”

They walked to the Brass Gear, which had one foot in the entertainment district while the other balanced on more respectable ground. Artifices had once occupied some of the highest positions within the city, a select few advising the basilissa herself. Now they practically shared a spoke with trovadores and meretrices. They were entertainment. Still, the gens cleaved to their academic image. Along with the spadones, they archived and protected knowledge. Babieca remembered wandering through their undercroft with Julia, gazing at the parts and sleeping machinae that no longer functioned. Sulpicia had emerged delicately from the hoard of gears and broken charms, and her presence had startled them both. He wondered what she was doing at the moment. Probably keeping an eye on Eumachia, the daughter of the basilissa. How strange, to be a mechanical fox with the spark of life, wandering through the Arx of Violets on swift feet.

The common room of the Brass Gear was sparsely populated. At this hour, most of the builders were still paying their respects at the tower. It would be imprudent to remain here for too long, since many of the builders who had witnessed his musical event were probably on their way to the caupona. He squinted. Great brass discs were positioned in the corners of the room, and they reflected the lamplight in a way that dazzled him, for a moment. When the spots cleared from his eyes, he saw that only a few of the tables were occupied. An older woman in a patterned stola was working on a mechanical dove. Beside her, a boy was scowling at a tablet. The scattering of parts before him suggested that the design wasn't going too well. The ale-wife moved behind the counter, serving drinks from a cracked amphora.

“I'm going to ask her about Julia,” Babieca said. “Give me some money.”

“Absolutely not,” Morgan replied.

“I need something to bargain with.”

“Just use your body, like any decent person would.”

“Fine. If she wants a bribe, I'll show her the cobwebs in my purse.”

Morgan rolled her eyes. “Just lift up your tunica and be done with it.”

“What sort of crass world are you living in? Do archers simply grunt and lift their tunicae whenever they meet each other on the battlements?”

She gave him a light shove. “Just go. Be creative in the face of adversity.”

He smoothed his hair and approached the L-shaped counter. The ale-wife was pouring hot chickpeas into a clay vat.

“Let me help you with that,” he offered.

“You'd only smash your fingers.” She smoothly replaced the vat, which fit into a round opening in the counter. “What's your pleasure?”

“I could name several.”

She gave him a flat look. “What do you want to drink? We've got spiced wine, hippocrene, and barley beer so thick you could balance a knife in it.”

“I'm actually looking for some information.”

Her expression didn't change. “I don't know what cheap scrolls you've been reading, but I run a caupona. I'm too busy to fuck about with intrigue. Go to court if you're looking for that.”

“I can respect that you're busy—”

“Drink something, or go away, nemo.”

The insult stung him, but only slightly. “Fine. I'll have—”

She'd already poured him some wine from the amphora. “One maravedi.”

Babieca reached into his purse. This investigation was growing more expensive by the moment, and the whole point had been to avoid spending anything. He handed over the coin, and the ale-wife snatched it quickly, as a bird might snatch a seed from your hand.

“Enjoy,” she said, and started to walk away.

“Wait. Please.”

She turned, now looking annoyed. “Fortuna preserve us, boy, is this your first drink? Just drain the cup, and I'll get you another. It's not so difficult.”

He cleared his throat. “As I was saying before, it isn't intrigue that I'm looking for. It's a young artifex. A woman, about my age, with red hair.”

“I see a lot of women. She doesn't sound familiar.”

“She's Naucrate's daughter.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That's a significant name, boy. Don't throw it around unless you can prove what you claim.”

“Did you hear about the bee that nearly killed Basilissa Pulcheria?”

“That's old news.”

“Well, the bee was Naucrate's design. She gave it to her daughter, and then a fat spado took it from her. Is this starting to sound more plausible?”

“Not really.”

“We need to talk to her. I've seen her in this tavern, building birds.”

“You've just described half of our patrons.”

He touched her hand, lightly. “Let's talk about this upstairs.”

The ale-wife looked at him curiously for a moment. Then she burst into laughter, sliding her hand away. “This was your plan? To seduce me?”

Babieca struggled to maintain his composure. “I assure you, it was no jest.”

“And I assure you, fuckwit, that your tiny cock holds no interest for me.”

“Really? You haven't even seen what it can do.”

She shook her head and returned to pouring drinks. “I've no interest in whatever games you've taught the little brain to play. I chase the velvet, not the fur.”

“But I'm not a—” He bit down on the word
fur
as realization dawned. “Oh. You're in search of a different type of refreshment altogether.”

For a moment, she looked at Fel, who was standing by the door. Babieca knew that look very well. Then she returned to her task. “No time, anyhow,” she said. “Someone's puked in the necessary, and after I clean that up—”

“Leave that to me,” Babieca said smoothly. “If you give me one moment to speak with my friend, it's possible that we can work something out.”

Before she could reply, he grabbed his drink and walked back to the entrance. Morgan gave him an expectant look.

“Well? What did she say?”

“She knows who Julia is, but she's not quite willing to tell us. Not yet.”

“What does she want?”

“Fel.”

The miles stared at him. “What?”

“Do I need to draw you a picture? She wants to peel off your lorica.”

Fel reddened, staring at the floor. “Out of the question.”

“Just go and flirt with her for a while.”

“That was supposed to be your job.”

Fel's voice had a strangled quality to it that Babieca hadn't heard before. He tried very hard not to smile. “I have to clean up a pile of puke. I assure you that your task will be far sweeter. Now go. Make us proud.”

“This is ridiculous,” Fel muttered.

“Once we're a company, we won't have to resort to these sordid activities.” He could no longer keep himself from smiling. “For now, we've got to—how did Morgan put it—be creative in the face of adversity?”

“I'm sorry,” Morgan whispered.

“I despise both of you right now,” Fel said. “I hope you understand that.”

Cleaning out the necessary was no joyful task, and by the time Babieca finished, he was covered in sweat and unsightly stains. He'd also torn a hole in his tunica, which would do nothing to improve his appearance. When he emerged, Fel was still talking with the ale-wife. She saw him, disentangled herself politely, and walked back to the entrance of the caupona.

“You stink,” she said.

“What a triumph of logic. Did you find out where she is?”

Fel looked embarrassed. “Yes.”

“Well done! You must have really—”

“Finish that sentence, trovador, and I'll carve out your guts.”

“Understood.”

“It was very sweet,” Morgan said beneath her breath, as they followed the miles. “She definitely has a soft side.”

“That threat goes for both of you,” Fel said, without turning around.

They circled the edge of the Subura, until they came to Aditus Claustrum. The street was packed with squat, three-story insulae. Laundry hung from lines suspended over the alleys. The vici wasn't precisely disheveled, but it was a far cry from the northern part of the city. This was where people with shaky prospects tended to settle. The ground floor of each insula was rented out by various shopkeepers. Babieca saw mercers, silk merchants, and scent-peddlers. The dyers had to work at the edge of the city, on account of their stink. Urine was used to fix most dyes. A concession was made, though, in the form of bottles placed outside the shops. Occasionally, a passerby would stop, piss into one of the bottles, and then continue on his way. At the end of the day, the shop owners would deliver the bottles to the outskirts of the city and collect a few coins for their malodorous gift to the dyers.

Fel stopped outside a small workshop fronting one of the insulae. A tablet affixed to the wall proclaimed that the builder could fix anything. A shattered organ leaned against the wall of the workshop, attesting to the fact that the sign wasn't completely accurate.

“She must have earned herself an apprenticeship,” Morgan said. Her expression betrayed a flash of remorse. “Maybe we should just leave her alone.”

“I don't think so.” Babieca squared his shoulders. “You know that she's a part of this. No amount of hiding will save her, in the end.”

“Do we really need to rush the inevitable?”

“What we need,” Fel said, “is a fourth. An artifex could be very useful.”

“You don't know her very well,” Babieca said. “She isn't the most agreeable builder in the city. She's got a bit of a temper.”

“Perfect. So do I.” Fel opened the door.

The bottegha was lined with shelves. Devices and debris were everywhere, sometimes indistinguishable from each other. Babieca saw rings and charms, broken sundials, music boxes, dolls with articulated limbs, and divining rods. A bin was overflowing with mechanical frogs. Julia stood behind the counter, frowning at a tablet. Behind her, a tattered curtain separated the shop from what must have been the sleeping quarters beyond. He smelled smoke from a brazier, and the aroma of grilled mushrooms.

Julia looked up. The polite smile vanished from her face when she recognized him.

“What are you doing here?”

“We wanted to see your new workshop.” He nodded in appreciation. “It's very compact. Lots of frogs.”

“You have to leave. The master will be back any moment.”

“I thought you had no use for masters.”

Her eyes darkened. “In case you haven't noticed, I don't have a lot of options.”

“I thought you were studying at the tower.”

She kept her eyes on the door. “After the incident at the Arx of Violets, none of them were willing to teach me. They look down on me, just as they looked down on my mother. Do you know what they used to call her? Queen of the Cloaca. Fucking halfwits. They had no idea how much work it took to keep the sewer running, or what a marvel the design was.”