The Golden City (34 page)

“Oriana,” the woman said softly, almo
st
gently. “If you hadn’t been there, the Open Hand might have succeeded with this insane idea. Yes, your employer died, but sacrifices have to be made.”

Oriana couldn’t look at her any longer. “She was my friend.”

“Making you carry her handbag and read to her? I think not. One of the fir
st
rules of this occupation, Oriana, is never get too close to anyone. Never become attached to anyone. You haven’t been in this game very long, so I under
st
and your making that mi
st
ake. But there are some things you have to give up for your cause. People like us don’t have friends or family. We can’t afford them.”

Oriana wanted to close her eyes, but didn’t dare put that much tru
st
in this woman. She felt ill, a minute away from ca
st
ing up her lunch on the fine rug.

“I’ll make arrangements,” the woman continued, “for your extra
ct
ion. I’ll leave word for you here as soon as those arrangements are made. I expe
ct
them to be followed explicitly. Do you under
st
and?”

She didn’t have an answer. She wasn’t ready for this. She didn’t want to leave.

“And if you don’t go,” the woman continued in a reasonable tone, “I’ll make certain that the press turns up enough evidence to prove that your father . . . well, let’s say that it will make his life mo
st
uncomfortable.”

Oriana looked up. “Leave my father out of this.”

“Remember, Oriana, family is a liability in this occupation. You came to us with a built-in failsafe. I’ve always known that. Now . . . Heriberto, he’s soft. All he wants is to gather enough gold to run away to Brazil, the impetus behind all his petty crime. I promise you, I am not soft. I will do whatever’s needed.”

No, Oriana had no doubt of that. Maria Melo mu
st
have witnessed, even participated in, the deaths of dozens of innocents in the la
st
year. She’d handpicked the people who’d died. She’d chosen Isabel. If Oriana had been discovered by the Open Hand, this woman would have
st
ood silently by and watched them kill her too . . . or done it herself. “I under
st
and.”

The woman inclined her head. “I’ll send word.” She walked around the sofa and paused while Oriana
st
epped aside to let her out of the sitting room. “You do have your mother’s look about you,” she said. “Unfortunately she didn’t under
st
and the rules of the game either.”

And with that parting shot, she walked pa
st
a
st
unned Oriana and down the hallway. Cardenas opened the door, and Maria Melo
st
rode down the
st
eps as if she were queen of the world.

•   •   •

D
uilio only caught the la
st
few seconds of that conversation. He’d been half-dressed and
st
ill eating his dinner when Gu
st
avo came in to tell him of Miss Paredes’ unexpe
ct
ed visitor. He’d thrown on a jacket, bolted down the mouthful he was chewing, and run down the
st
airs to see that Miss Paredes was safe.

He’d been about to enter on the pretext that his mother wished to speak to Miss Paredes when he’d realized the visitor was emerging. He ducked into the library in
st
ead. Miss Paredes didn’t need him to interfere, but he wished he knew what had happened. When he came out of the library, she seemed shaken by whatever her visitor had to say.

“Miss Paredes?”

She jerked to attention, her jaw clenched tightly. “Sir?”

Duilio wondered what it would take to get her to call him by his name. “Why don’t you join me in the library? You look like you could use a brandy.”

“I could, a
ct
ually.” She followed him meekly down the hall. He grabbed the decanter out of the liquor cabinet, and she settled in the chair while he poured. “Can you tell . . .” she began. “Do you know if someone will die tonight? If I can’t save them?”

Duilio closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to call his gift into order. He posed a que
st
ion to his mind, but his gift only had a tentative answer for him, as if there were too many variables that could change. He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Ah,” she said, sobering.

“It’s not ju
st
your responsibility, Oriana,” he said. “There will be several of us out there, all working on it.” She didn’t obje
ct
to his using her name. Perhaps she hadn’t even noticed.

“She fed Silva all that information. She wanted to be sure he’d repeat it to us.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “If she’s the saboteur, then she wants them to be brought down. She ju
st
doesn’t want to be brought down with them, or have anyone know that she brought them down.”

Miss Paredes nodded shakily. “She said that once the press gets hold of Isabel Amaral’s death, I’ll be exposed as a sereia.”

He’d expe
ct
ed that, but had already planned to pay off anyone necessary to keep her name out of the press. “That can be worked around. I can assure you that your name, and possibly Isabel’s, won’t appear in the papers.”

She shook her head wearily. “She’s making arrangements for my extra
ct
ion. If I don’t go, there will be repercussions.”

Duilio felt all the threads he’d pulled together slipping loose out of his hands. Why had his gift not warned him? He’d known she had a life beyond this household, but he hadn’t seen her walking away so soon. “When?”

“I’m not certain,” she said softly. “She’ll send word.”

Duilio reached across and touched her chin, trying to get her to meet his eyes, but she seemed determined to avoid his gaze. Leaning that close to her, he felt a sudden, wild desire to press his lips to her jaw. He need only lean forward a few more inches. He wanted to smell her skin, tangle his hands in that tightly braided hair. He firmly reminded himself that he was a gentleman in whom she’d placed a great deal of tru
st
. She wasn’t one of the demimonde to be pawed, or one of Erdano’s girls looking for a night’s entertainment. Oriana Paredes was as much a lady as his own mother. So he sat back, putting some di
st
ance between himself and temptation. Heaven knew they had other things to do tonight than entertain his currently hotheaded desires.

“What sort of repercussions?” he asked. “Can I help?”

“No.” She gazed down at her hands. “I’ve been used as a tool, nothing more.”

That had to
st
ing. “It happens to all of us at one point or another, Oriana. There are always people out there using other people to get their way.”

“She let Isabel die,” she said. “She made the choice. I don’t think I could ever do that.”

Ah, now he had an idea what was whirling around in her head. “Spies put their ideology ahead of everything else. One reason I’m not a spy. I don’t think I could do it either.”

She smiled then. “No, you would have tried to save Isabel.”

He’d never been good at keeping up a subterfuge when it violated his principles. “Speaking of saving others, we should probably head down to the quay.”

She picked up her brandy and tossed back the whole glass in one gulp. “I’m ready.”

They left the library. On the table in the hallway lay the two overcoats that he’d asked Marcellin to bring down. Duilio pulled one on, picked up the second, and held it so she could
st
ep into it. “Too big, I think, but it will keep you warm. It’ll be cold out on the water.”

“I’m going to be
in
the water,” she pointed out.

“The whole time? With whom will I talk?” he asked, allowing a plaintive edge to creep into his voice.

She rolled her eyes but let him help her into the coat. He hoped that look of exasperation meant he’d been forgiven any inappropriate ardor she might have perceived. “I can’t promise to make conversation, sir,” she said. “It’s not one of my skills.”

He couldn’t resi
st
the temptation to tease her, even though he knew he should. “That only makes me curious to know what your skills
are
.”

•   •   •

A
t the quay where the lovely yacht waited, Mr. Ferreira inspe
ct
ed the bolt cutters that João had colle
ct
ed for him. They had a brief discussion and picked two out of the batch. The sun set while they prepared the rowboat to ca
st
off. It a
ct
ually served as the yacht’s lifeboat, so they had to lower it down by winch to the water before Mr. Ferreira pulled it around for Oriana to join him in it. With João’s help, she
st
epped from the floating marina’s planks into the rowboat and swiftly sat. There was a shuttered lantern at her feet, so she made certain to keep her skirts away from it.

“Where is your brother, do you think?” she asked delicately. She’d half expe
ct
ed to find a dozen selkies waiting for them. She was disappointed when they weren’t there.

“He’ll be here,” Mr. Ferreira said, using one oar to push away from the marina. “May be late, but he’ll show up.” He handled the oars easily, as if he’d done a lot of rowing in the pa
st
, and they were quickly away from the other boats clu
st
ered near the quay as darkness fell over the water.

The city proper was more than two miles inland, and
The City Under the Sea
had been con
st
ru
ct
ed on the southern side of the river, between the large bend in the river’s path and the breakwater that shielded that area from the sea. Mr. Ferreira rowed patiently, taking them along the river’s northern bank and then heading across the lanes of river traffic at a southwe
st
erly angle that would take them to where the houses floated. By the time they got close to the right spot, it was full dark.

Oriana disrobed quickly and slid into the water. She submerged long enough to identify the vibrations of another vessel—the commandeered patrol boat—moving slowly toward the breakwater. She fixed the dire
ct
ion in her mind and then returned to the rowboat. Mr. Ferreira helped her over the side and wrapped the overcoat back around her. With her dire
ct
ions, they soon located the patrol boat. A few minutes later the rowboat was tied behind it, sparing his arms.

“I haven’t rowed in a while,” Mr. Ferreira whispered ruefully, rubbing at his left arm.

“So, what do we do now?” she asked.

“We wait,” he said.

I
n the darkness, the patrol boat floated along without lights, the rowboat drifting behind it on a towline. The moon hadn't risen yet. They were nearer the breakwaters now that sheltered the river from the open sea, well over a mile from the city itself. They could see the lights of the city
st
ill, but were closer to the dark Gaia shore with its high cliffs. Two lighthouses on the breakwaters marked the edge of the open sea.

The crew on the patrol boat had cut their engine, so the silence wrapped about them. They had been sitting there for a couple of hours now in the darkness but hadn’t yet seen a single Special Police patrol—or anything else. There were no gulls out here, no seabirds at all, as if they knew what was under the surface of the water. The absence of their cries was eerie. In the darkness it was as if the two boats had fallen off the edge of the earth.

Oriana kept one hand in the water, feeling the currents in her webbing. Her clothes lay in a neat pile near the prow of the rowboat. She hadn’t seen the need to don them again, since the borrowed overcoat kept her warm enough and hid the paleness of her skin.

The selkies Aga had gone to fetch never arrived, which meant that the freeing of the house was Oriana’s task alone. She could do it. She wouldn’t let herself think otherwise.

She could barely make out Mr. Ferreira’s face a few feet away. He’d kept the lantern shuttered to prevent anyone from seeing them, and true to his earlier words, he’d talked with her. Mo
st
ly trivial things, such as what books she liked, her favorite food, whether or not she cared for Mozart or Alfredo Keil. Had she read Eça de Queirós? Ca
st
elo Branco? Dickens?

He was trying to set her at ease, a kindness since she was so tense. “Is it my turn or yours?” she asked.

He laughed softly and whispered, “It
was
your turn, but you wa
st
ed it by asking that, so now it’s my turn again. What happened to your father, Oriana? You told me he was exiled.”

He’d taken to addressing her by name. It was a
st
ep further than simply using the familiar person, more intimate. She liked that. She took a deep breath and considered his que
st
ion. Then she answered hone
st
ly, no matter how terrible it mu
st
sound. “He lives in Portugal now.”

She opened her mouth to explain, but paused.

She sensed movement in her webbing. It was large—a ship, its screws churning the water. With the pitch-blackness about them, she couldn’t
see
the approaching ship, but could feel its motion and hear the ripple of its wake. A shiver ran down her spine. She touched his hand to get his attention; he could see even less in the darkness than she. “It’s in that dire
ct
ion. No lights.”

He lifted one shade of the lantern, letting off a pair of brief flashes, the signal agreed upon with Gaspar. A single flash showed in response. They’d gotten the message.

The yacht continued on pa
st
them in the darkness as he ca
st
off the towline. There were only a couple of faint lights on the yacht’s deck, but Oriana could make out the arm of a crane affixed to the deck. A large, boxy shape hung from the crane, a house all ready to drop into the river. A chain draped from the underside of the hanging house to the deck of the yacht. It would have a weight attached—she knew that from the journal—even if she couldn’t see it yet. When they got to the right spot, they would drop the chain, then lower the house into the water from the crane. The weight would drag it downward, and their diver—Silva’s selkie—would guide the weighted chain to the right spot and attach it to an anchor set on the silt-clouded riverbed before the fir
st
house had been put in place.

It was eerie to see the in
st
rument of Isabel’s death.

They waited in silence a while as the ship found the right position, apparently being dire
ct
ed by the selkie, much as she’d led Mr. Ferreira to the patrol boat. Mr. Ferreira rowed quietly, moving them closer to the yacht.

Then Oriana heard the rattling of chains. The sound sent a cold wash of remembered fear into her
st
omach. She dropped the coat she wore and slid into the water, naked save for the knife
st
rapped to her wri
st
. She reached over the edge of the rowboat to grab the bolt cutters from the bench.

“Be careful,” Duilio told her.

She submerged in time to feel the house hit the water, its chain dragging it down. As she got closer, the water was full of death. Oriana breathed it in, felt it in her gills and ta
st
ed it in her mouth, the flesh of dozens of innocents rotting away in this slow eddy of the river. The ta
st
e of corruption in the water sent the terror and pain of that night surging back into her mind. Isabel was among those whose bodies were slowly decaying in this watery graveyard.

Isabel had died in this place, but
she
hadn’t. Oriana was going to make use of that.

She forced herself on, swimming awkwardly with the heavy tool in her hands. Her large eyes took in more light than a human’s, but in the moonless dark, di
st
orted by the water’s movement, the house was little more than a blur.

Oriana reached the floating house and immediately swam downward to locate the chain. She brushed again
st
columns, a triangular pediment—definitely the Carvalho house. She couldn’t hear voices within, so the captives might not even have woken yet. Perhaps they would be spared the wor
st
of the terror.

She located the chain. It was taut, which told her the selkie mu
st
already be pulling it downward to affix the chain to the weight on the riverbed. Oriana wrapped one leg about the chain for leverage and worked the bolt cutters into position. She pulled on the long handles as hard as she could, but couldn’t get them to bite through the chain.

And then a body slammed into her from behind, breaking her grasp on the chain. She managed to keep her grip on the cutters and swung them slowly through the water at her attacker. It was the man from the boat that night, the one who’d chased her through the water and tossed her into a rowboat with Silva—the selkie.

Set free, the house began easing back upward, fighting the weight pulling it down. It wouldn’t la
st
. Water was filling the house, and that weight would force it back down.

The selkie grabbed the bolt cutters and ripped them from her grasp. Then he swung them toward her head.

•   •   •

D
uilio li
st
ened to the sounds over
The City Under the Sea
. He’d heard the slap of the house hitting the surface of the river. He dropped his own anchor over the side and held his breath. How long would it take before the house sank far enough to be safe from
st
ray bullets? Should he dive in and help Oriana? Or would he be in her way?

The rowboat rocked suddenly when Erdano levered his bulk up onto the side of the boat. “Am I too late?”

Duilio let out a fru
st
rated sigh. Erdano had probably been playing in the water all this time. “Miss Paredes needs to cut the chain on the floating house they ju
st
put in. She’s got a tool to do that. Can you go help her?”

Erdano nodded and slid back into the water, leaving Duilio in the dark again. He could only pray that between them, Oriana and Erdano could cut that chain.

The patrol boat was waiting for the yacht to move away from the vulnerable house. Duilio could make out one lantern on the deck of the yacht, alerting him to its position. Its fir
st
task done, it began to move, likely hunting the waters over the Amaral replica so it could retrieve it. Where would that be?

The crew on the patrol boat opened their lanterns suddenly, and Duilio saw the yacht
had
changed course, heading dire
ct
ly for them. With their engine cold they had no hope of getting out of the way, so the patrol boat blew its horn. Barely visible, the yacht changed course again, now trying to pass
behind
the patrol boat.

Oh, God!
Duilio made a panicked grab for the anchor line, but before he could ca
st
it off and move away, the yacht caught the rowboat broadside.

•   •   •

O
riana pushed out of the way of the selkie’s wild swing. In the water everything moved more slowly. The cutters passed within inches of her face and she kicked farther back, her heart pounding hard.

And then another body hurtled pa
st
her in the water, slamming into the selkie’s form. The cutters spun out of his hand, immediately sinking. Gasping in water, Oriana dove after them, pursuing them down toward the riverbed. She would lose them in the silt if they hit the bottom. She made a desperate grab and managed to catch one handle.

She headed back up toward the surface. She had no idea where the selkie or his attacker had gone. She took in a large breath, relieved to be above the clouds of silt near the bottom. She located the chain and followed it upward. Would she be in time?

She could see the house itself then, so she grabbed the chain and wrapped her leg about it again. She hauled the cutters around, positioned them, and clamped them down on the chain, but the blades didn’t cut through.
Damnation!
She wasn’t going to give up. She ground her teeth together and tried again.

Then a warm body enveloped hers, two large arms coming around hers and grasping the handles of the cutters. The ta
st
e in the water told her it was a selkie. His muscular arms
st
rained, and the cutters sliced through the chain. The house was free! It began to float upward, turning now that it was loose, like a fish righting itself in the water, which mu
st
be terrifying for the vi
ct
ims inside.

Oriana shoved at the warm body holding her. The selkie released her, although one of his hands squeezed her left buttock before he swam away. She was too relieved to bite him. She let go of the cutters and swam after the rising house, trying to guide it upward. Gods grant that those inside were
st
ill alive. She broke the surface only a second after the house did and bobbed in the ripples there. Her throat opened and she tried to catch her breath.

Lights told her where the patrol boat was, and the yacht. Voices carried across the water, a spate of urgent cries. She didn’t see the rowboat. A gunshot sounded, but she couldn’t tell from which vessel. The house, now on one side, began moving in a
st
ately fashion toward the patrol boat, and she realized the annoying selkie—it had to be Erdano—was propelling it in that dire
ct
ion.

She treaded water. Where had the rowboat gone? She felt cold from more than ju
st
the night air. She twi
st
ed about to look the other dire
ct
ion, thinking perhaps she’d mi
st
aken where he’d been. He wouldn’t ju
st
leave her out here.

The floating house banged again
st
the side of the patrol boat, and with shouting that carried over the water, the crew reached down with hooks and a long metal pry bar to break into it. The selkie moved away, his dark head coming in Oriana’s dire
ct
ion.

“Go after the yacht!” she yelled at him. “Follow it!”

He jerked about in the darkness and slipped under the water again.

She swam closer to the patrol boat. A bright flash of light momentarily blinded her. They mu
st
have found a photographer willing to bring his precious gear out on the water with them. She blinked to clear her eyes and yelled at the top of her lungs. “Where is the rowboat?”

In the chaos on the deck of the patrol boat, someone mu
st
have heard her. “Down,” a voice called back—Inspe
ct
or Gaspar. He yelled something else. “. . . yacht hit it. Go after . . .”

Oriana’s heart slammed again
st
her ribs. The yacht had hit the rowboat?
Oh, gods, no!

None of the humans would be able to see in this water. They would never find him.

Another explosion of light came from the deck of the patrol boat. Oriana clamped her eyes closed, took a large breath, and submerged again. She swam down a dozen feet and then held her depth, her fingers spread wide to sense movement. Frantic tremors came from above where the patrol boat and the floating house banged again
st
each other.

There was nothing on her own level save for the motion of the tide. No, there was something . . .

Below her she sensed a
st
ruggling movement, like that of a dolphin caught in a net. He was
st
ill alive! Oriana whirled in that dire
ct
ion and tracked the source of the movement.

She saw a flash of whiteness far below—his shirt. The current was pulling Duilio out to sea, while an anchor was dragging him lower each second. Could he hold his breath longer than a human?

She pushed herself downward until she reached him. His leg was caught in the anchor’s rope. Oriana wrapped her arms about him and pressed her lips to his, giving him the mouthful of air she held. It surely wouldn’t be enough. She
had
to get him loose.

She found the rope tangled about him, caught in the wool of his trousers. It mu
st
be crushing his leg, the weight of the anchor and undertow pitted again
st
his will to survive. She patted his knee to reassure him and began to saw at the taut rope with her knife. After a moment only a thread was left, and then that thread snapped.

Unanchored, Duilio began to drift upward through the dark water. With a thankful prayer to whichever god was helping her, Oriana swam up after him, wrapped her arms about his body, and kicked hard.