The Warring States (The Wave Trilogy) (24 page)

But too often his patience was overcome by a vertiginous panic, and the horrible suspicion that the Molè had no purpose except to waste the lives of generations of engineers set to puzzling over its purpose, that its springs and levers and dials represented nothing but the tricks of a desperate fraud who’d run out of ideas.

A melancholy ringing bell brought Torbidda from his reverie and he turned to see two men in a gondola emerging from the mist.

‘Damn it, Castrucco – I told you I didn’t need an escort …’ Torbidda fell silent when he heard other bells competing. Two gondolas were coming towards him, one on either side. Without warning, the gondolier on the right side pushed his paddle against the canal wall, causing his gondola to switch lanes. For a moment, momentum carried the gondola forwards, so that it looked as if it would crash into Torbidda’s, but the current of the lane soon slowed it.

Torbidda’s gondolier cursed his counterpart’s dangerous manoeuvring. ‘Careful, you fool!’ he shouted, but the other
gondolier just turned his back. As Torbidda realised the way was blocked ahead and behind, the gondola on the left came parallel. The gondolier and his passenger, a young praetorian, were masked; those in the other two gondolas were similarly disguised.

Whipping out a dagger, the praetorian on the left jumped towards Torbidda. In the moments he was flying through the air, Torbidda had time to consider several things: it was an incredible leap – impossible, in fact, unless the praetorian knew Water Style. So if that was the case, he must assume the others did too. As much as he trusted his own skills, in Conclave one fought one-to-one. If he allowed them to attack simultaneously, his fate was sealed.

He rolled onto to his back and kicked up his legs, and the airborne praetorian, unable to avoid Torbidda’s upraised feet, found himself hurled over the gondola and into the water of the right-hand lane, where the current carried him swiftly away. Torbidda did not yet spring up. Whoever had organised this would not have taken any chances. His own gondolier, who moments ago had voiced his outrage, was now swinging a paddle at his head, but it was too high; Torbidda let it pass over before standing and jostling the gondolier before he could recover, sending him tumbling over the bow.

A quick glance told him that the rear gondola’s passengers were readying to jump, and the gondolier on the boat parallel was in the process of using his pole to vault across. But Torbidda now had a paddle of his own, and he simply tipped the gondolier backwards, then jammed his paddle into the aft of the unmanned gondola and pushed it hard into the bounding wall. It bounced off diagonally and charged into the middle lane, crashing into the gondola behind him and overturning both of them. One of the men fell into the current going back to Monte Nero; the other floated in the middle lane.

Torbidda felt the impact as the praetorian from the final gondola, the one in front of him, landed in the bow. He took a moment to bring his paddle down on the floater’s head before turning and chopping at the praetorian’s wrist, making him drop the dagger. Then Torbidda let him attack: the praetorian’s Water Style was rudimentary but still considerably more advanced than any non-consul should know. Satisfied, Torbidda slammed both fists into his chest. A trickle of blood came from the praetorian’s nose and his arms fell limply to his sides, then the rest of him dropped.

Torbidda stepped over his body, sizing up the last man standing in the gondola ahead. The man held his paddle in both hands, ready and waiting. Torbidda picked up the dagger and leapt.

The Collegio dei Consoli was the most secure part of New City, adjoined as it was by the praetorians’ barracks. Torbidda was glad that he had arrived before the other consuls; it gave him time to interrogate Prefect Castrucco about the slain praetorians.

‘Who are these men?’

‘New recruits …’ Castrucco looked genuinely at a loss.

‘Well, they fought like Candidates.’

When Castrucco offered his resignation, Torbidda demurred. ‘Unnecessary. I placed myself at risk against your advice. Besides, at a time like this, I need good men about me.’

He left the grateful prefect at the door and entered. In the centre of the rotunda was an empty circular table. The Collegio’s many tiers reflected the Guild’s dense hierarchy. On the uppermost row, sitting in the First Apprentice’s throne, Consul Corvis was waiting. ‘Keeping my chair warm?’ Torbidda said, climbing the steps.

‘Precisely!’ Corvis was obviously surprised to see Torbidda alive, but he disguised it well. ‘So glad to see you again, First Apprentice.’

‘I was a little delayed; I feared I would be late. I’m glad we have this time to talk, Consul.’

‘Well, thank you for coming on such short notice. The convulsions in Old Town demand prompt—’

‘Please. Save the pretence till your audience arrives.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I know you tell yourself that you never achieved your full potential,’ said Torbidda. ‘You’re think it’s a simply a matter of being ruthless enough, of killing all your rivals. That’s why you’ll never climb higher than chairman of the Collegio. To wear the red, you need to be as hard on yourself as you are on your rivals. The best sacrifice most.’

The merry twinkle in Corvis’ eye went out like a candle, replaced by something sharp and cold, and his lips narrowed. ‘By that measure you are truly great. You sacrificed a whole legion.’

‘And gained something worth all twelve. The Scaligeri girl is the Handmaid Bernoulli predicted,’ Torbidda replied calmly.

‘Madmen’s predictions are debased currency these days, but if you truly believe in augury, go out to the Wastes and recruit a mendicant army.’ Corvis looked down as the consuls streamed into the chamber. ‘There is
my
army. You’ll need something better than threadbare prophecy to explain your inaction to them. I imagine you’d like nothing better than to snap my neck – but then you’d just be a boy in a tower, wouldn’t you?’

‘And you’d attack me openly if you were certain of your position.’

‘True, but my position grows more certain every day. Yours, on the other hand – you really think I covet the red? As chairman, I control the machinery of state, and that’s better than any colour. So enjoy it, and your throne, First Apprentice – while you still have them.’

Corvis walked down to the table. Soon the lowest rows of the amphitheatre were packed shoulder to shoulder; general assemblies were rare events and Corvis had no need to summon those eligible to put their name in the purse; rumour drew them as surely as the scent of imminent riot drew the Small People onto the streets.

Corvis cleared his throat, looked sternly around with a defiantly
set jaw and said, ‘Today marks the anniversary of our nadir. A year has passed since the Twelfth Legion was destroyed. The Small People, poor sheep, had only just recovered from the burning of the Molè when they heard the dire news. We can hardly blame them for thinking it the death knell of our Re-Formation – the end of us, my friends.’

The Collegio’s executive, those consuls sitting at the round table, were stone-faced. The surrounding rungs were more demonstrative. Corvis waited until all eyes had settled on the lonely figure in red sitting in the high chair and the empty chairs either side of him.

‘But let us recall the reason we did not give in to despair in that unhappy hour: our flag was not
captured
. Etruria will remember the siege of Rasenna, but not as another Montaperti. Can we
ever
give thanks enough to Apprentice Torbidda for having the presence of mind to burn the carroccio before he fled the rout? No, there is no limit.’

He turned and looked up at Torbidda with heavy sympathy. Torbidda almost regretted not taking up Prefect Castrucco’s offer. Better surely to take his chances in a praetorian coup than to endure more of the consul’s impudent sarcasm. He let his mind roam back to the dusty shadows of the library.

He stolidly hunted the solution Argenti had bade him seek, even while his hope was fading. He spent long hours crouched in niches, like the statue of some queer saint, silently watching the Molè change with the passage of the day. He used the sun to test the fidelity of its north–south axis; the east–west axis he tested the old, laborious way, with ropes. It was painful to compare the Molè’s gloom with the chaotic brightness of the Drawing Hall; the Molè treated light as a slave, corralling it to illuminate a few features but otherwise contemptuously locking it out.

The Molè threw its shadow over all Concord – but how was that colossal psychological effect achieved? He gave the time ungrudgingly,
though beginning to doubt that understanding would ever come. Using triangulation, he measured the Molè’s three domes precisely; he compared the length of the nave to the width of the transept, to the height of the columns.

And slowly he began to suspect that there were hidden symmetries of proportion throughout. A governing proportion was more than an anchor to keep masons’ work harmonious; consistently employed, it was like poison in the blood. His breath quickened, like a hunter who spots his prey. There was one proportion that appeared and reappeared, the famed Etruscan ‘Golden Section’, but it did not perfectly apply to the Molè taken as a whole. It was like an unfinished sentence, or a musical scale that stopped maddeningly short of the final note – and perfection.

He felt his prey escaping. There was something else, something he was missing.

‘A year today!’ Corvis choked with emotion so patently disingenuous that Torbidda woke from memory to admire it. ‘This is a time to take stock, to ask ourselves what we have achieved since then. We must not shy from the answer: very little. This unrest in Old Town has disrupted important public works – rebuilding the Molè and digging the sea-corridor. While General Spinther has had some success on the Europan front, otherwise our project is stalling. Just this morning, the First Apprentice was attacked by nameless assassins sent by some opportunistic enemy power!’

Corvis waited for the murmurs to subside. ‘Yes! By Fortune’s grace he escaped, but what if he had not? Our ship would face this storm captainless. We have not even found someone to wear the yellow and orange – why, we have not yet begun the search! A year ago the First Apprentice asked the Collegio for time and we gave it willingly. But our patience is not inexhaustible, and that of the citizenry is at an end.’

Corvis turned again to Torbidda. ‘The question will wait no longer, First Apprentice; it is not
when
shall we replace your fallen comrades but with
whom?
Shall we begin examinations again? Find two more children, gifted as you, and hope they are as lucky. Or’ – he turned away slowly – ‘should we instead recognise the unique nature of the crises that face us and meet them with experience? Should we instead elect two colleagues from the Collegio?’ He made a sweeping gesture to the grim faces around the chamber. ‘No one’s more reluctant to break with tradition than I, but to safeguard Concord – to safeguard the
Re-Formation
– there is
no
innovation I would not try, no sacrifice we should not be willing to make.’ He finished by muttering, ‘The final decision, of course, is yours, First Apprentice.’

Torbidda stood and walked down to the floor. As he approached the table, Corvis proffered the Speaker’s Mace, but he did not take it. The whispering grew as he reached the door. There he stopped, turned around and spoke in a level voice that carried round the chamber: ‘Consuls, Concord requires loyal servants now more than ever. That’s why I propose to award General Spinther a year’s extension.’

The old consul sitting opposite Corvis said, ‘I second that motion.’

‘Thank you, Consul Scaurus,’ said Torbidda. ‘As to the other suggestion, I tell you: there shall be no more Apprentices. I am First, and Last.’

A wave of protest crashed against the door as it slammed behind him. Protest and speculation – what did it mean? When the empire most needed direction, had the First gone mad? Others, more hysterical, parsed Torbidda’s meaning differently: if there were to be no more Apprentices, then surely the time was at hand for the return of the Master. Corvis stayed standing with a resigned, regretful air and a faint smile he did his best to conceal.