The Warring States (The Wave Trilogy) (58 page)

Down the other corridor, Sofia heard Fulk’s call, but didn’t dare answer for fear of alerting her quarry. She crept slowly from pillar to pillar, listening hard. A drip-fed pool was streaked with undulating trickles of blood. She walked around it, following a dragging trail to the end of the corridor. Between the shelves of dusty bones were side-vaults, stacked with grain-bags and barrels. The chuckling reminded her of the dogs that had encircled Arik’s fire in the desert; it echoed in the darkness between the uneven tempo of the dripping liquid.

Steeling herself, Sofia turned into the last side-vault. A girl was kneeling before a niche on the far wall. She had arranged something in the niche; Sofia could see a veil, but she couldn’t make out what it was attached to until she took a step closer, and suddenly gagged when she saw what it was. The body belonged to a dog, pregnant to judge from its heavy teats and pink hairless belly, but the bitch’s head had been replaced with a sow’s and painted with merry, garish cosmetics.

The girl turned around slowly, her arm held straight out. She held a small dagger in that hand. From her body, Sofia judged her to be about Isabella’s age, but her mask was that of a purselipped older man, a cleric or a notary, maybe. Her skin was beaded with sweat.

‘Porca Madonna! That’s you, Scaligeri! How could you be the Handmaid? You’re not pure. You’re not obedient.’
The guttural voice was full of mockery, the words it spoke a collage of syllables
awkwardly hammered together.
‘You’re a selfless bitch who’s let everyone who ever loved you die to save yourself.’

‘Go back to Hell,’ Sofia said.

‘You’ll abandon that piglet in your belly, too, when the time comes, won’t you? ’course you will, dirty pig. Why don’t we save some time and let me cut it out? The way you cut Donna Bombelli!’
She threw herself at Sofia, knife shaking a little, nails clawing.

Sofia sidestepped and the girl rolled over neatly, chuckling.

Fulk came upon them, out of breath and limping. He took in the scene and lowered his axe. ‘If you remove the mask, you can go home and come back next year—’

‘Liar!’
the girl hissed, retreating into a pillar.
‘Fuuuulk,’
she crooned as she rubbed her back against it,
‘take it if you want, Fuuuulk. You needn’t abstain.’
The voice dropped to a whisper:
‘I won’t tell Catrina …’
She untied the front of her chemise. Her small breasts were bruised and scratched from yesternight’s entertainment.

‘You know you have to go back,’ Fulk said in the same soothing voice. ‘Take the mask off.’

‘
I will if you will. You sound so sweet. I want to see your face.’

When Fulk took another step, she screamed,
‘Take the mask off!’
She put the dagger to her neck.
‘Show me, or I’ll take her with me into the Dark.’
A drop of blood formed around the dagger’s point.

Fulk turned to Sofia, eyes begging.

She understood, and looked away as he lifted his visor.

‘So
beautiful,’
said the girl, lowering the knife and reaching out to touch him with her other hand.

He suddenly bellowed

‘Fulk!’ Sofia shouted as he turned, but she was frozen at the sight of his face: a knot of tangled crimson ropes.

The girl took advantage of the pause, expertly kicking the back of his legs and bringing him crashing to his knees. She
held the knife to his neck and glared at Sofia.
‘Give me the piglet or I’ll kill him.’

‘Sofia, get out of here,’ Fulk hissed. The claw-marks on his cheek were just a more vivid red in a mass of matted blood.

Sofia stepped back. ‘I can’t do that.’

‘He’s coming back, Scaligeri! We hear of nothing else in the pit. He grows strong, like your piglet. I’ll tell him and my reward shall be great. Wherever you run, he’ll find you.’

‘Tell him I’m ready,’ Sofia said, and threw the cleaver. It turned over and over and over, and the handle struck between her eyes. The mask cracked apart neatly and fell, shattering as it hit the ground, followed a moment later by the sleeping girl’s body.

The servant who opened the door of Palazzo Bombelli made Pedro wait in the atrium to be announced. This pretentiousness would have amused him once, but Pedro was fresh from attending to Jacques in the stables. Still he did not let himself show his anger, not when he’d come to try to bridge the gap between the engineers and priors that had opened since Geta appeared.

‘Is that Pedro?’ Maddalena called from the stairway. She pattered down the steps, her smile luminous. ‘I’m glad it’s you. You
should
be the first to know.’

‘Know what?’

‘I’m engaged!’

Pedro had only just come from Piazza Stella, where he’d seen Uggeri’s crew loitering as menacingly as they had in the old days. Uggeri had so far kept the peace Sofia had charged him with, but he hardly looked festive. ‘Congratulations,’ he said, hiding his confusion. ‘I wish your brothers were here to celebrate.’

‘I’ve always considered you a brother, you know that, and I pray you’ll agree to be my husband’s best man. Lord Geta thinks highly of you too.’

‘Geta!’

Maddalena’s smile twitched. ‘But you must have heard! I know how fast gossip leaps between towers. What’s the matter? It’s wonderful news. I’ll be a
lady!’

Pedro struggled to be polite, ‘It— I— It’s only a little unexpected,
and a little hasty – I mean, in so short a time, how well can you know this – this foreigner?’

Maddalena’s brow clouded. ‘I see. It’s inappropriate because he’s Concordian. But, of course, the Contessa Scaligeri can slut about with Captain Giovanni and then Levi, a condottiere from God knows where, and nobody says a word.’

‘That’s not true – Sofia didn’t— Oh, never mind that. I couldn’t give a damn about Geta’s nationality. He’s
noble
, Maddalena. You’re not naïve. We’ve only just thrown off the Families. Your father’s one of the most important people in town. If your mother—’

‘How
dare
you! You’re the naïve one, little brother, repeating the communard rubbish that got your father killed. Perhaps you’d see a little wider if you weren’t burrowing holes all day. Perhaps you’d realise that Concord’s nobility are our natural allies against Concord’s engineers. I don’t know if Geta’s a good man – I gave up that search a long time ago – but I know he’s strong.’

‘And what about Uggeri?’ Pedro said quietly.

Maddalena stiffened. ‘What is that
boy
to me?’ She turned and stomped up the stairs.

Before she could reach the first landing Pedro called after her, ‘You know very well!’

That she could discard Uggeri so easily galled him. Uggeri was no saint, but Pedro knew his worth. He
had
heard the rumours about Geta, but he had dismissed them, assuming Maddalena would know better than to get mixed up with such a person. But apparently not.

When the servant haughtily summoned Pedro, he was irked enough to ask, ‘Do I approach on my knees, Gonfaloniere? What’s the etiquette these days?’

‘Don’t tease, Pedro!’ Fabbro laughed. ‘I’m still training them. Visiting dignitaries expect certain formalities. Obviously they
aren’t necessary for Rasenneisi; I’ll have a word.’ He was happily rearranging the items on his desk, obviously unable to contain his excitement at the engagement. The apology was a formality too, and Pedro felt a perverse need to puncture Fabbro’s complacence. ‘Doc Bardini didn’t care for formalities.’

‘Because he was a hypocrite,’ Fabbro retorted with sudden aggression. ‘Surely you’re old enough to see that now? Or do you still believe everything that comes from Signorina Scaligeri’s lips? The Doc died for Rasenna, but let’s not forget how he lived either. He needed to pretend he didn’t rule, but I don’t have to dissemble. I’m the elected Gonfaloniere. When someone else is elected, I’ll support them.’ He regained his composure and sat down. ‘Please, let’s forget the past, I want to concentrate on the—’

Pedro tilted his head back to the door. ‘I heard.’

Fabbro clapped his hands together. ‘Isn’t it wonderful! It was my wife’s dying wish to see Maddalena married, but I’d given up hope. My sons are quite useless; they haven’t found anyone remotely suitable down south and – well, it just happened in the wave of a flag. I only wish Vettori had lived to see it.’

He knew he should play along and broach his concerns later, but Fabbro’s mention of his father so soon after Maddalena had disparaged him made Pedro suddenly furious. ‘He’d be appalled! Your daughter should marry one of the Small People, not a noble! The gonfaloniere bears the flag. All Rasenna looks to your example, from the lowest bandieratoro to the mightiest magnate. Etruria’s watching too, to see how long our republican principles last. You’re becoming awfully autocratic with your formalities and servants.’

‘Oh, Madonna’s sake—’

‘For all we know, the man’s a villain. He’s clearly an exile. He’s emptied his purse paying off the tabs of the Hawk’s Company.’

‘If he’s right for my girl, I don’t care if he’s a pauper.’ ‘No, all you covet is his name. How will it look, after so many Small People died to overthrow the Families, when our Gonfaloniere sells his only daughter for a title?’

Fabbro flinched as if from a blow. The question hung unanswered for long enough for the silence to grow ugly. Fabbro stood up slowly. ‘I never knew you were so politically aware. How sad that you don’t share your insights in the Signoria any more.’

‘I’ve been busy. You know that.’ That was all he was going to say, but a reckless spirit goaded him on. ‘The Signoria
is
the people – that place across the river represents only the magnates.’

‘Pedro, you’re very brilliant, but very immature, with a boy’s shallow understanding in many ways. The Small People weren’t the only ones who sacrificed to overcome the Families – far from it.’

‘Don’t give me that line. Maybe you’ve forgotten what the truth sounds like. I warn you – others won’t be so understanding.’

If there had been any chance that Fabbro might unbend at that moment it disappeared. ‘I’ve been threatened by bandieratori before. They don’t frighten me. Flags can be easily bought.’

‘Towers can easily burn.’

His face hardened. ‘Best leave,
boy
, before you go from insubordination to treason.’

Wine, as unusual, was served at the meeting of the Mercanzia, but such were the times that Fabbro was forced to open a second crate.

Polo Sorrento was no orator, but anger made him eloquent. ‘War. War. War. I’ve heard of nothing else, ever since the siege, but I’ve yet to see a single drop of blood spilled. You don’t hear
them gossiping in the street about the blockade, but it’s costing everyone here. We can’t get wool from Europa, not by land, and now that the Concordians have Ariminumese ships patrolling the Gulf of Avignon on their behalf, not by sea either. Ariminum was our doorway to the east and now it’s shut. Costs are rising. We
must
lower wages or raise taxes but we know how the Small People will react. We’re in it together, as long as times are good, as long as they get everything at yesterday’s price, as long as we
deficiente
make up the difference.’ He held his hands out like a beggar. ‘I’m just a simple farmer so someone explain it to me: we’re being impoverished by a war that hasn’t started, that we can’t win, that we don’t want. War brings ruin, they say. Well, this peace is ruining me, and the entire wool guild besides. We need a real peace or a real war. This counterfeit is worse than either.’

When the rumble of agreement subsided, Fabbro turned to his prospective son-in-law. ‘What do
you
say, Lord Geta?’

‘I know you are suffering, but bad as it is you’ll remember this peace fondly when war does come,’ Geta said. ‘I hate to say it but your Chief Engineer and Podesta are right about one thing – you can’t avoid war, and like it or not, it’s a war you cannot possibly win. The arithmetic doesn’t require a Guild Hall education: you’ve too few men. You defeated a legion, by the Madonna’s grace. Concord never expected Rasenna to have competent engineers, but a surprise only works once. Can you defeat two legions? Three? Five? If you seek honourable deaths, stay the course, my friends.’ Geta paused and the sound of wine being gulped was like a chorus of frogs.

‘But, if you would not be martyrs, there is an alternative.’

‘Please, Lord Geta,’ the farmer said irritably, ‘we wish to live, obviously. I have a new grandson to care for, and my colleagues have similar dependants. What must we do?’

‘Understand your enemy. Engineers are not passionate men.
Revenge means nothing to them. If they can retake Rasenna without a fight, they will. Think back. Was Concord’s yoke so onerous? Times were bad, but was that because of the Tribute or the Families? I know the engineers; they know me. I can negotiate a just, lasting peace. I can ensure that there is no garrison, which would only become a flashpoint anyway. But I cannot do it without your support.’

The brewer stood and declared formally, ‘I move to elect Lord Geta Podesta.’

‘Sit down,
idiota,’
Fabbro said testily. ‘This isn’t the Signoria.’