Turning the Storm (10 page)

In my classes on court etiquette, last year at the conservatory, Domenico had mentioned that people at
court often carried flowers to mask unpleasant odors. It was hard for me to see how a flower could stand up even to just the perfumes people wore—let alone the stinking canal I'd crossed. Still, even in the chill damp of late fall, I could see that he was right. Both men and women carried flowers; some women wore a little bracelet of tiny blossoms around one wrist. Others carried elaborately embroidered sachets, presumably with dried flower petals inside. One forgotten flower was crushed on the edge of the fountain, as if someone had sat on it.

I could hear music from my seat by the fountain— several groups, in other parts of the garden. I could identify at least one string quartet, plus a small ensemble of flutes. Music was everywhere here. Back when I was a student at the conservatory, some of the teachers who'd played at court would sigh nostalgically and tell us that the nobility at court really
appreciated
beautiful music. My old teacher Domenico had hinted at the real purpose of this once, and Giovanni had spelled it out: cover.

“If you're having a conversation at court,” Giovanni had explained, “and you don't want anyone overhearing, you can hire one of the ensembles to play for you. That way, anyone who tries to hear your conversation will just hear the music.” Giovanni had thought this would give me an excellent opportunity to spy, but unfortunately, I'd suffer the same problem as any would-be eavesdroppers. I wouldn't be able to hear conversation over my violin.

“Learn to lip-read,” he suggested then, ever-helpful. Damn Giovanni, anyway. If anyone belonged here, it was him.

Beyond the hedge, I could hear two people talking. “I really don't think he'll try it,” a woman's voice said. I edged closer to the hedge, straining to hear. “I mean, really. She's above him. Don't you think, Clara?”

“You never know.” Clara? I wondered if it was the same Clara who was the sweetheart of Demetrio, the commander at Chira. I leaned closer to the hedge. Her voice was a cool alto; she spoke in the tones of a woman of rank. “I have better things to worry about, in any case. We'll deal with it if it happens.” They moved off. If this was the best I was going to do, I'd
really
wasted my time coming here.

One of the noblemen glanced at me incuriously as he passed by, and my nerve wavered: surely he knew I was a girl. But he glanced away without pausing for a more careful look. I wished I could see Michel, just for a few moments of reassurance, but it would be risky to go to the university during the day. Still, I was too jumpy to stay out in the gardens anymore that afternoon, so I headed back to my room.

I heard the dinner bell ringing a short while later, and movement outside in the hallway as people headed toward the dining room. For a moment I was tempted to send for a servant to bring my meal to me privately again—surely my trip out around the gardens was enough for one day—but then I shook myself and went out to join the other musicians.

The dining room was rather like a very grand conservatory dining room, but with the men and women sitting together, and much better food. I arrived slightly late and took a seat where there seemed to be space, across from two young men who looked about my age, one fair-haired and one dark.

“You're Daniele, aren't you?” the fair-haired boy said. “I'd heard another violinist had arrived.” He clasped my hand briefly across the table. “I'm Valentino, and this is Quirino. You'll be playing in the same quartet as me. Not Quirino, though, he plays clarinet, not strings.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “Yes, I'm Daniele.”

“Don't try to change the subject,” Quirino said, and it took me a second to realize he wasn't speaking to me. “Valentino! Are you listening to me? You're going to get yourself in trouble again.”

“Oh, Quirino. You take everything so seriously! I won't get in trouble. I wasn't in trouble the
last
time you thought I was in trouble. Or the time before that.”

“Or the time with Clara?”

“So she threw wine in my face. She wasted a cup of an
excellent
vintage.” He turned back to me with a shrug. “Did I mention that this is Quirino?”

This time Quirino turned to me. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Daniele,” he said. He had a deep voice and the beginnings of a beard; he looked like he'd be taller than me once he stood up. Valentino, on the other hand, was short and awkward, with the persistent charm of an overfriendly terrier. I stopped worrying about my lack of a beard or a deep voice; Valentino didn't have them either.

“Where are you from?” Valentino asked.

“Verdia,” I said. “The conservatory at Pluma.”

“Oh!” Valentino said, obviously intrigued. “Hey, if you've been
down
there, maybe you can tell us—ow.” He broke off. “Quirino, why—”

“Eat your dinner, Valentino,” Quirino hissed, “and shut
up
. You can ask
later
.”

Valentino gave me a baffled, hurt look across the table. I could only assume that Quirino had kicked him.
I glanced at Quirino. “Would it be best if I refrained from mentioning my home province here?”

“Most Verdiani simply say they are from the south,” Quirino said.

“Ah,” I said, and we left it at that.

We went back out walking after dinner. Despite the chill, most of the enclave was out for an evening stroll, wearing richly colored wool cloaks. Each person cupped witchlight to light the path; hundreds of globes of light shimmered like stars in the moist veil of mist. I'd forgotten how beautiful those tiny lights could be. The damp paving-stones reflected the lights, and the fountains flickered with stray gleams.

“There she is,” Valentino breathed.

“Just don't, Valentino. Don't even think about it,” Quirino said.

They were staring at a young lady who loitered idly by one of the fountains. She was a pretty enough girl, in a giggly Giula sort of way—high cheekbones and a turned-up nose. Her long, satin-dark hair was held in place with a jeweled band, and she wore a dress of buttercup velvet. Valentino sauntered over to her, Quirino and I trailing in his wake. From under his cloak, Valentino produced a fresh flower, which he held out to the lady as he approached. “Excuse me, signora, but did you perhaps drop this?”

“Oh!” The young lady looked up, feigning surprise. “Lady bright, I suppose I did. Thank you, Valentino, for getting it for me.” She tucked the flower into her sleeve and took Valentino's arm; he led her to the edge of the fountain, sitting down there to use the sound of the falling water to cover their conversation.

“That's Sura,” Quirino said in my ear. “Cute little thing, isn't she?”

“Adorable,” I said.

“Valentino certainly thinks so. Never mind the brilliant yellow dress …”

“Is there some significance to the yellow dress?”

“There are two factions at court—one wears yellow, one green. And Valentino's dear friend Ulisse favors green.”

“What are the factions?” I whispered.

Quirino shook his head. “Does it matter? I'll tell you later. The important thing is that Sura is of great interest to Signora Clara, and Signora Clara can't
stand
Valentino.”

“She threw wine in his face,” I said.

“Yes. I'm not actually sure if it's that incident or the friendship with Ulisse that's the problem. But either way, Sura is trouble, whether she knows it or not. And whether Valentino wants to admit it or not.”

“Isn't it
supposed
to be up to Sura?” I said. “And the Lady?”

“Well, yeah, but who's going to press
that
point? Other than the Fedeli—and bringing
them
into it would just open up a whole
new
crate of trouble.”

Valentino and Sura were just talking, cheerfully oblivious to us—and to a grim-faced older woman in a yellow dress who glared at them from across the garden. “Sura!” she called after a few minutes. “It's time to go in.”

“Is that Signora Clara?” I asked.

“Her?” Quirino snorted and shook his head. “I don't think Valentino would have tried to flirt with
her
! No. Clara is younger, and very beautiful. Watch out for the pretty ones,” he said. “They're
all
trouble.” Sura slipped the flower out of her sleeve as she
jumped up to trail obediently after the older woman, and dropped it discreetly into the fountain. Valentino did not try to return it to her.

The following morning, I rehearsed with the quartet for the first time. Fabia, the leader of the quartet, played viola. Valentino was the other violinist, and the cellist was a man in his forties named Naldo. Valentino was brusque and professional at the rehearsal, all his flirtatious manner gone. Fabia clearly ran the quartet. I was surprised at what a pleasure it was to play in a group again. To my relief, I slipped easily back into the habit of following someone's lead to play in harmony. We finished up our rehearsal close to noon; Fabia seemed pleased. She drew me aside briefly to tell me that generally we rehearsed together in the mornings and did our own practicing in the afternoon. Solo engagements were at my own option, so long as they didn't conflict with ensemble rehearsals or performances. She'd held off scheduling any performances for a bit to let me get settled in, and was pleased with how well I blended. With a warning against spending too much time chasing after the ladies—I assumed, correctly, that she had seen me eating with Valentino the previous evening— she let me go to the noon meal.

Valentino pulled me aside after lunch. “I want to talk to you,” he said. “Come back to my room.”

I had never seen the inside of a boy's room at the conservatory, and I was shocked at the mess in Valentino's. He didn't appear to actually use the wardrobe that stood in a corner of the room, but just draped any clothes he wasn't presently wearing over the furniture. I wondered briefly if I should go mess my room up once Valentino let me leave, but decided I wouldn't be
able to stand living like this. Besides, Giula would have created just as much of a mess if she'd had the opportunity; it probably wasn't just boys.

Valentino wanted to know about the war. I started to talk about the Vesuviani advance, but he shook his head and cut me off; he wanted to know about the
new
war. The Lupi. “You know,” he said. “Are they a threat? Pluma is so
close
to the wasteland.”

My breath caught and I hoped that my face hadn't just blanched. But this was ridiculous; I'd planned what to say if the subject came up. “The soldiers in Pluma insist that they'll be able to protect us,” I said. “At any rate, the Lupi suffered a major defeat last month. I was never worried. Besides—” I lowered my voice further. “We weren't their targets.”

“What do you know about them?” Valentino asked. “We don't hear much here, other than those songs—”

Valentino's door banged open and Valentino jumped up off his bed. It was Quirino, glaring across the room with an expression that could sour wine. “You are such an
idiot
, Valentino,” he said. “Come on. We're going into town.”

We walked out of the enclave, Valentino furtively protesting that no one would have overheard. “I did,” Quirino said. “Lucky for you.”

We walked through Cuore for a long time. I realized we were heading for the university district. Quirino led the way to a loud, smoky tavern. “Here?” Valentino said.

“Here,” Quirino said. We went in and found our way to a vacant table near the back. I thought I glimpsed Michel as we made our way through the tavern, but he looked away without a flicker of recognition on his face.

Quirino pulled his chair in and leaned across the table. “So,” he said. “Keep your voice down. What do you know?”

“I had noticed that no one here talks about the trouble in Verdia,” I said, “or wears red. But I hadn't realized that it was quite
this
secret—”

Quirino shrugged. “It's not so much talking about Verdia,” he said, “although that's easy enough to get yourself in trouble with. But Valentino was going to bring up the songs—”

“Which songs?” I asked. “The ones about the Lupi?
I have freed you and now I will lead you to glory/I'll trade my own blood for the life of the land
?”

Just the lyrics made Quirino nervous. “A month ago, a man named Protego played that song where he could be overheard—I'm not sure if he was mad or stupid— and three days later he was
dead
.”

“Executed?”

“No, of course not. Probably poisoned. We got the message. Of course the song's been passed around anyway … I think we all know the words, whether we believe it or not.” Quirino shook his head.

“Hey, Valentino,” a strange voice said. “I heard you were here.” The boy joining us was tall, a little older, and dressed as a noble—in a green tunic.

“Ulisse,” Quirino said, and introduced me, noting that I was from Verdia and they'd brought me here so that we could talk about the troubles without attracting attention. We'd attracted it
here
, obviously, but apparently Ulisse was all right. He pulled up a chair, obviously interested.

“So what exactly do you already know about what's going on?” I asked.

“They're peasants,” Valentino said, ticking off on
his fingers. “Their emblem is a red belt and they call themselves the Wolves. They've been terrorizing towns along the edge of the wasteland—or something—and their main grudge is against the Circle.”

“And there are the songs,” Ulisse said. He looked at me. “Daniele? How much in those songs is true?”

I shook my head. “Pluma isn't in the wasteland,” I said. “I don't know
that
much …”

“If you think about it,” Valentino said, “magery has been used for
centuries
, for
thousands
of years. Why would it cause a famine
now
? And if it was going to cause trouble anywhere, why wouldn't Cuore be affected?”

“Only one thousand years, and it wasn't until recently that the strongest magery has been used,” Ulisse said. “The last war was particularly intense. And
no one
makes anything like magefire in the skies over Cuore.”

“Are you saying you believe the songs?” Valentino asked.