A Summoning of Demons Page 2

  The coliseum construction was still in its beginnings—deep digging, laying foundation walls. Neri’s first paying work had been as a digger …

  By the Twins! Placidio had a midday match at the old barracks training yard—a common location for refereed challenges that employed professional duelists. Neri might have been there to cheer his swordmaster on. It was only a short walk from the coliseum site.

  I joined the throng on the Ring Road. Urgency pushed me between and around and through, leaving them behind when the road took a sharp bend to the southeast toward the coliseum.

  The barracks yard was north and east. I’d never visited there, but it was easy to spot. Long, low, derelict buildings of wood upon stone—eight or ten of them—wrapped three sides of a rectangular yard. Several stretches of roof were fallen in, but only one large section at a corner looked freshly broken. The collapse had taken down the walls at that corner, as well.

  Once used to house and train Cantagna’s small legion, the barracks had been abandoned when the city chose to retain only a small local constabulary and hire condottieri for any real fighting. Besides hosting refereed duels, the yard served as training ground for those mercenaries and some smaller family cohorts, and as a ball court for Cantagnan children.

  A steep hillside of sunburnt grass and scrub footed by a low wall formed the fourth side of the rectangle. That would be where onlookers sat.

  It appeared as if a giant mole had burrowed a tunnel up the hillside. The section of wall at the foot of the disturbed ground had slumped, spilling dirt and stones onto the hard-packed yard. The sections of wall on either side of the breach were profoundly misaligned.

  No one sat on the hillside. The yard was abandoned. Everyone would have run for their homes … or to help at the cave-in site. Placidio and Neri would not have ignored the call for help. Neither could I.

  2

  DAY OF THE EARTHQUAKE

  AFTERNOON

  After two years of labor, the foundation of the coliseum had begun to take shape. The huge oval was dug into Cantagna’s steep flank, the uphill side far deeper than the downhill side to leave the floor level for races or jousts or other grand entertainments.

  I followed the parade of citizens down a hardened dirt ramp into the works. The dug-out boundaries of the oval had been stabilized with walls of timbers and brick, and around the far western end the floor had started to sprout great stone piers—giant mushrooms that would support the layered arcades of the facade and the banks of seating.

  Just where the tighter curve of the oval’s west end stretched into the longer, shallower curve of the uphill wall, the hillside had slumped, just as in the barracks yard. But instead of crumbling a short section of rubble wall, the shifting earth had toppled huge timbers, swathes of brick, and two of the massive piers. The mushroom pillars had shattered on the flagstones, crushing everything and everyone within range. Half the hillside had buried the busiest area of the works. And a crowd of Cantagnese citizens were scraping away at it, hoping to free the buried workers with shovels and spoons.

  Though I kept my eye out for Neri and Placidio, I could not turn away. A huge crowd dug at the pile. The rest of us carried water, bandages, and sheets to cover the wounded or wrap the dead. I paired with an elderly man to carry a hastily built litter across the oval and up the ramp to add another corpse to the rows of the dead. At least twenty lay under a makeshift tent already.

  As we returned to the coliseum to ready another poor soul for that brief journey, a murmur rippled through the crowd. A well-dressed man of middling height moved along one wall, taking a moment with each of the injured and those caring for them, speaking to the workers seated against the wall to rest, laying a hand on the shoulders of those diggers and haulers within reach. Even if I’d not recognized the newcomer’s every movement, no matter the distance, I would know the two who flanked him—tall men, white-haired though they were scarce older than I. Il Padroné and his twin bodyguards were instantly recognizable. I could have predicted, too, that once he had spoken to each person in the crews, my former master would toss his doublet to his bodyguard Gigo, take up a shovel, and start to dig.

  It was impossible to ignore the renewed vigor in every man and woman in the place. Yet what hope could there be? More than two hours had passed since the earthshaking.

  “They say there’s coves dug into the side wall where a man could shelter,” said Benedetto, my litter partner, as if he’d read my thoughts.

  “And fallen scaffolding might leave a space for someone to breathe,” I said, thinking of the pottery woman.

  We touched our latest charge’s head and feet in respect, then wrapped him carefully in a patched sheet.

  “Aye,” said Benedetto. “That fellow over there with the red shirt was one of the first they found alive who hadn’t crawled out on his own. He says there’s a sizeable shed built down toward the end to keep dry their tools for when the rains come. Could be some sheltered under there.”

  He pointed to the deepest part of the landslide—surely the height of five men. Someone more optimistic than I had climbed the mound of dirt, rock, and death to attack it from the top. Risky, as huge sharp rocks, brick, and splintered timber poked from the dirt everywhere, and the mound was continually resettling as the diggers removed debris from the bottom. But then—

  I squinted against the sun glare. Indeed, the man at the top was not shy of risk. He spent his days fighting other people’s battles. Placidio.

  My partner’s broad, powerful shoulders twisted with strength and fury as he dug, tossing great shovel loads to the side. Those below him waited until the rocks and heavy debris had settled, then raked the dirt aside and hauled it out of the way.

  No one else had dared climb so high, which told me Neri wasn’t here. He’d never let his swordmaster leave him behind. Spirits, where was he?

  Not for the first time, I wished I shared Teo’s ability to speak in the mind. I needed to warn Placidio that il Padroné was here. Sandro had seen the swordmaster’s face on one of our ventures, and glimpsed him masked in the other. He must never learn the identities of my Chimera partners. Il Padroné’s other self—the Shadow Lord—might someday realize his sorcerer agents posed too great a risk to Cantagna’s future.

  Climbing up to Placidio could draw the very attention I wished to avoid. I took a moment to tie my woven belt around my forehead, which left my tunic a shapeless bag and me less recognizable, I hoped. When I lifted my end of the litter, Benedetto looked at me curiously.

  “Is that who I think it is?” I said, nodding at il Padroné.

  “No doubt,” he said.

  “Saw him in a processional once. Who’d imagine he’d be down here digging?”

  Benedetto blotted his brow with a dirty rag. “This is his coliseum.”

  That was true. Il Padroné had given the land to the city and persuaded the Sestorale to build the coliseum, thereby attracting builders and artists from all over the Costa Drago and creating respectable work for thousands of Cantagnans. He believed it would become a wonder of the world, benefiting the city for generations. Yet the project was not without its dark side, even before this day. To make way for it, an entire district had to be razed. Three of my brothers had died in riots that had raged for a month. Sandro had shown me the model of the coliseum and told me of his vision, but he’d never mentioned the riots.

  Benedetto and I hurried back to the area where the dead awaited tending. There were more dead than wounded so far.

  Cheers broke out when two men were dragged from a section of rubble, bleeding and broken, but alive. The grim, grunting silence of effort quickly recaptured the crowd as, one after another, eight more were found crushed by one of the fallen piers. Identifying them would be difficult.

  After this flurry of hope and despair, I glanced up at Placidio. No one had joined him, but a stocky, balding man was climbing the mound with a bundle of rope in his arms and a large pack strapped to his back. Our partner Dumond, the metalsmith.
Surely …

  My gaze scoured the crowd. Standing in the mill of tired, dirty people, not fifteen paces from me, was Neri.

  Relief flooded my tired limbs. My hand flew to my mouth to prevent the release of fear in a torrent of weeping.

  A twitch of his head in the direction of the remaining piers, a widening of his eyes to make sure I understood, and he turned away, striding purposefully toward the end of the arena.

  He wanted to talk to me in private. Before following him, I looked around for my nosy companion. The old man knelt beside our next charge—a terribly mangled young man. Benedetto’s fists lay on his knees and his shoulders shook.

  “You should rest a moment,” I said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll fetch you a cup.”

  “How can I?” he said, his voice quavering. “Got to keep at it. Laid pipe with this fellow.”

  I understood. Though the brutal sun had slid from its zenith, there was no relief from the sultry stillness or the rising miasma of death. “Come. He’ll be all right to wait a little longer.”

  With my hand under his elbow, Benedetto rose to shaky legs. He didn’t protest as I guided him to a man who’d set up an ale cask and was sharing it out to all comers. Blessing the generous taverner, I accepted one of his cups, took one swallow for myself, and then shoved it into Benedetto’s hands. “Sit here and rest, my friend. I’ll be back.”

  Neri waited behind one of the great stone piers that was yet standing. A coil of rope hung from his shoulder. I did my best not to bowl him over with my embrace. “By the Night Eternal, I was so worried, but I couldn’t—”

  “You all right, sister witch?” He glanced at my trembling hands.

  I tightened my fists to still them. “Bruised a bit. You were gone to fetch Dumond.”

  “Aye. He brought the painted trapdoor we’ve been using to test his magic. Placidio heard there’s a shed buried right below where he’s working, and he figures Dumond might be able to open a way to it before the shed collapses. Dumond says that with the three of us joining our magic, maybe he could open a way deep enough, even though it’s solid earth. Four will be better.”

  Certain it was worth a try. But magic … here amidst all these people, including the Shadow Lord? The quake had already inflamed the terrors of Dragonis and his sorcerer descendants, so magic sniffers would be everywhere through the city.

  “We’ll have to be fast,” I said. “In and out before anyone climbs up to question what we’re doing.”

  Neri flashed his ever-ready grin. “One of us might have to do some distracting. No question you’re the best at that.”

  I couldn’t imagine what I might do.

  “Go around behind that next pillar,” said Neri, pointing through the dusty sunlight. “It’s a steeper path, but most of the way is out of sight.”

  The first time Placidio had chased me up the steeps of the Boar’s Teeth with his sword, yelling at me to “get that blade up” and “block” and “defend” and “don’t think I won’t draw blood” to teach me that combat was ugly and scary and had nothing in common with tidy dance steps, had been terrifying. Climbing that giant debris pile was worse. The dirt was not half so solid as it looked. My every step caused the surface to shift. Holes yawned beside rocks and timbers, ready to trap a foot or collapse and start the whole mess sliding again, rolling you down the hill to bury you.

  I wiped sweat from my brow and pressed between my eyes where my skull still throbbed. A follow-on earthquake, even a mild one, did not bear thinking about.

  But my partners and I had learned that rather than just wielding our individual talents with the power pooled inside ourselves, we could open those reservoirs and share our magic with each other. Doing so enabled the one working the magic to stretch far beyond his or her usual limits. We had supported Dumond’s portal magic in a few trials, but in no such test as this before us—shifting earth, so very deep, and carefully, so as not to crush any who might be cowering below.

  Magical practice sessions were necessarily limited. Magic sniffers could detect the presence of active or residual magic and even follow the tracks of one who’d worked it. But today … if we could find someone alive, certain, the risk was worthwhile.

  Placidio gave me his enveloping hand as I crawled over the steepest part of the slide and onto a flatter area. “’Tis gladsome to see you arrive here unbroken, lady scribe,” he said. “Neri and I were in the open when Dragonis flapped his tail.”

  Dirt caked his face and beard, masking the cheekbone-to-chin dueling scar and the sun creases around his eyes. His good-humored grin that could buoy the spirits of the dead, rare in the best of times, was nowhere in evidence today.

  “I was on the Via Salita,” I said, stepping gingerly around a barrier of rocks and packed dirt that I hoped would prevent us slipping down the steeps.

  Behind the barrier Placidio had excavated a sizeable crater, deep enough to shield Dumond, who was crouched in its center, from view of anyone but birds—or anyone stupid enough to stand above us on the broken hillside. The metalsmith was setting a square of wood at the lowest point of the crater and packing the earth around it tightly to make a stable boundary. The square was painted with the perfect image of a trapdoor hinged to a wood frame.

  Dumond could lay his hands on one of his painted doors, using his magic to convert that flat image into a true door that opened onto another place. If he painted the image on an ordinary wall, we could walk through to the other side. With substantially more effort, he could paint an exactly matching door somewhere else not too far distant, and we could walk from one place to the other. Such a work used everything he had. But thick, dense barriers like masonry and earth, with no matching door waiting, made everything far more difficult. This one? We would see.

  “I’m ready,” he said. “Didn’t bring my paints, but it won’t be the failure of the art if this doesn’t work.”

  “Maybe two of us joining in, first,” said Placidio. “No need to sap all our reserves if we don’t need to. I’ll keep shoveling. Watch for sniffers or other busybodies.”

  “Vashti sent these,” said Dumond, pulling a wad of black out of his pack. “In case we’re successful.”

  Masks. Vashti kept a supply of black scarves cut with eyeholes for Chimera business. I tucked mine into a pocket. No one would remark them today.

  My brother scooted down into the crater, knelt beside Dumond, and laid a hand on his shoulder. I did the same. As Placidio’s shovel took up its rhythmic crunch, Dumond held his hands above the painted door. A deep, quiet, steady heat passed through my hand and into my veins, as if my blood had turned to mead. Magic … Dumond’s magic.

  Dancing blue flames appeared over the metalsmith’s open palms, vanishing only when he pressed his palms to his painting. “Cederé,” he said. Give way.

  On a simple crossing, it would be only moments until the painted door took on the dimension of truth. So deep as this …

  Time swirled and puddled, going nowhere. Sweat beaded on Dumond’s forehead. Wisps of his dun-colored hair were stuck to his head. Neri and I glanced at each other. I spoke with lips, not voice. You.

  A nod and Neri closed his eyes. Like liquid sunlight, my brother’s power joined Dumond’s. Strengthened it as well, it seemed, for the painted door wavered, an ever-so-slight shifting of light that gave it bulk and thickness. But in moments it was flat again, and it was my turn.

  I focused on the imagining of those who could be trapped in a crowded shed in the pitchy dark. Hot, breathless, feeling the air decay around them. Surely the absence of any sound beyond themselves would speak a certainty that they were already in their graves. Reach for them, Dumond. Your gift is their hope.

  Bringing all my will to bear, I dipped into my own well of power, bidding it join the river my brother and my friend had made.

  “There!” snapped Placidio. “Get the ropes.”

  Dumond yanked the iron handle. The hinges that had moments before been naught but a mix of powdered pigments
and oil on wood opened smoothly to a well of blackness.

  The three of us knelt carefully at the edge but could hear nothing.

  “Fortune’s dam, let the ladder be long enough,” said Dumond, unfurling the bundle of rope he’d carried up.

  Dumond kept the rope ladder in the single upper room where his family slept, ready to drop out the window and provide a way out if sniffers came hunting in the night. The ladder was fixed to a notched beam of ash just long enough to fit across a window opening—or a trapdoor—and strong enough to support the hanging ladder and whoever was on it.

  “Vashti’s idea,” said Dumond. He pulled a handful of long spikes, a coil of wire, and a hammer from his pack, and proceeded to poke one of the spikes into the rubble here and there, until he found a spot where it encountered solid resistance. Once he’d hammered the spike into the ground, he used a length of wire to anchor one end of the crossbeam to the spike.

  “Not so reliable on unsettled ground,” he said, as he started poking around with the next spike. “But better than naught.”

  Meanwhile Neri unfurled his coil of rope and tied one end firmly about his waist. He tossed the coil to Placidio, who knotted the other end about his own waist and pulled on thick leather gloves.

  “Wait!” I said, understanding instantly what they were about.

  “Somebody’s gotta go down,” said Neri, tying on Vashti’s scarf mask.

  But if the earth collapsed again, even Neri’s magic wouldn’t get him out. My brother could walk through walls of brick or stone if there was an object he wanted badly enough on the other side. But he had to be walking, not buried under half a hillside.

  “No discussion,” snapped Placidio as I opened my mouth to argue. “You, lady scribe, must help anyone we rescue get down the hill; you’re the only one can make sure they don’t give us away. Dumond keeps his ladder from getting jerked loose and hauls people out. I hold the safety rope. That leaves Neri to go down. I won’t let him fall … or get stranded. Certain, I felt the anticipation … before the quake. Always do.”