An Illusion of Thieves Read online

  Dumond snatched the question from my tongue.

  Placidio started, as if he’d just waked. “I’ve seen sketches … my dueling clients. A few have tried to hire me to—but I don’t do that sort of thing. I only participate in schemes by persons I’ve taken the measure of at swordpoint. The lady scribe of Lizard’s Alley is the first in many years.”

  I didn’t believe him about the clients and sketches.

  “Do you have any idea why the grand duc of Riccia desires this particular antiquity so fiercely?” I said. “I don’t care where you might have learned it or under what circumstances; those are questions for other days. But the answer might tell us whether we dare proceed at all with this scheme.”

  He folded his arms across his chest, and for a moment I feared he was done with me and the plan. But his face held more solemn consideration than anger. “Anything I say is naught but repeated rumor, gossip, and guessing. But if this thing has any importance in the world, a person of proven honor and strength of arms should be the one to hold it, I would think. The grand duc is such a person, and evidently he values it.”

  His guesses might hold more weight than those of others. But I doubted he would answer more, no matter how hard I pressed. This surely trod on the forbidden ground, his knowledge of Eduardo di Corradini, the grand duc of Riccia. Someday I would know that story.

  “This is certain my gentleman who needs his costume altered!” Vashti strolled into the workshop like a calming breath. Her bright gaze took Placidio’s measure. “Truly, sir, we must get to work to have you outfitted by the Hour of Gathering. Come.”

  Placidio trailed off behind her like a giant pup. While Vashti measured and stitched up Placidio, Cittina took me into a stone washing shed warmed by a fire. She said her mam—naihi, she called her—had told her to wash my hair.

  “She said you want to be different tonight.” She dunked my head in a bowl of warm water, scented with lemon and rosemary and more pungent things I didn’t know. “Naihi guessed that your hair has ever been smooth waves and this earthen dark, so she’s put things in the water will change that. She brought them from Paolin for just such cases. She’s taught me what to do. You’ll be so pretty.”

  She scrubbed my hair almost dry with a towel and told me not to touch it as I sat by the hot brazier. Vashti came in once to bring me some well-worn linen to sew into palm-sized pouches. “Costuming pillows,” she called them. It was welcome occupation, for as the meeting time approached, anxieties fretted inside my belly like hairy moths. To stand in Sandro’s presence … What kind of fool was I to imagine I could trick him? I had come up with a story, and a possible way of preventing Placidio from having to remember everything, but the scheme seemed ever flimsier as the hours fled past.

  When Cittina judged my hair dry enough, she picked at it with an ivory comb rather than drawing the implement through what must be a nest of tangles. I’d cut it off short since starting to train with Placidio, so it was not even to my shoulders. As Cittina worked, I caught sight of a strand here and there.

  “Do you have a glass?” I said, choking. “I need to see this.”

  “First this,” said the girl, and clipped something to one side. She stood back to appraise. “Naihi will apply your finishing,” she said, and snatched the linen pouches and hurried away.

  Vashti arrived in moments, her face crinkling in delight.

  “You will make a lovely pair.” She took my small boxes of rouge and kohl and added her own vials and boxes, dabbing, fussing, and smoothing my face as the mistresses at the Moon House had done. I’d never worn face paint since leaving there. Sandro had said I needed no adornment.

  Unseeable divinities! My breath near halted. I would see him today.

  “Now,” said Vashti, handing me a small round looking glass. “Will he know you?”

  “By the Sisters!”

  I didn’t know me. Red! My hair was a billowing tousle of dark red curls, clipped back on one side by a delicate bronze butterfly. My eyes, lined dark, glistened wide and deep. Flushes of rose colored my lips and cheeks—not garish paint, but shaded so that my cheekbones seemed more prominent, my nose narrower, brow higher. Vashti handed me the peach-dyed chemise, and I donned the garments she’d fashioned out of scraps—colors and fabrics I’d never worn for Sandro.

  Placidio stared when I returned into the house, then his mouth quirked up at one corner. “I think we’ve got him,” he said.

  And Placidio—had I not already seen him barbered, I’d not have recognized him either. Vashti had given up on the worn, ugly doublet. Instead she had turned the green shirt back to front, hiding the permanent bloodstains behind, slit a new V-shaped opening in the collar, and reformed the whole into a knee-length tunic. She had trimmed and sewn the few remaining unfaded, unspoiled pieces of her woven rug into a colorful belt. One of her small silk hangings had become a ruffled neck piece that tucked inside the new front slit of the tunic. The torn black cloak had evolved into a sleeveless gown like mine—scholarly, Vashti said—while one of Dumond’s newer leather aprons had been refashioned into the image of a buff jerkin, although, as she cheerfully showed me, there was not enough leather to make a whole one. Lengths of ordinary linen held it together across his broad back, which the scholar’s gown hid perfectly well.

  The linen pouches had been filled with rags and tucked into his shirt sleeves and the breast of his tunic to mime the current puffed-out fashion. A black silk rosette had replaced the dreadful feathers on his new hat, and dangling ribbons diverted attention from his scar. He looked a new man. He didn’t quite believe our admiration.

  “Certain I’m one of those jack-willows landsmen put out to scare birds and foxes,” he grumbled. “But then none’s going to look at me with the fire-haired lady beside.”

  “Not so, Segno di Guelfi, for you will be carrying these.” Dumond had appeared in the doorway. He presented Placidio with my heavy black bag, several linen-wrapped bundles protruding awkwardly. He quirked an eyebrow at me. “Get them back to me soon, yes?”

  “Soon.” I took Placidio’s arm. “Shall we go, Brother Vincenzio?”

  17

  DAY 2—EVENING

  “Show us in without delay,” announced Placidio. “We are Vincenzio and Tarenah di Guelfi, expected by the Commission on Public Artworks.”

  Placidio wore authority with his skin, no matter what garments he threw over it.

  The doorward showed no hesitation. He snapped his fingers and a page boy in gilded livery appeared from behind a marble pillar. “Take them to the commission assembly room.”

  I was grateful and slipped the commission’s invitation back into the inner pocket of the gown that had, that morning, been my summer cloak. My shaking hands could have alarmed the guards posted in pairs all around the Palazzo Segnori.

  The boy led us up the grand staircase. The entire area of the soaring walls and dome of the atrium was covered with murals depicting Cantagnan history: victories, celebrations, elections, achievements, even scenes of daily life in the city and surrounding countryside.

  I knew the padded bench where the boy had been waiting for a summons. On my first visit to the gilded Gentlemen’s Palace, Sandro had shooed the waiting pages away and sat with me on that bench while I mastered my nerves, rattled at the prospect of meeting a roomful of his friends and enemies.

  He had pointed out noble depictions of his father and grandfather and other storied figures in the grand murals, as well as caricatures of those who had foolishly opposed the Gallanos ascendancy. There was even a tiny portrait of Sandro himself, clothed as a shepherd boy tucked in amongst a feast-day crowd.

  “They told me I was to become a shepherd of the people,” he’d said, his eyes sparking. “Shall you and I retire to a hayrick after this tedious reception?”

  We had not. Not that day.

  How could I stand in front of him in this ridiculous disguise—he who could recognize me in the night, who had so easily read my sorrows, my joys, my darkness, and my ex
altation? He had accepted what I offered with humility and had given himself generously, despite the irreconcilable positions Lady Fortune had laid on us. Had he loved me? I could not imagine something more or better. Surely to see him, to watch that soulful gaze settle on this awkward deception and recognize me, must shatter my heart.

  Yet I could not fail. The only way I could possibly get through the next hour was to forget Sandro. To forget Cataline. To forget Romy.

  I begged Lady Virtue and the Unseeable divinities to help me lose myself in deception. So many depended on me. Dumond, Vashti, Placidio, Neri, risking their lives on my word that this was a worthy work. Sandro, his honor, his vision, though he must not know, lest he give it all away. Reaching deep, I drew on every smattering of strength I could find inside myself …

  I am Tarenah di Guelfi, a maiden who has traveled the Costa Drago with my scholarly, insightful brother, always reflecting his wisdom and studious nature. His name will be cited in the books of history and discovery, whereas I shall be a footnote at best. In any case, I shall be content. I am insignificant in the world. These people we meet are strangers, unknown men and women of power, who could slay us with a word. And yet our cause … our father’s legacy … is worthy …

  My blood heated. Flushed, more certain, I stood a bit straighter as we swept up the stair. I made sure to lavish Vincenzio’s noble back with the admiration he deserved. He displays such assurance, such prowess in his studies, and he bears great admiration for the ideals of the Cantagnan Independency. Alas, that our haste to answer the commission’s inquiry pushed us through a sevenday of rain. His cough leaves his voice unreliable. If only the commission had been able to wait the extra day. Yet good Lady Fortune has provided that I, so perfectly of one mind with him, can convey his thoughts clearly.

  The page boy whispered to an usher, who opened a pair of gilded doors, stepped inside, and bowed: “Noble commissioners, I present your expected supplicants, Professoré Vincenzio di Guelfi, and his sister, Damizella Tarenah di Guelfi.”

  The usher stepped aside to let us pass. Two steps more and Vincenzio bowed, his height lending itself to graceful movements. Such dignity he displayed in his acknowledgment of our modest status while in the presence of such noble persons. Surely it was a good sign that they addressed him as professoré—an expert in his field. That meant the recommendation letters in our application had been recognized and approved. I remained a step behind him and curtsied deeply.

  A few of the commissioners sat at the polished table, already sighing in the boredom of the very wealthy. Vincenzio and I had sought patronage from every kind of family council, city commission, and scholarly fraternity across three independencies, and many we met had no true heart for history or antiquity.

  “Be seated, commissioners,” said a wide-browed older woman, gowned soberly in froths of black lace. “We allotted this interview a quarter hour, and Secretary Mardi has set the glass running.”

  Indeed, a white-haired gentlemen seated at the left end of the table had spun a crystal globe supported in a bright brass ring. The globe now spewed its salts into its companion vessel, as the man dipped his pen and held it poised above a sheet of scraped parchment.

  “We welcome you and your sister to Cantagna, Professoré di Guelfi.” The woman addressed Vincenzio, as she seated herself in the center of the row of chairs.

  The rest of them quickly joined her. Nine of them, not just eight.

  “I am Beatrice di Mesca, head of the Commission on Public Artworks. My husband, Piero, here next to me, shares the office. Commissioner Gallanos has brought another guest to join us. Philosophist Rinaldo di Bastianni is a specialist in pre-classical bronze artwork.”

  The philosophist would be the blur of red at the right end of the table. Manners forbade me stare. The Philosophic Confraternity was very strict in regard to verifying antiquities as legitimate historical artifacts, deserving of public attention. I’d heard that the Academie here in Cantagna disqualified more than they approved, one reason we had solicited recommendations from specialists closer to our home in Varela.

  Vincenzio inclined his head to Segna di Mesca. I kept my attention on her, too, as would be expected, not gawking at the rest though I knew that some of the members were very much more important to the Independency of Cantagna than others. One in particular—the true power of the region sat at this table, and we were come to fulfill his commission’s desire, hoping to reap a fine future. I’d seen his likeness—who that traveled Cantagna had not? But I would not seek him out and stare.

  “Your application was quite clear and well structured,” said the bald Piero di Mesca who wore a crimped neck ruff so elaborate and so large that his head looked like an egg perched in a starched nest.

  A voice deep inside me laughed and said that the severe Beatrice would approve that head stuck on a platter, as Piero had never met a maidservant he did not bed.

  I shoved the mockery aside. Better I pay close attention. Vincenzio wished me to listen and judge the commissioners’ reactions to our case, and be prepared to answer questions if his cough became burdensome.

  “You are well educated in history, with an interest in antiquities,” Piero di Mesca continued. “And you seek funds to support your search for a system of caves on a islet in the Sea of Tears, where some kind of lost treasure awaits recovery. Perhaps you could explain more clearly what evidence prompts you to this venture and how it is you have some, but not all, of the artifacts already.”

  Vincenzio cleared his throat. Ah, such a terrible cough he’s had during our travels.

  “Segna and Segnoré di Mesca, and members of the Arts Commission, we thank you for this invitation to present our petition. We welcome Philosphist di Bastianni’s addition.” His poor voice sounded like crushed glass underfoot. “Our father captained a small fishing vessel. His regular route threaded the Hylides, which as you might be aware is an archipelago of some two hundred rocky islets, most of them uninhabitable. The Mare di Lacrime—the Sea of Tears—is subject to violent storms at the change—”

  He suppressed a small coughing spasm. “Pardon, segno—at the change of seasons. After his death two years since, my sister found our father’s journal detailing his adventures over the years. The journal describes one of these seasonal storms which drove his boat ashore on a Hylid isle riddled with caves. His crew of three all lost, he explored deep into the caves in a desperate search for fresh water. There he found an iron chest containing scrolls and artifacts of all kinds, items that struck him—a man of limited education—with a sense of great wonder. When the storm eased, he brought home a small bronze depicting the god Atladu, fully intending to find the islet again someday and retrieve the whole chest. But he died too soon.”

  Vincenzio coughed again, harder, and croaked, “Perhaps my sister might continue, as the raw weather on our hasty travel north has left me something hoarse.”

  “Damizella?” Segna di Mesca’s invitation was cold.

  The unwelcome attention did not confound me. I was but Vincenzio’s voice and would make sure my speech was properly deferent, but clear and authoritative as befitted an educated woman of Varela.

  “When my brother returned from the Philosophic Academie at Varela, the items we found in Papa’s chest intrigued him greatly. An acquaintance at the Academie tested the god statue and assured him it was quite old. We hired a boat and crew to search for the isle, but our funds were limited, and we were forced to discontinue the search. A month ago, our friend at the Academie forwarded this commission’s inquiry about a small statue known as the Antigonean bronze. The object of the inquiry precisely fit the description of the statue he’d tested. We brought a few other items from our father’s collection, not knowing if some might be from the same trove, as Papa did not list the provenance of each.”

  Vincenzio drew out several bundles from our bag and unwrapped them on the table: a small galloping horse of bronze chased with pure copper, three finger-sized natalés, and what we believed to be the v
ery Antigonean bronze of this commission’s desire.

  Some of the commissioners murmured to each other; some leaned back and ignored their fellows, as well as the two of us and our little collection. But the two men at the far right end of the table rose and came round the table to examine the bronzes. The one wearing the crimson toque and matching gold-threaded cloak of the Academie was a very tall, spare man of great dignity. Bastianni, I supposed, an unfamiliar name, though his walk and robed form left me most uneasy.

  But like a steel splinter to a lodestone was my observation drawn to the other man, who lifted the sculpted god, ran his long fingers over it lightly, and passed it to the academician. His fine-boned face glowed with appreciation. Deep under dark brows, his steel-gray eyes gleamed with discovery. This was Alessandro di Gallanos, also known as il Padroné. Whispers named him the Shadow Lord. So young for such weighty titles. A tight knot in my breast near stopped my breath, as if I had swallowed a plum whole. I lowered my gaze, unwilling to attract such dread notice.

  “’Tis very like the sketches and descriptions, Rinaldo, even to the edge where the flanking figure was broken off,” he said, his quiet words ringing clear. “The forgeries I’ve seen never get that right. Is it possible this is what I’ve searched for?”

  The man in red pocketed a small magnifying lens.

  “The weight, the base coloration, the unusual iconography—the design, if you will—all certainly agree with what we know of the Antigonean bronze.” The philosophist addressed the whole commission, not just the man beside him. “And though sophisticated for its time, the artistic style is certainly appropriate to what we know of its history. This is no simplistic fakery, at the least. As to whether the commission should invest in this man’s story, as yet, I cannot say.”