City of Stars (7 page)

Rinaldo had not been able to deny Enrico a job in Remora and had recommended him to both his uncles: to the Pope as an experienced horseman and to Duke Niccolò as an unscrupulous spy. But the very sight of the man unnerved him. He had carried out an act of cold-blooded murder, more than one probably, and even though the most recent such act had been on Rinaldo's orders, he looked on the assassin with fascinated horror, knowing that he would just as easily slit his own master's throat, if paid enough.

‘Ah, how are they treating you here?' he asked Enrico nervously, anxious to get away from him and out of the city for his ride in the hills.

‘Very well,' said Enrico. ‘It's good to be back among horses. They're more reliable than humans, if you know what I mean.'

Rinaldo thought he did. This scruffy spy had a grudge; his good-looking fiancée had disappeared and the man had got it into his head that his old employer knew something about it. Rinaldo had met the girl only once and knew nothing at all of her fate, which had in fact been very different from what Enrico suspected. The ambassador had no time for young women himself, beautiful or otherwise. They were quite alien to him, apart from his sister and cousins. And the last thing he wanted was for Enrico to harbour any malice against him. He could do Rinaldo a lot of harm, and not just physically.

‘Excellent, excellent!' he now said vaguely. ‘Let me know if there's anything you need.' And he led Bacio out into the yard, with Enrico's mournful brown eyes following him.

*

‘Where shall I begin?' asked Luciano. He, Cesare and Georgia had left Paolo and Doctor Dethridge closeted together, and taken the road west out of the city walls through the Gate of the Ram. They had been sent off with instructions to spend the day continuing Georgia's education about Remora and sharing information.

‘Well, how did you get here, for a start?' asked Georgia. They were sitting on the small wall of a farm just outside the city.

‘Today I arrived by carriage,' said Luciano, smiling. ‘But I suspect that's not what you want to know. I came from Bellezza. That was the city I first stravagated to last May.' His smile faded. ‘That is where I live now – it is my home.'

The three young people remained silent for a while. Cesare was rather in awe of this elegant young man, who was a year younger than him and yet had known such wonders. Luciano was a Stravagante and Cesare still wasn't sure what that meant. Cesare had been told that Luciano was apprentice to Signor Rodolfo, the most distinguished Stravagante in Talia, and that he lived in Bellezza with Doctor Crinamorte, who had founded the brotherhood. And now he had turned out to be not only a visitor from another world, but a friend of Cesare's own personal Stravagante, the mysterious girl with a boy's hair and no shadow.

‘There is nowhere in our world like Bellezza,' Luciano eventually continued. ‘It looks like Venice, except that everything gold in Venice is silver in Bellezza. They don't value gold here, you know; it's silver that is the most precious metal. Bellezza is a city visited by people from all over this world – not just Talians – because of its incredible beauty. And as soon as I arrived in it, I felt really well again. My hair had grown back and I was strong, just as I was before the cancer came.' He stopped and took a deep breath, then plunged back into his story.

‘I can't tell you everything in one day. I have spent months as apprentice to Rodolfo – he's wonderful, the cleverest, most magical person – and he taught me about being a Stravagante. He had been expecting me, because he took my talisman to our world.'

‘What was your talisman?' asked Georgia curiously.

An expression of pain passed over his face. She could see that this new Luciano was not quite as she remembered Lucien. He looked older and as if scarred by experience. He said he hadn't been ill in Talia and yet he looked as someone might who has had a serious illness and recovered from it in body but not yet in mind.

‘It was a notebook from Bellezza,' said Luciano. ‘But I can't use it any more.' He stood and paced up and down in front of the wall. ‘As you see, I have a shadow now. I am still a Stravagante, but from this world to yours. I have made that journey only a few times and it is very difficult for me.'

‘Is that because of, you know, what happened in our world with your illness?' asked Georgia, feeling stupid and tactless even as she said it, but she had to know.

‘Yes,' said Luciano. ‘As you know, in your world, which is no longer mine, I died.'

Cesare looked at him with awe; he had heard Luciano say he was dead in his old world but he still couldn't believe it.

‘Is that what happened to Doctor Dethridge too?' asked Georgia quickly, to disperse the tension.

‘In a way,' said Luciano. ‘He stravagated to Bellona, his city in Talia, to escape a death sentence in England. And then later, he found he had a shadow here and realised he must have died in his old life.'

‘Why did you think the Dottore talked funny?' Cesare asked Georgia. ‘He sounds quite normal to me.'

‘He sounds old-fashioned to us,' said Georgia.

Georgia looked to Luciano for explanation, but he just shrugged. ‘But do we sound normal to you?' he asked Cesare. ‘Because we don't speak Italian or Talian and yet we can understand and make ourselves understood here.'

Georgia tried another tack. ‘What did you do in Bellezza,' she asked, ‘besides learning about stravagation?'

‘First I was chosen by the Duchessa to be a mandolier – that's like a gondolier in Venice,' he said, ‘but then Rodolfo got me out of that and I made fireworks. I visited the islands, dived in the canal, fought with an assassin, was given lots of silver, had a warrant out for my arrest, got drunk, was kidnapped, helped get a new Duchessa elected, danced with her at Carnival . . .'

His expression had changed again and Georgia felt a tightening round her heart.

‘How old is the new Duchessa?' she asked.

‘About my age,' said Luciano. ‘About a month older.' His tone was super casual; Georgia recognised it. It was the same tone in which she had asked Vicky Mulholland how Lucien was when she went for violin lessons.

‘How exciting!' said Cesare. ‘You've had so many more adventures than me. And I'm nearly a year older than you. I've done nothing except ride horses and help my father in the Twelfth. And you've met the Duchessa of Bellezza – both of them. It makes my life here seem very dull.'

‘I have a feeling it's not going to stay dull,' said Luciano grimly. ‘You can't be the son of a Stravagante in one of the main cities of the di Chimici clan and not be in danger.'

‘I didn't know he was a Stravagante till yesterday,' said Cesare. ‘And I still don't know what it means.'

‘You and me both,' said Georgia. ‘And I'm supposed to
be
one!'

‘It's a traveller between worlds,' said Luciano. ‘At least, one between Georgia's world and ours.' He turned to Cesare, deliberately identifying himself with him rather than with Georgia. ‘The travel can be in either direction, but the talisman – the device that helps the Stravagante make the journey – comes from the world that is not the Stravagante's own.'

‘But you said you've been back to the other world, since – you know,' said Georgia. ‘Have you got a talisman from there now?'

‘Yes,' said Luciano, but he didn't elaborate.

‘Why do you think you two were chosen?' asked Cesare, rather shyly. ‘You must be very special in some way.'

Luciano and Georgia snorted in unison.

‘Not at all, in my case,' said Luciano.

‘Nor me,' said Georgia.

‘Unless . . .' said Luciano and then stopped, confused.

‘What?' said Georgia.

‘I've had plenty of time to think about this,' he went on reluctantly. ‘I have wondered whether my talisman found me because I would have been doomed in my own world anyway. I mean, although I got stranded here because the di Chimici kidnapped me and I couldn't stravagate back because I didn't have the talisman, I think I would have died in my world anyway. The cancer had come back, you know.'

Georgia nodded.

‘So I wonder if it was somehow connected – if it was because I was already dying. And now, I wonder ... I hate to ask, but are you quite well in your own world?'

Chapter 6

The Youngest Son

‘Are you sure you're not sickening for something?' asked Maura, when Georgia gave her fourth huge yawn at breakfast.

‘No, really, Mum, I'm fine – honestly,' she said. ‘I just didn't get much sleep last night.'

This was true enough. Lucien had warned her about that. ‘I was always exhausted back home when I was stravagating every night,' he had said. ‘But at least I had the excuse of being ill.'

She thought she had been able to reassure him – and herself – on that point. She was pretty sure she didn't have a serious illness.

‘Perhaps you should give the riding a miss today?' said Russell, feigning brotherly concern. Georgia shot him a poisonous look.

‘Perhaps you shouldn't play your “music” so late at night,' she rejoined. ‘It kept me awake.'

‘Now, now, don't squabble, you two,' said Ralph. He hated any kind of disagreement at mealtimes.

Georgia was already wearing her jodhpurs and riding boots. Sometimes, when she was very lucky, Ralph or Maura would give her a lift to the stables, but it was a long way out and took up the whole morning, since they had to wait for her. So most weeks, like today, she had to take the tube out to practically the end of the line, carrying her hard-hat and crop.

Since these were difficult accessories to disguise, some wag or other was bound to ask, ‘Where's the horse?' on the journey and laugh uproariously at his wit. Today she barely noticed but kept score out of habit. ‘Only three,' she muttered as she took the bus from the station to the stables. ‘I must be losing my touch.'

The familiar smell of the stables made her think immediately of Remora, where horses were treated almost like gods, even when they didn't have wings. She had spent most of last night – or the day before if you thought in Talian terms – talking to Lucien and Cesare about the di Chimici, Bellezza, stravagation and Talian magic. Now she couldn't wait to go back and find out more about the horse race that seemed to dominate the city. And to see Lucien again.

Lucien had ended their conversation by suggesting that she shouldn't stravagate every night or she would be too tired. Then he had warned her that the gateway from her world was notoriously unstable. He and Dethridge and the mysterious Rodolfo, who was obviously a big hero to Lucien, were working on ways of stabilising it, but even if she missed out a week, she might find that only a day had passed in Talia.

But could she bear to miss even one chance of seeing him? Common sense told her that she had as much hope of getting together with Lucien as if he really had died. After all he had, as far as her world was concerned. And even if she stravagated to Talia and stayed there permanently – which was certainly not on her agenda – she didn't think he would ever be more than a friend. Remembering how he had looked when he talked about the young Duchessa of Bellezza made Georgia feel desperately sad all over again.

The Duchessa was called Arianna, apparently, and there had been a secret about her birth – she was actually the daughter of the previous Duchessa and Rodolfo. Lucien had been Arianna's friend long before she knew of her parentage and was just a simple girl from one of the islands in the Bellezzan lagoon. But then her mother had been assassinated and the truth had come out.

‘Georgia!' called a voice, jolting her out of her reverie. ‘Are you going to ride today or just stand in the yard all morning?'

It was Jean, who ran the stables and was one of Georgia's favourite peopl`e.

‘Sorry – I was miles away,' said Georgia, truthfully.

Falco di Chimici was alone, apart from the servants. He had the whole palace to roam in. The di Chimici summer palace at Santa Fina, about ten miles from Remora, was the most lavish of all the homes of the Dukes of Giglia. It had been built by the second Duke, Alfonso, Falco's grandfather, who had been too busy making money to get married until he was sixty-five.

Despite his age he had gone on to sire four sons, the oldest, Niccolò, when he was sixty-seven and the youngest, Jacopo, now Prince of Bellona, ten years later. Duke Alfonso had died at the age of eighty-seven, more than twenty years before Falco had been born, leaving Niccolò to take over as Duke when he was only twenty. Alfonso's wife, Renata, had been much younger than him and Falco could just remember her, a tiny, white-haired figure, hobbling about the palazzo with a stick, very bright-eyed and interested and very proud of her splendid sons and grandsons.

Even me, thought Falco, as he limped slowly and painfully from room to room, using two wooden sticks. But that was an uncharacteristic thought; Falco didn't approve of self-pity.

He had been the adored youngest child of a wealthy and influential family and the best-looking son of his branch of it. His father, Duke Niccolò, had held him in his arms minutes after his birth and schemed of new princedoms to win or buy so that this beautiful child should bear a worthy title.

Falco had three older brothers who were all gifted in different ways. Fabrizio and Carlo were both handsome and clever, Fabrizio well suited to be their father's heir since he was interested in politics and diplomacy and spent many hours of each day closeted with the Duke. Carlo had more of a business brain, like the family's founder. Even when he was a little boy, building castles out of wooden bricks, he wanted to charge his brothers to use them for their toy soldiers.

The brother that Falco loved best was Gaetano, the closest to him in age, and he wasn't handsome at all. In fact, he was quite ugly, with a big nose and a wide crooked mouth. He was supposed to look like their grandfather Alfonso, who had built the great palace at Santa Fina. But Gaetano was the cleverest of all the brothers, and the most interested in the libraries at Santa Fina and at their uncle's Papal palace.

He was also the most fun to be with. Gaetano could ride and fence and make up the most wonderful games. The happiest hours of Falco's childhood had been spent with Gaetano at Santa Fina, acting out his invented romances of knights and ghosts and hidden treasure and family secrets of madmen and concealed wills and maps. Their older sister Beatrice could sometimes be persuaded to play the forlorn maidens or warrior queens which Gaetano's invention required, but often Falco himself, with his delicate features and huge dark eyes, had to submit to being wrapped in scraps of muslin or brocade to take the female roles.

His favourite romances, though, had been the ones involving swordfights. He and his brother had started with toy wooden weapons but graduated to bated foils when Falco was ten. They had fought their way up and down all the staircases of the palace from the grand sweep of the main marble one to the mysterious branched wooden stairs of the servants' quarters. They had duelled under the heavy chandeliers of the ballroom, reflected a hundred times in its mirrored walls. They had feinted and parried even in the palace kitchens, overturning pans and startling the maids. Although Gaetano was four years older than his little brother, they were well matched in skill and always collapsed out of breath and laughing at the same point.

It had been glorious. But it had all come to an end two years ago, when Gaetano turned fifteen. He was going to go to the university in Giglia and the boys' tutor, Ignazio, would be left with only one pupil. They would still have had their long summer holidays to continue their fencing and play-acting, if it hadn't been for Falco's accident.

He was thinking about it now, as he made his painful way up one of the staircases he had scaled so lightly in the past. He reached the great arched loggia overlooking the main entrance to the palace and rested, breathing heavily, on the parapet, surveying the countryside.

You couldn't see the stables from here and he was glad. He hadn't ridden since the accident, hadn't wanted to, didn't even know if it was physically possible. He couldn't face the indignity of being hauled awkwardly on to the backs of beasts he would once have sprung lightly up on unaided. Falco had his pride.

Gaetano had been given a new horse for his fifteenth birthday – a nervous highly-bred grey gelding, called Caino. Falco begged to ride the animal and his brother had, unusually, denied him. ‘He's too big for you, Falconcino,' Gaetano had said. ‘Wait till you are older.'

The grown-ups had laughed and Falco had seethed. He had never been denied any treat on the grounds that he was too small or too young. And Gaetano of all his family should have known how strong and capable he was. Hadn't he that morning pressed his older brother to yield as they fenced round the twenty-foot-long table in the great banqueting hall?

He waited till after the grand birthday meal, held at that same table. Everyone ate and drank too much except Falco, who was too angry. After the table had been cleared, the guests all drifted off to different rooms on the cool upper floors of the palace for a siesta. Even Gaetano went to doze over his manuscripts in the library.

Falco went out to the stables and saddled up Caino. It had been madness. The grooms were all at their own meal, the horses were sleepy in the early afternoon heat and the grey did not know this boy who was leading him out of the stables. Still, he let himself be mounted, flattening his ears back only a little, and seemed reassured by the rider's sensitive hands.

But Caino did not want to be out in the blazing sun and soon turned tetchy. He minced sideways to avoid stones on the road that he didn't like the look of, slowed to a funereal pace and then, when Falco dug his heels in, accelerated into a gallop from a standing start and careered across the fields at full stretch. Falco was scared. He knew that Gaetano would be furious with him if he over-stretched his new mount. Strangely, he had no fears for himself.

Caino saw a high wall in his way and bunched up his hindquarters to clear it. He almost did. But a bird flew up and startled him at the crucial moment and he fell back, crushing his rider.

Only half an hour passed before a stable boy noticed that the grey was missing. The head groom alerted Niccolò, who rose irritably from his nap. ‘Stupid of the boy to take him out in this heat,' he grumbled. ‘But I suppose he couldn't wait to try his present.'

‘No, your Grace,' said the groom. ‘Your manservant tells me that master Gaetano is in the library.'

It took hours to find them. By then the horse was dead, his eyes rolled back and his beautiful head flecked with blood and foam. His neck was broken. It took five men to lift his body off the boy. One of them was the desperate Duke, who insisted on carrying the limp body of his youngest son back to the palazzo in his arms. He seemed to be scarcely breathing.

A runner had been dispatched to the doctor in Santa Fina and he found the boy in a dreadful state. For three days Falco hovered between life and death. He could remember it – a sensation of floating high above his weeping family, like the cherubs painted on the high ceiling of his bedroom. Like them, he had no feelings; he was made of light and warmth and ideas. And then, on the fourth day, his spirit had returned to his broken body and he began his new life of pain.

His broken ribs and his cuts and bruises healed with time, though he would always bear a scar on his cheek. But his right leg was shattered and all the doctor's skill with splints and bandages couldn't restore his lightness of movement and his easy gait. It had taken him two years to walk as well as he did now with his sticks, and each step still cost him effort and pain. He leaned now on the parapet with his chin resting on his thin hand, remembering how anguished his parents had been. His mother had died of a fever a year ago, giving Falco a new pain to carry. His father still loved him, he knew that. But it was a love he could never fully accept; the boy felt so ashamed of his now ruined body.