Path of Smoke (19 page)

What really dug at her, though, was the possibility that they might be okay. That they actually didn't need him. The auditor was gone, but their company had survived. They'd come this far without the help of invisible spirits. Their shadows were alive and well, and nobody was looking back to see if he'd followed them. All she could think of was how pale he'd been, floating like a bleached bone in the water. The moonlight silvering his hair, and the strange look of relief on his empty face. He'd made a deal with the waves. Perhaps he'd always wanted it this way. It was his decision, and they had no right to drag him back into the game.

Shelby walked into the main office. A row of mail cubes stood against the far wall. She slipped the report into Dr. Marsden's cube, which was already overflowing.

“You might want to give that to me.”

Tom, the departmental advisor, was peering at her from his desk. Normally, he didn't look up from the computer. His full attention made Shelby feel awkward, as if she'd just wandered naked into someone else's classroom.

“What's up?”

“Dr. Marsden might be away for a while.”

Shelby handed him the report. “Did she come down with something serious?”

“You haven't heard?”

“Obviously not. Is she okay?”

“She was hit by a car. It happened while she was walking through the park last night. Someone hit her, right in front of the parliament building. Then they just drove off.”

Shelby heard a ringing in her ears. “Is . . . she going to be all right?”

“Yeah. She was quite lucky, I guess. But she may be in the hospital for a week. The department head is taking over her classes.”

“And—” She swallowed. “Nobody saw the car?”

“The driver was long gone before they found her.” Tom shook his head and returned his attention to the screen. “People are monsters.”

M
ORGAN
STOOD
AT
THE
entrance to the black basia, watching people come and go. Some looked nervous, while others were too drunk to care. A few women circled the steps, uncertain as to whether they should take the plunge. They wore head scarves and exchanged quick, calibrating glances with each other.
Do I know her? Didn't I see her at the tower, yesterday morning? Does she recognize me?
Their soft sandals and cork-heeled shoes kicked up dust as they worried their way along the cobblestones. Morgan watched their spirals with interest. There was no rule against women visiting the basiorum. Fortuna's wheel touched all manner of pleasures, and desire was what kept it spinning.

Nevertheless, the meretrices had a predominantly male clientele. Most women, she imagined, sought pleasures more difficult to quantify. They met in networks at the baths or in shaded gardens. The idea of paying for sex was logical but it seldom occurred to her. It wasn't every day that she woke up and thought:
I'm going to exchange these coins for sweet little death in a stranger's arms.
Most of the time, she was content with imaginary pleasures. They never disappointed, spilled wine on you, or frowned at your stomach.

Still, it was diverting to watch the sheer variety of those who followed their desire. Curly-haired boys with their bula necklaces, trying to look stern, while their mouths trembled. Women who stared decorously at the ground or boldly at each other, trying to gauge how close they might come to the flame. Men whose hands were stained amethyst with dye or blackened by soot. Careful spadones who greeted each other with a nod while concealing weapons beneath their soft green tunicae. A fur testing the weight of her own purse while keeping an eye on the others that dangled nearby, like low-hanging fruit. Two old women with canes who made the sign of the wheel as they spoke of a lost friend.
She left me these earrings. How they sparkle.

“You got here quickly.”

She turned and smiled at Fel. “Old habit. I like to make a nest before anyone else arrives, so that I can secure a proper view.”

“Babieca's waiting by the clepsydra. I saw him on my way.”

“Did you stop him?”

“No. He was losing at stones, and I didn't want to embarrass him.”

Morgan sighed. “He doesn't have the money for that.”

“I gather that he has coins in places we've never seen—nor would we want to.”

“He has no head for gambling.”

“I always thought singers were supposed to be good at games.”

“We found the exception.”

Fel laughed kindly. “He has his uses.”

“He can be charming, when he isn't stepping in it.”

The miles gave her a long look. “Why them?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why did you choose them for your company—a singer who's shit at gambling, and a shy auditor without a gens?”

Morgan remembered the day when she'd almost lost her bow. A companion—someone she'd trusted—had stolen it to wager in a game of Hazard. Roldan and Babieca had seen the whole thing happen and rescued her weapon. They were strangers, and yet they'd taken a considerable risk to help her.

“They wagered on me,” she replied. “I'm not yet sure if it was the right move, but we seem to fit together, in our way.”

“I think you're a safe bet.”

“Oh?” Morgan smiled uncertainly. “I have my uses as well?”

“You're certainly worth the wager.”

They stood still for a moment. The fountain rippled next to them. The old women stepped through the entrance to the basia, their canes tapping the marble. Before she could stop herself, Morgan took Fel's hand. Even if it was a tablet beyond her reach, she was willing to leave a mark. The miles had scarred knuckles, and she touched them lightly, as if she could follow the lines of the stylus that had formed them in wax. Fel didn't quite smile, but her eyes danced. In the warrior's mind, she could see that they were gliding across an impossible surface. They reeled to the music, turning faster and faster, until the floor dissolved and they were a brilliant wheel in the sky. The towers formed dark pips below them. The sun fired their spokes, and they were glass, ecstasy, rhythm.

Love is the wild roll,
Fortuna said, as she turned them.

Morgan let go of her hand. She could see Babieca approaching, and she didn't want him to smirk. Fel looked at her, then at the ground, as if the sharp stones were a fascinating mosaic. Morgan was still in the clouds, and her stomach gave a lurch as she came back down.

“I was waiting at the clepsydra,” Babieca said.

“I think you mean gambling,” Fel replied.

“Waiting. Gambling. They're so close to each other, aren't they?”

“Not really.”

“How much did you lose?” Morgan asked.

“Don't worry about it.”

“We have no money. Pendelia hasn't hired us in a week, and most of our time is spent running away from things that want to eat us. So I worry, Babieca.”

“The loss was negligible.”

“Sweet Fortuna—how can you be so bad at gaming?”

“It's not a talent that you're born with.”

“But a singer who can't gamble is like—”

“I think the word you're looking for is
pointless
,” Fel added.

He glared at them both. “You aren't exactly raking in the coin.”

“But we're not losing it,” Morgan said. “Do you see the distinction?”

“Let's just go inside. Drauca's waiting for us.”

Fel surveyed the entrance to the basia. “I'm not sure I like this plan. What if the girl doesn't show up? What if she's followed?”

“I'd be more concerned with how we're going to convince her to help us,” Morgan said. “She barely knows that I'm alive. The last time she saw me, I was being hauled to the Tower of Sagittarii for a bit of light torture. I'm not exactly a good influence.”

“She was spying on her mother in the necropolis,” Babieca replied. “She isn't looking for a good influence. She's flirting with danger. That might work for us.”

“She's a child. We can't put her in harm's way.”

“Septimus was hunting her. I'd say she's already tempting the wheel.”

“It feels strange, though. Turning her against her mother. Isn't there some terrible afterlife designed for people who sow familial discord?”

“Every basilissa turns against her mother,” Fel said. “That's the rhythm of the matriarchy. The trick will be making sure that Eumachia turns in our direction, rather than against us.”

Morgan gave her an odd look. “I thought you shared my misgivings.”

“I do. But as much as it pains me to say it, the singer isn't wrong. We're at a very dangerous curve, and if we don't brace ourselves properly, the wheel's going to crush us all. The girl may be the key.”

Babieca smiled. “Allow me a moment to glory in not being wrong.”

“You've got three seconds,” Fel said. “Glory in silence.”

They made their way through the sunlit atrium, whose black-and-white marble resembled a game of latrinculi. The veins in the marble seemed to dance, like clouds, while cithara music trembled in the air. A woman in a tall blue wig stood in the light of the impluvium, reading poetry. Nearby, two men drunkenly chased each other, spilling their cups in the process. An auditor was talking to a meretrix with close-cropped hair. Garnets gleamed in her mask. For a moment, Morgan was certain that she recognized the auditor. It was rare to see one of them in a basia. Their pleasures tended to be more esoteric. She tried to recall where she'd seen him before, but the memory was indistinct, like the mottled surface of the pillars. One of the drunken men crashed into him, nearly knocking them both to the ground. The auditor swore and roughly pushed him away. Then he turned his attention back to the meretrix, whose expression now revealed a shadow of disinterest. The auditor didn't seem to notice.

“I'm going to get a drink,” Babieca said. “All of this will make more sense.”

“Fine,” Morgan said. “Bring me a cup of hippocrene.”

He made a face. “That's like sucking on a honeycomb. And it smells—”

She handed him a coin. “Just get it.”

Babieca nodded and disappeared into the crowd.

Morgan turned to Fel. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Oh?”

“Keep him occupied.”

She frowned. “I thought we were meeting Felix.”

“I'm meeting Felix. I think your presence might just muddy the waters.”

“You're not going to the undercroft alone.”

“Eumachia doesn't trust any of us. If we show up as a group, she's going to bolt. I think she might listen to me, though.”

“Morgan, she's royalty. To her, you're just another archer.”

“It's more complicated than that.”

“Truly? Because it sounds as if you're just being stubborn.”

She almost took Fel's hand but stopped herself. “We were on that balcony together. She saw me kill the silenus—and she realized what her mother was trying to do. I could see the betrayal flash across her eyes.”

Morgan felt a distant ache. How could she explain to Fel the enormity of that reversal? The knowledge that your own family might not be on your side? She could barely articulate the sensation, but it was like falling in a dream. The ground rushing toward you, and the prayer spinning in your head,
Wake up, wake up.
Only you didn't, and the impact was your whole life. The pain wasn't entirely hers. It belonged to her shadow. But Morgan could still feel it, and she knew that it was the same for Eumachia. A mother was supposed to catch you, to weave a transparent net beneath you, so that you were never afraid to fall. She wasn't supposed to forget about you while you roamed the halls of a palace that you scarcely understood.

Fel looked at her for a moment. Then she squared her shoulders. “If you want me to distract him, I'd best go now.”

“Thank you.”

“I expect to be repaid in full.”

Morgan smiled. “That I can most certainly promise.”

Fel scanned the crowd. Then she sighed. “Someone's given him a torch.”

“You'd better hurry.”

“I hope you roll true. We'll be waiting for you outside.”

“Keep him away from all of the elements.”

“I'll try.”

Fel went after Babieca. She removed the torch from his grasp and began gesturing, like a mother explaining how dangerous the world was. Babieca nodded but kept one eye on a group of women in the corner who were dressed like undinae. Fel had her work cut out for her.

Morgan left the atrium. The music and laughter receded. She imagined Fel trying to keep Babieca out of trouble, and the thought made her smile. That used to be Roldan's job, though he was never good at it. The two of them shared a certain boyish curiosity, and the auditor could usually be convinced that the singer's latest plan was sterling. Fel, she knew, was a mother in a different life and had the resolve to deal with Babieca's enthusiasm. Her shadow was softer but no less convincing. Morgan tried to remember what she looked like, that other Fel. She could almost smell something in the air—roasted and slightly bitter, yet inviting, like spiced wine. She saw another bright atrium, with an assortment of queer machinae crowding the corners. The shadow had been there, moments before. Morgan could almost perceive her footprints in the strange, blank tapestry that covered the floor.

She walked down the narrow hallway that led to Felix's tabularium. The fresco on the wall danced beneath uncertain lamplight. Morgan tilted her head, trying to imagine the balancing act that it depicted. It reminded her of how precipitous desire could be. It was always a rope dance, high above a void. She could almost feel the rope digging into her bare feet. At least the lovers in the fresco had something to hold on to. She was alone, dancing on the edge. Death sunned itself beneath her, waiting for a misstep. It was thrilling to realize that someone might want her, but then there was the fall. In her dreams, she was always falling.

The tabularium had an orange cast to it, lit by a half-dozen oil lamps that hung from chains. Long shadows moved along the walls, making the geometric designs appear to shiver and take on a life of their own. Wheels flickered, and Fortuna's many guises stalked across the margins, climbing out of their frames and beckoning to her. Morgan felt her sense of perspective shifting, like that fragile rope. For a moment, she was inside the various landscapes, the gardens of ocher and coral red, the metallic blue waves that sheltered whispering undinae. The artwork spun around her, until she didn't know what legend she properly belonged to. She heard a child's voice, from far away.

What square is this?

Morgan blinked to clear the shadows. Felix was looking at her curiously. Smoke from the lamps framed his silver mask. She felt as if she were looking at something fashioned. Only his eyes were real, but they also might have been polished crystal, turning in the dark for ages until they'd taken on some form of human transparency.

“You seem lost.”

Morgan laughed softly. “That describes a lot of people here.”

“Where's the rest of your company?”

“I thought I might have more luck if I spoke with her alone.”

The edge of his mouth quirked. “You may be right. It's been a while since you've made such a bold decision—for the good of the company, that is.”

She sat down in the uncomfortable chair across from him. “Stop worrying the edges of whatever you want to say, and just say it.”

“It's nothing. Just that Fel seems to be leading you, as of late.”

“She can move unseen. It makes sense for her to serve as our public face.”

“When we first met, you were the public face. The only die-carrier among them. Now you're following the miles who guards my front door.”