The Seat of Magic (33 page)

Duilio hadn't thought that through. He didn't like it. It offended his loyalty to the law, but pragmatism outweighed that. If the man could kill with a touch, there weren't many options. He definitely wished he'd brought his revolver along with him now.

They left the Carvalho house with an agreement to meet back that afternoon at the house Anjos and his team rented. Now armed with a name, Gaspar could take the Lady to meet with the brothers
at the Jesuit house again and, given their suspicions, the brothers might help. None of them knew how the tie between Maria Melo and Pedro Salazar changed the case, but it was undeniable that it had.

*   *   *

“W
here have you been?” Joaquim asked as they strode through the front door. He'd been pacing the front sitting room for half an hour, straining his mind to think of a place all three of them might go together.

Lady Ferreira embraced him and kissed his cheek. “We're pleased to see you too, Filho.”

Joaquim felt himself flushing. “I'm always happy to see you.”

She patted his shoulder and pointed toward the sitting room. “I'll go ask Mrs. Cardoza to put together a quick luncheon before Duilio gnaws off one of his flippers,” she said. “Why don't the three of you talk? I know Duilinho has news for you.”

Oriana went on into the sitting room, and Joaquim caught Duilio's arm. “News?”

“I can't imagine what . . .” Duilio's brows drew together. “Oh! Wedding next Saturday. The details elude me but I'll presumably need someone to stand up with me, and I would like it to be you.”

“His mother's arranging everything,” Miss Paredes said quickly.

“Congratulations,” Joaquim managed, “to both of you, but . . .” He rubbed his hands together, gazing at the rug as if he might find the words there.

“Just say it,” Duilio said.

Joaquim turned to Miss Paredes instead. “I don't know what provoked it, but someone I know from the Special Police sent word that they had orders from the prince himself. They're to pick up your father for violation of the ban.”

Oriana sank down on the sofa, one hand pressed to her belly.

Duilio scowled. “Does Anjos not know?”

“My source said the order intentionally bypassed Anjos and his team. And Anjos can't refuse the order either, not once he hears it.”

“Has anyone warned my father?” Oriana cut in abruptly. “Did you . . . ?”

“I went there first,” Joaquim reassured her. “I gave him the keys to my flat. I don't think the Special Police know of any tie between him and me. My friend told me they're trying to drag this out as much as possible, Miss Paredes, due to your father's status in the business community.”

Oriana turned to Duilio. “Can the infante not interfere?”

“Unless he can prove the prince is unfit to rule,” Duilio said, “if he moves directly against the prince's orders, it would be treason.”

“Everyone says the prince is insane,” she protested.

Joaquim couldn't argue that. That was the reason the Special Police were willing to drag their feet at all. He understood her agitation, though.

“Knowing and proving are two different things,” Duilio reminded her.

Oriana pressed her fingers against her temples. “This is my fault. Mrs. Melo saw me. That's why this is happening.”

Joaquim shot a glance at Duilio, who explained quickly that they'd seen the elusive Mrs. Melo the night before outside the Simões ball, and that she'd seen Oriana. The woman had threatened Oriana's father before. Apparently she hadn't changed her tactics.

“Your father's too well connected for this to work,” Joaquim told Oriana. “I'm sure Lady Pereira de Santos has lawyers competent enough to stall this in court indefinitely. Don't let this distract you. It tells me we're getting close enough to worry her.”

She gazed at him, arrested by the import of that. After a moment of silence, she said, “Nela told me I needed to figure out who would profit the most from my people going to war with the two Portugals. That's what we need to know.”

“And Melo's the key to that,” Duilio said.

Oriana threw up her hands. “Short of my standing in the street and calling for her, I don't see how I can find her.”

Duilio grimaced, his eyes sliding toward Joaquim. “I had an idea while we were in the carriage. There's one person Anjos probably hasn't questioned about her.”

Immediately after the capture of Maraval, the hunt for his associates had included questioning all the servants who'd met with Mrs. Melo. None had any information on the woman beyond the false persona she'd created.

“Who?” Joaquim asked.

“Remember when Silva gave us information about the Open Hand? He got that information from Mrs. Melo. She came here afterward to ask Oriana whether he'd spilled everything she'd fed him. We couldn't tell Anjos that, though, without revealing that the woman was a sereia spy.” Duilio took a deep breath and huffed it out. “I think we should go see my charming uncle, Silva . . . our charming uncle, I mean.”

Joaquim groaned when he made the connection. “He's my uncle, too, isn't he?”

Duilio clapped him on the shoulder. “Lucky you.”

Oriana strode back to the couch and picked up her handbag. “Let's go then.”

Duilio's stomach rumbled. “Can we stop in the kitchen on the way out?”

O
riana sat next to Duilio on the carriage's bench, trying to get her mind under control. She wanted to go look for her father. But he'd managed to evade trouble for ten years here. She had to have faith in him.

Duilio wrapped his hand around hers. “He'll be safe. I'm sure of that.”

Ah, gods, I hope that's his gift speaking and not wishful thinking.

Joaquim sat across from them, watching the houses along the Street of Flowers as the carriage rattled along the cobbles. Over a quick lunch, Duilio had filled him in on the meeting at the Carvalho house. The fact that a priest might be involved with these murders seemed to disturb him. “If Pedro Salazar was interested in working with a doctor,” Joaquim finally said, “I wonder if he's still doing so.”

“How so?” Duilio asked.

“Well, the cuts on Felipa Reyna's throat were neat,” Joaquim said. “We thought they could have been done by a doctor. That would give us another tie between the two cases.”

“Why employ a healer to remove things? Dr. Castigliani didn't, did he?”

Joaquim shook his head. “To keep the victims alive longer? To study them longer? I don't know. We're still missing pieces.”

Oriana glanced out the window, feeling cold again. They passed the Church of Santo Ildefonso with its whitewashed facade and
obelisk and headed toward Bonfim Parish. The carriage bumped over the tram's tracks, and she grabbed a hand strap to stay upright. “Taking victims apart is the opposite of healing.”

Duilio's brows drew together, his lips twisting into a scowl.

“What's wrong?” she asked him.

“I'm not sure. It's like the answer is just out of my reach,” he said. “Or the question.”

Oriana caught Joaquim's eye. He merely shrugged.

The carriage slowed, and Duilio peered out as they came to a slow stop. “Silva's probably going to be unpleasant.”

Oriana wasn't certain whether he was talking to Joaquim or to her, but his bastard uncle liked to tear into others' fins just to see them react. She followed Duilio from the carriage and gazed up at a fine house on Pinto Bessa Street. Not as large as the houses on the Street of Flowers, it was still large by city standards. Three wrought-iron balconies crossed the granite facade. Masonry acanthus leaves decorated the eaves. Somehow she'd expected Silva's home would be less attractive. Then again, the man had always dressed well.

Asking the driver to stay close, Duilio walked up and rapped on the door. After only a moment, it swung open to reveal a very starchy butler who surveyed his three callers with a disdainful air. “We're here to see Silva,” Duilio said shortly, handing over his card.

The butler looked at the card and back at Duilio. “You may come inside while you wait.”

They followed the butler into a sitting room. The furnishings weren't new, but were in excellent condition, save for a discreet patch on of the upholstered chairs where a falling cigarette might have burned the brocade. It wasn't what she'd expected of the prince's former pet seer. “Will Silva actually help us?” she asked Duilio.

“Rafael will be annoyed if he doesn't,” Duilio said. “So I expect he will.”

“Ah.” Whatever she thought of Silva, he did seem inclined to
keep on good terms with his son. She didn't sit, hoping that would be a sign to the man that they didn't intend to stay. Joaquim picked up a book left on a side table to peer at the spine.

“I suppose you've come to gloat, pup?” Silva said from in the doorway, hands on his hips.

Duilio regarded him suspiciously. “I've come to ask a question. Why would I gloat?”

“How much did you pay the
Gazette
to publish that piece of drivel they ran this morning?” Without waiting for an answer, Silva turned and cast an appraising eye over her. Oriana did her best not to react to his rudeness. “And you've done well for yourself, fishling,” he said. “More like a cat than a fish, always landing on your feet. Now you're his ‘assistant,' I hear. I am impressed.”

That didn't need an answer. Oriana folded her hands and waited.

Silva indicated Joaquim with a sweep of his hand. “And you've brought along the bastard, too.”

Joaquim's cheeks reddened at that reference. Oriana guessed that Silva had long suspected Joaquim's parentage, especially since Joaquim and Duilio looked so much alike. It was an ironic topic with which to needle Joaquim, particularly since Silva was a bastard himself, and had fathered a bastard as well—Rafael Pinheiro.

“How charming you're all here,” Silva said snidely. “Ask what you want and get out.”

“We need to talk to you about Maria Melo,” Oriana said. “Where can we find her?”

Silva spread his hands. “I don't know any Maria Melo.”

Oriana wished they had Anjos with them. His Truthsaying abilities could sort the truth and fiction of Silva's words. “She's near my height, dark hair and eyes, older with heavy brows. She talked to you about the Open Hand. She told me she was your informant among them.”

“I know about whom you're speaking, girl.” Silva shook his head despairingly. “You don't even know her real name, do you?”

Duilio caught her eye. “What name do you know her by?”

“Iria Serpa,” Silva said.

Well, they'd known “Maria Melo” was a false identity. “Can you tell us how to find her?” Oriana asked.

Silva sighed dramatically. “They live somewhere on Almada Street, although
he
generally remains up at the palace. He's been given rooms in the new building there, so he can be available for His Highness at all times.”

“He?” Duilio asked cautiously.

“Her husband,” Silva said, waving one hand dismissively, “although from what I've observed, there's not much love lost between the two.”

“
Dr
. Serpa?” Duilio asked, eyes wide.

“Of course, him,” Silva said.

The name meant nothing to Oriana, but she could see it did to Duilio. “Who is he?”

Duilio turned back to her, mouth pressed in a grim line. “Prince Fabricio's personal physician.”

“Always whispering in his ear,” Silva said contemptuously. “Serpa's a quack. He's only concerned with making a name for himself, but His Highness wouldn't listen to me when I said the man was trouble because Maraval vouched for him.”

Oriana noted that Silva didn't seem concerned about his former employer's situation.

Duilio had closed his eyes, concentrating.
What is he asking himself?

“It's already too late,” Duilio said. “The prince has already made the wrong decision. He's going to die.”

Silva's face hardened at Duilio's words. “I warned him. Well, I suppose I shall visit my tailor and order my black armbands.”

Oriana swallowed. She should feel something, a hint of triumph perhaps. If the prince died, the infante would lift the ban on her people. Her father and her sister would be safe. Then again, if Maria
Melo—or Iria Serpa—succeeded, the sereia and the Portuguese might end up at war. She had to stop that. She didn't have time to mourn Silva's prince.

“Damnation!” Duilio pinched the bridge of his nose. “That's it! The chaplain at the palace. The infante said his name was Salazar.”

Oriana blinked, trying to follow where his mind had gone. Wasn't Salazar also the name of Miss Carvalho's true father, the priest?

“Yes, the new one,” Silva said, dismissing the man's importance with a sweep of his hand. “Maraval brought him in, which is a mark against him in my reckoning. He creeps about in the shadows. If I'm not mistaken, he knew Serpa back in Spain.”

“Serpa came from Spain?” Joaquim asked.

Silva shook his head ruefully. “Aren't you supposed to be the detective, Inspector? Yes, Serpa might be Portuguese, but he lived in Spain long enough to pick up a lisp.”

Oriana drew in a startled breath.
What if I've misunderstood all along. What if Maria Melo isn't a
sereia
at all?

*   *   *

T
he afternoon sunlight as they stepped outside the doors of Silva's fine house seemed terribly out of place. Traffic moved along the street normally. No one knew that things had already gone terribly wrong. There was an assassin with access to the prince, a doctor who might have strange ideas, and a healer who was killing girls in the city.

Duilio shook his head, trying to parse out what had to be done first. They needed to get to Anjos and warn him of their new information; it tied together the two cases they'd been working on,
and
Oriana's assassin. It still didn't tell them what the trio was trying to do.

“Let's see if we can find Anjos,” Duilio said as they climbed into the carriage again. He closed the carriage door and rapped on the wall to get the driver started.

The carriage began to roll, and Oriana sat back. “What kind of decision could the prince have made already? Something that will kill him?”

“I don't know the right question to ask,” Duilio said. “We would have to think like the prince to understand what he's decided. I've only glimpsed him twice at the palace, but he doesn't look sane, so there's no telling.”

“If we can't stop it,” Joaquim asked, “what's the point?”

Duilio shook his head. “Rafael said we're needed to stop the . . . chaos that would follow, whatever that is.”

“War between my people and yours?” Oriana suggested. “Could Spain benefit from that somehow?”

Duilio felt his brow furrow. “I suppose they could offer to defend your people's islands, but given their recent losses to the American navy, I doubt they could stretch themselves that far.”

A few years before, an American ship had blown up in a Cuban harbor. There had been speculation that one of the Canaries serving with the Spanish navy had planted an “infernal device” on the American ship's hull, although that had never been substantiated. That incident, however, had provoked a backlash by the Americans that the Spanish hadn't expected, leading to the loss of some of their colonies and much of their navy as well. It had been a terrible blow to the country.

Oriana touched a finger to her temple, the sign that she needed a moment to think. Then she said, “But this plot is old, Duilio. At least fourteen years old—that's when my mother was murdered. Was Spain still formidable enough to be a threat fourteen years ago?”

“Yes,” he guessed. “But what would Spain possibly gain from it? Your father told me they already trade with your people.”

“I don't know,” Oriana whispered.

Duilio closed his eyes, asking his gift whether this was all a plot of the Spanish throne, but it gave him no answer.
That must not be the right question.

The carriage shuddered to a stop unexpectedly, and Duilio leaned forward to look outside. The traffic moved past them unusually quickly, but he couldn't make out why.

“What's going on?” Joaquim asked. “We can't be there yet.”

“No idea.” Duilio opened the carriage door and jumped down to talk to the driver. The horses stood unmoving, refusing to take a step farther. They shook in their traces, their heads tossing. The driver had no idea what was wrong either, but several other drivers seemed to share that problem. A mule-drawn wagon had stopped ahead of them. Duilio gazed down the street between the stalled carriages and carts, but couldn't see any reason for the disruption. When he turned back, Joaquim was helping Oriana down from the carriage.

“It's a sereia,” Oriana said quietly. “In pain, or she wouldn't sound like that.”

Duilio told the driver to turn the carriage around and go home. “Let's get out of the road.” He guided Oriana to the edge of the cobbles. “You can hear her?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “My ears are more attuned to it than yours.”

“Could that be what's upsetting the horses?”

“They probably hear better than you.”

Duilio was willing to accept that explanation. Their driver got the horses to back up and then began a wide turn in the middle of the street. Fortunately he managed to complete it before a tram approached.

“We'd better find out what that is,” Joaquim said.

Oriana wrapped her arms about herself and nodded.

Duilio did a quick search of his pockets, but had nothing to stuff in his ears. “Will I be able to resist her?”

Oriana shook her head. “She's not
calling
you. She's. . . . screaming, for lack of a better term. She's inflicting her pain on everyone else. You'll have trouble getting close, rather than the opposite.”

And it would probably be worse for Joaquim. He didn't possess a selkie's natural resistance to the
call
. “Well, we have to go anyway. Any advice?”

“Try not to listen?” she suggested.

Duilio puffed out his cheeks and started walking. As he neared, he could tell the disturbance was originating on the cross street—Almada Street.

“Isn't this the street that the doctor lives on?” Oriana asked, pointing at the street sign on one house's wall.

“Yes.” This couldn't be good. He turned up Almada Street, a street narrow enough that two carriages couldn't pass easily. He hadn't gotten far when the edge of the sereia's sphere of influence became evident. A cluster of pedestrians, some with their hands over their ears, stood gathered in front of a pastry shop. An old woman broke away from the group and came toward them, waving the ends of her shawl to tell them to leave.

Joaquim intercepted her, saying that he was a police officer, but the woman didn't stop. She kept going down the street, hands waving in agitation.

Duilio made his way to where the gaggle of pedestrians stood in front of the shop. Surprisingly, he recognized one of them. Mr. Bastos, whom he'd met on his first visit to the palace, stood in the center of the small crowd. The elderly man's white hair was disordered and he seemed shaken, clutching at the arm of a young man wearing an apron. Duilio peered at him. “Mr. Bastos, do you remember me?”