The Seat of Magic (38 page)

T
HURSDAY
, 30 O
CTOBER
1902

O
riana woke in her own bed with midmorning light slanting in from the skylight in the bathroom. Her arm ached and the bandage's constriction annoyed her, but she'd had worse. For a time she lay there, her mind rambling over the things that she'd seen. She wished the entire previous day and night could be dismissed as a bad dream, but she knew better. She sighed heavily.

“Are you going to get out of bed?” Duilio asked.

She lifted her head and spotted him sitting across the room on her leather chaise, a book in his hands. He was neatly dressed in a dark coat and trousers. “What time is it?”

“Almost ten.” He rose and came to stand by her bed. “See, I've left the door open to keep the servants happy.”

“To keep Felis happy,” Oriana said. “You're afraid of her.” She sat up in bed, trying to decide whether her appetite or any other urges were particularly pressing. She could wait. “What are you reading?”

“The French book,” Duilio said. He held Monsieur Matelot's flawed volume on sereia culture. “Mother's right. There needs to be a more accurate book on your people's customs.”

If they could return to her people's islands, he could easily write that book. But there was still someone within her people's government who'd been willing to sacrifice her, someone who'd funded Serpa's obscene plans and the murders of her uncle and Felipa Reyna. She didn't know if she would ever feel safe there, but she
needed
to find out who'd been involved. “Perhaps someday,” she equivocated.

“We've heard from Lady Pereira de Santos, by the way,” he said. “The warrant for your father's arrest has been canceled, so you can rest easy on his account.”

She laid her hands over her face. “Thank the gods.” Then she recalled their other unfinished business. “Have we heard from Dr. Esteves?”

Duilio came and sat down on the edge of the bed facing her. “Yes, he believes he found a copy of Serpa's journal at the medical school's offices. He should be over in a couple of hours. Will you want to join us in the library when he arrives?”

“Yes,” she said. “And what until then?”

His smile grew. “Did you have anything particular in mind?”

Oriana cast a glance at the bathroom door where she could see sunshine streaming down through the skylight. “Do you still want to get a look at my dorsal stripe in the daylight?”

“Is that a possibility?”

“It is,” she admitted. “Although I suggest locking the bedroom door first, in interest of being discreet.”

Duilio didn't waste any time.

*   *   *

A
worn-looking Dr. Esteves produced a pair of leather journals bound with black ribbons as soon as he entered the library. One was printed, the title on its spine in Spanish—
El sede de la magia
—verifying that the book
had
been translated into a human tongue. The second must be Dr. Serpa's notes, the handwritten pages filled with a tidy, flowing script.

“Do you think there were more copies?” Duilio asked, looking at the notes.

“No way to tell,” Esteves said. “I read some of this. Serpa truly did believe he was creating something fantastic.”

Standing against the bookshelves with her arms folded, Oriana stared at the books as if they were a nest of snakes.

Joaquim shook his head. “There's a limit to how far one should go.”

“Which is why I'm here, son.” The doctor nodded to the two books resting on the polished library table. “Are those the original?”

One was the copy his father had brought from the islands; the second one, Joaquim had found at the doctor's house. “Yes,” Duilio admitted. “One of them has been sitting in this library most of my life, unread.”

“Serpa left his copy on his desk,” Joaquim added, “in plain sight. Waiting for someone to pick it up and admire his cleverness, no doubt.”

“So what do you plan to do with these?” Esteves asked.

Joaquim shot a glance over at the library hearth, which one of the maids had lit that morning to battle the chill. The flames had died down to embers, but he picked up the doctor's journal, walked over to the hearth, and ripped out a few pages. Then he tossed them on the embers. The paper curled, the ink smoking. The edges caught fire. Esteves picked up one of the journals and went to join Joaquim at the hearth. Soon they were both feeding pages slowly into the flame, the smell of burning paper acrid about the room.

Duilio ran his hand over the last book, the volume his father had owned. “We're destroying knowledge. What if there's something important in here?”

Oriana set her hand over his. “My uncle died because of this. Those girls did, too. Nothing is worth that.”

“Some things come at too high a price,” Joaquim said.

“What they did wasn't a miracle, Mr. Ferreira,” the doctor said, glancing over his shoulder at Duilio. “It wasn't even a success. It was butchery, and we know enough ways to butcher each other already.”

Serpa had killed at least six people in his quest for infamy—although the sixth, Prince Fabricio, wasn't dead yet. There was no knowing how many Salazar had killed. And all they had created between them was death.

Duilio picked up the last volume and carried it over to the hearth. He didn't know if burning the book was the right decision, but it was what he was going to do.

S
ATURDAY
, 1 N
OVEMBER
1902

T
he afternoon air was crisp, probably one of the last fine days of autumn. From the patio overlooking the park behind the palace, Duilio could see the northern side of the city, the Street of Flowers stretching in one silver line down toward the river. Above them, the blue-and-white flag of Northern Portugal snapped in the breeze.

It was All Saints' Day, the day for honoring the dead. Not a day of mourning, but a day of processionals and celebration. They had even gone to Mass that morning and lit candles at the cemetery. But the infante had asked them back to the palace, a personal visit rather than a state one. The nobility were actively courting the infante's favors now that he would soon have power after all. Duilio was aware of the honor he'd bestowed on them, bringing a commoner, a former sereia spy, and a mere gentleman to the palace to take up his very valuable time.

“I would have preferred that the Special Police not expose that one of the conspirators was a sereia,” the infante told them as he strolled along the patio with Joaquim on one side and Oriana and Duilio on the other, “but tomorrow the newspapers will carry the speculation about her being of Spanish origin instead, and remind
readers that the Spanish navy has long used sereia from the Canary Islands to hide their ships on the ocean.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Oriana said. “That will help.”

The infante wore mourning already, his blue-and-red sash the only indicator of his royalty. “And as for the disappearance of the girl's body,” he said. “I am naturally appalled that evidence has been removed. But as there isn't going to be a trial for Serpa or Salazar, I suppose it doesn't make a material difference.”

That had been their last job that night, to transport the mutilated body of Marta Duarte to the Brothers of Mercy. Serpa had believed the girl's body should be preserved so that the Medical-Surgical School could study her at length. Instead, the girl had been given a proper burial in a pauper's grave. Duilio had no regrets over that piece of lawbreaking, and neither did Joaquim. Unfortunately, the police were not as sanguine about it.

The infante caught Joaquim's eye. “There was a hearing scheduled for Monday about your possible involvement in that, Inspector Tavares, but after a discussion with Police Commissioner Ribandar, that hearing has been canceled. I do have some influence.”

Joaquim shifted uncomfortably. “Thank you.”

Duilio wasn't sure if Joaquim's discomfort stemmed from disregarding the proper channels of justice, or being overtly singled out by the infante. Probably both.

The infante acknowledged his thanks with a nod. “There's also the matter of the Special Police. Since the ban will be lifted, their previous directives are being . . . modernized. I have no use for a body meant to hunt nonhumans. I would be better served by a body helping manage discontent between the different races if we are all to be back in the same city. I think, Inspector, that you know all the right candidates to replace recalcitrant members of that force.”

“I could make several suggestions,” Joaquim said hesitantly.

The infante sighed heavily. “I meant that you should head up such a body, Inspector.”

Joaquim shook his head. “No, sir. I'm not an administrator. Commissioner Burgos of the Special Police
is
the man for that position. He's inclined to support your mandate and is already familiar with those officers. But I would be pleased to work for him, should the opportunity arise.”

“I understand.” The infante stopped walking and turned to Duilio and Oriana. “I spoke frequently with your uncle, Miss Paredes. My understanding is that those who are exiled from your people's islands are no longer citizens. You are dead to them, and essentially have no home. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“One of the things I intend to do is to offer citizenship to nonhumans who've been living in the Golden City. They would become Portuguese citizens. I was hoping you would consider accepting, Miss Paredes.” He held up one hand. “It would help to have someone come forward and accept citizenship visibly, to prove it's not a trap.”

“I understand, Your Highness,” Oriana said.

“In addition, Prince Dinis and I mean to jointly reestablish diplomatic ties with your people's islands. We will need to appoint an ambassador to take up residence there. We don't have anyone trained for that position, I must admit, but we intend to appoint someone for a temporary term, perhaps a year or two. I had hoped that
you
might be willing to accept that position.”

“Me?” Oriana asked blankly.

“If you were willing to accept Portuguese citizenship, of course,” the infante said. “I'm aware that your people are ruled by the women and would be more responsive to a female ambassador. And would you not be a better interpreter for us of the situation there? I, of course, expect Duilio to accompany you, as your legal advisor.”

Duilio was taken aback by the offer. “Your Highness?”

“Alessio told me long ago that diplomacy might be your true calling,” he said with a rueful smile. “Your relationship with Miss Paredes affords me a rare opportunity. You understand our laws and
the political situations between the various countries of Europe. Miss Paredes understands the customs and beliefs of the sereia. And both of you know there's a threat looming over the relationship between our peoples. I cannot think of a better choice.”

Duilio glanced over at Oriana, whose eyebrows rose expectantly, then turned back to the infante. “May we have time to consider, Your Highness?”

Bastião strode out of the door of the new part of the palace and crossed the patio to the infante's side. He leaned close and whispered into the infante's ear. The infante's lips pressed in a thin line and he nodded to the guard. Bastião walked on toward the clock tower.

The infante sighed and said, “Unfortunately, I have to leave you now. Please give your mother my apologies, Duilio. Bastião will be back in a moment to escort you to the gates.”

His mother had invited the infante to the dinner party that would follow their wedding in a week. The infante had already sent a note excusing himself, but Duilio thought his mother would appreciate the personal apology.

After one more regal inclination of his head, the infante turned and walked back into the palace. The bell in the clock tower began to ring, a slow knell. Duilio drew out his watch to check the time. It wasn't the hour, or the half hour. Then another bell began to toll—the cathedral's. And soon the faint sounds of other church bells joined in. Prince Fabricio was dead.

From the palace's patios, Duilio gazed out over the city's red-tiled rooftops. Tomorrow the city's men would don black armbands as was proper, but this was still a day of celebration. “Long live Prince Raimundo,” he said softly.

In
the Golden City, everything was about to change.

J. Kathleen Cheney
is a former mathematics teacher who has taught classes ranging from seventh grade to calculus, with a brief stint as a gifted and talented specialist. Her short fiction has been published in such venues as
Fantasy Magazine
and
Beneath Ceaseless Skies
, and her novella
Iron Shoes
was a Nebula Finalist in
2010.