Pile of Bones (14 page)

“Too bad. It would be an amazing hangover cure.”

Supposedly, the rules against “parking”—discussing the park during the day—had emerged to protect it from discovery. But most people weren’t even listening. They were checking their e-mail, proofreading papers, and obsessing over arguments. If she suddenly began talking about lares and silenoi, they’d assume that she was referring to an RPG
or some weird seminar on the ancient world. It was more likely that the nondisclosure rules had been invented to conceal those who actually visited the park, to ensure that companies didn’t overhear each other. It was difficult to recognize people that you met in Anfractus and beyond. They looked and sounded different. She’d met Andrew and Carl by chance, but they were the only ones she had a relationship with on both sides. It was strange to think that anyone she met by day could be a completely different person by night, and she’d never know unless Fortuna decided to show her.

Nobody knew if it was the park that found you, or the other way around. Shelby had discovered it by accident, while walking along the paths of Wascana in the early hours of the morning. She’d been ruminating about an article, something to do with female stage presence in the Restoration. Now the critic’s name escaped her, but at the time, she’d been thinking about the power of being looked at, the peculiar scrutiny exerted upon women who decided to appear publicly in the seventeenth century. Aphra Behn was called a prostitute for staging her plays and for daring to visit the theater at all. She was likened to the masked vizards and orange-girls who had sex behind the proscenium. She’d been thinking about fruits and offstage sex when, out of nowhere, a naked man stepped from the gazebo.

He couldn’t see her, and she felt like the nymph Salmacis, getting an eyeful from her obscure vantage point. He was lightly muscled, with short hair and nice legs. His body steamed in spite of the cold, as if he’d just emerged from a tropical climate. His dick was matter-of-fact, a modifier dangling from dark curls. It didn’t necessarily fill her with desire, but she wasn’t looking away, either. As she watched in mute fascination, he walked over to a nearby tree and pulled a nylon drawstring bag from its depths. He untied the bag and withdrew a pile of clothes. In spite of his surroundings—a park in the middle of the night—he didn’t seem to be in a hurry. He dressed casually, as if this were normal and he had nowhere else to be. Once his shoes were
on, he swung the bag over his shoulder and walked toward the street.

Logic told her that he must have been crazy, but Shelby couldn’t scrub his image from her mind. How had he stepped barefoot out of the darkness? Where had he come from, and why did she feel like this was something that he did all the time? She’d gone back to Wascana the next night in search of him. Although he didn’t appear, she caught a glimpse of a woman running barefoot through the trees, clutching a pile of clothes to her chest. It took a few weeks of visiting and wandering, but eventually, she went down a certain path and ended up naked herself in an unfamiliar alley. That first time, there were no clothes tucked safely in the wall. She had to scale a low balcony to steal someone’s tunica.

That had been nearly two years ago. Sometimes she lingered by the gazebo while Andrew and Carl were occupied, but he never reappeared. It wasn’t until they walked into that empty house, years later, that she finally recognized him once more. The mask disguised his face, but she remembered the rest of his body. That must have been the last night that Felix returned to this world. After that, he became a citizen. She didn’t trust him but couldn’t really explain why. It felt now as if she’d gone too long without admitting that she knew him, or at least that she’d once seen his shadow getting dressed. It would only provoke Carl’s own suspicions and possibly upset Andrew. It seemed better to say nothing.

They picked up Carl in the Department of History.

“We should toast Regina’s Olympic rowing victory,” he said. “Most of the history grads are already at Athena’s.”

“I’ve never known you to be patriotic,” Shelby observed.

“I happen to think that both rowing and drinking are awesome. What’s wrong with celebrating a prairie win? Maybe you’re being antipatriotic, and it’s my duty as a proper Canadian to keep your malaise from spreading.”

“Just don’t overdo it.”

“I never really understood that phrase.”

“Exactly what I’m talking about.”

Athena’s, located in the Student Union, was loud but not yet packed. Various televisions delivered instantaneous coverage of the games in London. Although it seemed perfectly functional, the upstairs of the pub had been closed for as long as she could remember. The hipster boys occupying leather couches reminded her of Sparkish from
The Country Wife
, who loved a fine spangle. Not much had changed since the Restoration. There were still sparks and bubbles, still fops, changelings, and manly women. But there were also student loans, and OkCupid, and thumb drives that contained their own gorgeous libraries.

They ordered a round and sat by the window. Shelby looked away for a moment, and when she returned her attention to the group, Carl had finished his first pint. She hadn’t even seen him pick up the glass. He ordered another, and she gave him a look.

“Don’t stinkeye me. I’ll be good.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Let’s take the emphasis off me for a second. Have you been making any progress with your online Sapphic flirtations?”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“I have a dick, therefore I am a dick.”

“Lovely.”

“Come on. Just tell us.”

Andrew was staring out the window. She knew that he was partially listening, but he’d be no help in offering a distraction. His mind was chasing salamanders.

“I heard from her yesterday,” she said carefully.

“Did you trade emoticons? They have ones that mean
hug
and
blush
. There must also be one for
scissor
—”

“You’re disgusting. This conversation is over.”

But Andrew chose that moment to come back into focus. “What did her message say?”

Carl grinned. “Good question. Let’s get to the bottom of this.”

“If you’d like,” Andrew said, “you can focus him out. Just pretend that we’re on the bus, and he’s the crazy guy who carries around his own radio.”

The waitress brought Carl’s beer, which momentarily distracted him. Shelby turned to Andrew, trying to speak in a low voice. “She suggested that we have coffee.”

“Holy shit.” Carl ignored the beer. “Coffee is the entering wedge that leads to full-on social interaction. This sounds like real progress.”

“It seems best to take things slow.”

“Right. You should get to know each other, first. Then, once she’s into you, find a tactful way to reveal how you stalked her in the library.”

“It wasn’t stalking.”

“It most certainly was stalking, abetted by your own friend.”

“I abetted nothing,” Andrew said. “We barely spoke.”

“Oh, there was a shitload of abetting. We both saw it happen.” He turned to Shelby. “Now you’ve got a choice. You can hope that she never sees Andrew again, or come clean and tell her about your harmless sociopathy.”

Shelby looked up at the bank of televisions, attempting to avoid him. One was tuned to the news and displayed a picture of a coyote. The sound was turned off, but she watched as they showed grainy footage of the park at night, followed by an interview with a stern police constable. Hadn’t there been a death in Cape Breton a few years ago? Coyotes did kill people—it was rare, but it happened. Anything was more likely than Andrew’s hypothesis. The idea of silenoi wandering around Wascana—as they wandered through the tangled alleys of Anfractus—made her blood run cold.

Before she could think of a reply, her phone started buzzing. Shelby clicked on the message, and saw that it was a text from her mother.
Bring dessert.

“Fuck,” she hissed. “I forgot about dinner.”

“Dinner?” Carl looked interested. “I thought it was just coffee.”

“No, not with her. With my mom and my grandma.”

“Great. Count us in.”

“You weren’t invited.”

“Your mom loves us. Andrew defrags her computer each time he visits, and I eliminate the need for leftovers by having thirds.” He smiled with peculiar pride. “That’s why she calls me her garburator.”

“She calls you other things, too.”

“Don’t try to poison our relationship.”

Shelby couldn’t think of an excuse not to invite them both along. Her mother did enjoy Carl’s endless stomach, and her grandmother loved the look of sharp focus on Andrew’s face whenever she decided to tell stories. He would listen to her in captive wonder, like a child hearing
The Cat in the Hat
for the first time. They picked up a dessert from Safeway—something in the chocolate log family—and then walked over to the North Central neighborhood. Her mother and grandmother shared a house on the Piapot urban reserve. Her grandmother’s garden was abuzz with sunflowers and prairie crocus.

“Nôsisim.”
Her grandmother hugged her at the door. She was holding a cup of strong black tea, which she held at arm’s length while they embraced. She drank tea all day long, which may have been why she slept so little. “
Tawâw.
Welcome home, sunshine.”

“
Nohkô.
Good to see you.”

She hugged Carl and Andrew in turn. Andrew didn’t like most people touching him but made an exception for her grandmother.

“You made it.” Her mom walked out of the kitchen, holding a yellow-checkered dish towel stained with meat sauce. “And you brought company. Hey, boys.”

“Hello, Dr. Kingsley,” they said politely, in unison.

“Mel is fine.” She glanced at the plastic contained in Shelby’s hand. “What is that?”

“A German chocolate log.”

She looked skeptical. “Well, at least it’s got icing.”

They ate lasagna and garlic bread with fresh spinach
salad. Her mother threw the chocolate log in the oven, which made it change form slightly but wasn’t a real improvement. Adding ice cream did the trick, though. After they’d cleared away the dishes, they drank mulled wine in the living room. Her grandmother told a story about her brother—known to Shelby as Uncle Pete—who sometimes washed his hair with toothpaste. “You could smell him coming a mile away,” she said. “Not a single cavity in that man’s hair.”

Shelby didn’t mean to glance at the clock, but she was wary about keeping track of the time. They had a long night ahead of them. Her mother led Andrew to the study, most likely to show him a conference paper that she was working on. Carl ran to the bathroom after his third cup of grog. Shelby was alone with her grandmother, which meant that she was being thoroughly and silently analyzed. She stared at her feet, in an attempt to hide her expression, but it was like trying to hide from the sun. Her grandmother, without looking up from a game of solitaire that she’d just begun with herself, asked:

“What is it?”

“What’s what?”

“Don’t what’s what me. Something’s bugging you.”

“I’m fine,
nohkô
.”

“You aren’t.”

She sighed. “I’ve just got stuff on my mind.”

“School?”

“No. Other stuff.”

She had no intention of saying anything about Ingrid. Her grandmother didn’t pry into that part of her life, and although she probably wouldn’t have cared that Shelby was interested in girls, that was no reason to volunteer the information.

“Did you hear me?”

Shelby blinked. “Sorry, did you say something,
nohkô
?”

“I meant in your dream. Did you hear me calling?”

She looked up sharply. Her grandmother was still paying attention to the cards, but a part of her also seemed to be looking directly at Shelby. Now she could hear the ravens
fighting once more and, beneath their din, the bright wave of her grandmother’s voice.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Good. I wasn’t trying to be subtle.”

“Why were you in my dreams?”

“Just checking on you. That’s an old woman’s prerogative.”

“They make phones for that.”

“The other way’s always been easier for me. And for you.”

“I’m not sure you’re right about that.”

“Heard me, didn’t you?” She picked up a card. “All you need to remember is that I’m always with you.”

“Mom does say that you’re going to outlive all of us.”

“
Okeˉýakiciskeˉsıˉsak!
That’s not what I meant.”

Shelby laughed. The word meant
little butt itcher
, and was something that her grandmother hadn’t called her since she was little. It came from a Plains Cree story about Wı‐sahkeˉcâhk, who ate too many rose hips and suffered fiery consequences. Her grandmother only called her that when she was being a pain in the ass.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know what you mean.”

The older woman stared at the card that she’d drawn. Shelby couldn’t see what suit it was, but her grandmother was studying it closely. Then she laid it facedown on the table and finally looked at Shelby.

“You’re about to face a storm,” she said. “You can’t fight nature—it was here first, and it knows more than you. Best to be careful.”

She didn’t know what to say. Did her grandmother know something about where she went at night? Did she suspect what was really going on? Unlike her mother, who wrote essays on superstition and the spirit world, her grandmother actually seemed in tune with it. Maybe she really did understand. Shelby opened her mouth to say something, but just then, her mother and Andrew reappeared. He was holding a stack of books, no doubt thrust upon him. Carl returned with his mug refilled, which meant that he’d taken a
detour through the kitchen. They all sat down and began talking.

But somehow, she was still alone with her grandmother. Both women listened to each other from across the room. They’d always shared a similar frequency. Her grandmother made no motion, but Shelby felt someone touch her hand, lightly.

Maykisikaw!

The ravens were yelling in her head.

Bad weather.

M
ORGAN DRESSED QUICKLY AND STEPPED OUT
of the alley. The banquet wouldn’t start until midday, but she needed to hit the ground running. There were too many dice in the air for her liking: Narses, Felix, Domina Pendelia, and even the nameless artifex. She felt like a peon in someone’s game of acedrex, waiting for a glass elephant to trample her. Those who spent their lives clinging like vines to the arx had grown adept at playing games, while she was still a neophyte. The problem was that Fortuna had invented too many games, and citizens had added their own subtle variations, trying to tip the wheel in their favor. Everything depended on the lucky throw, the proper spin, the calculated glide of one piece overtaking another. The die around her neck felt like something that didn’t belong to her, something that she’d stolen, although she remembered exactly how she’d earned it.

Maybe her parents had been better gamers. Like most visitors who still crossed between worlds, she knew almost nothing of her childhood. She supposed that once you became a citizen, some of those memories returned, spilling over the old ones. It was hard to think about that other world,
though, where she was weaponless. Her mind was sharp enough to perceive its outline, to recall that some part of her belonged there, but it was like peering through fogged glass. Much easier to think about the blind corners of Anfractus, the dangers large and small that waited for her beyond this protected corner. She returned to the dice. Narses, Felix, Domina Pendelia, the artifex. It was strange to think that the high chamberlain might be weighing them in a similar manner. Morgan, Roldan, Babieca. Not yet a company, but undeniably stronger and more resourceful as a group.

The basilissa wins all.
That was an old saying. Fortuna had invented games to occupy those who stayed home from war. Acedrex was the noblest game, followed by latrinculi, alea, word strike, tables, and finally, dicing. The games made it possible to win your fortune through skill and deception rather than fighting. They threatened the power of the gens, yet everyone played them, because victory was intoxicating. The only rule, which had endured since the first acedrex figurines were carved, was
the basilissa wins all
. Nobody could play her and win, not even Narses. Perhaps not even Fortuna herself. But if that were the case, how had so many of the basilissa fallen by xamat, the fatal move? Why hadn’t they seen it edging like a shadow toward their home space?

She walked to the forum. There were more wagons on the streets than usual, most of them carrying supplies for the banquet. The popinae were working overtime, and a huge crowd had already gathered around the pistrinum, hungry for bread. She met Babieca and Roldan by the clepsydra. Babieca seemed relaxed, but Roldan was pacing, wearing down a small circle of the cobblestones with his sandals. Before she could say anything, Babieca reached into his tunica, withdrawing a small tablet.

“What’s that?”

“Read it. Domina Pendelia sends her sunniest greetings.”

The tablet read simply:
Come at once.

“We’ve no time for this.”

“She did gain us access to the basia,” Roldan said. “The least we can do is answer her summons and return the tablet.”

“At any rate,” Babieca added,” we can start our libations at her place. She had some passable wine, if I remember.”

“Isn’t it a tad early for that?”

“Not in this city.”

They both looked at her expectantly. Babieca could be defiant, but he still trusted her. Roldan listened to both of them, but ultimately, he considered her plans to be the most logical. If this scrawny near-company had a leader, it was her, regardless of whether she’d agreed to take up the position. As the only die-carrier among them, she had the power of the throw, the momentum to carry them forward, even if she’d never used it before.

Her bow fingers twitched. Arrows were easy—they had infinite forms, but she understood them. Bows were marvels of curvature and living tendon, breathing in her hands, ready to serve. But ultimately, they were still tools that she could manipulate and understand. Leadership was something else entirely. She felt blind and childish, as she had upon her arrival. Why did they trust her? Once, bleeding on the battlements, Morgan had narrowly danced away from the killing move. There was no guarantee that she’d ever be able to do it again.

“All right,” she said. “But curb your drinking. We have to remain sharp.”

“Like a dagger.” Babieca grinned. “Or the stone in my sandal.”

Morgan led them to Domina Pendelia’s insula. The same man greeted them at the door and looked just as unimpressed to see them.

“Of course,” he said thinly. “She’s in the hortus.”

“Is she angry?” Babieca asked.

For a second, the ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “You’ll see.”

They followed him through the atrium, which was in the process of being cleaned. Sunlight brushed their heads through the impluvium, bringing with it the tangle of burning
city smells. The triclinium was set with trays of food, which Babieca looked at longingly. Morgan grabbed his elbow, steering him toward the row of peristyle columns that led outside. They found Domina Pendelia sitting impatiently in the hortus, wearing a pearl-studded tunica. Her hair was elevated by jeweled pins. When she saw them, she rose and gestured toward something on the small table in front of her.

“Can you explain this?”

It was a box, carved out of pale pink marble. The craftsmanship was otherworldly, and Morgan realized that it must have been carved by the gnomo. Various aspects of Fortuna decorated the wrought panels. On one side, she stood with her wheel, and on another, she crouched beneath a window, holding a dirk. That must have been how the furs saw her, as the architect of stealth.

Roldan stepped forward, examining the box without touching it. “Amazing,” he said. “The gnomo has given you a peerless gift.”

“The gift is locked,” she said flatly. “I gave that creature a small fortune in marble, and this is what it produced: a box that I can’t open. Is this a jest? Did the auditores plan this, so that they could snicker behind my back?”

Before Roldan could remind her that he wasn’t yet an auditor, Morgan stepped forward. Domina Pendelia could make their lives unpleasant if she felt slighted.

“Domina,” she said, “the ways of the lares are unfamiliar to us. Perhaps if you let Roldan take a look, he’ll be able to open it for you.”

Roldan gave her a wide-eyed look. “There’s no guarantee that—”

“Just try,” she whispered in his ear. “Otherwise, we might end up chained to the bitch’s hypocaust and miss the banquet entirely.”

Roldan blinked. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He sat at the table, placing his fingers over the box without touching it. Suddenly, he cocked his ear, as if listening to something. All that Morgan could hear was the wind in
the flowers and the tapping of Domina Pendelia’s nails against the stone.

“You’re certain?” Roldan asked the air.

Domina Pendelia stared at him but said nothing.

Finally, he grasped one of the panels and turned it slowly, until it clicked. For a moment, Fortuna’s wheel seemed to turn before her eyes. Then the lid of the box opened. Roldan reached in, withdrawing something.

“The gnomo says that the box is for you, Domina,” he said. “But what’s inside the box is for Morgan.”

“What?” Both women pronounced the word at the same time.

Roldan opened his palm. Morgan saw that he was holding an obsidian arrowhead. It was shaped like a half-moon, which made her breath catch slightly. He handed her the arrowhead with exquisite care, as if it were alive. Morgan took it, surprised by how cold it was, and by how it barely weighed anything. She touched the tip of her finger to the half-moon’s edge and drew it away sharply. A bead of blood appeared on her skin.

“You’re telling me,” Domina Pendelia said slowly, “that your crazy lar turned all of that marble into a pretty little box, just to hold
that
?”

“The box must be extremely valuable,” Babieca volunteered. “Nobody else will have anything like it. As for the arrow—like you say, no one understands how lares think. You should just be happy that your insula has one. Gnomoi are good fortune.”

She considered his words. “I suppose the box is unique.”

Babieca smiled. “More than unique. Your neighbors will be screaming when they see what you have.”

Domina Pendelia touched the box lightly, as if it might eat her hand or catch on fire at any moment. “You’re right. The arrowhead was a strange gesture, but the vessel itself is beautiful. Gnomoi must have steady hands.” She looked at Roldan. “They do have hands, don’t they? I’ve never seen one.”

“Nor have I,” he admitted. “But yes, they do. I’ve felt them.”

“That must be odd.”

“To say the least.”

Holding the box, she began to smile. “Yes. It will be a delight to show this off at the banquet. I’ll need to change, though. Pearls and marble look cheap together.”

“Wait.” Morgan could feel this situation slipping wildly out of her control. “There’s no need for you to accompany us.”

“I’ve been planning for this night since I first received my invitation. Attendance is mandatory. And besides—I shan’t be accompanying you. That would be ludicrous. You will accompany me.”

“Aren’t we already accompanying Felix?” Roldan murmured. “There must be some sort of social etiquette that dictates how many accompaniments can occur at the same time. Unless Felix decides to accompany—”

“The meretrix may vouch for you, but he’ll forget you as soon as you pass the first gate,” Domina Pendelia said. “That’s their way. If you want to avoid suspicion, it makes far more sense for the two of you to accompany me.” She pointed to Babieca. “You’ll be my man-bracelet for the night. The baby auditor can be your cup-bearer.”

Roldan sighed. “I see that some things never change.”

“Man-bracelet?” Babieca looked mildly insulted. “I was to play the role of a petty dominus, not some lupo that you’ve bought for the night.”

“Petty they will believe,” she replied. “But dominus? No. If it makes you feel better, I can say that you’re my cousin.”

“That’s somehow worse. And off-putting.”

“Yet believable.”

“She’s right,” Morgan admitted. “Felix’s plan had some merits, but this is better.”

“I’m glad that you’ve come around to my way of thinking, dear.”

Morgan gave her a look. “I suppose you planned this from the start?”

“Don’t put anything past me.”

At this point, Morgan wasn’t sure in whom she had less faith, the meretrix or the domina. You couldn’t always choose
your allies, though. Felix had something to lose, which made his treachery more likely, but Domina Pendelia had much to gain by arriving at the banquet in memorable style, with an entourage that would have the courtiers buzzing.

“Fine,” she said. “Babieca, you’re the cousin. Roldan—”

“Nothing has changed,” he said, a trifle sullenly. “I understand.”

Domina Pendelia touched his shoulder. “It’s all right, sweetling. There’s no shame in being an attendant. I’ll even give you some new clothes—something with a nice fringe. And obviously those sandals will have to go. This is a party, not a necropolis.”

“While you’re sorting out the outfits,” Babieca said, “I’ll just pour myself a little something. I noticed a nice decanter in the triclinium.”

“Stay away from my wine,” the domina said. “First, both of you will need to bathe and get out of those filthy clothes. Follow me.”

“What about Morgan?”

“She smells fine. And I assume that she won’t be mingling with courtiers.”

“That’s okay. She hates fun.” He turned to Roldan. “You’re going to love her bath. There’s a mosaic in the shape of undinae doing amazing things.”

Domina Pendelia frowned. “When did you get a good look at my mosaic?”

“It’s best that you don’t let him answer that,” Roldan said, following them both down the chamber that led to the bath. Morgan found herself alone in the atrium. She sat on one of the couches, trying to smooth out the wrinkles in her tunica. She’d never worn anything like Domina Pendelia’s gem-studded gown before. The thought of dancing in layers of purple-dyed silk didn’t totally repulse her, as she thought it might. Eventually, she got hungry and went to explore the spread of food in the triclinium. There were grapes and dried figs, to which she helped herself. There’d be no chance to eat at the banquet, so she might as well fortify herself now.

Eventually, Domina Pendelia emerged, followed by the
boys. Morgan was impressed by their transformation. Babieca wore a scarlet-dyed tunica with a black belt, and Roldan had on a green tunica, bordered in saffron. It looked slightly beyond the reach of a cup-bearer, and he was fiddling with the sleeves, which were a bit too long. Still, nobody would be paying attention to him, and he did look nice. The domina had changed into a dark blue stola with silver edgework along the bottom. Her hair was even higher, and she now wore a chalcedony brooch in the shape of a teardrop.

“Impressive,” Morgan said. “New sandals, too. How much will we owe you for these fine things, Domina?”

She smiled archly. “That will depend on how the night ends. For now, you may consider them a gift. My contribution to your fledgling company.”

Morgan had never heard the woman describe them as a company. Might she actually be investing in them? It seemed a bit premature, and nothing about Domina Pendelia’s tone reassured her. Strange things happened every day, though. Brass foxes roamed the arx, while fountains whispered to the basilissa, or so they said. Why couldn’t they trust this woman, who’d already given them several advantages? Sagittarii were taught to trust the natural world, which followed logical patterns. Animals could be ferocious, but they weren’t irrational. People were the only animals who said one thing and meant another.

“We’re ready,” Domina Pendelia said. “I’m going by sedan, but the three of you should walk. I’ll rejoin you at the gate.”

Of course you will,
Morgan thought.

They gave a head start to the domina—it took her a while to wrangle herself into the chair, and it would have been unseemly to arrive before her. Morgan hadn’t heard of that particular piece of etiquette before. They made their way to the arx, joining the crowd of riders, wagons, and foot traffic already heading in that direction. There was a sharp division between those dressed in their finest and those who would actually be working tonight. Roldan kept tugging at his
sleeves, until Babieca rolled them up. She had to admit that Babieca looked good in the tunica. He’d left his cithara in the alley, which decreased his chances of causing a spectacle. Maybe he would actually listen to her this time.