Pile of Bones (16 page)

She approached the dry fountain skeptically. It wasn’t making any noise. How could it help them? She knew that some of the fountains in the arx had wondrous properties—they could pipe, or make mist, or display mechanical dramas—but the lion’s head with the cracked ear didn’t seem to have any obvious abilities.

“We have to wait until they get closer,” Eumachia said. “There’s a fountain below that connects to this one. Get ready to put your ear to the lion’s mouth.”

“I can’t imagine that ever being good advice.”

“They’re getting closer—the loud one wants a pastry, and he’s moving toward the fountain. Nearly there. All right, do it now. Do what I said.”

Afraid that the fountain could bite her after all, Morgan carefully put her ear next to the lion’s mouth. At first, she heard nothing. Then, faintly, as if from underground, Babieca’s voice came floating up to her.

“—another honeyed dormouse.”

“Stop drinking so much.” That was Roldan.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. You’re one cup away from obnoxious.”

Another voice said something, but it was inaudible. Domina Pendelia must have been standing too far away from the fountain. They passed by, and the voices faded. Morgan stepped back and stared at Eumachia.

“Does every fountain in the arx do this?”

“No. Just the lion-headed ones.”

“What an amazing device.”

“Don’t say that in front of Propertius. You’ll hurt his feelings.”

She turned to the fox. “I’m sorry. You’re much more amazing.”

“Obviously.” He was paying attention to a brass paw.

“Oh, look,” Eumachia breathed. “Here she comes.”

Morgan felt herself snap to attention. It was the guest of the basilissa. Everyone in the room hushed as she entered, wearing a studded chlamys with a purple veil. She approached the throne. Morgan heard a rush of escaping steam, and the basilissa’s pneumatic throne lowered until it was completely on the ground. She rose and stepped forward, her pearl strands casting shadows beneath the lamplight.

She reached out and gently lifted the woman’s veil.

“Welcome, Pulcheria.” Her voice rose in the sudden stillness of the oecus.

“Latona. You honor me with your invitation.”

“Come closer. It has been ages.”

Pulcheria stepped forward. The basilissa touched her cheek. Then she lightly grazed her lips with a kiss. Pulcheria had no diadem, but her chlamys and gem-encrusted lunate necklace were as fine as Latona’s raiment.

“Is she a basilissa?” Morgan whispered.

“She rules in the south,” Eumachia replied.

Morgan’s eyes widened. She knew, of course, that there were different cities, ruled by different basilissa. Until
tonight, though, she’d never seen one in the flesh. Pulcheria moved with the same grace as Latona. They shared an aura of power, an expression of iron certainty. She also had a dagger affixed to her belt. Her lack of a diadem was probably meant as a gesture of respect, and she had enough gemstones to make up for it.

“Sister, I have a gift for you.” Latona smiled. “It’s only a small thing, but I hope that you like it.”

Narses chose that moment to step forward. He handed Latona the silk-wrapped gift, which she carefully opened. Morgan saw the fibula. Her stomach went cold. They’d been wrong. The fibula wasn’t for Latona—it was a gift for Pulcheria. All this time, they’d been trying to protect the wrong basilissa. In the crowd below, she saw Roldan drawing closer to the throne. His eyes were on the fibula. Babieca had a hand on his shoulder, but he wasn’t paying attention. Domina Pendelia was staring at Pulcheria with a look of great interest. Felix was gone. She couldn’t see him anywhere.

It stands to bloody reason that the domina was right all along.

Latona reached out to pin the fibula. Pulcheria regarded it with a mixture of fascination and apprehension.

“You know how I feel about bees,” she said.

“Of course, my sister. Think of this as an elegant way to conquer your fears. How could you be scared of something so beautiful?”

Pulcheria touched it gingerly. “It’s warm!”

“It was made by a master artifex. Listen closely.”

The room was still. Then, gradually, a noise began. At first it was a soft hum, then a kind of whisper. As everyone leaned forward, it became a buzz.

“Oh dear,” Propertius said.

The buzzing grew louder. Suddenly, the bee leapt from its silver perch. It flew around Pulcheria’s head, buzzing louder and louder, until it sounded as if a whole swarm had filled the oecus. The guests shifted nervously. Pulcheria looked confused, yet at the same time fascinated by the mechanical insect that was circling her head.

“That noise,” Eumachia murmured. “It’s going to attract—”

“Get away from the balcony!” It was Propertius’s voice, suddenly sharp, like a hammer striking. Eumachia backed away, but Morgan didn’t. Instead, she reached for her bow.

Another sound had become apparent over the buzzing. A low growl. The miles moved instantly, tightening around both women. The sagittarii leveled their bows. Then Morgan heard glass breaking. Three dark shapes poured through one of the broad windows. From the waist up, they resembled horned men, but their legs were covered in fur. Their cloven hooves sparked against the stones. They carried long spears. One of them screamed, and it was a terrifying sound. It filled the chamber, until it seemed like the walls themselves were screaming, high and thin.

She remembered those burning green eyes. The silenus on the battlements hadn’t screamed. He’d approached her in silence, but his eyes made a kind of noise, sizzling like butter in a pan. The first blow knocked her flat. Claws raked against her head, leaving burning tracks that blinded her with pain. She was on her knees, bleeding in the dark. The silenus gloried in her fear. He opened his mouth, and the sound that emerged was far worse than a scream. It was braying laughter.

The crowd shifted from bemused to hysterical. They were running in all directions, pushing each other, fighting to escape. The silenoi moved forward. They were drawn to the screaming bee flying around Pulcheria’s head. Two miles stepped in front of the woman, who was too shocked to move. A silenus hurled one into the nearby table, which shattered, sending food everywhere. The second miles tried to attack, but the silenoi were too quick. One grabbed him by the arm like a poppet and flung him into the wall. The archers began firing. The shafts found their mark, but the silenoi didn’t seem to mind. They pressed forward.

The miles fell upon them, slashing wildly. Their swords drew blood, but the creatures kept tossing them aside. Armored figures crashed into tables, bounced off walls,
skidded across the floor like howling turtles. Their spears whirled. Twilight was their time, and they had the advantage. One of them was inches away from Pulcheria. He was full of arrows and bleeding green ichor on the stones, but he kept moving.

Morgan grabbed a shaft and fixed the black arrowhead to it. She took aim. The angle was poor. She couldn’t make the shot. Eumachia was staring at her, openmouthed, as if she’d just realized now that this wasn’t a game.

The shot was nearly impossible.

Morgan closed her eyes for a second. Her heart was racing. She put down the bow and withdrew the die from around her neck. The fact that nobody else had dared this only confirmed her fears: This was an assassination. Pulcheria had been fated to die. Not stung by a mechanical insect, but torn apart by silenoi, night hunters who’d been attracted by the infernal buzzing that filled the chamber.

She raised her die in the air, and said in a clear voice: “I choose to roll.”

Everything stopped. The crowd stood still. The noises below died, and even the silenoi were rooted to the spot. Propertius was frozen with one paw raised. Eumachia leaned over the balcony, silent and terrified.

“What is the task?”

Morgan turned. The voice seemed to come from the lion’s-head fountain, but nobody in the crowd had spoken. It was a woman’s voice.

She looked uneasily at the fountain. She’d never done this before, and still wasn’t convinced that she’d done it correctly.

“I need to make this shot.”

“Even with a lar-forged arrowhead, the angle is unfavorable.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You’ll need a high roll. Five, at least.”

“I was afraid of that.” It felt strange, talking casually with a fountain, while time ceased to operate in the room below. Morgan understood now why people didn’t roll often.

“What are the stakes?” The lion’s head regarded her impassively.

“If I lose,” she said, “I’ll offer you my bow.”

“That’s nothing. You can easily get another bow.”

“What do you want?”

There was a pause. Then: “If you win, the shot is yours. The silenus falls. If you lose, someone else will.”

Morgan stared at the crowd. “Who?”

“So much depends on the angle. It might be anyone.”

She looked at the half-moon arrowhead. It would kill whomever it struck. Perhaps Domina Pendelia. Perhaps Babieca, or Roldan, or Latona herself.

“You’re running out of time,” the fountain said.

“All right.” Morgan exhaled. “I agree to the stakes.”

“Then roll.”

She kissed the die for good luck. Then she tossed it against the ground. It bounced off a few stones and came to rest by Propertius’s paw. Shaking, Morgan approached the die.

Five pips.

“The roll is high.” She almost detected a note of satisfaction in the disembodied voice. “Take your shot, sagittarius.”

Time crashed forward. Morgan readied the arrow. She waited until the silenus was almost touching Pulcheria. Then she fired. The shot was a miracle. The shaft cut through the air, following a nearly inconceivable arc. The obsidian half-moon drove through the neck of the silenus. It staggered backward. Green blood sprayed from its mouth, covering Pulcheria, who screamed and tried to shield herself from the awful rain. The silenus fell. Morgan could see the spark leave his eyes. It was the second time that she’d seen such a thing, and it still made her feel hollow inside, as if a great pit had opened within her.

The remaining silenoi looked at the body of their fallen companion. They watched his emerald blood pooling at the base of the marvelous throne. Neither the miles nor the remaining sagittarii moved. Nobody knew what to do, and the only sound was Pulcheria’s harsh breathing as she wiped
at her face with the slick edges of the veil. Then, moving too quickly for anyone to react, the silenoi grabbed the body and crawled back through the window.

The crowd began to make insensate noises. A few of the miles who’d been dashed against the walls now stirred, although some didn’t. Some people were crying, and many were cowering beneath the remains of the tables. The bee was gone. Perhaps it had flown out the broken window. Latona made a move to comfort Pulcheria, but the woman recoiled from her. The other basilissa’s face was still spotted with green blood.

“Where in Fortuna’s name did that shot come from?” Latona demanded.

Narses pointed to the balcony. “There.”

Everyone in the oecus looked up. Latona, the ruler of Anfractus, was now staring at her, along with the terrified basilissa whom Latona had just tried to kill. Narses was also staring, and his eyes were like flint.

“You’re in so much trouble,” Eumachia whispered.

W
HEN HE SAW
M
ORGAN PULL OUT THE DIE
, Babieca knew that it was time to run. Most people had fled once the silenoi began climbing through the window. They frightened him, but this was the Arx of Violets. The oecus was padded with miles and sagittarii. The silenoi must have been some strange trick, a bit of spirited entertainment to impress the beautiful visitor. The thing with the bee was a bit random, but maybe there would be bracing heroics to follow. When the first miles bounced off the floor, he realized that this was no performance. He turned to warn Domina Pendelia, but she was already gone.

I knew she wasn’t really going to visit the toilets.

He grabbed Roldan by the arm, steering him toward the nearest exit. The silenoi were only interested in Basilissa Pulcheria. If they moved in the opposite direction, they merely had to avoid being crushed by hysterical guests. Babieca noticed that Felix was gone as well. The meretrices had no honor. All they cared about was reputation. At least musicians would sometimes help you. They might even divide the takings from a successful night. Felix had left them to be trampled or riddled with arrows.

Then Morgan drew the die. Babieca’s breath caught. He’d been caught in a roll only once before, when a bloodthirsty game of acedrex was about to go south. One of the players had cast his die, asking Fortuna not to let him win, but to grant him the speed necessary to stick a dagger in his opponent’s eyeball. Fortuna gave him a high roll. Babieca had no die, so he didn’t understand how it worked. It was an old power made by Fortuna, the very first game, or something like that. All he knew of Morgan’s path to the die was that she’d won it after nearly getting killed by a silenus. It climbed the battlements and gave her a scar on the back of her head. Morgan told the story only when she was drunk, so the details remained imprecise.

“It’s for the shot,” Roldan said. “Look. She’s using the arrowhead.”

“We don’t need to look. We need to run, before—”

I choose to roll.
Morgan’s voice rose from the dark clerestory.

Which of her offerings would please Fortuna? What would she promise? Dozens of possibilities crowded his head.
I’ll go blind for two weeks. You can break my hands. I’ll throw Eumachia over the edge.
Fortuna could ask for anything. Suddenly, he realized what the price would be.

“We have to run.”

“We can’t.”

He stared at Roldan. “She’s about to roll. If we’re caught in the mix, anything could happen. Our presence could even be making her hesitate.”

“She won’t hesitate,” Roldan said. “And we might be part of the offering. There’s the chance that it won’t work without us.”

He grabbed Roldan by the hand. Then he felt a strange pressure. Darkness fluttered at the corners of his vision. Everything slowed down. The movements around him were thick and attenuated, like honey. The die was cast. His heart beat three times. Then there was screaming. The silenus had an arrow in his neck. The edge of the half-moon peered out from the other side, stained in emerald blood. Pulcheria
was backing away, terrified, her veil dripping. He looked up and saw Morgan holding the bow. She hadn’t hesitated.

“Where in Fortuna’s name did that shot come from?” Basilissa Latona’s question had a note of astonishment to it. Narses answered, pointing directly at Morgan. His beard was almost red in the lamplight. A lot of spadones didn’t have any hair, but some, like Narses, were wiry and bearded. It was said that if the chamberlain fixed you in his gaze, a murder of rumors would go flying on the wind. Babieca knew that not all spadones were fully gelded, but even if he could still fuck after a fashion, he wouldn’t have chosen that gens. He loved his cock too much.

A flash caught his eye. He turned and saw Felix standing by a column. The meretrix beckoned them over. Babieca was suspicious. When someone runs away, then comes back to help you a short time later, their act of compassion doesn’t erase the fact that they just left you in the jaws of death. At the moment, however, Felix was their best chance for escape.

“Morgan—” Roldan started to say.

“—can take care of herself,” Babieca finished. “And we can’t rescue her if we’re stuck in the carcer. Let’s go.”

“What will they do with her?”

“Her gens must question her first. She’ll be brought to the tower.”

“How do you know this?”

“I slept with a chatty sagittarius once. Now follow me.”

They ran for the arches. Felix was waiting for them, next to a narrow door that Babieca hadn’t noticed upon their arrival. It smelled like a hidden passage. Only fitting that a meretrix had discovered it, then.

“Are you unharmed?” Felix asked.

“There’s no time for your false sentiment,” Babieca said. “Sagittarii are swarming that balcony, and they’re about to drag our friend to the top of the tower. We’re of no good use to her sitting around like toadstools.”

Felix ignored him. “I can put you somewhere safe, for a time.” He unhooked a lamp from its chain. “We need to go now.”

They followed the lamp of the meretrix as it led them down the corridor, which was otherwise dark. Babieca stumbled twice and skinned his knuckles on the wall. Roldan’s eyes seemed to have adjusted more quickly than his own. Maybe some lar’s voice guided him. Sometimes he found Roldan’s dialogues with the lares to be unsettling, but he kept his mouth shut. People weren’t overly fond of musicians, either. Best not to insult one of the two friends that he’d made since coming to Anfractus.

Felix opened a door that was nearly invisible, and they passed into a small chamber. It was a room for guests, and not the important kind. There was a stone pallet in one corner, and a dusty wall hanging that depicted Fortuna with a distaff, weaving fates. The margins of the room were littered with cloth scraps and small bones. Felix lit the room’s lamp with his own.

“Darkness suits it better.” He pointed to something small and white beneath the tapestry. “Is that a tooth?”

“It’s far away from the oecus, and nobody will find you here.”

“Rats might. This chamber is what they dream about.”

“I have to speak with someone,” Felix said. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”

“Be a good butterfly,” Babieca said. “Don’t get too close to the flame.”

Felix sighed. “Just stay put.”

“Be safe,” Roldan said.

“You as well.”

Then he left, closing the door behind them. It had no lock that Babieca could see. On a hunch, he walked over and pushed on it. The door didn’t budge. He probed the surface of the wood for anything resembling a device, but there was nothing. It must have opened only from the outside. Felix had brought them to a different sort of carcer.

“We’re shut in here,” he said.

“The door won’t open?”

“It can’t open. It’s even less useful than the tapestry. At least we could use that to wipe our asses.”

“I believe that would be sacrilegious.”

“Do you see anything else to the purpose?”

“Felix will return before it becomes an issue.”

“Of course. He left us with a pack of silenoi, but we can certainly trust that he won’t fuck us in this instance.”

Roldan sat on the edge of the pallet. “What explanation do you have for this prejudice against meretrices? You visit the basia plenty.”

“I’ve got no problem with the transaction. That’s logical. I’ve learned, though, that when you wear a mask for a living, it tends to make you feel untouchable. You can distrust the spadones all you like, but they’re still a day gens, and they obey certain rules. Meretrices are a night gens. They do whatever they want, and they don’t care who’s destroyed by it.”

“They’re your neighbors on Fortuna’s wheel, you know. Meretrices and trovadores share a spoke. One side may be in shadow, but they’re still connected.”

“Day gens and night gens are completely different.”

“So says the musician who gets paid at twilight.”

“Careful of that bed. If stone had a mouth, it would probably scream.”

“It’s the only place to sit.”

Bending to logic, Babieca sat beside him. The wine had made him a bit flushed, but it was currently being absorbed by the mountain of food that he’d eaten. There was no way to watch this moment hazily unfold, no sweet edge to make the cell they were in appear bright and comfortable. His pulse increased slightly. Being that close to emerald-stained death had made him remember how much he loved his cock. Roldan was probably listening to the mad ramblings of a salamander beneath the bed. Babieca took a moment to study him while he was distracted. He’d seen Roldan naked before, but only a few times. The details were clouded. He remembered hairs, a nipple, an arched foot. That was all. Then the light took over, and the city was torn away.

His pleasures at the basia remained varied. Although he’d never call himself a cinna, he’d lain with both men and women, often at the same time. He followed beauty, wherever
it happened to lead. Being with a man wasn’t too different, although it did sometimes require a knowledge of calculus. His first time was with an older man, bald and bearded. He’d liked the silky feel of the man’s chest hair, the warmth of those bare feet pressed against his shoulders. They’d seemed fragile at the time, and Babieca wanted to shield them, to rub oil into the cracks of those precious soles. He died, forgetting the kindness.

“Is there a lar in the room?” He asked to break the silence, and to keep himself from touching the auditor’s hand.

“No,” Roldan said. “Although I am feeling something rather odd. It’s like an itch, or a sneeze that I can’t quite expel.”

“There are things to help with that.”

“What kind of things?”

Babieca blinked. He couldn’t stop himself from making dirty jokes, but Roldan was generally oblivious. He trusted sentences. He gave words the benefit of the doubt, even when they sounded impossible. The more he thought about it, the more he could see a shadow of Roldan, a fragment that was part of him, yet distinct. They shared some things. Both Roldans were honest and direct, but only one could speak to lares. The other was surrounded by what looked like furniture—a stack of chairs, lamps, and nested glass tables—but they didn’t resemble anything from Anfractus. They were made of something between wood and stone, no grain or veins, just smooth. It repulsed him. Then the image was gone.

He wanted to ask Roldan about the alien furniture, but his body had already started to pick a fight with itself. His mind was thinking of another question, while everything south of his mind was beginning to demand attention. He grabbed the edge of the stone bed. It was sharp against his fingertips, and the light pain focused him.

“Tell me about lares,” he said.

Roldan looked at him. At the same time, he managed to look away slightly—it was something that he could do. His eyes demurred.

“Everything has a chaos,” he said. “An element that holds
us. For us, it’s air. Water would kill us, but air lets us pass, lets us breathe. The chaos of the undinae is water, although most of them are amphibious. The chaos of the gnomoi is earth. They breathe basalt like the undinae breathe water.”

“And the salamanders breathe fire.”

“Sometimes their breath is like flaming ale.”

He laughed. “What’s it like to hear them?”

“Some of them are louder than others. Undinae sound like water on rocks. Salamanders make your ears sweat. Gnomoi have a bit of a stony accent. Sometimes they don’t speak at all; they just hum, or tap, or thump the ground. Conversations aren’t guaranteed.”

“How do they survive outside their chaoses?”

“They spend time in the gaps where chaoses meet. Light a lamp, and eventually some salamanders will come to investigate. Hang out at the water’s edge, and you’re bound to meet a curious undina. I mean, you’re lucky if they’re just curious. Sometimes they’re starving.”

“So”—Babieca smiled at the thought—“we’re lares too. Our chaos is air.”

“Some say that we destroyed the lares of the air. We took their chaos by force and replaced them.”

“What were the original lares called?”

“Caela.”

“And they’re all dead?”

“We don’t know. They hide in storms and smoke. I’ve never heard one, though. I don’t think anyone has in a very long time.”

Babieca looked closely at Roldan. At first, the auditor didn’t quite look back. He studied him obliquely, as you would a grotesque in the margins, still secondary to the text. Gradually, though, he looked Babieca in the eyes. His face was uncertain, but at the same time curious. That was a window that didn’t stay open for long, the most exciting of moments, when the letters might leap from the page. He couldn’t be sure of the auditor’s preference in this area, but he had caught Roldan staring at him, once or twice, in the apodyterium.
Babieca looked at everyone, but Roldan had only been looking at him. At his collarbone, not his cock. Staring fixedly at his neck with an expression that Babieca recognized.

“They haunt us,” Roldan continued unsteadily. “Someday, they’ll probably want their chaos back. I doubt we’ll be able to fight them. Lares and love are Fortuna’s perfect inevitabilities. I heard that once. I don’t remember when.”

Babieca took his hand. It was soft, and the knucklebone of his index finger jutted out slightly, a little unmoored island. He kissed the spot.

Roldan raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

“Saying hello.”

“You usually do that with sharp words.”

“I know more delicate salutations. Perhaps this is how lares greet.”

“Lares are territorial. They scream when they see each other.”

“Roldan.”

“What?”

“Back at the oecus, when Morgan was about to cast her die, all I could think of was how long your sleeves were. How much I wanted to fix them.”

“You were thinking about my tunica?”

“I was thinking about you.”

He looked at Babieca’s hand on top of his. “And now?”

“Still you.”

“I didn’t think—” His eyes demurred again. “I always imagined that you saw me as a friend, and nothing more.”

“Friends mean a lot to me. I have only two.”