Gift of the Winter King and Other Stories Page 10

  Falco was there, of course. I watched him from the musician’s gallery as I played. During a break between courses, when no one was looking, he glanced up and shot me a quick, secretive smile. I felt myself flush, though of course I’d been watching in the hopes that he’d look up to find me. When I looked down again, he’d turned away to talk to the person at his left. The person at his right, an older priestess named Marietta, glanced up a little questioningly. I bit my lip and looked away. Even if Marietta saw Falco looking at me, or me looking at Falco, it shouldn’t be a problem; the other Fedeli all knew we were friends. The only problem would be if anyone suspected that we were more than that, but so far as I knew, no one did. Falco and I both kept a careful ear out for gossip, and we’d heard none. It was not unusual for individual priests and priestesses to use some of their surplus wealth to hire musicians to play for them. There was no reason to expect anyone to be suspicious.

  At the end of the evening, a few priests were standing around, still discussing politics over wine. Falco had lingered on the fringes of the conversation, and I lingered too, slowly lacing up my violin case, hoping for the opportunity to say goodnight to him.

  “And Prince Travan—” A young priest; I thought his name was Gemino.

  “What about his Lordship?” That was Marietta, the priestess who’d looked at me earlier.

  “Well, we’ve heard unfortunate things about his reluctance to seek out the Lady’s blessing.”

  “Perhaps he’s just waiting for the right girl,” Marietta said.

  “I’m sure. But he might look harder for the right girl with some encouragement.” Gemino licked his lips. “There are rumors that he has a preference for—other company.”

  “You’re not seriously suggesting that we threaten the son of the Emperor with a heresy charge?” Marietta rolled her eyes.

  “Is the son of the Emperor above the law of the Lady?”

  “Of course not. But while of course the Lord and the Lady wish to see Prince Travan honor them, so that they can bless him with a child, that doesn’t mean he must find himself a girl to bed on a nightly basis. Prince Travan is known to be a bit shy; I’m sure the Lady understands that.” She turned to refill her wine glass and Falco caught her eye. “You seem quite interested in this conversation, Falco. I suppose that’s not surprising—aren’t you always the one we send in to terrorize the fichi?”

  My shoulders tensed; fico, fig, was slang for a man like me. Or like Falco.

  “You flatter me, Mother Marietta.” Falco’s face was turned away from mine, and I couldn’t guess what his tone implied. Or what Marietta meant.

  “So, what do you think? Should we bring charges against Prince Travan?” Her tone was droll, as if she was expecting Falco to laugh, but he didn’t.

  “Perhaps it would be a bit hasty to bring charges now,” he said, setting aside his drink. “But it’s also important for the Imperial family to set a good example for the rest of the faithful. And no one is exempt from the law of the Lady.”

  “So.” Marietta took a sip of her wine and glanced from Gemino to Falco and back again. “Just how long do you think we should give him? Six months, a year, two years?”

  “He’s of age,” Falco said. “Perhaps a year and a half, and then—well, I’m not suggesting that we haul him down to the Citadel’s dungeons. Gentle persuasion.”

  “Ah. I think you’ll find, my young friend, that no word from one of Fedeli is ever heard as ‘gentle’ by the ones we guide.” Marietta laughed kindly. “Especially when you’re the one offering the gentleness.”

  Falco had picked up his wine again, but he coughed when she said that, and had to set it back down. “It was a pleasure to sit with you this evening, Marietta—did I say that earlier? A great pleasure. We must dine together sometime next week. But for now, I think I’d better go to bed. Gemino. Domenico.” He nodded at me as he took himself out.

  I had finished lacing my violin case, and I was suddenly very much aware that Marietta and Gemino’s eyes were on me. I wanted to linger a little longer, in the hopes that Marietta would explain her remarks about Falco, but it would have been deeply conspicuous. I bowed goodnight to the two of them. Then, flipping up the hood of my still-damp cloak to hide my face, I tucked my violin case under my arm and set out for my room back in the musician’s hall.

  ***

  THE NEXT DAY dawned cloudy, but free from rain, and my cloak was finally dry enough to wear again. Once my quartet’s rehearsal was over, I decided to go buy a costume.

  As one of the musicians, I lived in the Imperial enclave in the heart of Cuore. The Emperor lived in the enclave, of course, and his son, but more importantly, so did the real holders of power: the Circle mages, and the leaders of the Fedeli. Not that Falco was particularly high ranking—he was one of the hundreds of ambitious Fedeli priests who did scutwork for his superiors. When I had asked Falco what he did, he said that mostly he sorted and filed papers. Not exactly an exciting way to battle heresy and “guard the way to the wrong” on behalf of the Lord and the Lady, but every little bit helped, I supposed.

  I checked to make sure I had my silver eagle medallion, which I would need to get back into the enclave, and set out to the tailors’ district. Most of the tailors sold costumes during the month before Mascherata.

  The streets were very crowded that afternoon; I was not the only procrastinator. Fortunately, nearly every store was displaying festival wares. Peddlers walked the street with long staves holding a dozen masks each, and every dressmaker and wigmaker had a selection of masks on display as well. Plain black masks were available, of course, but also finely sculpted masks like the one Falco wore: faces like beetles and like butterflies; lions, crocodiles, wolves, mice; mythical beasts like elephants; Maledori. I found myself oddly tempted to dress as a Maledore, but feared that Falco would consider it presumptuous.

  And that was the problem. How, how to find a costume that Falco would find beautiful, but not threatening? That his colleagues in the Fedeli would find enchanting, but not suspicious? If I wanted to dance with Falco, I had better dress as a lady, I decided. I didn’t really think of myself as a girl, and preferred on Mascherata to dress as a man and dance with all the other men dressed as women, but this year was special. I went to look at wigs.

  The wigs varied a great deal in quality, of course. The cheapest were made of yarn sewn into braids, and obviously fake. Then there were wigs made of hair or of fine thread that at least appeared to be hair, and those were quite a bit more expensive. The most costly was also obviously false: wigs made from delicate strands of tiny glass beads. I brushed the beads with a finger; they made a tiny tinkling noise as the strands brushed back and forth.

  “Would you care to try it on, signore?” the merchant asked.

  I shook my head. I knew the price was more than I could easily afford.

  In the end, I was too indecisive to buy anything but face-paints. “Look at my dresses, signore!” one of the tailors called as I passed, and I spared a quick glance, but until I knew which wig I was buying I couldn’t choose a dress. A very expensive dress would look ridiculous with a yarn wig, but if I wore a cheap dress and a yarn wig, I’d really look like a boy musician straight from the country, too poor to buy anything but a single tunic and hose for everyday wear.

  Back at my room in the enclave, I found a sealed letter in a silver tray on my table; one of the servants had brought me a letter. I initially thought it was a message from Falco, but when I picked it up I realized it had come much further than across the enclave. It had the smudges and heft of a letter that had been sent through the Imperial messenger service, and sure enough, when I broke the seal I saw that the signature read Nolasco.

  Nolaco was an old friend of mine from conservatory. We’d both been Circle-sponsored musical students at the Rural Conservatory of Marino. After we completed our studies, I had been the envy of our peers when I won a place playing in an ensemble in the Imperial enclave. Nolasco had secured a good spot for hims
elf, too, though a less prestigious one: he was teaching trumpet at the Rural Conservatory of Verdia. It was quite a remote post, down by the border, but Nolasco seemed to like it. I settled into a chair and unfolded the letter.

  Domenico, Nolasco’s letter said. First of all, I thought I’d remind you of the availability of the messenger service. You do realize, of course, that they deliver to Verdia, and you could avail yourself of it to send me a letter sometime to tell me how you’d doing. I smiled ruefully; he went on to tease me a bit more about being a poor correspondent—your poor mother must think you’re dead—and then got to the point.

  “One of the violin instructors suffered a stroke some months ago. Though she’s mostly recovered, her rather advanced years have caught up with her quite suddenly. I just thought I’d let you know that there’s probably going to be an opening here, very soon. Even if she survives the winter, she’s planning to retire.

  “Perhaps you’re chortling right now, asking yourself why ever you’d come down here, to live practically on the border, when you have the position that was the envy of the conservatory. And if that’s so, well, have yourself a good laugh and toss this letter into the fire. But I thought I’d mention it because I remember you well, and sooner or later, it seems to me, you might begin to want to live somewhere where you do not need to hide.

  “The rules, of course, are the same everywhere. But speaking as one who is much like you in certain ways, I can assure you that there is a certain laxness in enforcement, the further you get from the Fedeli.

  “And the Fedeli do not come here, Domenico. The Fedeli have never been here, not in recent memory. I just thought, perhaps, you might like to know that.”

  The Fedeli have never been here. I read the letter again, twice, then tossed it into the fire, on the off-chance that someone might see it.

  I have no need to fear the Fedeli, I thought. Not when one of them is my lover.

  ***

  I HAD AN appointment with Falco the next afternoon, and as we talked companionably over tea after my “performance,” I found the nerve to ask him about the conversation with Marietta.

  Falco stood up quickly to refill his teacup. Then he threw himself down into his chair. “Domenico, I’m sorry. I hate the very words that come out of my mouth when I’m in conversations like that, but I know that the best way to keep people from suspecting is to make sure everyone thinks I’m on the opposite side, you know?”

  “I understand that.” Not that I had to like it, but I expected it from a lover who was also Fedele. “But Marietta said—” What had she said? “She said you were the one they always sent to frighten the fichi. Why did she say that?”

  “I don’t know. Marietta is old, and I’ve heard that her mind is slipping a little; I think she probably had me confused with someone else. Did you know—” he dropped his voice and leaned forward a little. “Last week, she called Prince Travan by his mother’s name by mistake.”

  “Really?” Despite myself, I leaned forward with some interest.

  “Really. Not his father’s name, his mother’s name. Do you see why I think her mind is slipping?”

  “That’s a very weird mistake.”

  “Well, admittedly, last week was just a weird week for the Fedeli. Gemino says it’s the Maledori making trouble before the Lord defeats them all for the year: one of the initiates fell while coming down a flight of stairs with a basket of incense, and it went everywhere. I love the smell, but I don’t really need crushed rose petals in every crevice of my robe, and that’s what happened. Then an entire pile of transcribed confessions were misplaced. Then High Priest Illario broke out in hives . . . ”

  “What did you do about the lost confessions? Did they turn up?”

  “They did turn up. In a kitchen pantry, of all places. Someone took them along while hunting up a snack very late at night, I guess. It was a good thing they turned up. We were going to have to ask all the penitents to confess again, and first of all, that sort of thing tends to start rumors that we’re all a bunch of incompetents. Not a useful reputation for those who enforce the Law of the Lady, don’t you agree? And second of all, it would have really pissed off the scribes, and goodness knows they’re all in a bad mood most of the time anyway.”

  Despite myself, I relaxed over the tea and laughed at Falco’s stories. The Fedeli seemed much less intimidating when you were hearing stories about people losing papers.

  “Do you have your costume yet?” Falco asked as I put on my cloak to leave.

  “No,” I said.

  “Hurry,” Falco said. “All the good costumes will be gone.”

  ***

  I WENT SHOPPING again the next day, though as I fingered a cloak of dyed scarlet feathers, I found myself thinking of Nolasco, rather than Falco. Mascherata celebrations at the conservatory could be best described as subdued. The holiday celebrated the victory of the Lord over the Maledori; since the evil ones had been wiped out for the year, this freed the faithful to spend the longest night of the year in wild revelry. At the conservatory, we had a chapel service after supper, and then spent the night dancing in our dormitories. Since boys and girls were kept strictly separated, this was rather more fun for boys like Nolasco and me than it was for most of our companions.

  For all that the law might be the same everywhere, Nolasco was not a boy who was subtle in his preferences. We usually tried to improvise costumes for our midnight dance, and without fail, Nolasco found a way to dress as a girl—pilfered hairpins, ribbons, face-paint. I wished suddenly that we might have had the opportunity, one year, to spend a real Mascherata together—it would have been fun, if nothing else, to shop for costumes with Nolasco. He’d love the feathered cloak. I dropped it and moved on to the next shop.

  What would Nolasco tell me to buy? What would he buy, if he were me? I knew immediately. But the price, I thought, and could hear Nolasco laughing at me: And you’re saving your money for what? Does your roof leak here? Do your shoes have holes? A quarter of an hour later, biting my lip as I counted out the money, I bought a wig of glittering indigo beads, and a dress of dark blue velvet to match. I would be beautiful on Mascherata—beautiful, if not terrifying. I would be someone that Falco would be proud to dance with. The mask I brought was simple glazed ceramic, tinted blue to match the dress and wig.

  Back in my rooms, I tried on the whole ensemble, painting my lips and rouging my cheeks, and then padding the bust of the dress, cinching it in at the waist, and setting the wig into place. I looked nothing like a woman. But I was beautiful, all the same.

  ***

  ON THE AFTERNOON of Mascherata, one of the errand-boys came with a message: Mother Marietta, priestess of the Fedeli, was interested in a few hours of my services. I was impatient—it was Mascherata!—but refusing the engagement seemed impolitic, so I left my mask, dress, and wig strewn across my unmade bed, tucked my violin case under one arm, and donned my cloak for the walk to the Citadel.

  For once that winter, it was not raining. It was perfect weather for Mascherata: cold, but clear and perfectly dry. Even the mud puddles from the weeks of rain seemed to have dried out, and despite the chill in the air, the gardens in the enclave were full of people out enjoying the sun. Mages from the Circle strolled together past black-robed Fedeli priests, while brightly dressed nobles perched on the edges of fountains to discuss business in low voices. I could hear a trio of flute players somewhere not too far away, and elsewhere, a solo trumpet.

  Mother Marietta had chosen to spend the afternoon indoors; perhaps the air was too cold for her aging bones. She nodded me to a spot in the corner to play as she pored over a pile of papers, making notes on each and signing her name at the bottom. She sorted them into a series of piles, keeping the piles neat with little paperweights.

  There was a knock at the door after an hour or two. “Yes, come in,” she called. As the door opened, she turned to me. “You can take a break, Domenico; your fingers must be tired. Have a cup of tea and sit down.” I took the offere
d cup and pulled a practice stool to the corner, out of the way.

  The priest who came in was a young priest, about Falco’s age—Tomas, I thought his name was. Marietta smiled warmly and they began to discuss the pile of papers. Each represented the confession of a prisoner; Marietta was evaluating the punishment of each one. Most had repented fully and would be let off with a fine; a few were sentenced to public floggings, and one, an unrepentant heretic, was unceremoniously consigned to the fires. I felt an odd queasiness in my stomach at that; my hand strayed back to my bow, as I thought about how maybe it would be better not to listen to this conversation. But then I heard Falco’s name.

  “Ah yes. Even if the heretic doesn’t repent, Father Falco can always at least get a confession.” Marietta shrugged. “I’ve been trying to encourage him to work on his skills of leading people fully back to the Lady, rather than being satisfied with their confession. I think he lacks follow-through.”

  “Perhaps he lacks the steel in his heart necessary . . . ?” Tomas said.

  Marietta laughed. “He doesn’t lack for ruthlessness, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Did you ever hear about Agosto?”

  “No. I haven’t heard the name.”

  “He was a musician, a friend of Falco’s. He was accused of being a fico. Falco actually volunteered to interrogate Agosto.”

  “Volunteered? Why would he do that?” Tomas sounded a little repulsed. “I love the Lady as much as any priest, but I have to admit I wouldn’t volunteer to lead a straying friend back to her, though I might pray over them beforehand. Do you think it was Falco’s faith that motivated him to do it?”

  “I would never question another’s faith,” Marietta said. “It might well have been his faith that motivated him, and his commitment to help his friend. But if I had to guess—well, it seemed that Falco wished to be sure that no one doubted his own revulsion at his old friend’s sin.” Very deliberately, Marietta glanced over at me. So that I would make no mistake of her intent, she met my eyes for a moment, then looked away. I knew that my face had given me away, but I was also quite certain that didn’t matter: Marietta had summoned me today to warn me, not to betray me.