Mist, Metal, and Ash Read online

  “I hire a cook who trained with the finest pastry chef in Marseilles, and this is what you waste her talents on.”

  “I’m partial to crepes,” Aris said, still eating.

  Garibaldi pulled out a chair and threw himself down at the head of the table, then he kicked up his dusty boots, uncaring of the diners. It was his house and his food, and he’d rest his boots on his table if he damn well wished, apparently.

  “Elsa da Veldana,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Surprise,” said Elsa.

  “I’m rather curious to know how you found us.” He spread his hands, indicating the fortress around them. “The remote location was a selling point, not an accident.”

  Elsa opened her mouth to reply, but Vincenzo cut in. “That would be my doing. Friends in low places. Information flows both ways through the Carbonari network, I’m afraid.”

  Garibaldi turned his attention upon Vincenzo with an apparent lack of recognition, so he introduced himself. “Vincenzo Cavallo. I studied with Rosalinda Scarpa, if you recall.”

  Garibaldi nodded once, his expression so closed off that Elsa couldn’t tell whether he actually did recall. “Well,” he said, “it is indeed a surprise. I can’t imagine the Order is very pleased with this development.”

  Keep your lies close to the truth, Faraz had told her. So she said, “The Order of Archimedes never did anything for me. If you’d killed Jumi, they would have let out sighs of relief and taken consolation from her death. ‘At least that troublesome woman is gone,’ they’d have said.” Elsa didn’t have to fake the anger in her voice. “My mother taught me to use all my skills in defense of Veldana. Our philosophy is, I think, not so dissimilar from yours, when you get right down to it.”

  Garibaldi nodded. “They want to slap reins on us all. They’re cowards, terrified to leave the sanctity of their laboratories and actually engage with the world.”

  His words sounded like old, well-worn rhetoric, not an opinion he’d put any effort into freshly considering.

  “Losing the editbook puts my world in a precarious position. It was our trump card.” Elsa slid her plate away, food half-eaten, and rested her elbows on the table. “In light of this, I am prepared to make what political alliances are necessary to ensure Veldana’s independence. And given our … antagonistic relationship with European pazzerellones, I believe you are best positioned to shield us from the Order. I am prepared to overlook the past if our current needs require it.”

  “How practical of you,” Garibaldi said. From his tone, Elsa couldn’t quite be sure if he was mocking or sincere. “Is the Veldana worldbook secure?”

  “For the moment.” Elsa allowed herself a quick glance at Leo; his gaze was on his plate, but the frown line between his brows told her he was listening. Listening and believing? Hard to tell. “The imperialist tendencies of European powers are a cause for concern, though. We have no army to defend our independence.”

  Garibaldi waved a hand, dismissing this concern. “Armies are of no consequence when you have science. Technology has the power to liberate more than just our minds, if you can find the courage to use it.”

  The serving girl reappeared with a fifth cup and a fresh carafe in order to pour a coffee for her master. Elsa could not help but marvel at Garibaldi’s hypocrisy. Here he was expounding upon his own ideological superiority—the importance of an Italian republic run by and for the people—when he employed servants in his own house. Vincenzo had made it sound like the Carbonari were concerned with the welfare of common people, but who exactly did Garibaldi plan to liberate? Wealthy merchants and landowners?

  Jumi had always impressed upon Elsa that European politics were a farce. And this conversation was not doing much to disabuse her of that notion.

  “In any case,” Garibaldi was saying, “even if the Order is content to leave you alone, I imagine the French will be after Veldana soon enough.”

  “The French,” she echoed. “Really.”

  He took a folding knife from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and scraped beneath his fingernails with the tip of the blade. “Not officially, of course, but the Third Republic is quite the collector of pazzerellones and their creations. When they can get away with it.”

  “I’ve heard that warning before.” When she’d first arrived on Earth after her mother’s abduction, Alek had smuggled her off to Casa della Pazzia for that very reason: to keep her out of the hands of governments.

  “Don’t worry.” Garibaldi put the knife away and kicked his boots off the table edge to stand. “Veldana will be the first official ally of the Republic of Italy. I’ll render you untouchable.”

  Elsa leveled an impassive gaze at him, swallowing the sharp retort that so desperately wanted to bubble out of her. The French were the least of her worries; much worse were her fears about what would happen when Aris figured out how to use the editbook. But if any flicker of her true feelings crossed her face, Garibaldi missed it. He was already walking away.

  After breakfast, Elsa retreated to the solitude of her bedroom, needing time to shake off the disquiet that Garibaldi’s words had set upon her. Render was not a verb one applied to one’s allies and equals.

  For this one moment, Elsa allowed herself to think of Veldana, to wish she could be home tending to her mother’s health; perhaps they would walk down to the newly scribed shore together, if Jumi felt well enough. But home was in a worldbook back in Pisa, and she was here.

  An empty writing desk stood in the corner of her room. Elsa had brought a few basic scriptological supplies with her, and the task of laying them out neatly atop the polished wood gave her some small comfort. The familiarity of ink bottle and fountain pen and clean white pages made her feel more in control of the situation.

  “So how did you really find us?”

  Elsa glanced up—it was Aris, leaning casually against the frame of her open doorway.

  “What do you mean?” she said innocently, going back to the task of arranging her scriptological supplies on the writing desk.

  “Oh, come now.” He tilted his head to one side, watching her with those too-familiar amber eyes. “You are a polymath. You can’t expect me to believe you’d stoop so low as to rely upon common spy-work to find us.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re implying.”

  He pushed away from the doorframe and sauntered closer, though his approach did not seem aggressive so much as curious. “I must know how you did it, how you circumvented the block I placed on tracking Leo.” A grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. “I’m going to lose sleep over this, signorina. It’s cruel to leave me in suspense.”

  “I didn’t,” she said in earnest.

  Aris narrowed his eyes at her, suspicious of her apparent sincerity. Meeting his gaze, Elsa realized this was an opportunity to gain his confidence.

  “I didn’t,” she said again. “I couldn’t figure a way through your block, so I found a different target.”

  She went to the bench at the foot of the bed, where she’d set down her carpetbag. She reached inside and produced the plague doctor mask, holding it up for Aris to see.

  His eyes went wide, and then he laughed. “Is that mine?”

  “Leo had it, but the ownership points to you.” She passed the mask to him. “Keep it—let it serve as a reminder.”

  “A reminder?” He arched an eyebrow at her. “Of what?”

  Elsa made herself smile. “That you’re far too clever for your own good.”

  He held the mask up to his face, looking at her through the round eyeholes. When he spoke, his voice echoed weirdly in the mask’s long snout. “There is no such thing as being too clever, signorina. There is only not clever enough.”

  “Call me Elsa.”

  He pulled the mask away from his face and turned it over in his hands, running his fingertips over the slight imperfections where the cracks had sealed. After a moment he said, “Elsa,” rolling the name around in his mouth in a fashion she didn’
t entirely appreciate. “It’s a European name.”

  “A nickname, convenient for its familiarity in both worlds,” she answered, keeping her tone carefully neutral. Her full name was Elsunani, but she wasn’t about to give that away.

  “Hmm.” Aris went suddenly still and looked up from the mask, his gaze piercing. “Why are you here, Elsa?”

  “I believe Italian unification would serve the political interests of Veldana.”

  Aris kept staring.

  “Or perhaps I’m here for Leo,” she offered.

  He blinked once, slowly, his gaze unwavering.

  “Or I want the editbook back,” Elsa concluded. “It’s certainly one of those three motivations.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “But which one?”

  She shrugged. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

  He laughed, and just like that the tension left him and he was in motion again, sauntering toward the door. “I think I’m going to enjoy this, Elsa da Veldana,” he threw over his shoulder as he went.

  When he was gone, Elsa let out a heavy breath. She hoped she had said enough to intrigue him, but nothing he would not already have thought of for himself. Rosalinda had been right: this was a dangerous game.

  * * *

  The grand ballroom’s south-facing windows painted bright rhomboids of sunlight on the smooth wood floor. Or perhaps it should be renamed the dueling room, Leo thought, since fencing practice was the only activity for which he’d seen it used.

  Vincenzo wrote letters in the air with the tip of his foil, warming up his wrist. “Have you been practicing with Rosalinda?”

  Leo shot him a sidelong glance. “Not as much as I’d like. It can be hard to get away, you know.” Was that an innocent question? Or was Vincenzo trying to remind him that they were both loyal to the same mentor?

  “I don’t get to Toscana much, myself. Spend too much time away on assignment.”

  “Nature of the job, I’d guess,” said Leo. In the intervening years since Venezia, he’d heard nothing of Vincenzo from Rosalinda, but that was to be expected. Carbonari did not openly discuss the secret missions of their colleagues with outsiders.

  “En garde?” Vincenzo proposed.

  “Sure, why not.” Leo stood opposite him and they began trading attacks.

  Aris was supposed to be with them. He was not. Leo did not like to think what that might mean—what nefarious task might be delaying his brother.

  As if summoned by Leo’s thoughts, Aris entered the ballroom with an indignant declaration. “You started without me!”

  “Well,” Leo said between parries, “you’re late.”

  Especially now that his brother was watching, Leo had to calculate his movements with the utmost care, calibrating his apparent skill level so as to beat Vincenzo narrowly. It was a precarious dance; years had passed since the last time they’d practiced together, and Leo had to feel him out with tentative forays. Step and lunge, parry and riposte, study his attacks and test his reactions. Aris would be displeased if Leo lost to Vincenzo, but Leo couldn’t appear overly skilled either, not after feigning rustiness during their own bouts.

  Vincenzo’s arrival certainly did complicate things. Not the least of which was Elsa. Were they in on this together, whatever this turned out to be? Or did his help only extend as far as Ricciotti’s cause, regardless of Elsa’s true intentions? How much of an ally was he, and to whom? Leo would have to figure out where Vincenzo’s true loyalties lay, and he’d have to get to the truth before Aris did.

  Vincenzo landed a solid touch, thanks to Leo’s distracted state of mind, and Aris snorted disappointment at his brother’s weak performance. “Please do pull your head out of the clouds and pay attention, Leo. You’re making us look bad.”

  “Very well,” Leo said, dropping his guard. He pulled his fingers out of the rings in the grip and tossed the practice foil at Aris. “Show us how it’s done.”

  Aris plucked the foil out of the air and flashed a wicked grin. “As you wish, little brother.”

  Aris and Vincenzo squared off against each other, saluted with their foils, and then stepped together in a sudden flurry of lunges and parries. Aris needed no time to feel out his opponent, having watched the previous match, and he was aggressive with his attacks.

  Vincenzo held his own. A bead of sweat crawled down his temple onto his cheek, but he was grinning right back at Aris. They were well-matched in a duel, following each other like dancers, back and forth in synchronized steps. It almost seemed as if the clack clack clack of the foils against each other was actually the sound of electricity crackling between them.

  Back in Venezia, Aris and Vincenzo had been good friends. Young Aris had been thirsty as a dry sponge for attention, and Vincenzo—only a couple of years older—had often accommodated that need. Leo had been too young to notice at the time, but in retrospect, he wondered if it had been something more than simple friendship. At least on Vincenzo’s part.

  Leo frowned. Was Vincenzo here for Elsa … or was he here for Aris?

  * * *

  There was a soft knock on the bedroom door, so soft that Elsa was not entirely certain she hadn’t imagined it, but when she paused to listen, she thought she could hear someone shuffling nervously in the hall outside. Soft and nervous meant it almost certainly was not Aris again, so she opened the door. And indeed it wasn’t Aris: it was the serving girl from that morning, the one who’d cowered against the wall to let Elsa pass.

  “I am sorry to disturb, signorina…” The girl spoke with an accent Elsa couldn’t place, and she seemed uncertain with her use of Italian. Or perhaps it was simply this situation making her nervous.

  “It’s no trouble,” Elsa said, trying to sound patient and entirely undisturbed.

  The girl wrung her hands together, and the words spilled quickly from her lips. “Signorina, I wanted to apologize for not attending you this morning. We have not welcomed any women guests in the time of my employ, and…”

  “Attending?” Elsa interrupted, not sure what they were talking about.

  “Assisting with your toilette. Your hair, your laces…”

  For a moment Elsa simply stared, struggling to understand why anyone would think an apology was needed. The girl looked to be around the same age as Elsa, if not somewhat older. In Veldana, it was true her scriptological abilities afforded her a measure of respect from other villagers, but still—nobody came around to tie her laces for her in the mornings. Jumi had always taught her power meant responsibility, not pampering.

  “That’s really not necessary,” said Elsa. “As you can see, I’ve quite given up on corsets.” She was wearing a leather tunic over a cotton shirt and trousers tucked into tall boots.

  “Your hair, then,” the girl persisted.

  This right here might win the contest for the strangest conversation Elsa had ever found herself a part of. “Let us begin anew, you and I. My name is Elsa.”

  The girl bobbed her head deferentially. She did not offer her own name.

  “And you are…?”

  The girl’s eyes widened slightly, as if she were edging onto uncertain ground, but she said, “Colette, signorina.”

  “Well, Colette—you know you don’t have to call me ‘signorina’ when there’s no one else around to hear. Up until a month ago, I’d lived my whole life in a cottage with a thatched roof. We kept a chicken coop and a vegetable garden, and the food didn’t cook itself.” Elsa offered her a tentative smile.

  Colette returned it. “As you say … Elsa.” She spoke the name as if it were a secret code of conspiracy between them.

  A plan began to grow in Elsa’s mind. Servants were invisible. They overheard conversations and glimpsed private activities. They could go anywhere in the house with the flimsiest of excuses. It seemed probable they would even have copies of all the keys.

  Yes, this was how she would do it. She would befriend the servants. And then these people who mattered so little, who were treated like ghosts—they would be Gar
ibaldi’s downfall. What could be more fitting? He would be defeated by his own hypocrisy.

  11

  EVERY DAY IS A JOURNEY, AND THE JOURNEY ITSELF IS HOME.

  —Matsuo Basho

  For most of the distance the path hugged the side of the sea cliffs, staying relatively flat while the mountains rose on their right like a herd of ragged hunchbacked beasts. Porzia knew it was only a couple of kilometers to Manarola, and another couple after that from Manarola to Corniglia, but they all had luggage and supplies to carry, and most of them had not slept particularly well. Even if they’d been well rested and better prepared, they would still have had to set a slow pace on account of the younger children. Aldo was only eight and tiring quickly.

  The sun crawled higher and the morning grew hot. Porzia felt grateful for the breeze off the water that cooled the sweat on the back of her neck. Revan was in the lead with her brother Sante, both of them seemingly indefatigable. Faraz had taken up the rear, making certain no one fell too far behind. Porzia found herself trudging along in relative solitude, which gave her time to agonize over the choices she’d made.

  Where was Elsa now? She could be on Garibaldi’s doorstep already, though she would still need to find and steal the editbook. Surely that process would take longer than this hike along the Cinque Terre coastline. Porzia couldn’t bring herself to abandon the children—not until they were safely tucked away in the Corniglia ruins, at least. But guilt and doubt gnawed at her.

  The tops of a few cheerily painted buildings came into view, peering over the ridge that stood between them and Manarola. The path angled downward, closer to the sea, and circumnavigated around the base of the ridge, which jutted out into the water.

  Revan was also focused on what lay ahead, though he seemed more disquieted about the curious looks their group was eliciting from the fishermen floating in their rowboats nearby than he was about the condition of the trail. He fell back to walk beside her. “Are we expecting trouble here?”