Mist, Metal, and Ash Read online

They arrived at the door of a narrow town house. Elsa tugged on the bellpull, which produced a muffled twang somewhere deep in the house. As they waited, she snuck a glance at Faraz: his features looked composed, as if he’d regained his usual unflappable resolve.

  The sound of heavy, not especially ladylike footfalls preceded the door swinging open. The woman on the other side was tall, thin, and severe. She was dressed in men’s trousers and a long black frock coat, and her steel-streaked hair was pulled back in a tight chignon at the back of her neck.

  Elsa cleared her throat. “Rosalinda…”

  “Signora Scarpa, if you please,” she corrected. Her expression closed down at the sight of them, as if she had shutters she could lock behind the windows of her eyes.

  Elsa felt her own expression darken in response. She opened her mouth to reply, but Faraz smoothly cut in. “Our apologies, Signora Scarpa, if we’re disturbing you at an inconvenient hour.”

  Instead of replying, she scrutinized them with that hooded, hawk-like gaze of hers; she glanced at Elsa’s hip, noting the revolver Elsa had taken to carrying. At least she didn’t slam the door in their faces.

  Faraz took this for an invitation to continue. “We’d like to speak with you about Leo. May we come in?”

  With a sigh, she let them in and led them down a short hall to a sitting room, where she grudgingly waved them toward a pair of chairs.

  Signora Scarpa’s sitting room was neither particularly fancy nor particularly “lived-in,” as Alek de Vries liked to call his cluttered flat in Amsterdam. The thought sent a pang of guilt through Elsa—for leaving her home world of Veldana, and for asking Alek to stay there to look after her terribly ill mother. Alek had mentored Jumi when she first learned scriptology, and though he was the closest thing to a grandparent Elsa ever had, she still felt that the responsibility to care for Jumi was hers alone. What’s done is done, she chided herself. If she wasted time dwelling on decisions already made, she’d never get anywhere.

  Faraz was telling Signora Scarpa about what happened with the editbook, Leo, and Garibaldi. If Scarpa’s expression had been closed before, now it seemed to have turned to stone. Impenetrable and unreadable. Not an especially good sign; Elsa had hoped for some kind of reaction.

  “So what are you doing here?” Signora Scarpa said, when Faraz finished the story.

  “We came to you for help,” Elsa said. “That is, assuming you care at all about what happens to your world, or to Leo.” Talking about Leo as if he were an innocent victim felt like drinking acid, but she doubted the alternative would get her anywhere.

  “Under my roof, you will watch that mouth of yours,” Signora Scarpa snapped. “That boy is like a son to me. Do you think I live in Pisa by happy coincidence?”

  Elsa shrugged. “I don’t pretend to have any notion why you do the things you do.”

  “I trained him since he was old enough to pick up a foil,” Signora Scarpa said. Her voice started out tight and soft, but her volume rose as she continued. “I was the one who got him out of Venezia alive, and I was the one who comforted him when he woke up screaming in the middle of the night for months afterward. Then the Order exerted their right of custody—caring only that he was a pazzerellone, not that he was a scared child—and I was expected to simply turn him over to the care of strangers. So yes, I asked the Carbonari to transfer me to Pisa. Not so I could manipulate him, as you seem to believe. But because he was a child and he needed me.”

  Elsa felt heat rise in her cheeks. Perhaps she should not be so quick to distrust everyone.

  Faraz cleared his throat. “If you want to help Leo, he needs it now more than ever. Assuming you aren’t”—Faraz paused, his gaze flicking over to meet Elsa’s for a fraction of a second—“pleased to see him back in the custody of his father.”

  “He’s being manipulated,” Scarpa said with rock-hard certainty. “If he isn’t simply held against his will.”

  Faraz offered a weak smile. “That’s what we think, too.”

  “Not think,” she insisted. “I know.”

  Elsa said, “Either way, we’ve been trying to locate him, but he’s well hidden. We were thinking it might be easier to track Aris, but for it to work we need something—an object, a possession—that belonged to him.”

  Signora Scarpa frowned in a way that suggested she doubted Elsa’s intelligence. “The Trovatelli estate burned. It wasn’t as if we had much opportunity for collecting keepsakes. And I imagine anything of sentimental value would have left with Aris before the fire, in any case.”

  “It doesn’t have to be his most favorite possession ever,” Elsa said testily. She took a breath, reining in her temper. “If you can think of anything at all, it would be most appreciated.”

  Signora Scarpa still looked skeptical, but she nonetheless paused to think on it. “There was a mask. A carnevale mask, white with a long snout—the plague doctor mask, do you know it?” she said, turning to Faraz, who shook his head. “The spring before the fire, Ricciotti let Leo and Aris go out during carnevale by themselves. They ended up at my place somehow, wide-eyed and out of breath, but they wouldn’t tell me what trouble they’d gotten into.” Rosalinda smiled slightly at the memory, then caught herself and straightened her expression. “Aris left the mask behind by accident. So later I gave it to Leo as a remembrance. I don’t know if he’s kept it this whole time, though.”

  Elsa nodded, relieved. “It’s something to look for. Thank you.”

  She and Faraz made ready to depart, but Signora Scarpa forestalled them.

  “Wait,” she said, “just for a moment.”

  Elsa turned back and looked at her expectantly.

  Her face was a mask of non-expression, but she pressed her thumb into her opposite palm, as if she were struggling with a difficult decision. Finally, she said, “I believe you already know this, but … Garibaldi is dangerous.”

  “Yes, of course,” Elsa said impatiently.

  “That’s not all.” She shook her head in dismay. “I suspect Aris is also dangerous, in a way entirely different from his father. And because of that, I fear Leo may be dangerous as well—dangerous to you, I mean. Do you understand?”

  Elsa swallowed around a lump in her throat. “I—yes, I think I do.”

  Signora Scarpa’s expression quivered, as if she was struggling to keep her emotion off her face. “I’m not trying to say you shouldn’t rescue him. Nothing could be worse for Leo than falling under their influence. But, by the time you find him … he may not understand that anymore.”

  Elsa wanted to snap that it was too late, that Leo had already willingly given himself over to their corrupting influence. But instead she pushed her anger down deep, where it could not escape from between her lips. “We’ll work fast.”

  “I hope you do,” she said.

  “Signora Scarpa…” Elsa hesitated, aware she was edging onto uncertain ground. “Once we have a location, can we count on your assistance? The assistance of … of the Carbonari, I mean.”

  While Garibaldi had parted ways with the Carbonari over methodological disagreements, they still shared the same fundamental goal: to unite the four states of Italy into a single country. And if anyone could help Elsa become a spy, it was this woman.

  Signora Scarpa’s thin lips twisted into a grimace. “To what end?”

  “I need to infiltrate Garibaldi’s operation as a supposed defector from the Order of Archimedes,” Elsa said.

  “There is a strict arrangement of noninterference between the Order and the Carbonari, and the Order sees Garibaldi as their problem to solve. Officially, my answer has to be no.”

  Faraz raised his eyebrows. “And unofficially?”

  There was a pause before Signora Scarpa answered, “Come to me when you know more, and I’ll see what can be done.”

  2

  IT HAD LONG SINCE COME TO MY ATTENTION THAT PEOPLE OF ACCOMPLISHMENT RARELY SAT BACK AND LET THINGS HAPPEN TO THEM. THEY WENT OUT AND HAPPENED TO THINGS.

  —L
eonardo da Vinci

  Leo couldn’t remember the last time he truly wanted to be left alone. It didn’t come naturally to him, he who usually thrived on the company of others. But no matter how Aris behaved—enthusiastic, annoyed, bossy, concerned—he always inevitably served as a reminder of everything Leo had ruined. Even if he could find comfort in his brother’s companionship, he wasn’t ready to let anyone replace his old friends. And his father was worse—Ricciotti had a talent for making Leo feel reduced to a petulant child, when he wasn’t too busy planning revolutions to remember about Leo at all.

  Leo leaned against the window frame in his new bedroom, grateful to have a moment to himself. There was nothing in the world so exhausting as pretending to be happy. The diamond-shaped panes of glass were cool to the touch, and the view beyond looked even colder, the naked, craggy peaks of the Italian Alps free of ice only by virtue of the season. There was green in the valley below, but it seemed impossibly remote, at the bottom of a precipitous drop.

  The view was almost enough to make even Leo dizzy, and certainly enough to make him glad he wasn’t prone to fear of heights like Faraz. Faraz, his best friend, whom he would never see again.

  There was something poetic about Ricciotti Garibaldi hiding out in such a cold, remote location. Certainly more fitting than the tenement building in Nizza where their reunion had taken place. That had been a center of operations, but not a home. This stronghold was where his father and Aris had lived these past seven years, ever since they’d fled Venezia without him. To Leo it seemed as unsentimental as it was opulent, though Aris was comfortable enough here.

  Aris, who refused to understand. Aris, who had never been discarded like an obsolete machine.

  Leo pressed his forehead against the glass and let the cold seep into him.

  His gaze fell on the windowsill, and he frowned. Were those marks carved into the stone outside the glass? He reached for the latch and yanked the window open, stiff hinges creaking. The narrow ledge beyond the window frame had eight long grooves carved into it, two pairs of four, almost like … claw marks? Leo ran a finger over the rough edges, then spread his fingers to measure the span. No, the grooves were too far apart to have been made by a hand—a human hand, at least.

  “I hope you’re not weighing the merits of jumping.”

  Leo whirled around. His father stood in the doorway. He felt a reflexive flash of guilt, as if he were a child caught breaking the rules, but it was quickly replaced with annoyance. He hadn’t done anything wrong, and even if he had, he was long past caring what Ricciotti thought of him.

  “I was airing out the room.” With slow deliberateness, he swung the window closed and latched it. He did not ask about the marks on the ledge.

  Ricciotti clasped his hands behind his back and stepped casually into the room. “I know you’re not happy here.”

  Leo raised his eyebrows. “Really, Father? Whatever gave you that impression?”

  “So stubborn,” Ricciotti said. “You were never this stubborn when you were a boy.”

  “It’s not as if you’ve kept up to date. A lot can change in seven years.”

  He sighed. “Listen, Leo—when our situation in Venezia became untenable, my hand was forced. I would have waited until you were older if I could have. And it was always my intent to retrieve you, when you were old enough to understand what we’re trying to do.”

  Leo felt his throat tighten with anger. Quietly, he said, “Don’t you dare pretend your children were ever a priority for you. Pasca died in that fire. What could you possibly say to make that right?”

  “Nothing,” Ricciotti admitted. “I don’t expect you to forgive me, but you have one brother still alive. I only ask that you not punish Aris for my mistakes.”

  “You know why I’m here,” Leo said, tight-lipped. He was the consolation prize for letting Elsa and her mother go free. “I intend to honor my end of the bargain, but I never promised to enjoy it.”

  Ricciotti’s eyes narrowed. “And what good are you to us like this? Do I have to remind you how valuable Elsa could be—another polymath, and one who already knows how to safely use the editbook?”

  A thread of icy panic laced through him at the mention of Elsa, and Leo fought to keep his expression stoic. “Careful, Father. Are you so eager to find out what happens when you threaten me?”

  Ricciotti laughed. “Whether you like to admit it or not, you certainly are my son.” He turned to walk out, then paused in the doorway. “Your brother is waiting in the ballroom. I expect you to attend him.”

  Ricciotti swept away down the hall, leaving Leo wordless in his wake.

  Leo considered disobeying his father, but in the end he decided this particular hill was not worth dying on. Without a doubt there would be worse battles than this, and it would be smarter to save his energy for one that mattered. So he left his room and went downstairs.

  The grand ballroom had no furnishings whatsoever, not even curtains on the tall windows lining the south wall. His footsteps echoed as he entered the empty space.

  “Heads up!” Aris called, and threw a fencing foil at Leo.

  Leo snatched it out of the air, reacting instinctively despite his surprise. He raised an eyebrow at his brother. “We’re fencing now, are we?”

  “What, you don’t like it anymore? We always used to fence.” Aris’s brow pulled down in a scowl, and Leo felt tension building in the air like an electric charge.

  “No, it’s fine,” Leo said quickly, heading off his brother’s mood before it could solidify.

  Aris’s tawny eyes lit up—nothing delighted him like getting his way. He strapped on a wire-mesh fencing mask, tossed a second mask to Leo, and brandished a foil of his own. He was taller than Leo, which gave him a bit more reach, and his wiry body moved with a tense, coiled energy.

  Leo swung the training foil through the air experimentally. The foil was lighter than his rapier and not as well balanced, but it felt eerily familiar. Had Aris bothered to rescue their fencing equipment from the house fire in Venezia all those years ago? He took the foils with him, but left me behind.

  Leo shook his head to clear it. Aris had been young, too, back then, and was only following their father’s commands. Besides, now was not the time to dwell on it.

  “En garde?” Aris said, grinning like a fiend behind the protective mesh of his headgear.

  Leo raised the blunt tip to eye level and widened his stance. They began—lunge and parry, shuffle step, flick of the wrist—more akin to a dance than a battle. Leo thought hard about how skilled he should appear. If he beat Aris soundly, his brother’s good mood would vanish, as would any future advantage Leo might have in a fight. But if he played it too slow, Aris would realize it was an act; they’d crossed swords in the labyrinth, after all, and Leo had held him off then, long enough for Elsa and Porzia and Faraz to get away with the editbook. Back before Leo realized he would have to betray them all. Lord, that memory ached.

  Aris landed a hit.

  “Touché,” Leo admitted with a rueful smile. Apparently all he had to do to fake mediocrity was let his mind wander.

  Annoyed, Aris said, “You’re distracted.”

  Leo saw no point in denying it. “I have a lot on my mind.”

  Aris scowled. “If you don’t pay attention, I’m going to gut you like a fish.”

  Leo dropped out of his stance, feigning dismay. “I’m afraid that might happen either way. You’ve gotten quite good.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll catch up soon enough,” Aris said, somewhat mollified. “You were always a quick study with a foil, and now that you’re home, we’ll practice every day.”

  Leo almost snapped, This isn’t my home, but he swallowed the words. “All right then, brother,” he said. “Let’s practice.”

  Leo raised his foil to the ready position. He’d fought his way out of some tricky situations in the last few weeks. Stopped a runaway train, thwarted a Carbonari-trained assassin, navigated a madman’s scribed labyrinth. He
re at last was the trap he could not escape from: family.

  But perhaps he was thinking about this situation all wrong. There was genuine delight written in Aris’s features. Could Leo strengthen their bond of brotherhood and turn Aris against their father? Ricciotti had the editbook but no scriptological talent of his own—he would have to rely on Aris to figure out how to use it.

  So there was a way Leo could throw a wrench in Ricciotti’s plans, after all.

  * * *

  Alek de Vries looked up from the writing desk to watch Jumi. She sat on her cot, awake, leaning against the wall amongst a nest of pillows. There was a book open in her lap, but she was staring off into space instead, a frown line creased between her dark eyebrows.

  Sighing, Alek set down his fountain pen and closed the lid on the inkwell. Worrying about Jumi really ought to be declared the national pastime of Veldana.

  “What is it?” he said. “What’s bothering you?”

  She turned her head quickly, startled, and blinked those eerie green eyes at him. “Hmm? Oh, just thinking. Wondering what will become of Montaigne, now that he’s in custody.”

  It was Alek’s turn to frown. Montaigne, his once-friend, who had scribed the Veldana worldbook and then spent the next eighteen years bitterly regretting it. The Veldanese had no interest in glorifying their creator, and Jumi had held the editbook over Montaigne’s head like the sword of Damocles—not that it excused his terrible decisions.

  “The Order of Archimedes will decide what to do with him,” Alek said. “He conspired with Garibaldi. He broke our most basic rule.”

  “Don’t be a miserable pig?” Jumi said dryly.

  “Don’t involve yourself in politics.” Alek paused. “Which is almost the same thing, now that I think about it.”

  A quick rap on the cottage door interrupted their conversation. Jumi moved to stand, but Alek waved a hand at her reprovingly and got up to answer it himself. From the door he could see down the slope to the other whitewashed, thatch-roofed cottages of the village, tucked into the valley with cypress trees rising behind like protective sentinels. It could have been a scene from the Mediterranean, except for the subtle alien scent to the air that never quite allowed Alek to forget he was in a scribed world.