Mist, Metal, and Ash Page 9

  Porzia did not know how to feel about that, but Elsa cut in and said, “Let’s certainly hope so, since that is what I require of you for myself.”

  At this, Rosalinda turned solemn—or rather, turned somewhat more solemn than her usual dour self. “I’ll do my part, and you yours,” she said. “Do exactly as Vincenzo instructs you.”

  Elsa nodded, and Porzia got the sense of a fragile truce solidifying. Rosalinda was not the easiest person to like, she was not pleasant, but she seemed the type who could be relied upon in a crisis. Even Porzia had to admit that counted for something.

  Rosalinda turned slightly, as if to go, but after a pause she said to Elsa, “Never forget, you are a spider entering a nest of spiders. You play a dangerous game.”

  Porzia wanted to snap, This is not a game, but something in Elsa’s calculating gaze made her hold her tongue. Instead, she gave Elsa a quick embrace and bid them all good night and good luck.

  Closing the heavy double doors behind them made a clang that echoed against the foyer’s high, frescoed ceiling. The subsequent silence left Porzia with a fluttering sensation of anxiety in her chest. This time when she wandered the halls, it was to help her think.

  The problem wasn’t just that she must lie to the Order—though that alone would’ve been bad enough—it was that the lie would make Elsa persona non grata among pazzerellones. If Porzia’s role in this scheme came to light, she would be severely chastised; it might even mar her chances at a council seat later in life. But Elsa could face exile … or worse. The Order had imprisoned Charles Montaigne, not for his crimes against the Veldanese, but for conspiring with Garibaldi.

  Which was effectively what Elsa wanted Porzia to accuse her of.

  Goading the Order into hunting her wouldn’t protect her in the long run—it was at best deferring the danger. And yet, with the plan already in motion, to do otherwise would compromise Elsa’s safety right now.

  Finding herself on the main floor near the classroom, Porzia leaned against the open doorway. Even though it was night, the empty seats struck her like a silent accusation. She’d wanted to restore some semblance of normalcy, but instead of running lessons tomorrow, she’d be taking a portal to Trento. So much for a normal routine. She wished Pappa would hurry back home.

  She could check on the nursery, at least. That might assuage some of the guilt over the failed attempt at resuming regular lessons. She pushed away from the doorframe of the vacant classroom and went down the hall.

  The nursery housed the seven youngest orphans, kept under the constantly watchful eyes of three nanny-bots. When Porzia opened the door, it was to find one of the nanny-bots hovering nervously in the entrance, blocking her way. It was vaguely woman-shaped, with two beady eyes in an otherwise featureless face. No legs—only a wheeled base shaped like a skirt—but it did have functional arms, and at the moment its hands were clasped together in front of its imitation bosom.

  “Signorina,” Casa stuttered. “There’s no cause for concern. I’ve been taking excellent care of the progeny, I promise.”

  “Casa.” Porzia scowled at the nanny-bot. “What is wrong with you?”

  “I must protect the children.”

  “What in the world are you talking about? Everyone is perfectly safe inside the house. Now let me in.”

  The nanny-bot didn’t budge. Porzia glared into the bot’s eyes—Casa’s eyes—with the same glare she used on misbehaving children. Grudgingly, the bot rolled to the side to admit her.

  “Potsa!” one of the little girls squealed, too young to properly pronounce Porzia’s name. The girl was in bed like the others, but awake despite the late hour.

  “Shh.” Porzia pressed a finger to her lips and perched on the edge of the bed to give the girl a hug and then tuck the covers around her. “You should be asleep, Annabella.”

  Porzia would never say it out loud to Casa, or even to Mamma, but she had serious reservations about leaving the nursery under Casa’s sole supervision. It was unnatural. Children needed human caretakers, not cold metal machines. Try convincing a mechanist of that, though. Porzia sighed.

  One of the nanny-bots seemed to be hovering nervously just behind her. Porzia stood and said, “What is it, Casa? What’s bothering you?”

  “I am so very sorry, signorina,” the house said mournfully.

  “Sorry?” She frowned, puzzled. “For what?”

  “It is all my fault,” Casa replied. “When I let an assassin inside my walls, I … I failed to protect my wards.”

  Porzia stepped back into the hall, knowing Casa’s attention would follow her even as the nanny-bot stayed behind in the nursery. “Well, everyone is safe now, so there’s no need to fret.”

  “Signor Leo is my charge, and he is not safe.”

  “That’s because he left,” Porzia huffed. “He’s not your charge anymore.”

  “Signor Leo left because he saw I was vulnerable. If I had done better, there would not have been a need for him to leave. And now Signorina Elsa has followed him, because of my weakness.”

  Porzia had never heard the house so close to hysterics. “Oh, dearest Casa,” she said, her heart swelling with sympathy, even though the house was just a machine. “It was no fault of yours that drove him from us. I promise.”

  Casa’s answer was a silence laden with disbelief and doubt.

  “Did you hear me, Casa? You are not responsible.”

  Reluctantly, the house replied, “If you say so, signorina.”

  “Apparently there’s guilt enough for everyone to have second servings,” Porzia muttered. Amazing how many different versions there were of Leo’s departure, each person with their own interpretation. Even the house had a unique perspective.

  Porzia decided to sleep on the dilemma Elsa had presented to her, allowing time for Elsa and Vincenzo to arrive in Bologna and get a head start on their business there. She rose early in the morning, anxiety coiling in her gut. Now or never, she told herself, as she took the stairs up to the room where the wireless transceiver was kept.

  The wireless room was an awful, claustrophobic closet of a place, tucked up against the eaves at the very top of the house. The air was stuffy, and the room barely had enough space for a small desk and all the wires and tubes and machine bits.

  Porzia took a deep breath to brace herself and perched on the wooden chair. She had no special fondness for electrical contraptions, but she knew where the on switch was and how to press the keys, and that would be good enough for her needs.

  She wasn’t certain exactly what her mother had told the Order about Leo’s departure. Her mother knew the editbook was in Garibaldi’s possession, and that she and Leo and Faraz had helped Elsa rescue Jumi, but not that they’d gotten ahold of the editbook for a short time. Or that Leo was the one responsible for taking the book back to his father.

  Porzia decided to leave any mention of Garibaldi or Leo out of her report and stick to the immediately verifiable facts. Elsa left Casa della Pazzia in the company of a Carbonaro, intent on boarding a train to Bologna and giving no indication of when she might return. Before that, she had expressed interest in the Italian unification movement. (This part was a stretch, though not technically an outright lie.) Typing out her message, Porzia concluded that Elsa appears to no longer be aligned with us rather than resorting to the more damning word, defection.

  She left the cramped little room as soon as she was done, not waiting for a reply. At the moment she had no desire to see how they would respond, and in any case there was another pressing task waiting for her. Compared with sending a deliberate deception to the headquarters of the Order, taking a portal to Trento and hiding a wooden box seemed relatively mundane. Traipse around a city that was technically in enemy territory—sure, why not? She’d already given up on ordinary.

  Porzia held up her drab charcoal-gray skirt as she flew down the stairs back toward her rooms. She was dressed again to play the schoolmarm, though this time it wasn’t for the benefit of her siblings so muc
h as to avoid attention on the streets of Trento. A young lady alone in her usual flashy, high-society dress would raise too many eyebrows.

  Her mind already looking ahead to the task of choosing a hiding spot, Porzia went into her study and reached automatically for the shelf where she always kept her portal device. Her hand came up empty, and she froze.

  Her portal device was not there. Could she have been distracted and set it down somewhere else? Her mind raced, replaying the last time she’d used it. She rushed around her study, and then her sitting room and bedroom, but a quick search turned up nothing.

  “It can’t have grown legs,” Porzia muttered to herself, setting her fists on her hips. “Casa, have you seen my portal device?”

  “I surely have, signorina.”

  “Well,” she said impatiently, “where is it, then?”

  The house paused, and then sheepishly confessed, “I had to confiscate it, signorina.”

  “Did Mamma instruct you to take it away?” Porzia asked, grappling for some logical explanation. But there was a sinking feeling in her gut, as if she had overlooked something crucial.

  “No,” the house admitted. “Though she surely would have, if only she’d thought it through. The outside world is dangerous.”

  Porzia scowled, a spark of panic kindling in her breast. “Casa … what in the name of God is going on?”

  “I can’t protect you if you leave,” Casa explained. “So I’ve decided, no one’s leaving.”

  Porzia tamped down her fear and made herself think: the box, of course! Elsa would have put a portal device in the wooden box to go along with the doorbook. She rushed back into her study and threw open the lid, fumbling with the oilcloth wrapping that protected its contents.

  “No need to look there,” said the house. “I also confiscated that device.”

  “What! Casa, what have you done?” Porzia screeched.

  She pressed a hand to her forehead, trying to calm her nerves. Should she have seen this coming, should she have noticed the signs? The oddly protective behavior, the aberrant distress in Casa’s voice—the house’s artificial mind had undergone too much strain, and the fractures were starting to show. But Porzia was no expert on mechanical constructs; how could she have foreseen such a disaster?

  “I don’t have time for this—I must go to Trento today! I command you to return the portal devices to me.”

  If Porzia didn’t plant the box, Elsa would have no escape route ready for when she found the editbook. And worse, she wouldn’t know it. There was no way to contact her now that she and Vincenzo were undercover.

  Elsa was going to steal the editbook … and then get caught.

  “Terribly sorry,” Casa said, “but I’m afraid you children won’t be going anywhere. Ever again.”

  The house was out of control.

  8

  I HAD RATHER DIE IN THE ADVENTURE OF NOBLE ACHIEVEMENTS, THAN LIVE IN OBSCURE AND SLUGGISH SECURITY.

  —Margaret Cavendish

  This train ride out of Pisa bore little resemblance to Elsa’s trip to Cinque Terre with Leo—no private compartment, just a hard wooden bench in an open car occupied by a dozen other passengers. The darkness beyond the windows made the interior feel smaller than it was, as if they’d taken a portal into a scribed world only three meters wide.

  Elsa had been so focused on preparing for her encounter with Leo and Aris and Garibaldi that she hadn’t given any thought to what it would be like traveling with a companion she hardly knew. At first, Vincenzo seemed content to leave her to her thoughts. But the silence was starting to feel thick and awkward, so Elsa resolved to break it.

  The question that came to mind was, “So what’s the probability Garibaldi’s men will just shoot us on sight?”

  Vincenzo raised his eyebrows at her. “You’re asking this now?”

  Elsa shrugged. “I didn’t think it would be wise to bring it up in front of the others. They already have enough reservations about this plan.”

  “Uh, low probability, I’d say,” Vincenzo answered. “Especially if they recognize you. I’m more concerned about convincing them of our allegiance in the long run.”

  Elsa nodded. “Good to know.”

  For a moment, they seemed at risk of lapsing back into awkward silence, but then Vincenzo said, “It’s brave, what you’re doing. Totally mad, but brave.”

  “The editbook is my responsibility. You’re the one making a daring choice.”

  “Nah,” he said, though the way he squared his shoulders made her think the praise had landed. “I’m the Carbonari’s weapon. All I do is go wherever Rosalinda aims me.”

  He said this as if it were a point of pride that he had turned over his independence, his will, to some faceless cabal of revolutionaries. Elsa could not comprehend such blind loyalty. “How can you trust someone with your life like that?”

  “This isn’t about my life—my life, by itself, doesn’t matter much—this is about something bigger than me. The chance to make history, to change the future for my people.” He shook his head, and then grinned as if to dispel the gravity of his words.

  “You sound like Garibaldi,” Elsa said.

  Vincenzo snorted. “Garibaldi can’t tell the difference between liberating the people and oppressing them. At least he can’t anymore, if he ever could.”

  Elsa frowned thoughtfully. Jumi had taught her to view European politics as something to stand in opposition to; Europe was a monolith of colonialist ideology that threatened the security of Veldana. But here was Vincenzo, speaking about the various Italian political factions as if the complexities therein could mean the difference between oppression and liberty. Was this devotion he felt for his land and his people so different from her own love of Veldana?

  “But … why?” she asked. “My world is one village large, I know every Veldanese by name. Why would you risk your life for people you’ll never even meet?”

  Vincenzo stared out the window, as if to avoid the question, but after a pause he said, “When I was a child, my sister took ill. The tax collectors had come the week before and left us with nothing to pay a doctor. I refused to eat for five days, trying to save up the money for medicine.”

  “That’s sweet,” Elsa said, though she was afraid of where the story might end.

  “It was stupid—I could’ve easily caught her illness, as my parents feared I would, and anyway I was a kid and had no idea how much medicine costs. I got lucky and lived. My sister didn’t.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He flashed a pained half smile. “In the Kingdom of Two Sicilies, everyone has a story like that, or knows someone who does. That’s what foreign rulers do to the people they conquer.”

  Was that what the French would have done to Veldana, too, if Jumi had not created the editbook to ward them off? Veldana had no wealth to tax, but the necessary features could be added to the landscape. A river in which to dredge for diamonds, perhaps—and her people diving and drowning in the murky water. The thought gave her a flash of hot-and-cold sickness. What if scribing the editbook was the right choice, the only choice to protect their people?

  Keeping her voice low so as not to be overheard, Elsa said, “So we need to stop in Bologna for information. And from there…?”

  “Bologna to Ferrara to pick up your papers, then Ferrara straight through to Trento. Two days, if everything works in our favor.”

  “Your world is too large,” Elsa complained.

  Vincenzo laughed. “That’s not my fault.”

  Elsa knew she needed to defer to his expertise, that their plan required it of her. But ever since Leo’s betrayal, her instinct was to cling to the controls with a white-knuckle grip; the idea of allowing someone else to steer terrified her.

  She took a measured breath to steady her nerves. “What do you need me to do when we get to Bologna?”

  “You’ll lie low for most of the day tomorrow, so it doesn’t look like we got into town at the same time. I’ll pretend not to know you.
The fellow in charge—Domenico—it’s important he believes it’s his idea to send me with you to Trento.”

  “You want me to sit around doing nothing for a whole day? Why?”

  “Sometimes it’s easier to get information out of someone if they think you don’t want to hear it. If you’re too eager, they’ll suspect you’re up to something.” He flashed a grin. “Which, to be fair, we are.”

  It was late when they arrived in Bologna, but Vincenzo found Elsa a women’s boardinghouse and instructed her in how to rent a room. They parted ways, him to check in with the Carbonari and her to wait where she wouldn’t be noticed. Her rented room was narrow, with a narrow cot and a chipped washbasin and an empty trunk that smelled musty inside. She set the carpetbag on top of it instead.

  She slept fitfully, the creaks of the boardinghouse and street noises beyond the window different enough from the sounds of Casa della Pazzia and Pisa to keep startling her awake. Or perhaps her nerves were simply raw with anticipation of the subterfuge she’d soon need to accomplish. Either way, in the morning the landlady saw the dark circles under Elsa’s eyes and took pity on her, allowing her to take breakfast in her room. Best not to have all the lodgers meet the curious dark foreigner, since the whole point was to hide.

  It felt strange, being cooped up all day with nothing to work on. Elsa wasn’t accustomed to the sensation of boredom—in Veldana, there were always observations to make, new areas to explore and new species to document as her mother expanded their world. Now she didn’t even have her laboratory world to keep herself occupied.

  Elsa couldn’t help but dwell on the thought of Casa della Pazzia and the friends she’d left behind. Porzia and Faraz at each other’s throats; Revan abandoned among strangers in an unfamiliar world. To make matters worse, Elsa would have no way of communicating her progress to them, or even reassuring them that she was still alive. She was all too familiar with the restless, squirming anxiety of not knowing, and she did not envy them.

  As afternoon bled into evening, Elsa checked out of the boardinghouse and took to the streets with her carpetbag in hand, following the directions Vincenzo had made her memorize. The Bologna chapter of the Carbonari met in the back room of a café whose proprietor was sympathetic to their cause, and as Elsa spotted the establishment from half a block away, her pulse fluttered in her throat. What had she gotten herself into? Leo was the perfect liar, not her—deception was not in her skill set. But her feet kept carrying her forward and took her inside.