J. Cheney - The Golden City

They had been important bits of information, whether Heriberto wanted to admit it or not. The first had come from a naval officer who’d wanted to impress Isabel at a ball, puffing on about how the exercises—which would have taken the navy far too close to the islands—couldn’t proceed without his navigational skills. The other tidbit had come from Isabel herself, simple chatter while Oriana had been repairing a rent in one of Isabel’s dresses. Of course, Isabel didn’t see the Absolutists as a threat—after all, her own father was one of them. But the Absolutists believed in the divine right of the royal family, and therefore that the prince’s ban on the sea folk was perfectly legitimate. The Marquis of Maraval, the powerful Minister of Culture, was supposed to be neutral. If he shifted his views in favor of the Absolutists, it might adversely affect her people. Northern Portugal had always leaned in that direction anyway.

Heriberto ignored her reminders. “Your access to the aristocracy just fled to Paris. The papers claim you went with her, but I hear her mother threw you out on your ear.”

Her blood pounded in her ears, and Oriana pushed down the sick feeling that welled up at his claim. How did he know ? She glanced down the street at the door of the boarding house. Her expulsion would have been fodder for servants’ gossip up and down the Street of Flowers for the past few days. It wouldn’t have cost him more than a beer or two to hear that tale, but only Carlos had known she was coming to stay with his elderly kinswoman. He must have told Heriberto where to find her. Oriana lifted her chin, trying to appear confident, and lied through her teeth. “When she gets back, Isabel will give me a reference. I’ll find another position then. I just need a couple of weeks to get my feet under me.”

“Weeks?” Heriberto snorted and made an obscene gesture with his hands that, fortunately, no human would recognize. “To get your feet under you? I heard you’re going to be spending that time on your back to pay your rent. Are you stupid enough to trust a human with the color of your stripe?”

Most sereia had skin too thick to blush. Oriana was grateful for that at the moment. The warmth flooding her face wouldn’t show. People were passing them on the street, none looking very interested in a petty squabble. Fortunately, the reference to the color of her dorsal stripe—a euphemism for promiscuity back on the islands—wouldn’t mean anything to the passersby who overheard it.

Oriana had no doubt Carlos had claimed she’d agreed to become his lover, but Carlos had never had a chance of seeing her dorsal stripe. “Don’t believe everything you hear,” she told Heriberto.

“Oh, I never do.” He stepped closer, grasping her sleeve to keep her from escaping. He kept his voice low. “No one’s ever seen your stripe, from what I hear. You know, I could make your life here a great deal more comfortable, girl, if you’re interested. And I’m well liked back home. I could get you a better position in the ministry.”

She’d heard that other girls who’d come to the city had done just that, taking Heriberto as a lover in exchange for easier assignments and faster advancement. It bothered her that he had that much influence. Not because he was male. She had no problem with males in positions of authority. But no one should have that much influence over his workers, especially when he was inclined to abuse it. He made a mockery of his posting. She would take Carlos as a lover before Heriberto. No, she would rather turn herself in to the Special Police first.

He laughed shortly, as if he’d read her mind. “I’ll give you two weeks. If you don’t have a sound position by then, I’m sending you home. I’ll even make another appointment with the doctor for you, next Friday. I expect you to show up this time. My superiors aren’t as tolerant as I am, and I’m tired of making excuses for you.”

“I understand.” Oriana jerked her arm free and turned away before Heriberto could say more, almost colliding with a burly carter carrying a cask on his shoulder. She managed to sidestep out of the man’s path, an awkward dance set to the sound of Heriberto’s laughter. Clasping her notebook closer to her chest, she strode away.

“Be there Friday at three,” he called after her.

She glanced back and nodded sharply in acknowledgment. She’d won one concession.

“And someone is hunting for you on the streets,” he yelled. “Asking for you by name. Don’t bring trouble back to my door.”

There was little chance of that. His “door” was a little fishing boat moored on a quay farther from the old town center. She had no intention of going there. Oriana strode out of the narrow, confined street onto wider São Sebastião. When she glanced back over her shoulder, Heriberto was nowhere in sight.

Her ire faded. Heriberto set her teeth on their sharp edge—he always had. But now that she was out of his sight, the sick and hollow sensation in her stomach returned with a vengeance. Now she had more to worry about. She stopped on the corner and pressed one mitt-covered hand to her belly. Who’s looking for me?

Surely it was too early for Nela’s mysterious Lady to be doing so, and Carlos already knew where to find her. Could it be Silva, the prince’s seer who had pulled her out of the river three nights before? Or could Lady Amaral have gone to the police after all and blamed her in some way for Isabel’s absence? The last thing she needed was the police hunting her.

A gentleman in a dark suit brushed against her as he passed, startling her. He tipped his hat apologetically before he went on his way. Oriana shook herself. She couldn’t afford to be standing here on the street corner like a lamppost. She walked on, feeling shaken.

She waited for an opening between the carriages traveling São Sebastião, and headed toward the quay. Once there, she stood on the quay in the noontime sun, gazing up toward the old tile roofs of the houses that lined the river. The smell of the water was comforting

It had seemed clear at first. The police had no inkling of Isabel’s fate, so it was up to her to seek retribution, wasn’t it? She’d been angry. She hadn’t questioned what it would cost her to find the artist and expose him. She hadn’t allowed herself to doubt. But now she knew she was hunting a necromancer. Not only was she hiding from the police, as always, but now she had to duck Heriberto and Carlos as well. She had little money and few friends and no idea where to look next. But none of that would stop her.

She’d never been able to avenge Marina. She wasn’t going to fail Isabel in the same way.

The library of the Ferreira home was Duilio’s favorite room. It housed a collection of items his father had brought back from his travels. An array of giant clam shells, bleached almost white, sat atop the middle of a large circular table covered with marquetry, supposedly liberated from a pirate’s lair in the South Seas. A chandelier hung above that display, delicate branches of white coral holding two dozen candles—a fixture too fragile to refit for gas lighting. That came from the street bazaars of the desert city of Marrakech. Many of the books that lined the room claimed equally unlikely origin. His father’s desk in the corner—his desk now—supposedly came from Brazil, but Duilio had no idea if that was true either.

Cardenas had left a telegram atop that desk, and Duilio picked it up. Sent from Paris, it told him exactly what he’d expected. Marianus Efisio was there, but neither Lady Isabel nor her companion had ever arrived. Efisio intended to remain there until he received word from Isabel. Duilio tucked the telegram into a pocket, uncertain whether he felt sorry for Efisio or not.