“Stay away.”
“Try stopping me.”
The southsiders filing in under the black flags the next morning felt like prisoners, a feeling Sofia’s decina did everything to enhance.
Even before noon came, Giovanni tried again to apologize.
“You don’t get to say that. I know how precise engineers are: you don’t make mistakes; you take calculated risks. When being nice to the natives didn’t work, you didn’t think twice, just moved straight on to your contingency plan.”
“It’s not like that—
I’m
not like that.”
“Because you’re
different
? That’s what all Concordians think. It’s how they breed you!”
“If the bridge isn’t finished on time, the Apprentices will blame Rasenna,” he said, desperate to make her understand.
She laughed drily. “There’s that rod again.”
Neighboring towers were used to the third floor of Vanzetti’s being lit up into the early hours, but tonight its usually tranquil working atmosphere was absent.
Giovanni swore softly as his quill blotted.
“You all right, Captain?”
“Fine, Pedro. Fine.”
He threw the worn-out feather down on the plans and groaned. “I messed up, didn’t I?”
“There’s no right answer in this situation.”
“Bardini was the wrong answer. How much worse will he make it? That’s the question.”
The boy shrugged. “Who knows?”
“I do—the Apprentices told me before I came here that once killing starts, there’s no limit.” He suddenly walked away from the table. “I had to do something!”
“But you were!” Pedro held up a new design. “Listen, the Families can’t do this! They only know how to tear things down. You can’t beat them at that game.”
Giovanni was surprised, hearing an echo of Sofia’s accusations.
“Sorry, Pedro. I let you down too. The Doctor told me strength’s all Rasenneisi understand, and I believed him.”
“Morello says that too—it’s the only thing they’ve got to offer. They want us as incapable of learning as they are—but we Rasenneisi
can
understand other things when we get the chance. Since you came, I’ve learned enough to know that another life is possible.”
Giovanni paced back to the window, taking Pedro’s consolation as a reproach. “And damn it, I’ve thrown it away.” He saw the northern towers’ reflection in the river. “And now Sofia’s involved.”
“The Contessa?” Pedro laughed cynically. “If she’s part of the Bardini borgata, she’s part of the problem.”
“But
she’s
not a Bardini, is she, Pedro? And you know what’s funny? I told her she had to show people the distinction between
Scaligeri and Bardini. I told her it’s how you act that matters.
Madonna
, I’ve been a fool. Can I fix it?”
“Doc Bardini and Quintus Morello would say no. My father would say Small People can’t stand against the Signoria.”
“What do you say, Pedro?”
“I think we can do better.”
Giovanni nodded slowly. “Let’s get back to work then.”
Pedro looked at him. “There is one thing you
can
fix tonight.”
Sofia awoke from the same dream about the Baptistery and
that
day. It was still dark and her bedchamber was silent, no shadows looming, yet instinct
had
woken her and she knew better than to ignore it. She held her breath and let her eyes adjust to the darkness as her fingers searched.
There! A whirring and movement at the tower window, a glimmer of moonlight on gold. She rolled onto the stone floor and grabbed her flag. The dark shape hovered outside, the size of a bird, though it didn’t move like one. She crept toward it, keeping her flag up. The whirring tempo slowed, and the shape began to drop.
She dropped her flag, thrust her arm out the window, and grabbed it before it fell. It was the annunciator, and there was a note between its “hands.”
She read it, then looked over the balcony.
“I should drop this on your head!” she said, wanting to shout but trying to keep her voice to a whisper.
“Then I’ll be back tomorrow with another,” said Giovanni, pale in the moonlight and smiling.
“Will you shut up? You’ll wake the Doc.”
She quickly pulled on hose under her linen night rail. “Stay there; I’m coming down.”
The moonlight was bright enough to light her way, but Sofia had done this a thousand times and needed no guide. She stopped at the second-floor window. She could see Valerius’s blond curls on his pillow and hear his snoring. He always woke up later than the other students, and for once she was thankful for his sloth.
Giovanni watched her descend. It reminded him of the controlled falling of a cat. She landed soundlessly in front of him.
“Have you gone crazy?” she hissed, looking around at the shuttered windows of the surrounding dark towers. “You can’t show up in the middle of the night and send notes through my balcony. I’m the Contessa Scaligeri! Towers have ears and eyes and tongues!”
“You care what people think?”
“I’m still mad at you, remember? Doc’s got me watching your bridge, but I finished work hours ago. Keep it up and we recommence hostilities.”
“Sofia, I made a terrible mistake. I’m sorry. I came here as an engineer, not a conqueror, and I do believe in my mission: I think the bridge will bring Rasenna together, and I didn’t want anything to delay that. We saw Frog—whatever it was—rise up. It might not have scared you, but it scared me! And I saw more innocents being sacrificed because I’m not leader enough to stop it. I forgot what I promised the crew and you. I acted like any engineer would in any other town, but this
isn’t
any other town. It’s different—it’s the edge of things.”
“All right, stop blathering. So you messed up: you’re not a liar, just a
deficiente
. The crew’ll come around too. Whatever happens, my men won’t make the first move. Satisfied?”
“Contessa, you have my gratitude,” said Giovanni with a courtly bow.
“Oh,
Madonna
. Do you have any idea how this looks? Get the hell back to Tower Vanzetti, will you? I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Thank you!”
“Go!”
Sofia clambered back up, keeping her eye on the Doctor’s top-floor window. She didn’t check on Valerius again.
She got back to her chamber and laughed. “
Idiota
,” she whispered, crumpling up the note. She put the angel on the windowsill and got back into bed. After a moment, she threw the sheets back and found the note in the corner. She flattened it out, refolded it, and placed it back in the angel’s hands.
“Idiota
,
”
she repeated, smiling in the dark.
The weeks of spring melted into one long pitiless day of summer.
The Doctor said he’d remove Sofia’s splint soon. Though he trusted his web of stratagems to protect them, she feared the imminent war would be a storm, coming suddenly and at no one’s convenience. She spent evenings in the workshop becoming dexterous with her left hand, horribly conscious of how vulnerable she would be in a real fight.
So far she had not kept her promise to visit Isabella. She told herself practice was more important—told herself it wasn’t fear that kept her from the Baptistery—but her dreams, deaf to those excuses, returned her repeatedly to the garden to refight the fight:
that whirlwind of sleeves around her, that leisurely final snap
. She practiced.
Vettori passed Fabbro on the bridge, and they shared a look of dread that the bridge, having tasted blood, might thirst for more.
The midday sun hung stubbornly immobile, pouring molten heat on the water and on the land and on the men who moved over it, scheming and fighting and toiling. The no-man’s-land between the river and the northern towers, abandoned since the Wave, was all hustle and bustle: a fire fed by men, material, and machinery.
Sofia was sitting on her usual perch between the broken statue’s paws, fanning herself with her cap, pondering once more the nun’s uncanny technique. Her reflections were brought to a stop by a sudden awareness that something was out of place.
She’d been around fighters all her life and she was attuned to the bitter reek of a brewing quarrel. Tools slipped from the sweaty hands of heat-drunk workers shoulder bumping against one another, with no apologies voiced or even curses.
Yet there was another spirit moving too. Since Giovanni’s apology, she made sure her men behaved discreetly. She compared his method to the Doctor’s as he went from station to station, exchanging quiet words with his foremen, meeting questions, suggestions, and obstructionism from the crew with the same composed intelligence. The Doctor might grunt opaque Etruscan proverbs if pressed, but he remained impatient and distrustful of words, a teacher who preferred that students fight for their epiphanies.
Experienced masons, carpenters, and smiths who thought themselves entitled to professional informality were disappointed and intimidated by the engineer’s detachment. The Woolsmen were used to being spoken down to; they appreciated his impartiality.
The Bernoullian Re-Formation was traditionally dismissed as an ungodly rebellion, but the engineer spoke of the new mathematics, of action and reaction, balance and tension, with a preacher’s conviction, and they were surprised at the common sense of his hierarchy of verifiable principles. Consistent if not beautiful.
Firm foundations rose from cofferdams, defying the rushing waters. The wooden template was complete, a skeleton prophecy of the bridge’s eventual silhouette. It grew like a body disintegrating in
reverse: dry bone became covered in muscle, blood unclotted and pumped once more, dust to flesh.
Two spirits; which would triumph? Gut told her that Rasenna always chose blood, and to confirm this black instinct, she caught Hog Galati’s malicious stare directed not at the engineer but at her. He met her stare and turned aside and spit before going back to work.
Sofia grabbed her flag—and then stopped, realizing in that moment what was out of place.
“You must be distracted.”
She spun around to find Giovanni standing there awkwardly. “Didn’t think I’d be able to sneak up on you,” he admitted.
“I was thinking.”
“Me too. You first.”
Sofia glanced around to see if any of her men were nearby, then held up her splint. “When this comes off, I’m going back to the Baptistery.”
When Giovanni looked at her with despairing exasperation, she laughed. “Not for a rematch! I’m going to ask her to teach me.”
“I thought you hated her,” he said skeptically. “And anyway, you can fight already.”
“Not like her.”
“Think she’ll have you?”
“I have a strange feeling she’s waiting for me to ask.”
“Doesn’t the Doctor know Water Style? I got the impression he knows the Reverend Mother.”
“He told me once that Water Style was ineffective, and besides, nobody knew it anymore.”
“Why would he lie about that?”
Sofia looked around again. “I come into my inheritance in a few months. I need to be ready. Doc won’t let me—Well, he won’t give me certain responsibilities even though I’m his best student. And lately we can’t agree on anything.”
“You can’t agree to differ? He cares for you, I think.”
“This is Rasenna. He was fine with me being Contessa when it was years away, but I’m not a little girl anymore. If he’s gotten used to being number one, I can’t just wait to be given power. I have to be able to take it.”
“But how can she train you without him knowing?”
“He’ll think I’m here, watching over you. Bringing me to the next point: I should go. I’m not helping.” She stopped. “What’s funny?”
“That’s what
I
wanted to say, but I couldn’t think of a nice way to put it.”
Sofia picked up her flag and said, “I’ll check in every day, and I’ll keep the rest of them watching from a distance. Doc just wants to see black flags.”
As Giovanni watched her leave, Vettori came up to him, smiling. “
Bravo!
You finally told her to go.”
“She suggested it.”
Vettori looked skeptical.
“She didn’t bring black flags to the bridge, I did. Bardini came at my invitation, but I still feel . . .”
“Manipulated?” Vettori suggested. “Now you know how the Small People feel. Don’t be upset; that’s how the Families stay powerful.”
Giovanni looked in the direction Sofia had gone. “That’s not how she’ll rule.”
Vettori squinted into the sun. “If she gets to.”
“The Small People still revere the Scaligeri.”
“That makes her useful today. Tomorrow it’ll make her a rival. She’s a pawn, just like the rest of us, and once the Bardini or the Morello get the upper hand, she’s disposable.” He saw Giovanni’s reaction and shrugged. “Things could be worse, Captain.”
“That’s not success. I remember the day I made that rope bridge with Pedro. It was easy, Vettori. With so many men, shouldn’t this be easier? Instead, our problems are multiplying. You know these men—what’s keeping them apart?”
“Hate’s a hard habit to break, Captain. Things happened over the years that can’t be forgotten just because the Families say ‘work together.’”
“Was it like this when you ran your workshop?”
Vettori shook his head. “No, I was too small to compare—and all my people came from the south.”
“But what did you do?”
“I gave them a share. When I made money, they made money. When you own something, you fight for it. That’s the thing: the northsiders think it’s theirs, and the southsiders resent it.” Vettori looked around at the men from both northside and southside. “What can you do? We can’t all own it.”
That night, Giovanni burned through a dozen candles studying old maps of Rasenna. Next morning, he found Pedro alone on the bridge. It was the feast day of Saint Daniel; for once Giovanni was grateful for the congested sacred calendar that was playing hell with his schedule.
“How’s the crane coming?” he asked with a grin.
Pedro pulled the toggle, and the engine sputtered to life and rolled along the track. A second lever rotated the segmented neck. “Perfect day for a test run. Anything in mind?”
Since there was no work on the bridge, Sofia and her bandieratori were back in the workshop. With a gentle touch, the Doctor unwound the sling and moved her arm at the elbow. “How’s that?”
“Good,” she said, flexing it.
He looked thoughtful and said offhandedly, “By the way, where’s Valerius?”
Sofia shrugged. He’d taken to sneaking out alone, looking for attention, presumably. “If he wants to get himself killed, let him. All part of growing up, right?”
“You’re supposed to be looking after him. Try the arm,” he grunted.
She did a few clumsy flag combinations.
“It’s fine, just weak. In a day or two I’ll be ready to spar.”
“You think your enemies will wait?” the Doctor said, looking around the workshop, then saying, “Mule, banner up.”
Sofia set her jaw firmly. The Doc was making a point. She wanted to fight? So he’d make her fight.
Fine
. She wasn’t worried. She had been able to beat Mule since she was twelve. He had terrible defense; all she had to do was wait for a big obvious attack and see where he left himself exposed . . .
Nevertheless, Mule managed to do better than usual, landing several blows before she put him down with a careful attack that took advantage of his weaker eye.
The Doctor was stern. “What’s on your mind? It’s certainly not the fight you’re in. Secondo, you’re next.”
Normally she wouldn’t be worried, but Doc was right: she wasn’t focused. Secondo lacked Mule’s courage, but he was more dangerous: he had enough cunning to change tactics when necessary. He fought smart, made her work her weak arm. Kept up the pressure and—
“Ugggh!”
Sofia recovered and picked up her flag again. A crowd of students was gathering. She ignored them, telling herself this was just practice.
Thinking he was winning, Secondo became as obvious as Mule. She lowered her flag, inviting an attack, and he thrust his stick behind an obvious flourish. She dived for it, and Secondo fell back with a cowardly yelp. A quick blow to the knee and he tumbled to the ground, groaning.
The Doctor didn’t congratulate her. “Wake up. Daydreaming makes you fight like a novice in the workshop. On the street, it’ll get you killed.”
Before she could retort, the door burst open.
“Doc!” Valerius called loudly so everyone would look. “You’ve
got
to see what the engineer’s done!”
The Doctor led him away so he wouldn’t distract the students more than he already had, and Sofia watched his expression change from annoyance to anger.
“He did
what
?” Doc grabbed a flag and went to the door with Valerius.
When Sofia followed, he shouted, “Where do you think you’re going?”
“With you.”
“You can’t even focus in the workshop. Practice until you can.”
He slammed the door in her reddening face, leaving the students staring at her.
Publicly undermined. Again
.
It felt like a gut punch.
“Well, you heard,” she said, flattening all emotion from her voice. “We need practice.”
Rasenna looked on as the Lion was lowered into place on the bridge’s south side.
Using old plans and estimating the impact of the Wave, Giovanni had correctly triangulated the likely position of the first of the old town’s mascots. Pedro fished the first sculpture up with the crane. The native stone’s earthy gray had turned mottled green underwater, yet the accumulated filth and weathering somehow accentuated its dignity. The crew cheered as it was set down.
“
Madonna
, he’s ready to roar!” Fabbro laughed, stopping abruptly when he saw the Doctor.
“Captain, have you gone mad?” the Doctor whispered fiercely.
“No,” said Giovanni, “but I’ve stopped being lukewarm. This bridge belongs to Rasenna. The Lions are one of the few things people have in common.”
“Don’t be facetious. The banner of Rasenna is outlawed by Concord. The Mascots only remained because no one could see them. Put it back.”
Giovanni refused to back down. “I’m responsible for this
and
the civil war that’ll happen if Rasenna isn’t united when it’s complete.”
“Dreamer!”
The Doctor used the word as an insult. “We risk far worse offending Concord! Put it back.”
“It’s staying,” Sofia said loudly.
The Doctor turned and found her standing with the crew.
“Girl, be obedient,” he growled.
“How dare you! I am the Contessa Scaligeri. I don’t take orders; I give them.”
The Doctor checked if Valerius was in earshot, then stepped forward and whispered, “And what if one of the Concordians mentions this in a letter home, Contessa? What about when General Luparelli comes? You don’t think he’ll notice?”
“No—you’ve spent too long in your tower. Just look around! See what it means to them.”
The Doctor turned his back on Sofia’s angry stare. He walked up to the Lion, lightly touching it. “The others remain where they are, Captain.”
“Very well.”
“Explain to the Apprentices in your next report that you did it without the Signoria’s sanction and with my reservations.”
“Very well.”
The Doctor seized his arm. “Captain, you mean well. You see ragged flags and want to return our pride—but pride led us here!” He released him suddenly and turned north. “Contessa.”
“Doctor,” she said, apparently unruffled even though she felt the ground shifting beneath her feet. The bridge was the future of her reign, he said, but when Giovanni tried to make it part of Rasenna, he objected. He’d left her no choice but to hide a dagger behind her banner too.
Sofia only remembered the smell of incense. The last time she’d been here, she’d been too apprehensive to pay attention to her surroundings. In a dark niche, the Madonna of Rasenna held the infant Savior’s body in one arm; in the other, a cluster of miniature towers. Her face was kind, but she was still a Rasenneisi: one of her delicate feet was crushing a serpent’s head.
The Baptistery roof was a mosaic depicting the Virgin showing Saint Barabbos the keys of Heaven. He and the Prophets would languish in
Limbus Patrium
until the Second Coming, or so went the story.
The font bore closer inspection too, if she’d truly been baptized in it. Its five faces were decorated with paintings, composed in gold, black, and red, showing the traditional Stages of the Virgin’s life: the Annunciation, the Nativity, the Error, the Substitution, and the Assumption.
Familiarity had dulled the tale’s strangeness. From a distance, it was just a record of madness and hysteria: a grieving mother who called herself a virgin and her murdered child, God, preaching of a Kingdom to come, until the Etruscans grew fearful of sedition. Her Apostles claimed She escaped crucifixion and bodily corruption by ascending to Heaven.