“The roof!” Mircea yelled. “The roof!”
He wasn’t sure the smaller vampire had heard, because just then the senate guards came back, waving burning torches at the crowd, a tactic that worked to scatter vampires and humans alike. People screamed, fire flew, and hooves struck sparks off the brick streets. And Mircea grabbed Jerome and shoved him at the makeshift ladder, along with the nearest children, the rest of whom were already scrambling up like little monkeys.
They ended up sitting on the edge of the roof, watching the guards clear the street far more effectively than the Watch had done. Vampires and humans evaporated like mist, leaving the consul with his own guards and his elefante, but with no crowd to appreciate them anymore. Soon, the great beast and its occupant turned and left, lumbering back the way they had come, the night’s entertainment at an end.
Well, most of it.
“What—” Paulo stared at the growing mound of packages at his feet. They were being deposited by a line of grubby little children, who were waiting for their reward from Jerome—and his sugar-filled hat.
“You get a handful, and you get one, and—oh, you get two, thank you,” Jerome said, as one enterprising youngster deposited two large packages in front of him.
“How—” Paulo said, still gaping, when the last little tike had jumped down from the roof, taking off with his well-earned reward.
“Never underestimate the little guys,” Jerome said, as Paulo sorted through their packages. “The candy’s not there,” he added unnecessarily.
Paulo, for once, did not complain, too busy ticking things off in his little book. For his part, Mircea watched until the senators turned around and disappeared back over the bridge, following their leader into darkness. And leaving a swirl of power behind them that shivered over his skin, even this far away.
Chapter Nine
“Drop it, vampire,” a menacing voice said, as they dragged the packages into the kitchen door an hour or so later.
Mircea tensed and looked around, half expecting another threat.
But this time, there was no need. “I was just testing it for you,” Bezio said, looking innocent.
The cook’s beady eyes fixed on the decanter of dark red wine Bezio held in one beefy hand. “Test this,” she said, snatching it back, and shoving something else into his stomach.
“Peas?” Bezio said, looking down at the bowl he was now holding. “What do you want me to do with these?”
“Drink ’em,” she said sarcastically, and pointed at the door.
“I can’t even shell them inside?” he whined.
“Do you see any room inside? Especially now?” she demanded, glaring at Paulo’s group, who were trying to fit into the crowded space.
It wasn’t easy. Servants bustled everywhere, stirring pots over the fire, mixing sauces at the main prep table, shoving past Jerome to chuck carrot peelings into the canal. And placing food on very available surface—including Mircea, who had a basket of something pushed into his hands as he stood there.
He peered inside.
More peas.
“Out, all of you. Go do something useful!” the cook told them, brandishing a spoon menacingly.
“They are doing something useful. They’re helping me,” Paulo told her, fighting his way through the crush.
“About time you got back,” she told him. “Mistress wants you at table.”
“We’ve started already?”
“About to. I’m dishing up the soup now.”
“Christ!” He ran up the back stairs.
“Wait! What do we do with all this stuff?” Jerome called after him.
A blond head popped back over the railing. “Give everything to cook. She’ll know what to do with it.”
“And I know what to do with you lot, too,” she said, looking at them evilly.
Which is how they ended up shelling peas on the rickety bridge out back.
It was weathered wood, without railings or even posts to sit against. So they emulated the old men who regularly fished off the local bridges, and sat on the edge, dangling their feet over the side. And added pea shells to the stream of garbage flowing away with the tide.
Mircea watched one of his disemboweled offerings to Poseidon land right side up, like a little boat. And then valiantly ride the currents below, dodging cabbage leaf islands and carrot shoals, until it disappeared out of sight. Jerome laughed, and then leaned over the side of the bridge, a new vessel in hand.
“Race you!”
“No, no,” Bezio said, proffering a pod with a single pea still in place. “You need to leave one little guy in it, see? Like a captain.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Jerome told him.
“Want to bet?”
“It’s too heavy; it’ll sink.”
“Then take the bet.”
“What bet?”
Bezio looked at him soulfully. “I’m thirsty.”
Jerome glanced at the kitchen. “She’ll kill me.”
“Only if you lose.”
“And if I win?”
“You get bragging rights.”
“Bragging rights and your room,” Jerome said dryly.
“What do you need my room for?”
“It’s bigger than mine. I need the extra space.”
“I need the extra space. I won’t fit in yours.”
Jerome smiled, and sent his words back at him. “That’s only a problem if you lose.”
Bezio glanced at Mircea. “You’ll call it?”
Mircea nodded. And a moment later, two little makeshift vessels hit the water, almost simultaneously. And also simultaneously got into trouble when caught by an eddy in the tide.
“Oh, come on!” Bezio said. “To the left! To the left!”
“Are you talking to a pea, Bezio?” Jerome asked gently. “Is that who—”
“Shut up. To the left!”
The craft turned to the left, thereby missing a looming sea monster made out of onion skin.
Bezio grinned at Jerome. “You were saying?”
“Blind luck.”
“Like most of life, son.”
“Don’t ‘son’ me,” Jerome muttered, and glared at his tiny vessel, which had just hung up on some shrimp shells. “Damn it, move!”
A moment later, it did, when a tiny wave hit the flotsam, breaking it up and sending Jerome’s ship scooting forward.
And past Bezio’s.
“Yes, yes!” Jerome laughed.
Just before the wild movement of the tiny ripple proved too much for his ship, and it started taking on water.
“No, no,” Bezio mimicked, as his craft overtook it again.
“That’s—no. No, yours is the one that’s supposed to sink!”
“Sorry about that,” Bezio said, not looking the least bit sorry. Particularly when his boat vanished out of sight first, steered to victory by its tiny captain.
“I don’t believe this,” Jerome moaned.
“I like a robust red,” Bezio told him as Jerome got up, muttering something, and headed inside. And to Mircea’s surprise, was back in no time with an elegant decanter of red wine, and three chipped mugs.
Bezio raised both eyebrows. “Where did you get that?”
“Took it off a servant on the way into the dining room,” Jerome said, plopping back down.
“You were supposed to grab the cook’s swill, not the good stuff!” Bezio said, looking alarmed.
“After tonight, we deserve the good stuff,” Jerome told him, splashing it into cracked ceramic.
“What happened tonight?”
“Oh, just don’t,” Jerome said, and drank.
Bezio looked from him to Mircea. “We saw the consul,” Mircea enlightened him.
“Well, it is convocation, after—”
“On an elefante.”
“On a what?”
“And then we were almost trampled—”