The door was open, and z’Acatto glanced up as they entered. He was an older man, perhaps fifty, a bit paunchy, his hair more gray than black. He sat on a stool talking to their landlord, Ospero. The men were of about the same age, but Ospero was nearly bald, and stockier yet. They both looked pretty drunk, and the three empty wine carafes that lay on the floor confirmed that impression. There was nothing unusual about that—z’Acatto stayed drunk most of the time. “Dena dicolla, casnaras,” z’Acatto said.
“Good evening, z’Acatto,” Anne returned, “Casnar Ospero.”
“You’re home early,” z’Acatto noticed.
“Yes.” She didn’t elaborate.
“We brought fish and bread,” Austra said brightly.
“That’s good, that’s good,” the old man said. “We’ll need a white with that, perhaps a vino verio.”
“I’m sorry,” Austra said. “We didn’t have money for wine.”
Ospero grunted and produced a silver menza. He squinted at it, then flipped it toward Austra. “That for the wine, my pretty della.” He paused a bit to leer at the two girls, then shook his head. “You know the place by Dank Moon Street? Escerros? Tell him I sent you. Tell him that will buy two bottles of the vino verio, or I’ll come crack his head.”
“But I was—” Austra began.
“Go on, Austra. I’ll cook the fish,” Anne said. She didn’t like Ospero. There seemed something vaguely criminal about him and his friends. On the other hand, z’Acatto had somehow managed to convince him to rent them their rooms on credit for a week, and he had never done more than leer at her. They relied on his good graces, so she held her tongue.
She went to the cramped pantry and took out a jar of olive oil and a pouch of salt. She put a little of the oil into a small earthenware crematro, sprinkled both sides of the fish with salt, and placed it in the oil. She stared despondently at the preparation, wishing for the hundredth time that they could afford—or even find—butter for a change. Then she sighed, put the lid on the crematro, and carried it back down the stairs, then through an inner first-floor door into the small courtyard that was shared by the building’s inhabitants.
A few women were gathered around a small pit of glowing coals. There wasn’t yet room for her dish, so she took a bench and waited, gazing absently around the dreary walls of flaking stucco, trying to imagine it as the orchard courtyard in her father’s castle.
A male voice foiled her attempt. “Good evening, della.”
“Hello, Cazio,” she said without turning.
“How are you this evening?”
“Tired.”
She noticed there was room at the fire now, and stood to take the crematro over to it, but Cazio interposed himself.
“Let me,” he said.
Cazio was tall and lean, only slightly older than Anne, dressed in dark brown doublet and scarlet hose. A rapier in a battered scabbard hung at his side. His dark eyes peered down at her from a narrow, handsome face. “Your day didn’t go well?”
“Not as well as yours, I’m sure,” she replied, handing him the crematro.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean the work you’ve chosen must give you ample opportunity for refreshment.”
He looked puzzled.
“And don’t try to look coy,” she said. “I spoke with Rediana today. She told me what you’ve been doing.”
“Ah,” he said. He went over to place the roasting pan on the ashes and used a charred stick to bank them up around the edges. Then he came back and sat next to her. “You don’t approve?”
“It’s nothing to me.”
“It ought not to be. I’m doing this for you, remember? I’m trying to earn passage for us to escort you home.”
“And yet we seem no nearer to departing than we were a month ago.”
“Sea passage does not come cheap, especially when the cargo must remain secret. Speaking of which, take especial care. There are more men searching the streets for you than ever. I wonder if you know why.”
“I’ve told you, I don’t.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. She had no idea why there was a price on her head, but she figured it had to do somehow with her station and the dreams that troubled even her waking hours. Dreams that she knew came from—elsewhere.
“I took your word for silver,” he said, “and I still do. But if there is any suspicion you have . . .”
“My father is a wealthy and powerful man. That’s the only cause I can imagine.”
“Do you have some rival who vies for his affections? A stepmother, perhaps? Someone who would prefer not to see you return?”
“Oh, yes, my stepmother,” Anne said. “How could I have forgotten? There was that time when she sent me out with the huntsman and told him to bring my heart back. I would have died, then, if the old fellow hadn’t taken a shine to me. He took her back the heart of a boar instead. And then there was that other time, when she sent me to fetch water, never mentioning the nicwer that lived in the stream, waiting to charm me and eat me. Yes, those events should have been clues to my present situation, but I suppose I didn’t suspect her because dear father assured me she has changed so.”
“You’re being sarcastic, aren’t you?” Cazio guessed.
“This isn’t a phay story, Cazio. I don’t have a stepmother. There’s no one in the family who would wish me ill. My father’s enemies might, on the other hand, but I couldn’t say exactly who they are. I’m not very political.”
Cazio shrugged. “Ah, well.” Then a smile brightened his face. “You’re jealous,” he accused.
“What?”
“I’ve just figured it out. You think I’m sleeping with Rediana’s ladies, and you’re jealous.”
“I am not jealous,” Anne said. “I already have a true love, and he is not you.”
“Oh, yes, the fabled Roderick. A wonderful man, I hear. A true prince. I’m sure he would have answered your letter, if given another few months to get around to it.”
“We’ve been around this before.” Anne sighed. “Escort whomever you wish, do with them what you will. I am grateful to you, Cazio, for all your help, but—”
“Wait.” Cazio’s voice was clipped now, his face suddenly very serious.
“What is it?”
“Your father sent you to the coven Saint Cer, didn’t he?”
“It was my mother, actually,” she corrected.
“And did your true love Roderick know where you were bound?”
“It all happened too quickly. I thought I was going to Cal Azroth, and told him that, and then that very night my mother changed her mind. I had no way to send him word.”
“He couldn’t have discovered it through gossip?”
“No. I was sent away in secret. No one was supposed to know.”
“But then you dispatched a letter to your beloved—a letter I delivered to the Church cuveitur myself—and in a matter of ninedays those knights came to the coven. Doesn’t that strike you as suspicious?”
It did strike—it struck like tinder in Anne’s breast.
“You go too far, Cazio. You have slandered Roderick before, but to suggest—to imply . . .” She stammered off, too angry to continue, all the more because it made a sort of sense. But it couldn’t be true, because Roderick loved her.
“The knights were from Hansa,” she said. “I knew their language. Roderick is from Hornladh.”
But silently she remembered something her aunt Lesbeth once told her. It seemed long ago, but it was something about Roderick’s house being out of favor at court because they had once supported a Reiksbaurg claim to the throne.
No. It’s ridiculous.
She was about to tell Cazio that when Austra suddenly burst into the courtyard. She was out of breath, and her face was flushed and wet with tears.
“What’s wrong?” Anne asked, taking Austra’s hands.