THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT THE BODY language of two people who are desperate to discuss something privately. A latent tension, an unconscious stiffness in their interactions. I remember seeing it often between my parents over those last few months, but being too young and too naïve to wonder why.
And I can see it now in the way Ulciscor and Lanistia talk, no matter how well they try to hide it.
I trail after the pair. Gravel crunches beneath our feet, loud in the hush of the country. The house is three stories high and made of mottled sandstone, looking like it belongs to an era from before Will was used in construction.
“So you brought back a son.” Lanistia glances over her shoulder at me; I smile but she doesn’t return it. “That’s sudden.”
“I know how bored you’ve been. Now you have something to do for the next two months.”
Lanistia’s unamused.
We pass through three tall archways, Lanistia leading us inside. The villa is richly appointed, large rooms divided into subsections by thick curtains and decorative latticework, everything very much in the style I know is popular with the Catenan elite. The rooms are airy, natural light filtering through windows set high above. Mosaics cover several dividing walls. Off to one side, I spot what appears to be the entrance to a large set of private baths.
“What did Relucia say?”
“Nothing, yet.”
Lanistia stops dead. “You didn’t tell her?”
Ulciscor just winces.
I cough. “Who’s Relucia?”
“Rotting gods. You didn’t tell him?” Lanistia’s disapproval bristles from behind her dark glasses.
Ulciscor sighs, turning to me. “Relucia is Sextus Relucia Telimus. My wife. Who likely won’t return from Sytrece until the Academy’s second trimester has already begun,” he adds emphatically, clearly for Lanistia’s benefit.
I feel my eyebrows rise. The woman is legally my mother, then. That does seem like something he should have mentioned. “Will she be alright, with all this?”
“She knows I’ve been hoping to find someone to put through the Academy.” Not the reasons why, though, from the careful way he words it. A flick of his eyes to the surrounding walls indicates that I shouldn’t say anything about it here. “She even suggested we adopt, not long ago. It will be fine. She’s been chosen to help the Censor for the next year—she’s often abroad—she’ll understand. You may not even have a chance to meet her until after graduating.”
I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Ulciscor is well past twenty-three, when taxation for the unmarried becomes burdensomely high. And there are plenty of monetary and social bonuses for having children in the Republic; if nothing else, Relucia will probably consider my adoption a prudent financial move. Assuming they don’t already have any children of their own, of course.
“You’ll still send word before tonight.” Lanistia’s firm. The way she speaks to him, the way they naturally fell into step as soon as we arrived, shouts familiarity. A comfort that only comes with friendship, regardless of her brusque attitude.
“So I don’t have any brothers or sisters that you haven’t mentioned?” It feels strange to ask, but it seems I have to.
“No.” Ulciscor takes a breath as if to say more, then changes his mind. “No.”
“Dominus!”
All three of us halt as a man in his fifties, clean-shaven and jowly, detaches himself energetically from a passageway to the left. He’s sporting a severely receding hairline, and it looks like he’s grown out the rest of his still-black hair to compensate. The stringy mass dangling limply to his shoulders does nothing to improve his looks. Still, his smile is excited, wide, and welcoming. Seems genuine.
“Kadmos.” Ulciscor grips him by the shoulder in greeting, smiling as well. “Good to see you. Everything’s well?”
“The reaper in the eastern fields needs replacing. Some more of the olive crops got hit by that strange rot. And Incusi has been muttering to her friends about how much work they have to do, even though they’re properly paid for it. So, as well as it usually is, Dominus.” The news is delivered in a jovial way. They’re not pressing concerns.
His smile fades a little at the end as he finally registers my presence. He’s not displeased, exactly. More confused.
Ulciscor chuckles. “We’ll get to all of it soon. I promise.” He’s seen Kadmos’s glance, turns to include me in the conversation. “But in the meantime, meet Vis. I’ve adopted him, and he will be attending the Academy at the beginning of the second trimester. Vis, this is Dispensator Kadmos. Anything you need around the villa, he can help you with.”
I nod politely. The introduction suggests that the house steward isn’t trusted to the same extent as Lanistia, and that assumption’s backed up by Kadmos’s bemused, vaguely dismayed expression as he looks between me and Ulciscor. This is definitely a surprise to him.
“Kadmos, if you could please take Vis by the kitchen to get something to eat, and then show him to his rooms? The guest quarters, I think. We can arrange for something more permanent tomorrow.”
“Of course, Dominus. Master Vis, if you’ll please follow me?”
“Get settled in,” Ulciscor adds reassuringly to me. “Rest some more. Lanistia will come and find you soon enough.”
I acquiesce, but take careful note of the direction in which Lanistia and Ulciscor start walking as I follow Kadmos. I don’t think the Magnus Quintus has been lying to me, necessarily, but there’s more going on than he’s admitted.
“Welcome to Villa Telimus, Master Vis.” Kadmos has a light Sytrecian accent, reinforcing my impression of his origins. His voice has lost all threads of joviality. In no way rude, but certainly nothing beyond polite as he guides me deeper into the mansion. “Do you have any belongings I should arrange to have taken up to your rooms?”
“No.”
He eyes my clothes. They’re the ones from the Academy. Clean, but ragged where Ulciscor carefully cut them with a blade after we left Solivagus—just enough to destroy any imbuing that Veridius might have used to trace me. I can already see Kadmos mentally compiling a list of things he needs to buy, even as he tries to puzzle out my origin. “You’ll be needing a wardrobe, then.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He signals for me to stop, and slips over to a young Octavii sweeping the floor, murmuring an instruction. The rotund, freckled girl bobs deferentially to Kadmos, giving me a wide-eyed assessment as she hurries off.
We arrive at the kitchen, which is even larger and better-stocked than the one at the orphanage. There are no cooks in sight, so I scoop up what I want from the laden benches onto two separate plates. I’ve barely eaten since the previous day, and the food on array—cured meats, olives, and freshly baked wheat bread with honey—is better than anything I’ve had in a long time.
Kadmos gives my larger-than-strictly-necessary haul a disapproving look, but says nothing as he guides me and my precariously balanced load up to the second-floor guest wing of the mansion. He stops at the entrance, handing me a folded tunic that was waiting on a nearby seat before gesturing me inside. “This should fit well enough for today.” The Octavii did her work quickly. “If you need anything else, Master Vis, just ring the bell by the door and someone will come.”
The room’s spacious, ten times the size of the one I had at the orphanage. The bed in the centre is enormous as well, with what looks to be a feather mattress below the bronze-decorated headboard. My body aches longingly at the sight.
“Thank you, Kadmos.” I turn back to the steward in time to see him touching a stone tile to a matching one set into the door. “What are you doing?”
“Disabling the security. The Magnus Quintus doesn’t always trust those we accommodate here.” He tucks the tile back in his pocket.
I hide my vexation behind feigned disinterest. The steward wanted me to see him. He knows there’s no way for me to tell if he’s lying, and that the door could easily be attached to an indicator somewhere else in the house—meaning that as soon as I open it, someone will know. I can’t risk sneaking out through it now.
I set down my two plates of food on a sideboard, not having to fake the yawn that accompanies the motion. “I suspect it will be a few hours before I want to go anywhere, anyway.”
“I’ll let you rest, then. Enjoy your meal, Master Vis.” He gives a small, politely deferential bow, and is gone with the door shut behind him before I can reply.
I snatch a slice of bread from one of the plates and wolf it down, vaguely irritated, though I suppose I can’t blame the man for being cautious. I’m an evidently not-well-to-do stranger who is suddenly heir to the patrician family he’s probably served his whole life. Utterly insane though I would have to be to try anything nefarious against a Magnus Quintus, it’s hard to begrudge the man some reservations.
I deliberate as I discard my shredded clothes—shoulder protesting and bandaged side pulling uncomfortably—and change into my new ones, which I’m pleased to find are much finer than I’m accustomed to and, as promised, fit almost perfectly. Once my tunic is properly cinched, I scoff some more food and then cross to the large, east-facing window, pushing the shutters wide. The view is all green rolling hills, the tallest ones tipped by the last of the setting sun. I can see for miles.
I don’t tarry to take it in; it’s pretty enough, but I’ve always preferred the sparkle and clear horizons of the ocean. The important thing is that the dimming fields are motionless. The Octavii have either returned to their homes, or are busy inside the villa.
There are no stone tiles set into the sill, I’m relieved to see. The sandstone bricks beyond have distinct clefts between, where the mortar has worn away. Not ideal handholds, but enough for my fingers to find purchase.
I hesitate, then perch on the ledge. This is going to look bad if I’m caught, but I need to know if something is being kept from me. And I’ve managed more difficult climbs at much higher heights along the cliffs of Suus. Even with my aching shoulder and side, I’m confident I can safely descend a single storey and get back inside without being noticed.
I’m barely out the window when I fall.
I’m not sure whether it’s the unexpectedly severe twinge in my shoulder or just the rust of years that causes me to twitch at the wrong moment. Either way, I’m suddenly flailing backward, heart in throat, unable to resecure a handhold. It’s not more than fifteen feet to the ground, and I manage to twist in the air so that I’m landing on my uninjured side. It still hurts.
I lie there on the grass, gasping to reclaim the air that’s been knocked from my lungs while trying desperately to be quiet about it. It’s probably ten seconds before I get my breathing under control, and as long again before I’ve recovered enough to test my limbs. Nothing broken, I think. There’s the muted chatter of voices from inside the villa, but no shouts, no indication that anyone saw or heard anything.
“Idiot,” I whisper to myself as I struggle to my feet, brushing myself off and checking I haven’t immediately stained my new white clothing. I’m not sure whether I’m more annoyed at the mistake, or my confidence that I wouldn’t make one.
It’s dusk now, the shape of the world still visible, but the colour all but gone. Sheathed torches crackle over the villa entrance; I can’t see anyone around, but I skirt them anyway, heading for the section of the building into which Ulciscor and Lanistia disappeared. Most of the windows are dark, but a couple have outlines of light around closed shutters.
It’s not long before I recognise the deep tones drifting from one. Muted by the wood, but definitely Ulciscor. I sidle closer to the window. It’s in the open, unfortunately, no nearby cover to duck behind should someone happen along the path. I check my surrounds for any sign of movement, then position my head carefully next to the opening.
Ulciscor’s in the midst of relating the attack on the Transvect—muffled, but the hush from outside allows me to hear the words. He’s eschewing drama for dry fact, done within a couple of minutes, interrupted only a couple of times by soft questions from Lanistia. He doesn’t shy away from his killing of Sacro, nor how he was knocked out.
He finishes with his waking up on the moving Transvect, halfway to the Academy and with me bleeding on the floor next to him. There’s a brief silence once he’s done.
“Anguis, then. You think Melior was involved?” Lanistia’s higher voice is easier to make out through the dampening wood. It doesn’t take me long to place the name. Melior is the leader of the Anguis. A well-known name thanks to his proscription, and the size of the reward for his capture.
“They were too well-informed for some local faction. I only asked for the Transvect to be realigned a few hours before we left.” Ulciscor’s bothered by the fact. “And it can’t be a coincidence they were able to take me down so easily. You don’t bring a weapon like that on a whim.”
“Any idea what it could have been?”
“None. Wasn’t pleasant, though. I was vomiting for hours after I woke up.”
“At least you woke up.” There’s the creaking of furniture as one of them shifts. “They found more bodies in Masen. Heads smashed in, just like the others.”
“Gods’ graves. Who? When?”
“A couple of Sextii. Regional leaders, but neither of them with names you’d recognise. Two days ago.”
“How did Quiscil and the others react?”
“In the Senate? They condemned the murders as nothing more than cowardly desecrations. But word is, it’s upset them. There’s something about these attacks that has them worried, beyond just the Anguis becoming bolder.”
“Perhaps it’s who they’re targeting.”
“There’s no connection between these two and the others, as far as I’ve been able to tell. But I’ll keep looking.”
“Do. I believe them when they say they’re close to catching Melior. I’d like to know what’s going on before that happens.”
I grimace. There’s a good chance the head of the Anguis will be one of those who knows who I am.
A faint clink—a glass being set down on a table, I think—and then a sigh. “What about the Correctors? Have they been administering more of their tests?”
“They drew blood from Magnus Quintus Cerrus last week. He’s the only new one I heard about. But they said he wasn’t infected.”
A grunt from Ulciscor. “Shame.” There’s a low chuckle from Lanistia.
There’s silence, and I begin to wonder whether one or both of them has left the room. There’s still no movement outside the villa.
“So your son seems nice.” There’s an acerbic edge to Lanistia’s abrupt observation.
“Look, Lanistia—”
“What were you thinking?” Low but intense. “How could you be so rash?”
“You weren’t there. If I believed in the gods, I would say they led me to him. He was made for this.”
“You do know what that implies, right?”
“I’ve gone over every aspect of how we crossed paths, and there was too much chance involved. He’s nobody’s spy.” He says it with absolute confidence, and I feel something loosen in my chest at the words.
“Despite your being the target of an Anguis ambush within a day of meeting him.”
“From which he saved me. If he was with them, the only point of the whole attack would have been to gain him a little more trust. Not even the Anguis are that wasteful with their resources.”
“But you don’t know him. I know you haven’t had time to look into his background.” Lanistia’s caught between frustration and pleading. “What if he slips up? Or breaks? Or turns?”
“That’s why you’re getting the next two months with him. If you say he’s not ready at the end, or that he can’t be trusted, then I’ll call off the whole thing.” Ulciscor sighs. “There is something off about him. He’s better educated than a war orphan has any right to be. Boy took multiple floggings rather than submit at the Aurora Columnae, too. He’s burdened, and stubborn, and angry, and definitely hiding things. But whatever’s driving him, it’s something we can use.”
“And if Veridius just decides to kill him?”
“Then we gain our legal foothold. Another Telimus dying on Solivagus would force the Senate’s hand, this time.”
“Ulciscor.” Lanistia’s soft, heavy disapproval does nothing to alleviate the chill that runs through me.
The pause is a touch too long before Ulciscor adds, “Veridius knows that as well as I do, anyway. So he won’t.”
“You’re guessing.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’re running out of time, Lanistia.”
“There’s no proof of that.”
“You know it’s true.” He’s chiding. “I wouldn’t have involved him otherwise.”
If there’s a response, I don’t hear it; the sound of a nearby door creaking makes me straighten, leap back onto the path. There’s nowhere to hide, so I aim myself away from the doorway, hands clasped behind my back. Force the rigidity from my shoulders and amble. As if I’m just out enjoying the night air.
“Master Vis.”
I flinch at the words, turning to find Kadmos standing behind me, arms crossed. I smile genially at him. “Caught me.” When his frown twists into something more questioning, I gesture in mild embarrassment toward the starlit hills. “I changed my mind. I haven’t been in the country in years. I’d forgotten how peaceful it is.”
“Oh.” He sweeps a limp strand of hair from his face as his gaze flicks to the shuttered window, not five paces from where I am. He’s off guard, but not an idiot. “How did you get out here?”
“What do you mean?” I feign mild confusion.
“I…” He trails off. Annoyed, though he’s trying to hide it. “I didn’t see you leave your room.” He doesn’t want to confirm that he expected an alert from my opening the door. He probably isn’t sure whether I deliberately avoided it, or it simply didn’t work for some reason.
I indicate my own bafflement. “Is it a problem? I won’t be long. You said you were disabling the security, so I assumed I didn’t have to confine myself.” I add the hint of a question to my tone.
“No, it’s fine,” says Kadmos, though it plainly isn’t. The portly man glances again at the shuttered window. “But I should have specified: the Magnus Quintus is a very private man, and I suspect there will be some areas which he would prefer remained off-limits. So I’d feel much more comfortable if you stayed indoors this evening. Just until I can speak further with him, and then give you a formal tour tomorrow.”
“Of course.” I’m not realistically going to get another chance to listen in tonight anyway.
Kadmos indicates I should follow him. Evidently not willing to let me find my own way back.
I frown at the Dispensator’s back as we enter the villa again. It’s odd, that he would be the one to stumble upon me, rather than one of the several Octavii still bustling about the house. And so soon, too. Not more than ten minutes after I left my room.
Kadmos is talking, but it’s idle chatter now, not something I need to pay attention to. Could moving the shutters on my window have triggered something, too? Unlikely; it would be a waste to monitor actions as innocuous as letting in some air. Besides, as I so ably proved, descending the outside wall isn’t the easiest of tasks.
That leaves some sort of tracking on my person. It fits—would allow Kadmos to locate me, but would also require him to actively check on my whereabouts, explaining why there was a minutes-long gap before he came to find me.
I flick at my new tunic irritably.
We reach my rooms and Kadmos lets me in again, frowning at the open window, though there’s no indication I used it to leave. I keep my cheerful expression until the door’s closed and then collapse onto the bed. I’ve been pushing myself all day to focus, to pay attention to everything that’s been said and everything that’s been happening. The things I overheard have only served to swell my concerns. My side hurts. My shoulder hurts. My head hurts.
I’m ready to get some rest.
