IT’S NOT HARD TO CONVINCE everyone of my supposed illness the following day.
I’ve been wide awake for much of the night, fretting; my red-rimmed eyes and sluggishness during our morning sparring on the beach help sell my story, even before I start coughing. Spending time with Emissa—who, happily, seems to have recovered well after a good night’s sleep—is a brief balm, but even that can’t dispel the spectre of Ulciscor’s demands.
When I struggle to rise and then feign a stagger after the meal, Emissa tells me in no uncertain terms that I need to go and rest. The others smirk and make loudly whispered comments about our relationship, but we ignore them and I reluctantly accept her advice.
Back in my rooms, I draw the curtains and lock the door. It’s tempting to actually get some sleep—I’m genuinely still very tired—but if there’s an unforeseen issue, I need to give myself as much time as possible to get around it. And no one is going to disturb me. The senators are still ensconced, and the Thirds will be training all day.
I’m pleased to discover the senators in the Lesser Hall, one of the locations I’d guessed at for the summit. I make three trips there throughout the day. Their discussions filter through to the tunnels clearly, and I sit by the hidden slot for an hour at a time, just listening. It’s largely dull. A combination of arguing over how to outmanoeuvre the other senatorial pyramids, and arguing over internal politics. Occasionally I hear Ulciscor lending his voice to one side or another, though it’s always with a crowd and he’s never afforded the chance to speak alone.
None of it is useful. But I’m at least confident I’ll be able to overhear the meeting tonight.
I emerge from my quarters just before dinner, making sure to look as dishevelled and drained as possible. Not hard, given I’ve still barely slept. Better to present myself now, show I’m still unwell, rather than risk an unexpected visit later tonight by anyone who’s wondering. I speak briefly with the Thirds—mostly to Emissa, who I reluctantly refuse when she asks if I’d like company for the evening, insisting that I’ll almost certainly be asleep—and then go down to the docks to see Ulciscor and Lanistia off. Ulciscor embraces me in front of everyone, as if I am truly his son. Lanistia looks on impassively.
I watch them sail away against the setting sun, and wonder if they expect to see me again.
Back in my rooms, I lock the door and shutter my lantern. Grab a couple of wax tablets and a stylus from the desk, though I leave Relucia’s “gift” in its box.
It’s time to find out what, exactly, she’s so willing to risk my life for.
VOICES TRICKLE INTO THE TUNNEL as soon as I inch the Lesser Hall’s listening slot open. I exhale when one of them is Dimidius Quiscil’s. It seemed a safe assumption that the remaining senators would continue to use this room tonight, but there was no guarantee of it.
I settle down by the opening, and wait.
It’s a jumble of voices for the first two hours. Some idle rumblings about a proposal for land reform being pushed by some minor Military patrician, but otherwise just polite small talk. People asking after other people’s families. Remarking on how beautiful the weather is here. Exchanging stories about their trips up, bemoaning the lack of a direct Transvect, and generally commenting on the need for proper civilisation in this part of the world. I ignore the latter. I’ve heard it from the Thirds more than enough since we arrived.
Finally, though, there’s a door shutting. Chairs scraping. The chatter dies away as Dimidius Quiscil’s power-laden voice cuts through it all, apologising for Dimidius Werex’s absence—he’s apparently needed in Caten, at present—and then moving on to what appears to be official business. “Reports, Ciserius?”
A cough into a brief hush, the Tertius sounding like he’s shuffling some papers. “The updated list has seventeen known conspirators and another twenty-three potentially weak to coercion. The most pressing concerns are House Remus, who we have documented proof have been bought by the Council of Four, and House Juvalis, who reliable sources tell us are strongly considering a move to Governance.”
Muttering. Some cursing. Apparently either the numbers or the names aren’t ones the gathered senators like.
“We’ll review them all, Ciserius. Let’s start with the known quantities,” says Quiscil, quietly enough that I can only barely hear him.
The following two hours is devoted to discussing anyone of note within Military who is suspected of working against them. I carefully scratch name after name onto my tablet, the lettering as small as I can manage. The details of each, though—documented or suspected acts, theorised reasons for turning, projected consequences of them being removed from the political equation—I have to commit to memory, along with each individual’s inevitable list of weak points. Vices. Illegal businesses. Illicit romances, current and past, some with members of the same sex and thus prohibited under Birthright. Progeny other dalliances may or may not have produced. It shouldn’t shock me that so many in the Senate are corrupt, but the litany is disturbing.
And valuable, valuable information for the Anguis. Some on the list have simply been marked as concerns: not necessarily traitors, but with damaging enough secrets that they could easily be coerced by outside forces. Others have been bought by knights, flagrantly circumventing the senatorial ban on engaging in any form of business. Still others have been documented supporting either Religion or Governance interests. There’s even one Quintus who, according to some reports, is outright working for the Anguis. I make a note against him.
There’s heated discussion after each report. Opinions inevitably ranging from wanting to try and entice the suspected traitors back, to consigning them to Sappers. Most often, the committee decides to simply have them watched. But not always.
My muscles are cramped from fear of moving by the time the list comes to an end. Quiscil announces a short break. I noiselessly stretch out my limbs and then sit on the stone floor, staring at the names on my tablet contemplatively.
After a minute, I carefully memorise and erase three. Quintus Elevus. Magnus Sextus Doria. Magnus Sextus Tirus. Ones who the committee in there have decided not to interfere with, for the time being. I hope it never comes to it, but if I do ever need to coerce a senator, this information will be useful. And Relucia shouldn’t have any way to notice their absence from what I send to her.
When I hear the proceedings inside restarting, I lever myself into position again. It’s Quiscil talking.
“… the things we will need again. Let me know who can supply what, and then these lists are to be burned.”
There’s the scratching of paper being handed around. My fists clench. This has to be what Relucia wanted me here for, but there’s not much chance I’m going to be able to see what’s written.
“A ship, this time? I have concerns, Dimidius.” Ciserius’s voice is sharp.
Indol’s father sighs. “Very well. Speak your mind. I know many of you have been eager to discuss the Anguis incident at the Festival of Jovan.”
“ ‘Incident’?” It’s Magnus Tertius Nasmius. “That is a very kind way of putting it, Dimidius. And yes. We have been eager.” There’s a muttered agreement from a number of senators. “A disaster I would not see repeated.”
“Disaster?” Quiscil’s tone is mild. “How so, Nasmius?”
“How else would you describe it?” Nasmius is irritated, even if the hint of deference never quite leaves his voice.
“I lost ninety-seven in my pyramid,” agrees Ciserius.
“I lost a hundred and thirty-five. I blacked out when it happened,” chimes in someone else. Magnus Tertius Olicus, I think, though he’s been quiet for the most part. “We gave them too much leash. Overfunded and underestimated them.”
I frown. Bow my head and lean closer, sure I’ve misheard.
“And I lost almost four hundred,” observes Quiscil. Chiding. “Which is exactly why not even the possibility of our involvement has been considered. Personal loss is a necessary screen, my friends. Yes, I know the timing took you by surprise. Yes, their attack was more destructive than we could possibly have anticipated. But that was all to the better. We all have to make sacrifices. I would hope that the inconvenience of rebuilding your pyramids is not your measure of success or failure.”
“I disagree,” says Nasmius after a few moments. “Perhaps if Melior were still alive, the Senate would be more pliable—but with him gone, they almost see us as less important, not more. Have we at least found something more about the Anguis’s weapon?”
“No. But I am told its secret died with Melior.” Quiscil’s still calm, though this is the first time I’ve heard anything resembling actual opposition to him. “And changing the hearts of the Senate was always a possible by-product, never the aim. The people believe we are more vital than ever. And most importantly, the Anguis believe they have contacts who can be trusted. They won’t hesitate to do what we need them to do now.”
“Do they know we are involved?”
“Of course not.”
I lick my lips, trying to come to terms with what I’m hearing. There doesn’t seem to be much doubt.
Military helped the Anguis attack the naumachia.
“Are you sure? The way they’ve been preventing us from using the Necropolis hasn’t sat well with you, Dimidius—you cannot tell me otherwise.”
“That was Melior’s doing. There has been nothing since his death.”
“Still. At least the Festival of Jovan required only information and some uniforms, but this time you want to give them weapons? Will designs? A whole trireme? What happens when one of them gets caught? Someone will figure it out.”
“They won’t, because interrogation remains our jurisdiction.”
“We should at least know where the attack will happen.” Quartus Redivius speaking up.
“No.” Quiscil’s voice, peaceable up until this point, is hard. Not loud, but the latent power behind it feels like it’s pulsed through the wall, and I briefly lean my head away from the listening slot at the single word. Silence, then much more placidly, “Ciserius, with your fleet, I assume a ship going missing would not be too unusual?”
“Ships often get lost at sea, Dimidius,” agrees Ciserius. He sounds shaken. “The Navisalus is due for a voyage to Tensia. The crossing can be quite dangerous.”
“Take care not to crew her with anyone you would like to see come back.”
Another silence, then, “As you say.”
I feel a chill. The Dimidius is making plans that countermand Birthright entirely, and no one is saying a word. A few minutes ago, I knew I’d be in trouble if I was caught listening to this meeting. Now, I doubt I’d be left alive.
“Why is this so important?” It’s Nasmius again. “If we just understood—”
“The Princeps says it is. That’s all you need to know.”
The Dimidius’s pronouncement effectively ends the discussion, and soon the conversation is moving on to other matters.
None as significant as what I’ve just heard, though.
Eventually, the meeting fades to a close with a scrape of chairs and murmuring voices. I wait in case there’s anything further, some idle final scrap of discussion, but after a few minutes, I’m convinced everyone’s left. I slide the listening slot shut, gather up my tablets and lantern, and start back toward my room.
The damp passageways echo as I walk. The Navisalus. Relucia mentioned something about a ship while I was eavesdropping on her at the Festival of Pletuna. That it was being used as an anchoring point. But the other man wasn’t sure if their partners could be trusted.
This has to be why I’m really here, why Relucia wanted to know what the Dimidius was requisitioning in secret. I’m making sure that Military are holding up their end of the bargain.
I grit my teeth. Whatever’s planned, it must be something big. Vital to the Anguis. But even if it’s another attack—what do I do, what can I do about it? Anything? Sending the wrong information to Relucia seems more likely to put myself in danger, than sabotage a scheme I know almost nothing about. I don’t owe it to the Hierarchy to expose myself by trying to tell someone else. And there’s not even much to tell. Not enough for anyone to take me seriously, let alone actually prevent whatever is coming.
I’m still deep in thought when I round the final twist in the tunnel. I don’t notice that I’m not alone until I see movement. By then it’s too late.
I take a couple of stumbling, panicked steps back, scrambling for a good course of action but failing to find one. The man clambers to his feet from where he was slouched opposite the entrance to my room. He steps forward into the lamplight.
It’s Fadrique.
