Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [242]
"And you just let them?" Lucius roared.
The captain winced. "My lord, they came under a sign of peace. They struck swiftly, and fled swifter. We did our best. I lost seven men, and there was a young nobleman killed, too."
"Who?" Lucius demanded.
The captain glanced around. "Bartolomeo Ponzi," one of his men offered.
"Bartolomeo." Lucius slumped in the saddle, and I remembered that was the name of the young nobleman his betrothed had loved. Lucius closed his eyes and shuddered, then straightened as though shouldering a burden. When he opened his eyes, he seemed to have himself under control. "Where's Helena?"
"Halfway to Valpetra, I imagine," the captain said apologetically. "An hour earlier, and you'd have seen them on the western road. I'm sorry, my lord. Come, we'll escort you to your father."
"Is the city safe?"
"It is now." The captain's face was dour. "The fire's contained and we sealed the gate."
"Good." Lucius pointed south. "My sister and her husband are awaiting word. Send a squadron to escort them. After that, no one comes or goes. Understood?"
"Prince Gaetano…" The captain paused. "Yes, my lord. Understood."
He escorted us through the streets of Lucca. It was a lovely city, or it should have been, charming streets lined with buildings of pale ochre with red-tiled rooftops, glowing in the afternoon sun. It was a merchant city and one could see it usually did a lively trade, but today the shops had closed their doors and the streets were mostly empty.
"Dagda Mod," Eamonn muttered. "It's like Tiberium after the rioting."
"No," I said. "It's worse."
I couldn't have said why, not exactly. But the pall that hung over Lucca was different. It wasn't just the smoke, although as we drew near the center of the city we could smell it. There was somewhat else. The other smell, the fetid Daršanga smell, lingered in my nostrils. The air felt heavy and oppressive. Despite the sun's bright warmth, I was cold. Even the Bastard felt it, his hide twitching the way it did when flies plagued him.
In Lucca's central square, the bell-tower stood, fire-gutted and smoldering. Its stone outer walls were scorched and intact, but the wooden interior had largely collapsed and the roof was gone. A few lines of men stood passing buckets, tossing their contents inside the gaping opening. Others stood around muttering. Sullen tendrils of smoke wreathed the tower's crown, but it seemed for the most part, as the captain had said, the fire was contained.
So why did the sight of it fill me with dread?
Here and there, men made the old Tiberian gesture to avert evil, thrusting their thumbs out of clenched fists. Others spat on the ground. I listened to their muttering, and heard the same word over and over.
Lemures.
I looked over at Lucius. His face was stark and bloodless, and he was staring at the dark maw of the burned tower. His lips worked soundlessly.
"Lucius." I touched his arm. It felt rigid as a board. "What is it?"
He turned his stare on me. "The mundus manes?"
"The what?" I asked. "The world? What?"
"The mundus manes!" he shouted. "Sweet Apollo, are you an idiot? The pit! It was in the bell-tower!" He whipped his head around, pinning his stare on the captain. "What happened to it?"
The captain made the sign against evil. He was pale, too, though nothing like Lucius. "The cover cracked in the heat of the fire, my lord."
Lucius put his face in his hands. Another shudder wracked him.
"I'm sorry," I said, bewildered. "I don't understand."
Eamonn cleared his throat. "It's the opening to the underworld. They uncover it once a year to appease the spirits of the dead and let them walk abroad." He shrugged at my expression. "I was in Tiberium last autumn for the festival. But I didn't notice anything."
"They're not your dead!" Lucius cried raggedly.
His shout rang in the square, and heads turned to stare.
"I'm sorry." Breathing hard, Lucius took up his reins. The color returned to his face so abruptly that he looked flushed. "Sorry. Come, my family