The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [13]
They spent two minsers on a warm loaf and turned their feet toward the Perto Veto, where their lodgings were located.
There they walked streets bounded by once-grand houses with marble-columned pastatos and balconied upper windows, picking their way through a shatter of unreplaced roof tiles and wine carafes, breathing air gravid with the scents of brine and sewage.
It was four bells, and women with low-cut blouses and coral-red lips—ladies of Rediana’s profession—were already gathered on the upper-story balconies, calling to men who seemed as if they might have money and taunting those who did not. A knot of men on a cracked marble stoop passed around a jug of wine and whistled at Anne and Austra as they went by.
“It’s the Duchess of Herilanz,” one of the men shouted. “Hey, Duchess, give us a kiss.”
Anne ignored him. In her month quartered in the Perto Veto, she had determined that most such men were harmless, though annoying.
At the next cross-street they turned up an avenue, entered a building through an open door, and climbed the stairs to their second-floor apartment. As they approached, Anne heard voices above—z’Acatto and someone else.
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