The Golden City

surprise her. The Portuguese Church forbade this type of magic, so if he studied necromancy he certainly wouldn’t tell anyone. But it was far more likely he wasn’t working alone. There had to be workers to build the houses, others to lower them into the river at night, and someone to dive down to affix the chains to the weights on the river’s floor. Surely she could find one person among those willing to talk. Surely one of them found this monstrous.

But she was nearing the end of her rope.

She couldn’t go to the police. She’d considered posting an anonymous letter to them, but no matter how she imagined that playing out, every possibility led back to them asking her why she had lived when Isabel had died. The truth would land her first in the Special Police’s holding cells and then on the gallows.

There were other possibilities. Her father lived in the Golden City . . . but she wouldn’t go to him. Not unless she became truly desperate. Not having made such a mull of her life. Not after Marina’s death. She didn’t know if she could ever face him, having failed to keep her sister safe. And he had a new life here, a fresh start, where he was allowed to pursue his own goals and dreams without the government’s disapproval of a male getting out of his place. Her father was a businessman now. Oriana was proud of him for his enterprise . . . and was equally furious that he had replaced her dead mother with a human lover, one of his employers, Lady Pereira de Santos. Oriana had heard it whispered in the Amaral house—one over from the home of the lady in question—and it stung.

It was a childish reaction, she knew, but when she occasionally saw him, she felt such a welter of conflicting emotions that she always kept her distance. She only hoped that no one else realized he was her father. Heriberto might use that information to force her hand if he learned of it—he could turn her father in to the Special Police— and she didn’t want to give her master that sort of advantage over her.

No, she must simply find some manner of work, a position that would allow her to stay in the city and pursue the person who had ended all of Isabel’s dreams. She could go to an agency, perhaps, or start checking with dressmakers to see if any needed a seamstress. She glanced down at her worn black skirt. She wouldn’t make a favorable impression wearing this.

A voice broke into her musings. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Oriana glanced back at the store she’d just passed. Tucked into the first level of the building beneath an overhanging balcony, the tiny shop sold lace and fabrics and ribbon. The man waiting for her there could not look less like one of their patrons. An older man with graying hair in untidy curls, he dressed like a fisherman in worn brown trousers and a stained white tunic. A red kerchief hid his throat from view.

Ah gods. He was the last person she wanted to see now. Oriana mentally steeled herself, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. “Heriberto. How did you find me?”

The sereia spymaster stepped out of the shadows into the lesser shadows. In this part of town, the cobbled streets were jumbled and narrow. With the buildings tightly packed on either side, reaching up four stories high, it was a wonder anyone here ever saw sunlight. Heriberto gave Oriana a false smile. “Your employer eloped, I hear.” He leaned closer, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “And you missed your scheduled report. Why?”

He hadn’t answered her question, Oriana noted. This wasn’t an ideal location to have a private discussion anyway. Escura Street was busy this time of day, with pedestrians wanting to get past them and on to their dinners. Laundry flapped in the murky breeze overhead, run between and along the balconies, snapping and spraying them with fine droplets of water. “I have something I need to take care of.”

He raised one scarred hand to touch a finger under his eye, the gesture for disbelief. “You have no business other than what I tell you to have. You had an appointment with Dr. Esteves Saturday afternoon. Remember? I set it up for you, yet you’re still dragging your feet about getting your hands cut. Gods, you’re useless.”

Oriana was as tall as he was, so she could look down her nose convincingly. “You forget, Heriberto, I’m the only one you’ve got with access to the aristocracy. Who warned you that the navy was moving out on exercises last April?” she whispered. “Who told you that the Marquis of Maraval has friends among the Absolutists?”

They had been important bits of information, whether Heriberto wanted to admit it or not. The first had come from a naval officer who’d wanted to impress Isabel at a ball, puffing on about how the exercises—which would have taken the navy far too close to the islands—couldn’t proceed without his navigational skills. The other tidbit had come from Isabel herself, simple chatter while Oriana had been repairing a rent in one of Isabel’s dresses. Of course, Isabel didn’t see the Absolutists as a threat—after all, her own father was one of them. But the Absolutists believed in the divine right of the royal family, and therefore that the prince’s ban on the sea folk was perfectly legitimate. The Marquis of Maraval, the powerful Minister of Culture, was supposed to be neutral. If he shifted his views in favor of the Absolutists, it might adversely affect her people. Northern Portugal had always leaned in that direction anyway.

Heriberto ignored her reminders. “Your access to the aristocracy just fled to Paris. The papers claim you went with her, but I hear her mother threw you out on your ear.”

Her blood pounded in her ears, and Oriana pushed down the sick feeling that welled up at his claim. How did he know? She glanced down the street at the door of the boarding house. Her expulsion would have been fodder for servants’ gossip up and down the Street of Flowers for the past few days. It wouldn’t have cost him more than a beer or two to hear that tale, but only Carlos had known she was coming to stay with his elderly kinswoman. He must have told Heriberto where to find her. Oriana lifted her chin, trying to appear confident, and lied through her teeth. “When she gets back, Isabel will give me a reference. I’ll find another position then. I just need a couple of weeks to get my feet under me.”

“Weeks?” Heriberto snorted and made an obscene gesture with his hands that, fortunately, no human would recognize. “To get your feet under you? I heard you’re going to be spending that time on your back to pay your rent. Are you stupid enough to trust a human with the color of your stripe?”

Most sereia had skin too thick to blush. Oriana was grateful for that at the moment. The warmth flooding her face wouldn’t show. People were passing them on the street, none looking very interested in a petty squabble. Fortunately, the reference to the color of her dorsal stripe—a euphemism for promiscuity back on the islands— wouldn’t mean anything to the passersby who overheard it.

Oriana had no doubt Carlos had claimed she’d agreed to become his lover, but Carlos had never had a chance of seeing her dorsal stripe. “Don’t believe everything you hear,” she told Heriberto.

“Oh, I never do.” He stepped closer, grasping her sleeve to keep her from escaping. He kept his voice low. “No one’s ever seen your stripe, from what I hear. You know, I could make your life here a great deal more comfortable, girl, if you’re interested. And I’m well liked back home. I could get you a better position in the ministry.”

She’d heard that other girls who’d come to the city had done just that, taking Heriberto as a lover in exchange for easier assignments and faster advancement. It bothered her that he had that much influence. Not because he was male. She had no problem with males in positions of authority. But no one should have that much influence over his workers, especially when he was inclined to abuse it. He made a mockery of his posting. She would take Carlos as a lover before Heriberto. No, she would rather turn herself in to the Special Police first.

He laughed shortly, as if he’d read her mind. “I’ll give you two weeks. If you don’t have a sound position by then, I’m sending you home. I’ll even make another appointment with the doctor for you, next Friday. I expect you to show up this time. My superiors aren’t as tolerant as I am, and I’m tired of making excuses for you.”

“I understand.” Oriana jerked her arm free and turned away before Heriberto could say more, almost colliding with a burly carter carrying a cask on his shoulder. She managed to sidestep out of the man’s path, an awkward dance set to the sound of Heriberto’s laughter. Clasping her notebook closer to her chest, she strode away.

“Be there Friday at three,” he called after her.

She glanced back and nodded sharply in acknowledgment. She’d won one concession.

“And someone is hunting for you on the streets,” he yelled. “Asking for you by name. Don’t bring trouble back to my door.”

There was little chance of that. His “door” was a little fishing boat moored on a quay farther from the old town center. She had no intention of going there. Oriana strode out of the narrow, confined street onto wider Sao Sebastiao. When she glanced back over her shoulder, Heriberto was nowhere in sight.

Her ire faded. Heriberto set her teeth on their sharp edge—he always had. But now that she was out of his sight, the sick and hollow sensation in her stomach returned with a vengeance. Now she had more to worry about. She stopped on the corner and pressed one mitt-covered hand to