Masks
by Naomi Kritzer
Originally published in New Wyrd, the Wyrdsmiths' 2006 chapbook.
Mascherata was always my favorite holiday. I suppose that's not surprising. Behind a mask, anonymous, I was free to be who I was. Surrounded by men dressed as women and women dressed as men, I could embrace another man without shame -- clasp his hand, feel his breath against my cheek, and never have to glance over my shoulder to see who was watching. On Mascherata, I had no need to fear.
Nonetheless, that year, I had postponed buying a costume for weeks, and now it was nearly midwinter's eve. I had delayed buying a costume because of Falco, my lover. On Mascherata, we could dance together, touch each other, publicly. I wanted a costume that Falco would love.
I watched from the bed as Falco shrugged on a dressing gown and put a kettle on the fire to make tea. He glanced back to give me the brief, intimate smile that had captured me when we first met. "Tea, Domenico?"
"Yes, please." I rolled out of bed and started to pull on my tunic. "Ugh," I said, realizing that it was still wringing wet from my walk to the Fedele Citadel, where Falco lived. It had been raining all day.
"Hang that on the screen," he said, gesturing to the hearth. "You can wear one of my robes. Just grab something out of my wardrobe."
"These aren't exactly something I can wear home," I said, gingerly removing a black robe.
"You can stay till your tunic dries. Or we can toss a cloak over you and you can send the robe back with one of the message-boys."
I had never worn silk before. The fabric shifted against my skin like a feather. I buttoned it slowly, then sat down at Falco's table. "Seems a little heretical to be wearing this."
Falco laughed. "Let me just -- " he reached over and unpinned the sigil, the two linked circles representing the Lord and the Lady. "There. Now it's just a black robe. It's not like there's some rule saying that only the Fedeli get to wear black robes."
"I feel much better," I said, and tried to hide my discomfort with a broad smile.
The tea was ready; Falco poured me a cup. "Wasn't I going to give you tea to warm you up when you first got here?"
"So you said." I took a sip.
"It's your own fault for being so damn distracting." Falco touched the hair at the nape of my neck lightly as he set the kettle back on the hearth. "Besides, we had to get you out of those wet clothes."
"I suppose that's true." My violin case lay on the floor beside the door, forgotten. I lifted it into my lap and unlaced it, checking to make sure that the violin and bow were dry.
"Say, while you've got that out..."
"Do you want me to play something for you?"
"It would probably be a good idea. One of these days, one of my colleagues will ask me about your repertoire, and it would be unfortunate if I stammered out something like, 'you know, concertos...violin concertos.'"
I tightened my bow and tuned the violin, playing a couple of quick arpeggios to loosen my fingers. Falco sprawled out in his armchair to listen, closing his eyes in rapt concentration as I played. He was an appreciative audience, even if he couldn't remember the names of most of the pieces.
"Do you have your costume yet?" he asked as I let the last note fade away.
"No," I said. "Do you?"
"Yes. Do you want to see it?"
"I'd love to."
The robes and mask were wrapped up and stored in his wardrobe. It was traditional on Mascherata for the Fedeli priests and priestesses to dress as Maledori, and Falco was not one to defy tradition. The robe was scarlet red; it looked richly made, but like most Mascherata costumes, the fabric was cheap and the dye would run if it got wet. The mask was a sculpted demon's face, adorned with red and black feathers and sparkling false gems. "D'you like it?" Falco asked, holding it up.
"Beautiful. I mean, terrifying."
"Good." Falco gave me a quick flash of that intimate smile. "Beautiful AND terrifying is kind of what I was going for."
He put his costume away and was starting to pour himself more tea when we heard a ringing bell. "Lady's tits," he muttered under his breath. "I had no idea it had gotten so late. I have to go." He shed his dressing gown and pulled a fresh robe from his closet, buttoning it quickly.
"Let me give this back to you." I started to unbutton the robe I was wearing, but Falco shook his head.
"No time. Just put your cloak on and send it back with one of the boys. If anyone asks, well, it's no crime to get wet on your way to play for me, is it?" Dressed in black, now, Falco caught my shoulder in his hand and pressed his lips to mine; then he released me and turned to his mirror. He smoothed his hair, then straightened his shoulders and composed his face; he checked to make sure that the sigil was pinned to his sleeve. In moments, his face was almost that of a stranger: Father Falco, priest of the Fedeli. Guardian of the way, enforcer of the Law of the Lady. I met his eyes in the mirror and quickly looked away.
I tossed my wet cloak over my shoulders and bundled my wet clothes in my arms, and stepped out the door as he swung it shut behind us. He gave me the briefest flash of his smile as I shouldered my violin. "Remember," he said. "You're coming to play for me again the day after tomorrow. Don't forget."
As if I could, I thought, grimly striding out into the still-wet night. Beautiful and terrifying. Falco doesn't need a mask for that.
My quartet had an engagement later that evening -- playing for a dinner party of Fedeli priests and priestesses. We had found a brisk business playing for Fedeli since Falco had first taken an interest in me, a few months ago.
Falco was there, of course. I watched him from the musician's gallery as I played. During a break between courses, when no one was looking, he glanced up and shot me a quick, secretive smile. I felt myself flush, though of course I'd been watching in the hopes that he'd look up to find me. When I looked down again, he'd turned away to talk to the person at his left. The person at his right, an older priestess named Marietta, glanced up a little questioningly. I bit my lip and looked away. Even if Marietta saw Falco looking at me, or me looking at Falco, it shouldn't be a problem; the other Fedeli all knew we were friends. The only problem would be if anyone suspected that we were more than that, but so far as I knew, no one did. Falco and I both kept a careful ear out for gossip, and we'd heard none. It was not unusual for individual priests and priestesses to use some of their surplus wealth to hire musicians to play for them. There was no reason to expect anyone to be suspicious.
At the end of the evening, a few priests were standing around, still discussing politics over wine. Falco had lingered on the fringes of the conversation, and I lingered too, slowly lacing up my violin case, hoping for the opportunity to say goodnight to him.
"And Prince Travan -- " A young priest; I thought his name was Gemino.
"What about his Lordship?" That was Marietta, the priestess who'd looked at me earlier.
"Well, we've heard unfortunate things about his reluctance to seek out the Lady's blessing."
"Perhaps he's just waiting for the right girl," Marietta said.
"I'm sure. But he might look harder for the right girl with some encouragement." Gemino licked his lips. "There are rumors that he has a preference for -- other company."
"You're not seriously suggesting that we threaten the son of the Emperor with a heresy charge?" Marietta rolled her eyes.
"Is the son of the Emperor above the law of the Lady?"
"Of course not. But while of course the Lord and the Lady wish to see Prince Travan honor them, so that they can bless him with a child, that doesn't mean he must find himself a girl to bed on a nightly basis. Prince Travan is known to be a bit shy; I'm sure the Lady understands that." She turned to refill her wine glass and Falco caught her eye. "You seem quite interested in this conversation, Falco. I suppose that's not surprising -- aren't you always the one we send in to terrorize the fichi?"
My shoulders tensed; fico, fig, was slang for a man like me. Or like Falco.
"You flatter me, Mother Marietta." Falco's face was turned away from mine, and I couldn't guess what his tone implied. Or what Marietta meant.
"So, what do you think? Should we bring charges against Prince Travan?" Her tone was droll, as if she was expecting Falco to laugh, but he didn't.
"Perhaps it would be a bit hasty to bring charges now," he said, setting aside his drink. "But it's also important for the Imperial family to set a good example for the rest of the faithful. And no one is exempt from the law of the Lady."
"So." Marietta took a sip of her wine and glanced from Gemino to Falco and back again. "Just how long do you think we should give him? Six months, a year, two years?"
"He's of age," Falco said. "Perhaps a year and a half, and then -- well, I'm not suggesting that we haul him down to the Citadel's dungeons. Gentle persuasion."
"Ah. I think you'll find, my young friend, that no word from one of Fedeli is ever heard as 'gentle' by the ones we guide." Marietta laughed kindly. "Especially when you're the one offering the gentleness."
Falco had picked up his wine again, but he coughed when she said that, and had to set it back down. "It was a pleasure to sit with you this evening, Marietta -- did I say that earlier? A great pleasure. We must dine together sometime next week. But for now, I think I'd better go to bed. Gemino. Domenico." He nodded at me as he took himself out.
I had finished lacing my violin case, and I was suddenly very much aware that Marietta and Gemino's eyes were on me. I wanted to linger a little longer, in the hopes that Marietta would explain her remarks about Falco, but it would have been deeply conspicuous. I bowed goodnight to the two of them. Then, flipping up the hood of my still-damp cloak to hide my face, I tucked my violin case under my arm and set out for my room back in the musician's hall.
The next day dawned cloudy, but free from rain, and my cloak was finally dry enough to wear again. Once my quartet's rehearsal was over, I decided to go buy a costume.
As one of the musicians, I lived in the Imperial enclave in the heart of Cuore. The Emperor lived in the enclave, of course, and his son, but more importantly, so did the real holders of power: the Circle mages, and the leaders of the Fedeli. Not that Falco was particularly high ranking -- he was one of the hundreds of ambitious Fedeli priests who did scutwork for his superiors. When I had asked Falco what he did, he said that mostly he sorted and filed papers. Not exactly an exciting way to battle heresy and "guard the way to the wrong" on behalf of the Lord and the Lady, but every little bit helped, I supposed.
I checked to make sure I had my silver eagle medallion, which I would need to get back into the enclave, and set out to the tailors' district. Most of the tailors sold costumes during the month before Mascherata.
The streets were very crowded that afternoon; I was not the only procrastinator. Fortunately, nearly every store was displaying festival wares. Peddlers walked the street with long staves holding a dozen masks each, and every dressmaker and wigmaker had a selection of masks on display as well. Plain black masks were available, of course, but also finely sculpted masks like the one Falco wore: faces like beetles and like butterflies; lions, crocodiles, wolves, mice; mythical beasts like elephants; Maledori. I found myself oddly tempted to dress as a Maledore, but feared that Falco would consider it presumptuous.
And that was the problem. How, how to find a costume that Falco would find beautiful, but not threatening? That his colleagues in the Fedeli would find enchanting, but not suspicious? If I wanted to dance with Falco, I had better dress as a lady, I decided. I didn't really think of myself as a girl, and preferred on Mascherata to dress as a man and dance with all the other men dressed as women, but this year was special. I went to look at wigs.
The wigs varied a great deal in quality, of course. The cheapest were made of yarn sewn into braids, and obviously fake. Then there were wigs made of hair or of fine thread that at least appeared to be hair, and those were quite a bit more expensive. The most costly was also obviously false: wigs made from delicate strands of tiny glass beads. I brushed the beads with a finger; they made a tiny tinkling noise as the strands brushed back and forth.
"Would you care to try it on, signore?" the merchant asked.
I shook my head. I knew the price was more than I could easily afford.
In the end, I was too indecisive to buy anything but face-paints. "Look at my dresses, signore!" one of the tailors called as I passed, and I spared a quick glance, but until I knew which wig I was buying I couldn't choose a dress. A very expensive dress would look ridiculous with a yarn wig, but if I wore a cheap dress and a yarn wig, I'd really look like a boy musician straight from the country, too poor to buy anything but a single tunic and hose for everyday wear.
Back at my room in the enclave, I found a sealed letter in a silver tray on my table; one of the servants had brought me a letter. I initially thought it was a message from Falco, but when I picked it up I realized it had come much further than across the enclave. It had the smudges and heft of a letter that had been sent through the Imperial messenger service, and sure enough, when I broke the seal I saw that the signature read Nolasco.
Nolaco was an old friend of mine from conservatory. We'd both been Circle-sponsored musical students at the Rural Conservatory of Marino. After we completed our studies, I had been the envy of our peers when I won a place playing in an ensemble in the Imperial enclave. Nolasco had secured a good spot for himself, too, though a less prestigious one: he was teaching trumpet at the Rural Conservatory of Verdia. It was quite a remote post, down by the border, but Nolasco seemed to like it. I settled into a chair and unfolded the letter.
Domenico, Nolasco's letter said. First of all, I thought I'd remind you of the availability of the messenger service. You do realize, of course, that they deliver to Verdia, and you could avail yourself of it to send me a letter sometime to tell me how you'd doing. I smiled ruefully; he went on to tease me a bit more about being a poor correspondent -- your poor mother must think you're dead -- and then got to the point.
"One of the violin instructors suffered a stroke some months ago. Though she's mostly recovered, her rather advanced years have caught up with her quite suddenly. I just thought I'd let you know that there's probably going to be an opening here, very soon. Even if she survives the winter, she's planning to retire.
"Perhaps you're chortling right now, asking yourself why ever you'd come down here, to live practically on the border, when you have the position that was the envy of the conservatory. And if that's so, well, have yourself a good laugh and toss this letter into the fire. But I thought I'd mention it because I remember you well, and sooner or later, it seems to me, you might begin to want to live somewhere where you do not need to hide.
"The rules, of course, are the same everywhere. But speaking as one who is much like you in certain ways, I can assure you that there is a certain laxness in enforcement, the further you get from the Fedeli.
"And the Fedeli do not come here, Domenico. The Fedeli have never been here, not in recent memory. I just thought, perhaps, you might like to know that."
The Fedeli have never been here. I read the letter again, twice, then tossed it into the fire, on the off-chance that someone might see it.
I have no need to fear the Fedeli, I thought. Not when one of them is my lover.
I had an appointment with Falco the next afternoon, and as we talked companionably over tea after my "performance," I found the nerve to ask him about the conversation with Marietta.
Falco stood up quickly to refill his teacup. Then he threw himself down into his chair. "Domenico, I'm sorry. I hate the very words that come out of my mouth when I'm in conversations like that, but I know that the best way to keep people from suspecting is to make sure everyone thinks I'm on the opposite side, you know?"
"I understand that." Not that I had to like it, but I expected it from a lover who was also Fedele. "But Marietta said -- " What had she said? "She said you were the one they always sent to frighten the fichi. Why did she say that?"
"I don't know. Marietta is old, and I've heard that her mind is slipping a little; I think she probably had me confused with someone else. Did you know -- " he dropped his voice and leaned forward a little. "Last week, she called Prince Travan by his mother's name by mistake."
"Really?" Despite myself, I leaned forward with some interest.
"Really. Not his father's name, his mother's name. Do you see why I think her mind is slipping?"
"That's a very weird mistake."
"Well, admittedly, last week was just a weird week for the Fedeli. Gemino says it's the Maledori making trouble before the Lord defeats them all for the year: one of the initiates fell while coming down a flight of stairs with a basket of incense, and it went everywhere. I love the smell, but I don't really need crushed rose petals in every crevice of my robe, and that's what happened. Then an entire pile of transcribed confessions were misplaced. Then High Priest Illario broke out in hives..."
"What did you do about the lost confessions? Did they turn up?"
"They did turn up. In a kitchen pantry, of all places. Someone took them along while hunting up a snack very late at night, I guess. It was a good thing they turned up. We were going to have to ask all the penitents to confess again, and first of all, that sort of thing tends to start rumors that we're all a bunch of incompetents. Not a useful reputation for those who enforce the Law of the Lady, don't you agree? And second of all, it would have really pissed off the scribes, and goodness knows they're all in a bad mood most of the time anyway."
Despite myself, I relaxed over the tea and laughed at Falco's stories. The Fedeli seemed much less intimidating when you were hearing stories about people losing papers.
"Do you have your costume yet?" Falco asked as I put on my cloak to leave.
"No," I said.
"Hurry," Falco said. "All the good costumes will be gone."
I went shopping again the next day, though as I fingered a cloak of dyed scarlet feathers, I found myself thinking of Nolasco, rather than Falco. Mascherata celebrations at the conservatory could be best described as subdued. The holiday celebrated the victory of the Lord over the Maledori; since the evil ones had been wiped out for the year, this freed the faithful to spend the longest night of the year in wild revelry. At the conservatory, we had a chapel service after supper, and then spent the night dancing in our dormitories. Since boys and girls were kept strictly separated, this was rather more fun for boys like Nolasco and me than it was for most of our companions.
For all that the law might be the same everywhere, Nolasco was not a boy who was subtle in his preferences. We usually tried to improvise costumes for our midnight dance, and without fail, Nolasco found a way to dress as a girl -- pilfered hairpins, ribbons, face-paint. I wished suddenly that we might have had the opportunity, one year, to spend a real Mascherata together -- it would have been fun, if nothing else, to shop for costumes with Nolasco. He'd love the feathered cloak. I dropped it and moved on to the next shop.
What would Nolasco tell me to buy? What would he buy, if he were me? I knew immediately. But the price, I thought, and could hear Nolasco laughing at me: And you're saving your money for what? Does your roof leak here? Do your shoes have holes? A quarter of an hour later, biting my lip as I counted out the money, I bought a wig of glittering indigo beads, and a dress of dark blue velvet to match. I would be beautiful on Mascherata -- beautiful, if not terrifying. I would be someone that Falco would be proud to dance with. The mask I brought was simple glazed ceramic, tinted blue to match the dress and wig.
Back in my rooms, I tried on the whole ensemble, painting my lips and rouging my cheeks, and then padding the bust of the dress, cinching it in at the waist, and setting the wig into place. I looked nothing like a woman. But I was beautiful, all the same.
On the afternoon of Mascherata, one of the errand-boys came with a message: Mother Marietta, priestess of the Fedeli, was interested in a few hours of my services. I was impatient -- it was Mascherata! -- but refusing the engagement seemed impolitic, so I left my mask, dress, and wig strewn across my unmade bed, tucked my violin case under one arm, and donned my cloak for the walk to the Citadel.
For once that winter, it was not raining. It was perfect weather for Mascherata: cold, but clear and perfectly dry. Even the mud puddles from the weeks of rain seemed to have dried out, and despite the chill in the air, the gardens in the enclave were full of people out enjoying the sun. Mages from the Circle strolled together past black-robed Fedeli priests, while brightly dressed nobles perched on the edges of fountains to discuss business in low voices. I could hear a trio of flute players somewhere not too far away, and elsewhere, a solo trumpet.
Mother Marietta had chosen to spend the afternoon indoors; perhaps the air was too cold for her aging bones. She nodded me to a spot in the corner to play as she pored over a pile of papers, making notes on each and signing her name at the bottom. She sorted them into a series of piles, keeping the piles neat with little paperweights.
There was a knock at the door after an hour or two. "Yes, come in," she called. As the door opened, she turned to me. "You can take a break, Domenico; your fingers must be tired. Have a cup of tea and sit down." I took the offered cup and pulled a practice stool to the corner, out of the way.
The priest who came in was a young priest, about Falco's age -- Tomas, I thought his name was. Marietta smiled warmly and they began to discuss the pile of papers. Each represented the confession of a prisoner; Marietta was evaluating the punishment of each one. Most had repented fully and would be let off with a fine; a few were sentenced to public floggings, and one, an unrepentant heretic, was unceremoniously consigned to the fires. I felt an odd queasiness in my stomach at that; my hand strayed back to my bow, as I thought about how maybe it would be better not to listen to this conversation. But then I heard Falco's name.
"Ah yes. Even if the heretic doesn't repent, Father Falco can always at least get a confession." Marietta shrugged. "I've been trying to encourage him to work on his skills of leading people fully back to the Lady, rather than being satisfied with their confession. I think he lacks follow-through."
"Perhaps he lacks the steel in his heart necessary...?" Tomas said.
Marietta laughed. "He doesn't lack for ruthlessness, if that's what you're suggesting. Did you ever hear about Agosto?"
"No. I haven't heard the name."
"He was a musician, a friend of Falco's. He was accused of being a fico. Falco actually volunteered to interrogate Agosto."
"Volunteered? Why would he do that?" Tomas sounded a little repulsed. "I love the Lady as much as any priest, but I have to admit I wouldn't volunteer to lead a straying friend back to her, though I might pray over them beforehand. Do you think it was Falco's faith that motivated him to do it?"
"I would never question another's faith," Marietta said. "It might well have been his faith that motivated him, and his commitment to help his friend. But if I had to guess -- well, it seemed that Falco wished to be sure that no one doubted his own revulsion at his old friend's sin." Very deliberately, Marietta glanced over at me. So that I would make no mistake of her intent, she met my eyes for a moment, then looked away. I knew that my face had given me away, but I was also quite certain that didn't matter: Marietta had summoned me today to warn me, not to betray me.
"Was he executed?" Tomas asked.
"Oh, no. He repented fully and was spared the fire. But he was left unable to play his instrument, and returned to his home village."
Tomas shook his head. I thanked the Lord and the Lady that he hadn't looked at me. I was sure that my face must be the color of chalk, and my hands were shaking too badly to play my instrument. Marietta calmly went through the rest of the papers, handed them to Tomas, and wished him a good day. "I will see you this evening," she said. "I hope you've got your costume ready."
"Oh yes," he said with a smile, and took his leave.
Tonight. Of course. The festival.
Marietta turned to me with a gentle smile. "Why, Domenico, you're looking quite ill."
"Am I?" My voice came out in a stammer, in a squeak.
"I'm so sorry, we were discussing your good friend right in front of you, weren't we? I quite forgot you were here. Well, of course, Fedele business is entirely confidential, and I trust that you won't discuss this with anyone. Why don't you go back to your room and rest up. It would be a shame if your illness caused you to miss the festivities tonight."
I stumbled back to my room and dropped the violin on my bed beside my costume. Nolasco's offer was sounding better and better, but as I tried to gather my wits, there was a knock at the door. The errand-boy had a message from Falco -- directions to the street corner where the Fedeli would have their party.
I can't go, I thought. I can't look him in the eye, not after what I know.
I can't not go, I thought a moment later. It's too late to leave for Verdia today; the party is already underway. I'd need to buy food, and sturdy boots and clothes for the walk... Even as I thought out my excuses to myself, I knew I could find what I needed, if I tried. No. I was going to the festival, because I wanted to see Falco, one last time.
As the thin midwinter sunshine faded to twilight outside my window, I shaved very carefully, painted my lips and cheeks, and put on the velvet dress, filling out the bosom with unspun wool. As I reached for the wig, I paused and looked at my wardrobe. I still had that black silk robe that Falco had loaned me. It was missing the sigil, but in truth, it was the robe people saw first. A Fedele priestess, I thought. I'll dress as a priestess. I pulled the robe on over the dress: the generous cut of the robe completely covered the blue velvet. I set the wig in place and stepped to my mirror. Beautiful, I thought, looking at myself. Beautiful and terrifying.
Outside the enclave, the streets were crowded, with music and dancing. I accepted a swig of wine from a stranger with a wineskin, then rounded a corner to see brilliant lights bloom in the sky like roses -- during celebrations, some of the Circle mages would create fire in the sky, just for the sake of artistry. I paused to watch the display, then applauded at the end as the three masked mages bowed deeply.
Finally I found my way into a throng of Maledori -- terrifying masks, some beautiful and some hideous, and robes in a rainbow of colors. There was drumming here to dance to. I looked for a red robe but didn't see it.
"A priestess! A priestess! Have mercy on us, Mother!"
The Fedeli-Maledori had seen me, and I was swept into the crowd on a swell of raucous approval. I stretched out my hands, and the "Maledori" fell away from me with cries of mock terror. I laughed, for a moment reveling just in the fun of the moment. The Fedeli priestess costume was, for my earlier purposes, perfect: the Fedeli themselves approved heartily.
"Dance with me," I commanded one of the priests, a man wearing a mask that looked like a possessed raven. He bowed in mock terror and took my hand, whirling me briefly to the drum music.
"I obey your command, Mother Fedele," the priest said, cringing as I released his hand and returning to the circle that now surrounded us. I seized another priest, and another, until I finally reached Falco.
Falco's eyes were watching me behind his mask, and I saw them slide appreciatively over me. He was smiling as he bowed in mock submission to my "authority." "Oh Mother Priestess," he said. "Holy Defender of the Lady, please do not hurt me. I am only a little demon, not truly worth your time."
"Dance with me," I ordered, and he seized my hand and whirled me into the dance.
"You're beautiful," he whispered in my ear. "Please, Domenico, tell me you'll meet me in my room after the party. It will be a little late for music, but I'm sure no one will notice."
Instead of answering, I thrust him away. "This one has incurred my wrath," I shouted. "Seize him!"
"We hear and obey, Holy Mother Priestess," the nearby revelers said, and seized Falco.
"Oh, have mercy on me!" Falco begged, smiling.
We were in a courtyard with some broken statuary. "Tie him there," I said, and pointed. With sashes and scarves, the other priests bound Falco to the pillar.
"Don't hurt me, I beg you!" Falco said, cringing unconvincingly.
I stepped towards him, and everyone else stepped back.
"You may be possessed," I said loud enough for everyone to hear. "You may even have become the Maledore we all fear in the night. But I am Fedele. I can lead you back to the mercy of the Lady, if you'll trust me."
"Oh, he's MUCH too far gone for that," someone shouted, and everyone laughed. Everyone except Falco, who had just taken a good look at my face.
I stepped very close to him, and whispered into his ear: "Tell me about Agosto."
Falco blanched. His eyes went wide; his lips parted, but no sound came from them. I slipped my hand under my robe to rest on the hilt of my eating-knife. "I could gut you before your friends would ever think to stop me. If you call for help right now, they'll laugh. Tell me about Agosto."
Falco shook his head wordlessly.
"He was your lover, wasn't he? Like me? And to deflect suspicion, you offered to torture him yourself. You'd do that to me, too, wouldn't you?"
"No, no, Domenico, never you. Never you."
"Then why Agosto?"
Silence.
"Why?" I shouted. There was a laugh from the Fedeli who were still watching, and one of them shouted, "You'd better answer her, Falco, I think you're making her mad."
"I had to," Falco whispered. "He'd been accused. It would have happened regardless, whether or not I participated. I couldn't save him."
"So there wasn't any point in trying," I whispered. "And so you crippled him yourself."
"Most musicians break if you just threaten their hands," Falco hissed. "I wasn't expecting to have to actually do it."
My hand still under the robe, I drew my knife and pressed the point against Falco's gut, just above his pelvic bone. "Oh sweet Lady have mercy," Falco said, his voice sounding strangled. I was half afraid that the people around me would realize at that point it wasn't a game anymore, but there was more laughter and one of the priest shouted "Confess, Falco, confess!"
"I'm sorry," Falco said, and now he was crying. "I don't know what you want me to say. Tell me what you want me to say, and I'll say it. Do you want me to say I'm sorry? I am sorry." He dropped his voice to a broken whisper. "Do you want me to tell you that I still see his face in my nightmares? I do. Don't hurt me, Domenico, please. Please."
I could smell a rising stench as Falco lost control of his bowels, and I realized, with a hint of shame, that I had enjoyed my moment of power over him. And I knew that if I walked away now, he would make no attempt to stop me. I thought of the other musician, with his broken hands, and for a moment I almost plunged the knife into his gut. But we were surrounded by Fedeli, and I knew that they would make me pay for any real violence, in ways I didn't like to contemplate. And unlike Agosto, I could still walk away, and go play my music somewhere else.
"Goodbye, Father," I whispered, and pulled the knife back. "I hope the Lady casts your soul into the pit of snakes." I stepped back from him and strode rapidly out of the square.
On my way back to the enclave, people shied away from me with looks of fear; though on one hand they must have known that I was not Fedele, the response to the black robes was instant and instinctive. The Fedeli do not come here, Nolasco's letter had said. I hoped he was right.
It is difficult to find provisions and traveling clothes on a festival night, but it is not impossible. By dawn, I was on my way out of the city. A gentle rain started and I realized, as I looked back towards the city one last time, that I was still wearing my mask.
I took it off, and dashed it to the ground, where it splintered into shards. "For you, Falco," I said, and turned south.
THE END