CHAPTER V

Calipari’s note passed from Jona’s hand to the hand of a Sabachthani gate guard. They were in a tavern near the island. The city was sweltering hot, like it was as hungover as everyone else. The place was empty that afternoon.

Jona had bought the man a tankard. They sat in a corner, where nobody could hear the words.

The gate guard handed the letter back with a shrug. “Can’t read,” he said, “I know you, though, Lord Joni. You working with Calipari, right?”

“Yeah. Calipari sent me. Tell me about the Chief Engineer,” said Jona. “I hear he’s coming to my streets. I hear he’s Ela’s people. We want to know who’s coming. You know, if he’s going to mess things up or leave us alone.”

“That fellow? He’s a commoner walking around like he’s somebody, that’s what.”

“Anything else?”

Lady Ela Sabachthani arranged meetings with the Chief engineer by breaking her own canal. She sledgehammered a retaining wall until it cracked. Then, she sent a runner to get the engineers to help her with the repair.

The Chief came from the palace, with his loyal engineers on hand to repair the breach. The Chief shared tea with Lady Sabachthani until his men finished fixing what she had broken.

The man at the gate said that the Chief was a good tipper, like he had more money than even Lord Elitrean. He couldn’t have that kind of money unless he was dirty, and all the gate guards agreed about that.

Jona agreed, too. Ela was probably bribing him for something. It was all related to the throne, and it was all Jona needed to know to not ask any more questions about it.

This fellow was coming into the Pens. It had something to do with Ela. It had something to do with kings. Nicola would want to know that.

* * *

Calipari eyed his men at roll call. Tripoli looked hung over, bad. Calipari pointed at Tripoli. Calipari pointed at Jona. “You two,” said Calipari, “A city engineer wants some king’s men today. Dry season. Road work, and canals time.”

“What took them so long to get down here?” said Jona.

Tripoli coughed. His face was sick white. He tried talking again, but he kept coughing. Then he sneezed, and that cleared his throat. “What they need us for?” said Tripoli.

Calipari shrugged. “Search me if I know,” he said, “but be good boys and do what you’re told. I don’t want to hear about any problems or you’ll be scrivening for a week at half pay. Something’s going on. I don’t know what. I want to keep the streets safe, regardless.”

Calipari grabbed the senior scrivener—a fellow called Pup on account of how his tongue stuck out when he was thinking. Calipari strapped a sword to the boy’s back. Pup jumped to walk about with the Sergeant. He waved at the other scriveners, and the rest of the scriveners bit their thumbs at Pup.

Tripoli and Jona waited for the engineer in the street. Tripoli yawned and coughed at the same time, and it sounded like an animal choking. He laughed. “I don’t know what we drank last night,” he said.

“We were drinking from one of those hoses, Tripoli, and I drank you into the gutter, too.”

“Sounds about right,” said Tripoli, “Hangovers are Elishta itself, sometimes.”

“Don’t blame me, you can’t take the juice.”

The Chief Engineer’s carriage turned down the road. Black horses with golden headdresses high-stepped down the street. The side of the carriage had the hammer and the snake of the city engineers.

Only one engineer had a carriage.

Tripoli stood up fast, and straightened his uniform. Jona kept his slouch. Jona sat down in the doorway. “Relax,” said Jona.

Tripoli whistled at Jona. “That’s the Chief Engineer.”

“I know,” said Jona. Jona faked a yawn. “He’s a good fellow.”

“You met him before, Lord Joni?”

“Naw, but I know him. He’s no noble. I can boss him around easy. Why you think Calipari volunteers me on him. Relax.”

Tripoli ignored Jona. Tripoli stood with a straight back, and watched the carriage with large, black horses coming down the avenue.

The Chief Engineer’s carriage crawled to a stop in front of the guard post. Tripoli reached for the handle of the door. Tripoli pulled it open like a coachman.

“Thanks,” said Jona, to Tripoli. Jona jumped through the door.

Inside, Jona had to let his eyes adjust to the dark. He held still in silence, blinking his eyes until he could see.

Then, Jona saw the man inside. The man had leaned back, surprised by Jona.

“Hello, Chief!” said Jona. Jona shoved his hand into the old man’s face. “We’ve met here or there, but I don’t think we’ve been formally proper about it. I’m Lord Joni, Corporal Jona Lord Joni. Nice ride you brought us.”

The Chief Engineer was a tall, thin man. He looked like he had more bones than muscle. His white hair, rakishly swooped around a saggy, loose face. His lips pursed to hide an amused grin. He was trying to be serious.

He took Jona’s hand, shook politely, and gestured to the street. “The pleasure is all mine. Mishle Leva, Keeper of the Keys and the Chief Engineer of the city. Please, meet me outside, Corporal.”

Jona stepped back outside, beside Tripoli.

The Chief Engineer peeled himself from the carriage seats. He planted his cane on the ground before he stuck his feet out. “And who else is working with us, today?” asked the Chief.

Tripoli threw up onto his boots.

“Don’t mind Corporal Tripoli,” said Jona, “He’s a little sick. That’s why he got stuck with us.”

“How come you got stuck with us, Lord Joni?” said the Chief.

Jona laughed. “I volunteered, Chief,” said Jona, “I hate to see Lady Sabachthani’s friends down here with just him for protection.”

The Chief nodded.

The Chief pulled a large, lumpy sack from the inside of the carriage. He reached inside, and rummaged through rolls of blueprints.

The smaller of the two coachmen jumped down from the high carriage seat. He pulled a strange contraption from a side compartment of the carriage. This device was an odd mass of springs and slats, like a large, crushed cricket. The couchman strapped the device across his shoulders like a backpack. He adjusted a spring. Large boards opened like wings. From his belt, two hinged rods pushed the board out and up into a drafting table. All the fellow had to do was stand still. The Chief spread the blueprints onto his walking desk. Little springs and teeth held the paper against the wind. The servant held ink in one hand and a series of quills in his pocket. He dipped a quill in ink, and handed it back over his shoulder to the Chief. The Chief took the quill. His hands moved over the blueprint. He scribbled furiously. His old knees trembled, but his hands were musician still.

Tripoli cocked his head at the contraption. “Don’t show that to Calipari or the scriveners’ll never forgive us.”

The Chief nodded his head. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. He didn’t look up from his sketching.

Jona walked around to the blueprint. He peered over the Chief ’s shoulder. He recognized the sewer but he pretended that he didn’t. “Where do you want us to take you?” said Jona.

The Chief Engineer pointed at a juncture in the lines and numbers. The Chief ’s finger paused as if Jona would say something. Jona didn’t say anything.

“We’ll be closing off… none of the streets have names here, do they? Can’t afford street names… Well, we’re going to dig a small canal out of some old sewer lines,” said the Chief. “We’ll make an island out of all that slaughterhouse nonsense and animal storage, to promote the cleanliness of the Pens District. Butchers’ll have to take their meat directly onto the canals instead of the streets.”

Jona snorted. “This district’ll never be clean. You and the rest wouldn’t set one suede boot down here.” He looked down to Tripoli’s boots, covered in regurgitated meat and bread. “Can’t say I blame you, either.”

Tripoli scraped his boots one at a time against the carriage wheel to clean them off. “Shit Island’s better than Shit District, I guess, but it won’t keep the streets clean for long. Not as long as there’s horse shit and dry season.”

The engineer gestured quickly to one of his servants. The man gently pulled Tripoli away from the carriage wheel. Tripoli nodded, and looked down at his boots, shamed.

The Chief Engineer kept scribbling on his blueprints. “St. Lorraina Island, actually. She’s the patron of butchers, and all blessings to Imam’s flock for donating this name. Shit Island is where most of the fullers work, north of town. That’s what I call it, anyway. You ever been there?”

“No,” said Jona.

“Avoid it if you can,” said the Chief. “Makes this place smell like a rose.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Jona.

“I can’t just wall off the fullers with a canal. They’re up in the country past the wall, working along the beachheads. Ever been to the beaches?”

“Can’t say I’ve been anywhere, Chief,” said Jona.

“Well, the only place worth going in the whole city is Sabachthani’s estate. Nothing else is worth the trouble.”

Jona nodded.