Masks

Chapter Thirty-Four

The forks were the least of Mircea’s problems.

“I thought we’d be at the lady’s table,” Jerome said, glancing enviously at the raised area at the front of the banquet hall, where the senator would soon take her seat.

Mircea didn’t say anything.

The itchy, nervous sensation from outside had increased tenfold once they entered the close confines of the hall. Waves of pure power shot by him, over him, and in some cases through him. He put a hand out to return his glass to the tray a passing servant was carrying, and received a jolt hard enough to make him snatch it back.

The servant gave him a strange look, but Mircea didn’t care. It was starting to feel like a lightning storm had been trapped in between the walls. Had been trapped, and was eager to get out.

But not half as much as Mircea was.

Jerome shot him a glance. “You all right?”

“Yes.”

“You look a little pale.”

“I’m fine,” Mircea said, and closed his eyes.

And still saw the crowd, glowing with power, in his mind.

A shining nimbus hovered about the guests, outlining their shapes far better than the dim lighting. It was so faint around some of them that he had trouble seeing it, but bright as a flame around others. Forming glowing ribbons that streamed out behind them whenever they moved, like the tail of one of the kites he’d flown as a boy. Together, the senator’s milling guests wove a lattice of light across the room, a glowing tapestry of power that—

“Are you sure?” Jerome asked, sounding less than certain himself. “You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine,” Mircea repeated, a little breathlessly.

Because the scene had just changed. In his mind’s eye, a rainbow swirled about a figure who had just entered from some door he hadn’t noticed and didn’t care about. Because the senator’s presence lit up the room like the sun rising through stained glass.

Or perhaps the Murano variety would be more accurate. The enhanced colors allowed him to see that the strokes of power weren’t just monochrome, as he’d first thought. But shaded, striped, and speckled in a hundred different ways, in colors that overlapped and tinted each other.

And formed a picture of family alliances more distinctive than any coat of arms, Mircea realized, as he finally understood what he was seeing.

These had to be the energy patterns she had talked about, the ones all vampires were supposed to have. He didn’t know how he was suddenly able to perceive them when he never had before. But they were beautiful, beautiful . . . almost mesmerizing. . . .

Until he caught sight of his own hand, which he had unconsciously raised as if to touch one of the passing bands.

And saw it as a dark silhouette against all that power, his own strength so negligible as to be almost invisible, even when he moved.

His hand fell back to his side, abruptly.

Of course. He didn’t have a master. He didn’t belong to anyone. And, he realized, every vampire of any strength had known that, immediately, upon first glance.

No wonder he’d been attacked so many times, on the way to Venice. No wonder he’d been hunted for sport, by those who knew there would be no reprisals for his death. No wonder the Watch had been able to identify him as a blackmail target so easily and so quickly.

He advertised his vulnerability just by walking into a room.

“Mircea?” Jerome was sounding genuinely worried now.

Mircea opened his eyes to see a face that matched the voice looking at him nervously. He put a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder, then realized it was shaking. “I need some air,” he said hoarsely.

“But—” Jerome glanced at Paulo, who was busy being charming to one of the senator’s ladies a little way off. “But the senator is here. They’re going to start seating any—”

“I’ll be back in a minute,” Mircea said. And then he was pushing through the crowd, half blind from two types of vision fighting with each other, and heedless of the fine guests except as obstacles in his way.

He somehow reached the courtyard, and then kept on going, the burn of power dissipating behind him. It was replaced by cool night breezes, the sound of a fountain in the distance, and the smell of growing things. And velvety darkness that enveloped him like an old friend.

He felt his muscles sag in relief, almost to the point of causing him to fall down. He was in a cleared area with a statue he didn’t bother to look at before closing his eyes. And thereby gaining even more relief from his too-sharp senses, which might be useful at times but could also be utterly overwhelming.

Like his whole world these days.

He had a sudden, almost physical ache at the thought of home. Of snow-covered hills and fir trees. Of crisp winter air and fresh baked bread. Of a language that he didn’t have to struggle to understand. Of soft arms and a sweet scent that enveloped him while he slept beneath a mountain of furs. Of a familiar voice, whispering in his ear—

“Pretty, isn’t it?”

And that was not it.

Mircea’s shoulders slumped and he sighed before looking around. And saw a vampire with short brown hair standing just behind him, gazing at something past his shoulder. It was the statue he’d barely noticed before and had to look up to see now, since it was more than twice his size.

But that wasn’t what had his jaw dropping.

“That’s porphyry,” Mircea whispered. He was almost sure of it. And then he was sure, when the light from the doorway caught the distinctive flecks in the stone.

“Yes.”

“It’s . . . huge.”

“Yes, well. No point in half measures, is there?” the man said jovially.

Mircea just looked at him. And then back at the statue, where the senator’s lovely features had been rendered in perfect detail. And in the most expensive material on earth.

Or no, it wasn’t expensive as such, since it was practically impossible to buy. He had never met anyone who had actually seen a piece before he came to Venice, and it was rare even here. The only mine where it had ever been found had been lost centuries ago, so all that remained was what had been unearthed in ancient times. And due to the extreme hardness of the stone, there had been damned little of that.

Even in wealthy Venice, porphyry was exceedingly rare, with the smallest piece viewed as a sign of vast wealth.

And here he was, staring at half a ton of it.

“It’s stunning,” he said. There simply was no other word for it.

“And telling, if you know the history.”

The man looked a question, but mostly what Mircea knew about was the rarity. “It came from a mine in Egypt,” he said, scouring his memory. “It was used by the ancients as an accent stone, in floors, columns, sculpture. . . .” He trailed off. That was literally all he remembered. But the vampire didn’t seem to mind.

“Quite,” he said cheerfully. “It was prized for its durability. Other stones wear away over time, but even exposed to the harshest of conditions, even over hundreds of years, porphyry looks the same as the day it was sculpted. But I was talking about the political significance.”

Mircea could only shake his head. He wasn’t sure how a type of stone could have political significance.

“It started with the color,” he was told. “It’s the same shade of purple as the stripe on the togas of the senatorial class. In old Rome,” the man added helpfully.

Mircea nodded. And then noticed, for the first time, that the man was wearing an old fashioned toga himself, blindingly white. Except for the thick purple edge around the bottom.

He swallowed.

“So, the Caesars became fond of it,” the man continued, baring teeth as white as his toga in what might have been a smile—on the face of a feral wolf. “You know how they were—well, you don’t, I suppose, but take it from me, those bastards never lost a chance to make a statement. Everything was politics, everything was symbols. Well, of course it was, half the damned people couldn’t read. But it was more ego than anything else. They wore purple, therefore their palaces must be purple, or have purple accents, at least. And the fact that the damned stuff is so hard that the only way of cutting it required destroying some of the best steel—well, that made it all the better.”

“It became a symbol of their power,” Mircea guessed, because some answer seemed required.

The man nodded. “You’re a quick one, aren’t you? But then, I expected that.” He clapped Mircea on the back, a little harder than necessary.

Mircea managed to catch himself before he hit the ground.

“So on to the tosspots in dear Constantinople,” the man continued, “pretending to be Roman emperors despite the fact that half of them never even saw the place. But they had an entire room covered in porphyry, oh yes, they did, where their empresses gave birth. Allowed the royal brats to take the title Porphyrogenos, ‘born to the purple’, didn’t it?”

“I . . . suppose.” There was a strange undercurrent to this conversation Mircea didn’t understand, and didn’t like. But what the man was saying was interesting in light of what had recently happened.

A woman born to the purple, long before it was called that, with the blood of conquering generals and ancient pharaohs in her veins, met a boy who had not even been able to hold a job as a potter. Yes, he was no longer a boy when she met him, and yes, he was far more powerful than she. But surely, that would make it even worse? That she had to take orders from someone she would consider beneath her?

And had to keep on taking them, for centuries?

Perhaps, Mircea thought, staring into that beautiful carved face, the consul had some reason to be concerned.

“Now, of course, the mine is lost,” the man said, “And so is the secret to the steel needed to cut it. Know how they work it these days? When they can get their grubby hands on a piece, that is?”

Mircea shook his head.

“By grinding it down with another piece of itself!” He laughed. “Takes forever; no wonder they mostly loot it. Damned popes almost destroyed the Pantheon to get porphyry for their churches. And the dear Venetians—pirates, every one—pillaged once-great Constantinople, a fellow Christian city, I might add. And for what? Gold and porphyry!”

“They wanted it for a symbol,” Mircea said, still staring at the face on the statue. “Of greatness past.”

“Oh, it’s more than that. It’s the opposite, in fact. It’s a sign of greatness returning. Of empires to be built, of ancient glory to be reclaimed. He who has porphyry has the imperium of the ancients.” The lips quirked in brief humor. “Or so it’s believed.”

Not a symbol so much, then, Mircea thought dizzily, as a promise. “I can’t believe I overlooked this, the last time I was here.”

“You didn’t.” Whiskey dark eyes met his. “It was moved in here two days ago.”

The man walked off, and Mircea turned to see Paulo silhouetted in the doorway as he glared around the garden. And then at Mircea, when he caught sight of him. “I. Am going. To kill you,” Paulo whispered, grabbing his arm.

Only to have his grabbed back. “Who was that?”

“Mircea! They’re seating.”

“The man I was just talking to,” Mircea persisted. “Who was he?”

“Oh, for—another senator—”

“Which one?”

Paulo looked at him as if he might be slow. “The one they call Antony.”