Ink, Iron, and Glass (Ink, Iron, and Glass #1)(45)



Porzia said, “The Kingdom of the Two Sicilies would call the Carbonari terrorists.”

“A king’s ‘terrorist’ is the common man’s freedom fighter,” Leo argued. “The Carbonari fight to give Italians the power to rule themselves—not the French or the Austrians or the Church.”

Elsa spoke up. “I thought the Order eschews politics. Why would they have any kind of agreement with a bunch of political radicals?”

In unison, Porzia and Leo said, “Nobody likes the Papal States.”

Elsa blinked, still confused, so Faraz explained, “The Catholic Church runs the government of Roma and the surrounding regions, called the Papal States. They have a nasty history of beheading pazzerellones for so-called heresy. To them our madness is unnatural.”

Leo folded his arms. “And if the Order would fight with the Carbonari, instead of merely stepping out of their way, we could put an end to the rule of anti-intellectual tyrants once and for all and rule ourselves.”

Porzia rolled her eyes in a fashion that suggested this was a well-worn argument. “And then we can spend the rest of our lives fighting wars instead of actually doing science.”

Faraz held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture before Leo could respond. “We don’t even know yet if the Carbonari are involved.”

“Hold on,” said Elsa. She had flipped ahead to a later journal entry. “Listen to this: ‘I am unsure it is wise to give Garibaldi what he wants.’”

Leo leaned in. “Does it say what he wants?”

Elsa read on for a bit, then reported, “No, Montaigne keeps it fairly vague. But the entry is dated March 3, 1891—that’s not even two months past!”

Porzia said, “The timing is suspicious.” She thought for a moment, then planted her hands on her hips and took on a commanding tone eerily similar to Signora Pisano’s. “Faraz, could you send a wireless to the Order’s archives department, asking if there are any living Garibaldis registered with the Order? It’s a risk contacting them, but we need their information, so make up an excuse—tell them we’ve found a lost book or something inscribed with the name Garibaldi.”

“Right,” said Faraz.

“I’ll work through Casa’s library and see what I can dig up on Montaigne, the Carbonari, and anyone named Garibaldi. Elsa, why don’t you bring Montaigne’s journals back with us and see if we’ve missed any important details.”

Elsa’s first instinct was to snap at Porzia’s bossiness, but she clamped down on that urge. She didn’t understand this world, or its politics, or how best to acquire information on a potential abductor. So if letting Porzia take charge was the price she had to pay to find her mother, she would pay it and be grateful.

“What, no task for me?” said Leo dryly.

Porzia raised her eyebrows at him. “When we need something skewered with a rapier, I’ll let you know.”

Porzia picked up the portal device and opened the way back to the library. Elsa quickly stacked up the journals and loose papers, her heart hammering against her ribs. At last she had a direction in which to investigate. That infuriatingly ambiguous Oracle may have refused to provide her with any specifics, but now she had a concrete detail to sink her claws into. Now she had a name: Garibaldi. She hoped that would be enough.

*

Leo leaned in the doorway of the tiny room at the top of the house where the wireless transmitter lived. It was more of a closet, really, with a single wooden chair and a desk holding the teleprinter input—two rows of little piano keys with the alphabet written across them. Behind that was the large cylinder of the induction coil attached to the spark-gap transmitter, with wires snaking up the wall and through the ceiling to the antenna on the roof.

Faraz sat at the desk typing the message, each depressed key triggering a staccato electrical bzzz bz-bzzz. Music to Leo’s ears. Jokingly he said, “Hold on, shouldn’t the mechanist be the one operating the wireless?”

“It’s not as if Porzia asked me to build a Hertzian machine,” Faraz said, pausing as he tapped out the message. “Besides, I’m faster at typing and you know it.”

“Hmph. I admit nothing.” Leo folded his arms but failed to muster even a little annoyance at Faraz, knowing from experience how impossible it was to stay vexed at him for any length of time. And anyway, Faraz actually was the faster typist.

“Done,” Faraz said, pressing the last key and leaning back to wait dutifully for a reply. “I told them we found a book marked ‘property of Garibaldi’ and wondered who to return it to.”

Leo said, “You know, you needn’t do everything Porzia tells you to.”

“This is her house, Leo, or it will be soon enough.” Faraz threw him an arch look. “At least one of us ought to be a courteous guest, don’t you think?”

Leo suppressed a grin. “I think no such thing.”

“Obviously not.” Faraz raised his eyes to the heavens in a long-suffering expression, but a smile pulled at the corners of his lips. “Frankly, it’s baffling Gia considers you a candidate for inheriting Casa, given how much damage you cause on a regular basis.”

Leo made a face. “Porzia’s not going to marry me—I’m practically her brother.”

“A fact universally understood by everyone except Gia.” Faraz flashed a teasing grin. “She must really be desperate.”

Gwendolyn Clare's Books