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Today’s subject: Gianpaolo Velia has his first of many existential crises and meets with *Rettore Ludovico Guerra of the Accademia regarding the mission to Ptolomea.
*Rector, in this meaning, the head of the university
Catch up here:
Gianpaolo Velia, sole heir to his family’s Ambizioso line, political failure, moderately successful architect, and sublime vocalist when inebriated, hated talking to his father.1
He strode down the corridor toward his wing of the Velia palazzo, wondering at the fact that he could be reduced to a boy before Leonardo when he was nearly thirty years old. The quiet, subtle jabs all served to remind him that he had no real power here.
One of the rolled pieces of parchment under his arms—the plans to Selvascura Clockworks—slipped and dropped to the floor, and he swore when the others ended up tumbling too when he bent to retrieve it. Little snippets of his conversation with Leonardo from moments before kept playing in his head.
“I see you’ve spent another day repairing yet another building better left to crumble.”
He scowled and rounded a corner.
“Rettore Guerra sees something promising in me.” Gianpaolo’s response at Leonardo’s incredulity when Gianpaolo had said he would be leaving soon for an important project up north.
He could still picture Leonardo’s blank face, his silence, the blink of his soft eyes that somehow managed to hold no kindness, and the unspoken rebuttal: “I can’t imagine what.”
Granted, his father had been rather preoccupied with the threats coming from the Republic of Vedea, their southern neighbors. There seemed to be many threats these days among the various city-states that Gianpaolo couldn’t keep up. And he’d been raised in politics.
He dumped the papers in his study in a haphazard pile, then went to his chambers across the hall and tore his mantello off—different from what the Giudice woman had taken—allowing it to drop in a heap on the floor. He had only been back living in the palazzo for two cycles, and only due to his mother’s pleading after what had happened with Margherita and the scandal it had caused. And yet he was already suffocated.2
Gianpaolo crossed to the washroom where one of the attendants had already set out a pitcher of water and a little cup of vegetable oil. He splashed water over his face, trying to clear his head, then braced his hands on the table, locking his arms and letting his head hang there, water dripping, as he took deep breaths. Finally, once his heart rate had slowed, he straightened and dried himself and returned to the main room. With shaking hands, he managed to unbelt his giornea and pull the tabard-like garment off.
“Unless you can show an extraordinary improvement in character, I will defect the family line from Ambizioso upon retirement.”
His father, essentially threatening to dispossess the entire family. It was radical and uncommon, but not unheard of. Especially nowadays. The purpose of noble dispossessions had initially been to be temporary measures to encourage a reform of character. Not anymore.
Gianpaolo had begun to fold the giornea, but threw it on the floor now with the mantello. It was ironic. He could admit he hadn’t exactly been a model of nobility in his twenties, but look at his father—in the old days, he would’ve been dispossessed.
He unbuttoned the top few buttons of his farsetto to try to ease the feeling of confinement, then sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the fire burning in the hearth across from him. He averted his gaze from the sword hanging on the wall above it. A different voice, from many years ago, entered his memories now.
“Don’t you let them break you. You are an Ambizioso, and you fight for what’s right. Even if they try to make you feel like you’re the one who’s lost your mind now.”
His grandfather would be disgusted to see what had become of his son, Leonardo. His grandfather had been the last pure-hearted person in this family. When he’d found out Gianpaolo’s father had not only participated in the Raids but took his nine-year-old son along during the Guerriera dispossession, he’d been horrified. Gianpaolo could still hear the rage in his voice—he never yelled—and those words he’d said to Gianpaolo when he took him aside after.
Gianpaolo pulled his flask from his side and took a long drink. No. He couldn’t sit in here for the rest of the night with his thoughts. With a sigh, he got to his feet and left, pausing briefly in his study to retrieve a pad of paper and make sure the ones he’d discarded were at least in the same pile. He’d need them tomorrow for his meeting with Ludovico Guerra. Then he took an aether lamp and went down the hall to the little door that led to the hidden stairs, once used by palazzo attendants but now long discarded. He climbed them up to the attic level, thoughts still stirring.
If Leonardo defected the family line, the status would be gone, but not their wealth, which was all Leonardo—and most nobles today—cared about. The nobility received compensation for the work they did for society, but wealth was neither a precursor nor a guarantee for noble status. Gianpaolo had known well-respected noble families with a modest income, and likewise non-noble families that had become prosperous as merchants.
With the loss of noble status though, Gianpaolo would be an irreversible failure, an outcast from society. He would be lucky to find any work, even as an architect.
He would be in the same position as the fiery, golden-eyed girl from Selvascura Clockworks.
He coughed when he opened another door on the upper level and a cloud of dust wafted out. He went over to the window in the room and shoved it open, setting the aether lamp on the corner of the table beneath it, along with his papers. The light cast flickering shadows over the faded frescoes of Selvascuran florals that ran along the top of the walls. A chilly fall breeze wafted in.
The recollection of the clockmaker sent a strange twinge through his heart, followed by a flush of humiliation when he remembered singing on top of that fountain. Of course the young woman he’d embarrassed would be a worker at the clock shop he was helping to restore, and a dispossessed noble at that. Giudice, Gaspare Mazza had called her. One of the former Guerriera nobles. It explained the passion in her. She was a wound clock, held together by tight casings and unable to move, bursting with energy.
Could it possibly have been her family’s palazzo his father helped burn?
The answer was most likely, but he couldn’t let himself dwell on it.
The table was low; Gianpaolo leaned over it to rest his elbows on the windowsill and look out. He liked it up here, not only so no one could find him, but because at this height he had a decent view of the city below. Around the flat tops of buildings, he could make out the campanile, the clock tower of Palazzo Comunale, the seat of government, along with the unfinished cupola of the basilica not far from it. It was this that Gianpaolo focused on. He took a long drink of stinging acquavite, staring dully at the neglected spiritual seat of the city. The basilica was where the noble families had once gathered to review important matters related to their Values. It was where philosophical debates occurred, where people went for quiet and peace and connection with something higher than themselves. The custode3, spiritual advisors, had been in charge of places like it, and gave advice and assistance to the nobility. They’d all been murdered during the Raids.
Gianpaolo took out his charcoal. He had forgotten that the top paper on the pad had a sketch of an automa; he tore it out and ripped it up, then began sketching on a clean sheet. The sky had turned dusky blue, the buildings outlined in navy. A couple stars winked above. Somewhere far below, wheels clattered on cobblestones and people’s voices rose up, floating away in the twilight space between light and dark. Gianpaolo squinted at the basilica, adjusting his spectacles.
The new basilica had been complete for a couple centuries, but no one had ever solved the problem of designing a dome that could sustain itself with the enormous circumference.4 And now, no one cared.
Gianpaolo knew he’d never get the chance, but he liked to imagine that he’d be the one to do it. Maybe dreaming about it was an escape from everything. Maybe it was a way to imagine he could redeem himself after everything he’d done.
Well, there was no chance he’d keep his post as lecturer of architecture at the Accademia after this mission, so he’d certainly have more time on his hands.
Eventually, Gianpaolo managed to quiet his thoughts with the comforting sensation of sketching. He enjoyed the feeling of the rough parchment on the side of his hand, the cool air that worked its way beneath his loose collar, refreshing him. He didn’t consider himself particularly artistic; he found solace in implementing design within the confines of something geometric. A controlled release of passion.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, working on not only the dome but also other ideas. The evening became even cooler, and eventually the basilica became lost in the shadows of the other buildings in the growing darkness. Gianpaolo didn’t know what time it was, but eventually gnawing hunger and an empty flask made him get up and return downstairs.
He realized with disappointment that his options were to bear another stiff, quiet dinner with his parents, or wait until they’d retired for the evening and hope there was something leftover in the kitchens. He opted for the latter. Even if it made him recall being a little boy and doing the same to sneak extra cherry tarts.
Upon entering his room, he stumbled against the doorframe, further confirmation that he shouldn’t be around his parents at the moment. He could imagine Leonardo’s disapproving gaze on him, the perpetual question, “Have you been drinking again?”
“Well, how else am I supposed to manage?” Gianpaolo caught himself muttering. He fumbled open the drawers of a chest with trembling hands. A little wooden furbizia piece of a mercenary sitting on top of the chest stared down on him judgmentally. Gianpaolo finally found what he was looking for and grasped the bottle.
Plink. Something hit the floor when he pulled the bottle out. Gianpaolo tugged the cork free with his teeth and took a quick drink before bending to see what had fallen.
He coughed from the burn of the alcohol, his eyes tearing. He plucked up the item, chest burning, heart sinking. He adjusted his spectacles as the glint of silver came into view.
Gianpaolo closed his fist over the engagement ring, pain and guilt lashing through him, a double-edged sword. His head buzzed.
The Giudice woman had said apologies were meaningless unless followed by action.
But what happened when you kept trying to make reparations and kept failing?5
The Accademia had become something of a home to Gianpaolo since he first entered its doors when he was eighteen. The secure confines of academics with its steady rhythm had been a comforting escape from his parents.
The particular structure of the Accademia had appealed to Gianpaolo. He was free to study what he wanted, at his own pace, without the fear of falling short of arbitrary rules and standards. He did often find himself at odds with the others here, due to his belief that the Constellation should be reinstated in full. But any time any tension came up in seminars or in his interactions with lecturers, he found himself unable to speak up, instead nodding along even if inside he was screaming the opposite of what they were saying.
Whenever he was actually tempted to agree the Raids had been a good thing, he remembered being a young boy, frozen, staring at a palazzo burning before him, and a family with four young children and a newborn fleeing. The girl who had run into him and then shoved him away. He could still recall her expression so vividly, and the…fury in it. A girl that young, running away from a burning home, should’ve been frightened. But she had just been angry.6
Gianpaolo lifted his chin as he walked across the Accademia grounds, making sure his livery collar was straight. Black-robed students milled about, some chatting together, others scurrying off to morning classes. How many of them thought they were going to change the world with their ideas here? How many thought they could bend the universe to their will because they were able to make a few sharp quips in a seminar discussion?
He knew better. Insubstantial ideas didn’t change the universe. Action did. Action aligned with the Constellation.
He knocked on the rettore’s office door. Unlike the conversation with his father last night, he was much more at ease here. Even if this place had presented its own complications in his life, at least it was his life and his own decisions.
“Come in.”
Gianpaolo poked his head in, then remembered to stand straight again. He crossed to Ludovico’s desk in two strides and set the parchment and his pad of notes on the edge of the mahogany surface.
Ludovico Guerra was a stately man, around ten years older than Gianpaolo’s father, who kept his graying hair and beard neat and trim. His eyes were sharp, though there was a slight hollowness to his cheeks which spoke to someone who had weathered much. Something had happened to Ludovico this year, at least according to the whispers, but Gianpaolo had no idea what. He suspected it was tied to the mission to Ptolomea. The man was as secretive as ever.
Ludovico continued writing, only sparing a quick glance at the notes. Gianpaolo took a half-step back and folded his hands behind him.
“Well,” Ludovico finally said, still not looking up, “I trust your old thesis advisor didn’t let me down by recommending you for the survey.”
“No indeed. It won’t take much longer.”
“Good.” Ludovico melted some wax with the flame of the candle beside him, then pressed his seal to the parchment. He looked up. “He’s an old friend of mine, so I thought to rely on his recommendation. Now, you won’t disappoint me on the mission, will you? My friend’s recommendation isn’t the only reason I’m sending you. You have a point to prove as a Velia, right?”
They stared at each other for a long moment. Did he know that Gianpaolo’s father was threatening to dispossess him, or was he making his own threat?
Gianpaolo didn’t consider himself particularly close to Ludovico Guerra. They had an arrangement for the mission, and Gianpaolo could admit he enjoyed the feeling of having someone believe in him, encourage him. But that was all. He couldn’t allow himself to feel any emotionally closer to the man with whom he disagreed on so much. He was risking much for this mission too.
Gianpaolo finally said without a smile, “Disappointment has always been a particular specialty of mine, but I’ll try my best.”
Ludovico watched him for a moment. “In all my years here, I still haven’t quite adapted to you Selvascurans’ peculiar sense of humor.”
A faint, blithe smile, then Gianpaolo asked, “Would you tell me who else is to go?”
Ludovico glanced over the architectural notes.
“Hmm? Ah, yes.” Ludovico set the paper down and gave Gianpaolo his full attention. Ludovico and his father shared many qualities: their drive, cutthroat natures, and ability to charm when needed. A key difference was that Ludovico paid attention to Gianpaolo and showed legitimate interest in his work and ideas.
“Helori Compostezza, a popular name in the underground of the city, and who I’ve suspected for many years is involved in a smuggling business threatening our control of liquid aether, though I’ve been unable to trace anything to him.” Even after all his years here, Ludovico’s voice still carried a particular stilted cadence to it, remnants of his northern Ptolomese accent. “I’ll be happy to get rid of him. Also his sister Caterina and a certain Casellan named Gryphus Accardi. Oh, and two clockmakers, Benigna Donato and Clemenza Giudice.”
Gianpaolo had had an unfortunate run-in with Helori a few years ago, and had been threatened into not bringing him forward for any crimes.7 The smuggler had a silent chokehold on much of the city, and it was in fact quite impressive Ludovico had never been able to catch him.
However, Gianpaolo’s mouth went dry at the name of the Giudice girl. He had to travel for around a cycle with her too? Potentially forty days? Her mocking, discerning eyes flashed in his mind, a stark contrast to the kind of attention he usually received from women.
He was regretting the agreement to go on this mission more and more.
Until he remembered what would happen if he didn’t go and do what needed to be done. Until all the ghosts caught up with him: his father, Margherita, Luca. No, he needed to get out.
“The Giudice woman is significant,” Ludovico continued. “Mazza says she is one of his best; after only a year’s apprenticeship, she began taking commissions. I would ideally like for you two to work together after this, to combine your abilities.”
Gianpaolo thought that sounded like a horrible idea.
“Speaking of…” Ludovico bent to open a drawer and pulled out a file. “Have you had time to work on any more designs for me?”
Gianpaolo paused. The automa Ludovico wanted him to design. Gianpaolo didn’t know why, but he strongly suspected it was related to the experiment they were after.
“I’ve attempted it,” he lied, “but it’s really not in my training; I work with buildings, larger structures—”
“Well, keep trying, because you’re the only one qualified to do it who I can also trust. And the plans for the layout of Cocytus Palace in Ptolomea? You’ve studied those?”
“I’ve memorized them.” Gianpaolo bristled at having his intelligence questioned.
“Good, good. Remember, you must make it in time for the Sagra d’Inverno. Keep the instructions for the final part of the mission—after you pass over into Caina—to yourself. I’d rather as few people as possible have all the information, so only reveal those last steps to them as you go.” Ludovico paused briefly to move the sealed parchment along with a few others to the corner of his desk. “Once in the workshop, you will find the experiment in the back, in a sector partitioned by another door. It should be obvious; it is the only area sectioned off from the rest. It should be in a little wooden chest.”
Gianpaolo nodded. He didn’t bother asking for more specifics on this “experimental weapon” they were after; Ludovico refused to share. He gave just enough details for them to locate it, but not enough to spread the information around or tell the wrong people.
Ludovico rose now and rummaged through a collection of scrolls on a bottom shelf, selecting one and setting it on his desk. “You’re sure you can handle this?”
Gianpaolo started at the question—a question he loathed. He had heard “no” at every turn in his life. People sized him up, judged his quiet disposition and lack of surety, and deemed him unfit for the task in question. They didn’t care about his intelligence, his impeccable memory, his gift for visualizing spaces, and his artistry. They saw someone who didn’t fit their perfect idea of what a true nobleman was like: abrasive, confident, social. And a good leader. Always, always about being a leader.
Gianpaolo nodded. “I am sure.” And he was, because he knew his purpose on this mission. He knew what needed to be done.
“Good.”
Gianpaolo collected his parchment and pad. Then he paused. “I apologize if this isn’t my place, but I am curious: why is it that you are collaborating with the Clock Master?”
Ludovico smiled faintly. “You’re right; it’s not your place. Suffice to say, that we have both found fruit in our business relations. He’s been providing the automa and other devices used in lectures here. And now we’ve decided to collaborate on a project.”
Gianpaolo was sure it had to do with what he and Clemenza were supposed to work on, though he didn’t dare ask. Ludovico operated on a need-to-know basis; even if Gianpaolo willingly designed this automa for him, he doubted he would learn the why behind it.
He was about to head to the door when Ludovico stopped him again.
“It would be a sad thing if you failed or if something went wrong. I would hate for the signoria to find out what your father did to Signor Benedetti.”
Gianpaolo tightened his jaw but didn’t say anything. How Ludovico knew, Gianpaolo wasn’t sure. Even if Gaspare Mazza had talked—which he wouldn’t dare, not to incite the wrath of a noble—there still was no proof the device had been used in the murder.
What Ludovico didn’t know was that Gianpaolo would happily turn his father in himself, if he had the proof and the courage. But let him think he had leverage over Gianpaolo. Better than finding real leverage.
Gianpaolo started to simply walk out, then paused and turned around to mumble a goodbye, but Ludovico had already returned to his work. He pressed his lips closed and awkwardly left.
The mission would change everything. The mission would make up for all his mistakes. He would finally prove himself.
Read Chapter Five.
Opening line is potentially my favorite I’ve ever written.
There’s lots and lots of foreshadowing to his backstory and some important motivations that come to be revealed later on in these two scenes, so take notes.
My Italian husband gave me this word to use for their version of priests, and “custode” is used in Italian for those who help to care for a church (sacristan). Literally it means “keeper” or “custodian”.
Yes, of course the issue of the incomplete dome came from Florence’s.
I love how he’s alone in this first scene and doesn’t talk to anyone. It really establishes the isolation his character feels.
And she’s been angry ever since!