Page 13 of Soul Hate

T he Watchtower is the oldest building in this city. Large, rectangular and several stories tall, it dominates the middle of a large open square that has since become a vibrant marketplace colloquially known as Market Square. Today it’s crowded with bright stalls, the air thick with mouthwatering spices and sweet perfumes. Smoke tickles the back of my nose; loud vendors chime off in every direction. People weave amongst the ever-changing maze of bodies, carving their own path through the chaos as relentless sunshine batters down from overhead.

“Signora! Signora Di Maineri!” calls a deep voice. A familiar round, bearded face with red cheeks shares a beaming smile. He opens his thick arms wide in greeting, his broad frame standing tall amongst the throng of people. In front of him a vast stall brims over with cheeses from all over the continent.

“Signor Greco,” I greet, forcing my usual political warmth to my tongue, stopping abruptly in my path. “How’s business?”

“Doing very well! It’s good to see you out and about, signora. We’ve missed your face around the city,” he chuckles. “I don’t suppose you’ll be opening the bank again soon?”

“It’s not closed, is it?” Alarm floods my throat.

“No, no,” soothes Greco quickly, “but no new loans are being authorised. Your sister approved them all you see, and I was hoping to borrow again.”

“Oh! Well, I’ll be sure to look into that. I’ve been a little preoccupied recently.”

The ever-present light in Greco’s hazel eyes dims a fraction.

“Ah yes. I understand. I just figured no harm in asking. The first loan I got from the Di Maineri Bank helped me start this business, back when you were just a girl.”

“Now you’re the best cheese importer in the city,” I chuckle. “We know a good investment when we see one. I’m afraid I must be off, but I promise to look into that as soon as I have capacity.”

“Of course, signora. Have a pleasant day!” Greco waves me goodbye before yelling at the bustling customers about his cheeses. I turn on my heels, shaking my head. So much to do, the list is only growing longer. How am I supposed to manage it all without Giulia and Father to help me?

I march towards the old building, ducking through the flock of people. Church Militia line up outside the creamy stone building almost shoulder to shoulder, baking in the blistering summer sun but somehow not daring to buckle. I half expect them to stop me on my journey but they don’t move a muscle as I stalk through the ridiculously tall black doors of the Watchtower and out of the sun’s aggressive gaze.

Inside is much cooler. Large black stone basins filled with glassy smooth water line the edges of the room. Candles lick the old stone walls at regular intervals, the dark stains of centuries of work have become backing shadows. I march across the black and white chequered floors, crossing through a wide circle of sunshine. A small glass dome sits in the centre of the ceiling several stories overhead, filled with a number of old brass emergency bells. They lie covered in dust, silent for almost a century.

This old, open space used to be the home of the Electi. That was before my grandfather built the current High Chamber over seventy years ago. Gifting it to the city, he impeccably demonstrated the endless possibilities of the Garden—securing the city funding that it so richly deserved.

I head straight for the back of the offices, passing one or two curious Church officials as I carve my warpath up the old wooden stairs. Bellandi’s office is easy to find—there aren’t many rooms back here. I rap my knuckles impatiently against the chipped black door.

“Enter,” his deep voice floats back. I grit my teeth, steaming into the room.

Bellandi sits at a large, flat desk. A slim window strikes a curtain of sunlight over the piles of papers resting on the worn wooden surface. Low, dark bookshelves teeming with trinkets and treasures surround the edges of this room.

Bellandi lifts his head in surprise. The long sleeve of his white cardinal robes flies wide as he runs a hand over his balding head.

“Signora Di Maineri, how may I help?”

“By explaining yourself.” I march across the room and rest my hands on the other side of the desk, leaning over where he sits. Bellandi pauses, lips thinning.

“I don’t understand.”

“Serra Stacano was just arrested. It was quite the violent spectacle, I might add.”

“She tried to run?” Bellandi sighs as if he expected this and I can see his suspicion of her crystallising in his mind. I slam my hand back down on the desk.

“Of course not! Your overzealous Church Militia started smashing furniture and assaulted teachers at a school in the name of trying to find her. The children were terrified. Serra went quietly, because she knows she’s innocent. So do I. Now explain yourself.”

“Well, you’re absolutely right, that kind of behaviour is outrageous.” Bellandi’s shock is far too muted for my taste. “I’ll have to remind the Militia that this isn’t a hostile city but they’re under Patricelli’s command at the moment. He’s taken command of the City Guard; he’s responsible for executing the warrant.”

“Oh don’t worry, I’m dealing with him. But you are just as complicit, the arrest was signed by Order of the Electi. Funny seeing as how I had no notion of it.”

“All we needed was a majority, and when Patricelli brought me his concerns I agreed with him.”

Patricelli? Oh Fate’s Fury, when I get my hands on him I’ll strangle him.

I narrow my eyes at Bellandi, fighting the urge to scream. “Serra is innocent.”

“Then why the explosives? We’ve covered every inch of this city searching for a dangerous stash and she just so happens to have a good supply and calculations about mixing chemicals all over her workshop?”

“She’s working on a device so we can watch explosions safely for entertainment. She’s not a traitor,” I explain, rubbing a hand to my forehead in exasperation.

Bellandi sighs, shaking his head.

“Well, I hope that’s true.”

I lean closer, outrage dripping off my tongue. “It is. Now release her.”

“I can’t. Idris is right, we have to be seen to be doing something, catching these people.”

“So you’ll arrest the wrong person, just to be seen to be doing something?” I spit, disgust curdling behind my teeth.

“Listen”—Bellandi spreads his hands out flat on the desk, taking a deep breath—“she’ll be questioned and, if you’re right, she’ll be cleared. Then she’ll be released. So you really have nothing to worry about.”

“And what if she isn’t cleared? What if you find no one else to blame? Are you going to keep her then? Just to be seen to be doing something?”

“Of course not. But I won’t reverse the order, Renza, I’m sorry. There is too much evidence not to investigate it properly.”

I let out a huge breath, hanging my head. I glare down at the desk below me. I can’t stop picturing it, Serra locked up in a cage with thieves and killers. Bright, cheerful Serra surrounded by all that darkness.

I blink, my eyes narrowing on a piece of paper on the desk. It’s addressed to my bank—the Di Maineri Bank—and is officiated with the High Chamber seal. I turn it around, scanning down with a fury. Outrage boils in my throat.

“You ordered the rebuilding of the Grand Temple already?” I hiss. “Without a vote?”

Bellandi sits back in his seat, face smoothing.

“People find comfort in religion. After such a tragedy, having somewhere to grieve and recover will be a balm.”

“That’s what the public funeral is for.” I scowl.

“Are you suggesting we seriously go without a Grand Temple?” Bellandi widens his eyes in horror.

“I’m saying let’s wait until the city can actually afford it.” I throw up my hands, pacing in front of the desk. “The funds for this year have already been allocated! Wait until the next budget and we can rebuild the temple to the dignity it requires without crippling our city with debt in the process.”

“We won’t go into debt. We’re going to rework the budget?—”

“Says who?”

Bellandi sighs, crossing his hands over his chest as he looks at me. That patronising smile on his lips makes me want to smack it right off. “Idris Patricelli and I agree. We need to do this.”

My stomach coils, the air pulled from my lungs in a short, sharp tug. They’ve discussed this? They’ve discussed the arrest. They’ve been complicit with each other on everything.

All without me?

Unbridled heat rises through my blood. I grit my teeth, mouth pinching. While I’ve been grieving, they’ve been scheming in dark corners. Conspiring behind my back.

How could I have been so blind? No wonder Bellandi was so on board with considering him a Proxy Electi.

“Patricelli isn’t an Electi,” I spit.

“You yourself agreed to treat his vote as one of ours. You were the one who wanted to confirm his election as soon as possible. I’m simply treating him as we both agreed we should.” Bellandi frowns as though I’m not making any sense.

“Except there wasn’t a vote at all. There should have been a proper vote where I could’ve argued my point.”

“Why?” Bellandi sounds as if he’s scolding a child. “There are only three of us, and you two cannot be in the same room. The gods would compel you to complete your Fate and our High Chamber has seen more than enough violence. I thought you wanted to avoid that?”

“Don’t pretend you wouldn’t love to see it end that way,” I scoff, folding my arms as I study him.

“Watch your tongue, its venom will burn what bridges you have left,” Bellandi fires back. “I respect your choice, insane though I find it, because you have the right to make it. I support it. I support you! Renza, you know this. I’m your ally. We all want what’s best, for Halice to recover from this horror.”

Bellandi presses his hands together, studying me through narrowed eyes.

“You can’t make decisions without a vote, Bellandi. That is a founding principle of the High Chamber. It’s section three in the Founding Charter. You have no right.”

Bellandi slowly nods, keeping silent. That stillness grows between us thicker with each passing second.

Because I’m right. They don’t have the right to do this. Spending High Chamber funds requires a vote. Did they really think that I wouldn’t fight them taking complete control? That I wouldn’t fight to serve this city in the way I think is right?

Did they forget themselves?

Did they forget who I am?

I’m Renza Di Maineri. I’m the daughter of Tomas Di Maineri, a great and fierce politician. Just because he isn’t here, it doesn’t mean his strength isn’t. Because I’m still here. And I’m still fighting.

“I’m sorry the decision upsets you,” Bellandi begins. I hold up a hand to stop him.

“No. I’m not upset, because I’m going to fix your mistake,” I say calmly, holding my chin high. Bellandi sits forwards, eyes narrowing.

“What?”

“There was no vote, and as such, there can be no release of funds. Given the High Chamber’s accounts sit with the Di Maineri Bank, and I’m now the acting head of that bank, I cannot authorise the release of funds that don’t line up with a budget that has been ratified.”

“You would hold this city’s money hostage to get your way?” snarls Bellandi, launching to his feet. His white robes flail with the movements as he slams his hands on the desk.

“I absolutely do not. I protect the money, and the people. I protect the High Chamber and our process. Bring a motion for a new budget to the High Chamber and let’s debate. When it gets ratified via a legal vote, then I will absolutely release the money. In the meantime, funds will remain allocated as per the previous ratified budget.”

Bellandi wrinkles his nose, anger thinning his lips as he glares at me. Silence passes, frustration crackling like invisible sparks around him but I hold my ground. Hands on my hips, not wavering away from the anger in his eyes, I wait. Here is the power play; here is the delicate unspoken art of politics.

The first to speak loses.

Bellandi sits down, face pinched like he’s sucking a lemon.

“Of course. In my eagerness to help the city heal, I got ahead of things. A proper vote—does two weeks sound reasonable?”

“I’ll be prepared,” I nod, turning to leave.

“There’s not enough time for an election,” Bellandi calls after me, “so we’ll have to allow Patricelli to vote without legally being an Electi.”

“We’ll pass a motion first,” I respond, fixing one of the decorative pins running along my sleeves. “He’ll be considered his father’s proxy for a month. After that, he’ll need to win an election. A month is more than long enough for him to distance himself from being a tragedy profiteer.”

“Agreed.” Bellandi shakes his head, turning to glare out of the window. I roll my eyes, exiting the room but leaving the door wide open. Sometimes, in politics, you have to be satisfied with the little jabs. The little power moves. A subtle reminder that he has to work with and around me, as much as I do with him.

I wind through the narrow corridors, a determined scowl playing around my lips.

I’m back, and there’s work to be done.

My grief can’t smother me anymore. I can’t buckle under that consuming weight in my mind. I’ve been so irresponsible, blindly letting things slide. I won’t let things fall apart around me anymore.

Halice is my city. Serra is my friend.

And it’s my honour to serve.