by S L Farrell
A sword cut would have been turned by this armor. An arrow from a bow would have rebounded. A bolt from a crossbow might have penetrated it, but not so deeply.
It worked. Had that been a garda standing there, he would be on the ground, bleeding terribly and perhaps dead…
She could imagine it, and it wasn’t a pleasant vision; she’d seen too many people die in battle. She straightened. She went back to the table, looking closely at the sparkwheel in its vise. It appeared whole and unaffected, the barrel still straight and untouched except for a smear of black soot around the end. There were soot marks around the pan as well, but otherwise the weapon appeared to be intact. Varina unclamped the vise, picking up the device again. She held it out at arm’s length, sighting down the barrel at the dummy.
Well, old woman, there’s the obvious next step, if you want to take it… It sounded like Karl’s voice, chuckling as he admonished her. The rememberance brought tears to her eyes, and she had to stop for a moment and fight back the grief. She laid the sparkwheel on the table, and after a few moments, began to refill the pan with more black sand and tamp another paper cartridge into the barrel. She picked up the weapon, pulling back the pyrite clamp to cock it. Her hands were trembling slightly as she aimed the weapon. She brought her other hand up to steady it as she sighted down the barrel. She wondered, for a breath, if she was being reckless and foolhardy, if she should wait and repeat the experiment as before, but even as the thought came to her, she pulled the trigger, closing both eyes as she did so.
The report of the sparkwheel was terrible, and the weapon bucked in her hand, though not so terribly as she remembered. She lowered the weapon, peering at the dummy. Yes, there was a second hole in the armor, this one on the other side of the chest plate and higher.
Someone knocked on the door of the laboratory. “A’Morce, are you all right?” a voice called faintly.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
She sat in the single chair in the room, cradling the sparkwheel in her lap. It was warm, and a thin trail of smoke still wafted from the barrel. She stared at it: her creation.
Anyone could wield this. It takes little skill and a few moments to learn. With this, anyone could kill another person from a distance, even a garda in armor. She had always been able to imagine possibilities; Karl had always said that was what had made her a good researcher for the Numetodo. “You have imagination,” he’d told her. “You can see possibilities where no one else does. That’s the best magic of all to have.”
The line of research that had produced the sparkwheel had been due to that kind of serendipity-she’d been experimenting with a new mixture of black sand, a few years ago. She placed a small amount of the black sand in the bottom of a narrow metal container; she’d tamped it down with a stone pestle; she hadn’t noticed that the pestle was cracked, and that she’d left behind a chunk of the pestle in the container. She used a fire spell to set off the black sand… and the fragment of pestle had been propelled out of the end of the container to slam against the ceiling of the laboratory. The gouge in the wooden beam was still there, above the table. She’d realized then that might be another use for the black sand than simple unfocused destruction.
An army of soldiers with sparkwheels… She could imagine that, and the vision made her hands tremble.
That could change warfare. That would change warfare. Completely. As the black sand itself was beginning to render the use of war-teni far less important, so skill with a heavy blade would no longer matter, not when all one needed was the strength to pull a trigger and eyes to sight down a barrel.
Anyone could be a warrior. Anyone could dispense justice.
Anyone could exact revenge. Or slay a mad dog.
Anyone could murder needlessly. For the worst or most trivial of reasons.
Anyone. Even herself.
What have I done this time, Karl?
She blinked. Her hand stroked the silken varnish of the handle. An irony, that: a beautifully-crafted instrument dedicated entirely to destruction.
She rose from the chair finally and went to the table. She stoppered the vial of black sand, gathered up the paper cartridges she’d prepared. She placed the vial, the cartridges, and the sparkwheel in a leather pouch and slung it over her shoulder. She blew out the lanterns that illuminated the room, opened the door, and locked it again behind her.
The pouch heavy around her shoulder, her hands still remembering the feel of the sparkwheel as it had fired, she ascended the stairs.
Jan ca’Ostheim
“… our troops were easily a day’s march past Il Trebbio’s borders before we had any sign that we’d been noticed. We did have a small skirmish with a company of Holdings chevarittai. Two of them were killed by our war-teni, and they turned and fled after that; none of our own people were seriously harmed. Given our last discussions, after a day there I brought the battalion back over the border. From everything we’ve learned in the last several months, Hirzg Jan, it would appear that the Holdings borders are rather porous, and Il Trebbio is certainly one of the weaker points. Kraljica Allesandra doesn’t have enough-”
Armen ca’Damont, Starkkapitan of the Firenzcian Garde Civile, halted his report to Jan as the door to the room burst open, the doors slamming hard against their stops. A trio of children entered in the wake of the disturbance, trailed distantly by one of the staff servants with another, smaller, child in her arms. “Vatarh!” Kriege, Jan’s eldest son, was the first into the room. He stamped his foot, glaring back at his older sister. Caelor, a year younger than Kriege, stood beside his brother, nodding vigorously and echoing the glare. “We were playing Chevarittai, and Elissa cheated! It’s not fair!”
The nursemaid rushed in, looking harried, and bowed awkwardly to Jan and ca’Damont with Eria, Jan’s youngest, now in her arms. “I’m so sorry, Hirzg,” she said, not looking up. “The children were playing fine and I was dressing little Eria, and there was an argument and they were running to find you…”
“It’s fine,” Jan said, grinning at ca’Damont. “Don’t worry yourself. Now then, Kriege, what’s all this about cheating?”
“Elissa cheated, ” Kriege repeated, scowling so fiercely that it was nearly comical. “She did.”
“Elissa?” Jan said sternly, his gaze moving to his daughter.
Another child might have looked at the floor. Jan knew that Caelor would have, with even the hint of a rebuke, and even Kriege looked away now. But Elissa gazed placidly back, glancing once at ca’Damont’s thin face marred and disfigured with the ridged memories of old battles, then fixing on Jan. She brushed back brown-gold strands of hair that had escaped her braids to flutter around her eyes. “I didn’t cheat, Vatarh,” she said. “Not really.”
“Yes she did, ” Kriege interrupted, stamping his foot again. “She lied. ”
Elissa didn’t bother to look at Kriege. Her regard stayed with Jan. “I did lie, Vatarh,” she admitted. “I told Kriege that I’d help him if he attacked Caelor’s keep with his soldiers.”
“She said she’d use her war-teni on her next turn and help me,” Kriege interrupted again. “And she didn’t. When it was her turn, she attacked me instead and I lost all my keeps and most of my chevarittai. She cheated.”
Jan glanced again at ca’Damont, who was stifling his own grin. “Is that true, Elissa?”
She nodded. “It is,” she said gravely. “You see, Caelor had the most keeps and soldiers left on the board, and Kriege and I had about the same. I knew I couldn’t beat Caelor by myself, so I told Kriege that I’d help him because I knew Caelor would take lots of his soldiers and Caelor would lose enough of his so that he couldn’t attack me, and then, when it was my turn, I could take most of Kriege’s keeps and capture enough soldiers that I’d probably win the game.” She glanced at her brothers. “And I would have, too, if Kriege hadn’t gotten mad and knocked the pieces all over the floor.”
Ca’Damont’s snicker was audible, and he turn
ed his blade-scarred face away for a moment. Jan had to fight to hold back his own amusement, though it was tempered by just how much Elissa was like her great-matarh Allesandra. Jan could well imagine her doing the same as a child; it was what he’d watched her do as an adult.
“So…” Jan said to her, “you offered your brother an alliance that you didn’t intend to keep so you could win? Is that right?”
A nod. Jan looked at the two boys. “I think your sister has just taught you an excellent lesson,” he told them. “In war, sometimes a person’s word isn’t enough. Sometimes your enemy will lie to you in order to gain an advantage. And there’s more to war than simply moving your soldiers about. You should remember this. Both of you.”
“But she cheated! ” Kriege insisted, stamping his foot again.
Jan stroked his beard, trying not to laugh. “What do you think, Starkkapitan?” Jan asked ca’Damont. “Should I punish Elissa for her cheating?”
“No, my Hirzg,” ca’Damont answered, and Jan saw Elissa’s face relax slightly-so she had been worried about what he might do. “But I would say that there also is a lesson for her from this-that when one gives her word, others will be upset if that word’s not kept, and sometimes their reaction may prevent one from gaining the advantage they’d hoped to gain. Now no one will ever know which one of you might have won the game.”
Jan clapped ca’Damont on the shoulder. “There, you see,” he told the children. “You have it from the Starkkapitan himself. He knows war better than any of us. I hope you’ve learned well, so when one of you is Hirzg…”
“Let’s pray to Cenzi that isn’t for many decades yet, my husband.” The voice lifted up Jan’s head, and he saw Brie standing in the doorway and smiling in at the scene. He went to her, kissing her and embracing her briefly. She smelled of jasmine and sweetwater, and her hair-once the same color as Elissa’s, but darkening now-was soft even in the tight Tennshah braids that were currently so popular. If her figure had become heavier after bearing their children, well, that was like the scars on ca’Damont’s face: a sign of the sacrifices she had made.
Rance had told him that it was Brie who had sent away Mavel cu’Kella, and why. After his initial irritation, he was pleased: it saved him the trouble of doing the same.
“What’s going on here?” Brie asked. She looked at the children, at the servant holding Eria, at the nursemaid. “Rance told me you were still in conference, and we’re to be at the temple for the Day of Return blessing in a turn of the glass.” She shook her head, though the expression on her face was indulgent and serene. “And none of our children are dressed yet.”
“I’m sorry, Hirzgin,” the nursemaid said, curtsying. “It’s my fault. I’ll get them ready. Elissa, Kriege, Caelor-come with me now. Quickly…”
Brie hugged each of them as they passed (Kriege still frowning and flushed with anger, Elissa with a tight-lipped smile of triumph, Caelor as always dour and pensive). “I should take my leave also,” ca’Damont said, bowing to Brie and Jan. “I’ll have my scribe write up the full report for you this afternoon,” he said to Jan. “And we’ll see what Ambassador ca’Rudka has to say when he arrives. I’m sure word will have come to him on his way here. Hirzg, Hirzgin…”
He bowed again and left them. As the doors to the chamber clicked shut, Brie went to Jan and hugged him again, tilting her face up for his kiss. She leaned back slightly in his arms, plucking at the collar of his shirt. “You’re wearing this to the ceremony?”
“I was considering it, yes. It’s comfortable.”
“You look so handsome in that new red one, though.”
He smiled at her. “Then I suppose I’ll have to change to the red, just to please you.”
She kissed him again. “Armen had no trouble in Il Trebbio?”
“Less than I expected, actually.”
She nodded, her head against his shoulder. “The children have never seen their great-matarh, Jan. They only think of her as that awful woman in Nessantico who sometimes sends presents. I think you should consider what Sergei wants to offer her.”
“ She’s the one responsible for the estrangement,” Jan said. “And Rance agrees with me that there should be no treaty with the Holdings. If she wanted peace, she shouldn’t have supported Stor ca’Vikej in West Magyaria, and she shouldn’t be letting his son hang around the court of the Holdings. She stuffed the mattress on which she lies; if she finds it uncomfortable, well, she’s the one responsible.”
“I know,” Brie whispered. “I know. But I still wish… Children should know their relatives, and not as enemies.”
“Then let her give up the Sun Throne entirely, rather than letting Sergei propose this nonsense of naming me as A’Kralj.”
“ You put her on the throne, my love.” The rebuke wasn’t as harsh as it could have been, and she softened it by touching her hand gently to his cheek. “I know. You did what you thought was right at the time.”
“I was young and foolish,” Jan said. He opened his arms, releasing her. “And I don’t want to talk about this. Not now.” He grasped her hand and kissed it. “Let me have my domestiques de chambre find this red shirt you like so much, and we’ll go to the temple to make our appearance…”
He heard the sigh she stifled, but she smiled up at him and stroked her hand down his chest, stopping just at his belt. “Don’t call them just yet,” she said. She raised up on her toes to kiss him again as her hand remained where it was. “There’s still time, isn’t there, my love?” she asked.
He laughed. “As much as we like. They can’t start without us, can they?”
He kissed her again, more urgently. He felt her body yield to his, and that drove away any other thoughts for a time.
Rochelle Botelli
The ceremony started late, since the royal party was tardy arriving at the temple. Rochelle, in the press of the common, unranked folk at the rear of the temple, had found respite in the lee of one of the interior half-columns on the back wall, leaning there with her eyes half-closed, her nostrils flaring at the stink of incense and her ears full of the prayer chants and the choir’s singing. She heard the seated ca’-and-cu’ rising from their seats as the wind-horns sounded their mournful call from the temple dome and the great front doors of the temple opened to admit the Hirzg and his family. Bright sunlight streamed into the half-gloom of the temple. Rochelle opened her eyes fully; she stepped up onto the base of the half-column, allowing her to see over the heads of the congregation.
The procession was headed by Archigos Karrol and several o’teni, wrapped in a fog of aromatic smoke from the censers, with four chanting light-teni bearing lanterns that burned with yellow flames brighter yet than the sun. The Archigos walked slowly, an o’teni on either side in case he stumbled-Karrol was seven decades and more of age, and though he was still as sharp-witted as ever, in the last few years his physical health had begun to decline and his attendants were always vigilant with him around steps and stairs, or when-as today-ritual demanded that he walk for a significant distance, though he was supported by the Archigos’ staff he clutched in his right hand, the bejeweled cracked globe of Cenzi at its summit. He wore green robes trimmed with golden thread, the patterns glistening in the brilliance in which he was bathed, his long white hair seeming to glow under the mitered crown. He lifted his free hand in greeting to the crowd, his mouth curving into a smile under his beard.
Starkkapitan Armen ca’Damont and his family followed next, then the members of the Council of Ca’ with their spouses and families. Rochelle rose on her toes to see better as Jan entered. Rochelle remembered her matarh-in the fewer and fewer lucid moments before the voices in her head overwhelmed her completely-talking about Jan, how handsome he had been, how he had held her, how he promised her that he would always love her.
How Jan had been her vatarh.
Rochelle’s matarh had loved Jan until her death, as she had also hated Kraljica Allesandra for having torn them apart.
Rochelle had seen pai
ntings of him, and she had stared at the image, trying to see in it some hint of the features she glimpsed when she looked into a polished plate or still water. Perhaps that long, sharp nose? Or those high cheekbones? Her skin, duskier and more deeply and easily bronzed in the sun; did it speak of the Magyarias and the south where the Hirzg had been born? Did those features come from her vatarh, and from her great-vatarh?
She had never seen him this closely in person-less than a stone’s throw away as he entered the temple. She peered anxiously in his direction.
He was handsome: a thin, dark beard along a firm jawline, a sharp, narrow nose (yes, much like her own), skin darker enough that it stood out among the Firenzcians in the temple; dark and intense eyes; hair curled and so dark as to be nearly black, though the sun sparked bronze-and-red highlights from it.
Like her own hair. Like the face she sometimes glimpsed looking back at her.
Yes, he could truly be her vatarh. The tales that her matarh had told could be true. She felt her breath catch in her throat as he glanced around, as his gaze swept momentarily over hers. She raised her hand; he seemed to nod toward her, ever so slightly.
Next to him was the Hirzgin Brie, and Rochelle saw Jan’s hand cup her waist as he leaned toward her and whispered something. She laughed, and Rochelle saw the affection in the woman’s eyes as she glanced at her husband. At Rochelle’s vatarh. And behind…
Behind were the children. Rochelle knew their names; everyone in Firenzcia knew them. She stared at them, her half sisters and -brothers. She yearned to call out to them. “It should have been me with him,” her matarh had said, “with you as the eldest, the one he would dote on, the one who would always bring that smile to his face. He had such a wonderful smile…”