by S L Farrell
“Hmm…” Brie sighed and tossed the covers back completely. If this is true, if the Westlanders are coming again… “You’ll help me dress, then, Rhianna. In the closet in the dressing room, I’d like the blue tashta with the black lace trim. Go get it; I’ll be there in a few moments.”
Rhianna curtsied and left the room for the adjacent dressing room. Brie sighed as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.
The morning air was chilly on her bare feet, and through the drapes she could see clouds that promised rain.
Jan ca’Ostheim
“You’re certain of this? Absolutely certain? ”
Jan stared at Sergi ca’Rudka as he asked the question, watching the man’s face and trying to ignore the distraction of the silver nose. Not that one could ever see a lie in the Ambassador’s ancient, lined, and practiced face, but he still watched. Sergei only nodded, slowly and carefully.
Jan heard the massed sigh from the others around the conference table: Archigos Karrol, Starkkapitan ca’Damont, Brie, his aide Rance.
“Oh, it’s certain,” Sergei answered. His voice sounded tired, and his travel cloak was still stained gray with the ash kicked up in his travel from the Holdings capital. He reached into the leather pouch that sat on the table before him and placed a stack of bound papers on the polished oak. “I have the transcripts here with me of the several fast-riders who came to Nessantico immediately after the ashfall-many of them are firsthand reports of having seen the Tehuantin fleet. The Kraljica has sent riders heading west to verify the sighting, but we’re certain what we’ll find. I came as fast as I could, but by now. ..” Sergei shrugged. “The Westlanders may have already landed their army. We’ve lost Karnmor to them; Fossano could already be under attack, or they could be heading past that city upriver toward Villembouchure.”
Jan found himself still wanting to deny the news. How was it possible that Westlander magic could have brought Mt. Karnmor to life? How could they have destroyed the Holdings fleet and the city of Karnor, how could they have caused thousands of deaths and this horrifying ashfall?
“Could the eruption of Mt. Karnmor have been a fortunate coincidence for the Westlanders?” Jan asked. “They didn’t necessarily cause that to happen.”
Sergei sniffed. “They didn’t land their army on the island. They took their fleet well north of Karnmor when it would have made more sense for them to move directly toward the mouth of the A’Sele. One of our eyewitnesses saw a Tehuantin ship at anchor at the flank of Mt. Karnmor the night before the mountain exploded, and lights on the slopes going to and from the ship. That doesn’t sound like a coincidence to me, Hirzg.”
And if they could do that, what else could they do? That’s what they were thinking, all of them in the room. “When the fast-rider came from Nessantico, I didn’t want to believe this,” Jan told him. “I thought perhaps-”
“I told you that your matarh wouldn’t dare use such an outrageous lie,” Brie interrupted.
“Yes, you did,” Jan answered, though he didn’t bother to hide the irritation in his voice. “Though I’m certain that the fact that it’s true won’t stop her from trying to take whatever advantage she can from the situation. So what is it that my matarh wants, Ambassador, that she’d send you so quickly back to Brezno?”
“She asks for the help of Firenzcia and the Coalition,” Sergei said simply.
“Asks for or demands?” Jan interrupted. Sergei spread his shriveled, delicate hands wide.
“Does it matter, Hirzg Jan? The Garde Civile of the Holdings couldn’t stand alone against the Tehuantin fifteen years ago and defeat them. They still cannot.”
From the edge of his vision, Jan saw Starkkapitan ca’Damont allow himself a momentary smile at that. “So now she wants our army to enter Holdings territory. How terribly amusing and ironic.”
“We have no obligation to help them,” Archigos Karrol said. The elderly man’s voice quavered, and he cleared his throat noisily afterward, phlegm rattling in his lungs. “The Tehuantin wish to attack the Holdings? Well, let them. They won’t come here, or if they do, we’ll deal with them at that time, when their supply lines have stretched too far and their forces are weak.”
“No obligation to help?” Sergei responded. “Only the obligation that Cenzi gives us in the Toustour, and also by the rules of the Divolonte. ‘It is the duty of the Faithful to help those of the Faith who are in desperate need.’ I believe that’s an accurate quote-or has the Archigos decided to abandon those of the Faith who happen to live in the Holdings?”
“If your Kraljica hadn’t decided to interfere in issues of faith and coddle and legitimize the Numetodo, then perhaps Cenzi wouldn’t have sent this trial to her.”
“Now you sound like Nico Morel, Archigos. I must say I find that- to use the words of your good Starkkapitan-terribly amusing and ironic.”
Jan slapped his hands on the table. “Ambassador, Archigos, enough!” His hands tingled with the force of the impact. Archigos Karrol’s mouth slammed shut with an audible grating of teeth; Sergei simply leaned back in his chair, his hand wrapped around the knob of his cane. “What does my matarh offer, Ambassador? Because she must be offering something in return.”
The man’s nervous ticks were at least predictable-he rubbed at the side of his metal nose as if it itched. “She is willing to give you what you’ve asked for,” Sergei said, and Jan felt a sudden pressure in his chest. “She will name you A’Kralj,” Sergei finished.
Jan felt Brie’s hand on his arm. “Where is the knife blade hidden under those silken words?” she asked Sergei.
The Ambassador did smile at that, briefly. Then he leaned forward in his chair. “In return for the title, the Kraljica requests that Firenzcia dissolve the Coalition and immediately return to the Holdings. The other Coalition countries would be invited to rejoin the Holdings. If they refuse…” Sergei leaned back again. “Then the Kraljica, after this crisis is over, might be inclined to have them returned forcibly, with the aid of Firenzcia and the A’Kralj’s-and Hirzg’s-army.”
The pressure in his chest released once more, and Jan felt himself laugh, a sound that was almost a cough. Archigos Karrol chuckled broadly. Both Rance and Starkkapitan ca’Damont shook their heads. Brie’s hand left his arm, leaving behind a chill. “So the old bitch still gets what she wants,” Jan said.
“It is a compromise,” Sergei responded. “You both get a portion of what you wanted. And you, Hirzg Jan, get the final prize: you’ll eventually be Kraljiki of a united Holdings.”
“While she gets to play Kraljica for the rest of her life.” He scoffed again. “And if she lives for decades yet, I get to play Justi to her Marguerite, waiting patiently for her to die so I can receive my inheritance.”
Sergei’s mouth twitched; Jan couldn’t decide if it was amusement or if he simply expected that objection. “I believe that I can persuade her to put a time limit on her reign, Hirzg. After all, Allesandra will be sixty in 570; she might be persuaded to resign her title in favor of the A’Kralj at that point-which is only seven years from now.”
“Which would be adequate time for, ahh, some unfortunate accident to befall our Hirzg,” Rance broke in. His smile showed no teeth, his lips pressed together as he inclined his head toward Sergei. “Such things seem to have a habit of occurring to those involved with the Kraljica, after all,” he added.
“Yet somehow I’ve managed to live,” Sergei answered, spreading his hands wide. “Kraljica Allesandra has her faults, I’ll admit, but let’s not fall prey to conspiracy rumors and attribute every misfortune to her influence. With the Archigos’ forgiveness, she’s hardly the Moitidi that some would make her out to be.”
Jan had only half-listened to the exchange. “Is she still bedding the pretender Erik ca’Vikej?”
Sergei sighed. “Yes,” he answered simply.
“I suppose she wants him on the throne of West Magyaria, and perhaps even married to her. Another ally to keep her on the throne.”
Sergei said nothing. Finally, Jan sighed. It’s this or war. It’s this or allowing the Westlanders to ravage the Holdings once again-and make it worthless to you. He glanced at Brie; she nodded to him. “She would do what you said?” Jan asked Sergei. “She would abdicate the Sun Throne on her sixtieth birthday?”
“That isn’t the offer she made, but I believe I can convince her of the wisdom of that choice,” Sergei answered. “Whatever you might think of your matarh, Hirzg, or her choices in lovers, she truly does want what is best for the Holdings. She knows that means the Holdings needs to be one again.”
“Hirzg,” Rance interrupted, “forgive me, but I still don’t like this. There is no reason that Firenzcia needs to bow to Nessantico. If anything, it should be the other way around, with you dictating the terms…” Rance stopped as they heard a knock on the servants’ door to the chamber. “Ah, that will be the additional refreshments. A moment…”
Rance rose from his chair, bowed to Jan, and went to the door. Rhianna was among the servants who entered, Jan noticed immediately, with a cart laden with glasses, a tray of pastries, and bottles of wine. She seemed to notice Jan at the same time, dropping her gaze as she pushed the cart toward the end of the table.
Brie noticed her as well. Jan felt Brie watching him as he regarded Rhianna, and heard the quick intake of breath through her nose. The conversation around the table turned to the ashfall, to Sergei’s journey here-safe subjects-as the servants placed the glasses and dishes in front of each of them, opened the bottles and poured, and put the pastries within easy reach. Jan pretended to listen and take part in the talk, glancing deliberately and often at Brie as he did so, turning carefully away from Rhianna when she came quietly to his side to place his glass and then hurry away. He saw Brie glance at the girl, saw the narrowing of her eyes and the flare of her nostrils as she watched Rhianna even while she smiled at Jan. He forced himself not to look away even though he wanted that. There was something about the girl that made him want to talk to her, to listen to her voice and stare into her face, and, hopefully, to know her much better…
But if he wanted that, he had to be patient. He had to be careful.
Patience.
He laughed, suddenly, startling Brie and the others. Brie touched her face quizzically, as if wondering whether the kohl around her eyes had decided to smear. “Is something wrong, my love?”
“No, no,” he said. Rhianna, with the other servants, were already exiting the room, ushered out by Rance, who closed the door after them and returned to the table. “Starkkapitan, I want you to muster three divisions of the army-one at the Loi-Clario Pass, and two near Ville Colhelm; Archigos, you will coordinate with the Starkkapitan to make certain that he has sufficient war-teni for full-scale operations. Rance, we will be leaving Brezno for Stag Fall in two days, and we will wait there for further news.”
“Then you are accepting the Kraljica’s offer?” Sergei said, and Jan shook his head.
“No,” he told the man. “I am preparing my country for possible war against the Westlanders-because what you have told me of Karnmor is terrifying. Perhaps that war will be brought to us…” He waited, picked up the goblet that Rhianna had put at his side and took a sip of the wine. It was tart and dry, and as red as blood. “Sergei, if you can convince Matarh that she would be more comfortable if she stepped away from the Sun Throne on her sixtieth birthday-and if she would declare such publicly and in writing to both me and the Council of Ca’ for both Nessantico and Brezno-then perhaps Firenzcia might find the war wherever it is at that point. I can be that patient, I suppose.”
Sergei nodded. He lifted his cane and slammed it hard against the floor. “Then, Hirzg, I will take enough time to eat and get the rest of this damned ash from my clothes and body, and I will immediately be returning to Nessantico.”
Rochelle Botelli
If she was to be the White Stone, if she was to be what her matarh had taught her to be, then she could not wait much longer. The Hirzg and Hirzgin, their family-along with Rance ci’Lawli and the personal staff-would be leaving in two days, and that would ruin all the planning she’d done.
She’d been slow because she wanted to be here, wanted to know her vatarh better. But she had to act now, if she were going to act.
If she fulfilled the contract and killed Rance ci’Lawli as she had killed the others, then she might also have to leave the palais just as swiftly, and in leaving the palais, leave behind forever her vatarh.
Rochelle knew some of the same emotional conflict must have torn at her matarh in her day: pregnant with Jan’s son, in love with him, yet forced to flee-because if he knew who she was, that knowledge would also destroy the love and any chance she had. Rochelle fingered the stone that hung in a leather pouch around her neck, the white pebble that Matarh believed held the very souls of those she had killed. I understand, Matarh, she thought. How hard that must have been for you…
But she was not her matarh. She wasn’t tormented by voices. She had only begun to be the White Stone. And her matarh had been too enamored of the knife and of watching her victims die.
There were other ways to kill someone, and if she did it right.. . Well, she might fulfill the contract and not need to flee the scene. All she needed was a sufficient proof of her innocence.
To that end, she had seduced Emerin ce’Stego, one of the trusted palais gardai. In the past week, she had spent as many nights as she could with him in her small bedchamber in the lower levels of the servants’ wing, as both of them were generally on day duty and the palais gardai were permitted to occasionally spend nights away from the barracks. Emerin was pleasant enough, and gentle enough, and not much older than Rochelle herself. He also had wonderful green eyes; she enjoyed watching him as they made love, seeing the surprise in his face as he found his release. The first few nights, she made certain to get up in the middle of the night, jostling their bed and making enough noise that he would wake sleepily and talk to her. “You sleep so lightly, love,” she told him. “It must be your training.”
He’d smiled at that, almost proudly. “A garda needs to be alert, even when he’s sleeping,” he told her. “You never know when you might be called, or when something might happen.”
“Well, I’d never be able to sneak away from you at night. Why, I was trying so hard not to disturb you at all…”
Matarh had known knives and other edged weapons, but she had also known the rest of the assassin’s repertoire, and Rochelle had paid close attention to that portion of her education. It was easy enough, the night that the Ambassador of the Holdings left, to slip a potion into Emerin’s wine goblet-a slow-acting sleeping draught. They made love, and he had drifted off to sleep. Rochelle slipped from the bed and dressed, taking with her the blade Matarh had given her, her favorite dagger, its edges blackened with a tar she was careful not to touch herself.
Rochelle had acquainted herself with the patterns of the palais and the servants’ wing. The night staff would be at work; the day staff sleeping. Rarely would anyone be moving in the corridors. She was able to quickly slip to the single outside door, then sidle along the wall in the moonless, cloudy night to the window of Rance’s bedroom. She could see the campfire of the gardai near the gate, and the forms of the men there-staring outward, not back toward the palais, and their night vision ruined in any case by the flames.
The staff rotated the duty of cleaning Rance’s rooms; it had been Rochelle’s turn three days ago, and she had taken the time to replace the metal lock of Rance’s casement with one she’d fashioned from painted, dried clay. It was the work of a moment to push hard against the window. The clay cracked and crumbled easily; the two windows swung open. She could hear Rance snoring inside-Rance’s snore was nearly legendary among the servants. She hoisted herself up and slipped inside, dropping almost silently to the floor. She pushed the windows shut again.
She needed no light; she’d familiarized herself with the room. Rance invariably slept alone. “ No one could actually
sleep with that racket in the same bed ” was the usual laughing response from the staff if anyone speculated on the aide’s love life. She heard more ominous gossip-that Rance had been injured in an accident as a young man and no longer possessed the requisite equipment for such activities.
Whatever the reason, Rance always slept alone. Rochelle’s eyes had already adjusted to the gloom; she could see the hump of his body under the covers-not that anyone needed more than ears to locate him. She padded over to the bed. He had tossed one of the pillows on the floor; Rochelle picked it up. She slid the dagger from its sheath. Then, in one motion, she plunged the pillow over Rance’s face and slid the the dagger along his side, the cut shallow but long-the depth of the stroke didn’t matter, only that the black poison on the blade entered his body.
Rance immediately jerked awake, his hands scrabbling blindly, but Rochelle pressed all her weight down on him. The poison on the blade was already doing its deadly work; she could hear the choking rattle in his muddled cries and the flailing hands began to jerk spasmodically. A breath later, and they had dropped back to the bed. Carefully, Rochelle lifted the pillow from Rance’s head. In the dimness, she could see his mouth open, the tongue black and thick and protruding from his mouth, vomit smeared along his chin. His eyes were wide, and she quickly removed the two pebbles from the pouch laced around her neck: the White Stone’s pebble, and the one that Josef cu’Kella had given her. Her matarh’s stone she placed on the man’s right eye, cu’Kella’s on the left. After a moment, she plucked the one from his right eye and placed it back in the pouch. She cleaned the dagger on the bedding before sheathing it again.