by S L Farrell
“No? Is that what you think, A’Offizier?” Allesandra asked. Her stomach burned as if she had swallowed a hot coal. “Isn’t anticipating the movements of the enemies of the state the Commandant’s job? Isn’t anticipating the movements of the enemies of the Faith the task of A’Teni ca’Paim?”
Ci’Santiago swallowed hard. “Well, yes, I suppose it is, my Kraljica, but…”
He stopped, as if uncertain what to say next, and she waved aside whatever objection he was concocting. She wished that Sergei were here-the man might be twisted and dangerous, but there wasn’t a better tactician in either of the Gardes. And if not Sergei, then Commandant ca’Talin, who was directing the action at Villembouchure. The attack on the Old Temple begged for leadership of the Garde Civile, leadership she suspected she wasn’t going to see from ci’Santiago.
“So A’Teni ca’Paim, my good friend and the leader of the Faith here, is dead,” she said before ci’Santiago could comment again. “And Nico Morel and his riffraff hold the Old Temple. What do you intend to do about that, A’Offizier, now that it would seem that you are in charge of the Garde Kralji?”
Ci’Santiago shook his head. “Kraljica, retaking the Old Temple would be costly in lives and perhaps in damage to the structure itself. With the war-teni and other teni Nico Morel has at his disposal, a frontal attack is nearly impossible. I have people contacting the architect cu’Brunelli for his architectural drawings of the temple, so that we can perhaps plan an attack from an unexpected quarter, but it may well be that the teni Morel has with him know the hidden ways of the Old Temple-especially the ancient sections of it-as well or better than cu’Brunelli, who after all was concerned mostly with the dome and the main temple area. We’re also looking for old maps or texts in the Grande Libreria as well. I’ve surrounded the Old Temple and the attached complex with my people. The Morellis have trapped themselves. They can’t escape and we will also keep out his people and food supplies, though the kitchens of the Old Temple complex were undoubtedly full.”
“So you’re telling me that he’s won, that the best we can do is lay siege to the Old Temple and hope to starve out the Morellis. One day maybe months from now. You’re telling me that, a quarter turn’s walk from the palais, we no longer control one of the most important buildings in the city?”
Ci’Santiago heard the heavy sarcasm in her voice. His gaze flittered away again. “To some degree, that’s an accurate assessment, Kraljica,” he said. “Unless you can commit some of the chevarittai and the Garde Civile to this, the Garde Kralji doesn’t have the resources to deal with this large and this powerful an insurrection.” He finally looked at her face again, and this time his gaze was hard and unblinking. “I’m simply being honest, Kraljica. I wish it were otherwise.”
She sighed. “I know. What does Morel want? Have we received demands from him yet?”
“His demands were pinned to A’Teni ca’Paim’s robes,” he answered, almost apologetically. He reached into a side pocket of his uniform jacket and handed a folded piece of parchment to Allesandra. She unfolded the stiff paper; the writing there was clear and bold, in a fine, small hand.
To Archigos Karrol, Kraljica Allesandra, and Hirzg Jan-Cenzi will wait no longer for the Faith to come to its senses and return to His teachings. He has demanded that I be His Voice and His Hand, and I am but His humble and obedient servant. Up until this moment, I had obeyed the unfair and misguided restrictions that the Archigos and the Faith placed upon me. I had not used the Ilmodo, I had not worn the robes I had earned, I had not represented myself as a teni or even as a member of the Concenzia Faith. But Cenzi has ordered me to throw off the chains you would place around me and serve Him as He wishes.
I have obeyed.
Know that A’Teni ca’Paim’s death was her own fault for having attempted to defy Cenzi’s will; neither I nor any of my people intended her death. It was Cenzi who called her back to His arms. Commandant cu’Ingres has been injured, but my people are caring for him and we will do no further harm to him, nor to any of the other prisoners in our charge. If some of these captives die of the injuries they’ve already sustained, we will return the bodies so that their families can grieve and bury them; those who are healthy and those we are still caring for will, unfortunately, need to remain here for the time being, as I’m sure you can understand.
All of you must be curious as to what I hope to gain by this. I personally hope to gain nothing; I leave it to Cenzi to tell me what He wants of me. What He has said is this:
1) Those who have participated in today’s acts will not be prosecuted or punished for their actions, which were necessary because the Faith turned blind eyes and deaf ears to the pleas of those who saw the Faith falling away from the true teachings of the Toustour and the Divolonte. We weep for the death and injury that has been caused, and we wish it did not have to be so. But when those in authority no longer obey the tenets they have pledged to uphold, they must be cast down. If that requires violence, then Cenzi will bless those who do His bidding.
2) The seat of the Faith must return to Nessantico where it properly belongs.
3) Archigos Karrol must step down; a Concord A’Teni will convene immediately to elect a new Archigos for the Faith.
4) No heretical views will be tolerated within the Holdings nor the Coalition. Those preaching such views will meet the justice of the Faith. All secular cooperation with groups such as the Numetodo will immediately cease. Those heretics who recant their ways and accept Cenzi will be forgiven; those who do not will quickly meet Him.
5) The Concenzia Faith does not concern itself with secular affairs except where such conflict with the tenets of the Faith. Thus, the Faith does not care that Kraljica Allesandra remains on the Sun Throne or that Hirzg Jan bears the crown of Firenzcia. However, both Kraljica Allesandra and Hirzg Jan must acknowledge the supremacy of the Faith in all matters that impinge on the Toustour and the Divolonte, or the Faith will cease to cooperate with them. No teni will be allowed to assist them in any way: the war-teni will not fight with their armies; the light-teni will not illuminate their streets; the utilino will not patrol with the Garde Kralji nor the Garde Brezno; the lower teni will not toil in the industries of the state.
These five demands are not open to negotiation. They reflect Cenzi’s Divine Will and will not-can not-be abrogated. If any of these demands are not met, then the wrath of Cenzi will fall upon you as it has A’Teni ca’Paim.
We await your replies.
The document was signed with a bold flourish: Nico Morel.
Allesandra folded the paper again, staring at it in her hand, resisting the temptation to crumple the document and toss it into the fire in the hearth. “Well, the young man is certainly arrogant enough,” she commented. Ci’Santiago said nothing. “I’ll have Talbot make a copy of this for Hirzg Jan and Archigos Karrol and send it by fast-rider to them. They might be amused. They’ll undoubtedly be terrifically entertained by the fact that Morel could take over the Old Temple and we seem to be unable to root him out.”
“I’m sorry, Kraljica,” ci’Santiago said. “I’ll consult with the other offiziers and perhaps some plan can be devised…”
She waved him silent.
“No. Let Morel have the Old Temple. All I ask is that you keep him there. Right now, there are more important matters: let’s see what happens with Commandant ca’Talin at Villembouchure. When we know how he’s fared, we can decide what must be done with Morel. Just keep him there, snared in a hole of his own making. Can you do that much, A’Offizier?”
Ci’Santiago flushed and nodded quickly. “Is there an answer I should send to Morel?” he asked.
“I think that the lack of an answer will be all the answer he needs,” she said. “That is all I require of you for the moment, A’Offizier. Please send in Talbot on your way out…”
Ci’Santiago saluted her and spun on the balls of his feet. She watched him leave, glancing at the portrait of Marguerite as he closed the door. “I’m sorr
y,” she told the stern face in the painting. “I’m sorry I ever thought it would be easy to be on the Sun Throne. Every day, I appreciate what you accomplished all the more.”
Kraljiki Audric might have thought that the painting of his great-matarh could speak and respond, but it did nothing for Allesandra. Kraljica Marguerite only stared at her, frowning and eternally stern.
“If you don’t act, the people will start to think you weak.” The voice came from the direction of her bedroom. The door had opened and she saw Erik there, dressed in one of the robes she’d had Talbot bring up for him.
“I know,” she told him. She tried to keep the sudden annoyance she felt out of her voice: at the tone of his voice, at the nonchalant and confident way he leaned against the doorway. Something about his demeanor gigged her; she told herself that it was because of the news, because of ci’Santiago’s uselessness and cu’Ingres’ incompetence and ca’Paim’s death. “And I will act,” she finished.
“Let me talk to this ci’Santiago,” Erik continued. He pushed off from the wall, coming toward her with his arms opened. She allowed his embrace but did not return it. His voice was a low growl in her ear, his Magyarian accent more pronounced than usual. “Or give me command of the Garde Kralji in his place. I have experience commanding an army, my love. I can tell them how to take down this Morel. Let me help you, Allesandra, as you have helped me.”
I have seen your vatarh command his army, and I have watched him go down to defeat… She did not say that. Instead, she allowed herself to relax in his arms. “Talk to him if you’d like,” she told him. “Tell him that I’ve asked you to consult for me. But do nothing without telling me first.”
He kissed the top of her head. “I will do that. Immediately.” He kissed her again and released her, striding quickly toward the bedroom. He paused there a moment, looking back at her. “We make good allies, you and I,” he said. “Perhaps even of the more permanent variety, eh? We don’t need the damned Firenzcians.”
It did not seem to occur to him that she herself was Firenzcian. He left the room. She could hear him dressing, humming some Magyarian folk tune.
He was right, she knew. She had to act, and forcefully. But the prospect did not please her.
Nor, at the moment, she was afraid, did Erik.
Rochelle Botelli
The encampment was loud, dirty, and malodorous. It stank of horses, mud, men, and fires; it boomed with orders, curses, laughter, and a seemingly eternal hammering of smithies. The tents of the Firenzcian army covered a rolling field not far from the Nessantican border town of Ville Colhelm. The field might once have been lush and beautiful, dappled with grass and wildflowers. Now it was a muddy, torn mess rutted with makeshift lanes between the canvas ramparts of a portable city. It was impossible to stay clean here. Just walking to the kitchen tents caked Rochelle’s legs halfway to the knee. A midden had been set up downwind of the encampment, but on still days, one could catch the odor of rot and filth.
The soldiers themselves grumbled about the inaction, fretting over their wait while the offiziers endeavored to keep them busy with maneuvers, with drills and meetings, and with keeping their equipment in order.
But there was tension in the air. They knew that they might be going to war at any moment, and that made everyone here nervous and short-tempered. There was no escaping the foul mood of the soldiers, the chevarittai, or the royal family.
The Hirzg and Hirzgin’s quarters were commodious and luxurious, comparatively. There, the muddy ground was covered by rugs, the furniture had been carted from Stag Fall, and paintings were hung on the walls of the several tents which, together, made a traveling “palais” for them. There was a pretense that the royal couple were simply at yet another of their estates-at least for the moment-and the usual routine should be followed despite the circumstances. The small personal staff, under Paulus’ relentless and tedious direction, brought in meals and refreshments, made certain that the tables and chairs were stable despite the rather uneven ground underneath, and that the worst of the mess stayed outside the tents.
The staff was nearly as unhappy as the soldiers. Keeping up the pretense was far harder work than actually being at the palais.
Rochelle grumbled with the rest of them because she knew it was expected, but her efforts were half-hearted. True, she could not avoid Hirzgin Brie and her suspicious glances, but here the Hirzgin could hardly fault Rochelle for being around Jan. Her vatarh, for his part, seemed to take a renewed interest in her. He would nod to her if she passed him among the tents, and she often caught him glancing her way as she served the two and their guests-usually Starkkapitan ca’Damont and others of the high-ranking offiziers, as well as the occasional adviser from Brezno.
She hated that. She hated that Hirzgin Brie invariably noticed, and that it obviously bothered her.
As within the palais, though, she tried to avoid being alone with him. Part of that was the memory of what had happened at Brezno Palais, part of that was to avoid Brie hearing of it and sending Rochelle away. The conflict tore at her. Rochelle wanted to be with Jan, wanted contact with the man who had given her life, yet she was certain that if he knew the truth, if somehow she blurted it out to him, he would deny it. He would be angry. He would want nothing to do with her.
She knew that her matarh’s advice had been right, that she should never have sought him out, yet, knowing that she should leave, she still stayed.
They had been there nearly four days already when Paulus handed Rochelle a sealed letter that had just arrived by fast-rider. “Take this to the Hirzg,” he told her. “I have to deal with a crisis in the kitchens.”
“But you’re the chief aide. Aide ci’Lawli would have taken it himself…” Rochelle started to protest. But Paulus cut her off.
“I don’t care what you think, girl,” he snapped. “Just do it.”
Rochelle bowed as required, and hurried to the Hirzg’s tents.
The servant stationed at the door to the series of royal tents, set somewhat apart from the others, told her that Hirzg Jan was in his “private office,” a tent set in the middle of the complex. “And the Hirzgin?” Rochelle asked.
The man shrugged. “Starkkapitan ca’Damnot invited her to oversee today’s maneuvers down near the river. Said that the men would perform better if they knew she was watching.”
Rochelle nodded and hurried past him. The hubbub of the rest of the encampment was muffled and distantsounding here. She moved through the “rooms” of the palais, seeing no one else about. Rochelle tapped at the board hung by the flap, then went in at Jan’s muttered “Enter.”
He was alone. She noted that immediately. The “office” tent was small, with room for only two or three people. He was seated behind a traveling desk that took up much of the available space, the front painted with ornate battle scenes. Papers and maps were scattered over it, and Jan was poring over them with one hand cupping his forehead. Rochelle thought that he looked worried. “A message from a fast-rider, my Hirzg,” she said, curtsying and handing him the sealed parchment as he stood up. Jan glanced at it. He gave her a smile.
“Kraljica Allesandra’s seal,” he said. “Wonder what she has to say, eh?” He let the missive fall to the desk as he came around the side. “The rider gave this to you rather than Paulus?”
Rochelle shook her head. He was an arm’s length from her. She could smell the cologne Paulus had put on Jan’s bashta this morning. She lowered her eyes, staring at the tapestry that covered the grass. There were mud tracks from Jan’s boots, smearing across a mountain meadow in which a unicorn pranced-a rug she might well have to clean this evening. The beast’s crown seemed to spear a clump of the mud. Rochelle found herself wondering-strangely-if the mud would come out of the tapestry or if the fibers were to be eternally stained. “Paulus gave the message to me to deliver. He said there was a problem in the kitchens that demanded his attention.”
She could hear the frown in Jan’s voice, though she didn’t look up.
“The kitchens are more important than a communication from the Ambassador?” She heard his sigh. “Paulus is no Rance, I’m afraid. I need someone more competent to be my aide. Could that be you, Rhianna?”
Unexpectedly, Rochelle felt his right hand touch her arm, and she gasped, her head coming up. His fingers were gentle around her, but they also did not release her as she started. “So muscular,” Jan said, as if that were what he expected. “Somehow I’m not surprised by that, Rhianna.”
She could feel herself tensing. He was so very close, his face bending above hers, but she didn’t pull her arm away. “I don’t know what you mean, my Hirzg.”
His hand moved, sliding up her arm past the elbow. His fingers grazed the outside of her breast. “You remind me so much of her,” he said. His hand was at her shoulder now. Then, before she could respond: “I know that the Hirzgin treats you suspiciously, and I’m sorry for that. But I can handle Brie, if it comes to that. She knows when to…” He smiled down at her; his eyes were those of a hawk. “… look the other way if she must.”