But, sadly, things had now changed. Thierry Jorge Garcia (and, if he was being honest, his own mulish refusal to be gracious) had changed them.
He sat cross-legged on a mat, on the floor of his room, his breathing slow and even. It was important to be open, to be aware without focus, to extend this awareness first inward, then outward, as far as he could reach, and then, once aware, to focus that awareness. Always before, once focused, the goal had been to hold and to grab, to lift, to pull, to move the object of one’s awareness, in whatever direction one wished.
Had the Viceroy said more than he intended? Or had he said exactly what he intended? Whatever, he had said it. The energy need not reside within himself. This was a revelation. None of his teachers had ever said such a thing.
And the Viceroy had asked him about the disk that he had purchased from the antiquarian. He had stared at it, with something akin to disapproval. Terence would have dearly liked to speak with the antiquarian again, but the Fair was over, the performers and the merchants scattered. The antiquarian was gone.
Leave the disk in the sun, the antiquarian had said. The stone will gather energy, and release it throughout the night.
Energy…energy that need not reside within himself.
The night was cool, the stars shining overhead, the two moons throwing shadows in crisp relief over the city. The streets, only a few days before filled with jostling crowds, now seemed ominous and nearly empty. A few men, furtive, scurrying, casting sidelong, speculative glances at Terence and his guards, moved past them but kept their distance.
The guards hovered near Terence’s back and sides, a nuisance, but his father had insisted and Terence had not been tempted to argue. Guards seemed like a good idea.
The city within the city was restive but mostly, at the moment, quiescent. This was good. Terence hoped it stayed that way.
Brian O’Hair, the captain of Lord Allen’s contingent of retainers, shook his head in obvious disapproval. “I do not,” he said, “think this expedition to be wise.”
Terence frowned at him. The wisest thing, in Brian O’Hair’s eyes, would have been for Terence to stay home, locked in the basement. Brian O’Hair was tall, slender and efficient. He moved with economical grace. His eyes were sharp.
“Is it not through the making of youthful mistakes that one gains perspective, and wisdom?” Terence said.
“Don’t be an ass,” Brian said.
“Ouch,” Terence said.
“A man can only profit from his mistakes if he is alive at the end of them.” This was said without even the hint of a smile. Terence, mildly abashed, shrugged.
“Also,” Brian added, “you’re old enough to know better.”
Bite me, Terence thought, but he wisely kept the thought to himself.
“I’ve heard of this place,” Brian said.
The dark bulk of the Black Bull loomed in front of them, the doorway lit by torches on either side. Tonight, the door was closed. Two men walked up the steps, pulled the door open and walked inside, glancing at Terence and his party as they passed.
Terence and the guards followed them. Inside the vestibule, only one man kept watch tonight, not four. He eyed Brian O’Hair and his men, ignoring Terence. “Weapons are not allowed inside. You may pick them up when you leave.”
They paid the cover charge and deposited their swords and daggers without a word. Brian turned to Terence. “Where to?”
“Follow me.” The guards spread out around him. Three tables in the main tavern were occupied, two by groups of men speaking quietly among themselves, the third by four men, customers, and four women employed by the house. The men were drunk, the women pretending to be amused by them. At the bar, the bartender wiped down the polished surface with a cloth. He smiled as Terence walked up. “What can I get you?”
“Beer,” Terence said.
The bartender turned toward the guards. “You folks?”
“Just water,” Brian said.
The bartender nodded and placed their drinks on the bar. Terence sipped his beer. It was excellent. He took it with him, walked across the room and up the stairs. The gaming tables, unlike the rest of the place, were almost as crowded as the last time he was here.
“This way,” Terence said. He found two men playing the game with the balls and the glass tubes, six other men and two women standing and watching. Terence waited until the game was finished and the winner, a small man with gray eyes and a sallow face, had pocketed his winnings. “Care to play?” Terence said.
The small man frowned, eyed Terence’s guards, then shrugged. “Sure.”
They placed their bets. The bell rang. Instantly, a stream of balls rose from the table, shot up Terence’s tube and plunged down the chutes. Within seconds, there were no more balls left. The crowd stared. Brian O’Hair and the guards looked at Terence as if they had never seen him before. The little man paid without a word, shook his head and walked off.
“Anybody else?” Terence said.
The crowd remained silent. Nobody volunteered.
Terence had been hoping to see the ronin who had challenged him, who had been so much stronger than himself at the weaving of soul-stuff, but no such luck. “Nobody?”
Terence waited a few seconds, then shrugged. “Let’s go home,” he said.
Outside on the street, Brian looked at him. “So far as I am aware, you have never before displayed such an ability. It might have been wiser to keep it to yourself.”
Terence looked at him. “Tell me, Brian, when you look at me, what do you see?”
Brian raised an eyebrow. He grinned, then frowned, then looked away.
“A rich man’s son? A wastrel?”
“I would rather not say.”
“Of course, you would rather not say. How professional you are,” Terence said. “How very diplomatic. Yet understand—despite your tact and your diplomacy, I am becoming just a bit tired of being told what I should do.”
Brian sighed. “I realize that recent events are weighing on your mind, but I truly do not understand your behavior. Why did you feel the need to make such a public display?”
Terence shrugged. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure. The Viceroy had been right about him, he thought, though Terence had not needed the Viceroy to tell him so. Terence lived his life under no illusions. He knew that he had talents and abilities he had never used, and he had allowed those talents and abilities to fester. Terence had always known this, and the knowledge had never bothered him before. He grinned to himself, though the grin lacked humor. The inevitability of death, he had once read, helps wonderfully to concentrate the mind. He was not quite so complacent as he had been.
Beside themselves, the street was now empty, and clouds had rolled in, blocking the moonlight. Terence peered into the gloom, lit only by the pale flickering of a torch halfway down the block. He allowed his awareness to expand outward. He could feel things now that he had never been able to feel before. He could sense the energy contained in the glowing stone in the disk that was pinned to his chest. The stone briefly dimmed as he took some part of its energy into himself and let it spread out in front of him. Ahead, around a corner, a cat lay in wait, motionless, waiting for a rat or a fat bug to scurry into view. Above them, on a balcony, a nest of birds lay sleeping.
A block, nearly two blocks before his awareness reached its limit and grew hazy.
Before one can lift an object, one must be able to sense it. Terence’s ability to sense his surroundings had grown. Only the day before, he had deliberately left the disk in his rooms. He had taken a horse, ridden to the edges of the estate, and reached out with his mind, unaided. The disk had supplied him with much needed energy, but he realized now, as he had hoped but not entirely expected, despite what the Viceroy had told him, that the ability to access energy was inherent to himself.
Energy, he found, lay all around. The breeze was blowing, the sun shining. Water trickled in a nearby brook, to merge into a stream, and then into a river, which then flowe
d down to the sea. He could sense these things. This was…amazing.
The Viceroy, obviously, had known. Who else knew? The antiquarian? Perhaps. Terence suspected that he did. The Inquisitoria? Almost undoubtedly. Why was this knowledge not common?
The night had grown cool, the mist turning to a fine drizzle.
Energy.
He could sense energy, plunging toward them, propelled from a rooftop, arcing into the sky, aiming at his heart. A bolt of energy, then another.
Terence reached out with his mind and took the energy into himself, feeling himself swell with it. An arrow fell at his feet, clattering harmlessly onto the stones, its energy spent, then another.
“The roof.” Terence pointed. “That one.”
“Go!” Brian said. The guards ran. There was nowhere for Terence and Brian O’Hair to hide. They stood in an open street lined with narrow doorways. Brian drew his sword and stationed himself in front of Terence. For an instant, Terence thought of protesting, but only for an instant. It was Brian’s job to guard him. Let him do it.
They waited. The sounds of a scuffle came to their ears, steel clanging on steel. A man cried out. Another cursed. A minute or so later, the guards returned, a prisoner held by the arms. The prisoner’s nose appeared broken. His lips were swollen and blood dripped down his face. He saw Terence and snarled.
“Knives and arrows,” Terence said. “Your favorite game.” Perhaps he should have been surprised to see the ronin, but somehow, it all seemed too predictable.
“Who paid you?” Brian O’Hair said.
The ronin spat a gobbet of blood upon the pavement. “It would be dishonorable of me to say.”
Terence shrugged. “Turn him over to the city guard. Perhaps they’ll be able to get something out of him.”
“They won’t,” Brian said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Terence said. “I think we can figure it out for ourselves.”
Chapter 9
He carried a sword and a knife at his belt. His clothes were clean but worn. He appeared scruffy. His hair was neatly trimmed, but he needed a shave.
Terence’s father had listened to Brian O’Hair’s recounting of their evening, rolled his eyes and walked away without a word. Two days later, this man arrived at Briony’s doorstep, asking for Master Terence Sergei Allen.
His name, he said, was Gareth Hale, a soldier, now retired. He was searched, his weapons confiscated, then Terence led him into a small office and took a seat behind the desk. Lord Marcus followed and sat on a couch against the wall. The assassin, if that was what he was, also sat.
How did one interview an assassin? One couldn’t ask for references, could one? “Tell me about yourself,” Terence said.
Gareth Hale cocked his head to one side, his eyes sharp. “I served in the armies of Corella. I survived seven campaigns against the Wolves. What more is there to say?”
Terence stared at Gareth Hale’s impassive face. Corella was one of the city-states of the nation of Venecia, a nation in name only, since it’s last king had died without designating an heir. Since then, at least three ruling Dukes had attempted to take over the country.
“So, you’re good with a sword,” Terence said.
“Yes,” Gareth Hale said.
“And a bow?”
“I am. There are few better.”
Terence shrugged. “Then I would like you to go to Fomaut and kill a man. Can you do that?”
Gareth Hale chuckled. “Can I? Yes. Will I?” He glanced at Terence’s father, who remained silent. “That depends on how much you’re paying.”
How much was the life of Thierry Jorge Garcia worth? “What is your fee?”
“Two million credits.”
Terence almost laughed. “No,” he said.
Gareth Hale shrugged. “Make me an offer.”
Terence’s father spoke for the first time. “Ten thousand,” he said.
Strange, Terence thought, his father said this so calmly, almost as if he had hired assassins before.
Gareth Hale frowned. He sat back in his seat and thought about it. “I will need to present myself as a respectable man,” he said, “one who has legitimate business. A merchant, perhaps. I will need provisions, horses, a wagon and merchandise to sell.”
“Ten thousand plus expenses.”
Gareth Hale shook his head. “Not enough.”
“Twelve, then.”
“Twenty,” Gareth Hale said.
“Fifteen,” Terence’s father said. “Not a credit more. You’re not the only retired soldier looking for work.”
Gareth Hale grinned. “Agreed.”
Among the upper classes of the Viceroy’s city, killing people—their own people, at least—just wasn’t done. Terence Allen had never killed a man, and aside from his duel with Thierry Jorge Garcia, it had never occurred to him that he might do so. This arrangement with Gareth Hale felt strange…shameful, even unclean. Still, he had the Viceroy’s sanction. He could fight back, disappear or wait to be slaughtered. Disappearing held no appeal and he would rather not wait to be slaughtered. He would much rather that Thierry Jorge Garcia be slaughtered, instead.
Gareth Hale was paid a quarter of his fee and disappeared, presumably in the direction of Fomaut. Then they waited, and while they waited, Terence tried to resume his previous life. He found, however, that there was less to his previous life than there used to be. Irina Archer was still in Varanisi, but he no longer had a reason to approach her and had, in fact, been requested not to do so. His friends were busy with their own pursuits. He dropped in on Damien Hurst and found that he had little to say. Damien did his best to carry on a conversation, but the worried glances he gave Terence when he thought Terence was not looking made him uncomfortable, and he soon departed.
His parents urged him to stay home (and away from the windows). Who knew which random stranger might turn out to be a paid assassin? Or which shadowy figure walking the streets might be a loyal retainer of House Garcia, eager to murder the enemies of his patron? Terence acknowledged the wisdom of his parents’ pleas but was not willing to live his life as a recluse. The prospect of sitting by himself in the library, reading books for the next four-hundred years, held no appeal.
He wandered to the docks along the river and watched the caravels unloading their cargo under the hot sun, accompanied always by his father’s men. There were apples and peaches, mangoes and jackfruit from the farms of Cartagena. There were semi-precious stones from the mines of Ravenna and cattle from the ranches of Argento, whose tender meat was destined to grace the city’s finest tables. Rarely, a ship would arrive from the Spice Islands, far to the South, carrying cimmonium and cuminos, pink peppercorns, pods of fragrant nutmeg, red and yellow capsicums, so hot that a single berry, no larger than a fingertip, would flavor a gallon of stew and burn the lining from a man’s throat. All the world’s goods came to famed and fabled Varanisi, the Viceroy’s city.
He watched the ships and dreamed of taking sail, of feeling the creaking deck beneath his feet, the cry of sea birds and the ocean breeze in his hair.
It wasn’t fun, waiting for the rest of your life to begin.
Fear, anxiety, doleful, dread-filled anticipation mixed with boredom—a strange mix of sensations filled the next few days. The pieces had been placed upon the board and there was nothing to do now but wait for the game to play itself out.
Only once did anything of note happen.
“Lady Alicia Bennet to see you, my Lord.”
Terence, sitting in the library, idly turning the pages of a book that held little interest, looked up at the footman. “Please show her in.”
A few moments later, a young woman dressed in riding clothes was ushered into the library. She was tall, blonde haired and very pale, with a pretty face, an erect carriage and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. She was married to a minor lordling on the far side of the city and was Irina Archer’s best friend. Terence rose to his feet. “Alicia,” he said.
She sat dow
n without acknowledging Terence’s greeting. “What is going on?” she said.
Terence blinked. “About what?”
Alicia and her husband had only recently returned from a visit to her husband’s aunt, who was married to a merchant in Trebizond. “Irina. You. This business with Thierry Garcia.”
“Haven’t you talked to Irina?”
“She won’t tell me anything. She seems distraught.”
Distraught? Good, Terence thought. Let her be distraught. Why should he be the only one? “Irina has broken our engagement and is to marry Thierry Jorge Garcia, whom, it appears, she has known since her time in Cathay.” Terence sighed. “I embarrassed Thierry at the Viceroy’s party and then defeated him in a duel, after which he declared a blood feud against me.
“I think that about sums it up.”
Alicia stared at him.
“What?” Terence said.
“You defeated Thierry Garcia in a duel?”
“Out of everything I’ve said, that is the one thing you choose to focus on?”
“No offense, Terence, but I know Thierry Jorge Garcia, and I know you. Nobody defeats Thierry Garcia in a duel. Certainly, not you.”
He raised a brow. “Yet here I sit, a simple, victorious nobody.”
She continued to stare. “You’re serious,” she said.
“The duel took place in the Colliseo. The witnesses are legion. You don’t need to take my word for it.” Not, he thought, that he particularly cared one way or the other what Alicia Bennett thought. “Frankly, Alicia, your attitude is beginning to annoy me.”
She cleared her throat and seemed to recollect herself. “Irina is ambitious. Did you know that?”
Terence knew that Irina was headstrong and imperious, also young, beautiful and used to getting her own way. Terence, besotted, had not been disturbed by these qualities, determined as he was to give Irina Archer whatever she wished.
“Ambitious? No.”
Alicia nodded. “She is.”
It occurred to Terence to wonder why, at this point, he should care, and he realized, with sudden, numb certainty, that aside from some minor degree of disinterested curiosity, he didn’t. All he desired, right here and right now, was to go on with his life without the threat of losing it. Certainly, the life and times of Irina Archer was no longer any business of Terence Sergei Allen, and seemed trivial in comparison with his own issues. He shrugged. “Tell me about Irina and her ambitions.”
The Towering Flame Page 6