by S L Farrell
“To talk about the weather and-according to Francesca-take credit for it,” Allesandra told him; Jan laughed at that. “Yes, I know, the woman is nothing if not predictable. Let’s get to our coach, darling. The procession is about to move. Pauli, I hate to interrupt your attempts to impress the young Vajica, but we have our duty…”
With a grimace of irritation, Pauli broke off his conversation and strolled over as Allesandra was following Jan to the open carriage just ahead of the Archigos. She could see Semini and Francesca watching them, and she nodded to him. “You needn’t be so strident, my dear,” Pauli said.
“And you needn’t be so obvious,” Allesandra answered. “But this isn’t a conversation we should be having in public, Pauli.”
“It’s not a conversation we need to have at all, as far as I’m concerned.” Pauli pulled himself into the coach. He shifted uncomfortably on the plush leather of the seat, tapping at the cushions with his fingers. The sound was as bright and loud as if he were rapping on wood and the cushion barely dimpled. “Firenzcia has a knack for making something appear enticing when it is actually extraordinarily uncomfortable,” he commented. “But I realize you’re already intimately familiar with that quality, my dear.”
“Vatarh!” Jan said sharply, and-strangely-Pauli turned to stare out from the carriage’s window. Allesandra felt her cheeks grow hot, but she said nothing. They would be at the dais before a quarter turn, and the day would become what it would become. Either way, Pauli would eventually be no more irritating to her than a summer fly, and she would dispose of him as easily when the right time came. With relief.
The carriage lurched into motion then, and for the next half a turn they rode along the main avenue of Brezno, lined thickly with the inhabitants of Brezno and surrounding towns, all of them cheering and shouting, pushing and jostling against the utilino and gardai stationed there in their efforts to see the elite of Firenzcia, the grand visitors from other countries of the Firenzcian Coalition, and their new Hirzg.
The square around Falwin’s statue was packed shoulder to shoulder, the royal carriages moving along an open path kept cleared by the gardai. At the side of the dais, they were escorted up the wide temporary staircase to their places in the shadow of Falwin’s statue. The ancient Hirzg lifted his bronze arms over them, his massive sword held aloft. Allesandra could feel the sound of the crowd, their shouts and applause cresting as Fynn appeared on the platform, hands widespread as if embracing them all. He basked in their adulation, spotlighted in bright sun. She felt a brief pang of envy, watching him.
Allesandra was just to Fynn’s left with Jan next to her, then Pauli (already turning backward to speak with the ca’Belgradi girl again); Semini stood to Fynn’s right in his brilliant gold-and-emerald ceremonial robes, the crown of the Archigos on his head. Allesandra glanced at ca’Cellibrecca, standing next to the dour Francesca, who seemed to be the only one entirely unimpressed with the proceedings. Semini nodded, faintly.
When? Who? How?
Fynn had begun to speak, his voice amplified through the efforts of two softly chanting o’teni to either side of him. His voice boomed over the masses, the stentorian voice of a demigod shouting from the heavens. “Firenzcia, I stand before you as your servant, and I humbly thank you for the gift of your confidence.”
A roar answered him, and he lifted his arms again. But Allesandra’s attention drifted away. She scanned the front of the crowd, scanned those standing with her on the platform. There were gardai at the rail of the dais to either side of Fynn, staring outward and down-surely they would see anything troubling there before it was visible to her.
“I would not stand too close to the new Hirzg…” A magical attack, then? A fireball like that of the war-teni? Semini had been a war-teni, after all. But the Archigos certainly wouldn’t use the Ilmodo himself, or dare to have someone else do so when it would draw suspicion toward the teni and thus to him.
“As your Hirzg, I promise you that I will continue my vatarh’s desire to make Firenzcia first among all nations…”
Allesandra glanced over her shoulder. The ca’-and’cu and the visiting dignitaries were arrayed behind her, and at the rear, the servants waited. There was nothing unusual there. She started to turn back when motion caught her eye.
“… a dream that would see Brezno as the center of the world. ..”
One of the servants was moving forward, bearing a tray with a pitcher of water. He moved slowly through the ranks, murmuring apologies as he pushed carefully through the rows. Moving toward Fynn. The servant’s attention never seemed to leave her brother and something in the intensity of that gaze alarmed her. Semini, in the most telling action of all, muttered something to Francesca and was sidling away from Fynn, toward the far edge of the platform.
There are those who use magic and are enemies of Firenzcia, who would gladly kill the new Hirzg and would cast no suspicion on the Archigos at all. Allesandra felt a chill of fear; she was no longer so certain of this plan of hers. She had expected the attack to be physical: a knife, a sword, an arrow. Vatarh wouldn’t have hesitated, not if he thought there was still a chance of success. And you are his daughter, the one who is most like him…
“Jan,” she said, leaning over to her son. “That man-the servant, behind us, moving forward with the tray-no, don’t look at him directly, but do you see him?”
Jan’s head moved quickly left, then back. “Yes.”
“He’s a Numetodo. An assassin.”
Jan blinked. “What?”
“Believe me,” she whispered furiously. At the dais, Fynn was still declaiming: “A new day for Firenzcia, a new dawn…” “When he puts the tray down, all he’ll need to do is speak a word and make a motion with his hands-we can’t let that happen. I’ll confront him to slow him down; you come from the side. Go!” She pushed at him. With a glance, Jan turned and muttered apologies as he slipped backward through the ranks of the ca’-and-cu’. Pauli glanced over at them, curious, then returned his attention to the young ca’Belgradi woman. Allesandra stepped carefully behind Fynn, and turned to face the servant.
There were only a few people between them. The servant with the tray stopped, seeing her swivel to face him, and his face tightened. She thought for a moment that she was mistaken, that the man was nothing more than what he pretended to be. But the next few breaths would be ones that Allesandra would never forget.
… the servant tossed the tray aside (the ca’-and-’cu’ next to him reacting belatedly as tray, pitcher, mug, and water cascaded over them). He lifted his hands as if he were about to pray…
… as Allesandra flung herself toward him, only to be impeded by those between them, pushing back against her advance…
… fire bloomed between the assassin’s hand as he roared a single word that sounded like the teni language. Allesandra expected to die then, consumed by the teni-fire that would also take her brother…
… but Jan slammed into the man at the moment the Numetodo opened his hands, bearing him down. (Around them, mouths gaped in mid-shout, most of them not yet realizing what was happening and wondering why this rude young man had shoved them aside, or why this clumsy servant had despoiled their fine clothing. Behind her back, Allesandra heard Fynn falter and go silent. She could imagine him turning, slowly, to see the commotion behind him.) The mage-fire arced sideways and up rather than toward Fynn and Allesandra. Ca’-and-cu’ screamed as the fire touched them, tearing through them and blossoming into a fireball that exploded at eye level to the statue of Falwin. Red light pulsed and died, brighter than the sun, and now the crowds screamed also.
“Jan!” Allesandra called in panic, and she pushed forward to get to him. He seemed unhurt, struggling with the Numetodo though the man seemed curiously lethargic in Jan’s hands, as if stunned by the turn of events. Around them, there was chaos. She heard Fynn shouting.
Allesandra slid her own dagger from its sheath on her sleeve. Kneeling quickly, she plunged it under the jaw of the Numetodo
and yanked it viciously sideways. Blood spurted and fountained, sticky and hot as it streamed over her hand and arm. “Matarh!” Jan said, and she heard the horror in his voice as the blood splashed over him as well. Hands were grabbing at them; the gardai had arrived, their swords drawn, shoving ca’-and-cu’ aside. Fynn bellowed orders.
“Who did this!” she heard him shout at her back. She turned to him, the front of her clothing ruined with gore.
“My son saved your life and mine, my Hirzg, my brother,” she told him. “And I’ve made certain that this assassin will never strike at you again.”
The cold shadow of Falwin’s statue touched her. She could see Archigos ca’Cellibrecca behind Fynn, and confusion and disbelief fought with horror on Semini’s bearded features. Allesandra thought there was near-disappointment in the way Fynn stared down at the body. Pauli pushed forward and came to a stunned halt alongside Fynn as Allesandra let her dagger drop from her fingers. It clattered loudly on the planks of the dais.
“I need to clean myself of this filth,” she told them calmly. “Fynn-talk to your people. Calm them. Reassure them. That’s what the Hirzg needs to do.”
He scowled at her: as he always scowled when someone deigned to order him about. But he turned to the horrified, worried crowd, and he began to speak.
The White Stone
She watched the assassination attempt from within the crowd, unnoticed and safe. How terribly clumsy, she thought, as people gaped and shouted and screamed around her. Clumsy and stupid people gaped and shouted and screamed around her. Clumsy and stupid to boot.
A knife was a much better weapon than magic. Stealth was much better than a brute attack. You should be there to see your victim’s eyes when you strike. You should see yourself reflected in his pupils. You should feel the heat of the blood washing over your hands.
She’d been taught her blade skills at an early age, in the warrens of An Uaimth. Her body still had the scars of those lessons, and she’d thought more than once that she herself would die of them. Her teachers were the dregs of society, the dark and twisted folk who were too violent and too twisted and too damaged to be tolerated by polite society. They were dangerous, and she had found herself abused and used and injured by them more than once. But they had physical skills she wanted, gained with blood and pain and fury. She had learned those lessons well, taking from each what she could.
She was never again going to let someone take advantage of her. She was never going to be weak. She was never going to let herself be vulnerable.
She had to kill a few of her “teachers,” when they became too dangerous or when they tried to become too close, when they began to pry or to guess her secrets. She had left her calling card with each of them, a white pebble over the left eye. The White Stone… She’d begun to hear the name, whispered in the streets. He always leaves a stone on the left eye…
They always assumed it was “he”; that was protection, too. She could walk anywhere and never be suspected.
And they never knew there were always two stones; that she took one from victim’s right eye to keep with her. To keep them with her.
That stone was in the small leather pouch tied around her neck, nestled between her breasts under her clothing. That was with her always.
She touched the pouch now as the crowds surged toward the dais, as the A’Hirzg stood up covered in the blood of the assassin and the new Hirzg raised his hands to the crowds and called out for them to be calm.
The White Stone smiled at that.
Death… Death was always calm.
INCLINATIONS
Allesandra ca’Vorl
“ It is with much pleasure and gratitude that I award you the Star of the Chevarittai. You may be young in years, Chevaritt Jan ca’Vorl, but I know of no one more deserving of the title.”
The applause welled out from those in attendance in the antechamber of the ballroom of Brezno Palais. Jan beamed as Fynn-wearing the golden band of the Hirzg in his hair and the signet ring on his finger-pinned the gilded star on the red shoulder sash of his bashta, then handed him a gift that had belonged to Allesandra’s vatarh and Jan’s namesake: a sword of dark Firenzcian steel, hardened in fire and cold water and honed to a razor’s edge. Allesandra watched as Jan cupped his hand around the inlaid hilt of the weapon and placed it in the scabbard. Fynn tied the weapon to Jan’s belt, then clutched his nephew to him as the applause rose. Standing next to the two, Allesandra heard the words that Fynn whispered into Jan’s ear.
“That was a truly brave act, Nephew, though I was in no real danger. I would have certainly ducked out of the way of the fool’s spell.”
To Allesandra, the true fool was Fynn. His boasting was bad enough, and he’d ignored Allesandra’s part in having saved his life. It was as if she hadn’t been there at all, as if Jan had noticed the assassin all on his own.
She told herself that she didn’t care, that it simply met the low expectations she had of her brother, but the thought didn’t convince.
The door to the ballroom opened a moment later, and Fynn gestured. “Come, let us all enjoy this celebration,” he said to the ca’-and-cu’ and the gathered chevarittai. Fynn put his arm around Jan, and together they entered the ballroom as the musicians began to play and dozens of chanting e’teni lit the lamps of the room all at once. Pauli offered Allesandra his arm; she took it- duty and appearance -and they followed next. Behind them, Archigos Semini and Francesca entered.
Allesandra could feel Semini’s gaze on her back.
Following the assassination attempt, there had been a purge of anyone in Brezno suspected of being Numetodo. That, certainly, was also expected. There was another, somewhat less brutal purge within the staff of the new Hirzg-confirming what Fynn had told Allesandra about how he would treat anyone who opposed him. Every servant, everyone below cu’ rank employed by the palais was questioned by the Commandant of the Garde Hirzg. A half dozen staff members, suspected of Numetodo leanings, were taken to the Bastida to be interrogated more fully. The palais maister who had hired the would-be assassin was found guilty of negligence. His position was taken away, his family was humbled to ce’, and the maister himself lost his hands as punishment. The assassin’s family was rounded up; no one had seen them since they entered the Bastida. A Numetodo said to have aided the assassin was flayed, drawn, and quartered in Brezno Square, the executioner keeping him carefully alive as long as possible, his screams echoing among the buildings as the crowd watched and shouted insults and gibes toward the man. The assassin’s body, so unfortunately killed during the attack, was gibbeted and displayed in an iron cage swinging on a chain from Falwin’s sword. The gardai around the palais were doubled, with soldiers from the Garde Firenzcia brought in to supplement them. Rumors flitted through the city as quickly and numerous as sparrows.
Two ca’ had been killed in the attack by the errant spell; their funerals were elaborate and well-attended. Six more of the spectators on the dais had been burned and injured in the attack, four of them seriously; it was said that the coffers of the Hirzg compensated them well enough to keep their families silent and satisfied.
Allesandra could still feel tension in the air, even during this celebration. The servants kept their heads judiciously down, and if anyone noticed the gardai lining the walls carefully watching the festivities or the remarkable number of teni in attendance, no one remarked on it. It was better to smile and stay silent.
Pauli danced with Allesandra once-the barest spousal requirement. As soon as the dance was over, he excused himself. She knew she would glimpse him only across the room henceforth, and soon she’d find him missing entirely to return to his own, separate, chambers in the visitor’s wing of the palais sometime early in the morning. Jan danced with her also, but his attentions were demanded by Fynn and by the crowds of sycophants around the Hirzg. The young women, especially, seemed to find Jan’s presence quite pleasant. Allesandra decided that she would need to pay careful attention to Jan for the rest of the the
ir stay in Brezno as she watched one of the young and unmarried ca’ women take her son’s arm and lead him onto the floor.
“You surprised me, A’Hirzg.” Semini’s voice came from behind her. “I didn’t realize you had such deep love for your brother as to put yourself between him and an assassin, even if the Hirzg seems to have conveniently forgotten that you did so.”
Allesandra glanced around them to be certain no one was within easy earshot, and then turned to the Archigos, leaning in toward him with a whisper. “And I was surprised that the Archigos would hire a Numetodo.”
His smile might have twitched slightly, his eyes might have narrowed. “I would never do that, A’Hirzg.”
“There’s no need for false modesty, Semini,” she told him. “I thought the idea brilliant, when the irony struck me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, A’Hirzg,” he answered stiffly.
“Ah, but you do,” she said. “And you’re now in my debt, Archigos. After all, the assassin wasn’t able to answer any embarrassing questions afterward, was he? That was my doing-for you, Archigos, though my brother was terribly disappointed that there was no one to torture afterward. Come, you want to know why I did it, don’t you? Let’s take some air, Archigos, where we can be seen but not heard.”
Allesandra led him to one of the open balcony entrances. The balcony was empty. She stood directly across from the doors, where anyone looking out would see them. The music wafted out past them and into the night; they could see the dancers, among them the Hirzg and Jan. Allesandra turned to look at the grounds, alight with hundreds of teni-lights; a few couples were strolling there. “It almost reminds me of Nessantico and the Avi…” She turned from the railing. “Almost. I realize that I know very little about your personal life, Archigos. Have you ever been to Nessantico?”