A Magic of Nightfall nc-2

by S L Farrell

  Eneas eventually found himself standing before the stall of a chemist, the colored powders and liquids arrayed in glass jars on dangerously teetering shelves. He leaned close to a jar of white crystals, letting his forefinger run across the label glued onto the glass. Niter, the coppery handwriting proclaimed. The word seemed to crawl on the paper, and prickles like tiny lightnings ran from his fingertip up his arm to his chest. He could barely breathe with the feel of it. “It’s the finest you’ll come across,” a voice said, and Eneas straightened guiltily and snatched his hand back, seeing the proprietor-a thin man with discolored skin dappling his face and arms-watching him from across the board that served for a table. “Gathered from the roof and walls of the deep caves near Kasama, and as pure as you can get. Are you afflicted with bad teeth, Offizier? A few applications of this and you can drink all the hot tea you like and your teeth will give you no complaint at all.”

  Eneas nodded. He blinked. He wanted to touch the jar again, but he forced his hand to remain at his side. You need this… The words came wrapped in the deep voice of Cenzi. He nodded in answer; that felt right. He needed this, though he didn’t know why. “I’d like two stones’ worth.”

  “Two stones…” The proprietor leaned back, chuckling. “Friend, does the entire garrison have sensitive teeth, or are you preserving meat for a battalion? All you need is a packet…”

  “Two stones,” Eneas insisted. “Can you do it? How much? A se’siqil?” He tapped the pouch tied to his belt.

  The chemist was still shaking his head. “I can’t get that much of the Kasama, but I have a good source from South Isle that’s nearly as good. Two stones…” One eyebrow raised on his thin, blotchy face. “A full siqil,” he said. “I can’t do it for less.”

  At any other time, Eneas would have haggled. With persistence, he no doubt could have purchased the niter for his original offer or a few folias more. But there was an impatience inside him. It burned hot in his chest, a fire that only Cenzi could have started. He prayed silently, internally. Whatever You want of me, I will do. The black sand, I will create it for You… Eneas untied his purse, brought out two se’siqils and handed the coins to the man without argument. The chemist shook his head, frowning as he rubbed the coins between his fingers. “Some people have more money than sense,” he muttered as he turned around.

  Not long after, Eneas was hurrying away from the Third Level toward the garrison with a heavy package.

  Jan ca’Vorl

  He’d been with other women before. But he’d never wanted any of them as much as he wanted Elissa.

  That’s what he told himself, in any case.

  She intrigued him. Yes, she was attractive, but she was certainly no more so-and probably less classically beautiful-than half of the young court ladies who clustered around Fynn and Jan at every chance. Her eyes were her best feature: those eyes of pale blue ice that contrasted so much with her dark hair: piercing eyes that could show a laugh before her mouth released it, or dart poisonous glances toward her rivals. She had an unconscious grace that the other women lacked for the most part, a lean muscularity that hinted at hidden strength and agility.

  “She comes from good stock,” was Fynn’s assessment. “You could do worse. She’ll give you a dozen healthy babies if you want them.”

  Jan wasn’t thinking about babies. Not yet. He wanted her. Just her. He thought that perhaps tonight, it might finally happen.

  Every night since Fynn’s ascension to the Hirzg’s throne, there had been a party in the upper hall of Brezno Palais. Fynn would issue the invitations through Roderigo, his aide: always to the same small group of young women and men, nearly all of them of ca’ rank. There would be card games (at which Fynn would often lose heavily and not happily), and dancing, and general drunken revelry until early in the morning hours. Jan was always invited; so was Elissa. He found himself near her more and more often, as if (as his matarh had hinted) he were indeed a bee drawn to her particular flower.

  She was at his side now, with two other young women hovering hopefully near him. Jan was seated at the pochspiel table with Fynn, who was glowering over his cards and the dwindling pile of silver siqils and gold solas in front of him and drinking heavily. Elissa had circled the table to stand behind Jan. He felt Elissa lean closely into him, her body pressing against his back as she leaned down. She whispered into his ear, her breath warm and sweet. “The Hirzg has three Suns supported by a Palais. I would bet everything and lose gracefully.”

  Jan glanced at his cards. He had a single Page; all his other cards were low cards in the Staff suit. Elissa’s hand touched his shoulder as she straightened, her fingers tightening briefly before they left him. The bets had been heavy already this hand, and there was a substantial pile of siqils and a few solas in the center of the table. Jan had been intending to fold now that the final card had been given out-he’d hoped to make an alignment in suit, but the Page had spoiled that. He glanced up at Elissa; she smiled down at him and nodded. Jan pushed his entire pile of coins into the center of the table.

  “Everything,” he announced.

  The player to his right-some distant relative whose name he’d forgotten, shook his head and threw his cards in. “By Cenzi, he must have drawn the Planets all aligned!” All the other players except Fynn tossed in their cards as well. Fynn was staring at Jan, his head cocked slightly to one side. He glanced down at his cards again, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly-the tick that nearly everyone who played pochspiel with Fynn knew, which was one of the reasons Fynn so often lost. Fynn pushed his chips to the center with Jan’s; his pile was noticeably smaller “Everything,” he echoed, and he turned his cards face up on the table. “If you’ll accept my note for the remainder.”

  Jan sighed as if disappointed. “You won’t need the note, my Hirzg,” he said. “I’m afraid that you’ve caught me bluffing.” He showed his hand as the other players howled and the people gathered around the table clapped and applauded. Fynn gathered in the coins, smiling, then tossed a solas back to Jan.

  “I can’t let my champion leave the table empty-handed,” he said. “Even when he tries to bluff his sovereign lord with nothing in his hand at all.”

  Jan caught the solas and smiled to Fynn, then pushed his chair back from the table and bowed. “I should have known that you would see through my charade,” he said to Fynn, who grinned even more deeply. “Now I should drown my disappointment in some wine.”

  Fynn glanced from Jan to Elissa, who hovered at his shoulder. “I suspect you’ll drown yourself in something more substantial,” he answered. “That’s not a bet I believe I’ll miss either.”

  There was more laughter, though it came mostly from the men in the crowd; many of the women simply glared at Elissa silently. In the midst of the laughter, she leaned closer to Jan again. “Meet me in the hall in a quarter-turn,” she said, and she slid away from him. The space was immediately filled by another of the available women, and someone handed him a flagon of wine as the cards of the next hand were dealt out. Fynn’s attention was already on the cards and Jan drifted away from the table, conversing with the young ladies of the court who flittered around him.

  When he thought enough time had passed, he excused himself and left the hall, the hall servant bowing to him with a knowing wink as he opened the door. There was no one in the corridor outside, and he felt a surge of disappointment.

  “Chevaritt Jan,” a voice called, and he saw her step from shadows a few strides away. He went to her, taking her hands. Her face was very close to his, and her pale gaze never left his eyes.

  “You cost me nearly a week’s stipend, Vajica,” he said.

  “And I gave the Hirzg yet another reason to love his champion,” she answered with a smile. “Anyone at the table would pay twice what you lost to be in that position. I’d say you owe me.”

  “All I have is the gold solas that Fynn gave me, I’m afraid. It’s yours if you’d like.”

  “Your gold doesn’t interest m
e. I would beg something simpler from you.”

  “And what would that be?”

  She didn’t answer-not with words. She released his hands, embracing him fully and lifting her face to his. The kiss was soft, her lips yielding under his as soft as velvet. Her arms tightened around him as he pressed her tightly against him. He could feel the fullness of her breasts, the rising of her breath, the faint whimper of a moan. The kiss became less soft and more urgent now, her lips opening so that he felt the flutter of her tongue. Her hands slid lower down his back as they broke apart. Her eyes were large and almost frightened-looking, as if she were afraid that she’d gone too far. “Chev-” she began, and he stopped her with another kiss. His hand touched the side of her breast under the lace of her tashta and she did not stop him, only closed her eyes as she drew in a breath.

  “Where are your rooms?” he asked, and she leaned against him.

  “Your apartment is here within the palais, isn’t it?” she said, and he nodded. He held out his hand to her and she took it.

  The walk to his rooms seemed to take an eternity. They hurried through the corridors of the palais, then the door was shut behind them and he took her into his embrace and forgot about anything else for a long, delightful time.

  Nico Morel

  Ville Paisli was boring.

  The entire town could have fit inside a single block of Oldtown, fifteen or so buildings huddled close to the Avi a’Nostrosei, with a few farms close by and a dark, forbidding wood reaching leafy arms around them and hinting at unguessed terrors. Nico could imagine dragons lurking in its hilly depths, or bands of rough outlaws. Exploring there might have been interesting, but his matarh kept close watch on him, as she had ever since they’d left Nessantico.

  Nico was used to the endless roar and tumult of Nessantico. He was used to a landscape of buildings and manicured, tamed parks. He was used to being surrounded by thousands and thousands of strangers, to strange sights (even as they were leaving the city, he’d glimpsed a woman juggling live kittens), to the call of the temple horns and the lighting of the Avi at night.

  Here, there was only drudgery and the same, stupid faces day after day.

  His Tantzia Alisa and Onczio Bayard were nice enough people, who owned Ville Paisli’s only inn, which was his tantzia’s responsibility. Tantzia Alisa looked much older than Nico’s matarh, even though Alisa was actually a year younger than her sister; Onczio Bayard had few teeth and those that were left smelled rotten when he leaned close to Nico, which made him wonder why Tantzia Alisa would have married the man.

  Then there were the children: six of them, three boys and three girls. The oldest was Tujan, two years older than Nico, then the twins Sinjon and Dori, who were Nico’s age. The youngest boy was a toddler just beginning to walk, who still sucked at Tantzia Alisa’s breast. Onczio Bayard was also the town’s iron forger, and Tujan and Sinjon both worked with him in the heat of the smithy, working the bellows and tending the fire while Tantzia Alisa, with Dori’s help, made beds and cooked for those staying at the inn-usually only a single traveler or two.

  “In Nessantico, there are fire-teni who work in the big forging houses,” Nico had said the first day, watching Tujan and Sinjon labor at the bellows. That had earned him a hard punch in the arm from Tujan when Onczio Bayard wasn’t looking, and a glare from Sinjon. Onczio Bayard had set Nico to pumping the bellows with his cousins all that afternoon, and he’d smelled like charcoal and soot for the rest of the day. He suspected he still did, since he was expected to put in his time at the smithy every day with the other boys, but he no longer smelled it, though his white bashta now looked a streaked gray. The smithy was sweltering, loud with the hammering of steel on steel and bright with the sparks of molten iron. The villagers would come to Bayard to create or repair all sorts of metal objects: plow blades, scythe blades, hinges, and nails. Most of the trade was barter: a plucked chicken for a new blade, a dozen eggs for a small keg of black nails.

  At the forge, the day began before dawn when the coals had to be rekindled and brought to blue heat, and ended when the sun went down. There were no light-teni here to banish the night or fire-teni to keep the coals blazing. After sundown, Onczio Bayard worked with Tantzia Alisa in the inn’s tavern, which did more business than the inn. Nico, along with his cousins, was pressed into service delivering tankards of ale and plates of simple food to the villagers at their tables, until Onczio Bayard would bellow “Last Call!” promptly on the third turn of the glass after sundown.

  Nights after the tavern closed was the worst time.

  Nico slept with Tujan and Sinjon in the same tiny room in the house behind the inn, and they would talk in the dark, their whispers seemingly as loud as shouts. “You’re useless, Nico,” Tujan whispered in the quiet. “You can’t work the bellows as well as even Dori, and Vatarh had to show you three times how to keep the coals piled.”

  “He did not,” Nico retorted.

  Tujan kicked him under the covers. “Did. I heard him call you a bastardo, too.”

  “What’s a bastardo?” Sinjon asked.

  “It means Nico doesn’t have a vatarh,” Tujan answered.

  “I do,” Nico told them. “Talis is my vatarh.”

  “Where is this Talis?” Tujan jeered. “Why isn’t he here, then?”

  “He can’t be here. He had to stay in Nessantico. He sent us here to be safe. I know, I saw…”

  “You saw what?”

  Nico blinked into the night. He wasn’t supposed to tell; Talis had told him how dangerous it would be for his matarh and him. “Nothing,” he said.

  Tujan laughed in the darkness. “I thought so. Your matarh brought you here, not any Talis. Musetta Galgachus says that Tantzia Serafina’s a filthy whore who makes her folias on her back, and you’re just a whore’s son.”

  The raw insult sparked against Nico like a flint on steel, and sparks filled his mind and drove him up and over on top of the larger boy, his fists pummeling at the unseen face and chest. “She is not! ” he screamed as he struck at Tujan, and then Sinjon piled into him defending his brother, and they all tumbled from the bed onto the floor, flailing at each other blindly and hollering, tangled in the blankets. The cold fire began to burn in Nico’s stomach, and he shouted words that he didn’t understand, his hands gesturing, and suddenly the two boys were flying away from him, landing hard on the floor a few feet away. Nico lay there on the rough planks of the floor, stunned momentarily and feeling strangely empty and exhausted. He could hear the dogs-that slept downstairs in the inn-barking loudly. He wondered what had just happened.

  His hesitation was enough; in the darkness the two boys had scrambled up and jumped on him again. “Bastardo!” He felt someone’s fist smash into his nose.

  The door to the room flew open-a candle as bright as dawn flaring-and adults were shouting at them to stop and pulling them apart. “What in Cenzi’s name is going on here?” Onczio Bayard roared, plucking Nico from the floor by the nightshirt and sending him stumbling backward into his matarh’s familiar arms. He realized he was crying, more from rage than pain, and he sniffled as he struggled to get out of her grasp and hit one of the boys again. He could feel blood trickling down from his nostril.

  “Nico-” Matarh sounded caught between horror and concern. She stooped in front of him as Onczio Bayard hauled his two sons to their feet. “What happened? Why are you boys fighting?”

  Nico glared at his cousins, standing sullenly alongside their vatarh. Tantzia Alisa hovered in the doorway, holding the youngest in her arms while the girls peered around her, giggling and whispering. Nico wiped at the blood drooling from his nose with the back of his hand and was glad to see that Sinjon, too, had a line of dark red trickling from a nostril, and spatters of brown on his nightshirt. He hoped that the welt under Tujan’s eye would swell and turn purple by morning. “Nico? Who started this?”

  “Nobody,” Nico told her, still glaring. “It wasn’t anything, Matarh. We were just playing, and…” He shrug
ged.

  “Tujan? Sinjon?” their vatarh asked, shaking the boys’ shoulders. “You have anything to add?” Nico stared at them, Tujan especially, daring him to say to his vatarh what he’d said to Nico.

  Both boys shook their heads. Onczio Bayard gave a huff of exasperation. “Sorry, Serafina,” he said. “But you know boys…” He shook his sons again. “Apologize to Nico,” he said. “He’s a guest in our house, and you don’t treat him that way. Go on.”

  Sinjon muttered a nearly inaudible apology; Tujan followed a moment later. “Nico?” his matarh said, and Nico grimaced.

  “Sorry,” he told his cousins.

  “All right then,” Onczio Bayard grunted. “We’ll have no more of this. Getting us all out of bed when we’d just gone to sleep. Sinjon, get a rag and clean up your face. And I don’t expect to hear anything else out of the three of you tonight.” Still grumbling, he left the room.

  Nico thought he could fall asleep in a moment; now that the cold fire had left him, he was so tired. His matarh crouched down to hug Nico. “You can sleep with me tonight if you want,” she whispered to him. He hugged her back tightly, wanting more than anything to do exactly that and knowing that he couldn’t, that if he did, Tujan and Sinjon would tease him unmercifully the next day.

  “I’ll be fine,” he told her. She kissed his forehead. Tantzia Alisa handed her a cloth, and she dabbed at Nico’s nose. He pulled back. “Matarh, it’s already stopped.”