by S L Farrell
The woman left them, and Varina lifted eyebrows toward Karl. “Morel…” she said. “Nico said that he’d run away from his tantzia and onczio. Could she be…?”
“Morel’s a common enough name in Nessantico.” He shrugged. “But there are obviously some questions we should ask. If we still had the boy…”
Karl was already certain that the connection was there, though he wasn’t sure how he knew. He could see from Varina’s face that she was thinking the same. If he’d believed in any god at all, he might have thought they’d been led here by divine fortune.
That evening, after taking the woman’s offer of a bath to rid them of the worst of the road stink, he and Varina took their supper in the common room of the tavern, both to avoid suspicion and so that they could hear any gossip that might have reached the village regarding the escape of the Regent from the Bastida. The room was-he suspected from the harried looks of Alisa, her children who served as the waiting staff, and her husband Bayard behind the short bar near the kitchen door-more crowded than usual, and the talk was largely of the events in Nessantico, which seemed to have reached the village only a few days ago.
“I spoke to the offizier of the search squad myself,” Bayard Morel was saying loudly to an audience of a half dozen villagers. “His horse had thrown its shoe, and so he had me shoe the beast for him. He said that Kraljiki Audric, may Cenzi bless ’im, sent riders out on every road from the city to catch the traitor and those Numetodo heretics with him. The offizier’s squad was to scour the road all the way to Varolli if necessary. He told me that the Numetodo killed three dozen Garde Kralji in the Bastida with their awful, blasphemous magic, killed ’em without a thought even though some of them were still in their beds. They left the tower where ca’Rudka was held in rubble, nothing but great stones strewn all over the ground. They were spouting fire as they rode off, a horrible blue fire, the offizier said, that slew people along the Avi as they passed, and then, with a great whoosh-” and here Bayard spread his hands suddenly wide, knocking over the nearest tankard of ale and causing his audience to rear back in wide-eyed terror, “-they vanished in a cloud of foul black smoke. Just like that. All told, there are over a hundred dead in the city. I tell you, death is too good a fate for the Regent. They ought to drag him alive through the streets and let the stones of the Avi tear the very flesh from his bones and rip off that silver nose of his while he screams.”
The people in the room murmured their agreement with that assessment. Varina leaned close to Karl, grimacing as the movement pulled at the knitting wound on her arm. “By next week, he’ll have it at a thousand dead. But at least it seems the searchers have already moved through. We’re behind them. That’s good, right?” She searched his face with anxious eyes, and he grunted assent even though he wasn’t so certain himself.
Watching the room, he noticed that there was another woman helping to serve the patrons: dour and tired-looking, her mouth never gentled with a smile. She looked several years younger than Alisa, but there was a family resemblance between the two: in the eyes, in the narrow nose, in the set of her lips. She appeared too old to be Alisa’s child, all of whom were still striplings. When one of the children-a sullen boy on the cusp of puberty-set a plate of sliced bread on their table, he pointed to her. “That woman there… who is that?”
The boy sniffed and scowled. “That’s my Tantzia Serafina. She’s living with us right now.”
“She looks unhappy.”
“She’s been that way for a while now, since Nico ran away.”
Karl glanced at Varina. “Who’s Nico?”
“Her son,” the boy said, the scowl deepening. “A bastardo. I didn’t like him anyway. Always talking nonsense about Westlanders and magic and trying to pretend he could do magic himself like he was a teni. Everyone had to waste three days looking for him after he left, and my vatarh rode all the way to Certendi, but no one ever found him. I think he’s probably dead.” He seemed inordinately satisfied with that conclusion, satisfaction curling a corner of his mouth.
“Ah.” Karl nodded. “You’re probably right. It’s not an easy world out there for travelers. I was just wondering why she looked so sad.” Varina was looking away now, staring at Serafina, her knuckles to her mouth. The boy scuffled his feet on the rough wooden floor, sniffed and wiped his arm across his nose, and went back into the kitchen.
“Gods, it is her.” Varina gave a nearly imperceptible shake of her head. “What do we do, Karl? That’s Nico’s matarh.”
Karl plucked a piece of bread from the plate that the boy had brought. He tore off a chunk of the brown loaf and tucked it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “If we could give her Nico,” he said after he swallowed, “I wonder if she would give us Talis in return?”
Jan ca’Vorl
Jan motioned to the Gardai outside the door. “Let me in,” he said. The two men glanced at each other once, quickly, before one of them opened the door. As Jan stepped inside, the garda started to follow. Jan shook his head at the man. “Alone,” he said. The garda hesitated before nodding his head once in salute. The door closed behind Jan again.
“You’re a brave one, to be in a room alone with his enemy. And that one will be reporting to Commandant cu’Gottering that you’ve come to visit me. Cu’Gottering will undoubtedly inform your matarh.”
Candlelight reflected from silver as Sergei turned to regard Jan. The man had been placed in one of the interior rooms of Brezno Palais, his meal laid out before him on a damask-covered table, the hearth crackling with a fire to take off the night chill, and a comfortable bed soft with down pillows and coverlets. He was wearing a new, clean bashta and had evidently taken a bath, and his graying hair was newly oiled.
He sat in a prison woven of silk.
“I don’t care that cu’Gottering knows, nor my matarh. Are you so dangerous, Regent ca’Rudka?” Jan asked the man, standing across the table from him.
In reply, Sergei reached down to his bootheel: slowly, so that Jan could see him. He slid a slender, short-handled and flat blade from between the sole and leather and placed it on the table, sliding it across the table toward Jan. “Always, Hirzg Jan,” the man answered with a faint smile. “Your great-vatarh would have told you that. Your matarh as well. If I’d wanted you dead, you would be dead already.”
Jan stared at the blade. He’d watched the gardai search the man for weapons, had heard them declare the Regent unarmed. “I think I’ll need to have a talk with Commandant cu’Gottering about the training of his men.” He reached down to touch the hilt with a fingertip, but otherwise didn’t pick up the knife. “What else did they miss?”
Sergei only smiled. Jan put his hand on the knife and slid it back across the table to Sergei, who sheathed it again in his boot. “So, Hirzg Jan,” Sergei said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Jan wasn’t certain of that himself. The initial meeting with Sergei had left him unsettled, listening to his matarh and to Archigos ca’Cellibrecca, knowing that they’d dominated the moment. In truth, he was feeling overwhelmed by the suddenness of events: Fynn’s assassination, Elissa’s flight, the news from the Holdings, the Regent’s arrival. His vatarh had left Brezno in an angry rush; his matarh and the Archigos were suspiciously close. It was as if he were being swept along helplessly in a flood he hadn’t seen and hadn’t anticipated. He found himself feeling lost and uncertain, and he’d brooded on that for long turns of the glass, unable to lose himself in the now-forced gaiety of the party or the distractions of the young women who flirted with him or the urgent speculations that erupted all around him.
He wanted to talk to someone. He didn’t want that person to be his matarh.
Jan didn’t feel like the Hirzg. He felt like an impostor. “I want to know what I’ve gained by giving you asylum, Regent,” he said.
“Are you having second thoughts?” Sergei asked him. He pushed his chair back from the table. “Or is it that you think that someone else made that decision for you?”
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
The smile broadened. “No, I haven’t, have I?” Sergei laid his hands palm up on the table. “All I have to offer you is me, Hirzg. My knowledge, my experience, my viewpoint. I happen to think that’s a potentially valuable resource for you, but then I’ll admit to being prejudiced on the subject.” The skin around the man’s false nose wrinkled, but the nose itself didn’t move-it struck Jan as disturbing. It made him uneasy, but he found it hard to move his gaze away from Sergei’s face.
“I have my matarh’s knowledge, experience, and viewpoint; I also have the Archigos’. I have that of the commandants and the other chevarittai of the Coalition.”
“You do,” Sergei answered. “Your matarh was a hostage in the Holdings for much of her youth. The Archigos is an avowed opponent of the Nessantican branch of the Faith. The commandants and chevarittai are also opponents of the Holdings. None of them know the Holdings, and they all have reason to hate it. Hatred can be blinding sometimes. As for me, well, the welfare of the Holdings has been my life.”
“Which is another reason to distrust you.”
“Then let that be my first piece of advice to you, Hirzg Jan. You should distrust me. A Hirzg should be skeptical of all the advice he’s given-because everyone’s advice is painted with the colors of their agenda, mine no less than anyone’s. But… I’m an old swordsman, Hirzg, and I’d tell you it’s easier to defeat an enemy whose moves you know and can anticipate than one you don’t know at all.” Sergei sat back in his chair. “I know the Holding’s moves. I know them all. You need me.”
“You sound so certain.”
“I know my enemy, Hirzg. If I didn’t, would I have given you my knife?” He reached down and tapped his boot. “Everyone takes risks, Hirzg. The trick is to be confident of the outcome.”
“What if I’d kept the knife?” Jan asked him.
Sergei gave a short chuckle. “Then I’d have pretended that that was what I’d expected. Do you still like your choice, Hirzg?”
Jan smiled, his lips pressed together. “It was what I expected, Regent,” he said. “And that will have to do, won’t it?”
Audric ca’Dakwi
The O’Teni kneeling next to Audric’s bed opened her eyes, her face drawn and weary, and glanced over at Archigos Kenne. “I’ve finished my…” She hesitated, and Audric saw her gaze flick past the Archigos to Councillor Sigourney ca’Ludovici, standing by the fireplace and gazing at the portrait of Kraljica Marguerite, sitting alongside the fire on its portable easel. Above the hearth, Audric could see the discolored rectangle where the portait had hung for so long. In the dim recesses of the room, Marlon and Seaton lurked, waiting to scurry forward if needed.
“… prayers,” the o’teni concluded.
The Archigos had told Audric that this woman teni came from the temple at Chiari and was someone whose “prayers had a special affinity for those who are sick.” That may have been true; he certainly felt somewhat better now, his lungs moving less painfully. The insistent cough had receded, though he could still feel some tightness in his chest-perhaps Cenzi had indeed blessed him tonight. The improvement wasn’t as marked as when Archigos Ana had performed her “prayers” for him, but it would do. He hoped it would last as long as Archigos Ana’s ministrations had.
“Thank you, O’Teni,” the Archigos was saying, giving the woman the sign of Cenzi. “We appreciate your efforts. You may return to the temple now. Tell U’Teni cu’Magnaoi that I will be along soon, if you would.”
She nodded and rose shakily to her feet, as if she been kneeling too long and her legs had gone to sleep. As Audric watched, she pressed hands to forehead to each of them and shuffled carefully to the door of the bedchamber, Marlon hurrying to open it for her. “Strange,” Sigourney remarked without turning from the painting, “ I’ve never been so exhausted from simply praying.”
Audric saw Kenne’s craggy face tighten in the candlelight at the un-subtle accusation. The Archigos otherwise ignored the comment. “Are you feeling better, Kraljiki?” he asked.
Audric’s great-matarh stared at him concernedly over ca’Ludovici’s shoulder. “There is nothing wrong with me,” he told the Archigos, and saw his great-matarh’s face nod just on the edge of perception. Don’t let them know how you truly feel, not when they might think it weakness. “I know that,” he told her, then turned back to the Archigos. “I’m feeling quite well,” he told the man, and Kenne looked almost comically relieved. “Now, you said you had a favor to ask, Archigos.”
“I did, Kraljiki. I had an odd encounter this morning at the temple. There was a man, an o’offizier of the Garde Civile: Eneas cu’Kinnear. He came for Cenzi’s Blessing, and he had the sash of the Hellins over his uniform. A good-looking young man, with an earnest face. He told me that he was just back from the war.”
“Yes, yes,” Audric said impatiently, waving the man silent. The Archigos could meander on like that for a turn of the clock, relating every interminable detail of the encounter. He heard ca’Ludovici chuckle in the background. “Your point, Archigos?”
The Archigos didn’t manage to entirely hide his annoyance, but he smiled grimly and bowed his head to Audric. “O’Officer cu’Kinnear said that he had vital information for you regarding the Hellins, Kraljiki. He said that you would not have heard his news because the fast-ships wouldn’t have come. I’ve checked, and that’s the case. I also had my staff investigate this cu’Kinnear, and they found that Commandant ca’Sibelli-” with that, the Archigos nodded in the direction of Sigourney, “-recommended him to be named Chevaritt, and the reports on the man are unanimous in their high opinion of him as a person of faith and as an offizier. In fact, I’ve discovered that he’d once been considered as an acolyte candidate, showing signs of the Gift-”
“Fine,” Audric interrupted again, sighing. “I’m certain that this cu’Kinnear’s a fine man.” He closed his eyes. It was so tiresome, having to listen to the drivel of the people under him, and to pretend that he was paying attention or that he cared. It is the bane of all Kralji, he heard his great-matarh say, and he smiled indulgently at her. “Indeed,” he told her. “It is quite so.” Right now, he wanted his supper, and perhaps a round of cards with some of the young women of the ca’-and-cu’-and perhaps a dalliance, since he was feeling better.
You must be careful with that, Audric, he heard his great-matarh remonstrate. Marriage is a weapon that can only be used once or twice; you must choose the right moment, and the right blade.
“Don’t be tiresome,” he told her.
Sigourney spoke up. “If I may, Kraljiki?” He waved a hand at her. The woman was a bore; she had no humor to her; all that interested her was the business of the state. She was as dry as yesterday’s toasted bread. “Archigos, if this cu’Kinnear has such vital information, why hasn’t he told his superior offiziers and passed it up the chain of command?”
“That I don’t know myself, Councillor,” the Archigos said. “But there was something… I thought… I thought that when cu’Kinnear asked me to make the request of you, Kraljiki Audric, that I heard Cenzi’s Voice telling me that I should listen. I would have sworn…” The old man shook his head, and Audric sighed impatiently again. “What would a few moments to hear the man hurt? It will be Second Cenzidi the week after next; if he could be
placed on the list of the supplicants for your usual audience, Kraljiki…”
Snared in varnish, Marguerite seemed to shrug in the candlelight. Audric swung his legs off the side of the bed. Seaton hurried to help him rise and he waved the servant away. “Fine,” he said. “Arrange it with Marlon, Archigos. I’ll see this paragon of the Garde Civile on second Cenzidi-but only if no fast-ship arrives in the meantime with fresher news from the Hellins. Is that satisfactory?”
The Archigos bowed and gave the sign of Cenzi to Audric, then to the councillor. Ca’Ludovici seemed to snicker. “Now,” Audric said, “I am hungry, and there are entertainments that I plan to attend this evening, so if there is no more business…”
The White Stone
T HE AIR WAS RIFE with whispers and curses, and they weren’t only from the voices in her mind. Nessantico shuddered with the events of the last week, with the escape of the Regent and the betrayal of the Numetodo. She had seen the squads moving angrily and suspiciously through the lanes and alleys of Oldtown; she had been questioned twice herself, dragged aside and interrogated as if they thought she might be one of the Numetodo. She knew enough to show just the right amount of fear: enough to placate them, but not enough to fuel their suspicions. Others had not been so lucky; she’d seen dozens hauled away to be questioned at length in the dark gloom of the Bastida, and she did not envy them.
It would have been so much easier for them to have hired the White Stone. The Regent’s life, the Ambassador’s life: she could have snuffed them out as a candle extinguished in daylight-lives no longer necessary or wanted. She could have taken their souls into the stone she carried between her breasts.