A Magic of Twilight nc-1

by S L Farrell

  Ci’Doulor nodded, though his face was puzzled under the grizzled beard. “I. . I suppose I understand what you’re saying, Commandant,” he said.

  “Do you?” Sergei asked, more sharply, the smile gone to ice on his lips. A martin emerged from the dragon’s mouth again and fluttered off. “That dragon’s head is the symbol of the Bastida, of its power and strength and terror. What message do you think it sends when those we bring here see birds nesting in that mouth, Capitaine? Do you think your prisoners feel terror as they pass underneath, or do they see a sign of hope that we’re impotent, that they might pass through the Bastida’s clutches as easily as that martin?”

  The capitaine blinked heavily. “I’d never thought of it before, Commandant.”

  “Indeed,” Sergei answered. “I see that.” He took a step toward the capitaine, close enough that he could smell the garlic the man had eaten with his eggs that morning. His voice was loud enough that the gardai around the gate could still hear him. “Signs and symbols are potent things, Capitaine. Why, if I hung someone from a gibbet there below the dragon, someone who-let us say-didn’t understand how important symbols are, I believe that seeing that body twisting in its cage would send a powerful message to those who work here. In fact, the more important that person, the more powerful that message would be, don’t you think?”

  Capitaine ci’Doulor visibly shuddered. His throat pulsed under the beard as he swallowed. He was staring at Sergei now, at his own warped reflection in the polished surface of Sergei’s silver nose. “I’ll see that the nest is removed, Commandant, and you may be assured that no birds will roost there again.”

  The smile widened. Sergei reached out and patted ci’Doulor’s cheek as if he were a child Sergei was correcting. “I’m certain you will,”

  he said. “Now, I’d like to see this Numetodo.”

  Sergei followed ci’Doulor into the Bastida. The door shut solidly behind them, a garda locking it after them. Musty air enclosed them and Sergei paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust to a dimness made only darker by the small barred windows set in walls as thick as a man holding out both arms. Ci’Doulor led him down a long hall and into the main tower, then down a winding stone staircase. Moisture pooled on foot-worn steps furred with moss on the edges where no one walked.

  From the barred doors of the landings, Sergei could hear the sounds of other prisoners: coughs, moans, someone calling out distantly. They came to a landing well below river level with one of the gardai standing at careful attention. The man opened the door and stepped aside.

  They entered a square, compact room, the garda entering with them. Chains clattered: a man shackled to rings on the far wall stirred, his hands bound tightly to the wall so he couldn’t move them to create one of the Numetodo spells, his mouth gagged with a metal cage that trapped his tongue. Sergei could see that the would-be assassin had been beaten. His face was puffy and discolored inside the bars of the face-cage, one eye was swollen shut, and a trail of dried blood drooled from one nostril. He’d soiled himself at some point-his torn hosiery was discolored and wet, and the smell of urine and feces was strong.

  “Capitaine,” he said. “Has this man been mistreated?”

  “No, Commandant,” ci’Doulor answered quickly. The garda, behind him, sniffed in seeming amusement. “It was the citizenry who did this in retaliation. Why, our Garde Kralji had tremendous difficulty even getting him away from the mob after the attack on the Archigos.”

  Sergei knew that to be a lie; the gardai assigned to the Archigos had subdued the man immediately after the attack and hurried him away before the crowd was even certain what had happened. “The people do love the Archigos,” Sergei said, more to the prisoner than to ci’Doulor.

  “And hate those who would try to harm him.” He stepped closer to the prisoner, taking a kerchief from his pocket and dusting the seat of a scarred, three-legged stool near the prisoner. The man moved his head inside the cage, watching Sergei with his one good eye. “If I remove the tongue-gag, will you promise to speak no spells, Vajiki?” Sergei asked, leaning toward him.

  The man nodded. His gaze was not on Sergei’s eyes, but the gleaming metal nose. Sergei reached around the man’s head and loosed the leather straps that held the device in place. The man gagged as the metal spring holding down his tongue was removed.

  “What’s your name?” Sergei asked.

  “Dhaspi ce’Coeni.” The man’s voice was pain-filled and hoarse, and the syllables-unsurprisingly-held the accent of the north provinces.

  “You’re a Numetodo?” A hesitant nod. “And who sent you to harm the Archigos? Was it Envoy ci’Vliomani, perhaps?”

  “No!” The denial was quick. The man’s undamaged eye went wide,and the chains clanked dully against stone. “I. . I’ve never met Envoy ci’Vliomani. Never. What I did, I did alone. That is the truth.”

  Now it was Sergei who nodded. “I believe you,” he said soothingly, watching his sympathetic tone leech the tension from the man’s face.

  He sat there for several seconds, just gazing at the man. Finally he stood, going over to a small niche in the wall. From it, he took a brass bar, as thick around as a man’s fist and perhaps two fists high, and satisfyingly massive and heavy. Both ends of the bar were polished and slightly flattened, as if they’d been battered many times. “I love history,” he said to the prisoner. “Did you know that?”

  The man’s gaze was on the bar in Sergei’s hand now. He shook his head hesitantly. “Of course you don’t,” Sergei continued. “But it’s the truth. I do. History teaches us so much, Vajiki ce’Coeni-it’s from understanding what has happened in the past that we can best see the dangers of the future. Now this piece of metal. .” He put his index finger into a large hole bored through the middle of the bar; only the tip of his finger emerged. “There was once a large bell in this very tower.

  The bell enclosure is still there at the top of the tower; you may have seen it when they brought you here, though I doubt you were much in the mood to notice such things. The bell was to be rung if there was a threat to the city so that the citizenry would be warned and react. Now, the bell itself has long ago been removed and melted down-I believe that the statue of Henri VI in Oldtown was cast from the metal of the bell; you might have seen it. But this. .” Sergei hefted the bar again.

  “This was the bell’s clapper. You see, a rope went through the hole here, knotted above and underneath to keep it at the right height, then the remainder of the rope dropped down to the floor of the tower so that someone could ring the bell at need. And it was rung, five times all told, the last being when the Hellinians sent their fleet of warships up the A’Sele to attack the city back in Maria III’s reign.” He took his finger from the hole and hefted the clapper in his hand. “So I look at this and I have to marvel at the history I’m holding, Vajiki, at the fact that this very piece of metal has been part of so much of what has happened here. It has protected us before, and-this is the part that’s crucial to you, Vajiki ce’Coeni-it continues to do so.”

  Sergei went back to the niche. From it, he took a short length of oak, rounded by a lathe at one end. He fitted the rounded end into the hole of the clapper, transforming the metal bar into the sinister head of a hammer. He nodded to the garda, who came forward and unlocked the fetters from the prisoner’s left hand. “I require your hand, Vajika.

  Please place it on the stool, like this.” He held out his own hand, palm upward, with the little finger extended out and the rest of the fingers curled in. The prisoner shook his head, sobbing now, and the garda took ce’Coeni’s hand and forced it down on the stool’s seat. Ce’Coeni curled his fingers into an impotent fist. “I need only your little finger, Vajiki,” Sergei told him. “Otherwise, the pain will be. . far worse.”

  Sergei moved alongside the stool, looking down at the prisoner. “I need to know, Vajiki ce’Coeni, the names of the Numetodo with whom you were involved here in Nessantico.”

  “I don’t know any other Numetod
o,” the man gasped. He tried to move his hand back, but though the chains rattled, the garda held it fast.

  “Ah,” Sergei said. “You see, I believed you when you told me that you acted alone, because I don’t think even the Numetodo would be so foolish as to send a lone person on such a futile mission as yours. But I don’t believe you now. I can see the lie in your eyes, Vajiki. I can hear it in your voice and smell it in the fear that comes from you. And I’ve learned over the years that there is truth in pain.” He touched his finger to his false nose, and saw ce’Coeni’s eyes follow the gesture. He hefted the hammer made by the bell clapper and looked down at the stool where ce’Coeni’s hand was still fisted. “What will it be, Vajiki? Your entire hand, or just the little finger?”

  The man sobbed. The smell of urine became stronger. “You can’t. .”

  “To the contrary,” Sergei told him, his voice soft and sympathetic.

  “I will, not out of desire, but because I must. Because it’s my task to keep this city, the Kraljica, and the Archigos safe.”

  “No, no, you don’t have to do this,” the man said desperately, his voice rushed. “I’ll tell you the names. I met once with an older man named Boli and another one my age whose name was Grotji. I don’t know their family names, Commandant; they never told me. I met them in a tavern in Oldtown. I could show you where, could describe them for you-”

  Sergei was still looking at the hand on the stool. “The finger or the hand, Vajiki?”

  “But I’ve told you everything I know, Commandant. That is the truth.”

  Sergei said nothing. He lifted the hammer, bending his elbow. With a whimper, ce’Coeni extended his little finger.

  Sergei brought the hammer down with a grunt: hard, fast, and sudden. The blow crushed bone and flesh, tendon and muscle. Blood spattered from beneath the brass. A shrill scream tore from ce’Coeni’s throat, a high-pitched screech that echoed from the stones and Sergei’s ears before it faded away into a wailing sob. Sergei was always surprised by the sheer volume the human throat could produce.

  He lifted the hammer; the man’s finger was flattened and destroyed, nearly torn in half near the second joint. He heard the capitaine’s intake of breath hiss behind him.

  “There’s truth in pain,” Sergei said again to the man. The garda had released ce’Coeni’s hand, and the prisoner cradled it to his chest, rock-ing back and forth on the floor of the cell as he wept. “I’m very sorry, Vajiki, but I’m afraid I need to be certain there isn’t anything else you have to tell us. . ”

  Sergei remained, asking questions until only the thumb of ce’Coini’s ruined hand remained untouched. Then he wiped the bloodied and gore-spattered end of the hammer on the prisoner’s clothing, and pulled the handle from the clapper with some effort. He placed the metal bar and handle back in their niche. Nodding to the garda, he and Capitaine ci’Doulor left the cell.

  “He knows nothing of any use,” he said to the capitaine as they ascended the stairs.

  “He named Envoy ci’Vliomani, there at the last,” ci’Doulor said.

  “Isn’t that what you wanted, Commandant?”

  “He would have named his own matarh then,” Sergei answered. “I wanted the truth, and the truth is that he was a fool acting alone. We have two first names, almost certainly false, and a tavern in Oldtown that was probably chosen at random. I’ll send out the Garde Kralji and see if they can find these men from the descriptions he gave us. But I don’t have much hope. I’ll speak with the Kraljica and the Archigos and tell them what we’ve learned.”

  “And the prisoner, Commandant?”

  Sergei shrugged. “Have him sign a confession. Leave the paper blank so we can fill in what we might require later. Then execute him for his crime. A quick and painless death, Capitaine. He deserves that much. Afterward, cut off the hands and pull out the tongue, as required for Numetodo, then gibbet the body from the Pontica Kralji so that all of Oldtown can see it.”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  “And to the birds?”

  “The birds?” the capitaine said in puzzlement, then: “Ah, yes. In the dragon’s mouth. Yes, Commandant. I’ll see to that also.”

  “Good.” They reached the top of the stairs. Sergei turned, and the capitaine brought his hands to his forehead in salute. “It’s been a pro-ductive day, then. You have your tasks to attend to, Capitaine. I can find my own way out.”

  Ana cu’Seranta

  The teni-lights of Nessantico were famous through-out the Holdings. It was the Night Circle that people often spoke of when they reminisced about their visit to the capital city. As the sun faded behind the bend of the A’Sele, as the western sky deepened to purple and the first stars appeared, a procession of dozens of e’teni clothed in yellow-hemmed robes filed from each of the several temples of the city. Ana watched with her family, Sala (tending to her matarh) and the other onlookers as one group of light-teni left the Archigos’ Temple, proceeding east and west along both sides of the Avi a’Parete as they passed the gates. The e’teni each went to one of the tall, black iron poles erected several strides apart along the boulevard. There they paused, chanting and performing intricate motions of hands and fingers as the wind-horns blew a mournful dissonance from the towers.

  Finally the e’teni lifted their hands high, fingers spread wide open, and the yellow-glass globes high atop the poles flared and illuminated as if a tiny sun had been born inside them. The e-teni clapped their hands once and moved to the next light poles, repeating the spell. Around the entire long loop of the Avi a’Parete and the Four Bridges, the daily ceremony was repeated until all the lamps were lighted and the boulevard that encircled the inner city was ablaze with pools of false day.

  “When I was at Montbataille, I swear I could look to the south and west from the high slopes and see Nessantico at night, miles and miles and miles away, like a necklace of stars fallen to the ground and glittering there.” Ana’s vatarh Tomas smiled at her, his arm slipping around her shoulders and pulling her tight to his side. Ana forced herself to return the smile and to remain in his embrace though she ached to pull away. No more. Not after tonight. . “Seeing the lights always made me think of you and your matarh, safe there. And I wondered if one day it might not be you in the procession every night, lighting the lamps. You always played at being a teni, even when you were just a child-do you remember that? And now. .” His smile transformed into a grin tainted with greed. She knew his thoughts: an o’teni could command a dowry of her own for the family. . “They won’t waste an o’teni to just light the Avi, will they?”

  Ana shook her head, starting to pull away, but Tomas hugged her tightly again as the e’teni moved on to the next lamps and the crowd that had gathered to watch the procession began to thin. She felt his fingers cup the side of her breast, but before she could react, his arm slipped from her. Tomas crouched down in front of Ana’s matarh, seated in her carry-chair. Her matarh’s eyes were open, but they saw nothing and tracked no one. He put his hands on hers, folded on her lap. “We’re proud of our Ana, aren’t we, Abi?”

  The woman didn’t reply. She rarely spoke anymore, and when she did, no one could understand her. Her eyes seemed to search for something past his shoulder. Another of the coughing spasms struck her and she hunched over, the cough rumbling and liquid in her lungs. Tomas took a kerchief from the pocket of his bashta and dabbed at the mucus around her mouth.

  I will need to help her again tomorrow. “Vatarh? We should be going to the temple,” Ana said.

  Tomas stood slowly and nodded to the quartet of hired servants with them; they took up the poles of the carry-chair once more. They proceeded across the street into the plaza where, just this morning, everything in Ana’s life had changed. A female acolyte was waiting there, approaching them as they crossed the Avi. Ana recognized her: Savi cu’Varisi, one of the current third-years who-unlike Ana when she’d been there-had been plucked by the teni from the common rabble of the acolytes and given special tasks at the temple.
Even though Ana was the senior student, in their few encounters Savi had treated Ana as she might have some merchant’s apprentice. Tonight, Savi seemed subservient and overawed by her task. She kept her head down, refusing to meet Ana’s gaze.

  “This way, O’Teni cu’Seranta,” Savi said. She stumbled over the title, and her face reddened. “The Archigos is awaiting you and your family.”

  “ ‘O’Teni cu’Seranta.’ ” Tomas chuckled as the acolyte led them toward a side door of the temple. “That has a wonderful sound, doesn’t it, Ana?”

  “Yes, Vatarh,” Ana admitted, watching Sala as she turned and started to walk toward the temple, wishing he sounded more pleased for her and less for himself. “But I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it.”

  “Oh, you will. And more. I’m certain of it. One day soon it will be U’Teni ca’Seranta. This is Cenzi’s will; this is our reward for the trials He sent us. I always knew it would come.”

  Ana nodded at her vatarh’s confidence, though she knew that Tomas’ certainty was new and fragile. True, Cenzi had sent trials enough to their family: the deaths of her two younger siblings to Red Pox six years before, followed closely by the loss of Ana’s older brother Louis the next year, serving with the Garde Civile in one of the border skirmishes with Tennshah. Then Vatarh, a mid-level bureaucrat within the Department of Provincial Commerce, had been assigned to the town of Montbataille only to have his position eliminated within six months.

  Since then, he had held a variety of positions within the Nessantico government, each of them of less status and lower compensation as Abi and Tomas were forced to squander their savings and rely on the largesse of the cu’Seranta relatives to avoid the shame of becoming ci’Seranta or worse.

  Ana thought the nadir had come four years ago when Abi had been stricken. That had seemed the final blow. Her apprenticeship to the Concenzia Faith had been her vatarh’s desperate attempt to sal-vage something from the unrelenting downward spiral of the family’s fortunes.