by S L Farrell
He had looked to Allesandra and the glowering Archigos then. “You asked me to give you my knowledge, to help you. That is what I’m doing here. Appearances matter. They matter a great deal. They especially matter to those in the Kraljica’s Palais.”
In the end, with Allesandra’s support, he had won the argument. Jan, at least, had been somewhat gracious about it. The Archigos had stalked off angrily, and they had heard him complaining throughout the encampment for the next few turns of the glass.
As the Firenzcian contingent dismounted and servants took their weapons and horses and offered refreshments, the Nessanticans came forward. Sergei clasped cu’Ulcai’s arm warmly, smiling at his longtime offizier. “Aubri,” he said, “I wish we could have met again under better circumstances. I heard what happened with poor Aris . . .” He clasped the man on the shoulder and gave the sign of Cénzi to U’Téni cu’Magnaoi. “Petros, it’s good to see you also. How is Archigos Kenne?”
“He is well, sir, and sends his blessing to you,” the older man answered.
Sergei leaned close to the man as he hugged him. “Has Kenne received my messages?” he whispered into the older man’s ear. “Does he agree?” Sergei felt Petros’ faint nod. He also saw the appraising glances of both the delegations on him as he greeted the two men: Allesandra as well as Odil ca’Mazzak. They were both suspicious; they both had a right to be. Sergei nodded to ca’Mazzak and took his seat to the left of Allesandra.
Ca’Mazzak gestured, and pages came forward to give Allesandra, Sergei, and the starkkapitän scrolls of heavy parchment. “This is the offer of Kraljica Sigourney,” ca’Mazzak said as they scanned the words there. “Your army will be permitted to return to Firenzcia. The outlaw Sergei Rudka will be handed over to us. Reparations will be paid by Brezno to the Holdings for the destruction of crops and livestock by their army, and for the violation of the Treaty of Passe a’Fiume. If you find the terms acceptable, all that is required is the signature of the A’Hïrzg as the representative of the Coalition.”
It was no more than Sergei had expected. He’d witnessed Holdings arrogance and hubris too many times before.
Starkkapitän ca’Damont gave a snicker through his nose, tossing the parchment on the table. “And how does the Kraljica intend to enforce this, Councillor?” he asked. “With the few battalions you’ve given Commandant cu’Ulcai? I’ve nothing but respect for the commandant, who is a fine offizier, but one doesn’t fight off an angry bear by threatening him with a twig.” He seemed to realize then that he’d spoken out of turn. His face reddened slightly. “My pardons, A’Hïrzg. I’m a simple offizier, but these demands . . .” He swept the parchment from the table to the floor; a page scurried over to pick up the scroll but didn’t return it to him.
“The Garde Civile and the chevarittai of the Holdings are not a twig, Starkkapitän,” ca’Mazzak blustered. He had puffed up like a toad, sitting erect in his chair, the wattles on his thick neck shivering. “You underestimate our ability to quickly field an army when our lands are threatened. It’s a lesson the last Hïrzg Jan learned; I’m surprised that anyone from Firenzcia feels the lesson needs to be taught a second time.”
Allesandra appeared to be still reading the proposal, though Sergei could see her listening carefully to the exchange. She set the paper down in front of her and folded her hands over it. “All right,” she said. “Let’s forgo the posturing, Councillor ca’Mazzak. We all know that Nessantico is dealing with a threat to the west. We know what happened to Karnor; we’re hearing rumors that Villembouchure may have suffered the same fate—perhaps Commandant cu’Ulcai could enlighten us on that, since I expect he was there when the Holdings forces were routed? Everyone at this table knows that you haven’t sufficient forces to challenge us here. So what is it that the Kraljica really offers?”
Sergei had suggested this direct tack to Allesandra, but the stab at Aubri cu’Ulcai had been the A’Hïrzg’s own contribution. The look on Aubri’s’ face was enough to confirm that her guess had been correct, and Sergei felt an upwelling of sympathy for his friend.
Ca’Mazzak looked as if he’d swallowed unripened fruit. He glanced at Petros, who seemed to be examining the fields past the edge of the tent, then at Aubri. “The Kraljica is prepared to offer a compromise,” he said finally. “Let the Hïrzg and A’Hïrzg return to Brezno with their Garde Brezno. However, Starkkapitän ca’Damont and the remainder of the army will remain behind to aid in the defense of Nessantico against the Westlanders, for which the treasury of Nessantico is willing to bear the expenses. As for the former Regent . . .” Ca’Mazzak glared at Sergei. “Kraljica Sigourney still demands his return to face the charges against him, no matter what agreement we reach here.”
Allesandra stood at that; a moment later, Sergei, ca’Damont, and the rest of the Firenzcian contingent followed. “Then we’re done here,” Allesandra said. “Regent ca’Rudka is an adviser to the crown of Firenzcia, and we consider him to be the current rightful ruler of Nessantico until a legitimate Kralji is named. If Regent ca’Rudka wishes to return to Nessantico on his own to pursue his claims, he may do so. Otherwise, he is under the protection of the Hïrzg, no matter what the person you have named Kraljica wishes.” She bowed to ca’Mazzak and gestured. Sergei smiled broadly at the man. They turned to go.
“Wait!” It was Petros who called to them. Allesandra stopped.
“U’Téni?” she asked, but ca’Mazzak was already spluttering.
“I am in charge of this delegation,” he said to Petros. “You will speak when I give you permission, U’Téni cu’Magnaoi.”
“Cénzi is in charge of my conscience,” Petros told the councillor. “Not you, nor Kraljica Sigourney. And I will speak. A’Hïrzg, Nessantico is in desperate circumstances. Commandant cu’Ulcai would tell you—if he were permitted to speak—how easily the Westlanders took the cities, towns, and villages they have ravaged. Nessantico desperately requires all the allies it can muster now. Archigos Kenne is prepared to negotiate separately from the Kraljica, if he must, to achieve this.”
“What!” ca’Mazzak sputtered. He was on his feet now as well, pounding on the table. “No, no, no. We are done here. U’Téni cu’Magnaoi, you will be transported back to the city to answer for this. Commandant cu’Ulcai, order your gardai to—”
Sergei slapped the table immediately in front of ca’Mazzak, and the man’s mouth shut with an audible snap. “You’re nothing but the Kraljica’s yelping lapdog, Councillor,” Sergei told the man, leaning close to him. “Sit down.”
Ca’Mazzak glared back and turned to Aubri. “Commandant, you have your orders. You will take the u’téni into custody immediately.”
Aubri didn’t move, didn’t respond. Sergei could feel the tension rising in the tent. He saw hands sliding carefully toward hidden weapons—he had his own blades, too, one in his boot, another under the blouse of his bashta, and his ears sang with the hum of his own fear. He hadn’t been able to contact Aubri beforehand, and if Aubri decided that his loyalty to the Sun Throne was more than his old loyalty for Sergei, then . . . Well, then Sergei didn’t know what might happen here.
“Commandant cu’Ulcai, this is treason,” ca’Mazack growled. “I will have your head for this if you don’t do as ordered.”
Aubri said nothing; his contemplative gaze still on Sergei. The chevarittai, of both sides, tensed, ready to move. Sergei placed himself between Allesandra and the table. “I suggest you sit down, Councillor,” Sergei told ca’Mazzak. “Let U’Téni cu’Magnaoi finish outlining his offer.”
For several breaths, ca’Mazzak didn’t stir. His gaze moved slowly around the tent, and Sergei knew he was assessing who in the tent would follow him and who would not. Evidently, he wasn’t pleased with the result. Slowly, ca’Mazzak lowered himself to his chair again. He stared at his hands.
“Good,” Sergei said. For a moment, the ringing in his ears diminished. “Petros, what has Archigos Kenne to offer Firenzcia?”
“Information,” Petr
os answered. “We have proof that Archigos Semini was involved in the assassination of Archigos Ana. We can give you names to verify that.” Behind him, Sergei heard Allesandra suck in her breath at the accusation. He wondered at that—she sounded more alarmed than surprised. “Because Kraljiki Audric was killed in the same manner,” Petros continued, “we have to suspect that the false Archigos was also involved in that. If Hïrzg Jan is prepared to try Archigos Semini for Archigos Ana’s death before his own court, we will supply him the evidence we have. In return, the Faith of Nessantico will work with the Faith of Brezno to repair our rift; Archigos Kenne will call for a Concordance of all a’téni to elect a single Archigos to rule the Faith, and he will also step down voluntarily if he is not elected—though any Archigos must take the Archigos’ Temple in Nessantico, not Brezno. Likewise, the Faith is prepared to acknowledge Allesandra ca’Vörl’s claim to the Sun Throne. Archigos Kenne will support her before the Council of Ca’ against Kraljica Sigourney.”
“No!” Ca’Mazzak hurtled to his feet again, spittle flying from his mouth with the explosion of the word. “Archigos Kenne will be thrown into the Bastida for this, and the téni who support him purged—”
“And if that happens,” Petros answered calmly, “then Archigos Kenne will order the war-téni to remain in their temples rather than answer the Kraljica’s call. How will the Garde Civile and the chevarittai fare against the Westlanders without the war-téni, Councillor? How will they stand against the army of the Hïrzg?”
Again, ca’Mazzak sank back into his seat. He shivered as if with a fever, stroking his doubled chin. Sweat beaded at his hairline, and under his arms, the fabric of his bashta had turned dark.
Allesandra touched Sergei’s shoulder, and he stood aside. She was smiling grimly. The A’Hïrzg gave the sign of Cénzi to Petros. “You offer all this for the trial of Archigos Semini?”
Petros nodded to her. “We trust the Hïrzg’s court to be fair and impartial. And there is one more thing: all prosecution of the Numetodo must stop. Immediately. The Numetodo are innocent of any of this. Ambassador Karl ca’Vliomani must be restored to his previous position.”
Sergei could feel the negotiations hanging on the balance point of Allesandra’s answer to that last point. She was fingering the cracked globe of Cénzi hung around her neck. His own life hung there also, as well as that of Petros and Aubri. If he had guessed wrongly . . .
“I will talk to my son,” Allesandra answered. “I will relay to him everything that has been said here.” Sergei thought for a moment that this was the entirety of her answer, that he had lost. But Allesandra took a long, shivering breath. “I will suggest that the Hïrzg accept the Archigos’ offer,” she said. “Councillor ca’Mazzak, Commandant, U’Téni—we’ll return to the parley tent in three turns of the glass to give you our answer.”
“If Archigos Kenne has evidence, I will weigh it,” Allesandra had said to Sergei on the way back. “And if Archigos Semini is responsible for Ana ca’Seranta’s death, then . . .” She had pressed her lips together grimly. “Then I am inclined to convince my son to accept the Archigos’ offer.”
Somehow, she seemed to have done exactly that, though Sergei had not been present for that discussion, though everyone in the camp had heard the occasional raised voices in the Hïrzg’s tent, and Sergei had especially noted that Starkkapitän ca’Damont had gardai stationed around the Archigos’ tent.
He wondered what was happening in the other encampment. Everything there hung on the loyalties of the Garde Civile and the téni—and Sergei wasn’t certain how that would play out. He prayed to Cénzi, hoping that He was listening.
Three turns of the glass later, Sergei, Allesandra, and the others rode out again toward the parley tent.
When he’d been Commandant of the Garde Kralji, decades ago, Sergei had occasionally felt a shiver when he’d approached the Bastida a’Drago: a quivering of the spine almost like fear that told him when something was amiss in the complex beyond the dragon’s grinning skull.
He felt that shiver now as their small party approached the parley tent. It was, first of all, curious that there were no servants moving about, that the chairs on the Nessantican side of the table were empty. But what held him, what made his stomach churn and boil, was the realization that there was something on the table itself—two somethings, two rounded objects masked in the shadow underneath the linen flapping in the breeze. He was afraid he knew what sat there.
“Hold a moment, A’Hïrzg,” he told Allesandra. “Please. Wait here.”
Sergei nudged his horse forward alone, gesturing to Starkkapitän ca’Damont to accompany him. He squinted, trying to force his aging eyes to make out what it was sitting there. As he approached, he could hear a faint buzzing sound that grew slowly louder: the whine of insects.
He knew then, and the bile rose in his throat. He pulled his horse up, let himself down from the saddle, and walked into the shade of the tent.
On the table were two heads, sticky, clotted blood pooled underneath them, a carpet of flies crawling over the open eyes and in the gaping mouths.
Sergei went to his knees, making the sign of Cénzi toward the gruesome sight. “Aubri,” he said. “Petros. I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”
Shakily, he rode to his feet again, going back to the horse. He rode silently back to the others. Allesandra’s eyes questioned him; she knew also. He could see it in the way her hand lifted to her mouth before he ever spoke.
“Councillor ca’Mazzak has left us his own answer,” he said. “It seems he doesn’t care what ours might have been.”
Nico Morel
NICO COULDN’T BEAR to sit still. He had never imagined a place as glorious, huge, and interesting as this. They’d been ushered into an office in one of the buildings that girdled the Plaza a’Archigos; the reception room by itself was larger than the two rooms they had in Oldtown and there were at least three doors leading off into other rooms that he could only imagine. He’d caught a glimpse of a bedroom when one of the servants had moved through carrying linens, and it had seemed huge beyond all reason. The office into which they’d been ushered would have taken up Nico’s house as well as those of the closest neighbors. The ceiling seemed as high as summer clouds and as white; the floor was an intricate mosaic of various colored woods, and the walls were draped with gorgeous tapestries displaying the tale of Cénzi’s life, the molding along the top of the walls was carved and gilded. Behind the massive mahogany desk, a balcony looked out over the wide plaza, with the Archigos’ Temple framed beyond its open draperies. The other furniture in the room was just as dominating—a long, polished conference table, with plush chairs set around it; a couch placed before a hearth in which Nico’s whole family could have stood upright, surrounded by the gorgeous mantel-piece; a carved cracked-globe taller than two men standing atop one another, with the carved figures of the Moitidi wrapped around it, the base studded with jewels and glittering with gold foil. All around the walls, there were tables laden with delightful foreign wonders: statues of unfamiliar animals; a large stone broken in half, inside which beautiful violet crystals were crowded; spiny, rose-pearled shells from the Strettosei . . .
Nico blinked, staring at everything. “All this is just for you?” Nico asked the Archigos, marveling.
“Nico, hush,” his matarh said, but the old man in the green robes only laughed.
“It’s for the Archigos, whomever that person is,” the man said. “I only live here temporarily, until Cénzi calls me back to Him. This used to be where Archigos Ana lived, too.” He patted Nico on the head as servants brought in trays of food and drink and set them on the table. The Archigos waved to the servants as they finished. “That will be all,” he told them. “Please make sure we’re not disturbed. Have my carriage come to the rear door a turn of the glass before Third Call.” They bowed and left. “Help yourselves,” the Archigos told them as the last of the servants departed the room, closing the double doors behind them. “Karl? You al
l look as if you could use a good meal.” Nico was staring at the food, and the Archigos chuckled again. “Go on, Nico. You needn’t wait.”
Nico glanced at his matarh and at Talis, who shrugged. “It’s all right,” his matarh told him. “Go ahead . . .”
He did. A spice-seed muffin drizzled with honey was the first thing in his mouth. Strangely, the adults didn’t seem as hungry as he was. Neither Talis, Karl, nor Varina went toward the table at all, and his mother picked desultorily at a breast of duck. Instead, they huddled near the couch in front of the hearth.
“Archigos,” Nico heard Karl say, “Ana would be terribly proud of you. We all owe you our thanks.”
“The thanks go to you, Karl. If you hadn’t come to me, if you hadn’t told me what you knew . . . Well, I’m not certain what would have happened. In any case, I may have put you in more danger, not less. The Kraljica is in a rage, from what I hear, and as soon as Councillor ca’Mazzak returns from the parley with the Firenzcians, I suspect she’ll be even less happy with me. None of us can be sure what will happen with that—which is why we need to talk tonight. There isn’t much time; a messenger may already be on the way back to the city.” Nico heard the Archigos’ voice drop and fail. He turned, a slice of bread and cheese in his hand. “This is the Westlander?” the Archigos asked, nodding in Talis’ direction. Talis had both his hands around the walking stick he always carried, and Nico could see air flickering around the wood as if the staff were on fire, but that was a fire colder than last winter’s snow.