by Paul Kidd
"What?" Miliana speared her companion with one stab of her eye. "Because I'm a mage, or because I'm a girl?"
"Well it's not as if you're actually a girl!" Lorenzo dug his own grave with cheerful, brainless enthusiasm. "I mean-you're a scholar."
Miliana shot the man a baleful glance. Lorenzo took it as a sign of approval and heaved a great sigh of satisfaction.
"Well this has been fascinating. Utterly fascinating! Do you live somewhere nearby?"
"I live in the palace. In the west tower. The one with all the plaster falling off the walls." Miliana adjusted her spectacles so that she might gaze down her nose at Lorenzo. "Lady Ulia is my mother-do you understand?" Lorenzo had rarely understood anything less; even so, he nodded his head and attempted to look learned, cosmopolitan, and wise.
"Well, then, I can see you again! I mean-would you mind if, from time to time, I use you as an aid for my studies?"
"Yes, yes, whatever you like!" Miliana opened the door to usher out her unwanted guest. "Now, please do run along and leave me to my reading. There's only another hour of heraldry left in my speaking box."
The girl slammed the door, then suddenly frowned, tugged it open once again, and relieved the startled Lorenzo of his lockpicks. Sealing herself safely back inside once more, Miliana leaned against the shelves and gave a great, frustrated sigh.
A Lomatran loose inside the palace? For a moment, the concept rang vague alarm bells, and Miliana searched for a reason.
Ah! Last night, Ulia had mentioned a Lomatran suitor. But suitors came in carriages with bouquets and minstrels singing serenades, not in scruffy hats, picking locks on library doors.
Miliana's magic noise box had now reached up to chapter eighty-eight: The Improper Use of Propers. Trying to regain her previous peace of mind, Miliana Mannicci perched herself on the table and began to read her sooty scrolls.
"Luccio!"
Lorenzo catapulted into the apartments he shared with his boyhood friend. He looked like a pixie which had spent too long buzzing around a candle flame; scorched, dumb, and dazed. The boy collided with a wall, looked wildly about the room with its easels, paintings, and half-built perpetual-motion machines, and then fought his way through a connecting door. He discovered Luccio sitting on the balcony, hard at work marking the backs of a deck of playing cards.
"Luccio-the most amazing thing's just happened!"
"Amazing?" Luccio, still suffering from the effects of a rather dodgy neutralize poison spell that didn't quite seem to quite recognize wine as a poison, peered at his friend through startling purple eyes. "Whatever do you mean, my cherub?"
"I've just met the most amazing person. Well-girl." Lorenzo blinked. "Woman. I mean-she's sort of a woman, but a person too!"
"Do tell?"
"Well, I mean, she's a girl but she's…" The scholar groped his hands blindly through the air searching for adequate words. "She's not like a girl at all! I mean-she only talked about real things-magic and mechanics and sociopolitical infrastructures-you know what I mean."
"Real things." Luccio shuffled cards briskly between his palms, keeping an amused eye on his sooty friend. "Do say on! You admire her for her mind. Was this paragon of politics also, perhaps, just a touch pretty?"
"No!" Lorenzo seemed utterly offended at the inference-then immediately leapt to the defense of his newfound colleague. "Well, yes, she was. But not… not so you'd notice. Sort of… sort of profoundly pretty. Not just beautiful."
"But she has the appropriate dimensions, accessories-all that sort of thing?"
"Um… I think so." Lorenzo screwed up his brow in an attempt to recall more than Miliana's striking, intelligent eyes. "I forgot to look."
"Ah, dear." Luccio tossed aside his cards and sorrowfully folded his fingers across his breast. "That, my little chuck, is not the best of signs. It is indicative-if you will forgive me-of love."
Lorenzo Utrelli Da Lomatra drew himself up as primly as a nesting hen.
"I beg your pardon, but it is nothing of the sort! This is an intellectual challenge; a meeting of opposed philosophies and complementary minds." Lorenzo sniffed, affecting a superior air. "She has offered to assist me in my research."
"Oh, yes, of course." Luccio made a motherly expression of pouting solicitude. "I had forgotten that the pure torch of reason leaves no space for other lights within your soul."
Tall and gangly as a starving troll, Luccio reclined atop the dangerous balcony rails.
"The arrow shot, sweet triumph strikes she home
"Into the breast of heroes, who no more shall roam.
"To the winds fly wits-ambition o'er leaps the stars!
"Our court we pay to Lliira-not to Shar."
Luccio held aloft a single finger to the sky. "Who is she, what's her name, and what color were her eyes?"
"Um-well… well, no color! Not that I could see."
"Alas-you have the affliction. Never matter-let us pursue it like a wild young hart and revel in the chase!" Luccio sprang along railings, balanced carelessly beside a drop at least three stories high. Swooping up the deck of cards, he casually flipped two upon the table: "the lovers" and "the fool." Accepting the omens, he fished beneath the couch for a half-full bottle of wine. "But did you not forget, heart, that your father has his mind set upon you wedding a princess?"
"I'll tell him she refused me. A marriage would interfere with my intellectual life-particularly marriage to some stuck-up princess." Lorenzo dusted off his fingers, ridding himself of his father's plans. "I shall pursue spiritual and scholarly growth."
"Aaah… spiritual growth!" Luccio walked a silver coin across the back of his hand. "With your friend with the sparkling eyes?"
"Look, Luccio-we only talked about systems of political economy."
"Aaaah! Then here's to political economy!" Luccio flung himself into a corner and delighted himself with romantic plans. "So, what shall we do? We must construct ourselves a grand campaign. How shall we bring this flower to your lips-this treasure to your heart?"
"I thought maybe I might send her a letter… something nice…?"
"A letter?" Luccio rose slowly, as though facing down a horror in the night. "A letter? Are you mad, my boy? Are you addled? Are you drunken? Are you sick?" Luccio shot up and clamped a struggling Lorenzo under his arm. "Never! I shall show you how the deed is done. I shall lead you to the fields of Elysium, and toss away the plaque which reads, 'tread not upon the grass'!"
"You're a very strange man, Luccio."
"Silence! There are but a few dozen gods of love, and Luccio is their prophet!" Luccio produced another card, "the sun," and placed it in Lorenzo's pocket. "My credentials."
Lorenzo removed a large orange feather from a chair and wearily sat down; his eyes were only half focused upon the mortal world. In one corner of the room, there loomed a giant canvas-an ornate thing showing a sea goddess rising from the waves. It was to be presented to the Mannicci household at the Festival of Blades in one week's time. Lorenzo stirred himself, picked up a brush and corrected a tiny error in the painted foam.
Irritated and frustrated, he suddenly thrust paints and brush away. The boy threw himself at the balcony rails and stared in exasperation at the sky.
"I've been so tired of it! Trying to be creative, but without…"
"Brains?" Luccio tried to be helpful by sitting on the balcony paring his nails.
"Not brains-inspiration." Lorenzo took up his paintbrush and pallet; with fast swipes of a brush he sketched Miliana's face across a wooden board. "There's been no impetus. No ideas to rebound myself from. But now, now at last, I feel…"
"Distended? Bilious?"
"No! I feel…" Lorenzo flapped about like a fish looking for an appropriate hook. "I feel alive!"
Four more brush strokes constructed Miliana's spectacles and her eyes.
"This has been the most perfect day of my entire life! It's been… It's been…" Words obviously failed to describe it. "Sumbria! Aaaaah, Sumbria. I feel like I'm fina
lly born into a brilliant new world."
Luccio suavely dodged beneath a waving brush that might have given him a blue mustache.
"So there'll be no serenades, then?"
"What? Oh, heavens, no." Lorenzo made a tut-tutting motion with his most disreputable pallet knife. "This is a meeting of minds."
"Still…" Luccio leaned forward to inspect the gaudy painting of the sea goddess at play. "You must examine all the possibilities. A romantic attachment is not impossible and, theretofore, you must be cautious. For instance-does she please your mind's eye?"
"Oh, absolutely!"
"Ah." Lorenzo's friend leaned himself waggishly against one wall. "In which case, my best advice is for you to think upon the mother. After all, that shows you how your own girl shall look in years to come." Luccio tapped thoughtfully at his pointed chin. "How does her mother look?"
A vision of Lady Ulia boiled unbidden into Lorenzo's mind; the boy instantly turned pale.
Luccio's lips made a silent O of understanding, and he went back to the balcony rails. Lorenzo paced back and forth for a while, and then tapped his chin in thought.
"I believe I must dispute your theory. The bone structures of mother and daughter would seem to be somewhat different."
"Ah, but perhaps the daughter might transmute in time?"
"It's a question of anatomy then." Lorenzo sat himself down and tucked his heels in hard against his rear. His face took on an air of intellectual puzzlement. "I don't believe there are any books covering the subject."
"Well, I should make study of it, if I were you, old chap." Luccio perched himself back on his accustomed railings, peeling a piece of fruit. "Top priority!"
"Yes. Yes-absolutely!" Lorenzo shot upright, his face rapt in absolute enthusiasm. "Well, she said she didn't mind. This is perfect. Perfect!" Lorenzo avidly shook Luccio's hand. "I'll get onto the task right away!"
Luccio gave a sigh and tried to recapture the golden peace of the afternoon. Behind him, Lorenzo busied himself with mirrors, old lenses, and bits of copper tube; just below, a rat crossing the courtyard halted, hiccuped, assumed a puzzled expression, and exploded with an almighty bang.
Young Luccio let slip another sigh and concentrated on fruit knife and orange peel; clearly the airs of Sumbria did strange things to the soul.
"Svarezi!"
The youthful voice stabbed out from alley shadows; Ugo Svarezi never even deigned to take notice. Leading his lean black hippogriff mare toward the garrison stables, Svarezi plodded on with his savage, troll-like gait, crushing alley refuse under his heels.
"Svarezi! Turn!"
He turned. A short, thick "cat gutter" sword glittered in Svarezi's hand as he swiveled himself around. Black velvet armor breathed in slow, sinister movements as he stood gazing back along the straight Colletran alleyway.
Behind him, his hippogriff gave a low and hungry growl.
A golden youth stood in the light: Blade Captain Veltro-young, angry, and backed up by a lounging band of perfumed swords. His young rabble draped themselves like a painted canvas across the alleyway, anticipating blood as they played with their naked blades.
Feet rustled the dust behind Svarezi, heralding the arrival of yet more of Veltro's men. The Blade Captain never turned. He began a slow, deliberate advance toward his first enemies, bringing his scarred, brutal sword into the light.
Farther down the lane, Veltro struck a heroic pose. The slim youth stood before his comrades, tossing aside the scabbard of his silver rapier.
"No bride for you, Svarezi! No general's baton-no more scorning Colletran honor. Tonight, your soul will be shrieking in Baator!"
With a feral growl, Svarezi came within sword reach and hammered the thin rapier aside. Veltro leapt back and bellowed orders to his comrades, who instantly surged into the attack.
From behind Svarezi, more war cries rang; he dropped the reins of his hippogriff and released her to the kill.
"Shaatra…feed."
With a shuddering hiss of pure release, Svarezi's hippogriff turned to stalk back down the alleyway. The four bravos charging at Svarezi's back skidded to a halt and carefully readied their blades.
Long and lean, with an eagle's beak and claws honed razor sharp, the hippogriff mare pranced slowly sideways toward her prey.
Facing five armed men, Svarezi never slowed the pace of his advance. He stalked coldly forward toward the flushed, screaming young Blade Captain at their rear, swatting rapier lunges aside one by one. Like a black fiend, he homed in upon his chosen sacrifice, as sparks showered from clashing blades and sword points scored across his armored skull.
"Kill him! Kill him, you fools!"
Veltro's voice cracked in panic and excitement. He waved his toy sword and began screaming orders back down the empty alleyway. Svarezi advanced into the center of a hooting quartet of enemies, and finally brought his blade into play.
A courtier lunged; Svarezi cracked the man's rapier point away, trapped his forearm against his chest and wrenched the limb aside. The courtier screamed and reeled backward, his arm broken and his sword dangling from its lanyard at his wrist.
Stabbing from behind, a rapier pierced Svarezi's brigantine and ripped a fiery line across his ribs. The warlord whirled, wrenching the sword from its owner's grip, then slammed the man against a wall and stabbed him in the groin. The broad blade twisted, spilling the stink of blood into the alleyway, and Svarezi tossed the shrieking carrion aside.
Behind him, Shaatra screamed in lust for blood. A beak snapped, a wingbeat drove back a narrow sword, and suddenly the hippogriff spun to kick out with her rear hooves. A body screamed as it crashed hard against a mud brick wall. Another man gurgled horribly as the eagle beak fastened on his jaw. Shaatra shook her victim like a bloody doll, her triumphant hunting cries bubbling through the blood of living prey.
"Archers! Archers!"
Behind Veltro, a fresh flood of men appeared: a dozen crossbowmen in the particolored livery of Veltro's own brigades. The youth laughed as Svarezi stepped away from the embattled courtiers. Pointing with his silver sword, Veltro screamed his bloodlust to the skies.
"Fire!"
Troops knelt, jerked bow stocks to their shoulders and instantly took aim. Crossbow bolts whipped through the dust, stabbing into naked flesh and spraying blood across the alley walls.
Svarezi stooped down, wiped the blood from his blade upon a courtier's cap, and silently sheathed his sword. Behind him and beside him, dead and dying bravos clawed bloody trails though the dust-shot down to a man. Cheated of her kills, Shaatra raised a defiant scream, hurtling a corpse, shot through with crossbow bolts, aside. The black monster stared in anger at the crossbowmen, then spread her wings and rippled forward like a stream of liquid doom.
"Shaatra!"
Svarezi's command brought the creature slinking to a halt. Cowed, it ripped claws through a courtier's corpse while the black-clad general walked confidently toward the crossbowmen.
The soldiers spread out among the fallen courtiers, finishing the wounded and stripping rings from bloodstained fingers that curled like dying spiders. Their sergeant slung his weapon, faced Ugo Svarezi, and bowed.
"Forgive our hastiness, my lord. We might have hit your mount."
Svarezi waved an armored hand in answer.
"Small matter. Another one can be found."
Collapsed against a wall with blood spilling through his hands, young Blade Captain Veltro still managed a precarious hold on life. Shot through and through by his own men, the boy still tried to somehow crawl away.
Svarezi motioned the soldiery aside and walked deliberately toward the fallen man.
Veltro stared at his soldiers as if still unable to comprehend their treachery.
"They were my men… mine!"
"It takes a soldier to command soldiers, boy." Svarezi once again drew his savage blade.
Veltro raised his voice and screamed, cramming himself into the dust in fear.
"You're finished, Svarez
i! Colletro's court is finished with you! No Mannicci bride-no council seats! No Blade Council will suffer you again!"
The blade reversed to hover like an ice pick in Svarezi's hand.
"If the council is finished with me… then let us finish with the council!"
Svarezi stabbed the cowering young Blade Captain through the roof of his mouth, twisting the blade down into the sand like a slaughterer. The body beneath him arched, then jerked into deathly stillness. Svarezi freed his sword and flicked the filth from the blade onto the alley walls.
Behind him, the crossbow sergeant scarcely spared a glance at his master's corpse.
"Did he speak the truth, sire? Will there be no Sumbrian bride?"
"What matter? Where a maid's door shuts, a master's opens." Svarezi wrenched at the feathered mane of his hippogriff, dragging her beak up from a feast of carrion. One armored fist drew a torn letter from the creature's saddlebags and crushed it like a fragile treasure in his grasp.
"Enough of petty court intrigue. It is time to raise our sights to a higher prize!"
Svarezi swung himself into his saddle and slowly rode away. Beneath him, hippogriff claws left bloody footprints in an alleyway already thick with flies.
5
The annual Festival of Blades brought a gay, carefree mood to Sumbria. For the nobility, the holiday celebrated the origins of families and kingdoms; a fine, defiant time where each city-state proudly shouted out its heritage. It would be a week for ambassadors and midnight balls, for tournaments and pageantry. Each noble house would strive to outdo the others in sheer magnificence and generosity.
In the drowsy warmth of a Sumbrian noon, Miliana walked through the wind-kissed colonnades. With her eyes half closed and her hair stirring out beneath her pointy hat to drift and feather in the breeze, Miliana could shut away Lady Ulia's voice and let the whole world pass her by.
Ulia never noticed; for her, life seemed to be a never-ending round of irritation and interference, and affairs never took a correct turn unless she was directly involved. Festooned in bells and ribbons, she trundled along at Miliana's side and shook the skies with her litany of woes.