by S L Farrell
“Good,” Allesandra snapped-if they were too unsure to voice their discontent, then let them be discontented. She rose from the Sun Throne, and the glow from within the crystal died. The room seemed suddenly dim. “We’re done here. Commandants, Councillors, thank you for your time.” The Commandants bowed themselves quickly out, their boot heels clacking loudly on the tiles of the Sun Throne’s hall; the councillors glanced at each other, uncertain, then finally rose from their chairs with various groans and mutterings. They bowed to Allesandra, then-hesitating-bowed also to Erik before, more slowly than the two soldiers, beginning to make their way from the room. “Varina,” Allesandra called out, “a moment, if you would…”
When the last of the councillors had made their way from the hall and the hall servants had closed the doors behind them, Allesandra went to Varina. She took the woman’s hands. “How are you?” she asked. “I worry about you. You said nothing today at all.”
“I’m sorry, Kraljica.”
“You’re recovered from your injuries?”
“My injuries?” she asked, as if uncertain what Allesandra meant. Then: “Oh, my injuries. Yes, entirely. Thank you for your concern.”
Her voice was dull, and she appeared more tired and worn even than usual. The left side of her face seemed to sag slightly, and the eye on that side was clouded. Allesandra was reminded of other longtime couples she’d known, and how after one spouse died, the other often followed into Cenzi’s arms soon after. She wondered if that would be the case here. “I’m going to send my healer over to you this evening,” she said to Varina, and waved off the beginning of the woman’s protest. “No, I won’t hear any excuses from you, my dear. I insist. I know you have the Numetodo to look after you, but Talbot tells me that you’re burying yourself in work, keeping yourself locked up in your laboratory. That’s not healthy, Varina. You should be out in the air, enjoying yourself and your friends.”
“I’m afraid that I’m feeling my mortality, Kraljica. I don’t have much time left, and there’s so much to do, so much to understand.”
“You will be here for years and decades yet,” Allesandra told the woman. It was a polite lie, and they both knew it. “You missed the Gschnas tending to poor Karl, and that’s a shame. I will have another party soon; you’ll be invited, and I will insist you come. I won’t hear of any excuse.”
“The Kraljica is too kind,” Allesandra said. “Of course I’ll come. But I do need to return to the Numetodo House. An experiment I’m conducting…” She gave Allesandra the ghost of a curtsy and began to turn, then stopped. “Kraljica?”
“Yes?”
“I always told Karl that Nico could be reclaimed, that if we only had the chance to talk to him…” She licked dry, cracked lips webbed with wrinkles. “I was wrong.”
“You’ve actually spoken to him?” Allesandra asked. Varina nodded. “Nico is convinced that he is right and the rest of us are wrong. And he’s more dangerous than any of us thought.”
With that, she gave her abbreviated curtsy again and shuffled away toward the doors, moving like a woman two decades older than she was.
“She’s right, you know.”
The voice startled her; she’d forgotten that Erik was still there with her. She felt his hand on her shoulder and she trapped it with her cheek.
“I know,” she told him. “And that frightens me.”
Rochelle Botelli
“ That Bastardo Ci’Lawli took me off the list for chevaritt,” cu’Kella said, swearing under his breath. As Rochelle had instructed the man, he didn’t turn around to look into the shadows where she stood. “He sent my daughter away, who was carrying the Hirzg’s child, and they’re offering me almost nothing, nothing, in return. Why, I’d have been ca’Kella when the Hirzg made the announcement if it hadn’t been for ci’Lawli’s interference. I may even have become a councillor in time. Now ci’Lawli has to pay-for me, for my daughter, for my family’s fortune.”
It was an old tale, a variation on one she’d already heard a hand of times in her short career as the White Stone, one that her matarh had no doubt listened to innumerable times. “If that’s what you wish, Vajiki,” Rochelle said to the man, casting her voice in a low and ominous tone, “then leave the solas and the stone I told you to bring as a sign, and go home. Within the month, the man will be dead. I promise you that.”
He’d left the bag of gold coins and the pale, flat stone. Rochelle had taken it.
Rance ca’Lawli. Killing him would mean being close to her vatarh. She could feel the thrill inside her at the thought.
She manufactured an identity for herself. Matarh had shown her how the White Stone did that. She already had four or five false identities ready for use, a few she’d used in the past: girls who had been born within a few years of herself, but who had died in infancy. They were everything from common, unranked people to those of ca’ status. For the latter, she knew their genealogy, knew their parents, their towns and their titles, and who they knew. Matarh had warned her how careful one had to be with false identities, especially as one climbed the social scale to the ca’and-cu’. She’d given Rochelle the cautionary tale of how she’d nearly been exposed, here in Brezno, when Matarh had called herself Elissa ca’Karina, when “Elissa” and the A’Hirzg Jan had been lovers.
When Rochelle herself had been conceived.
“The elite know each other,” Matarh had said to Rochelle, after Rochelle’s second or third kill as the White Stone, not long before Matarh died. “Oh, shut up-you don’t know what you’re talking about.” That last had been an aside to one of the voices in her matarh’s head; Rochelle had learned to filter out such comments. “They’re a closed group, many of them related to one another, and family relationships are important to them-and because of that, they know them. You must be careful what you say, because the slightest misstatement can reveal you. Yes, I know that, you idiot. Why do you keep tormenting me this way? Shut up! Just shut up!” She clasped her hands to her ears as if she could stop the interior dialogue, rocking back and forth in her chair as if in pain.
Two days later, Matarh was dead. Killed by her own hand.
Rochelle didn’t need that caution here. She presented herself to Rance ci’Lawli as Rhianna Berkell, an unranked young woman of Sesemora who had come to Brezno seeking her fortune, and who looked to make her start on the palais staff. She had in hand recommendations on the stationery of three chevarittai of Sesemora, with whom she’d supposedly worked. The stationery and the names on them were genuine, the paper stolen when she’d been in Sesemora with her matarh years ago; the recommendations were, of course, entirely false. But Rochelle was an accomplished actress: she knew what to say, how to present herself, and what skills would put her in the best situation on the palais staff. She also knew how to flirt without being obvious, and ci’Lawli was susceptible to the attentions of a young, handsome woman. Three days later, the summons came to the inn where she was staying: she was to be hired. Aide ci’Lawli placed her on the royal staff, who cared for the Hirzg’s wing of the palais and who worked directly with ci’Lawli. Over the next several days, she made certain that her work was superior, and she watched. She watched ci’Lawli so that she could learn his habits and routines.
She also found herself occasionally in the same room as her vatarh. Once or twice, she thought she noticed him looking at her strangely, and she wondered if he felt the same pull she felt. But most of the time, especially if his wife or children were in the room, he paid no more attention to her than to the paintings on the walls; she was-like the rest of the staff-simply part of the furniture of the palais.
Today, she’d been sent to clear the reception room outside the main rooms of the Hirzg’s apartments. The children were elsewhere, but Jan and the Hirzgin had taken breakfast with Ambassador ca’Rudka of the Holdings, who was leaving Brezno today.
As she entered from the servant’s door with a tray to clear the table, ca’Rudka-whose face made her shudder, with that horrible silv
er nose glued to his wrinkled skin-was bowing to both Jan and Brie. “.. . will convey to the Kraljica your letter as soon as I return.”
“By which time, you’ll have no doubt read it yourself, just to make sure it matches what I’ve told you,” Jan said. He chuckled. Rochelle loved the sound of his laughter: full of rich, unalloyed warmth. She liked the sound of his voice as well. She wished she had known it in her childhood, had heard him whispering to her at night as he wished her good night, or as he cradled her in his arms in front of a fire, telling her stories of his own youth, or perhaps the tales of the long history of Firenzcia and their ancestors.
“Now, Jan, don’t go giving the Ambassador ideas,” the Hirzgin interjected. Rochelle wasn’t sure how she felt about the matarh of her half-siblings. Hirzgin Brie seemed to genuinely care for Jan, but Rochelle had already heard comments and seen glances that made her wonder how well-reciprocated that affection might be. There was the palais gossip also, but Rochelle wasn’t yet privy to the details of the carefully whispered suspicions.
“Don’t worry,” Sergei said to the two of them. “The Hirzg has already told me exactly how he feels, but I trust he’s couched it more diplomatically in the letter to the Kraljica. At least I hope so.” The three of them chuckled again, but the amusement was short this time, and tinged with something else that Rochelle couldn’t quite decipher. Sergei’s voice was suddenly serious and muted. “I truly hope that we can find some way through this without resorting to violence. A new war would not be good for either the Holdings or the Coalition.”
“That depends entirely on my matarh,” Jan answered.
“And it depends on the Coalition not provoking her in the meantime,” Sergei responded. He nodded, and bowed to the two of them. “I’m away, then. I’ll send a response by fast-courier as soon as I’ve spoken with Kraljica Allesandra. Give my love to the children, and may Cenzi bless both of you.”
He bowed again and left the room as Rochelle continued to pile dirty dishes on the tray. “I’ll go see to the children,” Brie said to Jan. “Are you coming, my dear?”
“In a few moments,” he told her.
“Oh.” The strange, dead inflection of the single word made Rochelle glance up from her work, but Brie was already walking toward the entrance to the inner chambers, her back to Rochelle. She bent down to her work again, the dishes clattering softly as she stacked them.
“You’re new on the staff.”
It took a moment for Rochelle to realize that Jan had addressed her. She saw him gazing at her from the other side of the table. She curtsied quickly, her head down, as she’d seen the other servants do in his presence. “Yes, my Hirzg,” she answered, not looking up at him. “I was hired only a week ago.”
“Then you’ve obviously impressed Rance, if he’s put you on palais staff. What’s your name?”
“Rhianna Berkell.”
“Rhianna Berkell,” he repeated, as if tasting the name. “That has a pretty sound. Well, Rhianna, if you do well here, you might find yourself one day with a ce’ before your name. Rance himself was ce’Lawli only two years ago, and now he’s ci’Lawli. He’ll almost certainly be cu’Lawli one day. We reward those who serve us well.”
“Thank you, sir.” She curtsied again. “I should get these back to the kitchen…”
“Look at me,” he said-he said it gently, softly, and she lifted up her face. Their eyes met, and his gaze remained on her face. “You remind me of…” He stopped. His regard seemed to drift away for a moment, as if he were lost in memory. “… someone I knew.”
He reached out, the fingertips of his right hand stroking her cheek-the touch, she thought, of a vatarh. She dropped her gaze quickly, but she could still feel the touch of his fingertips on her skin for long breaths afterward. “The tray, my Hirzg,” she said.
“Ah, yes. That. Certainly. Thank you, Rhianna. I appreciate it.”
She lifted the tray and stepped toward the servants’ door. She could feel his gaze on her back as she pushed the door open with her hip. She didn’t dare look back, afraid that if she did, she would blurt out the secret, that she would call him by the name she longed to use.
Vatarh…
She could not do that. Not now.
Not yet.
Varina ca’Pallo
She’d set up the demonstration in the main hall of the Numetodo House. There were two hands of the long-standing Numetodo there with her: among them Pierre Gabrelli, who was grinning, already knowing what Varina intended to show; the Kraljica’s chief aide Talbot ci’Noel; Johannes ce’Agrippa, perhaps the most skilled of the Numetodo’s magicians, whose study of magical forms pushed the boundaries of Karl and Varina’s own discoveries; Niels ce’Sedgwick, whose interest was not in any magic at all, but in the rocks of the earth and what they spoke of the history of the land; Leovic ce’Darci, whose graceful drawings of buildings and engineering marvels were not only a delight, but were beginning to change Nessantico’s skyline; Nicolau Petros, who studied the stars and their movements with a device based on the one Karl had seen the Tehuantin spy Mahri use; Albertus Paracel, the scribe and librarian who was creating an already-monumental compilation of all knowledge gained from Numetodo research and experimentation. All of them were essential to the primary task of the Numetodo-to understand how the world worked without the veil of superstition and religion, to use reason and logic to fathom the mysteries that surrounded them.
They were those Nico Morel and his ilk found so terribly threatening.
There were a few who were missing, though-those that Nico had already killed, those who had actually been closest to Karl and her. She could do nothing for them except mourn their and Karl’s aching absence.
Varina had continued her own experiments with the sparkwheel. She’d refined the mixture of black sand and the shape and composition of the lead bullet the device delivered; she had Pierre create a few new experimental pieces as well. Each day, she saw the frightening potential of the sparkwheel more clearly. Each day, she was more convinced that this device could change the very sinews and fiber of the society in which they lived.
She wondered, sometimes, if this was really something she wanted to unleash.
“You can’t hide knowledge.” That was what Karl had said, many times over the decades. “Knowledge refuses to be hidden. If you try to bury it, it will only find a way to reveal itself to others.”
Fine. Then she wouldn’t hide it.
“Thank you for coming,” Varina said to the assembly. “You’re all familiar with black sand. You all know the terrible destruction it can cause when ignited in large amounts. My experiments recently have been with far smaller amounts than those used in war, and with no use of magic to set it off at all. And…” She stopped, stepping to the table she’d set up, covered in a black cloth. Several strides away, a ripe sweetfruit had been set up on a stand in front of an upended oaken table serving as a backstop: a fruit the size of a man’s head, enclosed in its marbled, yellow-and-green tough rind. A head as hard as a sweetfruit -it was an old saying in the Holdings. She could see everyone looking at the setup curiously. “Well, it’s easier to simply demonstrate,” she said to them.
She nodded to Pierre, who flicked the cover from the table. Pierre’s original sparkwheel sat there, gleaming and beautiful, already primed and ready. Varina plucked it up without a word, cocked it, and aimed at the sweetfruit.
She pulled the trigger.
The sparkwheel clicked. The black sand in the pan flashed and flared; the sparkwheel bucked in her hand with a loud report. At the end of the room, the sweetfruit seemed to explode, spattered chunks falling to the floor as the broken remnant jumped in its stand. In the silence that followed, they could hear the bright red juice of the shattered sweetfruit dripping to the floor.
The symbolism, as Varina had expected, was lost on none of them.
“No magic?” Talbot muttered. “None?”
Varina shook her head. The report of the sparkwheel still rang in her ears
; a thin line of white smoke curled from the muzzle. “No magic,” she said. “A few pinches of black sand, a lead pellet, and Pierre’s craftsmanship. And it’s repeatable. Back away…” She called out to the others, some of whom had gone to examine the broken sweetfruit or the oaken planks behind it, where the pellet was embedded. She reloaded-the work of a few breaths-cocked the sparkwheel and fired it again. This time the rest of the sweetfruit collapsed entirely and the stand fell backward. Varina put the sparkwheel back on the table.
“Pierre has made a sparkwheel for each of you here,” she said, “and I will teach you how to use it.”
“A’Morce, this…” Talbot said. He was looking at the ruined sweetfruit on the floor. “Why?”
“I’m afraid that the Numetodo are about to be under attack again,” Varina said. “With these, you don’t need skill with a blade, physical strength, or magic to defend yourself. All you need do is aim the device and pull the trigger. I’m afraid we will need all the protection we can arrange.”
Leovic had gone to the table. He was turning the sparkwheel in his hands, examining the mechanism. Varina could already see his mind at work. He glanced at her. “It’s warm,” he commented. “What if that were a garda in armor?”
“He would fare little better than the sweetfruit,” she told him. “I can show you, if you’d like.”
Muscles bunched in Leovic’s jaw, as if he were holding back the reply he wanted to make. “Any competent craftsman could make something like this,” he said finally. “If not as ornate as Pierre’s creation. And learning to use it?”
“I can show all of you in a few marks of the glass,” Varina answered.
“You can give us all the potential to kill someone from strides away, even if they were in armor?” That was Johannes, his voice hushed and almost reverential.
“Yes,” she answered.
