A Magic of Dawn nc-3

by S L Farrell

Allesandra’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “And those same citizens also cheered when he talked about how the Faith shouldn’t tolerate heretics, or are you forgetting that?”

  Varina shook her head. “No, I’m not. It’s just… I don’t want to give up on Nico. He’s been gifted with a great power, and I hate to see that wasted.”

  “He’s not the sweet child you remember, Varina. He’s using that great power against you. And me.”

  “I know that. But I also want to believe that he’s not the person he should have become. Given the right-or wrong-circumstances, any of us could end up the way he has. And his abilities…” Varina shook her head slowly. “I’ve never, never, seen someone do what he’s doing. It’s as if he just reaches into the Second World with his mind and pulls out the power, without any spell at all. If nothing else, that’s worthy of study.” Varina lifted the cup of tea at her side from the saucer, then set it down again without taking a sip. The sound of porcelain on porcelain was loud in the room. “I’m not asking you to release him. He deserves punishment. I’m asking that you don’t kill him.”

  Ca’Vikej snorted. “The bastardo might prefer a quick death to a life in the Bastida. Cenzi knows I would.”

  “Erik, please!” Allesandra snapped, and ca’Vikej’s eyes narrowed, his mouth closing. He pushed himself up from the chair and gave Allesandra a mockingly low bow, as if he were a petitioner before her.

  “I should go,” he said. “I have a meeting with the Ambassador from Namarro in a turn.” As he passed Varina, he leaned down and whispered: “If you want, I can make certain he dies quickly. Believe me, that would be a blessing.” He smiled at Varina and patted her shoulder as if she were an old friend as he left.

  “Sometimes, I’m not sure what it was that I saw in him,” Allesandra said after he left. “Was it ever that way with you and Karl?”

  “With Karl, the problem was getting him to see me in the first place,” Varina told her. “But no, I never had second thoughts about him. I knew he was the one.”

  “I envy you that, then. I’ve never had that luxury. Well, only once, when I was very young…” She seemed to drift off into reverie for a moment, then Varina saw her shiver as if a cold breeze had touched her. “I’m told by the gardai that the Numetodo were critical to the success of the assault. I’m also told by Talbot that you used some… interesting devices-weapons that used black sand and yet could be carried in one’s hand. They were very effective against the war-teni, he said. You called them ‘sparkwheels,’ I believe he said.”

  That brought back the memory of Liana: of the young woman falling backward after Talbot shot her with his sparkwheel, of the terrible hole gouged in her chest and the gurgling rattle of her last breaths, of Nico’s scream at seeing her fall and the madness and inconsolable grief that took him then, of the young woman dying in Varina’s arms as Varina and a healer cut her child from her womb. They were images that Varina desperately wanted to wipe from her memory, like chalk from a board. But they could not be erased, would not be erased. She was afraid they would haunt her for the rest of her life.

  She would also remember pulling the trigger of her own sparkwheel with Nico’s body right there in front of her, and the misfire of the weapon. You were willing to kill him yourself…

  “Talbot tells me that you developed the weapon,” Allesandra was saying. “Is this what you’ve been hiding yourself away working on since Karl passed?”

  Varina nodded; it was all she could muster.

  “I have a proposal for you,” Allesandra said. She was looking out toward the Old Temple again. “You want Nico left alive. I think that’s foolish, but I’m willing to grant you that wish-at least temporarily-if you’ll give the Holdings the secret of this sparkwheel.”

  She was looking directly at Varina now, with the question written on her face. Varina couldn’t hold her gaze for long; she looked away, toward the painting of Marguerite. “Allesandra…” She began, but couldn’t continue. How could she tell her how frightened and guilt-ridden that made her feel, how the future she imagined-a world where the formula for black sand was common knowledge, where anyone could construct a sparkwheel-would be like. She had no illusions that someone wouldn’t improve upon the black sand formula: make it more powerful, more deadly. She had no doubt that some skilled artisan would be able-like Pierre Gabrelli-to take her design and perfect it; make a better and more effective weapon.

  She could imagine that world. She wasn’t certain she wanted to live in it.

  You won’t. How much longer will you live, even if you survive the coming siege by the Tehuantin? Five years? Ten? You won’t see the world you create.

  But it would be hers, nonetheless. Her name, and the name of the Numetodo would be attached to it.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Allesandra said. “What would Karl have told you, Varina?”

  “You can’t stop knowledge: it wants to be born, and it will force its way into the world no matter what you do.” She heard his voice in her ear, as clearly as if he were standing alongside her. She gasped, an intake of breath that was almost a sob. “I’m afraid of what we would be unleashing, Allesandra. You’re a believer in Cenzi, but this

  … This would shake the foundations of the Faith. This would say to the world that magic is less important and less effective than simple knowledge. We Numetodo already defy the Faith-we refute the idea that magic must be confined only to the Faithful, that it comes from Cenzi. This would go further, Allesandra. I’m afraid…” She shook her head. “But Karl would say that once the duck is cooked it can’t ever be uncooked, so you might as well eat it.”

  “Then tell us how to make your sparkwheels, and I’ll set the smithies and artisans of the city to work. It may be our only hope.”

  She was still shaking her head, still haunted by the vision of the world she might be creating. They both heard Talbot’s knock on the door of the chamber, and the aide opened the door. He inclined his head to Varina before addressing Allesandra. “Kraljica, Ambassador Sergei is in the palais; he’s just come from Firenzcia.”

  “Send him up,” Allesandra told him, and Talbot bowed and shut the door again. Varina started to rise, and Allesandra gestured to her to stay. “No,” she said. “We both have things to tell him.”

  There was a new knock on the door, and Talbot announced Sergei, who hobbled into the room with his cane. He looked more tired than Varina remembered, as if he hadn’t slept well.

  “Sergei,” Allesandra said. “You’re back quickly. Did you have a good trip?” Allesandra’s voice had a strange tremor to it that jerked Varina’s head around.

  “I had an interesting trip, in many ways,” he answered, but under the metal nose, he was smiling as he lifted a scroll from his diplomatic pouch and handed it to Allesandra. “Your treaty, Kraljica,” he said. “Signed. Hirzg Jan is on his way with the Firenzcian army.”

  Varina saw mingled relief and concern war in Allesandra’s face, as if the news simultaneously cheered and saddened her. She wondered at that. “Excellent,” Allesandra said, but the enthusiasm for the word was missing from her voice.

  “I saw Vajiki ca’Vikej in the hall as I was coming up, and he asked about it,” Sergei said, almost too offhandedly. “I told him that I didn’t report to him, but to you. He didn’t look happy at the answer.” Then he glanced at Varina. “Varina, I understand that the Numetodo were instrumental in removing Nico Morel and his people from the Old Temple. I’m glad to see that you’re unhurt. Is it true that you have Nico’s child?”

  Varina nodded. Holding her… Looking into her innocent, trusting face and seeing Nico’s face there as well… Watching the wet nurse she’d employed feeding her… “A daughter,” she said. “Her name is Serafina.”

  Sergei nodded, staring at her strangely. “Good. I’m glad she’s in your hands. And I’m sorry, also-I know how this must make you feel. I promise you that I’ll talk to Capitaine ce’Denis and make certain that when the time comes, Nico’s death is quick.
If the Faith wants his hands and tongue, they can take them afterward.”

  Varina shuddered at the image, though there was nothing but empathy in Sergei’s eyes. “There may not be a death,” Allesandra said before Varina could compose an answer. “If the Numetodo cooperate.”

  “Ah?” The white wings of Sergei’s eyebrows lifted. He glanced again at Varina. “Cooperate how?”

  “Varina’s developed a black sand device, a mechanism-something anyone can operate with no magic required, and yet it’s devastating. Several of the Morellis and war-teni were killed with them during the assault. I believe it could literally change the way of warfare.”

  So she understands that as well as do I… Varina shifted uncomfortably in her chair. If Allesandra glimpsed the same future that Varina saw, then it didn’t seem to trouble her. “I haven’t yet agreed,” she reminded Allesandra. “I have to think about this.”

  Allesandra left the balcony window to crouch down in front of Varina, almost like a supplicant. She took Varina’s hands in her own. “Varina,” she said, her eyes not allowing Varina to look away, “there isn’t time to think. There isn’t time to hesitate at all. The Westlanders will be here in a few days. It’s good that Jan is bringing his army, but that still might not be enough-not given what the Tehuantin did at Karnmor and at Villembouchure. Commandant ca’Talin says there are four or five times the numbers who came here last time. The longer we wait, the fewer of your sparkwheels we can make and the less time we have to train people to use them. You can’t think on this. You need to give me an answer-because it’s not just Nico’s life that is at stake here, but that of everyone in this city, yourself included.”

  “I don’t care about my life,” Varina answered. “Not anymore. Not since Karl died.”

  “Don’t say that,” Allesandra answered, squeezing her hands. “I won’t listen to talk like that. And you don’t mean it either. You have the child to think about now.”

  Varina tried to smile back at Allesandra. She felt exhausted, and sore from the exertions of the assault. Sergei knelt down alongside Allesandra, groaning with the effort. “Listen to the Kraljica,” he said to her. “She’s saying what we both feel-and Talbot and the rest of the Numetodo as well.”

  Varina sighed. She closed her eyes. Outside, she could hear birds twittering in the garden of the palais and the faint clamor of people out on the Avi. Quiet sounds. The sounds of peace. Allesandra’s hands were warm on hers, which felt like cold stone on her lap.

  Dead things. Broken things.

  “All right,” she told them. “Tell Talbot to come to my laboratory this evening. I’ll give him the plans and formulae.”

  Sergei ca’Rudka

  Capitaine Ari Ce’denis looked weary, as if he hadn’t slept well for a few days. That was probably true, since the Bastida’s cells were stuffed as they had rarely been: with the rebellious war-teni, with the Morellis who had survived the assault on the Old Temple. And there was their prized prisoner: Nico Morel.

  “I’ve good news for you, Ari. I’m told that those war-teni who ask forgiveness and recant all Morelli views will be released,” Sergei told ce’Denis. The Capitaine did not look at the roll of stained leather that Sergei had set down alongside the chair in which he sat. He didn’t look at Sergei at all; it seemed that the papers on his desk were far more interesting. He picked them up, shuffled them, and set them down again as he listened to Sergei. “Archigos Karrol has already sent a message to that effect, and the Archigos himself should be here in a few days. If the war-teni agree to fight with the army, he’ll send them to the front line and let Cenzi decide whether to allow them to live or not.”

  Ce’Denis nodded. “And the Morellis? What of their disposition?”

  “Those who were teni but not war-teni will be judged individually by a Concord of Peers, which Archigos Karrol intends to convene on arrival. Those who were not teni will go through the usual judicial procedures and be brought before the Council of Ca’ for their judgment.”

  “And Nico Morel?”

  Sergei smiled. “He is a special case, and he will be handled as such. The Kraljica has placed him entirely under my jurisdiction.”

  The Capitaine did glance at the leather roll then, a look that seemed equal parts disgust and fascination. “I take it that you’re here to talk with the prisoner.” There was just the slightest hesitation and stress to the word “talk,” as if another term had first intruded into ce’Denis’ mind.

  “I am,” Sergei told him. “The Kraljica has determined that there will be no execution of Morel, and she will be refusing to hand him over to the Concenzia Faith. He is…” A smile. “Mine.”

  The Capitaine’s eyebrows lifted at that, but he said nothing: a good soldier. “Morel is in the Kralji’s Cell of the main tower,” he told Sergei. “You know the way.”

  Sergei smiled again. “I do, indeed. And I’ll leave you to your duties, Ari. We should have lunch together one of these days-after the current crisis has passed, perhaps.”

  Ce’Denis nodded; neither of them took the suggestion for anything more than politeness. Sergei stood, pushing himelf up with the knob of his cane and tucking the leather roll under his free arm. He inclined his head to ce’Denis-he’d risen at the same time, and now saluted Sergei. He left the man’s office, walking across the courtyard and glancing up at the skull of the dragon mounted on the wall above.

  The gardai at the door of the main tower saluted him as he approached. As they opened the massive steel-clad door, a wave of cold air scented with human waste and despair washed over him. Sergei took a deep breath-the familiar smell made him feel momentarily young. Even his own brief interment here had not changed that response.

  He slowly made his way up the winding staircase, peering occasionally into the cells that opened on either side, resting on each landing to recover his breath. Once, he could have leaped these stairs two at a time, from bottom to top. Now, each step was a separate mountain that must be surmounted. He was panting heavily despite the frequent stops when he reached the top level.

  The garda stationed there saluted Sergei, stiffening to attention. “Open the door, and then go get yourself some refreshment,” Sergei told him. “I’ll take responsibility for the prisoner.”

  “Ambassador?” The garda’s forehead creased with puzzlement. “You shouldn’t be alone with the prisoner. It’s not safe for you.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Sergei told him.

  “At least let me chain him to the wall first.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Sergei repeated, more firmly this time. “Go on.”

  The garda frowned and almost audibly sighed-perhaps with disappointment at missing Sergei’s “interview” with the prisoner-and finally saluted again. His keys rattled and hinges groaned as he opened the cell door. Sergei waited until he heard the man’s bootsteps fade down the stairs. Then he peered into the cell itself.

  This was the cell for the most important prisoners. It had held pretenders to the Sun Throne, it had even held a few who beforehand had given themselves the title of Kraljiki or Kraljica. Karl had once been imprisoned here, and Sergei himself-they had both managed to escape: Karl through Mahri’s magic, and Sergei with Karl and Varina’s help. Sergei remembered the cell all too well: a frigid stone floor covered with filthy straw, a single bed with a thin blanket, a small wooden table for meals, an opening in the outer wall leading to a narrow balcony from where the prisoner could look out over the city (and from which more than one prisoner had decided to end his incarceration by falling into the courtyard far below.)

  Nico was standing on that balcony now, staring outward. Sergei didn’t know if the young man hadn’t heard him enter, or if he didn’t care. His hair was mussed and greasy, standing up erratically between the straps of the silencer laced around his head. His hands and feet were bound with iron chains and manacles so he could only manage a rattling shuffle.

  Sergei stepped inside the cell. Leaning on his cane, he spoke loudly, as if declaiming from
a stage. “A single dew drop lingers on black iron, reflecting a free sky, waiting to be breathed up by the fierce sun and fall yet again, exhaled by cloud.

  So a soul, eternal, will also never vanish but only cloak itself anew and return.”

  Nico had turned at Sergei’s recitation. He stared at Sergei now, with those eyes that were still compelling and powerful. “The poem ‘Rebirth’ by Levo ca’Niomi,” he said to Nico. “You’ve heard of him, yes? I think I have that one right-I once spent far too many turns of the glass memorizing his poetry while sitting in the Capitaine’s office here. We have the original manuscripts of ca’Niomi’s poetry here, did you know that? He had a very nice hand, rather ornate. He spent decades here after his thankfully short reign as Kraljiki; this very cell is where he composed all the verses for which he’s so famous. So you see, a life spent imprisoned need not be an entirely wasted one.”

  Nico stared through the straps of the silencer. Saliva dripped from the leather-wrapped piece protruding into his mouth, shining among the strands of his beard and darkening the front of his plain tunic. Sergei could hear his breath rattling around the device.

  “If you promise me that you’ll not use the Ilmodo-not that I think you can with your hands bound that way-and if you promise to make no attempt to escape, I will remove the silencer. I will expect you to swear to Cenzi that you’ll do neither. Nod your head if you agree.”

  Nico nodded, slowly, and Sergei set down the leather roll on the bed, then came over to the young man. “Turn around,” he said, “and crouch down a little so I can get to the buckles…” Carefully, he unbuckled the straps and lifted the device from Nico’s head, the man gagging as the metal piece was removed from his mouth. Sergei stepped back, the silencer dangling from his hand, the buckles jingling.

  “Stay where you are,” he told Nico. He walked slowly outside the open cell door and, groaning, bent over to pick up the garda’s water flask. He brought it inside, handing it to Nico. “Go on…”