by S L Farrell
“I’m certain that’s the case,” Sergei answered. He bowed and gave the sign of Cenzi once more. “O’Teni, it was a pleasure to meet you.
Now I can understand how both the Archigos and the Kraljica were impressed by you. But if you’ll excuse me, I have duties to which I must attend.”
He bowed once more and left them. Within three steps, his hand had come up to stroke his chin under the hawk’s mask. This would bear watching. Cu’Seranta had already shown herself to be both powerful and erratic, and if the Archigos trusted her, Sergei did not, especially if-as he suspected-she were vulnerable to romance. The Numetodo wouldn’t be above using that to his own advantage. Yes. Sergei would watch. And wait.
Then, at the right time, he would stoop like a hawk and strike.
“Commandant?” One of Renard’s young aides came hurrying up to him. “The Kraljica is asking if everything is ready.”
“Is the painting in place for the presentation?” The boy nodded.
“Then, yes,” Sergei told the page. “You may tell Renard that we’re ready.”
The boy hurried away as Sergei walked unhurriedly to his post near the stairs to the inner apartments. As he reached them, the trumpets blared a fanfare.
Dhosti ca’Millac
It took far too long to disengage himself from ca’Cellibrecca.
They fenced verbally, using the same ancient, hoary arguments and the same weary answers. Dhosti suspected they both could have written down the exchange beforehand and have missed nothing of
import. Ca’Cellibrecca prattled on about the Toustour and the Divolonte and how the Faith must not tolerate dissent, and how the Archigos’ “lenience” was tearing down the foundations on which the Concenzia Faith had been built. Dhosti had stopped listening after the first few sentences, his back aching from standing so long, and ca’Cellibrecca had left with his usual imprecations and thinly veiled threats.
And now he’d come back out to find Ana dancing with ci’Vliomani.
He hoped that ca’Cellibrecca didn’t notice, but he was certain that even if the a’teni failed to see it himself, the news would come to him very quickly. Dhosti frowned and his fingers tightened on the railing of the alcove: the commandant had stopped to speak with Ana and the Numetodo. You can’t be with her all the time, and she must make her own choices. In the end, it is all Cenzi’s Will. He would have to marry her off soon, he decided. That would cure her of any romantic idealism. Like the Kraljica, he knew that marriage could be as potent a weapon as any sword, if carefully arranged, and he suspected that Ana could be an exceedingly potent sword.
Leaning heavily on his walking stick, Dhosti made his way down the stairs, nodding to the ca’-and-cu’ that he passed, exchanging a few words with those he knew by name and face. It took him several minutes to reach the main floor. He could see Ana and ci’Vliomani having an energetic discussion. “Come,” he said to Ana, glancing once sharply at ci’Vliomani. “We should be at the stairs for the Kraljica’s entrance.
Envoy, if you’ll pardon us. .”
Ana glanced back at ci’Vliomani as Dhosti took her arm, but she followed him. They’d just reached the stairs-the commandant nodding to them from the far side-as a fanfare rattled the walls of the room. A flock of white doves exploded from the balconies in a flurry of soft wings as pieces of shredded, bright paper fluttered down in a slow rain. The candles in the Kneeling Man went out, all at once, followed by all the teni-lights around the hall. The only spot of illumination was at the top of the main stairway. There, an apparition stood.
She seemed to be clothed entirely in light: fierce reds and oranges and shimmering bright ultramarine swirled around her in a whirlwind of color, masking all of her body but the face. And the face. . It was the Kraljica, yes, Dhosti knew, but it was the Kraljica transformed. Each strand of her white hair was a sun, and the light seemed to radiate from deep within her. Her eyes blazed.
She lifted her hands, and rays of purest yellow shot from her fingertips. The crowd cooed appreciatively, bursting into applause.
Dhosti could hear the soft murmuring of the teni hidden at the top of the stairs as they chanted, releasing the light display, but that was unheard by the crowd farther back.
Then the lights returned, the musicians began playing once again, and the Kraljica descended the stairs. Her costume glowed, softer now but difficult to look at directly-it was as if she were clothed in the flicker of sight at the edge of an eye: when Dhosti tried to capture an image, it blurred and was gone. Her hair still gleamed, but more softly now, like stars in a night sky. Her eyes glistened like those of a cat caught in firelight.
He took her hands, and they were simply the ancient hands of the Kraljica. He looked at her face, and he saw weariness and deep, eroded lines there. “Kraljica,” he said. “You were magnificent. Your entrance will be the talk of the evening. Nessantico has seen nothing like it. It was as if Vucta walked again on the earth, just as I’ve imagined Her.”
“Your teni did the work,” she told him. “Thank you for sending them to me.” Her voice quavered, so soft that he found himself leaning forward to listen. “Dhosti, I’m so very tired. Tell O’Teni Ana I would like to take her arm and lean on her, if she doesn’t mind.” Then, for a moment, her old voice returned. “Besides, Ana’s accompaniment would send a message to A’Teni ca’Cellibrecca, wouldn’t it?”
Dhosti smiled at that. “Certainly, Kraljica. Ana. .” He gestured to her to come forward. “The Kraljica’s not feeling well,” he whispered to her. “She needs your arm.”
Ana glanced at the Kraljica with concern, bowing her head to give the sign, then moved to the Kraljica’s side. “I’d be honored, Kraljica,”
she said. The young woman’s arm sparked as it contacted the eddies of light wrapping the Kraljica, and Ana grimaced. “The Ilmodo is a bit cold,” she said aloud.
“It’s damned frigid,” the Kraljica answered. “My blood has turned to ice. But come, let’s do what we must do so I can get back to my apartments. We need to move on so that Justi can be announced.” With that, the Kraljica gave the nearest onlookers a practiced smile and stepped forward into the crowd, the commandant to her left and Dhosti to her right just behind her.
“Kraljica, what a magnificent Gschnas. .”
“. . the best I’ve ever seen. .”
“. . what a wonderful tribute to your Jubilee. .”
As the Kraljica nodded and smiled and waved to the well-wishers among the ca’-and-cu’ who gathered around her, Dhosti leaned closer to the commandant. “The Kraljica doesn’t look well to me, Sergei. Just these last several days. .”
“I share your concern, Archigos. Renard’s talked to her attendants and nurses; they all say the same.” The commandant’s forehead creased above the hawk’s mask. He didn’t look at the Archigos, but at the crowd of the elite pressing around the Kraljica and Ana. “At her age, one never knows, but this sudden decline. . I’ve wondered about the possibility of poison.”
“Is that possible?”
A shrug. “I don’t know yet. But I will.” The commandant almost smiled at that, an expression that caused Dhosti to shiver as if snow were blowing down his bent spine. “Renard tried to convince her not to come down tonight, to let the A’Kralj represent her, but she refused.”
“That, at least, hasn’t changed,” Dhosti said. He saw A’Teni ca’Cellibrecca moving toward the Kraljica with his daughter and marriage-son in tow. Behind them, the trumpets blew their fanfare
again, and all turned to the stairs to see the A’Kralj make his entrance.
Following his matarh’s lead, he was dressed as a mythological figure from the Toustour: Misfal, the first of the Moitidi breathed into existence by Cenzi. The A’Kralj’s costume was chosen perfectly for his athletic figure: dark, close-fitting leather trousers and vest, a shirt painted with marbled veins, his mirrored mask gleaming and studded with polished stones, and a floor-length cape that, like the Kraljica’s clothing, was alive with silver-and-blue
color, as if a waterfall were cascading from him. As he stood there, he rose slowly into the air as white clouds fumed from the floor below him before rolling heavily down the stairs.
The A’Kralj remained suspended, his hands lifted as if in benediction, before he descended slowly to the floor once more.
The applause that greeted his performance was enthusiastic, if carefully less long in duration than that which had greeted the Kraljica.
As the A’Kralj descended the stairs, the Kraljica, as was customary, came forward to greet him, still supporting herself on Ana’s arm. The A’Kralj, at the bottom of the steps, bowed and gave the sign of Cenzi to Dhosti, who returned the gesture, then Dhosti watched the Kraljica grasp her son’s hand, and place his other hand on Ana’s. Her voice was too faint for him to hear as she inclined toward her son, but he assumed that she was introducing Ana to the A’Kralj, and that made Dhosti suspect that the Kraljica’s insistence that Ana help her wasn’t entirely an accident. He wasn’t certain how he felt about that; he knew it certainly wouldn’t please his niece Safina, who had often been mentioned as a possible match for Justi. Safina, though, had already shown that she had not inherited Dhosti’s skill with the Ilmodo; he doubted that Safina would ever rise above her current status as e’teni, and that made her less than a good fit for the A’Kralj.
Justi nodded to his matarh, smiled his polished and perfect smile, and moved away, slicing through the throngs directly toward A’Teni ca’Cellibrecca and his daughter and son-in law, and there he entered into an animated discussion.
“The A’Kralj keeps his own counsel,” Sergei said alongside Dhosti.
“And his own affairs.” Sergei pointed his chin toward Francesca, whose hand lightly drifted down the A’Kralj’s arm. It was the intimacy of the gesture that caught Dhosti’s attention; he noticed that it also caught the attention of Estraven, whose face darkened and scowled above the hem of his costume dress.
“Truly?” Dhosti whispered to Sergei.
The commandant nodded.
“Does the Kraljica know?”
“I think she suspects. But not through me.”
“I thought that was part of your job, to give the Kraljica the information she needs.”
The commandant smiled. “It’s my job to know as much as possible about everything that happens here in the city, Archigos. And it’s my job to give the Kraljica information that requires her action or that would affect her adversely. I know far more than I tell the Kraljica,” he said, and his eyes locked on Dhosti’s. “Far more. But I keep it to myself until the proper time. Or I tell others, who may know better than I when the proper time might be. I trust you take my meaning.”
Dhosti nodded. “I will bear that in mind,” he said.
“I’m sure you will,” Sergei answered. “Especially if the Kraljica or you has a thought toward marrying the church to the state.”
Justi ca’Mazzak
It was the applause that seemed to lift him up, rather than the chants of the teni hidden behind him. The acclaim of the ca’-and- cu’ drowned out their chanting, and he closed his eyes as he spread his hands wide. He stood on warm air, suspended in the ovation. Too soon, though, he was standing on the stairway’s landing once again, and he walked slowly down the stairs toward the crowds.
Very soon, when he came to the ca’-and-cu’ it would be as Kraljiki, and the applause and the attention would be his alone. He would not have to share it with his matarh.
But for the moment he had to smile, had to bow to the dwarf who, without realizing it, was likely in his last days as Archigos; had to reach for Matarh’s hand in supplication: smiling, always smiling, even as he glanced quizzically at the young man-no, it was a young woman, he decided suddenly-who was on the arm of the Kraljica.
The woman was supporting his matarh, he realized suddenly. He almost smiled.
His matarh took his hand in hers. It was cold and trembling, that hand, with skin spotted and wrinkled. She reached for his other hand and placed it over the young woman’s. “Justi,” she said. “This is O’Teni Ana cu’Seranta. . you know, the one who saved the Archigos from the Numetodo assassin.” Her voice quavered, and was so weak he could barely hear it. She looked decidedly old tonight. She looked ill.
“So this is the one I’ve heard so much about,” Justi said. “It’s a delight to meet you, O’Teni.”
She couldn’t give him the full curtsy that etiquette demanded while on the Kraljica’s arm, but she bowed her head, muttering more to the floor than to him. “Thank you, A’Kralj,” she answered. “Your costume. . was quite impressive.”
He nodded quickly, ignoring the nicety. “Matarh, should you be out here? If you’d like to retire, I’d be happy to. .”
“No.” For a moment, her voice had its honed edge and imperiousness. “I’m fine. I am thinking, Justi, that you and O’Teni Ana should dance later.”
“I’m certain we can find the time for that, Matarh,” he answered. So is this the one you’ve chosen, Matarh? he wanted to ask. You could at least have chosen someone less plain. “But if you’ll excuse me for the moment. .”
His matarh’s eyes widened at his brusqueness, but he strode quickly away before she could gather herself to comment. He’d glimpsed Francesca through the crowd, standing next to her vatarh, and he moved toward her. “A’Teni ca’Cellibrecca,” he said, accepting the older man’s bow. “It’s good to see you again, and I must say that the simplicity of your costume is refreshing.” He gestured at his own costume ruefully. “I feel a bit too. . conspicuous.”
“The A’Kralj is always conspicuous,” ca’Cellibrecca answered, “as he should be. And it will be more so in the future.” He stopped, glancing pointedly in the direction of the Kraljica and the Archigos. “You already know my daughter, and her husband. .”
“Yes, of course. Vajica, U’Teni, how are the two of you this evening?” He could not quite keep the amusement from his face at the sight of Francesca’s husband, whose already-rouged cheeks flared even more over the edge of the ridiculous costume he wore-that he knew Francesca had chosen for Estraven; she’d laughed about it the last time she and Justi were together. Justi wondered how much the man knew or suspected-not that it mattered. Ca’Cellibrecca had already promised that the marriage would be annulled as soon as he was Archigos, and that U’Teni Estraven would be placated with another wife-Allesandra, the daughter of the Hirzg of Firenzcia, had been mentioned. Justi took Francesca’s hand. “You shame the other women here, Vajica,” he said to her. “They have no chance of competing.” Her gaze stayed on him as she smiled.
“You honor me, A’Kralj,” she murmured.
“A’Kralj,” A’Teni ca’Cellibrecca said, “we must talk later. I have some news I would like to relate to you. Perhaps after the unveiling of the Kraljica’s portrait?”
Justi smiled at that. After the unveiling, there may be no need for words.
“I would be pleased to do so, A’Teni.” He glanced upward, where a star seemed to be descending from the ceiling, in a new fanfare of krumhorns and trumpets. A space was cleared beneath the lowering brilliance, and servants hurried forward with chairs. Justi could see the Archigos and his matarh being seated, and one of Renard’s aides was moving earnestly in his direction. “If you’ll excuse me, A’Teni. It is the duty of the A’Kralj to be submissively at the Kraljica’s side at these moments, I’m afraid.”
Ca’Cellibrecca bowed slightly, and Justi released Francesca’s hand, squeezing it gently beforehand so that she smiled. He moved quickly to the center of the hall, where the star pulsed and radiated, so bright that he had to shade his eyes. Renard, standing next to O’Teni cu’Seranta just behind the high back of the Kraljica’s chair, gestured to the empty chair to the right, its back just slightly lower than either that of the Kraljica or the Archigos. The star sent harsh shadows dancing madly behind the spectators. As Justi slid into his seat, the star flared in the colors of Nessantico’s standard: alternating blue and gold. Then it went dark, and th
e crowd gasped, blinking and trying to adjust their sight to what seemed to be sudden night. Justi closed his own eyes, purple-and-yellow afterimages chasing themselves behind his eyelids. When he opened them again, a tall rectangle draped in black cloth stood before them, caught in a white glow from teni-lit lamps set near it.
“Where’s that damned painter?” Justi heard Renard whisper harshly behind his seat. “He’s supposed to be here. .” He heard an attendant patter off. Justi smiled inwardly. The crowd was beginning to mutter restlessly as the draped painting remained unrevealed. “Matarh,” Justi said, leaning over to her. “I think Vajiki ci’Recroix suffers from a sudden modesty regarding his painting skills. Perhaps O’Teni cu’Seranta might take his duties. .” He glanced at the young woman and smiled.
“Yes. Ana, if you would. .”
The O’Teni bowed. He heard her take a deep, nervous breath as she moved around the chairs and out into the glare. She went to the draped painting, made a deep bow with the sign of Cenzi to the seated trio, then pulled the silken cloth from the painting.
The room was a large, massed inhalation. Even Justi found himself drawing in breath. The painting. .
It was magnificent. There was no other word for it. Ci’Recroix’s
brush had snared the Kraljica as if in the midst of turning toward the viewer. The figure seated on the Sun Throne was captured larger than life-size. The lighting was chiaroscuro, her features illuminated from the side, each hair on her head and each fold in her face visible. The mouth was slightly open and one hand was lifting from her lap, as if she were beckoning to someone and about to speak to them.
The painting seemed almost to writhe in place, so lifelike and realistic that Justi could almost believe his matarh could step from the frame of the picture and onto the tiles of the hall.
The applause began as a smattering, then quickly became a tidal wave of appreciation that swept over the hall, deafening and tremendous. People pressed forward to see better. .
