by S L Farrell
He slumped down on the wet grassy slope of the riverbank. He could smell the water-the foul scent of filth, human sewage, and rotting fish. He grimaced and tried to put the odor out of his mind. He pulled an oiled paper scroll from a pocket of his robe and placed it on his lap. He stared at the tower and began to chant, his hands and fingers dancing an intricate gavotte before him.
He closed his eyes.
He felt himself drifting as he if were no longer attached to his body, though he could sense the mental cord that tied him to the body, stretching as he floated away and growing more taut and resistant with distance. The sensation was disconcerting, and for a moment nausea threatened to send him tumbling back into his body, but he forced his awareness to continue flowing outward. He could see the tower coming closer; he rose above the crumbling top of the wall and up, up to the open balcony where he’d seen the Numetodo and into the darkness
beyond. The connection to his body was nearly at its extreme distance; he had to fight mentally to stay, to not go tumbling backward toward his abandoned body. He could see a form seated at the crude table in the center of the cell, his head enclosed in a strange contraption, his hands chained tightly together: the envoy. He was staring directly at Mahri, his eyes wide as if he were staring at a ghost-which, Mahri knew, was somewhat the case. Mahri had seen others do this spell before; he’d seen the translucent outline of the person that resulted: incorporeal, untouchable, spectral. And fragile. Mahri knew he had little time.
Ci’Vliomani grunted something that the mouthpiece forced between his lips rendered unintelligible; Mahri lifted a finger to lips in warning.
He forced himself to slide forward to the door against the growing resistance of his body, feeling the chill of the metal as he passed through it entirely. Beyond, a garda snored, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. Mahri spoke a word and gestured; the man slumped to the floor, the snoring intensifying. Mahri let his body pull him backward into the cell, forcing his awareness to stop within the cell once again, though he could feel himself desperately yearning to return.
“I don’t have time, Envoy ci’Vliomani,” he said. He could hear his voice as if he were speaking through a long tube, whispering and hollow. “They intend to kill you as an example to all Numetodo. I offer you escape, but you must trust me, and we must act now. Are you willing?”
For a moment, ci’Vliomani did nothing and Mahri prepared to let himself drop back into his own body once more. Then the man gave the barest of nods, and Mahri struggled keep his awareness in the cell. He no longer dared to move; if he did, the connection would break and he would go tumbling back. Yes. This is the way I saw it in the vision-bowl. . “You can read?” he asked the man, who nodded again.
“Good. Then we must hurry. Come here. Step into the space where I’m standing. .”
Too slowly for Mahri’s comfort, ci’Vliomani stood and shuffled over toward him. He hesitated as he stood in front of Mahri, and Mahri
thought that the man would change his mind. Then he took the final step, and Mahri’s awareness doubled.
. . What is this? What are you doing to me?
. . Trust me. .
Mahri spoke the final word of the spell, and the world shifted. His viewpoint swung around; he was no longer looking through his own eyes, but ci’Vliomani’s. He heard a wail and a cry, and a shimmering ghost fled from the room, a streak of fog blown by the winds of an unseen tornado.
The specter’s scream faded into the night. .
Karl ci’Vliomani
He was sitting on a grassy bank of the A’Sele with the rain pelting down on him. For a moment, that was enough, because there was no strength in him. He was utterly exhausted, as drained as if he had used the Scath Cumhacht too much and must pay the steep price. Slowly, as if from a deep dream-fog, he allowed himself to come back to life.
Everything was wrong. Everything.
He could not see well. His vision was strangely flat; only his right eye seemed to be working. A strange odor hung around him, of spices and scents he could not identify. He brought up his hands, and the hands that emerged from black, tattered sleeves were not his hands at all. His breath was tight in his chest and when he turned his head, the flesh tugged hard at the left side of his face, resisting the movement. His probing tongue found empty gums and only a few teeth, and the taste in his mouth was sour and unpleasant. Glancing down, he saw a body encased in dark rags and tatters.
It was Mahri’s body, he suddenly realized. Karl gasped, turning his head to look to the Bastida’s tower, a hundred or more strides away. He saw a tiny figure there, standing on the high balcony of his cell: himself, his hands chained and bound, his head encased in the silencing mask. The figure stared down through the rain toward him, and as Karl watched, the snared hands lifted as if in salute and the captive turned to go back into the cell.
Karl tried to stand. He could not; the body would not obey. Muscles screamed and cramped; he felt as if he were trying to lift the weight of Nessantico itself. “What did you do to me!” he shouted, and the voice wasn’t his: it was phlegm-racked and deeper than his own, the words slurred through the gap-toothed mouth. The sound of it echoing from the nearest buildings made him shut his mouth. The movement had sent a roll of oiled paper tumbling to the grass from his clothing. He reached to pick it up. “Can you read?” Mahri had asked. Karl unrolled the paper with clumsy fingers that were too stubby and too stiff-jointed, feeling panic running cold through him. The words set the blood pounding in his head.
Envoy ci’Vliomani-You are no doubt confused and afraid, and that is to be expected. I asked you to trust me, and I ask you to continue to do so. Trust me. If all goes to plan, you will not remain in this body for too long. If the plan fails, then your own body will be destroyed and me with it, but at least you will survive. We are all more than simply the bodies which we inhabit-remember that if the worst happens. Go to my rooms at 12 Rue a’Jeunesse; I will find you there in time, hopefully, and we can each return to the bodies we know best.
Take care of my poor mortal cage as well as you can; I will try to do the same with yours.
Karl read the note twice. The rain splattered and beaded on the paper, blurring the ink despite the oil. He lifted his head to the clouds; the rain felt good on his face, as if it cooled a heat there. He glanced again at the Bastida; he saw only the stones and the dark hole of the opening to his cell. He wondered if Mahri were there, watching him.
He wondered if he were somehow dreaming all of this.
Karl tried to get to his/Mahri’s feet again. This time, he managed it, but he swayed and nearly slid back down. He was the wrong height, and everything felt wrong. He took a tentative step, shuffling along slick, damp grass and bracing himself against the slope that led down to the swirling brown currents of the A’Sele. He nearly fell once more, but forced himself to take another step, then another, moving back toward the streets of Nessantico. Anyone who saw would have guessed that he was drunk. He glanced back again at the Bastida, shaking a head that felt too heavy.
As he walked, he saw people staring at him in disgust before looking away again. He continued on, staying to the shadows as Mahri himself once had, and making his way back to Oldtown and the address that was written on the scroll.
Ana cu’Seranta
The carriage was there for her as she came out of the Archigos’ Temple, as the Kraljiki had promised. A new insignia had been placed on the side of the vehicle, no longer the trumpet flower of the Kraljica, but a fist clad in studded mail. The carriage was drawn by a pair of white stallions. Their reflections shimmered in the puddles left by the afternoon’s rain.
The Archigos came up alongside Ana as she stared at the carriage, as the driver jumped down from his seat to open the door. Kenne and the rest of the staff judiciously kept the congregation spilling out from the church away from the two of them. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Ana,” he said quietly. “Justi is not someone you can trifle with.”
�
�I understand that,” she told him. “It was you who set me on this course, remember? I promised the Kraljiki I would meet him for dinner.”
His eyes searched hers. “We should not have lies between us.”
Ana grimaced, her lips tightening. She nodded. No, you won’t abuse me as my vatarh did; you will only sell me to another. “No, we should not,”
she told him. “Which is why I won’t say more.”
She thought he would protest, but the dwarf sighed and touched her hand. “Then be careful, Ana. And be safe.” He gave her the sign of Cenzi, gathered his staff around him, and walked into the crowds, already talking to the waiting ca’-and-cu’. Ana went to the carriage and nodded to the driver, who helped her in and shut the door behind her.
She sat on the leather cushions as the driver called to the horses and they moved away.
They did not go to the main entrance of the Grande Palais off the Avi a’Parete, but to one of the side entrances facing the gardens enclosed by the wings of the palais. Renard was waiting for her at the door as the driver helped her down. “The Kraljiki is in his outer chambers, O’Teni cu’Seranta,” he said. Anything the man might be thinking was carefully veiled. He smiled neutrally; his gaze never staying long on her.
He led her along carpeted back corridors vacant of servants to an unremarkable door. He knocked, turned the handle and opened it, gesturing to her. “If you please, O’Teni,” he said. She approached, glancing inside. “You have only to knock on this door,” Renard said as she glanced into the room beyond. His words were a whisper, private. “At any time.
I will be here to escort you safely out, with no questions.”
She glanced at him. His chin was lifted slightly, and there was open concern in his old eyes. “Thank you, Renard.”
He nodded to her. “He waits for you.”
She went in; Renard shut the door behind her.
The room in which she found herself was richly decorated. Heavy curtains shielded the windows and brought early night to the room, which was illuminated by several dozen candelabra set on the tables and above the mantel, and by a fire that flickered invitingly in the hearth.
A table was set for two in the center of the room, with several covered plates and wine already in the goblets. She could not see anyone in the room, though an open doorway led away into other chambers. A log fell in the hearth with a fountaining of sparks, drawing Ana’s gaze.
She drew in her breath. Over the mantel, swathed in candlelight, was ci’Recroix’s portrait of Kraljica Marguerite, eerily lifelike. She seemed to gaze back at Ana almost sadly, her mouth open as if she were about to speak.
“Startling, isn’t it? I think it’s the eyes that fascinate me most; you can almost see the firelight glinting in them.”
With the sound of the high-pitched voice, Ana spun around to see the Kraljiki standing by the table. He was dressed casually, in a bashta of yellow silk. She tried to smile and failed. “That painting. . Kraljiki, it was ensorcelled and was responsible for your matarh’s death. I’m certain of it. You can ask the Archigos if you don’t believe me. This. . this was the instrument of your matarh’s death.”
The Kraljiki’s shrug closed her mouth. “Perhaps,” he answered in his high voice. “Or perhaps not. It changes nothing, though. The painting’s exquisite, regardless. Ci’Recroix was a true genius, even if he was also an assassin.”
“You’d keep the painting, knowing what I just told you?”
“Would I cast away the Kralji’s ceremonial sword because it has killed before? It’s not the sword that kills, but the person, Ana.” She shivered at his use of her name. “I took the liberty of having our food served already. Sit-the lamb roast, the chef has assured me, is delight-ful and so moist it will dissolve in your mouth. And if the painting bothers you, then sit here, where the fire will warm your back. .” She heard the scrape of a chair on the floor, and turned away from the painting with a final, lingering glance. She allowed the Kraljiki to seat her. His hand lingered on her shoulder for a moment before he took his own seat across from her.
She thought then, for a time, that perhaps he had simply invited her to eat with him. As they ate, he spoke of Nessantico, of how he hoped to continue the growth of the Holdings, of how he intended to visit each of the nations within the Holdings as part of a Grand Tour to celebrate his coronation, to travel even to the Hellins across the Strettosei. He spoke of his devotion to Cenzi, how he believed that the Concenzia Faith was the bedrock of the Holdings, but how the Holdings must be prepared to allow within their borders those who had yet to learn the truth of the Faith.
“The Archigos understand this, of course,” Justi said, breaking off a bit of bread, dipping it into the sauce on his plate and tucking it into his mouth. “He served Matarh well, and I expect him to do the same for me until such time as Cenzi calls for him. And after that. . well, he certainly speaks highly of you, and your skills. Only six women have ever been Archigos. Perhaps it’s time for the seventh?”
Ana thought of her shaken faith, of her lost gift, of her uncertainty, and shook her head as she sipped at the wine. “You flatter me, Kraljiki, but I’m not ready for that burden. I don’t know that I’ll ever be.”
“You would rather have A’Teni ca’Cellibrecca ascend to the title?”
“No, I wouldn’t,” she answered quickly, then realized how blunt that sounded as Justi laughed.
“Your openness is charming,” he said. “Most people are afraid to speak their thoughts in front of me. But not you. .” He set his goblet down. “So tell me, Ana,” he said. “This Numetodo, Karl ci’Vliomani; does he satisfy you as a lover?”
The shock of his question, so frank and direct, startled her. Her goblet crashed against porcelain and silver as she set it hurriedly down.
“The envoy and I are not lovers, Kraljiki,” she said, swallowing and forcing herself to return his challenging, amused stare. “If this is the quality of the information Commandant ca’Rudka is giving you, then I can understand why the Numetodo have been unjustly detained.”
“Oh, the commandant is very careful to only give me verifiable facts.” Justi’s finger circled the gold-chased rim of his goblet, the thin metal ringing. “I know you were with him when he was arrested; I know you visited him at the Bastida. I was making the natural inference.”
“It would be better for the Holdings if the Kraljiki made his decisions not from inferences but from certain knowledge.”
She thought for a moment that she’d gone too far. His face darkened and lines furrowed the tall brow under his thinning hair. Then he smiled again. “You are undoubtedly correct, Ana,” he said. “So give me that knowledge. You’ve gone to see ci’Vliomani alone, more than once. If you are not lovers in fact, then what is your interest in him, an interest so strong that you would come to me to intercede for him?” He paused, but before she could form a reply, he raised a hand. “No matter; I see it in your face. There is ‘certain knowledge’ in faces, if you know where to look, Ana, and I’ve had much practice with that over the years-and a harsh taskmaster in Matarh to school me. You might not be lovers, but there is an attraction there.”
The words were harder to say than she thought they would be.
“There is,” she admitted. “But attraction doesn’t mean there will be anything more.”
“ ‘Love rarely respects the order of life, but love is not a prerequisite for marriage,’ ” Justi said. “That’s a saying of Matarh’s. She would drag that out whenever she ordered one of her nieces or nephews to marry for the sake of Nessantico. She used it with me when she arranged my own first marriage.” He rose from his seat, the chair scraping against the parquet floor. Ana watched him come around the table to stand behind her chair. His hands stroked her neck, lifting her hair, and he leaned down to whisper in her ear. “The person I marry would have to understand that I would not be a faithful husband,” she heard him say.
“My appetite is. . large, and while I would certainly continue to do my
duty by my wife, I also know she would not be enough for me. But I’m not an unreasonable man. I would not expect faithfulness of her, either, were she to find solace in another’s arms. Not as long as there was sufficient discretion so that no embarrassment came to me.” His fingers trailed down, under the loose collar of her teni’s robe to the nape and down to the slope of her breasts. She sucked in her breath at his touch.
“Do you understand me, Ana?”
Ana stared blindly across the table to his empty seat. She realized her hands were clenched, that she was holding her breath, that she wanted to flee. He is not your vatarh. You don’t have to do this. This is your choice this time, not his.
She nodded silently.
“Good,” Justi said. His hands slid back up, cupping her face. His hands surprised her with their softness, and they held the odor of lav-ender oil. I used to love that scent. .
His hands left her and turned her chair abruptly. He lifted her up, his eyes on hers now. There was fire in his eyes, but no affection. His kiss was ungentle and quick, but she opened her mouth to his tongue as his hands went around her, pulling her to him. She could feel the hair of his mustache and beard, prickling her skin. She moved her face from his with a gasp, making her own arms go around him so that she rested her head on his shoulder. She could see the painting of Kraljica Marguerite over the fireplace; she seemed to gaze almost approvingly to her. The Kraljiki’s hands slid down her back to her buttocks, pressing her against him so that she felt his arousal.
Is this what you want? There was no answer within her.
“I trust I won’t be just a duty with you, Ana,” Justi spoke in her ear.
He released her, taking her hand. She followed him, her eyes on the picture rather than him. The Kraljica’s gaze seemed to follow her as she left the outer room and went into the bedroom beyond.
Ana wondered what Renard was thinking as he led her down from the Kraljiki’s apartments the next morning well after First Call. He said nothing, walking in front of her a few strides and never glancing back.
