by S L Farrell
cast on him at all. Given the distance between cities and the slowness of news passing between them, the fact that most of his subjects were elderly, and ci’Recroix’s consistent wanderlust, no one seems to have found anything sinister in this. I hesitate to remark on it myself. This still may be nothing beyond a set of odd coincidences. There is no proof of a definite connection, especially since not all of the painter’s subjects have died.
However, you did ask me to determine who hired ci’Recroix to do his portrait of the Kraljica. The contact with ci’Recroix was made here in Prajnoli by Chevaritt cu’Varisi, a diplomat connected to the Kraljica’s office. It was he who signed the commission for the artist to paint the Kraljica’s portrait. In the wake of the Kraljica’s death, cu’Varisi has been removed from his duties and is on house arrest
until the matter is cleared up. I spoke to the chevaritt; he said that his contact was within the Grand Palais: a Gilles ce’Guischard, who is connected to the palais staff of the A’Kralj. Chevaritt cu’Varisi conducted a brief inquiry into ci’Recroix’s qualifications and background before tendering the commission; he knew of the Ilmodo rumors but
discounted them, something he now regrets. He let me see his notes from that investigation, and he insists that he found no connection between ci’Recroix and the Numetodo heretics.
That is all I have for you at this time, Commandant. I will continue to look into this, and should I uncover more that I feel you should know, I will write again.
I remain your loyal and grateful servant, A’Offizier Bernado cu’Montague, Garde Civile, Chivasso, Il Trebbio.
Sergei sighed and folded the letter again, tucking it inside his uniform blouse. “I need you to report back to O’Offizier ce’Falla,” he said to ce’Ulcai. “There are two orders I need you to relay to him, and another I want you to carry out personally. . ”
It was evening before word came to him that all was done. Sergei came into the cell in the Bastida, holding a roll of canvas under his arm. He looked at the man seated on the backless stool in the center of the tiny room, hands and feet chained: Remy ce’Nimoni, the green-eyed retainer for the Chateau Pre a’Fleuve. The cell smelled of guttering torches and stale urine. Sergei nodded his head to the garda. “Leave us,” he said. The garda saluted, leered once at the prisoner, and left.
“Commandant,” the man began blubbering almost immediately.
“Surely this is a mistake. After all, I was the one who told you where to find the body of the Numetodo painter who killed the Kraljica.”
“Yes, you did, Vajiki ce’Nimoni,” Sergei said. “You also put this around his neck before you brought me to him.” Sergei opened the hand that supported the canvas roll and a necklace with the polished stone shell swung from his fingers. The man shook his head in denial, but Sergei ignored him.
Crouching down in front of the man, he laid the roll of canvas down on the floor of the cell and spread it out. Inside, several large metal instruments stained with old blood were cradled in cloth loops: pincers, shears, pokers with their tips black from fire, hammers, metal plates and loops that looked as if they might fasten around a head or limb. “Oh, Cenzi, nooooo. .” ce’Nimoni moaned, the last word transforming into a shuddering wail. He swayed on the stool. He retched suddenly, and acrid vomit spilled on the floor near Sergei’s feet. Sergei glanced at the grotesque puddle, but didn’t move.
“There is truth in pain,” Sergei told the man, words he’d said many times before. “That’s what I was once taught. With enough pain, properly applied, the truth always comes. Few can resist the compulsion.
Are you one, do you think. .?”
Less than a turn of the glass later, Sergei left ce’Nimoni’s cell, going to what had once been Capitaine ci’Doulor’s office. There, O’Offizier ce’Falla waited with another man, dressed in the colors of the Kraljiki’s staff. “Vajiki ce’Guischard,” Sergei said, nodding to the man. “Forgive me for not saluting, but. .” He went to a basin behind the desk and poured water into it from the pitcher, washing his arms clean of the blood that stained them to the wrist.
Ce’Guischard stared as Sergei dried his hands on a towel, and then, ostentatiously, gave ce’Guischard the sign of Cenzi. “Thank you for coming,” Sergei said as he took the chair behind ci’Doulor’s desk.
O’Offizier ce’Falla remained standing to ce’Guischard’s left and just behind him; the man kept glancing over his shoulder nervously. Sergei folded his hands on the desk, gazing at ce’Guischard.
He had seen Gilles ce’Guischard dozens of times over the years, always in the background, one of the ubiquitous staff running errands for the a’Kralj or escorting the ca’-and-cu’ through the labyrinthian maze that comprised the protocols of the palais. Ce’Guischard was thin, with a severely-trimmed mustache and beard that mimicked that of the new Kraljiki, but his was flecked with gray. The man’s skin was sallow and studded with the scars and craters of the Children’s Pox. His eyes were the color of a storm-blown sea, and would not remain still. His hands twitched in his lap, plucking at his cloak and pants legs as if searching for dropped crumbs.
“You seem nervous, Vajiki,” Sergei commented.
“Ah,” the man said. Twitch. Shake. “It’s just that I’ve been here for a turn of the glass, waiting, and this place. .” Shudder. “Forgive me, Commandant, but the Bastida is hardly a place to make one feel comfortable.”
“I suppose not.” Sergei took in a long breath. He scratched under the metal loop of his left nostril, where the adhesive that held his nose to his face itched his skin. “You must be wondering why I requested that you meet me here.”
A nod. The man licked dry lips. Shifted his weight in the chair. Sergei reached into his belt pouch and produced the shell necklace. He laid it carefully on the desk, smoothing out the silver links. Ce’Guischard’s eyes seemed snared by the motion. “Do you recognize this, Vajiki?” Sergei asked.
He hesitated just a breath too long. “No, Commandant,” he said.
Sergei nodded as if he’d expected the answer. “It’s something a Numetodo would wear. It was found around the neck of the painter
ci’Recroix, the painter that I understand you personally requested Vajiki cu’Varisi of Prajnoli hire for the Kraljica’s portrait.”
Another lick of lips. “Commandant, the A’Kralj told me that it was my duty to hire a painter for the Kraljica’s Jubilee portrait, and when I made inquiries within the community, ci’Recroix’s name was always prominent among the recommendations. I had no idea the man was a dangerous Numetodo, Commandant. I have lived with the guilt ever since. .” He stopped. Continued. “Chevaritt cu’Varisi actually met with the man since Ci’Recroix was living in Prajnoli at the time. The chevaritt assured us that he had investigated the painter’s reliability and found nothing suspicious. I trusted his word-he is cu’, after all, and has served the Kraljica for decades.”
“Ci’Recroix wasn’t a Numetodo,” Sergei told him. “At least I don’t believe so. I believe the necklace was placed on him to blame them.
Gilles-” The use of the man’s name nearly made him jump in his chair. “-do you know the retainer for the Chateau Pre a’Fleuve? Remy ce’Nimoni?”
His gaze remained on the necklace. “No. .” he said slowly. “I don’t think so.”
“Strange. He was just telling me how the Kraljiki-as the A’Kralj- often had you run errands for his good friend Chevaritt Bella ca’Nephri, the owner of the chateau. He also mentioned how well he knows you, how you came to the chateau the day after Gschnas and told him that he should go the banks of the A’Sele the following day, how he would find ci’Recroix there.” Sergei paused. “And that you told ce’Nimoni that he was to kill the man and put this necklace on the body.”
“He lies!” ce’Guischard spat indignantly. “I was at the Grand Palais, Commandant, attending to my duties, and couldn’t have gone to the chateau-”
“No,” Sergei interrupted. “I had Renard check the records of the palais staff, though he
remembered quite well on his own. You were not there the day after Gschnas, Gilles. Not at all. You’d asked for leave to tend to your matarh. I’ve spoken to her also: your matarh somehow doesn’t recall your visiting her at all, nor do any of her house servants.”
Ce’Guischard squirmed. Smiled. “Ah, that. I’d. . I’d forgotten, Commandant. It’s. . well, it’s rather embarrassing, actually.” He gave Sergei a quick, tentative smile. “I had asked to be released from my duties that day and used Matarh as an excuse. In truth, there was a woman I’ve been seeing, a married woman of cu’ rank. You can surely appreciate how, umm, delicate that might be, Commandant. Her husband had been sent out of town on business for a few days, and. . well. .” Another smile, creasing the mustache and beard. His hands lifted and fell back. “But this retainer ce’Nimoni. . I’m sure I’ve seen him in my visits to the chateau, Commandant, but I know nothing
about. . that.” He waved his hand at the shell necklace. “You have my word that what I say is the truth.”
“No doubt the Vajica would also confirm your story for me. Privately.”
“I’m certain she could be convinced to do so, Commandant, if that’s truly necessary.”
“It will be.”
Sergei could see the man thinking desperately. “Then allow me to contact her first, so I can prepare her and assure her that there will be no scandal.”
Sergei plucked the necklace from the desk and placed it back in his belt pouch. He rose from his chair. “Thank you for your time and cooperation, Vajiki. I’ll expect to hear from you with the Vajica’s name, and I’ll make arrangements to meet with her and confirm your story. Discreetly, of course.”
Ce’Guischard gave a hurried sign of Cenzi to Sergei, then lifted his clasped hands quickly to his forehead for ce’Falla. He rushed from the office and away. Sergei smiled at ce’Falla, who stared at the door through which ce’Guischard had vanished. “Say it,” Sergei said. “You can speak freely.”
“The man’s lying, Commandant,” ce’Falla said. “He knows about ci’Recroix and the Kraljica’s assassination. But you let him go.”
“He was lying, and I did let him go,” Sergei admitted. “And you want to know why?
A nod.
“Because sometimes there is too much pain in truth,” Sergei answered. Ce’Falla frowned, shaking his head slightly. “You’ve done well, O’Offizier,” Sergei told him. “Go get some food and rest; you’ve earned it. You’re dismissed for the evening. Oh, and if you would dispose of this on the way out.” He gestured to the basin of bloodied water. “Lamb’s blood,” Sergei told the man, seeing his stare. “From the kitchens. I’m not entirely the butcher I’m reputed to be.”
Ce’Falla smiled slightly, saluted, then took the basin and left. Sergei went to the door of the office. He looked out onto the courtyard of the Bastida, where the dragon’s head glared out at Nessantico,
and watched ce’Falla salute the guards at the gate. Iron groaned and echoed in the evening as ce’Falla went out onto the brilliantly-lit Avi a’Parete and strode away in the crowds under the teni-created glow.
Somewhere out there, Gilles ce’Guischard was also hurrying homeundoubtedly with fear nipping at his heels. If Sergei was correct in his assumption, then ce’Guischard would waste no time talking to
the person who had given him his orders. I actually feel sorry for poor Gilles. He was only following orders, and now he’s dangerous. Probably too dangerous. .
If Sergei was correct in his assumptions, then he would soon find that this investigation was abruptly over, and that to continue to pry into the matter of ci’Recroix would be too dangerous for Sergei as well.
Gilles ce’Guischard
“Don’t worry, Gilles. I will take care of this. .”
Gilles turned the corner of the Rue a’Colombes onto the Rue a’Petit Marche, several blocks away from the hubbub of the Avi a’Parete.
There, the market was just preparing for the day, the farmers setting up their tables and getting their produce and goods ready to display. A few shoppers were about, hoping to snare the best choices while the sun still remained low in the sky and before the morning crowds arrived. Gilles’ breath frosted in front of him-it had been a long walk from the palais-but he was near his destination now. He glanced up at the side of the nearest building, looking for the street placard. Yes, there it was: Ruelle a’Chats. .
“Go to this address a turn of the glass after First Call tomorrow morning.
There will be a woman there: Sylva cu’Pajoli. She is married, but she will understand what she needs to say to the commandant; I will send her a note tonight telling her to expect you. Explain to her everything you’ve already told him; she will work with you to make certain your stories match. Then go back to the commandant and give him Vajica cu’Pajoli’s name and address so he can speak with her.”
It would all work out. He was safe. The tension in Gilles’ stomach loosened as he turned the corner of the Ruelle a’Chats, an alley which ran between the backs of houses facing the parallel streets. Gilles could see the end of the ruelle a hundred strides away, though the closeness of the houses made the alleyway itself dim and murky.
“Ah, good morning to you, Vajiki,” a man’s voice said, and Gilles saw an utilino push himself away from the nearest wall, his watchman’s prod dangling casually from its handstrap; his lantern, the teni-light extinguished, was sitting on the ground near where he’d been standing.
“You’re right on time. You’ve been expected.”
“You’re to take me to Vajica cu’Pajoli?” Gilles asked the man, who smiled broadly, displaying missing front teeth. The utilino clapped his arm around Gilles’ shoulder.
“We were told to make certain you got to where you’re supposed to go,” he answered.
“We? What do you mean. .” Gilles stuttered, suddenly no longer certain of the situation. Two more men appeared, one from either end of the small lane. The utilino’s arm tightened around Gilles’ shoulder as he started to retreat, and he felt the man coming behind him press the point of a dagger into his back.
“I wouldn’t try to run, my friend,” the man whispered. “Won’t do you no good. Let’s go along with the good utilino now, shall we?”
“You don’t know who I am,” Gilles protested, dragging his feet as they pulled him farther into the ruelle, as the man from the far end approached. “You don’t know who I work for.”
“Ah, but we do, Gilles ce’Guischard,” the utilino said. “Don’t we now?”
Hearing his name spoken, Gilles felt true fear for the first time. This wasn’t a random attack; this wasn’t robbery. If they knew his name, if they’d been told to be here, then. . He started to scream for help, but the man behind clapped his hand over Gilles’ mouth, pulling his head and neck back sharply. “Shh. .” the man said, the knife pressing harder into Gilles’ back as he struggled against the hold. “Won’t do none of us any good you being noisy, now will it?”
The man from the far end was now within a stride, and Gilles saw the fellow making the hand motions of a teni and he heard the words of chanting. The teni-if that’s what he indeed was, since he didn’t wear green robes-nodded as he performed a final wave of his hands, and the man with the knife moved his hand from Gilles’s mouth. Gilles shouted. “Help! I need help!” but his words seemed strangely blunted, as if he were shouting with his face pressed against a pillow.
“You can shout all you want now,” the spellcaster said. His voice sounded tired. “They can’t hear you anymore.” He nodded again to the utilino. “Hold him,” he said, and began chanting again, his hands dancing in the murk of the alley. Gilles struggled to free himself, but the man with the dagger pressed it to the side of his neck.
“Keep moving, an’ I’ll use this. Is that what you want: a messy, choking death with your neck smiling with its new mouth carved in it? Be still, or, by Cenzi, I’ll do it.” Gilles stopped struggling. He sagged in the arms of his attackers. It will be all right. He wouldn’t have
ordered me killed.
Not after all I’ve done for him, all the help I’ve been to him. This is something else. Gilles watched the teni complete the spell.
The teni’s hands glowed; lightning crackled between the poles of his fingers. He stepped forward and put his hands on Gilles’ chest. The touch of the man’s hands was like nothing Gilles had ever felt before, as if a wild storm had flared into existence inside him, all lightning and hail and gale winds. He screamed at the touch. The teni withdrew his hands, but the storm continued, growing larger and more fierce so that his voice was lost against its thundering in his head. He felt the hands holding him let go, and he tried to take a step, but the wet flags of the Ruelle a’Chats rose up to meet him, and he thrashed on the ground, helpless. He could taste blood; he could see the paving stones in front of his eyes, but even that landscape was growing dark.
He could hear voices, growing ever fainter against the storm. “. . dead by no hand but Cenzi’s. . the utilino will swear that he fainted. .” but then the thunder came again and it took the voices and his sight and Gilles himself away with the racing storm front.
Justi ca’Mazzak
Justi stormed into the Archigos’ office like a tornado, the offizier from the Garde Civile and Commandant ca’Rudka racing to keep up with him. A few of the staff-teni rose to intercept this evidently-irate trio of intruders, then stopped in mid-stride and mid-spell when they recognized the Kraljiki. “Ca’Cellibrecca!” Justi roared. He flung open the doors to the Archigos’ office with a crash, sending a picture flying from the wall as ca’Cellibrecca, behind his desk with several o’teni huddled around him, stared wide-eyed.
