by S L Farrell
“Trust ca’Cellibrecca not to miss his supper, even for treason,”
Justi muttered. Sergei couldn’t see the scowl, but he could hear it. The Kraljiki shook his head. “He will never sit as Archigos in Nessantico again. I swear that. I don’t care what I have to do-ca’Cellibrecca won’t profit from this.”
“I will help you make certain of that,” Sergei told him.
“Will you?” Justi turned from the window. He stood over the desk in the middle of the room, littered with papers and maps. “And how will you accomplish that, Commandant? As much as I hate to admit it, we have lost one of the edges of our sword and the Hirzg knows it. There’s no hope now that he will accept my terms of parley.”
“May I speak frankly, Kraljiki?”
The Kraljiki snorted. He lifted his hands in invitation. “Please.”
Sergei paused, wondering if he truly wanted to do this. He took a long breath. “Kraljiki, I know who killed your matarh.”
He watched the Kraljiki’s face stiffen, then the man waved a hand.
“Of course. The painter ci’Recroix. .”
“I know who hired the painter, Kraljiki.”
Justi’s mouth closed audibly. “Go on, Commandant,” he said. It was nearly a grunt. “But, were I you, I’d proceed very carefully.”
“My loyalty, Kraljiki, is to Nessantico. Always. Not to any person, but to Nessantico herself: the empire. I see a Nessantico that one day will span the world from the mouth of the Great Eastern River in Tennshah to the far shores of the Westlands. I see a Nessantico whose citizens thrive, where wonders we can’t even imagine are glimpsed every day.
That’s what I would like generations to come to experience. I’m also a realist, Kraljiki. I know that there’s no easy path to that future, and I know that sometimes a tree must be pruned in order for it to continue to grow. The death of the Kraljica. . well, I loved Kraljica Marguerite as much as anyone, and I served her as well and faithfully as I could.
She brought peace to Nessantico for a long time, and we grew immeasurably under her reign. But. .”
Sergei paused. He cocked his head slightly. You’d better pray that you’ve judged the man correctly. “I mourned her passing in gratitude for what she had done, but in truth, she was a dying branch and already what she had created was starting to crumble. She was sleeping on the Sun Throne, as Archigos Dhosti was sleeping in the temple. Nessantico needed a new, stronger hand-in that sense, the loss of the Kraljica was necessary.”
Sergei waited. The Kraljiki said nothing. “I have done or ordered done many awful deeds in the Bastida as commandant,” Sergei continued. “I have injured and maimed and killed; I have watched men
and women scream in torment in front of me, and I have wondered at what Cenzi might think, of how He might judge me. But the torment was necessary. I did those misdeeds for the good of Nessantico. I think that’s happened with the Kraljica as well: a misdeed done for the sake of the greater good of Nessantico.” He waited. The Kraljiki remained silent and staring. “Had the Kraljica not died, she would be on the throne at this very moment, enjoying her Jubilee, and we would have known nothing of this.” Sergei pointed to the window, to the flickering of campfires on the mountainside, like stars fallen from the night sky.
“We would have known nothing of it until the Hirzg and his army were nearly at Nessantico’s gates and it was too late to stop him. The Hirzg is not someone I would ever wish to see sitting on the Sun Throne.”
“And I am?” the Kraljiki asked suddenly. “Speaking frankly, Commandant?”
“I admire those who know when to wait, when to act, when to sacrifice, and when to retreat. You waited a long time, Kraljiki.” And then you acted. Sergei didn’t say that, but the words hung there in the air between them.
The Kraljiki took several breaths before speaking. Sergei wondered what he was thinking, what he was turning over in his mind. Muscles bunched along his jawline, under the well-trimmed line of mustache and beard. “You still haven’t answered my question about ca’Cellibrecca,” he said finally.
Nor about you, Sergei thought. “I said that I admire those who know when to sacrifice and retreat as well as when to act,” Sergei said. “You need to return to Nessantico, Kraljiki. You need to leave.”
“And let Passe a’Fiume fall the next day? The Hirzg’s troops would be at our feet as we run back to Nessantico. How is that a victory?”
Sergei was shaking his head. “I’m not saying that we all must go back to Nessantico. Only you, Kraljiki. You need to leave. I will stay here in Passe a’Fiume with half the Garde Civile and we will hold the town for as long as possible. You, the court, and most of the chevarittai must return to the city. We will buy you as many days as possible: to order in the garrisons, to mobilize the countryside, to conscript every last able-bodied person. You’ll need to prepare for the battle, to name an Archigos in Nessantico to replace the traitor so that any declara-tions ca’Cellibrecca makes have less weight. That’s what you need to do, Kraljiki. And while you do that, let me hinder ca’Vorl’s progress.
Let me whittle down the size of his army for you. If he tries to cross at the bridge, the walls will hold him back. If he tries to ford the Clario north or south, we follow on this side and engage him. In the meantime, you prepare Nessantico.”
“And you? What do you gain from this? I don’t believe in altruism, Commandant. I especially don’t believe in it from you.”
Sergei smiled. “Assuming I survive-and I will make every effort to do so, Kraljiki-I would expect to be well rewarded for my services. I would expect to be permanently awarded the title of commandant of
the Garde Civile and to retain my title as Chevaritt of Nessantico, and I will return the Garde Civile to what it once was: the true strong right arm of the Kraljiki. As commandant, I will also command the army of Firenzcia rather than the next Hirzg, so I can ensure that this never happens again. You would name me Comte of Brezno. As the Archigos controls Concenzia, I would control the military, all for the glory of the Kraljiki and Nessantico.” His smile widened. “No, Kraljiki, I’m not an altruist. I prefer the thought of rewards in this lifetime to the possibility of those in the next. May Cenzi forgive me for that.”
The muscles in the Kraljiki’s face relaxed. He smiled also, a careful gesture, and Sergei relaxed. It may yet go the way you wanted it to go. At least on this side. .
“I take it you have specific tactics to go with this strategy of yours, Commandant?”
“I do.”
The Kraljiki nodded. He walked over to his dressing table; the Hirzg’s sword had been placed there. The Kraljiki picked it up and pulled it halfway from its scabbard. He turned the blade, examining it closely in the light of the candles. He nodded, as if satisfied. “I’ll credit the bastard with knowing his steel,” he said. “This is a weapon that cries out to be used.” He shoved the blade back into the scabbard, then tossed both sword and scabbard toward Sergei. Sergei caught it one-handed. “A pity. I’d have enjoyed using the sword, but I think you should keep it, Commandant. Use the Hirzg’s gift against him-I will take my pleasure in the irony.”
Sergei bowed. “I’ll do that, Kraljiki.” Sergei took off his own sword and placed it on the table alongside the maps. “You may still yet need a blade, my Kraljiki,” Sergei said. “It’s not the equal of the Hirzg’s, but it will serve.”
The Kraljiki nodded again and took the proffered weapon. “I’m certain it will. Now, Commandant, let’s go over these tactics of yours in detail, and we’ll see where we might be in agreement.”
Sergei leaned over the maps as the Kraljiki came to stand beside him. “The Hirzg will be expecting us to send troops south along the Avi to guard against a Firenzcian crossing,” he said, his fingertip moving along the curves of the river. “My thought is that you and those of the court can ride out with them dressed as common soldiers. Once you’re well south of Passe a’Fiume, you can continue on to Nessantico unseen.
The Hirzg will assume you�
�re still here, which is what we want him to believe. Then, once you’re back in Nessantico. .”
Justi ca’Mazzak
The city shuddered with the news that the parley had failed, and that it was likely that Passe a’Fiume was already under siege.
The city had merely been worried before; now it was truly frightened, a feeling heightened as Kraljiki Justi trebled the conscription squads, as the Garde Kralji patrolled the gates of the city so that none could leave without travel documents bearing the seal of the Kraljiki, as couriers carrying urgent orders from the Kraljiki went out from the city in all directions, as the encampment of the Garde Civile outside the walls continued to swell. The farmlands around Nessantico were scoured as if by a ravenous plague of locusts, all the food carried back to the city: if there was to be war, then there would be as little as possible for the Hirzg’s troops to plunder as they moved toward Nessantico.
Agents of the Garde Kralji also moved through Oldtown, asking blunt questions about the Numetodo and especially about the former O’Teni Ana cu’Seranta and the once. Envoy Karl ci’Vliomani. Several of those questioned were taken away and did not return, though the Pontica remained devoid of new bodies to join the skeletal remains of the Numetodo already gibbeted there.
Worst of all was the news that the Archigos had betrayed the Kraljiki.
The Kraljiki ordered those teni who had been closest to ca’Cellibrecca at the Archigos’ Temple placed under arrest. A’Tenis ca’Marvolli, ca’Xana, ca’Miccord, and ca’Seiffel-those who had most vocally supported ca’Cellibrecca in the last few years-found themselves in residence in the Bastida, and the remaining a’teni were required to sign a declaration of obedience to the Kraljiki with their lives forfeit should they recant. Now truly headless, Concenzia reeled; the already erratic service of the teni in the city became even more stretched and ineffective.
Nessantico throbbed and quaked with fear, and Justi watched it from the colorful windows of the Hall of the Sun Throne in the Grande Palais. If he looked east more often than any other direction with a face strained with concern, he could hardly be blamed.
“They loved their Kraljica. They only fear you. That’s why they’re frightened.”
Justi scowled and gave a guttural curse at the words. He tried to turn and draw his sword-Sergei’s sword-from his scabbard, but he found it strangely difficult, as if the air had hardened around him. He stopped with the blade half-drawn.
He gaped.
The beggar known as Mahri was standing a few paces from him, on the dais where Justi stood near the Sun Throne. He could see the one-eyed, disfigured face under the cowl, splashed with color from the stained glass. But it wasn’t the man’s face that stopped Justi: the room behind the beggar was. . wrong. The only things in motion were Mahri and himself. Nothing else moved. A fly hung in the air to his left. The dozen or so courtiers as well as the ca’-and-cu’ supplicants sitting in small groups or clustered together talking, were stopped in mid-gesture.
Servants were standing as if frozen while hurrying to their tasks. Silence wrapped all of them; the air was dead and still when a moment ago it had stirred with the breezes from the open balconies. It was as if he were looking at a painting of the throne room, with he and Mahri somehow inhabiting the canvas.
It reminded him uncomfortably of ci’Recroix.
“Mad Mahri. . So you’re one of the Numetodo,” Justi said. His hand remained on his sword hilt. He wondered if he could draw it quickly enough in this half-solid air.
Mahri shook his head. He gave a grotesque smile marred by the white scars on his face. “No Numetodo could do this,” he said, waving his hand at the motionless crowd around them. “And I can’t continue it for very long, so I won’t waste it with conversation, Kraljiki. You are looking for Ana cu’Seranta and Karl ci’Vliomani. I know where they are.”
“And what do you want in return?” Justi asked. His own voice sounded hollow, as if the very air around them didn’t want to move to allow the words to leave his mouth. His fingers loosened slightly on the sword hilt.
“I want nothing you can give me,” Mahri answered.
“Wealth, then. A thousand solas. .”
Mahri laughed. “Keep your money. Just have your Garde Kralji at Oldtown Center tomorrow at a turn of the glass after First Call. Look for me; both of those you seek will be with me. Your people will have to move quickly and with force; the o’teni especially is dangerous if she has the chance to use the Ilmodo.” The air was shimmering between them; the figures around the room started to move. “After First Call, Oldtown Center,” Mahri repeated.
The air flashed, as if lightning had struck between them, and Justi’s sword seemed to leap from the scabbard of its own volition. The world seemed to jolt. Justi blinked involuntarily. When he could see again, the people around the room were once again in motion and the room was loud with their conversations. The courtiers were staring at him, standing beside the Sun Throne with his sword held threateningly in front of him.
The fly droned past him. Justi watched it strike a glass pane caught in strips of black lead, bounce back angrily, then find the opening between the windows and escape into the sunlight.
Ana cu’Seranta
Mahri had promised them that they would be safe. There was no reason not to believe him.
After the fire in the tavern, they had moved to another set of rooms deep in Oldtown, then a few days later to yet another. For Ana, it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. She went through the days wrapped in a dark fog. Karl tried to lift her from the depression; as he had promised, he began to teach her some of Numetodo spells. She found that some of the words were similar to the words she used herself, and she found that she could begin to learn to hold the spell in her head. It was a strange feeling, to have the Ilmodo contained and confined in her mind, an insistent presence that rattled against the spell-cage that restrained it, aching to be released.
Cenzi did not punish her for her learning. If anything, she found that she could reach the Second World easier than before.
On the fourth day, after First Call prayers and the necessary ablutions, Ana, Karl, and Mahri broke their fast with stale bread and weak tea. “There’s nothing else here to eat,” Mahri said. “As soon as you’re ready, we’ll go to Oldtown Center and the market there.”
“All of us?” Karl asked. “The streets aren’t safe, not for us. Ana should stay here. We know they’re looking for her, especially after the fire.”
Ana scoffed. “If anything, Karl, you should be the one staying here.
Wouldn’t the conscription squads love to get hold of you? I should go; they’re not grabbing women off the street.”
“We can all go,” Mahri answered. “The air will do us all good, and no one will notice you who does not need to see you-I promise that.”
Ana nodded emphatically, putting down the crust on which she’d been gnawing. “I’m tired of hiding away and not seeing the sun. I’ll go mad if I have to stay in here much longer.”
Karl frowned, but Mahri chuckled. “There’s your answer. I’m told the farmers have brought in fresh produce; I’ve had one of them set some aside for us. And one of the bakers has promised me new-made loaves-without the sawdust: he lives close to the old rooms over the tavern, and he’s grateful for what you did, Ana. And I know of a farmer who has brought in fresh butter to go with the bread.”
Ana’s mouth was already watering involuntarily at the thought.
The depression that bound her lifted slightly. “Then let’s go now,” she said, “before they sell everything.”
They were quickly out of the rooms and moving through the early morning streets. The number of people on the streets steadily increased as they approached Oldtown Center and the market set around the open square, but the crowd was different than the crowds of months past. There were few males out, and those Ana saw were mostly elderly or visibly crippled. Mahri had kept his promise: Karl leaned heavily on a crutch Mahri had given him, and when Ana look
ed at his face, it was the lined visage of an elderly great-vatarh, with wisps of white hair like faint clouds above an age-spotted scalp. She wondered whether Mahri had done something similar to her face, as no one seemed to pay her any attention at all, the gazes of those they passed sliding away from her without curiosity.
The market bustled with activity, loud with haggling as buyers examined the offerings with critical eyes. The tables in front of the sellers were rather bare, and the produce on display looked either too early-harvested or limp and old. Still, the city was hungry, bargains were few, and Ana knew that everything offered would be sold. The sight of the market and the desperation she could feel there, dissipated any of the joy she felt at being outside again. Despite the sun, despite the warmth, she felt cold and ill, and she knew that the hunger that gnawed at her stomach was shared by most of those here.
“The bread, Mahri,” she said. “Let’s get the bread first. But one loaf only. The rest. . let the baker sell it to them.” She gestured with her chin at the people. “They need it as much as we do. More.”
Mahri grunted. His single eye stared at her. “This way, then,” he said, and they followed him across the square toward the buildings on the other side. As they approached the stalls and storefront there, Karl slowed down, his hand grasping for Ana’s and pulling her back slightly.
“Look,” he husked.
Ahead of them was a squad of Garde Kralji, well-armed and obviously looking their way. An o’offizier, his uniform displaying the dragon-skull insignia of the Bastida, led the gardai. “Mahri,” Ana said warningly, as quietly as she could.
He shook his head. “Don’t worry,” he told them. “I told you that you’d be safe. Do nothing to arouse suspicion. Nothing.”
He continued walking directly toward them. Reluctantly, Ana followed. She smiled in their direction, as if wishing them a good day. The o’offizier smiled back. His hand made a short waving motion, and the gardai with him spread out, letting the trio pass. They moved between the gardai, Ana keeping her head down. She glanced over at Karl-and his face was Karl’s again, the spell-mask gone. “Mahri-” she said in alarm, but it was already too late. Hands grabbed her, grabbed Karl, and though she tried to begin a chant, they held her too closely. She heard Karl speak a release word, and one of the gardai went down with a cry, but then the others bore him down to the ground, forcing a gag into his mouth. His eyes were wide and furious, and one of the gardai clubbed him with the pommel of his sword.
