by S L Farrell
He waited. Along the northwest quadrant of Passe a’Fiume’s wall, at the gate of the Avi a’Firenzcia, teni-fire blossomed and arced outward. They could hear, faintly, the clatter of swords against shields and hoarse shouts, as if those gates were about to open and disgorge a sally force. Sergei glanced up to the broken summit of the wall. A man waved down to him. “The enemy is moving, Commandant,” he said. “Away to the north.”
Sergei nodded. He gestured to the men at the gate. The barricades had already been removed. Now the gates swung open and the portcullis was drawn up. Sergei kicked his mount into a gallop, the mounted chevarittai following him, and they galloped out from the city, the men on foot running after them.
The lines of the Firenczian besiegers were least thick here, where the ground was marshy and mosquito-infested. If the distraction had worked, many of the enemy soldiers would be moving toward the commotion at the next gate. A good number of the remainder would still be sleeping, waiting for the sun and their final attack on the town. The plan was for the chevarittai to act as a wedge to break through the Firenzcian line, then hold the break open so that the foot soldiers of the Garde Civile could move through to the Avi, and finally act as rear guard if the Firenzcians decided to pursue.
And if it fell apart, they would all die here.
They pounded across the loamy riverside earth, the hooves of the destriers kicking up heavy clods. Already Sergei could see the tents there, and a figure pointing toward them and shouting alarm. Fireballs arced out from a wagon carrying the war-teni, tearing into the Firenzcian encampment. The commotion spread quickly along the line, but
by then Sergei and the chevarittai were already among the tents. Sergei hacked at anything that moved, not pausing but urging his mount on, always forcing his way forward even as soldiers pressed against them. An o’offizier, half-dressed and without armor, screamed as he brandished his sword, and Sergei cut him down with one stroke. To either side, he could hear the sound of battle and once the awful cry of a wounded destrier. Then he and most of the other riders were through; there was nothing but a ruined farmer’s field between him and the tree-lined Avi.
The war-teni’s cart rattled past, the horses pulling it wide-eyed and frightened. Sergei pulled up on the reins of his own mount, turning the horse to see the Garde Civile hurrying through the gap the chevarittai had made, a gap that was closing quickly.
“Move! Run!” he shouted to all of them. “Chevarittai, hold!” He galloped back, pushing against the Firenzcians, the Hirzg’s sword bloody and growing heavier with each stroke until his muscles screamed. Most of the Garde Civile was through, the first group with the war-teni already on the road. There were banners of black and silver rushing toward them, and the horns of Firenzcian chevarittai sounded alarm.
“Now!” Sergei shouted, and the chevarittai disengaged. The gap in the Firenzcian line closed rapidly. Sergei held, waiting as the others rushed past him, waiting as the Firenzcians threw their spears and pursued. He kicked his horse’s ribs with his good leg to urge it into a gallop as the last of the chevarittai passed him: as arrows began to fall around him, as teni-fire erupted in the midst of the fleeing Garde Civile in the field and a dozen men fell screaming. Sergei lagged behind the chevarittai as they galloped across the field toward the tree line, passing the last surviving stragglers of the Garde Civile.
Sergei was nearly to the field’s edge when he felt arrows pummel his mailed back and fall away. He thought then that he was safe, but a sudden terrific stabbing blow to his neck nearly sent him from his seat despite the leather straps that bound his leg. He lifted a hand to his neck and felt the thick shaft of a crossbow bolt. He could feel hot blood pouring from the wound.
He heard the sinister t-chunk of crossbows again, and a bolt penetrated his armor near his spine, the force of the impact pushing him hard against the neck of his horse. He clung to the destrier desperately-as the branches of the trees lashed at him, as he heard the hooves of his mount break onto the hard-packed dirt of the Avi. .
. . as the world darkened around him even though the sun had finally touched the horizon. .
. . as he groaned and was lost in that darkness. .
Ana cu’Seranta
“I’m sorry it had to be this way, Ana.”
Seated on the small bed in the cell, Ana’s head turned at the sound of the tenor, familiar voice. Kraljiki Justi was standing at the door to her cell in the Bastida’s tower-the same cell Karl had once inhabited. She was bound as he had been, with the vile silencer pressing into her mouth and her hands confined with chains, her hair matted and dirty and caught in the straps of the gag.
They had brought her here directly from Oldtown, in a closed carriage that went careening through the city in a rush. She had no idea where Karl was, or Mahri who had betrayed them.
But she knew now who had wanted her. She wondered how long she had to live.
The Kraljiki glanced around the cell. “I’m told your Numetodo lover lived here, until his escape. Poor Capitaine ci’Doulor was here for a time, until he was moved to, ah, less palatial accommodations. And now you. .” He stepped forward, with the easy, athletic grace she remembered. He sat down on the table in the room, regarding her.
“I don’t admit mistakes easily, Ana,” he said. “But I made one in aligning myself with ca’Cellibrecca and his serpent of a daughter, a mistake worse than I could have imagined, when the best choice for me-it pains me to admit-was the one my matarh had already suggested. I’m hoping it’s not too late to rectify that.” He gestured to the gardai outside the cell. “Remove her bonds,” he said, and he watched as they unlocked her hands and undid the straps from the tongue-gag. The gardai moved back a step but, she noted, didn’t leave. She rubbed at her wrists and worked her jaw.
“I’m sorry to have brought you bound like a condemned heretic, Ana,” Justi said. “But would you have come if I’d simply asked?”
“No,” she answered sharply, not caring about the impoliteness.
“Where is Karl?”
“In the cell a floor below you. Unharmed.”
She nodded. “You have me in front of you now, Kraljiki. What do you want?”
“It would seem,” he said, “that I’m in need of an Archigos.
Ca’Cellibrecca has abandoned Nessantico to be on the side of the Hirzg; I will put a new head on the body of the Concenzia Faith, so that all will know that ca’Cellibrecca’s voice is false.”
“Choosing the Archigos isn’t the role of the Kraljiki,” Ana told him.
“The Concord A’Teni must do that.”
Justi gave her a smile that vanished in the next moment. “The a’teni are frightened of the army coming to Nessantico-those who are still here. Ca’Cellibrecca has left them bereft; they’re afraid that ca’Cellibrecca will remain Archigos if the Hirzg prevails, and they’re just as frightened that he will fall with the Hirzg. I’ve already spoken to the a’teni, and they. . well, let me just say that I’ve convinced them that as long as they remain in Nessantico, it’s in their best interests to follow my preferences.”
“And which of them have you chosen, and why should it matter to me?”
Justi smiled. It was a strange, apologetic smile. “I’ve chosen none of them,” he said, the words thin and high. “I’ve decided that I will promote a young o’teni to the position.”
It took a moment for the import of his words to register. Ana started to protest in shock and disbelief, but Justi waved her silent. “A moment,” he said. “Choosing one of the existing a’teni simply won’t have the symbolism and import that I require. Archigos Dhosti had picked you out, elevated and obviously favored you. Your talent with the Ilmodo is undoubted. I can’t bring the dwarf back, so I will choose his favorite, for the signal it will send to the rest of the Holdings.”
“You can’t be serious. I’m only an o’teni, and too young. And Concenzia has already cast me out.”
“Too young?” The odd smile emerged again. “You’re nearly the same
age as my matarh was when she became Kraljica-if anything, I would say that enhances the symbolism, don’t you think? And it was ca’Cellibrecca who cast you out-and he has already shown where his loyalty lies.”
Ana was still shaking her head, but Justi continued speaking into her disbelief. “I offer you two choices, Ana. If you wish, you can remain here in the Bastida and you can watch from the balcony and see whether Nessantico falls to the Hirzg and his pet Archigos; I would remind you that ca’Cellibrecca has already displayed his attitude toward you and the Numetodo. I daresay that he’d be pleased to find you and ci’Vliomani conveniently jailed so he can do what he loves to do with Numetodo. And if I should prevail, well, I will need to show the Holdings what I do to those who betray me. Even those who were once my lovers.”
Ana felt nothing but loathing for the man. “Or?” she asked.
Justi gave a high bark of a laugh. “Or you may take my second choice: you can become Archigos and ca’ rather than cu’, and help me bury the man who would bury you. You can bring justice to the man
who murdered Archigos Dhosti.”
He was so smug, so certain. Ana rubbed at her wrists, chafed by the manacles. She wanted to spit at him, to refuse for the momentary satisfaction it would give her. But she didn’t. Couldn’t. “You plotted with ca’Cellibrecca against the Archigos, you and Francesca. You used me, Kraljiki, and now you want to use me again.”
He waved a careless hand. “All true. Just as you tried to use me for ci’Vliomani’s sake, and for Archigos Dhosti’s as well. Well, neither of us got what we wanted, did we? So let us use each other again, Ana, this time to better effect. Do you still want a marriage to the Kraljiki? If you do, I will call an a’teni here immediately and have it done. I will become Justi ca’Seranta. Whatever you want. But I need an Archigos and I need one swiftly, and you’re the best choice I have.”
Ana scoffed. “Marry you? I’d sooner cut off my hands myself and tear out my own tongue than do that. I know what you do when those around you are no longer convenient. I watched the Kraljica die. I watched your matarh draw her last breath. Marry you?” She gave a single bark of harsh laughter. “I think not.”
If he was offended, it didn’t show on his handsome face. “I’ve come to believe that it’s better to choose our own times than to wait, Ana.
I chafed under my matarh’s thumb for decades, waiting and waiting
for mine, and I finally realized that I might wait forever, that I might die before it came. I understood that Cenzi wanted me to choose. So I did and I don’t regret that. This is your moment to choose, Ana.
You don’t like everything power brings you? Too bad. Cenzi has seen fit to offer you, through me, the chance to take the globe of the Archigos and use it. You can take what He offers, or you can refuse and pray to Him as Nessantico falls around us. What would Cenzi prefer you to do? What would Archigos Dhosti tell you? What would Envoy ci’Vliomani say?”
She knew. She already knew, but she shook her head. “I won’t marry you, Kraljiki, and I won’t necessarily do what you ask. Understand that if I am Archigos, I will be Archigos. Fully. Completely. You must realize that. Concenzia will interpret the Divolonte as I would interpret it, as Archigos Dhosti would have interpreted it. I will be your ally today, Kraljiki, but I won’t consent to be your pawn. I will be your ally today, but perhaps not tomorrow. I will speak with my voice, not yours.”
Justi inhaled. He nodded. “I would expect nothing different from you. I accept those conditions.”
Ana nodded. The fear in her was subsiding, but it was replaced by a newer, darker one. Let this be the right choice, Cenzi. Let me not fail You.
“Then we will go down and we will release Karl ci’Vliomani, Kraljiki.
Now. Any other Numetodo in the Bastida will also be immediately released. When I see that has been done, we can talk further.”
Another breath. Another nod. Justi waved in the direction of the cell door. “After you, Archigos Ana ca’Seranta,” he said. “I took the liberty of ordering the Concord A’Teni to meet, and they are anxiously waiting for us.”
Jan ca’Vorl
“Where is Georgi, Vatarh? I want him to show me how you besiege a city.”
Her voice echoed in the expanse of the Comte’s Palais of Passe a’Fiume. The open lobby under the broken, charred roof was littered with pallets of the wounded and dead, and what remained of the structure stank of blood and smoke. Jan regarded his daughter and sighed.
He’d allowed her to enter Passe a’Fiume from the rear encampment this morning. It was safe enough now: U’Teni cu’Bachiga, A’Offizier cu’Garret, and those injured Chevarittai of Nessantico who had been unable to flee were incarcerated in the temple, which was one of the less-damaged buildings in the city. The executed bodies of some of the lesser offiziers of the Garde Civile-those whose families were unlikely to have enough wealth to make ransom likely or worthwhile-were gibbeted along the walls of the town. The war-teni, under ca’Cellibrecca’s guidance, had briefly become fire-teni, putting out the flames their spells had caused. Despite their efforts, the town smoldered: the buildings were grave-shrouded in ribbons of gray, thin smoke; the walls were cracked and tumbling near the main gates. Crows feasted on the bodies left strewn in the streets or half-buried in rubble or sprawled on the fields outside, while soldiers monitored the citizens dragooned into removing the dead, stacking the corpses on flat-bedded carts, and taking them to the pyre built on the far side of the Clario. The dead-wagons fought against the constant influx of Firenzcian soldiers crossing into and through Passe a’Fiume. Except for the laughter and howls from the Firenzcian soldiers carousing in Passe a’Fiume’s still-open taverns and brothels, the city went about its sad duties silently, in massive grief and shock.
Jan had hoped that this would be the worst Allesandra would need to see, but hope-as the Toustour said-was a fickle mistress. Jan had studied the reports that Markell had given him regarding their own losses. He looked at his aide now, standing behind Allesandra with his head bowed.
“That’s why I asked Markell to bring you here,” he told her. “Come with me, love. I must show you something.” He held out his hand to her. She took it, and he marveled again at how smooth her hand was in his, and how it was no longer quite so small in his grasp. They walked down the main aisle between the pallets, with Jan stopping occasionally to comfort one of the wounded Firenzcian soldiers. Jan could see Allesandra’s eyes widening, seeing the blood and the decaying flesh, the missing limbs and terrible, open wounds. Her breathing was shallow and fast, and she clung hard to him.
They stopped, finally, before a pallet in the middle of the room.
“No. .” Jan heard Allesandra breathe, then a sob cracked in her voice and she tore her hand away from Jan, kneeling down beside the pallet and the still, bloodied body laying there. She looked up at Jan with eyes brimming. “This can’t be,” she said. “I won’t let it be.”
“I wish it were that easy, my little bird,” he answered. He crouched alongside her. “Allesandra, your Georgi was a soldier. An o’offizier. He asked to participate in the siege and he performed valiantly, but when the Nessantican chevarittai fled yesterday it was his encampment they went through. He fought to hold them back. But he fell.”
Jan reached for the blanket and started to pull it over Georgi’s head; Allesandra reached out and touched his hand. “No,” she said. “Let me, Vatarh. He was my friend.”
Jan let her take the blanket, and Allesandra gently pulled the folds over Georgi’s face. She touched her hand to the o’offizer’s hidden face.
“Allesandra,” Jan said softly, “war might seem like a game, but a starkkapitan or a Hirzg must realize that the pieces aren’t lead and paint; they’re flesh and blood, and once they fall, you can’t pick them up again and put them back. Look around you; this is the reality of war, and you need to understand it if you are to be the Hirzgin. Georgi was teaching you how to move the pieces; now he teaches you what it means to be one of those
pieces.”
Allesandra glanced back up at him and though her cheeks were stained with the tracks of moisture, her eyes were dry. “Tell me that we’ll go to Nessantico now, Vatarh,” she said, her voice tinged more with anger than sorrow. “Tell me that.”
He crouched down and cradled her in his arms, and her anger returned again to tears. She sobbed against his chest, hard and inconsolable. He stroked her hair and pressed her against him.
“We will go to Nessantico, Allesandra,” he told her. “I promise you that. You will walk its streets soon enough.”
“Another week, perhaps a bit more, and this will be Nessantico’s fate.
Cenzi has indeed blessed us,” ca’Cellibrecca said, his voice as raucous as one of the carrion crows. “What a wonderful victory, my Hirzg!”
Jan turned from a broken window set high in a domed tower of the temple. He’d given Allesandra into Markell’s care before going to find the Archigos. Ca’Cellibrecca was beaming at him, his corpulent face alight above the ornate robe of the Archigos. Jan scowled back.
“You’re a fool, ca’Cellibrecca,” he snarled. He pointed to the shattered window. Shards of colored glass were snared in the leaden frame, and the sill was blackened with smoke. “Is that victory you see out there?”
he railed at the man, who cowered back in the doorframe as if searching for a retreat. “Will you tell me that Kraljiki Justi is among our prisoners?
Was it the Kraljiki or even Commandant ca’Rudka who surrendered the city to us, or only some unimportant local offizier? Did you fail to notice how many men we lost here, or how many days we’ve wasted while Nessantico readied its defenses?” Jan spat out from the window, watching the gob of spittle arc in the air to fall on shattered roof tiles far below. He turned back to ca’Cellibrecca. “The Kraljiki played us here, ca’Cellibrecca, better than his matarh could have. He offered parley to gain days, then he fled and left his commandant here to hold us. Then the chevarritai fled themselves before they could be captured.”
