Codex Alera 01 - Furies of Calderon

by Jim Butcher

  Aldrick opened his eyes and focused on Fidelias. One hand absently caressed Odiana’s dark wealth of hair, and she let out a pleased little whimper in her sleep, writhing in the man’s lap with liquid sensuality, before settling into stillness again. The swordsman watched Fidelias, his expression unreadable.

  “Deep thoughts, old man?” Aldrick asked.

  “Some. How will Aquitaine react?”

  The big man pursed his lips. “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On what he is doing when we interrupt him with bad news.”

  “Is it all that bad?”

  Aldrick smiled. “Just hope he’s up drinking. He’s usually in a pretty good mood. Tends to forget his anger by the time the hangover has worn off.”

  “It was an idiot’s plan to begin with.”

  “Of course. It was his. He isn’t a planner of deception or subterfuge. But I’ve never met a man who could lead as strongly as he does. Or anyone with his raw power.” Aldrick continued stroking the sleeping water witch’s hair, his expression thoughtful. “Are you worried?”

  “No,” Fidelias lied. “I’m still too valuable to him.”

  “Perhaps, for now.” Aldrick said. He smiled, a mirthless expression. “But I’ll not be loaning you any money.”

  Fidelias clucked his teeth. “Direct action would have been premature in any case. By escaping, the girl may have done his Grace the biggest favor of his life.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Aldrick murmured. “But somehow, I’m almost certain that he won’t see it that way.”

  Fidelias studied the other man’s face, but the swordsman’s features revealed nothing. His grey eyes blinked lazily, and his mouth curled into a smile, as though taking amusement in Fidelias’s lack of ability to gauge him. The Cursor frowned at the man, a mild expression, and turned to watch the city of Aquitaine come into sight.

  First came the lights. Firecrafters by the dozens maintained the lights along the city’s streets, and they burned with a gentle radiance through the mist-shrouded evening, all soft yellows, deep amber, pale crimson, until the hill upon which the city was built seemed itself to be one enormous, living flame, garbed in warmth and flickering color. Upon the city’s walls, and just beyond them, lights burned with a cold, blue brilliance, casting the ground far around into stark illumination and long black shadows, their harsh glare vigilant against any would-be invaders.

  As the litter glided down, and closer, Fidelias could begin to make out shapes in the shifting lights. Statues stood silent and lovely on the streets. Houses, all elegant lines and high arches, contested with one another to prove the most skillfully crafted, the most beautifully lit. Fountains sparkled and flickered, some of them illuminated from below, so that they burned violet or emerald in the darkness, pools of liquid flames. Trees rose up around houses and lined the streets, thriving and beautiful life that had been crafted as carefully as every other part of the city. They, too, wore veils of colored light, and their leaves, already changed into autumn’s brilliant hues, shone in too many shades to count.

  The sound of a bell tolling the late hour rose to the descending litter. Fidelias heard the trod of hooves upon paving stones somewhere below and raucous singing from a night club of some kind. Music came up from a garden party as the litter passed over it, strings supporting a sweet alto flute that pursued a gentle, haunting melody. The smell of wood smoke and spices still drifted on the evening breezes, along with the scent of late-blooming flowers and of rain on the wind.

  To call Aquitaine beautiful was to call the ocean wet, Fidelias thought. Accurate enough, in its way, but wholly insufficient to the task.

  They were challenged by a barking voice before they had come within a long bowshot of the High Lord’s manor, a walled fortress surmounting the hill upon which the city stood. Fidelias watched as a man in the sable and scarlet surcoat of Aquitaine swept down from the air above. A dozen more hovered somewhere in the night sky above them, unseen — but the Cursor could feel the eddies of wind that their furies kicked up in keeping them aloft.

  The challenger of the Knights Aeris guarding the High Lord’s manor exchanged a pass phrase with the captain of Fidelias’s own escort, though the exchange had the comfortable, routine air of a formality. Then the group swept on forward, down into the manor’s courtyard, while more guards watched from the walls, along with leering statues wrought in the shapes of hunchbacked, gangly men. The moment Fidelias stepped from the litter, he felt the light, steady tremors of power in the earth that led back to each statue on the wall and found himself staring at the statues.

  “Gargoyles?” he breathed. “All of them?”

  Aldrick glanced at the statues and then to Fidelias and nodded once.

  “How long have they been kept here?”

  “As long as anyone remembers,” Aldrick rumbled.

  “Aquitaine is that strong . . .” Fidelias pursed his lips in thought. He did not agree with the principles of anyone who kept furies within such a restrictive confine — much less those who would trap them there for generations. But it certainly confirmed, had he been in any doubt, that Aquitaine’s raw power was more than sufficient for the task at hand.

  The Knights Aeris accompanying the litter departed toward a bunkhouse for food and drink, while the captain of Aquitaine’s guard, a young man with an earnest expression and alert blue eyes, opened the door to the litter and extended a courteous hand to those within. Then he led them inside the manor proper.

  Fidelias took casual note of the manor as he followed the young captain, marking the doors, the windows, the presence (or evident lack) of guards. It was an old habit, and one he would be foolish to surrender. He wanted to know the best way to leave any place he walked into. Aldrick walked beside him, casually carrying the still-sleeping Odiana as though she weighed no more than an armload of cloth, each footstep something solid, focused.

  The young captain swung open a pair of double doors leading into a long feasting hall, complete with mountain-style fire pits built into the floors, already burning though the season had not yet grown truly cold. That dim, crimson light was the only illumination in the hall, and Fidelias took a moment to pause inside the doors and allow his eyes to adjust.

  The hall stretched out, lined with a double row of smooth marble pillars. Curtains covered the walls, providing a bit of aesthetic warmth and the perfect cover for eavesdroppers, guards, or assassins. The tables had been taken down for the night, and the only furniture in the hall was a table and several chairs upon a dais at the far end. The shapes of people moved about there, and Fidelias could hear the gentle music of strings.

  The captain led them all straight down the hall and toward the dais.

  Upon a large chair covered in the fur of a grass lion from the Amaranth Vale sprawled a man — as tall as Aldrick, Fidelias judged, but more slender, and with the appearance of a young man in the prime of his youth. Aquitainus had high cheekbones and a narrow face, led by a strong jaw whose lines were softened by the tumble of dark golden hair that fell to his shoulders. He wore a simple scarlet blouse with black leather breeches and soft, black boots. A goblet dangled lazily in one hand, while the other held the end of a long strip of silken cloth that slowly unwound from the shapely girl dancing before him, gradually baring more and more of her skin. Aquitainus had eyes of pitch black, stark in that narrow face, and he watched the dancing slave with an almost feverish intensity.

  Fidelias’s eyes were drawn to the man standing behind and just a bit to one side of the High Lord’s chair. In the dimness, details were difficult to make out. The man wasn’t tall, perhaps only a few inches more than Fidelias himself, but was strongly built, his posture casually powerful, relaxed. He bore a sword at his hip — that much Fidelias could see— and a very slight bulge in his dark grey tunic perhaps revealed the presence of a hidden weapon. Fidelias met the silent man’s eyes, briefly, and found the stranger’s gaze to be opaque, assessing.

  “If you value your h
ead, Captain,” Aquitainus murmured, without looking away from the girl, “it can wait until this dance is done.” His voice, Fidelias noted, carried the faintest trace of a drunken slur.

  “No, Your Grace,” Fidelias said, stepping forward and past the captain, “it can’t.”

  The High Lord’s back stiffened, and he turned his head slowly toward Fidelias. The weight of the man’s dark eyes fell onto the Cursor like a physical blow, and he drew in a sharp breath as he felt the stirring in the earth beneath them, a slow and sullen vibration, deep within the stone—a reflection of the High Lord’s anger.

  Fidelias assumed a casually confident stance and reacted as though Aquitainus had acknowledged him. He clasped a fist over his heart and bowed.

  There was a long silence before Fidelias heard Aquitainus’s reaction. The man let out a low and relaxed laugh that echoed throughout the nearly deserted hall. Fidelias straightened again, to face the High Lord, careful to keep his expression schooled into neutral respect.

  “So,” Aquitainus purred. “This is the infamous Fidelias Cursor Callidus.”

  “If it please Your Grace, Cursor no longer.”

  “You seem rather unconcerned with my pleasure,” Aquitainus noted, with a droll roll of the hand still clasping the dancing girl’s cloth. “I almost find it disrespectful.”

  “No disrespect was intended, Your Grace. There are grave matters that require your attention.”

  “Require . . . my . . . attention,” murmured Aquitaine with an elegant arch of brow. “My. I don’t think I’ve been spoken to in that fashion since just before my last tutor took that untimely fall.”

  “Your Grace will find me a good deal more agile.”

  “Rats are agile,” sniffed Aquitaine. “The oaf’s real problem was that he thought he knew everything.”

  “Ah,” Fidelias said. “You will not face that difficulty with me.”

  Aquitaine’s dark eyes shone. “Because you really do know everything?”

  “No, Your Grace. Only everything of importance.”

  The High Lord narrowed his eyes. He remained silent for two score of Fidelias’s quickening heartbeats, but the Cursor refused to let his nervousness show. He took slow and even breaths and remained silent, waiting.

  Aquitaine snorted and drank off his remaining wine with an effortless flick of his wrist. He held the goblet out to one side, waited a beat, then released it. The blocky man beside him reached out a hand, snake swift, and caught it. The stranger walked to the table on the dais and refilled the goblet from a glass bottle.

  “My sources told me that you had a reputation for insouciance, Fidelias,” Aquitaine murmured. “But I had no idea that it would be so readily forthcoming.”

  “If it please Your Grace, perhaps we might table this discussion for the moment. Time may be of the essence.”

  The High Lord accepted the goblet of wine from the stranger, glancing at the pretty slave, now kneeling on the floor before him, head bowed. Aquitaine let out a wistful sigh. “I suppose,” he said. “Very well, then. Report.”

  Fidelias glanced at the stranger, then at the slave, and then at the hanging curtains. “Perhaps a more private setting would be more appropriate, Your Grace.”

  Aquitaine shook his head. “You can speak freely here. Fidelias, may I present Count Calix of the Feverthorn Border, in service to His Grace, High Lord of Rhodes. He has shown himself to be a shrewd and capable advisor and a loyal supporter of our cause.”

  Fidelias shifted his attention to the blocky man beside the High Lord’s seat. “The Feverthorn Border. Isn’t that where that illegal slaving operation got broken up a few years ago?”

  Count Calix spared the former Cursor a thin-lipped smile. When he spoke, his voice came out in a light, rich tenor completely at odds with the heavy power evident in his body. “I believe so, yes. I understand that both the Slavers Consortiumand the Dianic League gave you commendations for valor above and beyond the call of duty.”

  Fidelias shrugged, watching the other man. “A token gesture. I never was able to turn up enough information to bring charges against the slave ring’s leader.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Whoever he was.”

  “A pity,” said the Count. “I imagine you cost someone a great deal of money.”

  “Most likely,” Fidelius agreed.

  “It could give a man good reason to hold a grudge.”

  Fidelius smiled. “I’m told those can be inimical to one’s good health.”

  “Perhaps I’ll put it to the test one day.”

  “Should you survive the experience, be sure to let me know what you learned.”

  Aquitaine watched the exchange, his dark eyes sparkling with mirth. “I hate to interrupt your fencing, gentlemen, but I have other interests this evening, and we have issues to discuss.” He took another sip of wine and waved at the other chairs on the dais. “Sit down. You, too, Aldrick. Should I have someone carry Odiana to her chambers so that she can rest?”

  “Thank you, sir,” Aldrick rumbled. “I’ll keep her with me and take care of her later, if it’s all the same to you.”

  They settled down into chairs facing Aquitaine. The High Lord gestured, and the slave girl hurried to one side, returning with the traditional cloth and bowl of scented water. Then the girl settled at Fidelias’s feet and unlaced his sandals. She removed the stockings, beneath, and with warm, gentle fingers began washing Fidelias’s feet.

  He frowned down at the slave, pensively, but at a second gesture from the High Lord, Fidelias uttered a concise report of the events at the camp of the renegade Legion. Aquitaine’s expression darkened steadily throughout, until, at the end it had grown to a scowl.

  “Let me test my understanding of what you are telling me, Fidelias,” Aquitaine murmured. “Not only were you unable to attain intelligence regarding Gaius’s chambers from this girl—in addition, she escaped from you and every one of my Knights.”

  Fidelias nodded. “My status has been compromised. And she has almost certainly reported to the Crown by now.”

  “The second Legion has already been disbanded into individual centuries,” Aldrick supplied. The slave moved to kneel at his feet and to remove his sandals and stockings as well. The single, long piece of scarlet cloth wound around her had begun to slip and gape, displaying an unseemly amount of supple, smooth skin. Aldrick regarded her with casual admiration as he continued. “They will meet at the rendezvous as planned.”

  “Except for the Windwolves,” Fidelias said. “I advised Aldrick to send them ahead to the staging area.”

  “What!?” snarled Aquitaine, rising. “That was not according to the plan.”

  The blocky Calix came to his feet as well, his eyes bright. “I warned you, Your Grace. If the mercenaries are not seen in Parcia over the winter, there will be nothing to link them to anyone but you. You have been betrayed.”

  Aquitaine’s furious gaze settled on Fidelias. “Well, Cursor? Is what he says true?”

  “If you consider adjusting to changing conditions in the field treachery, Your Grace,” Fidelias said, “then you may name me traitor, if it pleases you.”

  “He twists your own words against you, Your Grace,” Calix hissed. “He is using you. He is a Cursor, loyal to Gaius. If you keep listening to him, he will lead you to your death at Gaius’s feet. Kill him before he poisons your thoughts any further. He, this murderous thug, and his mad whore — they all want nothing but your destruction.”

  Fidelias felt his lips tighten into a smile. He looked from Aquitaine to Calix—then to Aldrick, where the slave crouched at his feet, her lips parted, her eyes staring. Over Aldrick’s lap, Odiana neither stirred nor spoke, but he could see her mouth turn up into a smile.

  “Ah,” Fidelias said, his own smile spreading wider. He folded one ankle over the other knee. “I see.”

  Aquitaine narrowed his eyes and stalked over to stand over Fidelias’s chair. “You have interrupted a pleasant moment with the anniversary gift given me by my own d
ear wife. You have, it would seem, failed miserably in what you said you would do for me. Additionally, you have dispatched my troops in a fashion which could embarrass me acutely before the rest of the Lords Council, not to mention the Senate.” He leaned down toward Fidelias and said, very gently, “I think it would be in your own best interest to give me a reason not to kill you in the next few seconds.”

  “Very well,” Fidelias said. “If you will indulge me briefly, Your Grace, I may be able to let you decide for yourself whom you can trust.”

  “No!” sputtered Calix. “My lord, do not allow this deceitful slive to so use you.”

  Aquitaine smiled, but it was a cold, hard expression. His gaze swept to the Rhodisian Count, and Calix dropped silent at his glance. “My patience is wearing very thin. At the rate we’re going, gentlemen, someone will be dead by the end of this conversation.”

  Heavy tension fell onto the room, thick as a winter blanket. Calix licked his lips, throwing a wide-eyed glare at Fidelias. Odiana made a soft sound and stirred artlessly on Aldrick’s lap before settling again—leaving Aldrick’s right arm free to reach for his sword, Fidelias noted. The slave seemed to take notice of the tension as well and crawled a bit backward, until she was no longer between the High Lord and anyone else in the room.

  Fidelias smiled. He folded his hands and rested them on his knee. “If it please Your Grace, I will need paper and pen.”

  “Paper and pen? What for?”

  “Easier to show you, Your Grace. But if you remain unsatisfied after, I offer you my life as penance.”

  Aquitaine’s teeth flashed. “My esteemed wife would say that your life is lost in either case, were she here.”

  “Were she here, Your Grace,” Fidelias agreed. “May I proceed?”

  Aquitaine stared down at Fidelias for a moment. Then he gestured toward the slave, who went scurrying, returning a moment later with parchment and pen. Aquitaine said, “Be quick. My patience is rapidly running out.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.” Fidelias accepted the paper and pen, dipped the quill into the inkpot, and swiftly made a few notes on the paper, careful to let no one see what he was writing. No one spoke, and the scritching of the quill seemed loud in the hall, along with the crackle of the fire pits, and the impatient tapping of the High Lord’s boot.