by S L Farrell
Nico nodded, swallowing hard. As she directed him, he placed a folded pad of the bandages on top of the wound, then—as she pressed the edges together as well as she could—he wrapped the bandage around it. “As tight as you can,” she told him. “Don’t worry, you won’t hurt me.” She showed him how to tear the end of the bandage in two, then tie it off to hold it in place.
She was crying as he finished, looking at her hand as she tried to move her fingers. They moved, but slowly, and she couldn’t bring her lower arm up. “It’ll be better, Varina,” he said. “It just needs time to heal.”
She smiled at him through the tears and pulled him to her with her good hand. “Thank you,” she whispered into his hair. “Now—some water. I want to get the blood off my hands and yours.
A quarter turn of the glass later, they left the room, with Varina walking pale-faced but steady.
It was raining, it was cold, it was dark, and Nico was miserable.
Nico stayed close to Varina as they hurried across the Avi a’Parete under the seeming glare of the famous téni-lamps of the city. The Regent was with Nico, and Varina and Karl; the other Numetodo—the one named Mika—had left them, going another way through the city. Nico had seen a squadron of Garde Kralji hurrying down the Avi toward Nortegate, splashing through the puddles on the cobbled roadway; the Regent made them pause in the shadow of a building—rain dripping hard on them from clogged gutters above—until the gardai had vanished around the curve of the Avi, then he led them at a run into the warren of houses on the north side of the Avi. There, they quickly abandoned the main streets for side streets and alleys, staying away from the few people out in the weather and occasionally sliding into alleyways as they heard others approaching. Once, a trio of utilino passed them, and they pressed their backs to the cold, damp stones of the nearest building, holding their breaths as the utilino, obviously searching the faces of the passersby, moved on. They kept moving north: as the houses were farther apart, now separated by fields and pastures; as the lights of the city became only a glow on the clouds above them; as the cobbled streets gave way to muddy, rutted roadways and finally to a narrow, sloppy lane. By the time they stopped, Nico felt as if he’d been running all night. His feet and legs hurt, and he was panting from the effort of keeping up with the adults. Varina collapsed to the ground as soon as they stopped.
“We’ll rest here for a few minutes,” the Regent said. “If anyone’s coming, we should see them long before they’ll notice us.” They were well away from any of the farmhouses, and the rain had subsided to an erratic drizzle. Nico stood next to Varina as she leaned again the stone wall bordering the lane and closed her eyes, clutching her injured arm with her good one.
“The forest is a mile or so up the road; we should reach it in half a turn of the glass,” the Regent continued. “We should probably get off the road; if I were the commandant, I’d be sending riders out along toward all the villages, looking for us.”
“Then where?” Karl asked.
The Regent shook water from his graying hair; droplets beaded on his silver nose. “Firenzcia,” he grunted.
Karl gave a laugh that seemed more cough. “You’re joking, Sergei. That’s going from the chopping block into the pot. Firenzcia? Archigos ca’Cellibrecca is nothing more than a younger image of his marriage-vatarh; they’d love to have the Ambassador of the Numetodo to torture and hang in a gibbet for everyone to see. Firenzcia? That might be fine for you, but Varina and I have a better chance of survival trying to swim the Strettosei to Paeti. We might as well just surrender to the Garde Kralji now.”
Varina’s eyes had opened, and Nico saw that she was watching the discussion. The Regent sniffed. “Firenzcia is the Kralji’s enemy. Now, so are we. I know Allesandra from her time here; so do you. With Fynn assassinated, she’ll be the Hïrzg; she’ll take us in.”
“Unless the Numetodo are being conveniently blamed for Hïrzg Fynn’s murder,” the Ambassador said, and Varina nodded vigorously.
“Where else would you go?” the Regent asked them.
“To one of the northern countries, where they’re more sympathetic to the Numetodo. Maybe Il Trebbio.”
“That’s still in the Holdings, and Audric will have sent word to them to capture us if we’re seen.”
“And Firenzcia won’t do the same?” Varina interjected.
“We could take ship from Chivasso to Paeti, or keep going north out of the Holdings into Boail,” the Ambassador said.
“And what are our chances of making that long trek without being noticed?” The Regent sniffed again.
Nico listened to them argue, pulling his cloak tightly around him. He didn’t want to go to Firenczia or Il Trebbio or Paeti or any of those places. He liked Varina and he was sorry that she was hurt, but he wanted to be with his matarh or Talis. The adults weren’t paying attention to him; they were too intent on their discussion.
Slowly, Nico pulled himself up until he was sitting on the stone wall. He turned, his legs dangling over the far side. No one noticed him; no one said anything to him. He let himself drop into the high, tall grass of the field. He could still hear them arguing, and he began scurrying quickly away on the far side of the stone wall—back toward Nessantico. Back toward the only home he knew.
When he could barely hear the voices, he started to run: into the night, into the rain, toward the city-glow in the distance.
Varina ci’Pallo
“WHERE ELSE WOULD YOU GO?” the Regent said, and she heard Karl scoff.
“To one of the northern countries, where they’re more sympathetic to the Numetodo. Maybe Il Trebbio.”
Sergei sounded like a teacher instructing a slow student. “That’s still in the Holdings, and Audric will have sent word to them to capture us if we’re seen.”
Varina, half-listening to the argument, stirred. She interrupted them with her eyes half-open. “And Firenzcia won’t do the same?” she snapped back at Sergei.
“We could take ship from Chivasso to Paeti, or keep going north out of the Holdings into Boail,” Karl added—she was glad to hear him support her.
“And what are our chances of making that long trek without being noticed?” The Regent’s voice was nearly mocking.
The argument only sapped what little strength she had left. Let Karl deal with him—Karl won’t go to Firenzcia. He won’t. . . . As the argument continued, her attention returned to the weariness of her body and the throbbing, insistent pain in her arm that stabbed her every time she moved. Varina leaned her head back against the stone wall running alongside the road, not caring that the ground underneath her was soaked and cold, closing her eyes as the two continued their argument, feeling the occasional cold splash from the persistent clouds on her face. The rumble of the two men’s voices, wordless, was like distant thunder in her head. She was shivering and miserable.
She wondered whether or not death might actually be an improvement.
She didn’t know when she thought to look to her right, back toward where the city’s glow painted the low, scudding clouds. At the same moment, she realized that the faint warmth that had been there was gone.
“Nico?” She sat up, stifling the scream that wanted to tear from her throat with the movement. Then, louder: “Nico?”
Karl and Sergei turned from their discussion. “Varina?” Karl began, then he cursed. “Merde! The boy’s gone.” He looked over the stone wall, and Varina—getting slowly to her feet—looked that way also. The meadow grass showed the dark, trampled path from the boy’s feet, arrowing back toward the city until she lost the trail in the murk.
“I’ll go after him. He can’t be far.” Varina started to scramble over the low wall in pursuit, grimacing as the motion pulled at her wounded arm. But she felt Karl’s hand on her good arm, holding her back.
“No,” he said. “You can’t. He’s heading back into the city and he’ll get there before you catch up to him. You can’t go there. They’re not looking for a boy, but they are looking for yo
u.”
Varina was frantic. She pulled at Karl’s grasp but was too weak to break away from him. Sergei watched, impassive, from the road. “He’ll be all alone there. I can’t leave him like that. I promised.”
“He was alone when you found him. The boy’s nothing if not resourceful.” Karl pointed with his chin back to the city-glow on the clouds. “He thinks his matarh or Talis will find him if he stays there. He might be right. Let him go, Varina. Let him go. We have other issues to worry about.”
Varina sagged. She sat on the stone wall looking at the trail of Nico’s retreat. Karl released her arm, and she cradled her wounded limb with it. The rain had begun again; the drizzle masked her tears. “It’s my fault,” she said. “My fault. I should have been watching him. I promised I’d take him somewhere safe. I promised him—”
“Varina.” She turned to Karl. He shook his head. “This is my fault,” he told her. “You’re hurt; you needed the rest. I should have been watching him. Not you. It’s my fault.”
She wished she could believe him. She sniffed. She turned her head away, back to the fading trail. Already, the grass in the meadow was lifting, hiding Nico’s retreat.
“Be safe,” she whispered after him: into the darkness, into the rain, into the light-touched distant haze. “Please be safe.”
Audric ca’Dakwi
YOU HAVE EVERY RIGHT to be furious. In truth, you must be furious, so that they will fear you.
He heard his great-matarh’s voice, her words sparking in his head, her own anger apparent. He could see the scowl reflected in the painting at his right hand as he sat on the Sun Throne.
I was the Spada Terribile—the Awful Sword—before I was the Généra a’Pace, she raged. You must follow my path, Audric. You must show them the steel before you can give them the glove of velvet, so that they know the steel is always inside. Hidden.
“I will,” he told her grimly. Then he turned to Commandant cu’Falla, standing with his head down before him, a small bandage around his neck. The Council of Ca’ whispered in their seats behind the commandant. “Commandant!” he barked, though the harshness of the word gave him a spate of coughing. He looked up, his lace kerchief bunched in his fist, to see cu’Falla staring at him. “You are informing me that the former Regent ca’Rudka was able to escape the Bastida and my order of execution?” He had to stop for breath. He could hear the echo of his voice against the stones of the hall. Lower your voice. You sound shrill, like a child. Show them that you’re their equal. “I understand,” he said to his great-matarh, then realized that they were all watching him, and he pretended that he’d been starting another sentence. “. . . that the Regent can’t be found in Nessantico, and has likely escaped the city entirely?”
“Yes, Kraljiki,” the commandant grated out. His jaw clenched, muscles bunching under his beard, his lips tightly pressed together after he uttered his response. He looked as if he were caging the words he wanted to say, and Audric waved a regal hand in the man’s direction.
“Go on,” he said. “Enlighten us.”
“Kraljiki,” he said, then glanced back over his shoulder to the others. “Councillors. This was a concerted attack on the Bastida by Numetodo—by how many, we’re still not certain. The main gates were torn down with a spell, and I lost two men there when the northern supports fell as a result. I immediately had the tower where the Regent was being held locked down, fearing that what would follow would be a direct assault through the wrecked gates, and I dispatched a rider to the temple to have téni sent to counter the Numetodo spells. But it seems that the assault on the gates was merely a feint to draw our attention. When no attack materialized, I personally took gardai to the under-corridors of the Bastida, but Ambassador ca’Vliomani and his cohorts had already made their entrance—probably well before the attack on the gate.”
“You’re certain the man you saw was Ambassador ca’Vliomani?” Audric asked.
Cu’Falla nodded. “Absolutely, Kraljiki. When it was obvious that there was to be no assault on the gates, I took a squad to the under-corridors, as I said. We confronted Ambassador ca’Vliomani and the Numetodo Varina ci’Pallo with the prisoner; there was at least one other Numetodo in the corridors. They used their spells on us.” He swallowed hard. “My men and I were incapacitated.”
Audric raised his eyebrows. “Incapacitated,” he said, rolling the word around as if tasting it. “But not killed, though I understand that you were . . . wounded. A scratch on the neck? No worse than the nick of a razor? How fortunate for us all.”
There was laughter from the councillors, with Sigourney ca’Ludovici’s snicker prominent among them. Cu’Falla’s face visibly reddened.
“Kraljiki, Councillors, I have known Sergei ca’Rudka since I joined the Garde,” he said. “He was my commanding offizier and my mentor. He promoted me through the ranks; he—through your vatarh, Kraljiki—assigned me my current post as Commandant of the Garde Kralji. I considered him my friend as well as my superior. I assume that his friendship is why I and my men are still alive, Kraljiki.”
Audric didn’t need his great-matarh’s cackling to propel him from his seat at that. He pointed an accusing finger at the commandant. “Your friendship and your relationship with him is why ca’Rudka was allowed to escape at all,” he roared shrilly, forcing the cough down. “How convenient that you are rendered unconscious just at the right moment. How convenient that the Numetodo knew about this hidden passage from the river. How convenient . . .” He couldn’t go on. The coughing overwhelmed him then, and he huddled on the Sun Throne with the lace cloth to his face as his body was racked. He barely heard the commandant’s litany of denials.
“My duty is to the Kraljiki and Nessantico,” cu’Falla insisted. “That supersedes any friendship I might have with the Regent. I assure you, Kraljiki, that I did exactly as you ordered. I assure you that I would have carried out your order to execute the Regent, had you decided that was to be his fate. Several of my men were injured or killed in the assault; I would never, never have allowed that to happen. I would not abandon my duty and my oaths of service for the sake of friendship. Never.”
Audric was still regaining his breath, wiping his lips on the lace. Marlon, kneeling and leaning forward on the steps of the throne’s dais, held out a new kerchief; Audric took it and gave the servant the stained one. It was Sigourney ca’Ludovici who answered cu’Falla, and Audric listened as he coughed softly into the fresh cloth. “Those are fine, honorable words, Commandant, but . . .” She glanced portentously around the hall. “Why, I see neither the Regent nor Ambassador ca’Vliomani in irons before us, and from what we’re told, all the known Numetodo in the city have fled, too. As the Kraljiki has said, how convenient that they had the time and opportunity to do so.”
“Councillor ca’Ludovici,” cu’Falla said, “I must take offense at these accusations. As soon as I regained consciousness, I sent out the Garde Kralji to guard the gates and scour the city; I contacted Archigos Kenne and had him alert the utilino on their rounds; I sent word to the Keeper of the Gates and had all the inns and hostels searched. You can verify all those orders with my offiziers.”
“But your friend ca’Rudka and his cohorts managed to escape this fine, wonderful net you placed around the city,” ca’Ludovici answered. “How clever of him.” Again laughter followed from the other councillors.
Audric had regained his composure. He folded the blood-spotted lace in his hand. Cu’Falla’s face was now even redder than before and Audric raised his hand to stop the commandant’s protests. “I hereby decree that Sergei ca’Rudka no longer has rank at all in the Holdings. Let the Gardes a’Liste write his name simply as Sergei Rudka henceforth. The same for Ambassador ca’Vliomani—he is stripped of his diplomatic status and is now only Karl Vliomani, with no standing here. When they are found, the penalty for them will be immediate death.”
He heard the murmur of pleasure from his great-matarh, and the susurration of agreement from the Council of Ca’. “
As for you, Commandant cu’Falla,” he said, and cu’Falla straightened his shoulders, seeming to stare past Audric. “There must also be judgment.”
“Kraljiki,” cu’Falla said, his chin high, his eyes guarded, “I have family here, and I have given faithful service to the Sun Throne since my sixteenth season. I ask you to consider that.”
“We do,” Audric told him. “We also consider that you have failed your oath and failed your Kraljiki.” Show them. Show them that you, too, can be the Spada Terribile. Show them your strength and your will. Audric pushed himself up from the Sun Throne, tucking the lace kerchief into the sleeve of his bashta of blue and gold. He walked the few steps to stand in front of cu’Falla, feeling the approving gaze of Marguerite on his back. His head came only to cu’Falla’s chest; he had to lift his head to see the man’s face, and that made him angry. “We demand the sword of your office, Commandant.” He held out his hand.
Cu’Falla’s expression went stern and empty. He unbuckled the belt of his scabbard, the metal clasps jingling musically. He placed the weapon into Audric’s outstretched hand. Audric thought he saw a glimpse of satisfaction in the man’s face as the unexpected weight of the steel nearly made Audric drop the sword, his hand drooping low and the leather belt of the scabbard looping on the marble flags of the hall. Audric half-turned from the man, sliding the blade from the scabbard. The steel rang: it was a warrior’s weapon, not the polished, engraved, and bejeweled showpieces most of the Council of Ca’ bore. Audric held up the blade admiringly, gazing at the fine scratches where the edges had been recently honed, at the sheen of protective oil on the surface. A warrior’s blade. A blade that spoke of much use, and much death.
