by S L Farrell
“What is he saying?” ca’Sibelli said, lifting his head up and straining against the ropes that held him. “Tell him I know where the treasury is. There’s gold, lots of it.”
Niente took the eagle claw from its pouch. Ca’Sibelli went silent, looking at it. He licked cracked, bloodied lips. “What . . . what is that?”
“It is your death,” Niente told him. “Sakal and Axat demand your presence as the leader.”
“No!” the man shouted. Saliva frothed around his mouth. “You can’t do this. I’m your prisoner, your hostage. Ask for ransom—”
Niente leaned close to the writhing man. He could feel the man’s terror, and he made his voice as gentle as he could. “This will end the killing here in your city. Your death pays for the death of all your soldiers that we have captured, and they will be spared. If you are brave, Commandant, if you show Axat and Sakal that you’re worthy, they will take you to Themselves and you will live forever in Them. Forever. It is a gift we give you here. A gift.”
The man gaped, disbelieving, but the chant of sacrifice had begun, low and sonorous, echoing in the chamber. The warriors and nahualli swayed with the prayer. Ca’Sibelli turned his head to stare frantically at them. Tecuhtli Zolin nodded to Niente, and he pulled the eagle’s claw from his belt. Ca’Sibelli’s eyes widened as Niente turned the ivory horn until it clicked into place.
Niente stood alongside the commandant. “You should be praying,” he told the man. Ca’Sibelli’s head was shaking violently back and forth, as if he could deny the moment. Niente pressed the end of the curved tube against the man’s stomach as ca’Sibelli thrashed frantically in his bonds. Niente sighed—this would not be a good death. “Axat, Sakal, we give this enemy to you,” Niente said in his own language. “Take this offering as a sign of your victory.”
He pressed the trigger. There was a click, a spark, and then an explosion of flesh and blood.
Sergei ca’Rudka
SERGEI WASN’T SURPRISED that they took his sword from him. In fact, he wondered if he was to survive this meeting at all.
The room was small and overly-warm, decorated in typical Firenzcian style with dark hangings and stark paintings with martial themes, all celebrating long-dead Hïrzgai. The new Hïrzg Jan sat in a plush chair to one side of the hearth, but it was obvious that Allesandra, sitting to his right, was the central character here rather than the young Hïrzg who stared at Sergei’s nose, his gaze trapped there. Archigos ca’Cellibrecca loomed like some ursine demigod behind the high back of the Hïrzg’s chair, scowling. The gardai who had brought Sergei here were dismissed (after another, rather thorough check of Sergei’s clothing to make certain he was unarmed; they took two knives from him and missed only one small, thin blade tucked in the loose heel and sole of his boot). Faintly, Sergei could hear the musicians playing a gavotte in the hall outside, though he doubted that many at the party were still dancing. Most would be talking and gossiping, wondering what the Regent of Nessantico was doing here in Brezno.
He was certain that those in the room wondered the same thing.
“Hïrzg Jan,” he said, bowing low to the young man who looked so much like his matarh. “I thank you for taking in a poor refugee, and I offer you my service in gratitude.”
“Your service, Regent ca’Rudka?” It was Allesandra who spoke. “What has happened in Nessantico, Regent, that you now offer service to those you’ve fought as an enemy?”
Sergei hadn’t seen her in nearly sixteen years; she’d left her confinement in Nessantico when she’d been only a little older than her son was now; she had matured into full womanhood in the intervening years. Sergei could still see the passionate young woman in her face, but there was a new hardness there and lines carved by experiences he could not know. Don’t assume that she’s still the same person you knew. . . .
“Foul deeds and bad times,” he said to her, to the others. He outlined for them the events of the last few months, including his own escape from the Bastida days ago. “I doubt that Kraljiki Audric will survive long,” he finished. “I suspect that Sigourney ca’Ludovici will be Kraljica within a year, perhaps two.” He looked hard at Allesandra, whose gaze had drifted away contemplatively during his tale. “She has no better claim to the Sun Throne than others here,” he said. Allesandra gave him a faint nod; Sergei thought that Jan glanced at his matarh strangely with that.
“Where are these Numetodo you say helped you escape?” ca’Cellibrecca growled. “Did you bring the heretics here also?”
Sergei languidly glanced at the Archigos. “They declined to follow me, given the reception they expected to receive, Archigos. Brezno’s attitude toward the Numetodo has been . . . well demonstrated.” He smiled blandly, and ca’Cellibrecca’s mouth lifted in a sneer.
“As has Nessantico’s, and we have seen what it gained them,” ca’Cellibrecca answered. “That they would rescue you from the Bastida, Regent, would indicate that your own views are heretical, also. Have you become a Numetodo yourself?”
“My belief in Cénzi and the teachings of the Toustour remains as firm as ever, Archigos.” He gave the man the sign of Cénzi. “I’ve found that one might disagree even with friends and yet still remain friends. I’ve had many interesting discussions with Ambassador ca’Vliomani over the years, heated ones at times, but neither of us has managed to significantly change the views of the other. Nor do I think that’s necessarily a bad thing. Ambassador ca’Vliomani was my friend and acted to help me, even though our views on religion are entirely at odds. My soul has nothing to fear.” He paused, his gaze going back to Allesandra. “Friends—and allies—may be found even where least expected. Would I be wrong, A’Hirzg ca’Vörl, in saying that you came to consider Archigos Ana your friend, even though she took you from your vatarh?”
Ca’Cellibrecca hissed audibly at that, and Hïrzg Jan’s eyebrows rose, but the ghost of a smile touched Allesandra’s lips. “Ah, Regent, you always fenced as well with words as you did with your blade.”
Sergei bowed again to her.
“Yes,” Allesandra continued, “I came to consider Archigos Ana, if not a friend, then as someone I could trust in the face of the uncertain fate my vatarh left to me. I was genuinely horrified to hear of her assassination—nor, knowing her and the Ambassador ca’Vliomani, did I believe what I heard of who was responsible. I have grieved and prayed for her since. And, yes, I understand what you’re saying behind that question. I’m sure Hïrzg Jan would be pleased to accept your service and talk with you further regarding what you can do for the Firenzcian Coalition.”
The boy sat up suddenly in his chair at the mention of his name, glancing over to his matarh. “Yes,” he told Sergei. “I . . . we will.” His voice was as uncertain as the look he cast Allesandra. Then his features settled, and he sounded more adult. “Firenzcia will offer you asylum, Regent ca’Rudka, and I’m certain we can find a use for your knowledge and your skills.”
“Thank you, Hïrzg Jan,” Sergei replied, and went to a knee. “That was well-spoken. I freely give you and Firenzcia the loyalty that Nessantico has scorned, and I will lend you whatever counsel and help that I can.”
The young man seemed inordinately pleased at the declaration, as if he somehow dredged it unwillingly from Sergei himself. He was young and inexperienced, Sergei realized, but he seemed intelligent enough, and had an excellent teacher in his matarh. He would learn quickly. The Archigos scowled, obviously not pleased with the decision. There would be little sympathy for Sergei there—he would need to watch ca’Cellibrecca carefully and find what advantage he could against the man.
And with Allesandra . . . The woman regarded him carefully. Thoughtfully. There was ambition there, and a brilliance that had been lacking in her vatarh. He could easily imagine her on the Sun Throne. He could see her making decisions that would protect the Holdings and heal the wounds Justi and now his son had carved into the city and empire he served.
Could she be the Kraljica to rival Marguerite?
&
nbsp; He would find out. And he would act.
Karl Vliomani
HE’D SHAVED OFF his beard. He’d darkened his hair with essence of blackstone and let his features become obscured with the dirt of the road. He’d given away the fine bashtas in his pack in exchange for a beggar’s flea-infested and torn wardrobe. He stank of filth, and his smell alone was enough to turn people’s eyes away from him.
He wondered where Sergei was, and if he’d made his way to Firenzcia and how he might have been received there.
Karl had originally intended to make his way back to the Isle of Paeti. He had rested enough to use the Scáth Cumhacht to heal the worst of Varina’s wound. Then he and Varina had accompanied Sergei to the woods north of the city, but there had parted ways, Sergei turning eastward toward Azay a’Reaudi, while he and Varina followed the forest’s line westward. They’d crossed the Avi a’Nortegate below Tousia, then turned southeast toward the Avi a’Nostrosei, hoping to follow its line into Sforzia and from there find passage on a ship to either Paeti or one of the northern countries. They’d reached the Avi at Ville Paisli four days later, only a day’s journey by foot from Nessantico’s walls.
He’d intended that they stay one day. No more. He and Varina had taken a room in the only inn in the village, giving false names and traveling as man and wife on their way to Varolli in hopes of finding employment. The older woman who had shown them the room nodded as she took their money, slipping the coins into a pocket under the apron she wore over a stained tashta that looked two decades out of fashion. Her face and body showed years of children and hard work. “I’m Alisa Morel,” she told them. Karl heard the intake of Varina’s breath at the name. “My husband and I own the inn and tavern, and my husband is the village’s smithy. If you’d like a bath—” that with a significant glance and wrinkling of her nose suggesting that such would be a good idea, “—there’s a room below for that, and I can have my children fill two tubs with hot water. Dinner will be a turn of the glass after sundown.”
The woman left them, and Varina lifted eyebrows toward Karl. “Morel . . .” she said. “Nico said that he’d run away from his tantzia and onczio. Could she be . . . ?”
“Morel’s a common enough name in Nessantico.” He shrugged. “But there are obviously some questions we should ask. If we still had the boy . . .”
Karl was already certain that the connection was there, though he wasn’t sure how he knew. He could see from Varina’s face that she was thinking the same. If he’d believed in any god at all, he might have thought they’d been led here by divine fortune.
That evening, after taking the woman’s offer of a bath to rid them of the worst of the road stink, he and Varina took their supper in the common room of the tavern, both to avoid suspicion and so that they could hear any gossip that might have reached the village regarding the escape of the Regent from the Bastida. The room was—he suspected from the harried looks of Alisa, her children who served as the waiting staff, and her husband Bayard behind the short bar near the kitchen door—more crowded than usual, and the talk was largely of the events in Nessantico, which seemed to have reached the village only a few days ago.
“I spoke to the offizier of the search squad myself,” Bayard Morel was saying loudly to an audience of a half dozen villagers. “His horse had thrown its shoe, and so he had me shoe the beast for him. He said that Kraljiki Audric, may Cénzi bless ’im, sent riders out on every road from the city to catch the traitor and those Numetodo heretics with him. The offizier’s squad was to scour the road all the way to Varolli if necessary. He told me that the Numetodo killed three dozen Garde Kralji in the Bastida with their awful, blasphemous magic, killed ’em without a thought even though some of them were still in their beds. They left the tower where ca’Rudka was held in rubble, nothing but great stones strewn all over the ground. They were spouting fire as they rode off, a horrible blue fire, the offizier said, that slew people along the Avi as they passed, and then, with a great whoosh—” and here Bayard spread his hands suddenly wide, knocking over the nearest tankard of ale and causing his audience to rear back in wide-eyed terror, “—they vanished in a cloud of foul black smoke. Just like that. All told, there are over a hundred dead in the city. I tell you, death is too good a fate for the Regent. They ought to drag him alive through the streets and let the stones of the Avi tear the very flesh from his bones and rip off that silver nose of his while he screams.”
The people in the room murmured their agreement with that assessment. Varina leaned close to Karl, grimacing as the movement pulled at the knitting wound on her arm. “By next week, he’ll have it at a thousand dead. But at least it seems the searchers have already moved through. We’re behind them. That’s good, right?” She searched his face with anxious eyes, and he grunted assent even though he wasn’t so certain himself.
Watching the room, he noticed that there was another woman helping to serve the patrons: dour and tired-looking, her mouth never gentled with a smile. She looked several years younger than Alisa, but there was a family resemblance between the two: in the eyes, in the narrow nose, in the set of her lips. She appeared too old to be Alisa’s child, all of whom were still striplings. When one of the children—a sullen boy on the cusp of puberty—set a plate of sliced bread on their table, he pointed to her. “That woman there . . . who is that?”
The boy sniffed and scowled. “That’s my Tantzia Serafina. She’s living with us right now.”
“She looks unhappy.”
“She’s been that way for a while now, since Nico ran away.”
Karl glanced at Varina. “Who’s Nico?”
“Her son,” the boy said, the scowl deepening. “A bastardo. I didn’t like him anyway. Always talking nonsense about Westlanders and magic and trying to pretend he could do magic himself like he was a téni. Everyone had to waste three days looking for him after he left, and my vatarh rode all the way to Certendi, but no one ever found him. I think he’s probably dead.” He seemed inordinately satisfied with that conclusion, satisfaction curling a corner of his mouth.
“Ah.” Karl nodded. “You’re probably right. It’s not an easy world out there for travelers. I was just wondering why she looked so sad.” Varina was looking away now, staring at Serafina, her knuckles to her mouth. The boy scuffled his feet on the rough wooden floor, sniffed and wiped his arm across his nose, and went back into the kitchen.
“Gods, it is her.” Varina gave a nearly imperceptible shake of her head. “What do we do, Karl? That’s Nico’s matarh.”
Karl plucked a piece of bread from the plate that the boy had brought. He tore off a chunk of the brown loaf and tucked it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “If we could give her Nico,” he said after he swallowed, “I wonder if she would give us Talis in return?”
Jan ca’Vörl
JAN MOTIONED TO THE GARDAI outside the door. “Let me in,” he said. The two men glanced at each other once, quickly, before one of them opened the door. As Jan stepped inside, the garda started to follow. Jan shook his head at the man. “Alone,” he said. The garda hesitated before nodding his head once in salute. The door closed behind Jan again.
“You’re a brave one, to be in a room alone with his enemy. And that one will be reporting to Commandant cu’Göttering that you’ve come to visit me. Cu’Göttering will undoubtedly inform your matarh.”
Candlelight reflected from silver as Sergei turned to regard Jan. The man had been placed in one of the interior rooms of Brezno Palais, his meal laid out before him on a damask-covered table, the hearth crackling with a fire to take off the night chill, and a comfortable bed soft with down pillows and coverlets. He was wearing a new, clean bashta and had evidently taken a bath, and his graying hair was newly oiled.
He sat in a prison woven of silk.
“I don’t care that cu’Göttering knows, nor my matarh. Are you so dangerous, Regent ca’Rudka?” Jan asked the man, standing across the table from him.
In reply, Sergei reached down to
his bootheel: slowly, so that Jan could see him. He slid a slender, short-handled and flat blade from between the sole and leather and placed it on the table, sliding it across the table toward Jan. “Always, Hïrzg Jan,” the man answered with a faint smile. “Your great-vatarh would have told you that. Your matarh as well. If I’d wanted you dead, you would be dead already.”
Jan stared at the blade. He’d watched the gardai search the man for weapons, had heard them declare the Regent unarmed. “I think I’ll need to have a talk with Commandant cu’Göttering about the training of his men.” He reached down to touch the hilt with a fingertip, but otherwise didn’t pick up the knife. “What else did they miss?”
Sergei only smiled. Jan put his hand on the knife and slid it back across the table to Sergei, who sheathed it again in his boot. “So, Hïrzg Jan,” Sergei said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Jan wasn’t certain of that himself. The initial meeting with Sergei had left him unsettled, listening to his matarh and to Archigos ca’Cellibrecca, knowing that they’d dominated the moment. In truth, he was feeling overwhelmed by the suddenness of events: Fynn’s assassination, Elissa’s flight, the news from the Holdings, the Regent’s arrival. His vatarh had left Brezno in an angry rush; his matarh and the Archigos were suspiciously close. It was as if he were being swept along helplessly in a flood he hadn’t seen and hadn’t anticipated. He found himself feeling lost and uncertain, and he’d brooded on that for long turns of the glass, unable to lose himself in the now-forced gaiety of the party or the distractions of the young women who flirted with him or the urgent speculations that erupted all around him.
