“He’s predisposed, I take it?”
“At present. Tell me why you wanted to see him.”
“That’s his business and mine.”
“Guardsman Valle has no other business than that which his commanding officers assign him. But let us leave that aside for the moment and discuss your business, Commander Risto, as ranking officer of the Tasso garrison. We are not officially at war in Tasso, so I suppose it is improbable the Senate will press to execute you for abandoning your post. Nevertheless, they might see fit to strip you of rank. Your presence in Modigne constitutes what seems to me a flagrant breach of your oath to the Senate and People.” The Guardsman’s voice was cool. “I’m left to believe you’re at best incompetent, at worst a traitor—an idiot, in any case, to come here. Any reason sufficient to justify your being here is mine rightfully to know. Tell me what you wanted of Valle.”
“I’m here at the dying request of Nico Briule.”
He did not know what sort of reaction he had hoped for. The Guardsman did not react visibly, at any rate. His eyes were unblinking on Torien’s face. “I was unaware you were in contact with Commander Briule immediately prior to his death.”
“He left behind a message in code. He named his betrayer.”
“It is my understanding,” the Guardsman said, “that Commander Briule betrayed his own men, having jeopardized his mission for the sake of a recalcitrant signo—in which case he deserved the manner of death he died.”
“Espere knew too much too soon for Briule to have been the traitor.”
“Anything to absolve him—any which way the logic must be twisted.” The Guardsman smiled, cuttingly. “Valle tried it the same. But very well. I will humor you for the sake of argument. If not Commander Briule, then explain to me who else.”
“Someone else who knew there were Guardsmen in Tasso—who knew everything of the mission except that for one narrow window of time Briule’s men would be out on the Road rather than in the city.”
“One of the command.” The Guardsman was pouring oil into the lamp in a thin, careful stream. “Yes—so Valle said.”
“Pavo,” Torien said.
The Guardsman’s hand on the oil jug was steady. The stream did not waver. “You suggest the High Commander has been trafficking Imperial citizens into the mines at Tasso.”
He thought he had known, this time, what the Guardsman’s reaction would be. He blinked. “Yes.”
“This was Commander Briule’s belief?”
“And mine.”
“You have evidence—more than a dying man’s tortured raving, I mean? You realize more than that will be necessary.”
“It had to have been one of the command. And Briule’s testimony can’t be dismissed as tortured raving. He had presence of mind enough to formulate a code.”
The Guardsman set the jug on the desktop and wiped a trickle of oil from the rim with his thumb. “You’ve only this lieutenant Chareste’s word that Briule spoke at all. As a friend of Briule’s, Chareste has reason to want him exonerated.”
“Chareste is trustworthy.”
“To your mind.”
“There were other witnesses. Lieutenant Savio—”
“Doesn’t matter,” the Guardsman said, “any more than Chareste does—not to the Emperor, at any rate. I will remind you that Maris Pavo has been His Majesty’s favorite since they were boys.” He glanced up. “Surely you understand if the High Commander is behind this business in Tasso, it was a risk to come here to this place?”
“I had no choice.”
“You had, as a matter of fact, but that is beside the point now. I’m curious as to what you thought Valle might be able to do. He is neither an officer nor noble blood.”
“I didn’t know what he might be able to do. I didn’t particularly care. I meant to save his life.”
The Guardsman studied Torien expressionlessly. He said, at length, “He left last night on a ship for Salina.”
The knots, which had been constricting slowly inside him, loosened just a little. “I looked for him on the manifests for Salina. I didn’t see his name.”
“Neither will the command, should they look. He is traveling under an assumed name.”
“You can tell me which ship?”
“I can tell you which ship. With a good wind, perhaps you may catch him at Salina. Almost certainly you will catch him on the river.” The Guardsman shrugged. “It won’t do you any good. Unless you find a way to incapacitate Pavo, you’ll still be hanging on the Traitors’ Wall when this is done.”
“Does it matter to you?”
“Your hanging on the Wall? Not particularly. But I recognize you may be useful—necessary, even, if Pavo is to be eliminated. You’ve already proven yourself a radical: Aregne can testify as much. It will be easy enough to hang this around your neck should you fail.”
Torien looked at him sharply. “Is this still hypothetical? Humoring me for the sake of argument?”
“Commander Briule would not have betrayed his men, willingly or otherwise. This was always beyond dispute in my mind, if indefensible rhetorically.” The Guardsman was looking at his hands on the desktop, rubbing the knuckles with his fingers, flexing the fingers as though they pained him. His face was blank. “I care to see Pavo brought down, Risto. If you can’t believe it’s because I care for justice, then perhaps you’ll believe it’s because I cared for Nico.”
“Did you?”
The Guardsman looked up from his hands. He smiled. This time it was a strained, sad smile. His face broke and it was an old man’s face and it had been strong for too long. “He was my son.”
Torien closed his eyes, briefly. He saw, against his will, the body mutilated beyond recognition in Valle’s arms on the gate wall, and it occurred to him that he had not once thought of Nico Briule beyond the context of Espere, of Tasso. He had not wondered who might be left to mourn him. He glanced away across the room. He did not want the Guardsman to see in his face what was in his mind. “I’m sorry.”
“He knew the risks.” The elder Briule’s voice was steady, carefully so. “Objectively, at least. I do not imagine that to his mind they were anything more than risks. He was a talented officer, rightfully confident in his abilities. It wouldn’t have made any difference to him, of course—to know the end. He’d have been willing even so. I knew that of him. I knew his devotion to his work, which is why I—couldn’t bring myself to believe he was the traitor, despite the logic—couldn’t bring myself to believe that even under coercion—”
He faltered. He fell silent. He bowed his head over the desktop as though a weight had dropped on the back of his neck. Leaning on his elbows, he lifted his hands and spread his fingers over his face. Then he pressed his palms flat together against his lips and looked up at Torien over his fingertips. He smiled again. His eyes were hollow. “We were speaking of your usefulness.”
“You want me to kill Pavo.”
“You? You wouldn’t get close enough to him to shout so he’d hear you.”
“Then what do you need from me?”
“I need you to tell what you’ve told me to the one person in the Empire who can kill Pavo.”
“You said it would make no difference to him.”
“I’ll correct myself. There are two people in the Empire who can kill Pavo. I want you to go to the one who will. His Majesty would never. More than once, he’s turned a blind eye to Pavo’s indiscretions. Informed of this, he’ll slap Pavo on the wrist and tell him to be less sloppy next time, and he’ll let you or Valle hang for it—probably Valle, because your father has too many friends in the Senate, and His Majesty knows it. No, I want you to go to the one who recognizes the precariousness of his position—who knows there’s only so long the Senate will put up with the Emperor’s incompetence, and who feels threatened accordingly.”
“Threatened enough to kill his father’s favorite?”
“If the alternative is to lose the throne
—yes. And the Prince knows how to turn his father’s wrath.”
Torien brushed a hand across his eyes. “I asked for a posting away from Choiro for a reason.”
“If you wanted to stay out of Choiro, you should have kept your head down and your mouth shut. You will need to be discreet, as it is. I do not recommend you travel by ship.”
“Valle will be dead by the time I’ve crossed the border if I go over land.”
“Go by ship and you will be dead at Salina. You can put on civilian clothes and go under a different name, and still there is the possibility someone will recognize you as Torien Risto—probability, considering the extent of Pavo’s network. I will send to recall Valle. Your only concern is to reach Choiro unseen. Pavo will know before the week is out that he has lost Espere. If he learns you’ve left Tasso, he will guess the reason quickly enough.”
“How do you propose I approach the Prince? Through his window at night?”
“Show your face anywhere on the Hill and Pavo will know it.” Briule was silent for a moment, fingers threaded together against his mouth. “Your best hope is to work by proxy—and preferably through someone outside the circles of the Hill, someone to whom Pavo normally would pay no regard.”
“Yet who has access to the Prince? That may be difficult to arrange.”
“Not as difficult as you’d think.” Briule’s voice was dry. “There is a woman of His Highness’s acquaintance who may be of some use. You’ll have heard of her, perhaps: Chæla Ceno.”
“I’ve heard nothing. Who is she?”
“Nobody, which is why she’s suited to our purposes. A merchant’s daughter. His Highness is—fond of her. It has caused some scandal.”
“A prostitute?”
“A courtesan, to put it more delicately. She has money, if she hasn’t a name. She is an educated woman, and she is ambitious.”
“And she’s trustworthy?”
“Of course not. But she has His Highness’s ear. He has been known to visit the apartment she rents below the Hill. Arrange through her to meet him there. Pavo will think nothing of it.”
“I’ll have to give her some reason, if I can’t give her the truth. For all she knows, I’m luring the Prince there to murder him.”
“She is well aware her status depends to a great extent on her money. You may make her aware that her money depends to an even greater extent on her father’s illegal activities.”
“Ceno has a hand in this trafficking business?”
“He has a fleet in this trafficking business. And Pavo is not such a fool as to protect him should we move against him. As a commoner, he is expendable. The daughter is sensible enough to realize she can’t afford to refuse you.”
“You assume she cares more for her father than for the Prince.”
“I assume she cares more for her money,” Briule said. “In Choiro, that is always the safest assumption.”
It was past noon by the time he came back down to the waterfront. He did not go immediately to the smithy. He had left the black horse in the barracks stable: Briule had given him two saddle-horses for the journey to Choiro, with the promise that the black horse would be exercised daily on the chalk road outside the city. He rode north and west along the quay, then up the mud streets to the girl’s shanty. It was a foolish hope that he would find her there, but even so he was disappointed, when he had dismounted and pulled back the curtain, to see the shanty bare and the fire pit cold.
He considered leaving a note before he remembered she would not be able to read it. Instead, he knelt at the pit and drew the Risto wolf with charcoal on one of the firestones. She would know, at least, that he had been there. She would hear it on the street if she did not find the wolf: he was conscious, as he went back out to the horses, of being watched furtively from nearby curtained doorways. He had bundled his kit behind his saddle and was dressed only in tunic and sandals, but he had his sword belt on his hip and he supposed he still looked soldierly enough, or perhaps Vareno enough in general, to be considered a threat.
Along the quay, the shops were shuttered for the siesta. The street was empty. At one of the wine cellars, the girl was just drawing the curtain across the doorway. She spoke no Vareno, but when he dismounted and pointed here and there on the menu painted on the wall she nodded and held up slim brown fingers to illustrate the price. He paid her in bronze, a coin extra for the trouble, and she brought him a cup of chilled white wine and a skewer of lamb folded in flatbread. She swept out the shop-front while he ate and drank. He finished and gave her back the cup. When she disappeared down through the cellar doorway, he saw for the first time a man standing a little way down the shop-front, leaning against the corner at the shadowed mouth of an alley, watching him across the stretch of empty street.
The man saw that Torien had noticed him. He glanced away. Torien shifted the reins from his right hand to his left and laid an easy palm on the pommel of his sword.
At that moment, an arm slipped around him from behind, pinning his arms. A knife blade slid under his chin. He jerked his head away, panic lurching in his stomach. The blade went over the back of his neck and flicked back across his cheek. Hot blood trickled over his jaw and throat. He snapped his head back into his captor’s face, grinding the man’s foot under his heel. He scrabbled for his sword as the man’s grip loosened. He got the blade from the sheath and twisted against the knifeman’s arm and ran the blade in under the knifeman’s ribs, shaking off the knifeman’s arm as the man fell.
There was movement behind him. The alley mouth was empty. A heavy hand clamped on his shoulder. He braced the first man’s body against the street with one foot so he could yank his blade free, and as he did so he felt a knife slide smoothly in under his sword arm.
The coldness and rigidity of the steel shot through him like the thrill of ice-water. He could not move or breathe. The knifeman lowered him gently to his knees and eased the blade from his ribs. He pushed Torien’s head down with one hand, slipping the knife under Torien’s chin with the other, and though Torien knew in an off-hand way what he was preparing to do, he could not muster any reaction to it. The panic was gone in shock.
The knifeman’s hands dropped away, suddenly. The knife clattered away on the paving stones. The knifeman folded to the street. Torien lifted his head, with effort. He looked up, blinking, into the wine-shop girl’s face.
She knelt quickly beside him. She pulled his arm across her shoulders and raised him to his feet. The knifeman was in a heap, a thrown dagger through his neck. The quay was empty, and the fight had not lasted more than a few moments. The girl’s shoulders were straight and surprisingly strong. She supported him in through the wine-cellar doorway and across the sand-swept floor to the partitioned room at the back of the shop that he understood must be her own quarters.
It was like moving through a dream. The pieces made sense in themselves, but he could not put them together coherently. The girl helped him down onto a straw mat on the floor. He sat cross-legged with his back against the wall. He attempted with stumbling fingers to unbuckle his sword belt, and it occurred to him that he had lost the sword in the street.
The girl put her hands on his hands and said something in her own tongue. She unbuckled the belt and tugged it aside. She took a fold of his tunic between her fingers and said something, gesturing. He nodded. It was painful effort to move his head. He sat with his eyes closed while she cut the tunic away. She went out into the shop, afterward. Bare-chested now, he was deathly cold. He sat shivering against the wall, listening to the girl move around the shop. She was gone for a long time. She came back with a wine jug and a piece of linen. She had his sword in her hands. She put the sword down beside him against the wall. She tore the linen into strips and soaked the strips in wine. She spread one strip over his ribs, covering the wound. She took his right hand and pressed it over the cloth. She dabbed at his face with another strip of cloth. He felt the wine in a stinging line where the first man’s blade
had opened the skin across his neck and cheek. The blood ran warm. The girl held the cloth to his face and neck until the bleeding subsided. Then she crumpled the cloth and gestured again, indicating the sword, then the street, then herself.
With sudden clarity, he caught her wrist with his left hand as she stood. “Not the fort,” he said. He swallowed the urge to vomit. His fingers tightened involuntarily on her wrist.
The girl said, hesitantly, “Help, yes?”
“Not the fort. Na bayas o—fort. Not the fort. Do you understand?”
She looked down at him silently. He let go her wrist and leaned over and traced with his forefinger in the sand on the floor. He drew the Imperial sun. He looked up at the girl to see if she understood. She nodded. He swept his hand over the drawing, erasing it. He shook his head. “Not the fort.”
She spoke in Modigno, illustrating with her hands something he could not follow. Then she was gone. He heard the shop curtain slide on its rings as she went out into the street.
At first he forced himself to stay awake. He forced himself to think about what would happen if she had misunderstood—or, conversely, if she had understood perfectly well, and had gone to the fort hoping for the bounty on a deserter. But she would not have left him his weapons, in that case. If she had gone to the fort, it was well-intended. It would not make a difference in the end, but at least it was well-intended. On further reflection, he twisted his seal ring from his finger and pulled his sword belt over with his left hand and dropped the ring down the empty sheath. Then he held the sheath between his knees and sheathed his sword. It would not make much difference either—there were plenty of men at the fort who would recognize him, seal or no, Pavo’s network or no—but if it were uselessness, at least it was not passivity.
The afternoon wore on, and it was too exhausting to think. He hung in a shimmering place somewhere between waking and sleeping, his head thick with the smell of wine and blood. There were flies buzzing on the wall, and he heard the snap of the shop curtain in the breeze off the water. There was sweat on his skin, and the breeze was cold. His hand slipped of its own from his ribs. The cloth tumbled to the mat. He considered, briefly and dully, the effort to reach and pick it up, but he could not see any benefit to it, and anyway his hand was uncooperative now at his side, his fingers numb. He turned his head against the wall and braced his chin on his shoulder and closed his eyes.
Blood Road Page 17
