‘So, here they are,’ the old man applauded with hands twisted by arthritis. ‘Oh yes, the scent, the pleasant scent of the noble lord. And with him . . .’
He sniffed the air. Coming closer, Laerte saw that the man’s eyes were covered by a white film.
‘Cataracts,’ de Page explained. ‘Don’t mind him, he’s mad.’
‘A man of the sword?’ the old man cried cheerfully. ‘Wise, wise, yes, oh yes, but not sufficient.’
‘Shut up, you stupid old monk,’ ordered de Page. ‘We’re not here to listen to your foolishness.’
Laerte had never heard the duke speak so sternly. When the councillor turned towards him, he saw his face also bore a severe expression.
‘Brother Galapa looked after this monastery. The crazy old fool never realised what a treasure he was sitting on.’
‘Oh, but I did,’ Galapa contradicted him, still wearing a grin. ‘Yes, oh yes, but other people never listen to me, ha-ha! Galapa doesn’t see? Galapa sees everything! And he hears things too.’
De Page seemed annoyed, but he adopted a more seemly attitude, placing a hand on Laerte’s shoulder.
‘Come, we’ll find Aladzio down below.’
He led the young knight to the trap door and took hold of the rope attached to lift it. There was a flickering glow in the darkness beneath. De Page stooped to enter.
‘It’s all down below, yes, oh yes, always,’ laughed Galapa, rubbing his hands. ‘The little knight will find so many things down below. Was it written? Oh yes, surely. Yes, oh yes.’
The old man continued to nod his head, giggling. Laerte gave him a final suspicious glance before entering the hole in his turn. There were stairs and, to his great relief, the passage grew steadily larger. He climbed down, gradually straightening up, and joined de Page who waited for him at the mouth of a tunnel. Torches sputtered on the damp walls. Their light flickered upon the heavy stones, the cracks between them filled with black dust.
They followed the tunnel until de Page caught sight of a small alcove.
‘Here.’
He ducked his head and stepped within.
The creaking of the old door was loud in the narrow corridor. Laerte hesitated for a moment before entering the niche, seeing a small opening that led him into a large and strange-looking room filled with the scent of pepper and jasmine. Here and there among the long, heavy wooden tables, candelabra diffused a golden glow over piles of books. The high ceiling featured heavy slotted beams from which giant spider webs hung. A few alembics filled with boiling liquids of various colours fumed away on top of dusty old tomes.
‘My lords,’ a small voice to their right called out in greeting.
Startled, Laerte instinctively brought his hand to the pommel of his sword. But he relaxed slightly when he saw it was an attractive young woman. Her green eyes shone in the soft light.
‘You don’t recognise Viola?’ the duke laughed. ‘Viola Aguirre?’
He patted Laerte’s shoulder, amused. The young knight stood looking at her. When he had first met her, during one of his stays at the villa a few years earlier, she’d been a child fresh from the country. Today she was a young and pretty woman with her red hair tied back, a few delicate strands falling upon her milky white nape and dangling in front of her ears. She had timid eyes and freckles sprinkled across her cheeks. Wearing a simple brown dress, there was a certain elegance about her.
He wasn’t attracted to her, no, just surprised to see how much she had changed. But had he remained the same? His years of wandering had surely hardened him.
‘She’s trustworthy. She’s a historian now!’ de Page informed him proudly, walking between the tables overflowing with manuscripts.
Viola greeting the young man with a clumsy curtsey, blushing. Just as she was about to speak to him he turned away, intrigued by the strange utensils sitting beside the books. As to what purpose these odds and ends might serve, he had no idea. On the other hand, the person making use of them was no great mystery.
‘Frog! Ah, ah, ah! Frog!’ chortled a jovial voice.
In a corner dimly lit by a few candles, a familiar figure was descending a ladder placed against a tall bookcase. When he walked towards Laerte with his arms opened wide the knight discerned, little by little, a coat with puffed shoulders and a tricorne jammed over a face split by a wide grin.
‘So good to see you here! Ha-ha! Fro . . . excuse me, Laerte,’ Aladzio corrected himself. ‘I’ll never get used to that.’
‘Well, who would have guessed that the cellar of that mouldy old tower was hiding such a library?’ Laerte said in wonderment.
‘No one,’ replied de Page.
Laerte looked around for the duke and found him sitting in a large armchair behind one of the book-laden tables. The nobleman rubbed a hand over his smooth-shaven chin.
‘Viola,’ he called, while staring at Laerte. ‘If you would be kind enough to leave us now, Galapa will be happy to tell you one of his mad stories.’
Near the small door, the young woman gave a brief nod of her head, barely disguising her disappointment. She knew certain things would be kept from her until the end and, despite her curious nature, she was forced to accept the situation. De Page was careful to keep control of everything, both information and the roles of everyone involved.
‘As usual?’ she asked a little wearily. ‘I can just pretend to be listening to him?’
‘That’s it,’ de Page smiled.
When the door shut behind her, Aladzio gave the young man a friendly pat on the shoulder.
‘It’s such a great pleasure to see you, if you only knew. Such a great pleasure,’ he repeated cheerily. ‘How many years has it been since our last meeting?’
‘Three,’ Laerte replied simply.
They’d been at the villa, he recalled. A brief conversation before he returned to the road, seeking Esyld. De Page had scarcely had any news to give him on the subject during all this time, but nothing other than his thirst for vengeance could divert him from his quest.
‘Three,’ Aladzio echoed thoughtfully. ‘Yes, three years. You were returning from Polieste. Did you take my advice and go back to the Saltmarsh?’
Laerte let out a sigh. The Saltmarsh. He had been avoiding travelling to the region, it would be his last resort. Returning to the marshes, seeing Aëd’s Watch again, walking in the footsteps of the past . . . he had baulked at the idea for several reasons. Of all the lands within the Republic, Esyld might well have found refuge in the Saltmarsh after the fall of the Empire. If he couldn’t find her there, he would lose all hope of ever being reunited with her. So, perhaps paradoxically, he kept postponing a visit there.
Aware that he had touched on a delicate matter, Aladzio immediately moved on to something else.
‘Beakie has often told me about you, you know. I think she’s grown fond of you after all this time.’
Laerte relaxed.
‘Aladzio,’ he smiled, tilting his head towards him. ‘It’s a bird.’
‘A falcon!’ protested the inventor, drawing back from him. ‘A peregrine falcon who, I may remind you, has always brought you our letters. She’s not a . . .’
He pinched his lips distastefully before scornfully pronouncing:
‘. . . bird, as you put it.’ He pointed an accusing finger at Laerte. ‘She will be sad when I tell her you said that. Really, really sad.’
Laerte could not hold back his smile. How good it was to have Aladzio for a friend. While Rogant reassured him with his calmness and self-control, Aladzio’s lunacy brought some lightness to his heavy heart. Sometimes when he found himself alone by a campfire and felt his anger gnawing at him, he imagined that the inventor was there at his side.
He loved and respected him – all the more because he knew Aladzio was in constant danger, working for the Azdekis since de Page’s father had ceded his services to them, but secretly being the duke’s accomplice. Although everyone took pains not to raise any suspicion where he was concerned, if a single mi
stake were made, if a single message mentioning the inventor were to fall into Etienne’s hands, it would mean certain death for Aladzio . . . And for good reason. Theodus de Page, sensing death approach, had transferred him to his partners because the inventor had displayed such astonishing intellectual acuity since his earliest youth.
At the age of fifteen, he had translated a text derived from the ancient Gueyle dialect. At sixteen, he had written an account of the Perthuis dynasty’s ascent to power, described the victorious tactics deployed by the Marjoranes during the great battle of Polieste, and even proposed an effective counter-strategy. His only weakness was his instability: a gentle form of madness that he was unable to control and which, at times, distanced him from reality. It was a kind of childlike naivety, and it could always soothe Laerte.
‘Beakie has always been sweet with you. She’s very fond of you,’ Aladzio ruminated, shaking his head in disappointment. ‘Very fond.’
‘Aladzio,’ called de Page quietly.
‘There are bonds between men and beasts that must be respected, things that are . . . beyond the ordinary world, and you should not be scornful of them, Frog. I mean, Laerte.’
‘Aladzio!’
De Page raised his voice, and spoke with just enough authority to make the inventor fall silent. But he continued to look annoyed and muttered to himself as he set his tricorne down on the table to his left.
‘I don’t think Laerte has come all this way to hear you talk about your bi . . . about your friend Beakie. And we have more important matters to discuss. Am I wrong?’
De Page had no need to insist further, for Aladzio’s face lit up with a smile. He hastily pushed away several books lying on the table and dusted off the covers of others before finding the one he was looking for.
‘Heeere it is,’ he said.
He raised his eyes towards Laerte, looking delighted, and tapped the worn goatskin cover.
‘The codex.’
‘The codex?’ Laerte repeated uncertainly.
‘Of Gueyle,’ interrupted de Page, eager to get to the point. ‘One of the most ancient dialects of the former Kingdoms. And one of the first written scripts. This language was lost over the course of time, and would still be but for—’
‘Me!’ Aladzio proudly interrupted. ‘Ha-ha! Here we are in one of the first libraries of the Fangolin copyists!’
As he spoke, he walked backwards between the tables, with his arms spread wide and the codex held in one hand.
‘Books by the hundreds, Laerte! And in each of them, centuries of knowledge: dead languages, glyphs, descriptions, and this codex which establishes the link between the three Liabers that we know and . . . and . . .’
He stopped in the middle of the room, with a graver expression than Laerte had ever seen before.
‘I succeeded.’
Laerte’s face darkened. He gave de Page a black look and the nobleman met his glare without flinching.
‘Succeeded in what?’ Laerte asked, feeling a dull anger coming to life inside him.
Between the tables, Aladzio shook his head dreamily and then looked around the room.
‘In understanding,’ he revealed.
He hurried over to the ladder. The top was hooked to rails and he slid it along the bookcase.
‘About the power of the Book,’ he explained, running his hand across the spines of the volumes aligned on the shelves. ‘The power of those writings . . . and what it is the Azdekis are after.’
Once again, Laerte exchanged a glance with the duke and, seeing de Page’s contrite headshake, realised that his impatience was visible on his face. Was political power not enough for Etienne Azdeki and his uncle? Were they harbouring some other ambition? They had everything – the Republic, the Liaber Dest – what more could they want? He needed clear answers.
‘Aladzio,’ called de Page. ‘The facts. Keep to the facts.’
The inventor paused, looking surprised. But when he opened his mouth to express his dissatisfaction, it was Laerte’s voice that rang out.
‘What do they hope to do with Liaber Dest? That’s what this all about, isn’t it? Aladzio, you’ve translated it at last . . .’
De Page contented himself with giving Laerte an enigmatic stare without saying a word. The young knight heard Aladzio’s quick footsteps behind him. He turned sharply as the inventor drew close and found him looking somewhat sheepish, lifting a finger to the tip of his nose.
‘Not . . . exactly,’ he murmured, as if sharing a shameful secret. ‘It’s more—’
‘The Liaber Dest cannot be translated like an ordinary book,’ de Page interrupted quietly. ‘It has to be decoded. It is made up of poems, of thoughts written in several languages, and of engravings. They need to be assembled in the right order for their true meaning to become clear.’
‘It’s the destiny of men, Laerte,’ continued Aladzio, suddenly excited. ‘The legend of the monk in the Tower of Fangol, who heard the voices of the gods murmuring the destiny of humanity! For thirty days and thirty nights, he wrote it all down. Thirty days and thirty nights without food, without rest, until he died . . . I still don’t understand it all, but . . .’
‘But what?’ said Laerte angrily, pressing up against the inventor. ‘Have you decoded it? What do the Azdekis want? Tell me. Talk about that, and only that, Aladzio.’
‘I haven’t decoded it yet,’ Aladzio immediately replied. ‘It’s complex. I’ve seen things in it, yes, that could be related to past events, or could be warnings about things to come. But how to be sure of that? And—’
‘They want to overthrow the Republic,’ de Page suddenly cut in.
The duke leaned on the armrests of his chair and slowly stood up.
‘They created it but they can no longer control it. The Order of Fangol is losing its legitimacy, they’re being supplanted by other beliefs. Nothing is turning out as they planned. Azdeki dreamt of being a saviour; the people’s chosen one. He has always hoped to find a glorious destiny laid out for him in the Sacred Book. He wants to reveal that he possesses the Liaber Dest, and now that Aladzio has started to decode it, it has become a matter of time before he is capable of reading it . . . and understanding the gods.’
Without even glancing towards Laerte and Aladzio, he carefully adjusted the sleeves of his shirt.
‘Think of the Azdekis, Rhunstag, Enain-Cassart, all those who had lost faith in the Reyes dynasty. When your father revealed the pact between your family and the Reyes Emperors – keeping the Liaber Dest secret for so long, and ensuring a Reyes always led the Order of Fangol – they had no doubt what needed to be done. They have always believed that the Liaber Dest holds the destiny of humanity and that the Order of Fangol is the sole guarantor of respect for that tradition. But now that they have founded the Republic, they have discovered it is leaning dangerously towards beliefs and ideas that do not suit them at all. They don’t simply want the power to make decisions. They want the power to shape a world in their image, as the Reyes and Usters did. Do you see, Laerte?’
De Page gave him an even smile.
‘We have common interests. Before we act, I need to be sure I have all the cards in my hand. At this very moment, Azdeki is preparing his advent. I need to know who is ready to follow him and I know where we can find them. To satisfy his pride, he wants to associate this moment with his son’s wedding. A great new dynasty will supplant the Republic, with the support of the gods and an Order of Fangol more powerful than ever. Your father’s dream will be swept away once the Azdekis have no further use for it.’
‘No,’ said Laerte in a murmur. ‘Never.’
‘No. We will prevent this from happening.’
‘When?’
Laerte’s voice cracked like a whip.
‘In a year’s time,’ announced de Page. ‘At Masalia, during Masque Night. After the wedding of his son.’
‘During Masque Night.’
‘After the wedding . . .’
The wedding . . . When he had told La
erte this, de Page must have known who the happy bride was. His silence was no doubt intended to prevent Laerte from attending the ceremony. In vain. A year later, the cathedral bells were pealing. And a man advanced slowly through the crowd, his face hidden by the shadow of his hood. Laerte made his way forward without anyone noticing him. His discretion was equal to his rage: they were both complete. He weaved through the costumed guests under the very noses of the guards on duty and entered the cathedral.
The bells pealed, while Laerte’s broken heart quivered and jumped in his chest.
The bells pealed and, in the house, they sounded like a death-knell to Viola. If Laerte revealed himself before Masque Night began, all would be lost.
12
THE CHOICE
I did not doubt, no!
I never doubted the Liaber Dest,
But it had been thus for centuries.
To the Usters the Book, to us the Sword.
The great stained-glass windows lining the nave split the sunlight into a hundreds of multi-coloured rays. They landed on the tiled floor, caressed the edges of the varnished pews and enhanced the fine fabrics worn by the guests.
From deep purple velvet to the leafy green of their jackets, from azure blue to the pure white of their ceremonial robes, all of Republican high society was on display in Masalia’s cathedral. Perched on the wooden beams crossing thirty feet above the floor, and nestled along the cornices, turtledoves fluttered their wings, indifferent to the strange spectacle taking place before their eyes. They might have been the only beings to see the anomalous silhouette with a hood thrown over its slightly bowed head.
Laerte slipped among the crowd so discreetly that his presence barely registered. He insinuated himself between the guests, barely brushing against them and keeping a watchful eye on the soldiers posted by the towering columns.
The Path of Anger Page 43
