Aladzio nodded towards a platform where servants were already hoisting some reserve barrels into place.
‘Pile them up over there.’
Rogant clapped his hands and his people hastened towards the platform to deposit their barrels. Aladzio advanced into the courtyard and then, lifting the tip of his hat and turning slowly around, he looked up at the balconies.
‘I filled them correctly,’ he assured Rogant when the Nâaga joined him. He offered an embarrassed smile, rubbing his hands nervously.
‘I don’t doubt that for a second,’ Rogant replied calmly.
‘Ah? Because I do, a little, when all is said and done,’ Aladzio declared suddenly.
He raised his eyes towards the nearest balcony, imagining Laerte’s silhouette lurking behind one of the columns.
‘We’ll know for sure soon enough,’ he said, resigned to it. ‘Either there’s just enough to create a diversion or we’ll all go up in smoke. Nothing to worry about!’
He patted the Nâaga’s shoulder before moving away.
‘Wonderful . . .’ sighed Rogant.
The guards’ boots clattered across the corridor. The four soldiers advanced in a mechanical fashion, as though they were so used to taking this route that they no longer marvelled at the magnificent red wall hangings brightly lit by the oil lamps. On this festive evening they bore their frustration silently as they marched back and forth, mentally cursing their patrol leader for assigning them to this part of the Palatio and denying them the possibility of seeing all the costumed guests. They kept their hands on the pommels of their swords, but did not expect any call to draw them forth. Although two murders had been committed during the course of the preceding days, it was unlikely another crime would be perpetrated in this place. Especially when their own numbers had been doubled at the last minute.
The three men coming towards them were part of these reinforcements, wearing leather chest protectors and armed with plain swords, plus bows slung over their shoulders. Their kit seemed rather dull next to the bright armour sported by the Palatio’s regular soldiers, but the extra troops reassured the dignitaries. They’d been assigned to watch only areas forbidden to the public, where no one except the regular guards would look askance at their appearance.
They saluted with wordless nods of the head, when a caped figure appeared at the end of the corridor. A golden mask shone beneath its hood and its left hand gripped the hilt of a sword.
The regular guards had no time to react, blades piercing their backs and punching out through their breastplates. With firm hands the mercenaries slit their victims’ throats before assisting their fall and depositing them gently upon the tiled floor. Laerte stepped over the dead bodies silently. He beckoned the soldiers of fortune to follow him.
‘Did you have a pleasant journey?’ asked Viola.
Taking her outstretched hand, the duke descended nimbly from the running board, leaving the quiet of the coach for the hubbub of the big square before the Palatio. The disgust he felt when he saw a rivulet of urine running between the cobblestones remained hidden behind the wild boar’s mask covering his face. Not far from them a squad of guards were berating a man who struggled to raise his trousers, his balance unsteady, in front of a bed of flowers.
‘The festivities have already begun, it seems,’ remarked de Page.
People thronged to the square, merry and colourful, all of them dressed in strange costumes which varied from the most refined to the most patched together, wearing masks that were elaborate or made of mere paper. Only eyes could be seen, only words counted, appearance meant nothing. Masque Night had always been thus, an ancient celebration which the Republic had adopted as a national event. Feigning equality for a single evening, it allowed the citizens to forget their origins; the most exalted noble sitting beside the humble artisan, the wealthy man drinking with the pauper, their differences hidden. This year, at the invitation of Councillor Azdeki, most of the dignitaries in Emeris had made the trip to Masalia and the southern port city thus found itself hosting a Masque Night of unusual significance.
Flutes and mandolins accompanied singers offering a one-night performance. Roars of laughter ran through the crowd. Bodies en-twined without any sense of modesty, exchanging kisses and caresses beneath the amused gaze of onlookers.
‘We left the house just as you asked,’ Viola told the duke, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow.
De Page gave her a smile that she only saw in the crinkling of his eyes. He seemed to be devouring her with his gaze and she could not disguise the blush that spread across her cheeks. A mask hid the upper part of her face, with plumes rising along her brow to curve back over her braided hair. Her low-cut dress the same blue as the sky at twilight and the gauzy fabric revealed her thighs with every step she took.
‘Although it cost me some,’ muttered de Page, ‘Dun will give us no cause for concern. He is taken care of. That matter is closed.’
‘The main thing was the item he held.
I don’t think Laer—’
‘Don’t defend him,’ the duke replied brusquely. ‘Choosing to reveal himself to the old man, without warning me, is something we will settle later. For now, let’s look happy, Viola Aguirre.’
They traversed the crowd, presented their invitations to the guards and were then escorted to the front steps of the Palatio, whose domed roof was illuminated by a thousand torches. Overhead, the moon grew brighter and brighter and the stars began to twinkle shyly. They entered the palace, discovering its sumptuous décor of marble and ancient tapestries whose beauty was enhanced in the warm light shed by torches and oil lamps. They were led to an immense ballroom decorated with wall hangings and crystal chandeliers, imposing statues and paintings by master artists. Two wide stairways descended from the floor above, each of them forming a perfect curve. And above it all, rising from a height of thirty feet, the Palatio’s dome covered the room with a martial painting, including the depiction of a semi-nude woman planting a spear in the heart of a misshapen Emperor.
There they all were, in their finest attire, with masks subtly fitted to their faces, as they laughed, chatted, bellowed and drank blood-red wine from silver goblets. They stuffed themselves at the gargantuan buffet set up around the edge of a great indoor fountain from which rose a statue of a bearded colossus. De Page had no trouble recognising the councillors he had grown accustomed to debating with in the assembly, but which of them stood ready to join Etienne Azdeki’s cause? There was Rhunstag with his wife, both of them wearing bear masks. He had proudly draped one of his ever-present animal hides across his shoulders. Not far from them, conversing with four other councillors, Bernevin had chosen a simple domino mask combined with his usual statesman’s toga. But the person who drew de Page’s closest attention wore an eagle’s head, its sharp beak casting a slight shadow over his thin lips and clean shaven chin. A black mantle with a silver belt fell to his mid-thighs and from his waist hung a slender sword in a scabbard set with precious stones.
He felt Viola lean against him when Azdeki caught sight of them and made his way through the crowd to greet them.
‘What a surprise to see you here,’ said Azdeki in a grating tone.
‘You recognise me? Have I chosen my camouflage so poorly?’ the duke replied playfully.
‘On the contrary, your mask is a near-perfect reflection of yourself . . . But I would have thought you preferred the capital’s climate to our stifling southern heat.’
‘I thought accepting your invitation was the polite thing to do, dear Councillor Azdeki. Your son’s wedding is a major event in our fair Republic.’
Azdeki nodded, his eyes narrowing behind the eagle mask. Finally he turned his head to look at Viola.
‘And this must be the first time I’ve seen you with a woman.’
‘Oooh, let’s not be fooled by appearances,’ murmured de Page with unfeigned pleasure. ‘On Masque Night we are all free to adopt the image we choose. Even a weak man can pretend to be
powerful, don’t you think? It’s only the following morning we realise what an illusion it all was. But perhaps I’m being rude; you’re not the type to let yourself be deluded by illusions.’
‘No,’ replied Azdeki shortly. ‘But you, perhaps?’
‘Me?’ asked de Page in surprise, pressing a hand against his chest. ‘No, let’s forget our disagreements in the assembly. We both serve the Republic, which is at least one point we have in common. Let us respect one another this evening; it might be our last upon this earth. I was sorry to hear a killer has struck in Masalia . . . Poor Enain-Cassart, poor Negus.’
‘The work of a madman who will do no more harm,’ Azdeki assured him firmly.
‘You have doubled the guard, I’m told. I’m not worried, but . . . wasn’t it difficult to find trustworthy men to ensure our safety here?’
‘Are you calling my competence into question in such matters, honourable councillor?’ Azdeki asked with a menacing smile.
‘Not in the least. I simply don’t dare imagine the difficulties involved, to requisition additional guards for the Palatio without stripping the city of its protection. So I concluded that you must have done some . . . recruiting.’
‘I did what was needed, de Page. Have no fear for our security. Whatever you may have heard about this assassin . . . or on any other subject,’ Azdeki said slowly, tilting his head towards the duke in a threatening fashion.
‘Oh, there are always rumours flying about, and you know me. Sometimes, I worry over trifles.’
‘You are cleverer than you let on,’ Azdeki admitted grudgingly. ‘Is there something you would like to say to me, de Page? Any questions about something you might have heard in the corridors of Emeris? Fears for your own safety, perhaps?’
‘No, no, no. Nothing like that. I don’t imagine for a single instant that you’re hiding anything from us. And of course you’ll be able to protect us from this assassin. Accept my apologies; I had no intention of offending you. This evening, above all.’
‘Then, if you will excuse me, I have other guests I must attend to.’
‘Of course, of course,’ de Page agreed. ‘I will go and do what I do best, then, in the company of my lady. Get drunk and indulge in pleasure.’
‘To the first, I don’t doubt it for a second,’ Azdeki said mockingly, turning to Viola. ‘But as for the second, my lady, I fear you may be disappointed.’
‘Ho-ho, what wit,’ de Page acknowledged as Azdeki gave a bow.
The councillor disappeared into the crowd with a hurried step and the pressure on de Page’s arm immediately lessened. Looking at Viola, he could see she was as pale as snow beneath her mask.
‘You had to defy him, you just couldn’t help yourself,’ she accused.
‘So what?’ he replied, looking amused. ‘Azdeki isn’t an idiot. It’s taken him some time, but he’s realised this is not the only evening when I wear a mask. We who work in the shadows recognise one another. He won’t back down because of a few veiled threats. Relax.’
‘I am relaxed!’ she protested, sounding hurt. ‘Although if you enjoyed your verbal duels a little less, I would be more so.’
The buzzing of the crowd covered the councillor’s quiet chuckle. The festivities were fully underway now. At the Palatio gates, a line of halberdiers kept the curious onlookers back, while in the square the people laughed and danced to the rhythm of flute players.
Everything was dark and silent near the staircase. Only the floor-boards creaking beneath his feet proved that he was still alive. Moonlight passed through the dirty windows looking out on the alley, casting long rectangles on the dusty wood. He was alone, he was weary, and he sat down on the stairs. Then he joined his hands upon his knees, trembling. He awaited death, certain that neither Laerte nor de Page would honour their promise to let him leave.
He might have fled. He could have left this house.
But he had come to terms with his situation. Wherever he went he would take his pain with him. So when he heard the wheels of the coach and the sound of hooves on the cobblestones he felt at peace. Soon it would all be over. The snap of the reins was followed by the snorting of the horses and footsteps. He balled his fists when the door handle turned.
The front door slowly opened, letting the light from oil lamps enter. He closed his eyes and straightened up. There in the doorway was the silhouette of a woman wearing a long violet dress with an ample hood over her head.
‘Dun-Cadal,’ she said.
He had already recognised her from her lavender scent. His hand placed upon the railing, he descended the stairs, feeling both surprised and disappointed. He had been waiting for death, but it was Mildrel who came to find him.
She lowered her hood before entering, revealing her calm face. Her eyes, outlined in black, inspected him without her saying a word and, imagining what she might be thinking of his state, he remained silent too. How wrong he had been . . . Laerte had kept his word. The lad still cared about him after all.
‘So, how do I look?’ he asked weakly.
She hesitated . . . then gave him a sad smile.
‘Still as old as ever, despite all the news?’
He let out a wheezing laugh, nodding nervously. His eyes caught the dark patches dotting his hand on the railing. He let it fall to his side.
‘You know then,’ he realised.
‘I know. Frog . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘He survived. That he’s here. And that he asked me to take care of you. That’s all. That’s more than enough for me. They gave me money, enough for both of us to leave Masalia—’
‘Who did?’
‘de Page.’
He nodded gloomily.
‘This doesn’t concern us any more, Dun-Cadal,’ she argued as she came closer to him. ‘The affairs of the Republic are none of our business. We’re from a different time.’
Her black-gloved hands slid over his and, instinctively, he looked down. How slender her fingers were, how lost they looked resting upon his wide, age-marked hands. It seemed so long ago, the days when he went to find her in a richly furnished chamber within the Imperial palace, having just returned from battle, his body still dirty from a long ride on horseback. Their past life seemed to have only existed in a dream.
‘I wandered for a long time before coming to Masalia,’ he confessed, his throat dry, his eyes fixed on their hands as their fingers intertwined. ‘I didn’t know where to go, I was looking for something. Looking for answers. And then, here, I gave up . . .’
‘Answers to what?’
‘About who I am, why I failed,’ he answered in a low breath. ‘A meaning to it all. Why did the gods write such a destiny for us? Am I merely a murmur? And now that . . .’
He was about to mention the Liaber Dest, explain to her his fear that his whole life was reduced there to a single sentence, but de Page had surely refrained from telling her anything about the Book. Dun-Cadal stifled a nervous laugh.
‘You had settled down here,’ he said, ‘you took me in, you tried to protect me from myself. Without much success, but you were always there for me.’
At last he dared to look her straight in the eye and saw something he’d thought he’d never wanted to see again: the blaze of love when she looked at him, an unstinting, unending love, capable of bending without ever breaking. So what now? She deserved to have him take care of her for once. They could flee, leave all this behind. As she said: these affairs of the Republic did not concern them.
‘He’s grown up, you know? He’s a man . . .’
His thin smile faded.
‘And he still has scores to settle with Azdeki—’
‘The less we know, the better off we’ll be, Dun-Cadal,’ she said. She was begging him not to continue.
‘Mildrel . . .’
He held her gaze, lifting their hands to shoulder height, then drew closer to her. He could smell her lavender scent, but this time it did not soothe him. He nestled against her, hoping to drive away the sadne
ss that weighed down his heart.
‘We should leave. Come with me,’ Mildred urged. ‘Let’s forget all this. Forget the Republic and its business, forget the Empire, and just live, the two of us. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’
‘Yes . . .’ he murmured.
Mildrel drew away from him, retreating before him, stretching her arms out before letting go of his hands. She was smiling too, but it was a knowing smile, grave and bitter. It was as if she were resigning herself to the inevitable.
‘Will you come with me?’
‘Yes,’ he repeated, disconcerted.
He looked away from her, seeking something in the darkness of house that might remove the thoughts going through his mind. But there was nothing that could help dispel this awful feeling that he was giving up.
‘No,’ he corrected himself.
He paused, hoping Mildrel would get angry and force him to leave the house, climb into the carriage and leave Masalia with her. She remained mute.
‘He’s going to the Palatio,’ he said in an oddly calm voice, ‘he plans to assassinate Azdeki.’
‘And you’re afraid he won’t succeed,’ she said simply.
‘I’m afraid that someone will stop him, will make him lose his nerve, will . . .’
He did not dare draw closer to Mildrel but at least he was brave enough to meet her gaze.
‘He needs me.’
There was no reproach in her eyes, nor any trace of anger, barely even a hint of sadness. She nodded.
‘I don’t know if I’ve always feared it . . . or if I’ve always known it,’ she acknowledged before tilting her head to look back over her shoulder. ‘Coachman! The trunk!’
Out in the street he could see a man’s hunched silhouette. There was the sound of ropes being released and then some panting accompanied by a dull thump. Finally he appeared on the doorstep, dragging a worn-looking trunk closed with a brass hasp behind him. He was wearing a tailcoat that was filthy with dust and had bushy ash-coloured hair and an expressionless face. He slid the trunk between Mildrel and the general.
The Path of Anger Page 46
