by S L Farrell
“I leave tomorrow,” he said. “The Morelli?”
“There.” The other gardai pointed to the nearest cell. “Should I open the door, Ambassador?”
Sergei nodded again, and the garda took a thick steel circle adorned with keys from his belt, and thrust one of them into the lock. It turned with a metallic protest. The hinges made a similar complaint as he pulled the cell door open.
“Do you need one of us to stay, Ambassador?” the garda asked. “I can stay if you like.”
The man’s face showed nothing, but Sergei knew what he was thinking. He nodded as the garda placed the keys back on his belt. “Your friend may take his lunch, then,” he said. The two gardai exchanged glances again before the other saluted and left them. Sergei stepped over the threshold of the cell onto a floor strewn with dirty and soiled straw. A man was huddled in chains at the rear of the cell: hands bound tightly together, and a silencer affixed around his head so that he couldn’t speak—a cage of metal helmeting his head, with a cloth-wrapped piece protruding into the man’s mouth so that the tongue was covered and held. Flickering shadows from the torches in the hall outside clawed at the darkness of the cell. The man’s eyes, dark in the hollows of his face, stared at Sergei with desperate hope, which dimmed as the man saw the leather roll. He moaned around the metal piece holding his tongue down. Saliva glistened on the black metal framework.
The stench in the room grew.
“You’re a war-téni?” Sergei asked. He laid the roll, still tied together, at his feet, groaning with the effort of bending over that far—the roll dropped the last few fingers to the straw, and a muffled clink of metal came from it. “A war-téni?” Sergei repeated as the man’s eyes widened. The garda chuckled behind Sergei.
The prisoner nodded.
“Ah,” Sergei replied. He leaned on his cane, peering at the man. “And a Morelli sympathizer, also?”
A hesitation. Then another, smaller, nod.
“You are O’Téni Timos ci’Stani?”
A final nod.
“Good,” Sergei told him. “We should have no lies between us, Timos. May I use your familiar name? You can think of me as Sergei, if you like. You see, Timos, lies always cause pain. Even out there in the world, a lie is eventually a poison that causes violence. But lies are especially volatile here in the Bastida. Here in the donjon, there must only be truth. Do you understand me?”
This time there was only a stare, but Sergei continued. “Good. Now, I would be willing to remove the tongue gag from you if you swear to Cénzi that you will not use the Ilmodo. Do you swear?”
A nod, more desperate this time, accompanied by a strangled, muted “’ethh” from his mouth.
“Fine. I’ll accept that oath, though for safety we’ll keep your hands manacled. Here, let me unlock the silencer from around your head . . .”
As a war-téni, ci’Stani had power that could leave Sergei a blistered, charred husk. Unless the man had learned to use Numetodo magic, which required only a single word and a limited gesture to cast, there was no real danger in removing the silencer. Téni magic took time, and the few links of chain between the man’s manacles would prevent him from making the necessary gestures to create magic. Carefully, even gently, Sergei removed the device from the prisoner, ci’Stani gagging once as the prong holding his tongue was removed. Sergei felt a thrill pass through his body as he did so. Perhaps the man had learned enough of the Numetodo methods to cast a spell . . .
The danger was part of the excitement. Part of the thrill.
The man spat dryly, taking in great gulps of the fetid air and working his jaw. “Thank you, Ambassador ca’Rudka,” the man said, giving him the sign of Cénzi awkwardly, the chains holding his hands rattling. “May Cénzi bless you.”
“Let us pray that’s so, Timos,” Sergei answered fervently. “Commandant cu’Ingres tells me that you were captured in Oldtown two nights ago, that there were, strangely, many téni with Morelli sympathies missing from the temples that night. And, strangely, when Commandant ca’Talin left to confront the Tehuantin at Villembouchure the morning after your capture, most of those same war-téni failed to appear, despite A’Téni ca’Paim’s orders.”
“I don’t know about that, Ambassador,” the man told him.
“Then speak for yourself, Timos,” Sergei said. “Why were you in Oldtown? Would you have been one of those missing war-téni, Timos, had we not—” He glanced at the man’s chains. “—otherwise detained you?”
“I . . .” The man stopped, licked at cracked lips. There were bruises on his face, Sergei noted, and a white-stumped gap in his front teeth from a broken tooth. “I was in Oldtown because I have a lover there. I was returning to the temple after visiting her.”
“You weren’t at a meeting of the Morellis, then? You weren’t with Nico Morel?”
Ci’Stani shook his head vigorously. “No, Ambassador. I was not.”
Sergei nodded. “I want to believe you, Timos,” he said. “I truly do. But you see, my friend, the Commandant captured more than one téni in Oldtown that night, and they have told already him that there was a meeting with Nico Morel that night, and confessed that you were among those in attendance.”
That was a lie—there was no other captive. An utilino on patrol had found O’Téni ci’Stani in Oldtown and knew the war-téni should have been asleep in the temple. Ci’Stani had fled when the utilino had tried to detain him, and the utilino had used a spell to subdue him. Ci’Stani had given the utilino the same tale he’d given to Sergei about a lover in Oldtown, but the utilino had been suspicious and summoned the Garde Kralji rather than the temple staff.
Following Sergei’s orders, the Garde Kralji hadn’t yet notified A’Téni ca’Paim that they’d captured one of her missing war-téni. That could come later, when Sergei knew what the man knew.
Sergei watched the téni closely. Despite the chill, beads of sweat had formed along ci’Stani’s hairline. Grimacing at the pain in his knees, Sergei crouched down by the leather roll. He started to untie the strings holding it. “You see my quandary, I’m sure,” he told the téni. “Someone is lying. And as I said earlier—lies create pain.”
With that, he flicked open the roll of leather, displaying the well-used instruments there in their loops: the pincers, the drills, the tongs, the punches, the keen-edged knives. The téni stared at them. He heard the garda let out a breath. Sergei opened a pocket in the roll, bringing out a thick brass bar with a hole drilled in the middle of it. The end of the bar was slightly flattened and scratched, as if it had seen significant use. He plucked a length of tapered wood from the same pocket, thrusting it into the hole in the middle of bar and tamping it down. He held up the crude hammer, turning it in the dim light coming through the cell doorway.
He told himself that he did it only to frighten the man, and he knew it for the lie it was.
Lies always cause pain.
Ci’Stani stared at the brass hammer. “Please, Ambassador . . . Yes, yes I was with Nico Morel. I confess it freely. I was with him in Oldtown. I could tell you where, but he won’t be there now—the Absolute moves constantly, and none of us know where he is now.” Ci’Stani licked his lips again, the words tumbling out almost too fast for him to keep up with them. “I would take you to him if I could, but I can’t, Ambassador, and that’s Cénzi’s truth. I swear it. He spends a night here, a night there. One never knows. There will be a notice of where to meet, but he gives us only a bare few turns of the glass notice . . .”
Sergei hefted the bar, then slammed the end of the brass onto the floor. The impact jolted his muscles through to the shoulder, but he showed nothing of that to ci’Stani. Even through the muffling straw, the sound was terrible. “Oh, please, Ambassador. I’ve told you the truth,” ci’Stani said, his voice breaking with a sob.
Sergei nodded. “I’m certain you have, Timos,” he said softly, almost as if he were crooning to a lover. “Though you haven’t said why Nico Morel wanted you there, or what he said to y
ou.”
The man visibly blanched, the color leeching from his skin. “Please, Ambassador. I swore an oath to Cénzi that I wouldn’t reveal that, that I wouldn’t betray the Absolute or the Morellis . . .”
“You swore also that you would obey the Archigos and a’téni, and you’ve already—by your own admission—violated that oath. I have A’Téni ca’Paim’s permission to do whatever I find necessary to gain the truth from you.” That was also a lie. The man would be returned to ca’Paim after his interrogation was complete. Sergei was certain that ca’Paim would not be pleased with his condition, nor with what he had to say. “So—which of your oaths do you wish to keep, Timos? Choose carefully.”
The man’s head dropped down, as if he been struck. His eyes were closed, his mouth moving. Sergei thought he might be praying.
“Tell me, Timos,” Sergei said. Softly. Almost a whisper. A plea. “Tell me.”
The head came up. Ci’Stani’s eyes were wet and defeated. “All right,” he said. He began to speak then, and what he said startled Sergei so much that he did nothing but listen. When the man had finished, Sergei could only shake his head in mingled anger and sorrow. He would need to speak to the Kraljica again, and to A’Teni ca’Paim as well. Very soon.
But now now. He could feel the old urge taking him again, his breath coming faster as he thought of it, as he tried to fight it. Now. You have everything you need. You know he’s told you the truth. So let this be the time that you turn and leave. This is the moment you can change.
But he could not. His legs trembled as he remained crouched in the straw before ci’Stani, but they would not move. They forced him to remain there.
“Tell me, Timos,” he said to the man. “You have the skill of letters?”
Ci’Stani looked at him, confused. “Ambassador?”
“You can write? You would sign a confession if I gave it to you?”
A slow nod.
“Good. And with which hand do you write?”
“Why, the right . . .” ci’Stani began, then stopped. He glanced again at the hammer in Sergei’s hand. “Ambassador, I told you what you wished to know. I told you everything. Everything. I swear it.”
“I know you did, and for Nessantico’s sake, I thank you.” He lifted the hammer. “I require your left hand, Timos. I’m sorry. I truly am.” Sergei wondered if ci’Stani could hear the sincerity in his voice, or if he believed it. He nodded to the garda, who stepped forward and grasped ci’Stani’s left wrist, placing the hand flat against the stone floor. Ci’Stani struggled, his right hand rattling as he tried to pull away. The garda put his knee on the man’s right arm.
“Ambassador. You can’t do this. No!”
“I can’t?” Sergei asked. His voice became more stern, more eager—and the eagerness disgusted him. You can stop this, a still part of him declared. You already have what you need. Stop now, as you say you want to. As you should. But desire shouted louder.
“Oh, I can,” he told Timos. “I assure you of that. I also assure you that you’ll regret your lack of cooperation, and you will like even less the parts of you I choose to torment if you don’t. Now—Timos, is there anything else you need to tell me?”
Ci’Stani stared, straw bunching around his hand as he tried again to pull it away from the garda, the chains that held his hands together clinking against stone like dull, mournful bells. The garda struck him in the face with an elbow; Sergei heard the nose break and saw blood spray. “You heard the Ambassador,” the garda said. “Keep still, or this will go worse for you.”
The prisoner moaned. His left hand flattened against the stones. Sergei found the screams that followed delightful, and he hated the delight he felt.
MANEUVERS
Niente
Sergei ca’Rudka
Nico Morel
Brie ca’Ostheim
Allesandra ca’Vörl
Rochelle Botelli
Niente
Sergei ca’Rudka
Varina ca’Pallo
Jan ca’Ostheim
Niente
THERE WERE SNARES IN THE WATER, cables with steel claws that tore at the wooden hulls of the ships, sending cold river water into the holds. The lead ships of the fleet canted over, unbalanced, their masts dipping toward the A’Sele’s surface and sending men screaming into the water . . .
“I have seen certain victory, Tecuhtli,” Niente told Citlali. The Highest Warrior reclined in a nest of cushions in his cabin. The red eagle of the Tecuhtli on his bald skull seemed to flex its wings as he reached for a goblet of the strong beer on the table before him. His chest was uncovered, and Niente could see that Citlali’s body showed his age: the chest sagging like a woman’s breasts; the muscles of his arm still thick but not as sharply defined as those of other warriors; his belly rounding into a comfortable paunch. The High Warrior Tototl, Citlali’s second-in-command, sat to Citlali’s right, his face impassive.
Tototl’s body was hard and lean. Niente thought that if Tototl challenged Citlali for the title of Tecuhtli, his wager would not be for Citlali, despite the man’s long years of experience. The decline of age struck the warrior caste far harder than it did the nahualli. For the nahualli, experience and age was more often an indication of power and skill.
Niente sat on his own cushions across the low table from Tecuhtli Citlali, his own drink untouched before him. Atl stood behind him, as silent as High Warrior Tototl.
“Certain victory,” Citlali echoed, as if tasting the words.
Niente nodded. “I saw our banner flowing over the city. I saw their defenders fleeing in droves into the land beyond the city walls. I saw the bodies of the defenders on the broken walls. But . . .” Niente paused. He leaned forward on the table, hoping it would ease the pain of his bowed back and painful joints. “This victory won’t be like Karnmor or Fossano, Tecuhtli, where we overwhelmed them with numbers and surprise. This victory doesn’t come without cost. The Easterners know that we’re here, and the Kraljica has sent troops here to bolster the garrison of the city. I have seen that they have learned the secret of black sand as well, which our spies have also told us. They will use black sand against us. I see victory, yes, but this one will not be an easy one.”
Niente heard Atl stir restlessly behind him. He didn’t dare look back, and he prayed that the boy would remember his place and stay silent. Tecuhtli Citlali frowned slightly at Niente’s admonition. “Were there other paths in your vision, Nahual Niente?” Citlali asked. “A better way for us than this one? Some of the warriors are grumbling that it’s time we leave the ships to the sailors and take to the land, where we can forage for fresh food and meet these Easterners sword to sword, if they dare.”
Niente heard Atl’s intake of breath even as he shook his head. “There were other paths, yes,” he told the Tecuhtli. “But I tell you that they all led to worse outcomes than this. In one, our ships were scattered and destroyed entirely and we couldn’t return home. I saw the path where the warriors took too early to the land, and it was not good—the army of the Easterners awaited us there, and though there was victory for us, it was so costly in the end that it might as well have been defeat.”
Atl’s breath exhaled loudly behind Niente, as if he were about to speak, and Citlali’s gaze drifted up to Niente’s son briefly, as did that of Tototl. But Atl remained silent. Niente hurried to continue.
“Keep to the strategy we have discussed, Tecuhtli, and I promise you the best result. And now,” he said, getting to his feet with difficulty, noting that Atl did not offer to help him, “I should see that the nahualli are all prepared and that the black sand is mixed as it should be, so that we’re ready tomorrow when we reach Villembouchure. We have taken the city once before, under Tecuhtli Zolin. It will be ours again, I promise you. From there, yes, the warriors can remain on land and march on to Nessantico and the prize you seek.”
Citlali beamed. He drank the rest of his beer and slammed the goblet down on the table. “Excellent!” he shouted drunke
nly. “Go, then, and do as you need, and I will tell the warriors that we will leave the ships tomorrow.”
They will be doing exactly that. They will have no choice.
Niente bowed his way out of the cabin. He didn’t look at Atl as he moved down the short corridor and up the stairs to the ship’s deck. He blinked in the sunlight, taking in great draughts of the cool, sweet air which no longer tasted or smelled of the ash or of sea salt, only of the land and the river. On either side of them, the land of the Holdings spread out, blurred in his poor, crippled vision—green, lush hills (though still largely grayed with ash); the occasional small villages, most of them abandoned with the news of the oncoming invaders; the sparkling mouths of smaller streams and rivers spilling water into the great river. This was a beautiful land, nearly as beautiful as his own.
The ships of the fleet filled the A’Sele, a long line three or four ships wide that vanished around the sweeping curves of the river. The wind was in their favor, blowing strongly eastward, and the sails billowed and snapped above them, the sailors adjusting the lines as the deck officers called out orders. Under their prows, white water curled and spread out. The Yaoyotl was near the front of the fleet, though there were ships out ahead of her. Niente looked at the high aftdecks and imagined them as he’d seen them in the vision.
“Taat!” Niente felt his son’s hand on his shoulder. He turned, knowing what he had to say and hating it. “Why did you tell the Tecuhtli not to land the troops now? I saw that path in the scrying bowl. You must have seen it, too. That was the best choice of all. I saw an easy victory afterward.”
