Ana cu'Seranta
"IT'S SO GOOD to see you, Vaji . .
. I mean, O'Téni Ana." Sala blushed, her head down. "After we
heard about what you did for the Archigos, and how he rewarded you
. . . well, we were so happy for you. You look very good in the
green, I must say."
"Thank you, Sala," Ana said. She
glanced around the entranceway. The walls of the house had been
freshly painted; she could smell the oils. A cabinet of carved wood
with blue glass stood in what had been an empty corner, two huge
ceramic pots frothed with greenery and flowers on either side of
the doors, and she glimpsed a woman she didn't recognize in
servant's drab clothing in the kitchen hallway. "How is Matarh? Is
she still . . . ?"
"Oh, she's nearly recovered, though
still a bit weak. She's in the garden out back. Would you like me
to run and fetch her for you?"
"No, I'll go back there myself in a
moment. I just wanted to retrieve a few things from my rooms." She
took a few more steps into the house. The stairs had been carpeted
with a runner that looked Magyarian, with diagonal patterns of
orange and green. The air was aromatic with a spicy
incense.
"I'll go tell her to expect you, then.
Wait until you see the garden. Vajiki cu'Seranta has brought in all
sorts of workers in the last several days, though sometimes they
seem to be everywhere underfoot. . . ." Sala bowed, and gestured at
the stairs. "We have three new servants for the house, including a
woman who's taken over the cooking duties from Tari. But your rooms
have been left just as they were. I wouldn't let anyone in there. I
told them they weren't to be touched until you'd been
here."
"Thank you, Sala. I appreciate
that."
Again, a shy blush and a duck of the
head. "I'll go tell your matarh now." She rushed away. Ana went up
the stairs, marveling at the touch of the banisters, which seemed
freshly varnished and polished. The house had been so drab and
shabby for the last several years, and now . . .
"I thought I heard your
voice."
Ana's hand tightened on the railing at
the top of the stairs. "Vatarh. I thought you'd be . . . gone at
this time of day." She turned. He was standing at the bottom of the
flight, a smile on his face: the forced smile he always wore around
her. He bounded swiftly up the steps, the smile fixed, the fine
bashta he wore flowing around him. Ana found herself backing away,
looking from side to side. Everything was different—the hallway
that had once been bare was crowded with furniture. Her shin
collided with the side of a plush chair. "We all have demons in
the night . . ." She heard the Archigos' voice, and she took in
a breath, drawing herself up as her vatarh reached the top of the
stairs, his hands extended toward her as if he expected her to come
to him.
"I've quit my job, since I expect to
be offered a better one by the Kraljica soon," he was saying to
her. "You see all I've done here already? For you, Ana. So
you could be proud of our family again. So you and I—"
"I've been paid for, Vatarh," she
said, interrupting him. "You don't own me anymore. I owe you
nothing."
"Ana!" He recoiled as if in horror.
"You make me sound like a monster. You know how much you mean to
me. I . . . I love you, my little bird. You know that. All this . .
." He was walking toward her again, the smile returning
tentatively. "They're just things. I would rather have you
here still with us, Ana. With me."
"I came to get my belongings from my
rooms, Vatarh. That's all."
"Then let me help you."
"I don't need your help." She turned
away, rushing to her room and closing the door behind her. She
stood there, letting her heartbeat slow and her breath sink back
into her lungs. Finally, she pushed away from the door, moving from
the antechamber into her old bedroom. She went to a chest at the
foot of the bed, pulling out a few clothes and a wooden box that
held a few mementos.
She heard the click of the outer door.
"Sala?" she called out, but she knew who it was, knew from the
sound of the breathing and the heaviness of the tread on the
carpets. "Get out of here, Vatarh," she told him, rising. He was
standing in the door of her bedroom, filling it. His expression was
at once sad and eager.
She realized that she'd dropped the
clothes and the box and clasped her hands together before her.
She'd prayed in this room before, after the other times he'd come
to her, masked in night and shielded by a daughter's respect for
her vatarh, when he'd held her and told her how frightened he was
for Matarh and how much he missed her and how difficult times were
for their family, how all they had was each other and how they had
to help each other and how she could help him now. And the embraces
changed with his breathing, and then, finally one night, when even
her tears didn't stop him, his hands slipping under her
nightclothes . . .
And afterward, after her vatarh's
tears and apologies and explanations, after he'd left her in the
darkness, and she'd allowed her own tears to come while she'd
prayed. She had prayed as she shaped Cénzi's Gift and used it
inside herself even though she knew that to be wrong—if Cénzi
desired more punishment for her, then she should have allowed the
possible consequences to happen.
But she couldn't, not when she had the
power to prevent them.
As she had the power now . .
.
She prayed now, chanting the words of
Ilmodo-speech, and as she spoke she felt the Second World open with
her plea to Cénzi. She stopped the chant long enough to reply. "I
gave you Matarh back, Vatarh, and the Archigos has paid you
handsomely—far more than any dowry you could have received for me.
Stay away from me."
"Ana . . ." He took a step toward her,
his lips twitching with a faint smile under his mustache. "You
don't understand. What we did, you and I . . . It was your fault as
much as mine."
His words sent white-hot fury surging
through her. "My fault?" she shouted at him. "It wasn't me
who came into my room at night. It wasn't me who touched . .
."
Her vatarh's eyes widened at her
vehemence. "Ana, listen. I'm sorry. You need to
understand—"
She was chanting, not listening to him
at all. The Ilmodo opened to her, and she took it. Light shimmered
between her clasped hands, so intense that it passed through and
illuminated her skin, the shadows of bones dark against orange-red
flesh. Knife-edged shadows surged and flowed around the room. She
could see him looking at her hands, could see his throat pulse as
he did so. Holding the Ilmodo, fully formed, she could speak again.
"I do understand, Vatarh. I'm the only one who can. And I'm telling
you to stay away. For your own good, stay away from me."
"You're my daughter. You'll always be
my daughter," he answered. "What we did . . . I did . . . well, we
shouldn't have. I was wrong, terribly wrong, and I've already asked
you to forgive me. To forget it." Each sentence was another step.
He was close enough that he could touch her now. He was watching
her face, only her face. Her prayers were already answered; she
held Cénzi's power in her hands and it ached to be released,
screaming so loudly in her blood that its pounding rhythm nearly
drowned out her vatarh's words. If he touched her, if his hands
moved toward her . . .
They did. His fingers stroked her
cheek, touched the tears that she hadn't realized were
there.
"No," she said, very quietly. "You
don't touch me. You don't ever touch me again." She opened her
hands.
The concussion hammered at her chest,
the roar deafened her, the burst of light sent her vision tumbling
away. Faintly, she thought she heard her vatarh scream.
Her head spun and she thought she
might lose consciousness. She fought to stand upright, blinking to
clear away the blotches of purple afterimages. Her vatarh lay
crumpled against the wall near the door, the plaster cracked around
him. Ana wondered whether she might have killed him, but his chest
rose and his eyes opened even as she looked at him: she'd flung the
spell aside at the last moment.
It was her bed, the bed where she'd
borne his suffocating weight on top of her, that had taken the
direct force of the spell's impact; it lay shattered, black, and
nearly unrecognizable, the bedposts splintered. All the furniture
in the room was overturned and damaged, the wall where the
headboard had rested broken all the way through the mortared stones
to reveal the sunlight outside. Shards of mirrored glass glittered
in the wreckage near where her dresser had stood; her vatarh's
cheek trailed blood where a flying piece had cut him.
Sala came running in, stopping at the
doorway to look in horror at the wreckage of the room, at Ana's
vatarh slumped dazedly on the floor. "O'Téni Ana . . . what . . .
?" Ana forced herself to stay upright though the edges of her
vision were closing in. Just get to the carriage. That's all
you have to do, then you can let go.
"Tell Matarh I can't stay, Sala," Ana
said. "Let her know that I'll send a carriage for her tomorrow
after Second Call so we can talk. So I can explain." She looked at
her vatarh, his eyelids fluttering as he groaned and stirred. "I
won't come back while you're here, Vatarh. I won't ever see you
again willingly. If you ever try, you won't survive the
attempt."
Ana reached down to the floor for her
clothes and the memento box and picked them up, clutching them to
her. Then she walked past the dumbstruck Sala and out of the house.
She managed to make it to the carriage waiting outside before the
darkness closed around her.

Karl
ci'Vliomani
THE STENCH MADE Karl's stomach
lurch hard enough that he could taste the garlic from the
pasta he'd eaten a few turns of the glass ago. Here on the banks of
the A'Sele near the Pontica Kralji, the open sewers of Oldtown
and—across the river—those of the Isle A'Kralji emptied into the
water. Adding to the noxious smells were the slaughterhouses,
tanneries, and dyers which clogged the riverbank all the way to the
River Market, each of them dumping their own wastes in the
water.
The air was foul, and the rocks along
the riverbank and the piers of the Pontica Kralji were snagged with
wriggling trailers of slime and filth. Karl could see the skeletal,
rotting carcass of a pig in the water a few arms' lengths from
them, the eyeless and lipless skull leering at him.
"No one drinks from the A'Sele
anymore, at least not here in the city, and not anywhere close to
Nessantico downriver," Mika said, as if he'd overheard Karl's
thoughts. "The old folk will talk about how in their own
grandparents' time the A'Sele ran clean and sweet, and you could
dip a cup in and quench your thirst, but not anymore. That's why
everyone goes to the fountains for their water, or they drink only
wine or ale, and they don't eat any fish unless they were caught
east of the Fens."
His gaze went up then to the ramparts
of the Pontica Kralji, the longest of the bridges over the A'Sele.
They'd both seen the small, black iron cage that had been suspended
from a post there, and the corpse that was stuffed inside it:
Dhaspi ce'Coeni's body. The chain groaned and protested as the cage
swung in the breeze. The crows had found the display quickly; there
was a crowd of them pecking at Dhaspi's re mains through the bars.
They could see people passing over the bridge stopping to look at
the gibbeted body. Two painted signs had been attached to the cage.
Assassin, one said. Numetodo was written on the
other. Ce'Coeni's hands were nailed to that sign, and there was a
bare nail above the hands where his tongue had once been—the crows
had taken that.
"Poor stupid bastard," Karl
muttered.
They both looked away, deliberately.
Mika picked up a stone from the mud and tossed it into the river,
where it splashed brownly and vanished, then looked at his hand,
grimaced, and wiped it on his cloak. Mika was wearing a perfumed
cloth over his nose and mouth; Karl wished he'd taken the same
precaution. "I doubt the river's been truly clean for centuries,
not with Nessantico straddling it forever," Mika said. "I heard
that the Kraljica had swans brought in for the Jubilee all the way
from Sforzia. She thought they'd look nice swimming around the Isle
A'Kralji. They took one look at the A'Sele, sniffed in disgust, and
took off for home."
Karl grunted at the image. "I can
believe that," he told Mika. "Right now, I'm tempted to do the
same."
"I've been here for, oh, almost seven
years now, Karl. They can make the city look brilliant and
wonderful with their téni-lights, with their dances and their
clothes and their great buildings. They can make certain that the
Avi a'Parete is swept and clean so the ca'-andcu' can promenade and
be seen; they can build temples and palaces that prick the very
clouds with their towers, but they can't hide this. Look over there
. . ." Mika pointed to the nearest slaughterhouse where Karl
glimpsed cloth the color of spring grass through the twilight of an
open door. "Do you see the téni? There are dozens and dozens of
e'téni assigned—probably as punishment, I'd think—to cleanse the
filth from the sewers and the slaughterhouses with their Ilmodo
skills, but it's not anywhere near enough. It would take an army of
them working all day, every day, to keep up with the garbage this
city spews out, and the place grows bigger each year. Cénzi knows
what Nessantico would be like without the téni—and each year there
are more people for the téni to clean up after. I don't even want
to imagine Nessantico a generation forward." Mika lifted his
kerchief and spat on the ground. "Even the Kraljica must shit and
piss, and it smells no better than mine or yours."
Karl laughed despite the filth,
despite the grim reminder on the Pontica above them. "Now there's
an image I don't care to retain."
Mika sniffed and pressed his kerchief
against his nose. "It's true, still. All those grand ca'-and-cu'
sit and look at Oldtown from their lovely houses on the Isle or
South Bank and grumble about how disgusting and filthy it is, but
they're no different. Even the grandest chateau has its
privies."
"If you're going to start spouting
clichés, then let's do it where we can drink and eat as well.
Where's this Mahri? I thought he asked to meet us?"
"I'm here." With the word, a portion
of the stained Pontica seemed to detach itself from an arched
support, and Mahri stepped out from the shadows under the bridge,
directly under Dhaspi's gibbet. Karl shivered at the sight of the
man's ravaged face under the black cowl, hoping that Mahri didn't
notice the quick revulsion.
"You live up to your reputation," Karl
said.
"And what is that?" The man's voice
was as broken as his face, a hissing and grumbling issuing from a
misshapen maw. If the expression on his twisted lips was a smile,
it couldn't be read; the raw and exposed socket of the missing left
eye seemed to glare. The breath from his mouth smelled nearly as
bad as the riverbank itself.
"That you're a ghost who appears
anywhere there's trouble."
That seemed to amuse Mahri. He turned
his head, glancing back and up over his shoulder at the caged body
surrounded by crows. Something approaching a cackle emanated from
his mouth, and a thick tongue prowled the edges of his few teeth as
he looked back to them. "Ah, the Numetodo are indeed trouble,
aren't they, Envoy?"
"That's not our intention," Karl said.
"Why did you want to meet with me, Mahri? You told Mika it was
important." Karl had been reluctant to agree to the rendezvous, but
Mika had persisted. "They may call him Mad Mahri, but
I've also heard them say that Mahri knows things that no one
else knows, that nothing happens here without his somehow
knowing about it first. It may be a waste of time, but . .
."
Again, the cackle. "Ah, so impatient.
That's not a good quality for someone trying to gain the Kraljica's
sympathy. Patience is a virtue she possesses in abundance, and one
she expects from those who petition her. I would expect that
someone trying to negotiate with her must understand
that."
Karl pushed down the rising annoyance.
He saw Mika glance at him and shrug. "I'll remember that advice,"
he said. "It's true enough, considering how long I've been here."
He waited, his boots squelching noisily in the mud as he shifted
his weight. Mahri waited also, until frustration at the man's
silence threatened to make Karl snort in derision and stalk away.
He was ready to do exactly that when Mahri spoke again.
"I came to offer an
alliance."
"An alliance?" Karl couldn't keep the
scornful chuckle from his voice. "I'm afraid that I wasn't aware
that you represented anyone."
Mahri lifted a single shoulder. "You
mean to say that you can't imagine an alliance with a common
beggar? I see the Numetodo aren't so much different from the
ca'-and-cu', Envoy. I hear the same disdain and scorn in your voice
that I hear from those who worship Cénzi."
Karl glanced at Mika, who rolled his
eyes. Again, he took a breath and pushed down his irritation. "I'm
sorry for that, Mahri. You're right, and I would ask you not to
judge all Numetodo by my poor example." He could hear Mika snicker
under his breath.
"Ah, now that is spoken more
like a diplomat, even if you mean nothing of it. Good." The beggar
pulled his tattered clothing around himself as if cold; on one
hand, Karl glimpsed a thick silver seal ring. The insignia carved
in it was unfamiliar, and it was certainly not a ring a beggar
would wear. He stole it or found it. He'll have sold it by
evening for a drink. "Those I represent have some of the
same interests as the Numetodo, Vajiki. We, too, see the world
changing, and we want to ensure that we have a place in
it."
"And who is it that you . . .
represent?" Karl couldn't avoid the hesitation, nor the faint smile
that accompanied it.
"I'm not prepared to reveal that
yet."
"That makes it difficult for me to
assess whether this proposed alliance between us would be
advantageous."
"I'm prepared to make it worthwhile to
you. What I can offer you now is knowledge. Other than the
ca'Ludovici line, which of the ca' families is most dangerous to
you?"
Karl felt the scowl that tightened the
muscles of his face. "That doesn't require any thought at all,"
Karl answered. "It's the ca'Cellibrecca family, with A'Téni Orlandi
ca'Cellibrecca the worst among them. No Numetodo is going to forget
what he did in Brezno; the skeletons are still gibbeted on the town
walls."
"A'Téni Orlandi's daughter Francesca,
here in Nessantico, holds her vatarh's beliefs just as strongly,"
Mahri said.
"If that's the knowledge you have to
offer, then I'm afraid I have to tell you that we're well aware of
that. I've met the woman at the court. She's made it quite clear
where she stands, as has her husband U'Téni Estraven in his
admonitions from the High Lectern. Estraven comes from the
ca'Seurfoi family, after all, and his vatarh is Commandant of the
Garde Brezno—the blood of the Numetodo killed there are on the
commandant's hands as well as those of A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca and
Hïrzg Jan."
Mahri was nodding. "Do you know
this, Envoy? From what I hear, there's no love between Estraven and
Francesca. Their relationship is simply what it was intended to
be—a political marriage: A'Teni ca'Cellibrecca's reward to his
commandant's family for long and loyal service. That's all. But
Francesca is in love, Envoy. She is the A'Kralj's
paramour."
The announcement sent a lightning bolt
shock coursing through Karl. If the A'Kralj was indeed making
Estraven ca'Cellibrecca a cuckold, and if the A'Kralj shared
Francesca's beliefs as well as her bed . . .
Karl shivered. He could imagine a
dozen scenarios of what might happen, and none were pleasant. For
the Numetodo, they could each make Brezno seem like a summer's
dance as soon as Justi took the Sun Throne as Kraljiki.
"Cénzi's balls," Mika cursed softly,
and Karl knew his friend's thoughts had traveled along the same
lines as his own.
"You can prove this?" Karl asked,
though his heart knew that Mahri had spoken the truth. He could
feel it in the dread that burned in his stomach. He could hear it
in the groan of the gibbet's chains.
"If I do, will I have your ear, Envoy
ci'Vliomani? Will you want to talk further with me?"
A glance at Mika. A quick nod.
"Yes."
"Good," Mahri answered. His hand came
from under his clothing again, this time with a scrap of grimy
paper on which Karl could see a scribbled address. "Be here
tonight, an hour after Third Call. I'll meet you there. Just you.
Alone."
With that, Mahri turned and began
walking back toward the Pontica. He stopped halfway and looked back
at them. "What you smell here is the true odor of the city," he
said. "Without the perfumes and the grand houses, the jewelry and
the clothing. This is the city stripped of its pretensions. And we
all, eventually, end up like your friend above us." Mahri pointed,
and Karl and Mika followed the gesture to the cage holding Dhaspi's
body.
When they looked down again, Mahri was
gone.

Dhosti
ca'Millac
CLAWED FEET CLICKED on
the tiled floor; a hissing, malevolent breath scented
the air with the foul odor of carrion, and the heat from the
creature's body made him sweat. Dhosti's eyes opened in the
darkness. He could feel the demon creeping closer to him as
he lay there, but he couldn't move. The muscles in his body
were locked and frozen. sweat beaded his forehead as he felt
the long, taloned hands of the beast clutch at the covers. Then
the bed shifted as the thing slowly crawled up the short length
of his body. The creature hissed and burbled and chuckled.
Dhosti heard and felt it more than he saw it, but there were
two flaring red points of light in the room: the beast's
eyes. The creature climbed over him until it was sitting perched on
his chest, as heavy as a chest of lead ingots and growing
heavier, pressing down on him until he couldn't breathe,
until his rib cage threatened to burst and the bed's frame
to collapse under the demon's massive weight. "Cénzi sent me,"
the creature spat as Dhosti struggled to pull air into his
lungs. "He sent me to punish you . . ."
"Archigos, A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca is in
the outer chamber. Archigos?"
Dhosti started and blinked. The
pressure on his chest eased as the memory of the nightmare faded.
His stubby hands were clenched atop the papers on his desk. The
bright colors of his invitation to the Gschnas glittered between
his fists. He took a breath and unclenched them; the joints ached
and protested. "Thank you, Kenne. Give me a few minutes, then send
the a'téni in. Oh, and Kenne . . . wait long enough to annoy the
man, would you?"
Kenne grinned at that. "With much
pleasure, Archigos."
As Kenne closed the door, Dhosti
groaned as he stretched and stood up on the stool in front of his
chair. His entire body was sore, and flames seemed to shoot from
his curved upper spine as he tried to straighten. The effort barely
lifted his chin above his chest. "Once, you could have flung
yourself into a double somersault from the desk and landed on your
feet." He shook his head as the thought stirred memories of his
days as a performer: the crowds, the applause, the sheer joyful
vigor of those moments of seeming flight. "And you didn't talk to
yourself then, either. . . ." He stepped carefully down from the
stool, supporting himself with a hand on the desk, and took his
cane in his hand. He hobbled painfully to the ornate throne on a
dais at the other end of the long room. A few hard chairs faced it
from the floor. He glanced up at the fractured globe of Cénzi
carved in the wooden back of the throne, at the varnished,
contorted bodies of the Moitidi clustered around the globe.
"Cénzi sent me. He sent me to punish you . . ."
"You didn't have to bother," he told
the memory. "I'm punished enough in this old body. You could at
least let me sleep."
Groaning, he pulled himself up onto
the dais and then onto the padded seat. Like his desk chair, the
back of the throne had been modified by a local carpenter to
accommodate his bowed spine; Dhosti sighed as he sat back in its
comfortable embrace. The chair itself had served as the throne for
every Archigos for three hundred years now, since the time of
Archigos Kalima III. Although there was little of Kalima's throne
left, pieces of the original wood were always incorporated into the
throne as it was refurbished or altered for each new Archigos. He
sat on long history. Dhosti found himself nearly dozing again when
Kenne's knock finally came at the door and A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca
entered in a swirl of green robes trimmed with intricate arabesques
of golden thread.
"Orlandi, please come in and sit," he
said, waving a stunted arm at the seats in front of the throne. "I
trust that Kenne has given you something to drink or eat while you
were waiting? Kenne, if you'd see that we're not disturbed . .
."
Ca'Cellibrecca grunted a monosyllabic
reply as Kenne nodded and closed the door. He clasped his hands on
his staff and raised it to his forehead, but his obeisance wasn't
to Dhosti but to the globe of Cénzi above him. "I've heard what
your new pet o'téni did this morning," the man said without
preamble as he brought his hands down and the door closed. He sat,
the joints of the chair groaning under him. Double chins wobbled as
he spoke. Where Dhosti seemed to be shrinking into himself as he
aged, ca'Cellibrecca was growing larger. Everything about him was
ponderous, his stentorian manner of speaking no less than his
girth. "Seems she used the Ilmodo to put a rather large hole in the
wall of her vatarh's house. Given some of the other rumors I've
heard, I wonder if you haven't chosen to give your Marque to
someone best suited to be a war-téni. Here in Nessantico, she seems
to be a wild sword."
"No one was seriously injured,
Orlandi."
"Not this time. But I understand her
vatarh was injured, and the neighbors are understandably terrified.
What of next time?"
"There will be no next time. It's
over."
"Can you guarantee that, Dhosti? Let's
talk frankly here, at least. When O'Téni cu'Seranta's matarh
suddenly recovers from Southern Fever into full health, I have to
wonder whether it was Cénzi's Will or someone who has ignored the
Divolonté."
"Are you making an accusation,
Orlandi? I was there, after all. Should I call a Council of
Examination together so I can give them my witness?"
Ca'Cellibrecca gave the slightest
shake of his head; his eyes, already masked under the weight of
their eyelids, narrowed to slits. "Not at the moment."
"Then why are you telling me
this?"
Dhosti thought he saw the flicker of a
smile on ca'Cellibrecca's lips. The man's hands spread wide before
coming back to rest in his greenclothed lap. "You know me, Dhosti.
I follow the Divolonté. Always. Strictly. I expect those to whom I
attend to do the same."
"I know," Dhosti answered quietly.
"Your devotion has been quite . . . visible."
Again, the smile came and his eyes
widened slightly. "I do what is necessary. As the Archigos should
as well."
"Then perhaps it's fortunate that the
Concord A'Teni named me Archigos and not you."
The smile vanished. The eyes slitted
again. In his lap, the a'téni's fingers tightened into his palms. "
'Tell your enemy that he offends you before you strike, for he may
not understand what it is he does,' " he quoted.
"I know the quote," Dhosti said,
nodding. He pretended nonchalance, but the tea he'd had this
morning burned again in his throat. His spine ached even against
the padded throne back, but he knew if he moved, he would groan at
the pain it would cause, and he didn't want ca'Cellibrecca to hear
that. He forced himself to remain still. Dhosti knew that he could
not afford to make the mistake of underestimating ca'Cellibrecca's
influence among the other a'téni. If the man was going to quote
that verse of the Divolonté to him, then Dhosti needed to make
certain that he still had the support he believed he had. "Let me
finish it for you. '. . . but if he does not change afterward, then
make your blow quick and strong, and don't hold back your fury.'
It's come to that? Do I offend you so greatly, Orlandi?"
"It's not me you offend but the
entire Faith, Dhosti. I've made no secret of my feelings on that,
and I tell it to your face now. Cénzi blessed you and brought you
to your position. I've seen how well you used to craft the Ilmodo
and I know that, at least at one time, Cénzi smiled on you. I've
even admitted how much I admire your intellect and your skill. But
in this time especially, when Concénzia needs to remain with the
Toustour and the Divolonté, I see you falling away from those
tenets or ignoring them. You've become soft, Dhosti."
"We believe the same things. We simply
interpret the Divolonté differently, Orlandi. That's all. The
Toustour is the word of Cénzi and we agree on that; the Divolonté,
however, is only a set of laws fallible people have created to
interpret the path the Toustour shows us."
Ca'Cellibrecca's head was shaking
before Dhosti had finished. "No," he answered before Dhosti's voice
had even faded. "There are no interpretations of the
Divolonté any more than there are of the Toustour. There is only
the truth, right there in the words Cénzi has given us. You
convinced the Kraljica that she could coddle the Numetodo and even
listen to their entreaties when they, in fact, threaten everything
we believe in—that was bad enough. And now you allow this protégée
of yours to flaunt the Divolonté as well. I tell you, Archigos,
that your arrogance is visible and I'm not the only one who sees
it. While you have been sitting there doing nothing, there are
those within Concénzia who are less patient and more faithful, and
we have more power than you think."
Dhosti again feigned nonchalance. He
suspected it fooled neither of them. "What is it that you want me
to do?"
"What you should have done all along.
The Kraljica listens to you. Advise her that this tolerance of the
Numetodo must stop. Tell her to use the laws that are already in
place that she ignores. Stop giving au diences and diplomatic
privileges to the delegates the Numetodo sent to Nessantico from
Paeti or Graubundi. Send this grotesque 'Envoy' ci'Vliomani away,
or better yet, toss him in the Bastida. The Numetodo threaten our
society and all that we believe, and their presence will tear the
Holdings and the Concénzia Faith apart. The Numetodo are a
pestilence. One doesn't rid oneself of a swarm of rats by inviting
them into your house. You capture them and you eliminate
them."
The man's words sent a shudder through
Dhosti's contorted body. "You sound so certain of yourself,
Orlandi."
"I am. As you should be. I pray to
Cénzi every day for His guidance. And I'm not alone, Archigos. Talk
to A'Téni ca'Xana of Malacki, A'Téni ca'Miccord of Kishkoros,
A'Téni ca'Seiffel of Karnmor. Do you want me to keep going, Dhosti?
You know I can."
This is my fault. Dhosti
sighed. I was sleeping here too long, and I've let this
poison fester until it may be too late to stop it. Cénzi, forgive
me. I was a poor servant to You. "Then you must do what
you must do, Orlandi. Summon a Council of Examination against me if
you can get the votes of enough of the a'téni. That's also in the
Divolonté."
Orlandi rose from his chair. Again he
clasped hands over his staff and lifted it toward the throne. "I've
done what I needed to do, Archigos. I've given you my warning, and
I hope you can reflect on it, pray to Cénzi for guidance, and
change. I see you leading the Faith to the very precipice, and it's
not only my inclination but my solemn duty to do all and everything
I can to change that course."
"I consider myself adequately warned,
A'Téni."
"Good." Ca'Cellibrecca began to turn
to leave, then hesitated. "We've never been friends, Archigos.
Neither one of us would pretend that. But I want you to understand
that I only want what is best for Concénzia. That's my sole
concern."
"As it's mine," Dhosti
answered.
A nod. Heavily, ca'Cellibrecca made
his way to the door and tapped on it with the head of his staff.
Kenne opened the doors, glancing sympathetically toward Dhosti as
the a'téni passed him. "Can I get you anything,
Archigos?"
Dhosti shook his head and Kenne closed the doors again.
"Cénzi sent me. He sent me to
punish you . . ." He could feel the crushing weight of the
demon on his chest and he could not take a breath. "I don't care.
Take me," he said aloud to Cénzi, to the demon, but the weight was
already lifting and he could breathe again.
"Tell me that I'm right," he said to
the air. "Is that too much to ask?"
But there was no answer.

Ana
cu'Seranta
"MATARH! I'm so glad you've
come."
Abini—her
eyes wide as she looked all around her—entered the reception room
of Ana's apartment behind Watha, who nodded to Ana and shut the
door again. Ana took her matarh's hand, led her to the soft brocade
of the couch before the fire, and sat beside her. "You're looking
so well, the way I remember you. I've missed you so much, Matarh.
Do you remember?—while you were sick, I used to come to see you
every morning before I had to go to the Old Temple for classes. We
prayed together, and I'd talk to you. Do you remember that at
all?"
Abini was shaking her head, either in
answer to Ana or because of what she saw around her. "Ana, this is
all yours . . . ?"
"Yes," Ana told her. "The Archigos
gave this apartment to me. And it's yours as well, Matarh, if you
ever want to stay here with me."
That brought Abini's gaze back to Ana
with a quick, sharp movement of her head. "Why?" she asked. "Why
would I want to stay here, Ana? Is that why—" She closed her mouth
abruptly.
Ana sighed, taking her matarh's hands
again. "What happened yesterday with Vatarh was a mistake, Matarh.
I let myself get too angry, and I shouldn't have."
"How could you possibly become so
angry with your vatarh that you would use the Ilmodo against
him?"
Ana shook her head. She had spent the
night restlessly, unable to sleep, wondering what she should say to
her matarh. In the end, after much reflection and prayer, she had
decided to say nothing. Perhaps Vatarh will change now
that Matarh's well again. Maybe he will be the person I used
to love. Perhaps he was right and we should both forget what
happened. The decision still didn't feel right; it left a
burning in her stomach, but to confess . . .
Ana took a long breath. "We argued,
Matarh. Why doesn't matter. Let's not talk about it. Let's enjoy
our time together, now that we can once again." Ana rose quickly
from the couch, not wanting her matarh to see what was in her face.
"I'll ask Sunna to brew some tea, and she makes wonderful sweet
biscuits."
"Not talk about it? You nearly
destroyed our—my—house, Ana, and the gossip from the neighbors—"
She stopped again, putting her hands to her lips, and Ana sank down
beside her again.
"Matarh, you've been sick so long. I
was terribly afraid that I was going to lose you." So much so
that I made certain I wouldn't, even against the rules of
the Faith. But that was something she couldn't say, either.
"Please. You're better now, and that's what's important. We have so
much to talk about. Have you started going out yet? I'm certain
that I could get you an invitation to the Gschnas: at the Grande
Palais, Matarh. Would you like that? The Gschnas at the Palais
itself, instead of some old hall filled with ci' and
ce'."
"Why were you arguing with your
vatarh?" Abini persisted. "I heard you, all the way in the
garden."
"Matarh . . ." I don't want to say
it. I don't know how to even begin.
"Tell me."
Ana looked at her matarh's face, saw
the suspicion in it. She could feel her lower lip trembling, could
feel the tears burning in her eyes. Her matarh's features swam
before her, and she wiped angrily at the betrayal of her eyes.
"Please, Matarh . . ."
"Tell me," she repeated.
And so she did. Slowly. Haltingly.
Feeling the shame and the guilt and the pain all over again. Her
matarh sat there, listening, her head shaking more with each word
until Abini finally spread her hands wide apart angrily and rose
from the couch. "No!" her matarh shouted, the word echoing in the
room. "You're making this up. You're lying. Your vatarh wouldn't do
that, Ana. Not Tomas. I don't believe it and I won't hear it. I
won't. It's . . . it's evil. Tomas is a good man and he's
done all he could to provide for us, even with everything that
Cénzi gave us to bear. How can you be so cruel to make those
accusations—do you know the sacrifices Tomas made to get you
accepted as an acolyte, to pay for all your instruction so you
could wear those green robes and live in this luxury? Where is your
gratitude, child? Oh, why did Cénzi bring me back to this . . .
?"
She began to sob, uncontrollably, and
Ana, crying in sympathy and her own pain, went to her, trying to
take her matarh in her arms and accomplish with an embrace what she
could not do with words. But Abini recoiled, pushing her away with
an inarticulate cry and a wild, angry gaze. She ran from the room
as Sunna opened the door. The servant watched Abini rush past her
and down the hall toward the outer doors.
"O'Téni?"
Ana forced herself to speak through
the tears that choked her throat. "Go with her," she said to Sunna.
"Make certain she gets home safely."

Jan
ca'Vörl
"WILL HE DIE QUICKLY, Vatarh?"
Allesandra asked.
"I don't know, Allesandra. Probably."
Alongside Jan, the Hïrzgin stirred.
"This is not something our daughter needs to see, my Hïrzg," Greta
said. One hand rubbed the swelling arc of her belly. The Hïrzg and
Hïrzgin, accompanied by several members of the court, stood on a
viewing platform erected just outside the tent-palace. Starkkapitän
Ahren Ca'Staunton, commander of the Firenzcian army, and U'Téni
Semini cu'Kohnle, head of the war-téni, were at Jan's left hand.
Mara stood discreetly to his right on the other side of Greta, just
slightly behind the Hïrzgin so that she could make eye contact with
Jan without Greta noticing, though Jan was certain that their
occasional exchanges of smiles didn't escape the rest of the
court.
Below them, in the meadow lined by the
army's tent-city, a soldier, stripped to the waist with his back
and chest displaying the bloodied stripes of a flogging, was bound
with his arms behind him to a large post. A line of six archers had
been placed facing him, an o'offizier to their side; the remainder
of the troops stood in silent ranks around the meadow. Markell
stood near the post, overseeing the proceedings. Allesandra's
maidservant Naniaj started forward to take the girl away, but Jan
shook his head and raised a finger. The woman stopped in
mid-step.
"She's only eleven. She's too young,"
the Hïrzgin insisted again, making Jan scowl. Everything Greta said
made him frown. Just the sound of her thin voice or the sight of
her plain, long face with its forward-canted ca'Ludovici jaw or the
prominent reminder of her fe cundity was enough to make him grind
his teeth. She knew her duty as wife, and performed it as if it
were exactly that—and no more often than she must. The lack of
regular intimacy between them hardly bothered Jan, nor did it
prevent him from seeking that intimacy elsewhere, as a few bastard
children scattered around Firenzcia testified. Perhaps Mara might
end up producing another, if the midwife's potions failed to work.
"Please, my Hïrzg, let Naniaj take her inside . . ."
"Vatarh, if I'm to lead the army one
day as Hïrzgin, then I need to understand this," Allesandra
pleaded. Jan laughed, a roar of delight and amusement that spread
out from him to Mara, to the Starkkapitän and U'Téni cu'Kohnle,
then to the other courtiers like the ripples from a stone dropped
in a pond. He stroked her hair, pressing her to his side
possessively. Only the Hïrzgin was frowning. Mara's gaze twinkled
at him over Greta's shoulder as the Hïrzgin glared at
him.
"You see, wife," he said. "The child
knows what she must learn. She stays."
"Hïrzg . . ." Greta began, but Jan
glanced at her sharply.
"I said she will stay," he repeated,
the words sharp and cutting this time. "If you don't care to
witness this yourself in your condition, Hïrzgin, it would frankly
please us very much if you removed yourself." Greta's mouth closed
at that, her teeth clacking together as she turned away from him
and waddled away from the platform. Mara gave the barest of nods to
Jan, and then moved to follow the Hïrzgin with the rest of her
whispering, reluctant entourage. He heard Allesandra chuckle once,
softly.
Below, the man was firmly lashed to
the post, and Markell and the o'offizier with him stepped well
back. Markell gestured; the archers placed arrows to bowstrings and
drew them back with a creaking of leather and wood. The bound man
moaned. "What did he do, Vatarh?" Allesandra asked.
"He's a Numetodo," Jan told her. "And
he was stupidly vocal about his beliefs. Belief in Cénzi and the
rewards that await the brave when they die are what sustains our
troops, my darling. Without their faith, they will have no hope,
and this fool tried to take that away from them with his words. I
want them all to see what happens to those without faith." At Jan's
left side, U'Téni cu'Kohnle nodded sternly in agreement with his
words.
"Why are there six archers there,
Vatarh? Wouldn't just one be able to kill him?"
"All six will let loose their arrows
at the starkkapitän's command," Jan told her patiently. "That way,
each of the archers can believe that it wasn't their arrow that
took the life of a fellow soldier. It helps them— it's difficult
for a soldier to kill one of their own, even when that person has
betrayed them and his oaths."
Allesandra nodded solemnly at that. "I
understand, Vatarh."
"Hïrzg, we're ready," Markell called
up to Jan.
"Excellent," Jan said. He stepped
forward with Allesandra. He raised his voice, speaking loudly so
that the bound man could hear him. "Would you pray now?" he asked
the man, whose head was turned up toward them. His pupils were
large, frightened and bloodshot. Blood drooled from his mouth and
nostrils. "Would you plead for Cénzi to save you? Would you ask
that His hand move through mine?"
The man's thick tongue slid over
bruised lips. Sudden hope filled those desperate eyes. "Yes," he
managed to say, the voice barely audible. "I do pray, Hïrzg. I'm .
. . so sorry. I was wrong . . . I renounce it all . . ."
"What do you think, Allesandra?" Jan
asked his daughter, who was pressed to the railing of the platform,
standing on tiptoes so that she could look down over the top. She
looked up at him.
"I think a person in his position
would say whatever they need to say to save themselves, Vatarh,"
she answered.
Jan laughed again. "Indeed. They most
certainly would." He called out to the court, to the soldiers
watching. "Did you hear that?" he proclaimed. "Wisdom comes from
the young." He waved to the starkkapitän. "You may proceed,
Starkkapitän ca'Staunton," he said.
The Numetodo moaned and shrieked. He
cursed and thrashed uselessly against the ropes holding him.
Starkkapitän ca'Staunton gave the sign of Cénzi to Jan, then to
U'Téni cu'Kohnle, and stepped forward. He lifted his arm and the
sextet of archers pulled their bows back to full draw, the
leather-wrapped wood creaking ominously. His hand dropped as the
Numetodo screamed and the bows sang. The Numetodo's scream was cut
off abruptly with the solid, dull stutter of arrowheads impacting
flesh.
Jan saw Allesandra stare as the man
slumped against the post, six arrows piercing his body, blood
running down from the new wounds to join that of the crusted old
ones from his flogging. She stared at the patterns of the blood, at
the rounded ball of the man's head. The man's mouth yawned
open.
The offiziers barked orders to the
troops and they began to file away. Several men hurried forward to
cut the executed man down and take away the body. Markell spoke
briefly to the group of archers, clapping each of them on the
back.
U'Téni cu'Kohnle nodded silently, as
if the death of the Numetodo had particularly pleased
him.
"I think, Vatarh," Allesandra said
very quietly, as the courtiers chattered excitedly around and
behind Jan, "that all the soldiers and the court will remember this
very well. I know I will." He looked down at her, and the
expression on her face was what he'd hoped to see. There was a
pleased contemplation there, her head nodding faintly as if in
satisfaction at a well-accomplished task. "I don't think they will
listen to the Numetodo anymore, Vatarh. They'll only listen to you
. . . and to A'Téni Orlandi, too."
He snorted at that, and U'Téni
cu'Kohnle glanced over to them before he went to join Starkkapitän
ca'Staunton. Jan had not let his daughter witness A'Téni
ca'Cellibrecca's reprisals against the Numetodo in Brezno, but
she'd known about them, peppering him and the others with insistent
questions. And, like the rest of them, she had seen the bodies
gibbeted on the walls afterward; there had been no way to prevent
that. "Yes. I think it will have that effect."
"When A'Téni Orlandi is Archigos, will
you divorce Matarh?"
"You wouldn't want me to take your
matarh away from you, would you?"
Allesandra seemed to ignore the
question. Her gaze left him, looking down once again at the
soldiers disposing of the mess on the grounds. The courtiers had
moved politely away from the conversation, pretending that they
weren't trying to listen as they engaged in their own
conversations. "I like Mara, Vatarh. She's very nice to me, better
than Matarh is, but you won't marry her, will you, Vatarh? I think
you should marry someone more important, who will help you get what
you want."
"And what would you know of Mara?" he asked her.
She gave him a look of exaggerated
scorn, her mouth pursed, her head shaking so that the soft curls
around her cheeks swayed. "I'm eleven and I'm not stupid,
Vatarh. And I don't have to pretend I don't see things, like Matarh
does."
Jan hugged her to him, and her arms
clasped around his waist. He bent down and kissed the top of her
head. "I love you, my dear. You'll be a fine Hïrzgin when the time
comes."
She turned her face up to smile at
him. "I know," she said. "You will teach me, Vatarh, and I'll learn
everything from you. You'll see."
He kissed her again.
"I'm looking forward to going to
Nessantico for the Kraljica's Jubilee, Vatarh," she said. "I've
always wanted to see Nessantico."
Jan smiled at that. "Oh, we'll be
going there, Allesandra," he answered. "Soon enough."

Ana cu'Seranta
"YOUR PROBLEM, Ana, is that your
abilities make you too visible."
"I'm sorry, Archigos."
The dwarf chuckled. "I didn't say that to reprimand you.
Simply
being with me makes you visible, also, and doing what I ask
you to do also makes you visible. Most often, it's not possible for
a person to hide their power. You shouldn't hide it. I'm
telling you this so that you know: those people who are against me
or against the Kraljica will perceive you in the same light they
cast on me. You need to be aware of that fact, and prepare for
it."
"I . . . I think I understand,
Archigos."
In truth, she wasn't entirely certain
what he was warning her against. They were in a téni-driven closed
coach, traveling toward the Pontica a'Brezi Veste and the Grande
Palais on the Isle A'Kralji, the coach's springs complaining
metallically as they bounced over the cobbles on the bridge's
approach. The Archigos sat on velvet cushions across from her; she
huddled against the side of the coach. The last few days had not
gone well: the incident with her vatarh, then the visit with her
matarh, which had left her emotionally drained. Her servants Beida,
Sunna, and Watha had all been solicitous and comforting, but she
also suspected that everything that was said or done in her
apartments was being reported back to the Archigos. As if he'd
overheard her thoughts, the Archigos took a long breath through his
nose and smiled at her.
"Your matarh . . . She understood what
you told her?"
"No," Ana answered. "She doesn't want
to believe me."
"Give her time," the Archigos said.
"She heard what you said, even if she doesn't want to admit it.
She'll be thinking it over and she'll be asking questions of those
around her; she may already realize it's true. She'll listen.
She'll believe. In time."
The Archigos' figure swam in Ana's
suddenly-starting tears, and she turned her head away from him,
pretending to look out the window of the carriage. She heard the
rustle of cloth, then felt the dwarf's hand touch hers. She drew
her hand back with a hiss, and his withdrew. Neither of them said
anything else for the duration of the trip.
Renard escorted them to the Kraljica's
inner apartments rather than to the Hall of the Sun Throne, passing
through the knotted clusters of courtiers and supplicants. Ana
could feel their appraising glances on her even as they bowed and
brought clenched hands to their foreheads, but they were quickly
past them as Renard conducted them down a long hall to where a duo
of servants waited to open the doors for them.
The Kraljica was in the outer chamber,
holding up a cloth draped over a canvas set on an easel. She let
the cloth drop as they entered and Renard announced them. "How well
has ci'Recroix captured you, Kraljica?" the Archigos asked. "May we
see?"
"No." The refusal came perhaps too
loudly and quickly, and the Kraljica frowned. "I'm sorry, Dhosti.
That sounded harsh. It's just that ci'Recroix doesn't want anyone
looking at the painting yet. It's not done. But I figure that since
it's me he's portraying, I have some privileges."
"Of course you do, Marguerite," the
Archigos answered. Ana saw that his glance went to the jars of
paints, oils, and pigments on the table near the canvas, the jar of
brushes and the smell in the room, and then to a large painting of
a peasant family hung over the massive fireplace in the room. Ana
found herself startled, looking at the painting: it was as if she
were staring through a window into a cottage room. The figures
seemed nearly alive, so vivid that she expected them to breathe and
talk. "I thought ci'Recroix was painting you in the
Hall."
"I haven't been feeling well lately,
I'm afraid, and so he's been working in here." The Kraljica walked
across the room toward the fire crackling in the hearth, and Ana
saw the slow caution in her steps, the way her body stooped
visibly, and the heaviness with which she leaned on the filigreed,
silver-chased ebony cane she carried—not the way she'd appeared
even a few days ago. She had shriveled, she was collapsing in on
herself. She coughed, and the cough was full of liquid. Her face
was pale, the skin of her arms so translucent that Ana could see
the tracery of veins underneath. She seemed to have aged suddenly,
the years she had held back so well for so long crashing down on
her. Her voice trembled. The Kraljica stared up at the painting
over the hearth, standing before the fire as if she were absorbing
its heat. "I'll be fine by the Gschnas. You're coming, of course?"
she said to the Archigos, turning with evident reluctance away from
her examination of the painting. "And you, Ana? Have you been to
the Gschnas Ball before?"
"Never to the one here in the palace,
Kraljica," Ana told her.
"We've always gone to one of the other halls when we've gone
at all. Once, though, four years ago, the A'Kralj made an
appearance where my family was celebrating. I remember
that."
"I should introduce the two of you,"
the Kraljica said. She cocked her head in Ana's direction. "In
fact, I'll make certain of it."
"Don't go making plans for her,
Kraljica," the Archigos said. "Ana's still getting used to being
one of the téni. I chose her for the Faith and I don't want you
planning to steal her from me for your own purposes."
The Kraljica sniffed at that as Ana
felt her cheeks redden. "I'll do what's best for the Holdings, no
matter what you might say." Again, she glanced at Ana. "Dhosti,
let's talk. Ana will wait here; Renard, you'll get her whatever
she'd like. This business with Hïrzg ca'Vörl is troubling me. I
wish I were more certain of his intentions. . . ."
With a final glance at the painting on
the wall, Marguerite shuffled away from the fire toward a set of
doors on the far wall. Ana caught a glimpse of another room beyond,
with velveted red wallpaper, heavy sconces, and heavier furniture.
The Archigos lifted a shoulder to Ana and followed.
"O'Téni?" Ana turned at Renard's
voice. He seemed nearly as old as the Kraljica, and the years
seemed to have sucked him as dry as a length of smoked meat. He
picked up a chair sitting next to the painter's jarlittered desk
and placed it between the hearth and the doors through which the
Archigos and the Kraljica had vanished. "You'll be most comfortable
if you sit exactly there," he said, with an odd emphasis in his
voice. The chair he'd taken looked neither particularly comfortable
nor well-placed; it certainly was less appealing than the
cushioned, padded leather chair set before the fire. "Please sit
here, O'Téni cu'Seranta," he said again. "I'll bring you tea
and something to eat." With that, he gave her the sign of Cénzi
accompanied by a slight bow and left the room.
Ana hesitated. She glanced from the
painting on the wall, where the family seemed to stare back at her,
to the draped canvas. The painting, she knew, must be one of
ci'Recroix's, and that made her all the more tempted to lift the
cover from the portrait of the Kraljica, to see what was
there.
Ana touched the drapery, letting the
paint-stained folds move between her fingers, but remembering the
Kraljica's admonition, she didn't lift it. Instead, she went to the
chair Renard had placed against the wall, and realized immediately
why he'd placed it there. Through the wall, she could hear the
voices from the room beyond, faint and muffled, but understandable
if she remained still and quiet.
"What's all this about
ca'Cellibrecca?" the Kraljica was saying. "I expect you to take
care of your own house, Dhosti. I've enough trouble with my own
concerns with the damned Hïrzg. I don't need to worry about
Concénzia as well."
"I think both issues are intertwined,"
the Archigos answered. "As A'Téni of Brezno, Ca'Cellibrecca speaks
to Firenzcia, and I know that he has had ongoing communications
with the Hïrzg. One of my contacts in the ca'Cellibrecca's staff at
Ile Verte was able to see one of those communiqués and send a
partial copy to me—the letter was in code. I have people working on
deciphering it, but the very fact that ca'Cellibrecca would see a
necessity for such subterfuge speaks volumes. Marguerite, I believe
that A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca and the Hïrzg have already formed an
alliance. I know what ca'Cellibrecca wants—what he did in Brezno
had the cooperation of the Hïrzg, and he makes no apology for it.
As to the Hïrzg and why he would ally with ca'Cellibrecca, well,
you know what the Hïrzg might desire."
Ana could almost hear the Kraljica's
frown. "I'm afraid you're right, Dhosti. Greta . . . the Hïrzgin .
. . tells me that much of Firenzcia's army is 'on maneuvers' south
of Brezno near the River Clario, and the Hïrzg has called down most
of the divisions that were stationed on the Tennshah border. Still,
the maneuvers are scheduled to end in a handful of days—the Hïrzgin
assures me that she is confident that despite the Hïrzg's
statements, she and Hïrzg Jan will be in Nessantico for the final
week of the Jubilee. She says she is insisting on it. That's why
the maneuvers were set near the Clario—so they could travel down
the river afterward."
"Convenient," the Archigos said. "For
river travel, or to send the army into Nessantico."
"You don't really think . . . ?" There
was silence for a few moments, then Ana heard the Kraljica's voice
again. "Perhaps you're simply too suspicious, Dhosti. The Holdings
have always depended on Firenzcia's troops as necessary support for
the Garde Civile and the chevarittai, and we expect the Hïrzg to
keep them in readiness. And before you start lecturing me again, I
know my history. Hïrzg Falwin's Insurrection was long ago, and only
the Hïrzg's own personal division took part in that; the bulk of
the Firenzcian troops remained loyal to Kraljiki Henri and refused
to fight for the Hïrzg. It would be no different now; I don't think
the troops would fight against the Garde Civile, nor do I believe
that the Hïrzg's war-téni would obey ca'Cellibrecca's orders over
yours."
There was a long pause before the
Archigos responded. "I hope you're right. Marguerite, I've learned
that the same go-between ca'Cellibrecca employed with Hirzg ca'Vörl
has also met with your son. And—you've often told me to speak
frankly in private with you, and so I hope you forgive me—the
A'Kralj has made no secret of his own attitude toward the Numetodo.
And he's becoming increasingly impatient to sit on the Sun
Throne."
Ana heard the Kraljica's intake of
breath, like an angry teakettle, but it was interrupted as Renard
knocked on the door of the outer chamber, and he and two servants
entered to place tea and and cakes and tarts on the table near the
fire. "Your chair is . . . comfortable?" Renard asked Ana, with a
faint smile.
"Perfectly," Ana told him. "And
well-placed."
"I thought it might be." The man's
rheum-glazed eyes flicked over to the draped portrait of the
Kraljica as if he were checking to see if the covering had been
disturbed. He evidently realized she'd seen his attention. "I worry
about the Kraljica," he said. "This painter demands too much of her
time, and she's not been well since he started his work. Yet she
indulges him . . ." He stopped, brushing imaginary lint from his
sleeves. "But that doesn't concern you, and I shouldn't have
mentioned it. Have some tea, O'Téni. And the cakes are
delicious."
Renard clapped his hands, and the
servants finished placing the trays and vanished. Renard gave Ana
another bow and followed them. Ana hadn't eaten since before Second
Call: her stomach rumbled at the sight of the desserts and the tea
smelled delicious, and the draped painting still beckoned to her,
but she didn't move, not wanting to miss the conversation in the
next room.
". . . you know," the Kraljica was
saying. "My son will do as I tell him to do."
"While you're alive, he will." Ana's
eyes widened with the Archigos' blunt statement.
"You go too far, Dhosti." Annoyance
sharpened the words.
"To the contrary, Marguerite. Look at
me. Any day, Cénzi could call me to Him. That's simply reality.
Ana—she's the future, as is A'Kralj Justi." Ana sat up in the chair
at the mention of her name, pressing her head back against the
wall. "You and I . . . We're the present, ready to become the past
all too soon. We both have been perhaps too comfortable in our
positions for the last many years, and we both have enemies who are
willing to rush Cénzi's call."
"Three decades, Dhosti. It's been
thirty years and more since the last time the Garde Civile had to
fight more than a border skirmish or a minor uprising."
"And that's your legacy as the Généra
a'Pace, and the sobriquet is well-deserved. People will call this
time the Age of Marguerite, and future generations will always look
back on it with longing. But the time is short for your age. Not
even you can defy Cénzi and time."
"Justi could continue it." The
Archigos said nothing. The silence loomed like a thunderhead. "He
can," the Kraljica said at last. "He will."
"I hope so, Kraljica. I sincerely pray
that you're right."
"And your new protégée?" the Kraljica
said. "At least Justi was brought up to be Kraljiki. He's been
groomed for it for decades. That one's just a pup, unproven and
inexperienced. And potentially dangerous, from what I hear. You
think she can continue your legacy, Dhosti?"
"I don't know," Ana heard the Archigos
answer. She could feel her stomach burning, and the heat in her
face. "I'd hoped that I'd have time to find out for
certain."
"She'll break like an untempered
sword."
"She might. Or not."
Ana heard footsteps in the room, and
she lurched upright guiltily and stood in front of the fireplace as
if she'd been there all along studying ci'Recroix's painting. The
door remained closed. The rustic mother in the painting above the
mantel smiled sadly at her. Ana could see the imperfections in her
face, the pockmarks on her cheeks, the lines that besieged the
corners of her mouth, the smudge of soot on her forehead. Ana
forced herself to look away from the painting. She glanced at the
door to the other room, which remained closed. She walked slowly
toward the canvas on its easel. Again, she touched the cloth and
this time let her fingers close around the folds.
She lifted it.
And nearly dropped it again.
She was staring into the Kraljica's
face and the woman was gazing back. The painting was obviously
unfinished, but already it was startling. The face, in particular,
seemed perfectly three-dimensional and rounded, so realistic in its
portrayal that Ana felt herself reaching forward with an index
finger to touch the surface of the canvas.
With the touch, she dropped the
covering with a gasp.
In the instant her fingertip grazed
the canvas, she thought she'd felt warmth like that of a living
face, and she would have sworn that she heard a voice, a distant
call just on the edge of recognition. But all the sensations were
gone as swiftly as they had come. Ana took several steps back from
the painting, cradling her hand to her green robes and staring at
the telltale hint of pigment on her forefinger.
The door opened, and the Archigos and
Kraljica emerged. ". . . understand each other," the Kraljica was
saying. The paint is still drying; that's why it was
warm. And I heard the Kraljica's voice as they approached
the door . . . Ana smiled at them: as if she'd been waiting
patiently, as if she'd overheard nothing they'd said.
"Renard's brought some refreshments,"
she said to them. "Would either of you care for tea?"

Karl
ci'Vliomani
"HSST! Here—quickly!"
Karl
had come to the address on the note Mahri had given him—a street
that was barely more than an alleyway in the snarled depths of
Oldtown. Only a few people were about, none of them near him.
Mahri's voice came from a shadowed archway. His hand beckoned from
the slit of the door. Karl moved toward the door, and it opened
wide enough to allow him entry before closing again.
He could smell the beggar as his eyes
struggled to adjust to the darkness: mildew, soiled clothing,
rotting teeth. Then he heard the click of the door shutting, and
light flooded the room. Mahri spoke a word that Karl did not
understand, and light streamed from Mahri's hand: in his cupped
palm, a glass orb gleamed with light so bright that Karl shielded
his eyes. The light itself was intense, but it illuminated only a
globe around them; the rest of the room was dark, and the
light—impossibly—cast no shadows. In the harsh, bluish illumination
Karl could see Mahri's face, the torn, ravaged, and scarred
landscape that the cowl usually masked. He took a step backward,
away from Mahri and outside the globe of light, and night returned,
shot through with afterimages of remembered glare. The effect was
startling. He couldn't see Mahri at all, nor the globe of light.
They were . . . gone. He stepped forward again to where Mahri had
been standing . . . and sunlight dawned once more, caught in
Mahri's hand.
Karl shook his head, stunned. The
quickness of the spell didn't startle him; that was a Numetodo
trick, after all, one that the téni couldn't match with their slow
chants. But the spell itself . . . "That's . . . Well, that's truly
marvelous, Mahri. You're a téni, then, or were once?"
Mahri laughed at that, a dry and
strangled chuckling. "No. Not a téni."
Karl frowned. "A Numetodo? If so,
then—"
Mahri interrupted Karl before he could
finish the statement. "Could you do this, Envoy, you or any
Numetodo you know?"
"No," Karl admitted. "My own skills
are . . . more limited. I've still much to learn before I would
claim to have mastered the Scáth Cumhacht. But I've known a few
who, back in Paeti . . ." He stopped. "No, I don't think they could
have done that, either."
Mahri nodded. "I'm not Numetodo. But
let us say that I have sympathy for your cause. And one doesn't
master the Ilmodo or the Scáth Cumhacht or whatever you wish
to call it. It always, in the end, masters you." From outside,
there was the sound of carriage wheels and hooves on cobblestones.
Mahri tightened his fingers around the globe, and the light it cast
dimmed appreciably. "Follow me," Mahri told Karl. "Stay close to me
or you'll lose the light—the stairs are steep and
narrow."
Staying close to the man's back, Karl
shuffled behind Mahri to an archway, then along a short corridor.
The interior of the building was shabby and rundown, with walls
broken and rat-holed. He heard the slithering of the creatures in
the walls as they passed. At the end of the corridor was a
staircase, as steep and narrow as Mahri had advertised; they
ascended, then turned into a room directly above the one he'd
entered on the ground floor. A feral cat streaked along the wall
and out a window as they came in. Mahri extinguished the light
entirely, thrusting the globe somewhere in his tattered robes.
"Come here, Envoy," he said.
In the dim light from the quartered
moon, Karl could see Mahri beckoning to him from alongside a window
with the shutters half-open. A chair was set just to one side,
where someone could watch the street but not be noticed. Karl went
to the window and glanced down. A covered, four-person carriage had
stopped on the street below at the house next to theirs. Two
lanterns mounted on the sides pooled light on the street. The
driver had dismounted from his seat and gone to the carriage doors.
"Vajica Francesca ca'Cellibrecca—you would know her face?" Karl
nodded. "Then watch. You'll only have a moment."
The driver opened the carriage doors,
and Karl leaned forward, squinting into the night. "That's not
her," he said as the driver helped down a woman, plainly dressed,
and thinner and decidedly shorter than Vajica ca'Cellibrecca, but
the woman immediately turned back to the carriage, and he realized
she was a servant. Another woman, with an ornate feathered hat and
a fur draped around her shoulders, took the driver's hand and
descended from the carriage. As she reached the street and the two
women began to hurry toward the door of the house next door, she
lifted her face up to the buildings and the dim light of the
carriage lamps slid over her features.
"Yes. That's the Vajica," Karl
said.
"I know," Mahri answered. "Now get
comfortable and wait a bit. The A'Kralj will come."
Karl watched the women enter the house
as the carriage that had brought them drove off again, then turned
back toward the beggar. "How soon . . ." he began, then realized
that he was talking to no one. Mahri wasn't in the room.
"Mahri?" There was no answer. Karl
sighed, sat in the chair by the window and waited.
There was little to watch. The lane,
off the main streets, had little traffic, locals walking from their
apartments to unknown destinations or appointments, or returning
with a sack of greens or a long loaf of bread. Very occasionally, a
hired carriage would pass, but none stopped. He could smell
woodsmoke nearby and heard the whistle of an utilino shrilling
alarm and saw a wan glow on the bottoms of the clouds from a few
blocks away. He hoped the fire-téni were close by to put out the
blaze—Oldtown feared fire more than anything. Some time later, the
glow subsided; maybe half a turn of the glass, maybe more: the
fire-téni had arrived and snuffed out the blaze. Karl was nearly
ready to give up his vigil when he saw a man dressed in a dark
cloak hurrying down the street. Something about the man's gait and
bearing struck him; when the man stopped across from the house, he
pushed the cowl back from his head. There was no mistaking the
thrusting chin nor the fine features of his face—Karl had seen them
in paintings and glimpsed them a few times at public ceremonies in
the city: it was the A'Kralj. Karl leaned forward to watch him go
to the door of the house. He didn't knock—the door opened as he
approached and he went in.
"They meet three times a week." Karl
jumped at the sound of Mahri's voice, turning to see the man
standing a bare stride from him. "Always the same days, always the
same time, always for the same length of time. The A'Kralj has his
matarh's habit of punctuality and ritual. One might suspect that
the A'Kralj performs the same acts in the same way each time as
well. Nessantico runs on routine, after all."
"You might warn a person before you
sneak up on them."
"And spoil the mystery?" Karl thought
a grim smile creased Mahri's scarred, distorted mouth, but it might
have been a trick of the shadows. "If I were you, I'd be wondering
what Nessantico might be like if A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca became
Archigos and the A'Kralj was suddenly Kraljiki Justi
III."
"I don't have to wonder," Karl told
him. He rose from the chair.
"You should. There are worse
options."
"Such as?"
"What if it weren't Kraljiki Justi who
ruled Nessantico, but someone who had once been Hïrzg? Brezno is
ca'Cellibrecca's seat of power, after all."
"Then why would ca'Cellibrecca's
daughter be tying herself to the A'Kralj?"
"An intelligent man makes plans for
every possible scenario. Whatever you may think of A'Téni
ca'Cellibrecca, don't make the mistake of thinking him or Hïrzg Jan
stupid."
"And your plans, Mahri? What
might they be?" Karl glanced out of the window toward the street
again, empty now except for an utilino strolling south toward
Oldtown Center. "I'll grant that you're more than you seem and I
won't make the mistake of mocking you again. But I still don't know
what you have to offer me—or what I might offer you. I'm here
representing what's at best a loose coalition of minor kinglets
whose lands are smaller than some of the Kraljica's personal
estates, all huddled just outside the Holding's current borders. I
don't control an army; I don't even have much influence on those to
whom I report. I'm a minor dignitary who hasn't yet managed to
steal even a moment of the Kraljica's time despite persistent
efforts and—I must say—some substantial bribes."
"You've neglected to mention that you
sit at the top of a network of Numetodo here in the city and
throughout the Holdings. You control Mika ce'Gilan, who in turn is
part of the top cell here in the city. I've been watching him for
some time now. The unfortunate ce'Coeni was just a member of one of
the lower cells—the one you know as Boli's cell, wasn't it—though
I'm certain that he wasn't acting on your orders."
His training allowed Karl to show
nothing to Mahri of what he was thinking. How does he know all
this? I have to tell Mika that we have a bad leak in our
organization . . . "You're constructing a conspiracy by the
Numetodo where there's nothing, Mahri," Karl said. "I'm sure
Commandant ca'Rudka would be impressed by your analysis, but I'm
not. We Numetodo can't even agree on what we believe ourselves,
much less cooperate well enough to organize. We have people who
still have some lingering belief in Cénzi, however different from
the Concénzia; we have those who worship some of the Moitidi in
various forms; we have others who believe that there may be no gods
at all, that everything in the world can be explained without the
need for a god's intervention. We'd like the freedom to search for
our own truths without being persecuted by the Concénzia Faith or
the Kraljica's minions. We're not a threat to the Holdings or
Concénzia as long as they're not a threat to us. Beyond that, I
don't care who rules the Holdings. That's all I'm here to ask for,
and I'm just what I appear to be. Nothing more."
"So am I," Mahri answered blandly. "As
much as you."
Karl decided to ignore that. "If the
A'Kralj worries you, then why not kill him? You know where he is
and from what I've seen, you'd have no problem getting to him. Get
rid of the man."
"Death doesn't kill beliefs," Mahri
said. "It only gives those beliefs more strength. A philosophy is
not a person—if it's a truly vital way of thinking, the death of
its founder only feeds its growth. That's the mistake
ca'Cellibrecca and Hïrzg Jan would make. It would be a shame if the
Numetodo did the same."
"Then what kills a belief, if not the
death of those who believe?"
Mahri didn't answer. Under the
shadowed cowl, the man's single eye stared back at Karl. "Ah, that
is the question, isn't it?"