Nessantico Cycle #01 - A Magic of Twilight S L Farrell

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Jan ca'Vörl

"THE BATTLE WAS a complete rout." Starkkapitän ca'Staunton's nostrils flared, his chest filled, and his chin lifted as he spoke. A'Offizier cu'Linnett, accompanying his immediate superior, smelled faintly of fire and ash; when Jan glanced at cu'Linnett, the offizier was staring intently toward the rear of the tent, looking not at the starkkapitän but the array of toy soldiers Allesandra had laid out on the rug, in preparation for a session with Georgi ci'Arndt. She'd stopped playing with them to listen to the starkkapitän's report.

"There were approximately five hundred troops of the Garde Civile holding the border above the Ville Colhem," ca'Staunton continued, "and they broke across the River Clario bridge in the first turn of the glass. They saw A'Offizier cu'Linnett's division and ran like frightened house beetles with their offiziers screaming at them to hold ranks. When the first barrage from the war-téni came, even the offiziers and the few chevarittai with them fled."

Jan glanced again at the offizier, still staring intently at Allesandra's soldiers. "I understand that A'Offizier cu'Linnett commanded the engaging troops?"

"He did, my Hïrzg."

Jan nodded. "How many casualties?" he asked the starkkapitän. He was seated behind his field desk, the thin panels of which were adorned with painted images of his great-vatarh and namesake, the Hïrzg Jan ca'Silanta, fighting the bamboo-armored hordes of East Magyaria. Jan folded his hands on his lap.

"Of our troops, very few, my Hïrzg. A'Offizier cu'Linnett was able to effectively use his war-téni and archers and thus inflicted most of the damage from a distance."

"How very convenient," Jan commented drolly. "And for the Nessantico Garde Civile?"

"At least a hundred and fifty dead, perhaps two hundred."

"So three hundred escaped. Perhaps more. Is that what you're saying to me, Starkkapitän?"

Jan heard Markell, standing just behind his chair, suck in a breath. Allesandra snickered. Ca'Staunton seemed to notice the tone of Jan's voice for the first time. His chest deflated as he exhaled, his chin dropped, and his shoulders drooped. "My Hïrzg—" he began, but Jan cut him off, abruptly.

"I wonder, Starkkapitän . . . Did I fail to make myself clear when I gave you my orders? Because I distinctly remember saying to you, after we captured the Kraljiki's spies, that it was vital—vital—for Nessantico to remain unaware that we have crossed the border. I recall telling you that I wanted Ville Colhelm and any Garde Civile posted there surrounded before we initiated any engagement, so that none could escape to take word back to the Kraljiki in Nessantico. Are you saying, Starkkapitän, that three hundred or more troops are now running toward that city with the news that Firenzcia's army is on its way—troops that include offiziers and chevarittai; troops we will most assuredly meet again, perhaps before the gates of Nessantico?"

Cu'Linnett stared ever harder at Allesandra's toy soldiers in their painted silver and black, his hands clasped behind his back. Starkkapitän ca'Staunton visibly paled. "My Hïrzg, it was of course my intention to do exactly as you'd ordered. The third division had already been sent to cross the Clario well below Ville Colhelm, but we came upon the Garde Civile troops unexpectedly and A'Offizier cu'Linnett had no choice but to engage immediately. There was no time to coordinate the attack."

"A'Offizier," Jan snapped, and cu'Linnett's head threatened to snap entirely from his neck as he jerked his head around to meet Jan's gaze. "You had no vanguard scouting the terrain ahead of your forces? You were surprised by the Garde Civile? They initiated the contact?"

"No, my Hïrzg," the man answered. His voice was firm and solid, and Jan caught the hint of a frown when his eyes flicked over toward ca'Staunton. "The starkkapitän was perhaps somewhat unclear in his assessment of our situation. Our vanguard reported to me that a force of perhaps a half a thousand Garde Civile held the bridge across the Clario at Ville Colhelm, under the command of A'Offizier and Chevaritt Elia ca'Montmorte."

"I know ca'Montmorte," Jan said. "One of the few competent chevarittai, in my opinion. What did you do when that report came to you, A'Offizier?"

"I immediately sent runners to the starkkapitän with the news."

"Ah," Jan said. "As you should have. And the starkkapitän's response?"

Allesandra's toy soldiers clinked dully as her hand swept over them, striking down a battalion. Cu'Linnett stiffened his gaze, keeping his eyes only on Jan. "I was ordered to engage the enemy since we had a far superior force. I obeyed those orders. I sent my war-téni ahead along the path of the Avi, supported by archers and infantry, and had two squadrons of chevarittai flank the Garde Civile east and west along the Clario to attempt to contain the enemy. Unfortunately, the Clario isn't fordable at that point, so the Garde Civile's forces were able to retreat across the bridge once their offiziers realized they they were outflanked and badly outnumbered—the starkkapitän had specifically ordered that the bridge was not to be destroyed."

"And ca'Montmorte?"

"He ordered the retreat, and was among those holding the bridge. He retreated himself only when it was obvious that he had lost. I pursued Chevaritt ca'Montmorte through Ville Colhelm but felt that to go farther would leave my men too exposed and isolated from our main forces. I called a halt, and remained in Ville Colhelm to hold the bridge and the town. Perhaps I should have questioned the starkkapitän's orders or asked for clarification on how he wished me to proceed, but I did not. If that was wrong, my Hïrzg, any blame is entirely mine and not that of my offiziers or men."

"So you take the entire responsibility for your tactics, A'Offizier?"

Jan could see the man swallow. "I do, my Hïrzg. Given the suddenness of the attack and the lay of the land, I did what I thought best."

"You performed your duty admirably. An offizier must always obey his superior, and I admire your willingness to accept responsibility for your actions." Jan nodded to the man, who relaxed visibly. Allesandra began setting up her soldiers again. Jan turned his attention back to ca'Staunton. "A lesson the starkkapitän himself should have learned," he added.

Ca'Staunton reddened further. "My Hïrzg, that's unfair," he answered, his jowls flapping as he spoke. "I have always endeavored to follow your orders to the best of my ability."

"It's your ability that is in question," Jan snapped back at him. "But not any longer. Markell?"

Markell stepped forward then, standing to the side of Jan's chair. He withdrew a scroll from the single side drawer of the table and handed it to ca'Staunton. His voice was formal and unemotional. "Ahren ca'Staunton, you have been found guilty of treason by the Court of Chevarittai Firenzcia for deliberate disobedience of the orders from your Hïrzg, and for endangering Firenzcia, her people, and the Hïrzg with your actions. Your titles of chevaritt and starkkapitän are hereby revoked. The Court's judgment is that you deserve to be executed for your crime, and that punishment is to be carried out immediately. The Court's order has been reviewed and signed by the Hïrzg; his seal is affixed, as you see."

"No!" Ca'Staunton's shout pushed Jan's spine against his chair. "You can't do this!" the man bellowed. "You—your vatarh always said to me that you were reckless and a fool." With one motion, he tossed the scroll aside and drew his sword—Jan heard the hiss of blade against scabbard, like a shrill wind through fir branches—and charged toward Jan.

He made only a single step. Cu'Linnett moved at the same time, drawing his sword and pivoting. The a'offizier's blade slashed across ca'Staunton's ample stomach, the starkkapitän's rush burying the edge deeply in his abdomen. Ca'Staunton doubled over at the point of impact, his eyes wide, and he grunted like an animal. Cu'Linnett completed his turn, ripping out his sword. Blood spattered in a gory, diagonal line across the tent fabric very near Allesandra, who stared, her mouth open and a painted soldier clutched in her hand. Ca'Staunton remained standing for a breath, hunched over, his sword still pointed threateningly at Jan.

The sword dropped from the man's hand. A surge of red poured from his mouth.

He fell.

Jan was still seated in his chair, his hands folded in his lap. Markell's own sword was drawn, the double-edged steel gleaming protectively in front of Jan. Markell sheathed the blade as Jan slowly rose and came around to the blood-spattered front of the field desk. Ca'Staunton's body twitched, his eyes wide and frightened, the blood still flowing from his mouth and nostrils as his hands tried to stuff pink loops back into the gaping wound. Cu'Linnett stood above him, his sword tip at ca'Staunton's neck, his foot on the starkkapitän's chest. "My Hïrzg?" he asked. "If I may? The man suffers."

Jan didn't answer at first. "Allesandra?" he asked, looking back at his daughter. She stared at the blood, but now her head turned to him. Her face was serious and pale.

"I'm fine, Vatarh," she said. She gulped audibly before speaking again. "He was a bad starkkapitän."

"Yes, he was," Jan told her. He nodded to cu'Linnett. The man's sword thrust and ca'Staunton went still. Jan bent down beside the body and tore ca'Staunton's insignia of rank from his uniform blouse, heedless of the blood that stained his hand. He spat on ca'Staunton's body as he hefted the silver-and-brass weight of the starkkapitän's eagle in his palm. Markell nodded once behind the desk, as if he guessed at Jan's thoughts. Allesandra watched him from the rug. He held out the insignia toward cu'Linnett.

"Starkkapitän ca'Linnett," and the doubled change in title and name brought the man's head up sharply. "I thank you for your defense of your Hïrzg. And I extend my congratulations on your victory today— may you have many more as starkkapitän. You have demonstrated that you are a fine example of the chevarittai of Firenzcia. As reward, I name you Comté of the town of Ville Colhelm. Direct your offiziers to take the army across the Clario, and secure your town; I will cross the Clario myself this evening and will meet you there so we can discuss our future strategy."

Jan extended his hand with the insignia toward the man, who finally sheathed his sword and took it. "You may leave us, Starkkapitän," Jan told him as the man stared at the eagle in his hand. "You've much more to do before the end of this day." Ca'Linnett glanced at the body of ca'Staunton. "You should look at him," Jan said. "Look well. Memorize what you see."

"My Hïrzg?"

"You may think that you did this, but you didn't. This was ca'Staunton's fate, no matter whose hand held the sword. This is what happens to those who can't meet my expectations, Starkkapitän. I trust you don't think me reckless and foolish."

Ca'Linnett swallowed visibly again. He saluted. "Good," Jan told him. "I'm glad we understand each other. Until this evening, then, Starkkapitän. Oh, and if you would send someone in to remove the carcass . . ."

Another salute, and ca'Linnett fled. Jan went to Allesandra and gathered her in his arms. Together, they looked down at the body. "Your desk is ruined, Vatarh," Allesandra said. Splashes of brown-red crusted the surface of Great-Vatarh Jan's painted face and dripped thickly from the desk front.

"It will clean up," he told her.

Ana cu'Seranta

A NA CRIED SILENTLY in the darkness, her face to the wall. At least she hoped she was silent. She didn't know where Mahri was—he'd left the apartment for the streets a few turns before and not returned, but Karl was curled up in a nest of blankets on the other side of the room, and she didn't want to wake him.

Not silent enough . . . She realized she could no longer hear Karl's soft snoring even as she heard his footsteps behind her, then felt the movement of the straw-stuffed mattress on which she lay. "Ana . . ." Karl's hand touched her shoulder with his whisper. "I'm sorry. For everything that's happened to you."

Ana wiped furtively at her eyes, grateful for the gloom. She did not trust herself to speak. She remained huddled there, silent, as if she could stopper up her grief for the past and her fears for her future by sheer force of will. She heard him speak a spell-word and a soft light blossomed, no more than a candle's worth. She could see her shadow on the wall in its steady light.

"I thought I heard you," Karl said. "I thought . . ." She felt him shift his weight. The hand moved from her shoulder to stroke her hair. "Do you want me to leave you alone?"

She shook her head. The light vanished, and she felt the warmth of him along her back as he lay down next to her. "You should know that your coming to me in the Bastida was what kept me alive and sane," he said. "I was afraid that I was going to die there, afraid that I'd never see you or Nessantico or the Isle of Paeti again. Never smell the ocean or feel a soft shower from a passing cloud while the sun still was shining on the meadow. Never feel the power of the Scáth Cumhacht in me again . . ." He stopped. His hand slid down her arm until he found her hand. He laced his fingers in hers. "But I could always remember you, long after you left. Ana, I don't know what you did to keep me alive and safe, and I don't care. It doesn't matter. I will always be in your debt."

She could not hold back the sobs anymore. The emotions rose within her, racking her until her shoulders heaved. His fingers tightened around hers. After a moment, she returned the pressure, and that calmed her somewhat. Karl released her hand to put his arms around her and cradle her into himself. He let her cry, saying nothing, just letting the grief and shame flow from her. His head snuggled into her neck; she felt his lips against her there, kissing her once softly.

"You're safe for now," he whispered. "That's all that matters."

She shook her head. "No," she told him. "The Archigos . . . Kenne . . ." She inhaled, the sound breaking. "What have I done to my matarh? What will happen to her now? It would be better if I'd died with the Archigos."

"No," he said fiercely into her ear. "You can't say that. I won't let you."

She turned in his arms so that she faced him. He was a shadow against the darker background of the room. "I lay with him," she said, the confession rushing out unbidden. "With the Kraljiki. That was the bargain I made for you, Karl. Even the Archigos pushed me toward the Kraljiki, saying he thought it's what I should do. The Kraljiki said he would keep you safe if I'd be his lover. He said that . . ." She had to stop. "He said that he might marry me, said that the Archigos' favorite would make a good match." She laughed once, bitterly. Karl said nothing. His hands had stopped moving. "That wasn't really a lie, I suppose. Not really, now that ca'Cellibrecca will be the Archigos."

"Francesca . . ." The word was a breath and a knife.

"Yes. Francesca."

His hand found her cheek. "He used you, Ana. He and Francesca both. They played you and used you until they got what they wanted."

"I was using him in return," she answered. "That makes me no better." She took a breath, and it was empty of the sadness. "I'd like you to go," she said to him. "Leave me alone."

"Ana . . ." He put his arm around her, started to draw her to him. She wanted to let it happen. She wanted to lose her thoughts in heat and his taste and smell, but afterward . . . She didn't know what either one of them would feel afterward, and she couldn't face another loss. She put her hand on his chest, pushing him back.

"No," she said, and the single word stopped him. For a breath, the tableau held. She could feel his breath so close to her lips before he rolled away from her and off the bed. In the darkness, she heard him walk across the room to the pile of blankets that served as his own bed.

She forced herself not to cry again. She prayed to Cénzi instead, and wondered if He could hear her, or if He would listen.

When Ana awoke the next morning, Mahri had returned. He was seated near the hearth, and a pot boiled on the crane over the fire. The fragrant, sharp smell of mint filled the room. Karl snored in his corner. "Tea?" Mahri asked. Ana nodded, then winced as he reached out and swiveled the crane away from the fire; the crane had to be burning hot to the touch, but Mahri didn't seem to react to the heat.

He plucked the pot from the crane and poured liquid into two cracked-lipped mugs, stirring a dollop of honey from a jar into each. Ana padded over to him, still wrapped in her blanket, and he handed her one of the mugs. The man's terrible, scarred face regarded her, his remaining eye staring. She dropped her gaze away quickly, blowing at the steaming liquid and taking a sip. The sweetness burned its way down her throat and the heat of the mug made her put it down on the edge of the table where Mahri sat, near the room's single window. "It's good," she said. "Thank you."

"There are rumors all over the city," Mahri said as if he hadn't heard her. His own mug sat untouched on the rickety, scratched tabletop. The shutters of the window were open, and she could hear people moving on the street outside and see the early morning light. First Call sounded, the wind-horns of Temple Park loudest of them. Ana closed her eyes and went to one knee, reciting the First Call prayers silently to herself, her lips moving with the familiar, comforting words.

"You believe? Still? After all this?"

Mahri's question brought her head up again. Ana nodded as she rose. "I do believe," she told him. "Again, after I thought I'd lost belief. And you, Mahri? Do you pray to anyone, or do you believe in no gods at all like Karl?"

"I believe that there are many ways to use the X'in Ka, which you call the Ilmodo. For us, like you, we call on our gods—but it would seem that the Numetodo have shown both of us another way." He might have smiled; with the disfigured face, it was difficult to tell. "Even my people have things to learn, things you or the Numetodo can teach us. But I do believe, yes. Where I come from, we worship Axat, who lives in the moon, and Sakal, whose home is the sun. Your Cénzi we don't know at all."

"Where is home?"

"Far from here in the West," he answered. "But not so far that we haven't heard of Nessantico, though we've so far managed to avoid her armies. But that day will come."

"Why are you here?"

He did smile then. And didn't answer. He took a sip of his tea.

"The city is like a nervous dog ready to bite anyone who approaches," he said finally. "First the Kraljica's assassination, then the Archigos dead under suspicious circumstances. Now there is talk that Firenzcia's army is on the march—the Kraljiki has expanded commandant ca'Rudka's duties to include the Garde Civile as well as the Garde Kralji, and the Commandant has called for all able-bodied men to enlist in the Garde Civile. Some say that conscription squads will be roaming through the city soon. The Kraljiki sent out riders to the north, south, and west last night, supposedly to summon the nearest Garde Civile garrisons to come here. There's been a request to the local farmers for hay and any wheat stores they may have. Archigos Orlandi has sent additional worker-téni to the smithies and forges."

Mahri glanced over at Karl. "The Numetodo still in the Bastida have been executed," he continued. "Their bodies—hands cut off and tongues removed—are hanging this morning from the Pontica Kralji. But there weren't nearly as many of them in their cells as there were supposed to be. Most of the Numetodo escaped somehow last night via some dark magic."

Even as she recoiled from the news, she noticed the weariness in Mahri's body: the way he propped his body on the table, the heaviness of the lid over his good eye. "That was your doing, the escapes?"

Again, he didn't answer directly. He inclined his head toward the sleeping Karl. "He will need support when he hears of this," he said. "Not all those in the Bastida escaped, and those were his comrades who were murdered."

"Why are you here?" she persisted. "Whose side are you on?"

"I'm not on any side." Mahri drained his still-steaming mug of tea. She touched her own mug; it was still too hot to hold comfortably. "I need to sleep now. It's been a long, tiring night. Have some more tea if you like. There's bread and cheese in the cupboard. If you'll excuse me . . ." He rose from the table.

"What if someone comes?" she asked him. "What should I do?"

"No one will come," he told her. "And as long as you stay here, you're safe, at least for this day. If you go out on the street . . ." The folds of his cloak shifted as his shoulders rose and fell. "Then I can't say. That would be in the hands of your Cénzi."

With that, he shuffled off to the far corner of the room, pulled his cloak tighter around himself, and sat. She could hear his breathing slowing and becoming louder almost immediately.

She sat in the chair and sipped her tea, looking out at the Rue a'Jeunesse and wondering what she would say to Karl when he woke.

Sergei ca'Rudka

A DOUBLE HAND OF Numetodo bodies swung on their gibbets on the lampposts of the Pontica Kralji. There should have been two double hands, enough to decorate the Pontica Mordei as well. That those bodies were missing both troubled and pleased Sergei.

It pleased him . . . because he was convinced that the Numetodo had nothing to do with the death of the Kraljica or the heretical treason of the Archigos and his staff. He had personally supervised the interrogations of the Numetodo who had remained in the Bastida and who were now hanging above him for the crows. He had listened to and watched enough men under torture to see and hear the difference between extracted truth and lying admissions screamed in hopes of stopping the torment. All of the Numetodo had eventually "confessed" before their execution; all of them, Sergei was certain, had only said what they hoped their captors had wanted to hear—their stories didn't connect, didn't make sense, didn't substantiate each other. He was glad that ci'Vliomani had escaped that torment and that humiliation, glad that so many others had escaped it as well. It didn't please him to see so much unnecessary death.

But the escapes troubled him . . . because it was magic that had been at work in the Bastida last night: the fog that had risen suddenly and thick from the A'Sele and wrapped around the Bastida; the gardai rendered unconscious; the disappearance of many of the prisoners before several téni arrived from the Archigos' Temple and dispersed the false mist with their own spells. By then, it had been too late, but he knew that if Kraljiki Justi or Archigos Orlandi de cided that they needed a high-level scapegoat, they might look at Sergei. Had the Numetodo all escaped, that certainly would have been the case.

Yes, the escapes troubled him . . . because Sergei suspected that truth lay elsewhere, and that if he dared to speak his own suspicions, his would be the next body hanging on the Pontica after days of torture in the Bastida.

"Commandant?"

The query brought him out of his reverie. His boots squelched in the mud of the riverbank as he turned. "Yes, O'Offizier ce'Ulcai?"

The man handed ca'Rudka a sealed letter. His gaze flicked past ca'Rudka to the bodies swaying above them on the Pontica, then back. "Your aide said to give this to you immediately."

"Thank you," Sergei said. He examined the seal, then tucked his finger underneath the flap to break the red wax from the thick paper. He unfolded the letter and read it quickly.

Commandant—I have investigated the matter you requested me to

look into. I apologize for the length of time it has taken me to reply,

but my queries required both more travel and correspondence than I

expected. Here are the facts, as I know them:

The artist Edouard ci'Recroix was born here in Il Trebbio in

a village on the River Loi, near our border with Sforzia and Firen

zcia. There is no evidence that he had Numetodo tendencies; in fact,

in his youth he spent two years as a téni-apprentice under A'Téni

ca'Sevini of Chivasso, though he did not receive his Marque. Still,

by all appearances he was a devout member of Concénzia. His early

paintings, before his time as téni-apprentice, are unremarkable; I have

viewed several of them, and there is little indication of his later skill.

But after his release from his studies by the a'téni, his reputation

(and his skills, evidently) began to rise, and in that time he obtained

commissions in several of the cities within the Holdings. The fact that

he had téni-training undoubtedly led to the persistent rumors that he

tapped the Ilmodo to gain the vivid likenesses in his later painting.

A shame no one realized how true that was.

One oddity—which I admit I would not have noticed had you not

alerted me to look for any strange connections—is that most of the

subjects of his portraits, especially those considered to be his mas

terworks, are dead. At least three of them died within a few days of

ci'Recroix's delivery of the finished painting, at which time ci'Recroix

was generally gone from the city, not that any suspicion was ever

cast on him at all. Given the distance between cities and the slowness

of news passing between them, the fact that most of his subjects were

elderly, and ci'Recroix's consistent wanderlust, no one seems to have

found anything sinister in this. I hesitate to remark on it myself. This

still may be nothing beyond a set of odd coincidences. There is no

proof of a definite connection, especially since not all of the painter's

subjects have died.

However, you did ask me to determine who hired ci'Recroix to

do his portrait of the Kraljica. The contact with ci'Recroix was made

here in Prajnoli by Chevaritt cu'Varisi, a diplomat connected to the

Kraljica's office. It was he who signed the commission for the artist

to paint the Kraljica's portrait. In the wake of the Kraljica's death,

cu'Varisi has been removed from his duties and is on house arrest

until the matter is cleared up. I spoke to the chevaritt; he said that his

contact was within the Grand Palais: a Gilles ce'Guischard, who is

connected to the palais staff of the A'Kralj. Chevaritt cu'Varisi con

ducted a brief inquiry into ci'Recroix's qualifications and background

before tendering the commission; he knew of the Ilmodo rumors but

discounted them, something he now regrets. He let me see his notes

from that investigation, and he insists that he found no connection

between ci'Recroix and the Numetodo heretics.

That is all I have for you at this time, Commandant. I will

continue to look into this, and should I uncover more that I feel you

should know, I will write again.

I remain your loyal and grateful servant,

A'Offizier Bernado cu'Montague, Garde Civile, Chivasso,

Il Trebbio

.

Sergei sighed and folded the letter again, tucking it inside his uniform blouse. "I need you to report back to O'Offizier ce'Falla," he said to ce'Ulcai. "There are two orders I need you to relay to him, and another I want you to carry out personally. . . ."

It was evening before word came to him that all was done. Sergei came into the cell in the Bastida, holding a roll of canvas under his arm. He looked at the man seated on the backless stool in the center of the tiny room, hands and feet chained: Remy ce'Nimoni, the green-eyed retainer for the Chateau Pré a'Fleuve. The cell smelled of guttering torches and stale urine. Sergei nodded his head to the garda. "Leave us," he said. The garda saluted, leered once at the prisoner, and left.

"Commandant," the man began blubbering almost immediately. "Surely this is a mistake. After all, I was the one who told you where to find the body of the Numetodo painter who killed the Kraljica."

"Yes, you did, Vajiki ce'Nimoni," Sergei said. "You also put this around his neck before you brought me to him." Sergei opened the hand that supported the canvas roll and a necklace with the polished stone shell swung from his fingers. The man shook his head in denial, but Sergei ignored him.

Crouching down in front of the man, he laid the roll of canvas down on the floor of the cell and spread it out. Inside, several large metal instruments stained with old blood were cradled in cloth loops: pincers, shears, pokers with their tips black from fire, hammers, metal plates and loops that looked as if they might fasten around a head or limb. "Oh, Cénzi, nooooo . . ." ce'Nimoni moaned, the last word transforming into a shuddering wail. He swayed on the stool. He retched suddenly, and acrid vomit spilled on the floor near Sergei's feet. Sergei glanced at the grotesque puddle, but didn't move.

"There is truth in pain," Sergei told the man, words he'd said many times before. "That's what I was once taught. With enough pain, properly applied, the truth always comes. Few can resist the compulsion. Are you one, do you think . . . ?"

Less than a turn of the glass later, Sergei left ce'Nimoni's cell, going to what had once been Capitaine ci'Doulor's office. There, O'Offizier ce'Falla waited with another man, dressed in the colors of the Kraljiki's staff. "Vajiki ce'Guischard," Sergei said, nodding to the man. "Forgive me for not saluting, but . . ." He went to a basin behind the desk and poured water into it from the pitcher, washing his arms clean of the blood that stained them to the wrist.

Ce'Guischard stared as Sergei dried his hands on a towel, and then, ostentatiously, gave ce'Guischard the sign of Cénzi. "Thank you for coming," Sergei said as he took the chair behind ci'Doulor's desk. O'Offizier ce'Falla remained standing to ce'Guischard's left and just behind him; the man kept glancing over his shoulder nervously. Sergei folded his hands on the desk, gazing at ce'Guischard.

He had seen Gilles ce'Guischard dozens of times over the years, always in the background, one of the ubiquitous staff running errands for the a'Kralj or escorting the ca'-and-cu' through the labyrinthian maze that comprised the protocols of the palais. Ce'Guischard was thin, with a severely-trimmed mustache and beard that mimicked that of the new Kraljiki, but his was flecked with gray. The man's skin was sallow and studded with the scars and craters of the Children's Pox. His eyes were the color of a storm-blown sea, and would not remain still. His hands twitched in his lap, plucking at his cloak and pants legs as if searching for dropped crumbs.

"You seem nervous, Vajiki," Sergei commented.

"Ah," the man said. T witch. Shake. "It's just that I've been here for a turn of the glass, waiting, and this place . . ." Shudder. "Forgive me, Commandant, but the Bastida is hardly a place to make one feel comfortable."

"I suppose not." Sergei took in a long breath. He scratched under the metal loop of his left nostril, where the adhesive that held his nose to his face itched his skin. "You must be wondering why I requested that you meet me here."

A nod. The man licked dry lips. Shifted his weight in the chair. Sergei reached into his belt pouch and produced the shell necklace. He laid it carefully on the desk, smoothing out the silver links. Ce'Guischard's eyes seemed snared by the motion. "Do you recognize this, Vajiki?" Sergei asked.

He hesitated just a breath too long. "No, Commandant," he said.

Sergei nodded as if he'd expected the answer. "It's something a Numetodo would wear. It was found around the neck of the painter ci'Recroix, the painter that I understand you personally requested Vajiki cu'Varisi of Prajnoli hire for the Kraljica's portrait."

Another lick of lips. "Commandant, the A'Kralj told me that it was my duty to hire a painter for the Kraljica's Jubilee portrait, and when I made inquiries within the community, ci'Recroix's name was always prominent among the recommendations. I had no idea the man was a dangerous Numetodo, Commandant. I have lived with the guilt ever since . . ." He stopped. Continued. "Chevaritt cu'Varisi actually met with the man since Ci'Recroix was living in Prajnoli at the time. The chevaritt assured us that he had investigated the painter's reliability and found nothing suspicious. I trusted his word—he is cu', after all, and has served the Kraljica for decades."

"Ci'Recroix wasn't a Numetodo," Sergei told him. "At least I don't believe so. I believe the necklace was placed on him to blame them. Gilles—" The use of the man's name nearly made him jump in his chair. "—do you know the retainer for the Chateau Pré a'Fleuve? Remy ce'Nimoni?"

His gaze remained on the necklace. "No . . ." he said slowly. "I don't think so."

"Strange. He was just telling me how the Kraljiki—as the A'Kralj— often had you run errands for his good friend Chevaritt Bella ca'Nephri, the owner of the chateau. He also mentioned how well he knows you, how you came to the chateau the day after Gschnas and told him that he should go the banks of the A'Sele the following day, how he would find ci'Recroix there." Sergei paused. "And that you told ce'Nimoni that he was to kill the man and put this necklace on the body."

"He lies!" ce'Guischard spat indignantly. "I was at the Grand Palais, Commandant, attending to my duties, and couldn't have gone to the chateau—"

"No," Sergei interrupted. "I had Renard check the records of the palais staff, though he remembered quite well on his own. You were not there the day after Gschnas, Gilles. Not at all. You'd asked for leave to tend to your matarh. I've spoken to her also: your matarh somehow doesn't recall your visiting her at all, nor do any of her house servants."

Ce'Guischard squirmed. Smiled. "Ah, that. I'd . . . I'd forgotten, Commandant. It's . . . well, it's rather embarrassing, actually." He gave Sergei a quick, tentative smile. "I had asked to be released from my duties that day and used Matarh as an excuse. In truth, there was a woman I've been seeing, a married woman of cu' rank. You can surely appreciate how, umm, delicate that might be, Commandant. Her husband had been sent out of town on business for a few days, and . . . well . . ." Another smile, creasing the mustache and beard. His hands lifted and fell back. "But this retainer ce'Nimoni . . . I'm sure I've seen him in my visits to the chateau, Commandant, but I know nothing about . . . that." He waved his hand at the shell necklace. "You have my word that what I say is the truth."

"No doubt the Vajica would also confirm your story for me. Privately."

"I'm certain she could be convinced to do so, Commandant, if that's truly necessary."

"It will be."

Sergei could see the man thinking desperately. "Then allow me to contact her first, so I can prepare her and assure her that there will be no scandal."

Sergei plucked the necklace from the desk and placed it back in his belt pouch. He rose from his chair. "Thank you for your time and cooperation, Vajiki. I'll expect to hear from you with the Vajica's name, and I'll make arrangements to meet with her and confirm your story. Discreetly, of course."

Ce'Guischard gave a hurried sign of Cénzi to Sergei, then lifted his clasped hands quickly to his forehead for ce'Falla. He rushed from the office and away. Sergei smiled at ce'Falla, who stared at the door through which ce'Guischard had vanished. "Say it," Sergei said. "You can speak freely."

"The man's lying, Commandant," ce'Falla said. "He knows about ci'Recroix and the Kraljica's assassination. But you let him go."

"He was lying, and I did let him go," Sergei admitted. "And you want to know why?

A nod.

"Because sometimes there is too much pain in truth," Sergei answered. Ce'Falla frowned, shaking his head slightly. "You've done well, O'Offizier," Sergei told him. "Go get some food and rest; you've earned it. You're dismissed for the evening. Oh, and if you would dispose of this on the way out." He gestured to the basin of bloodied water. "Lamb's blood," Sergei told the man, seeing his stare. "From the kitchens. I'm not entirely the butcher I'm reputed to be."

Ce'Falla smiled slightly, saluted, then took the basin and left. Sergei went to the door of the office. He looked out onto the courtyard of the Bastida, where the dragon's head glared out at Nessantico, and watched ce'Falla salute the guards at the gate. Iron groaned and echoed in the evening as ce'Falla went out onto the brilliantly-lit Avi a'Parete and strode away in the crowds under the téni-created glow. Somewhere out there, Gilles ce'Guischard was also hurrying home— undoubtedly with fear nipping at his heels. If Sergei was correct in his assumption, then ce'Guischard would waste no time talking to the person who had given him his orders. I actually feel sorry for poor Gilles. He was only following orders, and now he's dangerous. Probably too dangerous . . .

If Sergei was correct in his assumptions, then he would soon find that this investigation was abruptly over, and that to continue to pry into the matter of ci'Recroix would be too dangerous for Sergei as well.

Gilles ce'Guischard

"DON'T WORRY, GILLES. I will take care of this . . ."

Gilles turned the corner of the Rue a'Colombes onto the Rue a'Petit Marché, several blocks away from the hubbub of the Avi a'Parete. There, the market was just preparing for the day, the farmers setting up their tables and getting their produce and goods ready to display. A few shoppers were about, hoping to snare the best choices while the sun still remained low in the sky and before the morning crowds arrived. Gilles' breath frosted in front of him—it had been a long walk from the palais—but he was near his destination now. He glanced up at the side of the nearest building, looking for the street placard. Yes, there it was: Ruelle a'Chats . . .

"Go to this address a turn of the glass after First Call tomorrow morning. There will be a woman there: Sylva cu'Pajoli. She is married, but she will understand what she needs to say to the commandant; I will send her a note tonight telling her to expect you. Explain to her everything you've already told him; she will work with you to make certain your stories match. Then go back to the commandant and give him Vajica cu'Pajoli's name and address so he can speak with her."

It would all work out. He was safe. The tension in Gilles' stomach loosened as he turned the corner of the Ruelle a'Chats, an alley which ran between the backs of houses facing the parallel streets. Gilles could see the end of the ruelle a hundred strides away, though the closeness of the houses made the alleyway itself dim and murky.

"Ah, good morning to you, Vajiki," a man's voice said, and Gilles saw an utilino push himself away from the nearest wall, his watchman's prod dangling casually from its handstrap; his lantern, the téni-light extinguished, was sitting on the ground near where he'd been standing. "You're right on time. You've been expected."

"You're to take me to Vajica cu'Pajoli?" Gilles asked the man, who smiled broadly, displaying missing front teeth. The utilino clapped his arm around Gilles' shoulder.

"We were told to make certain you got to where you're supposed to go," he answered.

"We? What do you mean . . ." Gilles stuttered, suddenly no longer certain of the situation. Two more men appeared, one from either end of the small lane. The utilino's arm tightened around Gilles' shoulder as he started to retreat, and he felt the man coming behind him press the point of a dagger into his back.

"I wouldn't try to run, my friend," the man whispered. "Won't do you no good. Let's go along with the good utilino now, shall we?"

"You don't know who I am," Gilles protested, dragging his feet as they pulled him farther into the ruelle, as the man from the far end approached. "You don't know who I work for."

"Ah, but we do, Gilles ce'Guischard," the utilino said. "Don't we now?"

Hearing his name spoken, Gilles felt true fear for the first time. This wasn't a random attack; this wasn't robbery. If they knew his name, if they'd been told to be here, then . . . He started to scream for help, but the man behind clapped his hand over Gilles' mouth, pulling his head and neck back sharply. "Shh . . ." the man said, the knife pressing harder into Gilles' back as he struggled against the hold. "Won't do none of us any good you being noisy, now will it?"

The man from the far end was now within a stride, and Gilles saw the fellow making the hand motions of a téni and he heard the words of chanting. The téni—if that's what he indeed was, since he didn't wear green robes—nodded as he performed a final wave of his hands, and the man with the knife moved his hand from Gilles's mouth. Gilles shouted. "Help! I need help!" but his words seemed strangely blunted, as if he were shouting with his face pressed against a pillow.

"You can shout all you want now," the spellcaster said. His voice sounded tired. "They can't hear you anymore." He nodded again to the utilino. "Hold him," he said, and began chanting again, his hands dancing in the murk of the alley. Gilles struggled to free himself, but the man with the dagger pressed it to the side of his neck.

"Keep moving, an' I'll use this. Is that what you want: a messy, choking death with your neck smiling with its new mouth carved in it? Be still, or, by Cénzi, I'll do it." Gilles stopped struggling. He sagged in the arms of his attackers. It will be all right. He wouldn't have ordered me killed. Not after all I've done for him, all the help I've been to him. This is something else. Gilles watched the téni complete the spell.

The téni's hands glowed; lightning crackled between the poles of his fingers. He stepped forward and put his hands on Gilles' chest. The touch of the man's hands was like nothing Gilles had ever felt before, as if a wild storm had flared into existence inside him, all lightning and hail and gale winds. He screamed at the touch. The téni withdrew his hands, but the storm continued, growing larger and more fierce so that his voice was lost against its thundering in his head. He felt the hands holding him let go, and he tried to take a step, but the wet flags of the Ruelle a'Chats rose up to meet him, and he thrashed on the ground, helpless. He could taste blood; he could see the paving stones in front of his eyes, but even that landscape was growing dark.

He could hear voices, growing ever fainter against the storm. ". . . dead by no hand but Cénzi's . . . the utilino will swear that he fainted . . ." but then the thunder came again and it took the voices and his sight and Gilles himself away with the racing storm front.

Justi ca'Mazzak

JUSTI STORMED INTO the Archigos' office like a tornado, the offizier from the Garde Civile and Commandant ca'Rudka racing to keep up with him. A few of the staff-téni rose to intercept this evidentlyirate trio of intruders, then stopped in mid-stride and mid-spell when they recognized the Kraljiki. "Ca'Cellibrecca!" Justi roared. He flung open the doors to the Archigos' office with a crash, sending a picture flying from the wall as ca'Cellibrecca, behind his desk with several o'téni huddled around him, stared wide-eyed.

"Out!" Justi shouted at the o'téni, pointing to the door. "All of you. Now!"

They gathered papers and scrolls and fled past Justi. The commandant quietly closed the doors behind them. Ca'Cellibrecca remained seated behind his desk. Justi saw him glance appraisingly at the disheveled and unshaven offizier. "Krajiki," ca'Cellibrecca said soothingly, "you're obviously distraught. What's happened? How can I help you?"

The offizier glanced at ca'Rudka, who nodded. "Tell him," ca'Rudka said to the offizier. "Tell him what you just told me and the Kraljiki."

The man nodded. Justi saw ca'Cellibrecca taking in the soiled clothing, the mud spattering his boots, the weariness in the man's stance as he wiped uselessly at stubble on his face.

"I've come from Ville Colhelm on the border, riding hard and constant for a hand of days now with little sleep. I don't know how many mounts I've killed under me getting here this quickly . . ." He stopped. Licked his lips. "The army of Firenzcia has crossed the River Clario in force and overrun Ville Colhelm. They are even now moving toward Nessantico. The Garde Civile were routed at the bridge, far out numbered. We lost a third of our men trying to hold the bridge before A'Offizier ca'Montmorte ordered the retreat. He sent me to give the Kraljiki the news; the rest of the troops with A'Offizer ca'Montmorte are falling back toward Passe a'Fiume, planning to stay there to await orders and reinforcements."

"You say the Hïrzg was with them?" Justi prompted the man. "And war-téni as well?"

"The division we met was flying the banner of the Hïrzg, my Kraljiki," the soldier answered. "We're certain he is with them, though we didn't see him during the battle. And they had many war-téni with them— they were devastating. We had nothing to counter them. Nothing."

Justi nodded. "I want to thank you greatly for your service," he told the man. "Go—get some food and rest. We'll need you later."

The man saluted both Justi and the commandant, then gave the sign of Cénzi to the Archigos. Ca'Rudka opened the door and closed it after the offizier. As the door closed, Justi turned back to ca'Cellibrecca. The Archigos' face was drained of color. He looked years older as he stared at Justi. "But the message birds we've received . . ."

". . . were meant to deceive us, as the commandant suspected all along. If I hadn't ordered troops to the border—against your express advice, as you may recall, Archigos—then we might never have known what ca'Vörl intended until his army reached the A'Sele. So, Archigos . . ." The anger burned in Justi, sullen.

It was ca'Rudka who spoke: quietly, saying the words that were in Justi's mind also. "I have to wonder, Archigos, how it is that the Hïrzg has war-téni with his army—war-téni who would have been trained in Brezno, in your temple, under your U'Téni cu'Kohnle."

"Commandant, you're not suggesting . . ." Ca'Cellibrecca's voice trailed off and his gaze moved to Justi as if looking for support. Justi simply stared at the Archigos, whose hand pressed against the base of his throat as if trying to stop his words. The man blanched even more; his skin seemed to be the shade of the alabaster statues in the corridors. "Certainly I knew about the maneuvers, Commandant, Kraljiki," ca'Cellibrecca continued. "As did your matarh. But that is all they were supposed to be: maneuvers. I certainly didn't know the Hïrzg's intentions when I granted permission for the war-téni to accompany him. The war-téni should have returned to Brezno when it was apparent that the Hïrzg threatened the peace of the Holdings; to do otherwise was a blatant disobedience of standing orders, and U'Téni cu'Kohnle will be appropriately punished if it is true. Cu'Kohnle must have gone rogue, or perhaps worse has happened to him."

"Indeed," Justi said. "I would hate to believe that he was following orders you gave to him."

"Kraljiki . . ." Ca'Cellibrecca rose now, calming himself visibly. Justi nearly snorted at the obviousness of it. The Archigos arranged himself in a pose of wounded pride, his right hand spread and pressed against his chest. "If you're accusing someone of treason, then I wonder why you aren't instead looking at the man beside you. It wasn't me who lost so many of the Numetodo enemies of the state, including their leader."

"Attempting to deflect attention, are we, Archigos?" ca'Rudka asked. The commandant's tone was offhand, his posture casual as he leaned against the wall next to the door. He rubbed at his sculpted, silver nose. "I've already made my apology to the Kraljiki and accepted the blame for my failure. But a few dozen heretics cowering in the shadows of Oldtown is hardly the equal of an army massing on Nessantico's doorstep."

"Shut up, both of you." Justi glowered at the two men: as ca'Rudka bowed his head; as ca'Cellibrecca sat once more. "Archigos, I've come here to ask you one simple question—do you stand with me?"

"If you don't," ca'Rudka interjected, "then perhaps the Archigos would enjoy one of the cells the Numetodo have so recently vacated."

"Commandant!" Justi snapped, and ca'Rudka shrugged. "Archigos, an answer, please."

Ca'Cellibrecca spread his hands as if in blessing. "I can assure the Kraljiki that he has my complete devotion." He seemed to attempt a conspiratorial smile; it failed utterly, collapsing into an uncertain frown. "After all, my Francesca . . ."

"Your daughter has nothing to do with this," Justi told him. "I'm certain she would as easily be persuaded to marry the Hïrzg as me. After all, ca'Vörl could have his present marriage annulled. The Archigos can grant such favors, can't he? At least that's what a certain trader in Oldtown whispers—Carlo cu'Belli, who has been to Brezno under the seal of A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca many times."

Justi saw the Archigos visibly flinch. "It's obvious that someone has been filling your ears with innuendo and lies, Kraljiki," he said. "I have done nothing, nothing, that hasn't been for the good of Nessantico, and for you especially, Kraljiki. I was Brezno's A'Téni for years, yes, and it's true that I know the Hïrzg well and have worked with him many times, but I am not a traitor: not to Concénzia, and not to the throne of the Kralji."

"Then I have your answer?" Ca'Cellibrecca nodded, with a quick glare at the lounging commandant. "Good," Justi said. "Then you will prepare to leave with me tonight."

"Leave, Kraljiki?"

"The Kraljiki has sent a request to the Hïrzg for parley," Commandant cu'Rudka said. "He intends to meet with ca'Vörl before their army reaches Passe a'Fiume. Along with the Garde Civile from the city, we will pick up the remnants of the Garde Civile from Ville Colhelm, as well as the garrisons of Passe a'Fiume, Ile Verte, and Chiari. I have conscription squads out in the city as we speak, and pages have gone to all the houses of the ca'-and-cu' to summon the chevarittai. You will arrange for the war-téni of the Garde Civile to accompany us. We will have a force capable of holding Passe a'Fiume, if it comes to that."

Ca'Cellibrecca gaped, then seemed to shake himself. "Kraljiki," ca'Cellibrecca protested, "it's not the role of the Faith to interfere in political affairs. That is your arena, as the nurturing of the faithful of Cénzi is mine. I would think I would better serve you here, where I could help to calm the fears of the populace and make certain that the Numetodo take no advantage of your absence. After all, I'm not a warténi myself."

"And that way the Archigos can appear to have been a neutral party, just in case the Hïrzg prevails," ca'Rudka said laconically. Ca'Cellibrecca shot him another glance.

"Despite the commandant's rude insinuations, I will do as the Kraljiki wishes, of course," the Archigos said. "But I ask him to consider what happens if Hïrzg ca'Vörl chooses to ignore the rules of parley as he has ignored the laws of Nessantico, and decides to snatch up the Kraljiki, the new Commandant of the Garde Civile, and the Archigos of the Concénzia Faith, all at once. The power that would give him, the ransoms he could demand, the concessions he could force . . ."

"You wouldn't immediately declare him a heretic if he did that, Archigos?" Justi said. "You wouldn't cite the Divolonté to him? You wouldn't withdraw the favor of the Faith, or command his téni to no longer perform services for those of Firenzcia? You wouldn't tell the war-téni with him that they can no longer call on Cénzi to perform their spells of destruction, and that if they do, you will cut off their hands and remove their tongues and send them from the Faith? In fact, all of that is exactly what I intend you to say to ca'Vörl when we meet: he must turn his army back; he must relinquish military command of the Holdings troops in Firenzcia, and, as surety, he will send his daughter Allesandra to Nessantico as a hostage. He will do that, or he will be declared an enemy of the Faith and of the Holdings, and he will suffer the consequences."

"Kraljiki . . ."

"I assume that I am sufficiently clear on this, Archigos," Justi barked, not giving the man time to protest. "I am not my matarh. I will not avoid confrontation by bandying marriage and alliances; I will not sit on the Sun Throne and weave spiderwebs of intrigue to tangle and confuse my enemies. No one will dub me 'Généri a'Pace,' and that bothers me not at all. When I am threatened, I will deal with the threat directly and with full, terrible force. I have played your little game regarding Archigos Dhosti and the Numetodo, and that has placed you in the position you so long coveted. Now it's time for you to return the favors I have granted you: in full, without reservation, and with full interest. If you cannot do that, Archigos, then—as I said—I will deal with that in a direct manner. I will consider your refusal to be a threat. We leave in three dozen turns of the glass, Archigos. I will see you with your carriage and any attendants you care to take with you at the walls of the Pontica Mordei at that time, as well as every war-téni you can muster from within the city . . . or I will see you swinging from the Pontica as a warning to the new Archigos."

Ca'Cellibrecca blinked. Sat. His body slumped like a loaf of uncooked dough. "Kraljiki, you wound me to the core. I was only attempting to make certain that you've considered all aspects of the situation, as is the obligation of any good counselor. You have my entire loyalty. I will be there at your side, as you wish."

"It's not what I wish," Justi told him. "It's what I demand."

Francesca ca'Cellibrecca

"THREE DOZEN TURNS of the glass . . . What is the man thinking? He can't possibly muster enough soldiers by then. Even with the armories running at full capacity, they won't have the quantities of swords or armor they'll need. He's impossibly impatient to have his war."

Francesca heard Vatarh's irritated muttering from the hallway as his secretary escorted her up to his rooms. The entire temple grounds were in a frantic uproar with rushed preparations, téni and staff scurrying around like a nest of disturbed hornets. "Archigos," his secretary said, clearing his throat, "Vajica Francesca ca'Cellibrecca is here, at your request."

"Ah . . ." Orlandi looked over his shoulder. She had rarely seen him so obviously agitated and worried. The pouches of skin under his eyes were dark; his hair was disheveled; there were stains on the front of his robes. He waved his hands wildly at the servants. "Don't forget the new robes the tailor brought over this last Parladi," he told them. "I want them available to me. And make certain that the wine is packed carefully in straw. Oh, and we can't forget the sacristy articles. Francesca, no doubt you've heard . . ." He took his daughter by the arm and escorted her out onto the balcony of his apartments, closing the door on the chaos behind them. There, he embraced her.

"Vatarh, you're trembling." She released him, stepping back.

"I know, I know," he said. He went to the railing, looking down on the plaza, where dozens of people were readying the Archigos' train of carriages. The temple itself was ablaze with light. The line of the Avi a'Parete was a glittering row of pearls snaking through the city. "Francesca, I don't know what will happen. Kraljiki Justi . . . the man is forcing my hand before I'm ready. He knows. Somehow he knows that Hïrzg ca'Vörl and I have been in contact. He doesn't know the full extent of it, or we wouldn't be here talking, but the knowledge itself is dangerous."

For the first time, Francesca felt a burning of fear in her own stomach. Justi might be genuinely attracted to her, but if Vatarh were no longer needed as a political ally or if the Kraljiki perceived him as an active enemy, then his attraction to her would dissolve as well. Justi didn't desire people or objects that failed to either glorify or serve him, and he discarded such useless things without a thought or regret. The heretic Ana cu'Seranta had demonstrated that for Francesca all too well. It perhaps explained why Justi had been so distracted and rough during their lovemaking this afternoon. She could feel the bruises rising on her arms and breasts. "What will you do, Vatarh?"

"I don't know." It was nearly a moan. His eyes rolled from side to side in the reflection of the téni-light from the square. "I don't know. I am trapped between two forces."

"Vatarh, Justi would marry me. I can force the issue. In fact, wouldn't making that commitment now allay his suspicions?"

"And what good would that do for either of us if Justi dies, or if he's cast down as Kraljiki?" He shook his head so fiercely that sweat-heavy strands of white hair moved. "No, my dear, we need to keep as many options in play as possible. I won't know more until we meet with the Hïrzg and I can see what the situation truly is, with my own eyes. In the meantime, you must leave Nessantico. As soon as I've left the city with the Kraljiki, go to the main temple at Prajnoli and wait there for word from me—I've already sent instructions to A'Téni ca'Marvolli and he's told his u'téni to expect you. It may be that you will need to leave Nessantico entirely, Francesca. You'd be able to reach the border of Firenzcia in two days from Prajnoli if you need to, or return to Nessantico. You have the code wheel I gave you? Keep it with you—you'll need it for any messages I send."

"Vatarh . . ."

He shook his head again. "I don't have anything better to offer you, Francesca. Not at this juncture. It is all in Cénzi's hands." He took his daughter's hands in his own. "I know this. Cénzi looks down on us with favor because I am the Defender of His Word and of the Divolonté. He will not desert me. He will not fail us, however this turns out."

Ana cu'Seranta

THE PROCESSION TRAILED off south over the Pontica a'Brezi Nippoli and north to the gates of the Avi a'Firenzcia. Ana could not guess at the number of the troops escorting the Kraljiki: several thousand or more—many of them forcibly enlisted in the last few days as squads of Garde Civile moved through the city snatching up able-bodied men. Oldtown particularly had been scoured; the tavern below Mahri's rooms had been raided twice, though the squads had somehow ignored their rooms above. The unison bootfalls of the swelled ranks of the Garde Civile shuddered the ground like an earthquake, their spears as thick as marsh sawgrass above them. Ana huddled against Karl on a rooftop across the Avi from the ancient city wall. Mahri stood next to them, fidgeting with some contraption near the edge of the rooftop.

"That's Commandant ca'Rudka," Ana said. "There—see him on the white charger? He looks our way, to the rooftop . . ."

'He won't see us or recognize you," Mahri said. "Not today. Not with me here." He spoke with utter confidence, and if Karl scowled uncertainly, Ana believed Mahri without understanding why. She held Karl's arm, watching the procession stream by and out of the city.

"Look, there's the Kraljiki," Karl said, and Ana hugged his arm tighter as the Kraljiki's carriage appeared at the north end of the Pontica. Blue-and-gold banners with the clenched fist of the Kraljica holding Cénzi's broken globe fluttered from the attendants around him and the carriage itself, and the huge stone heads of ancient rulers at the gates rumbled and groaned as they turned to track the current Kraljiki's progress. Ana heard the chanting of téni and smelled perfume and saw the glow of téni-light around him, visible even in the sunlight. The ca'and-cu' chevarittai pressed around him on their mounts, clad in armor draped with their family colors, the crests of their rank as offiziers of the Garde Civile on their surcoats. The crowd around them cheered at the sight, and the Kraljiki lifted his radiant, muscular arms to them, clad in ornate robes under which polished armor plate glinted. She saw his outthrust chin lift to the accolades, saw the tight satisfaction on his lips. Some of the court wives and grande horizontales were among the courtiers and pages accompanying the Kraljiki's train, but Francesca was nowhere to be seen—that was a small consolation. Ana wondered what had happened to the woman, and why she wasn't accompanying the Kraljiki.

"Here," said Mahri. He stepped away from the device he'd erected and gestured to Ana and Karl. "Come look into this. Put your eye here, Ana." He pointed to a small tube. Ana closed one eye and placed the other to the smooth bone lip of the tube. She saw glass set in the tube as she lowered her head.

There was the Kraljiki, so close to her that she could see the stubble on his face and the individual jewels sewn into the collar of his robe. As close as she was when she'd made love to him . . . His eyes, the color of plowed earth, so close and so piercing that he might be standing next to her, the whole scene seeming to vibrate slightly, as if the booted thudding of Garde Civile were shaking the very world . . .

She gasped and stumbled back. Mahri chuckled. "A spell?" she asked. Karl now pressed his eye to the device; he, too, stifled a cry and stepped away a moment later.

"Not a spell," Mahri said. "Only glass and metal. Look . . ." He went to a pool of water on the rooftop and dipped his hand in. Holding out his other hand, he let a single drop fall from his fingertip onto his skin. "See how the drop magnifies the skin underneath? The glass in the tube there is shaped in the same manner; it bends the light and brings closer the vision of things that are far away. But that's not magic, not the X'in Ka or the Ilmodo. It's only a device that anyone can use—a 'verzehen,' it's called: a far-seer."

Karl put his eye to the optics again. "If I could get that close to him, without him knowing it . . . I don't know how he can't feel my stare, like I'm standing just to the side of him." He straightened up again. "Ana, go ahead and take another look."

She shook her head at him. "I prefer this distance," she said, looking at the carriage from the rooftop: safely small and removed. She saw the Archigos' carriage appear on the far end of the Pontica, surrounded by green-robed téni. Seeing ca'Cellibrecca in the ornate, gilded brocades of the Archigos that Dhosti ca'Millac had worn so recently, the broken globe of Cénzi golden at his breast, made her lips twist into a scowl.

Mahri touched the device and it swung easily, the thicker end pointing toward the city gates. "Look here," he said. "Tell me what you see."

Ana bent over the verzehen again. As her eye adjusted to the circular world it revealed, she saw the stones of the mighty gate that had been formed from the massive stones of the ancient city wall. There, caught between the stones midway up the tall column to the south side of the gate, there was a cylinder that seemed to be formed of glass—she could see just one end of it, thrust deeply into a chink in the mortared cracks. "A vial," Ana said, "sealed with brown wax on one end. There's something inside—a red substance?—but I can't see it well."

"I put the vial there," Mahri said. "Like the verzehen, there's nothing magical about it. It holds two different chemicals, separated by a stopper of wax. Alone, those substances do nothing. But if that vial should break or the wax melt, and the chemicals come into contact . . . well, they are violently incompatible with each other. Each would seek to destroy the other and erupt like one of the great volcanoes of Il Trebbio, spewing flames and smoke and sending the stones of the gates crashing down on whomever was below."

Ana had straightened again. Out on the Avi, the Kraljiki's carriage moved slowly and inexorably toward the city gates. Mahri's single good eye held her. "But nothing will happen unless the vial breaks or is heated—something someone who knew the Ilmodo could do easily, I'm certain. All it would take is a few moments of chanting and the proper release, easily reachable from here." From the street, the cheering intensified as the Kraljiki's carriage rolled below their building and began to make the turn toward the gate. Mahri's eyebrow raised. The sun touched the scars of his face; to Ana, it appeared to be a stern mask. "The stones would crush those beneath utterly, and the panic that would follow would kill more. Such an event, properly timed, would end the life of the Kraljiki or the Archigos," he continued. "I've no doubt of that."

Ana tore her gaze away from Mahri. She stared at the Kraljiki, then down the street to ca'Cellibrecca, whose carries was now leaving the Pontica. "I'll do it," she heard Karl say, almost eagerly, but Mahri lifted a hand.

"No," he said. "You won't. I won't allow it. It's Ana's choice. Ana's alone."

"Who will be blamed?" Karl persisted. "The Numetodo. That's always the way it is with them. Why not make it the literal truth this time?"

"I won't allow it," Mahri repeated. "Ana?"

Why not? Either of them would take your life without remorse or regret.

Justi never loved you, not one moment; he took what you offered and used you to betray the true Archigos. And ca'Cellibrecca would have done to you as he did to poor Dhosti. It was only Dhosti's warning that saved you at all. You would only be doing to them what they would do to you, or to Karl, or to Mahri. . . .

"Ana?"

The Kraljiki's carriage turned. The Garde Civile around him were at the gate, the carriage itself close now. Why not? Can the Hïrzg be a worse ruler? Can he hurt you more than the Kraljiki or ca'Cellibrecca already has? Cénzi would forgive you—the Divolonté itself says it: "Those who defy and subvert Cénzi's Will will be sent to meet Him, and full justice will be given unto them." You can make them pay for Dhosti, for the Numetodo they've killed, for the torment they gave Karl, for the way they treated you. It would only be fair. . . .

The Kraljiki's carriage was nearly at the gate. All she had to do was speak the words. A simple spell of fire—something U'Téni cu'Dosteau had taught the class in the first year. She mouthed the words of the Ilmodo, felt her hands begin the shaping of the spell.

The carriage moved into the gate. The crowds pressed around it, cheering and waving as the Kraljiki waved back to them. They would wave and cheer the same way if it were Hïrzg ca'Vörl riding through those gates, because cheering was safe. Pretending to be on the side of the victor was safe, even when the victor was no better than the person he replaced.

The flame searing flesh, great boulders flying in the air, the screams . . . Justi's death, or the Archigos', yes, but others would die with them, all those down there who are cheering and shouting only to protect themselves, and who haven't asked for any of this . . .

Her mouth closed. Her hands stopped moving.

"I can't," she said.

"Ana," she heard Karl say, but she was looking at Mahri's impassive face.

"I just . . . can't," she said again, not quite certain who she was trying to tell. "Not like this. What happens if I do it?" she asked the wind, the sun, the sky. "Do I help, or do I just end up causing more hurt and confusion and death? I don't know . . ."

She lifted her hands, let them fall. The Kraljiki's carriage moved through the gates and past; the Archigos' carriage moved between. The crowds roared, a sound like the roaring breath of Cénzi Himself. Ana felt tears burn her eyes. "I can't do it. Not without knowing. Not without some hope that I'm changing things for the better."

Mahri simply nodded. She felt Karl's arms go around her from behind. "I understand," he whispered in her ear. "I do."

They watched the Archigos' carriage pass through the gate, following the Kraljiki out of Nessantico and onto the Avi a'Firenzcia and the waiting Hïrzg.

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