Sergei ca’Rudka
“You don’t trust me, Karl?”
Sergei watched the
emotions washing over Karl’s face. The man had a remarkably open
face for a diplomat, a defect he’d possessed for as long as Sergei
had known the man. Everything Karl thought revealed itself to an
observer schooled in reading faces. Maybe that was just the Paeti
way of things; Sergei had known a few people from the Isle over the
decades, and most of them tended not only to speak their mind too
openly, but also made little attempt to hide their genuine feelings
or emotions. Perhaps that was what made the Isle renowned for its
great poets and bards, for its songs and the fierce passion and
temper of its people, but it also made them vulnerable, in Sergei’s
estimation.
Theirs was not
Sergei’s way.
Karl blinked at the
assault of the question, which Sergei had fired at him before the
servant had even closed the door. Karl stood at the door to
Sergei’s office, uncertain, as the door clicked softly behind him.
“Of course I do, Sergei,” he half-stammered, the words thick with
the lilting Paeti accent. “I don’t know what you’re . . .” Then:
“Oh.”
“Yes. Oh.” Sergei
took a breath, rubbing at his nose. “I just had a rather unpleasant
visit from Ambassador cu’Görin—though frankly any visit from him
tends to be unpleasant. Still, he seems to think you’re a dangerous
man who should be residing in the Bastida rather than walking the
streets. Actually, he said: ‘In Brezno, that man would be gutted
and hung in a gibbet for his impertinence, let alone his embrace of
heresy.’ I really don’t think he likes you.” Sergei rose and went
to Karl, slapping him once on the back.
Cu’Gorin had indeed
complained about Karl, but the Firenzcian Ambassador had come at
Sergei’s request, and gone away with a sealed message that Sergei
hoped was already in the pouch of a rider tearing down the Avi
a’Firenzcia toward Brezno. But none of that was anything he was
going to tell ca’Vliomani. “Come. Sit with me, old friend. I’ll
have Rodger bring us some tea. I haven’t had my breakfast
yet.”
A short time later,
they were seated on a balcony overlooking the grounds.
Groundkeepers prowled the gardens below them, pulling any weed
daring to show its common head among the royalty of the flowers.
The tea and biscuits sat untouched by either of them.
“Karl, you have to
leave this to me.”
“I
can’t.”
“You must. My people
are aggressively looking for the person or persons who did this to
Ana. I am riding Commandant cu’Falla on this as if he were a horse.
I won’t let it drop, I won’t let it rest. I promise you that. I
want justice for Ana as much as you do. But you have to let
me do it. Not you. You need to stay out of the
investigation.”
Karl looked at Sergei
then, and Sergei saw despair pulling at the pouches below the man’s
eyes, dragging down the corners of his mouth. “Sergei, I’m
convinced it had to be a Firenzcian plot. With Hïrzg Jan dead and
Fynn on the throne, it just makes sense that he, and maybe Archigos
Semini of Brezno—” Karl licked at his lips. “They all have a reason
to hate Ana.”
Sergei stopped Karl
with a lifted hand. “Reasons, yes, but you’ve no proof. Neither do
I. Not yet.”
“Who else would want
Ana dead? Tell me. Is there someone in the Holdings, maybe a
jealous a’téni who wanted to be Archigos? Or someone from one of
the provinces? Do you suspect someone else?”
“No,” Sergei
admitted. “Firenzcia is who I suspect myself. But we need to
know before we act, Karl.” The lie, as
it always did, came easily to his mouth. Sergei was used to lies.
One would not be heard in his voice, or seen in the twitch of a
muscle.
Sometimes he thought
that he was composed entirely of lies and deceptions, that if you
took those away from him, he’d be nothing but a ghost.
“Know?” Karl
repeated. “The way you knew when you
threw me into the Bastida years ago? The way you knew that I and the Numetodo must have had
something to do with Kraljica Marguerite’s death?”
Sergei rubbed at the
silver nose as he scowled at the memory. “I was following Kraljiki
Justi’s orders at the time. You know that. And you’ll note that
you’re still alive when Justi would have preferred you dead. Give
me credit for that. Karl, the stakes here are far too high for
guesses, or for hotheads barging into the Ambassador of the
Coalition’s office and threatening him. If your guess is right, and
Hïrzg Fynn was responsible for this act, the only thing you’ve
accomplished is to give him warning of our suspicions. You and
Varina actually used Numetodo spells?” He tsked aloud, shaking his head. “I’m surprised you
didn’t kill him outright.”
“I wanted to,” Karl
said. For a moment, the lines around his mouth tightened, and his
eyes glittered in the sunlight. “But I thought of Ana . . .” The
glittering in his eyes increased. He wiped at his eyes with the
sleeve of his bashta.
For a moment, Sergei
felt genuine pity and empathy for the man. Archigos Ana he had
respected, because there was no other choice. Ana never let anyone
get too close to her, even those—like Karl—who might have wished
that. Sergei knew this because he had watched Karl over the years,
watched him because it was his duty to know the predilections and
interests of those prominent in the Holdings. He knew Karl
frequently engaged the services of the more expensive and discreet
grandes horizontales within the city, and—interestingly to
Sergei—each of those women whom Karl favored bore a physical
resemblance to the Archigos, changing over the decades as Ana had
changed herself. It took little intuition to guess why that might
be.
Karl . . . Sergei
liked the man, as much as he ever allowed himself to like anyone.
He nodded to the Numetodo. “I’m glad Ana’s ghost held back your
hand, or otherwise, I might have had no choice. Karl, you
have to drop this. Promise me. Let
those under me work the investigation. I will tell you anything I
find.” That was another lie, of course. Sergei already knew details
about the assassination that he had no intention of sharing with
Karl; there were suspicions in his mind that he would not
voice.
In the darkness of the Bastida, he’d had the gardai leave
him alone with the man, an employee of the trader Gairdi, who
regularly ran between Nessantico and Brezno. He’d heard the
delicious whimper as he unrolled the canvas strip with its grim
tools laced inside, and Sergei had smiled at the prisoner. “Tell me
the truth,” he’d said, “and perhaps we’ll need none of this.” That,
too, had been a lie, but the man had jumped at the opportunity,
babbling in a quick, high voice. The screams, when they’d come
later, had been exquisite.
There were some vices
in him that had become stronger with age, not weaker. “Promise me,”
Sergei said again.
Karl hesitated. His
gaze skittered away from Sergei to the garden below, and Sergei
followed it. There, a gardener dug his finger into soil so wet and
rich it appeared black and plucked another weed. The worker tossed
the tangle of leaves and roots into the canvas bag slung over his
shoulder. Sergei nodded: the necessary work that kept the garden
beautiful required death, too.
“I promise, Sergei.”
Sergei, trapped in the image, looked back to find Karl smiling
wanly at him.
Yet . . . There was
something Karl wasn’t saying, some information he was withholding.
Sergei could see it. He nodded as if he believed the man and
decided that he would have cu’Falla put someone to watching Karl,
with orders to learn what the man knew as well as to prevent the
Paetian Ambassador from making a critical mistake—especially one
that might interfere with Sergei’s own intentions.
Ana was dead. While
she lived, a strong and firm presence guiding the Faith, Sergei
hadn’t been willing to move the way he contemplated moving now. But
with her dead, with the far weaker and uncertain Kenne elected to
the Archigos’ throne, with Kraljiki Audric so ill and frail and
young . . .
Everything had
changed.
“Good,” Sergei said,
returning Karl’s smile warmly. “This has been hard for all of us,
but especially for you, my good friend. Now, let’s have some of
this tea before it gets cold, and nibble on the biscuits. I’ll bet
you haven’t eaten for a few days, from the look of you. Haven’t
Varina and Mika been watching after you . . . ?”
That evening, a turn
of the glass after the wind-horns sounded Third Call, Sergei sat
with the new Archigos Kenne on the viewing balcony of the temple on
the South Bank, watching the daily Ceremony of the Light. For two
centuries and more now, the téni of the Concénzia Faith had come
from the temple in the evening and—with the gift of the Ilmodo—set
ablaze the lamps that banished night from the city. For all his
life, Sergei had witnessed the daily rite. The gilded,
crystal-globed téni-lamps were placed at five-stride intervals
along the grand Avi a’Parete, the wide ring boulevard encircling
the oldest sections of the city. Until late into the night, the
lamps hurled their challenge to the moon and stars, proclaiming
Nessantico’s greatness.
To Sergei, this was
the ceremony that defined Nessantico to the populace. This was the
ceremony that proclaimed Cénzi’s support of the Kralji and of the
Concénzia Faith, a ceremony that had existed unchanged for
generations—until Archigos Ana’s time. Now it meant less, when
there were people walking the street who could produce light
themselves: without calling on Cénzi, without the training of a
téni. Ana’s acceptance of the Numetodo heresy had lessened the
Faith, in Sergei’s opinion, and had forced the people’s view of it
to change.
Change. Sergei
disliked change. Change meant instability, and instability meant
conflict.
Change meant that
everything must be reevaluated. Ana . . . Sergei had never been
particularly close to the woman, but in his role as Commandant of
the Garde Civile, then as Regent, he had certainly worked in tandem
with her. Whatever her personal faults, she had been strong and
Sergei admired strength. It was only her presence on the Archigos’
throne that had kept Justi’s reign as Kraljiki from being a
complete catastrophe. For that alone, he would always be grateful
to her memory.
But now Kenne was
Archigos. Sergei genuinely liked Kenne as a person. He enjoyed the
man’s company and his friendship. But Kenne would not be the
Archigos that Ana had been. Could not
be, for he lacked the steel inside. Sergei understood why the
Concord A’Téni chose him—because none of the other a’téni wanted
the title, the responsibility, or the conflicts that came with the
Archigos’ throne and staff, and they especially feared it now.
Kenne was no one’s enemy, and, most especially, Kenne was old.
Kenne was frail. He would not hold Cénzi’s staff for many years . .
. and maybe when he died, it would be a less turbulent
time.
The Concord had acted
out of their own self-preservation, and so the Concord had given
the Faith a poor Archigos.
Sergei wondered if
Kenne would ever forgive him for what that meant.
The two men stood as
the light-téni emerged in their long processional line from the
great main doors directly below them. Sergei could hear the
sonorous melody of the choir finishing the evening devotions in the
temple’s main chapel, the sound echoing plaintively throughout the
square as the doors opened. The sun had just set, though the
clouded western sky was still a furious swirl of reds and oranges.
In the glow, the téni turned and gave their Archigos the sign of
Cénzi, and Kenne blessed them with the same sign.
The e-téni—all of
them looking impossibly young to Sergei’s eyes, all of them solemn
with the weight of their duty—bowed as one to the Archigos, green
robes swaying like a field of grass in the wind, before turning
again to cross the vast courtyard before the temple. The usual
crowds had gathered to watch the ceremony, though the crowds were
less thick in recent years than they had been in the time of
Kraljica Marguerite, when the Holdings had been one and visitors
flocked to Nessantico from all points of the compass. In recent
years, there were far fewer visitors from the east and south, from
Firenzcia or the Magyars, from Sesemora or Miscoli. With the war in
the Hellins across the Strettosei, many of the young men were gone
and families traveled less. Though the courtyard of the Old Temple
was full of onlookers, the Garde Kralji had no trouble making room
for the light-téni; Sergei could see the paving-cobbles between
them. The téni reached the Avi and split into two lines, spreading
out east and west along the Avi and going to the nearest lamps, set
on either side of the gated entrance to the Archigos’
Temples.
The first of the
light-téni went to the lamps. They stood underneath the shimmering
globe of cut glass, looking up into the evening sky as if they
glimpsed Cénzi watching them, and they spoke a single word and
gestured from chest to lamp, closed fist to open hand.
The lamps erupted
with brilliant yellow light.
Sergei applauded with
Kenne. Yet . . .
That single word to
release the spell: that was a change, too; a nod to the Numetodo,
who could quickly release their spells. It was another of the
changes Ana had wrought. “I miss the old ways sometimes, Archigos,”
Sergei said to Kenne. “The long chanting, the sequence of gestures,
the way the effort visibly wearied your téni . . . The Numetodo way
of using the Ilmodo makes it look too easy. There was . . .” He
sighed as the two men sat again. “. . . a mystery to it then, a sense of labor and love and
ritual that’s vanished. I’m not sure that Ana made the right
decision when she allowed the téni to start using the Numetodo
methods to light our streets.”
He saw Kenne nod. “I
understand,” Kenne answered. “Part of me agrees with you, Sergei;
there was a feeling to the old rituals that’s gone now. But the
Numetodo proved their worth against Hïrzg Jan, and Ana could hardly
renounce them afterward, could she?” Sergei heard him give a soft,
self-deprecating chuckle. “We’re old men, Sergei. We want things to
be the way they used to be, back when we were young. When the world
was right and Marguerite was going to sit on the Sun Throne
forever.”
Yes. I want that more than you’d believe. Sergei
scratched at the side of the nose where the glue irritated his
skin; a few flecks of the resin flaked off under his fingernail.
“There’s nothing wrong with that. Things were good then, with Kraljica Marguerite and Dhosti
wearing the Archigos’ robes. There was no better time for the
Holdings or for the Faith. We lived in a perfect time and we didn’t
even know it.”
“Yes, we did. I
agree.” Kenne sighed with the memory.
The gilded doors to
the temple behind them opened and an older u’téni emerged: Sergei
recognized him: Petros cu’Magnaio, Kenne’s assistant. The man had
lived with Kenne since his time with Archigos Dhosti. Kenne nodded
to cu’Magnaio with a smile as he set down a tray of fruit and tea
between the two of them. It never bothered Sergei that Kenne was
afflicted with what was euphemistically called “Gardai’s Disease.”
There was some truth, after all, to the appellation: when away for
years on a campaign, soldiers sometimes took comfort where they
could find it, with those who were around them. “It will be getting
chilly with the sunset,” cu’Magnaio said. “I thought the two of you
might like hot tea.”
Kenne’s hand hovered
above cu’Magnaio’s but didn’t quite touch him—Sergei knew that
would have been different if he had not been there. “Thank you,
Petros. We won’t be long here, but I appreciate it.”
Cu’Magnaio bowed and
gave the sign of Cénzi to them. “I’ll make sure that you’re not
disturbed while you’re talking. Archigos, Regent. . . .” He left
them, closing the balcony doors behind him.
“He’s a good man,”
Sergei said. “You’ve been lucky with him.”
Kenne nodded, gazing
fondly toward the doors where Petros had gone. Then he shook
himself as if remembering something. “Speaking of those who have
sat on the Sun Throne, Sergei, I’m sorry the Kraljiki couldn’t join
us this evening. How is Audric feeling?”
Sergei lifted a
shoulder. Below, the light-téni moved out from the temple to lamps
further down the Avi, the crowds walking with them, murmuring. The
doves fluttered down from the domes of the Temple and the rooftops
of the buildings in the complex to peck at the vacated stones of
the plaza for leavings. “He’s not good.” He glanced back over his
shoulder; the doors remained closed but he still lowered his voice.
“Have you had any luck finding another téni with healing
skills?”
Kenne sighed. “That
has always been among the rarest of gifts, and since the Divolonté
specifically condemns its use . . . well, it’s been difficult. But
I have hopes. Petros is making judicious inquiries for me. We’ll
find someone.” He paused, glanced at the fruit on the plate between
them and selected a piece. Kenne had long, delicate hands, but the
flesh wrapping his bones was wrinkled and thin, and Sergei could
see the tremor as the Archigos lifted a slice of sweetrind to his
lips and sucked at it. We can’t afford
weakness in both the Kraljiki and the Archigos, not if we hope to
survive.
“Sergei, we need to
consider what happens if the boy dies,” Kenne continued, almost as
if he’d heard Sergei’s thoughts. “Justi’s offspring . . .” He
frowned and set the sweetrind back on the plate. “Too sour,” he
said. “Justi’s children have never been known for their
longevity.”
The téni moved along
the Avi and out of sight. The crowds in the square of the temple
began to disperse; the sound of the choir ended in a lingering,
ethereal chord. “I hope that Cénzi doesn’t make us face that
choice,” Sergei said carefully. “But it’s what everyone’s
wondering, isn’t it?”
“There are the
ca’Ludovici twins, Sigourney or Donatien. They’re, what . . .”
Kenne’s thin lips pursed in concentration. “. . . second cousins
once removed from Audric and first cousins to Justi, since
Marguerite was their great-great aunt. They’re already of age and
more, which is good. Donatien, particularly, has distinguished
himself in the Hellin Wars, even if things haven’t been going well
of late, and he’s married to a ca’Sibelli, a solid Nessantican
family—we could call him back from the Hellins. Sigourney might be
the better choice, though. She still carries the ca’Ludovici
surname, of course: that certainly has incredible weight here, and
she’s made her presence felt on the Council of Ca’. The two of them
have the closest lineage claim, I believe, and I’m certain the
Council of Ca’ would sustain either of their claims to take the Sun
Throne.”
Sergei was
unsurprised to find that the Archigos’ thoughts were so closely
paralleling his own; he suspected this was the case throughout both
the Holdings and the Coalition. He paused, wondering whether he
should say more. It would be interesting, perhaps, to see how Kenne
would react. “Allesandra ca’Vörl can claim the same lineage and the
same relationship through her matarh,” Sergei answered, as if idly
musing. “For that matter, so could the new Hïrzg Fynn. They’re also
second cousins to Marguerite—with a claim to the throne equal to
Sigourney or Donatien.”
In the fierce light
of the téni-lamps, Kenne’s eyebrows clambered up the ridges of his
forehead. “You’re not seriously suggesting . . .”
The volatile tone was
the reaction he’d expected, and Sergei grinned quickly to make it
seem that the words were only a jest. “Hardly,” Sergei told him.
“Just pointing out how Allesandra might respond. Certainly
Sigourney or Donatien would be good choices, as you suggest, though
perhaps we need Donatien to remain as commandant in the Hellins.
However, Audric’s not dead, and I’d prefer that he stay that way.
But if the worst would happen . . . You’re right; we should be
considering the succession. The Holdings are already broken, thanks
to Justi’s incompetence, and we can’t afford to have what is left
shatter further.” He paused. He deliberately narrowed his eyes and
stroked his chin, as if the thought had just now occurred to him.
“But . . . Perhaps a compromise could be worked between the
Holdings and the Coalition if the worst happened, Kenne. A ca’Vörl
to take the Sun Throne, but the Concénzia Faith ruled by you, not
Semini ca’Cellibrecca.” There. See what he
makes of the offer.
“You’d have Ana’s
murderers seated on the Sun Throne?” The horror in the man’s voice
was palpable.
Sergei sniffed—a loud
sound, whistling through the metal nostrils of his false nose.
“You’re making the same accusation as Ambassador ca’Vliomani. As of
the moment, it’s unfounded.”
“Who else
would have done this to Ana, Sergei? We
know it wasn’t the Numetodo—she was their ally.”
Sergei didn’t push
the point any further. He already knew what he needed to know.
“That’s something my people are trying to determine. And we will.”
The sunset fire no longer burned in the western sky. The stars were
competing against the colder flames of the téni-lamps, and the
evening chill was settling around the city. Sergei shivered and
rose from his chair. His knee joints cracked and protested at the
movement; he grunted with the effort. Sergei could still feel the
ache in his muscles and the lingering bruises from when he’d flung
himself over Audric in the temple.
Old men, indeed . . .
Petros must have been
watching (and undoubtedly listening, as well) through the cracks of
the temple doors; as soon as Sergei stood the doors opened and an
e’téni attendant hurried to him with his overcloak. He could see
Petros standing in the gloom of the corridor beyond. “I should be
checking on Audric, Archigos,” Sergei said as he shrugged on the
woolen folds. “If you find someone with the skills we were
discussing, please bring him or her to the palais
immediately.”
“I’ll stop by myself
in a turn of the glass or so,” Kenne said. “Petros will have my
supper ready now, but I’ll come afterward. To see what I can
do.”
“Thank you,
Archigos,” Sergei told him. “I will see you then,
perhaps.”
As he walked away
from the temple, he wondered whether his message had reached Brezno
yet, and what reception it might have found.