Rochelle Botelli
THE CEREMONY STARTED LATE, since the royal party was
tardy arriving at the temple. Rochelle, in the press of the common,
unranked folk at the rear of the temple, had found respite in the
lee of one of the interior half-columns on the back wall, leaning
there with her eyes half-closed, her nostrils flaring at the stink
of incense and her ears full of the prayer chants and the choir’s
singing. She heard the seated ca’-and-cu’ rising from their seats
as the wind-horns sounded their mournful call from the temple dome
and the great front doors of the temple opened to admit the Hïrzg
and his family. Bright sunlight streamed into the half-gloom of the
temple. Rochelle opened her eyes fully; she stepped up onto the
base of the half-column, allowing her to see over the heads of the
congregation.
The procession was
headed by Archigos Karrol and several o’téni, wrapped in a fog of
aromatic smoke from the censers, with four chanting light-téni
bearing lanterns that burned with yellow flames brighter yet than
the sun. The Archigos walked slowly, an o’téni on either side in
case he stumbled—Karrol was seven decades and more of age, and
though he was still as sharp-witted as ever, in the last few years
his physical health had begun to decline and his attendants were
always vigilant with him around steps and stairs, or when—as
today—ritual demanded that he walk for a significant distance,
though he was supported by the Archigos’ staff he clutched in his
right hand, the bejeweled cracked globe of Cénzi at its summit. He
wore green robes trimmed with golden thread, the patterns
glistening in the brilliance in which he was bathed, his long white
hair seeming to glow under the mitered crown. He lifted his free
hand in greeting to the crowd, his mouth curving into a smile under
his beard.
Starkkapitän Armen
ca’Damont and his family followed next, then the members of the
Council of Ca’ with their spouses and families. Rochelle rose on
her toes to see better as Jan entered. Rochelle remembered her
matarh—in the fewer and fewer lucid moments before the voices in
her head overwhelmed her completely—talking about Jan, how handsome
he had been, how he had held her, how he promised her that he would
always love her.
How Jan had been her
vatarh.
Rochelle’s matarh had
loved Jan until her death, as she had also hated Kraljica
Allesandra for having torn them apart.
Rochelle had seen
paintings of him, and she had stared at the image, trying to see in
it some hint of the features she glimpsed when she looked into a
polished plate or still water. Perhaps that long, sharp nose? Or
those high cheekbones? Her skin, duskier and more deeply and easily
bronzed in the sun; did it speak of the Magyarias and the south
where the Hïrzg had been born? Did those features come from her
vatarh, and from her great-vatarh?
She had never seen
him this closely in person—less than a stone’s throw away as he
entered the temple. She peered anxiously in his
direction.
He was handsome: a thin, dark beard along a firm
jawline, a sharp, narrow nose (yes, much like her own), skin darker
enough that it stood out among the Firenzcians in the temple; dark
and intense eyes; hair curled and so dark as to be nearly black,
though the sun sparked bronze-and-red highlights from
it.
Like her own hair.
Like the face she sometimes glimpsed looking back at
her.
Yes, he could truly
be her vatarh. The tales that her matarh had told could be true.
She felt her breath catch in her throat as he glanced around, as
his gaze swept momentarily over hers. She raised her hand; he
seemed to nod toward her, ever so slightly.
Next to him was the
Hïrzgin Brie, and Rochelle saw Jan’s hand cup her waist as he
leaned toward her and whispered something. She laughed, and
Rochelle saw the affection in the woman’s eyes as she glanced at
her husband. At Rochelle’s vatarh. And behind . . .
Behind were the
children. Rochelle knew their names; everyone in Firenzcia knew
them. She stared at them, her half sisters and -brothers. She
yearned to call out to them. “It should have
been me with him,” her matarh had said, “with you as the eldest, the one he would dote on, the one
who would always bring that smile to his face. He had such a
wonderful smile . . .”
Rochelle smiled at
Jan but he was no longer looking in her direction and now he was
past her, striding down the main aisle of the temple toward the
quire where Archigos Karrol was already waiting. He was bowing to
the ca’-andcu’ in the pews toward the front.
Rochelle imagined
herself walking with him. Imagined the applause breaking over her.
Imagined that Jan was tousling her hair rather than that of
Elissa.
“That was my name: when I knew him, when we were lovers.
That’s the name I’d taken at the time—Elissa. He named his
firstborn after me. He did . . .”
The family—the family
that might have been, should have been
hers—was distant now, sliding into the empty seats before the High
Lectern at the front of the temple, under the dome and the painted
figures gazing down on the assembly from their frescoes. The e-téni
at the rear of the temple were chanting, the energy of the Ilmodo
closing the massive bronze doors, and Rochelle let herself drop
from her perch to the floor. Moving lithely and quietly, she
slipped outside before the doors closed.
She hurried into the
older and poorer sections of the city where she lived. That was
another piece of advice from her matarh: “Living among the rich makes you too visible. That was the
mistake I made with your vatarh . . .” She heard the temple
wind-horns sounding Second Call and the end of the Day of Return
blessing as she moved deeper into the narrow and twisted lanes that
curled around the hills of Brezno, hurrying because she was late to
an appointment.
Someone wanted to
hire the White Stone: Josef cu’Kella, who belonged to a rising
family that seemed to have its hands in several businesses within
the city. She wondered what excuse the man had used to avoid being
at the temple this morning.
He should be waiting
already outside the Blue Wisp, a tavern on Straight Lane—aptly
named, for it arrowed up the steep slope of Hïrzgai Hill, on which
sat the ruins of the first palais, burned and abandoned three
centuries ago. The Blue Wisp was located halfway up the hill; she’d
chosen it because she could approach it from either the top or
bottom of the lane, giving her a good line of sight to determine if
it were safe to approach or whether she should walk on past; in the
last week since she’d completed the contract for the goltschlager ci’Braun, the utilinos and the Garde
Brezno had been asking questions, carrying out strange raids, and
taking certain women into custody throughout the city: women who
nearly always were the age her matarh would have been if she were
still alive, women who had the same general build and complexion as
her matarh. It was obvious to Rochelle that they were hunting the
White Stone. It was possible that cu’Kella was the bait in a trap
meant to capture her.
She wondered, again,
if she should be meeting the man at all, even if he was no more
than a potential client. He was cu’, which meant that she could
charge him handsomely for her services, but matarh had long ago
warned her that the White Stone could perform two or, at the most,
three contracts in a city before she would have to move on. She
wanted to stay in Brezno, now that she’d seen Jan. She wanted to
know more about him, wanted to know him better. Wanted to meet him.
It would be best if she let the White Stone stay idle; she had
coins enough in her purse.
But the truth was
that she didn’t want to stay idle.
There was an excitement to being the White Stone, to the hunt and
the eventual kill.
One more contract.
That would be all.
She could see
cu’Kella already, wearing—as he’d been told—a red bashta and a hat
with a blue feather in it. He looked uncomfortable, scanning
everyone who passed as he stood shuffling outside the tavern’s
door. Rochelle glanced to either side of the street; no utilino, no
gardai of the Garde Brezno; no one standing close by pretending to
be doing something else where they could easily watch the man. That
didn’t mean there weren’t gardai hiding in the nearby buildings and
watching, but so far everything seemed safe and normal. Rochelle
continued to walk toward the man, deliberately not looking at him
as she approached, pretending to be interested in the wares in the
shop windows. In her peripheral vision, she saw him glance at her
appraisingly, then look away again. She passed behind him, putting
her hand on the hilt of the knife under her cloak. “Walk with me,
Vajiki cu’Kella,” she whispered as she passed. She continued to
walk on up the lane, slowly.
The man started
visibly. Then he stirred, turning to walk alongside her. “Are you .
. . ?”
“I’m the one you’re
waiting for,” she told him. She glanced behind: no one emerged from
any of the buildings around them; no utilino whistled alarm, no
squad of Garde Brezno appeared. Rochelle relaxed slightly, though
she continued to watch to see if they were followed—the side
streets off Straight Lane were tangled and many, and she felt she
could lose pursuers there easily at need. She kept the hand on her
knife hilt, in case cu’Kella himself tried to attack her, but his
hands were visible and he didn’t appear to have a
sword.
“What is your name?”
the man asked her.
She laughed at that.
“You don’t need my name, Vajiki. We’re not conducting business, and
even if we were, it’s of the type where names aren’t needed. It’s
enough that I know yours, and it’s not me, after all, you want to
talk to.”
“So you’re not . . .
Of course not, you’re so young . . .”
“No, I’m not the one
you’d like to hire,” she said firmly. “I know how to contact her,
if that’s what you want. That’s all. But even I don’t know what she
looks like, or who she might be.” He stopped, and she glanced over
her shoulder at him. “Keep walking, Vajiki, unless you’ve changed
your mind.”
He seemed to shiver,
then took a step to fall in alongside her again. “Good,” Rochelle
said. “So tell me, who is it?”
“Who is it?” cu’Kella
asked dully, then shook himself again. “Oh, that. I’d rather not
say. Only to . . . the person you’re contacting for
me.”
They were at one of
the cross streets, and Rochelle paused. “Then we’re done,” Rochelle
told him. “Good day, Vajiki.” She started to turn left, away from
the lane.
“No, wait!” he called
after her, and she paused, allowing herself a small smile.
So typical. She started walking up
Straight Lane again, saying nothing, and cu’Kella hurried after
her, close to her elbow. “I . . . I’ll tell you. It’s Rance
ci’Lawli.”
She could not
entirely keep the surprise from her voice. “Ci’Lawli? The Hïrzg’s
chief aide?”
A nod. “The
same.”
You shouldn’t do this. To kill someone so close to the
Hïrzg. Yet . . . It would necessitate her being near or in
the palais, where she would have to be in proximity to her vatarh
and his family . . . Something pulled at her inside, made her burn
with a yearning she couldn’t quite define. “Why
ci’Lawli?”
A sniff. “As you
said, Vajica, there’s no need for names here, nor for tales. I’ll
tell the Whi—” He stopped. “The person you know. If she
cares.”
Rochelle shrugged.
“As you wish.” She took cu’Kella’s arm, as if they were lovers
strolling the lane, pulling him close to her. She whispered into
his ear: a location, a day, and an amount of money in gold
solas.
He pulled away from
her. “So much?” he said.
“So much,” she
answered. “Be there with the solas if you’re interested, Vajiki,”
she told him, “and you’ll meet her.”
