A Magic of Nightfall (34 page)

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Authors: S. L. Farrell

BOOK: A Magic of Nightfall
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The main city of Karnor—Enéas had never understood why Karnmor’s capital had been saddled with such a similar name—had been built on the rising flanks of the long-slumbering volcano that overshadowed the harbor, many of its buildings carved from the rock itself. Beyond the arms of the harbor, the Strettosei stretched unbroken out to the horizon, and from the heights of Mt. Karnmor, one could look eastward over the green expanse of the huge island and see, faintly, the blue band near the horizon that was the Nostrosei. Not far beyond that narrow sea lay the wide mouth of the River A’Sele, and perhaps thirty leagues up the river: Nessantico.
Munereo and the Hellins seemed far away, a distant lost dream. Karnmor and its smaller sister islands were part of North Nessantico. He was nearly home.
Enéas had to admit that Karnmor was still foreign in many ways. Its original inhabitants were mainly sea-people: fishermen and traders, their skin darkened by the sun and their tongues soft with strange accents, though they now spoke the language of Nessantico, their original tongue nearly forgotten except in a few small villages on its southern flank. The interior of the island was still largely wild, with impenetrable jungles along whose paths beasts of legend yet walked. In Karnor’s streets, one might find spice traders from Namarro, or merchants from Sforzia or Paeti, and the goods of the Hellins came here first.
If you can’t find it in Karnor, it doesn’t exist.
That was the saying, and to a large extent, it was true—though he had heard the same claim of Nessantico. Still, Karnor was the true nexus for sea trade throughout the Strettosei.
Not surprisingly, the markets of Karnor were legendary. Spreading along what was called the Third Level of the city—the second of the terraces sculpted into the mountain—one could walk all day among the stalls and never reach the end. That was where Enéas found himself drawn, though he didn’t quite know why. After the long voyage, he thought he would have wanted nothing more than to rest, but though he’d reported to the garrison of Karnor and been assigned a room in the offizier’s quarters, he’d found himself restless and unable to relax. He’d gone walking, winding up the levels to the Third, and moving from stall to stall curiously. Here there were odd purple fruits that smelled like rotten meat but tasted—as he nibbled with wrinkled nose at the sample the vendor gave him—sweet and wonderful, or herbs guaranteed, according to the seller, to increase a man’s vitality and a woman’s sexual appetite. There were knife sellers, farmers with their vegetables, bolts of cloth both local and foreign, papers and inks, charms and jewelry, carved toys, fine woods, musical instruments plucked or blown or hammered upon. Eneas listened to a drab gray bird in a wooden cage whose plaintive song sounded eerily like the voice of a young boy, the words of the song perfectly understandable; he touched furs softer than the finest damask when stroked one way, and yet whose tips would pierce skin if rubbed in the other direction; he examined dried, framed butterflies whose glistening wings were wider than his own spread arms, dusted with iridescent, powdery gold and a blood-red skull drawn in the center of each wing.
Enéas eventually found himself standing before the stall of a chemist, the colored powders and liquids arrayed in glass jars on dangerously teetering shelves. He leaned close to a jar of white crystals, letting his forefinger run across the label glued onto the glass.
Niter
, the coppery handwriting proclaimed. The word seemed to crawl on the paper, and prickles like tiny lightnings ran from his fingertip up his arm to his chest. He could barely breathe with the feel of it. “It’s the finest you’ll come across,” a voice said, and Enéas straightened guiltily and snatched his hand back, seeing the proprietor—a thin man with discolored skin dappling his face and arms—watching him from across the board that served for a table. “Gathered from the roof and walls of the deep caves near Kasama, and as pure as you can get. Are you afflicted with bad teeth, Offizier? A few applications of this and you can drink all the hot tea you like and your teeth will give you no complaint at all.”
Enéas nodded. He blinked. He wanted to touch the jar again, but he forced his hand to remain at his side.
You need this . . .
The words came wrapped in the deep voice of Cénzi. He nodded in answer; that felt right. He needed this, though he didn’t know why. “I’d like two stones’ worth.”
“Two stones . . .” The proprietor leaned back, chuckling. “Friend, does the entire garrison have sensitive teeth, or are you preserving meat for a battalion? All you need is a packet . . .”
“Two stones,” Enéas insisted. “Can you do it? How much? A se’siqil?” He tapped the pouch tied to his belt.
The chemist was still shaking his head. “I can’t get that much of the Kasama, but I have a good source from South Isle that’s nearly as good. Two stones . . .” One eyebrow raised on his thin, blotchy face. “A full siqil,” he said. “I can’t do it for less.”
At any other time, Enéas would have haggled. With persistence, he no doubt could have purchased the niter for his original offer or a few folias more. But there was an impatience inside him. It burned hot in his chest, a fire that only Cénzi could have started. He prayed silently, internally.
Whatever You want of me, I will do. The black sand, I will create it for You . . .
Enéas untied his purse, brought out two se’siqils and handed the coins to the man without argument. The chemist shook his head, frowning as he rubbed the coins between his fingers. “Some people have more money than sense,” he muttered as he turned around.
Not long after, Enéas was hurrying away from the Third Level toward the garrison with a heavy package.
Jan ca’Vörl
H
E’D BEEN WITH OTHER WOMEN before. But he’d never wanted any of them as much as he wanted Elissa.
That’s what he told himself, in any case.
She intrigued him. Yes, she was attractive, but she was certainly no more so—and probably less classically beautiful—than half of the young court ladies who clustered around Fynn and Jan at every chance. Her eyes were her best feature: those eyes of pale blue ice that contrasted so much with her dark hair: piercing eyes that could show a laugh before her mouth released it, or dart poisonous glances toward her rivals. She had an unconscious grace that the other women lacked for the most part, a lean muscularity that hinted at hidden strength and agility.
“She comes from good stock,” was Fynn’s assessment. “You could do worse. She’ll give you a dozen healthy babies if you want them.”
Jan wasn’t thinking about babies. Not yet. He wanted
her
. Just her. He thought that perhaps tonight, it might finally happen.
Every night since Fynn’s ascension to the Hïrzg’s throne, there had been a party in the upper hall of Brezno Palais. Fynn would issue the invitations through Roderigo, his aide: always to the same small group of young women and men, nearly all of them of ca’ rank. There would be card games (at which Fynn would often lose heavily and not happily), and dancing, and general drunken revelry until early in the morning hours. Jan was always invited; so was Elissa. He found himself near her more and more often, as if (as his matarh had hinted) he were indeed a bee drawn to her particular flower.
She was at his side now, with two other young women hovering hopefully near him. Jan was seated at the pochspiel table with Fynn, who was glowering over his cards and the dwindling pile of silver siqils and gold solas in front of him and drinking heavily. Elissa had circled the table to stand behind Jan. He felt Elissa lean closely into him, her body pressing against his back as she leaned down. She whispered into his ear, her breath warm and sweet. “The Hïrzg has three Suns supported by a Palais. I would bet everything and lose gracefully.”
Jan glanced at his cards. He had a single Page; all his other cards were low cards in the Staff suit. Elissa’s hand touched his shoulder as she straightened, her fingers tightening briefly before they left him. The bets had been heavy already this hand, and there was a substantial pile of siqils and a few solas in the center of the table. Jan had been intending to fold now that the final card had been given out—he’d hoped to make an alignment in suit, but the Page had spoiled that. He glanced up at Elissa; she smiled down at him and nodded. Jan pushed his entire pile of coins into the center of the table.
“Everything,” he announced.
The player to his right—some distant relative whose name he’d forgotten, shook his head and threw his cards in. “By Cénzi, he must have drawn the Planets all aligned!” All the other players except Fynn tossed in their cards as well. Fynn was staring at Jan, his head cocked slightly to one side. He glanced down at his cards again, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly—the tick that nearly everyone who played pochspiel with Fynn knew, which was one of the reasons Fynn so often lost. Fynn pushed his chips to the center with Jan’s; his pile was noticeably smaller “Everything,” he echoed, and he turned his cards face up on the table. “If you’ll accept my note for the remainder.”
Jan sighed as if disappointed. “You won’t need the note, my Hïrzg,” he said. “I’m afraid that you’ve caught me bluffing.” He showed his hand as the other players howled and the people gathered around the table clapped and applauded. Fynn gathered in the coins, smiling, then tossed a solas back to Jan.
“I can’t let my champion leave the table empty-handed,” he said. “Even when he tries to bluff his sovereign lord with nothing in his hand at all.”
Jan caught the solas and smiled to Fynn, then pushed his chair back from the table and bowed. “I should have known that you would see through my charade,” he said to Fynn, who grinned even more deeply. “Now I should drown my disappointment in some wine.”
Fynn glanced from Jan to Elissa, who hovered at his shoulder. “I suspect you’ll drown yourself in something more substantial,” he answered. “That’s not a bet I believe I’ll miss either.”
There was more laughter, though it came mostly from the men in the crowd; many of the women simply glared at Elissa silently. In the midst of the laughter, she leaned closer to Jan again. “Meet me in the hall in a quarter-turn,” she said, and she slid away from him. The space was immediately filled by another of the available women, and someone handed him a flagon of wine as the cards of the next hand were dealt out. Fynn’s attention was already on the cards and Jan drifted away from the table, conversing with the young ladies of the court who flittered around him.
When he thought enough time had passed, he excused himself and left the hall, the hall servant bowing to him with a knowing wink as he opened the door. There was no one in the corridor outside, and he felt a surge of disappointment.
“Chevaritt Jan,” a voice called, and he saw her step from shadows a few strides away. He went to her, taking her hands. Her face was very close to his, and her pale gaze never left his eyes.
“You cost me nearly a week’s stipend, Vajica,” he said.
“And I gave the Hïrzg yet another reason to love his champion,” she answered with a smile. “Anyone at the table would pay twice what you lost to be in that position. I’d say you owe me.”
“All I have is the gold solas that Fynn gave me, I’m afraid. It’s yours if you’d like.”
“Your gold doesn’t interest me. I would beg something simpler from you.”
“And what would that be?”
She didn’t answer—not with words. She released his hands, embracing him fully and lifting her face to his. The kiss was soft, her lips yielding under his as soft as velvet. Her arms tightened around him as he pressed her tightly against him. He could feel the fullness of her breasts, the rising of her breath, the faint whimper of a moan. The kiss became less soft and more urgent now, her lips opening so that he felt the flutter of her tongue. Her hands slid lower down his back as they broke apart. Her eyes were large and almost frightened-looking, as if she were afraid that she’d gone too far. “Chev—” she began, and he stopped her with another kiss. His hand touched the side of her breast under the lace of her tashta and she did not stop him, only closed her eyes as she drew in a breath.
“Where are your rooms?” he asked, and she leaned against him.
“Your apartment is here within the palais, isn’t it?” she said, and he nodded. He held out his hand to her and she took it.
The walk to his rooms seemed to take an eternity. They hurried through the corridors of the palais, then the door was shut behind them and he took her into his embrace and forgot about anything else for a long, delightful time.
Nico Morel
V
ILLE PAISLI WAS BORING.
The entire town could have fit inside a single block of Oldtown, fifteen or so buildings huddled close to the Avi a’Nostrosei, with a few farms close by and a dark, forbidding wood reaching leafy arms around them and hinting at unguessed terrors. Nico could imagine dragons lurking in its hilly depths, or bands of rough outlaws. Exploring there might have been interesting, but his matarh kept close watch on him, as she had ever since they’d left Nessantico.
Nico was used to the endless roar and tumult of Nessantico. He was used to a landscape of buildings and manicured, tamed parks. He was used to being surrounded by thousands and thousands of strangers, to strange sights (even as they were leaving the city, he’d glimpsed a woman juggling live kittens), to the call of the temple horns and the lighting of the Avi at night.

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