A Magic of Nightfall (35 page)

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Authors: S. L. Farrell

BOOK: A Magic of Nightfall
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Here, there was only drudgery and the same, stupid faces day after day.
His Tantzia Alisa and Onczio Bayard were nice enough people, who owned Ville Paisli’s only inn, which was his tantzia’s responsibility. Tantzia Alisa looked much older than Nico’s matarh, even though Alisa was actually a year younger than her sister; Onczio Bayard had few teeth and those that were left smelled rotten when he leaned close to Nico, which made him wonder why Tantzia Alisa would have married the man.
Then there were the children: six of them, three boys and three girls. The oldest was Tujan, two years older than Nico, then the twins Sinjon and Dori, who were Nico’s age. The youngest boy was a toddler just beginning to walk, who still sucked at Tantzia Alisa’s breast. Onczio Bayard was also the town’s iron forger, and Tujan and Sinjon both worked with him in the heat of the smithy, working the bellows and tending the fire while Tantzia Alisa, with Dori’s help, made beds and cooked for those staying at the inn—usually only a single traveler or two.
“In Nessantico, there are fire-téni who work in the big forging houses,” Nico had said the first day, watching Tujan and Sinjon labor at the bellows. That had earned him a hard punch in the arm from Tujan when Onczio Bayard wasn’t looking, and a glare from Sinjon. Onczio Bayard had set Nico to pumping the bellows with his cousins all that afternoon, and he’d smelled like charcoal and soot for the rest of the day. He suspected he still did, since he was expected to put in his time at the smithy every day with the other boys, but he no longer smelled it, though his white bashta now looked a streaked gray. The smithy was sweltering, loud with the hammering of steel on steel and bright with the sparks of molten iron. The villagers would come to Bayard to create or repair all sorts of metal objects: plow blades, scythe blades, hinges, and nails. Most of the trade was barter: a plucked chicken for a new blade, a dozen eggs for a small keg of black nails.
At the forge, the day began before dawn when the coals had to be rekindled and brought to blue heat, and ended when the sun went down. There were no light-téni here to banish the night or fire-téni to keep the coals blazing. After sundown, Onczio Bayard worked with Tantzia Alisa in the inn’s tavern, which did more business than the inn. Nico, along with his cousins, was pressed into service delivering tankards of ale and plates of simple food to the villagers at their tables, until Onczio Bayard would bellow “Last Call!” promptly on the third turn of the glass after sundown.
Nights after the tavern closed was the worst time.
Nico slept with Tujan and Sinjon in the same tiny room in the house behind the inn, and they would talk in the dark, their whispers seemingly as loud as shouts. “You’re useless, Nico,” Tujan whispered in the quiet. “You can’t work the bellows as well as even Dori, and Vatarh had to show you three times how to keep the coals piled.”
“He did not,” Nico retorted.
Tujan kicked him under the covers. “Did. I heard him call you a
bastardo
, too.”
“What’s a bastardo?” Sinjon asked.
“It means Nico doesn’t have a vatarh,” Tujan answered.
“I do,” Nico told them. “Talis is my vatarh.”
“Where
is
this Talis?” Tujan jeered. “Why isn’t he here, then?”
“He
can’t
be here. He had to stay in Nessantico. He sent us here to be safe. I know, I saw . . .”
“You saw what?”
Nico blinked into the night. He wasn’t supposed to tell; Talis had told him how dangerous it would be for his matarh and him. “Nothing,” he said.
Tujan laughed in the darkness. “I thought so. Your matarh brought you here, not any Talis. Musetta Galgachus says that Tantzia Serafina’s a filthy whore who makes her folias on her back, and you’re just a whore’s son.”
The raw insult sparked against Nico like a flint on steel, and sparks filled his mind and drove him up and over on top of the larger boy, his fists pummeling at the unseen face and chest. “She is
not!
” he screamed as he struck at Tujan, and then Sinjon piled into him defending his brother, and they all tumbled from the bed onto the floor, flailing at each other blindly and hollering, tangled in the blankets. The cold fire began to burn in Nico’s stomach, and he shouted words that he didn’t understand, his hands gesturing, and suddenly the two boys were flying away from him, landing hard on the floor a few feet away. Nico lay there on the rough planks of the floor, stunned momentarily and feeling strangely empty and exhausted. He could hear the dogs—that slept downstairs in the inn—barking loudly. He wondered what had just happened.
His hesitation was enough; in the darkness the two boys had scrambled up and jumped on him again. “Bastardo!” He felt someone’s fist smash into his nose.
The door to the room flew open—a candle as bright as dawn flaring—and adults were shouting at them to stop and pulling them apart. “What in Cénzi’s name is going on here?” Onczio Bayard roared, plucking Nico from the floor by the nightshirt and sending him stumbling backward into his matarh’s familiar arms. He realized he was crying, more from rage than pain, and he sniffled as he struggled to get out of her grasp and hit one of the boys again. He could feel blood trickling down from his nostril.
“Nico—” Matarh sounded caught between horror and concern. She stooped in front of him as Onczio Bayard hauled his two sons to their feet. “What happened? Why are you boys fighting?”
Nico glared at his cousins, standing sullenly alongside their vatarh. Tantzia Alisa hovered in the doorway, holding the youngest in her arms while the girls peered around her, giggling and whispering. Nico wiped at the blood drooling from his nose with the back of his hand and was glad to see that Sinjon, too, had a line of dark red trickling from a nostril, and spatters of brown on his nightshirt. He hoped that the welt under Tujan’s eye would swell and turn purple by morning. “Nico? Who started this?”
“Nobody,” Nico told her, still glaring. “It wasn’t anything, Matarh. We were just playing, and . . .” He shrugged.
“Tujan? Sinjon?” their vatarh asked, shaking the boys’ shoulders. “You have anything to add?” Nico stared at them, Tujan especially, daring him to say to his vatarh what he’d said to Nico.
Both boys shook their heads. Onczio Bayard gave a huff of exasperation. “Sorry, Serafina,” he said. “But you know boys . . .” He shook his sons again. “Apologize to Nico,” he said. “He’s a guest in our house, and you don’t treat him that way. Go on.”
Sinjon muttered a nearly inaudible apology; Tujan followed a moment later. “Nico?” his matarh said, and Nico grimaced.
“Sorry,” he told his cousins.
“All right then,” Onczio Bayard grunted. “We’ll have no more of this. Getting us all out of bed when we’d just gone to sleep. Sinjon, get a rag and clean up your face. And I don’t expect to hear anything else out of the three of you tonight.” Still grumbling, he left the room.
Nico thought he could fall asleep in a moment; now that the cold fire had left him, he was so tired. His matarh crouched down to hug Nico. “You can sleep with me tonight if you want,” she whispered to him. He hugged her back tightly, wanting more than anything to do exactly that and knowing that he couldn’t, that if he did, Tujan and Sinjon would tease him unmercifully the next day.
“I’ll be fine,” he told her. She kissed his forehead. Tantzia Alisa handed her a cloth, and she dabbed at Nico’s nose. He pulled back. “Matarh, it’s already stopped.”
“All right,” she told him. She rose to her feet. “All of you—to sleep. No more talking, no more fighting. Do you hear?”
They all mumbled assent as the girls whispered and laughed and Matarh and Tantzia Alisa exchanged indulgent sighs. The door closed. Nico waited. “You’ll pay for this, Nico Bastardo,” Tujan muttered, his voice low and quiet and sinister in the new dark. “You’ll pay. . . .”
He slept that night in the corner of the room nearest the door, wrapped in a blanket, and he thought of Nessantico and of Talis, and he knew he could not stay here, no matter how dangerous Nessantico might be.
Allesandra ca’Vörl
“A
’HÏRZG! A moment!”
Semini called out to her as she left Brezno Temple after the Cénzidi service. Her foot was already on the carriage step, but she turned to him. Jan had already left—accompanied by Elissa ca’Karina and Fynn—while Pauli had said that he would attend the service given by the palais’ o’téni in the Hïrzg’s Chapel. Allesandra suspected that he’d instead spent the time between the sweating thighs of one of the ladies of the court.
“Archigos,” she said, giving him the sign of Cénzi. “A particularly strong Admonition today, I thought.” Around them, the worshipers streaming out from the temple looked toward them, but stayed carefully distant: whatever the A’Hïrzg and the Archigos discussed, it was not for common ears. The carriage attendant moved away to check the harnesses of the horses and converse with the driver; the minor ténis who always followed the Archigos had remained at the doors to the temple in a huddle, talking. Semini gave her the dark, somber smile of a bear.
“Thank you,” he told her. He glanced around to see that no one was within earshot. “You’ve heard the news?”
“News?” Allesandra cocked her head quizzically, and Semini’s mouth tightened under the grizzled beard.
“It just came to me through one of the Faith’s contacts,” he told her. “I thought perhaps the news hadn’t quite reached the palais yet. The Regent ca’Rudka has been removed by the Council of Ca’ and is currently imprisoned in the Bastida.”
“Oh, by Cénzi . . .” Allesandra breathed, genuinely shocked by what he’d just said.
What does this mean? What’s happened there?
If the Archigos was offended by Allesandra’s curse, he showed nothing. He nodded into her flustered silence.
“Yes. I was rather amazed myself.” His voice dropped low and he leaned in toward her, turning his head so that his lips were very near her ear. The sound of his low growl made her shiver. “I worry that this changes . . . everything for us, Allesandra.”
Then he stepped back again and her neck was cold, even in the early summer warmth. “Archigos . . .” she began.
What have I done? How can I stop the White Stone now? With the Regent gone, it’s all for nothing. Nothing. What have I done?
She glanced up at the pigeons circling the golden domes of the temple. There were dozens of them, diving and rising and intertwining like the possibilities whirling in her head. “You trust the source of this news?”
“I do,” he rumbled. “Gairdi has never been wrong before. No doubt the Hïrzg will hear the same from his own sources soon. News like this . . .” His head swiveled side to side above the green robes, the beard moving on the cloth. “It will travel like wildfire in a drought. Has the Council gone mad? From all I’ve heard, Audric’s not capable of being Kraljiki. And with ca’Rudka in the Bastida . . .”
“ ‘Those swallowed by the Bastida a’Drago rarely emerge whole.’ ” Allesandra finished the thought for him—an old saying in Nessantico, usually muttered with a scowl and a gesture meant to ward off curses directed toward the dark stones and impassive towers of the Bastida. “I feel sorry for ca’Rudka. I liked the man, despite what he did to my vatarh.” She took a long breath, glancing again at the pigeons, settling in the courtyard again now that most of the worshipers had departed for their homes. Now that she’d had time to absorb the news, the shock had passed, but the question still whirled in her mind.
What have I done?
“This changes nothing,” she told Semini firmly, wishing she were as certain as she made her voice sound. “The Regent has simply been replaced by the Council, some of whom undoubtedly intend to be the next Kralji. Audric is still Audric, and when he falls . . . well, then we will be in a position to do what we must. Don’t worry, Archigos.”
He nodded and bowed to her. Carefully, looking around once more, he put his hands around hers, pressing them between his own for a moment. “I will pray that you’re right, A’Hïrzg,” he said quietly. “Perhaps . . . perhaps we could talk more of this—privately—later this morning.” His eyebrows arched above piercing, unblinking eyes.
“All right,” she told him, wondering if this was what she really wanted. She would have to think further, to be certain. “In two turns of the glass, perhaps. In my chambers at the palais?”
“I will make sure my schedule is cleared,” he told her. He smiled. He took a step back from her and gave her the sign of Cénzi, bowing as he did so. “I look forward to it,” he said. “Greatly.”
 
“A’Hïrzg . . .” As soon as the hall servant had closed the door behind him, as soon as he realized that they were alone, Semini had come to her and taken her hand. She let him hold it for a few breaths, then stepped back from him. She gestured at the table set in the middle of the room.
“I had my staff prepare us a luncheon.”
He looked at it, and she saw the disappointment in his face.
She had been considering what she wanted to do ever since she’d left him. She needed Semini, yes, but in all likelihood she could have that help without being his lover. Yet . . . she had to admit that he was attractive, that she found herself leaning toward him. She remembered the few times she’d allowed herself to have lovers, remembering the heat and long, lingering kisses, the gasping sliding of intertwined bodies, the moments when all rational thought was lost in swirling, blind ecstasy.

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