Read A Magic of Nightfall Online
Authors: S. L. Farrell
A Magic of Nightfall (52 page)
He’d intended that they stay one day. No more. He and Varina had taken a room in the only inn in the village, giving false names and traveling as man and wife on their way to Varolli in hopes of finding employment. The older woman who had shown them the room nodded as she took their money, slipping the coins into a pocket under the apron she wore over a stained tashta that looked two decades out of fashion. Her face and body showed years of children and hard work. “I’m Alisa Morel,” she told them. Karl heard the intake of Varina’s breath at the name. “My husband and I own the inn and tavern, and my husband is the village’s smithy. If you’d like a bath—” that with a significant glance and wrinkling of her nose suggesting that such would be a good idea, “—there’s a room below for that, and I can have my children fill two tubs with hot water. Dinner will be a turn of the glass after sundown.”
The woman left them, and Varina lifted eyebrows toward Karl. “Morel . . .” she said. “Nico said that he’d run away from his tantzia and onczio. Could she be . . . ?”
“Morel’s a common enough name in Nessantico.” He shrugged. “But there are obviously some questions we should ask. If we still had the boy . . .”
Karl was already certain that the connection was there, though he wasn’t sure how he knew. He could see from Varina’s face that she was thinking the same. If he’d believed in any god at all, he might have thought they’d been led here by divine fortune.
That evening, after taking the woman’s offer of a bath to rid them of the worst of the road stink, he and Varina took their supper in the common room of the tavern, both to avoid suspicion and so that they could hear any gossip that might have reached the village regarding the escape of the Regent from the Bastida. The room was—he suspected from the harried looks of Alisa, her children who served as the waiting staff, and her husband Bayard behind the short bar near the kitchen door—more crowded than usual, and the talk was largely of the events in Nessantico, which seemed to have reached the village only a few days ago.
“I spoke to the offizier of the search squad myself,” Bayard Morel was saying loudly to an audience of a half dozen villagers. “His horse had thrown its shoe, and so he had me shoe the beast for him. He said that Kraljiki Audric, may Cénzi bless ’im, sent riders out on every road from the city to catch the traitor and those Numetodo heretics with him. The offizier’s squad was to scour the road all the way to Varolli if necessary. He told me that the Numetodo killed three dozen Garde Kralji in the Bastida with their awful, blasphemous magic, killed ’em without a thought even though some of them were still in their beds. They left the tower where ca’Rudka was held in rubble, nothing but great stones strewn all over the ground. They were spouting fire as they rode off, a horrible blue fire, the offizier said, that slew people along the Avi as they passed, and then, with a great whoosh—” and here Bayard spread his hands suddenly wide, knocking over the nearest tankard of ale and causing his audience to rear back in wide-eyed terror, “—they vanished in a cloud of foul black smoke. Just like that. All told, there are over a hundred dead in the city. I tell you, death is too good a fate for the Regent. They ought to drag him alive through the streets and let the stones of the Avi tear the very flesh from his bones and rip off that silver nose of his while he screams.”
The people in the room murmured their agreement with that assessment. Varina leaned close to Karl, grimacing as the movement pulled at the knitting wound on her arm. “By next week, he’ll have it at a thousand dead. But at least it seems the searchers have already moved through. We’re behind them. That’s good, right?” She searched his face with anxious eyes, and he grunted assent even though he wasn’t so certain himself.
Watching the room, he noticed that there was another woman helping to serve the patrons: dour and tired-looking, her mouth never gentled with a smile. She looked several years younger than Alisa, but there was a family resemblance between the two: in the eyes, in the narrow nose, in the set of her lips. She appeared too old to be Alisa’s child, all of whom were still striplings. When one of the children—a sullen boy on the cusp of puberty—set a plate of sliced bread on their table, he pointed to her. “That woman there . . . who is that?”
The boy sniffed and scowled. “That’s my Tantzia Serafina. She’s living with us right now.”
“She looks unhappy.”
“She’s been that way for a while now, since Nico ran away.”
Karl glanced at Varina. “Who’s Nico?”
“Her son,” the boy said, the scowl deepening. “A bastardo. I didn’t like him anyway. Always talking nonsense about Westlanders and magic and trying to pretend he could do magic himself like he was a téni. Everyone had to waste three days looking for him after he left, and my vatarh rode all the way to Certendi, but no one ever found him. I think he’s probably dead.” He seemed inordinately satisfied with that conclusion, satisfaction curling a corner of his mouth.
“Ah.” Karl nodded. “You’re probably right. It’s not an easy world out there for travelers. I was just wondering why she looked so sad.” Varina was looking away now, staring at Serafina, her knuckles to her mouth. The boy scuffled his feet on the rough wooden floor, sniffed and wiped his arm across his nose, and went back into the kitchen.
“Gods, it
is
her.” Varina gave a nearly imperceptible shake of her head. “What do we do, Karl? That’s Nico’s matarh.”
is
her.” Varina gave a nearly imperceptible shake of her head. “What do we do, Karl? That’s Nico’s matarh.”
Karl plucked a piece of bread from the plate that the boy had brought. He tore off a chunk of the brown loaf and tucked it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “If we could give her Nico,” he said after he swallowed, “I wonder if she would give us Talis in return?”
Jan ca’Vörl
J
AN MOTIONED TO THE GARDAI outside the door. “Let me in,” he said. The two men glanced at each other once, quickly, before one of them opened the door. As Jan stepped inside, the garda started to follow. Jan shook his head at the man. “Alone,” he said. The garda hesitated before nodding his head once in salute. The door closed behind Jan again.
AN MOTIONED TO THE GARDAI outside the door. “Let me in,” he said. The two men glanced at each other once, quickly, before one of them opened the door. As Jan stepped inside, the garda started to follow. Jan shook his head at the man. “Alone,” he said. The garda hesitated before nodding his head once in salute. The door closed behind Jan again.
“You’re a brave one, to be in a room alone with his enemy. And that one will be reporting to Commandant cu’Göttering that you’ve come to visit me. Cu’Göttering will undoubtedly inform your matarh.”
Candlelight reflected from silver as Sergei turned to regard Jan. The man had been placed in one of the interior rooms of Brezno Palais, his meal laid out before him on a damask-covered table, the hearth crackling with a fire to take off the night chill, and a comfortable bed soft with down pillows and coverlets. He was wearing a new, clean bashta and had evidently taken a bath, and his graying hair was newly oiled.
He sat in a prison woven of silk.
“I don’t care that cu’Göttering knows, nor my matarh. Are you so dangerous, Regent ca’Rudka?” Jan asked the man, standing across the table from him.
In reply, Sergei reached down to his bootheel: slowly, so that Jan could see him. He slid a slender, short-handled and flat blade from between the sole and leather and placed it on the table, sliding it across the table toward Jan. “Always, Hïrzg Jan,” the man answered with a faint smile. “Your great-vatarh would have told you that. Your matarh as well. If I’d wanted you dead, you would be dead already.”
Jan stared at the blade. He’d watched the gardai search the man for weapons, had heard them declare the Regent unarmed. “I think I’ll need to have a talk with Commandant cu’Göttering about the training of his men.” He reached down to touch the hilt with a fingertip, but otherwise didn’t pick up the knife. “What else did they miss?”
Sergei only smiled. Jan put his hand on the knife and slid it back across the table to Sergei, who sheathed it again in his boot. “So, Hïrzg Jan,” Sergei said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Jan wasn’t certain of that himself. The initial meeting with Sergei had left him unsettled, listening to his matarh and to Archigos ca’Cellibrecca, knowing that they’d dominated the moment. In truth, he was feeling overwhelmed by the suddenness of events: Fynn’s assassination, Elissa’s flight, the news from the Holdings, the Regent’s arrival. His vatarh had left Brezno in an angry rush; his matarh and the Archigos were suspiciously close. It was as if he were being swept along helplessly in a flood he hadn’t seen and hadn’t anticipated. He found himself feeling lost and uncertain, and he’d brooded on that for long turns of the glass, unable to lose himself in the now-forced gaiety of the party or the distractions of the young women who flirted with him or the urgent speculations that erupted all around him.
He wanted to talk to someone. He didn’t want that person to be his matarh.
Jan didn’t feel like the Hïrzg. He felt like an impostor. “I want to know what I’ve gained by giving you asylum, Regent,” he said.
“Are you having second thoughts?” Sergei asked him. He pushed his chair back from the table. “Or is it that you think that someone else made that decision for you?”
He should have felt anger at that. Instead, he only brought one shoulder up and let it drop again. “Ah,” Sergei said. “I understand. So, I think, would poor Audric. Let me tell you this, Hïrzg Jan: I’ve known several Kralji in my time, and despite what you might think of them, the truth is that none of them ever made an easy decision. Everything you do as Kralji—or Hïrzg—affects thousands of other people, some in good ways, others adversely. Be glad that you have good advisers around you, and listen to them. It might save you from making some truly horrific decisions.” He smiled then, grimly. “And if one turns out that way despite your best intentions, well, you can always blame it on their bad advice.”
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
The smile broadened. “No, I haven’t, have I?” Sergei laid his hands palm up on the table. “All I have to offer you is
me
, Hïrzg. My knowledge, my experience, my viewpoint. I happen to think that’s a potentially valuable resource for you, but then I’ll admit to being prejudiced on the subject.” The skin around the man’s false nose wrinkled, but the nose itself didn’t move—it struck Jan as disturbing. It made him uneasy, but he found it hard to move his gaze away from Sergei’s face.
me
, Hïrzg. My knowledge, my experience, my viewpoint. I happen to think that’s a potentially valuable resource for you, but then I’ll admit to being prejudiced on the subject.” The skin around the man’s false nose wrinkled, but the nose itself didn’t move—it struck Jan as disturbing. It made him uneasy, but he found it hard to move his gaze away from Sergei’s face.
“I have my matarh’s knowledge, experience, and viewpoint; I also have the Archigos’. I have that of the commandants and the other chevarittai of the Coalition.”
“You do,” Sergei answered. “Your matarh was a hostage in the Holdings for much of her youth. The Archigos is an avowed opponent of the Nessantican branch of the Faith. The commandants and chevarittai are also opponents of the Holdings. None of them
know
the Holdings, and they all have reason to hate it. Hatred can be blinding sometimes. As for me, well, the welfare of the Holdings has been my life.”
know
the Holdings, and they all have reason to hate it. Hatred can be blinding sometimes. As for me, well, the welfare of the Holdings has been my life.”
“Which is another reason to distrust you.”
“Then let that be my first piece of advice to you, Hïrzg Jan. You
should
distrust me. A Hïrzg should be skeptical of
all
the advice he’s given—because everyone’s advice is painted with the colors of their agenda, mine no less than anyone’s. But . . . I’m an old swordsman, Hïrzg, and I’d tell you it’s easier to defeat an enemy whose moves you know and can anticipate than one you don’t know at all.” Sergei sat back in his chair. “I know the Holding’s moves. I know them all. You need me.”
should
distrust me. A Hïrzg should be skeptical of
all
the advice he’s given—because everyone’s advice is painted with the colors of their agenda, mine no less than anyone’s. But . . . I’m an old swordsman, Hïrzg, and I’d tell you it’s easier to defeat an enemy whose moves you know and can anticipate than one you don’t know at all.” Sergei sat back in his chair. “I know the Holding’s moves. I know them all. You need me.”
“You sound so certain.”
“I know my enemy, Hïrzg. If I didn’t, would I have given you my knife?” He reached down and tapped his boot. “Everyone takes risks, Hïrzg. The trick is to be confident of the outcome.”
“What if I’d kept the knife?” Jan asked him.
Sergei gave a short chuckle. “Then I’d have pretended that
that
was what I’d expected. Do you still like
your
choice, Hïrzg?”
that
was what I’d expected. Do you still like
your
choice, Hïrzg?”
Jan smiled, his lips pressed together. “It was what I expected, Regent,” he said. “And that will have to do, won’t it?”
Audric ca’Dakwi
T
HE O’TÉNI KNEELING next to Audric’s bed opened her eyes, her face drawn and weary, and glanced over at Archigos Kenne. “I’ve finished my . . .” She hesitated, and Audric saw her gaze flick past the Archigos to Councillor Sigourney ca’Ludovici, standing by the fireplace and gazing at the portrait of Kraljica Marguerite, sitting alongside the fire on its portable easel. Above the hearth, Audric could see the discolored rectangle where the portait had hung for so long. In the dim recesses of the room, Marlon and Seaton lurked, waiting to scurry forward if needed.
HE O’TÉNI KNEELING next to Audric’s bed opened her eyes, her face drawn and weary, and glanced over at Archigos Kenne. “I’ve finished my . . .” She hesitated, and Audric saw her gaze flick past the Archigos to Councillor Sigourney ca’Ludovici, standing by the fireplace and gazing at the portrait of Kraljica Marguerite, sitting alongside the fire on its portable easel. Above the hearth, Audric could see the discolored rectangle where the portait had hung for so long. In the dim recesses of the room, Marlon and Seaton lurked, waiting to scurry forward if needed.
“. . . prayers,” the o’téni concluded.
The Archigos had told Audric that this woman téni came from the temple at Chiari and was someone whose “prayers had a special affinity for those who are sick.” That may have been true; he certainly felt somewhat better now, his lungs moving less painfully. The insistent cough had receded, though he could still feel some tightness in his chest—perhaps Cénzi had indeed blessed him tonight. The improvement wasn’t as marked as when Archigos Ana had performed her “prayers” for him, but it would do. He hoped it would last as long as Archigos Ana’s ministrations had.
“Thank you, O’Téni,” the Archigos was saying, giving the woman the sign of Cénzi. “We appreciate your efforts. You may return to the temple now. Tell U’Téni cu’Magnaoi that I will be along soon, if you would.”
She nodded and rose shakily to her feet, as if she been kneeling too long and her legs had gone to sleep. As Audric watched, she pressed hands to forehead to each of them and shuffled carefully to the door of the bedchamber, Marlon hurrying to open it for her. “Strange,” Sigourney remarked without turning from the painting, “
I’ve
never been so exhausted from simply praying.”
I’ve
never been so exhausted from simply praying.”
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