Authors: S. L. Farrell

A Magic of Nightfall (53 page)

BOOK: A Magic of Nightfall

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Audric saw Kenne’s craggy face tighten in the candlelight at the un-subtle accusation. The Archigos otherwise ignored the comment. “Are you feeling better, Kraljiki?” he asked.

Audric’s great-matarh stared at him concernedly over ca’Ludovici’s shoulder. “There is nothing wrong with me,” he told the Archigos, and saw his great-matarh’s face nod just on the edge of perception.
Don’t let them know how you truly feel, not when they might think it weakness.
“I know that,” he told her, then turned back to the Archigos. “I’m feeling quite well,” he told the man, and Kenne looked almost comically relieved. “Now, you said you had a favor to ask, Archigos.”

“I did, Kraljiki. I had an odd encounter this morning at the temple. There was a man, an o’offizier of the Garde Civile: Enéas cu’Kinnear. He came for Cénzi’s Blessing, and he had the sash of the Hellins over his uniform. A good-looking young man, with an earnest face. He told me that he was just back from the war.”

“Yes, yes,” Audric said impatiently, waving the man silent. The Archigos could meander on like that for a turn of the clock, relating every interminable detail of the encounter. He heard ca’Ludovici chuckle in the background. “Your
point,
Archigos?”

The Archigos didn’t manage to entirely hide his annoyance, but he smiled grimly and bowed his head to Audric. “O’Officer cu’Kinnear said that he had vital information for you regarding the Hellins, Kraljiki. He said that you would not have heard his news because the fast-ships wouldn’t have come. I’ve checked, and that’s the case. I also had my staff investigate this cu’Kinnear, and they found that Commandant ca’Sibelli—” with that, the Archigos nodded in the direction of Sigourney, “—recommended him to be named Chevaritt, and the reports on the man are unanimous in their high opinion of him as a person of faith and as an offizier. In fact, I’ve discovered that he’d once been considered as an acolyte candidate, showing signs of the Gift—”

“Fine,” Audric interrupted again, sighing. “I’m certain that this cu’Kinnear’s a fine man.” He closed his eyes. It was so tiresome, having to listen to the drivel of the people under him, and to pretend that he was paying attention or that he cared.
It is the bane of all Kralji,
he heard his great-matarh say, and he smiled indulgently at her. “Indeed,” he told her. “It is quite so.” Right now, he wanted his supper, and perhaps a round of cards with some of the young women of the ca’-and-cu’—and perhaps a dalliance, since he was feeling better.

You must be careful with that, Audric,
he heard his great-matarh remonstrate.
Marriage is a weapon that can only be used once or twice; you must choose the right moment, and the right blade.

“Don’t be tiresome,” he told her.

Sigourney spoke up. “If I may, Kraljiki?” He waved a hand at her. The woman was a bore; she had no humor to her; all that interested her was the business of the state. She was as dry as yesterday’s toasted bread. “Archigos, if this cu’Kinnear has such vital information, why hasn’t he told his superior offiziers and passed it up the chain of command?”

“That I don’t know myself, Councillor,” the Archigos said. “But there was
something . . .
I thought . . . I thought that when cu’Kinnear asked me to make the request of you, Kraljiki Audric, that I heard Cénzi’s Voice telling me that I should listen. I would have sworn . . .” The old man shook his head, and Audric sighed impatiently again. “What would a few moments to hear the man hurt? It will be Second Cénzidi the week after next; if he could be placed on the list of the supplicants for your usual audience, Kraljiki . . .”

Snared in varnish, Marguerite seemed to shrug in the candlelight. Audric swung his legs off the side of the bed. Seaton hurried to help him rise and he waved the servant away. “Fine,” he said. “Arrange it with Marlon, Archigos. I’ll see this paragon of the Garde Civile on second Cénzidi—but only if no fast-ship arrives in the meantime with fresher news from the Hellins. Is that satisfactory?”

The Archigos bowed and gave the sign of Cénzi to Audric, then to the councillor. Ca’Ludovici seemed to snicker. “Now,” Audric said, “I am hungry, and there are entertainments that I plan to attend this evening, so if there is no more business . . .”

The White Stone

T
HE AIR WAS RIFE with whispers and curses, and they weren’t only from the voices in her mind. Nessantico shuddered with the events of the last week, with the escape of the Regent and the betrayal of the Numetodo. She had seen the squads moving angrily and suspiciously through the lanes and alleys of Oldtown; she had been questioned twice herself, dragged aside and interrogated as if they thought she might be one of the Numetodo. She knew enough to show just the right amount of fear: enough to placate them, but not enough to fuel their suspicions. Others had not been so lucky; she’d seen dozens hauled away to be questioned at length in the dark gloom of the Bastida, and she did not envy them.

It would have been so much easier for them to have hired the White Stone. The Regent’s life, the Ambassador’s life: she could have snuffed them out as a candle extinguished in daylight—lives no longer necessary or wanted. She could have taken their souls into the stone she carried between her breasts.

More madness for you to bear . . .
They laughed at the thought.
You will lose yourself entirely in us . . .

Soon . . .

The refrain was a pounding drumbeat in her head. Fynn’s angry voice was the loudest of them.

Soon . . .

“Maybe not,” she told them. “I’m stronger than you think. After all, I killed all of you.” She said the words aloud, and those nearest her on the streets glanced at her with pity or annoyance or fear. She didn’t care which; it didn’t matter.

The morning sun was rising over the statue of Kraljiki Selida II in the central fountain of Oldtown Center, the disk blazing as if the tip of the Kraljiki’s upraised sword was afire. To the right of the plaza was the huge statue of Henri VI, also casting its own long shadow. The morning nausea that plagued her every day when she rose had passed, and the smell of buttery croissants from the bakery just a few doors down made her hungry again. She rubbed at her belly; she could feel the swell of her stomach under her tashta; soon, she wouldn’t be able to hide the pregnancy at all.

Soon . . .

“Be quiet!” she shouted at them, and her voice lifted pigeons from the pavement of the square and flung them into the air to flutter down again several strides away. Someone laughed nearby in a knot of young men, pointing at her, and she gave them an obscene gesture, which only made the laughter increase.

Soon . . .

I will destroy you as you destroyed me.
That was Fynn.
Soon . . .

Scowling, she pushed her way into the bakery and flung a bronze se’folia down on the counter. “Croissants,” she said.

She’d eaten two of them before she reached the rooms she’d taken a few blocks from the Center. The sweet, moist bread soothed the ache in her belly and banished the voices. She was reaching for the key for her room when she heard noise: a scraping, an intake of breath. She stopped, putting down the bundle of remaining croissants, her hand going to the knife hilt tucked in the sash of her tashta. The sound was coming from the small space between her house and the building next to it. She peered into the purple shadows there, seeing a form hunched against the side of the house, trembling.

“I see you in there,” she said. “Come on out.”

She expected the person to run, to flee the other way toward the lane behind the house. But the form stirred, rising slowly, and she saw in the shifting, uncertain light from the brightening sky that it was a child. He shuffled out slowly, keeping his back to the wall of the structure, his wide eyes glancing at her then darting away again. His face was smeared with mud and his hair wildly tangled.

“What’s the matter? Are you scared of me?”

“You’re the crazy lady,” the boy answered, and the voices in her head hooted with delight, Fynn’s loud amongst them.
You see? They already know. Soon . . .

“What were you doing in there?” she asked.

The boy shrugged. “Waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

Another shrug. “Nothing.”

“Only an idiot waits for nothing, boy. Are you hiding?” She raised a finger, stopping him in mid-shrug. “Don’t lie to me, boy. I’m the crazy lady, remember? I can hear what you’re thinking?” She tapped her forehead with the upraised finger. The voices hooted again.
Liar! Charlatan!
“So you’d better tell me the truth: who are you hiding from?”

He looked at her suspiciously, cocking his head as if he’d heard the voices himself. “The soldiers,” he said. “The ones in blue and gold.”

“The Garde Kralji?” She spat on the ground between them. “I know them. Oh, I know them well. But why are you hiding from them? They’re not looking for
you
, boy, not unless you’re Numetodo.” His face twisted strangely at that, and she looked at him sidewise, rubbing at her stomach. There were strange flutterings there, and she wondered whether she was going to be sick again, or if she was feeling the child for the first time. “
Are
you Numetodo?” she asked. “Is that why?”

“No,” he said quickly, but she had seen too many lies and deceptions in her life already, and she knew he was saying less than he could. She looked at him more closely, at the filthy clothing and matted hair. She could see the bones of his cheeks.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

Another shrug.

“Do you live near here?”

He grimaced. “I . . . I used to. Just over there.” He pointed down the lane. “But . . . I don’t know . . .” He stopped, and she saw his lip quivering. He sniffed and drew his sleeve quickly over his eyes, pressing his lips tightly together. The defiance, the refusal to let her see just how scared and frightened he was made her decision for her. She smiled at him, crouching down in front of him. It should have been an easy movement for her, but the thickening waist made her feel as if her own body were someone else’s.

“You have a name?” she asked the boy.

“Nico,” he told her. “My name is Nico.”

“Then why don’t you come with me, Nico? I have some croissants, and a bit of butter, and I can probably find a slice of meat or two. Does that sound good?” She held out her hand to him. Hesitantly, he took it, and she stood up. The voices were laughing at her, mocking her.
The White Stone has gone soft as mud . . .

Ignoring them, she walked with Nico to her rooms.

CONNECTIONS

Niente
Karl Vliomani
Allesandra ca’Vörl
Niente
Allesandra ca’Vörl
Jan ca’Vörl
Nico Morel
Audric ca’Dakwi
Varina ci’Pallo
Enéas cu’Kinnear
The White Stone