Read A Magic of Nightfall Online
Authors: S. L. Farrell
A Magic of Nightfall (66 page)
She did know. “In fact, I just left him. In the Red Swan on Bell Lane, not five minutes from here. He’d just ordered a pint, so I expect he’s still there.”
Karl thanked her, paid the fishmonger for the trout without haggling, and returned to Varina and Nico. He crouched down in front of Nico. “Varina’s going to take you home now, Nico,” he said. He didn’t dare look up at Varina—he could imagine the thoughts her face reflected. “I’m going to stay here a little bit longer.”
Nico nodded, and Karl hugged the boy. “You two go on now,” he said, rising.
“Karl, you promised . . .” Varina said.
“I’m not going to do anything,” he told her, wondering if it was the truth. He told her what the woman had said. “I know where he is right now. All I’m going to do is follow him. I’ll find out where he lives. Then we can figure out how to approach him.”
He could see the disbelief in the way she bit her lower lip, in the hollowness of her eyes, in the slow shake of her head. She clutched at Nico. “You promise?”
“I promise,” Karl said.
She stared at him, her head tilted to one side. “Come on, Nico,” she said finally. “Let’s go.” Karl bent down and hugged Nico again, then—rising—Varina. That was like hugging one of the columns on the Archigos’ Temple. He watched the two of them until they disappeared into the crowds of the market.
Bell Lane was a dirt-strewn alley a few blocks off the Avi a’Parete, only a few strides across and hemmed in closely with small shops of indeterminate purpose, and above them dingy, dark apartments. Its central gutter was filthy and wet with waste; Karl found himself walking carefully to avoid the worst of the messes. The
Red Swan
was set on a corner where the lane intersected a larger street leading up to the Avi, curls of old paint peeling from the signboard. Karl entered, the gloom inside making him pause to let his eyes adjust. The only light inside came through the cracks of the shutters and the guttering candles on a single chandelier and on each table. It was easy enough to find Uly once Karl could see in the dim light: a copper-skinned man with scars and tattoos over his face and arms.
Red Swan
was set on a corner where the lane intersected a larger street leading up to the Avi, curls of old paint peeling from the signboard. Karl entered, the gloom inside making him pause to let his eyes adjust. The only light inside came through the cracks of the shutters and the guttering candles on a single chandelier and on each table. It was easy enough to find Uly once Karl could see in the dim light: a copper-skinned man with scars and tattoos over his face and arms.
Karl went to the bar and ordered a pint from the sour-looking barman, his back to Uly. The interior brightened suddenly as another person—a woman—entered the bar, and Karl shielded his eyes against the light.
He’d intended to do as he’d said to Varina: find Uly and follow the man until he found where he lived. But he watched the man sipping his pint, and images of Ana’s sprawled, ruined body rose in his mind so that he could barely think at all, and a slow rage built in his belly, rising to his chest where it wrapped blood-engorged arms around his lungs and heart.
He swallowed half his beer at one draught. He picked up the beer and went to the Westlander’s table.
“You’re Uly?” he asked. He sat across from the man, who watched him carefully, as if ready to fight. Muscles corded and slid in his muscular arms, and one hand dropped below the table.
“And if I am?” he asked. His voice held the same accent as Talis’, the same as Mahri’s, though deeper and more pronounced, so that Karl had to listen carefully to make out the words.
“I’m told you make potions. For fertility.”
The man’s chin lifted slightly and he seemed to relax. His right hand came back to the scarred, beer-ringed tabletop. “Ah, that. I do that, yes. You’re in need of such?”
Karl shrugged. “Not that. But perhaps . . . something else. I have a friend; Talis is his name. He tells me you can provide me with something not to create life, but end it. Quickly.”
He watched the man’s face as he spoke. At the mention of Talis, one eyebrow had lifted slightly. A corner of Uly’s mouth rose, as if he were amused. He rubbed at his scarred, black-lined skull. His hands were large, the skin rough, and a long scar ran across the back: trademan’s hands. Or a soldier’s. “Such a thing would be illegal, Vajiki. Even if it could be done.”
“I’m prepared to pay well for it. Very well.”
A slow nod. Uly picked up his mug and drained it in one swallow, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s a fine day,” the man said. “Let’s take a stroll, and we can talk.”
He rose—the rest of his squat body was as muscular as his arms—and Karl rose with him. As they came to the door of the tavern, a woman hurrying to the door bumped into Karl, nearly knocking him into Uly. “Beg pardon, Vajiki,” the woman said. Her face was streaked with dirt, dried snot rimmed her nose, and her breath was foul. She grabbed at Karl’s hand and placed something hard in it. “For luck,” she said. “You must keep it, and it will bring you good fortune, Vajiki. You make sure now. Keep it.” She closed his fingers around it, and let him go, hurrying out the door. Karl looked at what the woman had put in his hand: a small, pale-colored pebble. Uly snorted laughter.
“The woman must have cobwebs for brains,” he said. “Come on, Vajiki. Let’s go.”
Karl put the pebble in the pocket of his bashta and followed Uly out into Bell Lane, then across the larger cross street and down another curving alley. They were walking north, toward Temple Park. “An’ what’s
your
name, Vajiki, since you know mine?” Uly asked as they walked.
your
name, Vajiki, since you know mine?” Uly asked as they walked.
“Andus,” Karl told him. “That’s all you need to know.”
“Ah, cautious, are we, Vajiki Andus? That’s good. That’s good. And who is it you’re wanting dead?”
“That’s my business, not yours.”
“I hardly think so,” Uly said, “since the Garde Kralji would come after me as well as you, and I’ve no interest in lodgings at the Bastida. I require a name from you, or we have no business at all.”
“It’s the Archigos,” Karl told the man. “I understand you already have some experience with that.”
He watched the man carefully, a spell ready to be released with a word and gesture. The man hesitated just slightly, a bare break in his step, but otherwise there was no response at all. He continued to walk on, and Karl had to hurry to catch up with him. The man’s expression hadn’t changed, nor had his demeanor. Karl waited for him to say something, his hand dropped to his side. They passed a side alleyway . . .
. . . and Uly pushed hard at Karl, his thick hand trapping Karl’s own even as he tried to bring it up, and Uly’s other hand pressed over Karl’s mouth, slamming his head hard against the stone foundation of a building. The impact took the breath from Karl and sent sparks flying through his head. Uly’s knee rammed into his stomach. He retched, aware that he was falling. Something—a knee, a fist, he couldn’t tell what, impacted the side of his head. He couldn’t see, could barely breathe. He could feel the cold cobblestones under him, the filthy water pooled there.
“You’re a fool, Ambassador ca’Vliomani,” Uly hissed. “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you?”
You’re going to die. Now.
It was a somber realization.
It was a somber realization.
He could hear boots on the cobbles—a single set of footsteps, he realized—and he waited for the final blow to come. He heard a grunt, and a yelp of pain, and something heavy fell to the ground next to him. He felt a hand raise his head and fasten a hood over it so he couldn’t see. The cloth smelled of old sweat. “Stay still and you won’t be hurt,” a voice said—not Uly’s. Someone with the only the trace of some unidentifiable accent, neither deep nor high, so it was difficult to even determine the gender. “Take off the hood and you’ll die.” Something sharp pressed against his neck, and Karl hissed in anticipation of the cutting stroke. “Nod if you understand.”
Karl nodded, and the knife blade vanished. He heard more noise—like a slap, and a grunt that could only be Uly. “Answer me if you want to live,” the voice said, though it wasn’t addressing Karl. “You killed Archigos Ana, didn’t you? You made the black sand.”
“No,” Uly began, then his voice cut off with a groan of pain. “All right, all right. Yes, I helped kill her. With the black sand. But it wasn’t my idea. I just gave the man the stuff and told him how to use it. I didn’t know what he intended to do with it. Ouch! Damn it, that’s the truth!” So much for Uly’s preference to die rather than talk, Karl thought. Perhaps Talis didn’t know his warriors that well after all.
“Who?”
“I don’t know—Ow! By Axat! Stop! He told me his name was Gairdi ci’Tomisi, but I don’t know if that’s his real name or not. Paid me well—that’s all I knew or cared about.”
There were more soft sounds, then a long wail that had to have come from Uly. The man was panting now, sobbing in pain, his breath fast and desperate. “Please. Please stop.”
“Then tell me more about this man,” the other voice said. “Quickly.”
“Sounded like ca’-and-cu’, the way he talked. Firenzcian, maybe, by the accent. Said he had ‘orders’ from Brezno, in any case. That’s all I know. I made the stuff, gave it to him, and he left. I was as surprised as anyone when the Archigos was killed.”
Karl desperately wanted to tear the hood from his face, to see what was happening, but he didn’t dare. There were more sounds: a wet scuffling, a soft
t-chunk
, then a rustling. Someone pulled at his bashta, rummaging in his pocket. He thought he heard soft footsteps but with the pounding and ringing in his head they were faint enough that he couldn’t be sure.
t-chunk
, then a rustling. Someone pulled at his bashta, rummaging in his pocket. He thought he heard soft footsteps but with the pounding and ringing in his head they were faint enough that he couldn’t be sure.
Then, for several breaths, there was nothing at all, only the distant sounds of the city. “Hello?” Karl whispered. There was no answer. Carefully, Karl lifted his hands to the cloth wrapped around his head and pulled it away from his face. What he saw made him recoil backward.
Karl stared at Uly’s body on the cobblestones, his throat slashed and blood sprayed over his clothes. His right eye was open to the sky, but covering the left was the stone the woman had given him in the tavern.
Allesandra ca’Vörl
S
EMINI TRIED TO CONTACT HER for several days afterward. Allesandra rebuffed his advances. She let his messages sit on her desk. When he sent his o’téni over to talk to her directly, he was told firmly by her well-instructed aides that she was in meetings and could not be disturbed. When Semini himself left the temple to see her, she made certain she was out of town with Jan, watching the muster of the troops.
EMINI TRIED TO CONTACT HER for several days afterward. Allesandra rebuffed his advances. She let his messages sit on her desk. When he sent his o’téni over to talk to her directly, he was told firmly by her well-instructed aides that she was in meetings and could not be disturbed. When Semini himself left the temple to see her, she made certain she was out of town with Jan, watching the muster of the troops.
When Semini—under the guise of working with the war-téni who were also mustering—came to the fields south of Brezno, there was, finally, no way to avoid him.
Semini was a green-clad, dark blot against the sun-washed whiteness of the tent canvas. Outside, the military encampment stirred in the morning: the clash of metal as the smithies worked on weapons, armor, and livery; the call of men; the shouted orders of offiziers; the general buzz of movement; the sound of feet marching in unison as squads drilled. Smells drifted in as Semini let the tent flap close behind him: the cook and campfires, the odor of mud churned by thousands of feet, and the faint stench of the ditches that served as latrines.
She was talking to Sergei ca’Rudka as she sat behind the field desk that had once been her vatarh’s, the front panels painted with images of Hïrzg Jan ca’Silanta’s famous battles in East Magyaria. “. . . told the Hïrzg and Starkkapitän to expect resistance as soon as we cross the border,” Sergei was saying, and he stopped and turned as her gaze drifted over his shoulder toward Semini. “Ah, Archigos. Perhaps I should go.”
“Come back after Second Call and we’ll continue our discussion, Regent,” she told him. Sergei bowed to her, rubbed at the reflective flank of his nose, and left the tent with a nod and the sign of Cénzi to the Archigos.
Semini seemed uncomfortable, as if he’d expected her to rise and embrace him as soon as the tent flap closed behind ca’Rudka. After a moment, he finally gave her the sign of Cénzi, shifting his weight as he stood in front of the desk like a summoned offizier. “Allesandra,” he began, and she scowled.
“Anyone could be listening through the tent fabric. We are in public, Archigos Semini, and I expect you to address me properly.”
She saw irritation quickly narrow his eyes at the rebuke. His lips pressed together under the roof of his mustache. “A’Hïrzg ca’Vörl,” he said, with deliberate slowness. “I apologize.” Then, he dropped his voice to a low, rumbling near-whisper. “I hope that we might still talk openly. Francesca, she . . .”
Allesandra shook her head slightly; with the motion, Semini stopped. “I spoke with your
wife
,” she said, with heavy emphasis. “The other night. We had a lovely chat. She seems to believe that you had something to do with Archigos Ana’s death.”
wife
,” she said, with heavy emphasis. “The other night. We had a lovely chat. She seems to believe that you had something to do with Archigos Ana’s death.”
She hadn’t really expected him to react; he didn’t. He stared blandly at her. “I know you had some affection for the false Archigos,” he said. “Given what happened to you, I can understand that. But Ana ca’Seranta was
my
enemy. I didn’t mourn her passing. Not in the slightest, and if my pleasure in her death offends you, A’Hïrzg, then I have to accept that. I prayed—often—that Cénzi would take her soul, because the woman was
wrong
in her beliefs and she was largely responsible for the severing of the Faith and the break of the Holdings.”
my
enemy. I didn’t mourn her passing. Not in the slightest, and if my pleasure in her death offends you, A’Hïrzg, then I have to accept that. I prayed—often—that Cénzi would take her soul, because the woman was
wrong
in her beliefs and she was largely responsible for the severing of the Faith and the break of the Holdings.”
“She is also the reason I am who I am. Without her . . .” Allesandra shrugged. “I might not be here. Jan may never have been born.”
“And for that, if nothing else, I gave her my prayers when she died.” Semini took a step to the side of the field desk, then stopped. “Allesandra, what’s happened between us? It’s obvious you’ve been avoiding me. Why?”
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