A Magic of Dawn (21 page)
Authors: S. L. Farrell
And now this massing of troops near the border of Nessantico . . .
Jan, what are you up to? Do you really want to poke at the Holdings with this stick?
Sergei knew already, as his cane tapped along the marbled flags of Brezno Palais on his way into his meeting with Hïrzg Jan, how it would end. The strap of a small diplomatic pouch was looped over his shoulder, and he had gained enough skill over the years to have opened the sealed letter inside and read what Allesandra had written there. The Hïrzg’s aide Rance ci’Lawli bowed as Sergei approached the outer reception room of the Hïrzg’s apartments. His face was pleasant, but underneath, there was a disdain: Sergei knew that Rance was one of those advising the Hïrzg to keep the Coalition intact and to refuse any compromise with the Holdings. “The Hïrzg is just inside,” Rance said, “but he begs the Ambassador’s indulgence, as he’s with the Hïrzgin and his children. A mark of the glass . . .”
“I would love to see them myself,” Sergei told Rance, “so I could bring a report to their great-matarh on their appearance.”
Rance shrugged and favored him with an insincere smile. “A moment, then, and I’ll inform the Hïrzg,” he said. He turned to one of the hall servants. “If you would escort the Ambassador into the outer room and fetch some refreshments for him.” Rance bowed again and vanished down the hall. Sergei followed the servant into one of the waiting rooms, accepting a glass of wine and a plate of sweet cheese rétes. Not long after, Rance returned and escorted him down a short hall to another door. On the other side, Sergei could hear several voices and the laughter of children. Rance knocked twice firmly, and then opened the door.
The two oldest children, Elissa and Kriege, were playing at a chevaritt board set on the table, with the Hïrzg looking on; the younger son, Caelor was watching from behind his brother’s shoulder. The youngest, Eria, was sitting on her matarh’s lap near the window, toying with the knitting piled there, while a nursemaid folded diapers and clothes on a bench near one of the doors leading out of the room. “The Ambassador ca’Rudka,” Rance announced as Sergei stepped into the room, the sound of the cane muffled by the thick rug there.
Elissa turned to look. “Vatarh, it’s Old Silvernose!”
“Elissa!” Jan shot Sergei a look of apology. “That’s terribly rude.”
“Well, that’s what Starkkapitän ca’Damont calls him,” she answered, her face twisted into a scowl, her arms crossed over her chest. One of the game pieces, a war-téni, was still clutched in her hand.
“You still need to apologize to the Ambassador,” Jan told her, but Sergei coughed gently, interrupting him.
“That’s not necessary, Hïrzg. I’ve been called far worse, and at least both parts of that nickname are true. By the way, there are presents for the children from their great-matarh in my rooms at the embassy; I’ll have them sent over this afternoon.”
“Presents!” The shout came from all three of the oldest children at once, and even Eria glanced up from her efforts to tangle Hïrzgin Brie’s knitting.
Sergei laughed—in truth, Jan and Brie’s children did amuse him. They were bright, engaging, and healthy. It was a shame that Allesandra didn’t know them as well as he did. “If you go tell Rance, I’d wager he’d send a messenger over to fetch them for you now—if that’s all right with your parents.”
“Vatarh? Matarh?” Elissa immediately shouted. “May we?”
Brie smiled indulgently, glancing at Jan. “Go on,” she told them, giving Eria to the nursemaid. “And wait for them in the playroom, please. Don’t keep pestering Rance.”
The children went out with their nursemaid, calling for Rance. “They’re lovely children,” Sergei said as they left. “The two of you have been very lucky.”
“That’s what people say who aren’t parents themselves,” Brie told him, smiling.
“I’m certain that all of your children are perfectly behaved all of the time.”
Both Jan and Brie laughed at that. “We’ll lend them to you while you’re here, Sergei,” Jan said. “That will change your mind.” Then the smile collapsed, and he waved Sergei to one of the chairs at the table. Sergei saw his eyes glance down toward the diplomatic pouch at Sergei’s hip. “But I’m certain you didn’t come here to compliment us or to deliver presents. What has my matarh to say? The last time you were here you said that you hoped to broker a compromise and have her name me as A’Kralj. Has she agreed to that?”
Sergei glanced at the chevaritt game in progress before him before answering. They were playing two-sided, and the number of pieces still on the board were about equal. Yet Sergei saw a flaw in the way Kriege’s pieces were set: if Elissa moved her vanguard three spaces, she could be behind Kriege’s lines. He would have to bring three of his chevarittai over to protect himself—and that would leave two of his keeps open to siege from the other flank.
He wondered whether Elissa had seen that, also. From the positions of the pieces, he suspected she had.
“Elissa always wins,” Jan said, evidently noticing Sergei’s attention to the board. “I like to think that, in the game at least, she is demonstrating her heritage.” His fingers spread, Jan moved the pieces of her vanguard: three spaces forward. Sergei looked up, stroking the side of his nose.
“Ah, then you see it also.”
Jan smiled. “In the same way that the fact that you haven’t answered the question I asked you also tells me how the Kraljica has responded.”
Sergei reached into his diplomatic pouch, removing the resealed letter. He placed it on the table, his forefinger tapping the thick paper near the red wax seal. “The Kraljica has tendered a . . . counteroffer.”
Jan glanced at the letter without reaching for it. “Then let’s hear it. I assume you’ve read it already, even though the seal is still intact.”
“That would be improper of me, Hïrzg,” Sergei said. He heard Brie clear her throat. He glanced at her; her regard was on her knitting. She seemed to feel the pressure of his gaze and spoke without looking up from her needles.
“Allesandra says that if we continue to threaten her borders, she will take action,” Brie said. “She sees the offer Jan has made as a ‘capitulation,’ not a compromise. She suggests instead that the Hïrzg should dissolve his foolish Coalition and again become the ‘strong right arm’ of the Holdings.”
Sergei nearly laughed. “Do you have an ear in the Palais, Hïrzgin? ‘Capitulation’ is exactly the word the Kraljica used.”
Brie set down the knitting in her lap, looking up. “I know how she thinks,” she answered. Amusement lurked in the corners of her mouth. “It’s the same way my husband thinks.”
“Brie—” Jan began to protest, and her gentle laugh silenced him.
“That’s not a criticism, my love,” she said. “I admire you; I always have. But you
are
your matarh’s son.” She returned to the knitting, the needles making a sound like distant swords clashing. “And that’s the problem—if one or the other of you were a poorer leader, then there would not be a Holdings or a Coalition, but only one empire.”
are
your matarh’s son.” She returned to the knitting, the needles making a sound like distant swords clashing. “And that’s the problem—if one or the other of you were a poorer leader, then there would not be a Holdings or a Coalition, but only one empire.”
“That was my mistake,” Jan said. “I could have achieved that fifteen years ago. I could have taken the Sun Throne myself.” He glanced at Sergei, who had arranged his face in careful neutrality: no nod, no expression of agreement or disagreement. “But I was young and I wanted to teach my matarh a lesson. Instead, I have found myself the student.”
Again, that faint amusement slid over Brie’s mouth. “You both want the same thing—you always have. Unfortunately, you also both feel your vision of the world is the correct one.” She set the knitting down on the bench alongside her and rose, going to Jan. She took his arm, leaning into him and kissing his cheek. “I love you, my dear, and I share your vision. But I also understand how your matarh might see things.”
Jan’s arm went around her, pulling her tightly to him. Sergei rose from his chair, his knees cracking like dry twigs underfoot. He leaned on his cane and tugged his overcloak around himself. “I’ll leave the two of you to read the Kraljica’s reply and compose an answer for me, though I can guess what it might be. If you’d like, we could discuss the letter and what possibilities there might be for coming to some more equitable terms—would the two of you be willing to take supper in the embassy tonight? I’m told we have a new chef who specializes in delicacies from Navarro . . .”
“We’d be delighted,” Brie answered, and Jan nodded a moment later.
“Then I will see you tonight—a turn of the glass after Third Call? Good . . .”
He bowed to the couple, and went to the door, knocking against it with his cane. One of the hall servants opened the door for him. He wondered, as he walked down the hall to the gate where his carriage waited, how long it would be before son and matarh were again at war.
T
HEY’D HASTILY ERECTED THE PODIUM in Temple Park, not far from the ancient temple there—the oldest (and smallest) of the temples of the Faith in Nessantico. Originally, they’d agreed that Ancel would be the speaker and that they would remain there no more than a mark of the glass—not enough time, hopefully, for the utilino nor the Garde Kralji to respond, though Nico had arrangements for distractions should they arrive. Nico himself would not speak; he would watch from behind the podium with Liana and the rest of the inner circle of the Morellis, ready to flee and vanish into the warrens of Oldtown if there was an assault by the authorities on their gathering.
HEY’D HASTILY ERECTED THE PODIUM in Temple Park, not far from the ancient temple there—the oldest (and smallest) of the temples of the Faith in Nessantico. Originally, they’d agreed that Ancel would be the speaker and that they would remain there no more than a mark of the glass—not enough time, hopefully, for the utilino nor the Garde Kralji to respond, though Nico had arrangements for distractions should they arrive. Nico himself would not speak; he would watch from behind the podium with Liana and the rest of the inner circle of the Morellis, ready to flee and vanish into the warrens of Oldtown if there was an assault by the authorities on their gathering.
But the crowd was larger than anticipated. News of the gathering had spread through word of mouth, through cryptic postings on the walls of Nessantico that only their followers would understand, but the response was greater than any of them had expected. Nico was certain that, yes, some word of the gathering would have leaked out to the Commandant’s people, but they’d watched carefully for any signs that they would be prevented from speaking. Nico was not surprised to see none: Cénzi Himself protected Nico, who was his Absolute Tongue. After his meeting with Varina, he’d gone home with his head aching and his feelings confused. He’d spent the rest of the day praying, and that night, in his dreams, Cénzi had spoken to him: clearly and without mistake. He had told Nico what must be said.
Cénzi would speak through Nico today. And Nico would obey, as any servant must. He’d written the words that Ancel would speak; Liana had already placed the scroll on the podium. What amazed Nico was that even as his followers had begun assembling the small platform, the crowd had begun to gather. The first to arrive were the Morellis of the city, those who were already believers. But the crowd continued to swell, well beyond the numbers of those who had already openly given their allegiance to him. Dotted throughout the crowd were green robes: the téni of the city, most of them of e’ status—the new téni, those who may have heard of him since he’d come to Nessantico but hadn’t yet heard him speak. Now, as the wind-horns of the temple sounded the Second Call, when many in the crowd might be attending services, they were instead here. Three hundred at least, and perhaps more.
Here. To listen to Cénzi’s word.
You must speak. They have come to hear you, to hear My words through the gift of your voice.
The realization came to him hard, like a blow to his temple. He nearly reeled from the impact of it. Liana clutched at his arm, feeling his reaction. “Nico . . . ?”
“I’m fine,” he told her. “Cénzi has just spoken to me.”
He heard her intake of breath. “Is there danger?”
“No,” he said, almost laughing. “Quite the opposite. He wants me to speak.”
“You can’t,” Liana protested. “Everyone has said it’s too dangerous.”
“There’s no danger to me; not while I have Cénzi’s protection.” He patted her hand, then the slope of her belly. He felt the child stir underneath his hand, and he grinned. “I’ll be fine. Please, don’t worry.” She frowned, but her hand left his arm. He smiled at her and kissed her cheek, then quickly ascended the two steps to the small stage where Ancel was already unrolling the scroll. A roar from the crowd greeted him; Ancel looked up from the scroll at the sound and stared at the sea of pointing hands, turning his head abruptly.
His voice could barely be heard above the crowd’s roar. “Absolute? I thought . . .”
Nico gave him the sign of Cénzi. “It’ll be fine, Ancel. But I’d appreciate if you stay here with me and watch for the gardai. Cénzi . . . Cénzi wishes me to give our people His message in my own voice.”
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