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Authors: S. L. Farrell

BOOK: A Magic of Dawn
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She realized that the room was
too
still, that she hadn’t heard Karl take a breath for some time. He was still staring at her, but his gaze had gone empty and dull. She felt her stomach muscles clench. She took in a breath that was halfsob. “Karl . . . ?” She watched his chest, willing it to move, listening for the sound of air moving through his nostrils. Was his hand colder? She felt for his pulse, searching for the fluttering underneath her fingertips and imagining she felt it.
“Karl . . . ?”
The room was silent except for the distant clamor of the servants and the chirping of birds in the trees outside and the faint sounds of the city beyond the walls of their villa. She felt pressure rising in her chest, a wave that broke free from her and turned into a wail that sounded as if it were ripped from someone else’s throat.
She heard the servants running up the stairs, heard them stop at the door. The sound of her grief echoed in her ears. She was still holding Karl’s hand. Now she let it drop lifeless back to the sheet. She reached out and brushed his eyelids closed, her fingertips trembling.
“He’s gone,” she said: to the servants, to the world, to herself.
The words seemed impossible. Unbelievable. She wanted to take them back and smash them so they could never be spoken again.
But she had said them, and they could not be revoked.
 
Sergei ca’Rudka
 
T
HE BASTIDA A’DRAGO STANK of ancient molds and mildew, of piss and black fecal matter, of fear and pain and terror. Sergei loved that scent. The odors soothed him, caressed him, and he inhaled deeply through the nostrils of his cold, silver nose.
“Good morning, Ambassador ca’Rudka.” Ari ce’Denis, Capitaine of the Bastida, greeted Sergei from the open doorway of his office as Sergei shuffled through the gates. He moved slowly, as he always did now, his knees aching with every step, wishing he hadn’t decided to leave his cane in the carriage. Sergei held up a piece of paper in his right hand toward ce’Denis. Under his left arm was tucked a long roll of leather.
“Good?” Sergei asked. “Not so much, I’m afraid.” He could hear his age in his voice, also: that unstoppable tremor and quaver.
“Ah, yes,” the Capitaine said. “Ambassador ca’Pallo’s death. I’m sorry; I know he was a good friend of yours.”
Sergei grimaced. His head ached with the worries that assailed him: the deteriorating relationship between the Holdings and the Firenzcian Coalition over the last few years; the Kraljica’s cold reception to his suggestion to repair that rift finally and completely; the rising presence of Nico Morel and his followers in the city; even the way that Erik ca’Vikej had dominated the Kraljica’s attention during the Gschnas . . .
Poor Karl’s death had merely been a final blow. That had been a reminder of his own mortality, that soon enough Sergei would have to face the soul-weighers and see what his own life had come to. He was afraid of that day. He was afraid he knew how heavy his soul would be with his sins.
“It’s Ambassador ca’Pallo’s death, yes,” Sergei answered, holding up the paper again as he approached the Capitaine. “Certainly. But it’s also this. Have you seen it?”
Ce’Denis peered myopically at the paper. “I noticed some of these posted around the Avi on my way in this morning, yes. But I’m afraid I’m a plain man of battle, Ambassador. I don’t have the skills of letters, as you undoubtedly remember.”
“Ah.” Sergei scowled. He
had
forgotten—ce’Denis’ illiteracy had been one of the reasons that he was only the Capitaine of the Bastida and not an a’offizier in the Garde Kralji or Garde Civile; it was also the reason he wasn’t a chevaritt and why his rank was only ce’. Sergei’s hand fisted around the parchment, crumpling it with a sound like brief fire, and tossing it on the ground. Deliberately, he stepped on it. “It’s a repulsive piece of trash, Capitaine. Vile. A proclamation from that damned Nico Morel, railing against the Numetodo and insulting the memory of Ambassador ca’Pallo. Gloating at my good friend’s death . . .”
Sergei grimaced. Memories of Nico Morel came back unbidden even as he railed. The boy he’d known a decade and a half ago during the great battle for Nessantico had little resemblance to the charismatic, raving firebrand who had surfaced recently. Still, those had been awful times, and Nico had been lost during them—who knew what the boy had experienced? Who knew how life might have twisted him?
Life twisted you, didn’t it?
Sergei’s headache pounded at his temples. “Nico Morel believes he’s the incarnation of Cénzi himself,” he said, rubbing his brow with one hand. “I swear, Capitaine, I will have Morel here in the Bastida one day, and I will take great delight in his interrogation.”
Ce’Denis pressed his thin lips together. He looked up at the skull of the dragon, mounted on the wall and glaring down at the courtyard in which they stood. “I’m sure you will, Ambassador ca’Rudka.”
Sergei glanced at the man sharply. He wasn’t sure he liked ce’Denis’ tone. “I want you to take any of your gardai not on duty and send them out along the Avi,” he told the Capitaine. He nudged the paper on the ground with his foot. “Have them tear down any of these proclamations that they find. That will be the request of Commandant cu’Ingres when I return to the palais, but if you could start before the order comes, I would appreciate it. The fewer people who see this filth, the better.”
“Certainly, Ambassador,” ce’Denis said, saluting. “Will you be with us long this morning?” He glanced at what Sergei carried under his left arm.
“Not long,” Sergei answered. “My day is busy, I’m afraid. And ci’Bella?”
“He is two levels down of the tower, Ambassador, as you requested.” Ce’Denis inclined his head to Sergei and went back into his office, calling for his aide. Sergei shuffled toward the main tower of the Bastida, saluting the gardai who opened the barred door for him. He moved slowly down the stairs that spiraled into the lower chambers, bracing himself with a hand on the stone walls and groaning at the strain on his knees, wishing again that he’d brought his cane. At the landing, he reached into the pocket of his overcloak to pull out a small ring of keys; they jingled dully in his hand.
Two levels down he stopped, allowing the pain in his head and his knees to subside. When it had, he thrust the key into a lock—there were flakes of rust around the keyhole; he made a mental note to mention that to Capitaine ce’Denis when he left—there was no excuse for that type of sloppiness here. As he turned the key in the lock, he heard chains rustling and scraping the floor inside. He could see the image in his head: the prisoner cowering away from the door, pressing his spine to the old, damp stone walls as if they might somehow magically open and swallow him.
Suffocation in the embrace of stone might have been a more pleasant fate than the one that awaited the man, he had to admit.
Sergei glanced around before he opened the cell door. A garda was approaching from the lower levels. He nodded to Sergei without saying anything. The capitaine and the gardai of the Bastida knew that Sergei usually required an “assistant” when he visited the prison; those who had the same predilections as Sergei often helped. They understood, and so they said nothing and pretended to see nothing, simply doing whatever Sergei asked of them.
He pushed open the cell door.
“Good morning, Vajiki ci’Bella,” he said pleasantly to the man as the garda slid into the cell behind him. The prisoner stared at the two of them: Aaros ci’Bella, one of the many minor aides in the Kraljica’s Palais. The man still wore the uniform of the palais, now soiled and torn. Sergei set the ring of keys on the hook just inside the cell door, leaving it open. Ci’Bella stood against the rear wall, the chains that bound his hands and feet loose—the chains, looped through thick staples on the back wall, had just enough slack to allow him to come within a single stride of the door but no more. If the man charged at Sergei, all Sergei had to do was step back and he could not be reached—though the garda would undoubtedly stop the man if he dared make such a foolish move. The prisoner who would do that was rare. “Old Silvernose,” as Sergei was known derogatorily, had his reputation among the enemies of Nessantico and those in the lowest strata of Holdings society. He could already sniff the apprehension rising in the man. “May I call you Aaros?”
The man didn’t even nod. His gaze traveled from Sergei’s nose to the thick roll of black leather under his arm to the silent garda. Sergei set the roll down near the cell door, untied the loop holding it closed, and laid it out flat it with a flick of his hand, grunting with the motion. Inside, snared in loops, were instruments of steel and wood, their satin patina showing much use.
Looking at the display, ci’Bella moaned. Sergei saw a wetness darken the front of his pants and spread down his leg, followed by the astringent scent of urine. Sergei shook his head,
tsking
softly. The garda chuckled. “Ambassador,” ci’Bella wailed. “Please. I have a family. A wife and three children. I’ve done nothing to you. Nothing.”
“No?” Sergei cocked his head. He removed the over-cloak from his shoulders, brushed at the soft fabric, and placed it carefully on the peg with the keys. He grimaced again as he knelt down, his knees cracking audibly and his leg muscles protesting.
Once, this would have taken no effort at all . . .
His fingers—knobbed and bent with age, the skin loose and wrinkled over the bones and ligaments—stroked the displayed instruments. He could feel the silken coolness of the metal through his fingertips, and it caused him to inhale deeply, sensually. “Tell me, Aaros. What would you do if a man harmed your wife, if he raped her or disfigured her? Wouldn’t you want to hurt that man in return? Wouldn’t you feel justified in taking revenge on that man?”
Ci’Bella seemed confused. “Ambassador, you’re not married, and I did nothing to your wife or to anyone’s . . .”
Sergei raised a white, heavy eyebrow. “No?” he said again. He allowed himself a gap-toothed smile. “But you see, I
am
married, Aaros. I’m married to Nessantico.
She
is my wife, my mistress, my very reason for living. And you, Aaros, you have assaulted and betrayed her. Talbot told me what he’d discovered. You spoke to an agent of the Firenzcian Coalition. Certainly you remember him? Garos ci’Merin? I had the . . . pleasure of talking to him yesterday, here in the Bastida.” Sergei smiled at ci’Bella; the garda snorted with amusement. “He told me how
kind
you were to him. How helpful.”
“But I didn’t know the man was a Firenzcian, Ambassador,” ci’Bella protested. “I swear it by Cénzi. He seemed lost, and I only escorted him through the palais . . .”
“You showed him through the corridors for the palais staff, the corridors that only authorized staff are permitted to access.”
“It was the quickest way . . .”
“And it was also a way that someone wishing to harm the Kraljica or to prowl about the palais would desire to know and use.”
“But I didn’t
know
. . .”
Sergei smiled. He rubbed at the carved nostrils of his false nose, where the glue holding it to his face itched. “I believe you, Aaros,” he said gently, smiling. “But I don’t
know
if that’s the truth. Perhaps you’re a skilled liar. Perhaps you’ve helped other people find their way through the palais corridors. Perhaps you’re an agent of Firenzcia yourself. I don’t
know.
” He plucked a set of clawed pincers from their loop and stood with an effort, his knees cracking once more. The garda pushed himself off the wall, moving forward to Aaros.
“But I
will
know,” Sergei told the man. “Very soon . . .”

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