Authors: S. L. Farrell
A Magic of Dawn (24 page)
“That depends entirely on my matarh,” Jan answered.
“And it depends on the Coalition not provoking her in the meantime,” Sergei responded. He nodded, and bowed to the two of them. “I’m away, then. I’ll send a response by fast-courier as soon as I’ve spoken with Kraljica Allesandra. Give my love to the children, and may Cénzi bless both of you.”
He bowed again and left the room as Rochelle continued to pile dirty dishes on the tray. “I’ll go see to the children,” Brie said to Jan. “Are you coming, my dear?”
“In a few moments,” he told her.
“Oh.” The strange, dead inflection of the single word made Rochelle glance up from her work, but Brie was already walking toward the entrance to the inner chambers, her back to Rochelle. She bent down to her work again, the dishes clattering softly as she stacked them.
“You’re new on the staff.”
It took a moment for Rochelle to realize that Jan had addressed her. She saw him gazing at her from the other side of the table. She curtsied quickly, her head down, as she’d seen the other servants do in his presence. “Yes, my Hïrzg,” she answered, not looking up at him. “I was hired only a week ago.”
“Then you’ve obviously impressed Rance, if he’s put you on palais staff. What’s your name?”
“Rhianna Berkell.”
“Rhianna Berkell,” he repeated, as if tasting the name. “That has a pretty sound. Well, Rhianna, if you do well here, you might find yourself one day with a ce’ before your name. Rance himself was ce’Lawli only two years ago, and now he’s ci’Lawli. He’ll almost certainly be cu’Lawli one day. We reward those who serve us well.”
“Thank you, sir.” She curtsied again. “I should get these back to the kitchen . . .”
“Look at me,” he said—he said it gently, softly, and she lifted up her face. Their eyes met, and his gaze remained on her face. “You remind me of . . .” He stopped. His regard seemed to drift away for a moment, as if he were lost in memory. “. . . someone I knew.”
He reached out, the fingertips of his right hand stroking her cheek—the touch, she thought, of a vatarh. She dropped her gaze quickly, but she could still feel the touch of his fingertips on her skin for long breaths afterward. “The tray, my Hïrzg,” she said.
“Ah, yes. That. Certainly. Thank you, Rhianna. I appreciate it.”
She lifted the tray and stepped toward the servants’ door. She could feel his gaze on her back as she pushed the door open with her hip. She didn’t dare look back, afraid that if she did, she would blurt out the secret, that she would call him by the name she longed to use.
Vatarh . . .
She could not do that. Not now.
Not yet.
S
HE’D SET UP THE DEMONSTRATION in the main hall of the Numetodo House. There were two hands of the long-standing Numetodo there with her: among them Pierre Gabrelli, who was grinning, already knowing what Varina intended to show; the Kraljica’s chief aide Talbot ci’Noel; Johannes ce’Agrippa, perhaps the most skilled of the Numetodo’s magicians, whose study of magical forms pushed the boundaries of Karl and Varina’s own discoveries; Niels ce’Sedgwick, whose interest was not in any magic at all, but in the rocks of the earth and what they spoke of the history of the land; Leovic ce’Darci, whose graceful drawings of buildings and engineering marvels were not only a delight, but were beginning to change Nessantico’s skyline; Nicolau Petros, who studied the stars and their movements with a device based on the one Karl had seen the Tehuantin spy Mahri use; Albertus Paracel, the scribe and librarian who was creating an already-monumental compilation of all knowledge gained from Numetodo research and experimentation. All of them were essential to the primary task of the Numetodo—to understand how the world worked without the veil of superstition and religion, to use reason and logic to fathom the mysteries that surrounded them.
HE’D SET UP THE DEMONSTRATION in the main hall of the Numetodo House. There were two hands of the long-standing Numetodo there with her: among them Pierre Gabrelli, who was grinning, already knowing what Varina intended to show; the Kraljica’s chief aide Talbot ci’Noel; Johannes ce’Agrippa, perhaps the most skilled of the Numetodo’s magicians, whose study of magical forms pushed the boundaries of Karl and Varina’s own discoveries; Niels ce’Sedgwick, whose interest was not in any magic at all, but in the rocks of the earth and what they spoke of the history of the land; Leovic ce’Darci, whose graceful drawings of buildings and engineering marvels were not only a delight, but were beginning to change Nessantico’s skyline; Nicolau Petros, who studied the stars and their movements with a device based on the one Karl had seen the Tehuantin spy Mahri use; Albertus Paracel, the scribe and librarian who was creating an already-monumental compilation of all knowledge gained from Numetodo research and experimentation. All of them were essential to the primary task of the Numetodo—to understand how the world worked without the veil of superstition and religion, to use reason and logic to fathom the mysteries that surrounded them.
They were those Nico Morel and his ilk found so terribly threatening.
There were a few who were missing, though—those that Nico had already killed, those who had actually been closest to Karl and her. She could do nothing for them except mourn their and Karl’s aching absence.
Varina had continued her own experiments with the sparkwheel. She’d refined the mixture of black sand and the shape and composition of the lead bullet the device delivered; she had Pierre create a few new experimental pieces as well. Each day, she saw the frightening potential of the sparkwheel more clearly. Each day, she was more convinced that this device could change the very sinews and fiber of the society in which they lived.
She wondered, sometimes, if this was really something she wanted to unleash.
“You can’t hide knowledge.”
That was what Karl had said, many times over the decades.
“Knowledge refuses to be hidden. If you try to bury it, it will only find a way to reveal itself to others.”
That was what Karl had said, many times over the decades.
“Knowledge refuses to be hidden. If you try to bury it, it will only find a way to reveal itself to others.”
Fine. Then she wouldn’t hide it.
“Thank you for coming,” Varina said to the assembly. “You’re all familiar with black sand. You all know the terrible destruction it can cause when ignited in large amounts. My experiments recently have been with far smaller amounts than those used in war, and with no use of magic to set it off at all. And . . .” She stopped, stepping to the table she’d set up, covered in a black cloth. Several strides away, a ripe sweetfruit had been set up on a stand in front of an upended oaken table serving as a backstop: a fruit the size of a man’s head, enclosed in its marbled, yellow-and-green tough rind.
A head as hard as a sweetfruit
—it was an old saying in the Holdings. She could see everyone looking at the setup curiously. “Well, it’s easier to simply demonstrate,” she said to them.
A head as hard as a sweetfruit
—it was an old saying in the Holdings. She could see everyone looking at the setup curiously. “Well, it’s easier to simply demonstrate,” she said to them.
She nodded to Pierre, who flicked the cover from the table. Pierre’s original sparkwheel sat there, gleaming and beautiful, already primed and ready. Varina plucked it up without a word, cocked it, and aimed at the sweetfruit.
She pulled the trigger.
The sparkwheel clicked. The black sand in the pan flashed and flared; the sparkwheel bucked in her hand with a loud report. At the end of the room, the sweetfruit seemed to explode, spattered chunks falling to the floor as the broken remnant jumped in its stand. In the silence that followed, they could hear the bright red juice of the shattered sweetfruit dripping to the floor.
The symbolism, as Varina had expected, was lost on none of them.
“No magic?” Talbot muttered. “None?”
Varina shook her head. The report of the sparkwheel still rang in her ears; a thin line of white smoke curled from the muzzle. “No magic,” she said. “A few pinches of black sand, a lead pellet, and Pierre’s craftsmanship. And it’s repeatable. Back away . . .” She called out to the others, some of whom had gone to examine the broken sweetfruit or the oaken planks behind it, where the pellet was embedded. She reloaded—the work of a few breaths—cocked the sparkwheel and fired it again. This time the rest of the sweetfruit collapsed entirely and the stand fell backward. Varina put the sparkwheel back on the table.
“Pierre has made a sparkwheel for each of you here,” she said, “and I will teach you how to use it.”
“A’Morce, this . . .” Talbot said. He was looking at the ruined sweetfruit on the floor. “Why?”
“I’m afraid that the Numetodo are about to be under attack again,” Varina said. “With these, you don’t need skill with a blade, physical strength, or magic to defend yourself. All you need do is aim the device and pull the trigger. I’m afraid we will need all the protection we can arrange.”
Leovic had gone to the table. He was turning the sparkwheel in his hands, examining the mechanism. Varina could already see his mind at work. He glanced at her. “It’s warm,” he commented. “What if that were a garda in armor?”
“He would fare little better than the sweetfruit,” she told him. “I can show you, if you’d like.”
Muscles bunched in Leovic’s jaw, as if he were holding back the reply he wanted to make. “Any competent craftsman could make something like this,” he said finally. “If not as ornate as Pierre’s creation. And learning to use it?”
“I can show all of you in a few marks of the glass,” Varina answered.
“You can give us all the potential to kill someone from strides away, even if they were in armor?” That was Johannes, his voice hushed and almost reverential.
“Yes,” she answered.
“You truly want to release this power?”
“It’s already been released,” she answered. “That power was loosed when the Tehuantin created the black sand. If we destroyed the sparkwheels right now and never said anything about them again, someone else would come to the same realization I did and make them again. You all know Karl’s . . .” At the mention of his name, her voice choked and broke. She swallowed hard, apologetically. Talbot nodded to her in sympathy. “. . . Karl’s saying that knowledge can’t be hidden. Even those of the Faith have a saying for it:
‘Once the Moitidi has been created, there can be no Unmaking.’
This is no different.”
‘Once the Moitidi has been created, there can be no Unmaking.’
This is no different.”
“Still, A’Morce . . .” That was Niels, shaking his gray, long locks. “The possibilities . . .”
“I can imagine them as well as any of you here,” Varina answered. “Believe me, they’ve haunted my dreams since Karl’s funeral and the Morellis’ murder of our people. But I can also imagine what might happen if we
don’t
have all the resources available to protect ourselves. And that scares me more.”
don’t
have all the resources available to protect ourselves. And that scares me more.”
She nodded to Pierre, who brought out a long box from the side of the hall. He set it down by the table and opened it. Inside, steel and wood gleamed. “There’s a sparkwheel there for each of you,” Varina said. “Take one, and a vial of the black sand, and a packet of the paper cartridges, and I will show you how to use them . . .”
“T
HE YOUNG WOMAN on our personal staff named Rhianna,” Jan said to Rance. “What do we know about her?”
HE YOUNG WOMAN on our personal staff named Rhianna,” Jan said to Rance. “What do we know about her?”
The aide raised a single eyebrow. He had just brought in Jan’s daily calendar of meetings, going over the plans for the day—it was, as always of late, too crowded and full. It was one of those days when Jan felt the weight of his responsibilities; it was one of those days that he felt old before his time; it was one of the days when he felt restless and trapped.
But the young woman . . . He had thought of her more than once since their encounter, and he found himself looking for her when he entered a room. There was often a faint smile on her face whenever she saw him, though she never broke propriety, never tried to approach him or talk to him, but concentrated on her work and left when it was finished.
He liked that. She knew her place. It boded well.
“She’s from Sesemora,” Rance told him, “though she has very little of the awful accent, thankfully. She had excellent references from the ca’Ceila and ca’Nemora families. She takes direction well and works hard. I could use a dozen more servants who perform as well as she does. And,” he added, “she’s not difficult to look at, as I’m sure the Hïrzg has noticed.”
“I had, in fact,” Jan said. This was a dance that he and Rance had performed more than once over the years, and they both knew the steps.
“Would the Hïrzg prefer that I assign her to your personal quarters?”
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