A Magic of Nightfall (45 page)

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Authors: S. L. Farrell

BOOK: A Magic of Nightfall
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She touched her stomach gently again, as she had more and more recently. She should have had her monthly bleeding even before she’d killed Fynn ca’Vörl. She’d thought perhaps it was the stress that had made it a few days late. But the bleeding hadn’t come during her flight; it still hadn’t come during the days she’d been in Nessantico, and there was now the strange nausea when she woke and there were stranger feelings inside.
It’s all you will have of him. Do you really want to do this?
It might have been her own voice. It might have been all of them.
“Vajica? I don’t have all evening. The rain . . .”
She shook her head, blinking. “I’m sorry,” she told him. “I . . .” Her hand touched her abdomen again.
He was staring at her, at the motion of her hand on her belly. His chin lifted and fell, and he rubbed a hand over his bald head as if smoothing invisible hair. “I may have what you want, Vajica,” he said, and his voice was gentler now. “Young ladies of your age, they come to me sometimes, and like you, they don’t quite know what to say. I have a potion that will bring on your bleeding. That’s what you need, isn’t it? However, I must tell you that it’s not easy to make, and therefore not cheap.”
She stared at him. She listened. She put her hand to the collar of her soaked tashta and felt the stone in its leather pouch.
The voices were silent.
Silent.
“No,” she told him. She backed away, hearing the door jingle as her heel slammed into it. “No. I don’t want your potion. I don’t want it.”
She turned then and fled into the plaza and the harsh assault of the rain, the téni-lights flaring around her and reflecting on the wet streets.
That was when she heard the wind-horns begin to blow alarm, all across the city.
EVASIONS
Karl ca’Vliomani
Niente
Nico Morel
Varina ci’Pallo
Audric ca’Dakwi
Allesandra ca’Vörl
Enéas cu’Kinnear
Niente
Sergei ca’Rudka
Karl ca’Vliomani
Jan ca
’
Vörl
Audric ca’Dakwi
The White Stone
Karl ca’Vliomani
T
HE PLAN WAS SIMPLE enough—it had to be. Karl had no army with which to assail the Bastida. He had no compatriots among the gardai to open the gates for him or leave them unguarded or to give him copies of the ornate keys to the donjon. He didn’t have the wild, powerful magic Mahri had possessed when Mahri had taken him from the Bastida, to just snatch Sergei away.
He had himself. He had Mika and Varina. He had what Sergei himself had told him.
He had the weather.
The Bastida had originally been designed as a fortress to guard the River A’Sele from invaders coming upriver; it had been turned into a prison late in its life. Portions of its legacy still existed, and no one knew all of its hidden ways, though few knew them better than Sergei ca’Rudka, who had long been in charge of the rambling, dank collection of black stones.
The trio borrowed a small rowboat moored east of the Pontica a’Brezi Nippoli, stepping into it a few turns of the glass after full dark, as the moon and the stars were lost behind the ramparts of scudding sky-towers and a fine mist began to fall. “I’d say thank the gods, if I believed in them.” Mika grinned at Karl as he helped Varina in, then Karl. Knee-deep in the river, he pushed them away from the shore. “I’ll see you two later,” he said.
Karl hoped he was right. He watched Mika splash from the river and run back toward the houses along the South Bank.
Karl and Varina didn’t use the oars for fear that the splashing would alert one of the roaming utilino or some curious walkers above them. Instead, they allowed the A’Sele’s slow current to take them downstream. They were dressed in dark clothing, their faces obscured with soot and ash though the rain quickly washed them clean. As soon as they passed the Pontica a’Brezi Veste and the grim, cheerless towers of the Bastida, they glimpsed wavering candlelight high up in the tower where ca’Rudka was kept—the sign that he was still there.
Karl steered the boat quietly to the shore. He and Varina stepped out into the muck and wet, ignoring the smell of dead fish and foul water, and slipped quickly into the shadow of the Bastida.
Karl found the door where Sergei had said it would be: where the grassy mound of the river wall—which Kraljica Maria IV had ordered built a century and a half ago to keep the A’Sele’s annual spring floods from inundating the South Bank—met the flanks of the Bastida’s western tower. The door was covered by sod where the flood bank swept over the stony feet of the Bastida, but the sod was but a few fingers’ thickness, the barest covering, and Karl’s hands quickly found the iron ring underneath. He tugged on it, carefully. The door yielded grudgingly, rain-clotted dirt falling away from it, but the sound of protesting hinges was largely covered by the hiss of rain on the river. Karl held the door open as Varina slipped inside, then he stepped inside himself, letting the door close behind him.
He heard Varina speak a spell-word, and light bloomed inside the hooded lantern they’d brought: the cold yellow light of the Scáth Cumhacht. The glare seemed impossibly bright in the blackness. Karl could see moss-slick stones and broken flags, the walls festooned with strange fungal growths and decorated with curtains of tattered spiderwebs. The brown, sinister shapes of rats slid away from the light, squeaking in protest.
“Lovely,” Varina muttered, the whisper seeming to echo impossibly loudly. She kicked at a rat that scuttled too close to her feet, and it chattered angrily before fleeing.
“Better rats than gardai,” Karl told her. “Come on—Sergei said this should lead into the base of the main tower. Keep that lantern well-hooded, just in case.”
The walk through the abandoned corridor seemed to take a full turn of the glass, though Karl knew it couldn’t have been more than a few hundred strides. The air was chill, and Karl shivered in his soaked clothing. They came to another door, this one obviously long-shut, and Karl put a single finger to his lips: beyond here, Sergei had said, they would be in the lowest levels of the Bastida, where there might be guards or prisoners locked in half-forgotten cells. Varina took a jar of cooking grease from her tashta; opening it, she slathered the foul stuff on the hinges of the door and around the edges. Then, stepping away, she pulled tentatively on the door’s handle; it didn’t move. She pulled harder. Nothing. She braced her foot on the wall. The door rattled once in its frame but otherwise there was no response.
Locked
—Varina mouthed the word.
Varina placed her right eye to the keyhole, peering through. She shook her head, then hunkered next to the doorframe. She spoke a single spell-word, gesturing with her hands at the same time: wood shivered into sawdust around the keyhole, the work of a thousand wood-ants performed in an instant, and the metal mechanism slipped down in the ragged, new hole with a dull
plonk
. Varina caught the bolt and wriggled it slowly and carefully loose, then pulled on the door once more. This time it gave way reluctantly but silently, and they slipped through and onto damp, well-used pavestones, poorly illuminated by torches set in ring sconces at long intervals along the walls—at least a third of them having already guttered out, streaks of black soot staining the low ceilings above them. The corridor reeked of oil and smoke and urine.
Karl pulled the door closed again behind them and studied it quickly. A casual passerby might not notice the spell-bored gouge in the dimness; it would have to do. Silently, he pointed to their right and they began padding quickly along the corridor.
All the passages will lead off to the left. Count two, and take the third.
That’s what Sergei had told him; now he watched carefully as they hurried. One opening, down which they could hear the sound of someone screaming: a long, thin, and plaintive mewling that didn’t sound human—Karl felt Varina shudder alongside him. Two: a brightly-lit passageway, and the sound of distant, rough voices laughing at some private joke and calling out.
Three. Down a short corridor, worn stone steps spiraled upward, and they could hear low voices and the sounds of inhabitation. The tower . . .
Varina’s hand grasped his arm; she leaned close to him, her warmth welcome against his side. “We should wait. Mika . . .”
“For all we know, he’s already done his part. Or he’s been caught himself. Either way . . .”
Her hand loosened on his arm. She nodded. He and Varina slipped down the corridor and began to ascend, as quietly as possible. The stairs, Sergei had told them, wound once around the perimeter of the tower for each floor, with a short landing at each, with a door leading to the cells for that floor. There would be gardai assigned to each floor, changing at Third Call. Already, Karl could glimpse the landing for the ground floor. He could hear two people talking—whether two gardai, or perhaps a garda and one of the prisoners, he didn’t know. He started up the stair, hugging the stone wall . . .
. . . which was when they felt the tower shake once, accompanied by a low growl and a brief flash of white light that splashed on the damp surface of the stones. Karl and Varina pressed their backs to the wall as voices called out in alarm. They heard the door to the tower open, felt the touch of night air and smelled the rain. “What in the six pits is going on?” a voice called out into the night. “Was that lightning?”
The response was unintelligible and long. They heard the door close, followed by the grating of a key in a lock mechanism. “What’s the ruckus, Dorcas?” someone else called.
“Someone just tried to get in through the main gate—bastard used the Ilmodo. Took down both the doors. They think it might be a Numetodo. The commandant’s locked us down; I’m to tell the others. No one in, no one out while cu’Falla investigates and gets some téni here from the temple. Got it?”
A grunt answered, and Karl heard footsteps on the stairs, fading quickly.
Karl nodded to Varina. They moved.
A triangle of yellow flickered on the stones of the landing; he could see a shadow moving in the pool of light. Karl closed his eyes momentarily, feeling the spells he’d prepared earlier coiling in his head. He stepped out: his hands already moving, the release word already on his lips as Varina slipped past him and darted up the steps toward the next landing. “Hey, what—” the garda said, but Karl had already spoken the word, and lightning flared from Karl’s hand to slam the garda into the wall behind him. The man went down, unconscious, and Karl hurried forward. He started to follow Varina, but voices called to him from the trio of cells there. “Vajiki! What about us! The keys, man, the keys . . .” Hands reached out from barred windows in stout oaken doors.
He hesitated, and the calls continued, more insistent. “Let us out, Vajiki! You can’t leave us here!”
Karl shook his head. Having the prisoners loose would only complicate things, make the situation more chaotic than it already was and possibly more dangerous: not all the prisoners in the Bastida were political, and not all were innocent.
He followed Varina up the stairs to curses and shouts.

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