A Magic of Dawn (19 page)

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Authors: S. L. Farrell

BOOK: A Magic of Dawn
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The man started visibly. Then he stirred, turning to walk alongside her. “Are you . . . ?”
“I’m the one you’re waiting for,” she told him. She glanced behind: no one emerged from any of the buildings around them; no utilino whistled alarm, no squad of Garde Brezno appeared. Rochelle relaxed slightly, though she continued to watch to see if they were followed—the side streets off Straight Lane were tangled and many, and she felt she could lose pursuers there easily at need. She kept the hand on her knife hilt, in case cu’Kella himself tried to attack her, but his hands were visible and he didn’t appear to have a sword.
“What is your name?” the man asked her.
She laughed at that. “You don’t need my name, Vajiki. We’re not conducting business, and even if we were, it’s of the type where names aren’t needed. It’s enough that I know yours, and it’s not me, after all, you want to talk to.”
“So you’re not . . . Of course not, you’re so young . . .”
“No, I’m not the one you’d like to hire,” she said firmly. “I know how to contact her, if that’s what you want. That’s all. But even I don’t know what she looks like, or who she might be.” He stopped, and she glanced over her shoulder at him. “Keep walking, Vajiki, unless you’ve changed your mind.”
He seemed to shiver, then took a step to fall in alongside her again. “Good,” Rochelle said. “So tell me, who is it?”
“Who is it?” cu’Kella asked dully, then shook himself again. “Oh, that. I’d rather not say. Only to . . . the person you’re contacting for me.”
They were at one of the cross streets, and Rochelle paused. “Then we’re done,” Rochelle told him. “Good day, Vajiki.” She started to turn left, away from the lane.
“No, wait!” he called after her, and she paused, allowing herself a small smile.
So typical.
She started walking up Straight Lane again, saying nothing, and cu’Kella hurried after her, close to her elbow. “I . . . I’ll tell you. It’s Rance ci’Lawli.”
She could not entirely keep the surprise from her voice. “Ci’Lawli? The Hïrzg’s chief aide?”
A nod. “The same.”
You shouldn’t do this. To kill someone so close to the Hïrzg.
Yet . . . It would necessitate her being near or in the palais, where she would have to be in proximity to her vatarh and his family . . . Something pulled at her inside, made her burn with a yearning she couldn’t quite define. “Why ci’Lawli?”
A sniff. “As you said, Vajica, there’s no need for names here, nor for tales. I’ll tell the Whi—” He stopped. “The person you know. If she cares.”
Rochelle shrugged. “As you wish.” She took cu’Kella’s arm, as if they were lovers strolling the lane, pulling him close to her. She whispered into his ear: a location, a day, and an amount of money in gold solas.
He pulled away from her. “So much?” he said.
“So much,” she answered. “Be there with the solas if you’re interested, Vajiki,” she told him, “and you’ll meet her.”
 
Varina ca’Pallo
 
S
HE KNEW SHE SHOULDN’T HAVE DONE THIS, knew that Sergei would be irritated when he found out—and she knew he would find out. She just hoped it would be afterward, when it was too late.
One of the gardai assigned to watch her at Sergei’s request had let slip the address of the house in the Oldtown district raided by the Garde Kralji. She made certain that her errands the next day took her past that house, and she called out to the carriage driver to halt. The garda (who was not the one who had given her the address) looked concerned when she opened the carriage door and descended. “Vajica ca’Pallo, I don’t advise . . .”
“Then don’t,” she told him, interrupting him. The raising of his eyebrows at the rebuke might have pleased someone else; it only made Varina feel guilty, but she continued, trying to soften her tone. “I only want to see this place where the Morellis lived. Just a glimpse; you can come with me if you must.”
“The Commandant will have my neck for this.”
“I’ll tell the Commandant I gave you no choice.”
The garda looked unconvinced, but he preceded Varina to the door of the house. She allowed him to enter first. She thought she could feel eyes watching them, staring at her from somewhere. Without trying to hide the motion, she took a small box from under her cloak: finely-crafted, carved from oak, and varnished to perfection, a master’s work. She placed the box on the sill of the window nearest the door, feeling the cold chill of the Scáth Cumhacht clinging to the wood. Then, quickly, she followed the garda into the house.
She spent little time there, since she’d already done what she’d come to do. Still, she tried to imagine Nico here, tried to imagine his voice and his presence in the rooms, or sleeping in one of the beds. There were religious icons of the Faith everywhere in the house, and someone with a fair artistic hand had painted the cracked globe of Cénzi on the side wall of one of the bedrooms, while from the opposite wall leered the demonic forms of the demigod Moitidi, misshapen and twisted parodies of humanity. Varina shivered, looked at them, wondering how someone could stand to sleep here, with their leering, grinning expressions and clawed hands. Even the garda shook his head, looking at them. “They have a strange view of the Faith, these Morellis,” he said. His fingers were curled around the pommel of his sword, as if he was afraid that one of the painted figures might leap out at him. “They say that Archigos Karrol has some sympathy for them, though I swear I don’t understand it.”
“I don’t either,” Varina told him. “I can’t imagine the Nico I knew . . .” She stopped. “I’m ready to go,” she told him.
“Good,” the garda answered, too quickly. “That painting makes the hairs stand on the back of my neck. It’s an ugly thing.”
They left quickly, the garda closing the door behind them. Varina kept herself carefully between the man and the windowsill where the box sat, making sure that he wouldn’t see it. The carriage’s driver was on her staff; he would say nothing.
The garda opened the carriage door for her; she stepped in as the garda closed the door behind her and pulled himself up to sit next to the driver. The small hatch above her head lifted and she saw the driver’s face looking down at her. “To the house,” she told him; he nodded and let the hatch close again. The carriage lurched into motion.
Varina looked out as they drove off. She could see the box on the windowsill, the varnish on the golden wood gleaming in the afternoon sun.
 
“The Kraljica and Ambassador ca’Rudka would be terrifically disappointed in you.” They were the first words he said to her, smiling as he spoke.
In her mind, Nico had to some extent remained the child she’d known. Yes, she knew the boy had grown into manhood in the intervening fifteen years. She’d followed his career when he’d suddenly reemerged so unexpectedly as a rising téni in the Archigos’ Temple in Brezno, an acolyte whose skills with the Ilmodo, whose charisma and power of personality impressed all who met him. She—as well as Karl—had tried to reach out to him then: through letters, and when those went unanswered, through Sergei via his frequent travels to Brezno. Sergei had managed to talk to him there, but Nico had made it obvious that he had no interest in contacting either Karl or Varina. “He said this,” Sergei told them on his return. “‘Tell the two heretics that they are anathema to me. They mock Cénzi, and therefore they mock me. Tell them that when they see the errors of their beliefs, then perhaps we might have something to say to each other. Until then, they are dead to me, as dead as if they were already in their graves with their souls writhing with the torment of the soul shredders.’ And he laughed then,” Sergei continued. “As if he found the thought amusing.”
Despite the disappointment, Varina had continued to follow his career. She had been worried when he and his followers had directly challenged the authority of the Archigos and Nico had been defrocked as a téni and forbidden to use the Ilmodo ever again on pain of the loss of his hands and tongue.
Then Nico had left Brezno, wandering for a time and continuing to preach his harsh interpretation of the Toustour and the Divolonté—the sacred texts of the Concénzia Faith—until he had finally come to Nessantico. Now he stood in front of her, and she could still see the boy’s round face that she remembered in the thin, ascetic, and bearded visage in front of her, with his smoldering, burning gaze.
“The Kraljica and Ambassador ca’Rudka would be terrifically disappointed in you.”
All those years, all that time, and this was how he began. She could feel the heavy weight of the sparkwheel in the pouch on her belt.
“Why would they be disappointed?” she asked. She gestured around at the Oldtown tavern in which they were sitting. Around them, the patrons were talking among themselves and drinking. A group of musicians were tuning their instruments in a corner. The noise lent them privacy in their booth. Nico sat across from her, his hands folded together on the scratched and rough wooden surface of the table between them, almost as if he were praying. He wore black, making his pale face seem almost spectral in comparison, even with the dim lighting of the tavern and the single candle on the table. “Because there aren’t any gardai here to try to trap you?” she said to him. “Do you think I hate you that much, Nico? I don’t. I don’t hate you at all. Neither did Karl.”
“Then why the elaborate setup?” he asked. “Leaving an enchanted box . . . I have to admit that was clever and certainly got my attention, though my friend Ancel didn’t heed the warning not to open it. He told me that he thought his hands were going to blister, the wood became so hot.” Nico shook his head,
tsking
as if scolding a child. “You really should be more careful with the gift Cénzi has given you, Varina.”
She took a long breath. “You
killed
people, Nico. My friends and my peers. Karl was already dead; you couldn’t hurt him anymore. But the others—they were
people,
with husbands and wives and children. And you took their lives.”
“Ah. That.” He frowned momentarily. “It says in the Toustour that ‘. . . if they fight you, then slay them; such is the reward of the unbelievers. Fight with them until there is no persecution, and the only religion is that of Cénzi.’ I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused the families of those who died. I truly am, and I’ve prayed to Cénzi for them.” He sounded genuinely apologetic, and nascent tears shimmered at the bottom of his eyes. He closed his eyes then, his head tilting upward as if he were listening to an unseen voice from above. Then his chin came down again, and when his eyes opened, they were dust-dry. “But am I sorry that a few Numetodo have gone on to be judged by Cénzi for their heresy? No, I’m not.”
“The Toustour also says ‘. . .O humankind! We created you and made you into nations and tribes that you may know each other, not that ye may despise each other.’ ”
Nico’s mouth twisted in a vestige of a smile. “I wouldn’t expect a Numetodo to quote from a text in which she doesn’t believe.”
“I believe—like any Numetodo—that knowledge is what will ultimately lead to understanding. That includes knowing those who consider you to be an enemy, and knowing what they believe and why they believe it. I’ve read the Toustour, all of it, and the Divolonté as well, and I’ve had long and interesting talks with Archigos Ana, Archigos Kenne, and A’Téni ca’Paim.”
“You’ve read the Toustour, but you’ve evidently failed to see the truth in it.”
“Anyone can write a book. I’m a Numetodo. I need evidence. I need incontrovertible proof. I need to see hypotheses tested and the results reproduced. Then I can allow myself to believe.” Varina sighed. “But neither one of us is going to convince the other, are we?”
“No.” He spread his hands, palm up, on the table. “Though I must admit that you Numetodo can occasionally be useful: the Tehuantin black sand, for instance. It’s rather ironic, if you reflect on it: had I and my people been permitted to use the Ilmodo, then I wouldn’t have needed to use black sand and your friends would likely still be alive. The Ilmodo, at least, can be a precise weapon.”
Varina flushed at that, and her hand caressed the stock of the cocked and loaded sparkwheel in her belt-pouch.
“So why am I here, Varina,” he continued, “if you’re not planning to hand me over to the Garde Kralji and have me thrown into the Bastida?”
“I wanted to see you again, Nico,” she told him. Her finger curled around the metal guard of the trigger. “I wanted to hear you.” The cold metal tongue on her finger warmed quickly at her touch. “Because I needed to know . . .”
Just a tightening of a muscle. That’s all it would take.

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