A Magic of Dawn (39 page)
Authors: S. L. Farrell
“He won’t like that.”
“Indeed he won’t. And that’s part of why I do it.” Niente attempted a smile; he wondered if it showed on his face at all. “One thing the Nahual must teach the Tecuhtli is that we are equals, despite what the Tecuhtli likes to believe. We won’t reach Villembouchure for another day and more. There’s nothing he can do right now to seal our victory. Therefore, he can wait long enough for me to recover my strength.”
Atl grinned at that. He clutched the bowl to his chest. Niente saw Atl’s fingers close around it, almost possessively, stroking the incised figures of animals around the rim with familiarity.
He is going to look into the bowl again, too.
The realization came to him as a certainty. “I’ll do as you say, Taat,” Atl said. “I’ll give Tecuhtli Citlali your message.”
He is going to look into the bowl again, too.
The realization came to him as a certainty. “I’ll do as you say, Taat,” Atl said. “I’ll give Tecuhtli Citlali your message.”
Niente nodded. Almost, he started to caution Atl not to use the bowl again so quickly, but he did not.
You can’t stop him, any more than you could have stopped yourself. Say it, and you only guarantee that he will use it more.
You can’t stop him, any more than you could have stopped yourself. Say it, and you only guarantee that he will use it more.
So he said nothing. The vision of Atl laying dead overlaid his true vision. It was as if a corpse walked from the room, and he found himself weeping again and cursing the gift that Axat had given him.
He could not let his son die. That was not something a Taat who loved his son could do, no matter what the consequences. It didn’t matter if saving Atl destroyed the Long Path.
Please don’t set that before me,
he prayed to Axat.
Please don’t force me to make that choice.
he prayed to Axat.
Please don’t force me to make that choice.
He thought that he heard a distant chuckle in his head as he prayed.
T
HERE WAS A SMELL TO THE LOWER LEVELS of the Bastida: the stink of human desperation, the stench of pain. The very stones were saturated with the odor. Sergei thought that if the Bastida were torn down, a century later the ruins would still exude that foul reek.
HERE WAS A SMELL TO THE LOWER LEVELS of the Bastida: the stink of human desperation, the stench of pain. The very stones were saturated with the odor. Sergei thought that if the Bastida were torn down, a century later the ruins would still exude that foul reek.
It was a smell that he’d loved, in a strange way, for it was a smell that he’d had no small part in creating over the decades. It had been his hand—many times,
too
many times—that had sent terrified shrieks echoing here, that had caused men and women to lose control of their bladders and bowels, that had spilled blood upon the flags.
too
many times—that had sent terrified shrieks echoing here, that had caused men and women to lose control of their bladders and bowels, that had spilled blood upon the flags.
His own spirit, he thought, must smell the same. When the soul shredders finally took him, would they recoil from the odor as their claws ripped his immortality from his flesh? Would their nostrils dilate at the sewage he contained?
He wondered about that more and more. But there was nothing he could do to change it. The sickness was as much a part of him as it was a part of these stones, of the Bastida itself.
His body was a Bastida also, a tower that imprisoned his own soul, shrieking unheard in terror in his depths.
His cane made a persistent, steady beat on the stone stairs as he descended. His hips ached, his back pained him with every step until he reached the level footing of the lowest floor of the tower. The air here was dank and cold. It didn’t matter whether it was summer or winter above; what lurked here was an eternal, dead autumn. The only light was that of two torches guttering in iron rings on a wall. The two gardai on duty saluted him, but Sergei also saw the knowing glance they gave to the roll of old, soiled leather under Sergei’s arm, and the smirk the two exchanged with each other. “Good evening, Ambassador,” one of them said. “A pleasure to see you, as always. I thought the Kraljica had sent you back to Brezno.”
“I leave tomorrow,” he said. “The Morelli?”
“There.” The other gardai pointed to the nearest cell. “Should I open the door, Ambassador?”
Sergei nodded again, and the garda took a thick steel circle adorned with keys from his belt, and thrust one of them into the lock. It turned with a metallic protest. The hinges made a similar complaint as he pulled the cell door open.
“Do you need one of us to stay, Ambassador?” the garda asked. “I can stay if you like.”
The man’s face showed nothing, but Sergei knew what he was thinking. He nodded as the garda placed the keys back on his belt. “Your friend may take his lunch, then,” he said. The two gardai exchanged glances again before the other saluted and left them. Sergei stepped over the threshold of the cell onto a floor strewn with dirty and soiled straw. A man was huddled in chains at the rear of the cell: hands bound tightly together, and a silencer affixed around his head so that he couldn’t speak—a cage of metal helmeting his head, with a cloth-wrapped piece protruding into the man’s mouth so that the tongue was covered and held. Flickering shadows from the torches in the hall outside clawed at the darkness of the cell. The man’s eyes, dark in the hollows of his face, stared at Sergei with desperate hope, which dimmed as the man saw the leather roll. He moaned around the metal piece holding his tongue down. Saliva glistened on the black metal framework.
The stench in the room grew.
“You’re a war-téni?” Sergei asked. He laid the roll, still tied together, at his feet, groaning with the effort of bending over that far—the roll dropped the last few fingers to the straw, and a muffled clink of metal came from it. “A war-téni?” Sergei repeated as the man’s eyes widened. The garda chuckled behind Sergei.
The prisoner nodded.
“Ah,” Sergei replied. He leaned on his cane, peering at the man. “And a Morelli sympathizer, also?”
A hesitation. Then another, smaller, nod.
“You are O’Téni Timos ci’Stani?”
A final nod.
“Good,” Sergei told him. “We should have no lies between us, Timos. May I use your familiar name? You can think of me as Sergei, if you like. You see, Timos, lies always cause pain. Even out there in the world, a lie is eventually a poison that causes violence. But lies are especially volatile here in the Bastida. Here in the donjon, there must only be truth. Do you understand me?”
This time there was only a stare, but Sergei continued. “Good. Now, I would be willing to remove the tongue gag from you if you swear to Cénzi that you will not use the Ilmodo. Do you swear?”
A nod, more desperate this time, accompanied by a strangled, muted “’ethh” from his mouth.
“Fine. I’ll accept that oath, though for safety we’ll keep your hands manacled. Here, let me unlock the silencer from around your head . . .”
As a war-téni, ci’Stani had power that could leave Sergei a blistered, charred husk. Unless the man had learned to use Numetodo magic, which required only a single word and a limited gesture to cast, there was no real danger in removing the silencer. Téni magic took time, and the few links of chain between the man’s manacles would prevent him from making the necessary gestures to create magic. Carefully, even gently, Sergei removed the device from the prisoner, ci’Stani gagging once as the prong holding his tongue was removed. Sergei felt a thrill pass through his body as he did so. Perhaps the man had learned enough of the Numetodo methods to cast a spell . . .
The danger was part of the excitement. Part of the thrill.
The man spat dryly, taking in great gulps of the fetid air and working his jaw. “Thank you, Ambassador ca’Rudka,” the man said, giving him the sign of Cénzi awkwardly, the chains holding his hands rattling. “May Cénzi bless you.”
“Let us pray that’s so, Timos,” Sergei answered fervently. “Commandant cu’Ingres tells me that you were captured in Oldtown two nights ago, that there were, strangely, many téni with Morelli sympathies missing from the temples that night. And, strangely, when Commandant ca’Talin left to confront the Tehuantin at Villembouchure the morning after your capture, most of those same war-téni failed to appear, despite A’Téni ca’Paim’s orders.”
“I don’t know about that, Ambassador,” the man told him.
“Then speak for yourself, Timos,” Sergei said. “Why were you in Oldtown? Would you have been one of those missing war-téni, Timos, had we not—” He glanced at the man’s chains. “—otherwise detained you?”
“I . . .” The man stopped, licked at cracked lips. There were bruises on his face, Sergei noted, and a white-stumped gap in his front teeth from a broken tooth. “I was in Oldtown because I have a lover there. I was returning to the temple after visiting her.”
“You weren’t at a meeting of the Morellis, then? You weren’t with Nico Morel?”
Ci’Stani shook his head vigorously. “No, Ambassador. I was not.”
Sergei nodded. “I want to believe you, Timos,” he said. “I truly do. But you see, my friend, the Commandant captured more than one téni in Oldtown that night, and they have told already him that there was a meeting with Nico Morel that night, and confessed that you were among those in attendance.”
That was a lie—there was no other captive. An utilino on patrol had found O’Téni ci’Stani in Oldtown and knew the war-téni should have been asleep in the temple. Ci’Stani had fled when the utilino had tried to detain him, and the utilino had used a spell to subdue him. Ci’Stani had given the utilino the same tale he’d given to Sergei about a lover in Oldtown, but the utilino had been suspicious and summoned the Garde Kralji rather than the temple staff.
Following Sergei’s orders, the Garde Kralji hadn’t yet notified A’Téni ca’Paim that they’d captured one of her missing war-téni. That could come later, when Sergei knew what the man knew.
Sergei watched the téni closely. Despite the chill, beads of sweat had formed along ci’Stani’s hairline. Grimacing at the pain in his knees, Sergei crouched down by the leather roll. He started to untie the strings holding it. “You see my quandary, I’m sure,” he told the téni. “Someone is lying. And as I said earlier—lies create pain.”
With that, he flicked open the roll of leather, displaying the well-used instruments there in their loops: the pincers, the drills, the tongs, the punches, the keen-edged knives. The téni stared at them. He heard the garda let out a breath. Sergei opened a pocket in the roll, bringing out a thick brass bar with a hole drilled in the middle of it. The end of the bar was slightly flattened and scratched, as if it had seen significant use. He plucked a length of tapered wood from the same pocket, thrusting it into the hole in the middle of bar and tamping it down. He held up the crude hammer, turning it in the dim light coming through the cell doorway.
He told himself that he did it only to frighten the man, and he knew it for the lie it was.
Lies always cause pain.
Ci’Stani stared at the brass hammer. “Please, Ambassador . . . Yes, yes I was with Nico Morel. I confess it freely. I was with him in Oldtown. I could tell you where, but he won’t be there now—the Absolute moves constantly, and none of us know where he is now.” Ci’Stani licked his lips again, the words tumbling out almost too fast for him to keep up with them. “I would take you to him if I could, but I can’t, Ambassador, and that’s Cénzi’s truth. I swear it. He spends a night here, a night there. One never knows. There will be a notice of where to meet, but he gives us only a bare few turns of the glass notice . . .”
Sergei hefted the bar, then slammed the end of the brass onto the floor. The impact jolted his muscles through to the shoulder, but he showed nothing of that to ci’Stani. Even through the muffling straw, the sound was terrible. “Oh, please, Ambassador. I’ve told you the truth,” ci’Stani said, his voice breaking with a sob.
Sergei nodded. “I’m certain you have, Timos,” he said softly, almost as if he were crooning to a lover. “Though you haven’t said
why
Nico Morel wanted you there, or what he said to you.”
why
Nico Morel wanted you there, or what he said to you.”
The man visibly blanched, the color leeching from his skin. “Please, Ambassador. I swore an oath to Cénzi that I wouldn’t reveal that, that I wouldn’t betray the Absolute or the Morellis . . .”
“You swore also that you would obey the Archigos and a’téni, and you’ve already—by your own admission—violated that oath. I have A’Téni ca’Paim’s permission to do whatever I find necessary to gain the truth from you.” That was also a lie. The man would be returned to ca’Paim after his interrogation was complete. Sergei was certain that ca’Paim would not be pleased with his condition, nor with what he had to say. “So—which of your oaths do you wish to keep, Timos? Choose carefully.”
The man’s head dropped down, as if he been struck. His eyes were closed, his mouth moving. Sergei thought he might be praying.
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