The Briar King (45 page)

“I—” Cazio choked. “I didn't mean to—”

Daz'Afinio fell back, off of Caspator, clutching both hands to his gut.

“The next man to step forward dies,” z'Acatto said. He didn't sound drunk.

Only one of the men was left unwounded, now, and they all
backed away with the exception of daz'Afinio, who was clutched into a ball.

“You're both fools,” another fellow said. Cazio recognized him from the z'Irbono guard—Mareo something-or-other. “Do you have any idea who you just ran through?”

“A skulk and a murderer,” z'Acatto said. “If you get him to the chirgeon at the sign of the needle, he might yet live. It's more than he deserves. Than any of you deserve. Now, go.”

“There'll be more to this,” Mareo said. “You should have just taken your beating, Cazio. Now they'll hang you in the square.”

“Hurry,” z'Acatto urged. “See? He's spitting out blood now, never a good sign.”

Without another word, the men gathered up daz'Afinio and carried him off.

“Come,” z'Acatto said. “Let's get you to the house and have a look at you. Were you stabbed?”

“No. Just beaten.”

“Did you fight that man today? Daz'Afinio?”

“You know him?”

“I know him. Lord Diuvo help you if that man dies.”

“I didn't mean to—”

“No, of course not. It's all just a game to you. Prick on the arm, cut on the thigh, and collect your money. Come.”

Limping, Cazio did as his swordsmaster bade.

“You're lucky,” z'Acatto said. “It's just bruising, for you.”

Cazio winced at the old man's touch. “Yes. Just as I said.” He reached for his shirt. “How did you happen to be following me?”

“I wasn't. I went to find some wine and heard you shouting. Lucky for you.”

“Lucky for me,” Cazio repeated. “How do you know daz'Afinio?”

“Anyone with sense would. He's the brother-in-law of Velo z'Irbono.”

“What? That lout married Setera?”

“That lout owns a thousand versos of vineyards in the Tero
Vaillamo, three estates, and his brother is the aidil of Ceresa. Of all of the people to pick a brawl with—”

“It was a duel. And he started it.”

“After sufficient insult from you, I'm sure.”

“There were insults to go around.”

“Well, whatever. Now you've insulted him with a hole from back to front.”

“Will he die?” Cazio asked.

“You worry about that
now
?” The swordsmaster cast about for something. “Where's my wine?”

“You broke it on Laro Vintallio's face.”

“Right. Damn.”

“Will daz'Afinio die?” Cazio repeated.

“He might!” z'Acatto snapped. “What a stupid question! Such a wound isn't always lethal, but who can know?”

“I can't be blamed,” Cazio said. “They came at me, like thieves in the dark. They were in the wrong, not me. The court will stand with me.”

“Velo z'Irbono
is
the court, you young fool.”

“Oh. True.”

“No, we must away.”

“I won't run, like a coward!”

“You can't use dessrata against the hangman's noose, boy. Or against the bows of the city guard.”

“No!”

“Just for a time. Someplace where we can hear the news. If daz'Afinio lives, things will cool.”

“And if he doesn't?”

Z'Acatto shrugged. “As in swordsmanship, deal with each attack as it comes.”

Cazio wagged a finger at the old man. “You taught me to look ahead, to understand what the opponent's next
five
moves will be.”

“Yes, of course,” z'Acatto replied. “But if you
rely
on your prediction, you may die if you are wrong about his intentions. Sometimes your opponent isn't smart enough or skilled enough to
have
intentions, and then where are you? I had a friend in the school of Mestro Acameno; he had studied since
childhood, for fourteen years. Even the mestro couldn't best him in a match. He was killed by a rank amateur. Why? Because the amateur didn't know what he was doing. He didn't react as my friend assumed he would. And so my friend died.”

Cazio sighed. “I cannot leave the house. Suppose they take it as lien on my return?”

“They will. But we can see that it is purchased by someone we trust.”

“Who would that be?” Cazio murmured. “I trust only you, and even you not so much.”

“Think, boy!
Orchaevia.
The countess Orchaevia loved your family well, and you especial. She will take us in. No one will think to look for us there, so far in the country. And the countess can arrange that your house falls into the right hands.”

“The countess,” Cazio mused. “I haven't seen her since I was a boy. Would she really take us in?”

“She owes your father many favors, and the countess isn't the sort to let her obligations go unattended.”

“Still,” Cazio grumbled.

At that moment a fist thundered against the door.

“Cazio Pachiomadio da Chiovattio!” a voice cried, carrying faintly through the portal.

“You cannot duel a rope,” the old man said, for the second time.

“That's true. If I die, I die by the sword,” Cazio swore.

“Not here, you won't. You'll take a few, and then they'll bear you down by weight, just as they did in the alley.” Z'Acatto shrugged. “You'll remember I said this, when you feel the noose tighten.”

“Very well!” Cazio snapped. “I do not like it, but I concede your point. We'll gather our things and leave by the cistern.”

“You know about the tunnel from the cistern?”

“Since I was eight,” Cazio replied. “How do you think I got out, all of those nights, even when you sealed my window?”

“Damn. I should have known. Well, let's go, then.”

CHAPTER SIX
THE ABODE OF GRACES

A PRIM WOMAN IN AN OCHRE HABIT with black wimple and gloves greeted Anne and Austra as they stepped down from the carriage. Her gray eyes surveyed the two girls rather clinically from above a sharp and upturned nose. She was perhaps thirty years of age, with a wide, thin mouth plainly accustomed to the shape of disapproval.

Anne drew herself straight, as behind her the knights began taking down her things from the roof of the carriage. “I am the princess Anne of the house of Dare, daughter of the emperor of Crotheny,” she informed the woman. “This is my lady-in-waiting, Austra Laesdauter. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

The nun's lips twitched as if at a private joke.

“I am called Sister Casita,” she said, in heavily accented Virgenyan. “Welcome to the Abode of Graces.”

Sister Casita didn't bow or even nod as she said this, so that Anne wondered if she were perhaps hard of hearing. Could Vitellio be so different that they did not acknowledge the daughter of a king here? What sort of place had she come to?

I've made my decision,
she thought, fighting down the sudden bad taste in her mouth.
I'll make the best of it.

The Abode of Graces wasn't an unpleasant-looking place. Indeed, it was rather exotic, rising from the spare, rustic landscape as if it had grown there. The stones it was built from were of the same color as those they had seen exposed in seams along the road, a yellowish red. The coven itself sat on a ridgetop encircled by a crenulated wall longer than it was
wide and enclosing an area the size of a small village. Square towers with sharply steepled roofs of rust-colored tile rambled up at odd intervals and inconsistent altitudes around the wall, while through the arched gate Anne could make out the large but oddly low-built manses across a flagstoned courtyard. The only height within the wall was a single ribbed dome that Anne assumed to be the nave of the chapel.

Grapevine and primrose crawled up the walls and towers, and olive trees twisted through cracked cobblestones, giving the place a look that was somehow both untidy and immaculate.

The only discordant note was provided by the ten persons with carts and mules who seemed to be camped outside of the gates. They were swaddled head to toe in patchwork linens and gauzy veils and sat or squatted beneath temporary awnings of light cotton fabric.

“Sefry,” Austra whispered.

“What was that?” Sister Casita asked sharply.

“If it please you, Sister,” Austra said, “I was just noticing the Sefry encampment.” She gave a small curtsey.

“Be wary,” the sister said. “If you keep your voice low, it will be assumed you mean mischief.”

“Thank you, Sister,” Austra replied, more loudly.

Irritated, Anne cleared her throat. “Where shall I have my men carry our things?” she asked.

“Men are not allowed within the Abode of Graces, of course,” Sister Casita replied. “What you want, you will carry yourself.”

“What?”

“Choose what you want and can carry in a single trip. The rest remains outside of the gates.”

“But the Sefry—”

“Will take it, yes. It is why they are here.”

“But that's insane,” Anne said.

“These things are
mine
.”

The sister shrugged. “Then carry them.”

“Of all—”

“Anne Dare,” the sister said, “you are a very great distance from Crotheny.”

Anne did not miss the lack of any title or honorific.

“Crotheny travels with me,” she said, nodding at Captain Marl and the rest of her guard.

“They will not interfere,” Sister Casita assured her.

Anne turned to glare at Captain Marl. “You're going to let her treat me this way?”

“My orders preclude interfering with the will of the sisters,” Captain Marl replied. “I was to deliver you here, safe and whole, and place you in the care of the Coven Saint Cer, also known as the Abode of Graces. I have done so.”

Anne switched her gaze from the captain to the sister, then looked back down at her things. There were two trunks, both too large and unwieldy for her to lift.

“Very well,” she said at last. “Do your orders preclude giving me a horse, Captain Marl?”

“They do, Princess.”

“A rope?”

He hesitated. “I see no reason not to supply you with a rope,” he said at last.

“Give me one, then.”

Anne grunted, straining her back and legs at the earth, and her trunks dragged reluctantly forward another handspan or so. She shifted her footing.

“I can assure you,” Sister Casita said, “whatever you have there will not be worth the effort. Little is needed within these walls—habit, nourishment, water, tools. And all of those will be provided. If you are vain, rescue your comb. You will not be allowed to wear jewelry or fine gowns.”

“It's
mine
,” Anne said, through gritted teeth.

“Let me help her,” Austra asked, for the sixth time.

“They aren't your things, my dear,” the sister replied. “You may carry only your own things.”

Anne looked up wearily. After an hour of dragging, she had nearly made it to the gate. She had attracted an audience, some twenty girls of various ages but tending toward her own. They wore simple brown habits with wimples of the same color. Most of them were laughing and jeering at her, but she ignored them.

She strained again, feeling the rope she had strapped across her chest cut into her bodice. Her foot sought purchase on the first of the flagstones and failed.

The Sefry seemed to be enjoying the spectacle as much as everyone else. One had produced a tambour and another a small five-stringed croth, which he played with a little bow.

“Give it up, Princess Mule!” one of the girls shouted. “You'll never bring them in, no matter how stubborn a jackass you be! And why would you?”

The japing girl got a good chorus of laughter for that. Anne marked her, with her long, slender neck and dark eyes. Her hair was hidden by her wimple.

Anne did not, however, reply but set herself grimly and pulled some more. She had to go back and work each trunk onto the flagstones individually, but after that they went a bit smoother. Unfortunately she was wearing out.

At first she didn't notice the sudden silence that fell across the other girls, and when she did she thought it was because she had stumbled. Then she looked up and saw what had really silenced them.

First she noticed the eyes, fierce and piercing and bright, like the eyes of Saint Fendve, the patroness of war madness, in the painting in her father's battle chapel. So striking were they that it took moments for her to understand their color— or rather that they had almost none, so black were they.

Her face was harsh and old and very, very dark, the color of cherry wood. Her habit was black, wimpled in storm gray, and the moment Anne laid her gaze on her she was afraid of her, of what damage crouched behind those eyes and the rough seams of that face.

“Who are you,” the old woman said, “and what do you think you're doing?”

Anne set her jaw. Whoever this was, she was just a woman. She couldn't be any worse than Mother or Erren.

“I am Anne of the house of Dare, princess of Crotheny. I am told I may have only those things that I can carry to my room, so I am carrying them there. And may I ask your name, Sister?”

A collective gasp went up from the assembled women, and even Casita raised an eyebrow.

The old woman blinked, but her expression did not change. “My name is not spoken, nor is the name of any sister here. But you may call me Sister Secula. I am the mestra of this coven.”