S. Farrell - A Magic of Twilight

Capitaine ci’Doulor visibly shuddered. His throat pulsed under the beard as he swallowed. He was staring at Sergei now, at his own warped reflection in the polished surface of Sergei’s silver nose. “I’ll see that the nest is removed, Commandant, and you may be assured that no birds will roost there again.”

The smile widened. Sergei reached out and patted ci’Doulor’s cheek as if he were a child Sergei was correcting. “I’m certain you will,”

he said. “Now, I’d like to see this Numetodo.”

Sergei followed ci’Doulor into the Bastida. The door shut solidly behind them, a garda locking it after them. Musty air enclosed them and Sergei paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust to a dimness made only darker by the small barred windows set in walls as thick as a man holding out both arms. Ci’Doulor led him down a long hall and into the main tower, then down a winding stone staircase. Moisture pooled on foot-worn steps furred with moss on the edges where no one walked.

From the barred doors of the landings, Sergei could hear the sounds of other prisoners: coughs, moans, someone calling out distantly. They came to a landing well below river level with one of the gardai standing at careful attention. The man opened the door and stepped aside.

They entered a square, compact room, the garda entering with them. Chains clattered: a man shackled to rings on the far wall stirred, his hands bound tightly to the wall so he couldn’t move them to create one of the Numetodo spells, his mouth gagged with a metal cage that trapped his tongue. Sergei could see that the would-be assassin had been beaten. His face was puffy and discolored inside the bars of the face-cage, one eye was swollen shut, and a trail of dried blood drooled from one nostril. He’d soiled himself at some point-his torn hosiery was discolored and wet, and the smell of urine and feces was strong.

“Capitaine,” he said. “Has this man been mistreated?”

“No, Commandant,” ci’Doulor answered quickly. The garda, behind him, sniffed in seeming amusement. “It was the citizenry who did this in retaliation. Why, our Garde Kralji had tremendous difficulty even getting him away from the mob after the attack on the Archigos.”

Sergei knew that to be a lie; the gardai assigned to the Archigos had subdued the man immediately after the attack and hurried him away before the crowd was even certain what had happened. “The people do love the Archigos,” Sergei said, more to the prisoner than to ci’Doulor.

“And hate those who would try to harm him.” He stepped closer to the prisoner, taking a kerchief from his pocket and dusting the seat of a scarred, three-legged stool near the prisoner. The man moved his head inside the cage, watching Sergei with his one good eye. “If I remove the tongue-gag, will you promise to speak no spells, Vajiki?” Sergei asked, leaning toward him.

The man nodded. His gaze was not on Sergei’s eyes, but the gleaming metal nose. Sergei reached around the man’s head and loosed the leather straps that held the device in place. The man gagged as the metal spring holding down his tongue was removed.

“What’s your name?” Sergei asked.

“Dhaspi ce’Coeni.” The man’s voice was pain-filled and hoarse, and the syllables-unsurprisingly-held the accent of the north provinces.

“You’re a Numetodo?” A hesitant nod. “And who sent you to harm the Archigos? Was it Envoy ci’Vliomani, perhaps?”

“No!” The denial was quick. The man’s undamaged eye went wide,and the chains clanked dully against stone. “I. . I’ve never met Envoy ci’Vliomani. Never. What I did, I did alone. That is the truth.”

Now it was Sergei who nodded. “I believe you,” he said soothingly, watching his sympathetic tone leech the tension from the man’s face.

He sat there for several seconds, just gazing at the man. Finally he stood, going over to a small niche in the wall. From it, he took a brass bar, as thick around as a man’s fist and perhaps two fists high, and satisfyingly massive and heavy. Both ends of the bar were polished and slightly flattened, as if they’d been battered many times. “I love history,” he said to the prisoner. “Did you know that?”

The man’s gaze was on the bar in Sergei’s hand now. He shook his head hesitantly. “Of course you don’t,” Sergei continued. “But it’s the truth. I do. History teaches us so much, Vajiki ce’Coeni-it’s from understanding what has happened in the past that we can best see the dangers of the future. Now this piece of metal. .” He put his index finger into a large hole bored through the middle of the bar; only the tip of his finger emerged. “There was once a large bell in this very tower.

The bell enclosure is still there at the top of the tower; you may have seen it when they brought you here, though I doubt you were much in the mood to notice such things. The bell was to be rung if there was a threat to the city so that the citizenry would be warned and react. Now, the bell itself has long ago been removed and melted down-I believe that the statue of Henri VI in Oldtown was cast from the metal of the bell; you might have seen it. But this. .” Sergei hefted the bar again.

“This was the bell’s clapper. You see, a rope went through the hole here, knotted above and underneath to keep it at the right height, then the remainder of the rope dropped down to the floor of the tower so that someone could ring the bell at need. And it was rung, five times all told, the last being when the Hellinians sent their fleet of warships up the A’Sele to attack the city back in Maria III’s reign.” He took his finger from the hole and hefted the clapper in his hand. “So I look at this and I have to marvel at the history I’m holding, Vajiki, at the fact that this very piece of metal has been part of so much of what has happened here. It has protected us before, and-this is the part that’s crucial to you, Vajiki ce’Coeni-it continues to do so.”

Sergei went back to the niche. From it, he took a short length of oak, rounded by a lathe at one end. He fitted the rounded end into the hole of the clapper, transforming the metal bar into the sinister head of a hammer. He nodded to the garda, who came forward and unlocked the fetters from the prisoner’s left hand. “I require your hand, Vajika.

Please place it on the stool, like this.” He held out his own hand, palm upward, with the little finger extended out and the rest of the fingers curled in. The prisoner shook his head, sobbing now, and the garda took ce’Coeni’s hand and forced it down on the stool’s seat. Ce’Coeni curled his fingers into an impotent fist. “I need only your little finger, Vajiki,” Sergei told him. “Otherwise, the pain will be. . far worse.”

Sergei moved alongside the stool, looking down at the prisoner. “I need to know, Vajiki ce’Coeni, the names of the Numetodo with whom you were involved here in Nessantico.”

“I don’t know any other Numetodo,” the man gasped. He tried to move his hand back, but though the chains rattled, the garda held it fast.

“Ah,” Sergei said. “You see, I believed you when you told me that you acted alone, because I don’t think even the Numetodo would be so foolish as to send a lone person on such a futile mission as yours. But I don’t believe you now. I can see the lie in your eyes, Vajiki. I can hear it in your voice and smell it in the fear that comes from you. And I’ve learned over the years that there is truth in pain.” He touched his finger to his false nose, and saw ce’Coeni’s eyes follow the gesture. He hefted the hammer made by the bell clapper and looked down at the stool where ce’Coeni’s hand was still fisted. “What will it be, Vajiki? Your entire hand, or just the little finger?”