S. Farrell - A Magic of Twilight

The man sobbed. The smell of urine became stronger. “You can’t. .”

“To the contrary,” Sergei told him, his voice soft and sympathetic.

“I will, not out of desire, but because I must. Because it’s my task to keep this city, the Kraljica, and the Archigos safe.”

“No, no, you don’t have to do this,” the man said desperately, his voice rushed. “I’ll tell you the names. I met once with an older man named Boli and another one my age whose name was Grotji. I don’t know their family names, Commandant; they never told me. I met them in a tavern in Oldtown. I could show you where, could describe them for you-”

Sergei was still looking at the hand on the stool. “The finger or the hand, Vajiki?”

“But I’ve told you everything I know, Commandant. That is the truth.”

Sergei said nothing. He lifted the hammer, bending his elbow. With a whimper, ce’Coeni extended his little finger.

Sergei brought the hammer down with a grunt: hard, fast, and sudden. The blow crushed bone and flesh, tendon and muscle. Blood spattered from beneath the brass. A shrill scream tore from ce’Coeni’s throat, a high-pitched screech that echoed from the stones and Sergei’s ears before it faded away into a wailing sob. Sergei was always surprised by the sheer volume the human throat could produce.

He lifted the hammer; the man’s finger was flattened and destroyed, nearly torn in half near the second joint. He heard the capitaine’s intake of breath hiss behind him.

“There’s truth in pain,” Sergei said again to the man. The garda had released ce’Coeni’s hand, and the prisoner cradled it to his chest, rock-ing back and forth on the floor of the cell as he wept. “I’m very sorry, Vajiki, but I’m afraid I need to be certain there isn’t anything else you have to tell us. . ”

Sergei remained, asking questions until only the thumb of ce’Coini’s ruined hand remained untouched. Then he wiped the bloodied and gore-spattered end of the hammer on the prisoner’s clothing, and pulled the handle from the clapper with some effort. He placed the metal bar and handle back in their niche. Nodding to the garda, he and Capitaine ci’Doulor left the cell.

“He knows nothing of any use,” he said to the capitaine as they ascended the stairs.

“He named Envoy ci’Vliomani, there at the last,” ci’Doulor said.

“Isn’t that what you wanted, Commandant?”

“He would have named his own matarh then,” Sergei answered. “I wanted the truth, and the truth is that he was a fool acting alone. We have two first names, almost certainly false, and a tavern in Oldtown that was probably chosen at random. I’ll send out the Garde Kralji and see if they can find these men from the descriptions he gave us. But I don’t have much hope. I’ll speak with the Kraljica and the Archigos and tell them what we’ve learned.”

“And the prisoner, Commandant?”

Sergei shrugged. “Have him sign a confession. Leave the paper blank so we can fill in what we might require later. Then execute him for his crime. A quick and painless death, Capitaine. He deserves that much. Afterward, cut off the hands and pull out the tongue, as required for Numetodo, then gibbet the body from the Pontica Kralji so that all of Oldtown can see it.”

“I’ll see to it.”

“And to the birds?”

“The birds?” the capitaine said in puzzlement, then: “Ah, yes. In the dragon’s mouth. Yes, Commandant. I’ll see to that also.”

“Good.” They reached the top of the stairs. Sergei turned, and the capitaine brought his hands to his forehead in salute. “It’s been a pro-ductive day, then. You have your tasks to attend to, Capitaine. I can find my own way out.”

Ana cu’Seranta

The teni-lights of Nessantico were famous through-out the Holdings. It was the Night Circle that people often spoke of when they reminisced about their visit to the capital city. As the sun faded behind the bend of the A’Sele, as the western sky deepened to purple and the first stars appeared, a procession of dozens of e’teni clothed in yellow-hemmed robes filed from each of the several temples of the city. Ana watched with her family, Sala (tending to her matarh) and the other onlookers as one group of light-teni left the Archigos’ Temple, proceeding east and west along both sides of the Avi a’Parete as they passed the gates. The e’teni each went to one of the tall, black iron poles erected several strides apart along the boulevard. There they paused, chanting and performing intricate motions of hands and fingers as the wind-horns blew a mournful dissonance from the towers.

Finally the e’teni lifted their hands high, fingers spread wide open, and the yellow-glass globes high atop the poles flared and illuminated as if a tiny sun had been born inside them. The e-teni clapped their hands once and moved to the next light poles, repeating the spell. Around the entire long loop of the Avi a’Parete and the Four Bridges, the daily ceremony was repeated until all the lamps were lighted and the boulevard that encircled the inner city was ablaze with pools of false day.

“When I was at Montbataille, I swear I could look to the south and west from the high slopes and see Nessantico at night, miles and miles and miles away, like a necklace of stars fallen to the ground and glittering there.” Ana’s vatarh Tomas smiled at her, his arm slipping around her shoulders and pulling her tight to his side. Ana forced herself to return the smile and to remain in his embrace though she ached to pull away. No more. Not after tonight. . “Seeing the lights always made me think of you and your matarh, safe there. And I wondered if one day it might not be you in the procession every night, lighting the lamps. You always played at being a teni, even when you were just a child-do you remember that? And now. .” His smile transformed into a grin tainted with greed. She knew his thoughts: an o’teni could command a dowry of her own for the family. . “They won’t waste an o’teni to just light the Avi, will they?”

Ana shook her head, starting to pull away, but Tomas hugged her tightly again as the e’teni moved on to the next lamps and the crowd that had gathered to watch the procession began to thin. She felt his fingers cup the side of her breast, but before she could react, his arm slipped from her. Tomas crouched down in front of Ana’s matarh, seated in her carry-chair. Her matarh’s eyes were open, but they saw nothing and tracked no one. He put his hands on hers, folded on her lap. “We’re proud of our Ana, aren’t we, Abi?”

The woman didn’t reply. She rarely spoke anymore, and when she did, no one could understand her. Her eyes seemed to search for something past his shoulder. Another of the coughing spasms struck her and she hunched over, the cough rumbling and liquid in her lungs. Tomas took a kerchief from the pocket of his bashta and dabbed at the mucus around her mouth.

I will need to help her again tomorrow. “Vatarh? We should be going to the temple,” Ana said.

Tomas stood slowly and nodded to the quartet of hired servants with them; they took up the poles of the carry-chair once more. They proceeded across the street into the plaza where, just this morning, everything in Ana’s life had changed. A female acolyte was waiting there, approaching them as they crossed the Avi. Ana recognized her: Savi cu’Varisi, one of the current third-years who-unlike Ana when she’d been there-had been plucked by the teni from the common rabble of the acolytes and given special tasks at the temple. Even though Ana was the senior student, in their few encounters Savi had treated Ana as she might have some merchant’s apprentice. Tonight, Savi seemed subservient and overawed by her task. She kept her head down, refusing to meet Ana’s gaze.