S. Farrell - A Magic of Twilight

Ca’Rudka nodded. He looked at his hands as if making certain that they were clean. “Yes.” He told her, briefly, what had happened during the interrogation at the Bastida-leaving out, Marguerite suspected, some of the more brutal details. She did not press him for them.

“So this ce’Coeni was a rogue,” she said when he’d finished. “Nothing more. He may have been in the Numetodo faction, but you’re satisfied he was acting on his own, not on their orders?”

“That’s my conclusion, Kraljica. Yes.”

“I assume you have a signed confession.”

He smiled at that. “Indeed. One that you may. .” He paused. “. .use as you wish.”

“Did he name Envoy ci’Vliomani as the instigator?”

Sergei shrugged. “Only if you wish it to be so.”

Marguerite sniffed. Her fingers trailed along the hem of the cloth over her painting. “At this point, I don’t know what would be to our best advantage,” Marguerite answered. “The confession can remain blank for now, until we know better. Envoy ci’Vliomani has sent over an urgent request to meet with me, along with an official statement denying any connection with the attempt on the Archigos’ life.”

“That’s not surprising. He’s no doubt shaking in his Paetian boots at this, knowing that it’s only going to inflame the anti-Numetodo sentiments in the city. You’ve refused, just to make him worry some more?”

A smile: Sergei knew her well. Sometimes too well. “Yes. I thought perhaps you should talk with him first. Then, if you think I should, I can meet with the man. He’s been very patient thus far.”

“Indeed he has. I’ll make the arrangements. You heard how the Achigos was saved?”

Yes. An acolyte’s spell: a girl from the cu’Seranta family. I also understand that the Archigos will giving her a Marque in gratitude.”

“He already has,” Sergei told her. “The Archigos made the girl an o’teni and placed her on his private staff.” Marguerite glanced again at the windows and the darkness beyond, seeing the bright lights shimmering along the Avi a’Parete. How long had she been sitting there, half-asleep? That was unlike her. “Kraljica, my contacts among the teni tell me that she reacted more like an experienced teni than a raw acolyte; in fact, some of them think what she did may have been against the Divolonte. There are some. . rumors among the teni also-that the girl’s mother was suffering from Southern Fever and that after years in a weak dream-state, she’s suddenly recovered completely. The talk is that a healing might have been performed.”

Marguerite’s eyebrows sought her forehead with that. “Then I’ll need to meet her and the Archigos, won’t I? But that can wait until tomorrow, surely.”

“As the Kraljica wishes. Do you want me to brief the A’Kralj?”

Marguerite shrugged. “If you can find him at this time of night. My son is often. . out.” She didn’t need to say more; it had, after all, been Sergei who alerted her to Justi’s nocturnal wanderings and what they implied. For the moment, her son’s dalliances could be tolerated, but Marguerite knew that she would have to do something to disengage him, and soon.

She had done it several times before, after all.

“If that’s the case, then I will see the A’Kralj in the morning. If the Kraljica will excuse me. .?”

Marguerite gestured dismissal, and Sergei saluted and strode quickly to the door. She watched him leave, standing next to the easel. She waited, her breathing slow, taking in the scent of oiled pigments and dust, looking down at the little table set next to the painting, speckled with a thousand colors. The breeze from the window touched the cloth masking the portrait and rippled the candle flames, and the swaying of cloth and light seemed to mock her.

She lifted the covering.

Justi ca’Mazzak

The a’Kralj moved through the Oldtown night unnoticed.

Or at least he hoped so.

It was difficult to conceal his identity. The fine and expensive clothing he normally wore could be exchanged-and had been-for a plain,rough bashta that a tradesman might wear. He’d scrubbed away the scent of perfumes and ointments and let the smoke from the choked flue of a tavern hearth coil around him until he smelled of soot and ashes.

He’d mussed his hair; he’d been careful not to use the cultured accents of the ca’-and-cu’, but instead the broad intonation of the lower classes.

Still, his voice was distinctly high-pitched, which he knew was a cause of occasional jest when people talked of him. There was no disguising the squared jaw under the band of well-trimmed beard: the jaw his vatarh and great-vatarh had possessed also, and which was prominent in portraits of them. He could stoop, but it was still difficult to disguise the way he towered over most people, or to hide the trim muscularity of his body. He kept a cowl pulled over his head, he leaned heavily on a short walking stick, and he spoke as little as possible.

He enjoyed nights like this. He enjoyed the anonymity; he enjoyed the escape from the constricting duties of the Kraljica’s court; he enjoyed being simply “Justi” and not “the A’Kralj.” As A’Kralj, he was bound to his matarh’s whims and her rules.

When he was Kraljiki, all that would change. Then Nessantico would dance to his call. The empire would awaken from its long decades of slumbering under his matarh and the current Archigos and his predecessors and realize its true potential.

Soon enough. .

ldtown, despite the intimation of the name, wasn’t the oldest settling within Nessantico. That honor went to the Isle A’Kralji, where the Kraljica’s Grande Palais, the Old Temple, and A’Kralj’s own estate all were situated. But the original dwellings on the Isle had long ago been razed to make room for those far more magnificent buildings and the lavish, manicured grounds on which they stood. Oldtown and the narrow, twisting streets on the north bank of the A’Sele had been the shores onto which the growing city on the Isle had spilled four centuries ago, and Oldtown had changed little in the last few hundred years. Many of the buildings dated back that far. Oldtown clasped its dark past to its bosom and refused to let it go. Mysteries lurked down claustrophobic alleyways, murder and intrigue in the shadows. Its shops contained anything the human heart might desire, if you knew where to find it and could afford it; its taverns were loud and boisterous with the alcohol-buoyed glee of the common folk; its streets swarmed with life in all its glory and all its disgust.

If you can’t find what you desire in Oldtown, it doesn’t exist. It was an old maxim in Nessantico.

Justi had found love in Oldtown, and it was toward love that he hurried, every night that he could find the time to steal away from those around him.

“Pardon, Vajiki. Might you have a d’folia to spare for someone to buy a loaf of bread?” The voice came from the black mouth of an alley, accompanied by the scent of rotting teeth. Here in the bowels of the city near Oldtown Center, well away from the teni-lights of the Avi a’Parete, what illumination there was came mostly from the open windows of taverns and brothels, fitful and dim. Wedges of darkness shifted and Justi saw the man there. He knew him, also: the beggar known as Mad Mahri. Where foul things happen, you’ll see Mad Mahri. It was another saying within the city. The man seemed to be ubiquitous, wandering everywhere through the city, and present often enough at critical events in the city that Commandant ca’Rudka himself had questioned the man. It was rumored that Mahri had acquired at least some of the scars on his body then.

Justi rummaged in the pocket of his cloak; his fingers plucked a small coin from among the others there. He brought his hand out.