S. Farrell - A Magic of Twilight

Greta said placidly. “Firenzcia needs a leader, yes, but not another starkkapitan. The threat to us isn’t from soldiers, but from dangerous beliefs that pull the people away from the correct path Cenzi has given us.”

Her hands, folded over the mound of her stomach, now made the sign of Cenzi on her forehead. She was plain and unhandsome, her straight hair an unremarkable brown, her jaw slightly too square and protrud-ing: that damned family trait. Jan could see that in another few decades, if she survived her pregnancies, she would look much like the Kraljica or, worse, like the A’Kralj. She already, for Jan’s taste, sounded too much like the old hag Marguerite. “We should not be practicing war; we should be preparing for the Kraljica’s Jubilee in Nessantico.”

“There will be time for that after the maneuvers.”

“Yes,” Greta said, her voice just shy of mockery. “You have to play with your own toy soldiers.”

“Nessantico is a doddering old woman, just like the Kraljica, Hirzgin, and it is only the army of Firenzcia that keeps her safe,” he told Greta. “And only stupid and useless people think otherwise.” The

ladies-in-waiting, all but Mara, sucked in their breath and pretended to be engaged in their own whispered conversations. Jan gestured toward Allesandra’s table. “If Firenzcia weren’t the strong right arm of Nessantico, then Nessantico would be nothing. Unless you think the effete chevarittai of the Garde Civile can protect you.”

“The Kraljica is the Genera a’Pace. She has brought peace to the Holdings. You talk like a Numetodo railing against Concenzia.” The rebuke was gently spoken, almost an apology, and she brought her hands to her forehead at the mention of the Faith. But the chiding tone was still there, and it would be there again, and again, and again, until the constant touch of it burned like witchfire. That was her way.

He hated the woman. He hated that his vatarh had been so cowed as to agree to the Kraljica’s “wish” that the two of them marry.

“The Kraljica has put the Holdings to sleep,” Jan retorted, “and I talk like a realist, Hirzgin. That’s all. A good general-a good leader-must make certain his sword is sharp and his skills well-practiced for when the need is there. And it will be there. War always comes. Inevitably.”

“There is such a thing as Truth, my dear husband, and Truth comes from faith-faith in Concenzia and faith in the Kraljica.” Greta shook her head, a disagreement so slight as to be nearly invisible. “Truth does not change. It remains the same. Eternal.”

“Much like our argument, dear wife,” Jan answered, with no warmth in his voice at all. Greta’s hands pressed together hard enough to pull the color from them, and he thought he saw the faintest glimpse of annoyance in her eyes. He smiled, but the smile was for Mara, whose eyes glittered in silent amusement behind Greta.

“Look, Vatarh,” Allesandra interrupted before Greta could gather herself for another rejoinder. “See, I moved the archers. .”

Jan looked down at the table. Allesandra had altered the ranks of soldiers. They were set now as he might have set them himself before a battle. He noticed especially the lancers set to either flank, where they could wait for the right moment to enter the battle, and a vanguard was set well ahead of the main force to draw the enemy’s attack and force them to show their hand. He grinned and patted Allesandra’s soft curls. “Well done, my dearest one. Perfect. Each piece has its own part to play in the whole. Just remember, a good Hirzgin would never move without knowing what is set against her. You must know when to bow, and when to take up arms. Knowing which battles you can win and which you cannot is what separates the great leader from a mediocre one.”

“Then you must be a great leader, Vatarh,” Allesandra answered.

He heard Mara’s soft, encouraging laughter (but not Greta’s) as his daughter spoke, though he kept his attention on his daughter’s large, earnest eyes.

“I try, darling one. But history will be the one to judge that, I’m afraid.” He patted her head again. “I find that I’m more tired than I expected from my journey,” he announced. “I will retire to my own

chamber and take supper there shortly.”

“I will join you, then,” Greta said, but Jan was already shaking his head.

“No, my dear wife. I think tonight I prefer to dine in private.” Above and behind Greta, Mara gave him the slightest of nods. “After I’ve eaten and rested for a time, I will come and see what entertainments you’ve arranged for the evening. If you’ll excuse me. .”

Greta and her ladies rose once more, and the servants hurried to open the canvas panel that served as a door. Markell was waiting just outside, and Jan clapped his arm around the man’s shoulder. Markell had been Jan’s companion since childhood, raised with him to become his aide, his bodyguard, and most trusted confidant. “A certain lady will be coming to my apartments in an hour,” Jan said quietly. If any of the servants nearby could hear, they knew enough to not indicate it. “See that she’s escorted there discreetly.”

“Certainly, my Hirzg.” Markell inclined his head. “I’ll attend to it personally.”

“Good. Tomorrow we will watch the maneuvers and begin our other preparations. Make certain that the Hirzgin understands that Allesandra is also to attend, despite the protests she’ll undoubtedly make.” As Markell nodded again, Jan stretched. “It feels good to finally be doing something,” he said. “Our message was sent?”

“It was, Hirzg, and should have been received by now.”

“Excellent.” Jan allowed himself a smile. Then you must be a great leader, Vatarh. He would know. Soon enough. “Markell, I have the sense that this will be a good year for Firenzcia. A very good year indeed.”

Orlandi ca’Cellibrecca

“. . the family is burdened with debt. Vajiki

cu’Seranta has borrowed heavily, not only from his wife’s family, but from his own cu’Barith relatives. The family would almost certainly have been named ci’ in the next Roll, except that the giving of a Marque to the daughter saved them. At least that’s what my contacts in the Gardes a’Liste tell me. Now, though. .”

“The Archigos saved them.” Orlandi snorted derisively. The Dwarf Mockery. . He should never have been Archigos. . “Five thousand solas will keep them safely cu’ as well as pay back the family’s debts. And I’m certain the new o’teni has quite an adequate salary herself. She will keep the family cu’. She might even make them ca’ one day.”

Carlo cu’Belli’s eyebrows sought to join his receding hairline. “It’s true that the Archigos gave them five thousand solas for this new o’teni’s Marque?”

“Indeed.” Orlandi-A’Teni of the city of Brezno, Tete of the Guardians of the Faith, and nearly elected Archigos himself during the concordance that had instead chosen Dhosti ca’Millac-let the heavy curtain drop, cutting off his view of the village of Ile Verte across the river. He was staying in the Chateau a’Ile Verte, on its island at the confluence of the Rivers Clario and A’Sele, a day’s journey upriver from Nessantico. The chateau was owned by the Kraljica herself, but she had given Orlandi use of the estate while he was in Nessantico for the Jubilee celebrations.

He found that arrangement far more satisfactory than taking an apartment within the Old Temple complex; he had his eyes and ears within the Faith’s vast bureaucracy in the city, and the air was better here: close enough to reach Nessantico at need, far enough away that he himself could not be easily observed, though he was certain that both the Archigos and the Kraljica had a spy or two on the house staff reporting back to them-in fact, he was certain that was why the Kraljica had offered the chateau to him even when he knew that she was displeased with his purge of the Numetodo in Brezno. Perhaps, when he became Archigos, he would take the Chateau a’Ile Verte as a small part of his spoils; it would make an excellent summer residence to escape the stifling air of the Nessantico summers But for the moment, there was only cu’Belli in the room with him: Carlo, who had been for several years now Orlandi’s eyes and ears in Nessantico, an importer/exporter with his own network of informers within the business community of Nessantico. Carlo was seated at a table with a platter of venison and potatoes and a flagon of good red Brezno Temple wine, his plate and glass full for the third time now.