S. Farrell - A Magic of Twilight

Estraven set the wine down, rising. “I’ll begin, then,” he said. He tapped his clean-shaven chin with a finger. “I should send word to Francesca that we’ll be leaving-or have you done that already, A’Teni?

She’ll need to get the household together.”

“Francesca will be staying here,” Orlandi told him, and he enjoyed the blink that Estraven gave in response. “You’ll be traveling with Vajiki Carlo cu’Belli and those in his employ. He’s a trader who travels frequently through the Holdings, and he has served me as well for the last several years. I will send along two of the teni from my own staff to act as your aides and coordinate things for you once you reach Brezno; your personal staff should remain here since they know the routines for the Old Temple. Vajiki cu’Belli has been an associate of mine for some time, and I have every confidence in him, despite what you’ll find are his somewhat coarse ways. His loyalty is unquestioned.”

“Of course, A’Teni. Is there more I should know?”

“Not now,” Orlandi told him. He came over to him, taking the man’s hands in his own and patting them. “Estraven, I’m giving you this task because I know how committed you are to the Faith, and how well you’ve always served me. I rewarded you with Francesca’s hand because of your faith. Now I ask you to trust me once again.”

“Of course, A’Teni.” The bravado was back in Estraven’s voice, his ego adequately stroked. “I won’t fail you.”

“I know you won’t,” Orlandi answered. He released Estraven’s hands and went to one of the windows, pulling aside the curtain to look down at the temple square. “Now, you should go. You don’t have much time.”

Orlandi didn’t bother to watch Estraven’s bow. He’d send word immediately to cu’Belli and let the man know what needed to be done.

And he would have a late dinner with Francesca, alone, so they could talk.

Choose. He would choose. He must. But he would delay the choice until he could be certain which of the two major pieces on the board were the stronger: the A’Kralj or the Hirzg.

He wondered how Francesca would react to the news.

Sergei ca’Rudka

“Commandant, the body is over here.”

Sergei walked over to where a man gestured. His companion, O’Offizier ce’Falla, offered a silken handkerchief soaked in perfume, but Sergei waved it away. He walked through the high meadow grass to the bank of the A’Sele. He could see the body, like a black hummock in the grass, a few strides from the sullen green currents of the river. The scent of corruption already hung around the corpse, and black flies lifted in shrill irritation as he approached. A quartet of peasants stood close by, looking uneasy and half-frightened. Sergei smiled at them, though he could see them staring at his face. At the gleam of his nose.

“You did as you should, and I am here to give you the Kraljica’s thanks,” he told them. They ducked their heads at that and gave the sign of Cenzi. “You will each also be given a half-siqil reward. The o’offizier will take care of that. .” He nodded to ce’Falla, who quickly ushered the now-smiling peasants aside as Sergei crouched down next to the body.

The corpse lay faceup on the ground. The scavengers had been at it, but even though the face was nearly gone, Sergei knew from the black clothing and the lanky body that it was ci’Recroix, even if the dew-ruined sketchbook a few feet away weren’t already a mute witness.

“Did the peasants steal anything, Vajiki?” Sergei asked the man who had remained behind: Remy ce’Nimoni, a retainer employed by Chevaritt Bella ca’Nephri, who owned the chateau and the land on which it resided, and who was, as Sergei knew, also one of the A’Kralj’s good companions.

Sergei had found that he instinctively didn’t care for ce’Nimoni.

There was an air of smugness about him, and he’d caught the man smiling strangely as they conversed on the way from the chateau to where the body had been found. Nor did the retainer’s startlingly green eyes want to rest on Sergei’s face. His answers to Sergei’s questions had been too quick and too pat, as if he’d given every possibility too much thought, or someone had coached him well.

That suspicion was not a path Sergei cared to tread. Chevaritt ca’Nephri was far too close to the A’Kralj for that to be comfortable.

“Steal anything? I don’t think so, Commandant,” ce’Nimoni answered now. “They saw the body and the blood, and with the dark clothing they were afraid it was a sorcerer or worse, and they came running back to the chateau. I searched all of them afterward and found nothing. Then I placed guards here until you could be summoned-they

kept away most of the beasts, but. .” He waved a hand at the corpse, and again there was that odd flash of a smile and his glance at the body was almost possessive. “Not all, as you can see. The dogs and wolves are less afraid of a dead body than us, and very persistent.”

“Wild beasts know an opportunity when they see it,” Sergei answered. “If you’ll excuse me, Vajiki, I would like to examine the body. Alone.”

Ce’Nimoni bowed. “As you wish, Commandant. I’ll be at the trail with the horses.”

Sergei leaned closer to the body as the man strode away. His flesh wrinkled above the bridge of his false nose at the smell, but the stench was no worse than the lower cells of the Bastida, where sewage and corruption mingled with the odor of chained, desperate men. He could see blood crusted on the man’s blouse, though the animals had chewed away most of the stained cloth and ripped open the stomach to get to the man’s entrails-it would be difficult to determine whether ci’Recroix had been wounded there first. The cut at the neck, though. . even with the animal gnawings and the maggots wriggling deep in the wound, it was apparent that a blade had made that cut.

So the man had been murdered. Sergei had expected that to be the case as soon as news had come of the body found near Pre a’Fleuve.

Disappointing: Sergei would have liked the opportunity to find out what ci’Recroix knew: the slow, careful, and painful interrogations that the Bastida could provide. Sergei was certain that the person who had hired ci’Recroix had been afraid of exactly that.

He hadn’t yet touched the body. A chain glittered dully around the torn neck; Sergei leaned closer. His gloved fingers brushed aside the ripped cloak. A pendant hung on the man’s chest: a dark seashell, a shell carved of stone.

He wondered only for a second before the answer of where he’d seen a similar pendant came to him. He reached down and pulled the pendant away; the fine chain broke against the weight of the skull. Sergei grimaced and placed the shell in his pocket.

“How very clumsy, Vajiki ci’Recroix,” he told the corpse. “Could a man of your great talent truly be that stupid?”

As if in answer, a beetle clambered from the corpse’s open mouth.

Sergei smiled grimly.

Moving away from the body, he stooped to pick up the sketchbook, glancing at a few of the pages, and staring at the final sketch there-a bird drawn in charcoal that looked as if it were solid enough to fly away from the page-before closing it. He put the sketchbook under an arm.

Standing, he stared down at the body again for several breaths. Finally, he gave the sign of Cenzi over the remains, then went up from the bank to the narrow lane that led to the chateau. The retainer ce’Nimoni waited there with ce’Falla, as well as Sergei’s gray stallion and their own horses; the peasants were gone.

“We’re done here, O’Offizier,” he said to ce’Falla. He put the sketchbook into a pouch of his saddle. “We’ll ride now. I have work to do back in Nessantico.”