S. Farrell - A Magic of Twilight

It pleased him. . because he was convinced that the Numetodo had nothing to do with the death of the Kraljica or the heretical treason of the Archigos and his staff. He had personally supervised the interrogations of the Numetodo who had remained in the Bastida and who were now hanging above him for the crows. He had listened to and watched enough men under torture to see and hear the difference between extracted truth and lying admissions screamed in hopes of stopping the torment. All of the Numetodo had eventually “confessed” before their execution; all of them, Sergei was certain, had only said what they hoped their captors had wanted to hear-their stories didn’t connect, didn’t make sense, didn’t substantiate each other. He was glad that ci’Vliomani had escaped that torment and that humiliation, glad that so many others had escaped it as well. It didn’t please him to see so much unnecessary death.

But the escapes troubled him. . because it was magic that had been at work in the Bastida last night: the fog that had risen suddenly and thick from the A’Sele and wrapped around the Bastida;

the gardai rendered unconscious; the disappearance of many of the prisoners before several teni arrived from the Archigos’ Temple and dispersed the false mist with their own spells. By then, it had been too late, but he knew that if Kraljiki Justi or Archigos Orlandi decided that they needed a high-level scapegoat, they might look at Sergei. Had the Numetodo all escaped, that certainly would have been the case.

Yes, the escapes troubled him. . because Sergei suspected that truth lay elsewhere, and that if he dared to speak his own suspicions, his would be the next body hanging on the Pontica after days of torture in the Bastida.

“Commandant?”

The query brought him out of his reverie. His boots squelched in the mud of the riverbank as he turned. “Yes, O’Offizier ce’Ulcai?”

The man handed ca’Rudka a sealed letter. His gaze flicked past ca’Rudka to the bodies swaying above them on the Pontica, then back.

“Your aide said to give this to you immediately.”

“Thank you,” Sergei said. He examined the seal, then tucked his finger underneath the flap to break the red wax from the thick paper.

He unfolded the letter and read it quickly.

Commandant-I have investigated the matter you requested me to look into. I apologize for the length of time it has taken me to reply, but my queries required both more travel and correspondence than I expected. Here are the facts, as I know them: The artist Edouard ci’Recroix was born here in Il Trebbio in a village on the River Loi, near our border with Sforzia and Firenzcia. There is no evidence that he had Numetodo tendencies; in fact, in his youth he spent two years as a teni-apprentice under A’Teni ca’Sevini of Chivasso, though he did not receive his Marque. Still, by all appearances he was a devout member of Concenzia. His early paintings, before his time as teni-apprentice, are unremarkable; I have viewed several of them, and there is little indication of his later skill.

But after his release from his studies by the a’teni, his reputation (and his skills, evidently) began to rise, and in that time he obtained commissions in several of the cities within the Holdings. The fact that he had teni-training undoubtedly led to the persistent rumors that he tapped the Ilmodo to gain the vivid likenesses in his later painting.

A shame no one realized how true that was.

One oddity-which I admit I would not have noticed had you not alerted me to look for any strange connections-is that most of the subjects of his portraits, especially those considered to be his mas-terworks, are dead. At least three of them died within a few days of ci’Recroix’s delivery of the finished painting, at which time ci’Recroix was generally gone from the city, not that any suspicion was ever

cast on him at all. Given the distance between cities and the slowness of news passing between them, the fact that most of his subjects were elderly, and ci’Recroix’s consistent wanderlust, no one seems to have found anything sinister in this. I hesitate to remark on it myself. This still may be nothing beyond a set of odd coincidences. There is no proof of a definite connection, especially since not all of the painter’s subjects have died.

However, you did ask me to determine who hired ci’Recroix to do his portrait of the Kraljica. The contact with ci’Recroix was made here in Prajnoli by Chevaritt cu’Varisi, a diplomat connected to the Kraljica’s office. It was he who signed the commission for the artist to paint the Kraljica’s portrait. In the wake of the Kraljica’s death, cu’Varisi has been removed from his duties and is on house arrest

until the matter is cleared up. I spoke to the chevaritt; he said that his contact was within the Grand Palais: a Gilles ce’Guischard, who is connected to the palais staff of the A’Kralj. Chevaritt cu’Varisi conducted a brief inquiry into ci’Recroix’s qualifications and background before tendering the commission; he knew of the Ilmodo rumors but

discounted them, something he now regrets. He let me see his notes from that investigation, and he insists that he found no connection between ci’Recroix and the Numetodo heretics.

That is all I have for you at this time, Commandant. I will continue to look into this, and should I uncover more that I feel you should know, I will write again.

I remain your loyal and grateful servant, A’Offizier Bernado cu’Montague, Garde Civile, Chivasso, Il Trebbio.

Sergei sighed and folded the letter again, tucking it inside his uniform blouse. “I need you to report back to O’Offizier ce’Falla,” he said to ce’Ulcai. “There are two orders I need you to relay to him, and another I want you to carry out personally. . ”

It was evening before word came to him that all was done. Sergei came into the cell in the Bastida, holding a roll of canvas under his arm. He looked at the man seated on the backless stool in the center of the tiny room, hands and feet chained: Remy ce’Nimoni, the green-eyed retainer for the Chateau Pre a’Fleuve. The cell smelled of guttering torches and stale urine. Sergei nodded his head to the garda. “Leave us,” he said. The garda saluted, leered once at the prisoner, and left.

“Commandant,” the man began blubbering almost immediately.

“Surely this is a mistake. After all, I was the one who told you where to find the body of the Numetodo painter who killed the Kraljica.”

“Yes, you did, Vajiki ce’Nimoni,” Sergei said. “You also put this around his neck before you brought me to him.” Sergei opened the hand that supported the canvas roll and a necklace with the polished stone shell swung from his fingers. The man shook his head in denial, but Sergei ignored him.

Crouching down in front of the man, he laid the roll of canvas down on the floor of the cell and spread it out. Inside, several large metal instruments stained with old blood were cradled in cloth loops: pincers, shears, pokers with their tips black from fire, hammers, metal plates and loops that looked as if they might fasten around a head or limb. “Oh, Cenzi, nooooo. .” ce’Nimoni moaned, the last word transforming into a shuddering wail. He swayed on the stool. He retched suddenly, and acrid vomit spilled on the floor near Sergei’s feet. Sergei glanced at the grotesque puddle, but didn’t move.

“There is truth in pain,” Sergei told the man, words he’d said many times before. “That’s what I was once taught. With enough pain, properly applied, the truth always comes. Few can resist the compulsion.

Are you one, do you think. .?”

Less than a turn of the glass later, Sergei left ce’Nimoni’s cell, going to what had once been Capitaine ci’Doulor’s office. There, O’Offizier ce’Falla waited with another man, dressed in the colors of the Kraljiki’s staff. “Vajiki ce’Guischard,” Sergei said, nodding to the man. “Forgive me for not saluting, but. .” He went to a basin behind the desk and poured water into it from the pitcher, washing his arms clean of the blood that stained them to the wrist.