S Farrell - A Magic of Dawn

Sergei leaned down. He tucked his cane under his arm, picked up the lantern and opened the glass front, holding the fuse cord in his other hand. “When a tooth goes bad, you don’t have a choice but to pluck it out,” he said to Talbot. “If you leave it in, it just causes you more pain and misery, and eventually rots all the rest.”

“You can’t do this,” Talbot protested. “The Kraljica said-”

“The Kraljica and I disagree. Be honest, Talbot: do you think we can take back the South Bank from the Westlanders tomorrow? The best defense for the Isle and the entire city is to take down the ponticas and leave the Westlanders stranded.”

“That’s not your decision to make,” Talbot told him.

Sergei grinned up at him, lifting the lantern. “At the moment, it appears that it is,” he answered. He touched the end of the fuse cord to the flame. It hissed and sparked, and fire began to crawl along its length. Sergei dropped the fuse and began to hurry up the riverbank as fast as he could, using his cane for leverage.

“Cenzi’s balls,” Talbot cursed; he stared for a breath as if considering hurrying down the bank after the fuse, then waved to the gardai at the bridge’s abutments. “Back!” he shouted to them. “Get away from the bridge! Take cover!” He half-slid down the embankment and grabbed Sergei’s arm, hauling him up. Together, they fled as the fuse cord hissed and sputtered and the blue glow of its fire slid toward the bridge.

The blast nearly lifted Sergei off his feet. The concussion slammed into him like a falling wall; he could feel the heat scorching his back, and the sound… He could hear timbers snapping as rocks and planking slammed into the ground around them, falling like a hard, dangerous rain. Sergei and Talbot cowered, covering their heads. When it had ended, his ears still ringing, Sergei turned. The bridge had collapsed, the span sloping into the waters of the A’Sele midway across. The stubs of piling and pillars rose from the water like broken teeth.

Sergei grinned. “They won’t be coming across there soon,” he said. “All these men stationed here can get some rest. Now, let’s finish the job…”

Talbot was shaking his head. “Sorry, Sergei, I can’t let you. You lied to me. You disobeyed the Kraljica’s direct orders.”

“I’m trying to save the damned city,” Sergei retorted.

“It’s not your damned city.”

Ah, but it is… He knew Talbot realized the worth of what he’d done. He knew Talbot actually agreed with him. “Talbot, you know I’m right.”

“What I know doesn’t matter,” Talbot told him. “I’m the Kraljica’s aide, not the Kraljiki. Damn you to the soul shredders, Sergei…” He shook his head, glaring at the ruins of the bridge. The Garde Brezno were sidling closer to the edge, staring at the wreckage. Shouts and lanterns were hurrying toward them. “Allesandra’s going to be furious.”

“She’ll be more furious when we take down the other pontica,” Sergei answered, “but she also won’t be able to undo that.” But Talbot wasn’t going to admit that Sergei was right. He knew it before Talbot responded, knew it from the way the aide’s thin face closed up.

“That’s not going to happen,” Talbot said. He looked at the people running toward them. “Sergei, you can still survive this: admit that you disobeyed her and set the black sand packets, but that you were doing it in case we had to retreat tomorrow and there was no other way to stop the Tehuantin from crossing over to the Isle and onto the North Bank. You can tell her that this was an accident; your lamp set off the fuse. She won’t believe you; she’ll be terribly angry at what you’ve done, but she won’t be able to prove anything. I’ll back you that far, Sergei. But no further. The other bridge stays up.”

“Talbot…”

“No,” Talbot said firmly, interrupting Sergei. “It’s either that, or I tell her exactly what happened here and that you intended this all along. She’ll have you executed as a traitor then, Sergei, and I wouldn’t blame her. Which is it to be? You decide.”

Talbot was right. Sergei knew that, knew Allesandra well enough to realize that even if she understood his reasoning, he’d gone beyond the bounds of what she could forgive if she knew the whole truth. Dead, he could do nothing for the city. Dead, he could do nothing more to atone for all he’d done over his life. Dead, he couldn’t take down the other bridge.

“All right,” he told Talbot. “I’ll take your offer.”

She’d followed Nico back into the maze of Oldtown, to another nondescript house in another nondescript narrow lane. There was nobody there, nobody came to Nico’s knock. The door had been locked, but that was no issue-not to Rochelle. She’d picked the lock and they’d gone in. Nico had nearly immediately told her that he needed to pray. She told him that both of them needed to eat-but there had been nothing in the house. She’d gone foraging, finding stale bread in an abandoned bakery, and moldy cheese elsewhere. She’d taken water from the nearest well. When she returned to the house, Nico was in the front room on his knees. He’d paid no attention when she tried to get him to eat, when she tried to force some water between his cracked and bruised lips, when she’d jostled and yelled at him to try to get his attention.

Her brother was lost, mumbling half-intelligible prayers to Cenzi and unresponsive. He ignored her, as if he no longer cared or even knew that she was there. She could get no reaction from him at all. He seemed to be in a trance.

Fine. She was used to madness. She’d dealt with it long enough with their matarh.

She slept a little on the floor next to him, but couldn’t sleep long. She found herself awake in the dark with Nico still praying next to her. By now, she thought, it must be only a few turns before close to First Call. “Nico? Nico-talk to me.”

There was no answer. He was in the same position he’d been in for turn upon turn. So, Nico had abandoned her, too-well, she was used to being alone, to making her own decisions. She couldn’t help Nico, couldn’t go wherever it was he was, but there were still things she could do, that she was supposed to do. She touched the hilt of the knife she’d stolen from her vatarh, stroking the bejeweled hilt.

Promise me you will do what I couldn’t do. Promise me…

“I will,” she told her matarh’s ghost. “I will.”

She went back to Nico, kneeling on the bare wooden floor. His legs must have long ago lost any feeling. His hands were clasped in the sign of Cenzi, his head bowed down toward them, his eyes closed. She could hear him mumbling. “Nico?” she said, touching his shoulder. “Nico, I need you to answer me.”

He did not. The mumbling continued, unabated. She hugged him once. “Then pray for me,” she told him. “Pray for both of us.”

There was no sign he’d heard. She stood, watching him, then finally left the room. She closed the door behind her, and went out into the streets of Oldtown. In the early morning, the streets were dark and deserted. Most of the inhabitants, those who could, had fled eastward out of the city. There were strange flashes in the sky to the west, accompanied by distant thunder, and southward, clouds of smoke were touched underneath with the glow of fires.

South. Rochelle went that way, sliding easily through the shadows cast by the moon.

She had no idea how long it was before she came to the Pontica Kralji, linking the North Bank to the Isle. There were no gardai on the bridge, no traffic at all. The moon was setting and the sky was beginning to lighten in the east, extinguishing the stars at the zenith. The waters of the A’Sele roiled around the pilings, dark and mysterious. The smell of burning wood mingled with the scent of mud and river water.