S Farrell - A Magic of Dawn

That was all… Niente sighed in relief, though Atl’s expression fell, as if he thought that Niente were disappointed in him. Niente forced a smile; it ached in the muscles of his face. “I saw the same,” he told his son, and Atl beamed. “Axat also granted me to see the water battle, and we sent a dozen of the Easterner ships to the bottom of the harbor; the rest were damaged and retreated to the west down the A’Sele. This will be a great victory for Tecuhtli Citlali. Axat has ordained it.” He stopped, and this time the smile was genuine. “I saw you also, Atl. I saw you leading the nahualli with your spell-staff; I saw you still strong when other nahualli were weak, and I saw you leading the warriors into the city. I saw Tecuhtli Citlali’s pride in you afterward.”

He could see Atl struggling not to grin, to remain stoic and serious. He would not tell Atl of the fate he’d seen for him later. Instead, he clapped his son on the back, then clasped him to him, kissing him on the cheek. “I love you, my son,” he whispered into the young man’s ear. “You should know that I’m proud of the person you’ve become.”

The night air was cool around them. There were stars struggling to be seen through the persistent high clouds, and a moon that cloaked itself in a luminous mist. There were the yellow lights of the city glistening in the blackness of the land. Waves slapped the hull of the Yaoyotl like erratic hands on a drum, and Niente could smell the sweet oil on Atl’s skin and the heavier musk of the river. He felt like a child holding an adult. He felt shriveled and frail and tiny against his son’s muscular body.

“Go, and fill your spell-staff,” he told Atl. “Then rest as best you can. Tomorrow-tomorrow we will go and fulfill Axat’s vision.” He kissed Atl again, then pushed him away. “Go,” he said. Atl clasped Niente once more, kissed him as Niente had him, then gave him the moon-sign of Axat.

“Tomorrow,” he said to Niente, and left.

Niente watched him go. “Tomorrow,” he whispered after him. “There’s at least that.”

“The pebble on the left eye-that’s the signature of the White Stone. How she entered Rance’s apartments, we don’t know. The door was locked when Paulus arrived; the windows are all latched from the inside.” Eris Cu’Bloch, Commandant of the Garde Brezno, shook his head. “I’m sorry, Hirzg. He was long dead when they found him. There was nothing to be done.”

A raw, sickening fury enveloped Jan. He stared at Rance’s body on the bed, the pebble still over his left eye, his right clouded and open. Paulus ci’Simone, one of Rance’s trusted assistants, sat with his head bowed and hands clasped between his knees in a chair. In the outer room, the door to Rance’s apartment hung askew on its hinges from where it had been broken in by the palais staff, and occasionally one of the staff would walk past hurriedly, face averted.

“There’s blood, but not enough,” Jan commented.

“No,” cu’Bloch agreed. “Nor does it look like he struggled much with his attacker.” He lifted Rance’s bloodied nightgown: it had been sliced open along the side by a sharp knife, and Jan could see the long cut on the man’s side, but the cut was not so deep as to have been fatal. “If you look closely, you can see a dark, oily substance in the cut. If you touch it, it burns. I think the blade that did this was poisoned, though with what…” Cu’Bloch shrugged. “I don’t know of a poison that works quickly and effectively enough that Rance wouldn’t have had time to defend himself, but perhaps the White Stone does.”

Jan pressed his lips together. “Cover him,” he said to cu’Bloch. “Paulus, he was this way when you found him?”

Paulus lifted his head and nodded mournfully. “Yes, my Hirzg. Rance was supposed to go over the day’s kitchen menu with me at First Call, and when he didn’t arrive, I knocked on his door and found it locked. He didn’t answer our calls, so I found two of the staff gardai and we broke in. I saw him in his bed, just like that, his skin cold. ..” Paulus stopped. His eyes glistened suddenly and a tear tracked down his face. “We called for the Commandant and you.”

“You don’t know how the White Stone might have gained entry?” Commandant cu’Bloch asked. Paulus shook his head.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jan said. “This was the White Stone. She’s here.” He scowled.

She’s here. As she’d been here when Hirzg Fynn had been assassinated. He felt as if his hands had suddenly gone cold: that death had been his matarh’s doing. It had been Allesandra who’d hired the White Stone; he’d learned that to his disgust, and that had been one of the reasons he’d abandoned her and the Holdings when the moment had been there to reunify the empire.

And there had been the even more terrible realization that Elissa-who had vanished the same terrible evening that Fynn had died-had been the White Stone. He had wanted to deny that; he’d wanted to tear that knowledge from his head and remember only the Elissa he’d loved.

He glanced again at the body on the bed, the bloodied sheet covering Rance. “Where’s Rhianna?” he asked suddenly. “Has anyone seen the girl? Bring her here. Now.” Cu’Bloch gestured, and one of the garda in the room rushed back out. Jan heard Rhianna’s name being called in the corridor.

In truth, he expected the answer to come that she could not be found, that she had vanished from the palais. That would explain everything. And the assassination… Could it have been Allesandra who had again hired the assassin? Rance had always advised flatly against any reconciliation with Nessantico; Sergei would certainly have mentioned that to Allesandra. Could Allesandra have wanted Rance dead as a result? Or could the White Stone’s client have been Sergei himself, ridding himself of an obstacle? Rhianna had been there when Sergei had met with them; she could have overheard, or perhaps Sergei could have given her some signal that told her to murder Rance…

The possibilities spun in his head like kitten-tangled yarn, the threads of his thoughts so interwoven that he couldn’t find the ends of them. Cu’Bloch was talking to Paulus, but Jan heard nothing of it. When he heard footsteps in the outer room, he turned. The garda had returned, with Rhianna and another garda, a face Jan vaguely recognized-was he named Enid? Emero? Emerin? Rhianna was gazing around her as if confused, glancing back at the broken door, then seeing Jan, the Commandant, and Paulus.

“My Hirzg,” Rhianna said, curtsying deeply to him. “I was told.. . You wanted…” She was looking past him now, to the bed and its covered form. Her hand went to her mouth as her eyes grew wide and frightened, and the garda with her put his arm protectively around her. The gesture made Jan scowl. She has a lover here, then? “Oh, no! By Cenzi, is that…?”

“Yes,” Jan told her. “Rance has been killed. The murderer would have us think that the White Stone did it.”

Rhianna seemed to stagger, her legs unsteady, and the garda held her more tightly. “The White Stone…” Jan watched her; her stunned reaction seemed genuine. He saw her lower lip trembling as if she were about to cry. Then she seemed to shake herself, and her gaze went quizzical. “Why does the Hirzg wish to talk to me?” she asked.

“Where were you last night?” Jan asked her.

“Why, I was with Emerin,” she said. A flush crept up her neck from under the collar of her robe. “He and I…” She stopped. “My Hirzg, you can’t possibly think… I was with Emerin all night, and Vajiki ci’Lawli and I were on excellent terms.”

“Hirzg, may I speak?” Emerin asked. He had straightened, tugging at his nightclothes as if it were his uniform. Jan glared at him. He nodded. “It’s true she was with me,” he said hurriedly.