Karl ca’Vliomani
“WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” Varina asked him.
Karl had spent the
the first night after Ana’s death at Mika’s house, but despite the
solicitude of Mika and his wife, Karl had found their house—with
their children and now the first of their grand-children always
coming in or out—too full of life and energy. He’d gone back to his
own suite of rooms on the South Bank. It was Varina who came there
every day, badgering his servants and generally making certain that
he was fed and cared for. She left him alone with his grief; she
was there when he needed to talk, or when he simply wanted the feel
of another person in the room. She seemed to know when he needed
silence, and she allowed him to have it. For that, he was
grateful.
He remembered long
ago when he’d first shown Ana what the Numetodo could do. That
night, it had been Varina, a raw newcomer to the group, who Ana had
seen demonstrating a spell. Varina had grown much since then; she
was second now to Mika within the Numetodo here in the city, and
there was no one at all who rivaled her dedication to research, nor
her ability with the Scáth Cumhacht. He had never quite understood
how it was she had remained alone all these years: she had been
particularly striking in her youth: hair the color of autumn wheat;
wide, expressive eyes the color of ancient, varnished oak; a
wonderful, engaging smile and laugh that always made others smile
with her. She was still attractive even now in middle years, even
if in the last few years she had seemed to age quickly. Yet . . .
she seemed to take all the vitality and energy she possessed and
put it solely into learning the intricacies of the Scáth Cumhacht
and the Second World, to find all the ways to bind that power. Even
within the Numetodo, she rarely seemed to speak at length to anyone
but Mika or Karl. As far as Karl knew, she had no other friends or
lovers outside the group. She was an enigma, even to those closest
to her.
He appreciated
Varina’s presence now, even if he didn’t know how to express
it.
He’d brooded on Ana’s
death now for a week, turning it over and over in his mind like a
sick, ugly compost. Someone had wanted her dead. Ana had been the
target, the assassin waiting for her to come to the High Lectern;
certainly Karl had seen the other téni at the service ascend the
lectern to place the readings and the scroll with the Admonition
that Ana had intended to read, and they had not triggered the
explosion.
The more he
contemplated that, the more there seemed to be only one answer. An
answer he wanted verified.
Varina was leaning
against an archway of the anteroom as Karl shrugged on his cloak,
her arms folded. She didn’t repeat her query, only regarded him
softly, as if concerned.
“I have an
appointment,” he told her. She nodded. Still silent. Her eyes were
wide and unblinking. “I have questions to ask.”
Another nod. “I’ll go
with you,” she said. He hesitated. “I won’t interfere,” she told
him. “If you’re going where I think you’re going, you may need the
support. Am I right?”
“Get your cloak,” he
told her. She smiled briefly—a flash of white teeth—and plucked her
cloak from the peg on the wall.
The Ambassador from
the Firenzcian Coalition, Andreas cu’Görin, possessed a face as
thin and angular as a falcon’s. As he rose from behind his desk,
his heather-colored eyes regarded Karl and Varina as if the two
were rabbits to be snatched up and devoured. The hawkish face was
supplemented with a swordsman’s lean body. Karl could imagine that
the man was more comfortable in armor than in the proper,
conservative bashta he wore.
It made him wonder
how effective he could be here.
“Ambassador
ca’Vliomani, Vajica ci’Pallo, your visit is . . . unexpected,”
cu’Görin said. “What can I do for you?”
Karl glanced
pointedly at the aide who occupied the smaller desk on the other
side of the room. “Gerald, why don’t you see if you can find that
proposal on the new border regulations?” cu’Görin said. The aide,
as burly and thick as cu’Görin was slight, nodded and shuffled
papers noisily for a breath before leaving the room.
Karl waited until he
heard the door click shut behind him. “I’ve spent the last several
days thinking about Archigos Ana’s murder, Ambassador,” he said.
The words sounded almost casual, even to his ears. Varina shuffled
her feet uneasily next to him. “You know, as much as I try to find
reasons for someone doing that, I can’t think of anyone who would
want her dead except the people you represent.”
Varina sucked in her
breath audibly. A cloud passed over the heather eyes, deepening
them to green. The muscles of the man’s face tightened and his
right hand closed as if it were searching for a sword’s hilt.
“You’re rather blunt and direct, Ambassador.”
“I’ve given up
diplomacy for now,” he answered.
Cu’Görin sniffed.
“Indeed. Then I will be blunt as well. I find your accusation
insulting. I’ll forgive you, knowing how . . .” His nose twitched,
the eyes narrowed. “. . . close you were to the Archigos of
Nessantico, but I also expect an immediate apology.”
“It’s been my
experience that expectations are often disappointed,” Karl
said.
“Karl . . .” Varina
said softly. Her hand brushed his arm. “Perhaps . . .”
Her voice died, as if
she knew he wasn’t listening. The anger burned in his gut. Karl
wanted nothing more than for cu’Görin to make a physical move or to
blatantly insult him, anything to give him an excuse to use the
Scáth Cumhacht that was smoldering in his mind waiting for the
release word. But cu’Görin shook his head; he didn’t sit, but
seemed to lounge behind the desk, unperturbed.
“I think, Ambassador
ca’Vliomani, that you discount the possibility that the assassin
may have been a rogue, or perhaps hired by someone who had a
personal grudge against the Archigos—someone within the Holdings of
Nessantico. There’s no reason to attach a conspiracy to this.” His
eyebrows arched; the rest of his body remained still. “Unless, of
course, you have evidence that you care to share with me? But no,
if you had that, you would have gone to
the Regent, wouldn’t you? The Commandant of the Garde Kralji would
be standing here, not two Numetodo heretics.” Slowly, almost
mockingly, he sat again. Long fingers toyed with the parchments
scattered on the desk’s surface, and the hawk face returned,
looking scornfully at Karl. “I think we’re done here, Ambassador.
Firenzcia has no business to do with heretics, and we never will.
We’re wasting each other’s time.”
The dismissal was a
wind to his internal fire. “No!” Karl
shouted. “We’re not done!” He gestured,
speaking one of the release words he’d prepared before he’d come.
Quick fire crawled over the papers on the Ambassador’s desk,
consuming them in the instant it took cu’Görin to react, jumping
backward from his seat. A quick wind followed, blowing the papers
past cu’Görin and out the open window and whipping the Ambassador’s
bashta—that had to be Varina. “That fire could have been directed
to you as easily as those documents,” Karl told him. He heard the
door crash open behind him and he lifted a hand warningly as he
felt Varina turn to face the threat. “I didn’t come with only a
single spell, Ambassador, and my friend is stronger than I am. Tell
your people to stay back, or I guarantee that you—at least—won’t
leave this room alive.”
“Neither will you, if
you persist in this nonsense,” cu’Görin snarled, and Karl nearly
laughed.
“That hardly matters
to me at this point,” he told the man. Varina’s back pressed
against his. He felt her arms lift, preparing a spell.
The Ambassador waved
a hand to the people behind Karl. He heard a sword being sheathed
and felt Varina’s arms drop again. “I tell you again, Ambassador,”
cu’Görin said, “you are mistaken if you think that Firenzcia was
involved in the Archigos’ death. Kill me, don’t kill me; that won’t
change that fact.”
“I don’t believe
you.”
Cu’Görin sniffed.
“Lack of belief is the core of the problem with the Numetodo, isn’t
it? Do you want me to mourn for your Archigos, Ambassador? I won’t.
She brought this fate on herself by coddling the Numetodo and by
her refusal to acknowledge the Archigos of Brezno as the true
leader of the Faith. Violence was an inevitable result of her
actions, but to my knowledge, it wasn’t Firenzcia that did this.
That’s the truth, and if you can’t believe me . . .” He shrugged.
“Then do what you must. You’ll only be demonstrating that the
Numetodo are indeed the dangerous fools that every true believer
knows them to be. Look at me, Ambassador. Look at me,” he said more sharply, and Karl glared
back at him. “Do you see a lie on my face? I tell you—the one who
killed the Archigos wasn’t anyone known to me or hired by me.
That is the truth.”
Karl could feel the
Scáth Cumhacht vibrating madly inside him. He wanted nothing more
than to lash out at this pompous fool, to watch the man’s arrogance
crumble into a scream, to have him cry out in agony as he died. But
he could also hear Ana. He knew what she would tell him, and he let
his hand drop to his side. He heard Varina sigh with
relief.
Cu’Görin’s words gave
him no comfort. But he was beginning to wonder whether cu’Görin
might not have told him the truth as he knew it, and Karl was also
remembering a time many years ago and another person who could
harness the Scáth Cumhacht—though he didn’t call it that, nor did
he call it the Ilmodo.
“If I find that
you’re lying, Ambassador,” Karl said, “I won’t give you the
opportunity to give me your excuses or to draw your sword. I’ll
kill you wherever I find you. That is also the truth.”
With that, he turned
and Varina moved to his side. There were three guards blocking the
doorway, but Karl shoved past them and strode out into the cool air
and sunshine.
“What in the Eternal
Six Pits was that?” Varina raged at him when they were outside on
the Avi a’Parete again. She grabbed at his sleeve and pulled him to
a stop. “Karl! I mean it. What did you think you were
doing?”
“What I needed to
do,” he spat back at her, more sharply than he intended, still
flushed with anger at cu’Görin and the man’s attitude and his own
gnawing doubts. They were all contained in his retort. “If you
didn’t want to be there, you didn’t need to come.”
“Ana’s dead, Karl. You can’t bring her back. Accusing
people without evidence is just going to get you dead,
too.”
“Ana deserves
justice.”
“Yes, she does,”
Varina shot back. “Let those whose job it is give her that. She
wasn’t your wife, Karl. You weren’t lovers. She wasn’t the matarh
of your children.”
The fury boiled
inside him. He lifted his hand, the cold heat of the Scáth Cumhacht
rising, and Varina spread her hands. “Do it!” she spat at him. “Go
on! Will that make you feel better? Will that change
anything?”
He blinked; around
them, people on the street were staring. He dropped his hands. “I’m
. . . I’m sorry, Varina.”
She glared at him,
her lips pressed tightly together. “She was your friend, and I
understand that,” Varina told him. “She was my friend, too. But she
also blinded you, Karl. You’ve never been able to see what’s right
in front of you.”
With that, she turned
and left him, half-running along the Avi. “Varina,” he called, but
she pushed her way into the crowds, vanishing as if she’d never
been there. Karl stood there, the throngs parting around him. He
heard the wind-horns of the Archigos’ Temple—Ana’s temple—start to
wail, proclaiming Second Call, and it sounded to him like mocking
laughter.