Sergei ca’Rudka
THE NEWS WAS not good.
The communiqué—the
latest report on the continuing battles in the Hellins—had come by
fast-ship from Munereo, over the Strettosei to the great island of
Karnmor, over the Nostrosei that lay between Karnmor and the
mainland to the city of Fossano, then by rider along the A’Sele to
Villembouchure, and from there to Nessantico. With favorable winds
and riders who didn’t care about how hard they rode their horses,
the paper had been two weeks in arriving. The casualty figures
alone made Sergei shake his head dolefully. He handed the paper to
Archigos Kenne; the older man peered at it myopically, holding it
so close to his face that Sergei couldn’t see his
expression.
“You’ll note,
Archigos, that we now control nothing of the Hellins beyond the
area immediately around Munereo, with an arm along the sea
extending northward toward Tobarro,” Sergei said impatiently as
Kenne labored over Commandant ca’Sibelli’s tiny, cramped
handwriting. “Sending out A’Offizier ca’Matin and his battalion to
confront the Westlander army was a mistake, in my estimation, but
it’s one that’s already been made and paid for by now, I suspect. I
hope ca’Matin is still alive; he’s one of the few good offiziers we
have there. I think it would have been better had ca’Sibelli pulled
back into defensive positions against this latest offensive, rather
than trying to push the Westlanders back, but ca’Sibelli was never
one for defense. We’ve already lost the Lake Malik area. I suspect
we’re going to lose Munereo next.”
“You showed this to
Audric? You told him what you just told me?” Kenne’s eyes appeared
over the edge of the thick yellow paper, then vanished again.
Sergei could hear the man muttering aloud to himself as he
read.
“I did. He said:
‘Commandant Ca’Sibelli is doing exactly what I would have him do.
It’s as I said—he needs more troops.’ ” Sergei paused. He glanced
around the Archigos’ office. There was no one else there, but he
lowered his voice anyway; one never knew who might be listening at
doors. “We argued; I thought he might die in front of me, he was
coughing and breathing so badly. He kept looking past me to
Kraljica Marguerite’s portrait, and he was saying . . .” Sergei
hesitated again, not certain how much he wanted to share with
Kenne. “. . . disturbing things. He insists on calling the Council
of Ca’ together and demanding that he be given autonomy as
Kraljiki. He wants my title stripped from me; he wants no Regent in
Nessantico.”
It sounded so
emotionless, stated so flatly. Sergei had seen what Kenne could
not: the way the shouting distorted Audric’s features, the red
flush that crept up from the boy’s neck to cover his cheeks, the
flecks of saliva flying from his mouth, the eyes wide and
haunted.
“I am Kraljiki!” Audric shouted at Sergei, his arms
flailing. “You will do as I tell you to do, Regent, or I will have
you thrown into the Bastida!” The last words had been screams, each
one shouted in its own breath. Audric’s hysterics caused the hall
gardai as well Audric’s domestiques de chambre, Marlon and Seaton,
to open the bedchamber’s doors to peer in. Sergei waved them all
away, and the doors closed again. Audric’s gaze went past Sergei
and up, and Sergei glanced over his shoulder. The room was fiery,
far too hot for Sergei’s comfort, the flames in the great fireplace
illuminating the portrait of Marguerite above the mantel. Audric
was staring at her, his lips moving wordlessly.
“This report, Audric, is conclusive evidence
that—”
“You will address me with the proper respect, Regent, or I
will have you flogged in the palais square.”
Sergei allowed himself a breath, forcing down the retort
that threatened to spill out. “Kraljiki, this report shows that the
Hellins may well be lost already. Ca’Matin is the best offizier we
have there—frankly, I trust his judgment more than Commandant
ca’Sibelli’s. If he has failed to stop the
Westlanders—”
“Then the wrath of Nessantico will fall fully upon
them,” Audric shrieked, then fell back
in a fit of coughing . . .
The rest of the
conversation had gone no better.
“It may not be
genuine madness, Sergei. Perhaps his illness, or a fever . . .”
Kenne began.
“It doesn’t matter,”
Sergei interrupted. “Illness or simple lunacy; there’s no
difference if he can’t be cured. Kenne, I intend to go to the
Council of Ca’ myself, and request that they declare Audric
incompetent.”
Kenne laid the paper
down at that. Sergei could see the trembling in the man’s fingers,
could hear it in the rustling the paper made. He pursed his lips as
if tasting something sour. “Some of them will think that you’re
attempting to grab power yourself, Sergei, that this is nothing
more than you trying to place yourself on the Sun Throne. It’s what
Audric will tell them, I suspect. It’s certainly what I’d tell them in his place. I can see Sigourney
believing the same.”
“Is that what you
think, Kenne? Surely you know me better than that.” Sergei scoffed,
shaking his head and pacing in front of the Archigos. I don’t want to be Kraljiki. What I want is worse than you
or any of them think, and if you knew, you’d all refuse to help me.
. . .
“No, Sergei. Not in
the least,” Kenne said hurriedly. Too fast, entirely. The man would
not look at him, telling Sergei that there was doubt in Kenne’s
mind also. That was bad; if Kenne wondered at Sergei’s intentions,
then the Council of Ca’ would have no trouble at all imagining the
worst. “This is just all . . . so distressing,” the Archigos
continued. “I don’t know what to think. To declare a Kraljiki
incompetent . . .” He shook his head, his fingers tapping the
report. “He’s still just a boy, after all. A young man. Young men
often say things that perhaps they shouldn’t, or become more
excited than they should, and when that boy is not only ca’ but has
been the A’Kralj and is now Kraljiki, well . . .”
“This isn’t about
youth and privilege, Kenne. You weren’t there. You didn’t hear what
I heard or see what I witnessed. You’ve seen hints of it the last
few times you’ve been with him, but this . . . What I am hearing
from Audric now is true madness. And a mad Kraljiki will affect the
Faith also.”
“I will take all the war-téni and send them to the
Hellins,” the boy shrilled. “All of them. All that the Faith can
give me . . .”
“I know you believe
that, Sergei.”
“But?”
Hands as shriveled as
drying grapes lifted from the desk and fell back again. The
Archigos’ gaze seemed to reach as high as Sergei’s nose, only to
see his distorted reflection there and drop back again. “I know you
care only for Nessantico, Sergei. I know you have the interests of
the Kralji and the Faith in mind.” Sergei stared at Kenne, silent.
Waiting. “But,” Kenne continued finally, “perhaps someone with
Ana’s, umm, ‘abilities’ might still be found, and we might bring
the boy back from the brink. Sergei, no Kraljiki has ever been
removed by the Council of Ca’. Ever. This is a step you can’t take
lightly. This is a step that I fear will fail and doom
you.”
“Believe me, I
understand the risks,” Sergei told him. He rose from his chair and
took the report from Kenne’s desk. “The war in the Hellins drains
us of money and lives, Kenne, and it forces us to look the wrong
way. The longer the war there continues, the more dangerous it
becomes to the Holdings. Audric is convinced that the Hellins war
will be the triumph of Nessantico. It won’t. It will be our
downfall.”
“I know that’s what
you believe.”
Sergei couldn’t
entirely keep his irritation at the old man’s waffling from his
voice. “It’s what I know. What I must
know from you, Kenne, is whether I will have your
support.”
A headshake. “I want
to give you that,” Kenne told him. “I do. But I must pray first,
Sergei. You say you believe. I want to believe also, and I look to
Cénzi to help me. Let me pray. Let me think. Tomorrow . . . I will
talk to you tomorrow. Or by Draiordi at the latest . .
.”
Useless. This is useless . . . Sergei bowed, smiled
falsely, and gave the Archigos the sign of Cénzi. “I will pray for
you myself, Archigos, that Cénzi speaks to you soon.” And He had better. He had better or Nessantico might find
itself crushed between the stones of the East and the
West.
Sergei plucked the
communiqué from Kenne’s desk. He went to the hearth of the
Archigos’ office and let the paper flutter onto the flames there.
He watched the paper darken, curl, smoke, and finally
ignite
He imagined the city
doing the same.