Karl Vliomani
ULY WASN’T AT THE OLDTOWN MARKET, though he had been.
People remembered the scarred, tattooed foreigner, but they told
Karl that man had packed his wares and cleaned out his stall only
two days ago, the same day Kraljiki Audric had been assassinated.
No, none of the owners of the stalls nearby knew where he’d gone,
but (they said) there were a few people who had been buying his
special fertility potion who might know.
Karl had hoped to
confront this Uly and get to the truth of what had happened to Ana
immediately. A new fire burned in his stomach. But the relief and
closure wasn’t to be immediate.
It took
days.
Days which strained
his newfound intimacy with Varina. Ana’s ghost hovered between
them, resurrected by Talis’ presence and his tale, and Varina
retreated from it and he could not push through the specter. She
still would take his hand or brush her fingers over his face, but
there was sadness now in her touch, as if she were stroking a
memory. He would kiss her, but though her lips were soft and warm
and he wanted to yield to them, the kiss was too fleeting and
distant, as if he kissed her through an unseen veil.
Days in which he
wondered whether to call the Numetodo back to the city, and decided
it was still far too dangerous. Mika, hopefully, was with his
family in Sforzia; let him stay there; let the rest of the
scattered Numetodo remain hidden. Let the Numetodo House remain
dark and empty.
Days in which the
news seemed to grow steadily worse: Kraljica Sigourney’s own
horrible injuries, the rape and plunder of Karnor, a Westlander
army on Nessantico’s soil and their ships on the A’Sele’s waters,
the mustering of the Garde Civile, “recruitment squads” roaming the
city scooping up men, sometimes (according to the rumors) whether
they wished to serve or not. Karl was old enough that they weren’t
greatly interested in him, but Talis was not. He was increasingly
confined to the house, and had to be careful when he ventured out
to avoid the squads. Karl had his own difficulties—his face was
certainly known to many of the Garde Civile, the Garde Kralji, and
the téni, and he had to be careful to disguise himself before he
ventured out, to change his distinctive Paeti accent, and to not
let anyone look too closely at his face.
These were days where
Karl found that, grudgingly, he found Talis to be more the person
that Serafina claimed he was than the person Karl wanted him to be.
He still didn’t trust the man entirely, and he’d slept very little
that first night, with Talis, Serafina, and Nico sleeping together
in the same room as he and Varina. He’d watched the man carefully,
especially the next morning, when the man cleaned the brass bowl in
which they’d ignited the black sand, and—as Karl remembered Mahri
doing—filled it with clean water and dusted it with another, paler
powder. He opened the Second World then with a spell, and the bowl
had filled with an emerald fog, light pulsing and shifting over the
man’s face as he stared, chanting, into the bowl’s
depths.
In the green light,
he could see the fine wrinkles in the man’s face, carving
themselves deeper almost as he watched. Talis already appeared to
be older than Serafina had said he was; Karl thought he knew why
now: the Westlander’s method of magic was costly to the
user.
“Mahri used to say
that he saw the future there,” Karl said afterward, as Talis,
exhausted and moving like an old man, poured the water into the
flowered window box of the room. “He didn’t seem to be very good at
it, if he didn’t see his own death.”
Talis cleaned the
bowl carefully with the hem of his bashta, not looking at Karl.
“What we see in the scrying bowl isn’t the future, but the shadows
of possibility. We see likelihoods and maybes. Axat suggests what
might occur if we follow a particular path. But there’s never a
guarantee.” He placed the bowl back into the pouch he always
carried. He gave Karl a quick smile. “We can all change our future,
if we’re strong and persistent enough.”
Karl had sniffed at
that. Talis had gone over to Nico then, and the two had tussled,
laughing, while Serafina watched with a smile, and the love between
the three of them had been palpable. He heard Varina pad barefoot
into the room, her eyes dark with sleep. She was watching, too, and
he could not tell what he saw in her face. She must have felt his
stare, for she turned to him, smiled wanly, then turned her head
away again. She folded her arms over her chest, hugging herself and
not him.
Each day, Karl would
go out to Oldtown Market, usually with Varina, hoping to find those
elusive customers of Uly’s and asking questions. After several
fruitless days, it became more routine; they would occasionally
take Nico with them, with the promise to Serafina that if they
found Uly, they would not confront him.
It was nearly two
weeks later when it happened.
“Oh, yes, the woman I
told you about was just here,” the farmer said as he placed a box
of mushrooms in their place. “She’s wearing a yellow tashta
embroidered with a dragon down the front. She’s probably still
around; said she was looking for fish.” He pointed to his left.
“You might check at Ari’s, just down there. He just brought in some
trout from the Vaghian.”
Karl heard Varina
draw in her breath, saw her tighten her grasp on Nico. Karl nodded,
tossed the man a folia, and pushed his way back into the slow
crowds strolling the market’s dirt lanes—almost all of them women
or older men. They could smell the fishmonger’s stall before they
saw it, and Karl caught a glimpse of a yellow tashta there. “Karl?”
Varina said.
“I’m just going to
ask her. If she knows where Uly is, then we’ll get Nico home
first.” He patted Nico’s head. “Can’t have your matarh upset with
us, after all,” he told the boy.
He left the two
there, approaching the stall. The woman turned as Ari displayed a
rainbow-scaled fish for her, and Karl saw the head of a dragon,
purple smoke coiling from its mouth. He pushed forward until he was
next to her. “Excuse me, Vajica,” he said, “but if you can answer a
question for me, I’ll buy that fish for you.” Before she could
answer, he gave her the tale they’d rehearsed, pointing back to
Varina and Nico occasionally: how he was newly married, how his
wife had a child by her previous husband and now they both wanted a
child of their own but because they were both older now, they
hadn’t been able to conceive; how he’d heard that there was a
foreign man named Uly who once had a stall here in the market who
had been selling potions for just that problem, and that one of the
sellers here had mentioned she might know where this Uly was. The
woman looked from Karl to Varina and Nico.
She did know. “In
fact, I just left him. In the Red Swan on Bell Lane, not five
minutes from here. He’d just ordered a pint, so I expect he’s still
there.”
Karl thanked her,
paid the fishmonger for the trout without haggling, and returned to
Varina and Nico. He crouched down in front of Nico. “Varina’s going
to take you home now, Nico,” he said. He didn’t dare look up at
Varina—he could imagine the thoughts her face reflected. “I’m going
to stay here a little bit longer.”
Nico nodded, and Karl
hugged the boy. “You two go on now,” he said, rising.
“Karl, you promised .
. .” Varina said.
“I’m not going to do
anything,” he told her, wondering if it was the truth. He told her
what the woman had said. “I know where he is right now. All I’m
going to do is follow him. I’ll find out where he lives. Then we
can figure out how to approach him.”
He could see the
disbelief in the way she bit her lower lip, in the hollowness of
her eyes, in the slow shake of her head. She clutched at Nico. “You
promise?”
“I promise,” Karl
said.
She stared at him,
her head tilted to one side. “Come on, Nico,” she said finally.
“Let’s go.” Karl bent down and hugged Nico again,
then—rising—Varina. That was like hugging one of the columns on the
Archigos’ Temple. He watched the two of them until they disappeared
into the crowds of the market.
Bell Lane was a
dirt-strewn alley a few blocks off the Avi a’Parete, only a few
strides across and hemmed in closely with small shops of
indeterminate purpose, and above them dingy, dark apartments. Its
central gutter was filthy and wet with waste; Karl found himself
walking carefully to avoid the worst of the messes. The
Red Swan was set on a corner where the
lane intersected a larger street leading up to the Avi, curls of
old paint peeling from the signboard. Karl entered, the gloom
inside making him pause to let his eyes adjust. The only light
inside came through the cracks of the shutters and the guttering
candles on a single chandelier and on each table. It was easy
enough to find Uly once Karl could see in the dim light: a
copper-skinned man with scars and tattoos over his face and
arms.
Karl went to the bar
and ordered a pint from the sour-looking barman, his back to Uly.
The interior brightened suddenly as another person—a woman—entered
the bar, and Karl shielded his eyes against the light.
He’d intended to do
as he’d said to Varina: find Uly and follow the man until he found
where he lived. But he watched the man sipping his pint, and images
of Ana’s sprawled, ruined body rose in his mind so that he could
barely think at all, and a slow rage built in his belly, rising to
his chest where it wrapped blood-engorged arms around his lungs and
heart.
He swallowed half his
beer at one draught. He picked up the beer and went to the
Westlander’s table.
“You’re Uly?” he
asked. He sat across from the man, who watched him carefully, as if
ready to fight. Muscles corded and slid in his muscular arms, and
one hand dropped below the table.
“And if I am?” he
asked. His voice held the same accent as Talis’, the same as
Mahri’s, though deeper and more pronounced, so that Karl had to
listen carefully to make out the words.
“I’m told you make
potions. For fertility.”
The man’s chin lifted
slightly and he seemed to relax. His right hand came back to the
scarred, beer-ringed tabletop. “Ah, that. I do that, yes. You’re in
need of such?”
Karl shrugged. “Not
that. But perhaps . . . something else. I have a friend; Talis is
his name. He tells me you can provide me with something not to
create life, but end it. Quickly.”
He watched the man’s
face as he spoke. At the mention of Talis, one eyebrow had lifted
slightly. A corner of Uly’s mouth rose, as if he were amused. He
rubbed at his scarred, black-lined skull. His hands were large, the
skin rough, and a long scar ran across the back: trademan’s hands.
Or a soldier’s. “Such a thing would be illegal, Vajiki. Even if it
could be done.”
“I’m prepared to pay
well for it. Very well.”
A slow nod. Uly
picked up his mug and drained it in one swallow, wiping his mouth
with the back of his hand. “It’s a fine day,” the man said. “Let’s
take a stroll, and we can talk.”
He rose—the rest of
his squat body was as muscular as his arms—and Karl rose with him.
As they came to the door of the tavern, a woman hurrying to the
door bumped into Karl, nearly knocking him into Uly. “Beg pardon,
Vajiki,” the woman said. Her face was streaked with dirt, dried
snot rimmed her nose, and her breath was foul. She grabbed at
Karl’s hand and placed something hard in it. “For luck,” she said.
“You must keep it, and it will bring you good fortune, Vajiki. You
make sure now. Keep it.” She closed his fingers around it, and let
him go, hurrying out the door. Karl looked at what the woman had
put in his hand: a small, pale-colored pebble. Uly snorted
laughter.
“The woman must have
cobwebs for brains,” he said. “Come on, Vajiki. Let’s
go.”
Karl put the pebble
in the pocket of his bashta and followed Uly out into Bell Lane,
then across the larger cross street and down another curving alley.
They were walking north, toward Temple Park. “An’ what’s
your name, Vajiki, since you know
mine?” Uly asked as they walked.
“Andus,” Karl told
him. “That’s all you need to know.”
“Ah, cautious, are
we, Vajiki Andus? That’s good. That’s good. And who is it you’re
wanting dead?”
“That’s my business,
not yours.”
“I hardly think so,”
Uly said, “since the Garde Kralji would come after me as well as
you, and I’ve no interest in lodgings at the Bastida. I require a
name from you, or we have no business at all.”
“It’s the Archigos,”
Karl told the man. “I understand you already have some experience
with that.”
He watched the man
carefully, a spell ready to be released with a word and gesture.
The man hesitated just slightly, a bare break in his step, but
otherwise there was no response at all. He continued to walk on,
and Karl had to hurry to catch up with him. The man’s expression
hadn’t changed, nor had his demeanor. Karl waited for him to say
something, his hand dropped to his side. They passed a side
alleyway . . .
. . . and Uly pushed
hard at Karl, his thick hand trapping Karl’s own even as he tried
to bring it up, and Uly’s other hand pressed over Karl’s mouth,
slamming his head hard against the stone foundation of a building.
The impact took the breath from Karl and sent sparks flying through
his head. Uly’s knee rammed into his stomach. He retched, aware
that he was falling. Something—a knee, a fist, he couldn’t tell
what, impacted the side of his head. He couldn’t see, could barely
breathe. He could feel the cold cobblestones under him, the filthy
water pooled there.
“You’re a fool,
Ambassador ca’Vliomani,” Uly hissed. “Did you think I wouldn’t
recognize you?”
You’re going to die. Now. It was a somber
realization.
He could hear boots
on the cobbles—a single set of footsteps, he realized—and he waited
for the final blow to come. He heard a grunt, and a yelp of pain,
and something heavy fell to the ground next to him. He felt a hand
raise his head and fasten a hood over it so he couldn’t see. The
cloth smelled of old sweat. “Stay still and you won’t be hurt,” a
voice said—not Uly’s. Someone with the only the trace of some
unidentifiable accent, neither deep nor high, so it was difficult
to even determine the gender. “Take off the hood and you’ll die.”
Something sharp pressed against his neck, and Karl hissed in
anticipation of the cutting stroke. “Nod if you
understand.”
Karl nodded, and the
knife blade vanished. He heard more noise—like a slap, and a grunt
that could only be Uly. “Answer me if you want to live,” the voice
said, though it wasn’t addressing Karl. “You killed Archigos Ana,
didn’t you? You made the black sand.”
“No,” Uly began, then
his voice cut off with a groan of pain. “All right, all right. Yes,
I helped kill her. With the black sand. But it wasn’t my idea. I
just gave the man the stuff and told him how to use it. I didn’t
know what he intended to do with it. Ouch! Damn it, that’s the
truth!” So much for Uly’s preference to die rather than talk, Karl
thought. Perhaps Talis didn’t know his warriors that well after
all.
“Who?”
“I don’t know—Ow! By
Axat! Stop! He told me his name was Gairdi ci’Tomisi, but I don’t
know if that’s his real name or not. Paid me well—that’s all I knew
or cared about.”
There were more soft
sounds, then a long wail that had to have come from Uly. The man
was panting now, sobbing in pain, his breath fast and desperate.
“Please. Please stop.”
“Then tell me more
about this man,” the other voice said. “Quickly.”
“Sounded like
ca’-and-cu’, the way he talked. Firenzcian, maybe, by the accent.
Said he had ‘orders’ from Brezno, in any case. That’s all I know. I
made the stuff, gave it to him, and he left. I was as surprised as
anyone when the Archigos was killed.”
Karl desperately
wanted to tear the hood from his face, to see what was happening,
but he didn’t dare. There were more sounds: a wet scuffling, a soft
t-chunk, then a rustling. Someone
pulled at his bashta, rummaging in his pocket. He thought he heard
soft footsteps but with the pounding and ringing in his head they
were faint enough that he couldn’t be sure.
Then, for several
breaths, there was nothing at all, only the distant sounds of the
city. “Hello?” Karl whispered. There was no answer. Carefully, Karl
lifted his hands to the cloth wrapped around his head and pulled it
away from his face. What he saw made him recoil
backward.
Karl stared at Uly’s
body on the cobblestones, his throat slashed and blood sprayed over
his clothes. His right eye was open to the sky, but covering the
left was the stone the woman had given him in the
tavern.