Allesandra ca’Vörl
GSCHNAS—THE FALSE WORLD BALL—swirled below Allesandra
in the Grand Hall of the Kraljica’s Palais. The hall was still
partially under construction, but that only lent depth to the
ambience.
After all, the False
World Ball was where reality was turned on its head. Costumes—the
stranger and more creative, the better—were required of all
attendees. The cracks in the walls had been filled with sculptures
of demons or miniature pastoral landscapes, as if the foundations
of reality itself had broken, the cracks providing glimpses of
entire new worlds set at odd angles to their own. A flock of
flightless birds had been brought in from Far Namarro: as tall as a
man, with tufts of grandly colored plumage rising from their rumps.
They wandered among the revelers. Several téni from the A’Téni’s
Temple had been set to keeping a river of crystalline water flowing
in a sweeping curve above the dancers’ heads, with large goldfish
swimming placidly in the magic-driven currents. The musicians sat
on chairs perched within a huge gilded frame hung on the wall at
one end of the room, their backdrop a beautifully-painted
landscape, so it appeared that a painting of musicians had
magically sprung to life.
Gschnas: a fantasy
created for the entertainment of the ca’-and-cu’—the wealthy and
important people of the city and of the greater Holdings. They had
come bearing the Kraljica’s gilded invitations: they packed the
floor below Allesandra bedecked in their glittering costumes:
A’Téni ca’Paim, the highest ranking téni of the city; Commandant
Telo cu’Ingres of the Garde Kralji; Commandant Eleric ca’Talin of
the Garde Civile; Sergei ca’Rudka, once Regent and now Ambassador
to Firenzcia; all of the members of the Council of Ca’ except the
Numetodo Varina ca’Pallo, who was home with her desperately ill
husband . . .
“Kraljica, you look
stunning.” Talbot ci’Noel, her aide, came up alongside her as she
peered over the balcony at the gathering. He was dressed as a
monkey, an ironic costume for a man who was always exceedingly
proper and elegant, and who ruled the palais staff with a fist of
iron and a voice of fire. Behind the furred snout of the mask, his
lips smiled. “Are you ready for your entrance?” Already, the dozen
or so téni had begun their chanting. Talbot tested—for what seemed
the hundredth time—the ropes attached to the harness concealed in
Allesandra’s gown: a flowing, billowing fantasy of chiffon and lace
ribbons, so that when she moved, trails of shimmering color rippled
in vain pursuit.
“I’m ready,” she told
Talbot. Two servants came forward, each with a glass ball enchanted
with Numetodo spells—Talbot was a Numetodo himself, and Varina, the
A’Morce of the Numetodo, had herself placed the spells in the glass
balls. Allesandra took one in each hand. Talbot gestured to another
of the servants on the floor below, who in turn signaled the
musicians. The gavotte they had been playing abruptly ended,
followed by an ominous, low roll of the drums like thunder. The
chanting of the téni increased, and the ceiling of the palais was
suddenly obscured by dark, roiling clouds from which lightning
hissed and arced. Allesandra spoke the spell-word Varina had given
her, and the globes in Allesandra’s hands blossomed with pure,
white light—so bright that Allesandra, wearing glasses with smoked
lenses as protection, could barely see for the coruscating
brilliance. Anyone looking up at these sudden twin suns was
momentarily blinded. Allesandra felt the ropes pull and lift her:
she was gliding up and over the balcony rail, then descending
slowly toward the floor. The glass globes were cold in her hand
with the Numetodo magic, and the globes now flared brilliant trails
of sparks, as if two slow meteors were descending from the heavens
to earth, a human figure trapped in their intense radiance.
Allesandra heard the applause and cheers welling up to greet her.
Her feet touched the marble floor (she was certain she could almost
hear Talbot’s sigh of relief), and the light within the globes
blossomed—an iridescent and almost painful blue, followed by pure,
aching gold: the colors of the Holdings. At the same time, servants
hurried from the sides of the hall to remove the ropes from the
harness catches and take her glasses. The ropes were hastily pulled
up as the globes maintained their brilliance, then finally went
dark.
And there, as
eyesight slowly returned to the onlookers, was the Kraljica, her
crown on her head. The ovation was pleasingly deafening. “Thank you
all,” she said as they bowed and cheered. “Thank you. Now,
please—enjoy the ball!” She gestured, and the music began once
more, and the couples on the dance floor bowed to each other and
resumed the dance. The ca’-and-cu’ pressed around her in their
costumes, bowing and murmuring their appreciation, and she smiled
to them as she passed among them.
She saw Sergei and
gestured for him to join her. He bowed—awkwardly, his arthritic
body no longer as supple and flexible as it had been when she’d
first known him—and he came over to her, leaning heavily on his
cane. He smiled at her, the reflective silver paint on his face
cracking slightly as he did so. Sergei’s silver nose—the false one
he always wore to replace the one of flesh he’d lost in his
youth—seemed almost to be part of him tonight. A patchwork of small
mirrors covered the bashta he wore. Crazed, broken reflections of
herself and the dancers and crowd behind her moved madly around
him. The lights of the hall flared and shimmered in the tiny
mirrors, dancing from the nearest walls.
“That was quite an
entrance,” Sergei said. Allesandra slowed her pace to his as they
moved through the crowds.
“Thank you for
suggesting the method, though you had poor Talbot terrified that
something would go wrong. I must say, however, that I’ll need to
retire for a bit soon to have my attendants get rid of the harness;
it’s rubbing my poor skin raw.”
He smiled. “The
Kraljiki’s entrance should always be dramatic,” he said, smiling.
“A little discomfort is fair payment for a stunning appearance. You
should know that.”
“That’s easy for you
to say, Sergei, when you don’t have to endure it.”
“I’ve always loved
the Gschnas,” Sergei told her. “I’m glad you’ve brought back the
tradition, Kraljica. Nessantico needs
her traditions, especially after the last few years.”
Especially after the last few years. The comment
tightened her lips and narrowed her eyes. “You needn’t bring
that up now, Ambassador,” she told him.
The history was never far from anyone’s mind in Nessantico: the
horrible cost of recovery after the Westlanders nearly destroyed
the city, the continued separation of the Holdings and the
Coalition nations, and most recently, the political and military
disaster in West Magyaria.
“Then I won’t,” he
answered. “Though I do need to talk with you about the Firenzcian
spy that Talbot believes he’s discovered . . .” As Sergei talked,
she looked away from the images of herself on his clothing to the
crowd that pressed in around them. She saw a man staring at her. He
was handsome, his skin somewhat darker than most of those in the
hall, his head entirely shaved, though his beard was full and
midnight-black. His clothing was loose and wildly-colored, and
feathers sprouted from the shoulders as if he were some exotic
bird. His eyes—behind a beaked demi-mask—were strangely blue and
light, his gaze piercing and keen. He saw her attention and he
nodded slightly toward her.
Sergei was still
talking. “. . . already has the traitorous servant in the Bastida,
so he’ll be no more trouble. But there are still the Morellis—” He
stopped as she raised her hand.
“Who is that man?”
she whispered to Sergei, glancing again at him. “He looks
Magyarian.”
Sergei followed her
gaze. “Indeed, Kraljica. That is Erik ca’Vikej. He’s just come to
Nessantico yesterday. There’s undoubtedly a note on your desk from
him requesting an audience. I haven’t had the chance to speak to
him myself yet.”
“Stor ca’Vikej’s
son?” The man had truly wonderful eyes. He continued to regard her,
though he made no move to approach.
“The
same.”
“I will see him,” she
told Sergei. “In the south alcove, a mark of the glass from now.
Tell him.”
Sergei might have
frowned, but he bowed his head. “As you wish, Kraljica,” he said.
His cane tapped on the marble floor as he left her side, his
costume sending motes of light fluttering. Allesandra turned away,
nodding and conversing with others as she moved slowly around the
hall. Talbot came to her side, having paid and dismissed the téni
who had helped with her descent, and she told him to clear the
south alcove. She continued on her procession around the room.
A’Téni ca’Paim, the head of the Faith in Nessantico, dressed
tonight as one of the Red Moitidi, was approaching. “Ah, A’Téni
ca’Paim, so good of you to attend, and your téni have done a
wonderful job this evening . . .”
A mark of the glass
later, Allesandra had made a circuit of the hall and moved past the
line of servants Talbot had set around the alcove to keep away the
crowd. She took a seat there, listening to the music. A few moments
later, Sergei approached, with ca’Vikej just behind him. “Kraljica,
may I present Erik ca’Vikej . . .”
The man stepped
forward and performed a deep, elaborate bow. She remembered that
bow: a Magyarian form of courtesy. The ca’-and-cu’ of West Magyaria
had bowed the same way for her late husband Pauli, who had become
Gyula of West Magyaria after their rancorous separation, only to be
assassinated by his own people eight years later. Two years ago,
Eric’s vatarh, Stor, had tried to step into the vacuum left by
Pauli’s death.
Allesandra had made
the decision to back him. That choice had turned out to be a poor
one, the full extent of which was still be determined. She’d made
the choice to send only a small part of the Holdings army to
support Stor ca’Vijek’s own troops. That had doomed them, and the
effort had ended in a military defeat for the Holdings at the hands
of Allesandra’s son, Hïrzg Jan.
“Especially after the last few years . . .”
Sergei’s comment still rankled.
“Kraljica Allesandra,
it is my pleasure to meet you at last.” The man’s voice was as
stunning as his eyes: low and mellifluous, yet he didn’t seem to
notice its power. He kept his head down. “I wanted to thank you for
your support of my vatarh. He was always grateful to you for your
championing of our cause, and he always spoke well of
you.”
Allesandra searched
his voice for a hint of sarcasm or irony; there was none. He seemed
entirely sincere. Sergei was looking carefully to one side, hiding
whatever he was thinking. Close, she could see the gray flecks in
ca’Vikej’s beard and the lines around his eyes and mouth: he was
not much younger than she was herself—not surprisingly, since Stor
ca’Vikej had been elderly when he’d tried to take the Gyula’s
throne. “I wish events had gone differently,” she told him. “But it
wasn’t Cénzi’s Will.”
The man made the sign
of Cénzi at that statement—he was of the Faith, then. “Perhaps less
Cénzi than circumstances, Kraljica,” he answered. “My vatarh was .
. . impatient. I’d counseled him to wait for a time when the
Kraljica and the Holdings could have supported us more openly. I
told him then that the two battalions you sent were the most he
could expect unless he waited, but . . .” He shrugged; the motion
was as graceful as his manner. “I warned him that Hïrzg Jan would
come down with the full fury of the Firenzcian army.”
Yes, and Sergei told me the same thing, and I didn’t
believe him. She nodded, but she didn’t say that. Handsome,
modest, polite, but there was ambition in Erik ca’Vikej as well.
Allesandra could see it. And there was anger toward the Coalition
for his vatarh’s death. “You are more patient than your vatarh,
perhaps, Vajiki ca’Vikej, but yet you want the same thing. And
you’re going to tell me that there are still many Magyarians who
support you in this.”
He smiled at that:
graceful, yes. “Evidently my head is entirely transparent to the
Kraljica.” He swept a hand over his bald skull. He managed to look
almost comically bemused. “Next time, I should perhaps wear a
hat.”
She laughed softly at
that; she saw Sergei glance at her oddly. “Supporting your vatarh
as much as I did nearly brought me to war with my own son,” she
told him.
“Family relationships
too often resemble those between countries,” he answered, still
smiling. “There are some borders that must not be crossed.” He
cocked his head slightly as the musicians started a new song out in
the hall. He held his hand out toward Allesandra. “Would the
Kraljica be willing to dance with me—for the sake of what she meant
to my vatarh?”
Allesandra could see
the slight shake of Sergei’s head. She knew what he was thinking as
well: You don’t want reports to get back to
Brezno that you are entertaining Stor ca’Vikej’s son . . .
But there was something about him, something that drew her. “I
thought you were a patient man.”
“My vatarh also
taught me that an opportunity missed is one forever lost.” His eyes
laughed, held in fine, dark lines.
Allesandra rose from
her chair. She took his hand.
“Then, for the sake
of your vatarh, we should dance,” she said, and led him from the
alcove.
