Part 22 (1/2)
”Just Talis,” Nico answered. ”That's all.”
Ca'Vliomani sighed and stood up with a groan, his knees cracking with the effort. ”Then we'll have to let Talis know that you're staying with us, and maybe we'll both get what we want, eh?”
Jan ca'Vorl.
”I'M SORRY, ONCZIO FYNN,” Jan whispered. ”This shouldn't have happened, and I hope . . . I hope that this wasn't my fault.” His voice echoed in the vault, stirring faint ghosts of himself. The guttering light of the torch made shadows lurch and jump around the sealing stones of the tombs. Twice now he'd watched the Hirzg laid to rest in these dank and somber chambers, far too quickly. Vatarh and son. At least Fynn's interment hadn't been accompanied by omens and further death. His had been a slow, somber ritual, one that left Jan's chest heavy and cold.
He'd searched everywhere for Elissa. He'd sent riders out from Brezno, scouring the roads and inns and villages for her in all directions. Roderigo had told him that he hadn't seen Elissa near Fynn's chambers. ”But I was away from him when it happened. She might have managed to sneak in-or someone else might have. I don't know. I just don't know.”
The words tasted of bile and poison. He tried to convince himself that it had all been coincidence. Matarh had shown him the letter she'd received from the ca'Karina family: Elissa was an impostor pretending to be ca'. But perhaps that was all: she'd fled because she'd known that her deception was going to be revealed. Maybe that was the entirety of it. Or . . . Perhaps she'd gone to see Fynn, to plead her case with him knowing that she was about to be exposed as a fraud, and had interrupted The White Stone at his work. Perhaps she'd fled in terror before the famed a.s.sa.s.sin had glimpsed her, too frightened to even stay in the city after what she'd seen. Or perhaps-worse-The White Stone had seen her, and taken her to murder elsewhere.
None of it convinced Jan. He knew what they were thinking, all of them, and when the suspicion settled in his gut, he also knew they were right. A pretender in the court, a pretender who was the lover of the King's favorite companion-the conclusion was obvious. Elissa had been the White Stone's accomplice, or she was the White Stone herself.
Either thought made Jan's head whirl. He remembered the time he'd spent with her, the conversations, the flirtations, the kisses; the rising, quick breaths as they explored each other; the slick, oily heat of lovemaking, the laughter afterward . . . Her body, sleek and enticing in the warm bath of candlelight; the curve of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s beaded with the sweat of their pa.s.sion; the dark, soft and enticing triangle at the joining of her legs . . .
He shook his head to banish the thoughts.
It couldn't be her. Couldn't. Yet . . .
Jan put his hand on the sealing stone of Fynn's tomb, letting his fingers trace the incised bas-reliefs there. ”I'm sorry,” he said again to the corpse.
If it had, somehow, been Elissa, then the question still unanswered was who had hired The White Stone. The Stone would not kill without a contract. Someone had paid for this. Whether Elissa had been the knife or simply the helper didn't matter. It hadn't been her who had made the decision. Someone else had ordered the death.
Jan bowed his head until his forehead touched the cold stone. ”I'll find out who did this,” he said: to Cenzi, to Fynn, to the haunted air. ”I'll find out, and I will give you justice, Onczio.”
Jan took in a long breath of the cold, damp air. He rose on protesting knees and took the torch from its sconce. Then he began the long climb back up toward the day.
Sergei ca'Rudka.
”THERE IS TRUTH IN PAIN,” Sergei said. He'd spoken the aphorism many times over the years, said it so the victim knew that he must confess what Sergei wished him to confess. He also knew the statement for the lie it was. There was no ”truth” in pain, not really. With the agony he inflicted, there came instead the ability to make the victim say anything that Sergei desired him to say. There came the ability to make ”truth” whatever those in charge wished truth to be. The victim would say anything, agree to anything, confess to anything as long as there was a promise to end the torment.
Sergei smiled down at the man in chains before him, the instruments of torture dark and sinister in the roll of leather before him, but then the perception s.h.i.+fted: it was Sergei lying bound on the table, looking up into his own face. His hands were chained and cold fear twisted his bowels. He knew what he was about to feel; he had imposed it on many. He knew what he was about to feel, and he screamed in antic.i.p.ation of the agony. . . .
”Regent?”
Sergei bolted awake in his cell, the manacles binding his wrists rattling the short chain between them. He reached quickly for the knife that was still in his boot, making sure that his hand was around the hilt so that if they'd come to take him for interrogation, he could take his own life first.
He would not endure what he had forced others to endure.
But it was Aris cu'Falla, the Commandant of the Bastida, who had entered the room, and Sergei relaxed, letting his fingers slide from the hilt. Aris saluted the garda who had opened the door. ”You may go,” he told the man. ”There's lunch for you on the lower landing. Come back here in half a turn of the gla.s.s.”
”Thank you, Commandant,” the garda said. He saluted and left. Aris left the door open. Sergei glanced at the yawning door from the bed on which he sat. Aris saw the glance.
”You wouldn't get past me, Sergei. You know that. I have two hands of years on you, after all, and it's my duty-not to mention my life-to stop you.”
”Did you leave the door open just to mock me, then?”
A smile came and vanished like spring frost. ”Would you rather I shut and locked it?”
Sergei laughed grimly, and the laugh morphed into a cough heavy with phlegm. Aris touched his shoulder with concern as Sergei hunched over. ”Would you like me to send for a healer, my friend?”
”Why, so I'm as healthy as possible when the Council orders me killed?” Sergei shook his head. ”It's just the dampness; my lungs don't like it. So tell me, Aris, what news do you have?”
Aris pulled the single chair in the room over to him, the legs sc.r.a.ping loudly against the flags. ”I've a garda I trust implicitly a.s.signed to the Council-for my own safety in this troubled time, frankly. So much of what I know comes from him.”
”I don't need the preamble, Aris-it's not going to change your answer, and I suspect I already know it. Just tell me.”
Aris sighed. He turned the chair backward and sat, his arms folded over the back, his chin on his arms. ”Sigourney ca'Ludovici is pus.h.i.+ng the Council hard to give the Kraljiki the power he asks for. There's to be a final meeting in a few days, and a vote is to be taken then.”
”They'll actually give Audric what he wants?”
A nod wrinkled the bearded chin on his hands. ”Yes. I think so.”
Sergei closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the stone wall. He could feel the chill of the rock through his thinning hair. ”They'll destroy Nessantico for the sake of power. They're all-and Sigourney especially-thinking that Audric won't last a year, which will leave the Sun Throne open for one of them-a.s.suming I'm gone.”
”Sergei,” he heard Aris say in the darkness of his thoughts, ”I'll give you warning. I promise you that. I'll give you time to-” He stopped.
”Thank you, Aris.”
”I would do more, if I could, but I have my family to think about. If the Council of Ca' or the new Kralji found out I helped you to escape, well . . .”
”I know. I wouldn't ask that of you.”
”I'm sorry.”
”Don't be.” Sergei opened his eyes again, leaning forward. He cupped a hand on Aris' face, the manacles jangling with the motion. ”I've had a good life, Aris, and I've served three Kralji as well as I could. Cenzi will forgive me what I must do.”
”There's still hope, and no need to do anything yet,” Aris said. ”The Council may come to their senses and see that the Kraljiki's sick in his mind as well as his body. They may yet release you; they will, if the effort of Archigos Kenne and the others loyal to you have any effect at all-Archigos Kenne has already pleaded your case to them, and his words still have some influence, after all. Don't give up hope, Sergei. We both know all too well the history of the Bastida. Why, the Bastida held Harcourt ca'Denai for three years before he became Kraljiki.”
Sergei laughed, forcing down the cough that wanted to come with it. ”We're practical men, both of us, Aris. Realists. We don't delude ourselves with false hope.”
”True enough,” Aris said. He stood. ”I'll have the garda bring your food up to you. And a healer to look at you, whether you want him or not.” He patted Sergei on the shoulder and started for the cell door, stopping with his hand on the handle. ”If it comes to it, Sergei, I'll send word to you before anyone comes to take you down to the donjons below.” He paused, looking significantly at Sergei. ”So you can prepare yourself. You've my word on that.”
Sergei nodded. Aris saluted him and closed the door with a metallic clash. Sergei heard the grating of the key in the lock. He put his head back again, listening to the sound of cu'Falla's bootsteps on the winding stairs of the tower.
He remembered the clean sound of screams echoing on stone, and the shrill, high pleading of those sent for questioning. He remembered their faces, taut with pain. There was an honesty in their agony, a purity of expression that could not be faked. He sometimes thought he glimpsed Cenzi in them: Cenzi as He had been when His own children, the Moitidi, had turned against Him and savaged His mortal body. Now, like Cenzi, Sergei might face the wrath of his own creation.
But he would not. He promised himself that. One way or the other, he would not.