woman was able to counter the spell so rapidly, and also why ce’Coeni would be so stupid as to try to attack the Archigos in the first place. We need to find out if that’s a possibility, and who this woman is. She could be important to us.”
“It’s already being done.” Mika pushed his chair back from the table and stood up as Karl straightened. “Though I don’t believe that ce’Coeni was anything but a rash idiot. As to the woman, from the description I had, she used a counter-chant. She took out Dhaspi’s spell a second after he launched it, and before any of the a’teni around the Archigos had a chance to react.”
Karl’s right eyebrow lifted, wrinkling his forehead. “That’s an ac-curate account?”
“I believe my source, yes.”
“Then we
Mika inclined his head slightly. He went up the wooden steps to the door. Karl heard the sound of voices as momentary light bathed the rough wooden planks. Then the shadows settled around him again. He waited there for several minutes, fingers prowling his beard as a dozen contentious thoughts tried to crowd each other in his head. Finally, uneasy and troubled, he bent down to blow out the candles.
Shrouded in blackness, he felt his way to the stairs.
Sergei ca’Rudka
The Bastida a’Drago, the fortress of the dragon, was a dreary, ancient building set on the south bank of the A’Sele. The Bastida had once served to guard the city from attack from the west: one wall of the structure was formed from the ancient city wall itself just where the A’Sele curved south; another plunged from a five-story tower into the waters of the river. The edifice was named because during its building the bones of a huge dragon had been uncovered there, a fire-serpent turned to stone by some unknown magic. The creature’s flesh was gone, but the great skeleton was unmistakably that of a once-living and mythical beast. The fierce, needle-toothed and polished head of the creature still loomed above the entranceway of the Bastida like a nightmare sculpture, set there by the order of Kraljiki Selida II, who had ruled the city at the time.
The Bastida was no longer a fortress, just as the few remaining sections of the city wall no longer protected Nessantico but had been overrun and mostly consumed by the spreading town. Instead, its walls weeping with moisture and covered by black moss, the fortress had long ago been transformed into a gloomy prison where those deemed to be enemies of Nessantico resided, often for the remainder of their lives.
Levo ca’Niomi, who had reigned for three short and violent days as Kraljiki, had been the first prisoner held in the Bastida, nearly a hundred and fifty years before. He languished there for nearly half his life, writing the poetry that would gain him an immortality that his brief coup never accomplished. More recently, the Kraljica’s first cousin Marcus ca’Gerodi had been imprisoned for having financed the attempted assassination of Marguerite prior to her coronation. Luckily for Marcus, he had not been gifted with Marguerite’s longevity, or perhaps the dank atmosphere of the Bastida had infected him; he had died there six years later from a fever.
Sergei ca’Rudka, Commandant of the Garde Kralji, Chevaritt of Nessantico, an a’offizier in the Garde Civile, had never liked the Bastida. He liked it less since the Kraljica had placed it under his control.
Sergei was certain that the poor fool who had tried to attack the Archigos would not be one of those remembered for his interment in the Bastida. Rather, he would be one of the far more numerous enemies of the state who entered these gates and were immediately forgotten.
The gardai around the massive oaken gates of the Bastida jerked to attention as Sergei approached from the Pontica a’Brezi Veste. He gave them only the barest nod, glancing up-as he always did-to the stone-trapped head of Selida’s dragon that snarled down on him. The dark shapes of house martins fluttered from where they’d nested under the crenellated summits of the towers on either side of the gate, but as Sergei watched, one of the birds darted out from the creature’s open mouth. A barred door at the foot of the left tower opened, and the Capitaine of the Bastida emerged, a graybeard whose pasty skin betrayed long hours in darkness. The capitaine had once been the sole authority in the Bastida; now, by order of the Kraljica, he reported to Sergei. Neither one of them liked that fact. “Commandant ca’Rudka, we’ve been waiting for you.”
Sergei was still looking up at the dragon’s mouth. He pointed as the martin darted back into the dragon’s mouth and another left. “Do you know what’s wrong with that, Capitaine ci’Doulor?”
The man stepped out from the door, blinking in the sunlight. He
stared at the dragon. He rarely looked at Sergei; when he did, like many people, his gaze was snared by the gleaming silver nose that replaced the one of flesh Sergei had lost in a duel. “Commandant?”
“I love the freedom that the martins portray,” Sergei told him. He smiled, gesturing at them. “Look at them, the way they dart and flit, the way they fly with the gift of wings Cenzi has given them. There are times I envy them and wish I could do the same. I would give up much if I could see the city as they do and move effortlessly from one rooftop to another.”
Ci’Doulor nodded, though his face was puzzled under the grizzled beard. “I. . I suppose I understand what you’re saying, Commandant,” he said.
“Do you?” Sergei asked, more sharply, the smile gone to ice on his lips. A martin emerged from the dragon’s mouth again and fluttered off. “That dragon’s head is the symbol of the Bastida, of its power and strength and terror. What message do you think it sends when those we bring here see birds nesting in that mouth, Capitaine? Do you think your prisoners feel terror as they pass underneath, or do they see a sign of hope that we’re impotent, that they might pass through the Bastida’s clutches as easily as that martin?”
The capitaine blinked heavily. “I’d never thought of it before, Commandant.”
“Indeed,” Sergei answered. “I see that.” He took a step toward the capitaine, close enough that he could smell the garlic the man had eaten with his eggs that morning. His voice was loud enough that the gardai around the gate could still hear him. “Signs and symbols are potent things, Capitaine. Why, if I hung someone from a gibbet there below the dragon, someone who-let us say-didn’t understand how important symbols are, I believe that seeing that body twisting in its cage would send a powerful message to those who work here. In fact, the more important that person, the more powerful that message would be, don’t you think?”
Capitaine ci’Doulor visibly shuddered. His throat pulsed under the beard as he swallowed. He was staring at Sergei now, at his own warped reflection in the polished surface of Sergei’s silver nose. “I’ll see that the nest is removed, Commandant, and you may be assured that no birds will roost there again.”
The smile widened. Sergei reached out and patted ci’Doulor’s cheek as if he were a child Sergei was correcting. “I’m certain you will,”
he said. “Now, I’d like to see this Numetodo.”
Sergei followed ci’Doulor into the Bastida. The door shut solidly behind them, a garda locking it after them. Musty air enclosed them and Sergei paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust to a dimness made only darker by the small barred windows set in walls as thick as a man holding out both arms. Ci’Doulor led him down a long hall and into the main tower, then down a winding stone staircase. Moisture pooled on foot-worn steps furred with moss on the edges where no one walked.
From the barred doors of the landings, Sergei could hear the sounds of other prisoners: coughs, moans, someone calling out distantly. They came to a landing well below river level with one of the gardai standing at careful attention. The man opened the door and stepped aside.
They entered a square, compact room, the garda entering with them. Chains clattered: a man shackled to rings on the far wall stirred, his hands bound tightly to the wall so he couldn’t move them to create one of the Numetodo spells, his mouth gagged with a metal cage that trapped his tongue. Sergei could see that the would-be assassin had been beaten. His face was puffy and discolored inside the bars of the face-cage, one eye was swollen shut, and a trail of dried blood drooled from one nostril. He’d soiled himself at some point-his torn hosiery was discolored and wet, and the smell of urine and feces was strong.
“Capitaine,” he said. “Has this man been mistreated?”
“No, Commandant,” ci’Doulor answered quickly. The garda, behind him, sniffed in seeming amusement. “It was the citizenry who did this in retaliation. Why, our Garde Kralji had tremendous difficulty even getting him away from the mob after the attack on the Archigos.”
