Hirzg, and he makes no apology for it. As to the Hirzg and why he would ally with ca’Cellibrecca, well, you know what the Hirzg might desire.”
Ana could almost hear the Kraljica’s frown. “I’m afraid you’re right, Dhosti. Greta. . the Hirzgin. . tells me that much of Firenzcia’s army is ‘on maneuvers’ south of Brezno near the River Clario, and the Hirzg has called down most of the divisions that were stationed on the Tennshah border. Still, the maneuvers are scheduled to end in a handful of days-the Hirzgin assures me that she is confident that despite the Hirzg’s statements, she and Hirzg Jan will be in Nessantico for the final week of the Jubilee. She says she is insisting on it. That’s why the maneuvers were set near the Clario-so they could travel down the river afterward.”
“Convenient,” the Archigos said. “For river travel, or to send the army into Nessantico.”
“You don’t really think. .?” There was silence for a few moments, then Ana heard the Kraljica’s voice again. “Perhaps you’re simply too suspicious, Dhosti. The Holdings have always depended on Firenzcia’s troops as necessary support for the Garde Civile and the chevarittai, and we expect the Hirzg to keep them in readiness. And before you start lecturing me again, I know my history. Hirzg Falwin’s Insurrection was long ago, and only the Hirzg’s own personal division took part in that; the bulk of the Firenzcian troops remained loyal to Kraljiki Henri and refused to fight for the Hirzg. It would be no different now; I don’t think the troops would fight against the Garde Civile, nor do I believe that the Hirzg’s war-teni would obey ca’Cellibrecca’s orders over yours.”
There was a long pause before the Archigos responded. “I hope you’re right. Marguerite, I’ve learned that the same go-between ca’Cellibrecca employed with Hirzg ca’Vorl has also met with your son.
And-you’ve often told me to speak frankly in private with you, and so I hope you forgive me-the A’Kralj has made no secret of his own attitude toward the Numetodo. And he’s becoming increasingly impatient to sit on the Sun Throne.”
Ana heard the Kraljica’s intake of breath, like an angry teakettle, but it was interrupted as Renard knocked on the door of the outer chamber, and he and two servants entered to place tea and and cakes and tarts on the table near the fire. “Your chair is. . comfortable?”
Renard asked Ana, with a faint smile.
“Perfectly,” Ana told him. “And well-placed.”
“I thought it might be.” The man’s rheum-glazed eyes flicked over to the draped portrait of the Kraljica as if he were checking to see if the covering had been disturbed. He evidently realized she’d seen his attention. “I worry about the Kraljica,” he said. “This painter demands too much of her time, and she’s not been well since he started his work.
Yet she indulges him. .” He stopped, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeves. “But that doesn’t concern you, and I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Have some tea, O’Teni. And the cakes are delicious.”
Renard clapped his hands, and the servants finished placing the trays and vanished. Renard gave Ana another bow and followed them.
Ana hadn’t eaten since before Second Call: her stomach rumbled at the sight of the desserts and the tea smelled delicious, and the draped painting still beckoned to her, but she didn’t move, not wanting to miss the conversation in the next room.
“. . you know,” the Kraljica was saying. “My son will do as I tell him to do.”
“While you’re alive, he will.” Ana’s eyes widened with the Archigos’ blunt statement.
“You go too far, Dhosti.” Annoyance sharpened the words.
“To the contrary, Marguerite. Look at me. Any day, Cenzi could call me to Him. That’s simply reality. Ana- she’s the future, as is A’Kralj Justi.” Ana sat up in the chair at the mention of her name, pressing her head back against the wall. “You and I. . We’re the present, ready to become the past all too soon. We both have been perhaps too comfortable in our positions for the last many years, and we both have enemies who are willing to rush Cenzi’s call.”
“Three decades, Dhosti. It’s been thirty years and more since the last time the Garde Civile had to fight more than a border skirmish or a minor uprising.”
“And that’s your legacy as the Genera a’Pace, and the sobriquet is well-deserved. People will call this time the Age of Marguerite, and future generations will always look back on it with longing. But the time is short for your age. Not even you can defy Cenzi and time.”
“Justi could continue it.” The Archigos said nothing. The silence loomed like a thunderhead. “He can,” the Kraljica said at last. “He will.”
“I hope so, Kraljica. I sincerely pray that you’re right.”
“And your new protegee?” the Kraljica said. “At least Justi was brought up to be Kraljiki. He’s been groomed for it for decades. That one’s just a pup, unproven and inexperienced. And potentially dangerous, from what I hear. You think she can continue
“I don’t know,” Ana heard the Archigos answer. She could feel her stomach burning, and the heat in her face. “I’d hoped that I’d have time to find out for certain.”
“She’ll break like an untempered sword.”
“She might. Or not.”
Ana heard footsteps in the room, and she lurched upright guiltily and stood in front of the fireplace as if she’d been there all along studying ci’Recroix’s painting. The door remained closed. The rustic mother in the painting above the mantel smiled sadly at her. Ana could see the imperfections in her face, the pockmarks on her cheeks, the lines that besieged the corners of her mouth, the smudge of soot on her forehead.
Ana forced herself to look away from the painting. She glanced at the door to the other room, which remained closed. She walked slowly toward the canvas on its easel. Again, she touched the cloth and this time let her fingers close around the folds.
She lifted it.
And nearly dropped it again.
She was staring into the Kraljica’s face and the woman was gazing back. The painting was obviously unfinished, but already it was startling. The face, in particular, seemed perfectly three-dimensional and rounded, so realistic in its portrayal that Ana felt herself reaching forward with an index finger to touch the surface of the canvas.
With the touch, she dropped the covering with a gasp.
In the instant her fingertip grazed the canvas, she thought she’d
felt warmth like that of a living face, and she would have sworn that she heard a voice, a distant call just on the edge of recognition. But all the sensations were gone as swiftly as they had come. Ana took several steps back from the painting, cradling her hand to her green robes and staring at the telltale hint of pigment on her forefinger.
The door opened, and the Archigos and Kraljica emerged. “. . understand each other,” the Kraljica was saying.
“Renard’s brought some refreshments,” she said to them. “Would either of you care for tea?”
Karl ci’Vliomani
“Hsst! Here-quickly!”
Karl had come to the address on the note Mahri had given him-a street that was barely more than an alleyway in the snarled
depths of Oldtown. Only a few people were about, none of them near him. Mahri’s voice came from a shadowed archway. His hand beckoned from the slit of the door. Karl moved toward the door, and it opened wide enough to allow him entry before closing again.
He could smell the beggar as his eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness: mildew, soiled clothing, rotting teeth. Then he heard the click of the door shutting, and light flooded the room. Mahri spoke a word that Karl did not understand, and light streamed from Mahri’s hand: in his cupped palm, a glass orb gleamed with light so bright that Karl shielded his eyes. The light itself was intense, but it illuminated only a globe around them; the rest of the room was dark, and the light-impossibly-cast no shadows. In the harsh, bluish illumination Karl could see Mahri’s face, the torn, ravaged, and scarred landscape that the cowl usually masked. He took a step backward, away from Mahri
