hung around him, of spices and scents he could not identify. He brought up his hands, and the hands that emerged from black, tattered sleeves were not his hands at all. His breath was tight in his chest and when he turned his head, the flesh tugged hard at the left side of his face, resisting the movement. His probing tongue found empty gums and only a few teeth, and the taste in his mouth was sour and unpleasant. Glancing down, he saw a body encased in dark rags and tatters.
It was Mahri’s body, he suddenly realized. Karl gasped, turning his head to look to the Bastida’s tower, a hundred or more strides away. He saw a tiny figure there, standing on the high balcony of his cell: himself, his hands chained and bound, his head encased in the silencing mask. The figure stared down through the rain toward him, and as Karl watched, the snared hands lifted as if in salute and the captive turned to go back into the cell.
Karl tried to stand. He could not; the body would not obey. Muscles screamed and cramped; he felt as if he were trying to lift the weight of Nessantico itself. “What did you do to me!” he shouted, and the voice wasn’t his: it was phlegm-racked and deeper than his own, the words slurred through the gap-toothed mouth. The sound of it echoing from the nearest buildings made him shut his mouth. The movement had sent a roll of oiled paper tumbling to the grass from his clothing. He reached to pick it up.
Envoy ci’Vliomani-You are no doubt confused and afraid, and that is to be expected. I asked you to trust me, and I ask you to continue to do so. Trust me. If all goes to plan, you will not remain in this body for too long. If the plan fails, then your own body will be destroyed and me with it, but at least you will survive. We are all more than simply the bodies which we inhabit-remember that if the worst happens. Go to my rooms at 12 Rue a’Jeunesse; I will find you there in time, hopefully, and we can each return to the bodies we know best.
Take care of my poor mortal cage as well as you can; I will try to do the same with yours.
Karl read the note twice. The rain splattered and beaded on the paper, blurring the ink despite the oil. He lifted his head to the clouds; the rain felt good on his face, as if it cooled a heat there. He glanced again at the Bastida; he saw only the stones and the dark hole of the opening to his cell. He wondered if Mahri were there, watching him.
He wondered if he were somehow dreaming all of this.
Karl tried to get to his/Mahri’s feet again. This time, he managed it, but he swayed and nearly slid back down. He was the wrong height, and everything felt wrong. He took a tentative step, shuffling along slick, damp grass and bracing himself against the slope that led down to the swirling brown currents of the A’Sele. He nearly fell once more, but forced himself to take another step, then another, moving back toward the streets of Nessantico. Anyone who saw would have guessed that he was drunk. He glanced back again at the Bastida, shaking a head that felt too heavy.
As he walked, he saw people staring at him in disgust before looking away again. He continued on, staying to the shadows as Mahri himself once had, and making his way back to Oldtown and the address that was written on the scroll.
Ana cu’Seranta
The carriage was there for her as she came out of the Archigos’ Temple, as the Kraljiki had promised. A new insignia had been placed on the side of the vehicle, no longer the trumpet flower of the Kraljica, but a fist clad in studded mail. The carriage was drawn by a pair of white stallions. Their reflections shimmered in the puddles left by the afternoon’s rain.
The Archigos came up alongside Ana as she stared at the carriage, as the driver jumped down from his seat to open the door. Kenne and the rest of the staff judiciously kept the congregation spilling out from the church away from the two of them. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Ana,” he said quietly. “Justi is not someone you can trifle with.”
“I understand that,” she told him. “It was you who set me on this course, remember? I promised the Kraljiki I would meet him for dinner.”
His eyes searched hers. “We should not have lies between us.”
Ana grimaced, her lips tightening. She nodded.
she told him. “Which is why I won’t say more.”
She thought he would protest, but the dwarf sighed and touched her hand. “Then be careful, Ana. And be safe.” He gave her the sign of Cenzi, gathered his staff around him, and walked into the crowds, already talking to the waiting ca’-and-cu’. Ana went to the carriage and nodded to the driver, who helped her in and shut the door behind her.
She sat on the leather cushions as the driver called to the horses and they moved away.
They did not go to the main entrance of the Grande Palais off the Avi a’Parete, but to one of the side entrances facing the gardens enclosed by the wings of the palais. Renard was waiting for her at the door as the driver helped her down. “The Kraljiki is in his outer chambers, O’Teni cu’Seranta,” he said. Anything the man might be thinking was carefully veiled. He smiled neutrally; his gaze never staying long on her.
He led her along carpeted back corridors vacant of servants to an unremarkable door. He knocked, turned the handle and opened it, gesturing to her. “If you please, O’Teni,” he said. She approached, glancing inside. “You have only to knock on this door,” Renard said as she glanced into the room beyond. His words were a whisper, private. “At any time.
I will be here to escort you safely out, with no questions.”
She glanced at him. His chin was lifted slightly, and there was open concern in his old eyes. “Thank you, Renard.”
He nodded to her. “He waits for you.”
She went in; Renard shut the door behind her.
The room in which she found herself was richly decorated. Heavy curtains shielded the windows and brought early night to the room, which was illuminated by several dozen candelabra set on the tables and above the mantel, and by a fire that flickered invitingly in the hearth.
A table was set for two in the center of the room, with several covered plates and wine already in the goblets. She could not see anyone in the room, though an open doorway led away into other chambers. A log fell in the hearth with a fountaining of sparks, drawing Ana’s gaze.
She drew in her breath. Over the mantel, swathed in candlelight, was ci’Recroix’s portrait of Kraljica Marguerite, eerily lifelike. She seemed to gaze back at Ana almost sadly, her mouth open as if she were about to speak.
“Startling, isn’t it? I think it’s the eyes that fascinate me most; you can almost see the firelight glinting in them.”
With the sound of the high-pitched voice, Ana spun around to see the Kraljiki standing by the table. He was dressed casually, in a bashta of yellow silk. She tried to smile and failed. “That painting. . Kraljiki, it was ensorcelled and was responsible for your matarh’s death. I’m certain of it. You can ask the Archigos if you don’t believe me. This. . this was the instrument of your matarh’s death.”
The Kraljiki’s shrug closed her mouth. “Perhaps,” he answered in his high voice. “Or perhaps not. It changes nothing, though. The painting’s exquisite, regardless. Ci’Recroix was a true genius, even if he was also an assassin.”
“You’d keep the painting, knowing what I just told you?”
“Would I cast away the Kralji’s ceremonial sword because it has killed before? It’s not the sword that kills, but the person, Ana.” She shivered at his use of her name. “I took the liberty of having our food served already. Sit- the lamb roast, the chef has assured me, is delight-ful and so moist it will dissolve in your mouth. And if the painting bothers you, then sit here, where the fire will warm your back. .” She heard the scrape of a chair on the floor, and turned away from the painting with a final, lingering glance. She allowed the Kraljiki to seat her. His hand lingered on her shoulder for a moment before he took his own seat across from her.
She thought then, for a time, that perhaps he
