A Magic of Twilight

the northeast stairway.

They’ll think you’re heading for the plaza, but keep going down to the tunnels under the plaza. You mapped out an escape route from the tunnels months ago, one you hope that those following you won’t know.

You could do it. Once upon a time. You only have to do it this once more.

Once more: for Ana, for Kenne, for the Kraljica, for those who believe as you do. But you can’t hesitate. You must have faith. Faith, Dhosti.

He could feel the doubt- you’re too old, Dhosti, and even back then you used the Ilmodo, even if you didn’t realize it. All that meditation before the performance you used to do, your hands moving through the routines. .

He forced the pessimism down and away.

He took a breath. He smiled at ca’Cellibrecca.

Then he turned and ran.

He heard the shouts behind him: as he jumped clumsily, grunting, to the marble rail around the balcony, as he bent his knees and tried not to look at the long fall to the flagstones below, as he narrowed his gaze so that all he saw was the pole below and to the side.

He leaped.

He’d forgotten the strange sense of freedom that came with falling, the feeling that he’d surrendered himself to the hands of Cenzi. The wind fluttered his robes, tore at the wispy strands of hair, teared his eyes. He seemed to move in slow motion-as he once had, his body remembering the necessary positions. He saw the pole and reached out, his tiny fingers snaring the cold metal, the shock of the impact trembling the flabby, ancient muscles of his arms. The weight of his body and the force of his motion ripped his right hand from the pole, his short legs flailing to one side. Dhosti gripped the pole desperately with his left hand, but now the skewed angle took his body sideways and out.

His finger slipped. He reached desperately for the banner there and found cloth. He dug his fingers into it as he started to fall again.

He heard the sound of ripping, tearing fabric. He was still holding onto the banner, but the piece he held tore away. He could see the colors in his fisted hand and he was falling free.

He had time only to pray to Cenzi that he would not feel the pain for very long.

Ana cu’Seranta

“Out of my way, woman!”

Ana heard the muffled shout from outside the doors as they rattled in their frames and were flung open. Kenne rushed in with Watha trailing him in wide-eyed panic. Kenne’s face was flushed and his hair was tousled and windblown. He panted as he touched clasped hands to forehead. “O’Teni,” he said, then had to stop for a breath. “You must leave. Now.” The panic in Kenne’s voice was palpable.

“Leave?” Ana frowned. “Kenne, what’s happened?”

He shook his head. “There isn’t time to explain. Ca’Cellibrecca just came with Garde Kralji to the Archigos’ office. The Archigos spoke a. .” Another pause, another hurried breath, a swallow. “. . code phrase he’d given me not long ago, just in case. You have to leave, have to hide. So do I.”

Ana blinked at the torrent of impossible words. “I’ll go to the Kraljiki. .” she began, but Kenne cut off her protest.

“Ca’Cellibrecca wouldn’t move against the Archigos without the Kraljiki’s knowledge. There’s no hope there. Ana, they ordered all the Numetodo executed.”

Ana’s hand went to her neck, but the stone shell wasn’t there, only Cenzi’s globe. “Karl. .” she husked.

“Ci’Vliomani’s vanished,” Kenne told her. “The Bastida’s in an uproar. But ca’Cellibrecca’s come to bring the Archigos before the Guardians of the Faith and the Conclave. Take what you can and flee, Ana.

They’ll be coming for us next. They’re already coming. We don’t have much time at all.”

“Flee? To where?” Ana was rooted where she was. She stammered, wild thoughts chasing themselves in her head. You could go to the Kraljiki.

Surely this is a mistake. He promised you. You gave him your body. “I need to talk to the Archigos.”

“You can’t.” Kenne’s hands gripped her shoulders. His face was very close to hers. “You can’t, Ana,” he repeated, softly. “They’ve taken the Archigos by now, or maybe he’s somehow managed to get away. Either way, he’s gone. He’s given us a little time to save ourselves, and that’s what we have to do.”

“Where are you going?”

“To friends I know. Out of the city. I can’t take you with me, Ana; it’s dangerous enough for them to take me in. You’ll have to find your own way-but whatever you do and wherever you go, you have to

do it now.” He released her. Over his shoulder, Ana saw Watha press her hands to her mouth and flee from the room. “I’m leaving, Ana. I promised the Archigos that I would warn you, and I have. Get out of here. Take only what you can grab. They’ll be coming for you at any moment.”

Ana had no answer. Kenne gave her Cenzi’s sign, touched her shoulder again gently, and left. She listened to his hurrying footsteps.

Somewhere in her apartments, someone was screaming in a high, thin voice. The sound jolted Ana from stasis. She ran to her room, shedding the green robe of the teni as she went. She dressed hurriedly in a plain tashta, and stuffed a carpetbag with some of her old clothing and a purse with a handful of silver siqils and a few gold solas. She could think of nothing else to take; everything in the apartment had been there when it had been given to her.

She left, taking the stairs to the rear of the apartment. None of her servants were to be seen. The thud of the wooden door seemed final, like a hammer nailing closed the lid of a coffin. At the bottom of the stairs, she opened the street door slightly and glanced out. The entrance led onto one of the smaller side streets to the east of the temple plaza; only a cat prowling in the central gutter for food looked at her as she slipped out and started walking quickly away. She could hear the sound of some great commotion in the plaza: shouts and loud cries, and at the end of the street she saw people running in that direction. The low, shuddering, and mournful wind-horns in the temple domes began to sound at the same moment, making Ana shiver. It was still a good two turns of the glass before Third Call, yet someone had set the teni to sounding them.

The sound frightened her, the spectral wail slithering around her.

She turned her back, fleeing from it.

As she half-ran, the bag bouncing against her legs, she wondered where she was going. Not to her old house; she could not involve Matarh in this.

Mahri. . The name came to her as she hurried through the streets toward the Pontica a’Brezi Nippoli, watching for the Garde and ready to duck into a doorway if she caught a glimpse of green robes or any familiar faces. All that insane talk of his being Karl, and yet. .

There was nowhere else she knew to go. She would go to Oldtown.

Its narrow, twisted streets would be as good a place to hide as any.

12 Rue a’Jeunesse was a narrow, thin, two-story building with a gloomy front courtyard. The building was wedged between larger structures on either side, which seemed to be all that held the flimsy, ancient structure together. A tavern occupied the lower floor; a set of rickety stairs led up over a narrow porch to an outside door on the second floor. Ana spoke a prayer of protection as she climbed the steps, a simple warding spell, but the touch of the Ilmodo comforted her.

As her foot touched the landing at the top of the stairs, the door opened. “Hurry!” a voice whispered, and in the candlelit darkness beyond, she glimpsed Mahri holding the door open for her.

“How did you know?”

“He knew. He felt you use the Ilmodo,” Mahri husked in reply. “Get inside-before someone sees you who shouldn’t.”

She wondered who the “he” was that Mahri referred to, but she slid past him (a scent of old clothes and sweat) and into the room. Another person stood there in the shabby, tiny room. Ana gave a cry of delight; without thought, she dropped her bag to the floor and went to him, folding him into her arms. “Karl!”