rainplastered hair from her forehead. “If we’re going to share this uncomfortable coach, we might as well introduce ourselves,” he said finally. “You are…?”
“Remy,” she said. “Remy Bantara.” There was the slightest hesitation as she spoke the last name. She’s lying… Sergei suppressed a twitch of satisfaction. She was a better liar than most, extremely skilled at it, which told him that she was also used to doing so. The hesitation was hardly noticeable, but he’d heard too many lies and evasions in his life. She also kept her right hand under the folds of her overcloak, near the top of her boot. He suspected that she had a weapon there-a knife, most likely. That made him wonder-what else might she be hiding? “And you’re Ambassador Sergei ca’Rudka. The Silvernose,” she added.
“Ah, we’ve met before?”
She shook her head, spraying droplets of water from the spikes of hair. “No. But I’ve heard of you. Everyone has.”
And everyone who sees me for the first time does nothing but stare at my nose. Yet you don’t… Sergei smiled at her. “Where are you going, Vajica Bantara?”
“Nessantico,” she told him. “And you may call me Remy, if you prefer.”
“That’s a long walk, Remy.”
“I’m not required to keep a schedule. I will get there when I get there, Ambassador.”
“You may call me Sergei, if you like. Nessantico, eh? I’m on my way there as well,” he told her. He was certain now. The timbre of her voice, the way she stared intently when she thought she wasn’t being observed, the lack of true subservience in her tone. She’d dyed her hair lighter, and probably cut it herself. This was Rhianna-the girl who Paulus had said that the Hirzg’s people were searching for. Knowing Jan as he did, and hearing the interplay between the Hirzg and Brie, he suspected he knew why. “I’ll be stopping at Passe a’Fiume tonight to sleep and change driver and horse, then on to Nessantico in the morning.” He hesitated. “You’re welcome to accompany me. It’s a far shorter ride than a walk.”
“And what payment would you be expecting, Amba… Sergei?”
“Just the pleasure of conversation,” he told her. “As you said, it’s a long way to Nessantico, and lonely.”
“As I said a moment ago, I’ve heard of you. And some of those tales…” She let her statement trail off into silence. She continued to stare at him.
“I’m not one to believe tales and gossip, myself,” Sergei told her. “I prefer to discover the truth on my own. Someone who’s strong enough to walk to Nessantico is certainly strong enough to fend off an old man who can barely walk, should he go beyond the bounds of politeness. At the very least, you can certainly outrun me.”
She laughed again, a genuine, throaty amusement that made him smile in return. Her hand came out from under her tashta: again, a practiced, effortless movement, not that of a frightened young girl in an uncertain situation, but that of someone who was used to such conditions. He began to wonder if there were more to the story of Jan and Rhianna than he thought.
You could make her talk. You could make her tell you everything.
The thought was sweet and tempting, but he thrust it away. Instead, he continued to smile. “I can arrange a room for you at the Kraljica’s apartments in Passe a’Fiume,” he said. “I can also assure you that the locks work perfectly well. In exchange, you can tell me your story. Are we agreed?”
“Only if you tell me yours as well,” she answered. “Yours would be far more interesting, I assure you.”
“The other person’s tale is always more interesting,” he said. “Frankly, my tale is rather boring. But-we have an agreement, then. So-let’s start. Tell me, why is a young woman walking to Nessantico in the rain?”
She looked away then. He could almost hear her thinking. He wondered what she would say, but he was certain that whatever it was would not be the truth.
“It’s because of my great-vatarh,” she said. “We lived not far outside Ville Colhelm, and he had decided that I had to marry this boy from the farm next to ours-”
“That’s a lie,” Sergei interrupted. He kept his voice calm. Unperturbed. “I’m sure you’d make it a very entertaining and convincing lie, but it’s a lie nonetheless.”
Her hand drifted back under her tashta-smoothly, a movement that would have gone unnoticed by most eyes, since at the same time she shifted her position on the seat, placing both legs down as if she were readying herself to move. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re right. I’m not from Ville Colhelm, not from the Holdings at all. I’m from Sesemora, from a town on the Lungosei, but my family is largely from Il Trebbio, and so they were under constant suspicion. The Pjathi’s soldiers came one day, and-”
Sergei was already shaking his head and she stopped. “Why don’t you tell me your real name,” he asked. “Rhianna, perhaps? Or is that one also a lie?” He saw her gaze dart to the door of the carriage. “Don’t,” he told her. “There’s no need for you to be alarmed. As you said, you know me. I have done terrible things in my lifetime, and there’s nothing you can tell me, I suspect, that will shock me. Whatever you’ve done, whatever’s happened to you, I’ve no intention of holding you. Especially since you have your hand on a knife at the moment, and my only weapon is this cane.” He lifted it, moving deliberately slowly and grimacing as if it pained him to lift his shoulder-he also neglected to mention the blade he could draw from the sheath of the cane at need, or the fact that Varina had enchanted the cane for him: with the release word she had taught him-she claimed-he could kill an attacker instantly. He had never used the release word, since Varina had said that the spell was incredibly costly and she could not (or would not) do it again. “Use it only in dire need,” she had told him. “Only when there is no other option open for you…”
“The door is unlocked, and I will sit over here away from it,” he told the young woman. Grunting, he slid on the seat to the side opposite the door. “You can reach it long before I could stop you. There-now you can escape into this horrible weather whenever you like. But if you’re staying, I would like to hear your story. The true one.”
She stared at him, and he held her gaze placidly. He saw her relax slowly, though the hand never left her hidden weapon. “I could kill you, Sergei,” she told him. “Easily.”
“I’ve no doubt of that. And if it happens, well, I’ve lived a long life and I’ll trust you are skilled enough to make my end fast and easy.”
“I’m not joking.”
“Neither am I,” he answered. “So, is your name even Rhianna?”
The silence stretched long enough that he thought she wasn’t going to answer. There was only the creaking of the carriage and the rocking motion of the ruts of the Avi. She slid closer to the door, and he thought she would bolt out into the rain again to be gone forever. Then she let all the air out of her body in one great sigh. She looked away from him, lifting the flap of the door to stare at the rain.
“Rochelle is what my matarh named me,” she said.
Nico Morel
Fire slithered up the walls, licking at the faces of painted Moitidi and long-dead Archigi. Smoke hid the summit of the dome from view, coiling toward the openings of the great lantern at its very top. The chanting of the war-teni and the shrieking of their spells was a backdrop to the screaming of the injured and the calls of the Morellis as Nico half-ran, half-stumbled toward the main gates with Liana struggling behind him. “Absolute!” Ancel shouted, and he saw the man’s gaunt figure through the haze. “The gardai are charging toward the temple!”
“Tell the war-teni to respond,” Nico called. “They’ll break. They’ll run.” He said it with a confidence that he no longer felt, and he apologized to Cenzi for his doubt. I’m sorry, Cenzi. I believe. I do…
The ferocity of the initial attack had surprised him. Nothing he’d seen in the dreams that Cenzi had given him had prepared him for the reality of this battle. The war-teni had been unable to turn that initial attack-it had happened too quickly, and they had mistakenly thought that the fireballs were created from the Ilmodo when they were purely physical: black sand projectiles that exploded on contact. The blasts tore open the doors they’d so carefully barricaded: broken timbers and stone shot backward like terrible missiles into the main temple, hurling pews and raining dust and debris. At least two hands of his people had died in that first, horrible moment, and many more had been injured. The screams of the wounded still echoed in his head. He’d gone to them, comforting them as best he could, praying to Cenzi that He move through Nico’s hands and heal them-and for some, He had responded, though it left Nico as tired as if he’d used the Ilmodo himself against the tenets of the Divolonte, which
