Allesandra ca'Vorl.

"THE WHITE STONE . . ."

"It must have been the Kraljiki who hired him . . ."

"The Numetodo hired him . . ."

"The Tennshah hired him . . ."

"I heard that the A'Hirzg has been targeted herself, and her son . . ."

Allesandra heard the rumors. They were inescapable, choking Firenzcia like the fog that rose every evening from the woods around Stag Fall Palais, where Starkkapitan Armen ca'Damont and Commandant Helmad cu'Gottering of the Garde Hirzg had ordered the family be taken after the a.s.sa.s.sination. "The Commandant and I can protect you best there, A'Hirzg," ca'Damont had said. She'd nodded stone-faced to him.

Pretense . . . She had to keep up the proper face. She had to make the ca'-and-cu' believe that she grieved. She had to make them believe what she would ask of them.

Soon. Even if there was little hope now.

Security was visible everywhere around the palais, with gardai seemingly at every corner. Allesandra stood on the high balcony of the palais now, staring down to the tops of the fir trees below her on the steep flanks of the mountains, and to the gray-white strands of mist that wound between them, lifting as the sun set. She rubbed a pale-colored, flat pebble between her fingers.

She heard the door to the balcony open, followed by the murmuring of male voices. She turned to see Semini approaching her like a green-clad and sober-faced bear. He said nothing, padding softly toward her and stopping an arm's length away-there were gardai to either side of them, a careful several strides away. He put his arms on the railing of the balcony and stared off into the mist coiling like sinewed arms around the trees, as if ghosts were tending a garden, reaching down to pull the weeds from between the wanted plants. Occasionally, a wisp would reach the level of the balcony, and cold, damp air would slide around Allesandra's ankles as if trying to pull her down into the gathering dark.

"So . . ." The word sounded like a low wind through the pine needles. "Will the White Stone be coming for me, now?" She saw his gaze flick down to the stone she held in her fingers.

"I didn't hire him, Semini," Allesandra said. Him . . . She wondered about that now. Elissa had seemingly vanished the same day Fynn had died, devastating Jan with another emotional hammer blow atop the death of his Onczio Fynn. Two days later, a frantic message came from Jablunkov saying that Elissa, daughter of Elissa and Josef (nee ca'Evelii) ca'Karina had died six years ago and could the A'Hirzg possibly have made some mistake.

Allesandra wondered. It was possible that 'Elissa' had fled only because she knew that Allesandra had sent a letter to the ca'Karina family. It was possible that she'd run only because she knew her deception would be exposed. It was possible there was no connection between her disappearance and Fynn's death. Still, being close to Jan meant that Elissa had also had access to Fynn, and in Allesandra's experience it was dangerous to believe in coincidence. It was safer to see instead the knife-edge of conspiracy under coincidence's veil.

The White Stone's voice . . . Could it have been a woman's, pitched low?

Semini was nodding as he glanced at the pebble in her hand. "Is that . . . ?"

She lifted the stone so he could see it. "Yes," she said. "This was what the White Stone left behind. It . . . reminds me of Fynn, and it reminds me that I will find who hired the White Stone and punish them."

Another nod. Semini was staring down again into the trees. "The Council of Ca' will be unanimous in naming you Hirzgin. Congratulations." His voice was flat. "But you could have had that weeks ago, if you hadn't sent Jan to save Fynn."

"I'm glad someone remembers that. But . . . I have no intention of being Hirzgin, Semini."

That brought his face around to her again. A hand rubbed the silver-flecked beard as his dark eyes searched hers. "You're serious."

"I am."

"I thought-"

"You think entirely too much, Semini," she told him, then softened her rebuke with a smile. The garda behind was looking the other way, and her body shielded the one behind her. She reached out to stroke his arm, once. "I intend to renounce my t.i.tle of A'Hirzg. After all, too many people will be thinking just as you're thinking right now. There would always be whispers that I had Fynn killed so that I might take the throne in Brezno. If I step down, that gossip will die with my abdication. I will leave it to the Council of Ca' to name a new Hirzg for Firenzcia."

One thick eyebrow curved high on Semini's forehead. "Have you spoken to Pauli?"

The mention of his name threw a cold barrier between them, or perhaps it was the fog. She withdrew her hand. "It's not my husband's decision to make," Allesandra told him sharply, then smiled again. "But it will be interesting to watch his face when I stand up in front of the Council and say this-and I expect it to be entirely a surprise to him, Semini. I also expect that he'll be rushing back to West Magyaria in a rage the next day, complaining to Gyula Karvella how the wife that he and Hirzg Jan handpicked for him has ruined him."

"You'd truly leave the decision to the Council?"

"Oh, I've already spoken to some of them. Enough of them for my purposes, anyway. I've suggested that-after due deliberation-the Council might come to believe that my brother's recent actions have shown them whom he currently favored as successor: someone who had amply demonstrated his loyalty and skill. Why, Jan would grow into a fine Hirzg, don't you think?-one who would rule strongly and well for many years to come."

Semini chuckled, softly at first, then more enthusiastically. "So that's your intention."

The stone felt like ice in her hand. "Not entirely. I'm thinking of the future, Semini. Perhaps when the Holdings and the Coalition are united again and a competent ruler sits on the Sun Throne, and there is a righteous Archigos in the Temple of Cenzi who has also reunited the severed halves of the Faith, then Jan would be that Kralji's perfect strong right arm."

His face was split with a wide smile now. "Allesandra, you surprise me."

"I shouldn't," she told him. "You and I, Semini, are on the same side in this." She rubbed the stone between her fingers and tucked it into a pocket of her tashta. She would have it mounted in gold on a fine chain. She would wear it under her tashta when she spoke to the Council, wear it alongside the broken globe of Cenzi that Archigos Ana had given her. It would be a reminder of guilt, a reminder that she had acted in haste and done worse to her brother than her vatarh and he had ever done to her. I'm sorry, Fynn. I'm sorry that we never really knew each other. I'm sorry . . .

She placed her hand on the railing, close to Semini's hand, as she looked down again into the mists. A few breaths later, she felt the warmth of Semini's hand carefully covering hers.

They stood that way until darkness came and the first stars p.r.i.c.ked the dark blue of the sky.

Eneas cu'Kinnear.

THE MOUTH OF THE A'SELE was its widest here. The city of Fossano sat on the southern bank, the hills to the north tiny and hazed with blue on the far side, fading into invisibility as they curved away across the yawning gulf of A'Sele Bay. Dozens of trade ships plied the silt-brown water, traveling upriver to Nessantico or downriver toward Karnmor or other countries to the north or south, or even across the Strettosei itself. The water of A'Sele Bay was colored by the soil the A'Sele carried from its tributaries, with its sweet freshness coiling and fading eventually into the cobalt salt depths of the Nostrosei.

Eneas was at last back in Nessantico proper. Back in the Holdings. Back on the mainland. The scent of salt was faint here, and he stayed well away from it. From here, he would travel the main road east to Vouziers, then north to Nessantico herself at last.

Home. He was nearly home. He could taste it.

In Fossano, everything felt familiar and comfortable. The architecture echoed the solid, ornamented buildings of the capital city just as the temples were smaller replicas of the great cathedrals on the South Bank and the Isle of the Kralji, thirty-some leagues up the rushing waters of the A'Sele. There was nothing of the square, flat buildings of the Westlanders, or of the odd spires and whitewashed flanks of Karnor.

The h.e.l.lins and the battles Eneas had experienced felt distant to him as he looked out from a tavern in South Hills, as if they had happened to someone else in another life. He was floating detached from the memories; he could see them but couldn't touch them, and they couldn't touch him.

But . . . always in his head there was this faint voice, the voice he knew now was Cenzi. Yes . . . I hear you, Lord of All. I listen . . .

Eneas heard His Voice now, as he touched his pack, the niter he'd purchased in Karnor heavy at the bottom. He stood at the open window of his room in the Old Chevaritt's Inn, and he could faintly catch the scent of burning nearby, and the Voice called to him to go out. Go out. Find the source. Find what was needed now.

He obeyed, as he must. He put on his uniform, buckled his sword around his hip, and left the inn.

Fossano's streets angled up and down steep inclines, and wandered as if laid out by a drunken man. This area of town, outside the old city walls and away from the densely-packed center, had been farmland until recently. The houses and buildings were still widely separated by small fields where sheep, goats, and cows grazed or where farmers planted crops. The smell of sharp burning intensified as Eneas followed the road farther out from the town, until the houses vanished entirely and the road became no more than a rutted, weed-overgrown path.

Eneas rounded a k.n.o.b of tree-dotted granite. A bluish trail of smoke was visible, coiling from near a ramshackle hut set in an unworked field. Cords of hardwood littered the yard, and three men were piling the cords into a rounded pile-already twice a man's height and several strides around. Nearby, another mound of wood had been covered with soil and turf, and smoke drifted from vent holes around the perimeter of the mound and from the covered chimney at the top. The men glanced up as Eneas approached, and he swept back his travel cloak to reveal the crest of the Garde Civile and the hilt of his sword: coalliers were known to be a rough and untrustworthy lot, living in small groups in the forested areas outside the town. A mound of cordwood might take two or three weeks to smolder and fume through the transformation to hard, pure black charcoal, and required constant tending or the coalliers would remove the earthen covering to find only ash. Coalliers stayed to themselves, venturing in only to sell bags of the charcoal they produced, and moving on to new areas of forest as the suitable trees nearby were depleted. Their poor reputation was enhanced by the fact that they'd often mix the charcoal with lumps of dirt and rocks so that the quality of the coal might be less than desirable. In Nessantico, there were e-teni whose task it was to produce the fine, gemlike charcoal used in the smelting furnaces of the great city, and to heat the houses of the ca'-and-cu'. Here, the work wasn't done through the power of the Ilmodo, but through the back-breaking and dirty labor of common people.

He waved at the coalliers as they stared, hands crossed on chests or at their hips. "What'ya be wantin', Vajiki?" one of them asked. He had a wen under his left eye like half a red grape glued to his skin, adorned with a tuft of wiry hair that matched the man's scraggly beard; the wen's twin sat off-center in the middle of his forehead. The speaker was older than the other two by several years; Eneas wondered if he might not be the vatarh or onczio of the younger two. "Lost your troop, eh?" The trio chuckled at the man's poor jest with grim laughter as dark as the soot that stained their hands and faces.

"I need charcoal," Eneas told them. "The highest quality you have. A sack of it with no impurities. This is what Cenzi desires."

They laughed again. The man with the wens rubbed at his face. "Cenzi, eh? Are you claiming to be Cenzi, or are you a teni, too, Vajiki? Or maybe just slightly light in the head?" Again the rough laughter a.s.saulted Eneas, as the wind sent smoke from the fire mound wrapping around the coalliers. "We'll be in town next Mizzkdi, Vajiki, with all the charcoal you'd want. Wait until then. We're busy."

"I need it now," Eneas persisted. "I'm leaving town tomorrow for Nessantico."

The man glanced at his companions. "Traveling, eh? You're not from Fossano, then?" Eneas shook his head. A smile touched the face of the older coallier. "He's fancy-lookin', isn't he, boys? Look at that bashta and them boots. Why, I'll wager he's from Nessantico itself. An' I'll bet he has a purse heavy enough to buy that charcoal he's wantin' and more."

The man took a step toward Eneas; he lifted his sword halfway from its scabbard. "I don't want trouble, Vajiki," Eneas told them. "Just your coal. I'll give you a good price for it-twice the going rate, and with Cenzi's blessing and no haggling."

"Twice the rate, and a blessing besides." Another step. "Ain't we the lucky ones, boys?" The two younger men were moving slowly to either side of Eneas, hemming him in. He saw a knife in one man's hand; the other held a stick of hardwood like a cudgel.

Eneas had seen enough brawls in his life-they were endemic among the troops, and common enough in the taverns of the towns at night. He knew that the bravery of the group would last only as long as their leader stayed untouched. The man with the wens was grinning now as he stooped down to pick up a piece of cordwood himself. He slapped the length of wood against a callused palm. "I'm thinkin' you'll be giving us that purse now, Vajiki, if you want to spare yourself a beatin'," he said. "After all, three against one-"

That was as far he got. In a single motion, Eneas drew his sword from his scabbard and struck, the steel ringing and flashing in the sunlight. The coallier's improvised club went spinning away, his hand still grasping the wood. The man gaped down at the stump as blood spurted from the arm. He howled as Eneas spun around, his sword now threatening the throat of the man with the knife. The coallier dropped his weapon and backed hastily away; the other was staring wide-eyed at the man with the wens, who had sunk to his knees, still howling, his remaining hand clasped around the stub of his forearm. "Tie that arm off to stop the bleeding if you want your friend to live," Eneas said to the coalliers. He picked up the knife the man had dropped. "Where's your charcoal?"

One of them gestured toward the crude hut. Eneas saw a cart there, dark lumps piled in one corner. A pile of burlap sacks were stacked near one of the wheels. He cleaned his blade on the gra.s.s of the field, sheathed it, and strode over to the cart and filled one of the sacks. The man whose hand he'd severed had subsided into moans and wails, falling to his side as his two companions knelt alongside him. Eneas slung the sack over his shoulder. He walked back to the coalliers and tossed a single gold solas on the gra.s.s between them-more money than they would have made for an entire wagonload of charcoal. They stared at the coin. The two younger men had tied a tourniquet around the stump of their leader, but his face was pale and the wens stood out like ruddy pebbles on his face. A wound like that, Eneas knew, was fatal as often as not: from blood loss, or from the Black Rot that often struck wounded limbs.

"May Cenzi have mercy on you," he said to him. "And may He forgive you for impeding His will."

With that, he shifted the weight of the sack on his shoulder and started back toward town.

Nico Morel.

"HE'S JUST A BOY, KARL. An innocent child. Don't you dare hurt him."

Nico heard Varina's voice through the locked door as he huddled against the wooden wall in the pile of blankets. He heard a male voice reply-Karl? he wondered-but the voice was too low, and Nico couldn't make out all the words through the wooden door separating them, only the phrase ". . . what I have to do." Then the door opened, and Nico flung an arm over his eyes against the light coming from the other room. A shadow lurked in the doorway and came over to him, bootsteps loud on the creaking floorboards. Nico blinked up at the man; a glimpse of graying hair and a well-trimmed beard, and soft eyes that belied the grim line of the mouth under the mustache. The man's bashta was fine and clean, the cloth shining and soft when it brushed against Nico's skin as the man knelt in front of him. One of the ca'-and-cu', Nico decided.

"I don't know nothing," Nico said again, wearily, before the man could speak. He'd said the words too many times already, in as many variations as his tired mind could summon. The woman-Varina-had asked him over and over again about Talis: if he knew where Talis was living now, how Talis was connected to him and his matarh, whether he knew where Talis was from or what he did, and where Talis had learned to use the Ilmodo (except that Varina sometimes used another word for 'Ilmodo,' which sounded like Scawth something or other). Nico hadn't told them anything because he knew Talis wouldn't want that. They wanted to hurt Talis; Nico was certain of that.

The man cupped his hand in front of Nico and spoke a strange word like the ones that Talis sometimes chanted when he was doing magic. Nico could feel the cold of the Ilmodo close to him, the hair on his forearms standing up as a ball of soft, yellow light appeared, like a ball of flame sitting on the man's upturned palm. In the light, Nico could see the face clearly, and he gasped.

He knew that face. This was the man who had attacked Talis in the street: Amba.s.sador ca'Vliomani, the Numetodo. Nico hissed and pressed his back against the wall, as if he could melt completely through the wood and out to freedom. He wanted the cold anger to fill him again, but he was so tired and frightened that he couldn't summon up the feeling.

"Ah, so you do recognize me," the man said. "I thought you might. I certainly recognize you, Nico." He had an accent, but not the same one Talis had. This accent lilted and swirled, coming from deeper in the throat and not through the nose. He left out the "h' in thought, saying it as "tot." The amba.s.sador lowered his hand to the floor and the ball of light rolled sluggishly from his hand to gutter against the floorboard. The long shadow of the man shifted on the walls.

"Are you going to hurt me?" Nico's voice sounded tiny and nearly lost to his own ears: a husk, a whisper of breeze.

The man didn't answer. Not directly. "The last time I saw you, Nico, I was nearly killed by the man with you. What was his name? Talis?" Nico was shaking his head, but the man smiled against his denial. "I really need to talk to Talis, Nico," the man continued. "And I'll bet you'd like to talk to him also."

"You're mad at him," Nico said. "You'll try to hurt him."

"I'm not mad at him," the Amba.s.sador replied. "I know that's hard for you to believe, but it's true. There are things I need to ask him, urgent and important things, and he didn't give me a chance. That's all. We had a . . . a misunderstanding."

"You promise?"

The man didn't reply, but reached into a pouch tied to his side, unwrapped something in waxed paper, and held it out toward Nico. Nico flinched back away for a moment, then leaned forward again when the man continued to hold out his hand: there in the palm was a plump date drizzled with honey and dotted with diced sweetnut. Nico's mouth watered; Varina had fed him bread and cheese and given him water, but he was still a little hungry after his long walk from Ville Paisli, and the sight of the date made his mouth water helplessly. "Go on, Nico, take it," the man said. "I brought it just for you."

Hesitantly, Nico reached for the candied fruit. When his fingers touched the loud, crinkled paper, he s.n.a.t.c.hed the date from the man's hand as quickly as he could. He stuffed it whole into his mouth, and the smoky sweetness of the honey rolled on his tongue, blending with the tart bite of the date. The man continued to smile, watching him. He thought the man's face didn't look so angry now, and there was a kindness in the wrinkles around his eyes.

"You know, I have great-children who are about your age," the man said to Nico. "A little younger, but not much. You'd like them, I think, if you met them. They live on the Isle of Paeti. Do you know where that is?"

Nico nodded. Matarh had shown him a map of the Holdings, and pointed to the countries and made him learn them.

"Paeti's a long way from here," the man said. "But I'd like to go back there one day. What about you, Nico? Were you born here in Nessantico?"

Another nod. Nico licked his lips, tasting the sticky remnants of the honey.

"What about your matarh? Where's she from?"

"Here." The word came out half-strangled. The lingering taste of the date had turned bitter. He cleared his throat.

"Ah . . ." The man seemed to consider that for a moment, his gaze drifting momentarily away from Nico. He saw movement at the doorway and saw Varina leaning there. The man and Varina glanced at each other, and something in the way they looked made Nico think that they were a couple like Talis and his matarh. "And your vatarh? Is Talis from here?"

Nico started to shake his head, then stopped. Talis wouldn't want Nico talking about him. What happened has to be a secret . . . That's what Talis had said. He'd trusted Nico.

"He's from the Westlands beyond the h.e.l.lins, isn't he?" Karl persisted. "He's one of the ones that call themselves Tehuantin. Nico, you know that the Holdings is at war with the Westlanders, don't you? You understand that?"

A nod. Nico didn't dare open his mouth. He'd never heard that one word: Tehuantin. It sounded like a word Talis might say, though, just the sound of it. He could hear it, in Talis' accent.

"Where's your matarh, Nico? We should take you back to her, but you need to tell us where she is."

"She's with my tantzia," Nico said. "She's a long way from here. I . . . left her." He didn't want to tell the Amba.s.sador about his cousins and the way they'd treated him. But thinking of that made him think of his matarh, and he suddenly wanted more than anything to be with her. He could feel tears starting in his eyes, and he wiped at them almost angrily, not wanting to let the Amba.s.sador see. Varina moved from the doorway to crouch beside him. Her arms went around him, and it felt almost as good as having Matarh hug him.

"Is Talis with your matarh?" Karl asked.

That seemed safe enough to answer. He didn't want the Amba.s.sador going to Matarh, and if the man knew that Talis wasn't there, well, he'd leave her alone. "No," he said. He sniffed. "Karl, enough," Varina said.

He ignored her. "Where's Talis now, Nico?"

"I don't know." When ca'Vliomani just crouched there, not saying anything, Nico lifted a shoulder. "I don't. I really don't."

Ca'Vliomani c.o.c.ked his head as he looked at Nico. He cupped a hand around Nico's chin and lifted his head until Nico was forced to stare in his unblinking eyes. He heard Varina draw in her breath above him. "That's the truth?"

Nico nodded vigorously. The man stared a few minutes longer, then let his hand drop away. He and Varina glanced at each other again. To Nico, it seemed as if they were talking without saying anything. Ca'Vliomani's fingers stroked his beard, scowling as if dissatisfied. His voice sounded lighter and less ominous now. "What are you doing in Oldtown, Nico? Why aren't you with your matarh?"

That was too complicated to answer. Nico shook his head against the welter of possible answers. He wasn't certain himself now why he was here. "I thought maybe . . ." The tears were threatening again and he stopped to take a breath. "I thought maybe Talis might still be where we used to live."

"He's not." It was Varina who answered. Her hand stroked his back. "We've been watching."

"Well, he saw you, then," Nico said confidently. "Talis is smart. He would see you watching and he wouldn't go there."

"He wouldn't have seen me," Varina answered, but Nico didn't believe that. He wiped at his eyes again.

"Do you have family here?" ca'Vliomani asked. "Someone to look after you?"