Furies of Calderon (14 page)

And that meant establishing a strong ruler, and swiftly. Already, the High Lords quietly defied the First Lord’s authority. It would only be a matter of time before the High Lords and their cities disbanded the realm into a cluster of city-nations. And if
that
happened, it would be simple for the enemies of mankind to quietly nibble away at those realms until nothing was left.

Fidelias grimaced, his belly burning more sharply. It had to be done, like a battlefield surgeon forced to remove a mangled limb. There was nothing that would make it less gruesome. The best one could hope for was to get it done as swiftly and cleanly as possible.

Which led to Aquitainus. He was the most ruthless, the most able and perhaps the strongest of the High Lords.

Fidelias’s stomach roiled.

He had betrayed Gaius, the Codex, the Cursors. Betrayed his student, Amara. He had turned his back on them, to support a man who might become the most ruthless and bloodthirsty dictator Alera had ever known. The furies knew, he had tried everything in his power to convince Gaius to take another path.

Aldrick opened his eyes and focused on Fidelias. One hand absently caressed Odiana’s dark wealth of hair, and she let out a pleased little whimper in her sleep, writhing in the man’s lap with liquid sensuality, before settling into stillness again. The swordsman watched Fidelias, his expression unreadable.

Aldrick smiled. “Just hope he’s up drinking. He’s usually in a pretty good mood. Tends to forget his anger by the time the hangover has worn off.”

“It was an idiot’s plan to begin with.”

“Of course. It was his. He isn’t a planner of deception or subterfuge. But I’ve never met a man who could lead as strongly as he does. Or anyone with his raw power.” Aldrick continued stroking the sleeping water witch’s hair, his expression thoughtful. “Are you worried?”

“No,” Fidelias lied. “I’m still too valuable to him.”

“Perhaps, for now.” Aldrick said. He smiled, a mirthless expression. “But I’ll not be loaning you any money.”

Fidelias clucked his teeth. “Direct action would have been premature in any case. By escaping, the girl may have done his Grace the biggest favor of his life.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Aldrick murmured. “But somehow, I’m almost certain that he won’t see it that way.”

Fidelias studied the other man’s face, but the swordsman’s features revealed nothing. His grey eyes blinked lazily, and his mouth curled into a smile, as though taking amusement in Fidelias’s lack of ability to gauge him. The Cursor frowned at the man, a mild expression, and turned to watch the city of Aquitaine come into sight.

First came the lights. Fire-crafters by the dozens maintained the lights along the city’s streets, and they burned with a gentle radiance through the mist-shrouded evening, all soft yellows, deep amber, pale crimson, until the hill upon which the city was built seemed itself to be one enormous, living flame, garbed in warmth and flickering color. Upon the city’s walls, and just beyond them, lights burned with a cold, blue brilliance, casting the ground far around into stark illumination and long black shadows, their harsh glare vigilant against any would-be invaders.

As the litter glided down, and closer, Fidelias could begin to make out shapes in the shifting lights. Statues stood silent and lovely on the streets. Houses, all elegant lines and high arches, contested with one another to prove the most skillfully crafted, the most beautifully lit. Fountains sparkled and flickered, some of them illuminated from below, so that they burned violet or emerald in the darkness, pools of liquid flames. Trees rose up around houses and lined the streets, thriving and beautiful life that had been crafted as carefully as every other part of the city. They, too, wore veils of colored light, and their leaves, already changed into autumn’s brilliant hues, shone in too many shades to count.

The sound of a bell tolling the late hour rose to the descending litter. Fidelias heard the trod of hooves upon paving stones somewhere below and raucous singing from a night club of some kind. Music came up from a garden party as the litter passed over it, strings supporting a sweet alto flute that pursued a gentle, haunting melody. The smell of wood smoke and spices still drifted on the evening breezes, along with the scent of late-blooming flowers and of rain on the wind.

To call Aquitaine beautiful was to call the ocean wet, Fidelias thought. Accurate enough, in its way, but wholly insufficient to the task.

They were challenged by a barking voice before they had come within a long bowshot of the High Lord’s manor, a walled fortress surmounting the hill upon which the city stood. Fidelias watched as a man in the sable and scarlet surcoat of Aquitaine swept down from the air above. A dozen more hovered somewhere in the night sky above them, unseen—but the Cursor could feel the eddies of wind that their furies kicked up in keeping them aloft.

The challenger of the Knights Aeris guarding the High Lord’s manor exchanged a pass phrase with the captain of Fidelias’s own escort, though the exchange had the comfortable, routine air of a formality. Then the group swept on forward, down into the manor’s courtyard, while more guards watched from the walls, along with leering statues wrought in the shapes of hunchbacked, gangly men. The moment Fidelias stepped from the litter, he felt the light, steady tremors of power in the earth that led back to each statue on the wall and found himself staring at the statues.

“Aquitaine is that strong…” Fidelias pursed his lips in thought. He did not agree with the principles of anyone who kept furies within such a restrictive confine—much less those who would trap them there for generations. But it certainly confirmed, had he been in any doubt, that Aquitaine’s raw power was more than sufficient for the task at hand.

The Knights Aeris accompanying the litter departed toward a bunk-house for food and drink, while the captain of Aquitaine’s guard, a young man with an earnest expression and alert blue eyes, opened the door to the litter and extended a courteous hand to those within. Then he led them inside the manor proper.

Fidelias took casual note of the manor as he followed the young captain, marking the doors, the windows, the presence (or evident lack) of guards. It was an old habit, and one he would be foolish to surrender. He wanted to know the best way to leave any place he walked into. Aldrick walked beside him, casually carrying the still-sleeping Odiana as though she weighed no more than an armload of cloth, each footstep something solid, focused.

The young captain swung open a pair of double doors leading into a long feasting hall, complete with mountain-style fire pits built into the floors, already burning though the season had not yet grown truly cold. That dim, crimson light was the only illumination in the hall, and Fidelias took a moment to pause inside the doors and allow his eyes to adjust.

The hall stretched out, lined with a double row of smooth marble pillars. Curtains covered the walls, providing a bit of aesthetic warmth and the perfect cover for eavesdroppers, guards, or assassins. The tables had been taken down for the night, and the only furniture in the hall was a table and several chairs upon a dais at the far end. The shapes of people moved about there, and Fidelias could hear the gentle music of strings.

The captain led them all straight down the hall and toward the dais.

Upon a large chair covered in the fur of a grass lion from the Amaranth Vale sprawled a man—as tall as Aldrick, Fidelias judged, but more slender, and with the appearance of a young man in the prime of his youth. Aquitainus had high cheekbones and a narrow face, led by a strong jaw whose lines were softened by the tumble of dark golden hair that fell to his shoulders. He wore a simple scarlet blouse with black leather breeches and soft, black boots. A goblet dangled lazily in one hand, while the other held the end of a long strip of silken cloth that slowly unwound from the shapely girl dancing before him, gradually baring more and more of her skin. Aquitainus had eyes of pitch black, stark in that narrow face, and he watched the dancing slave with an almost feverish intensity.

Fidelias’s eyes were drawn to the man standing behind and just a bit to one side of the High Lord’s chair. In the dimness, details were difficult to make out. The man wasn’t tall, perhaps only a few inches more than Fidelias himself, but was strongly built, his posture casually powerful, relaxed. He bore a sword at his hip—that much Fidelias could see—and a very slight bulge in his dark grey tunic perhaps revealed the presence of a hidden weapon. Fidelias met the silent man’s eyes, briefly, and found the stranger’s gaze to be opaque, assessing.

“If you value your head, Captain,” Aquitainus murmured, without looking away from the girl, “it can wait until this dance is done.” His voice, Fidelias noted, carried the faintest trace of a drunken slur.

“No, Your Grace,” Fidelias said, stepping forward and past the captain, “it can’t.”

The High Lord’s back stiffened, and he turned his head slowly toward Fidelias. The weight of the man’s dark eyes fell onto the Cursor like a physical blow, and he drew in a sharp breath as he felt the stirring in the earth beneath them, a slow and sullen vibration, deep within the stone—a reflection of the High Lord’s anger.

Fidelias assumed a casually confident stance and reacted as though Aquitainus had acknowledged him. He clasped a fist over his heart and bowed.

There was a long silence before Fidelias heard Aquitainus’s reaction. The man let out a low and relaxed laugh that echoed throughout the nearly deserted hall. Fidelias straightened again, to face the High Lord, careful to keep his expression schooled into neutral respect.

“So,” Aquitainus purred. “This is the infamous Fidelias Cursor Callidus.”

“If it please Your Grace, Cursor no longer.”

“You seem rather unconcerned with my pleasure,” Aquitainus noted, with a droll roll of the hand still clasping the dancing girl’s cloth. “I almost find it disrespectful.”

“No disrespect was intended, Your Grace. There are grave matters that require your attention.”

“Require… my… attention,” murmured Aquitaine with an elegant arch of brow. “My. I don’t think I’ve been spoken to in that fashion since just before my last tutor took that untimely fall.”

The High Lord narrowed his eyes. He remained silent for two score of Fidelias’s quickening heartbeats, but the Cursor refused to let his nervousness show. He took slow and even breaths and remained silent, waiting.

Aquitaine snorted and drank off his remaining wine with an effortless flick of his wrist. He held the goblet out to one side, waited a beat, then released it. The blocky man beside him reached out a hand, snake swift, and caught it. The stranger walked to the table on the dais and refilled the goblet from a glass bottle.

“My sources told me that you had a reputation for insouciance, Fidelias,” Aquitaine murmured. “But I had no idea that it would be so readily forthcoming.”

“If it please Your Grace, perhaps we might table this discussion for the moment. Time may be of the essence.”

The High Lord accepted the goblet of wine from the stranger, glancing at the pretty slave, now kneeling on the floor before him, head bowed. Aquitaine let out a wistful sigh. “I suppose,” he said. “Very well, then. Report.”

Fidelias glanced at the stranger, then at the slave, and then at the hanging curtains. “Perhaps a more private setting would be more appropriate, Your Grace.”

Aquitaine shook his head. “You can speak freely here. Fidelias, may I present Count Calix of the Fever-thorn Border, in service to His Grace, High Lord of Rhodes. He has shown himself to be a shrewd and capable advisor and a loyal supporter of our cause.”

Fidelias shifted his attention to the blocky man beside the High Lord’s seat. “The Fever-thorn Border. Isn’t that where that illegal slaving operation got broken up a few years ago?”

Count Calix spared the former Cursor a thin-lipped smile. When he spoke, his voice came out in a light, rich tenor completely at odds with the heavy power evident in his body. “I believe so, yes. I understand that both the Slavers Consortium and the Dianic League gave you commendations for valor above and beyond the call of duty.”

Fidelias shrugged, watching the other man. “A token gesture. I never was able to turn up enough information to bring charges against the slave ring’s leader.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Whoever he was.”