“I would not stand too close to the new Hirzg…” A magical attack, then? A fireball like that of the war-teni? Semini had been a war-teni, after all. But the Archigos certainly wouldn’t use the Ilmodo himself, or dare to have someone else do so when it would draw suspicion toward the teni and thus to him.
“As your Hirzg, I promise you that I will continue my vatarh’s desire to make Firenzcia first among all nations…”
Allesandra glanced over her shoulder. The ca’-and’cu and the visiting dignitaries were arrayed behind her, and at the rear, the servants waited. There was nothing unusual there. She started to turn back when motion caught her eye.
“… a dream that would see Brezno as the center of the world. ..”
One of the servants was moving forward, bearing a tray with a pitcher of water. He moved slowly through the ranks, murmuring apologies as he pushed carefully through the rows. Moving toward Fynn. The servant’s attention never seemed to leave her brother and something in the intensity of that gaze alarmed her. Semini, in the most telling action of all, muttered something to Francesca and was sidling away from Fynn, toward the far edge of the platform.
There are those who use magic and are enemies of Firenzcia, who would gladly kill the new Hirzg and would cast no suspicion on the Archigos at all. Allesandra felt a chill of fear; she was no longer so certain of this plan of hers. She had expected the attack to be physicaclass="underline" a knife, a sword, an arrow. Vatarh wouldn’t have hesitated, not if he thought there was still a chance of success. And you are his daughter, the one who is most like him…
“Jan,” she said, leaning over to her son. “That man-the servant, behind us, moving forward with the tray-no, don’t look at him directly, but do you see him?”
Jan’s head moved quickly left, then back. “Yes.”
“He’s a Numetodo. An assassin.”
Jan blinked. “What?”
“Believe me,” she whispered furiously. At the dais, Fynn was still declaiming: “A new day for Firenzcia, a new dawn…” “When he puts the tray down, all he’ll need to do is speak a word and make a motion with his hands-we can’t let that happen. I’ll confront him to slow him down; you come from the side. Go!” She pushed at him. With a glance, Jan turned and muttered apologies as he slipped backward through the ranks of the ca’-and-cu’. Pauli glanced over at them, curious, then returned his attention to the young ca’Belgradi woman. Allesandra stepped carefully behind Fynn, and turned to face the servant.
There were only a few people between them. The servant with the tray stopped, seeing her swivel to face him, and his face tightened. She thought for a moment that she was mistaken, that the man was nothing more than what he pretended to be. But the next few breaths would be ones that Allesandra would never forget.
… the servant tossed the tray aside (the ca’-and-’cu’ next to him reacting belatedly as tray, pitcher, mug, and water cascaded over them). He lifted his hands as if he were about to pray…
… as Allesandra flung herself toward him, only to be impeded by those between them, pushing back against her advance…
… fire bloomed between the assassin’s hand as he roared a single word that sounded like the teni language. Allesandra expected to die then, consumed by the teni-fire that would also take her brother…
… but Jan slammed into the man at the moment the Numetodo opened his hands, bearing him down. (Around them, mouths gaped in mid-shout, most of them not yet realizing what was happening and wondering why this rude young man had shoved them aside, or why this clumsy servant had despoiled their fine clothing. Behind her back, Allesandra heard Fynn falter and go silent. She could imagine him turning, slowly, to see the commotion behind him.) The mage-fire arced sideways and up rather than toward Fynn and Allesandra. Ca’-and-cu’ screamed as the fire touched them, tearing through them and blossoming into a fireball that exploded at eye level to the statue of Falwin. Red light pulsed and died, brighter than the sun, and now the crowds screamed also.
“Jan!” Allesandra called in panic, and she pushed forward to get to him. He seemed unhurt, struggling with the Numetodo though the man seemed curiously lethargic in Jan’s hands, as if stunned by the turn of events. Around them, there was chaos. She heard Fynn shouting.
Allesandra slid her own dagger from its sheath on her sleeve. Kneeling quickly, she plunged it under the jaw of the Numetodo and yanked it viciously sideways. Blood spurted and fountained, sticky and hot as it streamed over her hand and arm. “Matarh!” Jan said, and she heard the horror in his voice as the blood splashed over him as well. Hands were grabbing at them; the gardai had arrived, their swords drawn, shoving ca’-and-cu’ aside. Fynn bellowed orders.
“Who did this!” she heard him shout at her back. She turned to him, the front of her clothing ruined with gore.
“My son saved your life and mine, my Hirzg, my brother,” she told him. “And I’ve made certain that this assassin will never strike at you again.”
The cold shadow of Falwin’s statue touched her. She could see Archigos ca’Cellibrecca behind Fynn, and confusion and disbelief fought with horror on Semini’s bearded features. Allesandra thought there was near-disappointment in the way Fynn stared down at the body. Pauli pushed forward and came to a stunned halt alongside Fynn as Allesandra let her dagger drop from her fingers. It clattered loudly on the planks of the dais.
“I need to clean myself of this filth,” she told them calmly. “Fynn-talk to your people. Calm them. Reassure them. That’s what the Hirzg needs to do.”
He scowled at her: as he always scowled when someone deigned to order him about. But he turned to the horrified, worried crowd, and he began to speak.
The White Stone
She watched the assassination attempt from within the crowd, unnoticed and safe. How terribly clumsy, she thought, as people gaped and shouted and screamed around her. Clumsy and stupid people gaped and shouted and screamed around her. Clumsy and stupid to boot.
A knife was a much better weapon than magic. Stealth was much better than a brute attack. You should be there to see your victim’s eyes when you strike. You should see yourself reflected in his pupils. You should feel the heat of the blood washing over your hands.
She’d been taught her blade skills at an early age, in the warrens of An Uaimth. Her body still had the scars of those lessons, and she’d thought more than once that she herself would die of them. Her teachers were the dregs of society, the dark and twisted folk who were too violent and too twisted and too damaged to be tolerated by polite society. They were dangerous, and she had found herself abused and used and injured by them more than once. But they had physical skills she wanted, gained with blood and pain and fury. She had learned those lessons well, taking from each what she could.
She was never again going to let someone take advantage of her. She was never going to be weak. She was never going to let herself be vulnerable.
She had to kill a few of her “teachers,” when they became too dangerous or when they tried to become too close, when they began to pry or to guess her secrets. She had left her calling card with each of them, a white pebble over the left eye. The White Stone… She’d begun to hear the name, whispered in the streets. He always leaves a stone on the left eye…
They always assumed it was “he”; that was protection, too. She could walk anywhere and never be suspected.
And they never knew there were always two stones; that she took one from victim’s right eye to keep with her. To keep them with her.
That stone was in the small leather pouch tied around her neck, nestled between her breasts under her clothing. That was with her always.
She touched the pouch now as the crowds surged toward the dais, as the A’Hirzg stood up covered in the blood of the assassin and the new Hirzg raised his hands to the crowds and called out for them to be calm.