She sometimes had difficulty imagining him galloping madly into battle-though he could ride as well as any, and had keen sight that an archer would envy. Still, he often seemed more comfortable with scrolls and books than swords. And despite his parentage, despite the act (purely of duty) that had produced him, despite the surliness and barely-hidden anger that seemed to consume him lately, she loved him more than she had thought it possible to love anyone.
And she worried, in the last year especially, that she was losing him, that he might be falling under Pauli’s influence. Pauli had been absent through most of Jan’s life, but maybe that was Pauli’s advantage: it was easier to dislike the parent who was always correcting you, and to admire the one who let you do whatever you wanted. There’d been that incident with the staff girl, and Allesandra had needed to send her away- that was too much like Pauli.
“Come in, darling,” she said, beckoning to him.
Jan nodded without smiling, went to the dressing table where she sat, and touched his lips to the top of her head-the barest shadow of a kiss-as the women helping her dress drifted away silently. “Onczio Fynn sent me to fetch you,” he said. “Evidently it’s time.” A pause. “And evidently I’m little better than a servant to him. Just Magyarian chattel to be sent on errands.”
“Jan!” she said sharply. She gestured with her eyes to her maidservants. They were all West Magyarians, part of the entourage that had come with Jan from Malacki.
He shrugged, uncaring. “Are you coming, Matarh, or are you going to send me back to Fynn with your own response like a good little messenger boy?”
You can’t respond here the way you want to. Not where everything we say could become court gossip tonight. “I’m nearly ready, Jan,” she said, gesturing. “We’ll go down together, since you’re here.” The servants returned, one brushing her hair, another placing a pearl necklace that had once been her matarh Greta’s around her neck, and yet another adjusting the folds of her tashta. She handed another necklace to her dressing girclass="underline" a cracked globe on a fine chain, the continents gold, the seas purest lapiz lazuli, the rent in the globe filled with rubies in its depths-Cenzi’s globe. Archigos Ana had given her the necklace when she’d reached her own menarche, in Nessantico.
“It belonged to Archigos Dhosti once,” Ana had told her. “He gave it to me; now I give it to you.” Allesandra touched the globe as the servant fastened it around her neck and remembered Ana: the sound of her voice, the smell of her.
“Everyone keeps telling me how Onczio Fynn will make a fine Hirzg,” Jan said, interrupting the memory.
“I know,” Allesandra began. And why would you expect anything else? she wanted to add. Jan knew the etiquette of court well enough to understand that.
He evidently saw the unspoken remark in her face. “I wasn’t finished. I was going to say that you would make a better one. You should be the one wearing the golden band and the ring, Matarh.”
“Hush,” she told him again, though more gently this time. The maidservants were her own, true, but one never knew. Secrets could be bought, or coaxed out through love, or forced through pain. “We’re not at home, Jan. You must remember that. Especially here…”
His sullen frown melted for a moment, and he looked so apologetic that all her irritation melted, and she stroked his arm. It was that way with him too much of late: scowls one moment and warm smiles the next. However, the scowls were coming more frequently as the loving child in him retreated ever deeper into his new adolescent shell. “It’s fine, Jan,” she told him. “Just… well, you must be very careful while we’re here. Always.” And especially with Fynn. She tucked the thought away. She would tell him later. Privately. She stood, and the servants fell away like autumn leaves. She hugged Jan; he allowed the gesture but nothing more, his own arms barely moving. “All right, we’ll go down now. Remember that you are the son of the A’Gyula of West Magyaria, and also the son of the current A’Hirzg of Firenzcia.”
Fynn had given her the title yesterday, after their vatarh had died: the title that should have been hers all along, that would have made her Hirzgin. She knew that even that gift was temporary, that Fynn would name someone else A’Hirzg in time: his own child, perhaps, if he ever married and produced an heir, or some court favorite. Allesandra would be Fynn’s heir only until he found one he liked better.
“Matarh,” Jan interrupted. He gave a too-loud huff of air, and the frown returned. “I know the lecture. ‘The eyes and ears of the ca’-and-cu’ will be on you.’ I know. You don’t have to tell me. Again.”
Allesandra wished she believed that. “All right,” she breathed. “Let us go down, then, and be with the new Hirzg as we lay your great-vatarh to his rest.”
With the death of Hirzg Jan, the required month of mourning had been proclaimed, and a dozen necessary ceremonies scheduled. The new Hirzg Fynn would preside over several rituals in the next few weeks: some only for the ca’-and-cu’, some for the edification of the public. The formal Besteigung, the final ritual, would take place at the end of the month in Brezno Temple with Archigos Semini presiding-timed so that the leaders of the other countries of the Firenzcian Coalition could make their way to Brezno and pay homage to the new Hirzg. Allesandra had already been told that A’Gyula Pauli would be arriving for the Besteigung, at least-she was already dreading her husband’s arrival.
And tonight… tonight was the Internment.
The Kralji burned their dead; the Hirzgai entombed theirs. Hirzg Jan’s body was to be buried in the vault of the ca’Belgradins where several generations of their ancestors lay, a hand or more of them having shared with Jan the golden band that now circled Fynn’s forehead. Fynn was waiting for them in his own chambers; from there they would go down to the vaults below the ground floor of Brezno Palais. The Chevarittai of the Red Lancers and others of the nobility of Firenzcia were already waiting for them there.
The halls of the palais were hushed, the servants they saw stopping in their tasks and bowing silently with lowered eyes as they passed. Two gardai stood outside Fynn’s chambers; they opened the doors for them as they approached. Allesandra could hear voices from inside as they entered.
“… just received the news from Gairdi. This will complicate things. We don’t know exactly how much yet-” Archigos Semini ca’Cellibrecca stopped in mid-phrase as Allesandra and Jan entered the room. The man had always put Allesandra in mind of a bear, all the way back to when she’d been a child and he a rising young war-teni: even as a young man, Semini had been massive and furred and dangerous. His black beard was now salted with white, and the mass of curly hair was receding from his forehead like a slow tide, but he was still burly and muscled. He gave them the sign of Cenzi, clasping his hands to his forehead as his wife Francesca did the same behind him. Allesandra had been told that Francesca had once been a beauty-in fact, there were rumors that she’d once been the lover of Justi the One-Legged-but Allesandra hadn’t known her at that time. Now, she was a humpbacked matron with several of her teeth missing, her body ravaged by the rigors of a dozen pregnancies over the years. Her personality was as sour as her face.
Fynn rose from his chair.
“Sister,” he said, taking her hands as he stood in front of her. He was smiling-he seemed almost gleeful. “Semini has just brought some interesting news from Nessantico. Archigos Ana has been assassinated.”
Allesandra gasped, unable to hide her reaction. Her hands went to the cracked globe pendant around her neck, then she forced herself to lower them. She felt as if she couldn’t catch her breath. “Assassinated? By whom…?” She stopped, glancing at Semini-who was also smiling; almost smugly, Allesandra thought-then at her brother. “Did we do this?” she asked. Her voice was as edged as a dagger. She felt Jan put his hand on her shoulder from behind, sensing her distress.