Master of restless shado.., p.44
Master of Restless Shadows, page 44
part #1 of Master of Restless Shadows Series
“He seems honest,” Master Ariz replied. “I’d take an honest jackass over a tactful liar any day.”
“Obviously.” Fedeles smiled at the very forthright declaration. “Though one does hope that you have other options for companionship.”
Again that faint smile lifted the corners of Master Ariz’s lips.
“Very recently I did have the pleasure of claiming a rather charming dance partner.” Master Ariz spoke so quietly that Fedeles almost missed the words. Then a rush of pleasure filled his chest like a fire lighting a hearth.
“Did you?”
Master Ariz nodded, then cocked his head. “Though it seems he’s either a prodigy of dance or a little bit of a liar when it comes to his need for lessons.”
Fedeles felt the hot flush of being called out coloring his cheeks, but at the same time Master Ariz retained his faint smile.
“A man can desire a dance lesson for reasons other than instruction,” Fedeles replied.
“Would he perhaps like another then?” Master Ariz suggested. “For reasons other than instruction?”
“Very much so,” Fedeles replied.
“I’ll be free this afternoon.” Master Ariz stood. “If you have the time then—”
“I’ll make the time.” Fedeles bounded to his feet and stepped close to Master Ariz. As he reached to open the stall door, he realized that an actual smile flashed across Master Ariz’s face. The expression lent him a disarming warmth. Fedeles wanted very much to kiss his lips and see how much more expressive the sword master might become.
But then Jacinto’s voice sounded from only a few feet away. “Ah! Fedeles! Didn’t I say we’d find him in the stables?”
The mob of lesser nobles and courtiers surrounding Jacinto made assenting noises. As Jacinto led them nearer to Fedeles, Master Ariz’s face lost all expression. He bowed his head and stepped back from the stall door into a long morning shadow. Neither Jacinto nor anyone in his company seemed to take notice of him.
“Until this afternoon, Master Ariz,” Fedeles promised him. Then he strode out to meet Jacinto and face the rest of the day before him.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Narsi didn’t think he would be able to sleep after Lord Vediya left him. Not the least because after that single passionate kiss, his entire body seemed to buzz with an awareness of Lord Vediya’s proximity. A few times he half suspected that Lord Vediya also felt those thrills of arousal, as their hands brushed or when they bowed their heads together.
But even if they had only shared a conversation, Narsi would have been filled with a restless mix of excitement and fear. He’d originally called upon Lord Vediya with the only half-acknowledged desire to confess everything Father Timoteo had revealed to him about his father. Before he’d entered Lord Vediya’s rooms, his personal secret had felt like an immense burden. And yet as soon as he’d fallen into conversation, he’d found himself drawn from his own troubles to matters far more urgent and dangerous.
Pondering magical brands, possible assassins and the reach of some unknown Cadeleonian witch had almost come as a relief to Narsi—an escape from thinking about himself. His own worry seemed small now, nearly insignificant. What did it really matter that his father had been Isandro Grunito? Narsi still planned to live his life as Haldiim physician, and Nestor Grunito would continue on as the heir to the earldom of Anacleto. Whereas uncovering the assassins held in thrall by of some kind of Cadeleonian witch was literally a matter of life and death.
Who could sleep with such matters on his mind?
More puzzling, was the question of who would want to sleep alone after that deep, hungry kiss. Lord Vediya, obviously. Though he’d not left Narsi without seeming to regret their parting.
Narsi sighed, then yawned.
He knew that he ought to try to sleep. He wasn’t fully recovered yet and he’d be no use to himself or anyone else if he spent the entire night pacing and muttering over matters that he couldn’t resolve. He changed into his nightshirt and dropped down on his bed. His hand ached and his eyes felt hot and dry.
The black cat padded in behind him and, after alighting on the bed, curled up beside his hip. Narsi stroked the cat’s chin.
Then he snuffed his lamp and lay back. The scent of lavender drifted over him, assuring him that the maids had changed his bedding while he’d been up earlier in the day. He closed his eyes, but his thoughts still raced as he tried to envision a means of either catching Master Ariz out or proving his innocence.
“There has to be incontrovertible proof,” he mumbled to the cat. It pressed its head against his fingers and Narsi scratched its chin and neck a little more. The exercise seemed to ease some of the pain in his joints.
If Lord Vediya planned to accuse Master Ariz of murder, then he would need evidence, otherwise the matter could all too easily descend into that most Cadeleonian of legal procedures: trial by combat. Narsi felt certain that Master Ariz would easily win such a contest. And maybe he would have a right to.
After all, Lord Vediya’s feeling that he was an assassin wasn’t exactly irrefutable proof. Nor did Master Ariz’s mere capacity to move quickly and quietly prove that he used those skills to creep around murdering people. If it did, then the stealthy woman who curated the medical library in the Haldiim District of Anacleto was certainly a master assassin despite being well into her sixties.
So far the only real evidence implicating Master Ariz was the scar that marred his chest. But even that wasn’t certain. Narsi couldn’t be positive that the symbol Lady Hylanya had shown him exactly matched the scar Master Ariz bore. Considering how many other scars disfigured the man’s body, it wouldn’t have been surprising if a few of them intersected in something resembling a star.
First and foremost, Narsi decided, he had to establish that they were one and the same.
He wondered if, when he went to examine young Lord Sparanzo Quemanor, he could contrive to spill something—ink or a medicinal tonic—on Master Ariz’s shirtfront, so that the sword master might remove it. The maneuver struck Narsi as decidedly awkward and also unlikely to accomplish his goal, since Master Ariz had already proven very reluctant to undress even to have an injury treated. More likely, he’d excuse himself and go change in his private rooms rather than strip in front of Narsi and the young lord Quemanor. Trailing Master Ariz to his private rooms was likely to rouse suspicion.
But there had to be something he could do. There had to be.
Before he realized it, Narsi’s thoughts drifted into dreams.
When he woke, it was with a racing heart. His sleep had been filled with terrible scenarios of facing down two different men. Both shared Master Ariz’s powerful form and dull expression. But where one man collapsed in relief at having been discovered, the other drew a long dagger and stalked toward Narsi, ready to kill to keep his secret.
Narsi sat there as his pounding heart slowed and the sensation of a blade punching through his chest faded away.
Still, his trepidation lingered. The night before, in Lord Vediya’s company, the prospect of rooting out an assassin had seemed daring and made him feel like a hero in one of Lord Vediya’s books. But sitting alone as cold morning light poured through his curtains, he recognized the true danger of the undertaking. He glanced down at his hands and took in the black scar left by the muerate that had very nearly killed him. For all the courageous feats Lord Vediya put to paper, there were doubtless hundreds of losses and tragedies that went unremarked upon.
Narsi had to be honest with himself. He wasn’t in a storybook, and as much as he wanted to repay Lord Vediya’s kindness, he simply wasn’t prepared to throw his own life away just to please the man.
“Do I care about the truth enough to take the risk?” Narsi asked himself softly. He hadn’t known Captain Ciceron or the guard Dommian, so their deaths didn’t touch him personally or deeply. But the suffering attested to by Dommian’s charm-book moved Narsi. The fact that others like him were at this very moment living in torture, that truly outraged Narsi. He didn’t know how much he would be willing to do to stop so much torment, but he knew it had to be more than just sitting in bed feeling scared.
He threw back his blanket and stepped out of his bed. A disconcerting sensation shot up from beneath his right foot and he stumbled to the side. There at his bedside lay the stiff body of a dead garden snake.
The cat looked exceedingly pleased with itself. Then it leapt from Narsi’s bed to the windowsill.
“Very nice. Thank you so much.” Narsi picked up the snake.
His right hand felt nearly as stiff as the little corpse. He went to the window and tossed the dead snake out into the mulch below his new roses. As he petted the cat, his fingers regained more of their normal dexterity and the ache in his knuckles dulled. The black stain of the poison still stood out, but the surrounding flesh appeared far less swollen than it had last night. The cat seemed to appreciate Narsi’s improved skill quite a bit, rolling and stretching beneath his fingers.
“You do seem to want to be kept, at least a little, don’t you?” Narsi murmured to the cat. “Should I say that you are mine and name you Tariq? Or would that be too presumptuous of me?”
The cat nuzzled him for a few moments more, then it caught sight of a passing bird and bounded out the window. Narsi supposed he could take that response any way he liked.
If he didn’t get himself murdered by Master Ariz, he decided that he’d look into having a fleabane collar made for the animal. He didn’t know why, but the idea pleased him a great deal, and something of the happiness of it remained with him as he picked up Dommian’s charm-book.
In the bright morning light he noticed a detail that had eluded him the night before. Inside the back cover there was a slit that ran parallel to the spine: a secret pocket cut into the thick leather. Narsi could just see the edges of pale silk-paper folded and hidden away inside. Using a pair of surgical tweezers Narsi carefully pulled the pages out. Neither the blue ink nor the delicate script matched Dommian’s writing. These were letters, Narsi realized. They appeared faded by time and the writing struck Narsi as slightly awkward, as if penned very meticulously but by the unpracticed hand of a child.
Dearest D,
Thank you for telling me where he hid the books. I have read them and copied as many pages as I could. I think that you are right. He doesn’t understand the importance of history. He only sees things that are of use to him. I will try to be wiser than that.
Yours truly, C
Narsi noted that several other pages contained similar messages. Thanks and notes about history books, as well as the locations of historic sites that Narsi had never heard of. Interspersed between these were mentions of finding an abandoned nest and raising one of the chicks, as well as the anxieties of attending dances in dresses that felt far too small, as well as anger at an older sister who was forever arguing with Father and making him angry at them all.
Narsi guessed that a noble daughter in the household where Dommian had previously worked must have come to think of the guard as a confidant. Clearly the two of them had shared a love of Cadeleonian history and mythology. One of the child’s letters even made mention of the Summer Doe, noting that she alone of the Savior’s warrior companions had survived the Battle of Heaven’s Shard.
Is it possible that she stopped Our Savior’s Waarihivu invocation from cleansing the world? Did she betray Our Savior? Or are we still awaiting the final battle of that war?
Narsi frowned at the questions as he remembered the voice in the Circle of Wisteria whispering in his ears. A great battle begun in ages long past, but one that never truly ended.
Was it just a chance turn of phrase, or could the two be in any way related? As he flipped through the remaining few letters, he found no further mentions of wars or battles, just the confessions of a child who adored raising songbirds and feared the strange man whom her father had chosen to be her husband.
Tonight I freed all of my larks. I wish I could fly away with them. I would build a nest outside your window and sing you to sleep every night.
Narsi wondered if the girl who’d written those words knew of Dommian’s death. Would she mourn him, or had she forgotten him long ago? Narsi’s attention drifted once again to the furious, defaced lines that Dommian had written himself. He picked out one legible section.
No use. Every tome I search says the same. Only death will break the brand. Damn him, damn him to the pits of the Black Hell.
A nearly incomprehensible string of obscenities followed and the script grew loose and inarticulate for two pages. The only words Narsi felt certain of read: There must be another way to get free of him. The desperation of those words filled Narsi with melancholy sympathy. If there had been a means other than death, Dommian would never find it now.
But perhaps others could. Lady Hylanya had said that a multitude of people lived under the thrall of this particular witch and that their numbers were growing. In its own way it could be considered a public health crisis. A plague of magic infecting more and more people every day.
The clear melody of the chapel bells rang out and Narsi realized that he needed to get moving if he was to have any breakfast before he kept his appointment with Master Ariz. He washed and dressed quickly, then slipped the charm-book into the pocket of his physician’s coat before he hurried on his way.
Outside, light breezes blew through the trees and the warm air smelled of blooming flowers. Several guards acknowledged him with nods as he passed on his way to the chapel. Querra greeted him from across the kitchen garden. Narsi smiled at her and waved back. By the time he joined Father Timoteo and Berto for breakfast in the chapel garden, he felt almost as if he might fit into the household.
Though today both Father Timoteo and Berto looked glum. Narsi guessed that contemplating yet another funereal service in so short a span of days was bound to bring down their spirits.
When they inquired, Narsi reassured them that he felt much recovered. He made a little show a turning his spoon through the fingers of his bruised right hand, and that seemed to reassure and relax Father Timoteo. Berto, however, remained in his funk, absently stirring his porridge and contributing no more conversation than a few shrugs and one nod of his head while the rest of them discussed the upcoming masquerade celebrations. Father Timoteo offered a roll of his fine rag paper for the acolytes to cut their masks from. Remembering how few extravagances he and Berto had enjoyed as acolytes, Narsi dug out several coins and donated them to the acolytes for the purchase of beads and ribbons.
“Come into a fortune already, have you?” Berto scowled at his bowl.
“Well . . .” Narsi could hardly recount his adventure at the Green Door. “I’ve had a little run of good luck.”
“As you always do,” Berto replied. “I swear a cat couldn’t land on its feet as often as you’ve managed to come out the better of any situation.”
Narsi wasn’t certain what inspired that from Berto or how to take it. He’d very nearly died two days ago. He didn’t think surviving really qualified as coming out the better for the encounter. But before he could respond, Berto excused himself to return to organizing Father Timoteo’s papers for publication.
“Poor Berto! I suspect that Mistress Delfia may be proving more difficult to woo than he expected,” Father Timoteo commented.
“Oh. I see.” Narsi’s concern over his friend’s surly temper faded. Romantic uncertainty seemed forever to wreak havoc upon Berto’s heart. But if this was anything like the boyhood infatuations that Narsi remembered, then Berto’s mood would brighten in a matter of a day.
“He can’t help feeling a little jealous of your natural charm,” Father Timoteo went on. “He doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“I know, I know.” It had always been easier for Narsi to approach and chat with the women and girls around him. He supposed he had the advantage over Berto in that he didn’t feel that he had as much to lose by their rejections. Whereas Berto’s intensity could sometimes disconcert the very girl he most wanted to impress.
“Mistress Delfia hasn’t rebuffed him outright, has she?” Narsi asked.
“Not at all. She simply declined his invitation for an evening stroll with him last night.” Father Timoteo looked a little amused.
Hearing that, Narsi’s concern for Berto disappeared and he noticed the sad contents of Father Timoteo’s bowl. His meager serving of gruel wasn’t enough to sustain a child. Narsi knew from experience that the father wouldn’t take any of the sausages. He always left those for his acolytes.
“Berto always fears the worst. I have no idea why he’s always so quick to assume women are only interested in men of extravagant wealth and noble titles.” Father Timoteo lifted his spoon but then set it back on the table.
“I didn’t get the impression that any affluent merchants or sly noblemen were vying for Mistress Delfia’s hand.” Narsi offered the cream pitcher to Father Timoteo.
“No, nothing of the sort.” Father Timoteo hesitated a moment but then accepted the cream pitcher and poured a tot into his porridge. He still ate nothing. “I can’t say that there aren’t inconstant women in the world. There are just as many inconstant men, I’m certain. But Mistress Delfia has always struck me as unimpressed by frippery and flattery. I’m certain she had good reason for declining the invitation.”
“As chance would have it, I happen to know exactly where she was last night and who she was with,” Narsi said.
“Yes? You could reassure Berto then?” Father Timoteo’s expression brightened.
“Even better. I could tell the news to you, so that you could inform him,” Narsi replied. “But on one condition.”
“What would that be?” Father Timoteo knew him well enough to look amused rather than suspicious, though one of the older acolytes eyed Narsi somewhat skeptically.
