Master of restless shado.., p.47
Master of Restless Shadows, page 47
part #1 of Master of Restless Shadows Series
“It’s nothing compared to what I will do to you if you relent.” Master Ariz hardly raised his voice, but the certainty in his tone sent a rush of fear through Narsi. “Now drive me back to the rack!”
Narsi stepped forward. For a sickening instant he thought Master Ariz wouldn’t budge. The tip of the sword sank deeper into his chest, then Master Ariz took a step backward and Narsi followed him. They moved together, almost like dance partners, except for the sword blade balanced between them and the blood that now streaked down to the waist of Master Ariz’s shirt. They reached the rack in four steps.
Master Ariz caught the length of thick rope in his right hand. Then he went very still and Narsi realized that he’d once again descended into some immense internal struggle. He turned the rope through his hands and then leaned slightly into the sword point Narsi held between them. The sight sickened Narsi, but he didn’t pull the blade back.
Master Ariz tied a slipknot and looped it around his left wrist. He jerked the rope tight and then looped another knot in the rope and slid his right hand through. Then he sank down to sit on the stool.
“You’re going to have to do the rest yourself. I’ll keep as still as I can for as long as I can, but you’d better move fast.”
Narsi needed no further instruction. He caught up the free end of the rope and made very quick work of binding Master Ariz’s hands and legs to the stool. The surgical knots he’d learned served him very well, though twice Master Ariz insisted that he pull the ropes tighter. And once he caught Narsi’s hand in a crushing grip that required the pressure of a dagger to his back to allow him to loosen his hold.
By the end, Master Ariz hunched atop the stool with his hands bound to the front rungs and his legs tucked beneath the wooden seat and knotted to the back rungs. Splashes of his blood covered Narsi’s hands and dribbled down the stool. But oddly, after tugging once against his bonds, Master Ariz seemed to relax. For the first time the tension drained from his muscles and he drooped like a cut flower.
“You’re safe now, I think,” Master Ariz said.
Narsi stepped back from him. He wondered if he shouldn’t fetch Lord Vediya but then realized that the man could be anywhere by now. No. He’d been the one to start this and he was just going to have to see it through.
“Can you answer questions about . . . your condition?” Narsi asked.
“Not directly,” Master Ariz replied.
Narsi considered that, then asked, “What about the person who branded you? Can you tell me about him?”
“N . . . Not . . . direct . . . ly,” Master Ariz replied again, though this time he seemed to have trouble even forming the simple words.
“But you could tell me about something else? What you ate for breakfast, for example?”
“Yes.” The relief sounded plainly despite Master Ariz’s flat tone. “Four hard eggs and green porridge. Master Leadro—the music instructor—ate the last sweet bun before I got to the table. Mistress Ortez arrived after me and told him that he deserved his piles.”
Narsi recalled Master Leadro’s slim figure and his mention of suffering from hemorrhoids. He knew nothing of Mistress Ortez, but the conversation inclined him to think that there might be a roundabout way of getting information from Master Ariz.
“Did you know that Dommian was in a thrall?” Narsi asked.
Master Ariz went very still, then he nodded.
“Can you tell me what you know about him?”
“He’d been ordered by a man I know to kill Sparanzo, Celino and Marisol. I didn’t realize until nearly too late, and then I stopped him.”
“So you can defy this man who you both knew? At least indirectly,” Narsi asked. That was hopeful.
“Not if I think of it as such,” Master Ariz replied.
“How do you mean?”
“If I thought only of saving the children, then I could act,” Master Ariz replied slowly, as if cautiously testing each of his words before he released them. “I could never focus on defying . . . that man and then act. The pain would destroy me.”
“I see.” Narsi wondered what contortions of thought Master Ariz performed even now to allow himself to have this conversation.
“Earlier you said something about . . .” Master Ariz paled and shook his head. Then he began again. “You wanted to break the condition that Dommian suffered from?”
“Yes!” Narsi followed his lead. “As I said last night, I’m quite interested in Dommian’s history. I already know he carried a Brand of Obedience, which is an ancient blessing of a kind. It was first employed by the Savior, and I feel that there may well be a great deal of information concerning it in older Cadeleonian holy texts.”
Master Ariz nodded. “My upperclassman at the Yillar Academy was exceptionally interested in those same texts. Just serving him as I did, I learned a few details. Though nothing that would have encouraged Dommian. The brand’s power lasts until death.”
“Yes. Father Timoteo told me the same thing this morning. However, he thought that the texts could be referring to the death of either party in the pact, not just the branded person.”
“Truly?” Master Ariz asked and something like a smile tugged at his lips. Immediately, he tensed as if he’d stepped on a broken foot. The color drained from his face. He gasped as if struggling for breath. “I can’t think about that.”
“Don’t then! We should talk about something else.” Narsi groped for a new subject to ease Master Ariz’s obvious pain. Then a thought occurred to him and he felt like an idiot for not considering it sooner.
“I can give you duera for your pain.” Narsi started for his medical bag.
“It will make no difference,” Ariz ground out. “I’ve tried. Talk to me. Distract me.”
“I . . .” For a moment Narsi could think of no subjects other than the Brand of Obedience. Then he fell upon his favorite subject—the inspiration of countless conversations. “What are your favorite books?”
“I don’t care for reading,” Master Ariz replied through clenched teeth.
“Oh.” That hardly gave Narsi much to work with. He tried again. “Perhaps you enjoy music more. I’ve heard that the new opera called The Rogue’s Folly is quite entertaining.”
“I’ve heard a few of the songs.” Master Ariz regained a little color in his cheeks. His pupils remained flared, making his eyes look like black holes.
“Well, ah, Prince Jacinto is producing an opera—or perhaps it’s a play.” Narsi hadn’t ever felt such urgency to maintain inane chatter. “He offered me a role just a few minutes ago.”
“Oh?” Master Ariz’s brows lifted fractionally. His lips didn’t appear quite as bloodless as they had been.
“Yes. As a Yuanese catamite, if you can imagine that.”
“You’re rather tall to pass for a delicate boy of fifteen.” Master Ariz gave a short cough that Narsi belatedly realized was a choked laugh.
“Obviously Prince Jacinto will need to construct a trench for me to stand in,” Narsi added. “As I pose and swoon across the stage.”
This time Master Ariz’s laugh sounded somewhat natural, though still fleeting. Silence opened up between them. Narsi tried to think of something else to say. The weather? The upcoming masquerade? Dancing?
“My upperclassman at Yillar,” Master Ariz said out of the blue. “He studied more than just a single holy text. He was fascinated with the Battle of the Shard of Heaven.”
“Your upperclassman must have been an interesting fellow.” Narsi felt almost certain that this upperclassman had to have been the one to brand Master Ariz.
“Our instructors described him as ambitious, and they didn’t know the half of it. He means to . . .” Ariz trailed off, clenching his teeth. He lifted his gaze to the plasterwork decorating the ceiling as he drew in several slow breaths. “There have probably always been men who imagined themselves as embodiments of the Savior. As though God has anointed them to overthrow . . .” Master Ariz gnashed his mouth closed so hard that Narsi heard the clack of his teeth.
“Kingmakers, you mean?” Narsi supplied. “Like Evriso Tornesal, who restored the Sagradas to the throne?”
“Yes, exactly!” Master Ariz nodded. “We should discuss Evriso.”
“I don’t know much about him,” Narsi responded, though in truth he considered himself quite familiar with the historical figure. “So please tell me all you can.”
“Many people don’t know that Evriso only restored the Sagrada rulership because he knew that he could control the younger of the Sagrada princes.” Master Ariz spoke quickly, as if attempting to rush the words out before he could think on them too long. “He holds power over the king’s grandson. His sister is the prize for the young prince’s loyalty. Though I wouldn’t wager on the prince lasting long on the throne, not after an heir is born. He—Evriso, I mean—will assassinate all other possible heirs so as to ensure his own eventual grip on both the throne and the title of royal bishop.”
Narsi nodded. Little of what Master Ariz said described the historic actions of Evriso Tornesal. Except that he had placed his own brother-in-law on the throne. But the fact that Master Ariz had slipped into present tense made Narsi certain that they were discussing the man who held him in thrall.
“When do you think that Evriso . . . did these things?” Narsi asked.
“It was 1190.” Master Ariz supplied the historical date correctly but then shook his head. “But if he were alive today, I know that he couldn’t act until after the coronation. Otherwise the crown could be claimed by the current royal bishop as opposed to one of the new king’s sons. Do you understand my meaning? Evriso needs the man he’s chosen to be the only surviving heir. And he needs that man’s only heir to be his own relation, to ensure that he can step in as regent when the child’s father dies.”
“But he couldn’t hope to get away with such an open act of treason?”
“He’ll ensure that his enemies are blamed for the murders. There’s already talk of Labarans acting against the crown. You think that was an accident? It serves him to rouse anger against the Cadeleonian court. The Labarans and the Grunito family now have cause to oppose the crown. Lord Quemanor recently engaged in public argument with the royal bishop and the crown prince. With so much animosity from other directions, few would suspect—” Master Ariz shuddered and didn’t seem able to go on speaking.
Narsi felt almost overwhelmed by the enormity of this plot and also at a loss as to who exactly the players were. He had no actual names—nor was Master Ariz likely to possess the capacity to tell him.
Just this conversation about a hypothetical plot had left Master Ariz bound, slumped and bleeding.
“If I free you—” Narsi began.
“Not yet. There’s so much I have to tell you about . . . Evriso. He would be so much of a danger to this family if he were alive right now. And his youngest sister is up to something as well. She wants free of his control. We all do. But she has power and a plan.”
“But you can’t stay roped to a stool forever,” Narsi objected. “So I need to know what you’re likely to do when I untie you.”
“You aren’t the threat I first thought,” Master Ariz replied. “At first I thought—I had hoped with all my heart that you’d discovered something in Dommian’s book that . . . you knew a way to set him free. Were he alive now, Evriso would not have tolerated you freeing his assassins. He would have needed you dead. But you aren’t a witch and you don’t have a way to defeat his hold over m—men like Dommian.”
Narsi didn’t bring up the fact that he damn well intended to find a way to destroy the brand. Master Ariz needed to think of him as innocuous.
“On top of that, even if I learned anything,” Narsi offered him, “who in the capital would take a half Haldiim like me seriously?”
“I take you seriously, Master Narsi. The first time I saw you, I knew that you could be the undoing of me. An omen of my death.” Master Ariz met his gaze directly. “I still hope to God that someday you will be.”
The last thing Narsi wanted was to destroy anyone—particularly someone who’d already suffered as much as Master Ariz.
“I wouldn’t—”
“Don’t worry. I realize now that you aren’t a threat to the brand. Not yet,” Master Ariz said. “You’re safe from me. For today at least.”
Before Narsi could reply, a soft knock sounded from the closed doors.
“Master Ariz, isn’t it time for our dance lesson? I’d like to brush up on—” The duke broke off as he stepped into the fencing room. His pleased expression turned to shock as he took in the sight before him. And Narsi realized just how bad the scene had to appear.
Master Ariz tied up, sweat-soaked and bleeding, while he stood over the man with a dagger in his hand.
“This isn’t—” Narsi began.
But already the duke’s face contorted with rage. He strode forward fast and as he moved, a swath of pitch darkness rose from his shadow and surged toward Narsi like the immense, gaping maw of the Black Hell.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Atreau peered through the spy hole and leaned close to the wall to catch each of the words that passed between Narsi and Ariz.
Originally he’d meant to stop Narsi from approaching Master Ariz altogether, but the arrival of Suelita Estaban’s siblings had delayed him. He’d played charming and ignorant when the relations had pressed him about the runaway girl’s location. All the while he’d silently fumed at the stupidity of the situation.
If any one of these people who claimed to so adore Suelita had possessed a genuine insight into her character, they would have immediately known that Atreau could not have appealed to her as a lover—no man would have. She certainly wouldn’t have entrusted her future to him and abandoned her entire family for his sake. But that realization would have required them to think of her as an independent person: a woman with desires, thoughts and plans far beyond the profitable alliance that her marriage to Ladislo Bayezar promised her ambitious father.
Not that Atreau had taken much of note of her himself before she’d run off with Sabella. She’d been a pretty girl, but not quite as attractive to him as her surly brother, who’d reminded him, just a little, of his long-gone classmate, Javier. He’d spoken with her perhaps twice in passing. Even so he’d immediately discerned that she dreaded Ladislo’s courtship and fled him at every opportunity. When her brothers described her constant evasion of her suitor as a coy game, Atreau couldn’t decide if they were deluding themselves or if they genuinely took signs of outright rejection from women as an invitation to more aggressive pursuit.
Ladislo, of all men, should have known better. He should have understood the horror of unwanted advances just as well as Atreau did. But then, Atreau recalled that Ladislo hadn’t possessed a sympathetic nature even before Procopio had misused him at school. And abuse, in and of itself, hardly encouraged an outflowing of kindness and empathy. More often such hurt only taught victims how to beat those beneath them.
Atreau was reminded of the Labaran nursery rhyme that his mother had sung to him long, long ago.
A wronged man thrashed his bride,
So she whipped her dog’s hide.
The bloody hound bit the wall,
And the house fell down upon them all.
Atreau had considered reciting it for Suelita’s relatives but decided instead to respond to their demands and veiled threats by reciting a few stanzas from the latest play he’d penned to amuse Jacinto—and which the prince had built into the incomprehensible production that he was now intent upon staging.
“I’m an old and tired fox,
Too feeble now to catch a hen.
Chased by so many fiery cocks,
My crook’d tail must beckon men.”
Suelita’s married older sister had allowed herself to be amused, though the rest of the party less so. That in itself had turned uneasy, as the pretty young wife flirted playfully with him and her brothers began to seethe. All the while the middle sister worked her fan at the speed of a hummingbird’s wing. When, at last, the eldest sister had asked him to take her to see Suelita, he’d replied with a rhyme.
“You ask pearls of a clam
Roses from a holly
Butter to make you jam
And a fool to stray from folly.”
She’d studied him a moment, and he thought that perhaps she did understand more of the situation then she would admit. Her older brother, however, gave Atreau a murderous parting glance and made a passing threat to have him brought before the royal bishop on charges of abduction. The younger brother placed his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“We could settle this in a dueling ring,” the young man declared.
Atreau considered the youth and recognized his stiff pose as that of a boy who’d performed decently in tournaments at school and now deemed himself a sword master. A more experienced duelist would never have issued such a challenge while standing so close that Atreau’s belt knife would reach his heart before the swordsman could draw the full length of his own weapon. Any decent fencing instructor would’ve thrashed the youth for his mistake. Amusingly, his younger sister batted him in the back of his head with her fan.
“Don’t brawl like street filth,” she snapped, then she looked to Atreau. “You’re stooping to his level.”
Atreau stifled the urge to offer a rejoinder; it would only drag this idiotic exchange out all the longer. Both the brothers straightened into postures of almost comical dignity and the entire family took their leave. Their attendants trailed behind them and in a moment the whole party disappeared from sight.
Atreau raced back into the maze of camellias only to have the gardener he’d earlier noted standing with Narsi inform him that the physician had returned to the house. The chapel bells rang out the hour and Atreau cursed. Narsi would already be in the fencing rooms with Master Ariz by now. As he hurried along the pebble path to the mansion, Atreau considered his options and decided against making a scene by barging in on them. After all, he couldn’t be certain that Narsi’s life was endangered, nor should he assume that Narsi wouldn’t be capable of gleaning any information from Master Ariz. At the same time he didn’t want to simply leave Narsi to it and hope that an utterly inexperienced physician would prove himself a master of interrogation.
