The Path of Anger (50 page)

The duke pounded his fist upon the table and then, bewildered by his own anger, ran his hands through his hair, his jaws clenched. Laerte was still, studying him with a suspicious gaze. De Page came round the table to confront him.

‘What do you want to hear? That my father used to beat me because he saw in me the degeneration of his entire lineage? How he called me to his deathbed so he could mock me? He laughed at me, Laerte.’

He spoke coldly, keeping his eyes fixed on the young knight.

‘Or I could take of my shirt to show you the scars of the lash upon my back when he sought to drive a demon out of my body,’ de Page proposed. ‘We’ve all suffered, Laerte, all of us. We all bear our wounds and they remind us how necessary it is to act. The Order of Fangol used to hang people like me and if Azdeki achieves his ends, the monks will make their presence felt once again, believe me. There will be no more freedom to choose, they will claim that everything is already written, that everything is immutable, that nothing they don’t accept can be permitted to survive. I’m not just fighting for the Republic or to satisfy your vengeance, no . . .’

He took another step forward and, nose to nose, he seized the
back of Laerte’s neck. The young man felt the duke’s breath upon his face but did not make the slightest movement.

‘Everything is a question of faith, Laerte. Everything is a question of the meaning that one gives to one’s acts, of their symbolic importance. I do not believe that the destiny of men is to be found in the Book. One day we will learn how and for whom it was written, why the sword was forged along with it, and what gives them this . . . indestructibility. But, we have this chance, Laerte, this magnificent chance Aladzio has offered us, and to us alone, to reveal the power of the sword. I shall seize this chance. And we will take care of the Book, ensure no ever claims it is divine again. We are only on the first step, my friend. My faith lies in democracy. In mankind, not in the tyranny of gods who set our fates and then wandered away.’

Laerte lowered his eyes.

‘Is that what you wanted to hear?’

‘Wherever he is, your father must be kicking himself for revealing the secret to you,’ whispered Laerte.

De Page hesitated for a moment before a chuckle escaped from his pinched lips. Then he moved away, still laughing.

‘Indeed,’ he admitted. ‘He never suspected that I might be one of his most dangerous opponents. Just as Azdeki—’

He reached a half-open trunk and lifted the lid with a yank.

‘—has no idea about the ghost which is going to haunt him,’ he concluded in a murmur.

Laerte slowly walked over to his side, one hand on the pommel of his sword. De Page had not forgotten his request; he had found it and brought it back. It had passed from hand to hand, like a vestige of the Empire saved by nostalgic servants, until the duke had paid a fortune for it in an antique shop. At the bottom of the trunk lay a green cape and, on top of it, the broken mask of the last Emperor.

Laerte looked at it with tightened jaw and his stomach in knots. He would wear it. He had to wear it, whatever it might cost him. His vengeance required it, for it could not be satisfied with simple assassinations. He wanted each traitor who had destroyed his family to feel fear grip and then choke them. They would each be forced to confront their past, their vile acts, and not one would know peace when Laerte ended their lives. He would hunt them down, just as he had been hunted in the Saltmarsh. He would play on their nerves and goad their consciences.

‘Don’t get carried away. Just Enain-Cassart and Negus,’ de Page reminded him as he reached down to pick up the mask. ‘Azdeki will not postpone his great moment, your goal is to scare him so that he acts accordingly. Keep them guessing . . .’

The glow of the torches drew forth golden reflections from the mask de Page held out to him.

‘We’re all set now, Laerte.’

He would humiliate Etienne Azdeki in front of his supporters and then he would kill him. For the Book was not indestructible, not against this rapier forged from some unknown metal.

‘And when the moment comes, plant the sword in the
Liaber Dest
so that no one will ever see it as anything more than a book. Just an ordinary book. Everthing is in place.’

And so there he was, in place, just a few feet from the big square in front of the Palatio, hidden in the shadow of an alley.

There was a big crowd on the streets as the evening began, men and women in carnival costumes wearing a wide variety of masks: smiling faces or expressionless, plain or multi-coloured, decorated with peacock feathers or golden trimmings . . . All of it shiny, superficial and self-satisfied. Fire-eaters breathed tall flames, jugglers entertained bystanders, and musicians tapped their feet, their fingers plucking the strings of mandolins. Pennants and ribbons fluttered over the heads of laughing children. Couples exchanged a kiss and the stars appeared in the dark blue of dusk. And behind the bulging Palatio roof a pale moon was rising.

Laerte pulled the hood over his head, hiding the top of his golden mask in shadow and then left his position. He knew the Palatio doors would be heavily guarded on all sides. There was only one that interested him, located at the foot of the gardens where he was certain there would be no onlookers. Everyone preferred to stroll up and down the big avenues in their colourful outfits, playing drums, drinking and laughing. And the echo of their revelling could be heard all around the palace.

There were five soldiers, two of them posted to either side of the small door leading to a stairway lit by torches. Behind them rose the tall wall surrounding the garden, but the street was enveloped in darkness. They heard his footsteps before they saw the gleam of the mask or the crack running across it.

When one of them ordered Laerte to halt, he obeyed, placing a hand on the pommel of his sword. Gripping his halberd, the guard who had spoken approached him, quickly followed by another member of his team. Behind them, coming down the steps, other soldiers arrived. Soon there were ten in total.

‘Don’t move!’

‘The mask . . . it’s him!’

‘It’s the assassin!’

Laerte gripped his sword but did not draw it. He didn’t move an inch as he heard blades piercing the coats of mail, the death rattle of the soldiers smothered by the hands of men they believed were their team-mates.

‘We’re all set, Laerte.’

One by one they fell. And then there were only four soldiers, all of whom accompanied Laerte into the heart of the Palatio.

13

THE MURMUR OF THE GODS

For you, I will be more than a murmur.

I will be a cry.

Tugging on the leather reins, Rogant slowed the horses pulling the barrel-laden cart. He walked over the dimly lit bridge. Before him rose the Palatio’s imposing dome and, at the foot of the building, he saw some halberdiers supervising the unloading of other carts bearing produce, with a great deal of shouting. As he drove up, several guards eyed him but none showed signs of any particular wariness. Other Nâaga were carrying cases of drink inside.

‘What’s this?’ bawled a soldier approaching his cart.

‘Wine,’ replied Rogant curtly.

If his manner was off-putting it was meant to avoid attention. The Nâaga were not known for being sociable and the soldier responded to his surly attitude with a weary headshake. Giving him a thumbs-up he directed Rogant towards the wide-open doors of a warehouse filled with victuals. Inside, servants were busy sorting the supplies before carrying them through a swinging door. Flicking his wrist, Rogant slapped the horses’ croups with the reins. Although a few of the domestic staff on duty were of other origins, Rogant noted with a certain sadness that most belonged to his own people, who were given the most arduous tasks despite the obvious frailness of some. Not all Nâaga were as massively built as Rogant.

Once he entered the warehouse they started to unload the barrels without waiting for Rogant to descend from the cart. But two guards were quick to interrupt the operation.

‘What’s in this load?’ asked one with a red cross upon his breastplate.

Climbing down, Rogant stared at him in silence. The Nâaga was more than a head taller, but the soldier, senior in rank by the look of him, was not intimidated. His partner, on the other hand, avoided Rogant’s gaze and seemed uneasy, keeping a hand close to the sword hanging from his belt.

‘I said: what’s in this load?’ insisted the first soldier, stressing each word.

‘Everything has been delivered already,’ noted his partner.

‘The caterers are already setting up the buffets and nobody said anything about more wine!’ the first said angrily. ‘Who sent you?’

Around them the Nâaga were setting the barrels on the ground, not knowing whether they should carry on or turn to some other task.

‘Who sent you?’ repeated the soldier, becoming more and more aggressive. ‘Are you on the list?’

‘An oversight on my part,’ said a breathless voice.

Aladzio’s tricorne appeared behind the two soldiers.

They did not require any further convincing. The inventor was a well-known figure here and moreover had a sizeable escort. Rogant accompanied him without having to justify himself and the cart was unloaded. The silent Nâaga followed them, supporting the barrels on their shoulders with bare arms covered in strange tattoos.

‘You weren’t going to answer him . . . too forcefully, I trust?’ asked Aladzio in a hushed tone, looking worried.

Rogant gave him a mean-looking smile in reply. The clichés about his people lingered, even with an enlightened man like the inventor. Weary of being constantly offended, Rogant preferred to make light of them.

‘Where do you want them, exactly?’ he asked when they arrived at a large inner courtyard surrounded by balconies bedecked with flowers.

Here and there colourful festoons decorated the hedges standing in the middle of the grass bed, running between the balconies and twisting around the marble columns from which awnings had been stretched. On either side of the courtyard, double doors gave access to the Palatio’s interior where staff in blue-and-black livery were coming and going. Workers laid out trestles and tables, plates and cutlery, and barrels of wine equipped with wooden spigots.

Aladzio nodded towards a platform where servants were already hoisting some reserve barrels into place.

‘Pile them up over there.’

Rogant clapped his hands and his people hastened towards the platform to deposit their barrels. Aladzio advanced into the courtyard and then, lifting the tip of his hat and turning slowly around, he looked up at the balconies.

‘I filled them correctly,’ he assured Rogant when the Nâaga joined him. He offered an embarrassed smile, rubbing his hands nervously.

‘I don’t doubt that for a second,’ Rogant replied calmly.

‘Ah? Because I do, a little, when all is said and done,’ Aladzio declared suddenly.

He raised his eyes towards the nearest balcony, imagining Laerte’s silhouette lurking behind one of the columns.

‘We’ll know for sure soon enough,’ he said, resigned to it. ‘Either there’s just enough to create a diversion or we’ll all go up in smoke. Nothing to worry about!’

He patted the Nâaga’s shoulder before moving away.

‘Wonderful . . .’ sighed Rogant.

The guards’ boots clattered across the corridor. The four soldiers advanced in a mechanical fashion, as though they were so used to taking this route that they no longer marvelled at the magnificent red wall hangings brightly lit by the oil lamps. On this festive evening they bore their frustration silently as they marched back and forth, mentally cursing their patrol leader for assigning them to this part of the Palatio and denying them the possibility of seeing all the costumed guests. They kept their hands on the pommels of their swords, but did not expect any call to draw them forth. Although two murders had been committed during the course of the preceding days, it was unlikely another crime would be perpetrated in this place. Especially when their own numbers had been doubled at the last minute.

The three men coming towards them were part of these reinforcements, wearing leather chest protectors and armed with plain swords, plus bows slung over their shoulders. Their kit seemed rather dull next to the bright armour sported by the Palatio’s regular soldiers, but the extra troops reassured the dignitaries. They’d been assigned to watch only areas forbidden to the public, where no one except the regular guards would look askance at their appearance.

They saluted with wordless nods of the head, when a caped figure appeared at the end of the corridor. A golden mask shone beneath its hood and its left hand gripped the hilt of a sword.

The regular guards had no time to react, blades piercing their backs and punching out through their breastplates. With firm hands the mercenaries slit their victims’ throats before assisting their fall and depositing them gently upon the tiled floor. Laerte stepped over the dead bodies silently. He beckoned the soldiers of fortune to follow him.

‘Did you have a pleasant journey?’ asked Viola.

Taking her outstretched hand, the duke descended nimbly from the running board, leaving the quiet of the coach for the hubbub of the big square before the Palatio. The disgust he felt when he saw a rivulet of urine running between the cobblestones remained hidden behind the wild boar’s mask covering his face. Not far from them a squad of guards were berating a man who struggled to raise his trousers, his balance unsteady, in front of a bed of flowers.

‘The festivities have already begun, it seems,’ remarked de Page.

People thronged to the square, merry and colourful, all of them dressed in strange costumes which varied from the most refined to the most patched together, wearing masks that were elaborate or made of mere paper. Only eyes could be seen, only words counted, appearance meant nothing. Masque Night had always been thus, an ancient celebration which the Republic had adopted as a national event. Feigning equality for a single evening, it allowed the citizens to forget their origins; the most exalted noble sitting beside the humble artisan, the wealthy man drinking with the pauper, their differences hidden. This year, at the invitation of Councillor Azdeki, most of the dignitaries in Emeris had made the trip to Masalia and the southern port city thus found itself hosting a Masque Night of unusual significance.

Flutes and mandolins accompanied singers offering a one-night performance. Roars of laughter ran through the crowd. Bodies en-twined without any sense of modesty, exchanging kisses and caresses beneath the amused gaze of onlookers.

‘We left the house just as you asked,’ Viola told the duke, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow.

De Page gave her a smile that she only saw in the crinkling of his
eyes. He seemed to be devouring her with his gaze and she could not disguise the blush that spread across her cheeks. A mask hid the upper part of her face, with plumes rising along her brow to curve back over her braided hair. Her low-cut dress the same blue as the sky at twilight and the gauzy fabric revealed her thighs with every step she took.

‘Although it cost me some,’ muttered de Page, ‘Dun will give us no cause for concern. He is taken care of. That matter is closed.’

‘The main thing was the item he held.

I don’t think Laer—’

‘Don’t defend him,’ the duke replied brusquely. ‘Choosing to reveal himself to the old man, without warning me, is something we will settle later. For now, let’s look happy, Viola Aguirre.’

They traversed the crowd, presented their invitations to the guards and were then escorted to the front steps of the Palatio, whose domed roof was illuminated by a thousand torches. Overhead, the moon grew brighter and brighter and the stars began to twinkle shyly. They entered the palace, discovering its sumptuous décor of marble and ancient tapestries whose beauty was enhanced in the warm light shed by torches and oil lamps. They were led to an immense ballroom decorated with wall hangings and crystal chandeliers, imposing statues and paintings by master artists. Two wide stairways descended from the floor above, each of them forming a perfect curve. And above it all, rising from a height of thirty feet, the Palatio’s dome covered the room with a martial painting, including the depiction of a semi-nude woman planting a spear in the heart of a misshapen Emperor.

There they all were, in their finest attire, with masks subtly fitted to their faces, as they laughed, chatted, bellowed and drank blood-red wine from silver goblets. They stuffed themselves at the gargantuan buffet set up around the edge of a great indoor fountain from which rose a statue of a bearded colossus. De Page had no trouble recognising the councillors he had grown accustomed to debating with in the assembly, but which of them stood ready to join Etienne Azdeki’s cause? There was Rhunstag with his wife, both of them wearing bear masks. He had proudly draped one of his ever-present animal hides across his shoulders. Not far from them, conversing with four other councillors, Bernevin had chosen a simple domino mask combined with his usual statesman’s toga. But the person who drew de Page’s closest attention wore an eagle’s head, its sharp beak casting a slight shadow over his thin lips and clean shaven chin. A black mantle with
a silver belt fell to his mid-thighs and from his waist hung a slender sword in a scabbard set with precious stones.

He felt Viola lean against him when Azdeki caught sight of them and made his way through the crowd to greet them.

‘What a surprise to see you here,’ said Azdeki in a grating tone.

‘You recognise me? Have I chosen my camouflage so poorly?’ the duke replied playfully.

‘On the contrary, your mask is a near-perfect reflection of yourself . . . But I would have thought you preferred the capital’s climate to our stifling southern heat.’

‘I thought accepting your invitation was the polite thing to do, dear Councillor Azdeki. Your son’s wedding is a major event in our fair Republic.’

Azdeki nodded, his eyes narrowing behind the eagle mask. Finally he turned his head to look at Viola.

‘And this must be the first time I’ve seen you with a woman.’

‘Oooh, let’s not be fooled by appearances,’ murmured de Page with unfeigned pleasure. ‘On Masque Night we are all free to adopt the image we choose. Even a weak man can pretend to be powerful, don’t you think? It’s only the following morning we realise what an illusion it all was. But perhaps I’m being rude; you’re not the type to let yourself be deluded by illusions.’

‘No,’ replied Azdeki shortly. ‘But you, perhaps?’

‘Me?’ asked de Page in surprise, pressing a hand against his chest. ‘No, let’s forget our disagreements in the assembly. We both serve the Republic, which is at least one point we have in common. Let us respect one another this evening; it might be our last upon this earth. I was sorry to hear a killer has struck in Masalia . . . Poor Enain-Cassart, poor Negus.’

‘The work of a madman who will do no more harm,’ Azdeki assured him firmly.

‘You have doubled the guard, I’m told. I’m not worried, but . . . wasn’t it difficult to find trustworthy men to ensure our safety here?’

‘Are you calling my competence into question in such matters, honourable councillor?’ Azdeki asked with a menacing smile.

‘Not in the least. I simply don’t dare imagine the difficulties involved, to requisition additional guards for the Palatio without stripping the city of its protection. So I concluded that you must have done some . . . recruiting.’

‘I did what was needed, de Page. Have no fear for our security. Whatever you may have heard about this assassin . . . or on any other subject,’ Azdeki said slowly, tilting his head towards the duke in a threatening fashion.