Authors: Antoine Rouaud
‘Oh, there are always rumours flying about, and you know me. Sometimes, I worry over trifles.’
‘You are cleverer than you let on,’ Azdeki admitted grudgingly. ‘Is there something you would like to say to me, de Page? Any questions about something you might have heard in the corridors of Emeris? Fears for your own safety, perhaps?’
‘No, no, no. Nothing like that. I don’t imagine for a single instant that you’re hiding anything from us. And of course you’ll be able to protect us from this assassin. Accept my apologies; I had no intention of offending you. This evening, above all.’
‘Then, if you will excuse me, I have other guests I must attend to.’
‘Of course, of course,’ de Page agreed. ‘I will go and do what I do best, then, in the company of my lady. Get drunk and indulge in pleasure.’
‘To the first, I don’t doubt it for a second,’ Azdeki said mockingly, turning to Viola. ‘But as for the second, my lady, I fear you may be disappointed.’
‘Ho-ho, what wit,’ de Page acknowledged as Azdeki gave a bow.
The councillor disappeared into the crowd with a hurried step and the pressure on de Page’s arm immediately lessened. Looking at Viola, he could see she was as pale as snow beneath her mask.
‘You had to defy him, you just couldn’t help yourself,’ she accused.
‘So what?’ he replied, looking amused. ‘Azdeki isn’t an idiot. It’s taken him some time, but he’s realised this is not the only evening when I wear a mask. We who work in the shadows recognise one another. He won’t back down because of a few veiled threats. Relax.’
‘I am relaxed!’ she protested, sounding hurt. ‘Although if you enjoyed your verbal duels a little less, I would be more so.’
The buzzing of the crowd covered the councillor’s quiet chuckle. The festivities were fully underway now. At the Palatio gates, a line of halberdiers kept the curious onlookers back, while in the square the people laughed and danced to the rhythm of flute players.
Everything was dark and silent near the staircase. Only the floor-boards creaking beneath his feet proved that he was still alive.
Moonlight passed through the dirty windows looking out on the alley, casting long rectangles on the dusty wood. He was alone, he was weary, and he sat down on the stairs. Then he joined his hands upon his knees, trembling. He awaited death, certain that neither Laerte nor de Page would honour their promise to let him leave.
He might have fled. He could have left this house.
But he had come to terms with his situation. Wherever he went he would take his pain with him. So when he heard the wheels of the coach and the sound of hooves on the cobblestones he felt at peace. Soon it would all be over. The snap of the reins was followed by the snorting of the horses and footsteps. He balled his fists when the door handle turned.
The front door slowly opened, letting the light from oil lamps enter. He closed his eyes and straightened up. There in the doorway was the silhouette of a woman wearing a long violet dress with an ample hood over her head.
‘Dun-Cadal,’ she said.
He had already recognised her from her lavender scent. His hand placed upon the railing, he descended the stairs, feeling both surprised and disappointed. He had been waiting for death, but it was Mildrel who came to find him.
She lowered her hood before entering, revealing her calm face. Her eyes, outlined in black, inspected him without her saying a word and, imagining what she might be thinking of his state, he remained silent too. How wrong he had been . . . Laerte had kept his word. The lad still cared about him after all.
‘So, how do I look?’ he asked weakly.
She hesitated . . . then gave him a sad smile.
‘Still as old as ever, despite all the news?’
He let out a wheezing laugh, nodding nervously. His eyes caught the dark patches dotting his hand on the railing. He let it fall to his side.
‘You know then,’ he realised.
‘I know. Frog . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘He survived. That he’s here. And that he asked me to take care of you. That’s all. That’s more than enough for me. They gave me money, enough for both of us to leave Masalia—’
‘Who did?’
‘de Page.’
He nodded gloomily.
‘This doesn’t concern us any more, Dun-Cadal,’ she argued as she came closer to him. ‘The affairs of the Republic are none of our business. We’re from a different time.’
Her black-gloved hands slid over his and, instinctively, he looked down. How slender her fingers were, how lost they looked resting upon his wide, age-marked hands. It seemed so long ago, the days when he went to find her in a richly furnished chamber within the Imperial palace, having just returned from battle, his body still dirty from a long ride on horseback. Their past life seemed to have only existed in a dream.
‘I wandered for a long time before coming to Masalia,’ he confessed, his throat dry, his eyes fixed on their hands as their fingers intertwined. ‘I didn’t know where to go, I was looking for something. Looking for answers. And then, here, I gave up . . .’
‘Answers to what?’
‘About who I am, why I failed,’ he answered in a low breath. ‘A meaning to it all. Why did the gods write such a destiny for us? Am I merely a murmur? And now that . . .’
He was about to mention the
Liaber Dest
, explain to her his fear that his whole life was reduced there to a single sentence, but de Page had surely refrained from telling her anything about the Book. Dun-Cadal stifled a nervous laugh.
‘You had settled down here,’ he said, ‘you took me in, you tried to protect me from myself. Without much success, but you were always there for me.’
At last he dared to look her straight in the eye and saw something he’d thought he’d never wanted to see again: the blaze of love when she looked at him, an unstinting, unending love, capable of bending without ever breaking. So what now? She deserved to have him take care of her for once. They could flee, leave all this behind. As she said: these affairs of the Republic did not concern them.
‘He’s grown up, you know? He’s a man . . .’
His thin smile faded.
‘And he still has scores to settle with Azdeki—’
‘The less we know, the better off we’ll be, Dun-Cadal,’ she said. She was begging him not to continue.
‘Mildrel . . .’
He held her gaze, lifting their hands to shoulder height, then drew closer to her. He could smell her lavender scent, but this time it did not soothe him. He nestled against her, hoping to drive away the sadness that weighed down his heart.
‘We should leave. Come with me,’ Mildred urged. ‘Let’s forget all this. Forget the Republic and its business, forget the Empire, and just live, the two of us. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’
‘Yes . . .’ he murmured.
Mildrel drew away from him, retreating before him, stretching her arms out before letting go of his hands. She was smiling too, but it was a knowing smile, grave and bitter. It was as if she were resigning herself to the inevitable.
‘Will you come with me?’
‘Yes,’ he repeated, disconcerted.
He looked away from her, seeking something in the darkness of house that might remove the thoughts going through his mind. But there was nothing that could help dispel this awful feeling that he was giving up.
‘No,’ he corrected himself.
He paused, hoping Mildrel would get angry and force him to leave the house, climb into the carriage and leave Masalia with her. She remained mute.
‘He’s going to the Palatio,’ he said in an oddly calm voice, ‘he plans to assassinate Azdeki.’
‘And you’re afraid he won’t succeed,’ she said simply.
‘I’m afraid that someone will stop him, will make him lose his nerve, will . . .’
He did not dare draw closer to Mildrel but at least he was brave enough to meet her gaze.
‘He needs me.’
There was no reproach in her eyes, nor any trace of anger, barely even a hint of sadness. She nodded.
‘I don’t know if I’ve always feared it . . . or if I’ve always known it,’ she acknowledged before tilting her head to look back over her shoulder. ‘Coachman! The trunk!’
Out in the street he could see a man’s hunched silhouette. There was the sound of ropes being released and then some panting accompanied by a dull thump. Finally he appeared on the doorstep, dragging a worn-looking trunk closed with a brass hasp behind him.
He was wearing a tailcoat that was filthy with dust and had bushy ash-coloured hair and an expressionless face. He slid the trunk between Mildrel and the general.
‘Thank you,’ she said without giving the man a glance.
With a wave of his hand the coachman gave Dun-Cadal a timid salute, then returned to his carriage.
‘Your things?’ asked Dun-Cadal.
‘I didn’t pack them,’ she confessed.
Hesitantly, he approached the trunk. So she never had any intention of leaving Masalia. But what then had she brought? He lifted the hasp with a trembling hand.
‘I’ve always kept it with me,’ Mildrel said from behind him. ‘I knew that sooner or later you would put it back on. You’re a man of the West, a general of the Imperial Army. You are Dun-Cadal Daermon.’
He opened the trunk and the gleam of an old suit of polished armour made him squint. Or was it the tears brimming in his eyes? With his fingertips, he brushed the blade that lay upon the breast-plate. This sword had served in the Saltmarsh, in the Vershan, at Kapernevic . . .
‘There’s a horse waiting for you . . .’
He stood up slowly, feeling Mildrel leaning against his shoulder. He raised his hand to caress her cheek and then slid it along her nape, savouring the smoothness of her skin. And without a word they held each other in their arms, for one last embrace, one last time.
They knew they would never see one another again.
Azdeki would summon the councillors who were sworn to secrecy to the inner courtyard. He’d bring them to the gods’ chapel on the opposite side of the courtyard to the ballroom, the doors would be shut behind them, and the most loyal guards would be posted in front of the entrance. And then he would achieve his goal.
No
, thought Laerte.
He would give a long speech about the history of the Sacred Book, about the decision of Aogustus Reyes to place it in the safekeeping of the Uster family, about the deliberate decline of the Order of Fangol and about the dangers of a corrupt Republic. Azdeki would condemn the councillors as too lax, too inclined towards change; he would evoke the loss of values, of the Order’s morality, of the teachings of
the Holy Scriptures. And then he would show them the
Liaber Dest
, would brandish it like a standard so that all would follow his lead. He would allow the monks of Fangol to decide the fate of the former Bishop of Emeris, as proof of his faith and devotion. And a new regime, more just, more respectful, less permissive, would be born from his words. He would rely on the
Liaber Dest
to legitimise his seizure of power, translating the enigmatic verses and the strange engravings in his own fashion. He would give them whatever meaning he wanted, thanks to Aladzio’s work. It was what Azdeki was hoping for, that’s what he’d been preparing for all these years.
A thousand times no
, Laerte swore to himself. The future of the Republic was not his primary concern. But the idea that his father’s assassin might also pervert his dream was unbearable. As he advanced towards the balconies that surrounded the inner courtyard he recalled his years of suffering, hiding behind the identity of Frog, denying what he had been. He was ready at last.
His hand on Eraëd’s pommel, he walked with a resolute step. The men at his side opened the way for him, quietly suppressing the guards. Not once did he unsheathe the Emperors’ sword. Soon an entire section of the palace would be under the control of de Page’s men. The very men that Azdeki had been pushed and manipulated into recruiting, thinking to fortify the place. How ironic . . .
‘Take your positions,’ Laerte ordered in a low voice.
Standing in a doorway, he designated each corner of the balconies and then walked out onto one of them, letting his gaze drift over the crowd conversing below. Men in livery were doing their best to provide service, filling glasses of wine at the barrel, bringing out platters of grilled meat, making their way as deftly as possible among the prestigious guests. All those present were councillors, dignitaries, wealthy men. This gathering was far from the spirit of Masque Night. More ordinary people were restricted to the great ballroom and under close guard.
The mercenaries concealed themselves behind the columns and, armed with their bows, knelt down as close as possible to the balustrades. Laerte looked at the barrels, piled up to form an odd-looking stairway. With a firm hand, he grasped the shoulder of a kneeling man before him.
‘The range?’
‘Perfect,’ the mercenary smiled as he set down an oil lamp.
‘Only on my signal,’ Laerte reminded him, as he sought to spot familiar figures among the crowd.
There were masks by the dozens and costumes made of silk and linen, all of them different, all of them unique. Colours danced, laughter rose, mouths opened to enjoy pieces of meat and joyfully try the poured wine. The courtyard resembled a fairground show of monstrous freaks.
And with in the throng, he spied an eagle’s head.
‘That’s Bernevin over there, and this one here is Daguaret,’ de Page whispered in Viola’s ear.
The duke was observing the slightest movements, the most subtle gestures, that might indicate any associations between the chatting councillors. It was second nature to him, first at the Imperial court and more recently in the Republican assembly, to pay close attention to such tiny details. From the glances and nods of heads he perceived, he could work out the links between those sending and receiving them. The opinions of each person, the political manoeuvres and the friendships they valued, all this information served him to envisage the web being woven by Azdeki.
On his arm, Viola was helping him analyse the comings-and-goings of the dignitaries as they walked up a great hallway lined with mirrors, towards an inner courtyard and a delicious aroma of grilled pork.