Hungerblade
Part Ten: Acting And Reacting
Giovanna rubbed the silver coin on the new shift Isabelle had given her earlier in the week. She’d managed to keep the garment nearly spotless in the days since. It occurred to Jacques that this was not an easy feat; undoubtedly, the girl was still sleeping in an abandoned building. “Is there another job I can do for you, sir?” she asked.
“Nothing, for now,” Jacques said. “Come back tomorrow, as usual.”
The girl pivoted like a spinning top, then bounded out of Isabelle’s villa onto the noisy street outside. Jacques turned to Isabelle; he intended to ask her if a bed might be found for Giovanna in her servant’s quarters. He would wait to do this until after he’d worked his way back into her good graces. As senior messenger, he could command Isabelle to take her in, but Jacques thought it would be better for all of them if the invitation came voluntarily.
He eased cautiously into the villa’s cramped kitchen, where he found Isabelle supervising the production of an orange omelet, in the Gallusi style. Her cooks regarded him, a male interloper poking his head into their exclusive preserve, with expressions as sour as the Romari oranges they were slicing. Jacques motioned Isabelle to follow him into the atrium, where there was a measure of privacy.
“The girl followed Wigandus back to the imperial palace,” Jacques announced.
“He’s dealing with Nero behind our backs?”
“It certainly appears that way.”
Isabelle’s expression turned hard; the gravity of the merchant’s offense required no further explanation. As a free man of Dotur, Wigandus had every right to negotiate arrangements with his counterparts in Romulus. Direct negotiations with Nero or his court constituted affairs of state; Doturi law dictated that they be carried out by a duly authorized messenger of the Emperor. Wigandus had was committing treason and being rather careless about the fact.
“What do you think he’s up to?” she asked.
“If I had to guess, I’d say he’s asking Nero for the same thing he wanted from Orientius—he intends to purchase construction rituals. Given the ultimate goals of his guild, I’d say he’s bargaining for the rituals of the Serracum.”
“But Orientius and Nero are adversaries.”
“Wigandus was sizing up two potential partners. That’s just good business practice: see which competitor will give you the best terms. But Orientius didn’t want to deal at all. Which sends Wigandus straight to the palace, to negotiate with his sole remaining source.”
“Does Nero even have access to the rituals?”
“An excellent question.”
Isabelle paused as servants brought in the meal. Waiting until the meal was almost finished, she broke the long silence.
“Would it be such a bad thing?”
Jacques dropped his knife and pushed away from the table, suddenly tense. “No, it would not be a bad thing. At least, not on the surface and not at first.” Isabelle frowned and Jacques continued. “How would it end? That’s the question. The Empire gains the Serracum, which could well open up our borders, link towns, improve trade, expand resources.”
“That does not sound like a bad thing.”
Jacques smiled and held up a finger. “Ah, did it say Empire? I meant North Coast League. The league gains those benefits, which do, indeed, help the Empire, but where does the true power lie?”
“With the League.”
“Exactly.” Jacques sighed. “If Guntram held the secret, great. If two guilds held the secret, great. If one guild holds the secret…”
“Disaster.”
Jacques nodded and reached for his cup. He had half expected Wigandus to work against him during the journey. Guntram had almost told him as much. He had not expected Wigandus to find Nero as an apparent ally.
“So what do we do?” Isabelle asked. “We can’t arrest him until he’s back in Doturi territory, but we can still inform him of an intent to lay charges.“
“We wait.”
“Wait?”
“Remember that lesson I was always trying to teach you?”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, that. Never act until you absolutely have to.”
“And why is that again?”
“Because by then you might actually know what’s going on.”
Isabelle’s houseboy, Paolo, edged nervously up to the threshold of the atrium. A scrawny kid, he resembled a male version of Giovanna. However, where the girl was ebullient and brimming with heedless confidence, Paolo’s demeanor was glum and skittish. Jacques wondered what had happened to him before Isabelle had taken him in.
“What is it, Paolo?” asked Isabelle.
“This arrived for Lord Gardien,” he said, entering the chamber to hand a small parchment scroll, sealed with a dab of red wax, to Jacques.
Jacques pulled the wooden spindle from a metal sleeve. The papyrus bore a heady fragrance that began to fill the large room. The seal displayed an emblem: a slender hand holding an enchanter’s wand. Jacques pinched the seal, releasing a thin thread of red smoke. He wondered how Circe had managed to key the message to him alone; perhaps the bloody bandages. He pulled the scroll open and read its contents; it was an invitation to join Circe at her home, at his earliest convenience.
“Circe?” asked Isabelle.
Jacques nodded.
“That reminds me.”
“Yes?” asked Jacques. He was getting the feeling that Isabelle was now enjoying his discomfort.
“About your . . . close relationship with the Senator. What was that about not acting until the last possible moment?”
“Ah. Well.” Jacques took a sudden interest in the flooring stones beneath his feet. “There’s acting, you see. And then there’s reacting.”
She’d folded her arms, as if waiting for further explication.
“Two different things entirely,” said Jacques, making his way for the exit.
***
Circe led Jacques through the sandy pathways of a fig grove. “This has belonged to my family for nine hundred years,” she said. She reached up into the branches to seize one of the yellow fruits and hold it out for him. Circe seemed to want him to take it with his teeth. He plucked it from her fingertips, examining it before popping it into his mouth.
“And where was Nero’s family nine hundred years ago?” he asked.
Her exquisite shoulders twitched. The one nearest him was bared by her flowing garment. “That lineage barely traces to the plague years. Men have occasionally risen from the coarsest origins to ascend the Imperial throne.”
“I have been reading my Romari history,” he said, as the prelude to a new topic.
A twitch of irritation disturbed the sublimity of her features. “It is mostly gossip.”
“Then it is much like today’s political discourse,” Jacques said.
“You are a wit,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“It was not a flattering observation.”
“And in these chronicles, there is an eternal rivalry between throne and Senate. When the Emperor is powerful, the Senate is weak. And vice versa.”
Harsh southern sun pounded down on them, baking the loamy soil beneath their feet. Jacques could feel its rays cooking his pale Gallusi skin. Circe, in contrast, seemed to bask in the light, which placed an ever-shifting series of halos around her cascading hair. Resistance to her charms was ebbing away from him. It was little consolation to him that her breath, too, was visibly quickening, and a rosy glow of desire rising around those damnably perfect clavicles.
“I did not summon you here to give me a lesson in my own history.”
“Then why did you . . . ?”
She took hold of his arm, slowly brought it toward her, and bowed her head slightly to plant a slow, damp kiss on the inside of his wrist.
“Ah,” he said.
She clapped her hands, commanding a quintet of slaves to jump into action, unloading a series of canvas bundles from the back of a pack horse. “I have brought a tent, that we may enjoy a light meal together.”
“I see,” said Jacques. “And here I thought my subject matter appropriate to the occasion. Given that it’s an aphrodisiac.”
“What is?”
“Power.” He returned her previous gesture, kissing the inside of her wrist. It tasted faintly of lemon juice.
“You’re right. That isn’t boring.”
“As much as I would like to dally with you throughout my stay, I have been charged by my Emperor with a task to perform. Maybe if you helped me get that out of the way, we’d have more time to take these, ah, light meals together.”
She smiled. Behind her, slaves pounded the pegs of a large tent into the dry and yielding ground. “I have been wondering just what your task is, Jacques Gardien.”
“It is simply to accumulate information.”
“And then act on it?”
Now it was Jacques who shrugged.
Circe moved in to kiss his neck. “You Doturi messengers are famous for the wide leeway your emperors grant you.”
He pulled her into him. After a while, he came up for air. “And if you had your say, how would that discretion be exercised?”
The senator gently broke their clinch. “The eternal struggle, as you call it, between senate and throne has been resolved, for the moment.”
“In your favor.”
She came up behind him and bit the back of his neck, which Jacques took as an answer in the affirmative. “Yes. Nero is powerless, so the only real question is . . . who commands the senate?”
Jacques struggled to keep his mind on his work. “And how, incidentally, did he come to lose his authority?”
She wrapped an arm around his throat. The gesture, though erotic, was not entirely friendly. “We’ve already discussed that. Let’s return to the important question.”
“Who commands the senate?” replied Jacques.
Circe loosened her grip on him, moving to kiss him on the lips. He turned her firmly around, brushing his lips against her shoulder blades. “Yes,” said Circe.
“And you would naturally prefer that it be you, instead of Orientius or Julius Laminus.”
She slipped out of his grip, placing herself on the other side of a fig trunk. “Saying their names spoils the mood. But naturally, yes.” Her slaves had worked quickly; the tent was already up. Circe tossed her head in its direction. “Shall we?”
Jacques nodded.
She took his hand in hers and led him toward the tent.
“If I help you undo your competitors,” Jacques said, “Emperor Guntram will ask me how Dotur stands to benefit.”
“You’re clever. I’m sure you can come up with something.”
“Favorable trade agreements? Border concessions?”
She pulled harder on his arm. “Make up whatever he’ll believe, so long as he posts you back here to administer the details.”
“Ritual secrets? Maps?”
Her laughter resembled a run of notes struck on a lute. “As I said, you are a wit.”
“You’re right; the story must be believable.”
She ducked into the tent, where a blanket, cushions, a tray of cheese and fruit, and an amphora of wine awaited them.
“Pour the wine,” Circe instructed. “I have a surprise for you.” Jacques tasted it; it was not the usual watery Romari stuff, but a fine Gallusi vintage. They held their goblets up in mutual salute and drank.
This time he allowed her to feed him by hand, sliding a handful of pomegranate seeds onto his tongue. He flattened them against the side of his mouth, squeezing flat their soft outer sacs of tangy juice. Circe held up a silver bowl; he spit the seeds into it. “And how exactly am I to help you displace Orien . . . those two whose names we’re not using?” He took a similar quantity of pomegranate seeds and let the Senator lick them from his palm.
When she had finished, spitting the seeds into the silver bowl, she said, “You are, I have heard, on good terms with someone who possesses a certain sword. If he wishes to withdraw it from his scabbard, it is all but guaranteed that his foes will die.”
An unplanned chortle escaped from Jacques’ throat. “You want me to assassinate them?”
Circe stiffened. The move reminded Jacques of a leopard. “Of course it must be done so that no one can say for sure it was you.”
Jacques rubbed the back of his neck, as if it suddenly ached. “You see, Circe, I thought you had something subtler in mind . . .”
“You are disappointed that I only want you for your sword?” It was a clever line, but the humor had drained from her voice.
Jacques sensed that he had been put to a test, and failed. “We are granted wide leeway, o intoxicating one, but it doesn’t extend to the willy-nilly slaughter of prominent figures.”
Circe stood suddenly and crossed her arm. Her mouth formed a long, straight line. “You have taken something from me, and I want it back.”
“I have?”
“I can still save you, if you return it now. Everything we talked about can still be yours.”
“What everything?” Jacques blinked. Circe had grown blurry. His head felt as if someone was pressing hard on both of his temples. He pitched over, heaving, seized by a powerful urge to vomit; at the same time, his windpipe closed up.
She backed away from him and stood over him as spasms racked his body. Jacques thought he saw regret on her face, but her apparent remorse may have simply been a product of his fogged vision. Then he lost his sight altogether.
He’d poured the wine. She’d drunk from it, too. But she’d poisoned him, all the same.
To be continued . . .