Hungerblade

Part Thirteen: Spilled Blood

                 Jacques bolted through the rooms of Julius Laminus’ villa, pursued by a household slave. The man, who Jacques took for one of the senior stewards, pleaded for him to stop and allow himself to be introduced.

                Like the other Romari villas Jacques had seen, Laminus’ had few hallways, but was a collection of open rooms, separated by pillars and curtains. “Where is he?” he demanded.

                “Please, sir . . .” puffed the steward.

                Jacques called Laminus’ name. He ducked into a kitchen, then an empty atrium.

                A mournful yell sounded from behind a curtain. Jacques parted the curtain, crossed a small antechamber, and found himself on the threshold of Julius Laminus’ armory.

                Laminus knelt on the floor, cradling the body of his son Antonius in his arms. Both men were soaked in blood, the son even more so than the father. The front of his white toga was wet with crimson, obscuring the location of the wound. Antonius, already pale and limp, shuddered, releasing a new gout of fresh blood. He had been stabbed in the heart.

                The Senator brushed back Antonius’ hair. Tears streamed down his cheeks, washing rivulets into the spatters of blood on his face. He moaned inarticulately, then noticed Jacques’ presence. Fighting to swallow his grief, Laminus froze his face into a rictus of self-denial. All around the room were arranged busts of his ancestors. They stared down at him with blank nobility.

                “You,” he breathed.

                “Fetch a medic,” Jacques told the servant, who had stumbled stupidly backwards. The man gathered his bearings and thudded off.

                There was nothing a physician could do; the young man was clearly dead. The medic would be needed only for formality’s sake—and to get the panicked servant out of the room.

                “He was nowhere near me,” Laminus said.

                The blade’s sheath lay near Jacques, on the marble floor. He reached out with his foot to pull it discreetly closer.

                “We thought it through,” continued Laminus. “He stood over there, many paces away. Many paces. I told him to move even further, but he . . . Still, he was well away from it.”

                Jacques understood what had happened, but let the man tell it.

                “I meant only to examine it,” said Laminus. “We were curious. It was as if the sword imposed itself on us, forced us to release it.”

                Gardien nodded, even though this was not the case. The temptation men felt when alone with the blade was not a factor of its enchantment. It was the product of human nature alone.

                “As soon as it was free of its scabbard, it began to quiver in my hand. I could not control it. It was as if it sought a target.”

                This was what the sword did, if you did not already have a victim picked out for it.

                “Its tip swung through the room, like a rod dowsing for water. And then it found Antonius. Pointed to him. I seized it with both hands. The scabbard had dropped to the floor, so I ducked down to snatch it up again. The sword, it resisted me, like a horse bridling against a rider’s command. As I struggled to put it back in the sheath, it suddenly dipped. As if lunging at me. Trying to cut my wrist. It surprised me . . . I was startled, so it . . .”

                Jacques had been slowly approaching the man, and was now close enough to duck down beside him and place a hand on his shoulder. Laminus quivered and gasped.

                “I know what it did,” said Jacques.

                “It flew—flew from my hand! One moment, I held it, and the next, Antonius had fallen to the floor. Did I see a silver flash in the air? I do not know. I did not see the blade go in.”

                He turned his son’s body, so that Jacques could see the exit wound in his back. Hungerblade had thrown itself like a spear, penetrating Antonius’ heart and severing his spinal column.

                “He’d seen me struggling with the sword, and came toward me to help. If he had not done that, it would have taken me instead. He laid himself open to it. ”

                The sword lay beneath the senator’s kneeling legs. It posed no more danger, now that its hunger had been sated, and would remain inactive until the next time someone took it from its scabbard. Even so, Jacques would not feel right until it was safely stowed. There was also a broader emergency to address. As much as the senator required consolation, Gardien had to extricate himself from this situation, quickly. “Laminus . . .” he whispered.

                Laminus gripped Jacques’ hand.

                “Nero gathers troops for a strike on the city. I must go deal with them. Let me take the sword?”

                “Nero . . . ? What? But he can’t . . . we . . .”

                “Your geas forbade him to command Romari troops, so he’s gathered mercenaries through Wigandus.”

                “Mercenaries? Wignadus? The geas also prevents him from commanding treasury officials.”

                This was a splendid question Jacques had no time to discuss. “I don’t know how long you’ve got until they’re all mustered, but when they come, you can be sure that this domus will be among his first targets.”

                Laminus slumped. “Let him. Let him take me.”

                “He might extirpate your entire line, Laminus. You must collect yourself now, do you understand?”

                “Yes,” he quavered.

                “Gather the young men of your movement. Prepare to mount a defense, if I fail. I must go now, and take the sword away from here.”

                Laminus stiffened, shifting further onto the sword, and wrenched himself away from Jacques. “How could you have let me do this?” Laminus punched out the words with a sudden, concentrated fury.

                Sooner or later they always said this. They never wanted to hear the true answer, that he had warned them repeatedly. Instead, Jacques had learned to say this: “It is natural for grief to turn to anger, Laminus. But now you must protect the rest of your family.”

                He scrambled for Hungerblade’s hilt. “I will use the sword against them!”

                The trembling Laminus was a shadow of the man who had fought him at Circe’s fête. Jacques placed his foot on the senator’s shoulder as he struggled up, toppling him over onto the floor. He ducked to scoop up the sword and departed. Over his shoulder, he saw Laminus lying on the floor, clutching at his son’s corpse.

                Jacques wiped the blood from Hungerblade with a cloth he kept inside his doublet, then smoothly slipped it back in its sheath, which he then attached to his belt.

                 Laminus would make a formidable enemy. If Jacques were fortunate, he would come to realize that he had no reason to blame anyone but himself for Antonius’s death. Experience suggested that he would not be fortunate.

                Jacques bounded up the steps to Isabelle’s domus and reached for his purse, fumbling for the key that opened its brass doors. The purse was gone. He grimaced, exasperated at his forgetfulness. Of course the purse would be missing—Circe and her allies would have taken it from him before throwing him in her dungeon. Jacques banged the knocker against the door.

                It opened.

Hemwold the troll stood there. He grabbed Jacques by the doublet and hauled him inside.

                The villa had been reduced to a shambles. Dressers were overturned, the contents of their drawers spilled onto the floor. The carpets were rolled up. Isabelle’s cooks and porters had been herded into the kitchen, where Berchtold and another rough-looking fellow, dressed like a Doturi brigand, stood watch over them, cudgels in hand.

                “He’s here,” Hemwold grunted. With rude force, Hemwold shoved him into the atrium, now grabbing the back of his doublet like the scruff of a kitten’s neck.

                Wigandus bounded into view, carrying a small jewelry cabinet. “Is it in here, Gardien?” he asked. The cabinet appeared to be locked.

                Jacques released himself from the troll’s grip. “You may not have considered this, but Emperor Guntram takes, you know, a dim view of people who ransack the homes of his messengers.”

                Wigandus’ nostrils flared. “It’s you who’ll have to answer to His Imperial Majesty, when I lay the rituals for Romari magnetic magic at his feet, and then inform him of your lackadaisical and obstructionist attitude. However I may be prepared to soften my report, if you stop wasting my time and give me that locus.”

                Gardien inspected the fabric of his doublet, which the troll had torn. “I’m willing to take my chances. I’ve been much more lackadaisical and obstructionist in the past, yet oddly enough, he keeps sending me out on important missions.”

                The merchant smashed the cabinet against a pillar, breaking it open. A cascade of brooches and necklaces fell to the floor. He knelt to paw his way through them, and then tossed them aside.

                “What does this locus look like?” Jacques said. “Maybe I can help you find it.”

                Wigandus came at him. “Don’t play dumb, messenger! We know all about it. The ritual object in which Circe’s treasonous geas resides. We have a spy in Orientius’ household.”

                Jacques picked up an upended chair and sat in it. “Ah, like the one they have in yours.”

                The merchant’s face fell. “What do they know? This damnable city . . . ” His composure quickly returned. “It cannot be much, or they would have acted to prevent us.”

                “Yes, I doubt Circe would have invited you to her fête if she’d known you were raising a mercenary army for Nero.”

                “Guntram will be quite distressed, I am sure, to discover that you favor the continuance of a coup against a legitimate Emperor.”

                “I do not believe that His Imperial Majesty sees himself as exactly the same kind of Emperor as Nero.” Jacques tapped his fingers lightly on the hilt of his weapon. Berchtold and Hemwold grew visibly nervous, but Wigandus paid no heed to the gesture.

                “It is you who are the naïve one,” he spat. “Yes, yes, there is the idea of spreading Radiant Reason throughout Uropa, and being enlightened and benevolent toward all mankind. Such pretty talk can be useful, when it convinces people to obey. But at its core, Gardien, statecraft is like everything else—a matter of finances. Just as Nero needs my money to regain his authority, Guntram can use the thousands and thousands of ducats magnetic magic will bring him. If a little blood must be spilled, he may lament it. He may write a poem, or paint a painting. But this prize is so great, he will accept whatever I had to do to get it.”

                “Ah, so you’re a patriot.” Jacques clapped his hands and chuckled. “You plan to simply give these rituals to the state.” Jacques froze Guntram with a firm stare. “I’m sure your brothers in the guild are also great patriots and will willingly, no, eagerly, give away such a monopoly. You probably discussed that with them before you left.” Wigandus was silent for a moment, and then tried to mumble a response, but Jacques cut him off.

                “And what makes you think you can trust Nero? I assume that as part of your arrangement, you have to get him the locus . . .”

                “So what?”

                “After your mercenaries have put him back on his throne, and the geas is broken, what leverage do you have then? What assurance do you have that Nero will give you the magic you seek?”

                Wigandus mopped sweat from his brow. “You won’t sow the seeds of doubt with me, messenger. Naturally, the locus will only be provided in exchange for the grimoires containing the rituals.”

                “In other words, without it, all of your effort here is wasted.”

                “Shut up and tell me where you’ve hidden it! It must be here!” He turned to the troll. “Hemwold, beat it out of him.”

                The troll pointed to Hungerblade, grunting uncertainly.

                “Here’s a fact you might find interesting,” said Jacques. “One of my tasks here was to assess your trustworthiness.”

                “Then you leave me no choice but to go forward, hah? You will malign me, and doom my interests in Dotur forever—unless I get that locus, and through it, the grimoires. Well, then, Jacques Gardien, consider this. We have your junior messenger, Isabelle. And you have maneuvered me into what, frankly, seems to be a position of some desperation. I did not want matters to reach this point, you understand. But unless you immediately hand it over, I will be forced to order the slitting of her alabaster throat.”

                To be continued . . .

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