good friend of yours.”
Sergei grimaced. His head ached with the worries that assailed him: the deteriorating relationship between the Holdings and the Firenzcian Coalition over the last few years; the Kraljica’s cold reception to his suggestion to repair that rift finally and completely; the rising presence of Nico Morel and his followers in the city; even the way that Erik ca’Vikej had dominated the Kraljica’s attention during the Gschnas . . .
Poor Karl’s death had merely been a final blow. That had been a reminder of his own mortality, that soon enough Sergei would have to face the soul-weighers and see what his own life had come to. He was afraid of that day. He was afraid he knew how heavy his soul would be with his sins.
“It’s Ambassador ca’Pallo’s death, yes,” Sergei answered, holding up the paper again as he approached the Capitaine. “Certainly. But it’s also this. Have you seen it?”
Ce’Denis peered myopically at the paper. “I noticed some of these posted around the Avi on my way in this morning, yes. But I’m afraid I’m a plain man of battle, Ambassador. I don’t have the skills of letters, as you undoubtedly remember.”
“Ah.” Sergei scowled. He had forgotten—ce’Denis’ illiteracy had been one of the reasons that he was only the Capitaine of the Bastida and not an a’offizier in the Garde Kralji or Garde Civile; it was also the reason he wasn’t a chevaritt and why his rank was only ce’. Sergei’s hand fisted around the parchment, crumpling it with a sound like brief fire, and tossing it on the ground. Deliberately, he stepped on it. “It’s a repulsive piece of trash, Capitaine. Vile. A proclamation from that damned Nico Morel, railing against the Numetodo and insulting the memory of Ambassador ca’Pallo. Gloating at my good friend’s death . . .”
Sergei grimaced. Memories of Nico Morel came back unbidden even as he railed. The boy he’d known a decade and a half ago during the great battle for Nessantico had little resemblance to the charismatic, raving firebrand who had surfaced recently. Still, those had been awful times, and Nico had been lost during them—who knew what the boy had experienced? Who knew how life might have twisted him?
Life twisted you, didn’t it? Sergei’s headache pounded at his temples. “Nico Morel believes he’s the incarnation of Cénzi himself,” he said, rubbing his brow with one hand. “I swear, Capitaine, I will have Morel here in the Bastida one day, and I will take great delight in his interrogation.”
Ce’Denis pressed his thin lips together. He looked up at the skull of the dragon, mounted on the wall and glaring down at the courtyard in which they stood. “I’m sure you will, Ambassador ca’Rudka.”
Sergei glanced at the man sharply. He wasn’t sure he liked ce’Denis’ tone. “I want you to take any of your gardai not on duty and send them out along the Avi,” he told the Capitaine. He nudged the paper on the ground with his foot. “Have them tear down any of these proclamations that they find. That will be the request of Commandant cu’Ingres when I return to the palais, but if you could start before the order comes, I would appreciate it. The fewer people who see this filth, the better.”
“Certainly, Ambassador,” ce’Denis said, saluting. “Will you be with us long this morning?” He glanced at what Sergei carried under his left arm.
“Not long,” Sergei answered. “My day is busy, I’m afraid. And ci’Bella?”
“He is two levels down of the tower, Ambassador, as you requested.” Ce’Denis inclined his head to Sergei and went back into his office, calling for his aide. Sergei shuffled toward the main tower of the Bastida, saluting the gardai who opened the barred door for him. He moved slowly down the stairs that spiraled into the lower chambers, bracing himself with a hand on the stone walls and groaning at the strain on his knees, wishing again that he’d brought his