“Filthy bastardos!” Erik was shouting gesturing toward the Old Temple. “Kill them! Kill them all!”
She stared at him. He grimaced and subsided. “All right,” she told Erik and the gardai. “I’ve done all I can here. Let’s go.”
Sergei ca’Rudka
The rain hammered the roof of the carriage and dripped through every conceivable crevice in the carriage’s roof and sides. Sergei could not imagine how miserable the poor driver must be, huddled on his seat as they made their way ahead of the army on the road.
Sergei took a half-turn to eat a quick midday meal at one of the inns in Ville Colhelm, just across the border of the Holdings, and to let the current driver attempt to get the worst of the dampness out of his sodden clothing by sitting in front of the tavern’s roaring fire. The new driver he hired didn’t seem particularly thrilled at the idea of long turns of the glass out in the weather.
Sergei didn’t tarry long. He ate quickly and was back in the carriage with its new driver, jouncing and squelching along the roads made nearly impassable by the horrid weather. By afternoon, the rain had subsided into a persistent, sullen drizzle, the lightning and heaviest rain careening off east and north.
Sergei tried to sleep in the rocking, lurching coach, and failed. The roof was leaking in the corner where he tried to huddle, and the ruts on the road didn’t seem to match the carriage wheels, so that every time they dropped into them, the carriage springs threatened to throw him off his seat. He wondered whether the driver did that deliberately to make him as miserable as the driver himself undoubtedly was.
They encountered few people on the road, mostly farmers either sitting on their own heavy and slow plow horses, or with the animal in the traces of an equally heavy and slow wagon laden with goods destined for the markets of the nearest town. Sergei closed his eyes. He yearned to be back in Nessantico, back in his own lush apartments there. Why, he might even visit the Bastida again-surely by this time, Allesandra would have a brace of Morellis ensconced there in the darkness, and he could indulge in the delicious pain…
“Out of the road, girl!” he heard the driver call. “Are you blind and deaf?”
Sergei slid aside the curtains of the door in time to see the carriage passing a young woman walking the road. She was drenched, with only a small parcel in her hand and mud up to her knees with stray spatters over her tashta from the carriage wheels. He saw her give the driver’s back an obscene gesture.
Her face seemed oddly familiar. He’d let the curtain drop and the carriage lurch ahead for a few breaths before it came to him. “Driver!” he called, using the end of his cane to lift the window between them. “Stop a moment.”
“Vajiki?”
“That girl. Stop.”
Sergei thought he heard a sigh from the driver. “She hardly seems comely enough to bother about, Vajiki, and she’s drenched besides. But as you wish…”
The driver pulled on the reins. Sergei opened the curtains again and put his hand out in the rain, gesturing to the girl. “Come on,” he told her. “Get out of the weather.”
She hesitated, then walked slowly to the carriage. She stood at the door, looking up at him. “Begging your pardon, Vajiki, but how do I know I can trust you?” she said. If she was taken aback by his false nose, she didn’t seem to react. And that face… The hair is different. Lighter and shorter-and clumsily cut. But those eyes, and that presence…
“You don’t,” Sergei told her. “I could give you my word, but what would that mean? If I’m someone who meant you harm, I’d just lie about that, too. It’s your choice, lass; you can come in and ride a ways with me, or you can stay out there. If it’s the latter, at least you can’t get any wetter than you already are.”
She laughed. “Aye to that,” she said. “Ah, well…” She reached up and opened the door of the carriage, stepping onto the footrest there as the carriage sagged under her weight. She dropped into the narrow seat across from him. Water dripped from her hair and the sodden clothes.
She stared at him as Sergei pulled the door closed and rapped on the roof of the carriage with the knob of his cane. “Let’s go, driver.”
The driver flicked the reins and called to the horse, and the carriage lurched forward again. The young woman continued to stare. In the dimness of the carriage and with his old eyes, it was difficult to see her features that well, but he knew she could see the silver nose glued to his wrinkled visage. If she was who he thought she was, she said nothing, didn’t acknowledge his name. “Do you make a habit of giving rides to unranked peasants, Vajiki?” she asked.
“No,” Sergei answered. “Only to those who seem interesting.” She didn’t react to that except to brush rainplastered hair from her forehead. “If we’re going to share this uncomfortable coach, we might as well introduce ourselves,” he said finally. “You are…?”
“Remy,” she said. “Remy Bantara.” There was the slightest hesitation as she spoke the last name. She’s lying… Sergei suppressed a twitch of satisfaction. She was a better liar than most, extremely skilled at it, which told him that she was also used to doing so. The hesitation was hardly noticeable, but he’d heard too many lies and evasions in his life. She also kept her right hand under the folds of her overcloak, near the top of her boot. He suspected that she had a weapon there-a knife, most likely. That made him wonder-what else might she be hiding? “And you’re Ambassador Sergei ca’Rudka. The Silvernose,” she added.
“Ah, we’ve met before?”
She shook her head, spraying droplets of water from the spikes of hair. “No. But I’ve heard of you. Everyone has.”
And everyone who sees me for the first time does nothing but stare at my nose. Yet you don’t… Sergei smiled at her. “Where are you going, Vajica Bantara?”
“Nessantico,” she told him. “And you may call me Remy, if you prefer.”
“That’s a long walk, Remy.”
“I’m not required to keep a schedule. I will get there when I get there, Ambassador.”
“You may call me Sergei, if you like. Nessantico, eh? I’m on my way there as well,” he told her. He was certain now. The timbre of her voice, the way she stared intently when she thought she wasn’t being observed, the lack of true subservience in her tone. She’d dyed her hair lighter, and probably cut it herself. This was Rhianna-the girl who Paulus had said that the Hirzg’s people were searching for. Knowing Jan as he did, and hearing the interplay between the Hirzg and Brie, he suspected he knew why. “I’ll be stopping at Passe a’Fiume tonight to sleep and change driver and horse, then on to Nessantico in the morning.” He hesitated. “You’re welcome to accompany me. It’s a far shorter ride than a walk.”
“And what payment would you be expecting, Amba… Sergei?”
“Just the pleasure of conversation,” he told her. “As you said, it’s a long way to Nessantico, and lonely.”
“As I said a moment ago, I’ve heard of you. And some of those tales…” She let her statement trail off into silence. She continued to stare at him.
“I’m not one to believe tales and gossip, myself,” Sergei told her. “I prefer to discover the truth on my own. Someone who’s strong enough to walk to Nessantico is certainly strong enough to fend off an old man who can barely walk, should he go beyond the bounds of politeness. At the very least, you can certainly outrun me.”
She laughed again, a genuine, throaty amusement that made him smile in return. Her hand came out from under her tashta: again, a practiced, effortless movement, not that of a frightened young girl in an uncertain situation, but that of someone who was used to such conditions. He began to wonder if there were more to the story of Jan and Rhianna than he thought.
You could make her talk. You could make her tell you everything.