The Born Queen - J. Gregory Keyes [164]
Elyoner Dare was a petite woman whose demure composure gave little immediate hint of her deep satisfaction in the pursuit of vice. One usually discovered her pleasantly wicked nature early in conversation, but this day she was very different from the last time he had seen her. She wore a black dress and a black net on her hair, and her courtiers and servants, usually quite colorfully attired, were also dressed in muted tones.
When they entered, she rose and offered her hand. Once they all had kissed it, she bent and kissed Cazio on the cheeks.
“It’s good to see you, mi dello,” the duchess said. “All is dark, but you are still a light to these eyes.”
“Duchess Elyoner, I would be pleased to present my swordmaster and mentor—” He realized he did not know the old man’s real name. Z’Acatto was the family nickname and simply meant “the cursed.”
“Acmemeno d’Eriestia dachi Vesseriatii,” z’Acatto said. “At your service, Duchess.”
Cazio blinked, trying not to show his surprise. The duochi of the Vesseriatii were some of the richest, most powerful men in Vitellio.
Elyoner kissed him on the cheeks as well.
“Austra is with us,” Cazio said. “She isn’t well. I was hoping your chirgeons could help her.”
“Austra? Ill? Of course we shall do what we can.” Her forehead puckered in a small frown. “How is it you were not with Anne when…” She didn’t finish, but her eyes seemed to glisten a bit.
“She sent us away, to Dunmrogh,” Cazio replied, then caught Elyoner’s tone.
“When what?” he grated.
Cazio sat on the very bench where he first had kissed Austra and took a deep pull from the carafe of harsh red wine. He glanced at z’Acatto as the old man came up and then handed him the stoneware jug.
Oddly, the older man hesitated, then took a drink.
“Anything else you have to tell me?” Cazio asked, trying to work up some anger and finding he couldn’t. “Are you actually a duoco? Or perhaps meddicio of z’Irbina?”
“My brother is duoco,” z’Acatto said. “I assume he is. I haven’t seen or heard from him in years.”
“Why? Why did you live in my house as if you were my father’s servant? Some vagabond soldier he dragged back from the wars?”
Z’Acatto took another drink, then another.
“I always told you I did not know the face of the man who killed your father,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I lied.”
Cazio stared at the old man, and his life seemed to stretch out behind him like a rope he was trying—and failing—to balance on. Was anything he knew true?
“Who killed him?” he demanded.
Z’Acatto squinted off into the middle distance. “We were in a little town called Fierra, in the Uvadro Mountains. They make a fortified wine there called uchapira. We were drinking a lot of it, your father and I. There was a man; I don’t even remember his name. Turned out I had slept with his woman the night before, and he called me to steel. Only I was too drunk. When I got up to fight, my legs failed me. When I awoke, your father was out in the street with him. I was only out for a few moments, so I was still drunk and mean. I only meant to fight my own duel, but when I came screaming out of the tavern, Mamercio was distracted, and the man stabbed him right through the spleen.” He looked back at Cazio. “I killed your father, Cazio. My drunken stupidity killed him. Do you understand?”
Cazio stood jerkily. “All this time—”
“I did the only thing I knew to do,” he said. “I took his place, raised you.”
“The man he fought?”
“I killed him, of course.”
“You could have told me. You could have told me a lot of things.”
“I could have. I was a coward.”
Cazio felt his heart constrict as he looked at this man he did not know, had never known.
“This is worse, knowing now,” Cazio said. “Now, when everything is all coming apart.”
“What will you do?”
“Now that Anne is dead? Kill Hespero. Find a cure for Austra. Go home. Why didn