As the Head of the Spy Guild, Arta Rinari knew secrets. People came to curry favor with her, praising her good looks and vast acumen, scavenging bits of information that could save and destroy. She granted them their wishes. Never because of ambition, always out of sheer curiosity. She kept asking herself what would happen if she lifted the heavy curtain of mystery for one person or another. The results never disappointed her. This time it was Rareș Calimachi, the Archon of the Fasma, the preserver of knowledge, the most glorified library rat beneath the Veil, who sought her council.
Arta swung back in a cane armchair, enjoying the gentle sun of autumn. Obeying an old habit, she spent her time in one of Bucharest's teahouses, stuck between Art-Nouveau villas that were two streets away from Gradina Icoanei. Her smooth hair covered most of her back, blending with her silky dress and flowing down her gloved arms. She sipped her drink slowly, holding the bottom part of the cup with two supple fingers.
"I could not resist the temptation to see you, Arta." Calimachi bowed, kissed the hand she had graciously stretched out, and sat down beside her. He was lying, of course, but she did not care. Calimachi's presence scattered the shadows in her mind, and she preferred his sweet compliments to boring reports delivered by her agents.
"You look marvelous. You always do." He hesitated, searching her face for clues. "Should I skip the pleasantries?"
She smiled gingerly, and a green sparkle appeared in her dark-brown eyes.
"Why should you? I love flattery. It's entertaining."
"Hmm...?" He stared at her in confusion. As always, he was trying to figure her out. As always, he was failing, missing clues between one eyeblink and the next. Arta knew why he had come.
"The Basilisk has crossed the Croatian border and... vanished into thin air. This exciting event has brought you to me. You want answers."
"The news has reached me, yes." He made a sign to the waiter. "I thought you could tell me more. For a price, of course."
Her triumphant smile faded. "I could tell you more. But why?" Arta had learnt Calimachi's mannerisms well enough to read them with ease. The yellow-eyed bastard was terrified, although he would not admit it. She saw a glimpse of despair in his pleading look and she liked it. His misery reminded Arta she was not the only one plagued by self-doubt.
"You don't know her motives, Arta, do you?" he asked her with a scathing stare. She pouted, feigning indifference.
"I play this game as long as it's interesting. I am not as obsessed with the Basilisk as you are, Rareș," she snarled, watching Calimachi's face go pale. Her gloved hand brushed a stray lock away from her long face. "The Lascaris are not my priority."
Arta enjoyed teasing Calimachi, knowing that he would retaliate.
"What about Laurenția?" he asked, forcing her to swallow a knot in her throat. He knew how to hurt. But even those jibes were better than a solitary sojourn in an empty teahouse, where she'd do nothing but sip her drink and drown in the stale waters of her troubled thoughts. Arta neither rejected pain nor avoided it. Instead, she embraced it as a grim reminder of her own shortcomings.
"What about her?" she asked, feeling the sting deep in her bones.
"Aren't you sorry?"
Sorry? A day had not passed when she did not think about long auburn hair and naïve blue eyes, clear as frozen lakes. But no, Arta, was not sorry.
"She's been doing fine," she replied. "It was only fair to use the situation to my favor." Arta had warned her, but she did not listen. Arta never lied, and she always betrayed. It was her nature. One could not change that much.
YOU ARE READING
Byzantine Purple
Fantasy"History is a survivor's tale. It knows no villains. Only failures." A decade ago, Leudora had her major enemies eliminated - the scientist known as the Dalmatian Serpent, and his followers, who sought her people's blood. A ruthless guardian of her...
