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Going into the scene, I really didn't know Sergei at all; he was (honestly) pure cardboard in my head. He was there to serve a plot purpose only. I needed him to interrogate the would-be assassin, determine that the man had acted alone, and at the same time illustrate for the reader some of the dynamics and tension between the Numetodo and those of the Concénzia Faith. Simple enough.
Simple enough... Sure. I started the scene with Sergei's arrival at the Bastida a'Drago. Now, I had a good image in my head of this place, lifted largely from some of the buildings from our trip to France: the chateaus, the incredible Medieval and Rennaissance structures in Paris. I wanted a dragon's head mounted in the entrance wall of the Bastida for two reasons: I thought it would be a neat prop -- a bit of telling detail for the city -- and I knew that it wasn't a dragon's head at all, but the skull of some ancient carnivorous dinosaur: thus representative of this moment in time, with a world balanced between a time of superstition and a time of reason.
A bit of a side tangent: At the Chateau d'Usse in France (that's one of its towers in the photo on this page) I'd seen one of the ubiquitous house martins fly (startlingly to me) from the mouth of a gargoyle set high on a wall. I liked the image, and I liked the implicit symbolism of an innocent bird nesting in the snarling mouth of a monster.
So in decribing the Bastida in the book, I had a bird fly from the toothy mouth of the mounted dragon head, then had Sergei explain to Capitaine ci'Doulor the symbolic message sent by the image. It was a case of setting driving characterization... and it made the character of Sergei turn the corner from 'flat' to 'round' for me. Here's that scene:
Sergei was still looking up at the dragon's mouth. He pointed as the martin darted back into the dragon's mouth and another left. "Do you know what's wrong with that, Capitaine ci'Doulor?"
The man stepped out from the door, blinking in the sunlight. He stared at the dragon. He rarely looked at Sergei; when he did, like many people, his gaze was snared by the gleaming silver nose that replaced the one of flesh Sergei had lost in a duel. "Commandant?"
"I love the freedom that the martins portray," Sergei told him. He smiled, gesturing at them. "Look at them, the way they dart and flit, the way they fly with the gift of wings Cénzi has given them. There are times I envy them and wish I could do the same. I would give up much if I could see the city as they do and move effortlessly from one rooftop to another."
Ci'Doulor nodded, though his face was puzzled under the grizzled beard. "I... I suppose I understand what you're saying, Commandant," he said.
"Do you?" Sergei asked, more sharply, the smile gone to ice on his lips. A martin emerged from the dragon's mouth again and fluttered off. "That dragon's head is the symbol of the Bastida, of its power and strength and terror. What message do you think it sends when those we bring here see birds nesting in that mouth, Capitaine? Do you think your prisoners feel terror as they pass underneath, or do they see a sign of hope that we're impotent, that they might pass through the Bastida's clutches as easily as that martin?"
The Capitaine blinked heavily. "I'd never thought of it before, Commandant."
"Indeed," Sergei answered. "I see that." He took a step toward the Capitaine, close enough that he could smell the garlic the man had eaten with his eggs that morning. His voice was loud enough that the gardai around the gate could still hear him. "Signs and symbols are potent things, Capitaine. Why, if I hung someone from a gibbet there below the dragon, someone who -- let us say -- didn't understand how important symbols are, I believe that seeing that body twisting in its cage would send a powerful message to those who work here. In fact, the more important that person, the more powerful that message would be, don't you think?"
Capitaine ciŐDoulor visibly shuddered. His throat pulsed under the beard as he swallowed. He was staring at Sergei now, at his own warped reflection in the polished surface of Sergei's silver nose. "I'll see that the nest is removed, Commandant, and you may be assured that no birds will roost there again."
The smile widened. Sergei reached out and patted ci'Doulor's cheek as if he were a child Sergei was correcting. "I'm certain you will," he said. "Now, I'd like to see this Numetodo..."
By the time that conversation with its sinister overtones was drafted, I realized that I was really interested in this guy. All Sergei had to be for the scene was your stock, sadistic torturer... but his conversation about the bird nesting in the dragon's mouth illustrated a reflective and contemplative side to his personality, demonstrating both that he was an intellectual and that he had artistic sensibilities. He was already halfway to being a complex and conflicted character, and I was beginning to glimpse some of his history and his background.
So I built on that: I had him be rather empathetic toward the poor, doomed Numetodo -- because someone like him would be; I had him explain to the prisoner exactly why he must do what he was going to do; I had him explain the symbolic linkage of the bronze bell clapper he used as a crude hammer, with its long history. And I realized that, internally, Sergei wasn't entirely comfortable with his role or with the pleasure he derived from it. Again, here's a bit of that scene:
Now it was Sergei who nodded. “I believe you,” he said soothingly, watching his sympathetic tone leech the tension from the man’s face. He sat there for several seconds, just gazing at the man. Finally he stood, going over to a small niche in the wall. From it, he took a brass bar, as thick around as a man’s fist and perhaps two fists high, and satisfyingly massive and heavy. Both ends of the bar were polished and slightly flattened, as if they’d been battered many times. “I love history,” he said to the prisoner. “Did you know that?”
The man’s gaze was on the bar in Sergei’s hand now. He shook his head hesitantly. “Of course you don’t,” Sergei continued. “But it’s the truth. I do. History teaches us so much, Vajiki ce’Coeni — it’s from understanding what has happened in the past that we can best see the dangers of the future. Now this piece of metal...” He put his index finger into a large hole bored through the middle of the bar; only the tip of his finger emerged. “There was once a large bell in this very tower. The bell enclosure is still there at the top; you may have seen it when they brought you here, though I doubt you were much in the mood to notice such things. The bell was to be rung if there was a threat to the city so that the citizenry would be warned and react. Now, the bell itself has long ago been removed and melted down — I believe that the statue of Henri VI in Oldtown was cast from the metal of the bell; you might have seen it. But this...” Sergei hefted the bar again. “This was the bell’s clapper. You see, a rope went through the hole here, knotted above and underneath to keep it at the right height, then the remainder of the rope dropped down to the floor of the tower so that someone could ring the bell at need. And it was rung, five times all told, the last being when the Hellinians sent their fleet of warships up the A'Sele to attack the city back in Maria III’s reign.” He took his finger from the hole and hefted the clapper in his hand. “So I look at this and I have to marvel at the history I’m holding, Vajiki, at the fact that this very piece of metal has been part of so much of what has happened here. It has protected us before, and — this is the part that’s crucial to you, Vajiki ce’Coeni — it continues to do so.”
Sergei went back to the niche. From it, he took a short length of oak, rounded by a lathe at one end. He fitted the rounded end into the hole of the clapper, transforming the metal bar into the sinister head of a hammer. He nodded to the garda, who came forward and unlocked the fetters from the prisoner’s left hand. “I require your hand, Vajika. Please place it on the stool, like this.” He held out his own hand, palm upward, with the little finger extended out and the rest of the fingers curled in. The prisoner shook his head, sobbing now, and the garda took ce’Coeni’s hand and forced it down on the stool’s seat. Ce’Coeni curled his fingers into an impotent fist. “I need only your little finger, Vajiki,” Sergei told him. “Otherwise, the pain will be... far worse.” Sergei moved alongside the stool, looking down at the prisoner. “I need to know, Vajiki ce’Coeni, the names of the Numetodo with whom you were involved here in Nessantico.”
By the end of the scene, I knew I had to use him again. I wanted to see more of him. Originally, Karl ci'Vliomani was to meet with Kraljica Marguerite several scenes later, but instead I had Sergei be there in place of the Kraljica. That scene -- in the gardens of the palais -- is one of my favorites in the book. Knowing Sergei's inclination toward the symbolic, it was easy to come up with the idea of having Sergei gift Karl with an unidentified plant from the garden, and to use that gesture to press his point.
And after that scene, Sergei absolutely needed to have a prominent role in the novel... And so he did.
Synchronicity. Coincidence. And a character who wanted to be more.
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BACK TO "A MAGIC OF TWILIGHT"
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