Daughter of Independence

by Simon Brown

  ‘New Kydans, not colonists,’ Poloma said automatically, and focused on the meeting he was supposed to be chairing. ‘And there is no issue. They will have a place on the council, and in proportion to their number.’

  He looked each of the councillors in the eye, and each slowly nodded in agreement.

  ‘Of course,’ Semjal said slowly, ‘that will mean expanding the number of councillors.’

  Poloma smiled thinly. ‘You are correct. No current councillor will lose his or her place in the Assembly.’

  Semjal matched the smile and licked his upper lip. Poloma thought the action made the man look like a basking lizard. ‘That will make it easier to pass the necessary legislation.’

  ‘That is my hope,’ Poloma said. ‘Now that is dealt with, what’s next on our agenda?’

  *

  ‘Well, I must go on,’ Galys told Kadburn. ‘I want to see how our engineers are helping out with the new irrigation work in the Saddle, and Poloma promised to meet me there to discuss some issues coming up in the Assembly.’

  Kadburn nodded and, although always glad of her company, was not sorry to see Lannel Thorey go with her. It seemed to the Beloved that Lannel stuck to Galys almost every waking hour. The ensign made him uncomfortable: Kadburn could not forget how he had killed a colonist and almost single-handedly started a civil war in Kydan. This in turn made Kadburn feel guilty, as if he was holding out on accepting the union between the colonists from Hamilay and the original Kydans.

  Still, he told himself, he was a Beloved, and they were trained not to accept any slight, or forgive any transgression. Kadburn was learning to deal with life without a Kevleren, but old ways of thinking did not die easily. He grimaced. Indeed, they never died of their own accord. He would have to do better, try harder to accept Lannel Thorey as an ally and not as an old enemy.

  Orders were shouted below, and the members of the militia company stopped training and hurried to form two lines. They were not as quick as they should be, and the company’s captain and his two ensigns were pushing and shouting at them. Kadburn shook his head. The captain should be above that sort of thing; leave it to the ensigns. Still, the captain was only recently promoted to his office, and had been an ensign himself before. Old habits die hard, too.

  Something moved in the shadow of the courtyard, and Kadburn saw a large woman, tall and round, with long dark hair. Quenion Axkevleren. Another old enemy, but not yet an ally. And yet in a way she would be the perfect ally, perhaps even a friend. They were both Beloveds, and both had lost their Kevleren. He wondered if she had been watching the militia train, and found the thought made him uneasy. Not yet an ally, he reminded himself. But what else might she do? She had no master any more, no function or purpose that she could probably fathom.

  Kadburn felt pity for her then, and continued to watch her as she made her way across the Citadel’s courtyard to the ground-floor entrance of the inner keep. Just before she went in she turned, glanced around as if something had disturbed her, then looked up precisely where Kadburn stood on the walls. For a moment they held each other’s gaze, frankly and coolly, then she moved inside the keep.

  Kadburn had half expected to see some sign of grief on her face, some sign of her pain at losing her master, but was sure that what he had seen in her expression was a terrible self-loathing, and he recalled with a shock that while he had lost his Kevleren despite anything he could do to save him, Quenion had actually murdered her own master with his own knife.

  He found he had been holding his breath, as if waiting for some sign of action or threat, and slowly let the air out of his lungs, wondering if indeed they had much in common at all.

  *

  Agriculture had always been something of a mystery to Galys. It was not that she did not know the principles, that seeds planted in the ground became the shrubs, bushes and trees that fed humans and their stock, but that the whole process of life, starting from something smaller than her little fingernail and growing into something as mighty as an oak or as useful as maize, had something almost supernatural about it. She could understand why people not aware of the power of the Sefid would resort to religion to find causes and answers for the things that happened in nature. Life held a grandeur, a majesty, that went beyond mere knowledge. In a way, that unknowable quality of nature was a comfort to her, proving that there were things beyond mortal ken. Or was that just wishful thinking on her part? Did the Kevlerens, those mighty wielders of the Sefid, understand nature and the universe in a way that everyone else did not?

  All around her in the Saddle were farmers and labourers working on digging new irrigation channels under the direction of engineers. The old irrigation system had operated well enough in the spring, when the river was flush with melt, but the new work would bring water from further upriver, promising fresh water for the rest of the year as well, when the old channels and diversions and shadufs and pipes would only have brought up estuarine brine. Other gangs, also under the direction of engineers, were constructing new irrigation systems on the north bank of the Frey for the benefit of the farms established there in only the last few tendays.

  The farmers and labourers worked at the same steady but unrelenting pace that was getting new walls and roads and housing built throughout Kydan, not to mention the extensive repairs needed after two sieges in less than a year. Although under no immediate threat, it was as if everyone in the city knew they could not rest until all the work was finished. The future of the city had to be secured while they had peace, and no one could tell how long that would last.

  Galys sighed heavily. The old world across the Deepening Sea, together with all its problems, had not disappeared. The New Land could no longer depend on its isolation to keep it protected from the whims and vicissitudes of foreign rulers. Both the Hamilayan empire and the kingdom of Rivald had made attempts to claim the New Land for themselves, and Galys was certain more attempts would be made. Not soon, perhaps, but in her own lifetime. Hamilay’s Empress Lerena Kevleren, at least, could not be trusted to leave Kydan alone.

  Thinking of the empress made Galys think of Kitayra Albyn, and for the first time in a long while she felt the hard emptiness left deep inside her by her lover’s terrible death the year before. There was a connection between Kitayra – her life as well as her death – and the empress who lived so far away, and it went further than the common ground of the Sefid, the provenance of the Kevlerens who wielded it and grammarians like Kitayra who studied it. But what that connection was exactly, and how it worked, Galys did not know. One day, somehow, she would find out. Perhaps the answer lay in the papers the grammarian had left behind, papers which left intriguing clues to the attitude of the Kevlerens to the Sefid. And some clues to what the Kevlerens were most afraid of.

  Galys hoped Kydan would have time to do all the things that had to be done before Empress Lerena Kevleren turned her gaze across the Deepening Sea once more. She felt the future starting to weigh down on her and she wished she could simply shrug it off like a wet cloak.

  ‘That one you are wait for is here coming down,’ Lannel Thorey said in Hamilayan. Although Galys, like all the new Kydans, was learning the local tongue, Lannel had made a special effort to learn the language of the woman who was chiefly responsible for saving his life.

  ‘Hmm?’ Galys, part of her mind trying to decipher his garbled sentence, looked up and saw Poloma Malvara strolling down to the Saddle from the ramp south of the Long Bridge. She waved at him and walked to meet him.

  Poloma smiled in greeting. Then he glanced at Lannel and the smile faded. He had forgiven the man for once trying to kill him in his own home, but he would never forget. ‘You wanted to see me before the next council meeting,’ he said to Galys.

  ‘Two things,’ she said. ‘First, the matter of representation on the council for the Kydans.’

  ‘Already taken care of,’ Poloma said, his voice smug. ‘I will put forward a motion at the next meeting that the number of council be increased in propo
rtion to the increase in population, all the extra seats to be taken by new Kydans. I can guarantee the motion will be generally supported, although whether or not it is finally carried is still beyond my assurance. Still, I expect it to get through without too much trouble.’

  ‘Good work,’ Galys said admiringly.

  ‘And second?’

  Now it was Galys’s turn to smile. ‘Prefect Poloma Malvara, how would you like Kydan to have a steam carriage?’

  2

  At first the Empress Lerena Kevleren, ruler of all who lived in the old land that comprised Hamilay and Rivald, thought she was listening to ravens, her favourite bird. It was their silky black feathers, their wise eyes, their predatory beaks, and most of all their mournful song that ranked them so high in her esteem. And their intelligent affection, like cats, wary and intimate at the same time. Then she opened her eyes and listened more carefully. She heard her Axkevlerens and servants chatting quietly so as not to wake her, and more distantly the clinking and scraping of weapons. She smelled food cooking, and underneath it a hint of charred wood made wet with rain, and underneath that something sweeter but less palatable. Over it all was the sound of ravens, but as her waking mind pushed away sleep she realised it was not ravens at all she was hearing, but the wailing of women and children, a dark lament that rose and receded like waves against . . .

  ‘Against the shores of Beferen,’ she told herself, remembering where she was.

  Someone had heard her voice: there was a gentle tap on her door.

  ‘Yes.’

  One of her servants entered her chamber, head bowed.

  ‘Breakfast,’ Lerena ordered. ‘I will have it in bed.’

  The servant bowed a little lower and left.

  Light entered from a window high above and behind her, and she was able to scrutinise her surroundings for the first time; it had been too dark – and she too exhausted – to examine the bedroom the night before. It was a large, L-shaped space with drawers and tallboys. A long, thin tapestry showing a fleet of ships was hung from the wall on her left, and on the opposite wall was a painting of a dark and low city which she recognised as Beferen, once the capital city of Rivald. Her bed was narrow but comfortable, with wooden poles at each corner across which a canopy had once been stretched. There was a mullioned window in the wall that faced her, but from the bed she could not see what view it gave.

  Lerena took a deep breath and felt heavy, humid sea air coat her lungs. With a pang of homesickness she remembered the thin, invigorating air of her own capital, Omeralt, and suddenly, fiercely, wished she was back there. The feeling made her restless; she slipped out from under the bedcovers and went to the window. At first she thought she was seeing the Beferen in the painting, with low buildings constructed from the local stone, a hard, dark rock, but then she recognised signs that this was not at all the Beferen of old. This was a city purified by fire and blood and storm. Many of the buildings were dark with soot and smoke. It must have rained during the night, because everything shone dully with a grey light. People moved along the streets in small groups, huddled and bent and loaded down with possessions.

  ‘That won’t do,’ she said to herself. ‘I cannot have my newest city depopulated.’

  There was another tap on the door and the same servant as before entered, carrying a tray with fruit, mulled wine and a plate covered in thin strips of batter.

  Lerena returned to her bed. ‘What’s that?’ she asked, pointing to the strips.

  ‘Fish,’ the servant said nervously.

  ‘I have never eaten fish,’ Lerena said imperiously. She picked up one of the strips and sniffed it cautiously. The smell of it made her stomach rumble.

  The servant paled. ‘I will take it back, your Majesty –’

  ‘Wait, girl.’ Lerena put the strip in her mouth and chewed tentatively. ‘It will do. Go.’

  The servant breathed out in relief and backed out of the room.

  ‘And tell Duke Paimer to attend me!’ Lerena shouted after her.

  *

  Paimer Kevleren thought his Beloved, Idalgo Axkevleren, was looking very florid. Overfed, even. Obscene. Especially against the backdrop of this ruined city, this Beferen of the Ashes. Curls of dark smoke twirled up into the pale grey sky from smouldering buildings.

  ‘You enjoyed the slaughter, then,’ the duke said. His head hurt and he was not in a convivial mood. Ash from the smoke made his eyes water and sting. A few people walked by him in the street, although none dared to look directly at him.

  Idalgo smiled wistfully, as if remembering a wonderful party. He sniffed the air. ‘It had its moments.’

  Paimer regarded Idalgo with guarded revulsion. There had been a time, not so long ago, when he had loved Idalgo more than anyone else in the world, with the possible exception of himself. And then, one cold and dreadful night, for the good of the Kevlerens, for the good of empire, he had slain him. Paimer wished his Beloved had stayed dead, although he had not always thought so.

  Idalgo’s smile evaporated. ‘It’s mostly fear, you know. You hate what you fear.’

  ‘Don’t be patronising,’ Paimer said. And stop reading my mind.’

  ‘I can’t actually read your mind,’ Idalgo said. ‘But I know what you’re thinking just by looking at you. We’ve been together since we were children, remember. I understand you better than you do yourself. Did you know that when you’re thinking deeply about something, you frown slightly and stare at the ground, even when you’re walking?’

  ‘I do not,’ Paimer said emphatically, crossing his arms.

  ‘And when you lie, you cross your arms.’

  ‘What utter rubbish,’ Paimer said, immediately holding his hands behind his back and resisting the urge to cross them again.

  Idalgo laughed softly and then was not there.

  ‘Your Highness?’

  Paimer turned to see a male servant, slightly out of breath, eyeing him curiously.

  ‘I’m allowed to talk to myself,’ Paimer explained. ‘I’m a duke, you see.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the servant said, quickly averting his gaze. ‘Her majesty requests your company in the palace.’

  Paimer massaged his temples. ‘Tell her I am on my way.’

  ‘Of course, your Highness.’

  The servant hurried off and Paimer entered his billet to get his dress jacket and his red wig. The billet comprised the still standing quarter of a once grand house of two storeys that must have been the home of some local grandee. Maybe even one of his dead distant relatives, one of the Rivald Kevlerens. Lerena had done them in as surely as she had done in Beferen itself. Thinking of his niece made him queasy, and he did not relish the prospect of attending her. Still, he was a coward as well as her uncle and would attend whenever she requested.

  Chierma Axkevleren was standing just inside the open entrance, gazing disconsolately over the city. Paimer nodded perfunctorily to him. The two men did not like each other a great deal, but had formed an alliance from shared history and a fear of the empress. Over the last few tendays they had even learned a little respect for each other.

  ‘At least Hamewald escaped all of this,’ Chierma said as Paimer passed him.

  ‘So far,’ Paimer replied, finding it hard to recall what Rivald’s northernmost city had looked like. All he could really remember was that Chierma had been its governor before Lerena’s invasion, and had surrendered it to the empress as soon as her army crossed the border. Judging by Lerena’s reaction to even modest resistance, it had been a smart move. Of course, Hamewald was the legendary home of the Kevlerens, so perhaps Lerena would have spared the city anyway, but Paimer did not think so.

  He found his jacket and wig at the foot of his bed, together with a heap of empty wine bottles. The bottles would explain his headache. Chierma had helped him get through a few of the local reds last night. Drinking himself into oblivion seemed to stop Idalgo’s visits. He would have to ask Chierma if Englay stayed away when he was drunk.

  A sold
ier assigned to the billet rushed in to help him with his jacket and wig.

  ‘I can do it myself, you know,’ Paimer said as the soldier buttoned the jacket.

  ‘Yes, your Highness,’ the soldier said in a voice that suggested he did not believe it.

  By the time he reached the empress’s quarters she was just finishing her breakfast. She held out the last morsel to him. ‘Try this. It’s fish.’

  Paimer screwed up his face. ‘I have no strong liking for fish, your Majesty.’

  ‘Eat it anyway,’ she said with smiling malice.

  Paimer took the fish and swallowed it whole. ‘Delicious,’ he said, crossing his arms.

  ‘Liar,’ Lerena said, but seemed happy he had made the effort to please her. ‘I’ve decided to return home. I miss Omeralt. I miss the warmth of Omeralt, and I miss its lovely buildings and I miss . . .’ She put a finger to her lips and smiled. ‘Well, there is a great deal about Omeralt that I can no longer do without. You are coming with me. Get ready.’

  Paimer bowed. ‘Was there anything else, your Majesty?’

  ‘Yes. Tell my generals that they must organise an occupying force for Beferen. Indeed, for the whole of my new province of Rivald. I will need only my Royal Guards as an escort.’

  ‘As you please.’

  Lerena waved at the window. ‘And tell my generals they must stop anyone leaving the city. Beferen will need people if it is to rise above its present troubles. And tell them also to stop all that wailing. I don’t care how they do it, but I don’t want to hear it any more. I’m tired of it. The fighting’s over. Goodness, the war is over. Let the people see the bright side of things for once.’

  ‘There is so much to be bright about,’ Paimer said sincerely.

  ‘You’re getting good at this,’ Idalgo said, suddenly by his side.