And tradition dictated that the appointment would be made by the incumbent Advocate.
'My Speakers, your grief honours your Chancellor as it honours the Order of Omniscient. Felice Koroyan is a loss to us all.'
Herine had chosen a lull in the weeping to make herself heard. Their entourages retreated and the three Speakers straightened. Smoothing robes and dabbing puffy eyes, they approached the step. None of them was particularly tall and each was forced to angle his face to see the Advocate. Vasselis suppressed a chuckle. She had set her back to the sun too. She never missed a trick.
'My Advocate,' said the Speaker of Winds, a narrow-faced, narrow-minded old man. His voice was clogged from his outpouring of emotion. 'Our beloved Chancellor is dead. Nothing can change that.'
'Well now, that's an interesting debate, isn't it?' said Herine. 'Given what is on our borders.'
Vasselis stiffened but Winds ignored her.
'Nothing can change that. Our only succour is that she goes to the embrace of the Omniscient, there to feel His glory for eternity. But we must put aside our personal grief. The faithful need answers.'
'And is that why you brought so many of them with you today?' asked Herine. 'Winds, I am happy to entertain you and your colleagues at any time but I will not submit to the pressure of the mob. We will talk but first you must disperse your crowd.'
'They are here of their own free will,' said the Speaker of the Earth, rounder and shorter than Winds, but possessed of a sharp mind. Vasselis once thought he would make a fine Chancellor. 'We guide, we do not coerce.'
'Oh, come on, Earth. Every House of Masks must be shuttered and dark. Every Armour of God barrack bunk must be empty. Guidance with an iron hand pointing the way.'
'Their Chancellor has been murdered,' said Earth. 'They will not disperse until the guilty are brought before the court, tried and sentenced.'
'So we have a problem,' said Herine. 'The Chancellor was not murdered. She was the victim of a tragic accident, nothing more.'
Winds scoffed. 'Accident. She came here in full health to do the work of the Omniscient. The Ascendancy finally revealed itself for the abomination we always knew it was. She is arrested and while in your custody, she has an accident} None but an imbecile would believe such lies. It is clear that she has been killed by one or all of your Ascendants. It is them you must arrest. They have blood on their hands. We demand their immediate restraint.'
Herine laid a hand on Hesther's arm to stop her response. She walked off the step and stood toe-to-toe with Winds.
'Since you are unaware of the law, I will enlighten you.' Herine's voice was quiet and measured. Vasselis shivered and he wasn't even the target, ‘I can do that because I make the laws. To arrest, I need suspicion. And there is no suspicion. No Ascendant is to blame.
if you want me to demonstrate suspicion, evidence and guilt, I will take you on a tour of the Academy where the blood still stains the rugs and whose stench still haunts the air. I will show you children whose beds are wet every night because of the nightmares they will suffer all their lives. I will bring before you fifty citizens who could point at the person responsible for the only murders to have occurred on the Hill in fifteen years. And shall I tell you a secret?'
Herine put her mouth to Winds' ear and spoke in a stage whisper. 'She's lying right behind you.'
Winds started and his face reddened. Beside him, both Earth and Oceans gasped. All three began to protest, their voices loud and brackish. Herine stepped back and spoke again and her voice demanded their immediate silence.
'And finally, I will take you to the cells where your Armour of God thugs await their trial for complicity. All have confessed. And if I have to, I will have them repeat those confessions in public. Is that really what you want?'
'Lies,' hissed Winds. 'Terror will gain you any compliance you demand.'
'Well, you should know,' said Hesther.
'Do not talk to me,' spat Winds. 'Vermin of the Ascendancy.'
'Silence!' Herine's body had tensed. 'I will say this to the three of you. You seek to unsettle me and you are not good enough. Neither was Felice Koroyan. There will be no immediate appointment of Chancellor. None of you has yet demonstrated worth.
'Estorr and the Conquord does not have the time nor the patience for conflict between us. Take your Chancellor. Give her the burial you feel she deserves. No one from the Hill will be attending. You are fortunate we are not giving her to you in an urn.
'And one final thing. I know what you have been doing in my capital city. Ascendancy sympathisers beaten, tortured, murdered. I have some of the survivors here. That will stop. We are at war and whether you believe it or not, the only certain weapon we have is the Ascendancy and those within it who are utterly dedicated to saving the Conquord and your worthless skins. I need my citizens working together. I need their eyes to be looking out for enemies and their hands doing the work their Conquord demands. If you do not disperse your mob, I will use mine to disperse it for you.'
Herine smiled sweetly. 'Am I clear?'
General Davarov of the Atreskan legions had gathered three legions to him by the time he reached the major fishing port of Tharuby on the northern coast of the Tirronean Sea. It was a better return than he dared hope, following the debacle on the Tsardon border. Almost twelve thousand infantry, cavalry and significant artillery.
The latter he had sent on ahead. Some he had managed to put on ships for transport to the Gaws. Infantry went on in support, cavalry covered the ground north, south and north-west. Every day they brought back more and more worrying reports. The dead were being gathered from a widening arc. But at least they marched in their armies. There was no such thing as a dead scout nor dead cavalry rider.
It was small comfort.
Atreska was a country in chaos. Davarov's orders not to attack the dead or the Tsardon had been largely adhered to but it had led to a flood of refugees as well as soldiers heading west to Neratharn. Messengers had been sent there to try and give some advance warning for the ground to be prepared but it was going to be very difficult.
On leaving Tharuby, Davarov would split his legions, staggering their journeys north and west to try and maintain supply. The fishing port itself was heaving at the seams and his arrival had provoked panic, not calm. He would be advising evacuation but not necessarily to Neratharn.
One thing he could be glad about was his decision to bring civil administrators with him on his journey. Even so, the situation was terribly confused. He was sitting in the basilica with Cartoganev, the praetor of Tharuby and the three legates he had borrowed from Haroq City.
'At the moment we have two principal forces. The Tsardon-backed
force about five days behind us and fifty miles north of us. And we
have the new force heading north, from Gestern by the livery that has been identified.'
Cartoganev placed markers on a map. Davarov had given him the task of gathering information on friend and foe alike. His cavalry was stretched and tired but still took to the roads every day on relay-messaging and reconnaissance missions. It had left Davarov himself free to try and marshal the mass of refugees that trailed the army and to whom he felt personal responsibility. Free to search for fighting tactics that might be effective. He had come up with a few but the most effective were also the most unpalatable.
'How far back is the second force?' he asked.
Cartoganev placed a marker on the map. Davarov hissed air between his teeth.
'They don't pause,' said Cartoganev. 'They march night and day.
They'll be able to join with the first force in a day should they wish.'
'The only good news is that unless they abandon the Tsardon living, they'll have to slow down.'
'Thank the Omniscient for the Tsardon, right?' said Cartoganev, eyes sparkling.
Davarov chuckled.
'They're the best ally we have until we reach the border.' He turned to his legates. 'Refugees and food?'
There was
a shuffling of parchments and the lead spoke up.
'Our attempts to record the name and origin of every man, woman and child who has joined the main exodus is ongoing. We have recorded thirty-five thousand names and more join every day. We suspect there are upwards of forty-five thousand displaced people marching with us. We have managed to persuade some to turn back but most are simply too scared. Why would they march where the army does not?'
'But the great plains are vast and we know the dead have not deviated,' said Davarov. 'We can't feed or water this many, can we?'
The legate shook his head. Davarov felt for him. He'd enlisted a small army of acting administrators to help him but still he barely slept. He had sprouted grey hairs and he was only thirty-seven.
'We haven't a hope of doing so. We've looked at operating feeding stations but we cannot buy or requisition enough supplies to make the slightest dent. People are having to fend for themselves.'
'How?'
The legate shook his head again. ‘I don't know. All we can do is advise them not to travel with us when we take their names. We tell them we have no food, water or medical supplies. We are saying that the central plains are the safest place with the enemy moving towards Neratharn. We are not getting that message through. And we have another problem. Disease.'
Davarov sighed. It had just been a matter of time.
'The last thing we want is people dropping dead of hunger, thirst or disease and then rising again.' He kneaded his temples, feeling the pressure going. 'Any thoughts?'
'One,' said Cartoganev. 'From everything we've seen so far, the dead awakened are almost exclusively soldiers. We've seen no real evidence that ordinary citizens are being targeted in significant numbers. Even so, disease could spread to the army. How about delaying tactics?'
'I don't think so. The artillery is too far away now. Turning it would be a waste. I still say that we must range everything we have at them on the walls of the Jewelled Barrier. If they come through that, then we have our field tactics to try. By that time, I'll be happy to try anything.'
Davarov smiled but didn't feel any warmth from it. He knew what he should do but it was as unpalatable as trying to reduce the dead to ashes to stop them. He needed Megan Hanev with him but the new Marshal Defender would almost certainly not return to Atreska until this trouble was done. That left him as the most senior Conquord loyal confirmed alive.
'Praetor Juliov, anything to add?'
The praetor was pale. She was a timid woman and the very rumour of marching dead had terrified her. The arrival of Davarov and tens of thousands of refugees had merely confirmed her fears and she had let her town slip away from her.
'Every ship is gone,' she said. 'Stolen or hired for murderous rates. No one brings in fish. Food stocks are very low. Many have fled west. I cannot help you.'
Davarov cleared his throat. 'I see. But try this. Talk to your people. Make them see because it is the truth. The fight is moving west. The dead do not cover much of our great country and they can be skirted easily. If your citizens run, then make it be east into the plains. Go yourself. I promise you it is the best place for you.'
Juliov nodded. 'I'll try.'
'It's all I ever ask.'
'So, General, orders?' Cartoganev gathered his papers. Davarov sighed. 'Who would be me?' 'Ah, but who would you otherwise be?'
'Good point. Roberto Del Aglios, I think. Then I'd be wearing a toga and standing in a Sirranean tree-house or whatever they are, talking wood and treaties.'
'But you're not.'
'No, I'm not. So this is what we must do. The army must make all speed to Neratharn now. I want at least four days to prepare. We will force-march. The refugees must be broken up if we can make it happen. This is where you come in Cartoganev. Cavalry can't operate on the battlefields to come. You need to keep up your information gathering but I want you to find volunteer units ... a hundred strong at best, to offer to take refugees away into the plains. The legates can help you carve up the followers as best we can. Any that choose to stay must know they are not going to be protected any more. We cannot wait for them.
'We aren't going to be able to support them anywhere else. They'll go if they're made to feel protected. What do you say?'
Cartoganev shrugged. 'Orders are orders.'
Davarov nodded. 'That they are.'
But even as the meeting broke up, Davarov wondered whether his abandonment of his people was really the way to save them, or an act of self-preservation. One thing was sure, he wasn't going to sleep well that night.
Chapter Fifty
859th cycle of God, 53rd day of Genasrise
The winds and the tides had been kind to Prime Sea Lord, Admiral Karl Iliev. His oarsmen had worked hard when the breeze had slackened at all and he had made an average nine knots on the journey south to Kester Isle. He was so much happier on the sea. Too long in port made him nauseous. Out here, the mind was free to think in a way that was impossible in a stuffy office on the Hill. But he still couldn't get the cries of young Harkov from his mind. He heard them on the breeze, the mouths of gulls and in the creak of timbers.
The Ocetarus, flagship of the fleet, was in supreme working order. A marker against which every other vessel in the Ocetanas needed to feel measured. He had received confirmation of the orders he had sent out on leaving Estorr harbour and that meant his flag- and bird-lines were working at acceptable efficiency. He had seen no unidentified vessels and was encouraged that the patrol pattern of the fleet in the eastern sea was apparently very tight. No ship carrying the dead would pass the Ocetanas while he remained on deck.
Iliev stood in the prow as he always did on approaching the Isle. The Lances of Ocetarus had slid by to the north, great spears of rock reaching high into the sky, magnificent natural monuments to the glory of the god of the sea. The one true god. Ahead of him, the bleak rock walls of the Isle rose from the morning mists and sea spray. Waves were beating hard against its base.
Through his magnifier, Iliev could see the dual flags of Conquord and navy flying from every watch tower. Welcoming him home. Home. The palace and city of the Isle. The miles of rock-hewn corridor. The bleak beauty and the peace. The battering of the elements that were like the kiss of life itself. And from where he would order the salvation of the Conquord before heading out to sea once more, this time as Squadron Leader of the Ocenii.
By midday and with the Isle towering above him, casting its shadow across the ocean, his joy at first sight had disappeared, replaced by nagging anxiety. No bells had sounded to mark his approach. The flag of the sea lords had not been unfurled to hang from the sea gates, heralding his presence. It meant no one was on the forward towers. No one was standing in the artillery shelters north and looking out to sea. And no one had been through the western sea gates in four hours.
That could not be right. Harkov's words resounded in his head. He gripped the prow rail hard, pushing back a shiver. No one could take Kester Isle. No invasion force no matter how large could hope to fly its flags on her towers. It was impossible. Unless, of course, the gates were opened because the harbour masters thought they were admitting friends. Iliev strode to the stern to stand by the tiller man.
'Lower sail. Oars to ready. Steady fifteen stroke. Oar master, when you are ready. Execute.'
'Yes, my Lord.'
'Tiller, nudge us out a way. Let's come at the sea gate head on.'
The tiller man nodded and moved the tiller away from him. The ship began to turn. Riggers swarmed across the deck. The sail descended and was tied against the mast. A grim silence fell across the ship. Eyes roved over the mass of rock dominating their horizon. Nothing moved. Not even a bird could be seen flitting about the eddies. The sound of sea on rock and beneath the hull rang loud.
Iliev turned his body to watch the northern tip of the Isle go by, revealing to them the first western sea gate and harbour. Inside the wall, the masts of ships could be seen, bobbing in the swell. Glancing upwards, he could feel the quiet. This clo
se, two hundred yards from the Isle, they should be able to hear shouts from inside, the sound of work in the dry docks and there should have been traffic in and out of the gates.
Iliev glanced back at the tiller man. He was looking nervous. He licked dry lips.
'Keep a steady hand,' said Iliev. 'Turn in. Gently now.'
The sea gate was standing open when they breasted the edge of the harbour wall. Four spiked corsairs were tied up along the north wall. Two biremes were with them. He could see no one on board. Inside the dock, deep in the bedrock of the Isle, all was night. No lights could be seen pushing back the darkness.
The Ocetarus came about and moved towards the harbour. Iliev stayed by the tiller. Riggers and Ocenii squad marines moved to the prow.
'Tell me what you see,' called Iliev. 'Oars slowing, ten stroke.' 'What has happened, my Lord?' asked the tiller man. 'Prepare yourself, son,' said Iliev. 'Nothing good can explain this silence.'
Down on the deck, lanterns were being lit. The ship moved slowly past the harbour walls and into the relative calm within. The dark gates loomed above them. Set into the rock walls, the double iron gates pointed out to sea. Great works of Conquord engineering designed to withstand the fiercest bombardment. But they weren't fully open.
'There's a sail up inside,' shouted one of the marines at the prow. 'Trireme. Identification not possible, sir.' 'A sail up? Are you sure?' 'Yes, my Lord. No doubt.' Iliev pondered a moment. 'Take us in,' he said. 'My Lord?'
it's all right, son. Set us at our regular berth. Prow first. And listen for my orders.' 'Yes, my Lord.'
Iliev set off along the length of the ship. 'Ocenii, to the prow. Armed and ready. All of you, keep your eyes open. Assume anything that moves is an enemy. Where's my aide and where are my knives?'
'Coming, my Lord.'
A man detached himself from the group at the prow and hurried down the fore steps and out of sight. Iliev joined Ocenii marines as the ship moved under the rock wall and through the gates. Squad seven. His squad. Their corsair was suspended under the stern between tiller and timbers. All triremes sailed with a squad now. All had been adapted to carry the fast assault craft. How glad he was that he had his men with him.
A Shout for the Dead Page 50
