Mage's Blood (The Moontide Quartet)

by David Hair

  The emperor looked like he wanted to say something in support of Korion, but he didn’t. He pouted a little instead.

  Lucia tapped a stack of papers. ‘You have all seen the papers and each of you has participated in discrete discussions concerning Magister Vult’s plan for the Crusade, but this is the first time we have been able to gather together. Let me emphasise, gentlemen, that we here will decide the fate of millions of people – the fate of nations. The course of the Third Crusade will be determined by us, not on the battlefield but here, in this room, by those gathered here at my request.’ She looked at her son, the emperor, and added, ‘At our request.’

  Gyle wondered if she outranked him now, being a living saint. I bet he’s wondering that too.

  Lucia looked around the table. ‘I will clearly define the situation so that we are all of one understanding. Then we will agree the way ahead.’ She got to her feet and began to circle the table. Her voice became clear and emotionless: less saint and more angel of retribution.

  ‘It will not have escaped your notice, gentlemen, that the Golden Age of Rondelmar has begun to dim.’ The emperor looked displeased at her words, but didn’t interrupt. ‘Though outwardly it looks like we were never stronger, the purity at the heart of Rondelmar’s rightful dominance of the world has begun to tarnish. Impurity has been allowed to enter this realm, by men who care more for gold than for love of Kore. The merchant cabals prosper, whilst we who love Kore and the emperor must struggle for what was once ours by right. A great evil was done, and it must be undone. The evil I refer to is, of course, the “Leviathan Bridge” – that cursed creation of Antonin Meiros and his godless cronies.’ She slapped the table, suddenly angry. ‘When Kore made this land, he made two great continents, separated by vast oceans, and he commanded his sister Luna to make those waters impassable, so that East should never meet West. Learned, noble, enlightened West and base, depraved, idolatrous East should never meet, under Sun or Moon – so it was written.

  ‘But Meiros, an Ascendant too craven to join the liberation of Yuros from the Rimoni yoke, left the fellowship of the Three Hundred and built that cursed Bridge, and from that Bridge do all of our woes come! I wonder, does Antonin Meiros even know what he has done?’

  He seemed perfectly aware of it last time I saw him, reflected Gyle. He wondered whether Lucia Fasterius truly believed the bigoted dogma she spoke. She seemed intelligent, learned – kindly, even. But in her eyes something fanatic lurked, like a venomous snake.

  Lucia came to a halt behind her chair and gripped the wooden back tightly. ‘For a century we have seen the Bridge open every twelve years, when the tides drop to levels that permit traverse. We have seen the merchants pour across then return with all manner of addictive Eastern goods – opium and hashish, coffee and tea, even the silks and other luxuries that entrance our people. They can virtually name their prices on return. The bankers extend credit to merchants whilst squeezing the nobility, the magi-protectors who made Rondelmar what it is. Who are the richest men in Rondelmar? The merchants and bankers! Fat obsequious slime like Jean Benoit and his merchant cabal. And what have they bought with their ill-gotten gains? Our homes – our belongings – our art, and worse: they have purchased our sons and daughters, our Blood!’ Lucia was shouting now, spittle flecking her lips. ‘Those scum are buying our children and taking them to wife or husband, so that their misbegotten offspring will have everything, both gold and gnosis, and as a result, we are seeing a new breed, the mage-merchant, nasty, grasping half-breeds. Make no mistake, gentlemen, there is a war brewing between men of the Purse and men of the Blood. Think about that: lowborn pedlars buying our daughters to breed gnosis-wielding sons and daughters for themselves. And we, the Magi, what are we doing? We. Are. Whoring. Our. Children.’

  Lucia’s eyes narrowed vengefully. ‘But the Throne has not been idle, my friends. Two Moontides ago we struck. My lamented husband, the Emperor Magnus Sacrecour, boldly confronted the heretic Meiros – and Meiros backed down. Knowing Meiros would not dare to destroy his own creation we marched our armies into Antiopia, and we punished the infidel. We conquered Dhassa and Javon and Kesh and set up new governments to rule in our name and convert the heathen to Kore. But more importantly, we broke the traders: We destroyed the trust between the Eastern merchants and Benoit’s cabal. Though our people suffered somewhat, we weakened the hold of merchants and bankers.’

  ‘Suffered somewhat’? Gyle thought indignantly. Poverty, destitution and rebellion might have resulted from your actions, but at least you knocked a few percentage points off the profits for the merchants, eh?

  Lucia nodded at Betillon. ‘Tomas and his men defend Hebusalim and prepare for the next Crusade, but the Crusades have emptied our Treasury. The people have given, and given generously, yet we still owe millions to those damned merchant bankers – and still they prosper, still they gain in influence – and still they buy our children.’

  If four-fifths of the wealth plundered in the Crusade had not gone into the private hoards of certain royal personages, perhaps the Imperial Treasury would be better off, Gyle reflected, glancing at Calan Dubrayle, who seemed to be stifling the same thought.

  Mater-Imperia Lucia sat again, her face still flushed with passion but her voice colder now. ‘Let me be frank, gentlemen: the throne has never before been so weak – not through any weakness in the emperor,’ she added hastily, as Constant stirred, ‘for though only a child at the time, Constant was both wise and bold, ordering the Second Crusade and strengthening our hold on the Hebb Valley. But the merchants are buying our souls, turning Kore’s chosen people into a nation of shopkeepers.’

  ‘We have other enemies too: Duke Echor of Argundy, the former emperor’s brother, has made it clear he covets the throne, and all of Argundy marches to his tune. That my son’s only uncle plots treachery boils my blood. He too must be destroyed. And’ – she looked about to spit – ‘another contamination has crept into this realm: Antiopian slaves, brought here to do the work of honest men of Yuros. I have no quarrel with slavery – that, after all, is the only thing Sydians are good for – but to permit these mudskins into our midst goes too far – they must be exterminated!’

  Gyle noted Dubrayle suppressing a groan. The Treasurer made a pretty mint from taxes on slave-trading, he recalled. I bet you won’t want that trade closed down …

  Lucia looked nothing like a saint now. ‘These are our enemies, gentlemen: the merchants, Duke Echor, the mudskins and Meiros. Him above all.’ She took a deep breath. ‘They must all die.’

  She stopped, grim-faced, and the room fell silent. The men at the table nodded agreement, and Gyle felt it prudent to do likewise. So that is how saints think.

  Lucia gestured at Belonius. ‘Our good friend Magister Vult has come to us with a solution to all of these problems. I will now hand over to him, so that we may hear firsthand his plan to save our realm.’

  Vult stood instantly and bowed. ‘Most Sainted Lady, no one could have summarised our position better. Let me start by properly introducing Gurvon Gyle, my friend and colleague, whose network of informers has enabled us to pull this plan together. Gurvon’s eyes and ears are everywhere – he is probably the best-informed man on Urte.’

  Gyle resisted the urge to give them his best I know who you sleep with look.

  Vult breezed on, ‘My plan deals with the three main issues Mater-Imperia Lucia has outlined for us: the Merchants, Duke Echor, and the heathens of Kesh. Put simply, we’re going to destroy them all, and it starts, as Mater-Imperia has told us, with the Bridge. The Leviathan Span begins at Pontus and runs more than three hundred miles to the Dhassa coast, never deviating an inch. It is a remarkable construction.’

  ‘A demon’s device,’ muttered Betillon.

  Yes, but one you’ve prospered mightily from, thought Gyle.

  Vult continued, unperturbed, ‘Twenty-three years ago, in 904, Emperor Magnus marched four legions across the Bridge. Antonin Meiros could have stopped us, and slain tens
of thousands of Rondian soldiers and civilians – at the cost of destroying his own construction. Every man would have perished, and in all likelihood the emperor would have fallen in the turmoil that followed. But Meiros and his Ordo Costruo failed to act, allowing Emperor Magnus to seize the Bridge – and Hebusalim.

  ‘When the Bridge closed again we hoped we had done enough. The merchant guilds had lost vast amounts and many were ruined. But our air-fleet has limited resources and the garrison at Hebusalim was eventually massacred by vast hordes of the heathen – our greatest military disaster. In 916 your Majesty’ – he bowed to Constant – ‘exacted revenge for the massacre and strengthened our hold on Hebusalim, making milord Betillon his governor and bleeding the dark-skinned heathen white.’

  Betillon and Korion chuckled at this, and Gyle admitted, You know how to play them, my friend.

  ‘Now the Third Crusade is upon us: in one year’s time the Leviathan Bridge will rise from the sea and we will march once more. All of Kesh awaits us. The Amteh Convocation in Gatioch has recently declared shihad, Holy War, which obliges every man of the Amteh Faith to take up arms against us. The Third Crusade will be nothing like what has gone before; this will be vast, epoch-shaping.

  ‘We must face the fact that we have had setbacks. In the key kingdom of Javon, the Dorobon dynasty we installed has fallen, supplanted by the Nesti, who are of old Rimoni senatorial stock. Javon, which is peopled by both Rimoni and a branch of the Keshi called the Jhafi, lies to the northeast of Hebusalim and commands the hills above the Zhassi Valley. Control Javon and you have the keys to Hebusalim and to Kesh. To secure our advance, we must secure Javon. It is a complex place, and my colleague knows it well. Gurvon will now reveal our plans for Javon.’

  Gyle looked about him, licking his suddenly dry lips. Emperor Constant looked bored, but Lucia was leaning forward, her eyes fixed on him. Korion and Betillon were sullenly defensive and Dubrayle looked as if he’d sat on something spiky. Only Grand Prelate Wurther looked comfortable. Ah, religion: balm for the soul.

  Gyle cleared his throat and began, ‘Your Majesties, when the Javonesi overthrew the Dorobon six years ago, Olfuss Nesti was elected king. You will notice I said “elected”: Javon continues the old Rimoni tradition of elected rulers, but there is an added twist. You may be shocked to learn that a man cannot assume the throne unless he has mixed blood – Rimoni and Jhafi. This was agreed to forestall civil war when the Rimoni first settled in Javon. Olfuss has mixed parentage, and he has a Jhafi wife, the mother of his two sons and two daughters. Last year I contrived an accident that killed his elder son and heir. His daughters are presently aged seventeen and sixteen and the younger son is seven. There will be no more children. Were Olfuss to die, his eldest daughter would assume the regency until his seven-year-old son comes of age.’

  ‘Son and heir?’ Lucia asked, looking puzzled. ‘Would not a new king be elected?

  Gyle shook his head. ‘Javon is strange, as I said. If an elected king dies violently, his natural heirs inherit the throne – it is a mechanism intended to deter regicide.’

  Korion and Betillon sneered, as did the emperor – Constant had come to the throne after the mysterious deaths of his father and his elder sister.

  Gyle waited until he had their attention again. ‘In a few months Salim, the Sultan of Kesh, will present Olfuss with an ultimatum, demanding that Javon support the shihad. Olfuss will of course accede to Salim’s demands: he is half-Rimoni and half-Jhafi and both halves hate Rondelmar passionately. So we must arrange a coup in Javon and restore the Dorobon.’

  ‘What support do the Dorobon have in Javon?’ asked Kaltus Korion.

  ‘The Gorgio family are the second-largest Rimoni clan, and were powerbrokers during the Dorobon regime. They have been ostracised since the Nesti coup. They are well-moneyed, but less interbred with the Jhafi, so they have never been – and will never be – elected kings. They will be our prime allies in restoring the Dorobon.’

  ‘Who is the Dorobon heir?’ enquired Calan Dubrayle.

  ‘Francis Dorobon is the heir: he is in fact being schooled in Noros and is a classmate of your own son Seth, General Korion. His mother and sister live in Hebusalim, in the Governor’s Palace.’

  ‘Rid me of their harridan dowager and your plan has my blessing,’ grumbled Tomas Betillon.

  ‘How many magi have you deployed in Javon, Magister Gyle?’ Lucia asked.

  ‘Your Holiness, I run a security company, hiring out magi as protectors to important people. It has operated successfully in Noros, Bricia and Lantris for the past ten years, and in Javon for four, since King Olfuss Nesti commissioned my services. I have three magi openly deployed in the palace to “protect” the family; they are ideally situated to dispose of the Nesti at the drop of a hat – my hat, which is at your command.’

  ‘How nice,’ chuckled Wurther. ‘We have command of a Noroman’s hat.’

  ‘Can your agents be relied upon to kill Olfuss and his family? Who are they?’ asked Lucia, her eyes gleaming.

  ‘Rutt Sordell is personal bodyguard to the king; Samir Taguine guards the queen—’

  ‘Taguine?’ interrupted Korion, ‘the Inferno himself?’ The general looked impressed.

  ‘The same. And Elena Anborn has charge of Olfuss’ children.’

  ‘A woman?’ sniffed Tomas Betillon. ‘Will she have what it takes to kill her charges?’

  ‘Don’t you believe we women capable of doing what Kore demands, Tomas?’ Lucia chided gently. ‘I’m sure Magister Gyle chooses his agents with due care to their capabilities, do you not, sir?’ She gazed frankly at Gyle, her eyes predatory. ‘Will this woman kill the children, Magister Gyle?’

  ‘She’s a heartless bitch, if you will excuse the term, Holiness,’ he replied levelly. There, Elena, I’ve made your name known to the Empress-Mother, in the best possible way. Fame at last!

  Lucia smiled gleefully. ‘Excellent. I like her already—’ She broke off, her brow wrinkling. ‘Wait: she’s an Anborn? Didn’t the Anborns whore themselves to the merchants?’

  Gyle inclined his head. ‘Of course you are correct. Her sister Tesla is married to a merchant, but she is now a burnt-out wreck. Elena hasn’t talked to her for years. Elena was one of my Grey Foxes in the Revolt. She has a stone for a heart, your Holiness. She is a killer.’

  ‘I understand she shares your bed,’ observed Calan Dubrayle.

  ‘Long ago, my lord. It helped keep her loyal.’

  ‘A woman should no more do her thinking with her fanny than a man should think with his cock,’ Saint Lucia announced, clearly enjoying the way the men winced at her profanity.

  ‘So, Gyle, if your cock no longer holds her, what do you have over her? asked Betillon, ever practical. ‘Or indeed any of them, if they decide they have had enough of killing and have enough gold to see out their days?’

  ‘My lord, my assassins well understand that there is no way out. There are no havens secret enough; no one is untouchable. Disobedience to me is tantamount to signing one’s own death warrant. Also, I control their life-savings: displease me and they lose everything.’

  Betillon grinned wryly. ‘That would do it.’ He slurped some wine. ‘When do we strike? Soon would be good – not a day passes in Hebusalim without that Dorobon hag whining on and on about Javon.’

  ‘Timing is critical. The assassinations will destabilise the realm, so the Dorobon will need time to subdue the kingdom before the Crusade. The plan therefore is to strike in three months’ time, in Octen, giving us nine months until the Moontide. We will kill one daughter and marry the other to a Gorgio, giving a semblance of legitimacy to the new regime and enabling an easier transition of power to the Dorobon.’ He looked about him, saw them nodding slowly. ‘By the time the Leviathan Bridge opens next year, Javon will be in our hands.’

  ‘What emergency resources do you have?’ asked Dubrayle. ‘Few plans work flawlessly.’

  Your plans mightn’t, but mine do. Gyle stopped himself from saying
it out loud. ‘I have access to many other magi who can step in, including shape-masters of unsurpassed skill.’ He looked at Mater-Imperia as something flickered in her eyes. Yes, you know who I mean. ‘Should anything go awry, it will be swiftly corrected.’

  The room fell silent. He took a cautious sip of the wine. It was an Augenheim Riesling, a fine wine. Too good, unwatered. He pushed it away regretfully.

  After half a minute of quiet, Lucia clapped her hands. ‘Thank you, Magister Gyle. Excellent. Stage one of the plan sounds promising.’ She looked around the table. ‘You will all have read the details in the papers I sent you. Are there any objections to considering the Javon Question as being dealt with?’

  He held his breath, but there were no objections.

  ‘Excellent,’ purred Lucia. She reached under the table and rang a bell. The doorman appeared. ‘Ah, Hugo, bring coffee please. We might as well enjoy the fruits of our conquest while we can.’ She smiled around the table, once more the gentle mother of the people.

  As they got up to stretch their legs, sipping thimbles of black coffee, Empress-Mother Lucia approached Gyle. He bowed, but she waved the gesture away genially. ‘Tell me more of this woman, Elena Anborn. A woman finds it harder to kill, you know,’ she said, almost apologetically, as though she were not the woman who was rumoured to have murdered her husband in favour of her son-in-law, despatched two lovers during the Interregnum and three since, and ordered both Crusades, each of which had resulted in more than a million deaths.

  ‘Elena is an altogether selfish creature, Holiness. She is motivated only by personal gain. She will not hesitate.’

  Don’t let me down, Elena. Despite everything, don’t let me down.

  The Mother of the Nation, Saint of the People, smiled benevolently. ‘You had better be right, Magister Gyle, or I’ll ram a broadsword up her arse. And yours.’ She clapped her hands energetically, evidently revived by the coffee. ‘Gentlemen, to table. Magister Vult has the second part of his plan to talk us through …’