by David Hair
Ramita stared at the floor.
‘Come.’ Meiros led them to a panel of carven wood set into the wall which contained what appeared to be a dozen intricately carved doorknobs. ‘I know you are tired, but listen carefully: this palace has several security levels, wrought from the gnosis. I will explain it more fully when you are rested, but for now it suffices to know that I will grant Ramita the third security level, which gives access to all places but my tower. Huriya, you will have the fourth access, giving you the same as Ramita, but no access to my personal quarters. Wife, grasp the third doorknob from the left as if you were wishing to turn it. Grasp tightly and hold on. This will hurt a little, but Olaf will give you salve.’ He held up his left hand, palm open, and Ramita saw for the first time a fine tracery of scarring. She shivered, but reluctantly grasped the handle with her left hand.
Meiros touched a gem set above the doorknobs, closed his eyes and whispered something. Suddenly a stinging heat surged through her hand and she shrieked, pulling it away. Olaf seized her hand before she could close it and pasted an oily goo that smelled of aloes onto her stinging palm. Through sudden tears she saw livid patterns etched into her skin.
Huriya looked ill-pleased, but she endured the marking stoically. Meiros then muttered something about Justina and left the girls alone with the chamberlain.
Olaf chortled under his breath as the old mage scurried after his daughter, then remembered himself. ‘Come, ladies,’ he said, ‘let me show you to your rooms.’
Ramita was given a whole suite on the top floor of the building. Everything was white marble, which would stay cool in the hottest sun, Olaf told them. Servants brought their luggage while a dusky-skinned pregnant woman filled a copper bath with water that came steaming out of a pipe set into the wall. ‘Running hot water,’ Olaf commented as if this sort of miracle were commonplace. There were small sofas beneath each window, and below, a courtyard with a pond and fountain. Even the privy was alien: a chair with a padded rim instead of the usual squat-hole. Ramita wondered whether you were supposed to squat on the rim or sit on it – both looked possible, but she was too embarrassed to ask. The bedroom was vast, the canopied bed the size of her whole room in Baranasi.
The sudden remembrance of home brought tears to her eyes and she clung onto Huriya. Olaf looked puzzled at her distress. ‘She is tired,’ Huriya hissed. ‘You may go now. I will look after her.’
Olaf looked momentarily flustered, then bowed his way out. Huriya led Ramita to the bath and helped her in. The Keshi girl’s face was aglow with pleasure, but Ramita felt only an all-pervading inertia. ‘I miss my mother,’ was the closest she could come to expressing how she felt. ‘And Kazim.’
‘Silly,’ Huriya whispered. ‘We’ve arrived in heaven. I miss nothing at all.’
15
Mage’s Gambit
The Studies
There are four major Studies of gnosis. These are the areas where the personality of the mage comes to the fore, affecting the types of gnosis at which they will be most competent. It has been said that a mage’s affinities reflect what manner of person they are. Indeed, one obvious example: a mage whose nature is hot-tempered is often a Fire-mage. But it should be noted that sometimes that affinity is more subtle: not all fire-magi are hot-tempered, for fire can be many things. It is not enough to know your enemy’s affinities – you must also know their soul.
SOURCE: ARDO ACTIUM, SCHOLAR, BRES 518
Brochena, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Decore 927
7 months until the Moontide
Elena called her single-masted war-skiff Greybird. She had given it a carved figurehead, and worked ash into the varnish to colour the sleek hull. It had swivelling wings, giving it greater stability and control, if you knew what you were doing. It was sixty feet in length, small enough for one person to pilot, large enough to bear three passengers. As she guided the craft westwards through the night skies towards Brochena the waxing moon shone down on the faces of her companions as they peered over the sides, any initial trepidation about flying long gone. Artaq Yusaini, a Jhafi warrior, sat in the prow. Harshal had recommended him, saying, ‘He can speak both Jhafi and Rimoni, Donna Ella, he’s loyal, and he’s a killer.’
Artaq had a soft face and a gap-toothed grin. His facial hair was patchy and his skin blotchy, where some disease had caused pink patches. He didn’t look like a killer – but he had more knives under those robes than Elena could credit. He was happy to work with a mage. ‘If Ahm gave you whiteskins magic, then it cannot have been for virtue,’ he told her, ‘so therefore it is just a weapon, like my knives. So let us go and skewer some Gorgio.’ He spat as he spoke the name.
Before the mast sat Luca Fustinios, a Nesti legionary. He was shorter than Elena by a head, but his compact, muscular form was well-feared in the wrestling ring; he was known to be the best in the ranks. He too was fluent in Jhafi after time in prison for strangling a rival over a woman. He had a cheery manner despite his reputation and crime, and he was Nesti through and through.
In front of Elena sat Lorenzo di Kestria. ‘I’m going to Brochena to kill magi,’ she’d argued. ‘I want killers, not chivalrous knights. Lorenzo is too soft. He’ll be a liability.’
‘I cannot let you go alone with those two, Donna Elena,’ he’d argued. ‘Both are criminals. Even if I just watch your back and guard the skiff, I will go.’ And Cera had overruled her.
Admittedly it had been nice to have someone familiar to talk to as they flew towards their destination, but she was apprehensive about what Lorenzo would see.
‘That’s Mount Tigrat,’ called Lorenzo, pointing to a greater darkness to the north. ‘Brochena is near, thirty miles maybe.’
She nodded her understanding. As the little craft creaked and tilted Luca Fustinios gripped the edge of the craft and looked back at her to ensure that this was a planned manoeuvre and not the beginning of a dive into messy death. She waved reassuringly at him. ‘I’m going to land west of the city, away from the lake,’ she told them. ‘We’ll have to move quickly then: I want to be within the city walls by dawn. Our first target – Arno Dolman – will be near there, working on the outer defences.’
Arno Dolman was primarily an Earth Thaumaturge. He was a big, strong man, and normally placid, though he had a temper if he was pushed. She had seen him scoop granite with his huge, muscular hands as if it were sand and mould it like clay. She liked Arno, regretted that he was now an enemy. He was the only other member of the team who’d been in the Revolt with her. She had disliked Gurvon’s recent recruits: they were talented, but they were also bordering on psychotic.
Getting Arno out of the way first made sense as his affinities were all about the practical and the tangible. If she isolated him carefully he wouldn’t be able to alert the others. After that, it would be harder to keep her attacks secret. But first things first: let’s deal with Arno …
She began to feel like her old self, thinking of targets and weaknesses, the strategies of killing. Since she’d saved Cera and Timori from Samir she’d felt herself becoming a different person, one she liked more, but not the person to handle this mission. For this she needed the old Elena, who backstabbed enemies, sacrificed friends and enjoyed the vertiginous highs of life on the edge. Five targets, then she could put that Elena away, like a dress that no longer fitted, and never bring her out again.
It was something to hope for. She sent her mind questing outwards, concentrating on Arno. She recalled his thunderous brows and heavyset visage, that could smile or scowl with equal intensity. He had the shoulders of a bull, but surprisingly thin legs. He was a primal, basic man: simple, strong, blunt. And reliable. Sorry, Arno – but if you didn’t want to come up against me, you should have refused to come here.
Arno Dolman found himself fighting a growing sense of anger all day. Why was it always me doing the hard work while the others mince about the palace? he thought. And why did Gurvon leave Sordell in charge, when all he ever did was pi
ck away at the future in his tower or fawn at Alfredo Gorgio’s feet – lazy, arrogant, Argundian slime. Those two new recruits are snotty little pricks too, no use at all when it comes to practical matters, and neither is Vedya, the bitch. I’m the only one doing any work here. We’ve got to fortify this stupid sprawling mess of a city before the rukking Crusade begins.
Brochena was the capital, and it’d been sucking people in like a sponge. It’d outgrown its defences years ago. The Dorobon had strengthened the walls and the Nesti had ripped them down again – allowing Alfredo Gorgio to march ten thousand men right into the capital unchallenged.
What’s Elena doing? Why’d she screw Samir over? Is she angling for a bigger cut of the spoils – that’d be her style, the bitch. Gurvon had been furious; he’d grabbed everyone he had to hand and flown them to Javon – and ever since they’d arrived, Arno had been stuck here working on the walls. ‘Someone must rebuild the fortifications around the inner city, Arno and you’re the best there is,’ Gurvon had told him. Manipulative bastard. But what about the others helping? Hel no! Gurvon had pissed off back to Bres on some fool’s errand, leaving Sordell and his bum-boys prancing about with the Gorgios while Vedya was whoring as usual.
Perhaps he’d slept badly or something, but today all the things that irritated him were flaring up, and Arno could feel his fury rising. He used it to fuel his gnosis and plunged his hands into the rock again, drawing the stone up like toffee and shaping and strengthening it. Already a mile of new stonework enclosed most of the western side of the old city: two weeks’ solid work. Today he was sick of it.
He lifted a block of stone that an Indranian elephant would have struggled to move and slammed it into place. All day long he’d been pushing himself to the limits, eager to have some real progress to show for all his rukking effort. Gurvon said the Nesti brats were still in Forensa, but what if they were marching? You couldn’t ignore that possibility, not when that sneaky bint Elena Anborn was involved.
He spat, wishing he could trust someone else apart from Gurvon. Back in the old days he’d felt a sense of camaraderie, but not these days. When Vedya joined it all went downhill fast – that Sydian witch was pure poison.
He shook his head furiously. Where is all this anger coming from? He lifted another block and slammed it onto the first, almost staggering with the effort. If he could just finish this section by sundown … He threw everything into it, gnosis-power, muscle-power, all of his will. We’ve got a deadline to meet, damnit! He was conscious that the four soldiers guarding him were staring at him in awe. He felt a savage pride in his skills. Yes, look at me: see what a real mage can do.
He plunged his hands up to his elbows into the two massive blocks and shaped them like dough as he blended them into one, squared the edges and made ready for the next block. He felt almost dizzy with the exertion. He gasped and looked around. Kore’s Cods, it’s evening already. He looked out over the filthy hovels of the lowlife Jhafi. Unusually, there wasn’t a single face in sight. Scared of the big Rondian mage are you, you scum?
He rubbed his face, groaned. What’s wrong with me? I’m not usually like this …
But there’s more to be done, a voice whispered inside him, and he thought, Yes, there is more to be done. He bent over another block, as big as the other two, almost reeling with the effort.
Just one more, that insidious whisper urged.
An external whisper!
Rukka! It all became clear: he’d been goaded like a bull in an Estellayne arena. He spun about him as the shadows closed in, but he didn’t have time to shout more than, ‘Ware!’ before a small shape had appeared behind the backmost soldier, pulled him backwards and slashed his jugular. Blood sprayed across the stone, black in the twilight. The guards tried to draw weapons, but all about them others had darted in, stabbing at necks or beneath the left armpit, and they all fell, choking out their final breaths. The closest attacker glided towards him, her faded blonde hair caught in a pony-tail, cold eyes glittering.
‘Elena.’ You bitch, I should have realised— ‘How long have you—?’
‘All day, Arno.’ Her voice was soft, almost sad. ‘Egging you on. Got anything left to fight with?’
‘You bet I have!’ He hurled the great stone at her, though the effort made him stagger. The rock shattered against a square pillar, bringing down part of the wall he’d just erected. But she was already gone.
Behind! He swung the hammer in a complete circle that nearly took off the bitch’s head as she reappeared, but as it whistled over her head he was pulled into a spin by its weight. He steadied himself and swung again. The blow skidded off her shields, visibly unsettling her.
Ha! ‘I can take you, Elena—’ He swung again, but she somersaulted off the walls and down to the hovels below. He glared down at her, then gestured, forming a gnostic stone-serpent thrice her size from the rocks at his feet. It erupted in a cloud of dirt, and he reeled with the effort. His vision blurred, and for a second he saw three Elenas below him. He blinked dazedly: there were still three. The snake ploughed into the middle one, encountering nothing but air and illusion, then smashed into a hovel below and its head shattered. Jhafi voices screamed.
But the real Elena was running up the stonework, barely touching it. He screamed a command and the headless stone-snake lunged after her, but the bitch was too fast and his construct crashed itself against the wall and expired in a cascade of rubble. He tried to follow her with his eyes and with his gnosis, but she was heading in three directions at once. Damned illusions—
‘Stand still, you safian bitch!’ he roared, and brandished the hammer.
‘There you are,’ he bellowed, stupid with exhaustion. His hammer fell, but she was already out of reach, showing him a fistful of gnosis-energy before sending it at his shields, even as she called,
It wouldn’t have worked if Arno had been fresh: he was a half-blood Earth-mage of frightening strength. But she’d spent the whole day pricking at his mind like a gnat, enhancing his fears, driving him to exhaustion.
Her gnosis-bolt fused his shielding and centred all of his defences to the front, and the three crossbow bolts fired from the sides and behind encountered no resistance: one took him in the biceps, pinning his arm to his chest. Another took him in the neck, breaking his spine, while the third slammed into his belly. He collapsed and fell from the half-made wall to sprawl on the earth below. As Elena reached the lip of the wall he jerked and went still.
The three men walked to the edge and cautiously peered over. Elena leapt down lightly, wary of any movement, or the sudden expenditure of gnosis-energy. The others landed behind her, and as one they sucked in their breath.
Arno’s eyes flickered open. A gurgle came out of his mouth, then a gout of blood. As clearly if he had spoken aloud, she heard,
His eye widened slightly, incredulous, then a sharp burst of agony nearly took him. Elena lifted her hand, gnosis-fires kindling.
The men above her gasped as they saw his lips and eyes moving, and Lorenzo asked, ‘What are you doing?’ His e
xpression was horrified.
‘You’ll see.’ She took the head and rolled it into the waterproofed leather satchel she had brought for the purpose, then hefted it over her shoulder. Lorenzo looked at her and she saw his illusions about her begin to die. She felt a curious sense of loss. Faces peered out of the lean-tos, and a Jhafi warrior appeared, one of Harshal’s contacts. He saluted her wordlessly with his scimitar and vanished again.
She looked at the men. ‘Okay, one down. Four to go.’
Which one next, Lady?’ Artaq asked her quietly.
‘Sordell. Like Arno Dolman, his whereabouts is predictable. Rutt is like a man with a scab that itches him so badly that he cannot help scratching it. That scab is called paranoia, and the way he scratches it is to try and see into the future.’
‘He can do that?’ Artaq looked impressed. Luca made some primitive warding gesture.
‘Many magi can, but it’s not easy and it’s very unreliable. I like to think of it as a way of clarifying planning and rounding out the data. I did some divining myself before we left to fine-tune my plans.’
‘Did you see us as successful?’ Lorenzo asked.
‘Well, of course – but that could just be because I can’t conceive of losing, so I wouldn’t take it too seriously. But Sordell does: he’s one of those nervous types, and he can’t make a move without Gurvon holding his hand. He’ll be terrified that something will go wrong on his watch, so he’ll be up there in the Moon Tower, trying to see what it is.’
‘Will he see us coming?’ Luca asked perceptively. ‘With his spells?’
‘Perhaps. But one magi can usually hide from another, and from spirits set to observe them. A good diviner can play games with another too, feeding them wrong data.’
‘Are you a good diviner, Donna Ella?’
Elena smiled down at the little Rimoni. ‘Better than Sordell, actually, but I don’t like to boast. He thinks I can’t do it at all.’
Luca looked at her appraisingly, not the way men usually looked at women, but as if trying to strip away the flesh to the powers that lay beneath. ‘Do you have any weaknesses at all, Donna?’
