by David Hair
It was all she could do to blank her mind, to try to hide the guilt and fear and a confused sense of betrayal.
Kazim’s training had changed: now they also taught him how to disable or kill an unsuspecting victim. He had not imagined so many ways to take down an enemy: a stab to the kidneys or under the left armpit; a slash to the throat from behind; a knife driven up under the jaw into the brain; places where a single blow with a blunt instrument could stun. They showed him how to throw a variety of blades, and set him tests for silent movement.
They even gave him tips for fighting magi, which came down to a few simple principles: kill or knock them out with the first blow, and failing that, keep landing blows, causing pain, so they can’t focus their powers. Never strike the same place twice, for their instinctive shielding will block the second blow, then they will counter and you’ll be done for. Strike from behind when you can, silently.
It was simultaneously chilling and exhilarating, and Kazim lapped it up.
Most of the training was with Jamil, and he quizzed him ceaselessly about this secret order of Amteh magi. ‘Who are you, really?’ Kazim asked. ‘You’re a mage, but you’re not in the Ordo Costruo, though Rashid is. You and Molmar look alike – are you all cousins? Was my father one of you? Is this magic handed down father to son?’
Jamil didn’t shrug his questions away like usual. ‘Rashid has given me permission to answer some of these questions, but I must first swear you to secrecy: total secrecy, brother. You cannot even whisper this to your woman.’
When Kazim nodded cautiously, Jamil told him, ‘We are Hadishah.’ He whispered it, as men always whispered when they said that word.
Hadishah – the Jackals of Ahm: even the name was one of terror. The most extreme movement of the Amteh, and outlawed by the sultans, even in Kesh and Dhassa. But everyone knew the stories: it had began as the creed of the nomads of Mirobaz, and gradually evolved into a kind of religious secret police, answerable to no ruler. The Hadishah were the cloaked figures who burned down the houses of blasphemers and stoned adulterous women, punishing them on the word of rumour alone; they stole children to bring them up in their order; they were a million things, truth and fable entwined. For centuries the sultans of Kesh and Hebb had tried to stamp them out, but now, with Rondians in Dhassa and the Convocation disunited, they had a new legitimacy. They were the new heroes of the shihad.
Kazim found he wasn’t surprised, not deep down, but he was afraid. You didn’t walk away from the Hadishah. They had revealed themselves to him, so like it or not, he was now theirs to use until death.
And they have this magic, this ‘gnosis’, too!
Jamil cocked his head. ‘Guessed already, had you?’
‘I had wondered. What does it mean, you telling me this?’ he asked, watching Jamil carefully.
‘It means we want to help you do something we would also like to see done. When Meiros leaves his house, he is on guard, and the wards he has built into Casa Meiros make it impregnable. Once a street mob tried to assault it, but no one could climb the walls, though they look low, or break the doors, which look so flimsy – and Meiros wasn’t even there at the time. But your woman is the weak point. Your sister can get us inside, but not into Meiros’ tower. Only Ramita can get us in there.’
‘But how can you be magi?’
‘How indeed!’ Jamil laughed wryly. ‘In truth, the usual way. When the Ordo Costruo settled in Hebusalim, they took lovers – naturally their Sollan church condemned it, and so did the Amteh, but that wasn’t much good to the babies that resulted. Some were adopted by the Ordo Costruo, but we gathered many. Likewise, from time to time an isolated mage might vanish. We took them as breeding stock; to create our own magi. Like me.’ His voice was hard and flat. ‘I was born in one of these breeding houses.’
Kazim stared at him. ‘That’s disgusting!’
‘It’s perfectly logical. Magi are weapons, and we need such weapons to defeat the Rondians. But we have few bloodlines: hence the “family resemblance” you noticed.’
Kazim stared. ‘But you’re suggesting that my father—But that is impossible. He never – I—’ Chod! Is he really saying I am one of them?
Jamil went on implacably, ‘We ensure the brothels frequented by Rondian magi have fertile women. We kidnap, we set honey-traps, but male magi have thin seed, and female magi seldom conceive, so we have few bloodlines. So much inbreeding leads to many stillborns and deformities – my mother was born with no arms, and she died birthing me, at the age of forty-three, having given birth seventeen times.’ He spat. ‘This is what fighting such an enemy reduces us to. Every so often we capture another one, add some fresh flesh to the mix.’ He pursed his mouth in distaste. ‘I agree with you, Kazim: it’s vile, and sometimes it makes me sick. It’s as much a crime as anything our enemies perpetrate. But what are the alternatives? We must have the gnosis, and if we sin in the service of Ahm, that sin is forgiven: Victory justifies all.’
Kazim was horrified. ‘But my father … Was he one of you? Am I?’ he asked hoarsely.
Jamil met his eye. ‘No, Kazim, you are not one of us,’ he said.
Something in the way he said it gave Kazim pause, but still he exhaled in relief. The gnosis was too frightening to comprehend.
The Hadishah smiled grimly. ‘Just because you do not have the gnosis does not mean you need not defend yourself from it, Kazim. Next week Rashid will commence that part of your training.’
Ramita knelt before the shrine in her courtyard and tried not to scream. She had a mad urge to take a knife, bare her loins and carve in until her blood poured onto the stone. The urge had been growing daily since she had woken and found her sheets unstained. She had always been regular, always on time, and now, when she least wanted to have conceived, she was late.
I must bleed, she told herself, I must …
She wanted to keep this secret until she had worked out what to do, but it was impossible: Meiros was exhilarated when he learned her blood-towels were unstained, that she might be with child. He had been diligent in his ploughing of her the previous week, as powerful as if her prayers to Sivraman had somehow infused him with long-lost youth. He could scarce contain his excitement, and she tried to feign the same emotions, but she was certain she bore Kazim’s child – he had taken her when she was most fertile, and his seed was both youthful and non-magi. If she was pregnant, the child (or children) must certainly be his.
She tried to tell herself that it didn’t matter, soon she would be stolen away and the parentage of any children would be irrelevant, but she could not dismiss her fears so easily. Her husband was Antonin Meiros: he was invincible. No attempt to steal her could ever succeed, so barring a miracle, in nine months a dark-skinned, non-mage child would tumble from her loins and all of the wrath of a centuries-old jadugara would come crashing down on her and all she loved.
Please, Sivraman, please, Parvasi, please Gann-Elephant … make me bleed!
But she did not, not all week, nor into the next.
21
Missing and Hunted
Thaumaturgic Magic
Thaumaturgy manipulates the base elements of the world and was the first and most obvious branch of magic. It is stunning to think that the entire Rimoni Empire was conquered by fewer than Three Hundred men and women wielding only Thaumaturgic powers. These days several thousand magi can scarcely control their empire and they have all sixteen of Ardo Actium’s Studies to bring to bear. Of course, military tactics have evolved a long way since the time of the Liberation and whilst still princes of the battlefield, the magi are no longer so invulnerable. Nor are they all Ascendants.
ORDO COSTRUO COLLEGIATE, PONTUS
Anborn Manor, Noros, on the continent of Yuros
Martrois to Aprafor 928
4–3 months until the Moontide
Vann Mercer had managed to have the confiscation of Anborn Manor annulled, but without Elena’s regular payments they were going to have to sell the dynastic home anyw
ay. At least they would have the profits from the sale. Alaron worked on the manor, and the skiff when he had time, and he found he was enjoying seeing the old house beginning to regain some of its former grace. It was sad to think the home he’d grown up in would not be in the family much longer.
His days took on a timeless quality. It was easy to imagine that there was only this house in the whole of the world. Spring was blossoming in slow, subtle ways. Flowers bloomed in the long grass that had once been manicured lawns. The wind was sometimes gusty and cold, sometimes light and playful, but never silent. The snows cleared at last and the streams brimmed with icy melt-waters, though the Alps remained white. Gretchen polished, cooked and cleaned and her husband Ferdy did whatever it was that Ferdy did, which involved a lot of planning, but not a lot of finished product.
The isolation also allowed Alaron to practise with his illegal periapt as he slowly repaired the windskiff. He’d never excel at sylvan-gnosis, the manipulation of wood and plants, but with practise he was definitely improving. But he had another major concern now: the mysterious old man. After their initial panic, Gretchen had put him to bed and kept him there for several days, feeding him chicken broth and country remedies. He recovered quickly enough physically, but he appeared unable to speak. He could use the privy unaided, but he could not communicate, either by sound or in writing – and he had an almost uncanny knack of vanishing when occasional visitors called by.
Alaron had started talking to him while he worked on the skiff, one-sided conversations about what was wrong with the world. He was certain the old man was a mage; he hadn’t imagined that tingle of alien gnosis that first day, though it never happened again. The old man was someone. But he had no idea who.
He hadn’t seen Cym for more than a month, but she breezed into his stables-workshop one afternoon in Martroix, with the summer breezes wafting behind her, as he was singing loudly to himself, ‘—and the lady kissed the ro-o-o-o-o-sssse—’
‘Ugh, Alaron, are you deaf? That’s horrible—’
‘Cym!’ He was halfway to her before it occurred that she might not want to hug him at all and was left floundering awkwardly. ‘Come in, come in.’
‘I am in, you idiot.’ She walked up and hugged him perfunctorily, then looked at the windskiff. ‘Do you need some help? Huh, stupid question. You always need help.’ Before he could reply she was smoothing the keel with sandpaper, enchanting it as she went, working three times faster than he could. She looked older, more grown-up: her hair was pinned up, her white blouse looked more filled-out, and her multi-layered patched skirt swayed enticingly as she walked. ‘How are you, Alaron? Are you getting by?’
‘Sure!’ He smiled earnestly. ‘I like it out here. Well, for now.’
‘I’m glad you’re putting my gift to good use. Have you learned how to pilot the skiff yet?’
‘Um, I’ve read a lot about it, but I can’t practise until we can get it airborne again.’ He felt overjoyed to see her, but her arrival made him realise how lonely he was. ‘Have you seen Ramon?’
‘Nope. I imagine the Silacian sneak-thief is probably running his village familioso by now. I heard the Weber girl just got engaged – someone from Bricia. Life goes on, you know. Except here.’
‘Life goes on here too,’ he said defensively.
‘No, you misunderstand me: it’s good, to come back here where nothing happens. The rest of the world is turning to shit, men getting ready for war, people starving from hard winters and bad harvests, the usual. There are plenty of worse places you could be. You’re even getting to use your gnosis a little.’ She looked around the workshop. ‘I called in on your father, by the way. He’s moved your mother into your house; she needs constant care now. He told me to tell you he’ll have to sell this place soon to pay for the care she needs.’
He winced. ‘I should be there for him.’
‘No, he knew you’d say that. He says, stay here, he’ll let you know if things change. I think he actually quite likes having her there again. She’s less cranky than she used to be, or so he says.’ She suddenly stiffened, staring past Alaron’s shoulder. ‘Who’s that?’
Alaron turned to see the old man had stepped out of the shadows. He had no idea how long he had been standing there. ‘Uh, I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’ Cym stared at the old man.
Alaron shrugged. ‘He just walked in, about a month ago. He can’t talk and I don’t even know if he can understand what I’m saying.’
‘A month ago?’ Cym walked around the old man, who followed her progress with a blank expression. ‘The Norostein Watch have been going door to door for the last three weeks, looking for an old man, around six feet tall, with white hair and a beard.’ She looked the old man up and down as if measuring him. ‘They said he was suffering from memory loss. There’s a reward posted.’
‘Are you suggesting I should take him in and get the reward?’ Alaron wondered.
Cym looked at him as if he had just farted. ‘Sol et Lune, no! If those pricks want him, then it’s probably better for him that they don’t get him. And if they’re offering a reward, then doubly so, ’cos it means the fool who lost him is in big trouble. You’re looking after him well, yes?’
‘Of course, but—’
‘Then he’s fine. Let the poor bastard enjoy some freedom. He’s probably just escaped from paupers’ gaol after years of maltreatment.’ She waved her hand in front of the old man to get his attention, then greeted him in Rimoni and Schlessen, but the old fellow made no response. But when she went back to the keel and called up her sylvan-gnosis, the old man stared at the glowing lights emanating from her hands. ‘Look, that’s got his attention.’
‘He’s fascinated by gnosis,’ Alaron said, having noticed it before. ‘Did the Watch say what the missing man’s name was?’
‘No, that was one of the other odd things about it: no names were mentioned at all.’ She looked at Alaron. ‘Promise you’ll hide him if the Watch comes looking.’
‘Sure – but they never come out here.’
That evening Cym tried in vain to coax some words out of the old man. Afterwards they pored over the book on windskiff piloting before putting chairs together and having a hilarious time simulating the movements of rudder and sail to pilot their skiff. Cym announced eventually that she needed to sleep and skipped out of Alaron’s reach before he’d summoned the nerve to try and kiss her goodnight.
He barely slept that night, thunderingly conscious of Cym in the next room, and it felt like he’d no sooner closed his eyes than he was woken by the thumping of mailed fists on the front door. He felt a clutch of fear and grabbed the sword leaning beside the door before running down the hall. It was sunrise, and Gretchen was standing in the kitchen doorway in her nightdress, wringing her hands.
‘Who’s there?’ he called, trying to sound commanding.
‘Norostein Watch. Open up!’
His mouth went dry, and he wondered where the old man was. ‘Just a minute!’ He made sure his periapt was hidden beneath his collar, then pulled the door open, his sword in his hand but not raised.
A square-jawed sergeant looked down at the blade, then up at him. There were three more watchmen standing behind him, looking bored. ‘Expecting trouble, lad?’ the sergeant drawled.
Alaron felt himself flush. ‘We’re a long way from town, sir. Anyone can pretend to be a watchman.’
The man grunted. ‘True enough. But we are watchmen, worse luck, and we’re looking for a missing person – an oldster who ran away from an asylum. Might be dangerous.’
Alaron’s heart thudded, but he kept his face expressionless. ‘No, sir. I’ve not seen him.’
‘I didn’t say it was a “him”,’ the sergeant observed. ‘Crebb, take a look around the stables. Taultier, round the back. Mind if I come in, lad?’
‘Uh, sure.’ Alaron stepped back, his mind racing. The old man usually slept in the stables – and the skiff was there – the illegal ski
ff … He couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
The sergeant stepped inside the door. ‘You can put the sword away, lad. We’re not bandits. Morning, ma’am,’ he nodded to Gretchen, who looked outraged by armed men in her house. Then he looked down the hall and stiffened. ‘Who’s this?’ He glanced sideways at Alaron as Cym came down the passage, wearing a dress of his mother’s she must have hastily thrown over her head. Her hair was a tangled mess.
‘Staria di Biacchio,’ she answered smoothly. ‘Alaron, darling, who are these men?’
‘You’re Vann’s boy?’ the sergeant asked. ‘What are you doing out here?’ He ran an appreciative eye over Cym and grinned. ‘Second thought, don’t answer that. I can see why you were nervous: if you ain’t married to her, you better pray her folks don’t find out.’ He addressed Cym. ‘Your people haven’t seen some old geezer mooching about, have they, Princessa? There’s a reward.’
Cym shook her head slowly. ‘I’ll ask about, if the money is good.’
‘Sergeant,’ someone called from the stables, ‘come and look at this.’
Alaron groaned inside as he and Cym followed the sergeant to the stables. They glanced at each other anxiously as the watchman he’d called Crebb flung open the stable door. The old man stood beside the upturned keel of the windskiff.
The sergeant walked straight past the old man as if he wasn’t there and stroked the keel. ‘What’s this, then – a windskiff? But I heard you—’ He stopped, and looked at Alaron meaningfully.
‘Oh, that thing!’ Cym strode through, smiling warmly. ‘Alaron just cuts the wood. One of his friends in town does the actual – thingy – you know …’ She waved her hands in a magical sort of way.
