by David Hair
‘It is a good life,’ he agreed. ‘But it can be lonely too. You’re never certain of your welcome, wherever you go. A misunderstanding, a loose word and you find yourself on your own and having to move on. Some towns can be very unwelcoming. Others open their arms to you.’
I bet they do, she thought, eyeing his handsome face. ‘I’m sure you were able to charm your way out of anything dangerous, sirrah.’
He gave a lopsided smile. ‘Of course – exotic strangers always hold a certain charm, don’t you think? Like yourself, Donna: all the men here are fascinated by you.’
She looked sceptical. ‘Appalled, horrified, maybe. When I first arrived the knights were outraged that a foreigner – and a woman at that! – could be considered more capable of protecting the royal children than they. They have taken every opportunity to criticise me, to disparage me and outdo me – and some of them still had the cheek to try and woo me as well!’
‘It must be difficult for you here, unable to give anyone a hold over you by showing them favour and affection.’
‘Exactly: when a man takes a woman, he has conquered. He is victorious, he has triumphed, while the woman is ruined, sullied by that same act. A man beds a little court-bint and everyone thinks the better of him; his prowess is established. But those young girls are left tainted by their succumbing.’
‘So other men here have also tried to seduce you?’ he asked, deflecting that line of conversation.
She decided to let it go. ‘Some of them – the cocky ones. But most think I’m a freak: a female warrior-mage. I could not be more alien to them. If they could beat me in a duel or bed me, they could place me somewhere in their little pecking orders. I spent my first year here under siege.’
‘It sounds exhausting, being you,’ Lorenzo observed after a few moments.
Elena looked back at him, trying to sort through her feelings. He was charming and he was honest. That he was not a mage meant he could never know her fully, but she could relax with him as she never could with another mage. And the sex had been truly magical. It felt as if he were some kind of lodestone, pulling her flesh towards him. His voice was low and throaty, just the sort she liked. Carnal images were filling her mind again.
‘So, do you have a copy of this Indranian sex-manual?’ she asked slyly.
He grinned, leaning back. ‘Of course! It can be good inspiration to liven things up on a slow night. It is based upon the four principles of pleasure.’ He raised a finger. ‘One: That all bodies can give and receive pleasure. Second, that until we understand our own desires, we are closed to full enjoyment of pleasure. Third, that pleasure may be transitory, but it is a glimpse of the eternal bliss of God’s house. Fourth, that the key to pleasure lies not in the body, but in the mind. The book is fond of the number four; it groups the myriad couplings it depicts into four primal acts. It devises four phases of love-making and associates them with the cycles of the moon. It’s also rather picturesque. The Amteh have banned the book, but it is easily available, even in supposed Amteh towns. I know of one scriptualist who adapted it to Amteh customs. Here in Ahmedhassa, the people enjoy their pleasures, whereas Rondians are reserved and prissy about them, in my experience.’ He raised a teasing eyebrow.
She ducked her head, recalling the brief couplings that she and Gurvon had used to indulge in, more a purging of need than a celebration of it. ‘So I become yet another of your conquests,’ she observed.
‘I have, well, much experience of women,’ he replied, not quite apologetically.
The idea didn’t repel her as she thought it might. ‘Then I’m in good hands.’ She smiled.
‘You are,’ he replied confidently. ‘And speaking of hands—’ He slid his hand down her belly, cupped her mound and began to tease her again.
She moaned softly and surrendered once more.
Stealth was something Cera Nesti had learned from an early age, in hide-and-seek games with her siblings. She knew how to move soundlessly, to know when to pause and when to go, or to stop, utterly still, and remain so for minutes on end. By now it was second nature. And she’d seen enough.
There was a tiny viewing space high on the wall overlooking Lorenzo di Kestria’s bed. She had taken to watching it when he courted her to see if he was faithful. After she’d rejected him, he’d become promiscuous for a few weeks. It had been queasily entertaining to watch him coupling with a different girl each night.
But this time it was Elena she saw slip into the knight’s chamber, and some part of her soul turned to ash. It was evident that this was not their first time from their easy familiarity. As the grunting, gasping frenzy of their coupling burned her ears, she crawled away, tears stinging her eyes.
Gyle will say this proves they plot against me …
Her bedroom adjoined her father’s old reading room, the nexus from which the spider-web of passages and tunnels over Brochena Palace radiated. She stumbled into the room, collapsed on the divan and sobbed soundlessly, her shoulder heaving violently with the effort of keeping her grief silent. She twisted in a paroxysm that began as sorrow and finished as rage.
There was a shadow perched outside her window. She staggered to it and threw it open. ‘You were right!’ she gasped hoarsely. ‘You were right about them!’
The projected form of Gurvon Gyle bowed its head. ‘I grieve for you, Cera,’ he said simply. ‘Elena has no loyalty but to herself. Her support for you was only ever a ploy, to gain independence from me and a new pension plan for herself.’
She wanted to smash something. She wanted to scream. A dark future opened before her: of awakening to find Elena crushing a pillow over her face while Lorenzo knifed Timori and seized the throne; the massacre of all the Nesti as the Kestrians swept into power. Of Elena and Lorenzo, coupling in her own bed, King and Queen of Javon.
‘How can I save myself?’ she heard herself ask.
Gurvon met her eyes. ‘You must proceed with caution, Cera. Try to arrest them and you will bring everything to a head. Your position is precarious, but not hopeless.’
She swallowed. I’m doing this for my family.
‘The issue will be forced when Solinde is brought back. You will note that Elena has invented some pretext to have her returned? This is so she can be slain at the same time as Timi and you. If they left her in the Krak, where the Ordo Costruo have sovereignty, she’d be a rallying point. By bringing her back, they make ready their coup.’
She shuddered. ‘I never thought of that. I’ll countermand the order—’
‘No, let it happen. It will be the catalyst to freeing you.’ He raised a hand to her, palm out. ‘Cera, I have a plan – but you must trust me.’
She sucked in her breath. He is Gurvon Gyle. He killed my father and mother. How did it ever come to this? Then the image of Elena’s enraptured face as she rutted with Lorenzo di Kestria obliterated her doubts. Rukka Hel, I hate these magi! She met Gyle’s eyes. But it seems I must trust one of them …
‘What must I do?’
‘Firstly, send Lorenzo di Kestria to retrieve Solinde from the Krak – it must be him. And then summon Harshal ali-Assam in secret and—’
‘Harshal! You mean—’
‘No, I don’t mean he is my agent – he is not. But he has contacts among the Jhafi, including a man called Ghujad iz’Kho, who—’
‘That’s a Harkun name!’
Gyle sighed slightly. ‘Yes, Princessa, it is. Are you going to interrupt everything I say?’
Cera clasped her arms about herself and shook her head.
‘Excellent. Now, here is what you must tell Harshal …’
Everyone knew the participation of Javon in the shihad would be decided today, so it was with sinking heart that Elena watched the way they arrayed themselves about the council table. Emir Ilan Tamadhi, Harshal ali Assam and Scriptualist Acmed al-Istan sat on one side, with Comte Piero Inveglio, Seir Luca Conti and Pita Rosco lined up opposite. Conti was standing in for Lorenzo, who was travelling to retrieve Solinde. Josip
Yannos was sitting at the foot of the table.
I wish you were here, Lori. At least you know how to find compromise. But Lorenzo was riding south to fetch back Solinde. She missed him with both body and soul.
Cera arrived, looking red-eyed and nervous. She had become even less communicative in recent weeks, colder and harder and more distant; there was obviously some internal dialogue going on inside her that she would not share with Elena.
No one else appeared to have noticed the change; they no longer treated Cera as if she was either young or female; instead, they argued with her, joked with her and deferred to her as readily as they ever had with Olfuss.
But that did not mean they always agreed with her, and the shihad was the most divisive topic of all. They had run out of time: the ambassadors for Salim, Sultan of Kesh, were due in Brochena within the week, at which point either they agreed to join the shihad, or they became its target.
Scriptualist Acmed made the case for the shihad. ‘You must understand that only one body can speak for the whole of the Amteh, and that is the Convocation. The shihad is a sacred obligation to make war. It has not been decreed against the Kore before. The First Crusade took us by surprise, and the feuding of Kesh and Lakh meant no Convocation could be possible for the Second Crusade. Once it is confirmed that the Third Crusade has begun, every able-bodied man in Kesh and Dhassa and Gatioch and beyond will take up arms and march to join Salim’s armies. This includes my people, the Jhafi. The obedience they owe to the throne is one thing, Queen-Regent, but this is an obligation to Ahm Himself!’
Ilan Tamadhi nodded quickly in agreement. ‘The fact that you Rimoni are Sollan is recognised, your Majesty. The Jhafi will not take up arms against you and your people, but you cannot stand in the way of this call to arms. Already many young men have gone south of their own volition.’
It was so: reports from the Krak di Conditiori, the gateway out of Javon, spoke of young Jhafi streaming out of the country to join the armies mustering in the Zhassi Valley.
‘But the true danger is here,’ Piero Inveglio replied with a measure of exasperation. ‘It is almost certain that the Dorobon will arrive in Hytel with at least one legion. Are we to let them ravage Javon unchecked?’
Acmed spread his hands. ‘My people believe the Gorgio to be finished. They do not think the Dorobon will return. The queen-regent has defeated them.’
‘But is that what you believe?’ Luca Conti growled. ‘What are you telling your people in the Dom-al’Ahms?’
‘That the Convocation has spoken and we have no choice but to respond,’ Acmed replied sharply, with a hint of challenge to his voice.
Elena frowned. What he was really saying was, ‘I control the people, not you.’
‘In 904 the Dorobon conquered Javon with a single legion,’ Comte Inveglio reminded the room. ‘We overthrew them only when they grew complacent and we managed to poison Louis Dorobon and half the magi. They will not be so lax again. Do you want to see your homeland destroyed while your people are off being slaughtered in Hebusalim, Godspeaker?’
‘It is God’s will that we march to Hebusalim,’ Acmed replied obstinately.
The four Rimoni slapped the table in frustration. ‘What is it you want?’ Pita Rosco demanded. ‘What concession? Lay your cards on the table, damn it!’
‘There is no bargaining with Ahm!’
‘Ha! There is no bargaining with you,’ Luca Conti drawled disgustedly.
‘Do not impugn a holy man,’ Ilan Tamadhi snapped. He eyed the Rimoni lords firmly. ‘Listen, you know me: I have supported the guru’s strictures, and I love this land. We are not fools: we know that answering the shihad will cost Javon dearly. We know the risks – but to speak against the Convocation will rouse the common people against us, and that will destroy us even sooner.’
‘And still you put your precious faith ahead of the wellbeing of your people,’ Pita Rosco complained.
‘Yes, my faith is “precious” to me,’ Acmed thundered back. ‘It is the centre of every man’s life, or should be—’
‘I agree on that point, if no other,’ growled Josip Yannos.
‘Gentlemen,’ Cera snapped, slapping the table, ‘this is unseemly. I want a solution.’
‘Apparently there is no solution,’ Comte Inveglio rasped. ‘They would march off to death or glory, leaving the Rimoni to face the Dorobon alone.’ He looked at Ilan Tamadhi. ‘Or is there a solution?’
‘Those who speak against the Convocation are inviting death,’ Ilan replied, his expression neutral.
‘Are you threatening our queen-regent?’ Luca Conti snarled, and Elena wished once again that Lorenzo were here.
‘No,’ Acmed put in, ‘no, we are not. The queen-regent is beloved by us all. You Rimoni are not threatened by the shihad, not unless you align against it. But the Gorgio must be your problem.’
The argument went round for hours, a storm-tossed sea of words that crashed against the will of the Convocation and broke apart. Elena feared a breakdown, but Cera kept stepping in. At last she asked Elena to speak about the capabilities of a Rondian legion.
‘The Dorobon are Rondians from the north,’ Elena told the council. ‘They are wealthy beyond your reckoning, with all the arrogance that brings. They are closely aligned to the emperor, and highly favoured – the Dowager, the wife of Louis, who you poisoned, has the ear of the Empress-Mother Lucia Fasterius herself. They will invade by windship before the year is out. That is not a guess.
‘The Dorobon legion is extremely well-equipped. Though five thousand men does not sound like a lot, these will be mostly mounted, many on gnosis-creatures designed for the battlefield. They will bring winged steeds, and at least a dozen battle-magi. They will be of many levels of blood-purity, but many will be stronger than me. A force like that could destroy an army ten times its size.’
While they were still taking this in, Cera asked, ‘What of an army twenty times their size?’
Elena blinked. They all did. ‘Well,’ she started, ‘if they held together, if they were not panicked by the awful losses they would incur – even pure-bloods tire; even a construct-beast can be brought down … but there is no such army, not here in Javon.’
Cera stabbed a finger in the air. ‘Yes there is.’
Everyone looked at her blankly.
‘The Harkun,’ she answered their silent enquiry.
Every man in the room except Harshal ali Assam rose to their feet, the expressions on their faces ranging from shock to scorn to outrage, but Cera did not flinch.
Finally they fell silent to allow Comte Inveglio to lead the protests. ‘Queen-Regent, the Harkun and the Jhafi have been at war for centuries. Their atrocities are legendary – even in my time we’ve had to fight them on our southern borders. Those memories still haunt me. They torture captives to death and enslave our women. Even the Keshi will not deal with them – they are animals, Queen-Regent!’
Cera turned to Harshal ali-Assam, and Elena watched with interest. Harshal had obviously known Cera’s suggestion was coming; she wondered what had already been negotiated. And why was I not included in this discussion?
‘Harshal, I believe you have contacts among the Harkun?’ Cera asked. ‘Tell us of them.’
Harshal stroked his shaven skull. ‘I have made contact with the Harkun through a man of mixed blood. His name is Ghujad iz’Kho and he is known in all the major nomad camps. The Harkun enter our southern marches through mountain passes hundreds of miles east of the Krak. They are impassable in winter so they summer here, in the cooler north, then winter in Kesh. They are devoutly Amteh, but do not acknowledge the Convocation, nor do they swear allegiance to Kesh or Gatioch. They are fiercely independent, and very warlike.’
‘Precisely,’ exclaimed Pita Rosco. ‘Warlike and lawless and owing no allegiance to anyone – let them into our lands and they will run amok!’
‘It’s only the height of the Pedrani Rift and the forts atop it that keep them out of Javon proper,’ Inveglio added. �
��Without that natural border we would be overrun.’
‘Yes, yes,’ replied Harshal quickly, ‘we all know this. But the Harkun are not mindless barbarians. They are Amteh, and they adhere to the codes of the Prophet. They also live in the real world. Our commerce with them remains valuable. I have met one of their chieftains, and he can read and write and speak articulately.’
Comte Inveglio grunted, unimpressed. ‘Regardless of that, why should they fight alongside us? Would they restrain themselves from plundering whilst in our lands? And how would we make them leave afterwards?’
‘By giving them what they want,’ Cera responded levelly.
‘Which is what? Our lands to graze and our children as slaves?’
‘We can promise them all of that, for all that it will matter,’ Cera replied. ‘They will cease to be a problem after we send them in first against the Dorobon.’
Her words hung in the suddenly silent air. Elena stole a stunned glance at the girl, her heart a lump of ice in her breast. Great Kore, did my little girl just say that?
Even Acmed was lost for words, though he recovered quickly. ‘You would send the men of an entire people to their deaths just to soften up the Dorobon for the kill?’ He blinked thrice, his eyes glazed.
‘These are desperate times, my lords,’ Cera replied, her voice devoid of emotion.
‘They would never agree,’ Pita Rosco said in a shaken voice. ‘If they are as intelligent as Harshal says, they will know that a pitched battle against a Rondian legion is tantamount to suicide.’
Harshal shook his head. ‘They have heard tales of the Rondians, but they do not credit them. They think they are stories made up by the Keshi to explain their defeats.’
‘Then all the more will they panic when they confront the reality,’ Elena put in. ‘When winged gnosis-beasts soar upon them and the battle-magi bring fire and lightning they’ll run like devils.’
‘Not so: the Harkun are raised to the blade from childhood. They are utterly fearless in battle,’ Cera replied, stubbornly backing Harshal.
‘But they’ve not faced magi!’ Elena retorted. ‘Remember your own men, when the Dorobon came last time? Believe me, in the Noros Revolt we took on the Rondians head-to-head, with our own magi. The battlefields were wastelands, for years after! This will be beyond the ken of the nomads; they’ll think themselves facing all of Heaven and Hel, and they will flee and not even be shamed in doing so. They will believe themselves caught in the end of all times.’
