Mage's Blood (The Moontide Quartet)

by David Hair

  ‘They will fight,’ Harshal responded. He looked at Cera. ‘Ghujad iz’Kho claims they have more than one hundred thousand warriors.’

  ‘And we Javonesi can almost equal that number,’ Cera added. ‘That’s enough men to finish the job when the Dorobon battle-magi have expended their powers against the Harkun.’ She looked about the table. ‘It does not matter what we promise the Harkun; we will never have to deliver. And we will be freed of two problems with one blow.’

  So cold and calculating – it’s a plan such as Gurvon might concoct. Elena hung her head. Yet these were the lessons I taught her myself.

  ‘Even if we can do this, what do we tell the sultan’s ambassadors?’ Ilan Tamadhi asked, frowning. ‘Will the shihad be appeased?’

  Cera shrugged. ‘I believe so. I have a plan for that too …’

  Two days before the end of Maicin, Queen-Regent Cera Nesti sat upon her throne with her Regency Council and court gathered about her to receive the emissaries of Salim, Sultan of Kesh. The portly Faroukh of Maal, an uncle of the sultan, was here, and with him was the renowned Amteh scholar, Godspeaker Barra Xuok. They took turns at beseeching her to aid the shihad.

  ‘Join us in this righteous quest to rid the world of the invaders, Majesty – surely all the blood in your veins cries vengeance, for you are of the Rimoni, alone of the folk of Yuros you do not bow the knee to the Rondian emperor. You are also Jhafi: you have felt the heel of their oppression, right here in Javon. You have felt the scourge of their magi – your spirit is with us already, Queen-Regent, so let your body join it, united in one purpose.’

  Faroukh unfurled the white banner of the shihad, the crescent and star foremost, framed by the four scimitars representing the four corners of the world. At the centre of it was embroidered a castle and a word: Hebusalim, the goal of this shihad. ‘The Lakh are with us; all of Antiopia rises as one. Let not the Jhafi be denied their place in this holy brotherhood.’

  Elena watched from a hidden alcove, as her open presence would be inflammatory. She did not wish to be present, in any case; she felt shut out of this matter. After the last meeting she had told Cera her plan was manipulative, deceitful and destructive, but Cera now believed herself above being criticised by her bodyguard. ‘You’re an outsider, and you offered no solutions of your own,’ she had said, her voice harsh, dismissive. ‘You gave me no support, just scary stories about the might of your own people. Perhaps you’d be happier back among them.’ She had stormed out, and had not spoken a word since to Elena that was not a direct order.

  To be estranged from Cera’s affection was horrid, and with Lorenzo away, Elena felt isolated and afraid. Borsa was busy with Timori, preparing him for his ceremonial role greeting the ambassadors. There was only Tarita’s company to console her.

  If only it didn’t all feel so suicidal. She remembered the devastation battle-magi could wreak: the ruined bodies, burnt beyond recognition; the bulging faces of men drowned on dry land; the corpses of men torn apart by construct-creatures with hideous powers. What hope did Javon have, even if Cera sold her soul to gain Harkun aid?

  Finally, the Keshi finished their appeal, a beautifully choreographed finale that found Faroukh on one knee, holding the banner of the shihad, while the Godspeaker clutched the Amteh Book with his right hand pointing up to the heavens. Elena, like the whole court, held her breath, their eyes on the eighteen-year old-girl who held the fate of their land in her youthful grasp.

  When Cera spoke, her voice rang out clearly. ‘Lord Faroukh, Godspeaker Barra, I have heard your words. I have heard also the words of the people of Javon, from northern Hytel, where the Gorgio hold out against the just rulers of Ja’afar, to the fortresses on the Rift, warding us from the Harkun; from Lybis, whose farmers just want peace, to Baroz, which hungers for war.

  ‘All men speak of the justice of the shihad – none would have their lands sullied by the ferang. I hear this, and I echo it, but just as in battle, you cannot take your eye from the man before you to face the distant threat. Nor can we Javonesi turn our backs upon the Gorgio. We must crush them, to be one people once more.

  ‘Nor can we allow our borders to be violated. We know that our southern fortresses have stood between independence and slavery to the Keshi in the past. I cannot blindly say to Sultan Salim, “Send me your warriors that we may crush the Gorgio.” Even in the days of the shihad, that much trust is not permissible, though it aches my heart. But I ask you this: allow me to raise the banner of the shihad, here in Javon: a special banner, blessed by the Godspeaker, bearing the legend “Hytel”. Let us raise shihad upon the Gorgio and Dorobon and then, once purged, we will take up the banner of the Hebusalim shihad.’

  Elena observed the murmuring of the court, listening to Cera’s plan, an attempt to convince the Keshi that Javon resisting the Gorgio and the Dorobon was sufficient call to arms to appease the Convocation. The secret negotiations prior to this reception had been inconclusive.

  She held her breath as they all did, waiting to hear the ambassador’s response.

  Faroukh conferred with his Godspeaker, then he turned back to Cera. ‘Queen-Regent, we have heard your request. We acknowledge its wisdom and the love it shows for both of your peoples, and for peace, and for Ahm in Paradise. Sultan Salim has given me some discretion to reach accommodation with you. Your proposal has many points in its favour.’

  The court went utterly silent, hanging on the ambassador’s words.

  ‘Lady, Salim the Great will look upon your request with favour. But he would urge me to note that it runs counter to the will of the Convocation, which summons all warriors of the shihad to the conflict in Hebusalim.’ He paused significantly, as the court took this in. ‘However, Mighty Salim also notes that the Convocation gave the leadership of the shihad to him alone. It does not remove the right for him to protect what is his.’

  What is his? Elena leaned forward from her vantage. What does that mean?

  Faroukh bowed to Cera. ‘Salim is a great admirer of your courage and intellect, lady. He has heard of your valiant and victorious struggles against the treacherous Gorgio and evil Dorobon. He has heard the reports of your gentleness and beauty. He humbly asks for your hand in marriage.’

  Cera’s mouth fell open.

  ‘Were you his bride, dear lady, he would acquire the right to protect you, even as he protects his own household. Then he could grant your request without impugning the shihad.’

  Cera’s hand went to her heart. ‘Emir Faroukh, I am overcome. So lowly a person as I, a mere regent with no right to the throne once my brother comes of age, is unworthy of Salim the Great’s notice.’

  Oh, well said! Elena almost clapped her hands, aching to be beside the girl. You remind him that he cannot have Javon just by marrying you.

  The emir bowed, his composure unruffled. ‘Lady, Salim does not wish to claim the throne of Ja’afar. He wishes only to secure his northern frontier. He would expect nothing more than the right to have an observer at your council table until your brother attains his majority. He would not even require your presence in his court until after this war is fought.’

  ‘My lord Sultan Salim is generous,’ Cera whispered, her voice husky.

  ‘Then you accept his proposal?’ Faroukh asked warmly.

  Cera looked around.

  Elena urged her silently.

  Cera heard; she turned her head and met Elena’s eyes. Then she turned away. ‘I accept the sultan’s magnanimous proposal,’ she murmured.

  The Jhafi at court burst into raptures, while the Rimoni looked stunned.

  When finally there was silence, Faroukh bowed again. ‘We are overjoyed, dear lady. Let me be first to give you obeisance as my future queen.’ He fell to his knees, placing his forehead on the floor. His fellow ambassador, a holy man, bowed. The Jhafi all prostrated themselves, while the Rimoni looked increasingly discomforted.

  When Faroukh rose, he cried, ‘I show you the wisdom of great Salim,’ and made a
resplendent gesture. One of his aides unfurled another banner and a murmur ran through the court.

  It was a shihad banner, like the first, but bearing the name of Hytel, the stronghold of the Gorgio, in its centre. The sultan had anticipated Cera’s acceptance. ‘Let this banner go before you as you conquer the north, and thereafter may you ride to war in Hebusalim. And after the victory: a wedding!’

  Cera stood. ‘Thank you, my lords. But I must hear the will of my people before I commit to this path. My acceptance is not enough; I must have the agreement of those I rule.’

  Their self-congratulatory smiles froze on their faces as Cera addressed the court. ‘My people, if there is any person present who wishes to speak against the Hytel shihad, or my acceptance of this marriage proposal, I invite you forward now, without fear of censure.’

  There was a pause which stretched uneasily as Elena wrung her hands, unable to work out whether this had been a victory or a great defeat. Gurvon would know … Damn this! She could not read all the nuances; she could only watch as the silence stretched and people shuffled awkwardly.

  At last Comte Inveglio stepped forth. ‘I have only this to say,’ he shouted. ‘Long live the Queen-Regent and death to the Gorgio!’ He went on his knees before Cera, and suddenly the whole court was doing the same. Cera stood in the middle of all of this, apparently lost for words.

  ‘Long live the Nesti! Long live Javon! Death to the Gorgio!’

  Elena picked at her food, watching Cera from her alcove on the balcony above the feast-hall, where the queen-regent was hosting a celebratory banquet. She looked ill-at-ease seated beside Godspeaker Barra Xuok, who seldom smiled. Elena was also uncomfortable; she had not lost her fear that this evening would end in blood. She wanted nothing more than to pack Cera back into her warded tower again, away from potential assassins.

  A tall robed figure stepped into her alcove. ‘Sal’Ahm.’

  Elena rose quickly. ‘Sal’Ahm, Lord Faroukh. Are you permitted to address one of Shaitan’s spawn?’ she added wryly.

  ‘My faith is strong. I’m sure I can resist your wiles,’ the sultan’s uncle answered with a faintly ironic smile. ‘How may I address you?’

  ‘“Donna Elena” is fine. I expect you think I have some evil influence over the queen-regent and are wondering therefore how I have let the events of this afternoon happen,’ she observed, gesturing to the chair beside her.

  Faroukh sat and held out his goblet to a servant for refilling. The Godspeaker might not drink alcohol, but evidently Faroukh did. ‘I admit it has crossed my mind, Donna Elena.’

  ‘A plan never looks so good when your enemy approves of it, eh?’ She met his eye. ‘You’re very casual about talking to the likes of me.’

  ‘Donna Elena, I have met several magi of the Ordo Costruo. They are men and women who laboured for the people, turning Hebusalim into a garden. I have also met men like Tomas Betillon, who have betrayed agreements and done evil. Thinking men like me wonder how the magi can be servants of Shaitan and yet act in so many different ways.’

  Elena gave a tight smile. ‘Your thinking does you credit, at least in my eyes.’

  ‘Were you expecting Salim’s offer? Do you approve of your queen-regent’s acceptance?’ he asked.

  ‘I think you would have given us that banner anyway,’ Elena replied carefully.

  Faroukh shook his head. ‘Having made the offer publicly, a refusal would have ended all negotiations, and all hope of friendship. A sultan cannot be publicly refused, Donna Elena.’

  Oh, Cera. You knew that, didn’t you? And they trapped you. She held her tongue prudently.

  ‘Will you go to war under the shihad banner, Donna Elena?’ he enquired.

  Elena met his eye. ‘If the queen-regent goes to war, I will be there, under the Nesti banner.’

  ‘Why is that, Donna Elena? You are ferang. You do not belong here.’

  Elena suspected her reply would be reported all the way up to Salim himself. ‘Because I love this people, this land and my princessa. I have made holy vows to serve the Nesti, and I will fulfil them. This is my home now, and anyone who wants to get to Queen-Regent Cera must come through me.’

  Faroukh inclined his head. ‘Heard and understood, Donna Elena.’ He raised his goblet to her, then finished it in one swallow. ‘Thank you for your time. It has been a pleasure. Sal’Ahm on high.’

  ‘Sal’Ahm,’ Elena replied, and the sultan’s uncle rose, bowed and was gone.

  Tomorrow there would be public announcements, displays of the banners of shihad, celebrations. But tonight stretched cold and lonely before her. Cera would doubtless continue to ignore her, and Lorenzo was far away.

  32

  The Ghost of a Dog

  Necromancy

  You speak as if Necromancers are inherently evil. But do you not want the knowledge the dead hold? Would you have murderers go free when I can ask their victim who killed them? Would you allow spirits to linger in torment for want of a mage who can bring them peace? Not all that Necromancy can do is moral, but fire burns, does it not? Like all Crafts, Necromancy is a tool; it is the use it is put to that may be questioned by this committee, but not the tool itself.

  DARIUS FYRELL, WAR CRIMES HEARING, NOROSTEIN 911

  Pontus and Norostein, on the continent of Yuros

  Maicin 928

  2 months until the Moontide

  Mordai, 25 Maicin 928

  There was no fanfare for the arrival of Belonius Vult back into Pontus after two nights on a windship above the ocean. He used Clairvoyance to send ahead his instructions: Tell no one I am here, not even Korion. I need a skiff and crew, ready to leave for Norostein within an hour of my arrival.

  He’d been forced to leave the diplomatic mission in Hebusalim early – not that it mattered; the most important meetings had already taken place, with Meiros and Betillon, and the secret one with Emir Rashid. He had more pressing matters to attend to now: finding whoever had broken into his personal quarters. Who dared?

  It was incredible, that someone would have the nerve to take him on. And how had they known where to look? Had that guttersnipe Gron Koll thought to rob his master – no, it surely wasn’t Koll. Someone tremendously powerful had blocked his counter-strike. He’d been on the verge of breaking through and at least learning the identity of the robbers, even from across the ocean, when his scrying-assault has been shattered. The strength of that blow still unnerved him. He had only ever felt that level of power wielded by Church Inquisitors.

  The windskiff he’d requested was waiting for him when he landed and he was in the air again inside an hour. The skiff was lightweight and full-sailed, built for speed, and the two young magi piloting it were on extra money to get him to Norostein by Freyadai night. The wind whipped his hair as he sat beside the mast, staring ahead as the night turned slowly to day, his mind racing. He would be able to contact Fyrell tomorrow or the next day. How much he could tell him was debatable, but he needed someone there to get the investigation started discreetly. He wondered which files had been taken – all of them? Many were personally incriminating, but most were more damaging to people he currently wanted to protect. Whichever had been taken, it was imperative they were recovered.

  Who the Hel has robbed me?

  ‘You did what?’ Ramon leapt to his feet and stared at him, his eyes bulging.

  Alaron hung his head. ‘I needed to know,’ he said defensively. Once he’d realised that he’d probably signed all of their death warrants he knew he had to confess.

  Ramon swore and cursed, but Cym just looked away, perhaps calculating how much time they had until someone worked out the Alaron Mercer file was missing and came looking for him. Either that, or she was deciding precisely how she would kill him.

  ‘For Kore’s sake, Alaron,’ Ramon shouted, ‘we all knew your graduation failing was a fix – anyone with half a brain could work that out! And obviously it had to be ratified by the governor! You didn’t need to steal the rukking file to know that!’<
br />
  Alaron hung his head. There was no point arguing. Ramon was right.

  ‘So, when Vult gets back he’ll find two files missing: one, the Langstrit file, and two, the Alaron Mercer file. So it should take him, oh – about two seconds – to send a squad here. Kore’s cods – are you a complete rukking idiot?’ Ramon balled his fists furiously.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I’m really, really sorry. I didn’t think—’

  ‘No, you never think! You just do things, and then stare at the broken pieces with a gormless look on your face.’ Ramon was shaking with rage. ‘We’d just pulled off one of the thefts of the century, and for once – for once – you’d actually been really smart. And now you tell us you followed that up by doing the equivalent of painting our names and addresses on the walls as you left.’ Ramon threw his hands up in fury and stomped out, as if afraid of what violence he would commit if he stayed.

  Alaron buried his face in his hands, wondering almost in passing what his mother was making of all the shouting. Cym came and knelt beside his chair and put her hands over his. ‘Kore’s Blood, Alaron, but you’re such a fool,’ she murmured, a pitying look on her face. ‘What are we going to do now?’

  He’d been thinking about that himself, all night long. And he was grateful she wasn’t screaming at him too. ‘Well, I think we have two choices,’ he started. ‘We could run far enough away that he can’t follow us, but I don’t think we’re capable of that. The other option is to solve this in the next few days. The maps say it’s five thousand miles from here to Hebusalim. Even Vult can’t make that sort of journey in less than a week. I reckon we’ve got until the first of Junesse, and then he’ll be here and I’ll be dead.’