by David Hair
*
It was dawn over the Alps. Vult felt the updrafts, breathed in the clear, cold air. He had slept, finally, until woken by a tentative touch on his mind.
The grip she took of his mind tightened as she spoke and he felt a cold dread that she might be able to reach down from her tower in Pallas and tear out the inside of his head. He marshalled his defences, establishing a new barrier within himself, not challenging the grip she had, but prepared to contest any further intrusion. Only then could he think rationally.
Something close to the truth was required – but not the real truth, of course: never that. The stakes were too high.
When she replied it was in an even, concerned voice.
He awaited her displeasure, but when she responded again, she remained sternly cordial.
She laughed.
Next morning Alaron was breakfasting early, on his own. Cym was still sleeping and Ramon had gone to the land-towers – but Alaron had barely finished his porridge when the door burst open and Ramon hurtled in. ‘You’ve got to move, Alaron – they’re expecting the governor tonight. We need to get you and the general to that cellar now—’
The enormity of it all hit Alaron like a punch to the belly, but Ramon didn’t let him hesitate. Evidently going into hiding at a moment’s notice was normal for Silacians. ‘Come on, Al, let’s move!’
Dusk found Alaron fifteen feet below ground in a hidden cellar beneath an abandoned wreck of a cottage. He was perched on a pile of sacks, wondering how on Urte he was going to be able to endure the coming night, here beneath the ground with no one but the general and a pile of books for company. At least a dose of gnosis-fire had dealt with the fleas. But life looked like it was going to be pretty miserable henceforth.
The hatch above was wrenched open and Ramon clattered down the stairs, clad in dark clothes. The general stared at him with a passive face and disinterested eyes. Ramon sniffed and wrinkled his nose. ‘What a sewer.’
‘Thanks,’ Alaron scowled, from his lumpy mattress of flour-sacks. ‘What were you expecting, the Royal Suite?’
‘No, just less filth and decay.’
‘Thanks for raising the point. I’ll have the maid clear up – oh, hang on, no maid—’
‘Stop sulking, Alaron. Your father dealt with worse during the Revolt.’
‘Yeah, but that was patriotic,’ Alaron muttered sourly. ‘I suppose your tavern room is comfortable?’
‘Not bad,’ Ramon said, ‘thanks for asking.’
‘Huh. So, are you here to help, or what?’
‘To help, as always.’ Ramon held up a clay pot. ‘Silver compound, for the summoning circle.’ They both knew the theory, but Ramon had no affinity for Wizardry himself, so it was left to Alaron to once again take up a Study he had always been more than a little frightened of. Wizardry involved calling and binding the spirits of the dead who haunted the earth as servants. They were mentally linked to each other, a web of dead souls, constantly being renewed as some passed on and others died – but there were others, still superstitiously called ‘daemons’. These beings had been around for millennia, and the eldest daemons were very strong – and much prized by wizards; once named, they could be summoned and controlled.
Though a wizard could summon a daemon without a circle, only a madman would summon an unknown daemon without one. A summoning circle would confine the daemon until it could be subdued; the circles could be attuned to the specific powers of known spirits, tailored to hide identities and detection or filled with illusions and traps: this was all part of the varied arts of Wizardry. A full wizard’s summoning circle could take hours to inscribe.
Like Necromancy, Alaron had always found Wizardry terrifying. Never mind that the entrance exams had suggested that he had an analytic and logical mind well suited for such Studies; the truth was he was gut-clenchingly scared of all these dead souls and daemons – and just the threat of having his mind destroyed if he failed to subdue the summoned being was the stuff of nightmares. He had hoped to never again use Wizardry in his life, but it didn’t seem to be working out that way.
I did Necromancy the other day … I can do this, he told himself firmly.
The painstaking inscription and the preparation of the inner circle took all night, though the boys worked well together. Just before dawn, Alaron experimentally activated the summoning circle with a light touch of gnosis and gave a grunt of satisfaction when a scintillating column of semi-opaque light arose inside. The silver liquefied and fused. He walked around it, looking for gaps, then deactivated it, so that he didn’t burn off the valuable ingredients. ‘It’s done!’ he announced, and immediately felt immeasurably tired, wanting only to sleep for ever – but he was excited too.
A few months ago I’d have fallen apart at what we’re going through. But I can do this, he thought. He showed Ramon the circle. ‘The inner circle is for the daemon and the outer one is for me, so that if I screw up, the daemon can’t get at the rest of you. It looks good. I think we’re ready.’
‘Then we’ll do it tonight.’ Ramon peered at Alaron. ‘You’ll need to sleep, amici. You need a fresh mind to take on a daemon, si?’
Alaron felt surprisingly confident. ‘We can do this,’ he insisted. ‘Hey, what do you reckon the general will say if we can restore him?’
Ramon chuckled. ‘Something along the lines of: “Who the Hel are you clowns?”, I imagine.’
Alaron tried to hold onto the light moment, but couldn’t. ‘Imagine being so desperate you’d destroy your own mind and just take it on trust that someone would find you and repair it for you.’
Ramon said soberly, ‘Si – maybe he’s crazier than we are.’ He glanced at the sleeping Langstrit. ‘I should go. We both need to rest for the summoning tonight.’
‘And maybe battle an uncontrolled daemon, if I screw up,’ Alaron worried.
‘Or fight off Vult, Fyrell, Muhren and half the Watch,’ Ramon added lightly.
Alaron looked at him miserably. ‘I’m sorry, Ramon. I should never have taken that file, I know—’
‘Done is done, Al. We’ll just have to be cleverer now.’ Ramon stood up and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t panic, amici. We’re nearly there. Tonight!’
Alaron pulled him into a rough hug. ‘Thank you, my friend – thank you for everythin
g. Without you here, I’d already be dead.’
Ramon cocked his head impatiently. ‘Don’t make me cry, Al.’
Alaron hugged him again. ‘I mean it, Ramon. You’re my best friend.’
‘And you are mine, Al. But you’re still an absolute moron.’ Ramon pushed him away. ‘What does that say about me, eh?’
Alaron tried not to succumb to claustrophobia as the hatch shut above him. He settled into the darkness, alone with the silent general. He thought of Cym, watching over his mother, and sent his love. It would have been hypocritical to pray when he despised the Church, but he came close to breaking ranks on that score, for sheer terror at what might happen to the people he loved.
Be safe, all of you. Please, be safe …
Freyadai, 29 Maicin 928
A bitter north wind blew Vult into Norostein before dawn. He stood dizzily and stretched as the windship settled on the paved terrace above the city. The Air-magi who had piloted Vult nonstop since Pontus simply rolled onto their backs on the deck and groaned, their relief needing no words. They had met his wishes, and exceeded them. The stars glittered off the snow-covered slopes of the Alps thousands of feet above them, the barrier to the south, the throne that gazed down upon them, as implacable as Mater-Imperia Lucia herself.
He threw a pouch of gold onto the deck as he left. Let them fight over it; that was the way he had always run his underlings. Let the wolves rip and tear at each other, then he would adopt the winner. It was how he’d found Gurvon Gyle, and Darius Fyrell. And here was Fyrell, waiting loyally.
‘Master!’ Fyrell bowed.
‘Darius.’ He placed a hand on his shoulder, then reasserted his distance. ‘Brief me, my friend. What did Gron Koll have to say about this outrage?’
‘Little, my lord. He claimed to have drunk too much and slept through it all,’ Fyrell sneered.
‘Had he?’
Fyrell grimaced. ‘His memories had been altered, so we may never know what he really did. The overwritten mind is difficult to restore.’
Vult felt his eyes narrow. ‘Who did it?’
‘Someone skilled enough to remove their own traces. The trail is cold, I’m afraid.’
Vult harrumphed irritably. Predictable, but annoying. ‘Take me to the Residence. I must determine what has been taken.’
Alaron felt the scrying attempt in the timeless darkness of his cellar. It touched him faintly before the weight of stone obscured it. The art of the Clairvoyant was related to Air-gnosis, so Earth could thwart it; the simplest way for non-magi to escape the seeing eyes of a mage was to go underground. The Rimoni had not realised that in time to save themselves, but the Silacians in their mountain fortresses had learned quickly, and others had followed. If you cannot shield, you dig.
He’s back – Belonius Vult’s here … Alaron felt a surge of fear, but quelled it. They had come so far – they were ahead in this game, so long as they held their nerve. He breathed out the fear and lay back on his flour-sack bed. All he could do was wait and rest now, and hope the others were safe.
Cym was in the kitchen when someone hammered on the door. Tesla was asleep upstairs and Tula was at the market. She pulled open the door, holding her periapt behind her back, ready to flee or fight.
There was a crowd of Watchmen below on the steps. A tall, grim-faced man with flowing locks and a dashing countenance stepped to the fore. She knew his face well; Jeris Muhren and her father had been friends for many years.
‘Norostein Watch,’ Muhren announced. ‘We have a warrant for the arrest of Ala—’ He paused, belatedly registering Cym’s presence. ‘Cymbellea di Regia? What are you doing here? Where is young Mercer?’
‘He’s not here – he went with his father to Pontus. I’ve been hired to be his mother’s maid,’ Cym lied smoothly, surreptitiously pocketing her periapt.
‘Does your father know you’re here?’
‘Of course.’ She feigned regret. ‘I’m sorry but no one’s home but Madam, and she is asleep. You can come back at midday, once I’ve washed and fed Mistress Tesla. She gets awfully tetchy this early in the morning – she’s apt to fire-blast people.’ She looked down at the soldiers meaningfully. ‘You know how these insane battle-magi get.’ She watched them flinch at the thought.
Jeris Muhren laughed abruptly. ‘Indeed I do!’ He turned back to his men. ‘All right, lads: Jensen, you will remain outside the front door. No one comes or goes.’ He turned and bowed up the stairs to Cym, a wry look on his face. ‘For your protection, Mistress di Regia. I’m sure you understand.’
Cym scowled, seeking a way out of this fix.
Muhren glanced at his men. ‘The rest of you, get out and start canvassing door-to-door.’ He waited until the men had tramped away and then closed the door behind him. Cym felt herself colour. ‘Well, young Cymbellea, perhaps we need to have a long talk,’ he said in a voice that brooked no refusal.
Belonius Vult stared at the figure on the other side of the desk. ‘What do you mean, you can’t find him?’ He leaned forward. ‘I know who broke into my offices, Captain Muhren: it was Alaron Mercer, and I want his goddamned head for it!’
It had been something of a relief when Vult had put two and two together: the Langstrit file was missing, which was alarming, but the Mercer file was the only other one taken, and that was intriguing.
I have cast Divinations concerning you, boy. You and the Scytale of Corineus …
After hearing the boy’s thesis, which mirrored the truth alarmingly, his Divining had revealed greater opportunity to gain the Scytale himself if he arranged for the boy to work on it as a failed but free mage – it was a low probability, but better than none. He’d divined again after finding which files were missing. The boy was active. Something was happening here, a web of conspiracy concerning the missing Scytale, and an opportunity like no other beckoned.
I can take nothing for granted, he thought, eyeing the man opposite him. Muhren was a former Revolt battle-mage, a Langstrit man, one of the hard core of soldiers who had fought to the bitter end. He’d been there on the alpine slopes when Robler had finally surrendered. He knew Vannaton Mercer, no doubt. He also knew Mercellus di Regia, the notorious Rimoni bandit who’d aided the Revolt. It could be no coincidence that di Regia’s daughter had been found at Mercer’s house. I can’t trust Muhren, I never could … Vult had been trying to have Muhren removed for years, but the position of watch captain was appointed by the king, not the governor.
No one is untouchable, not even you, Jeris Muhren, he told himself, before saying smoothly, ‘Very well, Captain. I want the search for the boy intensified. And I will question this gypsy girl myself. And the mother.’
Muhren’s reply was crisp and neutral. ‘I’m sorry, Governor. The questioning of suspects is a Watch duty.’
Vult glared at Muhren. ‘Then I will attend the questioning,’ he rasped.
‘I’m sorry, Governor,’ Muhren repeated, in an infuriating textbook-reciting manner, ‘The questioning of suspects may not be observed except by arrangement with the watch captain.’
‘Then arrange it, Watch Captain.’
‘I’m sorry, Governor, but I see no grounds to permit you.’ He stood and saluted, then strode out while Vult fumed.
Who the Hel do you think you are, Jeris Muhren? I’m the rukking governor! With a frustrated snarl, he returned to the so-far fruitless and aggravating work of trying to scry Alaron Mercer. If only he could remember the boy more clearly. He paused. Wasn’t Gron Koll a contemporary of Mercer? It was time to see if that oily young man could redeem himself after his failure on the night of the theft.
That’s if Fyrell left Koll alive and with his sanity intact.
33
Southpoint
Shaitan
The King of Evil in the folklore of Antiopia, Shaitan and his hordes of afreet (pale-skinned demons with magical powers) plague the virtuous, but are constantly defeated as they are powerless against men of faith. Though the myth of Shaitan and the afreet predates
the advent of the Rondian magi into Antiopia by millennia, the parallels that the people of Kesh and Dhassa draw are obvious.
ORDO COSTRUO, HEBUSALIM CHAPTER
Hebusalim, on the continent of Antiopia
Jumada (Maicin) 928
2 months until the Moontide
The Rondian Imperial Envoy, Belonius Vult, had flown home in high dudgeon. Negotiations between the Rondians and Salim continued, but without Ordo Costruo input, which was frustrating Antonin Meiros. Meanwhile Governor Betillon was losing control of the streets. Casa Meiros could not keep out the sounds of marching soldiers and distant shouting; sometimes stones struck the walls. The air was smokier and the carrion birds more plentiful.
As Jumada ended, Meiros told Ramita that he had a surprise for her. ‘There is something I wish to show you, Wife, whilst you can still travel. Prepare yourself first thing in the morning for a day and a night away. You need pack only clothing; I will take care of all else.’
Ramita was puzzled and intrigued, but the prospect of getting out of Casa Meiros was wonderful. The whole household was preparing for evacuation to Domus Costruo, which meant their home would probably be looted, but even her husband could not guarantee their safety if they remained here once war began. Eventually, a concerted assault would break through.
Despite this, Meiros was almost light-hearted when he came to her courtyard the following morning. There was a gentle breeze blowing, and Luna was sinking in the west, kissed pink by the rising of Sol. Ramita wore a red and yellow salwar, a silver nose-ring and ruby-studded rings and bangles. Her hair was plaited down her back. Her belly was subtly rounder, but she felt well.
‘Are you ready, Wife?’ Meiros enquired kindly. ‘Then come to the lower courtyard.’
Huriya took Ramita’s arm, not because she needed the help, but because Huriya was nervous at letting her go. ‘Ramita, what if this is some trick to lock you away somewhere he thinks is safe?’
‘I’m sure he wouldn’t do that, and anyway, I would insist you were with me.’ She kissed Huriya’s forehead. ‘We’ll be back tomorrow, he says.’
