by David Hair
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by
Jo Fletcher Books
An imprint of Quercus Editions Ltd
55 Baker Street
7th Floor, South Block
London
W1U 8EW
Copyright © 2013 David Hair
The moral right of David Hair to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 78087 198 1 (HB)
ISBN 978 1 78087 199 8 (TPB)
ISBN 978 1 78087 200 1 (EBOOK)
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk and
www.jofletcherbooks.com
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Map 1: Yuros and Antiopia
Map 2: Yuros
Map 3: Antiopia
Prologue: The Vexations of Emperor Constant
1 How You Meet Your End
2 Identity and Possession
3 Domus Costruo
4 Into Captivity
5 Mercellus di Regia
6 Legion Service
7 The Krak
8 The Tide Lands
9 A Dream of Escape
10 The Isle of Glass
11 Fishil Wadi
12 The Zain Monastery
13 The Crossing
14 The Guide
15 Dissent
16 Common Ground
17 A Message from the Grave
18 Across Kesh
19 The Vlk
20 Tangled Webs
21 Deeper Understanding
22 Fishing
23 The Branded Mage
24 The Cut
25 Sacred Vows
26 Uneasy Peace
27 Mother, Daughter and Widow
28 The City of Gold
29 Saltwater and Blood
30 An Irrevocable Choice
31 Heads Will Roll
32 A Storm in the Desert
Epilogue: Dust on the Wind
Dramatis Personae
APPENDICES
Acknowledgements
This book is dedicated to Mark Fry; life-long friend,
best man, free-spirit and all-round good guy.
PROLOGUE
The Vexations of Emperor Constant
(Part Two)
The Imperial Dynasty
The Blessed Three Hundred, though revelling in their godlike powers and fresh from destroying a Rimoni legion, were cast into confusion by the death of their charismatic spiritual guide Johan ‘Corineus’ Corin. His murder at the hands of his sister, Corinea, had horrified his followers, and left them with an immediate problem: who would succeed the man who had bequeathed them the gnosis?
But Ganitius, Corineus’ loyal ‘fixer’, and Baramitius, whose potions had opened the gateway to the gnosis, acted quickly to ensure the future of the group. Uniting behind the nobleman Mikal Sertain, they established a new leadership that saw Sertain anointed Corineus’ successor, the successful destruction of the bewildered Rimoni armies, and the instalment of the Sacrecour dynasty that still rules Pallas and the empire today.
Why Sertain? Because his family were well-moneyed.
ORDO COSTRUO COLLEGIATE, PONTUS
Pallas, Rondelmar
Summer 927
1 Year until the Moontide
One year until the Moontide. It seemed like no time at all.
Gurvon Gyle studied the faces about him anew as they settled back into their seats. Over the last hour, the atmosphere of the room had changed. His plan for the conquest of Javon had been agreed, but that was just the first step. The rest of this meeting would be more contentious, and test the ability of this group of people to work together. He smoothed the sleeve of his rough dun-coloured shirt, wondering if his plans for Javon would go as intended.
When does anything ever go as planned?
To his left, fellow Noroman Belonius Vult, Governor of Norostein, was riffling through his notes as he prepared to speak again. He was clad in the finest cloth, of silver and blue. His noble visage spoke of wisdom and secret knowledge, like some legendary guide to the future; appropriate, Gyle thought, as their plans were set to shape the world for years to come. Five others shared the meeting chamber deep within the Imperial Court in Pallas: the four men and one woman were all Rondian, and amongst the most powerful people in the known world.
It was only natural to look first at the emperor. He was a young man still. Though he ruled the greatest empire in history, the crown did not weigh easily upon his brow and he looked shrunken in his glittering robes. He was sour-faced, with flawless pale skin and wispy facial hair, and his nose twitched constantly as he looked about him, as if he imagined himself surrounded by enemies. As well he might: he had ascended after the premature death of his father and the incarceration of his elder sister. Intrigue festered in his court.
The emperor’s nervous eyes were drawn most often to the woman at his right hand: his mother. Mater-Imperia Lucia Fasterius-Sacrecour did not look frightening, but it was her machinations that had brought her favourite – and most pliable – child to the throne of Rondelmar. With a serene face and simple taste in clothing, she was outwardly the picture of a devout and matronly woman. Yesterday, in a vast ceremony before the massed populace of Pallas, she had been made a Living Saint, but no one then had seen any sign of her chilling and callous intellect. Gyle had witnessed enough evidence of her ruthlessness to know that her approval alone would see the second part of the plan accepted.
And we will need her favour even more urgently if anything goes wrong.
The man who had invested Lucia as a saint, Arch-Prelate Wurther, sat opposite Gyle, swirling his wine and looking about contentedly. He met Gyle’s eyes and smiled amiably. The prelate looked harmless enough, like a parish priest promoted past his capability, but he was a wily old hog. The Church of Kore was no place for fools.
Next to the prelate, the Imperial Treasurer Calan Dubrayle was leaning back in his chair, eyes unfocused; mentally counting money, perhaps. He was a slim, dapper man with careful eyes. He’d been appointed Treasurer following the ascension of the emperor; his analytical mind and head for the gold that flowed through the coffers of Urte’s mightiest state made him perfect for the job.
Gyle had no love for either of the two men talking in the corner. When his homeland had revolted against the empire eighteen years ago, he and Belonius Vult had been part of that rebellion. Kaltus Korion and Tomas Betillon had been the generals who’d eventually crushed the uprising – and now here they all were, part of a fresh conspiracy, the Noros Revolt forgotten. Except it wasn’t, not really. You didn’t forget things like that, no matter how many years had passed.
Kaltus Korion looked like a hero, and was, to the man on the street. His pale hair was swept back from a strong face, framing steely eyes and a jutting jaw. His combative manner only heightened the heroic illusion. The man with him – burly, uncouth Tomas Betillon – swilled wine as he tapped Korion on the c
hest, making some point.
Neither will like the next part of the plan, Gyle thought.
He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, invoked his gnosis and bled a little heat into his red wine to combat the chill in the room. All eyes went to him as he did it: everyone else was a pure-blood mage and highly sensitive to any use of the gnosis. He opened his hand palm-up, to indicate that what he’d done was no threat.
Mater-Imperia Lucia inclined her head to him gracefully, then called to the two military men, ‘Kaltus, Tomas … I believe Master Vult is ready. We await your attention.’
Korion and Betillon stalked back to their seats. Korion’s low grumbling quieted only when Lucia narrowed her eyes. The Living Saint glanced down at her papers, then around the table. ‘Gentlemen, in twelve months the Third Crusade begins, giving us the chance to achieve certain of our objectives. Among them, the destruction of the merchant–magi cabal; the death of Duke Echor of Argundy – the only real rival to my son; the destruction of the Ordo Costruo and Antonin Meiros; the plunder of northern Antiopia and subsequent enrichment of our treasury, and the recapture of Javon. Magister Vult and Magister Gyle have invested much time and thought and we’ve already covered the Javon problem.’ She turned to the two Noromen. ‘That aspect of your plans already has our approval.’ She looked at Vult. ‘So, with my son’s permission, Governor, please continue.’
The emperor inclined his head distractedly, not that anyone really noticed.
Belonius stood and thanked her and then began, his clear voice easily filling the room, ‘Your Majesties, gentlemen. According to our plans, Javon will be paralysed and unable to support the shihad by the time the Moontide arrives and the Leviathan Bridge rises from the sea, thus securing the northern flank – and our supply lines – for the armies of the Crusade. This leaves us free to turn our attention to other things, namely the destruction of the enemies of the empire. As Mater-Imperia Lucia has outlined, many of those are internal enemies. You’ve all seen the documents Gurvon provided before the meeting. They prove not only that Duke Echor Borodium, the emperor’s own uncle – and outwardly a strong supporter – has been in contact with the emperor’s disgraced sister Natia, but that he has made approaches to the governors and domestic rulers of all of the empire’s vassal-states on her behalf, canvassing their support. These are treasonous acts worthy of death. But the fact remains that Argundy is the second-largest kingdom in the empire. When Echor’s brother conspired with the emperor’s sister and was executed, Echor was not in a position then to prevent that, or take the field in her name, but his resentment remains strong, and now he is in control of Argundy—’
‘We should have killed him when we had the chance,’ the emperor grumbled, pulling a face. ‘When he was kneeling before me, kissing my signet and pleading for his brother’s life, I should have seized an axe: chop chop!’ He sniggered at the mental image.
Gyle saw Lucia’s eyes tighten just a little: impatience, tempered with a mother’s indulgence. ‘Darling, you remember that was impossible,’ she chided him gently. ‘Echor has married into the Argundian kings. Beheading him would have guaranteed revolt at an inopportune moment. Buying him off bought us time to deal with him. That time is now.’
Constant’s nostrils flared at her tone, but he ducked his head and fell silent.
Belonius breezed past the interruption. ‘To weaken Echor’s standing, we need to lure his vassal-state allies to destruction. We need them to join the Crusade. The Second Crusade yielded inadequate plunder and all but destroyed trade. The vassal-states claimed they had emptied their treasuries to fund it and got nothing back, and because of that, they would not support any more Crusades in the future.’
Betillon scowled contemptuously. ‘If they’d committed more troops, they might have—’
Unexpectedly, Calan Dubrayle broke in. ‘No, actually, Magister Vult is quite right: the Second Crusade was a waste of money. The Sultan of Kesh is not stupid. In the preceding years he and anyone with wealth shipped their gold and riches eastwards, far from our reach. They also poisoned waterholes and burned their own crops for hundreds of miles inland. We spent millions marching our armies all the way to Istabad and recovered – what, a third of our outlay? By the time I’d taken the emperor’s share and the Church’s, the vassal-states were left with nothing.’
You might have added another group, Treasurer: the noble magi who robbed their soldiers to enhance their own coffers. They took as much as the Imperial Treasury and more.
‘You say that as if it were a bad thing,’ Betillon chuckled. ‘Keeping the provinces weak is half the battle.’
‘Maybe,’ Dubrayle noted, ‘but it doesn’t leave much enthusiasm for more Crusades.’
Vult coughed to regain the floor, and went on, ‘Argundy, Bricia, Noros, Estellayne and Hollenia have all said they will not join this Crusade.’
‘Noros,’ Korion snarled, jabbing a finger at Vult. ‘If your people don’t join the Crusade in their thousands, I’ll give them another crackdown that will make Knebb look like a holiday.’
Betillon laughed harshly: he’d been the Rondian general to order the slaughter at Knebb during the Revolt. He was still known as ‘The Butcher of Knebb’.
Gyle still remembered entering the smoking ruins of the town and seeing the carnage for the first time. Something inside him had changed forever that day. For now, he worked hard to keep his expression carefully blank.
‘I will demand their participation,’ whined Emperor Constant. ‘They’re my subjects.’
‘Darling,’ Lucia chimed in, smiling sweetly, ‘even dogs have to be fed or they become unmanageable.’
‘Our Beloved Mater-Imperia is wisdom itself,’ Vult put in quickly. ‘The Crusade needs the manpower of the vassal-states. Every province of the empire must participate.’
‘Why?’ Korion demanded. ‘Rondelmar must control the action in Antiopia when the time comes, and that means dominating the military. We’re only one third of the empire’s population: if every state sends every eligible soldier, we will be outnumbered. If Echor were to unite them, we would be overwhelmed.’
‘But my lord,’ Vult countered, ‘during the Second Crusade, the armies of the vassal-states were in Kesh and therefore, they were not here. They were grubbing around for loot as desperately as we were. The circumstances have changed now: they don’t want to go. If they hold back and Rondelmar sends all its troops into Antiopia for two years, who will stand up to Echor?’
‘He wouldn’t dare,’ Constant said, outraged. ‘He bowed to me! He kissed my ring!’
Kissing your arse doesn’t mean he loves you, Gyle thought.
Silence greeted the emperor’s declaration, but Gyle saw Mater-Imperia Lucia’s eyes narrow again.
‘Magister Vult,’ said Arch-Prelate Wurther, ‘you say that getting the vassal-states to commit to the Crusade is vital, but if we do that, how will we control them? More importantly, how will we ensure that the plunder finds its way to the proper places? Your notes on this matter were frustratingly vague.’ The prelate wagged a finger admonishingly.
‘Their commitment is paramount,’ Vult replied. ‘If Echor and his allies are not in the vanguard of this Crusade, then a domestic coup while the Crusade is in progress is inevitable.’
‘Rondelmar has all the strongest magi,’ Korion countered. ‘A Pallas battle-legion is worth at least three from the provinces. They would not dare.’
‘Actually, that is not entirely true,’ Calan Dubrayle put in mildly, again taking Vult’s side, making Gyle wonder what was in it for Dubrayle. Maybe he just likes annoying Korion? ‘The most recent census revealed that more than half of all magi live outside of Rondelmar. Most of the strongest are here, it is true, but numbers matter. And the loyalty of those within is not to be taken for granted,’ he added.
Emperor Constant’s mouth fell open and his eyes went to his mother’s face as if for reassurance. ‘My people love me,’ he squeaked. ‘All of them.’
Yes, yes, t
hey kissed your rukking ring. But some love Echor and others love your poor, tragic, imprisoned elder sister and they all wonder whether your arse on the throne really does represent the will of Kore.
‘Carry on, Magister Vult,’ Lucia instructed, silencing her son with a warning look.
‘The Treasurer is correct: a ruler must always be vigilant. Our emperor is a paragon of all the virtues; lesser men have baser morals.’ Vult made a subservient gesture to Emperor Constant, then to Lucia. ‘I therefore propose that we make a public concession, one that will ensure that we get all of the zealous manpower we could want from the vassal-states and at the same time put the heads of our enemies firmly in the noose: we offer Echor command of the Crusade.’
‘What?’ Kaltus Korion leapt to his feet, exploding with fury. ‘That isn’t in your notes! Who the Hel do you think you are? It is my right to command the Crusade!’
‘General Korion!’ Lucia’s voice cracked like a whip. ‘Sit down!’
‘But—’ Korion looked set to shout at her, and then abruptly swallowed his words. ‘Your Majesty, I apologise,’ he said, trying to calm himself. ‘But I don’t understand; I am the Supreme General of the Rondian Empire, I must lead the Crusade.’ He struck his own chest, over the heart. ‘It is my due.’
Gyle watched Korion thoughtfully. Plunder the east, return with all the loot, with a massive adoring army at your beck and call … Perhaps you’re eyeing the Sacred Throne yourself, General?
‘You’re still standing in our presence,’ Lucia reminded the general in a voice that dripped acid. ‘Sit down, Kaltus, and let us debate this like adults.’
Korion stared at her for half a second and then sat, abashed.
Gyle looked at Vult. Interesting.
Emperor Constant looked puzzled. He obviously didn’t understand what was going on. Betillon looked as outraged as Korion. Dubrayle and Wurther were expressionless, which seemed exceedingly wise.
Mater-Imperia Lucia tilted her head to Vult. ‘Continue, Magister.’
Vult took a breath. ‘Thank you, Mater-Imperia,’ he said, emphasising her title as if that might deflect some of the fury that was radiating from Kaltus Korion. The two men had hated each other since the day Vult had betrayed the Noros Revolt by tending his surrender to Korion.
