by David Hair
Alaron felt his cheeks go red. He glanced at Anise again, telling himself it was to distract him from this story, which was clearly going to become distinctly risqué, but it didn’t work. In fact, the way she was swaying across the grass with the other girls made it worse.
‘The house belonged to a Rondian woman named Alyssa Dulayne, a pure-blood mage, very beautiful, with hair like clear honey and skin like milk. She greeted us in a dress of blue gauze, almost completely see-through. I was three-legged, my friends – we both were. Simos was all eyes, and she didn’t care.’ He took a sip of wine to moisten his tongue. ‘I should tell you that magnificent specimen though I am, Simos was an Adonis. He couldn’t dance for shit, but he had curling hair and puppy eyes, and a horn the size of a horse. The girls all went for Simos first and I got the leftovers, but they were no less pretty. It is no bad thing to have a handsome best friend!’
The musicians struck up a slow rhythmic strumming on their jitars, and the girls began to move about them, hands together, gracefully reaching skywards, their chests curving outwards tantalisingly. Alaron hastily looked away and took another sip himself.
‘Well, this Alyssa clearly was going to eat Simos alive – but she did have a friend. If Alyssa was the golden Sol, this woman was the moon: her hair was like the curtain of night, glittering with stars, her face as white as snow, with blood-red lips and dark eyes. We were not told her name, but I named her Moonchild in my mind. Unlike Alyssa, she was not dressed as a wanton, but in a demure velvet dress that concealed her body entirely, yet hinted at the curves beneath. But she was little interested in the pleasures Alyssa planned. She was sucking on a hookah and her eyes were glazed. I began to think that maybe only Simos would be fortunate that night.’
Anise was looking at him over her shoulder, Alaron realised, her eyes flashing. I’m dancing for you, her look said, and he couldn’t look away, even as he became aware that the Rimoni boys were beginning to notice. They were all wearing knives. Something in the wine or the music or something else entirely made him feel bold. I’m a mage, he reminded myself. Think you scare me? Then he frowned. The thought tasted ugly, like something Malevorn Andevarion or Francis Dorobon might think.
He looked away from the girls and concentrated on the story.
‘To cut to the chase, Simos played and I danced, and because I knew Alyssa wanted Simos, I danced as if the other woman, my Moonchild, were the only one in the room. I leapt, I strutted and pirouetted like one possessed, all for her. We played our whole repertoire, and then suddenly the jitar stopped, mid-song, and when I looked back I found that Alyssa had pulled it from Simos’ hands and placed herself in his lap. I looked away, at a loss what to do, but when I turned back my Moonchild was standing right before me. I almost jumped from my skin, she moved so swiftly and silently. Right at that moment, she frightened me. Her pupils were so large I could see no whites in her eyes. Her mouth was slightly open and her teeth were as vividly white as her lips were red. I remembered legends from Sydia of blood-drinking corpses. Then the dress slipped from her body and she stepped into my arms and kissed me.’
Mercellus stopped speaking, and stared at his hands. ‘I need tell you little more. She kept me with her for one night only. She was not a virgin, but she was nervous and awkward. I never found out her name until much later. Simos and I travelled on to Javon and stayed there together for a year, then he met a local girl and married her. He lives there still, if he lives at all. I returned, not liking the place – there was too much hostility between Rimoni and Jhafi – but no sooner had I arrived back in Hebusalim than that same servant sought me out, for quite a different errand.’
‘A child?’ Alaron blurted.
‘You are a bad audience, boy,’ Mercellus chided him wryly. ‘Yes, a bambina. I had got Justina Meiros with child and in the year I was away, she had given birth. But she was an indifferent mother; she did not want the little bambina, so when she was told I had returned to Hebusalim, I was summoned and given the child. She had not even named her.’ He shook his head. ‘Justina was utterly indifferent to me throughout the interview. I was told I was the only man she’d lain with before conception so there was no doubt whose child she carried. I would have taken the girl for nothing, to get her away from her cold-hearted mother, but in fact they paid me generously.’ He blinked slowly, as if to banish the memories back to the back of his mind. ‘And so that is my tale, and now I have a daughter like no other.’
Alaron swallowed. ‘I was in love with her,’ he blurted out before his brain could intervene.
‘Clearly,’ Mercellus said, his voice both fondly amused and warning.
‘She doesn’t love me though,’ Alaron added quickly. ‘We are just friends.’
‘I know. I cannot control my daughter, but I know her.’
These past weeks Alaron had been carefully taking all the feelings he’d had for Cym and packing them away. He could feel them, rattling in the trunk, demanding release, but quite deliberately, he ignored the temptation. Instead, he turned to watch the dancers again.
At a small gesture from Mercellus, the rhythm changed. While he had been talking, the middle of the circle had been gradually cleared of tables and more and more of the women, the older ones who had been cooking, now entered the space. They brought a different feel to the dance: wider hips, bigger bosoms and knowing faces. Wives made eye-contact with husbands as the men formed a loose cordon about the dancers, clapping and swaying in time to the music. There were no nervous looks or giggles from the married women, just hot looks at the circling men. One of the matrons of the clan made a loud whooping cry and spun towards a man who wore a sash of the same material as her skirt; she planted her feet and jiggled her breasts while fluttering her hands provocatively. Her husband ululated wildly and began to dance around her, thrusting with his hips.
Alaron gaped, and nearly dropped his wine cup.
Muhren clapped him on the shoulders. ‘Go on lad, join them.’
‘No way!’ Alaron spluttered.
Mercellus laughed. ‘This boy is eighteen?’ he asked Muhren, as if Muhren was Alaron’s father.
‘Nearly nineteen,’ Alaron growled. His birthday was in Noveleve.
‘And he is not already married?’ Mercellus raised his eyebrows.
‘No takers,’ Muhren said dryly. ‘He’s an argumentative little cuss. But he’s mellowing a little.’
Alaron glowered at him.
‘But a mage, si?’
‘Quarter-blood.’
Alaron took in the calculating look on the gypsy chief’s face and his face burned hotter than he had thought possible. A sixteenth-blood mage could not breed more magi with a human, but a quarter-blood could, with better odds of conception than a purer-blooded mage. He began to feel like a horse being assessed for stud. ‘Ah, look, I’m quite tired. It’s probably time I found my bedroll and—’
Muhren stood up and gripped his shoulder. ‘Boy, it’s time you learned how to dance.’
*
Rimoni dancing was like fencing, Alaron decided sometime after his fourth glass of wine. There were set movements that flowed into each other, leading from the shoulder or the hip: thrust and give ground, let the other person counter as you spin away. It was sparring, with eyes for blades. The melody was a trick, a feint to deceive, but if you followed the beat tapped out on the wooden box of the jitar, you stayed in step.
One thing ten years of waving a practice-sword around had taught him was how to move, balanced, precise and poised. He’d seen the way the gypsy men were looking at him, prepared to jeer, but he managed to keep them quiet, for all their dismissive gestures and smirking. He struck another pose, akin to a bow, and moved on to the next girl.
Anise.
She was definitely following him, positioning herself in the same eight as him each time, and whenever their eyes met, she smiled. The other girls remained aloof and retreated to their mothers after one song. But it didn’t look like Anise’s mother was present. Whenever the danc
es paused, she would retreat to sit with a younger boy with the same big eyes. This time, though, she backed away from Alaron, her look both bold and coy. He felt like everyone here was watching them, but he couldn’t help staring back. It was as if his brains had floated south as he danced.
‘Who is she?’ he asked Muhren when the watch captain appeared at his side.
‘Anise? She’s an orphan. She and her brother were raised by their grandparents, but they both died a few years ago.’ He poked Alaron in the shoulder. ‘Rimoni girls who are not virgins when they wed lose their dowry,’ he said pointedly. ‘So do those who wed outside the clans.’
Alaron’s cheeks burned. ‘We’re only dancing.’
‘I know. I’m just making conversation. Furthering your education.’
Alaron glared at him. ‘She keeps chasing me.’
‘To her, you’re a rich Rondian mage. She may think you’re worth losing a dowry over.’
His eyes strayed back to her, trying to work out if her flirting was based on money or attraction. All this talk of virgins and dowry was doing nothing for his composure. ‘Ah, I should probably go and get some rest,’ he muttered.
Muhren nodded sympathetically. ‘That’s probably wise.’ He glanced at Mercellus, who was laying down the law over something with one of his men. ‘Our packs and bedrolls were supposed to be put in the lee of one of the caravans. We’ll set up beside the stream. I’ll join you after I’ve had a chat with Mercellus.’
*
Alaron fumbled his way through the twilight to get his and Muhren’s packs and bedrolls into place. An older Rimoni man with a grey ponytail had helped him find them, and though neither spoke each other’s tongue, after much gesturing and smiling he’d been shown a good camping spot, set amidst a stand of willow beside the small stream. The old man shuffled off, and Alaron lit a small gnosis-light and erected the two small tents. He’d become practised at the task over the past weeks and now he did it without having to concentrate. Then he extinguished the gnosis-light and sat on the banks, bathing his feet in the cool water, listening to the gentle rippling of the stream. Overhead, the giant half-moon told him that the month of Julsep was racing towards its end. He pictured Cym in the skiff, high in the skies.
We made that skiff together, he reminded himself, smiling at the memory.
Music still flowed from the Rimoni camp, less frenetic now, the melody more intricate. There was singing, men on the verses and women on the choruses, and it sounded sad and lovely, reminding him of the ruined villas they’d passed over the past few days: the bleached bones of Empire.
He let his mind drift through a pleasant ‘what-if?’ fantasy of staying here, where no one knew he was a failed mage, with the Scytale safely in the hands of someone who’d know just what to do with it, someone like Antonin Meiros. He could stay here and maybe rescue sweetly alluring Anise from being an unwed orphan girl. They could dance under the moonlight every night, far from blood and war.
It’s not what I used to dream, but those dreams will never work out now …
‘Alron di Meersa?’ a girl’s voice called from beside his tent. He was momentarily startled, and his heart jumped a little. It’s her. He turned as Anise swayed between the willow fronds and then tiptoed to where he sat. Before he could rise, she’d swept her skirts beneath her and sat down. She put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Alron, si?’
‘Al-a-ron,’ he said, his heart thudding. He was glad it was dark so she couldn’t see him blushing.
She repeated his name in a sing-song voice that made little bubbles dance inside him, then tapped her own chest. ‘Ah-neesa.’
‘Anise,’ he repeated, making her beam with pleasure. She moved away from him, leaning back on her right arm, looking at him first with her left eye, then her right, and giggling as she did. She had a wide mouth and full lips, dark skin and a tangled profusion of black hair, not a beauty but pretty, and totally unlike Cym. Alaron couldn’t help smiling – and trembling, to be so close. ‘Uh, do you speak Rondian?’
She giggled, understanding enough to shake her head. ‘Rimoni,’ she tinkled, then cocked her head, her eyes catching the moonlight. ‘Magi?’ she asked him.
He nodded tensely. These people were slaughtered by magi five hundred years ago—
But she didn’t seem to care. She said something like, ‘Ora mi mostra!’ He liked her voice.
‘You want to see?’ he guessed. He summoned the gnosis, just a tiny blue flame, and made it dance on his fingertips. She gasped, then giggled as he made it vanish, then reappear. She tried to cup it, then pulled away at the heat of it. Her laugh made his head feel like it might detach from his neck and float away.
‘È bello!’ she laughed, then she seized his hand and closed it on the flame, looked up into his eyes, waiting.
I’m going to get a knife in the back for this …
He kissed her. Seductively warm, moist lips covered his and pulled him in as her arms wrapped about him, sliding over the fabric on his shoulders and back. He seemed to fall into her, onto her, as she laughed throatily. It felt like a dream, like something that really ought to be happening to someone else. Where’s this going? he thought with both fear and exhilaration. It was very odd: he’d only just met her, couldn’t even hold a conversation with her, but he knew that he liked her – more than liked her. Isn’t that strange? He could imagine the teasing Ramon would give him for this, but that made him kiss her harder. That Muhren might appear at any moment apparently made it all the more imperative that he not stop.
Above them the moon limned the water with mercury and the stream gurgled with pleasure. He stroked her shoulders, as that seemed a safe place to touch her, only to find the dress falling away, leaving her warm, bare skin, soft and smooth and more wonderful than the richest fabric. She sighed softly into his mouth, pulling him onto her.
‘Anise!’ a young male voice called from somewhere amidst the trees. He broke off from kissing her as she hissed vexedly. She pressed a finger against his lips, shook her head.
‘Anise!’ The boy’s voice came from around the tents now. ‘Anise!’
She giggled in Alaron’s ear, making his skin tingle all over. ‘Ferdi,’ she whispered. ‘Mio fratello.’ My brother, Alaron surmised. She wrapped her arms about him, held him to her. ‘Shhh.’ The boy moved about noisily, disturbing the horses a little, without coming near them.
After a minute or so, Ferdi stomped away, back towards the wagons. Alaron decided that Muhren must have stayed for another drink with Mercellus di Regia, and as Anise pulled his face back to hers, he found himself hoping he’d take his time.
Then she stiffened beneath him and her breath caught in her throat. He looked at her eyes, saw them widening at something above him and he went rigid, then looked up slowly, half-expecting to see someone standing over them, one of the quick-bladed Rimoni boys come to protect her honour.
It wasn’t a boy.
A cloud of massive shapes like giant bats was gliding across Luna’s face in a spiral formation, and it was bearing down towards the Rimoni camp. Even at this distance he could see they were giant, impossible creatures – constructs. And that meant Pallas, for only the Pallas animagi could breed such creatures in any number. And Pallas meant Inquisitors.
They’ve found us!
Anise pushed him away, a look of fear on her face, and Alaron was no less afraid. His heart was pounding as the beasts glided right over them.
There was no challenge, no threats, no warning; there was only lightning, blazing from above into the circle of wagons.
6
Legion Service
The Wandering Star
For centuries we have known of the heavenly body the Hebb call ‘Simutu’, the so-called Wandering Star. We now believe it to be a lesser moon, one with a highly elliptical orbit. That it draws most closely to Urte every twelve years, during the Moontide, is of course no coincidence. Simutu’s name is drawn from the Hebb word for copper, due to the moon’s colouration. The Hebb say t
hat those born beneath Simutu are prone to madness and capable of prophecy.
ORDO COSTRUO COLLEGIATE
Northpoint, Pontic Peninsula, Yuros
Julsep 928
1st month of the Moontide
As the windship swung low over the mass of humanity clustered on the edge of the continent, Ramon Sensini felt his excitement rise. Two weeks of constant motion were coming to an end. That day they had broken through clouds about the Pontic Hills, where the ground fell away in a long sweeping slope towards the east and the glittering ocean and the clouds boiling on the horizon. All the travelling magi had gathered in the bow, pushing Ramon aside, and started cheering and pointing. The panorama was spectacular. The land ran towards a great rim where huge cliffs towered over the rushing waters hundreds of feet below. Even at this distance they could hear the roar of the waves pounding upon the cliffs. White clouds of sea-spray shrouded the coast, and the tang of saltwater hung in the air.
One of the travellers pointed southwest, where a dirty stain spread over the green swathe. In the middle of it rose a huge spear of white, topped by a brilliant light. ‘The Tower!’ he shouted, and others took up the call.
Ramon squinted until he could make out a pale needle with a glowing blue light at its zenith. He felt his own sense of wonder stir. This was the legendary Northpoint, the prosaically named northernmost anchor of the Leviathan Bridge – Antonin Meiros’ continent-joining, epoch-changing Bridge. He tried to see further, but the distance defeated him. Even now, though, men were crossing to the eastern continent, bringing war and death, and soon he would join them.
Their windship landed west of the camp, amidst a forest of masts and spars looking like the aftermath of a forest storm. There were at least four dozen windcraft here, ranging from tiny skiffs to massive warbirds, more than he’d ever seen in one place, and it was only one of several landing fields he’d glimpsed from above. The stench of the camp rose to greet them as they touched down.
