by David Hair
Ah, so that’s what this is about.
‘Would that I could in good conscience, Holiness,’ he replied, feigning regret. ‘But the job is only half-done.’
Octa Dorobon’s florid face coloured, a puce colour that in most people would signify fury but in her meant only mild irritation. ‘My people can take this from here,’ she rumbled.
Gyle leant forward, splitting his words between Octa and the phantasm of Lucia. ‘Mater-Imperia, Milady Dorobon, with utmost respect, you have ten thousand men and twenty-five magi or thereabouts. The windship flotilla has already left for Hebusalim. This is a nation of at least six million souls, and that’s not counting the Harkun nomads. Only Hytel sympathises with your cause, and militarily they are broken.’
‘So are the Nesti,’ Francis Dorobon boasted. ‘And the Jhafi.’
‘That Nesti contingent was less than half their strength. Forensa is still fortified and on its own outnumbers you. As for the Jhafi, twenty thousand men slain or scattered is but a drop in the ocean. Without windships, your men will not have the freedom of the battlefield. You cannot expect another Fishil Wadi next time you fight.’
Francis listened, pouting a little, but he didn’t interrupt or contradict.
Perhaps he isn’t entirely stupid.
Lucia frowned. ‘I would have thought you eager to return home, Magister Gyle.’
And face your anger, with nothing to hold over you? I think not. ‘I never leave a job half-done, Holiness.’
‘I see no need for your services any longer,’ Octa belched.
He didn’t flinch as he met her gaze. ‘Then you have the logistical problems of how to bivouac your troops in Brochena managed, milady? You know where to deploy them, to deter reprisals, and whom to contact among the provincial nobility to secure truces while you settle in? You know the state of the finances and the familial ties that can be used to manipulate the noble families? You already have your agents deployed in the field, and are aware of the Harkun concentration below the Rift? And you have hostages secured to paralyse your chief rivals?’
Octa glowered at him while Francis blinked owlishly and his sister licked her lips in surprise. He saw the siblings exchange a look. Never seen Mummy spoken back to? Welcome to the new world.
Lucia’s voice cut across the silence. ‘Are you angling for more money, Gyle?’ she asked, the hint of whimsy in her voice making the enquiry a jest, which it most certainly wasn’t.
‘Not at all, Holiness. I merely wish to ensure that all that we have worked towards is not lost through a hasty transition.’ He faced her fully. ‘Though the delay will give you time to ship the agreed amounts to my bankers at Jusst and Holsen.’
Mater-Imperia tilted her head curiously, a half-smile brushing her lips. Once the bullion was with his bankers they would issue promissory notes redeemable by the Dorobon themselves and he would not need to return to Pallas at all. ‘You have no official status, Gyle. It will be up to Octa whether she listens to you or not.’
‘Actually your Holiness, it will be up to the king, technically,’ Gyle reminded the room. He watched Francis blink at this thought. Yes, boy: you’re going to be given higher rank than Mummy …
‘My son is not king yet,’ Octa bellowed. ‘You’ll do what I—’
‘You said I was,’ Francis interrupted her, his voice caught between indignation, fear and daring. ‘You said so last night. “My little king”, you called me. And I’m of age.’ His sister looked like she’d just wet herself with excitement.
‘It was a term of endearment, child,’ Octa replied. ‘And you are not king until crowned.’
‘Octa darling,’ Lucia put in smoothly, her expression thoughtful, ‘in the end, we all have to let go. It is painful, but eventually our sons become men.’
‘But he is still so young,’ Octa wobbled, her knuckles white on the arms of her throne, clinging on fixedly. ‘He is barely out of the Arcanum.’
‘Transitions are painful, my dear,’ Lucia told her, ‘but nothing lasts forever. We must emerge from periods of change still bound together in love.’
Gyle wondered why this conversation was happening in front of him. Lucia did nothing on a whim. Perhaps she’s disciplining Octa, reminding her that she might have a new kingdom to play in, but she remains her servant. Perhaps she already has her claws into Francis? Kore knows he’s more tractable than Octa.
Octa Dorobon bowed her head. ‘My son will be crowned as soon as it is practical.’
‘Excellent. And he must also be wed,’ Lucia told her.
‘I have several brides in mind amongst the young women of Pallas,’ Octa replied, fixing her eye on her son.
‘And do you have a favourite?’ Lucia asked, her image spinning to face Francis.
Francis ducked his head. His sister Olivia leant forward, her eyes bright. ‘Franny’s been meeting the locals,’ she chortled, then remembered herself. ‘Erm, your Holiness.’
The faint warmth on Lucia’s face drained a little. ‘Who?’ Her image floated towards Francis. ‘Who, boy?’
‘Portia Tolidi,’ Francis mumbled.
‘I see,’ Lucia said, musingly. Octa went to make an angry comment, but she cut her off. ‘Tell me of her, young Francis. Is she pretty?’
Francis glanced at Octa. ‘She is the most beautiful woman in the world,’ he replied earnestly.
‘How lovely. She is Rimoni, yes?’
‘Pure Rimoni, Ma’am,’ Francis replied eagerly, his face lit by young lust. ‘She is of old senatorial stock among the Rimoni, and so fair-skinned she is almost white. Her hair is red-brown, like a rippling waterfall of bronze, flecked by gold as it catches the light.’
Lucia laughed. ‘You are a poet, young Francis.’ Gyle could see the brittle anger behind her amiable façade. ‘Is she willing?’
Francis blinked, his eyes going to his mother’s face. Octa scowled, as if to say, This is your problem. ‘Your Holiness?’
‘I asked: is she willing? Does the degenerate slut spread herself for you willingly, or do you prefer rape?’
Francis went scarlet. ‘Uh … uh … I love her, your Holiness.’
Olivia dissolved into giggles. Octa all but spat.
‘Of what value is this Rimoni whore?’ Lucia asked coldly. ‘Her family are broken, and I am told she is the last survivor of one of Alfredo’s cousin’s lines, with little or no influence. And far from a virgin even before you began rutting with her, I’ve no doubt.’
Francis went the same puce as his mother. ‘She is a vision of loveliness.’
‘Of course she is,’ Lucia sneered. ‘We’ve all felt that way once, boy. But your mother knows what you need, and it isn’t some Rimoni quim latching on to you. You are a Dorobon, descended of the Blessed Three Hundred. Father bastards all you like, but you will marry pure.’
Francis hung his head resentfully.
‘I thought you versed in politics, Francis,’ Lucia scolded, while Octa glowed. ‘You think to be king, but to me you are behaving like any callow boy who’s just discovered what the tool between his legs is for.’
That’s pretty much the sum of it, Gyle thought. But it was time to rescue the young man, and win a friend. ‘With respect, Mater-Imperia, I believe that Francis has been playing his hand very well indeed.’
Lucia’s image turned to him, her face measuring. ‘How so, Magister?’
Gyle bowed to acknowledge that she had allowed him to voice a contrary opinion. ‘Holiness, Francis has known all his life that he is to rule Javon. He has studied the land from afar.’ His eyes strayed to Francis; he was listening intently, nodding to himself as if to say, ‘Yes, this is so’. ‘Francis knows that to win hearts, he must show manliness and mastery. What better way to do so than to take the most beautiful woman in Javon to his bed? In doing so, he shows that he is willing to be a part of this land, but also that he will rule it, as he rules her. And though the Gorgio are reduced, they will recover. They have mining wealth, and many new slaves. They will rise again, and they
will remember that Francis favours one of their own.’
Lucia regarded him steadily. ‘Go on.’
‘Francis knows that his love for the girl is transitory.’ He met the young man’s eyes, fixed them firmly. Yes, boy: all love passes. ‘But what better way to learn the arts of love than with as magnificent a creature as the Tolidi girl? He will take others to his bed also, to show mastery and favour. Great kings have many mistresses.’
‘My son will marry a Rondian mage,’ bellowed Octa.
He ignored her. ‘Francis has studied Javonesi law. He knows already that as King of Javon he may take as many wives as he likes.’ Well, he knows now.
Octa’s eyes bulged. So did Francis’, but in a different way. Olivia’s jaw flopped open.
‘It is true, Holiness,’ Gyle told Lucia. ‘This is a Rimoni and Jhafi land: under al-Shaar, the law of the Prophet, a man may take many wives. This is enshrined in the throne of Javon, as under their constitution the king is of both faiths. There are even Rimoni kings who have taken both a Rimoni and Jhafi wife.’
‘My son is here to overthrow the Javon kingship, not adopt it,’ Octa shouted, half-rising before the effort of supporting her own weight became too much and she sagged back into her throne.
‘My dear Octa is quite correct,’ Lucia said, her eyes glittering dangerously. ‘We are not going to perpetuate their pagan vices.’
‘Holiness, I would contend that were Francis to take wives from among the Javonesi as well as contenders of his mother’s choice, it would strengthen his hold on power.’
‘How so?’ Lucia asked, before the purple-faced Octa could vent her invective.
‘As I have already said, our forces here are badly outnumbered. Once the Crusade is over, Imperial ability to support this monarchy reduces even further. To establish the Dorobon here with any chance of longevity, some degree of assimilation is required. Hostages are needed to pacify the great families, and wives make excellent hostages. So do young sons as pages. Men whose heirs are hostages, but have hope of some title and influence when they are grown, are less inclined to rebel. Show a willingness to meet the ways of the people and you blunt their blades.’
He glanced sideways at Francis. He was gazing into space, his mind clearly taking in the thought of having as many wives as he wanted. Bait taken. He smiled inwardly.
‘To compromise is to show weakness,’ Octa snarled.
‘Not so. Compromise is a show of strength,’ Gyle countered. ‘The brittle blade breaks. Good steel bends and springs back.’
Lucia studied him, while her tongue slid about her lips. ‘You have the Nesti girl in your custody, do you not?’ she said, turning to Octa.
Octa scowled. ‘She will be executed publicly when we reach Brochena.’
‘I also hold her younger brother, the previous king-elect, Timori,’ Gyle put in.
‘And refuses to hand him over,’ Octa snarled.
Lucia released a small chuckle, showing her perfect teeth. ‘Regard this man, Octa dear. He is a snake, but a most useful one. Do you remember the old Sollan fable of Empress Delfa and her viper? The one who killed all her husband’s enemies, then turned on her when she would not give it her only child to eat? I sometimes wonder when I shall have to deal with him as Delfa dealt with her pet.’
Gyle went to one knee. ‘You know I am your servant, Holiness.’
‘Give the young king to Octa.’
‘I will surrender him,’ Gyle agreed. ‘When Francis is crowned … and has married Cera Nesti.’
‘Vermin,’ Octa snarled. ‘Lucia, allow me to have him beheaded.’
Gyle stayed on one knee, watching Lucia’s image.
The Emperor’s mother considered. ‘And no doubt have this Timori slip through our fingers and the kingdom also?’ Her face loomed larger and floated towards Gyle. ‘Magister, I do not appreciate your manipulations.’
‘Holiness, a viper has no legs. His belly is always to the ground. He can move only by coiling and twisting. It is his nature. But he has his uses.’ He met her eyes. ‘I assure you that unless Francis can bind the Javonesi to him, with hostages and marriages, this kingdom will rise against him en masse, and he will need ten legions, not two, if his head is not to end up on a spike.’
Lucia stared. She clearly wished to contact him directly, but this mode of communication restricted that option. She was compelled to speak aloud, before witnesses. He of course had the same restriction. But there were other ways to communicate.
He pulled out a gold coin, showed it to her, then pocketed it again.
Her eyes went round.
Message received: I have your precious, utterly embarrassing daughter.
‘Magister,’ Lucia said slowly. ‘You may have a point.’
Octa looked as if she’d just been forced to drink urine. ‘Lucia, I …’ Her voice trailed away as the image of the Living Saint turned to her, her very serenity of visage a threat. ‘We are always happy to receive Magister Gyle’s advice. We shall consider it.’
‘Do,’ Lucia told her. ‘He is usually worth listening to.’ She glanced sideways at him. ‘And watching.’
Gyle became aware that Olivia and Francis were staring at him with something like hero-worship in their eyes. But their mother’s eyes could have immolated him. He pressed home his advantage. ‘Holiness, it is normal in any allied kingdom to appoint an Imperial Envoy until more formal arrangements are in place. Though I am not of the Imperial bureaucracy, I have experience of local conditions. I believe that I would make an excellent Imperial Envoy until Francis is crowned.’
Octa swallowed and her cheeks went scarlet, but when Lucia nodded shortly, she was forced to swallow her rage. She swept up her goblet and drained it furiously, then crushed it and dropped it to the floor.
‘Magister, there is none better placed, at present,’ Lucia said slowly. ‘And I will consider the marriage question further. There may be something in what you say.’
Francis and Olivia’s mouth flopped open. Gyle could scarcely contain his own amusement at their expressions. Yes, I won. Take note, children. ‘I hear and understand, Holiness.’
‘Do you? Listen to me, Gurvon Gyle. I will appoint you as Imperial Envoy until Francis is crowned. I will then allow him to give you whatever title he sees fit. And I will send you the gold you crave.’ Her face flashed malevolently. ‘You will send me two persons, one who was yours, and one who was mine. Meet my expectations, and all will be well between us. Fail to deliver, and frankly, I will tear down Hel to find you.’
He bowed his head. Elena and Coin. So be it.
The meeting ended without formalities. Lucia snapped ‘Octa,’ at the Dorobon matriarch and vanished. The silence she left was a living, palpable thing. Francis and his sister were staring back and forth between Octa, the tyrant who ruled their existence, and him.
Yes, I just faced down the most powerful person on Urte. No one is as almighty as they like you to think.
He bowed to Octa, to Francis. ‘My lady Dorobon, my lord: I bid you good night.’
Brochena, Javon, Antiopia
(Rami) Septinon 928
3rd month of the Moontide
Something had changed on the journey south. At first Cera had been treated as a prisoner, but a few days north of Brochena, her status changed and she suddenly became something more like a guest. She could not go anywhere, but she and Tarita were given a better pavilion, and improved food and wine.
Entering the city was an awful experience. The populace were cowed by the Rondian legions led by magi on horned construct-steeds or hovering above in skiffs. The Nesti Councillors had already fled to Forensa, together with their remaining allies and troops, but the common people were tied to their homes and work-places. They came out onto the streets to watch the hated Dorobon enter. The womenfolk who’d lost men in the slaughter of the Jhafi at Fishil Wadi wailed and tore at their hair, wrenching out whole tresses in their grief. Public mourning was a tradition here, a collective madness that could easily get
out of hand. Tarita told Cera about mourning women setting themselves alight with lamp-oil, or publicly slashing their own wrists. Cera dreaded what they might do if they stormed her carriage, so she kept her windows closed as they wound through the sullen, disbelieving crowds, peering through the cracks in the shutters.
To her further surprise, she was given rooms in the palace, the lesser quarters she’d occupied as a child. Francis Dorobon now had the royal suite, of course, and his mother and sister the one next door. Her nearest neighbour in the palace was Portia Tolidi. They let her keep Tarita, through Gyle’s intervention. Gyle had evidently been rewarded: everyone was calling him ‘Imperial Envoy’ now, and he was ordering the stiff-backed Dorobon nobles around with sardonic condescension. New battle-lines were being drawn in an elaborate game she couldn’t grasp.
The defeat at Fishil Wadi was now a month ago, and she feared that she’d sold her soul for nothing. The days passed and only Gyle had any time for her. They made her eat at the high table, but no one spoke to her. She clung to small hopes: Gyle had intimated that he held Timori, not the Dorobon. He still spoke of her becoming Francis Dorobon’s bride to stave off any thought of a mass uprising, but it felt increasingly unlikely. She could not go out, and Gyle had used his gnosis to seal the secret passages shut. Meanwhile Francis bedded Portia, and boasted of it at table.
That night was yet another feast. Tarita had put her into a pleasing enough dress, and now she sat alone, watching the room. It was a celebration: Francis Dorobon had received the pledges of the leading citizens of Brochena: mostly merchants, and of course the bureaucracy led by Don Francesco Perdonello. The aristocratic face of the chief civil servant showed no emotion as he renounced fealty to the Nesti and swore to the Dorobon. He’d not looked at her. She knew he was doing what anyone would do, just trying to survive, but right then, she hated him.
Now all was laughter and gorging on good food and wine. She toyed with her meal, sickened beyond eating.
‘Princessa, may I join you?’ asked a cool voice in Rimoni.
