by David Hair
Sir Terus stepped in front of him. ‘You will give milady her due reverence,’ he ordered.
‘I give what reverence is owed,’ Gyle replied coolly. ‘Excuse me,’ he added, stepping around Sir Terus.
Sir Terus gripped his shoulder and pulled him to a halt. ‘You are not excused.’ He pulled a glove from his pocket and slapped it across Gyle’s cheek. ‘I challenge you to a duel, Gurvon Gyle, for your disrespect towards the matriarch of House Dorobon.’
The room fell silent.
Oh, for Kore’s sake. Gyle shook off the knight’s hand off. Sir Terus Grandienne was a pure-blood, one of those who’d survived the Nesti poisons in 921, and he was a renowned fighter. To accept the challenge would be suicidal. Thankfully, duelling had long been identified as the leading killer of magi in Yuros, and with the need for gnosis-blood always rising, it had been forbidden. It still went on, though, for it was considered manly. ‘I think not, Sir Terus – although I shall be sure to mention the offer in my next report to Pallas.’
‘Coward.’
The room hissed with the suppressed thrill of anticipated violence.
‘A realist, Sir Terus. What was the last dictat issued by Emperor Constant about duelling between magi? I believe he called it an act of treachery and dishonour?’
‘You can hide behind parchment if you like, Gyle. It won’t protect you in the end.’
‘I’m not hiding, Terus.’
‘I believe you are a craven backstabber, Gyle.’
Gyle glanced at Octa. There was nothing but amusement in her eyes. He turned back to Terus. ‘Well, Terus.’ He grinned suddenly and slapped the man’s shoulder as if he were a friend. ‘Best you don’t turn your back, then.’
Terus’ face drained of colour. Duelling was one thing, but Gyle’s reputation was deadly. Everyone here knew full well he would and could kill a man in his sleep if he wished to.
He turned and left before someone else got it into their head to make a name for themselves, but he couldn’t quite suppress a smile. Good luck sleeping now, Sir Terus.
*
Cera folded the piece of paper and left it in the middle of her bed, then, her heart speeding, studied herself in the mirror. She hurriedly retied her ponytail and straightened her circlet, then left the room, ignoring the urge to glance back, and waited in the small antechamber. The adjoining room had been Timori’s when they were younger – this had been the nursery suite, when she’d shared her room with Solinde – but she had no idea where he was being held. Portia Tolidi used it now, when she wasn’t in Francis Dorobon’s bed.
She would hear anyone coming up the hall, she decided, so she dropped to her knees and peered through the keyhole back into her own room. Her heart quickened as she saw the secret panel in the wall slide open.
She didn’t know the heavily cloaked woman who entered the room, but she studied her carefully as she went to the unmade bed and picked up the folded piece of paper she’d left. She was middle-aged, and thin to the point of being gaunt, except for a pot belly. She had a huge nose, like the prow of a windship. Her colouring and the gold-looped nose-ring suggested that she was from Lantris. She read the brief note Cera had written, I need to see Magister Gyle. Important – and tucked it into her bodice. Cera prayed the Lantric woman would pass it on, though the intruder didn’t leave immediately; instead, she bent over the sheets and started sniffing them.
Ugh! She’s like a dog!
A door swung open behind her and she spun guiltily, too slow to conceal what she was doing. She looked up at Portia Tolidi, clad only in a robe, staring down at her. The Gorgio woman’s mouth fell open and Cera put a finger to her lips, her face pleading.
The look on Portia’s face turned to curiosity and she stepped forward silently, bent and nudged Cera aside. She smelled of sex and stale sweat, and her hair was tangled. These little flaws in her porcelain perfection somehow made her more human. She put her eye to the keyhole herself, then whispered, ‘Who is she? What’s she doing?’
Cera shook her head, fingers to her lips, thinking, Maybe we’re going to have to be friends after all. She leaned in and breathed in Portia’s ear, ‘Come away. We can’t talk here. Come to the baths.’
Portia nodded wordlessly, and they hurried away, not looking at each other. The stairwell led down five flights in a tight spiral and finished in an old Jhafi bowri that the royal family had used as their bath. No one else was there this early in the morning. Cera locked the heavy door behind them and joined Portia at the edge of the water as she was pulling off her gown, revealing her pale body. She descended the steps, her hips swaying gracefully.
It was hard to suppress her envy. Portia truly was perfect. Cera found herself staring at the narrow, flat waist and thatch of russet pubic hair, the narrow hips and long legs. The woman was even more beautiful than Solinde had been, and she’d always thought Solinde utterly lovely. She was horribly self-conscious of the podginess of her own belly, not plump, but halfway there, and her unremarkable breasts, her unfashionably dark colouring. She half-turned to hide her face, and began talking to cover her sudden confusion. ‘I was going to bathe before dinner, but I wasn’t sure what the day would bring and—’
‘He bites me,’ Portia growled softly. ‘When he comes, he likes to bite my shoulder. Sometimes he draws blood. Look.’ She showed her shoulder, a mess of purple and yellow bruises and red scabbed welts.
The rest of Cera’s meaningless babble died in her throat. ‘I’m sorry—’
‘For what? Not stealing him from me? Just be thankful he only wants me.’
Cera reached out, touched the other woman’s upper arm, and then walked past her into the water. ‘We must get fully in.’ She pushed off into the dark waters. It was the lighting and the copper-coloured tiles that made the water appear black, for in fact it was clear, fresh water from rain-tanks. She dived under the surface and swam to the far side, where there was a ledge to sit on.
She glanced back and saw Portia was still sitting on the steps. She had soap, and was furiously rubbing between her legs, grunting with disgust. Bubbles rose about her as she scoured herself, then washed her belly and breasts, and then did it all over again. When at last she was done, she glared about her, her teeth bared. She dived under the surface, then emerged halfway across the pool, her ringlets fanning out behind her long and straight, her body white beneath the surface. She went under again, then rose like a river fish and joined Cera on the ledge, carefully out of reach. Her hair hung straight, water streaming from the sleekly shining tresses.
The water had been warmed by the sun-baked earth before being piped into the bowri. It was gloriously tepid and all-enveloping. Cera felt her tension ease a little. She met Portia’s bruised eyes. ‘Elena told me that water and earth can hide us from scrying.’
Portia looked perplexed. ‘What is scrying?’
‘It is a magic thing: some magi can see things that are far away, but they can be foiled by hiding in water or earth. This place is perfect for secret conversations; Elena told me so.’
Portia’s face took on an expression that Cera was startled to recognise as respect. ‘You know so much.’ She cocked her head, staring openly. ‘When I heard that you were ruling Brochena like a king, I was filled with admiration. That a woman could do so much – it made me proud.’
Really? Cera felt herself colouring. ‘But in Hytel, people must have hated us.’
Portia tittered softly. ‘Oh yes, Uncle Alfredo was in a fury. He cursed you, and utterly screamed blue murder about Elena Anborn.’ Her eyes flitted about. ‘Where is she? Is she hiding, waiting to rescue you?’
Cera shook her head, frightened to tell the truth, that she’d betrayed Elena and her own people. It was to preserve them, I swear. ‘Elena has vanished.’ She’s out there somewhere, and she must hate me so much …
‘Who was that woman in your room?’ Portia whispered, leaning closer. Her breath smelled of cloves, sharp, but not unpleasant.
‘I think she must be one of
Gyle’s magi. She had a nose-ring: that probably means she’s from Lantris. Married women wear them there.’
Portia wrinkled her nose. ‘That’s demeaning.’ She flinched. ‘Like I can talk.’
Portia was easy to read, or at least she seemed so to Cera. In public she had always exuded a kind of cultured sophistication, but here her mask was lifted and her emotions clear. Portia isn’t whoring herself – she’s being pimped by her family, Cera realised at last. And she helped Tarita.
She timidly reached out and seized Portia’s hand. ‘I think maybe we can be friends,’ she whispered. She stared at Portia’s shoulders, at the skin where Francis bit her. ‘Won’t he even heal you afterwards?’
Portia covered the marred skin with her hand. ‘He says he is branding me, to show that I am his.’ She lifted her chin angrily. ‘Every night is the same. I must undress, and then pleasure him with my mouth, to ready him. Then he takes me, always on top, for what feels like hours. And when he comes …’ She bared her teeth and gnashed them ferociously. ‘He thinks I like it.’ She glared at Cera. ‘One day I will kill him.’
Cera looked away, her mind working feverishly. Is this real, or is it a trap? Is this something Gyle has devised to fool me, to make me betray myself? Or is this a real ally? She wished longingly that she were a mage and could read the other woman’s mind, and found herself missing Elena again. ‘When he sleeps …’
Portia scowled bitterly. ‘He does not sleep in my presence. And I can take nothing into his room, not even my clothes.’ She clenched her teeth again. ‘His mother strips me and then searches me outside his room. He sends me out before sleeping. They trust no one.’
Cera closed her eyes bleakly. Everything seemed so hopeless. But perhaps I really do have an ally. She squeezed Portia’s hand. ‘We will find a way. We still have our brains and our free will.’
Portia squeezed back. ‘I meant what I said, you know. I do admire you. You have such dignity and courage.’
‘I’m just lucky I’m too ugly for Dorobon to want me.’
Portia shook her head. ‘You are not ugly, amica. Not at all.’
Oh, but I feel ugly, especially here beside you: flabby and shapeless and middle-aged before my time.
Portia put an arm around her shoulder, pulled Cera’s hair back behind her ear and whispered, ‘You are a strong woman, Cera Nesti. You were a true queen, and one day you will be again.’ The feel of Portia’s skin on hers made Cera squirm. She’d never been a hugging child. But this felt nice.
‘But I don’t know what to do. They’re magi – we have no one to help us.’
Portia shook her head. ‘We have friends, amica. Tarita knows people in the city, and word gets in and out, she told me. There are people on the outside who wish to aid us. Remember how your father defeated the Dorobon all those years ago? Like father, like daughter, amica!’
Cera swallowed. Yes, there are people who might help … But we need access to the passageways again … we need to get the eyes off us. And we need time, to plan things … She looked at Portia. ‘Have you ever been told how to shield your thoughts from the magi?’
Portia shook her head.
Cera smiled. ‘It’s not hard. I can show you how.’
‘You would do this for me?’ Portia’s smile lit up her face. ‘In return, I can teach you also.’
‘What?’
‘How to fascinate a man.’
Cera snorted. ‘Me?’
Portia touched her lips with a finger. ‘Yes, you. Any woman can be fascinating if she wished to be. It’s all in the way you carry yourself.’
‘But there is no man I wish to fascinate.’
Portia snickered. ‘There is a whole court of men for you to twist about your fingers.’
‘But I’m ugly—’
‘No! No, no, no – you are beautiful, as all women are. Beauty is more than looks, amica. Much more. You could entrance them all, if you wish to. It’s all about self-confidence.’
Cera’s heart thumped. Suddenly the world seemed filled with possibilities again. Reluctantly she removed Portia’s arm from her shoulders – it had been comforting – so she could face her. She’s what, twenty-three? Almost five years my senior … She inhaled, let the responsibility settle on her shoulders. ‘I suppose … We can try it, but first you have to learn how to protect your mind …’
As she passed on what Elena had taught about concealing her thoughts, part of her mind raced on. I need some kind of leverage over Gyle … She smiled, remembering why she’d left that note in her room to be found in the first place.
Perhaps there is hope …
*
Gurvon Gyle waited in Cera’s parlour, standing when he heard the door unlock. Hesta had found the note the day before, but he’d been tied up trying to confirm the coronation arrangements, an endless exercise in wrangling and nitpicking that was driving him crazy. If this was ruling, Francis truly deserved it.
The door swung open and Cera Nesti entered. Her Rimoni dress was damp in patches and her long black hair was hanging wet about her shoulders. It made her look oddly vulnerable, as if other things about her might also unravel. But her manner was focused, as if she was finally throwing off her despair. That gave him pause; she was suddenly interesting again.
‘Cera,’ he greeted her, ‘you wished to see me?’
Cera started, then lifted her chin. ‘You may enter,’ she said ironically, in that way she had of acting way beyond her years. It reminded him of Elena, in a good way.
‘Happy birthday, Princessa. You are nineteen today, yes? You should celebrate.’
‘There is nothing to celebrate,’ Cera replied, affecting carelessness.
He gave her a disarming smile. He liked her ongoing defiance, despite her helplessness. She was enduring, despite not having seen her little brother, despite having lost her people. But there was something about her today, something more confident. He wondered what it was.
‘You left a note?’ He sent tendrils of gnosis into her mind to try and discern her intent, but she barred them easily. Of course he could break into her mind, though not without causing damage. It annoyed him a little, but also intrigued him; it reminded him that she had been Elena’s protégé.
And I turned her against you, Ella, he thought, so mine the victory.
‘Magister Gyle, I heard something of interest two nights ago.’ At his raised eyebrows, she continued, ‘I was on my balcony, which is diagonally below Octa Dorobon’s.’
Interested despite himself, he looked toward the spy-hole with his gnostic sight to ensure Hesta wasn’t there, then asked, ‘What did you see?’
Cera smiled unconsciously. ‘Octa was alone, waiting. She didn’t notice me at all.’ She still takes pleasure in stealth, Gyle noted approvingly. ‘Then a glowing sphere appeared, about three feet in front of her. She was expecting it, I think.’
Gyle leant forward, itching inwardly. ‘Who was it?’
Cera smiled sweetly at him. ‘What do I get in return?’
‘I do not take well to being toyed with, Cera,’ he warned, lifting his hand.
She offered her cheek defiantly. ‘Go ahead. Hit me. It’s what I’d expect of you.’ She flared her nostrils. ‘But don’t expect any further help against them.’
Against—? ‘He lowered his hand slowly. ‘All right, girl. What do you want?’
‘To see my brother. And access to the passageways again. And for you to stop spying on me.’
He shook his head. ‘The passageways are vital to me.’
‘And to me,’ Cera flashed back. ‘We can both use them, as we used to.’ She cocked her head coquettishly, a gesture so out of character it startled him, and set little alarm bells ringing. ‘I like sneaking about in the dark too, remember?’
Is she flirting with me? The thought of bedding her was … enticing… if only to spit on your memory, Ella. Since she’d betrayed Elena, he’d increasingly been thinking of Cera. Yes, she was somewhat plain, but still far more attractive than Olivi
a – and he was severely sick of that slug. And she had something Olivia would never have: an interesting mind. He found himself eyeing her speculatively … Is the little girl growing up?
No. It is better she go to Francis Dorobon a virgin. He expects that. But afterwards, when Francis has tired of her … Perhaps. ‘Why would you help me?’ he asked at last. ‘And don’t even think of lying, girl.’
She put her hands on her hips, which reminded him even more of Elena when she was in a defiant mood. ‘The Dorobon are worse than you, and they hate you. I think our interests are aligned, especially after what I heard Octa and the other mage say.’
She does know how to play this game. ‘All right, I’m interested. But I cannot allow you access to the passageways. Not yet. Timori, possibly.’ He held up a finger. ‘Consider your news a downpayment.’
‘Very well. But no one will spy on my rooms again. And you will let me see Timori next week.’
He nodded impatiently. ‘Yes, all right.’ Cera offered a hand and he shook it crossly, unaccustomed to being outmanoeuvred. ‘Well then?’ he demanded.
‘Octa greeted the other person as “Mater-Imperia”.’
Gurvon froze. It wasn’t unexpected; of course Octa and Lucia spoke out of his hearing. But about what? He reached out tentatively with his mind, but hers remained infuriatingly opaque. Elena trained her too damned well. ‘What did they speak of?’
Cera smiled. ‘They spoke of you, Magister.’
His throat went dry. ‘Yes?’
‘At first they just gossiped, like old women do.’ The disdain in her voice was clear. ‘But then the Mater-Imperia voice said, “And what of the spymaster? When will you rid me of him?”’ Cera studied his face as she spoke, measuring the impact of her words.
‘And Octa replied?’ he asked, forcing himself to look unmoved.
‘Soon.’
Soon. He clenched his fists and turned away to the window. I shouldn’t have renegotiated my deal after I caught Elena. I thought I was being so smart, doubling my fee, extending the contract, demanding to be temporary Envoy. You don’t fuck with Lucia Fasterius …
