by David Hair
‘What else?’
‘Nothing else. Yet. But Octa is out there most nights.’
It sounded plausible: being under the open sky did improve reception for Clairvoyance. He wondered how far advanced Lucia and Octa’s plans towards him were. I need to hear this for myself …
He looked down at Cera, who stood before him, hands on hips, both wary and defiant. There was something different in the way she met his eyes, as if she too were seeing something new in him. She looked both regal and needy, a disturbingly attractive combination. Something inside his empty core stirred. She and I … is it possible? He had an urge to seize her, to kiss her, to break her down. Since he and Elena had drifted apart, he missed having a true confidante, someone who was as intelligent as he was, as self-willed and ruthless. He suddenly realised what he might actually have in Cera Nesti: A partner.
And I swear she feels it too …
But Cera’s virginity still had some currency, though he was suddenly loathe to let Francis Dorobon have it. He regained control of himself and bowed slightly. ‘If this is so, I am indebted for the warning,’ he told her. ‘I owe you.’
Cera met his eyes. ‘Why should the Dorobon rule this land? They have no ties here. They are just favourites of the emperor’s mother. They have been given Javon as a present. They don’t belong here.’
‘They have two legions,’ he reminded her softly.
‘They have one,’ she corrected, ‘and one of mercenaries.’
She keeps her eyes and ears open. And she was right: only one of the legions here had any particular loyalty to the Dorobon. He’d pulled strings to ensure that was so – as a contingency. He inhaled slowly, staring out the window at the city baking in the morning sun. The heat rolled off the stonework in rippling waves. The distant lake was half its normal size, the salt-gatherers dark ants against the gleaming plain of the shallower far side.
He turned from the view and studied Cera, who was still observing, still keeping her wits about her. He was impressed. ‘Very well, Princessa,’ he said. ‘We have a deal.’
Cera’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not “Princessa”; I am Queen-Regent.’ She lifted her chin again. ‘Where is Timori being held? I need to see him.’
‘What of him? Without him you’d be Paterfamilias,’ he reminded her, ‘head of the Nesti in truth, not just as regent.’
Her face swelled and she was abruptly a young woman again. ‘He’s my brother!’ she snapped indignantly.
She is smart, but she is not self-serving. She puts family first: a very Rimoni trait. He could respect that. Finding things to be loyal to was never easy. ‘I do not know where your brother is being held,’ he lied.
Her face changed, her expression becoming more measured. ‘Get him away from the Dorobon and I’ll do whatever you want.’
‘Would you? And what do you imagine I might want, Princessa?’
She cocked her head, looked up at him with an expression of compromised innocence that was oddly stirring. There had always been something compelling about the notion of corrupting another. ‘I don’t know or care,’ she replied, her voice resolute, but he could almost believe it contained traces of curiosity, even yearning. It was the shyness, the unwillingness combined with resignation that he found stirring. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes,’ she said with a kind of desperate dignity.
It took considerable discipline to walk away.
*
‘Well?’ Portia whispered after she joined Cera in the crypt, walking between row upon row of tombs between the wall-niches into which the bodies of generations of Brochena’s most royal former inhabitants were sealed.
They knelt before the sarcophagus of Fernando Tolidi, Portia’s brother, buried here by the Nesti when they retook Brochena. After Portia had decided to let it remain here, a mason had carved his name in the stone and it had been properly sealed.
‘It was just like you said it would be,’ Cera whispered hoarsely. ‘I stood straighter and imagined myself as desirable to him – it was astonishing! The way he looked at me totally changed.’ She remembered how potent that moment had felt, despite her loathing for him.
Portia smiled grimly. ‘I told you. He is the kind of man who likes to take a naïve girl and make her his.’ She looked away. ‘My Uncle Alfredo’s like that.’
Cera didn’t want any details; she was already struggling to contain the morass of pride and shame inside her. ‘He didn’t ask anything of me. I think he’s still trying to get me into Francis’ bed.’
Portia pulled a face. ‘I can’t wait to get out of it.’ She seized Cera’s hand. ‘But I don’t wish it upon you, amica.’
‘I don’t know what I would have done if he’d demanded anything of me. I think I would have just thrown up.’
Portia’s eyes were pitying. ‘If it does come to that, pretend eagerness and ask him to teach you. That will make him feel masterful. Men like that,’ she added in tones of disgust.
Cera looked at her. ‘You really don’t like men, do you?’
Portia’s expression became stony. ‘Whatever I might have liked or disliked was ruined a long time ago. I just want to be free of them all. I think if I had the choice, I would become a Kore Acolyte – not because I believe in the Kore, but because their Acolytes swear to chastity.’
‘I wanted to be a Sollan priestess when I was younger,’ Cera confided. ‘But they aren’t virgins. They do it with drui during the seasonal rites.’
Portia smiled dourly. ‘I wanted to take the Sollan vows too, but my family wouldn’t let me. They had other plans.’
Cera squeezed her hands, wanting to comfort her, but not sure how. ‘I’m glad you’re here with me,’ she whispered. ‘If I didn’t have you to talk to, I think I’d kill myself.’
Portia touched her lips in admonishment. ‘Hush. That would be a sin.’
*
All day, Gurvon Gyle went from meeting to meeting in the city, face hidden by turban and scarf, clad in a leather-coloured kirta. It was like wearing a thin cotton tent, but surprisingly good for moderating the heat. The air was desiccating as the lands awaited the late summer rains that would replenish the parched lands. Brochena was gasping like a dying beast in the desert.
His spies reported no sightings of Elena. He’d always told his agents to create secret refuges for themselves; she would be in one of those, secure from scrying. She’d be plotting something, of that he was sure – against him, and likely Cera too. Elena had been on the defensive when Cera was regent, unable to do anything except await the coming blow, but now she was out there with no ties to hamper her. No one was truly impervious to assassination, and few of the killers he’d known matched Elena’s skills.
The hollow between his shoulder blades began to itch persistently.
The mood of the city was as dark as his thoughts. The widowed women of the Jhafi still lamented outside the Dom-al’Ahm, and Rimoni and Jhafi alike brooded sullenly from the city’s few shady spots as the Dorobon soldiers marched past under the heat of the midday sun.
While the Dorobon family legion occupied the city, the mercenary legion patrolled the outlands. Two legions might have been enough to win at Fishil Wadi, but they were too few to secure such a vast land as Javon, and Kaltus Korion had refused to send more men, for he thought to bring the Keshi to battle. Word was that Korion was marching on Halli’kut, and Duke Echor of Argundy somewhere further south, hunting for Salim.
He couldn’t afford to think too much of that, though. He needed to secure himself, before Lucia sent her Inquisitors.
His final appointment that day was down a secluded alley near the lake, the smell of the salt water sharp and unpleasant. There was an old house there which had been commandeered by Endus Rykjard, the mercenary commander, a Hollenian half-blood mage. He knocked and entered quietly.
Rykjard was sitting on a shaded balcony overlooking the lake, his unruly hair bleached to straw by the sun. A little Jhafi woman clad only in a loincloth was kneeling at his feet. ‘Gurvon, my friend,
this is the way to live, eh?’ The commander cupped one of the girl’s breasts and squeezed it, then said quickly in Keshi, ‘Run along, my sweet. Bring arak and water, and a mezze.’ As she scurried away, Rykjard’s eyes followed her appreciably. ‘Tiny, the women here, but they have such juicy purses. Do you have one?’ He grinned, his eyes and teeth startlingly white against his tanned skin; Hollenians tended to tan very darkly even as their hair bleached. Gyle had met him on the Second Crusade, during the sacking of a town somewhere southwest of Hebusalim. They’d cut a deal over the plunder, and stayed in touch ever since.
‘None I use regularly,’ Gyle said, sitting. He really didn’t want to discuss women. ‘How does your legion fare, Endus?’
Rykjard grunted. ‘We’re spread from the mountains south of Tigrat to the borders of Forensa, keeping up a screen against the Aranio and the Nesti.’ He spat. ‘Why doesn’t the king let us attack?’
‘He wants the plunder from Riban and Forensa for himself. And he won’t leave the capital until he feels secure.’
‘So never, then,’ Rykjard grumbled. His girl returned with a flask and two glass tumblers of arak and a jug of iced water, and a platter of nibbles, then left. Gyle added water and sipped the milky-white drink and sighed, enjoying the cool aniseed sweetness.
Rykjard watered his own drink and swilled half of it in one gulp. ‘Ten thousand men to nail down a land this large is far too few, Gurvon.’
‘The emperor deemed it enough.’
‘The emperor …’ Rykjard trailed off mockingly. ‘So, Gurvon, what did you want to see me about?’
Gyle lifted his arak, took another sip. This was the dangerous moment, the plunge into darker waters where the sharks lurked, the part of the conversation which could be used against him. ‘I wanted to run a hypothetical situation past you.’
Rykjard knew the game as well as he did. ‘Say on,’ he invited. ‘What harm can speculation do, eh?’
‘Imagine that at the end of this Crusade, the Inquisitors go from camp to camp, confiscating all the plunder in the name of Kore. They arrest any who try to withhold their loot, leaving nothing more than a paltry token to bribe the commanders. And here in Javon, the Dorobon send your legion home empty-handed.’
Rykjard scowled. ‘In other words, much the same as what happened after the Second Crusade?’
Gyle nodded. ‘Exactly.’
Rykjard pursed his lips and spat over the balcony. ‘They wouldn’t dare.’
‘Wouldn’t they?’
‘Echor commands this Crusade, and he wants the vassal-states to support him. He’ll make sure we’re paid.’
‘Echor thinks he’s commanding the Crusade. Do you suppose Lucia and Constant are just going to let him stroll back into Yuros in two years’ time with all the gold and all the glory? And anyway, that’s not going to help you, Endus, is it? You’re stuck here on a three-year contract, no matter what happens.’
Rykjard downed the rest of his glass and poured another. ‘I’m hearing you, Gurvon.’
Gyle licked his lips. ‘How do you like it here, Endus?’
Rykjard’s eyes narrowed speculatively. ‘This place? Too hot. Filthy. Seasons are all wrong. Surrounded by heathen bastards who’ll knife you the second you turn your back.’ He chuckled. ‘Apart from that, what’s not to like?’
‘Lots of wet-pursed girls. And Rondian coin goes a long way here. The Rimoni have settled; why not your boys?’
Rykjard squinted at him. Clearly the idea had already occurred to him. ‘We’re mercenaries. We’ve no ties. We bring our women with us, or we fuck the locals. None of us own land at home – we wouldn’t know what to do if we had any.’ Whilst retiring legionaries were traditionally supposed to be allotted land, most of it ended up in the hands of the magi-nobles. ‘But it’s damned hot here.’
‘I’d rather be warmer than colder, my friend.’
‘There is something to be said for that.’ He took another sip of arak. ‘I could get used to this place. But the Dorobon intend to send us home at the end of our three years.’
‘They might not be in charge come the end of three years,’ Gyle suggested quietly.
‘Might they not?’ Rykjard mused. ‘You know, I’ve spent some time with their battle-magi. They’re all pussies. My own magi may be lesser-bloods but they’re hard as nails; they could take those high-blood cunni down easy. And my rankers are tough bastards too; they’ve been fighting border skirmishes in Argundy and Schlessen all their lives, not like these softcock Dorobon town boys. Though of course,’ Rykjard went on thoughtfully, ‘if the legions were to turn on each other, the Javonesi would be at our throats like a pack of jackals.’
‘You’re right,’ Gyle agreed. ‘Any change in ruler would have to happen fast enough that it would be over and done before the Javonesi even glimpse an opportunity. Might need some outside help for that.’
They were silent for a minute while Rykjard cogitated. ‘Adi Paavus would come if I asked,’ he said eventually. ‘Probably Hans Frikter too. And the Estellayne woman, the one who runs the Free Swords – what’s her name—?’
‘Staria Canestos,’ Gyle supplied. ‘Toughest bitch I’ve ever met, and that includes Elena!’
‘Staria, that’s right – I swear she was the origin of the vagina-dentata legend!’ Rykjard chuckled. ‘So with four legions – one here, and one each in Forensa, Hytel and Riban – we could carve this place up and rule it.’ He topped up their drinks. ‘Where is Elena, anyway?’
There was a faint possibility that Elena might have run to Rykjard when she escaped Sindon’s assassins, in which case Rykjard was toying with him – but he doubted it. In the circumstances, he opted for honesty. ‘I don’t know. We’ve had a falling-out.’
‘A shame. I always liked Elena. She called a spade a spade.’
No, you only thought she did. ‘If you see her, let me know. I’ve a few things to settle with her. There’s money in it.’
‘Of course, my friend.’ Rykjard put the matter aside lightly. ‘So the way I see it is that the issue of the spoils won’t come up until the Moontide is well past low tide, so, what – Junesse of next year?’
‘Most likely. But there will be early signs: plunder caravans returning from the east towards the Bridge will be delayed, told they need more papers, et cetera. You know the drill: anything that ties up the goods somewhere the Imperial Guard can reach.’
Rykjard spat sourly. ‘How will I even know, stuck up here?’
‘I have eyes down there; I’ll keep you informed.’ He slapped the table and rose to his feet. ‘It’s always good to see you, Endus. Always good to talk.’
Rykjard grinned broadly and waved a hand over the arak. ‘Stay, have another drink. Let’s make a night of it.’
‘I’d love to, but sadly, I’ve got to be back in the palace for the evening banquet.’
‘Ha! Listen to the mighty Envoy.’ Rykjard stood and they shook hands. ‘Another time, Gurvon. You let me know if your hypothetical situation looks like becoming a reality, yes?’
‘I certainly will.’
As he left, he glanced down at the little bare-breasted Jhafi girl. She looked horribly young, but all the locals were short of stature and dark of skin, which made it hard to guess accurately. Her eyes were a lot older than her body, and without a hint of warmth. He wondered how her own people were treating her, now she was the property of a Rondian. Not well, he guessed.
Don’t fall asleep after rukking her, Endus; I doubt you’ll wake up.
Outside, the late afternoon heat closed in. He sighed at the thought of another endless evening of dining and acidic conversation, and then the fleshy pleasures of Olivia Dorobon’s body. Or maybe not; he was boring of pasty white skin and rolls of fat. Cera Nesti had been flirting; he was sure of it … He wondered how amenable she might be if he knocked on her door—
No, not yet. Francis will cave in and make her his queen, I am sure of it. Best she remain untouched, for now.
Instead, he took himself
to the hidden chamber within the secret part of the dungeons deep below the keep where Coin lay, regrowing her body.
Pale eyes rolled to face him, catching the light as he opened the door and Coin – Yvette – bared her teeth, a grimace or smile, her breath hissing. ‘Where have you been?’ she asked painfully. ‘It’s been days.’
‘Why, Yvette, I didn’t know you cared,’ he said cheerily, lighting the lamp with a gesture, though he made sure to keep the light low. Coin’s healing-gnosis worked best in the dark – she needed no distractions while she was trying to visualise what she needed herself to be. He pasted a welcoming smile on his face and hoped she would not notice as he swallowed the rising bile.
It had taken several weeks for her to make the eyes her own and fully functioning, but the skin about them had still not yet completely bonded, making her look goggle-eyed, like a fish. On his last visit he’d brought her the skin of a young Jhafi boy fresh from the morgue slab. The boy had been an orphan, with no family, but it had still cost plenty to persuade the mortician to commit such sacrilege. In the end, money had overcome religious scruples, as it usually did, and he’d collected the flesh flayed from the still-warm corpse and soaked it in brine to keep it supple before bringing it down here and laying it over Coin’s skeletal body.
Today the sewn seams were still puckered and weeping and the new skin was mottled, almost translucent in places, revealing the musculature and sinews beneath like some horrific biology lesson. But there was no smell of rot, so the skin graft had obviously taken, fused by Coin’s own gnosis.
‘What do you think?’ she asked coyly.
You look like a horror from a taxidermist’s nightmares. ‘You’ve come a long way,’ he said diplomatically.
But he didn’t fool her. ‘Revolted, aren’t you?’ she said, pulling her lips into a rictus grin. ‘But I’ll be back to normal soon – maybe six weeks – and then you’ll not even be able to tell it ever happened.’ She sounded excited for once.
‘Does it still hurt?’
‘A little. But look!’ As he watched with bated breath a change crawled across her face. Painfully slowly her tangled hair lightened and her face widened until it hardened into a painfully familiar shape.
