by David Hair
By the end of Septinon, Pallacios XIII had managed to purchase twenty hulkas off other legions to transport the gold and the poppy in their baggage train – not that Duprey had noticed. The other tribunes had begun coming to Storn for loans to up their investment. On paper, Ramon and Storn were already worth more than one hundred thousand gilden of promised money.
Keeping it quiet was the hard part, though money helped. Gold siphoned from the pay-wagons kept those close to the action quiet, and having control of the supplies meant they could bribe key contacts into silence. The threat of Silacian familioso did the rest, even here, and the one man who did threaten to talk stopped his threats after Kip broke his jaw.
But Pater-Retiari was becoming impatient: the flood of opium he’d been expecting was not yet forthcoming, and he started sending messengers with demands, familioso thugs. Ramon gave them gold, always less than they wanted. Right now, Pater-Retiari did not dare threaten him or his mother. He was becoming, as he had hoped, too vital to displease.
Ramon had always been told the biggest danger with dealing in the poppy was becoming enslaved to it yourself, but he’d never touched it, not once in his life, and no matter the temptations, his personal discipline held. He didn’t use the drug, and he made sure Storn and his aides didn’t either.
I’m doing this for a reason, he reminded himself daily. One day I’m going to bring down an avalanche of shit on both my ‘fathers’. Then I can buy Mama’s freedom and we’ll be out of this at last.
A call brought Ramon’s attention back to the present: one of the Tenth Maniple scouts had come trotting in, his horse lathered about the mouth and gasping. Ramon reined in his own mount and waited; his beast could do with a rest too. The scout, Coll, was a rough-faced man with lank hair about a bald crown. His head was draped in cloth like a native Keshi, but his cheeks were still as red as his cloak. ‘Afternoon, Magister Ramon,’ he said tiredly. ‘Any idea how far ahead the legate is?’
Ramon tossed the man the flask of water he’d recently refilled, and Coll accepted gratefully, as Ramon reported, ‘Knuckles is up with the First. A mile, maybe more. Have you found something?’
Coll grinned; ‘Knuckles’ was Duprey’s nickname in the ranks. ‘Aye. An Inquisitor Fist, herding around forty refugees, all women and children. No men, but there’s a whole mess of crows squabbling over something down a gully, and more jackals there than I’ve seen in one place before.’ He looked vaguely sickened. ‘I couldn’t get close.’
Ramon took his flask back and swallowed a mouthful himself. ‘It’s not wise to mess with Inquisitors,’ he observed.
Coll looked away. ‘That’s sure’n right, lad.’
The groups of Inquisitors roaming the countryside were not attached to any legion; they had apparently been given a mandate by the Church to ‘seek out heresy’ – any prisoners or large group of refugees or civilians were supposed to be reported to the nearest Inquisitor Fist, but Ramon had noticed that Duprey was particularly slack in doing so. Ugly rumours abounded: that those sent to the Inquisitors were not to be found afterwards, but such accusations were always whispered. No one had ever stood up and asked the questions out loud.
It was yet another thing, eating away at them all. The march was taking its toll on Pallacios XIII’s fifteen magi – or the new recruits, anyway; Duprey and Marle were experienced veterans with a job to do, and were all business. Baltus Prenton and Lanna Jureigh also appeared oblivious to the atrocities they encountered, like the bodies of two mutilated girls the scouts found on the outskirts of Bassaz, or the dead family near a watering spot outside a nameless village near the Medishar crossroads, all with cut throats apart from the father, who’d pushed a knife into his own heart. Or the twelve-year-old boy they’d had to hang after he’d managed to kill the ranker trying to rape him. Kip also displayed a practical stolidity in the face of horror, as if all this was familiar to him. The Schlessen were warlike people, most of their aggression directed towards each other, so perhaps this was truly nothing to him.
The Andressans grew more insular and pricklish, and Coulder and Fenn more obsessive in their gambling, shutting reality away. Seth Korion was perpetually throwing up, and the chaplain, Frand, was barely less sensitive, his voice always at the edge of breaking as he prayed each morning over the maniple standards. Renn Bondeau seemed to deliberately court insensitivity, staring at each body, touching it, sniffing it, as if to make himself accustomed. Ramon found himself, if not exactly mimicking Bondeau’s fixed purpose, at least striving for indifference. It wasn’t easy.
The one who struggled most was Severine Tiseme. She’d become so highly strung that none of the men would bed her any more, and each morning Lanna Jureigh had to coax her from her tent, calming her down after nightmares of fear and blood. During the day she became increasingly frivolous and girlish, as if reverting to childhood.
Ramon offered his flask to Coll again, and when he handed it back, they looked at each other meaningfully. ‘Forget what you saw,’ Ramon told the scout. ‘You saw nothing, right.’
The scout sighed heavily. ‘Right you are, lad.’
The matter would have rested there, if a windskiff had not scudded across the skies at that moment. The single figure at the tiller wasn’t Baltus Prenton; the pilot’s robes were pale blue and her brown curly hair flew like a banner.
Ramon stared after Severine, and then Duprey’s voice rattled in his mind.
He opened his eyes and saw Coll looking at him superstitiously. Ordinary men always found the way magi communicated unnerving. ‘You all right, Magister?’
‘I’m fine, Coll. Stay here and wait for Knuckles.’ He jabbed a finger towards the skiff, already receding into the middle distance. ‘I’ve got to go after Her Ladyship.’ He heard the sound of hooves pounding back from the east, then Kip thundered through the middle of the wrecked village, hurtling after the now-distant skiff. He looked excited to be doing something other than marching. Ramon spurred Lu and took off after him.
It took them ten minutes to find the skiff, and they immediately wished they hadn’t. Severine was standing alone, facing ten armoured magi, each sporting the Sacred Heart on their tabards: an Inquisition Fist. Most were men, but there were women too. None were young, but all had the timeless youth of the pure-blooded. They were mounted on khurnes, the horns gleaming in the sun as they sat in a perfectly straight line behind their commander, who was listening silently as Severine railed at him.
Wonderful, Kip snorted, then his amusement died as he peered past the Fist Acolytes to where some forty Keshi refugees waited, their faces anxious. Most of them were female, but there were a handful of old men, and they all cowered silently under the spears of a detachment of soldiers. Ramon felt his throat tighten. Sol et Lune, this is not good. There was nothing he needed less than Inquisitorial attention.
He raised a placatory hand as he trotted towards the group. Two Acolytes immediately barred his path, their khurnes stepping before him and lowering horns. ‘Is this harpy yours?’ one asked, a cold-eyed man with a perfectly formed square-jawed face, immaculate hair and a duelling scar worn like a trophy.
‘We are from Pallacios Thirteen,’ Ramon replied steadily. ‘Mistress Tiseme is our farseer.’
‘She should turn her eyes elsewhere,’ the other Acolyte, a grey-haired woman with a smooth face, remarked irritably. ‘Before we pluck them out.’
Severine’s flow of invective faltered when she saw Ramon. ‘Get Duprey,’ she called.
‘He’s on his way.’ Ramon saluted the Fist Commandant. ‘Sir, is th
ere a problem?’
‘Is there a problem?’ Severine echoed sarcastically. ‘These butchers are the problem.’ Her face had a nauseated expression. She stabbed a finger at the Fist Commandant. ‘I know what you’ve done.’
The Inquisitor looked Ramon up and down. ‘You are?’ His voice was chillingly deep.
‘Sensini, Tenth Maniple, Pallacios Thirteen.’
The Acolytes in front of them snorted and he saw them snickering amongst themselves. ‘The tenth,’ the Fist Commandant said with heavy contempt. ‘You are not welcome here. Go back to your march.’
Ramon looked at Kip. The Fist Commandant outranked them utterly, but they were answerable only to Duprey. ‘Legate Duprey ordered me here, Inquisitor,’ Ramon replied as steadily as he could. ‘We’re obliged to await him.’
The Inquisitor’s stony face creased with displeasure. ‘Very well.’ He glanced sideways to the line of Acolytes, and then his eyes went beyond, to a tall robed figure who had emerged from one of the huts. A bald man, skeletally gaunt, with piercing eyes, and a livid brand burned into his forehead: the Lantric character Delta. There was something utterly desolate in the man’s eyes. When he realised he was being watched, he flinched and shrank back into the hut.
Who in Hel was that?
Then he saw Severine’s face: she’d seen the man and gone white. She hurried towards him. ‘Where’s Duprey?’ she demanded anxiously. ‘How far away?’
‘You’re the farseer,’ Kip growled unsympathetically.
Ramon felt much the same – she was a spoilt little brat, the sort he’d grown up loathing – but there was something going on here and he’d seen in his own land the result of what happened when Inquisitors were given a totally free hand.
She met his eyes, for once neither sneering nor ignoring him, then turned back to the Inquisitor. ‘We’ll wait beside my skiff,’ she told him, adding ‘sir,’ almost as an afterthought.
The Commandant narrowed his eyes, but nodded.
Ramon and Kip dismounted and walked their horses to the skiff. Severine’s expression was torn between disdain and the need to speak of what she’d scryed.
‘What did you see?’ he asked her a low voice.
Severine said quietly, ‘I’ll tell the legate when he arrives.’ She was sweating profusely, and shivering too, as if running a fever, but she sounded coherent, if distressed.
‘Duprey’s not going to tangle with Inquisitors on your behalf,’ Ramon told her. ‘What was it? Who was that bald man with the brand?’
She shuddered involuntarily. ‘I don’t know …’ Her voice trailed off.
Liar.
But she refused to say more, ignoring him stolidly until Duprey arrived, followed by Renn Bondeau, Bevyn Fenn and the Andressan, Hugh Gerant. The scout Coll trailed behind them, barely noticed. Bondeau hurried to Severine and held out his arms, but she shoved him away and stalked towards the legate, leaving Bondeau glaring after her sullenly.
‘Sir, you’ve got to make them stop,’ she demanded.
‘Stop what?’ Duprey asked, puzzled.
‘They’re killing people,’ Severine burst out, looking on the verge of tears.
‘It’s called “war”,’ the scar-faced Acolyte nearest Ramon sneered.
The legate made a gesture to silence Severine, then saluted the Fist Commandant. ‘I am Jonti Duprey, Legate of the Thirteenth. Is this a military matter?’ he asked crisply.
The Commandant made the Imperial salute, thumping his right fist to his heart. ‘Ullyn Siburnius, Commandant of the Twenty-Third Fist,’ he named himself. ‘No, it is a religious matter, Legate. As such, it is out of your jurisdiction.’
‘They’re going to kill them all, sir,’ Severine called in an anguished voice. ‘They’ve already slaughtered the men.’
Bondeau’s face clearly showed his view: So what?
‘A Hadishah spy is among this group,’ Siburnius claimed. ‘If they turn her over to me, they are free to go.’
Ramon glanced at the scar-faced Acolyte, watching the smile playing across the man’s lips. Sure they are.
‘There is an assassin amongst the women?’ Duprey asked doubtfully.
‘The Hadishah recruit women and children as readily as men,’ Siburnius replied.
‘You’re a murdering bastard,’ Severine snapped.
Ramon glanced at Renn Bondeau, who was watching her with growing anger, and at her outburst, he erupted, ‘Oh, grow up, Severine, you ignorant little bint.’
‘Quiet, Bondeau,’ Duprey snapped. He clearly wished he was somewhere far away, enjoying a drink – a large one. But the central command had issued orders covering the jurisdiction of the Inquisition: Echor didn’t like the Church and was seeking to limit its authority. He’d already decreed that they were forbidden to operate their own courts in the lands his army passed through; nor could they summarily execute suspects until their proofs had been checked by a legion commander.
Reluctantly, Duprey followed his orders. ‘How do you know there is a Hadishah among them?’ he asked Siburnius calmly.
‘Because I’m a pure-blood descendant of the Blessed Three Hundred anointed by Kore to hunt heretics.’
‘I need to see proofs, sir, not badges of rank.’
‘If it were so simple, I would furnish them,’ Siburnius replied, in tones that suggested otherwise.
‘Ask him where the men are,’ Severine demanded.
‘There are no men,’ Siburnius replied dismissively. Ramon thought back to Coll’s words about the crows and jackals and met the scout’s eyes.
Why should we care? These are enemies …
But the faces of the watching Keshi women told him that he did care.
Severine implored Duprey. ‘Ask him where the men are, please, sir?’
‘Farseer Tiseme, the Commandant says there are no men,’ Duprey replied, his voice hollow.
‘Severine,’ Renn Bondeau said in an exasperated voice, ‘they’re just Keshi. This is achieving nothing.’
That he’s right only makes this worse. Ramon glanced at Kip, who was eyeballing the Acolyte opposite him, the grey-haired woman with flinty eyes. He was twice as big as her, yet they both knew who was the deadlier.
Severine gripped Duprey’s reins. ‘Sir, about an hour ago, I heard the mental death cries of nearly thirty men,’ she said in a low, urgent voice. ‘They were slain near here. There was a man …’ her voice faltered momentarily. ‘He has a branded scalp.’ She pointed at the hut. ‘He’s in there: he’s the one who was killing them. I saw his face in my scrying.’
Ramon glanced at the man opposite him, memorising his face, his duelling scar. Inquisitors had been unleashed in Rimoni and Silacia too many times. They were the demons of his people’s nightmares. ‘What have you been doing?’ he asked the Inquisitor.
‘What do you care, Rimoni scum?’ Scarface sneered.
‘You could be next,’ the grey-haired woman Acolyte threw in. ‘Just keep talking, rodent.’
Ramon felt Kip shoulder his horse alongside him. He knew that they wouldn’t last three seconds against well-trained pure-bloods, but he appreciated the solidarity. Severine’s right. Something is going on here. Siburnius has broken Echor’s orders.
‘Legate Duprey,’ Siburnius said in a bored voice, ‘my investigation will continue. If you wish to watch, that is your business.’ He ran his eye from Severine to Ramon and Kip. ‘Call these imbeciles off before they get hurt.’
Duprey wavered, the conflicts of duty and fear clear on his face. Then he exhaled dejectedly. ‘Tiseme, fall in. That’s an order.’ He looked pointedly at Ramon and Kip. ‘You two as well.’
‘They’re going to kill all of these people, Legate,’ Ramon told him. ‘Severine is right. They do this in my homeland. It’s their idea of fun. You can smell it on them.’ He could too, with a little air-gnosis. Blood.
Severine wavered, then gave a sob of defeat and ran back towards her skiff. Ramon pulled on his reins and ca
ntered in her wake. He heard Duprey apologising – apologising! – behind him, and didn’t turn lest his contempt show. He leapt to the ground and caught Severine’s shoulder. ‘Meet me at the village a mile to the north,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll show you where to look.’
She stared at him then backed away, her face for once not filled with contempt. She looked as if she was on the verge of saying something, then she spun away.
*
First they heard the barking and snarling of the jackals, then the shrieking of the crows, as they trotted their mounts towards the edge of a small gully, hidden until they were almost upon it. Once Duprey had lectured them about interfering with Inquisitors and then left, Coll had taken Ramon and Kip three miles back to the west before leading them along a small trail heading south. After half a mile, the crows swirling above the gully were visible.
Severine arrived on a small mare, her eyes red, her face tearstained. She’s too sensitive for this, Ramon decided, a little surprised to feel some concern.
Coll pointed down into the gully. ‘This is as close as I came,’ he reported. ‘As you said yourself, there’s no wisdom in this.’
‘We’ll see what we see, Coll. Those women back there weren’t soldiers, were they?’
Over the past few weeks he and Coll been developing the beginnings of mutual respect: the scout knew his business, and once he saw that Ramon had commonsense as well as the gnosis, he’d began to treat the Silacian as a genuine maniple commander, not just a figurehead – and he’d proven himself useful as a courier of messages and gold too. Like most of the rankers, Coll was a complex mix of brutality and humanity. Perhaps because they saw the people they’d invaded close up, the rankers had quickly realised there was very little difference between the poor of Antiopia and those of their homelands. It didn’t stop the practical brutality of looking after themselves first, and others only if it suited, but it did mean they had little love for butchers, even Church-sanctioned ones.
