Empress of the Fall

by David Hair

  Sakita read his answer in his face. ‘One day you’ll see beyond the glamour, Waqar.’ Her eyes were wet, to his surprise.

  ‘You don’t understand. Living here is a dream come true,’ he replied, with something like sincerity. ‘Your magi order doesn’t matter, not like being here does.’

  ‘You foolish boy.’ She dabbed at her eyes and composed herself. ‘There’s another reason I came here, Waqar. Something happened recently that’s unnerved me – I’ve told Rashid, and now I’m telling you.’

  He sensed genuine fear, which shocked him – his mother had always been fearless. Is this why she wants me beside her? To protect her? Or be protected by her? ‘What happened?’

  ‘Someone approached me last year,’ Sakita answered. ‘They used an intermediary to offer me a chance to “right my wrongs” – whoever it was believed I would resent the order for sidelining me. They knew a lot – too much – about me, and what I’m capable of, and that frightened me. So I broke off contact.’

  ‘A year ago? But you’re only just telling me now—?’

  ‘Yes, because I thought the matter closed. Then a friend in the Ordo Costruo offered to divine my future and she was positive this unknown person was still circling me and mine.’

  ‘But why would someone approach you, Mother? You’re just a scholar.’

  Sakita cast her eyes heavenwards. ‘Give me strength. Listen, I might be your mother, but I’m also the greatest weather-mage alive – has that completely passed you by? I could call down a storm that would level this keep! I could pull snow from the mountains and dump it on my brother’s proud head! It’s my skills that have revitalised agriculture in the Hebb Valley! Certain people value that—’

  ‘Oh.’ He wasn’t sure if she was boasting or telling the truth.

  ‘Do you remember the Battle of Shaliyah, during the Third Crusade?’

  ‘Of course, Mother! It turned the tide of the war. We lured the Rondians into the desert and then attacked during a . . . a . . . giant sandstorm . . .?’ He stared at her.

  ‘My apprentices conjured that sandstorm,’ Sakita said, not with pride but bitterness. ‘Rashid lured them away from the order and used them and all my knowledge, everything I’d taught them, for destruction. They broke their oaths as Builder-magi for him – and at the height of the battle, the strain of conjuring and controlling that storm killed them.’

  Waqar swallowed. ‘I had no idea . . .’

  ‘That I’m not just a scribbling scholar? I could show you, if you joined the order. I could make you great.’

  It was suddenly tempting, until he thought of the decades of training he’d doubtless need, years while his fighting skills atrophied and his social star plummeted, and that killed his enthusiasm. To go days without riding or flying? Nights without a supple body of his choosing beside him? He couldn’t endure that. So he took the conversation back to this mysterious approach his mother had told him about. ‘Who do you think was trying to tempt you, Mother?’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know. I did wonder if it was Rashid. I think someone is probing the Ordo Costruo, testing our resolve. They think we’re vulnerable after our losses during the Crusade, but we’re still strong. I’ve heard stupid talk of a holy war across the Bridge at the next Moontide, but we won’t let it happen.’

  ‘Uncle Rashid knows that,’ Waqar said. ‘I’ve never heard him speak in favour of such a thing.’ Though he’d heard Attam and Xoredh and many others within Rashid’s court passionately advocate Shihad.

  ‘A Convocation’s been called to debate revenge upon Yuros.’ Sakita sniffed. ‘What kind of holy war will that be, when the Ordo Costruo control the only link between the two continents? Remember the fate of Constant and Lucia Sacrecour!’

  ‘Rashid knows. And Sultan Salim wants peace.’

  ‘Salim is just a man,’ Sakita replied. ‘My offer stands, Waqar. Please, come with Jehana and me back to Hebusalim. You really don’t understand what you’re refusing.’

  ‘I can’t, Mother. I belong here.’

  She rose to her feet. ‘Then Jehana and I will take our leave tomorrow.’

  He stood, aghast. ‘So soon? But you’ve barely got here! And Jehana and I—’

  ‘I’ve outstayed my welcome already. And it’s best if I take Jehana as quickly as possible, to settle her into her new Arcanum in plenty of time for mid-year exams.’ She hugged him again, then left. Watching her walk away was an odd sensation, grief mixed with relief that he’d not have to face such awkward choices again. He liked to have his feet grounded, to feel certainty. Halli’kut might be a hard place to grow up, but at least he knew where he stood here.

  *

  Farewelling his mother was bad enough, but saying goodbye to Jehana was awful. Waqar got through it by keeping his back stiff and his eyes dry, knowing his cousins were watching like hawks for any trace of weakness. In the harbadab, for a man to shed tears over such a matter would be eternal disgrace.

  Afterwards, the emir summoned him.

  Walking with Uncle Rashid had always been an alarming thing. He’d craved a father-figure, someone to look up to after the death of his own; instead, he got a mage and a ruler. Rashid’s brilliant emerald eyes could pick out a fault or weakness in moments; his briefest comment could cut to the bone.

  Now Rashid paused beside a fountain and asked, ‘So, Waqar, what did you make of your mother’s warning?’

  ‘She was worried,’ Waqar replied carefully.

  ‘Indeed. Overly so.’ Rashid patted his shoulder. ‘Such clandestine approaches happen all the time in the corridors of power, Nephew. But for Sakita, it was a new thing, so she made more of it than it warranted.’ He walked on, adding, ‘We discussed your future.’

  ‘She asked me to join the Ordo Costruo.’

  ‘I know. She had my blessing to ask – but I am glad you chose to stay.’ He faced him, and there was nowhere to hide from that cool, analytical stare. ‘Waqar, everything a man does must be for his family. All I am, all I do, is for Attam and Xoredh and my younger sons, and my nephews too. And of course, for my daughters, my nieces, my wives, and other kin – even Sakita. You know this, I hope.’

  ‘Yes, Uncle.’

  ‘There’s a storm coming, Nephew, and to survive it will require each of us to be strong. I am prepared to do anything for my family; I expect the same of Attam, of Xoredh, and of you. I would spare you all if I could, but the truth is, I cannot. In the end, you boys – my sons and my nephews – are my legacy.’

  The emir had never spoken like this to Waqar before; his words conjured hope in his breast.

  ‘Ignorant clergy decried the Ordo Costruo magi as ferang devils, but my forebears saw opportunity,’ Rashid went on. ‘They saw what could be: to be sighted in the land of the blind. Marriages followed, and a new line was born: the Mubarak magi, the first legitimate gnosis-users of Keshi blood. That is your lineage, your legacy. If scholarship is your leaning, there is no better place than the Ordo Costruo, and I would understand.’

  ‘I want to serve you, Uncle,’ he said firmly. No more talk of me leaving.

  ‘How would you serve me? Your tutors tell me you are well-liked, but they think you lack the hunter’s instinct.’

  Waqar flushed. ‘If you mean that I’m not a brute or a backstabber, that’s so – but I fight to win when it matters, Uncle. Silk and steel can both serve as weapons.’

  ‘I see silk, yes. Steel . . .? Perhaps.’ Rashid stroked his chin. ‘I know you’ve been in conflict with Attam and Xoredh: doubtless they are the brute and the backstabber you refer to.’ He raised a hand. ‘Don’t deny it; they’re apt descriptions. But they have a quality you don’t: ruthlessness.’

  ‘I can learn that, Uncle.’

  ‘One doesn’t learn ruthlessness, Nephew; such traits we are born with.’

  ‘Then what’s the use of all the books of kingship you gave us? Sentorius and Makelli and al-Nuliem? How to be princes, to read words and deeds, to form courts and control them, to see hidden plot
s, to rule and lead. I’ve learned these lessons—’

  ‘And if I send you to your mother and the Ordo Costruo?’

  Does he want me to spy on the order? Waqar swallowed. ‘I’ll do whatever you wish, Uncle.’

  Rashid shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t ask that of you, Nephew. Duplicity does not become you. And believe me, the Ordo Costruo is the hardest place to keep secrets in the whole of Urte.’

  Yet you kept your betrayal secret for decades, Waqar reflected. ‘I doubt I’d be very good at living a lie,’ he admitted. ‘But I’m loyal to you, and I’ve heard you say that trustworthy men are beyond price.’

  ‘Truly. Very well, you shall accompany me to the Convocation next month. It’s in Sagostabad: remember to dress for the heat.’

  I’m going to Convocation! Waqar fell to one knee, his head bowed to hide his surprised, exultant grin. This was the most perfect moment of his life.

  Sagostabad, Southern Kesh

  Awwal (Martrois) 935

  Sagostabad, chief city of the Sultanate of Kesh, was teeming with people, the Convocation adding hundreds of thousands of itinerants to the millions who lived there. At night the streets were jammed with sleepers unable to find a bed for let, and thousands more were arriving daily; not just from the Amteh heartlands of Kesh and Dhassa, but also from Mirobez, Gatioch, Lokistan, Khotri and even Lakh. The powerful brought giant entourages, and violence simmered at every intersection as rival groups blundered into each other. But reconciliations and treaties were also enacted, such was the power of a Convocation.

  There were few places one could escape the clamour and the heat, but Waqar had been staring all day at the towers of the Yamas Masheed, the greatest dom-al’Ahm in Sagostabad, and had realised there was a haven up there – and a place to view the fermenting city.

  The escape was meticulously planned by clever Tamir, and executed with military efficiency. Fatima flirted with the only guard close enough to hear them while Baneet broke the locks on the doors to the stairs. Then Lukadin extracted Fatima by pretending to be a Scriptualist, which he practically was anyway.

  This is how we will rise at court, Waqar thought: mine the vision, Tamir the planning, Lukadin and Baneet for strength and daring, and Fatima for her audacious charm.

  In a laughing mass the five of them climbed the spiral stairs, and reached the cupola of one of the four towers where the Godsingers came to chant. The sudden vista was spectacular; and as they admired the views, hundreds of feet below the takiya was already filling up with the devout, in readiness for the next lesson.

  ‘We’ve got about an hour,’ Waqar reminded them. ‘You brought the arak, yes?’

  Tamir produced the flask of liquor, smirking, ‘Of course!’

  ‘Here’s the water,’ big Baneet rumbled. ‘I’ll cool it: I’ve got a Water-affinity.’

  ‘We squander our powers on chilling drinks,’ Lukadin muttered. Gnosis and religion were an odd mix, and Lukadin could be a volatile presence as he constantly debated the rights and wrongs of what they did with himself – and them. ‘The gnosis must be used in service of Ahm, for Him to bless it.’

  ‘We’re not squandering, we’re practising,’ Fatima argued. ‘Nothing wrong with that. You don’t have to drink any, Lukadin. You can just disapprove.’

  Lukadin mightn’t like drinking, but being teased by Fatima was worse. ‘Of course I’ll have some. You can’t leave me out. It’s just, you know, Shaitan was the first brewer of alcohol—’

  ‘And bless him for that,’ Baneet chuckled.

  Lukadin looked ready to flare up, so Waqar patted his shoulder. ‘He’s joking, Luka. We know what you’re saying, and we agree, really. You’re our conscience.’

  ‘I thought I was,’ said Tamir.

  ‘You’re the brains,’ Fatima explained. ‘I’m the face, of course. So pretty!’ She threw a pose, though in truth she was more boyish than a beauty. ‘Baneet is our spine, because he’s so strong . . . and grumpy. Hey! Don’t hit girls, Bani!’ she exclaimed, rubbing her arm from a sly punch from the big youth.

  ‘I don’t see any girls,’ Baneet teased, ‘just a jabberer! You aren’t the face, you’re the mouth, the lungs’ – he winked ostentatiously and finished with – ‘and the fart from our behinds!’

  Fatima punched his massive shoulder, hard.

  ‘Double standards,’ Lukadin pointed out with a laugh. ‘Typical Fati!’

  ‘Then who am I?’ Waqar asked.

  ‘That depends if this body is male or female,’ Tamir said slyly. ‘Does it need teats or danglies to complete it?’

  ‘Don’t be crass, Tamir!’ Fatima scolded. ‘You’re our soul, Waqar. You are our immortal essence, and our reason to be. You are Waqar Mubarak!’ She pretended to faint.

  ‘Oh! He’s Waqar Mubarak?’ Tamir said in a stunned voice. ‘The real Waqar Mubarak, nephew of the Demi-God?’ He fell to his knees, using the same wide-eyed, incredulous voice that everyone used when they found out who he was. ‘Please, tell your uncle I must meet him. I have important information that will save the world. It’s vital! It’s imperative! It’s crucial! I must meet him! And would he like to buy some mangoes? Would you like some mangoes? Have you seen my daughter? Have you seen my daughter’s mangoes? You’re not married, are you? Anyway, what’s another wife to a Mubarak?’

  ‘Shut up!’ Waqar tried to gag him as they all chipped in, chorusing the choicest pleas from the last banquet Rashid had hosted until they all fell about, laughing helplessly. The luxury of putting aside the harbadab and truly relaxing felt increasingly priceless these days.

  He snatched the flask. ‘One more word and this goes off the edge!’

  ‘Chod! Everyone quiet!’ Baneet exclaimed, and they all froze, until Waqar drew the flask back in and doled out the milky arak, then shared out nuts and dried fruit.

  ‘Seriously, though, hasn’t this Convocation been a bore?’ Tamir asked.

  ‘Of course it’s a bore,’ Fatima said. ‘Old men droning on and on.’

  As usual, Lukadin couldn’t help but respond. ‘I can’t believe you all. Convocations are only called every four or five years – the Ayatu-Marja himself, the head of the Amteh faith, brings together all rulers to discuss the greatest questions of the day; and you say it’s boring?’

  ‘Well,’ Fatima drawled, not fazed at all by Lukadin’s passion, ‘so far, it’s been boring. And whatever decisions they reach won’t become law.’

  ‘Ha! Woe betide the ruler who neglects to follow the will of Convocation,’ Lukadin exclaimed.

  ‘And yet, it’s been a bit . . . well . . .’ Waqar started.

  ‘Boring,’ Tamir finished for him.

  ‘It’s been a disappointment,’ Lukadin admitted. ‘The old Ayatu-Marja keeps falling asleep, so everything said while he sleeps is wasted words. We’ve not even got to the big issues yet. And I swear, if you took all the speakers who claimed to have been at the Battle of Shaliyah, you’d have ten times the number who were actually there.’

  Baneet scowled. ‘That’s because all the veterans of Shaliyah started wearing those red headscarves and crowing over anyone who wasn’t there. Now everyone wears them.’

  They nodded in unison. Life was one long frustration at the moment. They’d been too young for the Crusade, and in their world, deeds in battle were the highest social currency. It more than chafed their pride: it burned.

  Waqar peered through the latticework. ‘See, look below: on the left of the takiya? All those red scarves? Those’re the Shihadis. On the right are the moderates – the Ja’arathi. They’re wearing blue scarves.’

  Fatima joined him at the rail, raking fingers through her boyishly short hair. She was one of a small but significant new breed of Eastern women: female magi who were as dangerous on the battlefield as any man, which gave them status other women couldn’t aspire to – and left them as awkward presences in society, as men tried to work out where they should fit in. ‘You know what I think?’ She sounded as if she’d had a great revelation. ‘Tho
se red scarves make all those men look like they should be on blood-purdah.’ She nudged Baneet, giggling. ‘Imagine that: if men had monthly courses like women do!’

  Lukadin’s face went the same colour as the controversial scarves. ‘The scarves mean they want war – a just war.’

  ‘The last one was bad enough,’ she said with a shudder. ‘It left a horrible mess – and you keep telling me we won that one. Ahm help us if we lose!’

  ‘It is right that we should exact retribution for what the Rondians did,’ Baneet replied.

  ‘That won’t happen,’ Tamir said. ‘The Ordo Costruo won’t let it happen again.’

  ‘They let the Rondians cross for three Crusades,’ Lukadin said angrily.

  ‘But these new Zain magi who have joined the Ordo Costruo, the ones who killed the Rondian emperor? They’ve said that no one’s army crosses, ever again,’ Tamir replied. They had all heard of the mysterious Zain magi, the ‘Merozain Bhaicara’ – Rashid had met with them and had come away shaken. But no one yet knew what they really wanted.

  ‘They’re Zains,’ Lukadin said dismissively. ‘Zains aren’t warriors. They are weak by nature.’

  ‘But these Zains are Ascendant magi, every one of them,’ Waqar replied, ‘and you know what that means. They’re more powerful even than pure-bloods. I’m a three-quarter-blood – they’d wipe the floor with me!’

  ‘The Merozain leaders slew the Rondian emperor and all of their court,’ Tamir reminded them. ‘Even Rashid wouldn’t take them on.’ He looked at Waqar. ‘Would he?’

  Waqar shook his head.

  ‘Then those who want a war are idiots,’ Fatima concluded. ‘Isn’t there enough to do rebuilding all our wrecked towns without wanting to drag everyone into another fight?’

  Lukadin and Baneet frowned. Waqar guessed both would be wearing a red scarf by choice, while Tamir favoured the peace-making Ja’arathi. Clearly, so did Fatima. Where do I stand? My friends have such strong views, but I can’t make up my mind. Clearly the Crusades had been evil, and not striking back felt demeaning, but the logistics were insurmountable. Rashid supported Salim’s stance: peace for now, while they rebuilt and restored the lives of the common people. ‘The Shihadi clerics can say what they want, but Salim won’t go to war,’ Waqar said.