by David Hair
Handkerchiefs waved – an insult in Estellayne, but a compliment everywhere else – and voices screamed. Ril felt a rush of adrenalin, the taste of glory and blood suddenly on his lips. He felt like a Rimoni slave-gladiator, ready to conquer or die.
‘—AND FACING HIM, SIR WILTOR VERDEN, THE GREEN KNIGHT!’
Fewer cheers; Sir Wiltor was a half-blood known only to those who followed the tourney circuit. But as Larik kept pointing out, blood didn’t matter so much here: a well-aimed lance could penetrate even a pure-blood’s shields; technique, riding skill and the controlled rage of combat could count for more than raw gnostic power.
Ril mounted Pearl and as he steadied her, he noticed that Larik’s hands on the reins were white-knuckled. ‘Hey, relax, Larik, it’s me,’ Ril told him. ‘Even you could flatten this guy.’
‘“Even me”?’ Larik sniffed. ‘Thanks. Remember: go in fast.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Ril yawned. If you gave an opponent too much respect, you became tentative. ‘Let’s get it done.’ He lowered his helm onto his head and pushed up the visor. The roar of the crowd became muffled as he nudged Pearl into motion. The pegasus picked up his mood, trotting jauntily onto the parade ground before the royal box. Ril glanced sideways as Sir Wiltor appeared beside him, riding a golden-horned alicorn, a creature of Northern myth, similar to his own pegasus but lighter-built, with a single spiral horn protruding from between the eyes. Alicorns were a common heraldic beast in several Pallacian and Midrean Houses. This one was prancing with a mad look in the eye.
Ril sent to Wiltor, who was looking pale. As well you might: jousting with royalty is a chancy business, and for you, pretty much a no-win contest, Ril thought, feeling a little sorry for the man.
Then they were parading past Lyra’s box and pausing to salute the empress, dipping their lances to her. Ril’s was sporting ribbons in Lyra’s imperial colours of purple and gold – he hadn’t told her about the other token he’d found slipped into his helm during the night: a red ribbon. He’d almost thrown it away, but at the last minute tied it around his right forearm, beneath his undershirt. For luck.
Lyra’s face was pale, her worry for him plain even at a distance. One hand rested on her swollen belly. He glanced about the royal box and found a few red dresses; including Jenet, and he decided the anonymous ribbon must be her token. The thought left him somewhere between edgy and energised . . . then he noticed the new girl, Lady Medelie, was also in red.
And she looks like she’d be a pleasant handful . . .
He told himself that looking wasn’t a sin as he and his adversary took to the air. He barely saw the fields and streams, the woods, the village and convent spread out below like a child’s playset. Stewards on board windskiffs guided them onto the approach path, marked by a corridor of gnostic-lamps hanging in the air, and as Pearl positioned herself, he was aware of Sir Wiltor mirroring his movement on the other side, almost half a mile away. They had to start simultaneously, so that they met in front of the main stand, and three times, Wiltor messed it up, which made Ril increasingly irritable. But finally Wiltor got it right and the Chief Marshall sent a blaze of red light skywards: the signal to attack.
. . . closer, closer . . . rukka! It’s NOW!
At the last instant, Wiltor veered fractionally, weakening his own speed and spoiling his aim, and his lance passed harmlessly by Ril’s shoulder – but his own pierced Wiltor’s shields and struck the target on the Midrean knight’s shoulder. The jolt was jarring; the lance snapped and Wiltor was hurled sideways in a crescendo of crashing metal and blue sparks from his gnostic shields. Ril barely noticed as he went flashing by, trying to right his mount and screaming in exultation. When he looked back, Wiltor was bouncing in the safety net and his alicorn was flapping away disdainfully.
Got you . . .
The sea of upturned faces below roared in approval, their excitement mirroring his own. He brought Pearl about, flipped up his visor and shouted triumphantly as he passed above them, then took the pegasus down in a rearing hind-legs landing and cantered to the Royal Box.
Lyra’s face shone with frightened relief amidst the other ladies, all cheering and waving. He heard a chant from the stands too: Prince of the Spear! Prince of the Spear! That felt good.
A tankard of ale in one hand, he walked Pearl himself to cool her down after the brief but intense exertion. The wind in his hair felt good, the sweat on his brow well-earned, and the beer was nectar. Other competitors offered congratulations, some fulsomely, those of rival Houses more grudging. Then he saw Brylion Fasterius and his good mood wavered. The Sacrecour champion was a big man, scar-faced, rough-bearded and swaggering. When their eyes met, there was no respect, only appraisal, and a promise.
Let me meet him this week, Ril prayed silently. Let me draw him!
Then a red flare lit the evening sky and the next bout commenced above: an Argundian knight riding a peryton was up against an Incognito knight on a venator; the winged reptiles were ideal military mounts, but considered too slow to make good jousting beasts, so few knights flew them in tourneys. Ril’s interest wasn’t really pricked until something about the Incognito caught his eye – not the shield emblem, a fairly common white scales on black, a symbol of Justice; most knights who rode incognito were exiles who harboured a sense of being wronged and there were at least a dozen of them on the lists. But this man leaned into the impact, where most knights didn’t have the nerve for that. His bulk and flying style looked familiar too – then came the clincher: just before he unseated the Argundian in a livid crash of gnostic sparks and crashing steel, he veered fractionally closer into the path of his foe, a risky manoeuvre that put more force into his blow, but risked taking the other man’s lance in the chest or helm instead of the target. Ril had only ever known one man who habitually did that.
He stared as the man descended to the front of the stands. An Incognito wasn’t obliged to remove his helm when receiving royal acclaim, and this one didn’t as he knelt briefly before Lyra, then backed away, victory wreath in hand.
Ril licked his suddenly dry lips, passed Pearl’s reins to a squire and re-joined Gryff and Larik. ‘Takwyth’s here,’ he announced.
‘Takky’s here?’ Larik exclaimed. ‘What a bloody nerve.’
‘Arrest him,’ Gryff grunted.
Ril thought on that. ‘We can’t: he walked away. No court ever passed a verdict against him, so legally, unless I press charges now, he has the right to be here.’
‘Then press charges,’ Larik sniggered. ‘Serve the prick right if you did.’
‘And look like a coward before the whole empire? No, what we need is a plan to beat him.’
14
Masked Assassins
Hadishah
The Church of Kore claims that the Amteh are the only faith who have a sect dedicated to murdering non-worshippers – the feared ‘Jackals of Ahm’, the Hadishah. Somehow they contrive to overlook their own Holy Inquisition!
ANTONIN MEIROS, HEBUSALIM, 852
Sagostabad, Kesh, Ahmedhassa
Thani (Aprafor) 935
Waqar waited impatiently as the appointed time came and passed and the sultan still hadn’t appeared. As instructed, he was standing outside the Royal Dom-al’Ahm, a small shrine set in the Walled Gardens of the palace. A brown-robed Godsinger had gone into the shrine earlier, but apart from that, the garden remained empty.
Salim has many calls on his time, Waqar reflected. He’s probably late to everything.
Outside in the streets, the crowds were in ferment, mostly against the Ordo Costruo – even the Ja’arathi were indignant at seeing the sultan lectured in his own palace. Nonetheless, Shihadi promises to ‘bring the Ord
o Costruo to their knees’ rang hollow. Unsurprisingly, the people of Sagostabad backed their native son, Salim, and red scarves were in the minority out there.
A bustle at the gates signalled the arrival of the sultan at last, and Waqar rose, trying to quell his nerves. Two guards remained at the entrance to the garden as the Keshi ruler approached. He was clad in green and gold silks, with a spotless white turban; Waqar could see somehow that he wasn’t Latif, but whether he was the true sultan, he couldn’t say.
‘Prince Waqar, please, a bow suffices between friends,’ the sultan said as Waqar went to prostrate himself. ‘Apologies for my tardiness – something has arisen.’
Waqar got up hurriedly, his eyes downcast. ‘Great Sultan, if now isn’t a good time—’
‘It’s a security matter, and will be resolved swiftly.’ The sultan sounded vexed. ‘I’m eager to speak with one of our rising young men, and of course, with his illustrious mother.’
Rising young man, Waqar noted, and illustrious mother. The praise steadied him. ‘My mother would be honoured to meet you, Great Sultan. She said to tell you that her words in the throne room were just politics.’
‘Of course.’ Salim smiled. ‘Perhaps you and your mother might join me for spice-tea at the third bell of morning tomorrow, in the Mosaic Hall?’
‘That would be an honour, Great Sultan.’ Waqar realised with a start that he was fractionally taller than the other man – and he was almost certain that he was the real Salim, not another impersonator. An impersonator lives a lie, but this man feels true.
‘Are you married, Prince Waqar?’ Salim asked, and when Waqar shook his head, ‘Engaged, surely, a catch like you?’
‘I’ve only recently completed my gnostic training. I’m sure my uncle and my mother will have the matter well in hand, but I am content to attend court and learn its ways.’
‘As well try to map the clouds,’ Salim sighed. ‘The court is always in motion, but if you can master the currents, it can be navigated.’ He was about to say more when bells chimed all over the city, followed by the first wailing cry of the Godsingers—
—except, oddly, in the shrine beside them, which remained silent.
I thought I saw a Godsinger go inside . . . Waqar turned towards the dom-al’Ahm just as the air shivered and every bird in the gardens took to the wing. A grey-robed man appeared at the entrance to the shrine: his hands were gloved and his feet booted, and the only thing alleviating his monochrome attire was a lacquered mask of a handsome man wearing a steel helmet.
‘Salim of Kesh, offer up your soul to Kore,’ the masked man called in Rondian, his voice distorted by the mask. He was clearly a mage, because pale blue shields were distorting the air around him and lightning danced on his fingertips.
For a second the tableau froze, then Waqar conjured his own shields and whispered, ‘Get behind me, Great Sultan!’
The masked man pulled a straight-bladed sword from beneath his robes and glided towards them. Waqar looked around frantically for the guardsmen, but he glimpsed two prone figures, and another dark-robed figure at the entrance. The lamps glinted off a masked face: they couldn’t retreat that way.
‘There’s another gate, on the far side of the garden,’ Salim said. He drew his own scimitar and thrust it into Waqar’s hands. ‘Stay calm,’ he urged, then he faced the attacker. ‘Who are you?’
‘Ironhelm, the Knight of Virtue,’ the man replied. He extended his blade towards Waqar. ‘Go, boy. My quarrel is with your ruler.’
‘Then your quarrel is with me,’ Waqar replied bravely.
Ironhelm closed in, his sword extended before him, and lunged. They exchanged a hammering sequence of blows, then Waqar blocked a mesmeric attack that almost froze his brain. The masked man was clearly far stronger in the gnosis than he was. Then Salim hurled a dagger at the masked attacker and although it was deflected harmlessly, Ironhelm paused, and Waqar was able to disengage.
‘Run!’ he shouted to Salim, and together they pelted through the walled garden. Waqar blocked a mage-bolt from the attacker that almost knocked him sprawling, then ran into Salim’s back as he stopped abruptly, thirty yards from the far gates. The sentries there were also lying in crumpled heaps, and standing over them was a tall feminine shape, also wearing a copper mask, this one a woman with a stylised heart-shape face, her rosy lips wistfully pursed, as if for love’s first kiss. She spun a scimitar dextrously and went into a fighting crouch. ‘Waqar,’ her distorted voice purred in toneless Keshi, ‘get out of here. We’ve come for Salim.’
Waqar responded by stepping in front of the sultan and kindling light in his hands. ‘I’ll die first!’ he shouted, to drown the sudden realisation that he really could die here.
‘HELP! HELP!’
He gripped his borrowed scimitar tight and prepared to sell his life dearly.
*
Sakita Mubarak had been given an apartment high on the eastern side of Sagostabad Palace facing away from the river; the stench of the slums reached up to clog the air, cooking-fire smoke wafting through her window morning and evening. It was an insult, of course – the best rooms were on the west side. ‘For your protection,’ Rashid told her. ‘Threats have been made.’
Rene Cardien knew she and Rashid were far from friends, but the Arch-Magister of the Ordo Costruo had still thought she might be a bridge to new negotiations. He and Odessa had left the day before and she was dining alone, working on a paper concerning the differing temperature layers in a typical storm-cloud and how they interacted to produce winds, rain and hail. Her late husband Placide had been a genius at making sense of the sparse information, and diligent in creating new experiments to prove or disprove his theories. Most magi treated ‘magic’ as an art-form; to him – and to her, too – it was all science. They were like-minded and had grown somewhat fond of each other, but it had still been a shock when Antonin Meiros himself had called them both to his office and suggested they marry.
She couldn’t say that she’d ever loved Placide, but she’d respected him, and they’d had two beautiful children. They’d made a real home of their apartment in the Arcanum complex, and their children, the whole point of the marriage, had sustained her through Placide’s death.
Special children.
Her reverie evaporated as something clicked in the wall before her and a panel swung open.
She gaped foolishly, because she’d never even suspected there could be a secret passage here, but her shields kindled instinctively and she propelled a globe of gnosis-light into the darkness. It illuminated a grey-cloaked man in a lacquered copper mask: a leering cat wearing a wide-brimmed hat. She knew the mask: Felix, the Lantric masque character synonymous with Luck.
Felix gestured, and her light winked out. That little touch of power told her what she’d feared: that the intruder was formidably powerful. ‘Sakita,’ his voice said, distorted by the mask. He stepped towards her desk, spreading his hands.
Her heart thudding, she stood, kindled mage-fire in both hands. ‘Who are you?’
‘A messenger from a disappointed suitor.’
‘What?’
‘My Master propositioned you last year, but you refused him. I’ve come to renew his offer.’
‘Then you’re wasting your time. I don’t want anything from him, or you.’
‘Of course you do,’ Felix purred. ‘Estranged from your family, viewed with suspicion by your order, an outsider wherever you turn? We could give you a real family, Sakita.’
‘You’ve got five seconds to leave before I splatter you over the wall.’
‘I could even give you your mentor and lover back.’
Impossible, she thought. ‘Four. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.’
Felix laughed. ‘I know exactly who I�
�m dealing with, Sakita. I know all about you and your powers – even the things Rashid doesn’t know.’
Surely he can’t—? ‘Three,’ she cried, gathering her strength.
His voice changed. ‘Twinkle? I’ve missed you. You look so sad and tired, Twinkle.’
Dear Ahm, no one knows that’s what Placide used to call me! ‘Shut up! Two—’
‘You’re a lost soul, Twinkle. Let me bring you home—’
She blasted a storm of sky-blue mage-fire at the robed shape, a blast that ripped Felix’s cloak apart and charred it to floating ash. The mask clattered to the floor amidst a haze of burning fabric, but no body fell: the cloak and mask had been empty. She went rigid in alarm when she should have moved, then twin daggers speared her calf and something slick and reptilian wrapped about her legs.
She shouted in horror as a crippling numbness took the feeling from her limbs and she toppled. The fangs released her, but only so the serpent could rear back for another strike. She tried to ward, but it was wrapped about her and her body was failing to respond.
*
Waqar’s heart was hammering as Heartface’s first blow slammed into his guard and a shower of sparks erupted where steel struck shielding, then he lashed out with his own blade, steel belled and the woman chuckled.
‘Saluté, Prince! Have at thee!’ she said, as if this were a theatre performance.
Waqar threw everything he had into a bolt of light, one that would have left an ordinary man’s skull crisped to the bone and the brain cooked inside. But it died on her shields and the counter-blow slammed him backwards, a blast of kinesis like a giant fist.
‘You don’t have to die,’ Heartface told him.
But Ironhelm had arrived now, and Salim, armed only with a dagger, placed his back to Waqar’s while Waqar tried to extend his shields.
