by David Hair
As his consciousness faded again, Latif thought, I’ll be dead by nightfall . . . For vast minutes there was nothing but the throbbing pain, then he blacked out again. He had to be revived twice more before he could hold down the water given by a sympathetic-looking Keshi servant in dirty whites.
‘Drink deep, boy,’ he said softly. ‘Then try and rest.’
Latif could feel tears on his face. ‘Sweet Ahm, it hurts!’
‘I know. We’ve all been branded – it’s so he doesn’t have to pay us.’
‘It’s illegal – they can’t do this!’
‘Shihad is declared, my friend,’ the servant said. ‘The army does what it likes.’
23
The Abduction
Nurturing the Bloodlines
The gift of the gnosis is carried in bloodlines, and the strength of our empire lies in the strength of our magi. Therefore it is the duty of every mage to breed. Be fruitful, and cover the empire.
GRAND PRELATE RODAS, PALLAS, 684
The exhortation by Rodas for magi to breed willy-nilly was one of several irrational utterances during his sorry reign as Arch-Prelate. Of course magi must breed – but the core power of this empire lies in the pure-blooded magi, and they must seek to contain the bloodlines to themselves. Mixed-blood liaisons are to be discouraged.
GRAND PRELATE PETRON, PALLAS, 722
Pallas, Rondelmar, Yuros
Aprafor–Maicin 935
Empress Lyra Vereinen clung to her husband’s arm as her windship landed in a courtyard of the Imperial Bastion. The swift vessel had brought them directly from the post-tourney revels in Finostarre; while the local innkeepers and whoremongers sought to extract every last coin from the revellers, Lyra’s Imperial Council was gathering to discuss the latest threat to her reign.
Pallas seemed oblivious, night settling over her like a star-spangled shroud.
Until the child in her belly could be born, Lyra’s heir was Cordan Sacrecour, and after him, Cordan’s younger sister Coramore, the children of the late Emperor Constant, her mother’s half-brother. While she held Cordan and Coramore, the old Sacrecour regime – House Dupeni – had been unable to move against her.
During the final bout of the tourney someone had stolen the Sacrecour children and the threat of insurrection now hung over her neck like an executioner’s axe.
‘Thank Kore you’re with me,’ she murmured to Ril as they walked through the small group of officials gathered to meet them and headed for the council chambers. The many unknowns swirled inside, but the innate protectiveness of her prince-consort was a comfort. We’re in this together, she thought, drawing calm from his strong features and confident stride. His Estellan colouring was unique in the palace; his black hair and olive complexion made his the most beautiful face in Koredom to her. A few weeks ago – no, it was just a few days ago! – she’d feared she was losing him; last night they’d put that behind them. In truth, he’d been her shield from the moment he’d smashed into her cell in the convent and saved her from being murdered, and he was still the centre of her life: husband, lover and father of her unborn child. I won’t let this fear crush me, not when he’s here.
She walked slowly into the meeting room, aware she was becoming ungainly as she entered her fifth month of pregnancy. She surveyed her waiting councillors silently, wondering if any of them were behind this outrage. Grand Prelate Wurther, you are the obvious suspect. The Corani had stolen the children from under Wurther’s nose, and her too. But for the audacity of Ostevan, her confessor, and Ril’s courage, Cordan would be Emperor-elect and she would be lying in an unmarked grave – and no doubt Wurther would have profited handsomely.
There are questions I could ask him, but could I trust the answers? She met the grand prelate’s bow of greeting, then shifted her gaze around the room.
Edreu Gestatium, the head of the Imperocracy, the empire’s bureaucratic service, stood next to Wurther. He was a man of details and dust; she could picture him involved in any number of conspiracies. Beside him was Treasurer Calan Dubrayle. She’d thought him fully on her side, having given him his head on rebalancing the treasury, but he probably had his price too.
Next to him was Dirklan Setallius, and the thought of him as an enemy worried her sick. The spymaster knew everything . . . but he was also Corani, and to the death, after all he’d been through in 909.
Their guest counsillor for this meeting, Esvald Berlond, was the Corani Knight-Commander and deputy to Ril as Master-General. He’d been in charge of security here in Pallas while the court was away: the children had been taken on his watch. Yes, Berlond was Corani through and through, but he’d been fiercely loyal to Ril’s predecessor and rival, Solon Takwyth, who’d dramatically returned from exile and that very day won the tourney she’d arranged, defeating Ril in the final bout.
‘Sit, please,’ she invited them. ‘We all know why we’re here. Tell me what we know, Lord Setallius.’
The spymaster, a sinister figure with his long silver hair, gloved metal hand and black eyepatch, looked around the room as if deciding how much to reveal. ‘About three hours ago, late afternoon, while the entire court was four miles away at Finostarre, two people entered the suite here in the Bastion where Cordan and Coramore Sacrecour were held. One was Sir Bruss Lamgren, a trusted knight of Coraine who’d been appointed their guard; the other was a senior lady-in-waiting, Lady Jenet Brunlye. Lamgren appears to have slain three servants and the two guardsmen watching the door, then he and Lady Brunlye used the gnostic key Lamgren had been entrusted with to release the royal children. The children appear to have departed willingly. The four of them left by a rear exit, by carriage, we believe. The palace was almost empty, and no one has seen them since.’
‘Lady Jenet complained of illness and left this morning for the Bastion,’ Lyra said. ‘We all saw her at breakfast in Finostarre.’
‘Lamgren also had riverreek – that’s why he didn’t compete at the tourney, or so he claimed,’ Setallius noted. ‘We’ve got thousands of people sick in Emtori and Fisheart. It feels like half of Pallas has the riverreek this season.’
‘What are you doing to find the children?’ Ril demanded.
‘There’s a manhunt, obviously – I’ve got the Imperial Guard going door to door, but the children are probably already out of the city,’ Setallius replied. ‘My contacts in Dupenium, Fauvion and the major towns of Eastern Rondelmar are watching for signs that they’ve shown up in the court of Garod Sacrecour or one of his allies.’
‘Is Duke Garod mobilising?’ Berlond asked.
‘The Sacrecours are never far from full mobilisation,’ Setallius replied. ‘None of the Great Houses are. But there’s no immediate signs of a march on Pallas. Obviously we’ll be deploying legions on the roads east.’
‘If the children are seen in Dupenium or Fauvion, it’s open war,’ Ril said. ‘Someone, somewhere, is moving those children to wherever they believe will be the best place to announce them to the world.’
Setallius agreed. ‘It can only be a matter of time. But it might not be immediate: we know how the Sacrecour-Fasterius alliance will react to this, but what of the Canossi, and the Aquilleans to the south? They’re far from committed to Cordan’s cause; they may require proofs that Cordan is free – and a viable ruler – before moving. They don’t like us any more than Garod, but no less either. I believe there’s a window of time in which we can recover the children, perhaps up to three months.’
Three months . . . Lyra clutched Ril’s hand while covering her belly. Dear Kore, is that all the time we have? ‘What else can we do?’ she asked, hearing fear in her voice.
‘We must set a bounty on their heads,’ Gestatium suggested. ‘Enough to make the most ardent Sacrecour change his colours.’
‘Nobles of Great Houses don’t break ranks,’ Calan Dubrayle replied in a clipped, faintly bored voice. ‘It won’t work.’
‘Great Houses have servants who see more than their lords suspect. And most Houses are
riddled with infighting,’ Gestatium countered, and Setallius nodded in agreement as he went on. ‘There’ll be someone who sees something, and has a price.’
‘Perhaps the children were snatched by a neutral, an opportunist seeking a ransom?’ Wurther asked.
‘No one’s neutral about the throne except the Church,’ Ril drawled. ‘You lost them once – did you take them back?’
‘No,’ Wurther scoffed, ‘I am the Voice of Kore and I cannot lie: I don’t have the royal children, and I wouldn’t harbour them. The Church is a voice for peace and prosperity in Rondelmar.’
Lyra wished she could believe that, but Wurther had been cornered into supporting her claim in 930 and she was certain he still resented it. ‘What of Sir Solon Takwyth’s return?’ she asked. ‘A coincidence?’
‘I don’t believe in coincidences,’ Wurther said.
‘That’s because you’re a merchant of superstition,’ Dubrayle sniffed. ‘It profits you to claim that everything that happens serves some divine purpose.’
The grand prelate chuckled. ‘You’re a soulless man, Calan.’ He turned back to Lyra. ‘If you want my opinion, Takwyth’s return is very much part of this. The tournament was an integral part of extricating those children from a place they’d not normally be. Where did the idea come from?’
They all turned to Ril, who coloured – then his eyes went round. ‘Jenet Brunlye! I was talking with her one day, just an idle conversation, not long before the council meeting where I suggested the tourney, and she said she loved them . . . I think that made the idea pop into my head during the meeting.’
Lyra’s hand went to her mouth, trying to forget that Jenet and Ril had been lovers once – and that until a few days ago, she’d suspected the relationship to have resumed. ‘But that would mean she’s been working against us for months!’
Setallius said ruefully, ‘I’ve had suspicions about her at times, but no proof.’
‘If you harboured suspicions, why wasn’t she questioned?’ Gestatium snapped.
‘When suspicions are all we have, it’s better to give people a little rope and see if they hang themselves.’
‘In other words, you risked your queen’s life,’ Wurther accused.
‘If I acted on every suspicion and rumour, the streets would be empty and the cells full,’ Setallius retorted. ‘Lyra, I believe Takwyth saw an opportunity in the tourney – but only to get himself back here to Pallas. He’s being watched, obviously, but I don’t think he’s the immediate threat.’ The spymaster glanced at Esvald Berlond. ‘You will respect the privacy of the meeting room, obviously, Sir Esvald? I will know to whom I should talk if I suddenly find that Takwyth hears what we discuss.’
The surly-faced knight snorted. ‘Of course. I’m not a fool, Setallius.’
Lyra sighed. ‘I trust you all. Follow him, see who he talks to. And Sir Esvald, put the Corani legions in and around Pallas into full mobilisation. Lord Dubrayle, find the funds to do so. Lord Gestatium, you have highly placed officials in every court: cooperate with Lord Setallius on keeping me informed. Dirklan, your task is to find those children.’ She paused, fearing for her soul, then said firmly, ‘They will stand trial if they have committed treason of their own volition.’
They all looked at her.
Yes, I’m that frightened and angry: this is an attack on my unborn child!
‘What are we facing here?’ Calan Dubrayle asked. ‘A general uprising doesn’t happen at the drop of a hat. There’s been simmering rural unrest for some years now, for economic reasons, but we’ve not see a large-scale movement towards revolt. Except for Garod Sacrecour, the dukes are broadly content with their lot – in fact, the tax-farming legislation has them closer aligned with us than the previous regime.’
Lyra looked to Setallius, who said, ‘Broadly, rulers face four threats: assassination, palace coup, revolt or revolution. Revolution sees a complete change, not just of regime, but mode of governance – a change to clerical rule, for example. A revolt is an uprising against the ruler, with the goal of replacing them with another from the same ruling class. Both require widespread unrest to succeed and I see no evidence that we’re facing either.’
‘Nor I,’ Dubrayle added. ‘Money moves – or fails to move – when such events occur. I’d be aware if something like that was potentially building up.’
‘Then that means assassination or coup,’ Wurther put in. ‘If this were “just” an assassination, the goal would be to replace the ruler with their heir – but Cordan is Lyra’s heir, so why kidnap him? Why not just strike at Lyra directly and let the laws of succession do the rest?’
‘To keep him safe until his succession is confirmed?’ Setallius suggested. ‘The kidnappers would know that Cordan wouldn’t be safe, were Lyra to be murdered.’ He glanced at Lyra. ‘Apologies for discussing your demise so freely, my Queen.’ The faint levity in his voice made Lyra smile for the first time that night.
‘Don’t let my longevity restrain your theorising, Dirklan,’ she replied lightly.
The spymaster’s mouth twitched, then he grew serious again. ‘The other real possibility is a palace coup: in such an attack, the knives come out for the leadership but don’t tend to touch the people on the street – well, not until afterwards, if at all. There’s a bloodletting and a change of regime, but for most, life goes on. That’s what happened in 909 when the Sacrecours ousted the Corani. They’ve done this before.’
‘A coup requires key people to either aid it or stand aside,’ Dubrayle added. He looked Lyra in the eyes. ‘You have my full support, Majesty, and I would hope that of everyone here.’
There was a supportive rumble about the table, and each man pledged again to try and find those responsible. Praying they were honest, Lyra accepted their aid with thanks, though she took little comfort from it. Someone out there was holding those children against her as a threat, and the fear of what might be done to them – and to her own child – left her nauseous.
‘Find them,’ she urged as the meeting broke up. ‘Bring them back.’ She gestured to Setallius to stay with her and Ril. As soon as they were alone, she squeezed Ril’s hand, then said, ‘Dirklan, last night – so, before the final day of the tourney and these events – we were in Finostarre, at the tournament. Late that night, I visited my husband’s rooms, and I stayed the night—’
‘Excellent,’ Setallius said. ‘I find this whole confinement business a nonsense.’
Lyra smiled at that; her midwife had been making her live like a nun to protect the unborn child. ‘I wasn’t after your approval, Dirklan! The thing is, around midnight I went to leave just as someone outside the door tried the door handle. But Ril had used a locking-spell, so they couldn’t get in.’
‘You never said—’ Ril exclaimed.
‘You were exhausted – and whoever it was left,’ Lyra explained. ‘But before they went, I think they used the gnosis to try and force my hand, maybe believing that my touch might remove the locking-spell . . . I understand that it’s common for such spells to be created with certain people immune – isn’t that how I can come and go from my rooms without Basia unlocking every door for me?’
‘You’re correct,’ Setallius told her. ‘What else did you sense?’
‘Only that they hated me . . . and an odd buzzing sensation.’
‘Buzzing?’ Setallius stroked his chin. ‘You may have sensed the gnostic trace of the other person. Every mage has their own unique trace. Can you think who it might be?’ he asked, looking at Ril.
Ril bit his lower lip. ‘No.’
It hurt Lyra to realise that she didn’t quite believe his denial, even though they’d made love last night so tenderly . . . but Ril did have a past. ‘Is it possible some past flame might have sought you out that night?’
Ril looked down and muttered, ‘Jenet Brunlye, you mean? Well, she was in Finostarre, in the same building that night . . . I swear, I’ve not had any relations with her, not for years before you and I married, Lyra.’
<
br /> ‘I’m sure . . . I know . . .’ she answered, squeezing his hands, then she looked at Setallius. ‘Lady Brunlye didn’t depart Finostarre until the morning of the final bouts – but if it was her, why risk exposure just before the abduction?’
‘“Abduction”?’ Ril snorted. ‘I’m sure they had their bags packed and ready!’
‘Perhaps it was murder, not seduction, on this visitor’s mind?’ Setallius said. He tapped the table. ‘I’ll consider it. I have some ideas of my own . . .’
*
As Sir Solon Takwyth entered the knights’ hall in the Imperial Bastion, a feeling of rightness settled upon his shoulders like a mantle. The knights of Coraine were almost all here to welcome his return.
‘Milord!’ Esvald Berlond burst out, his battle-hardened features restored to boyhood by his excitement. More than anyone, he’d kept Takwyth’s memory alive among the knights while Ril Endarion had tried to win them over. Pretend you’re Endarion’s man all you like, he’d remind them; but Solon will return one day.
And he was right, Takwyth reflected, as man after man dropped to one knee – men from all the titled northern families: Sulpeters, Falquists, and all the rest.
And all of them stared at his horribly disfigured face. The whole left side had been branded, the flesh left a mottled mess of scar tissue and dead flesh.
‘Who did this to you?’ someone asked as they all stood.
He told the story so they could all hear it: the capture and torture, the escape. It made a good tale, and it reinforced his prowess: in agony from the branding, he’d nevertheless got free and wreaked bloody revenge.
I’m still the best, that tale reminded them, as did beating Endarion at the tourney.
‘Yes, it’s ugly,’ he said, pitching his voice to fill the hall, ‘but it’s done. I’ve made my peace with it.’
‘Must’ve hurt like buggery,’ old Thom Cransford marvelled.
