by David Hair
Kyrik was sitting a few yards away, also wrapped in furs, talking to someone clearly female. They hugged quickly, almost stealthily, lips touching and eyes intent. Then she turned and looked at him.
He married Hajya? But she’s Sfera . . . I thought they couldn’t marry?
She glared at him coldly while he recalled that dance and the way she’d tried to entice Kyrik to her bed. I guess she brought you to heel after all, Brother.
She walked away, and for a second he was admiring the way her hips swayed as she went, then he mentally slapped himself and looked back at Kyrik. His brother’s jaw was swollen on the left side, he had a blackened right eye and a cut cheekbone. Then he realised that his own hand was wrapped in bandages, but when he tried to flex, movement and feeling had returned. Someone, Hajya maybe, had healed it using the gnosis – nothing else explained the rapid recovery.
‘I’m sorry,’ he croaked.
‘That’s okay, Brother. Families fight. It’s expected. And I just dumped a Hel of a lot on your shoulders.’
‘But I almost killed you—’
‘Never got close.’ Kyrik winced. ‘You should see the other guy . . . oh, hang on—’ He chuckled at his own wit, then ladled out some stew and passed it over. ‘This is from Hajya’s own fire, so it’ll be damned good. I assume you’ll eat food prepared by a savage?’
Valdyr flinched, then nodded.
‘And I heard Iztven and Ghili saved you?’
‘Ysh, they did.’ Okay, point taken.
‘Val, when I was learning from Godspeaker Paruq, he told me of the Great Hatreds. One of those was called Naslavad, which signifies the hatred of others based on their race. To be tainted by Naslavad is shameful, because it denies whole peoples any worth. Think about it: even these Sydians have virtues you might envy: their horsemanship and archery, for example. All nations have worth – even the Keshi.’
Valdyr listened dully. He’d met all kinds in the slave-camps, even kindly guards among the Dhassan, though they’d been exceptions. ‘Brother, the Noorie women in the breeding-house raped me.’ He held his head in his hands. ‘Even though it was my cock in them, they raped me, over and again. I can’t see brown skin without remembering that. Your pretty words might be true, but what I feel doesn’t come from my head. It’s a response I can’t control. They did it to me and one day, they’ll answer for it.’
‘Brother, hate poisons the mind—’
‘Don’t quote your Godspeaker friends at me – I’m sick of it!’
They stared at each other, the hostility flaring again between them. Finally Kyrik shook his head and said placatingly, ‘Perhaps a skilled mystic-mage can heal your pain, Val. They can do a lot to soothe bad memories.’
‘No one is getting inside my head, Brother. No one.’
Kyrik gave him a sad look. ‘Then at the least, Val, keep your feelings for my wife’s people inside. It might not be the marriage I wanted, but sometimes life makes our choices for us.’
Valdyr swallowed, remembering the kiss he’d seen Kyrik and Hajya share. ‘You looked happy enough earlier.’
Kyrik’s face brightened. ‘You, know, surprisingly, I am. I think we’re becoming friends, and that’s far more important than anything else between us.’ Then he smiled. ‘Though the “anything else” is pretty damned good too.’
‘She looks like hard work. Something between a dancer and a . . . a sarkan.’
Kyrik laughed. ‘Ysh, she’s a sarkan. She’s married a Sarkany . . but I think she was a draken all along.’
*
Hegikaro, Mollachia
Maicin 935
A sullen crowd gathered at Kapuviza, the Water Gate, where the bridge crossed the moat of Hegikaro Castle. Robear Delestre had erected a massive gallows on top of the arch so anyone who entered did so beneath the dangling legs of his latest executions.
Heavy-handed and ill-judged, Sacrista thought, like all my dear brother does.
The crowd was angry, but not violent: there were plenty of legionaries here, and they knew Robear didn’t issue idle threats: if he said skulls would be cracked, then skulls were cracked. The hundreds watching were silent, their hatred expressed in cold stares and sinister hand-gestures; the Finger Curse, first and last fingers pointing at the object of their antipathy, was everywhere. Many were jabbed at her.
Barbarians.
She was standing surrounded by her officers on a wall overlooking the plaza, where she could see Robear on a higher balcony across the square, making extravagant gestures with a gold goblet amongst a laughing group of Midrean merchants and their families. The women wore richly coloured velvets and jewels in their elaborate hairdos piled atop their heads like extravagant hats; the young men, all lace cuffs and plumed hats, were strutting like conquerors.
‘Shouldn’t you be up there, Milady?’ Gaville, her most senior battle-mage, asked.
‘Was that a jest, Gaville?’ she asked. Because if he was insinuating that she belonged among those trollops and fools, she’d be damned if she’d let it pass.
He stiffened, and said, ‘Milady, I meant nothing, I just—’
‘Forget it,’ she snapped, even more annoyed.
She and Gaville had never got on, not since he’d tried to get into her bedchamber some ten years ago and she’d broken his arm. But he was their most experienced commander, even though he was a bully and an abuser of rank. Her father’s legions weren’t high-quality: they’d never gone on Crusade or campaign and the ranks were mostly filled up with thugs. Their battle-magi were no better: ambitious, conniving and spineless.
‘Let’s get this done,’ she snapped. ‘Bring out the prisoners.’
Gaville gestured to someone below, drums rolled and the men were led out, hooded and stumbling as they were goaded by the spear-butts of their captors. She scanned the crowd, seeking troublemakers, but though hatred floated in the air like mist off the lake, the only gesture of protest was that damned finger-curse. Ten feet below her, she saw a young girl, maybe sixteen, emitting a shrill wail, her fingers stabbed right at her.
Sweet Kore, shut her up, she thought.
The noise grew as the prisoners were led onto the platform. Their hoods were torn away, revealing battered faces, bruised, scabbed and swollen – she’d had a hand in questioning them herself, after Gaville’s men had caught them near Ujtabor. Her men had killed four of the collaborators and captured these six, who included two young people from the town who’d apparently been trying to join them.
As each hood was raised, the wailing cries rose: they obviously had kin here, friends too. ‘This could get feisty,’ Gaville noted.
‘No one reacts to provocation without my express order,’ she warned. He just sniffed and carried on seeking dissent. Incredible: he still thinks I’m soft just because I’m a woman.
She looked down the line of captives. She’d seen that look before: glazed eyes, unable to credit that this was real, that they were about to die. Then she focused on the older man, Tibor: the commander, sober-faced, self-contained, the hardest to break. She’d had to get involved closely in his interrogation and his glassy stare was down to the damage she’d done smashing his psyche. Now he was barely aware of where he was. He’d had a lot to tell . . . a lot, but not enough. I need to know more about this Vitezai Sarkanum. She’d already sent men to round up Tibor’s associates. The barbarians’ secret order was led by one Dragan Zhagy, and the Sarkany brothers were involved. They were hiding in the foothills of the Valadons, somewhere called ‘Jegto’. You had to follow the Magas upstream, beyond where she’d thought it passable. That’s where the Sarkany brothers are, with a few hundred men. We’ll trap and crush them there.
She signalled to the hooded executioners on the platform and they placed the nooses and shoved the prisoners out into space. There were six sharp snaps, some thrashing and a foul stench as bowels were voided. As the criminals swung on the creaking beams, a sea of eyes and fingers turned her way. The notion that she might one day live here vanished. Damnab
le place! When can we leave?
She found herself looking at that girl below her in the crowd, forcing herself to meet those blank eyes. Rukka-te, honey. Curses mean nothing. She made her eyes flash with light, to remind her who was who.
The girl shrieked even louder, a chilling, grating sound that made her shiver suddenly, and she tore her eyes away and looked up at Robear, who was clapping one of the merchants on the back as he led them back to their negotiation table. Her brother, feeling her gaze, paused to silently toast her, then swaggered away, accompanied by his flock of admirers.
‘Finish this,’ she snapped at Gaville. I need a bloody drink too.
*
The drink came with a price: Sacrista had to attend Robear’s stupid soirée and mingle with his guests. She was out of sorts, her ears still ringing with the wails of that damned girl in the crowd, and she had to compose herself before going in.
Parties! I hate them. She marched into the celebration as if she were going to war.
‘Sister!’ Robear shouted in greeting above the wall of laughter and chatter filling the small chamber. There were easily eighty people packed in – the latest batch of investors come to monitor their Mollachian venture – and the air was thick with perfume and sweat. Some of her legion magi were trying to charm the merchants’ daughters, others were just drinking, hard. In the corner was a small group of grey-clad men with sombre faces: the Governor’s aides, freshly arrived from Augenheim.
She endured volley after volley of names and handshakes with a stream of men who couldn’t work out whether to kiss her hand or shake it. ‘Get me palinka,’ she snapped at a servant, ‘and make it a big one.’ The local fruit brandy was the only redeeming feature in this Helhole; only once she’d gulped down a glass of the stuff did she begin to feel she could cope.
The next hour was torture, interrupted only when someone touched her arm. ‘A word, Lady Sacrista?’
Ansel Inoxion’s smug face was the last thing she wanted to see. His men had done nothing to help stop the Mollach raids. ‘Governor. Please excuse me, I’m just going.’
‘I wish to discuss the military situation.’
‘Then talk to Robear.’
‘But he doesn’t really have a clue, does he? I understand you’re rather stretched, both for money and men.’ He took her arm as if about to promenade her about a garden. ‘It distresses me to see an attractive young women in straits. Let’s see how I can help, yes? Your brother’s office is – where?’
He was the governor – one didn’t tell him no, not if one expected any kind of aid. Her heart sank. ‘I’ll show you.’
She let him lead her to the administrative wing, pulling from his grip the moment they were alone to break into a military stride, to the governor’s amusement.
‘I’ve heard that of all the Delestre magi, you’re the most capable, Lady,’ he said.
‘Then you heard right.’
‘Excellent. I despise false modesty.’
She showed him into Robear’s office, found a decanter of red wine and poured two goblets, then pointedly sat on a sofa opposite him. She took a sip of the wine; at least it was a good one, sweet berries with a leathery suppleness. ‘Midrean merlo,’ she said.
‘A ’28, yes?’ he replied, crossing his legs and lounging. ‘A Moontide year: dry – and with a better finish than the Third Crusade, eh?’ He leaned forward. ‘Tell me how you see things here, Sacrista.’
She didn’t like his attempt at intimacy. ‘I’m sure Robear’s told you everything.’
‘I’d prefer to hear truths from you than your brother’s drunken blandishments – especially if I am to commit my soldiers to helping you.’
Perhaps if I lay it out straight, he’ll see that it’s in his interests to help us, she decided. ‘All right: there are insurgents, but we’re closing in on them. Those men you saw executed today? One of them was a ringleader, and before I had him hanged, I extracted information about the rebels’ strength and positions. They will be dealt with as soon as the weather clears.’
‘I understand there have been battle-magi slain.’
‘Yes,’ she admitted.
‘And the Sarkany brothers escaped incarceration and now lead the rebels.’
‘Yes.’
‘They have the legal right to contest your presence, Lady.’
‘You were there when we locked them up to die – you sanctioned it—’
‘Did I? I don’t remember.’
Oh, it’s like that, is it? she thought bitterly. ‘One legion is not enough to garrison this valley and hunt down these rebels,’ she growled. ‘Two would be plenty, but your men are idle, sir. If they took their share of the patrols, things would be greatly eased.’
‘But you’re the tax-farmers, Sacrista. My men are purely here to guard Imperial possessions.’ Inoxion steepled his fingers. ‘Your father sided with the Vereinen empress in 930 and in return was granted this tax-farming contract – but it is finite, and at the end of your term, you’re out. August Delestre paid Treasurer Dubrayle a great deal of money for the contract and he expects you to make a whole lot more – and Dubrayle will take half of what you pay me, for he is desperate for revenue from any source. Your father and Lord Dubrayle are two people you don’t want to disappoint. Everyone is demanding a return.’
‘The mines are about to reopen, the harvest is coming – we’ll strip Mollachia this summer. If you help us crush these rebels, it’ll guarantee your profit—’
Inoxion was looking unimpressed. ‘I’ve learned there are few guarantees in life, Sacrista. The Imperial Council are prepared to let August Delestre farm taxes because his support has real value. He appointed you and Robear to do his dirty work. But if you fail to control this insurrection I will intervene, and you’ll have to go home and explain yourself to August.’ He licked his lips, undressing her with his eyes. ‘What price a kingdom, Sacrista?’
It was strange how a beautiful wine could suddenly taste like acid.
Inoxion tapped a finger against his goblet. ‘Now, I know your legion is stretched. I know you can’t afford any more unforeseen costs. But there are other ways to win my aid, and I’m not unreasonable. Am I clear?’
She went cold. ‘Perfectly, my Lord.’
‘Excellent. Now, take off your clothes.’
She stood, trembling in fury. ‘No, Governor, I will not. I’m a battle-mage, not a whore. You can keep your soldiers and go rukk yourself, because you’re not coming near me.’
31
A Forest of Masts
Windship Travel
Before magi discovered that wood could be made to hold Air-gnosis, enabling the construction of windships, a person could travel no more than a dozen miles a day on foot, maybe double that if mounted. Windships can move such distances in an hour, untroubled by terrain. Truly, Air-gnosis and the windship opened up Yuros to trade – and to the legions.
ORDO COSTRUO COLLEGIATE, PONTUS
Sagostabad, Ahmedhassa
Akhira (Junesse) 935
Nock. Draw. Aim. Release. The bow leaped in Latif’s hand, and the shaft sped away, striking the target thirty yards away, near the edge.
Nock. Draw. Aim. Release.
An arrow flew every five seconds – he could shoot faster, but that sacrificed depth of draw and the aim, and Ashmak demanded each shaft be capable of killing.
Ashmak demanded a lot of things.
His last arrow struck near the centre and Latif flexed his fingers painfully. Archery practise had never been so hard in Salim’s retinue.
‘Retrieve!’ the instructor screamed, and everyone trotted out towards the targets, running at two-thirds speed, no one trying to stand out. It hadn’t been that way at first, but more recently they’d reached a silent, un-negotiated agreement that all worked at the same pace.
‘Move faster, you moorhks!’ the instructor bellowed.
‘One day I’m going to shoot that ghatiya in the throat, Ahm willing,’ the man beside Latif muttered.
; ‘Get in line,’ another replied, but they worked quickly, ripping shafts from targets, smoothing damaged feathers and seeking the few that had gone astray. They were permitted a minute; those returning with less than a full quiver were flogged. That had stopped happening pretty quickly.
The Keshi bow was made of wood and buffalo-horn and leg sinews. The wood formed the core, but adding horn to the belly or inside panel facing the archer and the sinew to the outer side made it more powerful. From close range, an arrow could even punch through a steel breastplate . . . just like the one the instructor wore.
Latif had been fantasising about such a shot.
‘Ten seconds!’ the instructor hollered and they picked up pace, arriving back together. A whip flickered around Latif’s ear, just a reminder, and he’d learned not to react. His brand had stopped weeping, though it still hurt; wearing armour chafed it.
‘Ready, draw!’ And the cycle began again.
Is it only a month since we were conscripted? he wondered. He’d forgotten any notions of escape – this was still a better life than dying on a Sagostabad building site. He was now a kamangir, an archer of the Piru-Satabam III, the third elephant contingent. Rani had been outfitted with a howdah made of wicker and dried hide and hung about with boiled leather and chain armour. The howdah had two levels: Sanjeep rode above the elephant’s head in a fortified perch, while Latif and Ashmak rode in the tower on her back, more exposed, but with a superior field of fire.
Latif drilled in archery, spear- and sword-fighting every morning; in the afternoons, he drilled with Ashmak, Sanjeep and Rani, negotiating courses while firing at targets, rampaging over wooden man-shapes and smashing them to bits. Slaves were forbidden to leave, so evenings were spent in camp.
The question of which enemy they were to face was never answered, and Latif doubted that even Ashmak’s commanders knew. The archers gossiped; most thought Lakh, others Gatioch or Mirobez. Some even mentioned Javon.
