by Tom Lloyd
‘I appoint myself nothing, but like it or not, I carry the spark that binds us. There are only a few of our sisters here yet, but several have been permanently affected by the death of Fate. Those who were praying at the time of her murder were harmed in the mind and they need the protection of their sisters. I intend to gather as many as I can and take stock. Only then will we be able to find our way forward. Only then will we have a chance to find a new purpose.’
The old priestess pursed her lips as she thought. No doubt she was wary of everything since the death of their Goddess.
‘You don’t need to decide now,’ Legana continued, ‘come with me to the castle and meet the others. They would be glad of a priestess here.’
She gestured for them to follow and turned towards Camatayl Castle. After a moment she heard footsteps. Though she set a slow pace, Legana walked alone, feeling their eyes bore into her back with every step.
When she reached the castle Shanas, one of the devotees she had first arrived with, ran up and informed her that King Emin had been looking for her.
‘I thought as much,’ Legana said, gesturing at the activity within the normally sleepy courtyard. ‘He will soon have need of us.’
There were hundreds of men in the castle now, soldiers and workmen alike, the latter labouring to erect new buildings within the embrace of the castle walls: temporary barracks for the troops that would soon be passing through the area. A few regiments were already camped up against the outer walls, along with a large number of messengers. Flying from the main tower were half a dozen flags now — another two had been added during the day.
‘My sisters,’ she said, rounding on the devotees following her, ‘I’m needed elsewhere. Shanas here will take you to the others. King Emin had granted us rooms in the gate-tower — it’s not much, but as you can see, space is limited. His hospitality isn’t charity, and if you wish to stay it will be on my terms.’
‘And what are those?’ demanded the priestess.
‘Use of what skills we possess,’ Legana said, ‘and a guarantee from me that his secrets will be kept. I advise you not to test that; the devotees here have already made their choice.’
Before any of the four had the chance to argue Legana turned her back on them and headed for the main tower. There were now green-and-gold liveried members of the Kingsguard posted throughout the castle, but she was admitted without challenge and made her way up to the room where she’d first discussed a bargain with the king. This time he barely even looked up as she entered.
King Emin had chosen Camatayl Castle as his base of operations for the coming year, leaving his queen and newborn son in the relative safety of Narkang. He wore a ceremonial version of the Kingsguard uniform and a hat to match it that looked gaudy even to Legana’s weak, greying vision.
‘What about there?’ he asked the man beside him, a decrepit old relic in a faded uniform.
The man’s cheeks were scarred by drink and his uniform hung loose on his body. The dull gold braiding from shoulder to cuff on one sleeve indicated he was a general in the Narkang Army, the creasing suggested he had been retired for a while now. There were two other men looking over the map, both much younger, who sported the same braiding, and Legana guessed them to be newly promoted.
‘Good ground, yes,’ said the old general, with a cautious glance at the newcomer, ‘but the river all along that stretch is impassable. There are only two bridges of use to us for more than a hundred miles. You’d need a local in command or they could get trapped.’
‘It’s worth the risk, within striking distance of the city. Three divisions, under your personal command. If the city falls you pull back past the river and the south bank is your boundary. Remember, hit-and-run is our mantra: constant movement, and no engagement where it is expected.’
King Emin at last tore himself away from the map and directed Legana towards an elderly, rather shambolic-looking nobleman escorted by a bored-looking Kingsguard. The pale, rather portly man sat at a small desk peering at another map that had been stretched out and held at the corners with brass weights. Alongside was a jumble of papers on which he was writing notes. The king had been expecting his arrival for a few days now; this was his uncle, Anversis Halis, an academic who had been recording and modelling the movements of the Harlequins for years.
Only recently had the king become interested in the work, though he was aware of most of the research being conducted within his borders, interesting or otherwise. It wasn’t the first time the king had been able to harness knowledge of this kind for military use. Legana didn’t know if they all got guards, but the king had been less than complimentary about his uncle’s discretion, so she guessed it was as much to keep him out of trouble as anything else.
Legana made her way over and stood in silence at the table until Halis noticed her.
He gave a gasp of shock. ‘Blessed song of seasons!’ he exclaimed, half-falling off his chair. But he soon recovered himself and it wasn’t long before Halis was peering up at her face with utter fascination. ‘You, ah, you are . . .’ he stuttered.
Legana inclined her head and the words died unsaid in his throat, but the acknowledgement didn’t appear to diminish his curiosity. He even went so far as to edge around the table to get a little closer, but that just prompted Legana to back away.
— Stop staring or I’ll blind you, she wrote on her slate eventually.
The man gave a squawk and retreated to his seat. ‘Ah, my apologies, Mistress Legana. There are so many questions running through my head that I hardly know where to begin.’
Legana scowled, her fingers flexing around the silver head of her cane. It took a while, but the man eventually got the message that she was not going to answer questions and turned his attention back to the map.
‘Ah, here is the working plan. The, um, subjects follow a reasonably simple path through the Land, as one might expect. They are only human, after all, and they are subject to the same habits as the rest of us.’
— How many?
‘In total?’ Halis frowned at her. ‘It is impossible to tell for sure. King Emin assures me they have home clans and will return there periodically, but for how long is impossible to calculate, as is the incidence of their passing being reported to me.’
— How is that done?
He glanced away uneasily at the king, but at that moment Legana’s balance failed her again and she swayed forward, grabbing the table with both hands to steady herself. Halis went even whiter and raised his hands protectively, as though she was going to strike him.
‘A network of academics throughout the Land,’ Halis blurted out, misreading her actions entirely. ‘They study the writings of Verliq and aid the research of their fellows wherever possible.’
‘And what kind fellows they are too,’ added King Emin, joining them. He looked at her, concerned, but she waved it away and he didn’t comment further.
‘You will have heard of Verliq’s Children, I assume? As I have reminded my uncle here, my patronage and assistance over the years has been invaluable to them, and I fully expect them to be delighted to assist our midsummer operation.’
‘Delighted?’ spluttered Halis.
King Emin raised a hand to stop him saying any more. ‘I choose to believe they are delighted. They are, of course, not men of action, but I want this to be kept separate from my principal spy network, which has quite enough to keep it busy at present. To bolster numbers Legana has agreed to recruit for me among her sisters, both for the operation itself and the logistics of putting it into practice.’
— How many?
‘To kill? Our aim is a hundred; we know we will not get them all, but that should still disrupt this current phase of the shadow’s plan.’ Emin pursed his lips in thought and stared down at the map. ‘I have had news from Byora; we were not successful in our goal. At the same time it was not a complete disaster, and our casualties were acceptable.’ He hesitated. ‘You can tell your sisters that the killer of their Godd
ess is dead.’
Legana felt her knees tremble and another wave of dizziness washed over her, but she fought it, and managed to keep herself upright. Aracnan was dead. She had been expecting this news at some point, ever since Doranei’s comrade, Sebe, had managed to wound the mercenary, but still the news caught her off-guard.
Anger and satisfaction clashed inside her. There was some frustration that it had been done by another, despite King Emin’s assurances that his end would have been painful. What more did she want? What more could she ask for?
Nothing. There is nothing more, she realised. All I can do now is ensure his deeds do not define me any more than they must.
— Thank you. How many sisters? she forced herself to write, ignoring the unsteadiness of the script.
To Emin’s credit he continued with only a questioning look at her expression. ‘As many as possible, more than we can manage,’ he said. ‘Some will have to leave today — we are limited by the distances involved — but some of Uncle Anversis’ colleagues have faster methods of communication so we may be able to hire mercenaries, if nothing else. There is an additional matter, however. Doranei has reported preachers being sent out by the child, Ruhen. They are now secondary targets.’
— Does it suspect?
‘There is no indication of that,’ Emin said, his worry-lines deepening at the suggestion. ‘The reports we’re getting suggest Harlequins are laying the foundations for these preachers, adding legitimacy to what will follow. The agents I have here and those easily contacted will be sent furthest afield.’ Emin picked up a sheet from the pile of paper his uncle had been making notes on. ‘This designates the place and the local contact. The particular agents will be assigned here, and the page will be encoded and copied before it leaves this room.’
— When do you need my sisters?
‘We will send them in groups; I need the first ready in two days.’ The king took another piece of paper proffered by his uncle and scanned it before showing it to Legana. ‘This is the first; do you have enough to fill these?’
Legana squinted at the page. The scribbled characters were hard to read, but she was able at least to make out the number of lines involved. She nodded.
‘Send them to Dashain tomorrow morning. She will assign positions and give the contact names. Hopefully you will not have to remind them how skilled the targets are; they are not to be given any sort of chance, or drawn into a fair fight.’
King Emin paused and gave her a long, hard look. ‘I’m taking a great risk in trusting so much to your sisters. Are you certain of their loyalty? I don’t have a contingency plan here; my forces are stretched too thin.’
— It will be done.
The look in her eyes was chilling. It reminded Emin of Larat wearing his sister’s face. There was no place for uncertainty in a God’s mind, and Doranei had described Legana as uncompromising when she was just mortal. The current combination was not a comforting one. As he ordered murder to be done, Emin found himself hoping he wouldn’t be the one to find out how far Legana was prepared to go.
CHAPTER 18
‘Count Vesna,’ Lesarl called from the massive stone stair that led to the Great Hall, ‘where exactly do you think you are going?’
Vesna wheeled his horse around and stared with some incomprehension at the Chief Steward. All around him the soldiers hesitated, sensing something cutting through the tension in the air. Vesna was surrounded by a hundred men of the Palace Guard, now in the process of forming up around a small party of officers.
‘What are you talking about? You heard the message too!’ he shouted back.
Half the palace had heard the man shouting as he raced into the Great Hall to deliver his message to Sir Cerse, and they had all exploded into action at the news.
‘Yes, Vesna, I heard it only too well — which is exactly why you should not be going anywhere.’
Vesna gaped. ‘What in the Dark Place are you talking about? We’ve got soldiers under siege at the Brewer’s Gate, man — men of the Ghosts!’
Lesarl sighed theatrically and folded his arms, looking down at Vesna as though he was just a foolish child. ‘I know you men of action get excited easily, but think it through a moment. Go back to the source of the problem.’
Vesna turned to his companions on horseback, Sir Cerse, Swordmasters Pettir and Cosep, and a bearded captain of the Ghosts called Kurrest. From the bemused expressions on their faces, he guessed none of them had a clue what the Chief Steward was talking about. Vesna’s horse, a black hunter with padded barding covering its flanks and a steel chest-guard, tossed its head impatiently, refusing to stay still even when Vesna jerked on the reins to quieten it.
Letting his new-found divine senses filter out the movement all around so he could concentrate, Vesna replayed in his mind the report that had prompted immediate action. Surely it wasn’t just a ruse? A soldier had run all the way to the palace, bringing news of a unit of Ghosts who’d arrested a nobleman under holy orders, one Count Feers, only to find themselves attacked by a party of penitents and priests of Karkarn. The Ghosts had driven off their attackers and retreated to the nearest safe place, the nearby Brewer’s Gate barbican, where a permanent guard was stationed.
Now they were under siege, by increasing numbers of troops, and they had rung the attack-alarm to summon help. While it was possible this was a set-up, to lure a few companies of Ghosts out of the Palace, Vesna didn’t believe it, not when individual squads out on routine patrol could have been ambushed on a daily basis if they wanted to.
Go back to the source of the problem. The arrest? Vesna tried to remember what he could of Count Lerail Feers — they hadn’t ever exactly been friends. Feers was a deeply religious man, one of those who’d regularly denounced Vesna’s lifestyle when he’d been a member of the Ghosts. He had been arrested for siding with the clerics against Lord Fernal — not a crime in itself, but for a nobleman to take holy orders without relinquishing his title was.
It had been prohibited for a millennium or more: all noblemen automatically had military rank, so taking holy orders was strictly prohibited lest it place wealth and weapons in the hands of priests. Only the Lord of the Farlan had a place in the three spheres of Farlan power, spiritual, temporal and military. Normally Feers wouldn’t have been arrested, but as a count he had a number of marshals and knights under his authority, and by ordering them to also take holy orders he had committed treason.
‘Piss and daemons,’ Vesna said suddenly, ‘you’re worried about hypocrisy? You think they’ll accuse me of the same crime . . .’ Vesna didn’t have any position within the cult of Karkarn, but he was the War God’s Mortal-Aspect, and rank didn’t really apply when the divine spirit surged through his body and he wielded the wrath of the heavens.
‘Dawn and dusk,’ Lesarl replied with a shrug. It was a mark of the strain he was under that Vesna’s late realisation wasn’t enough to amuse the Chief Steward — in quieter times much of Lesarl’s entertainment had been at the expense of the soldiers around him.
‘Don’t matter which way it’s going,’ Swordmaster Pettir said, absently completing the saying, ‘it’s all fucking grey to me.’
Pettir was Kerin’s replacement, a former major of the Ghosts who’d joined the legion in the same trials as Vesna. While there had been Swordmasters more senior, General Lahk had chosen to promote the low-born Pettir to the position of Knight-Defender of Tirah and commander of the Swordmasters because of the respect the troops had for him. Vesna had been glad of it; he and Pettir had been friendly rivals from the outset and the last thing the count needed now was any sort of pious deference.
‘The wisdom of soldiers,’ Lesarl agreed. ‘It might be foolish for the Mortal-Aspect of Karkarn to arrive bedecked in the livery of a famous nobleman and hero of the army. Sir Cerse can deal with the situation himself.’
‘You think they’re going to listen to a soldier?’ Vesna retorted angrily. ‘All that politics has addled your brains, Lesarl. Fate’s eyes, they
aren’t going to negotiate with the colonel of the Ghosts!’
‘Right now it’s debatable whether they will negotiate with anyone,’ Lesarl said, making his way down the steps so they could continue the discussion without shouting. ‘Your presence is as likely to be inflammatory as it is useful. Either they speak to Sir Cerse and follow the law, or they draw weapons on a regiment of the Palace Guard. That is a line they haven’t crossed before; it isn’t like the skirmishes individual squads have been getting into.’
‘You want this to happen? You want a pitched battle on Tirah’s streets?’
‘Don’t be facetious,’ Lesarl snapped, ‘you know me better than that. You change any situation, just as Lord Isak would have. You are a being of power who affects events by your very presence. With just Sir Cerse and his Ghosts there, they will either submit to the rule of law and be arrested, or they will make a move that will have to be condemned as treasonous by every other party involved. With you there, anything could happen, and likely as not it will involve more blood spilled.’
