Vespera

by Anselm Audley

  Bahram, the Mons Ferratan banker drawn by friendship into a quarrel not his own, rubbed stone dust into his palms and lifted his borrowed axe.

  ‘I always wanted to see Mons Ferranis,’ Petroz said. Outside the tribesmen were advancing; if they waited longer, they’d be penned in. Petroz and his Legate had arranged what tactics they could, with other marines falling on the attackers’ flanks, but it couldn’t be enough. Not against so many.

  ‘You’d have liked it,’ Bahram said.

  ‘Salassa!’ Petroz shouted, and they charged.

  Raphael and Thais dived onto the watergate of Chiria Palace, pushing the burning boat away so quickly it almost caught their feet and tipped them into the water. The launch’s fires suddenly ceased, and Raphael saw a Chiria launch packed with people, floating into the path of the flame, and the gunners stopped. They weren’t so heartless as to fire on refugees, but they were also in a very fast launch, and all they had to do was accelerate past the Chiria boat and come in for another pass.

  The whole eastern side of Chiria Palace was a blazing ruin, the watergate almost abandoned, so Raphael ran inside, dodging blazing timbers, into an unfamiliar courtyard where bodies lay scattered around and dozens of blackened men, women and children were attacking the fire with water from a fountain, to no avail. Others were on ladders, trying to bring people down from a burning upper floor.

  Raphael ran across the courtyard, the ever-present Thais behind him. No-one stopped them. The gate was open, and injured people were lying on the road, being tended to by their neighbours, people from shops and houses across the street. There was a physician, but he was desperately overworked, and an apothecary. A group of marines in still different colour, from the next passage along, had improvised a hose and were spraying the burning palace from the outside.

  And just beyond Chiria Palace, the ruins of Salassa Palace and the surrounding houses lay, as if a giant hand had swept through them, and he could hear the sounds of fighting, see the Rozzini forces closing on the Salassa defenders.

  Odeinath, Petroz, Bahram, if they were still alive, would be fighting for their lives.

  And close by, guarding the approach, perhaps a score of Chiria marines, watching the fighting and doing nothing. They didn’t have the force, but they didn’t need it. This wasn’t a matter of force.

  ‘Why?’ Raphael shouted, and saw them wheel, staring at him. ‘Why are you doing nothing?’

  ‘They’d said they’d spare us if we kept out of it,’ a man in a tribune’s plume shouted.

  ‘They didn’t spare your palace!’ It was Thais, not Raphael who spoke, her hands trembling, her eyes swimming in and out of focus. ‘Please, attack!’

  ‘Tribune!’ Raphael said. ‘Rozzini are cowards, you can see that from the way they’re fighting. They’ll break if we hit them with enough force. I don’t know what you think of Salassa, what your alliances are, but help them! Can you live in a City ruled by a man who does this? Could you help, for Vespera’s sake?’

  ‘There are nineteen of us,’ the tribune said. ‘My clanspeople are unprotected. All our leaders are dead.’

  ‘Then it’s your responsibility,’ Raphael said, as a defiant shout of ‘Salassa!’ rose from the burning Palace, and he knew they were making a last stand. ‘They’re marines, and they’re dying, and their enemy is your enemy now.’

  The tribune grabbed Raphael’s arm, a soldier’s salute.

  ‘Give this man a sword!’ he shouted, and someone pressed one into Raphael’s hand. ‘Take crossbows, one shot, throw them away. Make as much noise as we can.’

  Raphael moved to stand with the others, and then the tribune shouted,

  ‘Chiria for Salassa!’

  ‘Salassa!’ Raphael shouted, and they charged, as fast as they dared over the rubble, a thin line of men armed with weapons obsolete for decades, over the piles of rubble as the Rozzini turned, marines loosing a single bolt from their crossbows and then discarding them.

  And the Rozzini must have seen them running out of an inferno like demons from hell, and Raphael heard an answering cry of Salassa from the beleaguered garrison. The Rozzini, caught in an instant between two forces, fighting because they had been told to, wavered, and on the far side the Salassans must have pushed forward, because they turned and ran.

  ‘Let them go!’ Raphael shouted, angling over to leave a path for Rozzini to flee. And then he crested the last pile of rubble, the ruins of a once-proud tower, and saw the bloody melee, the Rozzini caught in the middle, tribesmen and Canteni and Salassa locked in bloody combat, and then the remaining Rozzini fled or surrendered.

  The Canteni and the tribesmen fought to the last man, as Chiria and Salassa marines together surrounded and despatched them. Raphael found himself beside Bahram, but struck not a single blow before Bahram decapitated the last tribesman with a blow from his axe.

  And then Raphael stopped, and looked around, and realised there were barely more Salassans than Chirians. And Tilao, lying dead with a bolt in his chest, Daena in the act of closing his eyes.

  Tilao. One of the crew, the family, a pillar of a man, gentle despite his forbidding appearance and his tendency to drink far too much spirit, which only made him depressed.

  Gone.

  ‘Nothing except a battle lost is half so bitter as a battle won,’ Odeinath said, picking his way across to join Raphael.

  ‘I wish I could say we’d won,’ Raphael said, ‘but we haven’t. We’ve only bought ourselves a little time.’

  Across the water, Ulithi Palace still reared, its baroque splendour untouched by the fighting. Behind those windows, eyes would be watching them, waiting for the next chance to strike.

  And between them, that stretch of dark water, Aesonia’s domain, which could have been a thousand miles wide.

  A little below him, Petroz, his armour spattered with blood, was talking to the Chiria Tribune, who turned and pointed to Raphael. Petroz beckoned imperiously, and Raphael made his way down to join the Prince of Imbria. A little way behind them, Thais and a Salassan marine were trying to staunch the wounds of the Salassan Legate.

  ‘My rescuer tells me you shamed him into helping us,’ Petroz said. ‘I thought you’d chosen your side.’

  ‘I have,’ Raphael said. ‘And now I need to take the battle back to the enemy.’

  ‘We’ll have to go the long way,’ said Petroz. ‘My sister’s water-magic is too strong.’

  ‘There are too few of us to attack the gates,’ Raphael said. ‘Do you have any boats here?’

  Leonata heard footsteps ahead, and ducked sideways, into the darkness below a flight of stairs, squeezing herself in at the bottom and hoping her robe wouldn’t catch the light, allowing the two men – naval officers, from their boots – to pass, and the sound of their footsteps to die away. She heard more shouts in the distance – they must have found the crippled tribesman by now.

  That would teach them to treat her with contempt, barbarians for whom a woman’s worth was her womb, to breed yet more vicious warriors.

  How could she get down? It had taken her an eternity to get half-way round the Court of Oranges, and here she was, hiding in one of the staircases, waiting for a chance to slip out. If only she could get down into the cellars!

  She risked a look out into the Court. No-one there, and in the opposite corner she could see a big archway, one she was sure would have a stair leading down. But how to get across without being seen? She didn’t know who was looking from the windows around; she’d never been into this part of the palace, and above this court, an opposite corners, loomed both of the Palace’s great towers.

  No-one there? She’d have to risk it.

  She slipped the knife into her sleeve, its hilt concealed inside her palm, and walked briskly out along the colonnade, as if she belonged here, hoping and praying she didn’t meet any tribesmen.

  Were those voices? She quickened her pace, but then heard the echo, and realised they were coming from the staircase behind her. If she looked ro
und, they’d see her face.

  She turned the corner, half shielded by the columns, but now in profile to whoever it was. Two pairs of footsteps. Everyone seemed to be in pairs, which was wonderfully sensible and an utter pain in the neck. And she was alone.

  ‘Who’s that? No-one’s meant to be on their own!’

  She ran the last section of the colonnade, ducked into the arch and, oh blessings, there was a stair leading down, a broad spiral. She raced down, almost tripping over her robe, ignoring the first-level cellars and keeping on down to strike off at the second. Running footsteps sounded behind her, cries of alarm.

  There were corridors leading everywhere; Leonata picked the one on her right, at random, and ran along until she found another intersection, the another, and then a second staircase, a dark corner with barrels under the stairs. This was becoming a habit.

  They’d reached the same level, and she had no more time, so she climbed over to the back and quickly yanked off the lid of the furthest barrel, so close to the stairs that she’d barely be able to creep into it, praying for it to be empty. It was, thankfully. There was a faint smell of fire-powder, but she’d have to cope with that. At least it was big enough for her.

  She climbed in, just, and scooped the lid back into place, wincing as it rattled for a second, and crouched in the darkness.

  They came round the corner, stopped to look round.

  ‘Those barrels!’

  No!

  ‘She didn’t have time,’ said the second man. ‘We were only just behind her.’

  More footsteps from a different direction, several sets of them, and another voice.

  ‘What are you two doing?’ Silvanos said coldly.

  ‘Looking for the prisoner, we think she might be in these barrels.’

  ‘You think a High Thalassarch is hiding in a barrel? You’re sure they’re empty? Or do you know, because you’ve drunk the contents?’

  A rattle, then several more, as someone flicked the lid off the closest barrels.

  ‘Nothing,’ Silvanos said.

  ‘There are more at the back,’ said the first man.

  The second was scornful. ‘She’s not an Academy cadet! You think an old woman’s going to climb across and get into one of those in the time she had? You’re addled.’

  ‘Good point. Whatever your name is, Lieutenant, I suggest you listen to Matteozzo, who at least has been trained properly,’ said Silvanos. ‘Now, you’ve lost her trail, why don’t you see if you can pick it up again, and get out of my way?’

  Two pairs of footsteps, receding, and then Leonata heard one of the barrels scrape against the floor, the lids rattle.

  ‘You can come out now, I’ve got rid of them,’ Silvanos said quietly. ‘Don’t make us take all of these lids off.’

  She was almost sure Silvanos was on her side. Almost sure, but not quite.

  On the other hand, there was no way she could rescue the prisoners alone.

  She pushed the lid off the top of the barrel and looked out.

  ‘Most impressive,’ said Plautius, clutching his sheaf of notes as ever, looking like a house-cat among panthers. There were six of them including Silvanos, all in black or other dark colours, two of them hooded. ‘We’ll make a skulker of you yet. Would you like a hand?’

  ‘I got in here by myself, I think I can get out,’ Leonata said tartly. ‘I’d like to see you try.’

  ‘Perhaps a competition . . .’ Plautius said, as Leonata squeezed herself out, catching a liberal coating of dust on the back of her already dishevelled robe.

  ‘How did you know I was in there?’

  ‘Matteozzo’s one of us, he was covering for you,’ said Silvanos. ‘I could ask a very similar question of you, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Raphael reminds me of your father,’ Leonata said.

  Ruthelo Azrian’s son smiled faintly. ‘Yes, I imagine he does.’

  Raphael adjusted the last helmet, propped the broken crossbow against the side.

  ‘That should do it,’ he said, looking around the barge. The lights in the boathouse had gone, but they’d borrowed torches from the nearby houses to see by as they prepared the Salassa barge for her final journey. ‘They’ll be looking through telescopes, and it is night-time.’

  He stepped back to check the array of phantom warriors looked right, clothes-horses and pieces of wood and broken furniture decked up as an army of Salassa marines hiding in the waist of the barge.

  ‘She deserves a better end,’ Petroz said, running his hand along the aged, varnished wood, standing for the last time on the deck trodden by centuries of Salassa leaders, reaching back to before the rise of the Domain. He’d mentioned earlier this was only the third barge in the clan’s eight-hundred-year history.

  ‘Better this than to rot away, or burn because some careless servant knocked over a lamp one night,’ Raphael said. ‘Is your searay ready?’

  The last Salassa marines were filing out of the boathouse, and only a few of them remained, including the servant who’d volunteered to set the boat on its course and then abandon ship, and Thais, who sat on the deck a little astern of them.

  ‘Yes. I’ll wait for you there,’ Petroz said. ‘Berrenus, where are you? Are you sure you know how to steer her?’

  He strode down the gangplank to the side of the boathouse, leaving Raphael and Thais alone on the deck. Except – Thais had gone. Where was she?

  There was an opening there, a hatch down into the cramped lower deck. Raphael ducked through it and saw a flash of robe disappearing into the darkness astern, below the ancient decking beams. The faint purr of the engine was louder here; he must be directly above it.

  ‘I know you’re there, Thais,’ Raphael said.

  She emerged again. He could hardly see her face in the faint light through the portholes.

  ‘Leave me,’ Thais said.

  ‘The barge is leaving.’

  ‘I know. I’m staying on board. You’ll need someone to steer, whatever you say.’

  He stared at her in the near-darkness. They all knew what would happen to the barge, and there was little hope of even a water-breather surviving.

  It seemed so short a time since they’d been sitting under the temple colonnade, since those few moments of peace.

  ‘Thais, don’t.’

  ‘Because you don’t want me on your conscience? I’ve forgiven you.’

  ‘Because I don’t want you to die. Because I was wrong, utterly wrong. Because if you live, maybe we can find a way to free you.’

  ‘You think I haven’t tried? You think all of us haven’t tried? We can’t break the control. They’ll make me destroy you, or, if they capture you, they’ll have me break you, and I’ll own you for the rest of your life.’

  ‘Someone has to stop this. You have more reason to hate than any of them, you’re almost on our side.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Thais said. ‘And I never can be.’

  ‘You’re not even going to try? It’ll hurt both of us, but surely it’s better than giving up?’

  ‘You have no idea how much it hurts,’ Thais said. ‘And I never had that much pride to begin with, I never needed to control myself and everything around me. For you, it would be ten times worse. This way, I can be free, and I can help defeat Aesonia by doing it. A better choice than I had in the garden. Don’t take it away from me.’

  Raphael nodded, trying to burn her face into his memory. Her eyes seemed alive again, and even in a tattered robe, smelling of cypress, she seemed her old self.

  ‘I forgive you,’ Thais said. ‘Truly, not to spite Aesonia. Win for me. That’s all I ask.’

  ‘All you ask?’

  ‘And the world on a plate by tomorrow morning. It’s not so very much, is it?’ She gave him that whimsical smile, and he pulled her close and hugged her, feeling her hair against his cheek, and couldn’t quite believe he’d never see that smile again.

  Then they moved apart just enough to kiss, in the darkness of the Salassa barge with the sm
ell of cypress around them.

  ‘Remember me,’ Thais said, finally, and stepped back. The engine roared into life below them, and Raphael walked backwards to the companionway, saw her face in the last glimmer of light, and then made his way up to the deck and down onto the shore. He watched the barge slowly pull out of its boathouse, intact because it stood next to the largest of the towers, which had collapsed inwards rather than outwards, centuries of history and a laughing Sarthien acolyte he would never see again.

  Then he took enough of the drug to numb his lungs completely and ran downstairs, through a stairway half-choked with rubble, to where Petroz and the others were waiting with all that remained of Clans Salassa and Chiria.

  He wouldn’t see her die.

  Valentine watched the barge round the point, accelerating as it pulled clear of the remnants of Salassa Palace, the faint shape of marines visible in its waist. The three remaining Salassa armed launches sped out ahead of it, leaving broad wakes on the waters of the Deep, heading for the watergate and the one Ulithi launch still left.

  ‘Can you deal with it?’ Valentine asked Aesonia, as they stood on the balcony of the Compass Tower, watching the barge approach.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘You’re sure you wouldn’t rather they landed, to deal with them in person?’

  ‘I have better things to do than throw my men’s lives away for the sake of a perfect revenge,’ Valentine said.

  Even on his uncle Petroz, and on the treacherous Raphael who had, somehow, managed to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat with a handful of Chiria marines. It didn’t matter that he’d killed three-quarters of the Salassa garrison; some of them, including Petroz, were still alive, and Petroz was the one who mattered.

  He would cut off his own leg before he trusted Correlio Rozzini again, for anything. Even the tribesmen and Canteni hadn’t been enough to put any backbone into the man’s troops – but then, they’d been fighting for money, and mercenaries were never worth it.

  The numbers ought to have been overwhelming. And his other attacks were bogged down, the Ice Runners holding out in the warehouses underneath their palace, and Estarrin and the other clans fighting back with skeleton garrisons. He hadn’t taken a single High Thalassarch yet. What had Leonata promised them? They were supposed to be soft, decadent!