by David Hair
Stefan di Aranio looked at his own hands and shuddered.
‘I would have gnostic healing afterwards?’ he asked, his voice now uncertain.
‘Of course,’ Rene Cardien said. ‘I’ll have Clematia do it. Your hand will be ready to hold a sword again in . . . oh, about four to six weeks, I’d guess.’
Aranio swallowed, and looked at Cera’s right hand again. In some places, the bone was still visible though the translucent flesh. They all knew the scarring would be permanent, that she would have to learn to write left-handed.
Cera met his eyes. Well, my lord. How badly do you want this? What’s ninety days in charge worth to you? Especially if you believe you’ll be king eventually anyway?
Aranio looked away. ‘Anyone determined enough to go through that deserves their moment,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Let the Nesti be named Autarch.’ He glanced at Tamadhi, then leaned away from the table, disengaging from the group. ‘I will of course provide men for the struggle.’
No doubt, but fewer than we need, and with orders to preserve themselves, Cera thought, watching his face. But now wasn’t the moment to call him out; there were oaths and ceremonies, and this was in itself a historic moment: the first woman ever to be voted into such a role in Javon. She could see pride in the eyes of Pita Rosco, Piero Inveglio, and others too, as she met their gaze. Even in Elena’s eyes, perhaps.
‘Then let us do what is necessary, then reconvene,’ she told them all. ‘We have much to do.’
Riban, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Awwal (Martrois) 930
21st month of the Moontide
Gurvon Gyle had to wait until almost midnight for his quarry to be finally alone. Night in the unlovely trading-post city of Riban was never quiet; the streets were filled with the homeless, refugees and indigents, seeking one last drink or morsel of food before they wrapped themselves in their threadbare cloaks and huddled in a doorway to try and sleep. Since the Dorobon invasion, the city had been filled with refugees from Brochena, all fleeing east. Public order was breaking down, the Rimoni and Jhafi soldiery maintaining the peace were at each other’s throats more often than not, and feeding the masses was becoming impossible as stores were exhausted.
Occupying Riban would have been more trouble than it was worth, so for now at least, it remained the seat of Stefan di Aranio, a Rimoni of senatorial stock from the old empire whose forebears had grudgingly married into Jhafi nobility to ensure candidacy for the Javon throne. Stefan barely acknowledged his Jhafi blood, saw himself as the natural alternative to the Nesti, had a flock of heirs already and was a staunchly conservative Sollan. But Aranio’s attempt to be elected Autarch had failed, ending any hopes for a negotiated settlement.
Aranio had just returned to his home city, ostensibly to prepare his forces to support the Nesti in their march west, unaware that Gurvon was waiting in his office – not in person, but as a spiratus; his body was in his own bed in Brochena, a hundred miles away. Traversing the distance in spirit-form was quick, but it wasn’t instantaneous; he’d arrived two hours ago after an hour’s travel, using kinesis to move the doors to allow himself ingress. Then he’d settled down to wait, conserving his energies.
Now he stepped forth and allowed himself to be seen. ‘Greetings, Lord Aranio.’
Stefan di Aranio choked, sprayed wine over his desk and clutched at his chest. For a few seconds Gurvon was worried the man was actually having a heart attack, which would have been an unfortunate complication. Aranio was a stolid, almost plump, man, with brownish hair from his northern Rimoni blood and a drinker’s mottled complexion. Now his florid face was distinctly pale as he gazed at Gurvon in some consternation.
‘If you call for your guards I’ll be forced to act,’ Gurvon warned, before holding his hand in front of a flame, making it obvious that he was not physically present.
Aranio sagged into his chair. ‘What do you want?’
This wasn’t Gurvon’s first visit; he’d started by terrorising Stefan’s youngest son, just to make a point – Aranio had many flaws, including overweening ambition, greed and bigotry, but his biggest weakness was his love of his family. Gurvon had spent quite some time working on the man’s fears – he’d been far easier than Cera Nesti to twist and break.
The thing with Aranio, Gurvon had found, was that you could only push him to a certain point: he wouldn’t do anything to protect his line, but he would do a lot. Coercion made him antagonistic, but bending his loyalty, that was another thing. He was ambitious, and he’d disliked the Nestis for a very long time, which gave Gurvon plenty of hooks for the man to swallow.
You should be king, not some mere boy. These times are too dangerous for boy-kings.
Cera Nesti . . . you should believe those whispers about her: look at her new friends, Staria Canestos and her degenerates . . .
Elena Anborn is in the thrall of a Keshi Souldrinker . . . Do you know what they are? The whisper is that she’s turned into one herself.
You can’t be expected to defend Riban and send all your soldiers to aid the Nesti.
What if the Nesti lose? Where are you left, then? Surely adults like you and I can find common ground? We’re not idealistic girls, are we?
Many a general has been tardy in battle, haven’t they? Late to advance, early to withdraw . . . and who will be left to blame you if you ‘misjudge the situation’ by a few crucial minutes?
He bent over the shaken Rimoni lord and used kinesis to force his chin up until he met his eye.
‘She’s going to lose anyway, Stefan: why should she drag you down with her? And your cooperation will ensure that your line continues afterwards. I’ll need men like you to pacify the natives. Someone strong.’
The ‘strong’ man nodded in mute and frightened acquiescence.
*
Forensa, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Awwal (Martrois) 930
21st month of the Moontide
The Nesti army was ready to march at Darkmoon, the last week of Martrois. Cera had to fight for the right to accompany it: her counsellors wanted her to stay ‘safe’ in Forensa. But she knew she had to be there, though explaining her reasons to her allies was a little awkward: this had to be a Nesti victory, not a Kestrian or Aranio victory that might give someone too many ideas. Allies could become enemies all too quickly: history was very clear on that lesson.
Before her were ranks of bright-eyed men filled with frightened bravado, waiting to take their first steps on the road to Brochena and battle.
There’ll be no fortress to retreat to; no walls and canals to shelter behind, nowhere to take cover. There will be nothing between us and our enemy except for our shields and our courage.
The past weeks had been a blur of activity. Justiano di Kestria was coordinating the Rimoni, two legions of men supported by a dozen Ordo Costruo acting as battle-magi. Saarif Jelmud would coordinate the Jhafi contingent, supported by the rest of the Ordo Costruo. And Stefan di Aranio’s men – if he actually sent them – would join them west of Riban.
Word had come that Staria Canestos had been assailed by the Harkun survivors of the Battle of Forensa, who were trying to take the Rift Forts so they could bring their kin up from below; as yet, that battle was still in the balance. The thought that at any moment thousands more Harkun could join the fray was almost paralysing Cera’s counsellors – but at least it meant that the alliance with Staria’s Sacro Arcoyris Estellan was now out in the open, and her people were learning to appreciate the fact that Staria’s people were both on their side, and invaluable.
Elena arrived on horseback, her movement strained and awkward. She’d had to tease her leg into a bent position to ride at all, and from the look on her face she was in constant pain. Cera couldn’t begin to know what being apart from Kazim was doing to her. Elena clutched at Cera’s reins, then had the gall to try and warn her against going to war, when she looked equally useless. ‘You don’t need to march with the army, Cera. No one would think the le
ss of you.’
‘I’d be no safer here.’
Their eyes met, and Cera saw Elena’s face alter, ever so subtly – not a sudden change of heart, but the realisation of one that had already happened. ‘I forgive you for what you did,’ Elena whispered.
Cera swallowed. Tears stung her eyes, but she was already cried-out from saying goodbye to Tarita in the infirmary. She waved to the trumpeter, then turned back to Elena and said, ‘Well, let’s go.’
The trumpeter blasted out a lively call to arms, then she shouted into the resounding silence that followed, ‘Free People of Ja’afar! Today we march into history! Today we go to reclaim what is ours: our own land! Today we take up arms against the invader! All the gods are watching, and all smile upon us, for our cause is just! Our cause is freedom! Freedom!’
Simple and easy shouty words always work best, her father used to joke. She could picture him now, his shaggy face alight with determination, as the people’s response set the ground shaking.
‘Freedom for Ja’afar! Freedom for Javon!’
The drums thundered and the first ranks stepped off on the road leading west.
26
Family
The Mage Houses
The Pallas Magi are obsessive about family, being the guardians of magical bloodlines. They will marry only among themselves, and any barren marriage is the source of severe opprobrium. Quite simply, the mage-blood is the foundation of the empire, and real power is procreated through the loins of the pure-blood families.
ORDO COSTRUO ARCANUM, PONTUS, 807
Southern Kesh, on the continent of Antiopia
Awwal (Martrois) 930
21st month of the Moontide
Ramon Sensini nudged Lu, his mare, down the slope to where Silvio Anturo was waiting. Above and behind him, a shadow on the gloomy ridge, Jelaska waited. Silvio spurred forward to meet him.
Anturo had his own bodyguards, a squad of a dozen men, Silacian and Dhassan toughs who eyed the figure on the ridge above uneasily. All were big, muscular men, but they knew who Jelaska was, and none wished to make a false move.
One of Anturo’s party, waiting a little aside from the rest, trotted forward and lowered his hood: an older man with silvery hair and a cheerful face that could go stony as a grave-marker. Ramon knew him well: Tomasi Fuldo, Pater-Retiari’s right-hand man. ‘Buona sera, Ramon,’ Fuldo called in musical Rimoni. ‘Come sta, amici?’
Ramon reined in, reassessing. ‘Capo Tomasi, to what do I owe this pleasure?’
Tomasi Fuldo had been Ramon’s mentor in the world of the familioso. To say he was the brains of the organisation was to exaggerate: Pater-Retiari was highly intelligent himself, and no one’s pawn. But Tomasi was the smartest man Ramon knew. He had once been a treasury official for the Imperial Governor of Silacia, but always in the pay of Pater-Retiari; up until the day he was exposed and had to flee, he’d robbed the governor blind. Now he applied his expertise to aiding the familioso finances; it was he who had suggested the misuse of the Imperial promissory system that Ramon had been carrying out.
They dismounted, embraced and kissed each other’s cheeks, and Ramon noticed Tomasi’s smile was getting nowhere near his eyes. ‘You’ve been a worry to us all, giovanotto.’
‘Things haven’t exactly gone to plan,’ Ramon told him.
The Retiari capo nodded as if approving, but Ramon sensed unease. He would already be noticing changes in his pupil: maturity, perhaps even hints of disaffection. ‘The Petrossi familioso are also anxious, Ramon – it had been so long since we lost touch with you, while investment has continued to flood in – far more than you and I even dreamed.’
‘How so?’
‘These Rondian nobles think the world owes them money,’ Tomasi replied. ‘We’ve made full use of all the excesses of the Imperial system – the greed of the magi, who believe that no one would dare to defraud them; the corruption in the legions, and the flimsy controls around the whole promissory note system itself. But now we have to close the deal.’
‘We can do that,’ Ramon assured him.
‘But where have you been? Sol et Lune, I’ve had to work hard covering for you! We even maintained interest payments after the Second Army left Peroz, to quiet the rumours. We’ve had to use our own reserves, gambling that you would reappear with the bullion.’ Tomasi’s face tightened. ‘I was confident – others less so. Where is the gold, Ramon?’
Silvio Anturo edged closer. ‘My patrona, Isabella Petrossi, also wishes very much to know this.’
The Crusades were a financial wilderness, ripe for exploitation, but if Tomasi was right, their ruse had been almost too successful. No one involved had known what was coming: Shaliyah. That catastrophe had left the familioso as exposed to the promissory notes as anyone else – and now it was beginning to look like Tomasi had gambled the wealth of the Retiari on finding Ramon with the gold.
Which is exactly what I wanted, Ramon thought, but I have to keep this illusion going, or all Hel will break free.
‘I have some of it, and I know where the rest is,’ he told them. ‘There are caches on our route, all the way from here to Khotri.’ He’d already told Silvio Anturo this: it was good for lies to be consistent.
Tomasi scowled. ‘It’s inconvenient that you’ve buried it, but understandable. I expect I would have done the same. But the Treasury also knows you’re here: your arrest, and the recovery of that gold, has become an unspoken objective of this phase of the Crusade. I am told the Church and the Crown have joined forces to that end.’
Nice to feel important, Ramon mused as he studied Tomasi. Confronting his Capo at some point had always been an inevitability. What he would do next he still wasn’t sure; whatever it was, he would have to step carefully. If I can’t get my mother and sister out of Retiari’s hands, it’s all been for nothing . . .
That meant keeping the gold out of everyone’s clutches but his own. Though he was also going to pay the Lost Legions soldiers what they’d earned. They were his kin now, that much he knew, far more so than the familioso had ever been.
‘We had some losses, and some of the recoveries will be difficult,’ he said.
‘Then we need to get what we can,’ Tomasi said. ‘You must leave the army and bring your wagons with you – that ruse is over.’
‘That’s twenty-five wagons,’ Ramon replied, ‘all with false bottoms and cargo. How’re we going to conceal so many? Especially with the Inquisition trailing me.’
‘The Quizzies are after you?’ Tomasi looked at him anxiously.
Silvio Anturo frowned. ‘You’ve not mentioned this before, Sensini.’
‘I didn’t think it was related – we discovered secret Inquisition death-camps on the far side of the Tigrates, and the Inquisition has been plaguing us since. They arranged the destruction of the bridges at Vida to cut us off. But now it appears they’re working hand-in-glove with the Treasury people in Vida.’
Tomasi grimaced. ‘It makes your escape even more urgent. What are your movements from here?’
‘Seth Korion has sent messages to his father, apprising him of our situation as we rest and prepare for the retreat north. We’re still six hundred miles from Southpoint, and then it’s another three hundred across the Bridge. It’s early Martrois: we’ve got four months to walk a thousand miles. Seth wants us on the road inside the week.’
‘There will be opportunities to escape on the north road.’
‘No doubt, but the wagons are well-guarded – by my own men, for sure, but it’s not a simple thing.’
‘We have the manpower to snatch the wagons,’ Tomasi assured him – which was alarming – but then he added, ‘I don’t think we’ll be ready to make that move for several weeks.’
That bought Ramon time. The meeting broke up cordially, with perhaps a little more tru
st than it had started. As he rode Lu back towards the legion camp, Ramon rejoined Jelaska. She clearly wanted to talk, but refrained from speaking until she was sure the last tracker had turned away.
‘What are you going to do?’ the Argundian woman asked. ‘You’ve got the Inquisition, the Imperial Treasury and now two familioso after you. I imagine the Hebusalim underworld are going to want a word too.’
‘I’ll hide behind your skirts,’ he said with a grin.
She wasn’t in the mood to laugh. ‘The Hel you will. If you’re going to get that money back to Pontus and keep all your promises, you’re going to need a few more fox-tricks.’
‘Fox-tricks are my specialty. My children – I mean my child – needs me.’
‘Children?’ Jelaska pounced. ‘You’ve more than one child? Who else . . . ? Calipha Amiza in Ardijah, right? Tell me I’m right!’
‘Si,’ he admitted. ‘And my maid in Silacia was pregnant before I left for the Crusade, so that one will be a year old – no, more by now.’ He thought of another encounter. ‘And then there was a girl in Pontus – but she was also a mage, so the odds of her conceiving were low.’
‘Oh la! Anyone else? How’s Lanna?’
‘She says she’s barren.’ Since Severine left, Lanna had taken to sliding into his bed after dark – he’d thought no one knew, but Jelaska had always had a nose for what went on in camp.
They reached the Lost Legions’ perimeter and parted before re-entering. He headed for his tent, the one Severine had cast him out of. It felt empty, the absence of Julietta a painful void, the silence a reproach. So after lying alone fidgeting for a while, he got restless and went wandering.
The night was hot and sultry and the men were lively. They had plenty of water from the river, and their escape from Riverdown had lifted them immensely. Once again their commanders had delivered, keeping them safe and one step ahead. The suffering of that confined camp was forgotten, and the men who noticed him called his name, offering drink from dozens of illicit stills.
The rankers were in good spirits, despite the army having lost more than a thousand men at Riverdown. They now numbered around eleven thousand. He eventually found his own guard cohort: down to sixteen having lost Neubeau, Hedman and Briggan at Riverdown. Most were wounded, but they were in better shape than many units.
