by David Hair
‘Ella.’ He felt his whole face smile. He freed his arms from the blankets, pulled her against him, nuzzled her neck. All he wanted was to …
‘Kazim,’ she said, her voice strange enough to make him pause. ‘We have to talk.’
He stopped, slapped by a premonition that life was yet again going to take away the thing he wanted most.
Her voice sounded regretful, even bitter. ‘Kazim, I want there to be only honesty between us.’
He nodded slowly, carefully. ‘Of course?’
She held him close and told him a tale of a girl called Nasette who became a Souldrinker, like him.
He tried to pretend he understood.
Brochena, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Zulhijja (Decore) 928
6th month of the Moontide
The axes fell and the heads rolled, bouncing wetly on the stones. Octa Dorobon’s henchmen looked bewildered by this aberrant behaviour. We are magi!, their heads cried. We are the rulers of Urte! We cannot die! Then in seconds their flesh rotted away, leaving their chattering skulls bleaching in the sand.
Cera Nesti woke, heart pounding, tangled in sweaty sheets.
A dream – it’s only a dream.
But yesterday it had been real: violently, vividly real, and it had been her own life at stake. The dim room harboured too many shadows so she emerged from the bedclothes and wrenched open the curtains. The sun was rising over the mist-shrouded city: Brochena in winter, wrapped in a morass of fog and wood-smoke. But the light calmed her. She fell into a chair, wrapped her arms about herself and tried to slow her heart.
It was still impossible to grasp all that had happened: the mesmerising eyes of a Lantric witch ensorcelling her; sending her to Gurvon Gyle’s chambers though she loathed him. Octa Dorobon bursting in. A dungeon cell, rank with damp filth, a forced confession, the taunts of the guards.
Mudskin whore …
Octa had seized the initiative from Gyle, tried to entrap him and wrest back control over her son Francis, the king. It had been a brutal and clumsy attempt to smash over the house of cards Gyle had built.
You’ll beg to die …
And just as abruptly: the counter-strike. Octa was dead and Gyle free. King Francis was blinking dazedly as he emerged from the shadow of his tyrant mother, flushed with new power and completely blind to the fact that all he had was Gyle’s to take away. His sister Olivia was simpering beside him, eyes on Gyle and no one else, while Gyle himself, relishing his new control over the court, was as calmly confident and sardonically vicious as ever.
Cera found herself enthroned again, alongside her fellow-queen Portia, her secret, illicit lover. All she wanted was to hold Portia close and block out the world, but they’d been made to watch the execution of Octa’s henchmen and then sit through a banquet where Francis Dorobon had cavorted as if some great victory had been won. His imbecilic self-obsession left her breathless.
She pulled on a gown and went to the balcony, enjoyed the faint heat of the coppery sun. The Godsingers were wailing their summons to prayer as the city awoke, most probably unaware of the coup that had taken place within Brochena Palace – outwardly at least, the Dorobon flag still flew and their soldiers still manned the gates and walls. City-folk had more immediate worries – how to find food and work in a land in turmoil.
Where do I stand now? On the face of it, little had changed, but Octa’s death now gave Gyle an almost free hand. His counter-coup was in Francis’ name, but anyone with any brain could see it was entirely for his own benefit. The Dorobon magi, knights and soldiers, outnumbered by Gyle’s mercenaries, were confused and anxious. Their seizure of Javon was unravelling and the kingdom was rumbling like a volcano set to explode. She’d heard them talking in the banquet hall, wondering aloud if it would still be safe for the next wave of Dorobon settlers due to arrive – which included the soldiers’ families.
What am I to do? I was regent here. My little brother is the rightful king but I don’t even know where he is now. We’re trapped and helpless.
Then she thought about that.
I am a Nesti. I refuse to be helpless.
So she stared out over the city, studying the movements of the tiny shapes below, and made her plans.
*
The pitiless sunlight burned away Francis Dorobon’s illusions of safety, shafts of unbearable brightness piercing the uncovered windows and slapping him awake.
The last thing he remembered after the banquet was swaying down the corridors with Craith Margham and Jedyk Luman, belting out ‘Let the Bells Ring’, an anthem about the fall of Rimoni. He’d been intending great feats of amatory congress with both of his Noorie wives, but the celebratory wines had struck him low. It had begun with a foul bilious surge as his stomach rebelled, followed by a horribly liquid spell of farting. With his belly cramping painfully, he collapsed to the stone floor and crawled to the privy while Craith and Jedyk, oblivious, sang on. While he had his head down a privy, vomiting uncontrollably, they were tunelessly bellowing the old favourites – ‘Death to Tyrants’ and ‘Light the Gold Lantern’. The chorus of the latter, ‘We are free now, free forever’, echoed inside his skull as he struggled upright, rolled off the bed and crawled to a copper basin. It was half-filled with Kore knew what, but he didn’t care; he dry-retched until he could think again, then knelt and peed into the basin. Gagging on the stench, he crawled back to the bed, pulled a sheet from it and wrapped himself in it, then sat in the corner, shaking uncontrollably.
It wasn’t for several minutes that he realised that he was crying.
Mother is dead.
Last night he’d been jubilant, elated: the tyrant bitch who’d dominated his every waking moment, dragging him wherever she wanted as if the umbilical cord had never been severed, was gone. Let the bells ring! He, Francis Dorobon, was now truly the king, the uncontested ruler at last, free to do whatever he wanted.
Except he wasn’t free at all.
Somewhere beneath the haze of the celebration he’d already begun to realise that he’d merely exchanged one master for another, like a horse whose rider is slain by bandits, but finds himself the bandit chief’s new steed. It had began to dawn on him as he’d looked down the banquet table and seen Sir Roland Heale, his swordmaster. The look on Heale’s weathered face, of pity and contempt when every other face around him was filled with jubilation, had stung him. Then he looked around and began to recognise the calculating hunger in the eyes of Gurvon Gyle’s adherents. He caught measured looks between Endus Rykjard’s mercenary magi, as if they were already weighing up the Dorobon men and had found them wanting. He saw the cold eyes of his two queens, who were ignoring him and instead leaning together and whispering to each other. Even his sister Olivia, who should have been sharing his joy, was fawning upon Gyle as if this was his moment. And Gyle himself, cool and composed in Imperial purple, was suddenly frightening, like a glimpse of fang in a fox’s mouth.
They all think I’m a buffoon.
He’d wanted to shout at them, to proclaim his victory: The Tyrant is Dead! I am free! Let the bells ring!
Instead, as if his subconscious had admitted the truth his conscious mind dared not confront, he’d reached down blindly, seized a goblet, drained it, and pitched himself into the middle of his carousing friends, desperate to cling to his fleeting moment of joy and too scared to look beyond it again.
But it was morning now and he had a kingdom to rule, even if his head was pounding and his stomach muscles were aching. He dragged himself to his feet and found the water pitcher. He guzzled water until he’d washed away the vile taste, then emptied the rest over his head.
Then he rang for service.
It was Sir Roland Heale who opened the door. ‘So you’re awake at last,’ he noted, then added, ‘Sire,’ with the faintest echo of irony.
‘Sir Roland,’ Francis croaked. He’s always been honest with me. Even when I didn’t want honesty. Perhaps he needed that right now. ‘What are you doing here?’
The old swordsman looked about the room, sniffed and took an involuntary step backwards. ‘Kore’s Blood, boy! What are you doing to yourself?’
‘She’s dead,’ Francis muttered, half-apologetic, half-defiant. ‘You don’t know what she was like.’
‘I know exactly what she was like. But everything she ever did was for House Dorobon, and if she thought it right to move against Gurvon Gyle, then it was right.’ Heale scowled. ‘You’ve got the second Dorobon legion arriving in three months, lad, along with thirty thousand immigrants. They have uprooted their lives and are even now marching across the Leviathan Bridge to follow you – the Dorobon family – into the East. My own family is in that column. You must secure the kingdom for them. Francis, give me leave to move against Gurvon Gyle.’
Heale should have been head of the Dorobon knights, Francis knew that, but he’d been passed over again and again; he harboured grudges against most of Octa’s coterie. But now he was undoubtedly the most senior surviving knight, both in age and experience. By rights he should at last be made knight-commander.
But I promised Craith Margham that position. Craith was his best friend, his companion for most of his childhood. He couldn’t promote another above him, not when they shared so close a bond. If I give Sir Roland this, we’re declaring war on Gurvon Gyle. Look how that turned out for Mother …
‘No, Sir Roland,’ he said at last. ‘The situation is too delicate.’
‘But your Majesty,’ he protested, ‘Gyle is weak at the moment – we may never have another chance—’
‘Gurvon Gyle is the legally appointed Legate, the representative of Emperor Constant himself!’ Francis cried. ‘My mother was wrong to order his arrest and execution, and she has paid the price – the emperor will be furious at her perfidy! What happens if he withdraws his support of our family?’
‘Octa would not have moved without Mater-Imperia’s consent,’ Heale retorted. ‘Francis, please—’
‘There was no consent,’ Francis countered. ‘I saw nothing.’
‘Mater-Imperia wouldn’t have committed it to paper, but you can be sure it was given. Octa would not have acted without it.’
‘Then there is no proof.’ Francis hauled on a shirt. His stomach growled and he had to steady himself against another bout of dizziness. Kore, I need a drink. ‘I refuse to sanction an act of treachery against the Imperial Legate.’
Heale bowed with ill grace. Like the rural bumpkin he is, Francis thought as his pride reasserted itself. How dare he come in and judge me for having celebrated too much? To drink was manly – it showed one had vitality and virility, both attributes Heale had clearly lost. ‘Leave me, Sir Roland. I must ready myself for the new day.’
The old knight bowed stiffly, failing to conceal his disappointment.
*
At midday Gurvon Gyle gathered those he could trust in a side-room adjacent to the Imperial suite. He was still wiping sleep from his eyes, but most of the court were still abed; the palace would not come alive until mid-afternoon after such a night. He studied the gathering: just five people, including himself. Endus Rykjard was nibbling on bread dipped in oil. Beside him, gigantic Mara Secordin was gorging on ham and apples. Rutt Sordell, sitting beside her, inhabited the body of a pure-blood Dorobon mage named Guy Lassaigne, one of Francis’ friends. His control was still imperfect; he was having trouble speaking and moving naturally, but that would come quickly. Beside him was ‘Symone’, the current guise of the shapeshifter Coin. The adoration on Symone’s face whenever he spoke was causing him some discomfort, especially as Endus didn’t know the shapeshifter’s true nature; the mercenary was giving them both decidedly odd looks.
The tiny gathering represented most of his resources in the kingdom of Javon, something he wasn’t at all comfortable with. Elena Anborn’s treachery had cost him most of his best agents here. He had dozens more, but they were scattered far and wide throughout Yuros, all carrying out essential missions. It meant he was dependent on Endus – he trusted the mercenary captain as much as anyone, but it still left him feeling profoundly uneasy. Octa’s unexpected strike had left them having to show their hand too early, well before he was ready.
‘If the emperor decides to come down on Octa’s side, they’ll dismiss you as legate, Gurvon,’ Endus was saying. ‘If he does, we’ve no choice: it’s war against the Dorobon.’
‘That really would be a disaster,’ Gurvon agreed. ‘We’re not strong enough to win, and nor are they. We control the Krak di Condotiori, and we control the palace here in Brochena, but the Dorobon have a whole legion here too, as well as several maniples of Kirkegarde propping up the Gorgio family in Hytel.’
‘If Francis brings the Kirkegarde south, we could be in trouble.’
‘Francis and his friends are nothing, but the Kirkegarde mean business,’ Rutt slurred. It usually took weeks to completely master control of a new body, especially if the victim was a mage – but at least this body was male, unlike his last.
Endus tapped the table. ‘Adi Paavus has control of the Krak, and we’ve two more legions coming, but they won’t get here until Febreux. That’s two months during which the Dorobon could try something.’
‘The Dorobon also have reinforcements coming, lest we forget,’ Gurvon reminded them. ‘They’ve got at least thirty thousand settlers crossing the Bridge into Antiopia even now. They’re expected in three to four months.’
‘Settlers,’ sneered Mara. ‘Worse than useless.’
‘The settlers will all be young families or single men, and they have two full legions protecting them,’ Endus pointed out. ‘Those are numbers that count.’
‘Hans Frikter and Staria Canestos both have almost two legions each,’ Gurvon replied. ‘And Adi has his legion in the Krak. That will be the key: we can keep control of the supply route.’
‘Staria’s people will be a liability,’ Endus observed testily. ‘They always are.’
Gurvon frowned. ‘She’s got the best part of two legions, and twice as many magi in each than a standard legion. We’re lucky she bought into this venture. We’ll tolerate the issues she brings.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I know,’ Gurvon acknowledged, ‘but she’s a part of this and we need her. Accept it.’
‘What’s the problem?’ Symone asked in a fluted, childlike voice.
Endus’ nose wrinkled a little. ‘I dare say you won’t find them a problem at all, shisha.’
Symone looked puzzled. ‘Shisha? What’s a shisha?’
Mara and Endus snickered while Rutt rolled his eyes. ‘You’ll find out sooner than most,’ Endus said, glancing at Gurvon as if to say, Why is this idiot even here?
They were interrupted by a rap at the door. ‘I’ll explain later,’ Gurvon told Symone. ‘Answer that.’
Symone sashayed to the door – at times the hermaphrodite shifter forgot what gender ‘he’ was currently pretending to be – then returned and whispered in his ear, ‘It’s Sir Roland Heale. He’s alone.’
Gurvon blinked, then looked at Rutt. ‘Leave us now by the side door, so he doesn’t know “Guy Lassaigne” is a friend of mine. Listen outside, intervene if there’s trouble.’ He waited until the necromancer had gone, then gave Symone permission to allow the Dorobon knight to enter.
Sir Roland took no time in coming to the point. ‘Imperial Legate,’ he said stiffly, ‘I won’t pretend to be delighted at what happened last night. I am a Dorobon man, and always will be. I was not involved in Octa’s move, but if she’d triumphed I’d not have mourned you. But that didn’t happen and now we must deal with the aftermath. If you wish to avoid a confrontation that would ruin us all, we need to reach an arrangement. I warn you, it will not come cheaply.’
Well, well. Gurvon glanced at Endus, then slowly nodded. ‘Well then, Sir Roland, why don’t you take a seat and we will see what we can do.’
Shaliyah, Kesh, on the continent of Antiopia
Zulhijja (Decore) 928
6th month of t
he Moontide
Dawn. Ramon Sensini rose, gently extracted himself from the blanket he shared with Severine Tiseme, smoothed the hair from her face and went to piss from the ruined battlements.
Outside, the landscape had changed. Where there had once been a rocky plain dotted with stunted trees, now dun and grey sand rippled in frozen waves, like the surface of a pond after a stone had been thrown. The sun was a pale apricot disc, barely visible through layers of grey cloud. The wind, which had howled all night, was utterly still, as if the whole of Urte was holding its breath.
When he was done with watering the desert, Ramon wandered along the wall towards the nearest guard post. ‘Magister.’ The guard saluted, fist over heart. He was Pallacios XIII, a Tenth Maniple man, one of Ramon’s own. There were a cohort of twenty slumped against a ruined wall, their faces drawn and strained. The one who spoke had a new respect in his voice. Ramon had got them away from the destruction of Duke Echor’s army – not by any great feat of heroism or some mighty deed; he’d just known when to run. Clearly survival instincts were valued highly by the rankers.
Ramon tried to project calm as he asked, ‘What’s been happening?’
‘Bugger all – er, begging your pardon, sir. Storm only quieted down an hour ago. Now it feels like rain,’ the guard added doubtfully, ‘if’n it can rain out ’ere.’
‘That storm yesterday was gnosis-fuelled,’ Ramon told him. ‘It’ll have rukked the weather completely. Anything could happen – might be it blows for months on end, or we get more rukking sunshine.’
The ranker sniffed dourly. ‘We gonna make a run west, sir?’
Ramon had been wondering that himself. ‘We’ll see.’
The guard pointed north, towards the sand-covered battlefield. ‘I’ve seen lights, sir. Just when it’s quietest, they shoot into the air and head west. Look, there’s another!’
Ramon saw a tiny dot, like a shooting star, rise in the gloom, light immediately flashing about it. It ended in a scarlet flash, and winked out. His gnostic senses reported the distant fizz of discharged energy.
