by David Hair
‘It’s the only criteria that matters.’
‘Yet a woman rules your empire,’ she said softly.
‘Her son rules,’ Francis retorted. ‘The Imperial Mother merely advises.’
‘Women have many more skills than that, if you only opened your eyes,’ she said, drawn to argue despite the knowledge that it was futile. ‘Elena Anborn—’
His face blazed with sudden rage, his hands sparked and he jumped to his feet, shouting, ‘Don’t you mention that rukking bitch to me, never! Never speak her name again!’
She went rigid with shock. Sol et Lune! What’s happened?
All of a sudden Francis’ fury collapsed into grief. His face crumpled, tears overflowed his eyes and the fire in his hands went out. ‘Jedyk! Jedyk! She killed him! He was my friend and the evil bitch killed him …’ He stumbled to the sofa, crooning, ‘Oh Jedyk, Jedyk!’
Elena … Elena has killed one of them! She recalled Jedyk Luman: a babe in the woods, naïve and boyish. Elena would have slaughtered him easily: a hardened fighter against a child. Elena is out there! The thought filled her both with fierce joy and deep dread.
‘What happened?’ she asked, struggling to sound sympathetic, but Francis was so lost in his own misery he paid no attention to her tone of voice.
‘Poor Jedyk was on the Hytel Road – she killed him in his bedroom, the safian witch!’ His whole frame was shaking. ‘What would make a mage betray her own kind? She must be Evil incarnate! But I’ll hunt her down, I swear!’ Then he seemed to see her again, remembered who she was and screamed, ‘Get out of here, you stinking Noorie!’
Cera fled, struggling to mask the new sense of exhilaration that was filling her. She didn’t care that Elena must now hate her; this news lit something in inside her that she couldn’t deny: a newfound sense of purpose.
And it was reinforced when she observed the fretting in the Great Hall later that night, the wringing of hands among the Dorobon and the consternation on even Gurvon Gyle’s face.
Elena is fighting back.
Then so must I.
*
Gurvon Gyle, clad in the purple robes of the Imperial Legate, watched the lines of soldiers marching into Piazza Policano, the big military parade ground outside the southern gates of Brochena. Around him the blue-and–white-uniformed Dorobon soldiery were ranked immaculately beneath the watchful eye of Sir Roland Heale. On the dais above sat Francis Dorobon, with his friends around him. Craith Margham’s ferret-faced features were taut with anxiety, but Guy Lassaigne – Rutt Sordell’s new host – was speaking soothingly, just as Gurvon had ordered him to. If Francis did something stupid today, things could turn ugly.
He glanced sideways at a knight resplendent in black and white, with a yellow wheel emblazoned on his left breast and a circlet of gold on his ceremonial helmet. Sir Etain Tullesque was a Grandmaster of the Kirkegarde; the order of knights formed to protect the Church’s rapidly increasing holdings now represented the largest standing army in Yuros. Luckily, Wurther had sent only a maniple to Javon to aid the Dorobons and ensure the Church’s investment in the Dorobon conquest. They’d come south at Margham’s behest and without consulting Gurvon, which worried him. Margham fancied himself cunning, but he wasn’t smart enough to realise that conflict between the king and the imperial legate could destroy them both.
A week ago Gurvon had intervened to prevent a riot at the Beggars’ Court, but since then the violence had got worse, not better, and his legionaries were struggling to keep the gangs fired up by the Godspeakers apart from the men siding with their women. The body count was rising and the gaols were so full he’d had to commandeer new buildings to stash prisoners. The constitution re-write had stalled as Don Perdonello tried belatedly to regain control of the civil judiciary, but mob justice had taken over the streets. Cera Nesti had criticised a man for beating his wife; an hour later the man’s body had been found floating in the canals. The Amteh clergy were in uproar and Gurvon had locked up more than two dozen of them so far: iron-faced men with huge beards and an almost savage hatred for the queen.
On the bright side, civil disobedience against the Dorobon had all but collapsed, subsumed into this new struggle, and he’d had the excuse he’d been looking for to plunder every sizable Dom-al’Ahm in Brochena. He’d confiscated illegal weapon caches, caches of gold, banned books and all manner of surprising artefacts.
It’s been well worth my while, but it will need to stop soon.
He glanced back at the thrones, where Cera Nesti sat pensively. She was changing, growing up in the full glare of the struggle she’d ignited. She was blooming: her confidence and poise were increasing, and she far more at ease with public scrutiny. She was clad in violet, the Nesti colours, worn blatantly in the Dorobon court. Her hair was coiled up in gold netting and she was beginning to wear make-up. Even her posture had changed: she was no longer the hunched-over, serious girl he’d first met. It showed her physical assets off to better effect, though he doubted she even realised. He was beginning to be reminded of Lucia Fasterius.
Then trumpets blared and the leaders of the new arrivals trotted forward to meet him.
Adi Paavus had stayed in the Krak, but Hans Frikter and Staria Canestos had marched north. Both had strong, overmanned legions, with many more than fifteen magi in each. Hans’ men were well-equipped in a rough and ready way, battle-hardened from border wars in Estellan and Argundy. He was Argundian himself, a solid and aggressive fighter with few airs and graces, and he genuinely liked the man.
Staria Canestos, on the other hand, he would have preferred not to have involved at all, but circumstances had put her in the ideal place. Her sprawling, colourful legions were formidable, and her presence guaranteed that the Dorobon would be outnumbered and cowed into submission, but like their commander, her soldiers came with a set of unique issues.
The Sacro Arcoyris Estellan, the Sacred Rainbow of Estellan, was the fanciful name for Staria’s motley collection of outcasts. Some twenty years ago, during a manpower crisis, Staria’s aged father Ernesto, the founder of the mercenary legion, had decided to take on men who couldn’t find a place in other legions – not only criminals or deserters, who were common but unreliable, but those seen as disruptive, not worthy of the trouble: atheists, migrants, Rimoni and Silacians, Sydian nomads … and especially mooners, men who loved other men. Such men were not rare, but they generally hid their curse for their own safety; they tended to be an unacknowledged grouping within any legion. When Ernesto Canestos allowed them to join openly, he was flooded with new recruits, including magi; many deserting from other legions. The new legion had very swiftly disproved the widely held belief that homosexuals were timid fighters. It became a notorious but unassailably strong unit. Staria had inherited command upon her father’s death and she had continued the tradition, growing the Sacro Arcoyris in strength and discipline.
The two mercenary commanders reined in their horses – Hans rode a massive warhorse, Staria a lean, graceful mare – and approached the throne with apparent ease, despite the tension on the faces of all present. Hans looked at Gurvon and winked before ducking into a sketchy bow as the Dorobon trumpets blared. Staria bowed too – she had never been the curtseying sort. Gurvon hadn’t quite figured out what she wanted, or whether having her here was going to be more trouble than it was worth, but for now she was a powerful piece on a complex tabula board.
‘Greetings, King Francis,’ Hans Frikter boomed, saluting fist-to-heart. ‘I hope you’ve got plenty of ale,’ he added with a smile. No one laughed, but he didn’t seem to mind. ‘Gurvon: nice rags you got there. Purple suits you.’
All very jocular: but Hans had also reminded all present that he had plenty of men and was friends with the legate. He was like that: apparently casual, but all business. It was a mercenary thing.
Staria mirrored Hans’ salute, then scratched her sallow cheek. She was around forty now, an Estellan with greying black hair, thick black eyebrows above a broken nose and dark ski
n. Despite the composition of her legion and the obvious rumours that ensued, she was not safian – she was not particularly anything, as far as Gurvon knew. She didn’t let people get close, and her first line of defence was her prickly personality. ‘Gurv,’ she greeted him shortly.
‘Good to see you both,’ he replied, waiting till Staria glanced away then winking at Hans. They all turned to the king, and despite all the preparation for this moment, Gurvon still held his breath.
Francis Dorobon shifted uncertainly on his throne. Even a blind king could not help but notice that his court was filling up with people who had no natural affiliation to him. Francis might be stupidity itself, but Craith Margham and Roland Heale weren’t, and so assurances had been given, some of them under the Imperial Seal.
‘My lords,’ said Francis, reading from a small scroll in his lap in a fluted voice, ‘welcome to Javon. I am King Francis Dorobon, rightful ruler of Javon and loyal subject of His Imperial Majesty Constant Sacrecour. In his name I invite you to take the oath of allegiance to my House. Do you so agree?’
Hans Frikter shuffled and Staria Canestos looked like she’d sooner lick dust off Francis’ feet, but after a moment, both muttered their assent.
‘Let’s do it,’ the Argundian grunted.
This had been the key point: that the mercenaries would accept a sacred oath of allegiance to Francis himself. Hans Frikter was a lot of things, but he was a devout follower of Kore and wouldn’t lightly break a holy oath. Staria was more sceptical, but many of her men were worshippers, even the mooners whom Kore disavowed, so they too would be deeply troubled if she broke such an oath. Mercenaries usually took no vows of service: their contract was their bond. But there had been no other way that Gurvon could get Margham and Heale, the real negotiators, to agree to welcoming the mercenaries. There was a contract too, of course, but that was another matter entirely.
Etain Tullesque stepped forward. ‘In the absence of a crozier, I have been charged with offering the sacred oath,’ the Kirkegarde Grandmaster intoned formally. ‘Do you accept my right and station in doing so?’
‘We do,’ the two commanders chorused.
Gurvon felt his eyes and mind glaze over as Grandmaster Tullesque launched into a long and tortuously worded oath; instead, he studied their faces. In all likelihood he was going to be sharing a kingdom with this group, after all.
About fifty years ago three legions of mercenaries stationed in Rimoni had rebelled against Imperial rule and seized Becchio, establishing a ‘free city’. It had taken eight years of the bloodiest battles in Rondian history for the empire to retake the city, and no one had trusted mercenaries much since – if they ever had beforehand. But this was different: Gurvon and his friends had a kingdom to seize.
Francis and his Dorobon could have the capital and Hytel, at least initially. Until we kill him. Staria and Endus would go into the west against Forensa and the rebel cities. Adi Paavus would hold the Krak and Hans would go southwest along with the Kirkegarde to seize Intemsa. Roland Heale understood tacitly what was happening, and he would get Hytel if he behaved. Craith Margham was different: he was slated to die with Francis. And then they would have to decide what manner of kingdom Javon would be thereafter. A loose collective of autonomous republics was what Gurvon envisaged, and the other conspirators were at least pretending to agree.
‘Do you, Staria Canestos, swear in the name of Kore Most High, to serve loyally and faithfully the House of Dorobon?’ Tullesque asked, his voice clear over the field and drawing his attention back to the events at hand.
‘I do so swear,’ Staria said, her voice flat, and she knelt at Francis’ feet and kissed the ring on his right hand.
Hans Frikter swore next. ‘I believe we have a deal, gentlemen,’ he said after he was done, with blithe disregard for Staria’s gender. ‘Now, where’s that Kore-bedamned beer?’
*
Cera sat in a chair beside Francis at the head table, watching the faces and the way they interacted. The tent was filled with senior magi of all parties, and she could almost see the gnostic energies, the subtle protections from spells or steel. They were all unarmed, but they wore their gnostic prowess like weapons. The numbers were carefully even at twenty each. Apart from herself and Staria Canestos, there were no women. The conversation was formal, stilted, and mostly concerning news of the crusade. None appeared at all worried about the news from Shaliyah: it scarcely rated a mention, and when it did, it was only to speculate about enemy magi. That the sultan had somehow gained gnostic aid stunned her, but no one spoke to her, so she could only store up the snippets of information for later. Tarita had told her the tale of Shaliyah was all over the streets of Brochena. The Javonesi were in ferment about it, gangs of youths breaking curfew and harassing the Rondian soldiers, but still open rebellion had not broken out.
She scanned the room, saw that the mercenaries didn’t mix with the Dorobon at all. Endus Rykjard clearly liked Hans Frikter, but not Staria Canestos. She heard sneering terms like ‘shisha-men’, ‘froci’ and ‘mooners’, but never in Staria’s hearing. There was an intimidating brittleness about the female mercenary that made everyone uneasy.
So she swallowed a little when the woman came and sat beside her, looking her up and down with narrow eyes. ‘So, you’re the Nesti?’ she said in passable Rimoni. The language shared enough words with Estellayne that most people who spoke one could converse with little misunderstanding.
‘I am Queen Cera Nesti.’
Staria studied her thoughtfully. ‘I hear Francis has two wives?’
Cera didn’t want to talk about Portia with this woman. ‘My sister-wife has been sent north for the term of her pregnancy.’
‘Three in a bed is rarely as much fun as people think,’ Staria remarked drily. ‘There’s never enough room and too many elbows. If you had the choice, which one would you kick out?’
Cera blinked, looked at the mercenary, then away. ‘Amteh men frequently have many wives.’
‘Francis isn’t Amteh and he’s not a man. He’s an immature, randy boy. I’m told he favours your rival?’
‘She’s not my rival.’ She made herself meet the other woman’s crooked gaze. ‘Are you married?’
‘Me? No. I have a nephew whom I have legally adopted: Leopollo is the best-looking mooner in Yuros. I have an adopted daughter too, Kordea. But I’ve not shared my bed with anyone for ten years or more, not since taking command of the legion.’ She picked at a bowl of nuts. ‘Love and leadership do not mix easily, and especially not for a woman.’
Cera nibbled her lower lip at that less than optimistic thought. Is that what I must also do?
Staria studied Cera silently for a moment, looking her over as if she was a piece of fruit she was thinking of buying. ‘So,’ she said, ‘what is the Beggars’ Court?’
‘It’s a place where any person’s grievances can be voiced and heard. You have heard of it?’
‘Gurvon told me. He says that you are on a crusade for women’s justice.’ She sounded amused at the concept.
‘He mocks me.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so, dear. He admires you.’ She added, ‘But I see from your face that this is not mutual.’
‘He had my parents killed, and my sister too. If I had any way of doing so, I would kill him for those crimes. My Rimoni blood demands it, as does natural justice.’
‘Yet still you dance to his tune.’
‘I do not.’
Staria smirked. ‘You are political, I am told. Alliances of expedience happen all the time in that arena.’ Her eyebrows lifted. ‘Even marital alliances with invaders.’
‘I’m not interested in alliances of expedience,’ Cera snapped back, angry because her own statement wasn’t true: she’d made such alliances too often: with Gyle, and with others. ‘One day I will have my revenge.’
Staria’s eyes bored into hers. ‘You are in earnest, clearly. But how do your people view your marriage?’
‘They understand,’ Cera shot b
ack. ‘Come to the Beggars’ Court, see for yourself.’
Staria rubbed her chin. ‘Perhaps I shall.’
10
Nasette’s Shadow
The Tale of Nasette
The fate of Nasette is one of the most disturbing stories to emerge from the period of the Church’s holy crusade against the Souldrinkers. A young mage-maid, captured by Dokken and made into one of them. Was it the rape and subsequent pregnancy? Was it something else? The reason for Nasette’s transformation has not become public knowledge, though many whisper that the Inquisition know.
ORDO COSTRUO COLLEGIATE, PONTUS 761
It is still rumoured in Nasette’s village that she was not kidnapped, and nor was her liaison unwilling.
ESPAR MOLDEN, HISTORIAN, BRES, 772
Southern Dhassa, on the continent of Antiopia
Awwal (Martrois) 929
9th month of the Moontide
‘Who was Nasette?’ Cym asked the leonine shape on the far side of the small cooking fire as she stirred the rabbit stew. The name had been on her mind for days, ever since Huriya had said it.
Zaqri looked across the fire, his eyes lit by the flames. He was darning a ripped shirt with a bone needle. ‘You do not know the tale?’
‘Obviously not, or I wouldn’t ask,’ she replied sarcastically.
‘Nasette was a mage-girl who became a Souldrinker.’
Cym dropped her stirring stick and stared. She felt her skin break out in a sweat. ‘Truly?’
‘Yes, though how is a secret known only to a few, like Sabele. When Huriya assumed Sabele’s soul she gained this knowledge.’
‘But you told me that Dokken gain only energy from taking a soul,’ Cym reminded him.
‘This is so, but Sabele has taken many bodies in her long life. Somehow she has found a way to move her soul from Souldrinker to Souldrinker. At times it has appeared to be involuntary; other times clearly deliberate. Either way, her personality asserts itself eventually.’
