by David Hair
She lifted her head defiantly. ‘Our people still regard Timori as our rightful king. You forget your own arguments that persuaded Francis to marry me: that you Rondians are too few to rule this land, that only the continued clemency towards Timi and me is preventing the uprising you all dread.’
‘That is a temporary problem, Cera. The game is changing all the time – when the Dorobon settlers arrive next month, we will have enough men to subdue this land, and after that, you and Timori will be living on my sufferance alone. Consider that, and be grateful for what you have.’ He fished inside his pocket and handed her a slip of paper. ‘Your Sister-Queen is at least grateful for what life has given her. Perhaps you should follow her example and concentrate on pleasing the king, instead of fermenting trouble in your Beggars’ Court.’
Portia’s written to me! Her hand shot out, but he jerked the envelope out of reach.
‘Let’s talk about that court of yours first, shall we?’
Bastido! She lowered her hand and glowered at him. ‘What?’
‘Last night I received a letter jointly signed by the Maula of Fayeedhar Dom-al’Ahm, the Sollan High Drui Josip Yannos and Grandmaster Tullesque of the Kirkegarde, exhorting me to stop the Beggars’ Court. This venture was supposed to divide my enemies, not unite them, so I am shutting you down.’
‘No!’ she exclaimed before she could control her reaction. ‘No, you can’t!’
‘Can’t I?’
But yes, he could – of course he could.
She swallowed and instead sought to reason it out. ‘Why should you, when it’s doing exactly what you wanted? You’ve got half the clergy locked up, the bureaucrats are paralysed and the Dorobon constitution can’t go ahead. The whole city is in turmoil – and none of it is aimed at you. Meanwhile it’s helping so many people. Please, we’re achieving so much!’
‘You’re encouraging vigilante justice.’
She caught her breath, because she knew he was right. People were administering the punishments she couldn’t – that was the ugly side of what she was doing. ‘If you gave me the right to hand out legally enforced sentences, then people wouldn’t take matters into their own hands,’ she started, but Gyle gave her a withering look.
‘No, Cera, I’m certainly not giving you that.’
‘Then make Francis hold court instead.’
‘If I could I would,’ he said briskly. ‘No, Cera, you will stay out of the Beggars’ Court.’ He looked at the letter in his hand, then pocketed it and walked away.
Rukka te, Gurvon Gyle. See if you can stop me.
*
‘Let me kill her.’
Gurvon turned to ‘Olivia Dorobon’, conscious of the eyes on them both. ‘You will stay away from Cera Nesti.’ He doubted it was coincidence, bumping into Coin at the bottom of the stairs to his suite in the west tower. She’d probably been waiting here for hours. ‘I’m busy, Coin.’
A sulky pout crawled over Olivia’s face. ‘You’re always too busy for me. Why am I even here?’
Gurvon pursed his lips. Because it’d be too difficult to explain Olivia’s sudden disappearance. ‘Francis needs stability, and you’re part of that,’ he said, trying to make his voice sound conciliatory.
‘I’m the best shapechanger there has ever been, yet you’ve got me doing nothing.’
‘You can’t always be killing people.’
‘I’m not a killer.’ Olivia’s plump face contorted angrily, then she added, ‘I think Cera knows who I am.’
That gave Gurvon pause. If Cera knew, her revealing the shapeshifter to the wrong people could be damaging. ‘How?’
‘She met my eyes and I think she might have recognised me.’
‘You think she recognised you? When was this?’
‘A few days ago.’
‘Then why only tell me now?’
‘I’ve tried, but you won’t see me!’ Her expression grew stony. ‘I can’t let anyone live who knows. I never have.’
Gurvon bit his lip. ‘No – you’re not sure, and she’s useful to me. Stay away from her.’
The shapeshifter scowled. ‘Have you spoken to my mother?’
‘Yes.’
Coin’s face changed – not physically, but emotionally, from sullen defensiveness to childlike hope. The body and gnosis of a deadly mage, and the maturity of a twelve-year-old. ‘Mother knows I’m alive?’
‘Of course – she was most relieved,’ he answered, not quite honestly. Mater-Imperia hadn’t been at all pleased to learn that her problem child still lived. Yvette Sacrecour had always been an embarrassment to her sacred dynasty. Lucia had demanded that Gyle send her home immediately, but he wasn’t one to waste an asset, especially one as uniquely skilled as Coin. And he still felt in control of her, despite this difficult phase.
‘Could I … speak to Mother?’ she asked diffidently.
‘Relay staves are difficult to make and they burn out swiftly – right now I have too few even for matters of state.’ He overrode her protests. ‘Yvette, I know your mother loves you, even if she doesn’t always remember that. The time will come – but it’s not yet.’ He tapped her shoulder. ‘And Yvette? You will stay away from Cera Nesti.’
‘You don’t understand the risks I face,’ she whined. ‘If she tells Francis Dorobon—’
Then I’d be well rid of you, and perhaps I could blame Lucia. Aloud, he put on his most reassuring voice. ‘Yvette, I will tell Cera Nesti that your identity remaining secret is a condition of Timori’s safety.’
‘And are you going to continue to shut down her stupid law court?’
That was another question altogether. He’d been thinking that the Beggars’ Court had outlived its usefulness, but perhaps not. This combined clerical outrage might be used to wring concessions from them. When it came down to it, the clergy held far more power than a mob of Noorie women, so keeping them under pressure was useful.
‘Perhaps.’ He tapped her sternum. ‘But you will stay away from her, you hear me?’
Coin’s false face was envious. ‘You’re still fascinated with her, aren’t you?’
‘That,’ he replied coldly, ‘is not your concern.’
15
Strange Alliances
Diversity Amongst the Blessed Three Hundred
The dominance of Pallas and the Rondian pure-blood magi can blind historians to the fact that the followers of Corineus hailed from more than a dozen different racial groupings. The original Blessed Three Hundred included Rondians, Bricians, Brevians, Hollenians, Argundians, Estellans, Noromen, Andresseans, Ventians, Midreans, and even some Lantric poets, and there are pure-blood enclaves in all these lands, descended from the original followers. So though ‘Rondian’ has become the blanket term, the reality is far more diverse, and divided.
ORDO COSTRUO COLLEGIATE, PONTUS, 689
Brochena, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Akhira (Junesse) 929
12th month of the Moontide
The wall of noise that hit Cera as she entered the zenana gardens was like being struck by a sand-storm. There were young women clambering on the iron gates; they’d been there for the last three days, hammering rocks against the metal and rhythmically chanting her name. They were calling now, leading a crowd that had grown to be thousands strong, the chanting loud as thunder: ‘CERA! CERA! CERA!’
She’d tried to enter the zenana each day after her talk with Gurvon, but she’d found the doors bolted and guards standing ready. There was no other way to get to the gardens, so she’d stood on her balcony instead, and shouted greetings down into the packed plaza below. Francis had come to her room, pulled her inside and struck her, leaving her dazed and humiliated as she pleaded for him to stop, but afterwards she staggered out to the balcony again and showed those gathered below her bruised face. The blows made her feel stronger, not weaker. This was her holy Crusade, and it was righteous and true.
The next morning, the doors to the rear courtyard were unlocked again.
See
, Gurvon Gyle: you have loosed this djinn from her cage.
She spoke to the crowd about being strong, her bruised and swollen eye socket her own battle-scar. The first person to speak that day was a man, Hazmani, the husband of Mukla, the first woman she had heard. He had relented and publically agreed to take back his wife and acid-marred daughter, and he was cheered on by the hoarse-voiced women. Tarita whispered in her ear that he’d been threatened with death if he didn’t. ‘The acid-thrower was found dead last night,’ the maid added, her button eyes glinting righteously.
In the middle of the afternoon, after hours of listening to wrangling women, there was a sudden uproar and a knot of men pushed their way into the square. They were not armed, as far as Cera could see. They were surrounding Godspeaker Ilmaz, the same clergyman who’d invaded the Beggars’ Court before. He strode towards the gate surrounded by a knot of his ruffians, one of whom was leading a frightened young woman. Her bekira-shroud had been torn, baring her face.
‘A judgement!’ Ilmaz shouted. ‘I demand a judgement!’
Cera understood immediately that this was a test. A quick glance around showed soldiers filing onto the walls above: men of Staria Canestos’ legion, prettily plumed and coiffed and oiled, but no less fearsome for that. The women in the courtyard pressed forward, howling insults at the Godspeaker and demanding that he release the girl. Such open hostility to a holy man would have been unheard of even two months ago, but the Beggars’ Court was undermining so much.
‘What, does the Godspeaker acknowledge our right to sit in judgement?’ Cera asked, feigning astonishment, and the crowd laughed along. ‘Remarkable!’
‘The Maula of Fayeedhar Dom-al’Ahm wishes to see whether your concept of justice extends beyond alleged crimes against women,’ Ilmaz shouted back. ‘It does not mean he finds you competent! But he wishes to explore your mind on this matter.’
‘What matter?’
He displayed the girl-prisoner like a trophy. ‘The matter of this girl’s perversion.’
That silenced the crowd momentarily and Cera sat back, suddenly wary. The girl looked utterly petrified, and Cera knew full well that witnesses could be made to say anything if the fear or the reward were enough.
Ilmaz’s mouth twisted. ‘This girl is accused of unnatural relations with another female.’
There was a sharp intake of breath through the courtyard, and it went rippling back into the plaza beyond. This was an offence, no matter who sat in judgement. If proven, al-Shaar demanded a stoning; in Sollan law it was a flogging offence, and in the civil court, the woman would be disowned and placed in a religious house. Each punishment was equally fatal in its own way.
Cera felt her own skin prickle with a flush of wet heat, and not only for the seriousness of the charge. Sol et Lune, do they know about me?
She felt like every eye that turned her way was boring into her, seeing through the veil of flesh to her very soul. She felt sweat beading on her scalp, and was acutely conscious that Staria Canestos was on the balcony above, with a dozen of her battle-magi, male and female.
Mater Luna, watch over me …
She managed to speak. ‘What does the girl have to say? I wish to hear from her!’
Ilmaz thrust the girl forward, right to the iron gate. ‘Speak, girl!’
The young woman, small-built with a round face and wide eyes, looked utterly cowed as she clutched the iron bars. Her expression was completely miserable. Her mouth started moving, but no sounds coming out.
‘What’s your name?’ Cera asked quietly, forcing the whole crowd to stop talking if they wanted to hear.
‘Kiraz, Ma-majesty,’ the girl babbled. ‘Please, I—’
She broke off as Ilmaz tightened his grip on her arm and muttered something in her ear, no doubt reminding her of just what he could do to her and those she cared about. ‘I am … I mean … I have … I’msosorrysosorryIcouldn’t … she made me do it!’
Cera felt a tingle inside, rising anger. How dare you drag this poor girl in here? But she was equally aware that her credibility was on the line here. The women in the crowd might be grateful that she was exposing crimes against them, but few would be sympathetic to the girl privately, and none publically. However she might sympathise, she could not fail to condemn.
If it’s true.
She swallowed and looked at Tarita, who was clenching her fists so tightly that her knuckles were white. Tarita knew everything about her secret relationship with Portia. She looked rigid with fear, but she made a small nod, which Cera had no idea how to interpret. She took it as encouragement.
‘Godspeaker,’ she said, re-finding her voice, ‘the girl is clearly scared out of her wits! How can I believe any admission of guilt under such circumstances?’
‘She confessed!’ Ilmaz shouted. ‘Why would she speak a lie that condemns her?’
This time the crowd’s reaction was muted, a confused babble, and Cera had to shout to be heard. She had no plan yet, only a vague intention of being seen to be fair. ‘I would hear her speak, free of intimidation! I would hear both sides of the case, as I hear them all!’ She stood up. ‘Open the gates! Admit the girl!’
Ilmaz glared up at her. ‘What surety do we have that you will not give her sanctuary?’ Again the crowd appeared confused, as if unable to decide who they should be supporting.
Mobs like simple truths, Gurvon had once told her.
‘I do not give sanctuary to the guilty!’ she shouted back. ‘How do we know you are not holding her family hostage right now, to force her to condemn herself?’
‘I am a Godspeaker of the Amteh! I do not stoop to such things!’
‘But some do – we have heard enough tales of crimes perpetrated by clergy in this court over the past weeks to fill a book! So do not presume your title elevates you from suspicion! If you want my judgement, you must release the girl to me!’
Ilmaz’s eyes blazed and the crowd of women turned on him again, jabbing accusing fingers at him and screeching. Cera reluctantly admired his courage – or perhaps it was just sheer pig-headed arrogance that made him stand unflinching before such a seething throng. Finally he shoved the girl at the gate, where she clung desperately to the railings, her eyes darting left and right.
The clerks at the gate hurriedly pulled the gates open and hauled the girl through. Someone gave her water and tried to calm her while Cera stood and gestured to Tarita. ‘What is going on here? Do you know anything of this case?’ she whispered urgently.
‘No, Lady,’ Tarita responded, still fearful. ‘I’ve never heard of this.’
‘Why this crime?’
‘I don’t know. Coincidence, Lady. Your secret—’
Cera put a finger to the girl’s lips. ‘Don’t even say it. There are magi here.’ Her eyes went up to Staria Canestos’ crooked face, peering down at her expressionlessly. ‘Why are they here?’
Tarita again shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Lady, I don’t know, I’m sorry.’
Cera wiped perspiration from her brow with her veil and took a few deep breaths. ‘Go and ask the mercenary commander what is happening, please.’
Tarita bobbed her head then ran, while Cera returned to her throne. The girl was being helped to her feet. She looked ready to faint, and who could blame her? Cera wished she could lie down herself. She glanced up, saw Staria Canestos leaning over Tarita, whispering in her ear, her face grim.
I’m right: this won’t be good at all.
‘So,’ she started when the girl had positioned herself, kneeling below the throne. ‘Kiraz, yes? Tell me, who is your family? Where are they? Are they here?’
The girl shook her head. ‘I have dishonoured my family. My father is here.’ She pointed to a man protected by Ilmaz’s group of bodyguards. ‘My mother and brothers are at home.’
Cera gestured and a copy of the Kalistham was produced. ‘Place your hand here,’ she said gently, pointing, then started, ‘Do you understand that by touching the holy book, you have drawn the eyes of Ahm Himse
lf upon you, Kiraz?’ she asked. Inwardly she was rolling her eyes at such superstitious nonsense, but she knew the people believed in such things, and that included this girl. ‘Now, tell me what happened.’
Kiraz spoke quietly, and the crowd fell silent, straining to hear. ‘I am seventeen, and the eldest child of my family. My father is a water-seller, and I labour as a bearer for him. Every day, I carry water from the river in bucket-yokes, and deliver to whomever my father says.’
Cera studied the girl: she was slight, but her shoulders were broad and her hands callused. It was not unusual for girls to have such heavy tasks, though it was generally for only a short time in their lives, before they were married and vanished into their husband’s home. They were normally chaperoned by their brothers while working. Seventeen was late to be unmarried, however.
‘Go on.’
‘My father has recently began sending my brother and me to deliver water to the new camps on the edge of the city, because the soldiers do not have access to the best wells. We did good business.’
Cera’s eyes flashed upwards to Staria Canestos. Her camp was on the edge of town. She looked back at the girl and asked, ‘Where is your brother? How old is he?’
‘At home.’ The girl’s eyelashes fluttered anxiously. ‘He is sixteen, and soon to marry.’
‘You are not married yourself, Kiraz?’
The girl shook her head. ‘I was late to bleed,’ she admitted, hanging her head.
Cera sighed – there were all manner of superstitions about girls who bled late; amongst the poorer classes anything out of the ordinary could so easily turn into a major problem – even such a simple thing as this could make a girl unmarriageable. To these people late bleeding could mean the girl was just unfeminine, or, worse, potentially infertile, or even a witch – or, worst of all, a safian.
‘I have had no suitors since my second engagement was terminated,’ Kiraz muttered.
A hiss ran through the crowd. There was little sympathy there.
Cera let out her breath in frustration, then glanced up as Tarita hurried back down the stairs towards her, her face taut with worry. Cera waved a hand for Kiraz to wait, then signalled for Tarita to come forward. ‘Well?’ she whispered.
