Moontide 03 - Unholy War

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Moontide 03 - Unholy War Page 43

by David Hair


  ‘I’d risk it,’ Kip said blithely, and when they all gave him withering looks he just shrugged. ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t play with children,’ Jelaska sniffed, glaring at him.

  ‘Bondeau isn’t back yet,’ Ramon reminded them, changing the subject before Kip got shredded.

  ‘But on the bright side,’ Jelaska resumed, her voice husky, ‘we killed more than twenty Dokken, and my summoned spirits captured the infamous Yorj Arkanus and Hecatta.’ Her voice warmed a little. ‘They like to think of themselves as pure-bloods, but it’s only through stolen souls. Neither could deal with real power.’ Her eyes met Ramon’s, as if to emphasise that he couldn’t either if push came to shove.

  ‘What do we do with them?’ he asked, then added, ‘They’d make good bargaining chips.’

  ‘Do you see everything in terms of bargaining value?’ Jelaska asked. ‘This pair have been wanted for centuries. Kore knows how many they have killed. I say we execute them,’ Jelaska went on, directing her words at Seth. ‘Without these two, the Dokken will fall apart. Hang their heads from the battlements and let’s see how much control Salim can exert over the rest.’

  Ramon thought about the seething, raging pair in the cells below. Jelaska had Chain-runed them while they were still unconscious. Execution was too good for them, there was no doubt about that – but would they be more valuable still alive?

  His train of thought was interrupted by cries from the men on the causeway below, who were shouting and pointing. They all turned their heads, and then slowly rose to their feet. On the east road, a line of dark shapes had appeared, marching steadily towards them. As they stared, the sound of Amteh hymns flowed across the water. Salim’s army had arrived.

  INTERLUDE

  A Meeting of Minds

  Gnostic communication

  A case can be made for the supremacy of any of the sixteen Studies of the Gnosis, but to me, the most important is one that is not tied to any study: the ability to communicate mind to mind, often at great distance. Most magi use this simple but necessary spell without really appreciating how vital the ability to exchange ideas and information over vast distances is to our empire.

  ALVARA BENYS, GRADUATION THESIS, BRES ARCANUM 891

  Brochena, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia

  Rajab (Julsep) 929

  13th month of the Moontide

  Gurvon Gyle gripped the relay stave and closed his eyes to remove the distractions of the far-off city sounds and the slow crawl of sunlight across the floor of the tower room. The room was empty, but for the burned-out wreckage of Elena’s training machine, ‘Bastido’. He wasn’t quite sure why he kept the debris, but it pleased him to do so. He exhaled, and focused on a symbol – a secret Imperial Seal – which he conjured in his mind, then sent his mind questing, seeking another such symbol burning in the aether, that place that was neither of this world nor quite beyond it. Other presences hovered there, waiting.

  he greeted them.

  Mater-Imperia Lucia Fasterius was politeness itself. Grand Prelate Dominius Wurther gave a bland but distant smile, but the other presences were less welcoming: Tomas Betillon and Kaltus Korion merely grunted and Calan Dubrayle glanced sideways, distracted.

  There was another presence, one Gurvon didn’t recognise: a rakish and self-satisfied face with luxuriant dark hair and a full moustache peppered with grey. the stranger enquired.

  Gurvon had to work to keep his expression impassive. He looked at Lucia.

  Tomas Betillon grumped.

  Lucia chided mildly.

  Gurvon cast his mind back to the initial meeting, when he had put to this group a plan for the Third Crusade. One of their stated goals had been the destruction of the power of the merchant-magi – led by Jean Benoit. He recalled Lucia’s virulent contempt for the traders, particularly those who had been using their economic power to buy magi children to breed with. He could not have been more surprised if he’d found Elena Anborn present.

  I hope it’s not something I’ve done.

  He quickly ran over his own position in Javon, but all felt secure: King Francis Dorobon had been largely pacified and unaware of his political emasculation. The mercenary legions he’d acquired were settling in, and supplies were flowing south to Kaltus Korion’s army as she’d demanded. The Javonesi nobility were divided and unwilling to elect a new king of their own knowing that would condemn young Timori Nesti to death. And Cera Nesti’s Beggars’ Court was doing an excellent job of dividing and distracting the Jhafi clergy. Even Elena Anborn’s guerrilla attacks had subsided. He felt cautiously optimistic that Javon was on the brink of becoming secure.

  Mater-Imperia cleared her throat.

  The circle of faces hovering in the aether turned to Dubrayle.

  Kaltus Korion asked tiredly. The general looked strained. Since Shaliyah, his Northern Army had been dealing with bushfire uprisings in every town and city. Of course this had been anticipated, but it was still presenting enormous difficulties. It had forced him to abandon the frontier edges of his conquests and pull back from Hall’ikut, instead concentrating on a largely defensive battle as the Moontide entered its second year.

  It probably didn’t help him that I stole three of Korion’s legions, Gurvon thought. Adi Paavus, Hans Frikter and Staria Canestos’ mercenary legions had been bribed to leave Korion’s service and join Gyle in Javon, something Kaltus had been furious about, but Lucia had been cornered into ratifying the transfer after the fact.

  Dubrayle began.

  Betillon muttered.

  Dubrayle ignored him and launched into a lengthy presentation filled with numbers and percentages and trends in currency and bullion, the scale of which was eye-poppingly large. Gurvon prided himself on having a head for figures, but Dubrayle’s monologue left him floundering. What he did understand, however, was that the Lord Treasurer clearly had thousands of informants throughout the empire – not spies, but counters and clerks and record-keepers, creating a web of mundane information that made Gyle’s own network – his magi-spies and some hundred ordinary people in a few key cities – look hopelessly inadequate.

  Wurther interrupted.

  Betillon growled.

  Lucia smiled tolerantly.

  Dubrayle looked pained.

  Betillon frowned.

  Dubrayle said in a martyred voice, s worth what the markets dictates, and to ensure commerce continues; one must have confidence in the institutions issuing promissories. As long as that confidence and trust exists, traders will treat promissories as real money, exchanging them for real goods. That’s how the system works. We typically issue promissory notes at a ratio of ten times the value of bullion held – the private banks and some of the guilds do the same – and then we let the gold price handle the slack. But unauthorised Imperial Notes have shown up, bearing our seal but originating in the armies themselves. I’m trying to trace the origin of these ‘Crusader notes’, but the trail is tangled. Conservative estimates place the value of notes in circulation at nearly eighty times our bullion reserves.>

  Gurvon whistled softly. Okay. That, I get. He glanced across at Benoit, wondering, But should we be telling him?

  The Guildmaster looked fairly concerned, but he noticed Gurvon’s sideways look and addressed him. He turned back to Dubrayle.

  Dubrayle resumed the narrative.

  Kaltus Korion sniffed.

  Dubrayle vowed with the intensity of a knight pledging his honour in a duel.

  Benoit preened unselfconsciously. He looked enquiringly at Dubrayle and then at Lucia.

  Lucia considered the question for a moment, and then said firmly,

  Benoit replied,

  Gurvon caught his breath. Could it truly go so far? I thought just our saving were at stake?

  Dubrayle looked grave.

  Gurvon asked.

  Dubrayle pulled a face.

  In other words, yes: we’re all going to take a hit.

  Lucia looked around the circle.

  Dubrayle looked at Gurvon and smiled wryly.

  And bugger everyone else …

  He nodded to show he understood.

 

  Presumably Benoit had threatened to go public if he wasn’t given a role in managing the situation, Gurvon guessed. Thank Kore my imperial contract for the plan stipulated that I’m to be paid in bullion. His gold was due to be shipped to Javon by Jusst & Holsen in a few weeks, after numerous delays.

  Lucia said lightly.

  Jean Benoit put in.

  Gurvon watched in fascination, as Lucia and Wurther struggled to contain a sick look that crawled over their faces. Then Lucia’s matronly mask descended and her voice was steely as she replied,

  Benoit pursed his lips, then smiled ruefully.

  Lucia replied in a voice that suggested that she had no wish to discuss this further.

  Benoit understood. He tsked irritably.

  Gurvon considered the Guildmaster’s bland expression. He has Vannaton Mercer, I’d stake money on it. But why is this trader suddenly so important?

  Wurther had regained his jovial poise.

  Benoit said dryly. His face vanished from the aether.

  *

  It was the question of Vannaton Mercer that stayed with Gurvon afterwards as he sat gazing out the tower window at the city below. There were hordes of people in the plaza and alleys behind the zenana, where Cera Nesti was hearing civil disputes in the Beggars’ Court. Horses were being saddled in the southern courtyard, for the king to go riding. And somewhere out there in the wide plains of Javon, Elena Anborn was planning her next move.

  Elena Anborn was Vannaton Mercer’s brother-in-law. Could this be coincidence?

  He remembered that look on Lucia’s face when the mask had slipped. And Wurther’s too. But not the others. There had been only one other time when he’d caught a glimpse of the fear behind Lucia’s public certainty: earlier this year when she’d inadvertently let slip that there was ‘a major card she did not hold’.

  Could it somehow be linked to Vann Mercer … or Elena Anborn?

  20

  Red Rivers

  Bloodlines

  We are each a part of those who came be
fore us. Their blood flows in us, a red river that runs through time, linking men and women to their children and their parents. It is a miracle, a gift that life can beget life. The red rivers will flow until the end of time and the coming of Ahm.

  KALISTHAM

  Mandira Khojana, Lokistan, on the continent of Antiopia

  Rajab (Julsep) to Shaban (Augeite) 929

  13th and 14th months of the Moontide

  The moment Alaron had developed the gnosis, after a hideous migraine that flushed his skin scarlet and left him feeling like his head would burst into flame, his father had taken him to the Arcanum. Vannaton’s trading business was profitable and they were backed by the Anborn family money, so they could afford to send him to Turm Zauberin, the most prestigious Arcanum in Norostein. But Alaron was a quarter-blood, a figure of contempt for his classmates and tutors alike. Merely a trader’s son, with neither breeding nor connections, he’d had no defence from the mental and physical bullying from the likes of Malevorn Andevarion, Francis Dorobon and Seth Korion. Nor had the tutors protected him. Instead, his confidence had been completely crushed and by the time he left Turm Zauberin, he still could not use many of the powers he should have mastered. He’d been competent enough at the basics and passed the final exams – until a trumped-up excuse had deprived him of even that. He’d been publically failed and denied use of his gnosis as punishment.

  Now, free of the bullying and corruption, Alaron felt that he was finally becoming the mage he should have been. Even before he had arrived at the Zain monastery he’d been blossoming as he faced and dealt with crises he could never have imagined at the Arcanum. Now even he could sense the change: he believed in himself now, and that belief was permeating everything. With the gnosis, confidence that impossible things would happen when you willed it was crucial.

 

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