by David Hair
Mater Lune, forgive me, but I don’t want him dead. I have to find another way.
Ramon stammered something, then straightened. He was looking Zaqri over with wary eyes, and so were those with him. Magi and Souldrinker, face to face, studying each other, waiting to see what might happen here. Some looked appalled, others, like the giant Schlessen, merely curious.
Then Ramon thrust out a hand to Zaqri. ‘Ramon Sensini,’ he said, ‘of Silacia.’
Zaqri looked ill at ease, more than she had ever seen him, but he too extended his hand. ‘I am Zaqri of Metia. Cymbellea’s mate.’ They gripped hands tentatively: mage and Dokken, but neither typical of their kind.
‘Believe it or not, you’re not the first of your kind we’ve encountered,’ Ramon observed, removing any doubt Zaqri might have that he knew what he faced. ‘Many fought for Salim at Shaliyah.’ His words were like the tentative opening jabs of a fencing duel, feeling out the opponent’s defences.
‘There is an alliance,’ Zaqri said carefully, ‘but that does not concern me. My only concern is for Cymbellea, and our child.’
Cym quivered at the way he said it, feeling trapped by the gazes of the listening magi who suddenly stared at her with blank, accusatory faces, disgust and horror writ clearly as what he said sank in.
Yes, I’ve rukked a Dokken. She lifted her head. Well, what of it?
Silence clogged the air.
Ramon looked from her to Zaqri and back. ‘We’re marching west. Cym-amica, you are welcome to come with us.’ He didn’t need to add that Zaqri wasn’t.
She looked up at Zaqri. I could walk away from him. Is that punishment enough for him, Mother? But there was also Alaron and the Scytale, unmentioned so far but their existence heavy in the air between her and Ramon. ‘Can we talk?’ she asked, her voice low. ‘Alone?’
Ramon’s brow furrowed with worry, but he said, ‘Of course.’ He looked up at Zaqri. ‘If you don’t mind?’ he said levelly.
Zaqri’s hands loosened their grip on her reluctantly, then he turned her, tilted her head and kissed her lips and her heart leaped in her chest as he did so. The taste of him was like a sweet liquor on her tongue. Claiming me before them all.
She claimed him also, open-mouthed and coiling her tongue about his.
‘I will await your decision here, at sunset,’ he said softly. Before she could respond, he turned and walked away.
*
Sunset. Zaqri waited where he’d said he would, in the no man’s land outside the pen. The gates were open, but no refugees had yet left – why would they, where there was food and protection here? The Ahmedhassans were pleasantly puzzled that this new Rondian force was not hostile, and in fact had a baggage train full of willing Khotri women. But those from the same villages or towns were gathering to discuss how they might return home. Zaqri remained aloof, waiting fretfully for his mate.
‘So, Zaqri of Metia,’ someone greeted him in Rimoni. It was that ferret-faced battle-mage, Cymbellea’s friend, Ramon Sensini. Cymbellea was nowhere to be seen.
Zaqri stood, swallowing. ‘Magister Sensini.’
‘Please, sit again. I’ll join you.’ Sensini went over to a mound and sat, then pulled out a flask of liquor and offered it to him. ‘You can call me Ramon.’
Zaqri looked about. ‘Where is Cymbellea?’
‘She’s gone down into the women’s camp. Something to do with her condition.’
Zaqri had to restrain himself from leaping to his feet and running to find her. ‘Is she going to stay with your army?’
Ramon sighed, his face rueful. ‘She seems to think that she has to go off and save my friend Alaron. You know the name?’ When Zaqri nodded, he went on, ‘She doesn’t know where he is, but ten to one he’s in worse shit than we are, knowing him.’
Zaqri felt his heart begin to pound. She’s staying with me … Thank you, Pater Sol! Thank you thankyouthankyou …
‘I take it you know what is at stake?’ Ramon enquired.
‘The Scytale of Corineus. Freedom for my people.’
Ramon looked thoughtful. ‘I’d not thought of it in that way, but I suppose you’re right: it would be salvation. Perhaps it’s even the right thing to do.’ He studied Zaqri. ‘There were hundreds of Dokken at Shaliyah, led by a man called Yorj Arkanus. Do you know him?’
‘Only by reputation.’
‘He was an evil cunni who tried to sell me his wife to save his own life.’ Ramon looked disgusted at the memory. ‘So I killed him.’
Zaqri blinked. Arkanus had been the warleader of the eastern Dokken, the one who’d drawn their whole Brethren into the shihad. If he’s dead, who is leading … ?
‘I have seen and read and heard nothing but evil about your kind, Souldrinker,’ Ramon went on. ‘Every holy book, every tale handed down, everything I myself have seen is telling me to lock you up while we decide how to kill you.’
Zaqri straightened. ‘I’m not so easy to catch, Magister.’
‘Easy there. You see, Cymbellea is like a sister to me. She says that you’re a good man, the best of your kind. She begged me not to have you arrested, and I agreed. I’ve spoken to General Korion and he accepts my word. The proviso is that you’ll not harm even the lowliest Ahmedhassan refugee here, and you’ll be gone by dawn.’
‘With Cymbellea?’
Ramon nodded slowly, painfully. ‘With Cymbellea.’
He closed his eyes to hide the sudden sting of tears.
‘Where will you go?’ Ramon asked.
He thought for a few seconds. ‘East – always east. There are Inquisitors hunting your friend, and Dokken too.’ Huriya Makani. Wornu and Hessaz. My own pack – no, mine no longer. ‘We don’t even know if he is still alive.’
Ramon looked at him with misgivings writ large on his face. ‘I wish I could come with you, but we’ve got thousands of men here, and now all these refugees. And my lady is about to give birth to my child. I’m honour-bound to see them home.’
‘I understand that. I was a packleader once. Leadership is a responsibility.’ He added slowly, ‘And a child is a precious thing.’
‘Si. It is indeed.’ Ramon looked as if he’d just confirmed something to himself, something he’d hoped for but hadn’t entirely expected. ‘I will wish you buona fortuna, Zaqri of Metia. Give Alaron my best when you find him.’
They stood and shook hands, then the little battle-mage strolled away.
Zaqri turned, his heart pounding, and ran back to the camp.
There was an area set aside by common agreement for women only, but he strode unheeding into it, wearing his true face and skin colour, heedless of the looks they gave him as he approached. He wiped his sweating palms on the apron of his kurta, feeling his nerves grow as he walked.
She’s going to come with me! She’s going to have my child!
He remembered all the years with Ghila, all the still-births, then the final realisation that she was barren. The tears, the blame, the recriminations, the making up, the tentative finding of a new peace between them, despite the emptiness of making love when they both knew there would be no harvest from the sowing. He wondered if it had made her reckless in battle, until she let herself become separated from the others at the Isle of Glass. She had died unavenged as well, although Cym seemed to have overlooked that. He had a strong, uncomfortable feeling that this Alaron they sought might have been the one who took Ghila’s life.
How will I feel when I finally meet you, Alaron Mercer? I expect Cym to put her vengeance aside, but can I do the same?
When he reached the middle of the women’s camp and the people clustered there saw him, he realised something was wrong. It was in their eyes, the fear and the knowledge. He looked around for her, opened his mind to call.
He ploughed into the mass of women, his mind conjuring images of lynching and murder, of her body torn and ravage
d, her heartbeat shuddering to a halt. All around him the dark faces of the Dhassan and Keshi refugees stared at him, their eyes hostile. He shoved them aside, roaring in terror and fury, shouting her name.
He found her right in the middle, lying on her back on a blanket, her shift hiked up to the waist and her legs spread, shrieking in pain and loss. The stink of iron and viscous blood painted the air red. A clutch of old women were gathered about her, some holding her down, others sloshing water. One held a bloody stick.
‘NOOOO!’ He fell to his knees, blazing gnosis fire into the skies, assaulting Heaven. ‘MATER LUNE, NO!’
Perhaps she heard, the goddess of mad acts, for she was certainly present, but her work here was done.
*
The Keshi skiff skimmed through the air, losing height as it dropped to the earth about a hundred yards from where Seth Korion waited. Its sails fell and it lost momentum swiftly, coming to a stop near the forty Keshi cavalrymen waiting below.
Seth strained his eyes eagerly. A slender, upright figure rose from a seat in the hull and stepped to the ground. Immediately all the Keshi prostrated themselves.
‘Never hard to tell who’s boss with these Noories,’ Baltus remarked, leaning against his skiff. The Brevian looked quite at ease, trimming his nails with his dagger. ‘What with all that kneeling and dirt-kissing.’
Seth ignored him and peered at Salim of Kesh as he acknowledged his men, then turned his head to look up the slope towards him. Did he fancy that their eyes met across the distance?
‘Shall we grab him again?’ Baltus joked. ‘Wouldn’t that piss them off?’
Seth stiffened. ‘We will not. We must re-cultivate our honour, not taint it further.’
‘As you say, General. Just making the offer.’ He pointed towards the figures below. Two more men had disembarked. ‘Anyway, I’m betting that pair are Keshi magi, here to avoid a repeat show.’
Seth tore his eyes from Salim and noted the two. Souldrinkers? Hadishah? For a few seconds the old, nervous Seth trembled, then he got a grip on himself. I am a Korion. I am a pure-blood descendant of the Blessed Three Hundred. I have led the charge and faced down the Inquisition. I refuse to show fear. It helped, somehow. He took a deep breath and said, ‘Let’s go.’
It felt oddly unnerving not to have Ramon here, but the Keshi had been very specific about excluding him from the parley and Seth could hardly blame them. And it felt good to be properly in charge for once, not just a mouthpiece. But it also meant he had to get this right on his own.
The Keshi came to meet him: Salim – or an impersonator – and two protectors. As they drew closer, he could sense the wrongness in the aura of the two Keshi flanking Salim. Souldrinkers, then, God’s Rejects, and no doubt furious at the fate of their leaders. They’d know, of course: Latif would have told them. He girded himself for trouble.
Salim raised a hand in greeting. ‘Sal’Ahm, General Korion.’ The sultan looked majestic. His clothing was resplendent, with hundreds of gems glittering in the sun. He was dressed primarily in blue this time, with a white turban. His narrow, intelligent face was just like Latif’s, but it had been two weeks; he wasn’t sure …
‘Sal’Ahm,’ he replied, his voice catching a little. I just wanted to see him. ‘It is good to see you, Sultan,’ he added. ‘Or at least, one of you.’ It wasn’t Latif, he was almost certain.
‘Call me Salim,’ the sultan replied.
Who knows who I’m really speaking to? ‘Thank you, Sultan.’
‘No Master Sensini to spoil our conversation today, I trust?’ the Keshi ruler asked wryly. His Rondian was as smooth and cultured as Latif’s had been.
‘Not today.’
Salim indicated his companions. ‘These are Brennan and Tynbrook, of Brevis. But not of your gnostic persuasion, of course.’ The two Dokken flipped back hoods to reveal flame-red hair and beards, and pale northern Yuros skin. They exuded wariness and hostility.
‘I trust you do not wish to try and turn the tables upon us today?’ Seth enquired, not quite keeping the nervousness from his voice.
‘I would rather keep my honour intact,’ Salim replied evenly. He raised a hand and from the middle distance a servant hurried forward with a tray containing two goblets and a decanter of red wine. ‘You are still partial to the Javonesi merlo? It is hard to get currently, but this is seven years old, from a good year.’
It was the same wine he’d had with Latif on their last evening together. Seth’s mouth filled with saliva at the memory. He bowed. ‘You have an excellent memory, Sultan.’
Salim raised one eyebrow. ‘I was briefed fully.’ He smiled enigmatically. ‘I trust we may speak as friends?’
‘Of course,’ Seth said, ‘though we have not met before.’ I don’t think.
‘In many ways, we have met; we know so much of each other.’ Salim filled a goblet and passed it to Seth. ‘Please – it is not tainted, but I will not be offended should you need to use your powers to verify this.’
Seth looked down at the goblet and then at Salim. He took a sip.
Salim looked pleased at the display of trust. ‘Praise be to Ahm, that enemies may drink as friends,’ he declared. It sounded like a quote from a holy book. He filled the second goblet and drank as well. ‘My friend, let us walk and talk.’ He indicated a goat-trail that ran about the base of the rise. ‘Shall we?’
Seth looked at Baltus; his eyes were locked on the two Brevian Dokken. ‘We can trust Salim,’ he said in a low voice. ‘We can trust his honour.’
‘I’m more worried about this pair.’ Baltus glanced at the goblet. ‘Do I get any of that merlo?’
Salim waved a hand. ‘Help yourself, Magister Prenton.’
Baltus chuckled. ‘Knows my name, and we’ve never been introduced. He’s sharp, that one.’ He threw Seth a warning look.
Sadly true. Seth threw what he hoped was a warning look at the Dokken, then hurried to join the sultan. ‘How does Latif fare?’ he asked, trying to conceal his eagerness.
Salim smiled fondly. ‘You are as affable as Latif described. He sends his greetings. But you must understand, it is unlikely he will be allowed to see you again while this war continues. He has been compromised.’
‘But he will not be punished?’
‘Of course not!’ The sultan sounded shocked. ‘The problem is that you can now clearly identify him as not being me, and that is valuable information in some circles.’
‘I don’t move in those circles, Sultan.’
‘I suppose not, but nevertheless, we must be mindful. So, what is the need for this parley, Seth Korion? We both have places we must be: you across the Tigrates, and I in the north.’
‘We’ll be leaving your lands soon – we’re going to be crossing the river any day.’ Seth took another sip of wine, savouring it this time. It was inky-dark and velvet smooth. Glorious.
‘The other side of the Tigrates is still my lands, Seth Korion,’ Salim reminded him in a somewhat sterner voice. ‘You had better not stop there.’
‘We won’t. We’re going all the way to the Bridge and back across it.’
‘Then what is it you want? Do you think I can restrain my generals for ever? They are chafing for vengeance, especially after your man Sensini made fools of us all.’ He paused, raised a finger. ‘Bring him to me and they might be appeased.’
I wouldn’t take him up on that, even if I could. How odd. ‘I am obliged to protect my own,’ Seth replied dryly. ‘In fact, I’ve not come to ask for anything. I’m actually here to warn you of something.’ He outlined the situation ahead: two refugee camps, guarded by an Imperial legion and at least one Inquisition Fist. He didn’t talk about the khurnes and how they were made; Ramon had insisted on holding back that information in case Salim overreacted. He did report that the camps had been places of brutality and death, though, and that was enough to ensure Salim took the issue seriously.
‘What is it you wish us to do, General?’
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‘Move against the camps, and let us cross the Tigrates safely,’ Seth replied.
Salim looked contemplative, and Seth thought he looked like a prophet-king straight out of one of his peoples’ tales. And achingly like Latif. ‘The Inquisition has an evil reputation among our people,’ the sultan said eventually. ‘They are the subject of a death-writ by the Godspeakers. Even the Ja’arathi condemn them.’
‘If you can take them, they’re yours, and good luck in it.’
Salim met Seth’s eyes. ‘Why do you tell us this? These are knights of your Church.’
‘Because I – we – believe that what they are doing is evil.’
‘Your own people will condemn you when you are back in Yuros.’
‘I can handle that,’ he said, not believing his own words for a second. They’ll probably hang me.
‘I admire your courage, Seth Korion,’ Salim said softly. ‘I myself have never been able to confront the Godspeakers as I have wished. They have too much power in my lands. Even I, Sultan of Sultans, must bend my knee to their wishes.’
‘Priests are our gateways to paradise,’ Seth replied piously.
‘Some are.’ Salim met Seth’s eyes and inclined his head. ‘Thank you for this news, my friend. Latif was right about you. “We can trust the younger Korion,” he said. I believe that now.’
‘Please convey my thanks and greetings,’ Seth said.
‘I think one day we will all meet again, in better days.’
‘I pray so,’ Seth replied fervently.
Salim inclined his head again. ‘Well, my friend. You have laid a great charge upon me. I will send cavalry north to these other camps and deal with this situation. However, I must warn you that when my soldiers see these camps, they will be enraged. Many will blame you and your men. If you are not across the river by the agreed date, I will not be able to hold them back.’
