by David Hair
Timori dropped from the cart and ran forward. ‘Tante Ella!’ The boy-king leapt and clung to her as she struggled to cope with his weight. He’d grown so much – he was almost up to her chest now, and a lot heavier. ‘I’ve missed you so much, Tante Ella,’ he whispered.
She lightly touched Timi’s mind and found only the wide-eyed innocence she’d always found there, albeit with a little more maturity and a lot more fear. Poor boy, hidden from sight, kept as a prisoner. But not abused, thank Kore. She squeezed him back, then lowered him down to the ground. ‘It’s good to see you, Timi. Please wait here a moment while I see to Cera.’
She turned to the princessa.
So many emotions, all at once: anger and bitterness warred with a desire to find a reason to forgive, but she couldn’t, not yet. Her fingers twisted into claws just to look at her. It didn’t matter that the princessa looked miserable, lifeless, broken down by the weight of all she’d seen and done.
You sold me to Gurvon, you little piece of …
Their eyes met …
Deep breath. Deep breath.
‘Cera.’
‘Elena … I’m so sorry.’ Tears began to well from the young woman’s eyes. ‘Please, please, please forgive me.’
She was conscious of the weight of Timori’s gaze, the way the boy was holding his breath, not really understanding, but achingly aware of the unexpected hostility in the air when he’d expected only joyous reunion.
But she couldn’t lie either.
‘I don’t know if I can,’ she replied, then for Timori’s sake she added, ‘but I’ll try.’
Pontus, on the continent of Yuros
Rami (Septinon) 929
15th month of the Moontide
Vannaton Mercer was playing tabula with one of his guards, a bluff, middle-aged man named Pol Tannor. After nine months of being cooped up with each other they were something like friends. Tannor was affable enough, more than happy to open the wine or bring eastern delicacies from the markets. Goods from Antiopia had been flooding into Pontus for months now, the harvest of conquest, and the markets were going insane, with prices spiralling and gold coin becoming harder and harder to find. The fact that the plunder was far less than expected had driven the prices even higher.
‘They say the Imperial Treasury has stopped issuing hard coin,’ Tannor was telling him. ‘Ain’t got none, way I hear it.’
‘Dubrayle’s a smart man,’ Vann replied, stretching his legs. ‘I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.’
It was hard to get enough exercise here in the protective custody of the Merchants’ Guild. The courtyard was barely sixty yards across, and there were no gardens – the building was just another small, anonymous house crammed into the trading district of Pontus, a city that went mad four years in twelve, then was left virtually derelict for the rest of the Moontide cycle.
Vann would dearly have loved to be allowed to go for a walk: anywhere. Escape wasn’t on his mind, not at all, but despite being a ‘guest’, his movements were very much curtailed. For my own good, or so they keep telling me.
‘Aye, sure Dubrayle knows what he’s doing,’ Tannor grumbled. ‘He’s stringing the guilds along and praying he can ride this out, same as last time. But it ain’t like last time, I’m telling yer.’ Everyone associated with the Merchants’ Guild fancied themselves as men of business, even the guards. Tannor slugged back his ale and was about to launch into another of his discourses on the duplicity of Imperial Treasurers when the door swung open, and Jean Benoit entered, his face grim.
‘Vann! We need to talk. Pol, you may go …’
Tannor stood, and all levity left his face. He flashed Vann a sympathetic look, then scurried out, meek as a serving girl. Vann swallowed, then indicated the now vacant chair.
‘I’ll stand,’ Benoit said, not quite meeting his eye.
Vann slowly stood also, wondering. Benoit’s normally confident, genial face was rigidly set. Bad news, or unpleasant tidings then …
‘Vann,’ the Guildmaster began, ‘we’ve hidden you from the empire these past nine months. The Quizzies want you, but I’ve never questioned your story, not once.’
Vann felt his mouth go dry. ‘I’m grateful, Jean. If there is any way I can repay you, you know I will …’
‘I know, Vann, I know,’ Benoit replied, his voice a little choked and uncomfortable. ‘But the thing is, I’ve finally gained a greater insight into why the Inquisitors have been hunting your son.’ He put his hands to his hips and took a deep breath. ‘The fact is, new information has come to light.’
Vann felt the ground shift beneath him. ‘No, Jean …’ He threw up his hands. ‘Kore’s Blood, man, you know these people! You know the lies they tell!’
And the gold they sometimes share …
Nine months, and I’m sure he’s been touting me around every dealer-in-secrets from here to Pallas …
I knew I didn’t trust you, you silk-stocking full of shit.
The door opened again, and a stiff-backed woman entered, her haughty face of faded beauty framed by severely tied grey hair. Her eyes glittered like diamonds. The cassock she wore was so deeply purple it was almost black, and chains of gold hung about her neck and waist. A key emblem was embroidered on her left breast, a sign he’d been told of but never before seen. His heart crumbled.
‘My name is Delfinne de Tressot,’ the woman said in a cool, brittle voice. ‘Do you know what I am?’
Vann nodded, his eyes caught by hers. Benoit’s change of heart became all the more explicable. ‘You’re a Keeper, Lady; one raised to the Ascendancy as a reward for loyalty and service to the empire.’
In fact, you’re the bitch who ran the Imperial Orphanages … while your husband Lord Aldemar ran a chain of brothels.
‘Quite so.’ She prowled a circle around him, then gestured dismissively at Benoit. The Guildmaster fled whilst looking at anything but Vann.
Dear Kore … will I ever leave this room again?
Delfinne de Tressot motioned for him to sit, and he was too frightened to refuse.
‘Well, Master Vannaton: I believe you and I have much to talk about. Let’s start with your son Alaron, and his Arcanum thesis that postulated the theft of the Scytale of Corineus during the Noros Revolt.’ She bent over him, and her eyes flashed like those of a vulture. ‘Tell me … who the Hel told him so?’
Ebensar Heights, Zhassi Valley, on the continent of Antiopia
Rami (Septinon) 929
15th month of the Moontide
Kaltus Korion urged his khurne to halt and the beast did so with silent obedience, standing rock-still and waiting as he stared down the long slopes of Ebensar Heights at the blackened sands and smouldering bodies.
For eight days, Emir Rashid Mubarak of Halli’kut had thrown men at his First Army, masses upon masses, trying to smash through with sheer manpower. It had been slaughter on a grand scale, uphill and into the teeth of the Imperial magi.
Did they think my magi were like Echor’s, nothing but low-blooded provincials?
Kaltus Korion had the elite of the battle-magi, armed with construct beasts and siege engines, all bolstered by the gnosis: five hundred years of Rondian Empire knowledge, invention, experimentation and expertise, distilled into a perfect instrument of military magic and placed at his command. He had gnosis-guided exploding ballistae bolts; fragmenting fireballs launched from catapults more than half a mile away; flying constructs who breathed fire after the manner of the dragons of legend. And all this firepower had been concentrated on a narrow front where half a million men had thought to break through. The results had been catastrophic for Rashid’s Keshi.
Korion liked to imagine there were just the two of them, standing like gods over the battlefield, avatars of Kore and Ahm hurling men at each other like spells. And I am clearly the better man, he mused. And the greater god.
A nervous aide approached. ‘Sir, here are the latest despatch memos received via the relay-staves.’
Korion salut
ed the young man, well aware of his effect on the junior officers. Worship shone from the eyes of the men he gathered to his command tent, all dreaming that he would notice them and advance their careers.
He turned back to the view. Even his most senior commanders didn’t know why this place had been chosen to defend.
This ridge was on the west flank of the Zhassi Valley. On his charts, Ebensar Heights was marked very specifically, and it pleased him to be the only man in the army to know why.
Korion accepted the two despatches and studied the seals – unbroken of course, though the transcribing mage who’d taken the communications would know the contents – and wondered which to open first. He chose Tomas Betillon’s: news of betrayal, rogue mercenary legions and disarray in Javon. Gurvon has botched it, so they’ve sent Tomas in. Hah! He wasn’t surprised. Noromen had always been provincial muck, with no head for the heights of leadership.
Maybe now we’ll finally execute Gyle, as we should have done after the Revolt.
The second despatch was from far to the south, from the commander of the garrison at Vida, a Brician legion initially assigned to Echor’s command and assigned garrison duty.
What news could there possibly be from down there?
He had to read the note twice to believe his eyes.
Some of Echor’s Second Army survived? And they are commanded by … my son?
He rubbed the grit from his eyes. Seth?
He had to pause to picture his only legitimate son’s face: uncertain, weak-chinned, too much baby fat. Certainly not the face of a hero – not the face of a real Korion. The paperwork to officially legitimise another son was on his desk, selected from his string of male bastards. He re-read the note: Seth led a retreat from Shaliyah? My Seth? For a moment he felt something like pride, then he paused and scowled. What does he know?
The thought spoiled his mood somewhat, especially as he read on. The bridges had been destroyed and this remnant of Echor’s force was trapped on the far side of the Tigrates River. It didn’t say how the bridges had been destroyed, or by whom. The commander wanted guidance – an army of Keshi was closing in on the younger Korion’s forces, and he didn’t know whether to aid him?
He stared off into the distance and thought about that. No. Let my son forge his own legend. And if he does know of how Echor came to be defeated, let it die with him. He scrawled a reply and handed it to the aide, almost sent him on his way, then paused as a thought hit him.
‘Tonville, isn’t it? I believe we had a wager on how many days the Keshi would keep coming? Yours was seven or under, was it not?’ He held out his hand. ‘My bet.’
The aide looked abashed, but pleased to be remembered. He fished out a piece of paper. ‘Will this do, sir? Redeemable from the Treasury, it says here.’
Is this one of the notes Dubrayle was fussing about? Korion held out his hand, examined the paper, frowned, stared, and looked again. ‘Where did this come from?’
‘I don’t know, sir, but there are more of these in circulation than all the coins in existence. Crusader notes, we call them.’
‘Is that Dubrayle’s personal seal?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But Dubrayle hasn’t even set foot in Antiopia – the army can’t issue notes with a Treasury seal.’
It’s just as Dubrayle suspected: someone has been using his name and seal. Serves the smug prick right. He still didn’t see how this so-called promissory note crisis could be worth getting flustered over.
Tonville shuffled uncomfortably. ‘It’s the Treasury seal that gives it its worth, sir. Shows that it’s genuine. There’s a lot of rubbish notes out there, right enough, but these ones are guaranteed – look, it says so on the bottom here. But I can probably scrounge up some coin if you prefer?’
Korion shook his head slowly, turning the note over in his hand and examining the signature: not Dubrayle, obviously. The first name seemed to start with ‘R’, the rest was just a squiggle. ‘No, your debt’s discharged, Tonville. But I’d like you to look into the origin of this note.’
‘Right away.’ Tonville looked puzzled as he saluted and left. Korion turned back to the slopes and the view out over Rashid’s army. The plains were still thick with Keshi, despite all the casualties littering the slopes, and the hymns still rose from below, like a million Brevian washer-wraiths calling the dead to their graves. There’d been plenty of corpses, enough to appease even a Schlessen war god, but the wailing never ceased.
It’s nine months until the end of the Moontide, he mused, when we change this world for ever.
THE END OF BOOK THREE OF THE MOONTIDE
The story concludes in
ASCENDANT’S RITE
Book IV of The Moontide
Acknowledgements
Thanks are due! Firstly to my brave test readers: Paul Linton, Kerry Greig and Heather Adams. Readers will not be aware of how many deranged and ill-judged ideas make it as far as the first draft, and these are the three troopers who read that draft, shake their heads, then pour exactly the right amount of cold water on them and me. This series is so much better for your efforts.
Heather is of course also my agent (alongside her husband Mike Bryan): thank you for fighting my corner and getting me this opportunity. I still bless the day we all met (in the hospitality tent at the polo in Delhi, obviously). An auspicious day indeed.
Mega-thanks to editor and publishing goddess Jo Fletcher for her expert judgement, knowledge and experience, and supportive nature throughout. It’s been a long epic and we’re only halfway through the second half! Continued gratitude and respect. Also thanks again to Nicole Budd and Andrew Turner at Quercus, Emily Faccini for the maps, art designer Patrick Carpenter and artists Paul Young and Jem Butcher for the cover, and all the rest of the JFB/Quercus team.
Biggest hugs to my wonderful wife Kerry, she of the eagle eye for detail, especially continuity, and fearless red ink. When someone loves you enough to tell you where you’re going wrong, you’re loved indeed. She also does supportive encouragement too! I’m a very lucky person.
Lots of love to my children, Brendan and Melissa, my parents Cliff and Biddy, and all my friends, especially Mark, Felix and Stefania, Raj, Andrew and Brenda, and Keith and Kathryn.
David Hair
Auckland, July 2014
HTJI
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Unholy War
As at Junesse 928
In Yuros
Imperial Court, Pallas
Emperor Constant Sacrecour: Emperor of Rondelmar and all Yuros
Mater-Imperia Lucia Fasterius: the emperor’s mother, a Living Saint
Cordan: son of Constant, heir to the throne
Coramore: daughter of Constant
Lord Calan Dubrayle: Imperial Treasurer
Arch-Prelate Dominius Wurther: Head of the Church of Kore
Adamus Crozier: a bishop of the Kore
Natia Sacrecour: Constant’s imprisoned elder sister
Ervyn Naxius, former Ordo Costruo mage
Delfinne de Tressot: A Keeper and Ascendant mage
Jean Benoit, Merchant Guildmaster
Orly, a thief
Eighteenth Fist of Kore’s Holy Inquisition
Elath Dranid: Fist Second
Raine Caladryn: an Acolyte
Dominic Rysen: an Acolyte
Malevorn Andevarion: an Acolyte
Virgina Purfoyl: an acolyte [deceased]
Thirty-Second Fist of Kore’s Holy Inquisition
Fronck Quintius, Commandant
Artus Leblanc: an Acolyte
Geoffram: an Acolyte
Twenty-Third Fist of Kore’s Holy Inquisition
Ullyn Siburnius: Inquisitor and Fist Commander
Alis Nytrasia, Fist Third
Einar Perle, an Acolyte
Delta: a Souldrinker mage
Norostein, Noros
King Phyllios III: King of Noros
Vannaton Mercer: a trader
Tesla Anborn-Mercer:
mage, wife of Vannaton Mercer [deceased]
Alaron Mercer: mage, son of Vann and Tesla
Relik Folsteyn, courier
Captain Jeris Muhren: Watch Captain [deceased]
Silacia
Mercellus di Regia: head of a Rimoni gypsy family [deceased]
Cymbellea di Regia: Rimoni gypsy, daughter of Mercellus
Anise: a Rimoni orphan
Pater-Retiari: a criminal clan-lord
Turm Zauberin Arcanum, Norostein
Lucien Gavius: Principal of Turm Zauberin (Arcanum College)
Darius Fyrell: a tutor at Turm Zauberin (deceased)
Agnes Yune: a tutor at Turm Zauberin
Gurvon Gyle’s Grey Foxes (based in Noros)
Gurvon Gyle: a mage-spy
Rutt Sordell: a mage, whose soul is currently in the body of Guy Lassaigne
Mara Secordin: a mage
Yvette (‘Coin’): a child of Mater-Imperia Lucia
Symone: a fictitious identity of Coin
Madeline Parlow: a mage
In Pontus
Pol Tannor: Merchant Guild guardsman
Ordo Costruo (Mage Order based in Hebusalim)
Antonin Meiros: Arch-Magus and founder [deceased]
Justina Meiros: Antonin’s daughter [deceased]
Rene Cardien: missing mage
Ramita Ankesharan: Lakh widow of Antonin Meiros
Dasra and Nasatya: twin sons of Antonin Meiros and Ramita
Hebusalim
Tomas Betillon: Imperial Governor of Hebusalim
