by David Hair
‘I don’t know what to do,’ she confessed to Pearl. ‘I can’t even find Valdyr’s presence any more.’
She’d lost so many people this past year; he would be one loss too many. The only other dwymancer she knew of was a Keshi girl called Jehana, but her voice was also absent from the dwyma now.
Am I the only one of us left?
Despair stirred inside her; that same miasma had dragged her into Solon’s clutches. So much had been packed into this terrible winter and she’d been at the heart of it all: battles, assassinations, mob violence, court cases, love and lust and loss. It barely felt real, and she could scarcely believe she’d survived.
Only I did make it through, thanks to Dirklan and Basia and Exilium, Valdyr and the dwyma; and so many people whose name I don’t even know, who fought and died for me.
But it still hasn’t been enough.
Despite all that courage and sacrifice, the sixth year of her reign looked like it would be the last. The temptation to just run away and hide was almost overwhelming.
‘One day, Pooty-girl, we’ll fly away,’ she murmured. ‘You, me and Rildan.’
But that wouldn’t be today. She left the pegasus to graze and ascended the stairs to her apartments on the highest floor of the Bastion, where her maid Nita was readying today’s outfit: a plain white dress, now she had cast off her mourning robes.
By the time she’d dressed, her bodyguards were awaiting her in the antechamber. Basia de Sirou and Exilium Excelsior, newly returned to duty after recovering from injuries sustained in an assassination attempt, were talking intently. As usual, Basia was pricking at Exilium’s black-and-white view of the world. Lyra empathised with the young Estellan: the pillars he clung to were those she’d grown up with: faith in Kore and the Church. They hadn’t served her well.
Then Dirklan Setallius appeared, clad in his usual grey, his long silver hair shrouding his eyepatch and the scarred side of his face. She rose, hurried to him and hugged him briefly: her father, finally identified, the new pillar of her life. It was a balm to be held, but his parentage was still a secret, so they stepped apart and fell into their more regular relationship of queen and spymaster.
‘What news, Lord Setallius?’ she asked, as they headed for the door, Basia and Exilium following.
‘Some good, most bad, I’m afraid,’ Dirklan replied as they descended to the public areas of the palace. ‘Duke Torun of Coraine has declared for Takwyth, and both he and Garod Sacrecour are seeking mercenaries in Hollenia to bolster their forces.’
‘Can we prevent that?’
‘The Mercenary guilds are a law unto themselves. The most important Hollenian captain is Endus Rykjard: he lost legions in the Third Crusade but returned from the East with enough money to rebuild. He’s shifty, ruthless and competent enough to pull the other mercenaries in behind him. They’ll follow his lead.’
‘He sounds like a perfect match for Garod Sacrecour,’ Lyra sighed. ‘Can we buy him off?’
‘I doubt it,’ Dirklan replied. ‘The Treasury reports aren’t good: our plundering of the churches has run its course. We’re almost broke again.’
‘What about our men down south? Lord Sulpeter has six legions, doesn’t he?’
‘He’s asked permission to return north, but he is likely to support Takwyth,’ Dirklan admitted. ‘In fact, the Argundians are also looking to pull out if the secession goes ahead, and the Aquilleans may follow suit. Worst case, our entire Southern Army may desert, allowing the Shihad into Midrea unopposed.’
‘You mentioned some good news?’ Lyra asked plaintively.
Dirklan’s single eye met her gaze. ‘Norostein is holding, and Sultan Rashid has been slain in battle.’
‘He’s dead? The Sultan is dead?’ Lyra put a hand to her breast. ‘It’s wrong to pray for a man to die, but I confess I’ve wished for such a thing. How did it happen?’
‘During an all-out assault: according to reports, the sultan’s son Attam joined the fray and died; Rashid went to his aid and also perished. An Argundian battle-mage slew both, at the cost of her own life. But the Shihad has still managed to take half the city, which means that unless Seth Korion can drive them out again, they now have their winter shelter.’
‘Seth Korion,’ Lyra breathed. ‘Do we know where he stands on the secession?’
Dirklan shook his head. ‘Bricia and Noros have remained silent. Phyllios, King of Noros, died in the siege, so Governor Myron of Noros should now be in full control, but he claims to be walled into the inner bailey in Norostein, surrounded by what he describes as a “homicidal mob incited by Seth Korion”. Between the Shihad and Korion, we’ve lost control of Noros for now.’
‘Even your good news is half-bad! This Korion worries me.’ She thought a moment, then asked, ‘So who’s the new sultan?’
‘Xoredh, the second son. He was Rashid’s spymaster.’
‘So he’s mysterious and clever then, like all such men?’ Lyra asked archly.
Dirklan flashed his ghostly smile. ‘He’s no Rashid, who was universally revered. Xoredh’s got a reputation for cruelty. The Shihad is made up from many nations, so perhaps they’ll fragment without a unifying leader.’
‘Let us pray so.’ She returned her thoughts to Coraine. ‘You really think Rolven Sulpeter will side with Takwyth?’
‘His son Nestor is Solon’s aide and hero-worships Takwyth. Rolven is a fence-sitter by nature, but his son’s presence might force him into Takwyth’s camp.’
‘Should we keep Rolven in the south, then?’
Dirklan shook his head. ‘If you forbid him to come north when he feels compelled to do so, you’ll force him to break with you. Invite him here and he may remain loyal and persuade his son to re-join us.’
It sounded unlikely to Lyra, but she agreed. ‘All right. Let’s see what he does.’
He spent a few minutes briefing her on local issues: more rioting overnight in Tockburn and Kenside, more pamphlets denouncing her distributed by the rebellious citizenry. It was dispiriting, but she straightened her shoulders as they entered, for her counsellors were waiting. She took her seat at the head of the table, her more ornate chair the only sign of rank, while Dirklan, Chancellor by merit of being Lyra’s parent, went to the foot of the table.
Beside Dirklan sat big, stolid Oryn Levis. A born subordinate, he looked ill-at-ease at the high table. ‘Good morning, Majesty,’ he called, his words echoed by the others.
‘Good morning all,’ she said briskly. ‘What’s first?’
To her left, the dapper, grey-haired Treasurer, Calan Dubrayle, looked up. To her surprise, he’d emerged as a staunch supporter in the recent crises. ‘Milady, could we start with the—?’ he began.
‘If we start with money, we’ll never get off the damned subject,’ Grand Prelate Dominius Wurther interrupted. ‘Let’s talk about these riots, Milady – surely that’s more pressing?’
Wurther’s long-standing feud with Dubrayle had been exacerbated when Lyra allowed her Treasurer to tax the Church; in retaliation, Wurther had backed Takwyth’s attempts to force her into marriage. The Grand Prelate’s usually genial confidence was subdued and he was clearly unsure of her attitude to him now.
As you should be, Lyra thought, her anger rising again. You tried to sanction rape.
It especially hurt because she’d liked and mostly trusted Wurther. But he was Church and she was State; it wasn’t legally possible for her to depose or exclude him and in any case, she needed Church support more than ever.
‘You’ve often told me that money lies at the root of evil,’ she told Wurther, ‘so let’s get to the root of our problems. Lord Dubrayle, pray continue.’
Dubrayle brightened at this small sign of favour, his eyes trailing from Wurther to the empty seat where the Imperocrator, the head of the bureaucracy, would normally sit. The last Imperocrator, Rael Relantine, had lasted only a month before his overt support for Takwyth had seen him ousted. Unlike Wurther, Relantine’s fate was in Lyra’s hands.
Right now, he was incarcerated in a not-too-unpleasant cell, awaiting her pleasure. She felt little inclination towards clemency.
‘What I was trying to say is, might we start with the Imperocracy?’ Dubrayle asked drily.
‘Give me a list of candidates,’ Lyra told him. ‘Right now I want to know about the Treasury.’
Dubrayle summarised the Crown finances. As usual, the figures were mostly red. ‘In short, the money raised by back-taxing the Church is almost gone and the threat of secession has paralysed our spring tax intake. The ambassadors of Argundy, Hollenia, Brevis, Andressea and Estellayne have formally declared that they will secede, suspecting the empire is too weak to oppose them. The vassal-states are already closing their borders,’ he went on, ‘which includes the movement of goods and money and imperial messengers into and out of Rondelmar. Our governors fear for their personal safety, and for their staff and legions.’
‘How many legions do those who have signed the Secession account for?’ Lyra asked anxiously, looking at her new Knight-Commander.
‘More than forty,’ Oryn Levis answered, ‘but most are local men. If there is open conflict, no legion will wholly side with us.’ He looked around the table miserably. ‘Not even in Coraine or here in Pallas.’
Lyra wondered yet again if Oryn was up to the trials ahead. But there was no other credible candidate to lead their army and his assessment rang true. ‘How long do we have before we run out of money?’ she asked.
‘A month at most,’ Dubrayle replied. ‘Then we’ll be unable to pay our soldiers and staff and all will be lost.’ He glanced at Wurther. ‘The Grand Prelate insists his coffers are empty, but the Celestium has collections—’
‘Sacrilege!’ Wurther barked. ‘We have nothing left but purely religious artefacts.’
‘But—’
‘Who does have money?’ Dirklan interjected.
Dubrayle hesitated, then said, ‘The Merchants’ Guild. The bankers. Ordinary people, although not enough, not the way prices are escalating during this crisis. I don’t—’
‘The banks have money?’ Dirklan repeated.
‘Of course – it’s what they do. But it’s not their money – it belongs to other people. Most have shifted their bullion out of Pallas, now that the Merchants’ Guild has left the capital.’
They took that in gloomily. ‘Who are the main banks?’ Lyra asked.
‘Jusst & Holsen are the biggest,’ Dubrayle replied. ‘Then there’s Ankargild, and Gravenhurst Stronghold and Petra-Belk. Those four between them control the market. They have branches in every ducal capital.’
‘Do they support us?’
‘They’re ostensibly neutral, but the word is out that our credit is bad and with Jean Benoit’s Merchants’ Guild actively backing Garod, we can’t get credit any more.’
‘Do you have any more magic wands, Treasurer?’ Lyra asked, as calmly as she could.
Dubrayle’s eyes flickered from Wurther, who looked ready to pounce on him physically if he suggested more Church raids, then shook his head. ‘I have a few ideas, but nothing developed, Milady,’ he said meekly.
Lyra felt her fragile hopes crumble a little more. ‘Be sure to explore every possibility,’ she urged him, before looking around the table. ‘What do we do about the secession threat, gentlemen?’
‘It’s more than a threat,’ Wurther grumbled. ‘Come the first of Martrois, they’re going to evict your embassies and seize all the imperial holdings in their territories. Anyone who tries to fight them will be slain – there will likely be a purging of Rondians living in their lands. The Rondian Empire will no longer exist.’
The ‘Empress of the Fall’ people called me when I was crowned. Here comes that fall . . .
Lyra had to fight to keep her voice from cracking. ‘Can we do anything about it?’
‘Militarily, not much,’ the spymaster said. ‘The Third Crusade weakened Rondelmar more than any other region. You shouldn’t blame yourself: the Sacrecours would also be facing this moment had they retained power.’
‘That’s of no consolation,’ Lyra replied. ‘I need a plan to deal with it.’
The four men around the table shared worried looks, then all began to speak at once. Characteristically, Levis immediately deferred, Dirklan shut his mouth to listen and Dubrayle and Wurther began again, but the Grand Prelate was loudest and spoke over the top of his adversary.
‘Majesty, the Church and the Crown are two sides of the same coin. The first emperor, Sertain, knew he had to win the hearts and souls of the people when the magi established their rule or he would face incessant warfare. He did this by uniting his reign with the Word of Kore. We have had our differences, Lyra, and I have made mistakes, but to weather this you and I must stand together. I pray you forgive my role in, ahem, recent events, and allow me to help you.’
She met the obese old clergyman’s eyes and read considerable fear in them.
He’s facing Ostevan as a rival for his position as Head of the Church and if the empire fragments, the Church may also break up. His world is falling apart, just as mine is. He means what he’s saying. I’m still angry with him, but he’s right. I have to repair our rift.
‘Dominius,’ she said, as calmly as she could, ‘we’ve been friends too long to abandon each other. You underestimated me, but I’m sure you won’t again. I uphold your status as Grand Prelate of the Church of Kore and you uphold my right to the throne.’
Wurther smiled gratefully and she was surprised to feel a slight lightening in the weight on her shoulders. ‘My priests will speak from the pulpit of the virtues of unity and condemn the secession,’ he promised.
‘How strong is your control?’ Dirklan asked. ‘My people tell me the local prelates can be laws unto themselves, especially in the south.’
‘Your people are correct,’ Wurther conceded grudgingly. ‘I’m struggling to find reliable prelates as it is: I don’t have a quorum and must rule by emergency decree. The most influential clergy of the vassal-states see this as a chance to screw me royally – erm—’
‘Manners, Grand Prelate,’ Lyra said mildly.
‘Apologies, Milady. The point is, secession hurts me as well as you: the Church is likely to break up when the empire does.’
‘Secession isn’t guaranteed,’ Dirklan put in. ‘The thing is, being a big fish in a small pond is nice, but being the biggest fish in a big pond is nicer. I’m told the Duke of Argundy still harbours imperial ambitions: he’d happily make himself King of an independent Argundy if that’s the best deal he can get, but what he’d really like is to be Emperor of Yuros. He’d rather seize the empire than break it up – and he’s not the only one.’
Lyra frowned. ‘So is the secession ultimatum a bluff?’
‘No, but it’s not what they really crave. The Borodium family have always been ambitious – but the rest of the vassal-states fear them, just as much as they fear the Sacrecours. Estellayne doesn’t want an Argundian Emperor, nor do Brevis and Andressea. And not all Argundians like the Borodiums. We can divide our enemies.’
‘I suppose the obvious way to do that is for me to court a Borodium?’ Lyra suggested, squirming at the thought. ‘Or a powerful rival of his?’
‘That’s an option to investigate,’ the Treasurer agreed. ‘It could split the secessionists, and make Garod hesitate too.’
Dear Kore, Lyra thought, after the Takwyth affair, the last thing I want is another man in my life. But there didn’t appear to be much choice. ‘Dirklan, speak to the ambassador from Argundy in secret. Explore the possibilities – and do it swiftly. This must be resolved before the first of Martrois. We have twenty-four days.’
‘Your son will be a sticking point,’ Oryn Levis said hesitantly.
Lyra felt her hackles rise. ‘My son is my heir. That’s not negotiable.’
‘Oryn’s right,’ Dirklan said gently. ‘Whoever you marry will want their own progeny to be first in line to the throne after himself. Rildan will be a target for conspiracy if
you insist on his primogeniture. Would you condemn him to such an existence?’
She felt her eyes sting, but she clenched her fists. ‘I’m not doing this just for him – I’m trying to prevent a bloodbath. You’ve all told me time and again that civil war will destroy us.’
‘Indeed, Majesty,’ Dominius agreed. ‘You’re doing it to prevent the fragmentation of both Crown and Church, and a bloodbath as Rondians stationed in foreign states are massacred out of greed and vengeance. To prevent wars of retribution for the centuries in which Rondelmar has lorded it over the rest, and to quell civil war here in the north. You’re doing it to preserve the rule of law and civilisation itself. You’re doing it for the soul of Yuros.’
His words reminded Lyra forcibly of passages from the Book of Kore telling of the end of mankind, the ascension of the Blessed and of the daemons inheriting Urte. ‘The Masked Cabal have loosed daemons upon us. War is here, bringing famine and plague: are these the Last Days, Grand Prelate?’
Dominius gave her a haunted look. ‘That’s the fear I can’t deny.’
Oryn made the Blessing of Corineus sign over his heart, but Calan Dubrayle snorted. ‘Pah! Don’t you fall for that rot, Majesty. The Last Days are a myth, like Kore and Seraphs and Paradise itself. Nothing is preordained, as any diviner will tell you. We determine our own futures.’
His words warred in Lyra’s heart with twenty years of convent life, all those hours of rote prayer and catechisms. Dear Kore, is it so? Is Your judgement at hand? Her eyes went to her father’s face, seeking hope.
‘Majesty, it’s not for us to know the hour,’ Dirklan said. ‘History is studded with men and women who became convinced the end was at hand and whose name is now a laughing-stock, or the stuff of tragedy. We must trust that life goes on. To do less is to fail all those who place their hopes in us. If you behave as if the world is ending, you will fall into despair. We must fight on.’
