by David Hair
‘Dirklan’s right, for once,’ Dominius put in. ‘There have been too many false prophets and tragedies – suicide pacts and such abominations. If these are the Last Days, Kore expects us to bear up nobly, fighting for what is right. And if these are not the Last Days, we must do likewise. Pray for guidance, Majesty, but don’t despair.’
She took a deep breath. He’s right. Last Days or not, we can’t give in to our fears. ‘What are Garod and Ostevan going to do? And Takwyth?’ she added reluctantly.
‘If they want to come out of this ruling an empire, they must act fast,’ Dirklan replied. ‘The secession ultimatum will force their hand – they’ll have to march immediately, no matter the conditions . . . and even knowing what you’re capable of, Majesty,’ he added meaningfully.
They expect me to destroy another army with dwyma-storms . . . She swallowed, remembering the death and destruction she’d wrought that awful night. But if that’s what I must do . . .
She nodded firmly, and all four men exhaled.
‘Then organise our defences, Lord Levis,’ she told Oryn. ‘Rally your men, make them understand that brother does not fight brother at our will, but Takwyth’s. Our men are the true Corani, not those traitors.’
Oryn’s face was miserable as he said, ‘The men are confused, Majesty, and scared. To them, Solon Takwyth is the name of Victory itself.’
‘Then clear their minds,’ she snapped. ‘You must appear certain.’ She swept her gaze around the room, then moved on. ‘And now, let’s talk about Pallas. How can we defend a city we do not wholly control? We’ve lost control of the docklands, the river trade has collapsed and wheat prices are now ridiculous. We have to regain control – but I won’t make war on my own people. Find me a solution.’
This was the hardest matter of them all, and one that hours of wrangling couldn’t resolve. At last she threw up her hands and said, ‘Enough! Dirklan, I want to talk to that man Ari Frankel. You remember him, surely? Find him, and convince him to meet with me. No tricks, no traps. I just want to talk with him.’
The men frowned. ‘But why?’ Dominius asked, in an exasperated voice. ‘The man’s a traitor.’
Lyra remembered Frankel as someone so passionate in his convictions that he’d risk torture and execution. She’d pardoned him of sedition but he’d gone straight back to his rabble-rousing ways. ‘He’s the key. If he and I can find common ground, these problems may go away.’
Oryn shook his head, his usually mild features angry. ‘I’ve seen the pamphlets – the filth and lies this man spreads. The only way to make his sort of problem go away is with a noose.’
‘I don’t share that view,’ Lyra said firmly. ‘Find him.’
*
Tockburn, the docklands area east of Roidan Heights, benefited from the calmer waters where the Aerflus discharged into the lower reaches of the Bruin River and commenced its epic journey through Ventia and on to the sea. The docklands had for centuries been the least governable, most incendiary part of Pallas, and while Kenside, Fisheart and Oldtown were more dangerous, Tockburn – ‘Tockers’ – was the most rebellious. Tockers was where thwarted ambition met loose morals: a maze of vice, seething beneath a veneer of exuberant pleasure. The most exotic lusts, from opium to drink to carnality, could be satisfied there, and it was a hotbed of radical ideas.
For a month now, Tockburn had been closed to Lyra’s people. Barricades blocked the main streets; they might be more symbolic than anything, but they were still slowing the City Guard when they tried to react to fires and riots. Warehouses filled with food had been raided, then burned to the ground. The vigilantes patrolling the streets had been using rocks and other crude weapons to batter those few City Guard who tried to enter, but more recently, patrols had also been facing an unseen group of gnosis-wielders, the mage-criminals known as the Kaden Rats.
Ari Frankel was heading for a meeting with the Rats now, escorted by fellow rebels. Armed lurkers kept watch, furtively signalling when it was safe to move. No one was fooling themselves that the Imperial Volsai weren’t watching.
This meeting was in a burnt-out manor belonging to a merchant who’d conveniently fled to Dupenium months back. A man brandishing a crossbow opened the door, then a bald mage flaunting his gemstone periapt checked Ari over before ushering him upstairs to the sitting room above, where five men and women awaited him. Two of them were rakishly dressed magi, wearing wide leather hats and tooled leather armour, silk shirts and flamboyant pantaloons: Tad Kaden, sporting a goatee and ponytail, and his square-jawed, septic-tongued sister Braeda, who was lounging on a chair, slurping red wine.
Opposite them at the long table were the chilling renegade centurion Lazar of Midrea and his brutish henchman Gorn; these men had been behind the worst of the thuggery since the movement turned violent. They nodded respectfully when Ari entered, though, for it was his words that had sparked this insurrection.
The only man Ari didn’t know, a priest with an unctuous face, pale brown tonsured hair and spotlessly clean robes, rose. ‘My name is Germane,’ he introduced himself. ‘I bring the greetings of Ostevan Pontifex.’
I’ve seen posters and heard the town criers declare him a wanted man, Ari thought suspiciously, but all he said was, ‘You were the Royal Comfateri, yes?’
‘I was, until the queen spread lies about me,’ Germane replied smoothly. ‘But my loyalties are as they have always been: to Kore and his rightful voice on Urte, Ostevan Pontifex.’
Ari looked at Tad Kaden. ‘Are we now taking sides in the succession battle?’ he demanded. ‘That’s not what my movement is about.’
‘Your movement?’ Tad replied sharply. ‘My family has been in the insurrection business for generations, boy.’
‘You’ve been a criminal for decades, certainly,’ Ari retorted. ‘But this is about suffragium.’ After so many brushes with death, he’d lost most of his fear of magi. ‘I’ve lost my friends, my family, my employment, my home, all for this one thing. My words are on the lips of the people. Your name is still a curse.’
Braeda conjured fire in her fingers, but Ari didn’t flinch.
Then Father Germane stepped between them. ‘Please – we’re here to discuss common ground, not fight over that which might divide us. We all want Lyra Vereinen gone.’
‘True,’ Ari said sharply; he hadn’t meant to create a scene that this damned priest could use to show his peace-making skills. ‘But we don’t want a Sacrecour restoration. Nor do we want a Pontifex ruling us.’
‘Ostevan represents your greatest chance of achieving your goals,’ Germane declared, pulling a rolled-up parchment from an inner pocket and displaying it: it was one of Ari’s pamphlets. ‘“Suffragium: the power to vote for one’s rulers. Equality before the law applying to all. Freedom of expression, without censure. An end to dynasties and nepotism. Equal distribution of wealth”.’ He shrugged. ‘My master has no quarrel with any of this, but power rests with magi and legions and you have none. Lyra Vereinen may at this stage scruple to attack her own citizenry, but Garod Sacrecour won’t.’
‘Garod, who is Ostevan’s ally,’ Ari reminded them all.
‘Ostevan was once Corani and he remembers that,’ Germane countered. ‘He doesn’t want to see Garod enthroned, or Garod’s nephew Cordan. My master is a visionary, Frankel, and some of his visions align with your own. He doesn’t deny his mores – he’s always thought chastity among the clergy to be a nonsense, for example. Did Kore make him male for no reason? But he believes in equality strongly: the Book of Kore itself proclaims all men equal in Kore’s eyes. Ostevan has no love of the Great Houses either. Imagine a world in which his benevolent guidance permits every community autonomy. Imagine the magi working for the people, building bridges and roads, not squabbling over riches. Imagine freedom, upheld by love of Kore. That’s my master’s vision.’
Ari had already dismissed most of the man’s words the moment they left his mouth. Rumour had it that Ostevan was a seducer of women – including the queen
herself – and the force behind the Reeker Night attacks of last year: a murderer and conspirator who couldn’t be trusted.
But his suffragium movement did need powerful allies. Can we accept this one without losing control? He looked around the room, saw the Kaden siblings in wordless communion, while Lazar rubbed his stubbled chin and Gorn nodded absently, his mouth hanging open.
‘Imperialism is still tyranny, even if it comes in clerical garb,’ he told Germane.
But the very fact the man was here told him that the Kadens, and probably Lazar too, were in favour.
‘It’s not just your decision, Frankel,’ Tad retorted. ‘Germane offers us the resources we need: weapons, supplies, real soldiers. If we provide Ostevan’s men passage into the city, we can end this stand-off swiftly, in our favour.’
Lazar was nodding now and Ari realised that this would be decided without him if he didn’t respond persuasively. ‘Last time we spoke, you said you could supply the weapons and manpower we needed without taking sides in the succession,’ he complained to Tad.
‘We’re criminals, not mercenaries,’ Braeda sniffed. ‘We can steal guarded treasures and assassinate enemies, but we can’t fill the streets with soldiers.’
‘We can’t just trade one tyrant for another!’
‘Only Ostevan sympathises with your position,’ Germane put in. ‘Takwyth wishes to be emperor, just like Garod. Ostevan will leave secular governance to your movement. He’s only interested in peace.’
‘The word “Pontifex” denotes a greater tyranny than either Emperor or Grand Prelate,’ Ari retorted.
‘It’s just a word, denoting a clean break from the current regime,’ Germane answered. ‘Ostevan is content to let secular men rule the secular, while he reforms the clergy. Believe me, he’s your only chance. The empress will move against you soon – she must deal with internal resistance before Garod and Takwyth arrive.’
That sounded uncomfortably true. ‘But what men does Ostevan have?’ Ari asked, still convinced they were being duped. ‘He lost everything when the empress drove him from Pallas.’
‘You will see,’ Germane replied. ‘My master is a man of great resource.’
That’s true, Ari thought, but everyone says he’s too dangerous to work with.
‘How do we know we won’t be forgotten the moment your master has what he wants?’
‘Produce a manifesto and he’ll sign it and bind himself to it,’ Germane replied glibly. ‘He will become your champion, Frankel. I advise you not to put aside so generous an offer: you’ll get none better.’
It was the smoothness of the response that made up Ari’s mind – no man who cared about something would so smoothly dismiss the detail. ‘No,’ he said sharply, ‘the moment he doesn’t need us, we’ll be discarded. Ostevan has been Wurther’s right-hand man, a disgraced exile, the queen’s confessor and lover, a self-crowned Pontifex and Garod Sacrecour’s ally. He’s betrayed everyone he’s ever served. Why should we believe him now?’
Germane’s expression didn’t change, but Ari saw the man’s pupils narrow, then the priest turned to Tad Kaden. ‘I presume as believers in suffragium, you’ll be taking a vote,’ he said archly. ‘Shall I wait outside?’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Tad drawled, his eyes trailing from Germane to Ari. ‘I’m persuaded, Master Frankel. We need an ally. Draw up your manifesto and we’ll place it before the Pontifex.’
Ari was angry, but he was afraid that if the Kadens discarded him, he’d have no one. Lazar and Gorn clearly wanted this alliance too. His own standing was clear. I’m just a figurehead.
Germane’s smug expression said that he understood that too.
‘Fine,’ Ari snapped. Let’s see what Ostevan will and won’t sign. ‘I’ll draft something.’
He really wanted to storm out, but unfortunately, they had actual business to discuss. As soon as Germane had departed, they moved – because even the Kaden siblings weren’t so sure of the priest that they’d linger. They reunited an hour later in the upper room of a closed store on a square in Tockburn East.
For a time the five of them watched a thousand or more ragged Tockers hurling themselves at a thin line of legionaries protecting wagons full of wheat meant for the Bastion. The air throbbed with chants and shouting and the barked orders of the soldiers, the clash of wood on shield bosses and the screams of the injured. Ari winced at the din, but Lazar and the Kadens watched with satisfied smirks on their lips.
‘This road is the frontline,’ Tad remarked. ‘Every day they land supplies at the docks and every day we fight to take them away. But right now it’s sticks and stones against blades.’
‘If the empress wasn’t a squeam, it’d be a slaughterhouse,’ Braeda added, trimming her fingernails with a dagger. ‘We’re asking ordinary people to confront legionaries. Can your conscience handle that, Frankel?’
‘Those legionaries are also people,’ Ari reminded them. ‘Families are being pulled apart and the queen knows that. She’s got her soldiers under orders not to draw their blades – look at them, they’re using spear-butts and shields.’
‘Tell that to the hundreds injured and the dozens who die each day from broken skulls,’ Lazar rasped. ‘We need soldiers on our side, Wordsmith. The fact is, we’re not making inroads any more. It’s been days since we stopped a wagon-train getting through and we’re bleeding men. The Guard have dragged off more’n three hundred of our hardest lads – the Bastion dungeons are full. People are spending their savings on food, but the price of bread has trebled in a month. Folks are desperate.’
‘If we could drive the Imperials out of the Tockburn docks, the empress would be rukked,’ Gorn added, the first coherent sentence Ari had heard the man say. ‘But they’s got a legion encamped down there.’
‘Another legion that can’t defend the walls,’ Tad smirked. ‘They’ve got another in Kenside and another patrolling Fisheart and Oldtown. That’s almost half the men Lyra’s got, stuck inside the city. This is the tipping point: let Ostevan arm us and she’s going to break. She’ll have to run. If she doesn’t control the whole city by the time Garod arrives, she’s finished. And when she runs, we’ll seize control and defy Garod.’
‘With us in control of the Bastion, and the city behind us, Garod Sacrecour won’t be able to take the city back,’ Braeda added. ‘When Lyra runs, the Corani go. The secession will do the rest: with no empire to defend, the Pallacian legions will join us to defend the city from the Sacrecours. I tell you, this is a unique moment in time: the empire is disintegrating and we’re in exactly the right place to capitalise. We’ll be kings – and queens – all of us.’
‘We’ll be citizens,’ Ari replied sharply. ‘The people don’t want kings, they want power.’
Tad glanced at his sister, then shrugged genially. ‘Of course. I speak figuratively only: as the engineers of this coup, we’ll be the heroes of the new era. Your suffragium will deliver us control.’
‘And then we’ll take the rukkin’ head of anyone who’s kept us down,’ Lazar snarled, his eyes shining as he peered through the shutters at the unfolding chaos below.
And there it is, Ari thought. I’m fighting for an ideal, but the Kadens want riches and Lazar wants blood.
Dupenium, Northern Rondelmar
‘I’m telling you, the time to march is now,’ Ostevan Pontifex said from his throne.
It wasn’t his real throne: that was in the Celestium, from where he’d been driven at the end of last year, almost two months ago. This was his residence-in-exile, a cold, draughty manor with guttering fires in Dupenium. But tonight he hosted the duke, his closest counsellors and a handful of Keepers, the self-styled Guardians of the Gnosis.
It was a dark, dismal setting, but a convenient place for Garod Sacrecour to hold a council of war, away from the eyes of his less-trusted courtiers. The dozen men and women sat around a long table, the aides standing attendance on their masters lining the tapestried walls. The doors were guarded and locked, with g
nostic wards to protect against scrying.
Duke Garod’s throne, on Ostevan’s right, was of the same height. The duke’s lank grey hair looked greasy and his lips were wine-red. ‘You know what happened last time we marched on Pallas,’ he said sullenly.
His kinsman Brylion Fasterius made a snarling noise. ‘The bloody-handed queen slaughtered my lads, the filthy witch. I’m going to burn her alive.’
That’s the spirit, Brylion, Ostevan thought wryly. It hadn’t taken long for the daemon-spawn to conquer Brylion, who’d always been a ravening beast. No one had really noticed the snuffing-out of his humanity.
But uncertainty still haunted Brylion’s eyes: that dwymancy could destroy them again. That dread was shared by most of the mage-nobles gathered here: old, great names of the Blessed Three Hundred who’d clung to Sacrecour coattails for centuries. House Fasterius, House Lovarius, House Bramachius and all the others who had fled Pallas for their provincial holdings six years ago when the Corani took power. Now they haunted Dupenium, whining about the tyranny of the empress, when they weren’t deriding her ineffectuality. But the dwyma storm had added a new factor: fear of what a heretical dwymancer could do. They’d begun to wonder if they’d lost Pallas for ever.
And I must convince them to gamble all on another march, Ostevan fumed silently.
It wasn’t going well. For almost an hour the discussion had been all about how they couldn’t afford another disaster. The mage-nobles were frightened and the much-vaunted Keepers had been silent throughout – but then, they’d mostly been reduced by age and attrition to dotards drooling into their laps.
‘We don’t need to march,’ quavered old Lady Violetta Molt, dowager of a Fauvion line that owned half of western Brevis. ‘The secession will break her: she’ll flee any day now.’
There were too many nodding heads whenever ‘do nothing’ was suggested.
