Mother of Daemons

by David Hair

  ‘We’ve been told the elephants will be used for labouring tasks, not for the assault on the walls,’ Latif replied. ‘The inner walls guarding this “Copper Leaf” are too thick and high for elephants to make a difference. The army is building siege-towers and catapults; we’re to be put to work moving those into position.’

  ‘I hope you can stay safe,’ Waqar said, his mind moving to his erstwhile companion. He’d left Tarita Alhani in the wilds outside the Shihad camp – was she safe? And he was still fretting over his sister, Jehana, abducted by one of Naxius’ servants. He and Tarita had come south from Mollachia to find her; following their scried trail. If Latif was right about Xoredh, it stood to reason that his cousin now had Jehana. I have to find her . . .

  Perhaps the resumption of warfare might present an opportunity. ‘I need to get out of the city,’ he told Latif. ‘I have an accomplice waiting in the wild. We have a mission to perform.’

  Latif surprised him by saying, ‘You must be careful – if Xoredh has done this, he is an affront to Ahm. You must kill him and take the throne yourself.’

  ‘But Teileman is the heir: he’s Rashid’s younger brother,’ Waqar objected.

  ‘No one believes in Teileman – not even Teileman.’

  That’s true enough.

  ‘But for now, you must be invisible,’ Latif went on. ‘Xoredh will purge the leadership and he is already hunting you: one of his magi came through last night, asking if you’d been seen and offering a reward. He couched it as seeking a missing person, but it wasn’t hard to see through.’

  ‘Is the reward substantial?’

  ‘Ai, but Ashmak swore he’d say nothing.’

  ‘How well do you know Ashmak?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to him. He knows better than to trust Xoredh.’

  ‘I pray you’re right, but it makes it even more urgent that I get out of the city.’

  ‘Tomorrow there’ll be a celebration for the crowning of the new sultan,’ Latif predicted. ‘Discipline will be lax: you can move then.’

  Waqar bowed his head. ‘Then let that be our plan.’

  Rym, Rimoni

  Jehana Mubarak drifted through memories, disconnected tableaus of past days, remembering . . .

  . . . laughing with other girls over some silly game . . . hugging her mother the day she gained the gnosis . . . in the audience at a lecture by a senior mage at the Ordo Costruo Collegiate in Hebusalim, trying not to giggle at his lisp . . . With her brother Waqar in Halli’kut Palace, comforting him after a beating from Attam and Xoredh when they were all still children . . . I remember . . .

  Her mother’s waxen face, dead on a stone byre in Domus Costruo, awaiting interment in the Mausoleum. The eye of a giant water beast pressed to the glass at Sunset Tower. The pool at Epineo where the dwyma had opened up to her, only to be snatched away in a fountain of ripped flesh and blood. A masked ogre ripping her from the Elétfa inside the volcano Cuz Sarkan.

  Where have I been? Where am I now?

  It was those thoughts, and the sudden awareness of a body that was yearning for sustenance, that dragged her out of dreaming and back into life. She felt a cold hard surface pressing against her buttocks and back through thin cloth and dimly heard a distinct sound in the silence: the click of a door.

  Her eyes flicked open and she could see, although her field of vision was restricted by eyeholes. She was wearing a mask, she realised with a start, and her hands flew to her face to feel a cold metal shape, smooth and shaped in some unguessed expression, covering her upper face. Tugging at it couldn’t remove it, which was alarming enough for her to draw a sharp breath, roll onto her side and sit up.

  She was in a hexagonal room without windows or natural light, just braziers that flickered with a gnostic light akin to fire, though this flame was bluish-purple. The walls were marble and the ceiling had a mosaic of a fish-tailed woman with pale skin.

  She looked down at herself. She was barefoot, clad only in a light shift, and her body had a scented dampness that suggested that someone had bathed her whilst she was unconscious. That left her with a queasy feeling of violation, though she felt no evidence that she’d been abused. Then she noticed a mirror on the wall, went to it, stared – and stifled a sob.

  Her long, thick cloud of black hair had turned from ebony to ivory. Her hands snatched at a tress and she jerked it to her eyes, in case the mirror lied, but it didn’t – her hair had gone completely white. But her coppery skin was still taut, dewy and youthful, and the white hair didn’t extend anywhere else, she discovered when she shyly lifted her shift. What it meant, she had no idea.

  Her attention shifted to the mask, a skull the colour of old bone. The fierce bronze teeth had jagged canines. It left only her chin uncovered. Its deathly gaze chilled her.

  She put her hands to her face again, trying to find the string or catch for the mask, but there was nothing; it fitted seamlessly to her skin and she couldn’t find a way to release it. When she pulled harder, it hurt so badly that she felt she might rip the skin from her face. That frightened her enough that tears stung her eyes.

  No, I won’t cry.

  She went to the ornately arched door made of lacquered wood and bolted with a bronze latch. It was locked and when she tried to exert her gnosis, she got nothing. She sought the dwyma instead, but it remained out of reach. She raised a fist and went to strike the surface when it suddenly swung open and, gasping, she recoiled in fright.

  A man stood there, her own height, a Rondian with a clever face and a mane of red-gold hair. He was clad in a white silk robe with a square-patterned black border at the collar, sleeves and hem. He was handsome in a bland way, reminding Jehana of magi who’d used morphic-gnosis to beautify themselves and lost their own facial character in doing so.

  Her heart thudding at the sudden confrontation, she stumbled backwards, fearing violence. But all the man said was, ‘Ah, the princess awakes.’ His voice was older than his features.

  ‘Who are you?’ she squeaked.

  The stranger gave her a wry look. ‘I’m your host. My name, about which I am sure you have heard many untruths, is Ervyn Naxius.’

  Cold fear gripped Jehana’s heart. Naxius: the renegade cast out of the Ordo Costruo for violating the Gnostic Codes. His name was a byword for immoral research. And he was the man behind the Masked Cabal, who had murdered her mother and sought to capture her. She backed from him until her back struck the stone slab.

  ‘Keep away from me,’ she warned, though without the gnosis, she had no idea how to protect herself.

  Naxius chuckled sadly. ‘My dear, you’ve been in my power for the best part of two weeks and I’ve not laid a finger on you. My servants – all female, I should add – have massaged your body to keep it supple while you reposed. We’ve fed you, washed you and tended to your ablutions. I mean you no harm – indeed, I want to help you fully come into your power.’

  Jehana felt a trembling sense of helplessness, but she refused to show it. ‘Alyssa Dulayne wanted the same thing,’ she snarled. ‘Do you know what happened to her?’

  Naxius smiled mildly. ‘I do indeed. She overreached and her greed got the better of her.’

  Jehana remembered she was a Mubarak and drew herself up. ‘What do you want with me?’

  His smile never reached his eyes. ‘My dear, we’re going to do great things together. These are the Last Days, when the Blessed ascend to Paradise – and the damned are enslaved by the daemons that seize control of Urte. Thus it is written, and it falls upon me to make it so.’

  She’d never heard that Naxius was a religious fanatic. ‘You think to bring on the Last Days to ascend to Paradise?’ she said incredulously. It was the sort of deluded dream that had got madmen stoned in Halli’kut and Hebusalim. ‘You can’t believe that Ahm or Kore or whoever you believe in would welcome you?’

  ‘Oh no, my child, I suffer no such delusion. I am most certainly on the side of the daemons.’

  4

  How Far Will You Go?


  The Kaden Rats

  The most celebrated criminal magi are the ‘Kaden Rats’, who rose to notoriety in the ninth century by using the gnosis to rob from wealthy targets, which gives them some cachet among the poor. They prospered until they made the mistake of preying upon an Imperial Treasurer, sparking a six-month manhunt that ended with the capture and public execution of their founder. But the Rats persist, generation after generation.

  ENIK TAMBLYN, THE BRICIAN CHRONICLES, BRES 913

  Coraine, Rondelmar

  Febreux 936

  Solon Takwyth climbed from an unmarked carriage wearing a plain grey cloak and with his cowl up. His destination was an elegant house with a walled garden in the richest part of Coraine city. Despite being a private residence – at least officially – it had fearsome gnostic wards and many guards.

  The door was opened for him by a masked, anonymous man. Then a woman wearing a Heartface mask – a sight that sent a shiver down his spine – curtseyed and said, ‘Welcome to the House of Lantris, Milord. Your assignation awaits in the Blue Room.’ She indicated the stairs. ‘Third floor, and to the right.’

  Solon nodded brusquely and hurried up the stairs, found the required door and walked into a small cloakroom, where he shed his outer garments. When he regarded himself in the mirror, he saw a dour-looking man, powerfully built with close-cropped, fading brown hair, full-bearded and filled with grim purpose. His face retained its gnostic youth, but tonight his eyes were feverish, when usually they radiated calm.

  That’s the nerves, he told himself.

  There was a decanter of Brevian whiskey on a sideboard, and two crystal glasses. He poured a full measure into one then downed it, feeling his heartbeat quicken unevenly.

  He undressed, paused to peer at the muscular bulk of himself, worrying at the signs of age and decay – he was reaching the far end of his fighting age: a scarred pack-leader with younger wolves snapping at his heels. Turning away gloomily, he pulled on a knee-length nightshirt, took a deep breath and opened the inner door. Beyond was a sitting room where two armchairs faced a roaring wood-fire. A big bearskin rug lay before the hearth and there was a sideboard set with a choice of wine and other liquor. A double bed in the corner was turned down and ready. Through the door to a bathroom beyond, he glimpsed a claw-footed bath.

  Empress Lyra was sitting in one of the armchairs, her velvet dress unlaced at the front and her full breasts, swollen with milk, protruding ripe and heavy. Her blonde curls were immaculately styled. Her pale face looked up at him with apprehension and wanting.

  ‘My Queen,’ he said in a raw voice, falling to his right knee before her, unable to take his eyes from her. She made no effort to cover herself, just gazed back at him, breathing in shallow bursts.

  ‘Dear Solon,’ she said, her voice tense. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

  He couldn’t take his eyes from her breasts. His heart was in his throat. Scarcely breathing, he shuffled forward, until he could reach out and touch her knees. ‘Lyra,’ he whispered, ‘I’ve wanted this so much . . .’

  ‘I too,’ she replied urgently. ‘Come to me,’ she said, putting her hands under her breasts and offering them. ‘These are for you, Solon. To give you the strength to go on.’

  His mother had breastfed him until he was three; he had always credited his prowess to that. He could still recall what it had felt like, and the smell of a woman’s milk always transported him. It hit him now as he drew near and Lyra parted her legs, pulling him between her thighs and taking his head in her hands, drawing his mouth to her swollen right aureole. His lips touched her engorged teat, drinking in the smell, intending only to kiss it: but a powerful impulse took him and he latched on, his arms gripping her shoulders and pinning her where she sat, as he sucked hard. Milk flooded his mouth and he moaned, remembering the taste.

  ‘Drink, my little man, it’ll make you strong, the strongest knight in Koredom,’ his mother used to whisper to him as he fed. Dear Kore, I need that strength now.

  Lyra groaned, clutching him to her, sighing and quivering with each powerful drawing on her, widening her thighs and drawing her knees upwards, the smell of her loins blending with that of her milk. The sheer eroticism of the moment was overpowering, driving blood to his member and making it hard, swollen, aching. He moved to the left nipple, suckling feverishly, the cream of her filling his senses, his hands pulling her down as she scooted her hips to meet his, on the edge of the seat.

  ‘Rukk me, Milord,’ Lyra moaned. ‘Shove it in and take me.’

  He stopped, the spell broken, pulling his mouth from the woman’s breasts and glaring furiously. ‘You stupid girl, that’s not in the script!’

  The prostitute – whose only real resemblance to Lyra was her blonde hair and pale complexion – stammered in fright, ‘I’m so sorry—’

  ‘The real Lyra would never speak like that,’ he growled, gripping her chin, wanting to silence her. ‘She is naïve but willing, succumbing to desire with innocence. She’s not a slut like you!’

  ‘I’m sorry – I’m sorry—’

  The milk in his mouth curdled, but his cock was still stiff, so he channelled his anger, grabbing the whore’s waist and pulling her off the armchair entirely. Her feet flailed, then she found the floor and slid to her knees as he speared her from behind, her oiled vagina taking him easily as he thrust in hard and fast, wanting to punish her transgression. He rukked her powerfully, until their panting ran together into one continuous moan. He didn’t know or care if she came, but he did, in a hot rush that left him shuddering, but did little to dampen his disappointed anger.

  What did you expect? his inner voice taunted him. She’s not the queen and you knew that before you started.

  He groaned heavily, pulled out and stood, letting the whore flop to the floor, spent in the messy aftermath of passion. For a moment they stared at each other, then both looked away, the awkwardness of intimacy with a stranger reminding him why he’d seldom had women after his wife died, despite years of loneliness.

  It also reminded him of how much better his lovemaking had been with the real Lyra, before she rejected him and life became a torment. He backed away, slumped into the other armchair and pulling his nightshirt down, told the girl, ‘Clean up. Pour me a whiskey and go.’

  The girl burst into tears. He felt somewhat sorry for her, but he couldn’t bring himself to give her a comforting word. This had been foolish, and he was the fool. It was a relief when she exited, still sobbing.

  He was almost done with the whiskey when someone knocked and the woman in the Heartface mask peered in. ‘Milord? May I join you?’ When he nodded, she curtseyed, then took the other chair. ‘I apologise, Milord. Your encounter was not up to House of Lantris standards. I shall have her punished – and of course, there’ll be no charge.’

  He waved a hand dismissively, because he despised sulking. ‘Don’t be overly harsh on her; just see that she learns. If I’d not been given licence to err, I would never have become the person I am.’

  Whoever that is, these days.

  Speaking to anyone in a Lantric Mask made him feel queasy at the moment, but this establishment had used them for decades. It catered to one particular fetish: those – apparently women as well as men – who lusted after a certain unobtainable person. He’d been given a menu that included various singers, courtesans and notable women – even the Estellan nun Valetta, who’d recently begun the Sisters’ Crusade. But for the past five years, he understood, their main trade had been in prostitutes impersonating Lyra herself.

  ‘Is there anything further we can do to make this right, Milord?’ the masked woman asked. ‘We value our clientele at the House of Lantris.’

  He closed his eyes, trying to think past that moment when the scene fell apart, to when the illusion had still been intact. But now that the heat of the moment was gone, all he felt was self-disgust. The insult ‘milksop’ was the derisory term for what he’d done – he hadn’t intended to feed, just to smel
l and kiss – but if anyone got wind of what he’d done, he’d be a laughing-stock.

  And how will I ever face the real Lyra again?

  Some part of him had been soothed when he drank from the girl, though . . . and he craved more. As long as the girl had learned her lesson, she might suffice. ‘I’ll consider,’ he told Heartface. He indicated the door. ‘Now if you will excuse me, I believe I have this room for the remainder of the hour, and this is a very fine whiskey.’

  The woman rose, bowed like a man and left. Solon sat back, sipping the smoky fluid and wondering where Lyra was and what she was doing.

  Are you thinking of me, my Queen?

  Pallas, Rondelmar

  Tap, tap, tap . . .

  Lyra looked up sharply, her reverie broken. Rildan, cradled in her arms as she fed him from a bottle, sensed her disquiet and began to grizzle. The sound came from her balcony, where the setting sun cast shadows across the city. She saw a silhouette, a large bird-shape, outside the window, which meant Aradea wanted her.

  She called to the next room, ‘Nita, can you take Rildan, please?’

  Nita, a diligent worker – and a brave girl, considering her predecessor had died horribly during an attack on Lyra a few months ago – bustled in, swept up Rildan and the bottle and began coddling him back to calmness, casting a curious look at Lyra as she wrapped a shawl about herself and went to the curtains. When she opened them, a raven shrieked from the balcony ledge, then swooped away and out of sight.

  ‘That bird gives me the creeps,’ Nita said. ‘Shall I have the guards shoot it?’

  ‘It’s got as much right to come and go as us,’ Lyra replied. She unlatched the door, feeling a tingling as the wards recognised her hand and came undone. ‘I won’t be long,’ she said.

  The balcony steps took her to the back of Greengate, the main entrance to her private garden. The two guards stationed outside the gates touched fists to chests as she passed them and went through the Rose Bower to the pond. It was a cold, damp evening and already frost crunched under her slippers. Careless of her nightdress and gown, she knelt and broke the ice on the pool, scooped up frigid water and drank. An eel rose and nibbled at the surface before swirling away. She wondered how it survived the cold, yet another of the small mysteries of this place. Then she closed her eyes and opened herself to the dwyma.