by David Hair
Suddenly Naxius was unmasked, the callous composure he affected ripped aside, and Xoredh saw something on his face he’d never seen before: fear. the Master shrieked.
Xoredh reeled at the sudden unleashing of emotion and the dismissal of his sacred war.
Naxius screamed.
The contact snapped shut and Xoredh swayed as his whole world turned upside down.
How can this war be meaningless? And what are his plans, if they weren’t to conquer Yuros?
Gulping like a beached fish, he staggered away, seeking solitude, and some way to understand.
*
Ramon twisted in his rescuer’s grasp and looked up to find himself cradled in the arms of a woman no bigger than he, a Keshi with skinny arms made strong by kinesis, her narrow face bony and her nose rudder-like, but right now the most beautiful woman in Creation, for any number of reasons.
‘Rukka mio, Amiza?’
Amiza, Calipha of Ardijah, threw back her head and laughed. ‘Ai, Ramon Sensini, it is I. Are you pleased to see me? I heard a man shout your name in the aether and followed the call back to you – just in the twinkle of time, it appears.’
Then she bent her mouth to his, sealed it with her lips and kissed him deeply. After a stunned moment, he reciprocated, because Amiza had been one of his conquests during the Third Crusade – or more accurately, he’d been one of her conquests. The half-remembered taste and feel of her mouth was like balm, for she was the lover he’d missed more than any other.
Finally he pulled away and breathed, staring at her in wonder as they overflew the broken aqueduct. He glanced down and saw that this plan at least had been a good one: the loosened waters were still raging through the lower half of Raathaus Square and separating the two armies, allowing the retreat into Copperleaf to proceed unimpeded.
We did it. He twisted again, peering towards the sluice-gates on the walls. He saw two figures standing on the race, one tall and gangly, the other with a tangle of black hair floating on the wind like a banner. They made it clear, grazie, Pater Sol! He punched the air triumphantly, then sobered as he remembered Postyn and Moxie.
‘Take us down, Amiza-habibi – beside the race, if you would.’
She hauled on the reins of her roc and they flashed down to the Copperleaf walls where cheering soldiers lined the parapet. Shihadi soldiers were still pouring in through the gates. The banners of the Rondian empire and the Sultan of Kesh flew above the gatehouse.
Sol et Lune, we did it.
He returned to the miracle of his rescue, clambering behind her, wrapping arms around her narrow waist and demanding, ‘Amiza-habibi, what in Hel’s name are you doing here?’
She threw a confident grin over her shoulder – her poise and strut had always been her best asset . ‘Your boring friend – the one who married me when you rejected my proposal – had a tragic accident, so here I am, single again. Having borne a child to a mage, I became one myself, so when this stupid Shihad came I was obliged to join it.’ She smirked and added, ‘Luckily for you.’
‘But you must have known I was in the city?’
‘Ai, but what could I do? We were enemies,’ she harrumphed. ‘And anyway, my spies tell me you’re always seen with an ugly woman with a face like a horse, so I have contented myself with sitting in my room brewing poison.’
He couldn’t tell if she was joking. ‘That’s just Vania – she’s a subordinate – I don’t sleep with those.’
‘Really?’ Amiza sniffed.
‘Um, well . . . once a year we both get rotten drunk and end up under a blanket, but that’s it.’
‘But she’s not your wife?’
‘More like a favourite sister – except on those drunken nights.’
Amiza gave him a derisive look. ‘Men . . . and to think I bore you a son . . .’
That hit him, hard. He’d known she was pregnant when the Third Crusade swept them apart again, but he’d never heard more. ‘We have a son?’
‘A beautiful boy, a little small, but so smart – like his mother. And maybe his father also. I named him Rahmeed in memory of you.’
Rahmeed . . .
‘Is he here?’
She snorted. ‘In a war? Of course not. If you wish to see him,’ she added slyly, ‘you must return to Ardijah.’
He stared, grinning foolishly. Amiza is here . . . and we have a son . . .
15
The Convent
The Successful Ruler
By what yardstick do we judge a ruler? By the justice of their laws? The victories of their armies? The degree to which they are loved? The magnificence of their court? The longevity of their reign? Their righteousness before God? Wealth? Power? Beauty? I know not. At times all of these things can be a virtue or a bane. Only History can judge a ruler, and History keeps changing her mind.
KOULOUS, RIMONI SCHOLAR, BECCHIO 423
Pallas, Rondelmar
Febreux 936
Lyra had never really seen her father angry until the morning after the attack at the Sancta Esmera Church. Calan Dubrayle looked preoccupied, Oryn Levis shocked, but Grand Prelate Wurther was as furious as Dirklan.
‘I told you Frankel would betray your trust,’ Dirklan snapped, the moment she took her seat at the council table. ‘I told you – how am I supposed to keep you safe when you put your head into the first noose they offer?’
‘It was idiocy,’ Wurther added vehemently. ‘Reckless – foolish . . .’
She held up a hand. ‘It was a calculated risk. And anyway, I don’t believe Ari Frankel meant that to happen.’
Dirklan looked incredulous. ‘What? They wounded you, Lyra – they could have killed you – and when I catch that damned traitor, I’ll—’
‘Father, enough!’ Lyra interrupted.
For a moment his one eye flared in warning, then he closed his mouth, looking thin-lipped and pale.
Her shoulder was bandaged and painful to touch: scars she’d take to the grave, despite the healers’ best efforts. He was right: if the mage-bolt had struck her head, she’d have been dead. But she knew what she’d seen. ‘Frankel was as appalled as I was when they attacked: I saw his face. He protested the instant they started.’
Her counsellors looked at each other doubtfully. ‘Neither Basia or Exilium saw that, Milady,’ Dominius Wurther commented.
‘They were preoccupied,’ Lyra replied. ‘Their focus was on protecting me. They heard Frankel shout, but they don’t recall his words. I do: he shouted at Braeda Kaden to stop.’
‘Pretence,’ Wurther said dismissively.
‘Why would he pretend? You didn’t hear him: he was truly shocked – and ashamed.’
‘Milady, how could you perceive all that amid the attack?’ Oryn asked.
‘Because I’ve met the man,’ she retorted. ‘I’ve taken his measure. He believes in his cause. He came to talk, not fight. It’s his comrades who betrayed us, against his will and knowledge.’
‘Then that tells us that he’s no longer in control of his rebellion,’ Dirklan said. ‘Which means he’s not worth speaking to. It’s the Kadens behind this, probably has been all along.’ He pulled out a piece of paper: ‘Speaking of which, Tad Kaden has approached us: he wants his sister back and he’s willing to pay – and withdraw his people.’
Calan asked, ‘Do we negotiate with the likes of the Kaden Rats?’
‘To end this damned rebellion?’ Dominius said. ‘Damned right we should.’
‘It won’t end it,’ Calan opined. ‘The commoners will continue to resist.’
‘Which means Frankel
still matters,’ Lyra said firmly. ‘Dirklan, string Kaden along. Find out how far he’s prepared to go – and when it comes down to negotiation, tell him that I want that talk with Ari Frankel.’
‘But Milady—’ Wurther began.
She slapped the table. ‘That’s my final word on the matter.’ She looked at her agenda. ‘I see that I’m to meet the Argundian Ambassador this afternoon? Lord Dubrayle, you have arranged this?’
‘In my role as temporary Imperocrator, Milady,’ Calan replied. ‘It’s to discuss the possibilities of a dynastic marriage to prevent the secession.’
‘So they’re still interested?’
‘He almost bit my hand off when I made the offer, Milady. It appears the one thing they want more than independence is to be the dominant nation in an intact empire.’
‘How predictable,’ she said drily.
‘They’ll offer you Andreas Borodium, their Crown Prince: he’s currently commanding the Argundian troops in the south, but I understand he’s willing to fly here if a marriage proposal is going to be accepted.’
Lyra recalled a tall, strongly built blond man with a handsome, fleshy face and supremely arrogant manner. ‘This is the same Prince Andreas who ensured his army wasn’t in the field when my late husband needed them most, then marched north when Rashid went south? And isn’t he married already?’
‘He would put aside his wife to marry you. Argundan law permits this.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘He would destroy one alliance to make another. I like this less and less. Did the ambassador hint at terms?’
‘They believe they’re in a position to extract maximum advantage,’ Calan replied. ‘The ambassador said Andreas wants full imperium: the title and privilege of Emperor, replacing you in all executive roles – and the removal of your son Rildan from the succession entirely.’
She remembered her brave words, that she would never accept such terms – but what choice did they truly have? Garod Sacrecour was marching and she was going to have to find the courage and sheer heartlessness to hurl blizzards into their faces, this time without the aid of Valdyr, who was still absent from the dwyma. And Solon Takwyth had the Coraine legions marching too, and those she could not assail, not when they were fathers, brothers and cousins of the men who surrounded her here. And if she refused Prince Andreas, the empire would cease to exist, triggering the civil war that would wreck Yurosi civilisation.
‘Do we have any leverage by which we can claw back anything?’ she asked.
No one replied and her heart sank further.
‘Very well, I shall give the ambassador his hearing.’
The remainder of the meeting passed in a dreary, defeated manner, even though Oryn Levis tried to speak in an upbeat manner about defending the city and sending an embassy to Duke Torun to persuade him to make common cause against the Sacrecours.
Finally she rose. ‘Gentlemen, thank you. Calan, I’ll hear the Treasury Report in my suite in a few minutes. Everyone else, I know you’re busy.’
Dominius Wurther took both her hands in his, before taking his leave. ‘Dear Lyra, be brave. It all looks bleak, but while there’s life, there is hope. Have faith in Kore’s love and go on.’ He was so uncharacteristically earnest that it almost made her choke up.
Her Spymaster and Treasurer appeared in her sitting room shortly afterwards and they huddled together to hear the Treasurer’s report on his ‘little project’.
‘Things proceed apace, Milady,’ the Treasurer said tersely. ‘I had the governors of the Gravenhurst Stronghold bank attend me on a pretext of a briefing, then laid out my intentions.’
‘How did that go?’
‘About as you’d expect.’ He smiled. ‘When I told them that I’d be making a silent illegal takeover of their operation and making a loan to the Crown that is around twenty times their bullion reserves, they declared me an “unconscionable criminal who should be dragged before the assizes”. They threatened to expose me, so I told them I’d destroy their families and businesses so utterly that it would be as if they had never existed; they told me they’d ensure the market knew so that this utterly tyrannical act would fail, destroying the Crown – and I told them I’d rip out their tongues before they left the room if I thought they’d do that.’ He chuckled softly at the memory.
‘Dear Kore,’ Lyra breathed, seeing no humour in the matter at all. ‘What did they say then?’
‘They appealed to Lord Setallius, who just smiled. Then they tried begging, and when I told them to be silent they offered a smaller but legal loan that would leave their bank intact if it failed. When I explained that was inadequate, they tried appealing to my honour, but it has already been established that I have none.’
Lyra shook her head. ‘Calan, I can’t help but feel that you’re enjoying this far too much. Did they agree?’
‘Well, I then offered them positions as Governors of the Bank of Rondelmar, the institution that will arise from this crisis and become the official Crown-backed bank, one that will dwarf all their rivals, thus ensuring their families sit at the highest tables in the land for generations to come – well, provided your Majesty’s regime prevails. And then . . .’
He stopped, pausing for effect. When Lyra huffed in impatience, a quite uncharacteristic broad grin split his face, and he concluded: ‘They accepted.’
Lyra sagged in her seat. ‘Thank Kore.’ Then she straightened as the implications of their strategy began to hit her. ‘We’ve just bullied and bribed the governors of a bank entrusted with the life-savings of thousands of people, endangered all those funds and broken our own laws. This isn’t something to be proud of.’
‘No,’ Dirklan agreed, ‘but it might just save us.’
‘It might,’ Calan said, ‘but there are still logistical matters to sort. We can accept the loan in the form of a promissory note, but to pay people, we need hard currency, more than we can lay our hands on. We’re going to have to issue new, debased coinage.’
‘Debased?’ Lyra asked.
‘We’re going to have to mint coins that contain far less silver and gold than normal,’ Dirklan said. ‘You’ll need to sign a new law of weights and measures to make them legal.’
Lyra gave him a blank look.
‘In the past,’ Calan explained, ‘a silver coin contained its value in actual silver, by which I mean, if you melted it down and sold it, that was the price you’d get. That went by the wayside centuries ago, but most people still believe it’s true. It’s particularly important for cross-border trade: when Rondian coins are exchanged for the local currency, traders must believe in a coin’s intrinsic value.’
Lyra frowned. ‘What will happen if we put out debased coins?’
‘Worst case: the market rejects them and our people are left with worthless currency – it would be as if we never paid them and they’ll feel cheated and resentful.’
‘So is there a best case?’
‘There is: that the coins are accepted for their face value and we live to fight another day.’
‘Do we know which is more likely?’
‘It’s a gamble, Majesty.’ The Treasurer smiled drily. ‘Your head will be on the new coins, in a very real way.’
‘That’s not as funny as you think,’ she told him, then she sighed. ‘Get on with it, please.’
*
‘TEAR IT DOWN – TEAR IT DOWN—’ Ari Frankel chanted, leading the crowds surging around the marble plinth bearing the ten-foot-tall bronze statue of Emperor Sertain. Everyone who had managed to grab hold of one of the many ropes currently knotted around it was hauling manfully, and a massive cheer erupted as the statue crashed down, barely missing the foremost rope-men.
‘Death to all tyrants,’ Ari hollered, and the cry was taken up, resounding around the small square. Despite this, he felt his personal despair rise.
He’d tried talking passionately about suffragium and people’s basic rights, but it was only when he pointed at something breakable that the crowd had truly
come alive. Violence begets violence, he admitted to himself. Now we’ve given the mob permission to destroy, that’s all they want to do. My message is being lost in the mayhem.
He knew it, Lazar knew it. The difference was, Lazar didn’t care.
It was Father Germane’s preachers caterwauling about the ‘Last Days’ who roused them now, filling them with a sense that time was running out, so any atrocity was permitted. The former royal chaplain was inseparable from Lazar, and more and more weapons were being smuggled into the docklands.
‘Let us fight for a better tomorrow,’ he shouted, trying to recapture the crowd’s attention.
‘There is no tomorrow,’ someone hollered back.
‘NO TOMORROW – NO TOMORROW,’ the chant went, and abruptly Ari shut up and jumped off the barrel he’d commandeered. Hardly anyone noticed; they were too busy looking for something else to break. He slipped off through the crowd – until someone grabbed his arm in an iron grip. Heart in mouth, Ari turned to see a cowled figure, one hand out of sight.
Dear Kore, a Volsai assassin – I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised . . .
Then Tad Kaden’s voice asked, ‘Do you still want to speak with the queen?’
His throat went dry. ‘I . . . ah . . . yes—’
‘Then come with me.’
*
The late winter sun was setting in a hazy, sullen scarlet blur while darkness stalked in from the northeast. A metaphor for my reign, thought Lyra, alone on her balcony. Everything is unravelling. Smoke was rising over the docklands, where there were yet more barricades, yet more rioting.
She felt more anxious than hopeful over the banking proposal, and with both Coraine and Dupenium on the march, time was running out. Even if she did agree terms with Argundy – but oh, I really don’t want to marry that oaf – it was doubtful they could get men here in time to protect the city. The meeting with the Argundian ambassador had been a humiliating haggling session over potential marital terms, but the upshot was simple: either she accepted Andreas of Argundy as her emperor and ruler and disinherited Rildan, or there would be no alliance.
The dwyma was empty and her enemies were closing in on all sides. Nothing was coming of Dirklan’s negotiations with Tad Kaden, Solon’s men and Garod’s army were only days away, so she’d been forced to agree to Argundy’s demands. The ambassador, smiling triumphantly, had gone away to begin drawing up the treaty.