by David Hair
Ari shook his head firmly. ‘You’ve never been in physical danger from me, Lady.’
‘Yes, that’s right: you threaten only my crown and my neck,’ Lyra said drily. She dandled her son, cooing. ‘And this little fellow’s future – indeed, his very life.’
Ari blushed. ‘That’s not very fair, Milady.’
‘Isn’t it?’
They fell silent as Nita returned with a tray laden with cups and a steaming teapot, then slipped out. Ari felt his mind begin to engage. He’d been hiding with Tad Kaden as the streets turned to chaos; he couldn’t waste this opportunity.
‘Why should one baby have his future guaranteed?’ he asked. ‘Everyone else must struggle.’
‘So your politics are those of envy, then?’
‘They are the politics of justice – one man—’ He saw her eyes narrow and interrupted himself. ‘One person, one vote: a meritocracy, based upon suffragium. If your son proves his excellence, then he will win that ballot and take his term as ruler.’
‘If my son doesn’t inherit, it’ll be because his mother is dead, and all those who protect him. I’ve got two armies marching to claim my throne, Master Frankel. They don’t want suffragium, they want my bloodline to perish.’
‘But your people want suffragium,’ he told her earnestly. ‘Tens of thousands of people have heard my words, maybe hundreds of thousands. Every day we take more of the city. Don’t you see? This isn’t a movement about dynastic squabbling. The people are the nation and they deserve their fair share.’
She threw him a bitter look. ‘Your mobs are destroying the city and making damn sure that our defences will crumble when Garod or Takwyth arrive. And I’ve got bad news for you: those bastards are even less likely to give you what you want than I am.’
She and Takwyth were lovers not so long ago, Ari thought. He’d seen it in their body language the day he’d been reprieved from execution. What happened? he wondered, then thrust that thought aside. ‘But you acknowledge that I might persuade you?’ he asked nimbly.
‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up. I’ve fought with all my being against more implacable enemies than you. Some days I hate what I must do: I wish most devoutly that I’d been forgotten in my obscure monastery. But that didn’t happen. They’re all counting on me – all my Pallacians and Corani, all my loyal subjects. And my son.’ She stroked the child’s head, her eyes moist and her voice fragile. ‘What’s it all for, if not for him?’
‘Is this truly the life you want?’ he asked gently. ‘And for your son?’
‘What I want doesn’t matter. Empires don’t fade, they fall, and so do rulers. The red carpet before the throne is coloured with the blood of rivals – everyone knows that. I must hold the throne or I’ll end up with my head on a spike, and Rildan’s too. That’s the savage truth. Rulers don’t let rival claimants live.’
‘The task itself is killing you,’ he told her. Up close he could see the crow’s feet and furrows: more lined than a young woman’s should be. She’s ageing before my eyes. ‘You aren’t a natural ruler.’
‘Am I not?’ she retorted angrily. ‘Kore’s Blood, I’ve read every treatise on kingship ever written and I have learned on the job. I’ve had counsellors betray me and assassins shoot at me. I’ve had Reeker hordes climbing my walls and I’ve come this close to death’ – she held her thumb and forefinger just a hair’s-breadth apart – ‘as recently as this morning. But you know what? I’m good at it this rukking impossible job. I can read the accounts and understand what they’re telling me. I can see through Dubrayle and Wurther’s shenanigans and I can puzzle my way through a bill of law. I can speak to a crowd and address a court and I can tell a just decision from a corrupt one. So don’t bloody tell me I can’t do the job—’
‘I don’t say you can’t do it,’ he said quickly. ‘Quite the opposite. I’ve learned of late that you do it as well as anyone ever has. But it’s the whole institution of kingship that’s morally wrong and utterly inefficient. How many good kings have there ever been? Most are venal, bloodthirsty nepotistic tyrants who treat their people as slaves and expend all their energy on self-aggrandisement and conspiracy.’
‘I’m not like them.’
‘I know that now: you’re a flower among thorns, Lady, truly, or else we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. But don’t you think that the people should have the ruler they want, someone who actually wants to rule for them, not over them? Is that not what Kore would want? What decency and humanity demands?’
She stared at him with hollow eyes. ‘You’re dreaming, Ari. In the real world, men with swords and the gnosis take whatever they want.’ She shuddered, looking away. ‘This morning, I was attacked by a mage. He gripped me in a kinesis-spell, held me utterly immobile while he . . .’ Her voice tailed off.
She shuddered, then rallied. ‘I stabbed him to death. He’ll never misuse another being again. But Takwyth would do the same to me, and so would Garod and any other of these “noble” lords. Men with swords take whoever and whatever they want: that is the world we live in.’
He shuddered in sympathy, trying to find words to reach through that horror. ‘Lady, I was once a priest. The Book of Kore says those with the most must serve those with the least. For all the flaws of that book, I still hold to that sentiment. To rule must be to serve – and only suffragium can give that to society: a system where men are willing not just to take up authority, but to also lay it down in turn, according to the people’s will. If political rivals accepted that their contest should be with votes, not sword, that regimes can change without blood, would it not be better?’
‘You’re even more naïve than I thought,’ Lyra said bitterly. ‘No one willingly surrenders power.’
‘Milady, I’m not naïve.’ Ari sat forward. ‘There’s only one way your rule can be preserved through the coming crisis. You’ve got just days before your enemies arrive, and you don’t even know if your own soldiers will fight. Your forces are divided by the river – and Dominius Wurther can’t be trusted; everyone knows he’s only concerned with his own survival. Argundy could intercede, but Rondians have always hated Argundians and the moment you announce any kind of alliance with them, you’ll instantly lose half your support and any troops Argundy sends will be besieged in the Bastion while Pallas burns. Garod will never reach accommodation with you, and I imagine Takwyth has only one use for you. You’ve got one chance. Me.’
She stared silently at him, her eyes narrowing, and he was struck again by her incredible tolerance, because anyone else would have had him dragged off to the dungeons by now.
‘What one chance is that?’ she demanded at last.
Her voice told him that he must deliver now, or he’d lose her.
‘Join the rebellion,’ he told her.
‘What?’ She reached for her bell.
‘Wait – please, think about it, Milady – Lyra. Right now you’re fighting on too many fronts: Takwyth, Garod, us . . . You’re outnumbered and having to watch your back at every stage. But what if you commit to reform: to dismantling the monarchy and instituting the regime the people want – a res publica? Then you’ll no longer be facing internal enemies: Pallas will be united behind you. Your enemies will be the ones who’re outnumbered, outside the walls.’
He watched her think, her journey from instinctive refusal to consideration, until the narrowing of her eyes signalled real recognition of opportunity.
Seeing that, he pressed on: ‘To create a true suffragium, with all senior public offices subject to a ballot, takes time – but you could start tomorrow by allowing citizen representatives onto your ruling council and setting a date for elections.’
She stared at him, then said, ‘Not so naïve after all, are you?’
‘I’m learning as swiftly as I can, Milady.’ This wasn’t a new thought, after all; he’d been talking ideas through with Tad Kaden and to his surprise, the mage-thief had been supportive, if less than optimistic.
‘Milady, we know
that Garod Sacrecour and Solon Takwyth despise our movement, but I believe you are sympathetic to the plight of ordinary people. Lives have grown harder since your reign began’ – he raised a hand to still her retort – ‘because of the mess the Sacrecours left after the Third Crusade. We all know that. There is huge energy for change, Milady. If you harness it, perhaps you’ll be able to ride this out.’
She held up her hand in turn, so he fell silent, and tried the tea untouched in his cup. It was lukewarm, but easily the best he’d ever tasted. He looked longingly at the pot, then returned to studying his adversary.
Or ally.
He stiffened as her face hardened and she picked up her hand-bell and rang it. A moment later, Exilium stepped in. He guessed he’d been listening at the door, because he expressed no surprise at seeing him, only frank distaste.
‘Milady?’
‘Tell Dirklan I wish to see him.’
A dark shadow with silver hair covering half the face appeared behind the bodyguard. ‘As it happens, I’m also here, Majesty. I was informed you were entertaining and thought I might be required.’
‘Do I have no privacy?’ Lyra asked tartly.
The spymaster glided into the room and fixed Ari with his single cold eye. ‘You ignored my advice to leave Pallas, Master Frankel.’ The Volsai commander’s gaze was as chilling as Lazar.
But Ari didn’t flinch. ‘I have a mission.’
‘And I have a job.’ Setallius turned to Lyra. ‘What is it you want, Majesty?’
‘Your opinion.’
The spymaster glanced meaningfully at Ari and the queen nodded. ‘Master Frankel, Exilium will take you to my waiting room. If you require more tea – or something stronger – just ask.’
Is that all the time I get? Ari thought indignantly. This is my whole life’s purpose and you spare me no more than a few minutes?
But he recognised that pressing her further might alienate whatever tentative rapport they’d forged. He bowed and followed the bodyguard to a small room dominated by a portrait of Magnus Sacrecour, Lyra’s grandfather. It reminded him that while she represented a new dynasty, she also represented continuity with the men and women who’d ruled the world for five centuries.
He took a seat on a small sofa and looked up at the man closing the door.
Exilium leaned against the wall. ‘How many people have died because of you, you smart-mouthed piece of shit?’ he asked, his voice bitter.
‘A fraction of those who’ve died under the repression of the mage-nobles,’ he retorted, probably unwisely. ‘The queen mentioned a drink?’
He scowled, but walked to a low cabinet. ‘You know if they find against you,’ he said, as he poured two glasses, ‘then the next significant walk you’ll take is to the gallows?’
‘Then make it her best Brevian whiskey, please.’
*
Lyra looked at her father, relieved despite her earlier comment that she didn’t have to reiterate Frankel’s proposal. ‘So, Father? What do you think?’
His one eye glinted in the lamplight as he looked at her. ‘You’re tempted, aren’t you? Not just by his offer to bolster our defence, but by his arguments for this “res publica”.’
‘I am,’ Lyra admitted. ‘Ever since we put him on trial, I’ve had his voice in my head, telling me that the system I’m fighting to protect is wrong.’
‘Makelli would argue that a ruler should never listen to either conscience or sentiment.’
‘I’ve read Makelli, Father: he was a nasty, cynical soulless creature,’ Lyra retorted, ‘full of wonderful advice for oppressive murderers whose sole ambition is to crush anyone they suspect of being a threat.’
‘Very effective advice, for all that,’ he remarked.
‘I’m sure – but shouldn’t we be more than that? Wouldn’t Kore expect us to be more?’
‘Kore doesn’t exist.’
‘Perhaps not, but the ideals of Kore are good ideals. If everyone on Urte lived as Makelli suggests, a kingdom would consist of one man sitting on a throne surrounded by slaves. And don’t try to tell me that Makelli’s approach works, because rulers should not be exploiting their subjects. They should be serving them.’ She jabbed a finger at him, although she was arguing as much with herself as her father. ‘We’re not lions, gorging on meat, or we shouldn’t be.’
She paused then, thinking. ‘If we put the morality aside, is he right? Are all his people burning things and chanting obscenities because they want a fairer system of government? Or do they just like burning things and swearing?’
‘A bit of both, I imagine. But if enough of them are soldiers of a cause, not wanton vandals, then perhaps they are the manpower we need. When Garod and Takwyth arrive, we’ll be in a hopeless situation. But with a united Pallas behind you, everything changes.’
‘We could double our army overnight, so we wouldn’t need Argundy,’ Lyra said, her heart lifting.
‘And Makelli would counsel that drawing the ringleaders into the open will make it easier to dispose of them after the danger is passed,’ Dirklan noted.
‘Father,’ she reproved, ‘I couldn’t do that.’
‘Well, you say that, but if they play you false?’
She bit her lip. ‘Frankel is genuine. I trust his intentions.’
‘But the people behind him? Tad Kaden – do you trust him? Or this madman, Lazar? Believe me, Frankel is not the strategist of this movement; he’s just the mouthpiece.’
Lyra groaned. ‘Dear Kore, this is a maze.’ She rubbed her forehead and stifled a yawn, although she was wide awake. ‘And then there’s the question of what happens to me, I suppose. Frankel is right: the people are only going to believe in this if I commit to abdicating. I’d no longer be queen – and then what? I own nothing personally; all I have belongs to the Crown. I have a son whose birthright is a throne that I’d be giving away. Would Rildan ever forgive me?’ She looked at her father: ‘Would you?’
Dirklan looked at her steadily. ‘Lyra, I’ve given my life to preserving the Corani, mostly not knowing you existed. Finding you gave my role a deeper purpose, but I’ve never believed that returning to Pallas was in our best interests. Pallas is a death-trap for a provincial House like ours. We’ve tried to entrench ourselves, but we’re still outsiders. And now Pallas herself, finally free of the Sacrecours, is flexing her muscles. Our only chance of survival may be to align ourselves with Pallas. All of which is to say that I’ll support you working with Frankel if it gets us through this crisis and allows us to deal with things properly later.’
Lyra knew her father’s reputation: that he’d tempered his ruthlessness during her reign, even when he thought her too merciful. That was a form of love, too.
‘If I abdicate, how would the vassal-states see it?’
‘As license to secede. The empire will collapse.’
‘And the bloodbath would begin?’
‘Almost certainly.’
Lyra hung her head. ‘We’re going round in circles.’
Her father looked at her steadily. ‘There is another solution.’
Coraine, Northern Rondelmar
Ostevan is dead. Solon Takwyth stared at the messenger. He found he was quivering and breathless. That vicious pile of silk-wrapped excrement is dead . . . ‘You’re certain? Absolutely certain?’
‘Aye, Lord, ‘ the legion scout replied fervently. His name was Hulvyn; he’d been recently reassigned to a role akin to Setallius’ Volsai after Solon had beheaded the first Volsai to turn up pretending to be loyal and no one else had stuck their head above the parapet. However, that left him without anyone experienced in covert missions, so he’d been forced to recruit from the army.
‘You’ve seen the body?’
‘His head’s on the Traitor’s Nail behind the Place d’Accord,’ Hulvyn told him. ‘I seen it meself.’
It wasn’t like Lyra to proclaim something so boldly unless she were absolutely certain. Garod must be shitting himself, he thought exultantly. That’s the su
pport of the Church, gone in a flash!
‘Well done, Hulvyn,’ he told the man. He fished in his pouch for a very special ducal token; it could set a man up for life. ‘Take this to Duke Torun and he’ll reward you.’
Hulvyn looked suitably awed and very grateful as he backed out, bowing and gabbling.
When he was alone Solon poured a Brevian whisky, sat in his armchair and took a deep, slow breath. He hadn’t realised how much he’d been afraid of what that snake Ostevan might do. His one encounter with a Mask had left him broken and near-dead; he’d been dreading sending his boys up against Garod if Ostevan was at hand. That he was dead was a boon.
I don’t fear you, Garod. I only feared Ostevan and now he’s gone. Victory will be ours . . .
He sat for a long time going over his plans, then stood, peeled off his gown and entered his bedchamber. Brunelda lay naked in his bed, sleeping on her stomach, her shaven skull gleaming in the candlelight. Her wig was discarded on the floor. He’d purchased her from the House of Lantris; now she lived in a maid’s room near his suite during the day and at night, she kept his anguish at bay, despite being merely a substitute for the woman he really wanted. Even so, every night as their bodies and auras coupled, she became more and more his, and in truth, he was growing somewhat fond of her. Most nights, now, it was to Brunelda he made love, but tonight his thoughts were of another and he didn’t wish to see her true face.
Climbing into the bed, he gripped her hips and pulled her into a kneeling position as his member stiffened. As she realised who it was, her sleepy protest turned to welcome. Either she was a consummate actor, or she was becoming infatuated with him. That could happen to ordinary mortals who made love with magi, unless the mage shielded their aura. He’d never bothered to do so.
Either way, she was fulfilling her purpose. As his pleasure mounted, he groaned, ‘Lyra—’ so Brunelda would understand who she was tonight. ‘Lyra . . .’
