Mother of Daemons

by David Hair

  As one, the flying beasts banked, caught a thermal from the walls of the Alps behind them and flowed into the next valley, seeking the high passes that would take them into Silacia and Rimoni.

  *

  Waqar drifted through dreams, vaguely conscious of the healers hovering over him, voices and auras washing over him. He meant to rouse himself and speak to them, to soothe the anxiety in their voices, but he kept getting distracted by the collisions of galaxies, or the way a fly’s wing hummed, or the diffusion of light into rainbows through his eyelids.

  It’s beautiful, he sighed. Let me stay . . .

  ‘His one good lung is filling up with blood,’ he heard someone say in Rondian in a worried voice.

  I wonder who they’re talking about?

  ‘Put him on his side,’ a female voice said tersely. ‘Get that tube inside him.’

  The world lurched and something pushed uncomfortably down his throat. He saw a pottery bowl, admired the way the enamel gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the open curtains, then a torrent of red fluid splattered on it and he lost himself trying to read the patterns of the splashes.

  There are omens written in the shapes, he thought. I can see my future . . .

  But before he could understand those scarlet marking, his future faded and vanished.

  *

  Xoredh stared from the shadow of the pavilion out across the stark landscape. When the Shihad had arrived, these fields had been lush thanks to the autumn rains, but three months of trampling and foraging had turned the land around Norostein to bare mud beneath a cold sun.

  There’s no cloud . . . for the first time in months . . .

  His magi servants were all daemon-possessed now, both more and less than they’d been, but this unlooked-for change in the skies was pinning them inside their tents and hideaways. He’d tried manipulating the weather with the gnosis, but someone inside Norostein was resisting, and the defensive always trumped the offensive in such matters.

  Open skies and sunshine . . . and the full moon is almost here.

  It was a good thing the Master no longer cared about the war; because for the next couple of weeks pursuing it would be impossible. So he put strategies aside, and bent his mind to his new mission: the murder of Waqar . . .

  28

  Triumphal

  On Defeat

  When are we defeated? When we surrender, or when we die? Neither. I contend that we are defeated when we lose sight of who we are and always have been: the children of Ahm.

  GODSPEAKER HAIDAK, PEROZ CONVOCATION, 904

  We are human, and we have adapted as the times change. Better we survive in a new world than perish clinging to an old one.

  PRINCE OMAR KABARAKHI’S RESPONSE, PEROZ CONVOCATION, 904

  Pallas, Rondelmar

  Martrois 936

  ‘Oldgate is open, Lord,’ the messenger said breathlessly. ‘The city is yours.’

  Yes, Solon thought, meeting the man’s eyes and clenching one steel gauntlet in victory.

  Behind him, Oryn Levis, Roland de Farenbrette, Rolven Sulpeter, Endus Rykjard and the rest of his retinue cheered hoarsely and the tension that had hung over this final leg of the march began to lift. There would be no fighting, no need to lay siege to his capital. His march into Pallas would be triumphal.

  He turned in the saddle and called to Lord Sulpeter, ‘Pass the word, Milord: Pallas spreads herself like a good whore.’ His retinue – all male, all Corani – guffawed and whooped. He turned his horse and trotted back down the line, taking the rising cheers of his men, peering back along the column.

  His eyes lighted on his carriage, trundling along in the rear of the advance guard. Speaking of good whores, he thought, someone had better get my little queen ready.

  He waved in the sour-faced nun who’d been appointed to look after Brunelda. She trotted up, riding her mare gracelessly. ‘Sister Virtue, yes?’ She probably does still have her virtue, too, with a face like that.

  ‘Aye, Lord,’ she replied, her eyes downcast.

  ‘See to Milady’s attire and appearance. She will be required once we’re in the Bastion.’ He rode on to the two prison-wagons and pulled alongside the first. Peering through the bars at the morose, grey-haired man inside, he called, ‘Duke Garod, you’ll be pleased to know we’ll be entering the city inside the hour – unopposed.’

  The Sacrecour didn’t look at him, just spat through a split lip and hung his head. A Chain-rune constrained his gnosis and his scabbard was empty. His finery was smeared in mud and blood and his forehead crudely bandaged where it had been split open – not that he’d actually gone down fighting; he’d been captured unharmed – but Roland de Farenbrette had paid him a little visit.

  Justly so, Solon thought, smiling grimly.

  ‘Enjoy the ride through the city, Garod,’ he taunted, then trotted to the second rolling cage. Rolven Sulpeter joined him, frowning. ‘What is it, Rolven?’ Solon enquired coolly. Sulpeter quite clearly had one eye on the pending appointments to the Imperial Council.

  ‘What do you intend for the second prisoner?’

  ‘I haven’t yet decided,’ Solon said, knowing he needed to make up his mind.

  This prisoner had been granted a seat, a blanket and a piss-bucket, and he hadn’t been roughed up.

  When Solon peered in, a pair of mournful eyes stared out, widening in recognition.

  ‘Sir Solon,’ Cordan Sacrecour bleated hopefully.

  Solon studied the boy: fourteen years old, a student mage, his natural lack of athleticism accentuated by puppy fat and lack of exercise. But he was the rightful emperor, according to some.

  Kill him and only Coramore will be left with a legitimate claim on the Sacrecour side. After them they’re down to distant relatives and sundry riff-raff no sane man would bend the knee to.

  ‘Bear up, boy,’ he advised, not quite meeting those frightened eyes. ‘Show courage.’

  The boy sniffled and Solon, always uncomfortable with weakness, hauled on his reins and cantered away, Rolven at his heels. Oryn Levis joined them, his bland face lined with worry.

  ‘Kill Garod, but show the boy clemency,’ Rolven said, as they slowed to a walk.

  Garod was going to die: that was a cast-iron certainty, and a moment Solon was looking forward to, but he still wasn’t sure about the boy. He’d grown somewhat fond of Cordan when he’d been Lyra’s prisoner: he’d been positively worshipful, lapping up tales of battle and the tourney. There was a man lurking inside the dumpling.

  And that’s why I’d be wisest to take his head. Clemency is for women.

  ‘They’re traitors to Rondelmar,’ he growled, to see how his advisors reacted.

  ‘In that case, you should have just killed them on the battlefield,’ Rolven declared.

  ‘They surrendered,’ Solon snarled. ‘I’ve built my reputation on chivalry and hard justice.’

  ‘But what they did in 909—’

  ‘I know what they rukking did in 909 and they’ll damn well pay for it.’ He spat, then asked, ‘Did your men find Brylion’s head?’

  Rolven’s nostrils flared, but he bit back whatever retort he might have wished to utter and said in a sour voice, ‘Aye, but it’s basically just a helm full of charcoal. Eye-witnesses say the Stick Insect nailed him good and proper.’

  Basia de Sirou got her revenge after all, Solon mused. Turning to Lumpy, who was bringing the latest despatches from their informants within the city, he asked, ‘She’s in the Celestium still?’

  Oryn leaned closer. ‘Aye, they all are. Wurther’s taken in Basia de Sirou, Exilium Excelsior, Princess Coramore, a few of the legion commanders and battle-magi . . . and Prince Rildan, of course.’

  Another child I may have to kill, Solon thought grimly. ‘I trust we have the Celestium encircled?’

  ‘From the air and the water, and we’ve sent four legions south of the river. The Holy City is under embargo: nothing and no one in or out.’

  ‘And the docklands?’


  ‘Still barricaded and babbling about Lyra’s “Republic” and chanting “Death to all tyrants”.’

  Solon bunched a fist as blood thumped in his temple. Damned rabble. ‘There’ll be no barricades in my city,’ he snapped. Then he unclenched his fist, staring at it. With this hand, I broke Nita’s neck, he reflected. That horrific moment, that hideous snapping of self-control, haunted him still. I never knew I had that in me.

  But there was no room for weakness, not now. ‘We’ll offer them one chance,’ he told Rolven, ‘then we’ll break them. Once we’ve got the lads into the barracks, issue ale, wine, whatever, and have our loyal magi listen to the talk. Next morning, I want lists of dissenters, doubters, loyalists and whingers. I want their bloody names.’

  Rolven’s eyes went round. ‘But it’ll be used as a chance to settle scores and—’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Solon interrupted. ‘Better a few innocents go down than any bad apples remain. Rot spreads.’

  Oryn grimaced, then nodded, but that was enough to make Solon’s heart go cold. Dear Kore, don’t you dare become part of the problem, Lumpy.

  *

  ‘Lady?’ a terse female voice called.

  Someone rapped on the carriage door, startling Brunelda from her reverie as she gazed through the curtained window at the marching soldiers, feeling very alone. She didn’t feel much better when it was the plain-faced nun, Sister Virtue, who opened the door and stepped in, carrying a bundled-up cloak.

  ‘I’m not a lady,’ Brunelda muttered.

  ‘I know that, dear,’ Virtue said drily. ‘Neither am I.’ She plonked herself onto the opposite seat, where Solon usually sat if he joined her. ‘Now, I’m commanded to tell you that you need to be dressed in royal finery.’ She unwrapped the cloak, revealing a pale blue dress with white lace cuffs within.

  Dear Kore, Brunelda thought, recognising the fabric and lacy cuff. It’s the dress that dead woman was wearing – the one they carried from the tent. That had been horrible enough, before she’d realised the dead woman must have been the queen.

  ‘Not that dress . . . I can’t—’ He’s going to dress me up as her, for real . . . She clutched at her breast. ‘I . . . I don’t want to do this . . .’

  Sister Virtue surprised her with a sympathetic look. ‘It’s just a dress, dear. We’ve washed it.’

  ‘Was she stabbed?’

  ‘No,’ Virtue said, and Brunelda sagged in relief until the nun added, ‘but she soiled herself as her muscles loosened and there was blood on the collar from where Lord Takwyth struck her cheek – and broke her neck.’

  Brunelda burst huge, frightened convulsive tears, cowering in her corner, not wanting to emerge, ever.

  Sister Virtue surprised her by moving to sit beside her. Putting an arm around her shoulders, she cooed softly, ‘Hush, dear.’ Her voice was soft but her eyes were hard. ‘You’ll ruin that milkmaid complexion and then no one will be fooled. Now, dress, in that dead woman’s frock.’

  Brunelda’s gorge rose uncontrollably and she vomited over the floor of the carriage.

  *

  The entrance into the city was like the triumphal marches of the old Rimoni emperors. Solon rode at the head of it, bareheaded but for a laurel circlet, waving to the crowds lining the road from Oldgate, through the legion quarter in Esdale, then circling north through Gravenhurst and up onto the Roidan Heights via the steep Arcanus Road, used for the Palace Guard’s monthly Changing of the Duty Legion. That meant fewer crowds, but it avoided traversing the edges of Tockburn, which was still in rebellion.

  For now. We’ll deal with the rabble next. Lyra had been too soft with dissenters, scared of being called a tyrant. They’d soon realise that he was no squeam: retribution would be swift and harsh.

  For now it was enough to take the cheers of the good citizens as they entered the Bastion through Soldier’s Gate. It’s apt, because I’m a soldier first, he mused. My lads will see it as proof that I’m one of them – not an admission that I don’t yet control the whole city.

  Trumpets blared and drums rolled as he rode into a parade ground filled with Corani legionaries. He’d told Lumpy to have the Palace Guard stood down – they were Pallacian and likely to be loyal to Lyra. We’ll break them up – I want only Corani around me.

  He waved and the rankers cheered hoarsely, then he turned to the steps of the Bastion, which were filled with Pallas nobility. He could sense their fear as he dismounted, which made his hackles rise. These were the weaklings Lyra had tolerated: milksop men who wore fashionable silks and velvets, women with low-cut dresses and lower morals, spiders and snakes the lot of them – and all candidates for the purge he planned.

  My court will be one of real men: an austere and godly court, a centre of power, not frippery and vice. He strode up the steps, his commanders behind him, and surveying the crowd, found the ideal target for his simmering anger: Lord Tybor Misen, whose son had fought for the queen at Finostarre. And died.

  ‘You,’ he said, pointing at the nobleman, ‘get off these steps.’ Then he glared about and picked a few more at random, men he just didn’t like, the sneering, hoity-toity, more-fashionable-than-thou set who frequented soirées and shows and sent others to fulfil their Houses’ military obligations. ‘And you – and you – in fact, you can all get off these Kore-bedamned steps: this dais is for the victors and I see no victors here.’

  They goggled at him, faces blanching or colouring, wide eyes flinching and mouths bleating, so he roared again, ‘Get off these stairs—’ He placed his hand on his hilt as Roland and Nestor joined him. Of course the cowering weaklings melted away to the foot of the steps, leaving him standing triumphant above them.

  He turned to face the rankers, aware that at every window were the faces of servants and staff, while the space around his men was crammed with imperocrats and secretaries and scribes and runners, the people who infested this fortress-cum-palace-cum-cesspit.

  He raised his fist. ‘This is our victory,’ he began triumphantly. ‘My victory. I have never been defeated, and no Sacrecour scum were ever going to. Corani For Ever—’

  The rankers roared in unison, punching their fists in the air towards him. ‘CO-RA-NI! CO-RA-NI! CO-RA-NI!’ He led the chant for a minute, while glaring about him, impressing on everyone here exactly who was master.

  He gestured for silence, got it instantly. ‘This city is riddled with gossip and lies and always has been, but there is one source of truth you can rely upon – my voice. Remember that in the days to come. Cleave to me and you will hear only truth. Ignore that false cleric Dominius Wurther and the worms who cower beneath his robes – Dubrayle, Wilfort, de Sirou and the rest. Clutching a newborn child to their cowardly breasts and claiming that they rule Pallas – pah! – what do they rule? Nothing but a gilded mausoleum, a refuge for craven sots, backstabbing spies and whining frocio. Where were they when I united two armies and won back my queen? On their knees in a sanctuary, when real men strode the battlefield like colossi: real men like you, my faithful Corani—’

  ‘CO-RA-NI – CO-RA-NI,’ they bellowed back, while the courtiers cringed. He thought he sensed some disquiet at his impious dismissal of the Church, but he was past caring.

  ‘Bring forth the queen!’ he shouted and right on cue, Brunelda’s carriage rolled to the bottom of the steps and Sister Virtue helped a blonde figure in a pale blue dress from the cabin, her head bowed.

  Wave, girl, he thought.

  But Brunelda kept her head down and shambled up the steps with nothing like Lyra’s composed grace. The nun was having to hold her arm firmly to keep her steady. When they reached the top, he gripped her forearm and had to conceal a wave of distaste as he smelled vomit. She was white as a spectre, her eyes red-rimmed and glassy. Fortunately, having cleared the steps, there was no one close enough to see her features except Roland, Rolven and Nestor, who were already privy to the secret

  ‘Wave to the crowd,’ he commanded her quietly. ‘Show your joy.’

  She look
ed like she was about to faint, but swallowing hard, she forced one arm up. Her eyes were leaking tears. He glared at Sister Virtue for letting her out of the damned carriage in this state, but somehow the girl rallied and managed a tremulous smile, while he murmured, ‘Good girl, good girl,’ as if she was a puppy.

  His Corani cheered Lyra’s name while the courtiers murmured sullenly.

  ‘Get her inside,’ he told Sister Virtue. ‘Now.’

  When Brunelda had gone, he turned back to the cheering crowds and with a confident smile, declared, ‘Not all gossip is untrue. One tale I can credit – that the queen and I have been lovers – in every sense of the word: Queen Lyra owns my heart, and I hers. Others kept us apart for our union threatened their own ambitions, but true love will always triumph.’

  The men cheered lustily, while the Pallas foppery squirmed.

  ‘And now only one thing threatens our happiness: Dominius Wurther holds her son hostage in the Celestium. But not for long, for I will rip the Holy Gates from their hinges if I have to, for the sake of my love. The true queen is restored: give her son back, Grand Prelate—’ By now he was punching the air with fury, while the rankers shouted their support.

  He fixed his eyes on the craven courtiers beneath him. ‘The winds of change are blowing free, people of the empire. I’m here now, and any who harbour conspiracies against me will be swept away. The old age of Sacrecour decadence is gone and our queen now has by her side the one man she needs to set things right. I will purge the Imperocracy and create a better society, based on true Kore values: a place where men protect their women and women serve their men. If you’re a good, Kore-fearing man, you’ve nothing to fear. But if you thrived under the Sacrecours and managed to hide your treachery for these past five years, know this: we will find you, we will root you out, and we will expose you as the traitors you are.’

  The walls echoed back his words, but the square was utterly silent, the courtiers beneath him trembling – then his rankers raised their voices, this time chanting, ‘Takwyth – TAKWYTH,’ and ‘CO-RA-NI – CO-RA-NI –