Mother of Daemons

by David Hair

  CO-RA-NI.’

  With that, he spun and strode into his palace.

  The Celestium, Pallas

  Basia huddled over a fire in a small, smoky room, scratching the aching stump of her right leg. She looked up as the door opened, admitting Exilium Excelsior – who flinched when he saw her stump and the artificial leg on the floor, shuffled awkwardly and went to leave again.

  ‘Oh, sit down,’ she drawled. ‘The other one’s just the same,’ she added, tapping her knee. ‘If I’m not embarrassed, you have no right to be.’

  Exilium sat, still studiously looking away. She’d shed her armour and was clad in just her smallclothes and a loose shirt, showing far too much skin for the prudish Estellan knight. Not that she minded; offending him was about the most fun to be had these days.

  ‘Wurther will see us soon,’ Exilium said. ‘His secretary told me. Once he’s done praying.’

  ‘Praying,’ Basia snorted. ‘He’s got a whole army of priests to do his praying for him. I imagine he’s probably trying to negotiate a price for getting us off his hands.’

  ‘He’s the Grand Prelate,’ Exilium protested.

  ‘That’ll help his haggling,’ Basia sniffed. ‘Are these suites secure?’

  Exilium slumped. Defeat had drained his stiff-backed self-belief and his eyes were dull. ‘So far as I can manage,’ he mumbled, ‘but we’re at the Grand Prelate’s mercy.’

  He took his new knightly order into battle and got most of them killed, Basia thought sympathetically. He doesn’t believe he’s invincible any more.

  ‘So long as all the entrances to this wing are guarded and warded, we’ve done all we can,’ she told him. ‘You still have a few men, and we’ve got the Volsai here – those who aren’t undercover in Pallas-Nord. We’ve got Rildan and Coramore and we know that whoever it was Takwyth paraded today, it wasn’t Lyra.’

  Dear Kore, I pray it was Nita.

  She reached out and patted his knee. ‘We can weather this.’

  Exilium sagged, hanging his head. ‘Can we? I was entrusted with men’s lives and I lost them all. A true knight would fall upon his own sword rather than face this shame.’

  That annoyed her hugely. ‘Why, can’t “true knights” face shame?’ she snapped. ‘Can’t they deal with setbacks and loss?’ She threw a hand out in the rough direction of Finostarre. ‘In 909, Brylion Fasterius raped me, cut my throat and threw me down a well. When Dirk pulled me out three days later they had to amputate my lower legs. I waited twenty-seven years for the chance to ram my sword into Brylion’s face, living with shame for all that time. So you fucking swallow that shame like I did and come back fighting, you hear me?’

  She glared at him, hoarse and frayed and wanting to scream – and praying she’d said the right thing. She didn’t deal in absolutes often, but if Exilium didn’t react to that, she was absolutely finished with him.

  I like your face, but I need to see your backbone.

  It took him a few moments – everything did, except in battle – but his spine straightened and his gaze cleared. ‘I still have my sword and my God,’ he said steadily. ‘In them I trust.’ He hesitated, colouring slightly, and added, ‘And I believe in you.’

  Basia found she was shaking, because the façade of strength she was throwing up was pretty damned flimsy, not that she was going to let him see that. ‘I believe in you too,’ she told him, and not just because she suspected he needed to hear it. ‘Solon Takwyth and Roland de Farenbrette tried to break you in the training arena, remember? They only do that to men they fear. It won’t take you twenty-seven years to get your chance at them, I swear.’

  They traded a look of shared purpose, until someone knocked and a curt voice called, ‘The Grand Prelate will see you now, Lady Volsai.’

  ‘Lady Volsai,’ she echoed sarcastically. ‘Let’s go and see what that old hog wants to sell us for, shall we?’

  *

  Dominius Wurther sat on his throne, slurping red wine and occasionally belching, while Grandmaster Lann Wilfort of the Kirkegarde rattled off the military dispositions. ‘Summarise, Lann,’ Dominius interjected, as the grim-faced knight paused for breath. ‘I don’t need every name.’

  ‘We’ve got two legions crammed into Southside, one Kirkegarde, one Pallacios,’ Wilfort growled. ‘We face almost twenty now that Rolven Sulpeter’s men are arriving by barge.’

  The Kirkegarde were loyal and the Pallacios legion, comprised of Pallas natives drawn from here on the Southside, could likely be trusted, Dominius reflected. He ran his eyes around the council table. As well as Wilfort, there was the new Inquisition Princeps, Vikal Cobas; Basia de Sirou and Exilium Excelsior; Legate Gael Fend, an ageing man with a tangled mane of greying yellow hair who was commanding that Pallacios legion. And there at the end of the table, fingers steepled, sat his old sparring foe, Calan Dubrayle.

  I could just about buy my way out of this by handing over de Sirou, Excelsior and Dubrayle to Takwyth, he mused. That temptation had been growing these last two days, from those panicky hours when the refugees from the defeat at Finostarre had poured into Southside to the fateful moment when Basia had shown up with Rildan Vereinen in her arms and Coramore Sacrecour at her side, seeking sanctuary.

  But Lyra’s out there somewhere, and so’s bloody Setallius . . .

  When one side held the Bastion and all the manpower, it should have been a simple choice. But he’d seen Lyra survive Reekers and assassins, face down mobs and freeze the Aerflus – along with Brylion Sacrecour’s army. And he knew that no one, anywhere, was safe from Setallius.

  In any case, he doubted Takwyth had any desire to work with him. His agents had reported that inflammatory speech, word for word – ‘that false Grand Prelate, Dominius Wurther’ – and he knew Takwyth meant every word. He wants my head.

  So he had to play for time if he was to find a way through this maze. He needed sanctuary, somewhere where the faithful still took precedence over the secular rulers – somewhere like Estellan – and if it meant grovelling to foreigners, so be it.

  ‘What are our other assets?’ he asked the table.

  ‘Justice and righteousness in the eyes of Kore,’ Exilium said instantly.

  How I’ve missed that blind fervour, Dominius mused wryly.

  ‘The knowledge that the real Lyra will return,’ Basia added. ‘The Pallas Mob heard Takwyth’s speech and they’re not happy. Tockburn and the docks are still barricaded.’

  ‘He’ll send in the Corani – or the Hollenian mercenaries,’ Legate Fend replied.

  ‘His army is as much Pallacian as Corani,’ Basia noted.

  ‘Those legions are drawn from Esdale and the east end of Pallas-Nord,’ Fend stated. ‘They won’t care if a bunch of Tockers and Kensiders get their noses bloodied, much less Southsiders.’

  ‘Do we have contacts inside Tockburn? Who leads now?’ Wilfort asked.

  ‘Some say Lazar, others Frankel or even Tad Kaden,’ Basia said, scowling. ‘We can’t rely on them – they’re fragmenting as we speak – and Legate Fend is right, Takky will deal with them soon anyway.’

  That’s about how I see it, too, Dominius thought glumly. He cheered himself up with more wine.

  ‘But we do have money,’ said Calan Dubrayle. ‘Rather a lot of it, if we work together.’

  ‘Most of “your” bullion was mine to start with,’ Dominius glowered.

  ‘What ends up with the Treasury, belongs to the Treasury,’ Calan replied calmly. ‘In any case, I have secreted caches worth enough to buy the loyalty of a Hel of a lot of manpower, if we can find the right people.’

  How Calan had done it, moving money out of the Treasury in the few hours he’d had after Finostarre, Dominius had no idea. I’d love to know. But he’d been shown a mix of gold and promissories and he believed the rest. The Treasurer had stripped his own Treasury and Takwyth was probably screaming at the heavens right about now.

  ‘You’re right,’ he admitted, ‘the problem is who to buy.’

&n
bsp; They all looked at each other.

  ‘Argundy?’ Legate Fend suggested. ‘The queen has kin there.’

  ‘And Prince Andreas hoped to marry her,’ Calan put in. ‘Argundy could well see this as their chance to seize control of the empire.’

  ‘I don’t want a swarm of Argundian dullards ruling my city,’ Dominius growled.

  ‘That’s not helpful,’ Basia said. ‘We need to bury our differences, not dredge them up.’

  ‘This is my throne hall,’ he reminded her, even though she was right. ‘What can we offer them? We have an imperial princess up our sleeves, for example.’

  ‘Coramore represents a rival dynasty to Lyra’s,’ Basia said dismissively. ‘That’s not what we need right now.’

  ‘Then what use is she?’ Fend asked.

  She’s a potential dwymancer, Dominius thought uneasily. At their private meeting yesterday, Basia had told him the truth. ‘I see no problem with noising her availability around,’ he said aloud, looking at the Volsai, ‘but I imagine it would be a complex and protracted negotiation.’ Read between my lines, he urged her silently. The negotiations will go nowhere, but they’ll stall a few of our enemies.

  Basia did catch his meaning, because she made a show of conceding the point. ‘Our priority is to keep Rildan safe until Lyra returns. Once she is able to openly oppose Takwyth, his support will divide and we’ll be able to rally any open resistance.’

  ‘When will that be?’ Wilfort asked the question very much on Dominius’ mind.

  ‘We don’t know,’ Basia answered, ‘but it’ll be days, not weeks or months.’

  ‘Then in the meantime, what do we do?’ Fend grumbled. ‘Sit on our hands?’

  ‘We protect the integrity of the Holy City,’ Dominius said firmly. ‘Right now, Takwyth is in the flush of victory: he thinks he can bully everyone into submission. Let him get a taste of what real rulership entails. People were baying for Lyra’s blood when she was gentle with them. Let’s see what they do when things turn bloody.’

  *

  Coramore peered from the shadow of the door out across the brightly lit turf to the bare mound in the middle of the triangular lawn. The open skies above scared her, especially as venators bearing Takwyth’s knights circled overhead. They were high up, just dots, but she knew if they dived, they could be on her in moments.

  They’ll snatch me up and lock me in a cage with Cordan, she worried. Dear Kore, protect my brother.

  Solon Takwyth – a man she’d never trusted – had Cordan and meant to kill him. If she could wish anyone dead, it’d be Takwyth, right now.

  ‘It’s all right, girl,’ said the gruff, stolid woman with her: Brigeda, one of Basia’s Volsai, who patted her arm. ‘You can’t see them, but there are wards, and those men on the walls have heavy crossbows, and there’s at least three ballistae in the turrets overlooking this garden. And I’ll be with you.’

  Brigeda offered a thick-fingered, strong hand and Coramore took it tentatively. ‘I want to see inside the mound,’ she said. ‘Lyra says it’s an important place.’

  ‘Then let’s go.’ Brigeda led the way across the lawn to the cave-opening in the side of the mound. Coramore looked up at the top, where the burnt-out stump of a tree lay surrounded by blackened turf: the Winter Tree, which Lyra said was the heart of dwymancy in the north.

  ‘I’ll go down alone,’ she said firmly.

  Brigeda frowned, but let her go, lighting the torch in the holder at the entrance and handing it to her before lecturing her on not burning herself or getting sparks in her dress. She looked distinctly uncomfortable being there.

  Magi are scared of dwymancy, Coramore realised, her heightened perceptions reading the other woman like an open book. She’s a safian and she’s been rejected by her family and her old friends, but the Volsai are her family now. She still believes in love, and she’d die to protect me if those venators attacked. I can trust her.

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ Coramore told her.

  The Volsai grimaced and said, ‘Don’t be long.’

  Coramore took the steps spiralling down into a chamber thirty feet or more below ground. There was a fire-pit and some old blackened bones on the floor, but the walls were what caught her attention: they were coated in some kind of translucent substance like amber, the colour of dried honey. When she held up her lamp, she saw dark, wispy shapes like men or women, caught in the surface.

  It’s me, Coramore, she told them.

  Coramore . . . Coramore . . . they whispered back.

  A bead of amber liquefied and ran down the side of the wall. She scooped it with a finger and sucked it down, savouring the bitter taste as she watched the shapes in the amber change to the shadow of a giant tree stretching to the stars.

  Then her thoughts returned to Cordan and for a moment she saw his face, pale as a ghost, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen, and darkness all round, closing in hungrily.

  She cried out, but he didn’t hear and the vision faded.

  The Bastion, Pallas

  Cordan Sacrecour wiped his eyes and for the first time, really looked around. But there was little to see other than the stone walls and iron bars, a wooden pallet with a thin, hard mattress of straw, a water jug and a piss-bucket.

  Much of the past day had been a blur. His rattling cage had been pelted with rotten vegetables and buckets of piss by the taunting crowds, and when they’d arrived he’d been dragged from the cage, stripped and doused in cold water before having his smallclothes returned to him. Now he had nothing against the cold in this frigid cell in a tower of the Bastion but a thin blanket.

  He’d been determined not to cry. Lyra wouldn’t have done this . . . or would she? I thought Solon was my friend . . . Ironically it’d been Takwyth’s words – ‘show courage’ – that had got him through without collapse, but once he was alone, the humiliation had been too much and all his tears and terror came out.

  Lyra gave me a proper room – she even had her people teach me the gnosis. They let Cora and me play together.

  ‘I didn’t even want to be emperor,’ he whispered to the darkness, but no one heard.

  But next morning, he was dressed in his own clothes, from when he’d been a prisoner here, and two burly soldiers half dragged, half carried him into a big room where a grim-looking justiciar told him he was a traitor to the empire. Solon Takwyth sat at the back, stony-faced, surrounded by other equally stern men. When he tried to beg mercy, they gagged him with the gnosis.

  The queen wasn’t there.

  ‘You will be beheaded at the next assizes,’ the justiciar pronounced, then paused to allow Solon to grant clemency, but the emperor-in-waiting said nothing, so he concluded, ‘Use your remaining days to make peace with Kore for your crimes.’

  If he could have screamed or cried or begged, he would have. I haven’t committed any crimes, he tried to cry, but only gurgling emerged. I never wanted to be emperor. Then they dragged him away.

  Outside, he saw Uncle Garod in manacles, his eyes blackened and nose crooked, lips split and welts on his cheeks. When Garod shouted, ‘Cordan—’ they struck him down.

  They carried Cordan back to his cell, where he fell into the darkness again.

  29

  At Bay

  On Courage

  Courage is not the lack of fear – that’s called stupidity. True courage comes from acting even though you have full appreciation of every dreadful thing that is confronting you. Revere the lowly who struggle on more than the battle-mage whose valour is found in his inability to conceive of failure.

  BROTHER THOMON, KORE PRIEST, MISENCOURT 622

  Pallas, Rondelmar

  Martrois 936

  Solon rose from the royal bed, casting an eye over Brunelda’s sprawled body, tangled in the damp sheets as she slept. Thoroughly used, he thought, and perhaps even with child. She was fertile this week, which troubled him. He hadn’t intended a by-blow, but he needed her in his bed. Whatever happens, I’ll look after it.

  He
threw on a robe and went out onto the balcony, wrinkling his nose at the acrid smoke below. Knowing they were connected to the dwyma, he’d had some Fire-magi go in and burn out the Winter Tree sapling and drain Lyra’s favoured pond.

  I want her weakened until I know she can be trusted. We’ll hold the life of her son over her if necessary.

  He was quite sure, however, that once he’d bedded Lyra the way he used to, she’d come back round to him, the way Brunelda had – and if not, she’d be withdrawn from the public eye, becoming nothing more than an ornament he occasionally wore.

  He turned his gaze to the Celestium, shimmering in the morning sun just a mile away across the Bruin. All my enemies are there, he thought, wishing he had spies in the Holy City, but of those he’d tried to send in, only tokens had come back.

  The Volsai are in there . . . and Dubrayle, that cunning prick. And others too stupid to see the way the wind is blowing, like Wilfort and Fend and Excelsior. But they had Coramore and they had Rildan, which gave him pause, because Lyra and that snake Setallius could be anywhere right now. Surely they’re in there too . . .

  But would Lyra unleash the dwyma on Pallas to protect her son?

  No, he decided. She wouldn’t want to risk ‘innocent’ lives. Women weren’t strong enough to take the hard decisions. She’d have shown clemency to Garod and Cordan, but I won’t.

  That resolved, he decided there was no point in holding back. First the docklands, then the Celestium . . .

  *

  Solon and Roland de Farenbrette dismounted in front of Sancta Zunas Church in Esdale, near the west end of the docklands, and walked over to the knot of senior officers and centurions gathered round a sheet of parchment nailed to the doors.

  ‘So what is it, lads?’ he asked as they saluted, then parted so he could see the notice.

  ‘They went up all over the city, middle of the night,’ a centurion told him.

  Solon tore down the parchment and read it.

  The Tyranny Begins

  People of Pallas, we are betrayed!