Mother of Daemons

by David Hair

  ‘As I ever will be.’ He hesitated, then asked, ‘Do you think he approves of me?’

  Her heart lifted. ‘I think so,’ she told him, smiling despite the gravity of the moment. ‘But it’s my opinion that matters, not his. And it’s something for tomorrow, not today.’

  He straightened. ‘Then let’s make sure that there is a tomorrow.’

  32

  You’ll All Fall With Me

  Shadow Lives

  Emperor Sertain reigned for centuries and outlived four sons. The third, utterly overcome with hatred for his apparently immortal father, rebelled against his future as a living footstool. He gathered followers and attempted a palace coup and when that failed, he burned down his home with his entire family – and himself – within. Such is the agony of life in another’s shadow. The closer you approach the pinnacle, the more you yearn for it, until the one thing you can’t have is the only thing you desire.

  THE BLACK HISTORIES, 776

  Paldermark Forest, south of Pallas, Rondelmar

  Martrois 936

  Birds chirruped in the pines, low cloud swirled on the stiff breeze and everywhere ice and snow melted, drip by drip. The forest path was thick with pine needles and slushy from the melt; an eerie place, not least because it was here that Brylion Fasterius’ legions had been buried by Lyra’s blizzard. There were still a multitude of bodies being slowly uncovered by the thaw, many so uncorrupted they looked newly dead.

  Oryn Levis rode with Endus Rykjard behind him, their steeds picking their way through the woods nervously. Rykjard was humming to himself, but Oryn was almost oblivious, caught up in an unfamiliar mental struggle as he wrestled with doubts he’d never felt before.

  The military life had always been his home: do your duty, don’t question your officers: that had been drilled into him from an early age, removing all the difficulties of choice. Everything made sense if you just followed orders.

  I’m a good soldier. I’ve risen because of that. People know they can trust me.

  While the Corani were undivided, that had been enough, but when Lyra became empress, he’d found himself conflicted: why couldn’t she have just retreated to the nursery like any other goodwife? It was a man’s place to lead and a woman’s to support him.

  She drove Solon to this . . .

  But Lyra’s culpability didn’t absolve Solon of his. The man Oryn had grown up with and fought alongside had been noble, courageous and magnanimous. That man would never have broken the neck of a helpless girl, or put Cordan through that hideous ordeal, or made a woman his chattel. He would never have plotted the invasion of the Holy City or locked up good men for speaking truths.

  This is not the Solon I love.

  And now he’d been sent here in some convoluted game of Solon and Roland’s devising.

  They don’t trust Rolven Sulpeter, so they’ve sent me to take over his legions – but perhaps they don’t trust me either, because they’ve sent Endus Rykjard with me. We’ve both been separated from our own legions. Even a blind man could see that Roland de Farenbrette wanted Oryn’s job. And some of our escort are Roland’s new Volsai . . .

  He straightened in the saddle as they topped the rise and surveyed the camp below, hundreds of tents erected in a field at the edge of the trees. This was the army Rolven Sulpeter had brought north, sheltering in Paldermark Forest, lest Lyra unleash winter on them.

  But Lyra wouldn’t do that. Oryn recalled how shaken she’d been that night – the very night she’d first taken Solon to bed, in fact.

  Right now in Pallas, Solon was overseeing assizes against officers accused of treachery – accusations that were anonymous and possibly – probably, he had to admit – groundless, levelled at truth-speakers who’d dared to point out facts Solon didn’t like.

  ‘It isn’t right,’ Oryn mumbled.

  ‘What was that, Milord?’

  Oryn jumped, forgetful that he wasn’t alone. ‘Rykjard! Sorry, I was miles away.’

  The Hollenian mercenary captain nudged his horse closer and they both dropped their voices to exclude their escort, waiting a dozen yards away.

  ‘An auros for your thoughts, Milord?’ Rykjard murmured as they reined in and let their horses stand. ‘Or perhaps a “lira”?’

  Oryn grunted mirthlessly. ‘You overpay for my paltry musings.’

  They shared a tentative smile, then Rykjard said, ‘It’s a bad business, this marching against the Holy City.’

  ‘Empress Lyra raided churches all over the empire,’ Oryn replied.

  ‘So she did, but folk liked her anyway. She didn’t lop off heads or arrest people on the say-so of snitches.’

  This coincided uncomfortably with Oryn’s thoughts. Don’t think about it, his instincts warned. Just keep your head down and do as you’re told.

  ‘An’ I don’t like going up against a man like Lann Wilfort, neither,’ Rykjard went on. ‘He and I fought in the Third Crusade together, in Javon. Got our arses handed to us by a queen who everyone underestimated, as it happens. We were lucky to get out alive.’

  ‘Wilfort has sided with Milord Takwyth’s enemies.’

  ‘Oh, I expect he’s just following orders too,’ Rykjard drawled. ‘Only Lann’s orders come from the anointed Voice of Kore himself.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyways, soon as this is done, I’m taking my earnings and marching my lads back north. Folks I’m not fond of have taken up residency on the Hollenian throne and I’m no longer convinced Lord Takwyth will deliver on his promises to me of rank here in Pallas.’

  ‘Solon doesn’t have the coin to pay you,’ Oryn blurted. ‘Nor can he afford to lose your men.’

  Suddenly, the mercenary wasn’t looking so relaxed. ‘What do you mean, “doesn’t have the coin”?’ he demanded. ‘He’s just grabbed the fucking Treasury, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Which Dubrayle had already emptied,’ Oryn confessed, knowing he shouldn’t be divulging such things, but needing someone to share his fears with.

  The mercenary commander fell silent, then laughed humourlessly. ‘Well, that clears up my motivations.’

  Have I just betrayed my lord? Oryn wondered miserably.

  After a few more minutes of sideways thoughts and rising fears, they touched heels to flanks and trotted down the slope to take command, their escorts jangling behind them.

  The spot between Oryn’s shoulder blades began to itch . . . and it wouldn’t stop.

  The Bastion, Pallas

  Solon woke and rolled over to find his bed empty. He heard Brunelda groaning in the garderobe, the pervasive stink of vomit wafting into the chamber: morning sickness again, thanks to his child growing inside her.

  Torn between pride and frustration, he quelled the lustful urges that had built while he slept and swung from the bed. He pulled on a robe, jerked open the curtains with a gesture and peered through the barred windows across the river to the Celestium. The dome was gleaming in the morning sun.

  By nightfall, it’ll be mine.

  It had been a week since his masterstroke at Finostarre and he’d already broken the dissidents in the docklands. At night he ploughed Brunelda senseless in Lyra’s bed, though the illusion of screwing her as Lyra was wearing thin. Since he’d let her regrow her hair, a fine dark brown down now covered her scalp. It didn’t matter, because he had no intention of parading her in public again.

  If only she were the real Lyra . . . He was haunted by the dread that he could wake tomorrow to find his city locked in ice, or worse, but it hadn’t happened yet.

  Where is she?

  The question was unanswerable, and today he could afford no doubts. So he went inside, where a basin of hot scented water waited to wash away the odours of the night. A servant shaved him before he put on his harness in readiness for the day to come, then strode in his martial glory through the palace.

  ‘What news overnight?’ he asked Roland de Farenbrette and Rolven Sulpeter, who fell into step with him.

  ‘Levis and Rykjard have taken command in the Paldermark,
’ Sulpeter reported. ‘They’ll march north and should reach the Celestium by nightfall.’ His voice betrayed his uncertainty at having his forces given to other men, but Solon was perfectly content to let him squirm.

  ‘What about the assizes?’

  Roland nodded in satisfaction. ‘Seventeen centurions and junior officers, three battle-magi and twenty-eight public officials have been charged. All were overheard voicing complaints.’

  ‘A complaint isn’t treason,’ Sulpeter put in.

  ‘In times like these, the slightest grievance is treason,’ Roland growled. ‘Rankers hear officers gripin’, it turns mutinous.’ He lowered his voice and added, ‘I’ve separated the two Hollenian legions, in case they cut up nasty when they hear their boss’s down. I’ve put the legions barracked beside ’em on alert.’

  When you couldn’t afford to pay mercenaries, you made sure their commander wasn’t around to wave his contract in your face – that was standard practice. Lord Sulpeter didn’t look easy with it, but he said nothing.

  Too old, Solon thought again, too set in his ‘honourable’ ways. This is a dogfight, not a joust. ‘Does Oryn know?’ he asked.

  Roland shook his head. ‘He’ll be able to plead ignorance if he needs to,’ he sniffed scornfully. He leaned in and murmured, ‘I’m looking forward to Rykjard’s Noorie wives. Never had darkie purse before.’

  You’re an animal, Solon thought, as he slapped his friend on the shoulder. But I can rely on you.

  They strode out into the lobby, where Solon took the bows of servants and soldiers passing on their various duties, mounted up and headed for the barracks, their escort closing in around them.

  ‘What about the city, Blacksmith?’ Solon asked.

  ‘It’s quiet,’ Roland replied. ‘We raided a few houses, broke some jaws. They know there’s a real ruler now.’

  ‘And Frankel?’

  ‘Still in hiding, the prick – and still leaving leaflets – handwritten and badly copied, because we’ve smashed all the printing blocks.’

  They’d sent men into the mercantile quarters of Gravenhurst and Nordale to wreck every woodcut printer they could find. They’d all sworn they’d never printed anything seditious, that they were being ruined – and that might be the case, but Solon was happy that the usual broadsheets were no longer circulating around Pallas.

  I’ll produce all future news, he thought suddenly. People will believe whatever I tell them. Cheered by that moment of inspiration, he set his horse to a fast trot, eager for the day’s work to begin.

  Wurther, you old hog, I’m coming for you next.

  The Celestium, Pallas

  ‘We should just have left,’ Basia told Exilium. ‘Now we’re penned in the least defendable bolthole in Pallas.’

  ‘This is the heart of our faith,’ Exilium replied stolidly. ‘Kore Himself will protect us.’

  ‘He didn’t rukking well protect anyone when Ostevan made himself Pontifex just a few months ago.’

  ‘Ostevan’s dead,’ Exilium told her in an unassailable voice. ‘Kore is patient.’

  They strode through the doors to the Great Dome to find the great and good, those of the Great Houses who had sided with Lyra to the end, already there. They were a dwindling number. Across the river, Solon Takwyth had installed Rolven Sulpeter, Roland de Farenbrette and Oryn Levis as his new council and issued lists of proscribed persons: those for whom a reward was offered, dead or alive, including everyone here.

  They’re frightened, and rightly so, Basia thought grimly. Dangling bodies and severed heads now decorated the Place d’Accord and the Pallas Mob had melted into the woodwork. Wurther offered up public prayers for peace every day, clinging to the sovereignty of the Church, but the Holy City was surrounded.

  It’s only for fear of alienating some of his key supporters that Takwyth’s not assailed us yet. That’s not going to last . . .

  Her primary fear was that Wurther would cut a deal. There was no news of Lyra’s mission, which was probably the only thing staying Wurther’s decision. The wily old hog never committed to anything rashly.

  As Basia and Exilium entered the Grand Prelate’s hall, all eyes turned towards them, anxious for information. A hundred mage-nobles representing just forty or so Houses remained loyal. The room stank of desperation.

  ‘What news?’ someone demanded, but Basia ignored him; they didn’t need to be told what had happened, for the aether had been humming with rumours since the victory-cum-defeat at Finostarre.

  A young clergymen bowed unctuously and led her through the press of worried faces. The queen is in Takwyth’s hands, everyone was saying. Basia kept denying it, but she couldn’t say anything else. Talk of the Last Days was everywhere.

  And they don’t know the half of it, Basia thought grimly.

  They found Dominius huddled on a throne in deep discussion with Calan Dubrayle and the grizzled Kirkegarde Grandmaster Lann Wilfort. Wurther saw her and his face tightened. ‘What news, Mistress Volsai?’ he asked stiffly.

  He blames me for losing Nita – perhaps he’s right. ‘Takky’s still pretending he has the real queen. We’re still besieged, more estates are being seized and the latest proscription lists include everyone outside this room. I’d say someone’s spying, reporting names.’ She bit her lip then, and added, ‘And there are rumours that they’ve captured Ari Frankel.’

  ‘Good riddance,’ Wurther rumbled.

  ‘Is his head on a spike yet?’ Calan Dubrayle asked. ‘Unless you’ve seen it, don’t believe it.’ Basia rather fancied that Dubrayle had enjoyed Frankel’s upsetting of the natural order – or at least saw opportunity in it.

  ‘How are the people reacting?’ Lann Wilfort asked. The Kirkegarde grandmaster was grim-faced, but he remained stalwart.

  ‘After Takwyth took his Coraini legion into Tockburn and killed or injured hundreds of people, they’re saying “things just got out of hand” and “perhaps this is for the best”,’ Basia replied. She didn’t like Frankel’s ideas all that much herself, but she’d hoped for popular support to help defeat Takwyth. That was evaporating in the face of his unexpected brutality.

  ‘What of your knights?’ Wilfort asked Exilium, then asked, ‘Do the knights of Misencourt still even exist?’

  ‘Another two deserted last night,’ Exilium confessed. They all knew that left just a dozen men. ‘But those who remain are steadfast,’ he added.

  We’ll see, Basia reflected. The poor mutt’s really having his eyes opened the hard way.

  They all fell silent, cogitating, then Wurther turned to Basia again. ‘You see the situation we’re in: it’s been a week now and there’s no word of Lyra or Setallius. My prelates in Argundy and the rest of the empire are carving out their own fiefdoms. The Church is fragmenting while I’m pinned here. Takwyth’s talking about a war to reunite the empire – such a conflict will bring Yuros to her knees, but he doesn’t care.’

  ‘Dominius is right, for once,’ Dubrayle put in. ‘For my part, Takwyth has left my new Bank of Rondelmar intact – in fact, he’s backed the new coin as leverage over Jean Benoit and the Merchants’ Guild.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Probably because he doesn’t have any money.’

  ‘Because you’ve got it,’ Basia replied tersely. ‘But what are you doing with it?’

  ‘I’ve got feelers out, but these things take time.’

  ‘We don’t have time,’ she snapped, but the Treasurer just shrugged dismissively.

  They fell silent again until Wilfort said, ‘Grand Prelate, the Kirkegarde will remain loyal, to the death if needed. Their faith is strong. But will you sacrifice them, if push comes to shove?’

  Wurther hung his head. They all knew the odds were insurmountable and the Celestium itself was indefensible. ‘I pray it won’t come to that, even if I must form a court in exile,’ he rumbled morosely.

  ‘Only until Lyra returns,’ Basia said, and Exilium nodded encouragingly, even if no one else did.

  ‘For my part, I’m under a death warrant
,’ Dubrayle put in. ‘Takwyth’s already appointed a new Treasurer – Sulpeter, if you please – the man’s a dilettante. But I suppose I should pack my bags.’

  ‘The sooner the better,’ Wurther exclaimed, but then he smiled glumly. ‘I’ll miss you, you slimy prick.’

  ‘And I you, you glutinous swine.’

  The two antagonists shared an odd look, then turned aside as if embarrassed.

  ‘Then it’s settled?’ Basia asked, as her spirits shrivelled. ‘We must all leave?’

  Wurther made a gloomy, apologetic gesture. ‘I can’t shelter little Prince Rildan and hope to keep my Church – and in truth, I may well have to escape here myself. Let me loan you a windship – unless you’d prefer to use winged constructs, or leave on foot?’

  ‘A windship wouldn’t get a mile,’ Basia noted. ‘If we take flying beasts, we’ll still have to fight our way out, but at least no one else need risk themselves. We’ll leave tonight, if that’s your will.’ It was an hour before dusk.

  ‘It’s for the best,’ Wurther rumbled. ‘I’m sorry.’

  They all hung their heads, until Basia asked, ‘What of Coramore?’ In the wake of Cordan’s near-execution, the girl had only left her room to commune with the Winter Tree.

  Wurther steepled his fingers. ‘Crudely put, she’s one of the best bargaining assets I have. She’ll remain here, under my protection.’

  Until you can get a price for her, Basia thought sourly. ‘May I visit her before we go?’

  Wurther looked at her doubtfully. ‘To what end?’

  ‘Because she’s my friend,’ Basia snapped. ‘Lyra and I risked our lives to recover her.’

  The Grand Prelate’s eyes narrowed, but he could think of no polite excuse and he still appeared to want to appear gracious, which was wise of him – but then, he must suspect, and rightly, that she had Volsai inside his clergy.

  ‘Of course, by all means say your farewells,’ he said, with a show of benevolence.