by David Hair
So they’re willing to listen now, are they?
He raised a hand. ‘People of Pallas, I am your emperor and I command you to return to your homes. There is nothing for you here.’
Heads turned, the massive crowd buzzed and hummed . . . and then a hooded figure raised his head and a familiar voice rang out, ‘Return home, Milord? To what? There’s no food in the larders and no fuel to burn: not since your brave soldiers plundered our houses.’
I don’t believe it. Ari rukking Frankel . . .
‘Mark him,’ Solon growled at the nearest crossbowman, then he lifted his voice. ‘They brought it on themselves,’ he bellowed, ‘by their rioting and arson – incited by you, Frankel: they brought it on themselves and it’s your rukking fault!’
‘How so?’ Frankel dared to reply. ‘These good people merely asked to be treated as human beings, as equals of your high and lordliness, instead of being pissed on from above. And our good queen listened to them – so bring her out and ask her to explain this sudden change of heart.’
You pissant, Solon snarled under his breath as someone plucked at his sleeve. He turned his head and glared furiously at Rolven Sulpeter, sweating and red-faced.
‘Don’t debate with him,’ the old nobleman whispered urgently. ‘Don’t dignify his words with a response.’
What he means is, you’re not up to debating with the likes of him, Solon thought. He almost punched the old man for his treason, but contented himself with shouting, ‘I’ll be damned if I back down from this arsehole—’
‘Please, Solon,’ Rolven begged. ‘I’ve just heard – Rykjard’s alive and de Farenbrette’s head is on a pole. The Hollenian mercenaries and the Pallacian legions have united against us: we’re trapped in here, Solon, and unless we move carefully, this could be another 909.’
Solon stared at him: Rollo’s dead . . . The bastards . . .
His face contorted again and he whirled back to face this murdering rabble again. ‘The queen was stupid not to hack you apart, Frankel,’ he screamed, ‘and as for equality . . . Ha! Can you do this?’ He raised a fist and blazed flame into the sky. ‘Or this?’ He sent a blue mage-bolt searing over their heads. A few recoiled – but then the masses below roared back in fury, deafening whatever Frankel was shouting. Fists were raised, hands pointed in unison, voices caught fire:
‘DEATH TO THE TYRANT – BRING OUT THE QUEEN—’
His temper snapped and he tried to roar above them, but even gnostically amplified, his words were lost in the ocean of sound, until he realised that all he was doing was screaming, ‘Fuck you all, fuck you all—’
He stopped abruptly, though the red mist in his eyes still burned. He whirled upon the crossbowman. ‘Do you have a shot?’ he demanded. ‘Take it!’
The archer lifted his gaze from the seething, dancing, swirling sea of bodies below and blanched. ‘No, no Milord, I don’t have the shot . . .’
‘Bring him down—’
‘Do not,’ Rolven Sulpeter rapped out. ‘No one fires.’
Caught between orders, the soldiers floundered, staring white-faced from one to the other. A few made the Sign of Corineus on their breasts.
Solon whirled and slammed his fist into Rolven’s face, the blow bursting through flimsy shielding that did just enough to prevent a broken jaw, but smashing the old man over backwards, sending him sprawling like a child.
For an instant, Solon was standing over the broken-necked body of the maid, Nita.
Dear Kore . . .
‘I . . . I didn’t mean . . .’ he stammered. ‘I didn’t – I swear . . .’ He put his hand to his face, his mind numbed by the roaring defiance around him, paralysed with uncertainty; he’d never been like this on a battlefield. I’m not like this, he thought, horrified. I don’t do these things. I’m about chivalry, honour – everyone knows that . . . I’m the greatest knight of the age . . .
‘BRING OUT THE QUEEN,’ they kept on, ‘BRING OUT THE QUEEN—’
All at once it was too much: he clutched his ears, screaming for silence as he stumbled away, the soldiers staring at him, gaping with huge, staring eyes.
He had to get away, lurching to the stairs and down the steps, seeking some place where no one could demand the impossible.
As he fled, all he could think of was Lyra, facing down the mob with poise and eloquence outside St Baramitius Cathedral, on the dawn of the first raid, and that image was like a spear through him, shaming his weakness.
We kissed that very morning, after I saved her from the assassins. We were in love . . . everything was as it should have been.
The memory ripped his heart in two and sobbing, he ran through the vast entrance hall, pushing aside confused and frightened Corani petitioners. ‘Get away from me!’ he shrieked when one tried to stop him, and he launched himself on Air-gnosis into the stairwell.
Lyra, he thought wildly, I need you—
But it wasn’t the real Lyra . . . only Brunelda was waiting. His steps faltered.
The icon of the Sacred Heart hung above the doorway to the Royal Chapel, the red lamp proclaiming that the royal family’s comfateri was in situ. Yes, he thought, suddenly, I need to Unburden. The weight of this – it’s too much for me.
He hurried to the door and panting for breath, pushed it open. The soft glow of the lamps burnished the carved wood of the pews and kneelers, illuminating the painted ceilings and marble pillars.
The chapel was empty and the curtained booth stood open. He lurched towards it, fell to his knees and stared through the veiled divide at the silhouette on the other side of the booth: the comfateri, whoever that was these days.
‘Ave, son of Kore,’ the priest intoned. ‘Be at peace, for your God is listening.’
Solon almost collapsed in relief. ‘Thank Kore,’ he blurted. ‘I have never needed His benediction as I do now. Never in all my life.’
‘Tell me what troubles you,’ the priest said, his voice vaguely familiar. ‘Tell your God.’
I don’t even believe in your God, Solon almost said, but the need to explain himself when that damned mob outside just wouldn’t listen was overpowering. He needed to rebalance himself, to find his way through this maze.
‘I don’t understand what’s happening,’ he blurted. ‘Ever since she walked away from me I’ve been so angry – not just at her, but with everyone. Why don’t they realise my worth? I’ve been the greatest knight in Yuros for more than a decade – don’t they know how hard that is? Every man dreams of being the one to beat me to my knees – the pressure is intolerable, but I live with it because I’m strong – because I’m needed. The Corani need me – the empire depends on me. She needs me and she doesn’t even rukking know it – but why not?’
The words poured out, echoing through the silent chapel, but the priest didn’t speak.
‘Don’t these people know how stupid it is to say all men are equal when it’s so clearly untrue?’ Solon pushed on. ‘Magi are greater than men. Men are greater than women. Humans are better than animals: there’s a natural order and I’m at the Kore-bedamned pinnacle of it,’ he shouted at the silent curtain.
Silence . . .
This is the true voice of your God, he thought contemptuously, because he doesn’t exist.
But then the remorse that had driven him here reared up again and with his voice breaking, he admitted, ‘Or I thought I was . . . but look at me. I’ve had four lovers in my life . . . my wife loathed me; Medelie played me like a puppet on a string; Lyra was frightened of me and—’ He stopped, then mumbled, ‘I don’t even know what Brunelda feels . . . Brunelda . . . It’s not Lyra in my suite, just a . . .’
He caught on the horrible word he’d been about to say: whore.
What have I become?
‘. . . just a young woman whom I own. How can that be right? Dear Kore, even the Sacrecours banned slavery, but every night I force her to submit . . . And Nita . . . I killed her, Father, with these hands . . .’ He stared at them, expecting to see blood dripping fro
m the pores. ‘Everything I do turns to ruin . . .’
He looked at the curtain and it seemed to become a reflection of the wreckage of a sinner.
‘I’ve never been insufficient before,’ he told that mirror, ‘but I’m inadequate for this. I thought I knew how to rule but I can’t. I’m damaged. I saw my Corani brothers and sisters murdered in 909 and I’ve never got that out of my head or my heart. The blood stains my soul and all the blood I shed in return only makes the nightmares worse. The empire needs peace and union but all I have inside me is hate. Lyra . . .’ He choked on her name, then carried on, ‘Lyra is right – Frankel is right . . . they’re all right. I’ve failed . . . I’ll leave, on my own, and pray Lyra can put this right . . .’
His voice choked up and he couldn’t speak any more, just slumped on his knees, weeping uncontrollably. For how long he wept, minutes or hours, he had no idea, but finally he ran dry.
I’ll step down, he told himself. I’ll issue an amnesty and then I’ll just go . . . My people don’t need me any more.
‘Thank you,’ he told the silhouette of the priest, behind the curtain. ‘Thank you for listening.’ He rose stiffly and walked to the door, feeling strangely calm.
The booth opened behind him and the priest said, ‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going?’
Solon turned and recognised Father Germane, Ostevan’s pawn, emerging from the curtained booth with clawed hands and jet-black eyes. He tried to grasp the gnosis, but he was too late, for a blast of kinesis was already ripping him from his feet and hurling him backwards. The stone wall smashed the back of his skull and his head burst apart . . .
*
. . . And he came round, groaning, to find his hands locked in manacles formed by twisted wrought-iron torch-holders. He reached for the gnosis, but something effortlessly snuffed it out. He blinked his eyes clear and faced his captor, trembling to be so helpless.
Germane’s austere face was blazing with contempt. When he opened his mouth, Solon could see his elongated incisors were dripping with black ichor.
No—his mind clamoured.
‘So the mighty Solon Takwyth awakes,’ Germane sneered. ‘By Lucian Himself, what a pitiful display – no wonder you can’t handle rulership. You’re pathetic, nothing but wind farting through an empty suit of armour. Listen to yourself: about the only true thing you said was that there’s a natural order – but it’s me at the pinnacle, not you. There’s a new dawn coming, Takky, and my Master is the rising sun.’
‘No . . .’ Solon breathed.
‘To think the Master offered you the chance to join us – and you refused?’ Germane jeered. ‘You fool: no one gets to refuse my Master.’
Solon strained against the bonds, wrenching so hard he thought he might snap his joints, but nothing gave.
‘Where’s the real Lyra?’ Germane demanded.
Solon couldn’t take his eyes off those terrifying teeth. ‘I . . . I . . . I don’t know . . .’
Help me, someone . . .
‘If you don’t know . . . who does?’
Germane leaned in, making Solon recoil from his foul breath – and suddenly his courage, the one thing he’d thought unbreakable, snapped. ‘Basia de Sirou, she knows, she knows . . .’ he babbled, unable to shut his mouth, feeling the thud as his soul hit the bottom of the Pit.
Grinning savagely, Germaine drew Solon’s sword from his scabbard and raised it.
Solon didn’t move – he couldn’t. He didn’t even flinch, because this was just. ‘Do it,’ he whispered.
Germane licked his lips . . . then he lowered the sword and caressed Solon’s face with his disgusting hands. ‘No, Solon, I truly think the Hel you live in now is a more fitting fate.’ He bared his teeth and with a vicious wrench, twisted Solon’s face to one side and bit his throat, puncturing his neck muscles with teeth that felt like shards of ice. ‘You rejected the Master, fool, but he still chooses you.’
In moments, the acid burn of the ichor struck and a wall of daemonic voices hammered into Solon’s skull.
‘Enjoy your final hours, “Emperor”,’ Germane giggled. ‘Your enemies will find you manacled here – and you know the rest. And Abraxas will be waiting on the other side.’
Then he slammed his fist into Solon’s face, stars burst and darkness roared in.
*
Germane studied Takwyth: the would-be emperor was hanging from out-spread arms, his wrists bound like Corineus the Saviour in popular Kore iconography.
Amusing, when he’s really just a puppet of his own rage.
He dropped the royal sword – it was unnecessary and too conspicuous – and hurried to the doors. If she’s here, I’ll find and deal with her. But his mind travelled further. What if she’s guessed where the Master is? Then she could be a real danger to him . . . and to me . . .
He closed, locked and warded the chapel before hurrying through the near-empty corridors to the back stairs, seeking the dungeons and Basia de Sirou.
*
Basia groaned and rolled over on the floor of the cell, coughing as the stale air filled her lungs. The Sacrecours had used their dungeons extensively, filling them with all manner of torture equipment, but Lyra had barely needed them, so everything iron, from the bars to the devices, had rusted, and the closed-in subterranean air was dank and foul.
That hadn’t stopped Takwyth from opening them up and hurling her in, along with any number of other people who’d ‘disrespected’ him. They were all bound by manacles that had been enchanted with Chain-runes to prevent use of the gnosis and shackled by the wrists to the walls. The open-fronted cells were just ten feet by ten feet. They’d been stripped to nightshirts, so they could piss and shit without fouling themselves, but they gave little protection from the biting cold. They wouldn’t need to endure the indignity for long, though, for at dawn, the axe waited – unless they betrayed Lyra.
The trouble is, we don’t even know where she is. And if we did, it would get back to Naxius and doom us all . . .
All she wanted at this stage was a swift and painless death. We won’t get trials, but who cares? I’m glad to be spared that bullshit, she told herself. Her artificial legs had been smashed, but for some reason she’d been thrown her spare pair – they hurt abominably, but at least she could walk. Just spare me from having to crawl to the executioner’s block, she pleaded with the silence. Give me that dignity.
Exilium was chained in the opposite cell across the narrow passage, right beside the main doors to this level. He’d done nothing but pray. Diagonally opposite her was Dominius Wurther, who’d been wounded and looked dreadful. He didn’t appear to be terribly interested in praying. Perhaps as the most holy man in Koredom he didn’t need to. He’d barely moved or spoken either.
There were another three dozen cells on this level, occupied mostly by Pallacian officers who’d backed Lyra – or not backed Takwyth sufficiently – and there were two more levels below, each level progressively worse. She’d been told every cell was full. The slime which covered the walls had soaked their thin clothing; they were all shivering constantly now.
Her bleak thoughts were interrupted by a sudden thumping on the rear door, at the far end of the corridor. ‘Guard,’ a voice rasped through the eye-slit. ‘Open up.’
She and Wurther looked at each other across the narrow way, as the duty gaoler – Willum – lurched from his stool at the front door next to her cell and headed down the passage, shouting, ‘Who is it?’
‘Father Comfateri, to hear their confessions,’ the voice replied.
Basia looked at Wurther in sudden alarm. Since Germane, there’s been no comfateri . . .
‘Willum,’ she called, suddenly scared, ‘don’t let him in.’
Willum was more intelligent than his brutal looks might imply. He stopped and looked back at Basia. ‘But he says he’s—’
‘There is no Father Comfateri,’ Dominius called. ‘Keep that door locked, Willum: your life depends on it.’
Exilium stopped hi
s litany of prayer and twisted his head to look as that fist struck the door with a jarring boom. ‘Open this door,’ the voice came again. ‘Open—’
‘It’s warded,’ Willum muttered, backing away towards them. Two gaolers came up the stair from the lower level, swearing at Willum for not dealing with the racket.
‘It’s only a rukking priest,’ one snarled, swaggering towards the door.
‘A mage-priest,’ Basia called, ‘and an imposter.’
That gave them pause – but these weren’t men used to thinking too hard about what prisoners told them, even prisoners as illustrious as these. They held a muttered conference as the door crashed again – and this time the iron bands buckled and the timbers cracked. The three gaolers backed away, Willum, the rearmost, a touch smarter than his fellows, casting a wild look at Dominius. ‘Holy Father . . .?’
‘Sound the alarm,’ Dominius snapped, coming to his feet. ‘Now—’
But before anyone could act, the door at the end of the corridor came apart, foot-long splinters flying everywhere. The two gaolers at the front, brave or foolhardy, tried to rush the intruder, running out of Basia’s sight, until gnostic energy pulsed and she heard them both shriek and fall. Willum stopped in front of her cell, fishing at his belt – and a mage-bolt slammed into his shoulder, spinning him round. The next bolt punched through the back of his head and he collapsed into the rushes, spilling something that glinted into the sodden mush in front of Exilium’s cage.
‘Where’s Basia de Sirou?’ the intruder snarled, and Basia recognised the voice of Father Germane, who’d taken her confession before he’d been unmasked as a traitor and vanished. More energy surged as his footsteps approached; she could picture him, blazing mage-bolts into each cell as he passed, murdering for the sheer fun of it.
He was Ostevan’s pawn . . . dear Kore, he must be infected too.
Exilium suddenly moved, lunging with his bare feet, reaching under the bars until his toe hooked the thing Willum had dropped: his hoop of keys. Basia’s chest thumped in terror as he reeled them in.
