Dark Ages Clan Novel Tzimisce: Book 13 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga

by Myranda Kalis

  This time, Ilias refused to be left behind. His resolve was immovable and, eventually, he prevailed. This time, he would go to Oradea with Myca and Malachite, and finally meet the sire of his lover, a prospect he regarded with some pleasurable anticipation. Myca, for his part, didn’t regard the prospect with any pleasure at all and merely hoped that they wouldn’t loathe (and attempt to murder) each other on sight. Despite the sliver of pain and doubt that had worked its way beneath the surface of his soul, Myca still hoped that his dreams were only dreams, and that his sire had never betrayed him in word or deed. In the deeps of the night, during that summer they spent in Alba Iulia, he finally told Ilias of his dreams. Ilias, speaking with the voice of wisdom, warned him that sometimes the Beast was wily and subtle, and its voice would prey on fears deeply held as well as the feral instincts; in walkers of the ways of desire, that was often true. He also advised that Myca tell him should the dreams grow strong and constant again, and he would do what he could to prevent them from troubling him, though Myca did not quite understand what Ilias thought he could accomplish on that score.

  Ilias kept his fears about Velya to himself, since they were only that—fears based on supposition, and not fact. Myca accepted unsupported guesswork poorly, even when every instinct in Ilias’ own being shouted of the danger after he was told of the dreams, and their nature. He did not tell his lover that a sufficiently skilled, and malicious, koldun could manipulate the spirits of the earth to inflict maledictions and madness on their victims. Instead, he quietly prepared those counter-charms of which he knew, the defenses used to turn such curses back on their casters, and seeded them throughout the grave-earth they carried with them on the journey. Mostly, they were tiny disks of bone and clay, inscribed with signs of protection, braided cords that he sewed carefully into the hems of Myca’s sleeping garments and the pillows they both shared.

  Myca’s dreams eased and, eventually, ceased altogether.

  Symeon’s house had, at last, reached its final form—the great Byzantine villa, surrounded by a constellation of lesser buildings, guest homes for visiting dignitaries, the servants’ quarters, outbuildings for storage and beasts of burden. They were taken into it without the rigors of formal Tzimisce manners, welcomed home with open arms, and it was almost enough to make Myca weep with relief to find his sire exactly as he remembered him, not the shadowy tormentor of his dreams. Symeon was in perfect form, greeting Malachite with the pleasant blend of geniality and formality that characterized most of his relations with other Byzantine Cainites, welcoming the Rock of Constantinople as an old friend of whom he saw too little. Myca was, of course, granted pride of place as first-born and favored childe, with an evident warmth that Symeon otherwise showed to no one.

  It was clear from the start that Symeon and Ilias understood one another perfectly. Myca was uncertain whether to consider that alarming or reassuring. Symeon treated Ilias with the precise and perfect amount of respect that he was due as a koldun, using the most formal and polite forms of personal address, rarely condescending to use his name, preferring his title. Ilias responded in kind, digging up proper forms of respectful address that Myca himself hadn’t even realized existed and employing them with a peacemaker’s skill. Neither made any great pretense of warmth, but neither did they make any open show of personal detestation or contempt. They very pointedly refrained from discussing any religious differences that would invariably cause friction between them. Symeon politely ignored the realities of the relationship between the heathen koldun and his favorite childe. Ilias was uncharacteristically restrained, and refrained from flaunting that relationship beneath Symeon’s nose. It was, Myca supposed, the best that he could hope for.

  Myca also noted the conspicuous absence of Sir Landric, the hostage who had remained behind to stand surety for Jürgen of Magdeburg’s good behavior. When he inquired with Symeon concerning the matter, his sire coolly responded that the situation in the west had reached the point of stalemate. Jürgen, as predicted, had responded poorly to demands, and returned Symeon’s envoy in a small wooden box. Symeon had, in return, repatriated Sir Landric in two carefully preserved pieces. Neither had made any further hostile moves, but a confrontation between them was now only a matter of time. Symeon did not even appear to fear or regret that eventuality. In fact, Myca sensed a certain anticipation on the part of his sire. Not for the first time, he recalled who first shaped his sire’s personality. Antonius the Gaul had been both an astute politician and a warrior; so, too, was Symeon of Constantinople, Antonius’ childe in all things but blood.

  Markus Musa Giovanni arrived in Oradea with the last of the late-traveling trade caravans, as the summer slowly yielded to autumn. It rolled into the city by day, its leaders the servants of no less a man than Andreas Aegyptus, whose skills as a caravanmaster and conveyor of Cainite passengers were famed throughout Christendom, east and west. They carried with them a full load of trade goods—expensive silk brocade from the south, spices from the east, dainties and luxuries to tempt the locals, whose purses were fat with a full summer’s profit—and a number of Cainites traveling to various points in the east. Symeon and Jürgen were both receiving ambassadors from all over Christendom and the Levant, and many of those dignitaries made use of Andreas’ services; his face was familiar in Oradea and Magdeburg. When word came of their arrival, Symeon made a point to formally invite not only Markus Musa Giovanni to his house, but Andreas Aegyptus, as well, along with his childe Dehaan and his sister-in-blood, Meribah, both of whom traveled with him as companions. Andreas regretfully refused, having a tight schedule to meet, but promised that he would winter in Oradea if he was able, and pay a visit then when he could.

  Markus Musa Giovanni rode to the gates of Symeon’s house with the sort of train usually managed only by visiting princes and the first-made childer of Methuselahs. The man himself rode on a horse enormous enough to accommodate his own considerable size, its saddle and bridle decorated in the fashion of tastelessly wealthy merchants, followed and surrounded by a dozen guards in the livery of his family. None of them were other Cainites—Myca knew that certain highly ranked elders of the Cappadocian clan often traveled with Cainite bodyguards, but Markus did not appear to be one of them—though many were ghouls. A half-dozen ghoul body-servants also trailed along, leading a train of pack animals and a small cart loaded to the top with equipment carefully lashed down with ropes and tarpaulins.

  Markus Musa Giovanni, Myca was forced to admit, possessed quite a vivid personality, as well. He dressed himself as a merchant prince, in richly colored and embroidered silk velvet, his doublets trimmed in ermine, his thick fingers weighted with gold and gems. About his throat he wore several long, heavy chains, the sight of which made Ilias hiss quietly. Even Myca was sensitive enough to sense the aura of power that surrounded the necromancer and, so, once Markus’ presentation and welcoming feast was complete, he drew his lover aside and questioned him about it.

  “The necklace he wears—did you look at it closely?” Ilias responded tersely, his hair rippling slightly in a breeze that found its way down the hall.

  “He did not make it much visible, but I did see that there are… images appended from it. It is much like the necklace that Ioan wears, I thought,” Myca replied carefully, noting Ilias’ agitation but not quite ready to guess as to its source.

  “It is similar. It binds something, but I cannot perceive entirely what. Likely several…” Ilias swallowed with some difficulty. “There are not many necromancers among our kind, Myca, because the koldun have been taught that the land of the dead is often also the realm of the gods. A wise koldun offers respect and reverence to the souls of the dead, and does not make them servants, nor bind them away from the gods and the rest they have earned. If this man were a dead-speaker, as the Lady Constancia is said to be… but he is not. He is an abomination.”

  And, thereafter, Ilias made no pretense of cordiality toward Markus Musa Giovanni. He was icily correct in his observation of the for
ms of hospitality, and in no way honored their spirit.

  “I am given to understand from my Lord Malachite that you may have some use for my talents, Lord Vykos.”

  Myca understood, immediately, why the restrained and elegant Alexia Theusa found Markus Musa Giovanni detestable. The man was so unctuous Myca was privately surprised he didn’t leave an oil slick on top of his bathwater. “That is true, Lord Giovanni.”

  They sat together in one of the smaller private meeting chambers on the first floor of Symeon’s house, its doors closed, locked and guarded. The one small window was likewise shut, its shutters closed so tightly that not even the faintest whisper of the autumn breeze passed through them. A cluster of comfortably padded chairs was gathered about the low square table where they sat across from each other, and a lamp burned between them. A single servant attended each. Markus’ man gave the distinct impression of being older than his apparent years, his pale watery eyes darting about in much the same manner Ilias displayed when he was perceiving spirits no one else could see. A tongueless scribe sat unobtrusively in one corner, awaiting the signal that his services were required.

  “If you do not think me bold, Lord Vykos, I confess myself surprised and somewhat bewildered on that score.” The necromancer had an admirable lack of nervous gestures, though he affected to run a ringed hand through his thick red beard when he wished to project the image of thoughtfulness. “It is the understanding of my family that sorcerers in plenty exist here in the east, and that they may practice some variation of the nigrimancies of my own kin. In fact, is there not a sorcerer among my lord’s own retinue?”

  “There are sorcerers here in the east.” Myca admitted, blandly. “I cannot, however, speak for all of them, or of their skills. And it has always been my understanding that, should one wish to speak with the dead, one should seek the aid of a Cappadocian. Thus, your presence here.”

  Markus Musa Giovanni was also, pleasantly, not entirely a fool. His eyes narrowed slightly at what that response said and did not say, and nodded slightly. “You are wise, Lord Vykos, to seek the aid of one who knows his business in the necromantic arts. Such things should not be left to… amateurs.”

  “I am certain.” Myca kept his tone serenely level, and admitted nothing. “Lord Malachite suggested to me that you were quite ably armed in those arts and, unlike many, willing to engage in commerce.”

  “That I am.” The necromancer, Myca noted, was not immune to flattery but neither did flattery actually disarm him. “I admit it was curiosity as much as the possibility of remuneration that led me to answer your request, my Lord Vykos.”

  “I do not doubt it.” Myca let a faint hint of a smile play around the corners of his mouth briefly. “I shall, of course, satisfy your curiosity if I may.”

  “That would be extremely kind of you, my Lord.”

  “I have, at the request of my sire, been investigating the Archbishop of Nod, Nikita of Sredetz. The Archbishop managed to entangle himself in a number of delicate diplomatic affairs that impacted the activities of the Obertus Order, and induced in us a desire to learn more about him.” Myca watched the necromancer’s reactions. He had a passable mask, but the occasional gleam in his eye and subtle change in his expression tended to betray his interest. “That has proven somewhat difficult.”

  “It is my understanding that the Cainite Heresy is in some disarray,” Markus observed, wryly.

  “Even so. Much of the Crimson Curia, those Cainites who might best shed light on their leader, are either in hiding, in torpor, or destroyed. Our efforts have been close to stymied.” That yielded a glint of calculation in the necromancer’s dark eyes. “Thus, when your letter reached Lord Malachite, he suggested that the unique talents of your family might be of use to us. For suitable recompense, of course.”

  Markus Musa Giovanni, quite refreshingly, did not even pretend not to be interested, or engaged, in commerce. “I confess myself intrigued by the possibilities inherent in this commission. My family has no particular love of the Cainite Heresy or its rulers, either, as I am certain you might guess.”

  “I had thought that possibility might exist, yes.” Myca admitted. “I understand that numerous forms of profit may well arise for all involved in this enterprise.”

  “Yes.” Markus stroked his beard slowly. “Yes, my Lord Vykos, I see it, as well.”

  Myca motioned the scribe forward. “The details must, of course, be recorded and reviewed.”

  “Indeed. This would, perforce, be a commission of some duration, as I cannot insure immediate results—and there is always the possibility of continuing consultation.” Markus smiled a decidedly greasy smile.

  “Very well. Shall we say a period of no less than half a year, with the possibility of extension as the matter requires?” Myca rather hoped to have Markus loaded on a southbound caravan no later than spring, if for no other reason than to preserve his own temper. He could, unfortunately, clearly imagine himself violating several Tzimisce laws of hospitality if required to keep company with the man longer than that.

  “Half a year is an appropriate interval,” Markus allowed the point with a nod, and the scribe, a length of parchment spread across his portable desk, recorded it promptly. “I shall provide all of my own tools and my personal expertise in the matter of necromantic consultation, and provide my own means of travel should the investigation require us to take to the road.”

  “Agreed. You shall receive, in return, provision for your material survival in the form of shelter and provender, which will be provided by my sire or myself, as well as the hospitality and protection of the Obertus Order during our travels, if any result.” Myca paused. “Other material compensations shall be made—expenses, at the very least, and a fee commensurate with the duration of the commission and the degree of your personal involvement in the enterprise.”

  “Acceptable.” Markus named an amount, which Myca thought stopped just short of outright extortion.

  He motioned for the scribe to record it. “I shall present the request to my sire for final consideration and negotiation. Is there anything else that you may require?”

  “Have you given any thought, my Lord Vykos, as to the disposition of the good Archbishop’s mortal—and immortal—remains, should our investigations result in his final demise?” Markus’ hand strayed, this time, to the heavy chains his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, Myca saw the man’s servant shudder, quickly, and then force himself still.

  “I admit that I had not.” Myca replied, carefully.

  “Ah.” There was a faint hint of satisfaction in Markus Musa Giovanni’s tone. “In that case, yes, my Lord Vykos, there is one last provision I would request for review. In the event of the Archbishop of Nod’s final death, I would ask for the opportunity to claim any remnants that remain, for the service of myself and my family.”

  Myca pointedly did not request clarification on the idea of ‘remnants,’ and instead nodded to the scribe. “We shall see if my lord sire finds that request acceptable, Lord Giovanni. If so, I have no objections of my own.”

  Myca provided the materials that Markus thought would have the greatest potential use in his rituals, a handful of letters from deceased members of the Cainite Heresy, several of them from the Crimson Curia, and a tiny sample of Nikita’s grave-earth. Ilias did not approve on that issue, and seemed quite prepared to draw lines of clan between Nikita and Markus Musa Giovanni. Nikita, dangerous enigma though he was, was still Tzimisce, and Markus was still nothing more than a necromancer with no proper reverence for the dead. It took a considerable amount of effort on Myca’s part to calm him on the matter and Ilias’ ferocity in Nikita’s defense startled him more than a little. Granted, Ilias had less contempt for tradition than most of his faith, but even he rarely invoked custom as the sole reason not to do something, particularly if he had no other options of his own to offer. Myca rather thought it best to keep the full details of the arrangement with the necromancer between himself, his sire, who approved
them without reservation, and Markus Musa Giovanni, who at least had the sense not to gloat.

  The necromancer’s preparations required some time. A small room on the ground floor of the main house was provided for his use, which he promptly went about making ready, having the furniture carted out to storage and cleansing it from top to bottom. Those granted the privilege of attending the working itself gathered there on a night with no moon. Myca wondered if that had any particular significance—as such timing seemed to in Ilias’ workings and within the bounds of Tremere sorcery, as well—or if Markus Musa Giovanni simply had a showman’s flair for the dramatic. Markus had invited four watchers to witness the event: Myca himself, Malachite, and to Myca’s surprise, Symeon. The fourth, Ilias, declined an invitation to attend the actual summoning of the ghost or ghosts quite pointedly, and withdrew from company whenever the matter was discussed. Symeon, Myca knew, found the idea of a sinner-priest with scruples that well defined to be more than a little amusing, and took no offense from Ilias’ surliness in the matter. For that, Myca offered a quiet word of thanks to whatever gods were listening.

  A certain amount of drama was present as they entered the room, which was entirely empty of furniture but for a smoldering brazier and a number of wrought iron and carved wood candle stands, each burning a tall, thick candle of decidedly unhealthy hue. Myca decided, eying them, that he wouldn’t be surprised if they were composed of rendered corpse-fat. The flames leaping off the wicks were a glacially pale shade of blue. A series of overlapping circles, curved and straight lines, had been laid on the flagstone floor in chalk and salt and bone dust. The scent of the last was distinctive, even over the faintly sweet smell of the candles. Standing in the middle of this construct was Markus Musa Giovanni’s flinchy little servant, whose name Myca had come to know as Beltramose, his watery eyes in constant motion, his expression and posture a mixture of well-worn fear and perfect resignation. He wore a long gray tunic that, coupled with his pale skin and virtually colorless hair, nearly gave him the aspect of a ghost himself.