Mage's Blood

by David Hair

  Harshal ali-Assam raised a hand before the Godspeaker could draw breath and said clearly, ‘I too also support you, Princess Cera.’ His action forestalled whatever else the Jhafi lords might have said. Ilan Tamadhi gave his nodded approval with a faint frown, then all eyes turned to Godspeaker Acmed.

  He sighed, then said grudgingly, ‘We continue to talk, for now.’

  Cera smiled. ‘Excellent. Then here is what we will do. I will pledge to you that within a year, whether we have reclaimed Brochena or not, we will have implemented as far as possible all of Godspeaker Acmed’s proposals. Will you accept that? My father said that a ruler must have legitimacy, will and vision. I have the legal right to rule, until my brother is ready to take the throne, and I intend to do so. Signori, I am a woman, but I have the heart of a man and strong men about me. I have a vision that I believe in our hearts we all share, of a united people. This is my quest, my lords: to regain and hold what belongs to Javon – to Ja’afar. Our sovereignty.’ She glared at the Godspeaker, who was clutching his holy book protectively. ‘Do you still think me weak, Godspeaker?’

  He smiled a little. ‘No, Lady. The princess is … formidable.’

  ‘If it helps, don’t think of me as female, signori; just think of me as Regent. For I tell you this: I will not wed until Timi comes of age. Get used to it. Everything else might be negotiable, but that isn’t.’ She half-smiled. ‘I enjoy doing this and I’m not going to throw it away,’ she said lightly, earning small grins from the men. ‘Signori, look at yourselves. You are the best men I have. I look at Pita and Luigi and I see cleverness and knowledge of the forces of the market. Luca and Lorenzo and Elena, you are my weapons and my armour. Ivan and Acmed, you are my wise owls, who will show me a path that is right and seen to be right by the people. I look at Paolo and I see unquestioning, undying loyalty. When I look on Harshal I see my mother’s people, unbroken generations wedded to this arid soil, and likewise I see my father’s line when I look upon Comte Piero. And when I look upon Timori, I see my own heart, beating in my chest.’ Hand to her breast, she went down on one knee. ‘I ask you to serve, signori. I ask you to serve and I will serve you.’

  Of course, no one could refuse her. Elena had seen officers win over unruly squads before. It took gumption and confidence and, more than anything, purpose. Cera had done that: she’d made them feel special and important, but she had left no doubt that she was in charge.

  She looked around her Regency Council again and smiled. ‘Signori, we have achieved much today. We have a commission to examine grain prices and how we can affect them. We will declare the Senate at Brochena invalid and illegal, and having resolved this, we are free to amend the Legalus Re as we will until normal rule is restored. And my religious guides will progress their investigation into religious accommodation.’ She eyed Prato and Acmed meaningfully.

  ‘But more importantly, I want you to reflect on this: Your voice is being heard, by me. You have the ear of the power who guides this land. Speak and I will hear you.

  ‘In ancient Rimoni when war was declared we would go to the fields and throw a javelin into a piece of land that represented enemy territory. I will do that, before the people, tomorrow afternoon.’ She clapped her hands together. ‘Now we have one last item to discuss.’ She turned to Elena. ‘Ella?’

  Elena raised her hand, ‘Signori, I have had contact from Gurvon Gyle.’ She heard their intake of breath. ‘He offered an Imperial Pardon and to return my gold if I abandon you.’ She made a disdainful gesture. ‘I hope it goes without saying that I refused – I’m sure Gyle knew I would. But I learned one important thing: he contacted me via a relay-stave – we magi use them to boost our energy when talking to each other over extreme distances. They create a small echo during contact.’ She learned forward and looked around her. ‘Do you understand what that implies? Gurvon Gyle is not in Javon – he would not need a relay-stave if he were. He has gone home!’ She grinned. ‘Probably to explain to his employers why Cera Nesti still lives. We have an opportunity, signori, to take the fight to our enemy.’ She lifted her head. ‘This is not an opportunity I intend to pass up.’

  On the last day of Noveleve, following the ancient tradition of her people, Cera threw a spear into a piece of ground festooned with Gorgio flags while thousands of Rimoni and Jhafi cheered. Drui and Godspeakers hectored the crowds, though the people were already simmering with rage. They shouted angrily as they were reminded of the Dorobon’s past outrages, the murder of King Olfuss and Queen Fadah Nesti, and the plight of poor Princess Solinde, being abused in captivity by the cowardly, Jhafi-hating Gorgio. Cera was proclaimed Queen-Regent before the people, and both Rimoni and Jhafi cheered enthusiastically, then she sat with Emir Ilan as food and wine were distributed. Traditional music began and the people danced as one. They were at war.

  If anyone was looking for the Rondian mage-woman and wondering why she wasn’t at Queen-Regent Cera’s side, they would have looked in vain. For Elena Anborn was already hundreds of miles away, soaring towards Brochena on a windskiff.

  13

  Contact with the Enemy

  The Noros Revolt

  The Noros Revolt of 909–910 was the most romantic but least successful of the post-Crusade resistance to Pallas’ exploitation of vassal states. As the Imperial debt burgeoned, lesser kingdoms were made to pay more. Noros gambled that a couple of quick victories would garner support from similarly afflicted neighbours, paving the way for a negotiated peace, but after initial setbacks caused by complacency, the Rondians overwhelmed the Noros legions. The scandalous surrender of the key city of Lukhazan merely hastened the inevitable.

  The punishments were harsh: the king was imprisoned, authority was transferred to a Rondian-appointed governor and the land was occupied by Rondian legions. Noros has languished ever since.

  ORDO COSTRUO COLLEGIATE, PONTUS

  The Winter Court, Bres, Rondelmar, on the continent of Yuros

  Noveleve 927

  8 months until the Moontide

  Trying to reason with Elena had been a stupid risk, Gurvon Gyle reflected resentfully. Did they think her such a fool as to surrender? It showed what limited intellects he was dealing with. But Lucia had been away – sainthood had its duties – and Emperor Constant had demanded he try. Without her, the emperor’s stupid order had been impossible to refuse. He’d tried to give away as little as possible, but who knew what she’d picked up?

  He walked alone into another secret chamber, the natural habitat of the imperial schemer. Belonius was already there. He had distanced himself from Gyle the moment the news of Elena’s betrayal had reached them, but that was no great surprise. That was how Vult was.

  All eyes watched him as he strode to the table. He’d flown nonstop for three weeks, most of the time in filthy weather. The crossing of the ocean had been particularly harrowing. The most frustrating thing was having to be here at all, but as soon as they’d heard of the thwarted assassination attempt the whole of Constant’s Inner Council started demanding his head – as if he could have known that hard-hearted Elena Anborn would do something purely out of compassion. It was unthinkable! And how the Hel had she survived Samir? The man wasn’t known as ‘The Inferno’ for nothing.

  I gave them more than they could have achieved themselves, he thought sourly. I brought down Olfuss Nesti and delivered Brochena to them. The Dorobon are preparing to return. I need to be on the ground in Javon, supporting Sordell, dealing with Elena – and instead these lackwits have dragged me five thousand miles around the globe so they can put me on trial. How dare they!

  He bit his tongue. Careful, Gurvon. No anger. Confidence. Determination. Emphasise the gains. Reassure. Survive.

  The emperor sat illuminated on his throne. Everyone else sat in shadow, even Mater-Imperia Lucia. Gyle was careful to genuflect first to her, to acknowledge her supremacy – and buy her support. If that upset the emperor, too bad. ‘May I sit?’

  She moved a hand. ‘Of course, Magister. You must b
e tired, having come such a long way.’ Her voice was cool and composed; no apparent pre-judging from her, he noted with appreciation. He looked at the shadowy figures. Dubrayle was absent, no doubt counting money in Pallas. Tomas Betillon looked cross at having been dragged all the way from Pontus. He probably feels he could have hanged me just as well there. Kaltus Korion was screwing trophy-girls in his monstrosity of a palace near Bres, so he’d not had far to come. He’ll be pissed off to be dragged out on a cold day, though. Grand Prelate Wurther looked back at him placidly. He probably doesn’t give a shit what’s decided as long as there is mulled wine afterward.

  He glanced at Belonius Vult, who smiled serenely back at him and gave a small, encouraging wink. Ah, a krone either way, Bel? You never change!

  Tomas Betillon started it off, ‘What the rukking Hel is going on, Gyle? You said your people would exterminate the Nesti – not half of them! You said we could trust that bitch Anborn and instead she’s killed your best man and gone native! So why haven’t we strung you up by the balls already!’

  Wurther chuckled as if the governor had made a particularly amusing jest. ‘Tomas makes a good point,’ he murmured. ‘I thought you said you had people you could trust.’ He tutted and glanced at Belonius, his eyes narrowing slightly. ‘Of course, Gyle is your man, Vult.’

  Belonius looked back mildly. ‘Gurvon has never let me down … before.’

  Gyle looked at Lucia. ‘May I, Majesty?’ She inclined her head neutrally, giving him leave to speak, and he turned back to the men. ‘Gentlemen, no one was more surprised than I at Elena Anborn’s treachery. The fault is mine, for I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t understand that her loyalties were shifting. If I had realised, I would not have left Samir alone with Elena, for he was strong but she is clever. My lord Korion always says no plan survives contact with the enemy, and thus it proved, but it is how you recover from setbacks that marks you out. We must have the fortitude to strike back. We must have the adaptability to learn from our mistakes and deal with the new circumstances.’

  He looked at Lucia. ‘“Battles are not won by strategies but by how you adapt your tactics,”’ he said, quoting Korion again. He noticed the general was actually preening.

  ‘So what is your plan to retrieve the situation, Master Gyle?’ Korion asked, far less hostile now.

  Good, at least you’re thinking I might have a future. ‘I have new resources in the region already: six magi in place, more on the way. I have three major themes on the tabula-board, each independent of the others. One: Rutt Sordell will direct the Gorgio in crushing the Nesti. Two, I will insert an agent into the Nesti. Three, I will accelerate the Dorobon restoration. Let us not forget what has already been achieved: we have eliminated Olfuss Nesti, seized his capital and hold his second daughter captive. I ask for your confidence, for I know how to adapt and evolve my tactics to finish the job.’

  ‘So what you are saying really is, “Yes I screwed up, but you’re stuck with me, so trust me to fix it”, with some nice quotes to win over Kaltus,’ Lucia remarked dryly.

  He felt himself redden slightly at this precise appraisal. Betillon growled in agreement. Korion’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, trying to work out if he had just been rebuked. Wurther looked watchful, trying to read Lucia’s mood. Vult’s face was smooth and unlined, serenity personified.

  ‘As it happens, I believe you are right, Magus Gyle,’ Lucia went on, to his immense relief. ‘I am a forgiving woman, and I believe that sometimes things go wrong just because they can. Utterly unpredictable events do occur to upset the best of plans. Your confident presentation here tonight has reassured me.’ Her eyes reminded him that he was utterly indebted to her. She whispered into his mind,

  Betillon looked sour and the emperor disappointed, but everyone else was nodding appraisingly. He caught Vult’s eye. Belonius was smiling as if relieved for his friend. Sure, Bel. Thanks for everything.

  ‘So, what is your plan to ram that Anborn slut’s head up her own shit-hole?’ said Saint Lucia lightly. She tinkled with laughter at her own profanity. The men guffawed.

  If she’s a saint, I am too. ‘Right,’ Gyle said, leaning forward. ‘Here’s what we’re going to do …’

  14

  The Road North

  Hebusalim

  … and likewise thee, Hebusalim, birth place of the Ahmed-Aluq. All worshippers of the Faith must come to thee ere they die, to be assured of a place in Paradise.

  THE KALISTHAM, HOLY BOOK OF AMTEH

  Northern Lakh, on the continent of Antiopia

  Shawwal (Octen) to Zulhijja (Decore) 927

  9–7 months until the Moontide

  ‘Have you and he done it yet? What was it like?’ Huriya, her voice both pitying and curious.

  ‘I’ve been with you all the time,’ Ramita parried blandly. It’s none of your business – but no, it hasn’t happened yet.

  ‘He came to your rooms last night while I was still in blood-purdah,’ Huriya noted. She poked Ramita’s arm. ‘So did it happen?’

  ‘He only came to check on my room. He didn’t stay. Look, we’re coming to another village.’

  Huriya peered out the window. ‘Another primitive dump, like all the others. Do you think he can even manage it?’

  ‘Huriya!’

  ‘All right! You’re just being very dull, that’s all.’

  She counted back the days. She had married on the eleventh. They had left the ceremony early, and her last sight of her family home was of it all lit up, the whole neighbourhood there, everyone partying feverishly. She had been petrified of the consummation, but Meiros had retired to another room, leaving Ramita and Huriya in a bare room furnished with nothing but sleeping pallets. Huriya slept, but Ramita lay awake for hours, dreading his tap at the door. But he never came, and she was left feeling hollow and strangely unfulfilled, the test she had been preparing herself for still hanging over her. She slept at last, and woke up bleeding.

  ‘You menstruate in the Full Moon,’ Meiros observed when she told him next morning, ‘so you will be fertile as the moon waxes, the second week of each month.’ It was Shanivaar, Sabbadai in his tongue, the weekly holy day, and he let Klein take her and Huriya to a nearby temple. By the time they got back, the wagons were almost packed. Huriya was full of cheer. ‘We are leaving soon, Jos says!’ ‘Jos’ was Captain Klein, apparently. Huriya was fascinated by his bear-like frame and shaven skull. Ramita thought him repulsive.

  Amidst the bustle of packing, her parents arrived with her clothes and possessions, and Huriya’s things too. They didn’t come to much, even with the gifts from the wedding. They exchanged gossip about the festivities, who had said what to whom, who had got rolling drunk. Father spoke of finding a new house, right beside the river. One with marble floors. It sounded unreal.

  Father was obviously pleased that his dutiful daughter had achieved this new wealth for the family, but not all was well. He was worried about Jai. ‘He went off after you left and has not come back,’ he admitted.

  ‘He spoke loudly about how the Amteh faith is more manly than the Omali. I don’t like it,’ her mother said. ‘They are young and foolish boys, he and Kazim. Who knows what they will do?’

  Ramita spent a few precious minutes more with her parents, chatting of inconsequential things that would be nothing to do with their future lives. ‘I pray for you both, all the time,’ Mother whispered to Ramita, her eyes wet. ‘I will miss you every moment. Don’t let that horrible man mistreat you, Mita.’

  Horrible man or not, they bowed low to Meiros when he arrived back from some errand, and words of gratitude tumbled out of them in torrents. Ramita felt embarrassed, but she cried when they left.

  ‘We leave now,’ Meiros told them, and so they did. That had been five days ago, and their small caravan had been rocking and jolting and bouncing the
ir way north ever since. They had two carriages, one for the girls and one for Meiros, and two wagons for supplies. The men clattered alongside on horseback. Carriages were a nightmare, Ramita decided, uncomfortable and nauseating. After a couple of days of throwing up the morning meal they had decided to forgo breakfast entirely; instead they stuck to fluids and fell on the evening meal ravenously.

  They had been allowed to attend temple in a squalid village yesterday, where the local children had perched everywhere and stared, like a flock of crows waiting for something to die. Tonight Meiros had promised them better; they would stay at the haveli of an acquaintance of his.

  Meiros’ acquaintance turned out to be a raja, the sort of man an Ankesharan could never have aspired to meet. He lived in a palace with one hundred acres of gardens. Lean-tos were propped against the outside walls for the gardeners. Outside the walls there was no drainage and the stench was awful, yet inside the garden walls was a paradise of verdant lawns, marble fountains and statuary, birch trees swaying in the soft breezes. The raja was a portly man with huge waxed moustaches that curled in complete circles. ‘Welcome, welcome, thrice welcome, Lord Meiros,’ he cried, holding out his hands in welcome. ‘My heart trembles to greet so august a personage.’ He bowed and scraped as he walked backwards, leading them towards his palace, his eight wives openly gaping. Ramita wrapped her shawl tighter about her as she walked behind her husband. Meiros was wearing his cowled robes, and he tapped the ground with his heavy black staff at every step. Huriya was a step behind Ramita, peering about with no sense of decorum.

  Introductions went on for ever, until at last the girls were taken by the wives into the women’s palace. The walls were whitewashed, then painted with intricate floral patterns in red and green. Every arch was curved and fluted into pretty designs. But the paint was peeling and the corners were dirty. She glimpsed unused fountains with dirty ponds. ‘Times are difficult,’ the head wife, a plump, imperious woman, remarked as she took them to a suite of rooms overlooking a courtyard full of flowerbeds, filed with winter-blooms. A peacock strutted outside.