by David Hair
Cym and Ramon were nodding thoughtfully. ‘Okay, why was it the wrong way round?’ Cym said.
Alaron thumped the table triumphantly. ‘You were standing in front of the general, but what you copied turned out to be the wrong way around. So if the caster was the person who left those runemarks … then the caster was General Langstrit himself!’
Ramon reached out and shook Alaron’s hand. ‘You’re right, amici – you must be. The poor bastard did it to himself – and you know what? That means if he left those rune-marks to be found, then they are meant as clues and he wants someone to undo it.’ He puffed up importantly. ‘And that means us.’
27
A Trail Gone Cold
Lukhazan
It is impossible to write about the Noros Revolt without considering the Surrender of Lukhazan in 910. At the time Robler’s armies had been forced to quit the Knebb Valley. Before Robler could retreat to Lukhazan, Vult surrendered the city, which almost trapped Robler and gave the Rondians a direct line of march on Norostein. The fall of Lukhazan, supposedly impregnable, made Rondian victory certain. Robler never spoke to Vult again, nor did any of his subordinates.
ORDO COSTRUO COLLEGIATE, PONTUS
Magi and windships care nothing for fortifications, and castles in modern warfare are more death-trap than refuge. Holding Lukhazan was impossible. My critics are simpletons who refuse to acknowledge the strategic and tactical realities.
BELONIUS VULT, SPEAKING TO THE
ROYAL WAR CONDUCT ENQUIRY, NOROSTEIN 911
Norostein, Noros, on the continent of Yuros
Maicin 928
2 months until the Moontide
Alaron didn’t tell his parents of their discoveries. They didn’t want to distract Vann Mercer, not when he needed to go to Pontus to save the family from bankruptcy. They were also scared Vann would put their information into the hands of Jeris Muhren, and Alaron still didn’t trust the watch captain. So the unravelling of the clues remained a secret.
‘When do you go, Da?’ Alaron asked his father, who was dealing with piles of paperwork.
‘Next week.’ He looked tired. ‘How are you, son? Are you going to be able to look after things here when your friends go home?’
‘Sure. Ramon’ll be here until the end of Maicin, and Cym says she’ll stay longer if I need. Mum is – well, you know—’ He flinched slightly. ‘She’s not too bad really. I think she likes being back here.’
‘What are we going to do about the general?’ His father ran his fingers through his thinning hair. ‘We can’t keep him here for ever, even leaving aside the risk we’re taking. At some point we’ll have to put him in the hands of someone who can look after him properly. I should speak to Jeris Muhren.’
‘No! I can look after him. The council doesn’t mean him well. And he’s making progress.’
For a moment Vann looked as if he might argue, then he relented. ‘Just until the end of Junesse, Alaron. If he’s no better by then, you must go to Jeris Muhren. Promise?’
Alaron considered. Surely they would have solved the mystery by then. And if not, well, Da will be in Pontus. ‘Okay,’ he said, then something occurred to him. ‘Do you know who found the general, back on the day after the Surrender? The actual person, I mean?’
Vann frowned. ‘No – but the Watch should have a record. I’ll ask Jens, if you like …’
‘Uh, no, it’s all right, thanks. It’s nothing really; I was just curious,’ he said quickly, excusing himself. He hurried back to his friends. ‘I just asked Da about who might have found the general and he said the Watch should have records. That would mean asking Muhren, but I don’t trust him.’
Ramon waved an airy hand. ‘We should be able to find an eyewitness and take it from there. As long as we’re discreet.’ He grinned. ‘That means me. No one trusts gypsies and Alaron couldn’t do discreet if his life depended upon it. Just give me a day or two.’
Ramon had been using his status as a legion battle-mage to use the Arcanum library, returning each day with diligently copied notes for the others to pore over. If they were right about the rune then the general’s memories had to be captured in a crystal and hidden somewhere.
‘So if we discover the crystal, we can put his soul and body back together,’ Ramon told them. ‘And I found out who arrested General Langstrit.’ He smirked like a well-satisfied cat.
The following day Alaron met Hans Lehmann, the watchman Ramon had identified, in a run-down tavern inappropriately named the Summer Dream. The dark little room reeked of pipe-smoke and the stink of the sewer that ran past the one open window. The beer was watery and the landlord had sausage-breath.
Lehmann had been a sergeant of the Watch during the Revolt. With all the young men away fighting, the Watch had been reduced to those men too old or infirm to fight; he’d been over fifty then, just a few years off retirement. He was more than seventy now, and though his once-muscular frame had run to fat, his eyes were clear and he was happy to talk about the old times. His eyes lit up at Vann Mercer’s name, which filled Alaron with pride.
Alaron asked about the general, and Lehmann sighed. ‘If I close my eyes I can still see Old Jari that morning. He looked totally lost. The surrender, I guess, it must have hit him hard.’
‘Wasn’t the general supposed to be in camp?’ Alaron prompted.
‘I wouldn’t know, lad. Trudi, the chapel’s cleaner, found him first—’
‘What chapel?’ Alaron interrupted eagerly.
‘The one by the oak on the north side of Pordavin Square. Jari was wandering around inside when Trudi found him. He was crying his eyes out, but he wouldn’t speak, didn’t seem to know his own name. Trudi sent a boy to find me and my mate Rodde. We sat him down, closed up the chapel and were just wondering what to do next, but word must’ve spread because some Palace men came and took him away.’
‘King’s men, you mean, or Rondians?’
‘Our own king’s men, lad, but they was under the thumb of the Rondians – you see, the Rondians, they was occupying us, but they was stretched so they let us oldsters police Lower Town. Some o’ them who cry-babied at Lukhazan was paroled; one of ’em was put in charge of the Watch: a sharp young fella, name of Fyrell.’
Alaron felt his eyes pop out. ‘Darius Fyrell?’ he whispered.
‘Aye, that was his name, he was one of them the Rondians set up to transition power. The fella what sold us down the creek, he was involved too.’
‘Belonius Vult?’
Sergeant Lehmann spat on the floor. ‘Aye, him.’
‘But wasn’t he imprisoned after Lukhazan?’
‘The Rondians paroled him. He was up at the Governor’s Palace even then, filling the Rondians’ ears with our secrets and his own pockets with gold, I don’t doubt. He allus was a shifty beggar.’
‘So, Fyrell, he was working for Belonius Vult, who was working for the Rondians—’
‘Aye, that were the way of it. Didn’t make them palace lads too popular with the folks. Anyway, there was a fair few skulls cracked before Fyrell got his hands on the general, but in the end they cleaned out the chapel and took the general away. No one’s ever seen him since. They had Old Jari killed, I reckon. Poor bastard.’ He finished his beer and looked meaningfully at Alaron, who took the hint and waved for another pint. ‘You’re a gent, lad, just like yer dad.’
‘Why don’t people know this?’ Alaron asked. ‘All the books say Langstrit surrendered with Robler.’
‘Well, that’s books for you, full o’ lies. The generals was rivals, lad, feuding like Silacians. Vult and Langstrit hated each other, and Robler favoured Langstrit. Old Jari, he were a tough bugger, and Vult were a strutting peacock. I allus figured Fyrell saw a chance for Vult to get Langstrit to himself.’
‘What happened to the others who saw this?’ Alaron asked. ‘Rodde and Trudi?’
‘Both in the grave, lad. Trudi was old even then, and Rodde, he were knifed in a tavern brawl a few months later. Nasty, that were: took him a w
eek to die.’ He tutted morosely. ‘All the young men was away fighting and the young women, they kept off the streets to protect themselves from those dirty Rondian bastards. I doubt anyone under fifty saw the whole thing play out. They’ll be mostly in the ground now – it were a long time ago, after all. I may be the last person as saw it all.’ His face clouded over.
Alaron pushed his own beer across the table to him and rose, his words of thanks most probably unheard, for Sergeant Lehmann was staring out the window, his eyes glazed and moist.
Alaron and Cym found the chapel on Pordavin Square, right where the old watchman had said. It was more than six hundred years old, and originally Sollan: there were still traces of the dedications to Sol and Luna. But the door was broken and the whole place stank of rot and urine. It had escaped demolition only because it housed some historic gravestones, the last remains of some of the first magi to settle in Norostein – it was illegal to destroy anything pertaining to the magi.
They looked around, but there was nothing to see; the floors had been scoured long ago, there were no furnishings and the walls were peeling and covered in mildew. It was a sad, neglected place.
‘Is this where he did it, do you think? Where he cast all those runes on himself,’ Alaron asked.
‘Who knows?’ The gypsy girl fixed Alaron with a look. ‘If we do find the Scytale of Corineus, I believe we should take it to the Ordo Costruo. They’re sworn to peace. What do you think?’
Alaron swallowed. He hadn’t expected her to spring that question without warning. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘No one trusts Antonin Meiros any more, do they? He lost the Bridge, so who could trust him with the Scytale? Maybe he’d just give it back to the emperor.’
‘The Rondians have been lording it over everyone else for too long. If the Ordo Costruo have it, they can regain control of the Bridge and stop the wars.’
Alaron looked at Cym’s lovely face framed by a cascade of black hair. He just wanted to make her happy. ‘You’re probably right,’ he said, hopefully.
‘I’ll hold you to that,’ she told him, her face solemn, and tantalisingly close.
‘Don’t forget Ramon has to agree too,’ he warned her nervously. If I leaned closer I could kiss her—
She turned away. ‘He’ll come round,’ she said. Her shape was outlined by the light streaming through the door. She looked angelic, and out of reach. ‘There’s nothing here,’ she added. ‘Let’s go.’
‘So where does that leave us?’ Alaron wondered aloud. ‘The chapel’s empty. Unless we can find out what Fyrell took away with him, we’re at a dead end.’ He ran fingers through his hair. ‘Twenty years – that’s such a long time. The governor’s men probably destroyed everything. The trail has gone cold.’
Ramon grinned. ‘If this was Silacia, I’d take a few lads and have a quiet word with Fyrell – except we’re in Norostein and Fyrell’s a Magister who could blow us all to Lune.’
‘Fyrell’s probably nothing to do with it any more,’ Cym muttered. ‘It’s Vult we need.’
‘He’s in Hebusalim,’ Ramon said, ‘it’s all over the Arcanum.’ Ramon had confirmed his own enlistment that week, and was due to fly to Pontus on a windship in early Junesse, in less than a month’s time. ‘He’s acting as ambassador for the emperor.’
Alaron rubbed his face. ‘The chapel’s empty, we’ve got nothing to go on. We’re at an impasse.’
Cym looked at Ramon. ‘He really doesn’t understand how things work in Rimoni, does he?’
Alaron eyed them both uneasily. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it’s pretty obvious what we need to do,’ Ramon said, licking his lips. ‘I bet Vult guessed the other generals had the Scytale, and he was angry at being left out. When Fyrell brought in Langstrit with his brain fried, Vult thought that it had something to do with the Scytale so he made Langstrit vanish. He’s probably spent the last twenty years trying to solve the very same problem we’re working on now. But I bet Langstrit hasn’t ever manifested that Rune-puzzle for Vult, so all Vult has is a man with amnesia, so does he kill him, or hold on to him and hope he recovers? Clearly he chose to wait.’
Ramon’s explanation seemed to fit the facts. He went on, ‘Vult has been governor for years now. The report on Langstrit is too important to leave lying around, but too secret to entrust to his staff, so it’ll be amongst his personal effects. So obviously we have to break into Vult’s house and find it.’
‘You’re both mad!’ Alaron said incredulously. ‘This is Belonius Vult you’re talking about: the Governor of Noros, a pure-blood – he’ll have wards and probably traps, and he might even have spirit guardians, constructs – and we don’t even know for sure the information’s there – this is ridiculous!’
‘Oh, it’ll be there,’ Ramon replied confidently. ‘Think about it: personal and sensitive information like this will be in the Residence, which is quite separate to the administration area. He’s not married, so there’ll be no one there but guards after sunset. A determined and clever mage could gain access easily. After that it’s just a case of finding the safe-box and we’re in.’
Alaron thumped the table. ‘This is insane – the slightest error will bring the Palace Guard down on our heads. The moment his wards are triggered he’ll be instantly aware of what we’re doing.’
‘Vult’s in Hebusalim,’ Ramon insisted. ‘Aware or not, he won’t be able to do anything.’
‘Maybe not personally, but he’ll contact someone pretty damn quick. Probably Fyrell himself.’
‘No, he won’t: Alaron, these are his personal effects we’re talking about. He wouldn’t trust Fyrell with it any more than us—’
Alaron threw up his hands. ‘Talk sense, won’t you? We don’t have a snowflake in Hel’s chance of succeeding, and when we fail we’ll end up dead or arrested or both. Talk sense—’
Ramon stood up. ‘I am talking sense! Are you chickening out, Alaron?’
‘I’m not chicken!’ Alaron stood too, and poked Ramon in the chest. ‘There’s a difference between courage and suicide, short-arse. Trying to break into Vult’s place is idiocy.’ He appealed to Cym. ‘You agree with me, surely!’
‘It is a suicidal idea,’ she started, ‘but I agree with Ramon. It’s the only way forward. We’re at a dead end, otherwise.’
Ramon gesticulated expressively. ‘Look at it logically: of course there will be guards, but the palace can’t be that well-protected because Vult wouldn’t trust anyone else’s wards but his own, and he certainly wouldn’t want anyone but him in his private study. He’ll be thousands of miles away – he may not even sense it, but even if he does, he’ll not be able to do anything about it. The palace should be easy pickings. What sort of magi can’t get past a few watchmen?’
‘But what about his wards?’ Alaron said doubtfully. ‘Even a simple locking spell set by a pure-blood is beyond any of us – so how will we ever get past wards set by someone as powerful as Vult?’
Cym struck a pose and pointed at Jarius Langstrit, slumbering in his armchair. ‘Ta-da! I give you one Ascendant Mage. He’s got enough power to blow through Vult’s wards like they weren’t there.’
Ramon’s mouth twitched. ‘Cymbellea, bella amora mio! You are a genius.’
‘But he can’t even tie his own boot-laces,’ Alaron objected. ‘How will you get him to help?’
‘I know how,’ she insisted, and Alaron looked at her, then sat down resignedly.
‘Okay, okay. But what do we even know about breaking into buildings?’
Ramon laughed aloud. ‘I’m a Silacian. It’s in my blood.’
28
Divinations
The Javon Settlement
The Javon Settlement of 836 remains possibly the most remarkable piece of diplomacy ever. The Lakh philosopher Kishan Dev convinced the factions of Javon who were destroying themselves in civil war to adopt a mixed-race elective monarchy. That this remarkable compromise was even agreed speaks volumes about the desperation of the tim
es, but does not diminish its unique achievements.
ORDO COSTRUO, HEBUSALIM CHAPTER, 927
Sister, there has come amongst us a guru from Indrania! His ideas beggar belief: he would have us pollute ourselves in the name of a craven peace that benefits no one. The Nesti give him credence, unbelievably, and his influence spreads. It is the beginning of the end.
LETTER FROM LETO GORGIO TO HIS SISTER UNA, JAVON 836
Brochena, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
1–12 Maicin 928
60 days until the Moontide
The remains of a young Jhafi woman lay on the steps to the canal. Elena knelt and stared down at the wide-open eyes, the shocked visage and the torn and bloodied nakedness that ended at the girl’s belly. Her hips and legs were gone, bitten clean away. More blood than could be believed covered the steps.
The girl was Mustaq al’Madhi’s niece, his brother’s daughter. The women of the family were screaming and tearing at their hair while the men beat their chests and howled threats. Beside her, Lorenzo started vomiting again. She sympathised, but she’d seen worse.
Mustaq’s face was a mask of controlled fury. He stalked to her side. ‘This was done by Gyle?’
Elena nodded. ‘Mara did it – Mara Secordin, one of his assassins.’
‘Ahm protect us!’ The Jhafi headman glanced at his wailing relatives and lowered his voice. ‘The women were bathing. They say something huge reared out of the water and bit the poor girl in half—’ His voice was both awed and scared. He used these bathing ghats himself. ‘How is this possible?’
Elena dropped her voice to match his. ‘Mara is an Animagus, a beast-mistress. She has made a particular study of water-beasts.’
‘The women said it was a fish, five times the length of a man, with a mouth full of teeth!’
‘It’s called a shark. I have seen such beasts: they dwell in the oceans. Mara found a living one once, trapped in the tidelands. She dissected it and learned its shape, but its nature affected her. That can happen to an Animagus who spends too much time in beast form. She’s lost most of her humanity.’