by David Hair
‘Thank you for your condolences for the death of Solinde. I know that she shamed the family name last year, but she was my sister, and Timori and I loved her.’ Cera paused, swallowing. ‘I see from the minutes of the last meeting that you voted a message of condolence to the di Kestria family for the loss of Lorenzo, their youngest son. He was Commander of my guards, and much-loved. I endorse that message of sorrow.’
She barely sounds like a girl of almost nineteen, Gyle reflected. She is more queenly than Mater-Imperia herself, in truth. He could sense Elena’s hand in her development. Elena and Cera had grown close, especially after the Gorgio coup and the death of Olfuss. She must become my tool now.
‘What happened that night, Princessa?’ Pita Rosco asked gently. ‘There are so many rumours, but you and Elena were right there, and you have said little. Did Gurvon Gyle come? Who was the Rondian you slew?’
Elena spoke up – or rather, Rutt Sordell did. Gyle winced inwardly: Rutt Sordell was a powerful magus, but he was no actor, no mimic. The voice patterns sounded wrong to him, and it wasn’t just the recent throat wound that had left Elena’s voice deeper and rasping. ‘Gyle wasn’t there. The man was an Inquisitor of Pallas. We were questioning Solinde when he appeared. He slew di Kestria and Solinde before I could neutralise him.’
Elena doesn’t speak like that. She doesn’t use words like ‘neutralise’. And she doesn’t call Lorenzo ‘di Kestria’: they were lovers, for Kore’s sake! Gyle ground his teeth. Rutt and I need to talk again.
Cera stepped into the ensuing silence as the men around the table shared uncomfortable glances. ‘Really, gentlemen, I don’t want to talk about this, and there is much else we must focus on.’
Well done, girl.
Cera led them away into less sensitive topics: the treasury (depleted but improving), the Harkun issue (awaiting word from Harshal ali-Assam), and the military (drilling, recruiting, morale and numbers up as they prepared to march on Hytel). Rutt–Elena kept his mouth shut, thankfully.
Inevitably the talk turned to the shihad. ‘There is massive movement of refugees from Dhassa and the Hebb Valley,’ Comte Inveglio reported. ‘Our traders report that the roads are choked. The common people are trying to run to wherever they think the Crusaders will not go. Rich men are carrying all they own in huge caravans while the poor walk empty-handed from the fields. Whole families are displaced, and it will get worse. Many are seeking refuge here in Javon. The gates of the Krak are under siege.’
‘We should open those gates,’ Godspeaker Acmed interjected. ‘It is our duty to the shihad.’
‘Our duty is to our own people,’ Seir Luca Conti growled. ‘Besides, we can’t feed a million Dhassans.’
‘The treasury could not afford it,’ chorused Pita Rosco and Luigi Ginovisi, in rare agreement.
‘We have a duty as human beings to aid them,’ Acmed maintained, sticking out his bearded chin belligerently.
To Gyle’s surprise the drui Prato weighed in on the Godspeaker’s side. ‘They are desperate, my lady,’ he said, addressing Cera directly. ‘Homeless, penniless, lambs to the slaughter unless we aid them. How can we look away and call ourselves children of God? Of any God,’ he added with a nod to the Godspeaker.
Gyle listened impatiently as the discussion was sidetracked onto this question, one he’d not anticipated. I don’t give a fuck whether you feed the bloody refugees or not. You’d be crazy to let them in, and Francis Dorobon will let them starve once he gains power anyway: Move on!
Eventually Cera decided that she would send a messenger to Sultan Salim of Kesh – her prospective husband – and ask for advice. May as well play that card while you still hold it, Gyle thought wryly. Anyway, get to the real issue …
Cera guided the discussion to the matter he was waiting for: the march on Hytel. ‘As you know, gentlemen, earlier this year we came to agreement that we would join the shihad, on our own terms. Salim agreed. In return for my hand in marriage once the Moontide is over, he allowed us to choose our actions, rather than place our armies at his disposal to fight the Rondians.’ The men all nodded, mostly unhappily, for only Acmed was Amteh, and the rest profoundly disliked the idea of their Princessa marrying the Sultan of Kesh, for any number of reasons. ‘We agreed that the target of our shihad will initially be Hytel. It is the home of the Rondian sympathisers: our enemies, the Gorgio.’
Gyle nodded to himself. The remnants of the Gorgio were now shut in Hytel under siege, their once powerful army severely reduced by the attrition of Jhafi raiders during a disastrous retreat north last year after Elena had turned the tables on them. Gyle had been among the Gorgio recently. The only reason Alfredo Gorgio hadn’t surrendered was that the Dorobon were expected to accompany the Third Crusade and attempt to seize Javon once more.
‘Our intelligence tells us that the Gorgio are preparing for the Dorobon to return,’ Cera told the meeting. ‘We have some detail of where and in what strength.’
‘What is your source?’ Piero Inveglio asked.
‘A good spymaster doesn’t reveal their source,’ responded Cera quickly, a glance at Elena hinting it was her.
Good girl, well deflected. Gyle was the real source of that false intelligence.
‘They are expecting a fleet of windships to land a single legion west of Hytel in the desert at the end of this month and march immediately to Hytel,’ Cera went on.
‘Why only one legion?’ Luca Conti wondered.
‘Windships have a small capacity. The Empire cannot divert more from the main invasion force going into Hebusalim,’ Cera replied smoothly, just as Gyle had coached her. ‘Only a third of a legion are expected in the first wave: less than two thousand men, and only half-a-dozen battle-magi at most. Those magi will be exhausted from the flight and their landing site has insufficient water.’
Seir Luca frowned. ‘It seems foolish of them. Are they so stupid? Why would they not fly all the way to Hytel and land where they are secure?’
Silence him, Gyle urged silently.
‘The Dorobon never bothered to learn about this kingdom,’ Rutt-Elena interrupted in a snarky voice. ‘They think all they have to do is arrive.’ Sordell had never learnt to deal with debate civilly. Gyle winced again. Can they sense that this is not Elena? He thanked Kore that this was only a temporary situation. By month’s end, the Dorobon would be here and he’d be able to move openly and finally find Rutt a new body to inhabit.
Seir Luca scowled, glanced sideways at Piero Inveglio and closed his mouth. No one else spoke.
‘They will be vulnerable,’ Cera said, repeating what he’d told her to say. ‘Trapped in the desert, newly landed, their magi drained – we could field ten thousand Nesti, that’s five to one odds, and crush the invasion before it’s begun.’
‘What of the Gorgio?’ Seir Luca asked. ‘They have as many men as us.’
‘Trapped in Hytel by the northern Jhafi tribes,’ Piero Inveglio replied briskly.
Acmed visibly brightened at this mention of his people’s military prowess. ‘The northern tribes stand ready to aid you. Twenty thousand riders to ensure the victory,’ he growled.
It took time, but the men slowly began to nod. Gyle listened in silence as they first accepted the concept, and then moved on to the detail: logistics, supplies, transport, which units to field and who to put in charge. By then the deal was done, with just one thing left to throw in …
‘I will accompany the army north,’ Cera told them in a firm voice.
‘No!’ protested the whole table.
‘A battlefield is no place for a woman!’ Seir Luca added. The rest exclaimed agreement. ‘You cannot, Princessa. Your place is here. We cannot afford to lose you if aught goes wrong.’
‘If I am to be seen as fit to fulfil the regency through this time of war, then I must be there. This is not a debating point, gentlemen,’ she said, slapping the table. ‘It is a decision.’ She glared about her, as if daring them to disagree. ‘Timori will be here, safe from danger.’ Gyle co
uld sense the pang of guilt that accompanied those words: she knew Timori was anything but safe, and longed to say so. But she didn’t.
The men grumbled and mumbled, but she got her way.
Well done, girl. You’ve put your head into the trap, just as instructed.
The meeting wrapped up, the men dispersing with much low conversation and no little shaking of the head. He strained to listen, heard the way they made excuses for her: ‘She’s been unwell,’ ‘She’s just lost her sister,’ ‘That night must have been awful for her.’ They had learned to love her during the past year; they could forgive a little erratic behaviour.
Soon the room was empty except for Rutt–Elena. Gyle stared at ‘her’ as she turned slowly, her eyes penetrating his illusion and focusing on the spy-hole. ‘She’ pouted sullenly. ‘Well?’
Gyle inhaled, pulled a lever, shoved the panel of false wall aside and stepped into the chamber. Being so close to this woman made his stomach churn. Elena had been his lover for too much of his adult life for it not to feel profoundly wrong that she was now Rutt Sordell’s meat-puppet.
‘We got what we needed,’ he told Sordell, pulling up a chair and sitting, indicating that Sordell should do the same. He did, gracelessly. ‘Cera did well,’ Gyle observed, ‘but you were a damned liability.’
Sordell pulled a sour face. ‘What do you mean?’
Gyle slapped the table. ‘Listen to yourself, Rutt. Does Elena ever speak as you do? No, is the answer. She’s dry, but she’s positive. And she doesn’t slouch, she sits up straight. You walk like a man: Elena was like a cat. Whenever I see you move I’m amazed no one else realises. Any trained mage could spot what’s going on.’
Sordell glowered at him. ‘Go to Hel, Gurvon. I’m a man, not a goddamn woman. You think I like this? It’s driving me insane.’
‘You’ve got a body capable of the gnosis, Rutt,’ Gyle reminded him. ‘Would you rather be in a non-mage’s body with no access to your powers? Or back as a scarab beetle, crawling around my pocket while your memory slowly fades away?’
‘No, of course I bloody wouldn’t!’ Sordell shouted, sounding nothing at all like Elena for all that it was her voice. Elena didn’t raise her voice, she sharpened it, then cut you to ribbons. ‘But being in this body – in her Kore-bedamned body – is killing me. I’m going mad.’ He clutched his skull. ‘She’s inside my head!’
‘Then silence her,’ Gyle snapped. He clenched his fists. ‘You control her, not the other way round.’
‘I don’t know how to confine her without harming myself,’ Sordell moaned. ‘You don’t know what it’s like, Gurv. She’s inside me, day and night. She’s inside my dreams. She’s whispering to me wherever I go. She’s like a parasite inside my skull.’
Gyle looked heavenwards. ‘For Kore’s sake, Rutt, take control! It’s just for another month, and then the Dorobon will be here. I’ve asked for a naïve young battle-mage to be assigned to us, a new host for you. Someone you’ll fit like a glove. You can change bodies then, I promise you.’
‘You better deliver on that promise, Gurv,’ Sordell snarled. His eyes turned inwards. ‘What will you do with her then?’
‘Mater-Imperia wants her,’ Gyle replied. ‘But it will be my call, not hers.’ He was surprised by a sudden longing. Perhaps, restored to herself … No. He shook his head. No, she’d never …
Sordell’s mouth rolled into a sneer, as if he’d read his thoughts. ‘Listen to you, the big man who thinks he can ignore what the Living Saint wants. Send her to Saint Lucia and move on, Gurvon. Elena was a bitch and you’re better off without her.’
Gyle inhaled, exhaled. He nodded slowly. ‘You’re right, Rutt.’ He tried to ignore Elena’s face and see through it to the soul of his trusted lieutenant. ‘One month, no more. Then you’ll be free.’
‘I’ll be counting the seconds,’ Sordell replied, his voice hollow. ‘I can’t take much more of this.’
*
Sometimes Elena dreamt of fleeing down pulsing corridors pursued by a chitinous sound, of scrabbling legs, too damned many legs, and a horrid, alien intellect that wanted to devour her: a scarab, called Rutt Sordell.
Mostly, though, she was awake – and the nightmare went on.
She watched from inside her own skull as Rutt Sordell walked her body up the stairs, towards the room where once she’d practised her fighting skills. Bastido waited in the corner, but Sordell didn’t use the fighting machine. Sordell never exercised. He just read, and drank, cast divination spells, and drank more, ate and drank and pissed away the hours.
One of the worst things was still being able to sense all that he did, but because of the fog that she dwelt in, each sensation was unexpected. Everything happened to her by surprise: tastes, smells, sounds, touch. They continuously shocked her, made her shriek inside. Though her sight felt impaired, as if everything and everyone were seen down a long tunnel of light, every sensation jabbed at her, as if she’d been skinned alive, then lowered into a nest of scorpions.
But the very worst thing was the simple truth that he, and not she, determined absolutely everything her body did. She could feel his presence, that ghastly scarab beetle, nested in a burrow in the roof of her mouth, behind her eyes, its feelers rooted deep in her brain, controlling everything. Its mere presence nauseated her, made her want to flee screaming into the darkness. It was not an option, however: this maze she ran through had no exit.
Only one thing kept her going: knowing Sordell can hear me. The Argundian had been a lazy, arrogant prick and she was damned if he was going to dwell in her body unchallenged.
Sordell walked her body past a guard, whose head turned to follow her as she passed.
Sordell grasped a bottle from the table and swigged. Bad red wine. She gagged, he belched.
He drank some more.
He guzzled more wine.
He bellowed aloud, ‘BE SILENT, DAMN YOU!’ and downed more wine. Sordell groaned, rubbing his temple furiously. He finished the bottle and flung it against the wall, where it shattered and cascaded into the shards of glass already there. This scene had become an evening ritual. He clutched another bottle.
‘ARGHH!’ Swallow, hurl. Sordell threw the bottle against a wall, watched it crash into tiny pieces, spraying wine everywhere. He wobbled to his feet, then everything swung and dropped. They both mewled in pain as their knees hit the stone floor. Sordell scrabbled beneath the table fo
r the half-full bottle of Brician brandy he’d left there. Swallow: syrupy sweetness with a resounding punch. One shot, another, another. ‘SHUT UP, WOMAN!’
He vomited, then drank again, trying to wall her out with alcohol and bloody-minded Argundian stubbornness. She laughed at him, the bitter derision of a prisoner laughing at their captor, and kept jeering at him right up until the moment he slid sideways and hit the floor.
Everything went black.
But she was still conscious. Still present.
And free to think.
3
Domus Costruo
Souldrinkers (1)
Word came out of the East, that one of our brethren had found a way to unlock the potential within us. A woman called Sabele had inhaled the soul of a dying mage and gained the gnosis. So I tried it. I had nothing to lose: sooner or later someone was going to hand me over to you, for the ‘crime’ of not gaining the gnosis when you did. Do I regret it? Not at all. At least I took a few of you bastards down with me.
NOTES FROM THE TRIAL OF JORGI HARLE,
DARK PATH MAGUS, PALACIA 488
The Souldrinkers – Dokken, Shadowmancers, Dark Path, whatever you call them – they are the secret evil that blights these lands. Harle was just one of many. We must root them out, every last one.
ARCH-PRELATE GEOVANNI,
AT THE FIRST INQUISITIONAL MOOT, PALLAS 491
Hebusalim, Dhassa, Antiopia
Rajab (Julsep) 928
1st month of the Moontide
Kazim Makani cut the air into a thousand slices, his blade a blur, his bare chest corded with taut muscle as he spun and twisted. Jamil liked to tell him that he was a beast, primal, a wild thing. But he felt more caged than free.
It was dusk in Hebusalim and he was in an abandoned dog-fighting pit, near an old Dom-al’Ahm. The Godsingers were chanting, summoning the faithful to their knees, but Kazim ignored the entreaty. His place of worship was here, his spiritual icon the scimitar in his hand.
Panting, he finished another sequence. His skin was soaked in sweat. He’d been pushing himself hard, trying to drive all other thoughts away. Memories of Ramita and Antonin Meiros; thoughts of his secret heritage. He could feel that hideous strength, the gnosis, coiled and waiting inside him, pleading to be used, but he ignored it. He shunned it, trying to pretend it wasn’t there.