by David Hair
*
Next morning, Ramon took Kip aside and explained his role – look tough but keep your periapt hidden, and if anyone gives trouble, hit them hard – then went out into the rainstorm looking for the man his paterfamilias had ordered him to find.
At the fringes of Portage XXVI were hundreds of huts, tents, awnings and shelters of all descriptions. The wind whipped through them, water poured through the gaps and every face was an etching of avarice and misery. This was where the deals were cut, for the goods the army didn’t officially want but couldn’t do without.
‘I’m looking for Giordano,’ Ramon told a perfumed boy in a woman’s silk dress who sashayed towards them through the tangle of guy-ropes.
‘Giordano’s no fun,’ the boy purred, batting long lashes and stroking his chest. ‘I’m fun.’
Ramon kindled his periapt. ‘Giordano,’ he repeated more firmly.
The boy’s eyes went round and he shot backwards. ‘Red Snake sign, that way.’
‘Filth,’ Kip growled in Ramon’s ear. ‘Should be castrated for going about like that.’
‘He probably already has been. Come on.’
They found a tent, larger than most, with a red snake painted on a board. There was a sour-looking young man with olive skin and dark hair sheltering beneath the awning. Ramon greeted him in Rimoni, asked for Giordano, gave his name, then, more importantly, he gave his master’s name. The youth took their weapons, which was expected, but he missed the periapts, for he wasn’t expecting them. Then he led them inside.
Giordano was a big man of middling years, running to fat but still visibly strong. A young Rimoni girl was shaving his chin with a straight-edge razor, her strokes carefully avoiding his impressive moustaches, which sat like twin black rats on his upper lip, long twisted tails jutting sideways.
‘Master, he says he’s Ramon Sensini, of the Familioso Retiari,’ the youth said, bowing as he spoke.
Giordano waggled a finger: ‘wait’ in the Silent Tongue. The youth bowed again and left. Ramon and Kip watched the girl finish her shaving. She washed the man’s cheeks with scented water, kissed his cheek and went to a wine decanter and began pouring. ‘My daughter, Regina,’ Giordano told them, smiling while his eyes measured them. He extended a hand, with a signet ring. ‘Welcome, Sensini. Pater Retiari has written to me of you.’
Ramon kissed the signet ring. ‘My friend is Fridryk Kippenegger. He will stand by the entrance.’ He took a seat while the Schlessen slouched back to the entrance and flexed his muscles idly.
Ramon accepted the glass of wine Regina offered but didn’t drink. He took her in with a glance: she had her father’s plumpness and looks, including a hairy upper lip and careful eyes, but she was paler than her father, and there were flecks of gold in her deep brown hair.
‘My Pater sends his greetings,’ he said to Giordano, switching to Rimoni.
‘Pater Retiari is well?’
‘He prospers by day and sleeps well at night,’ Ramon said, words that signified security and strength. His paterfamilias controlled large tracts of countryside about the town of Retia, using his influence over the supply of the largesse of the land to hold the town to ransom. In Rimoni and Silacia the agrarian populace far outweighed the urban, and though the lands were owned by hated Rondians, it was beholden upon all good Rimoni to steal from them. The real wealth of Silacia was controlled by familioso heads like Pater Retiari.
‘That brings me great joy,’ Giordano rumbled dourly. ‘Though his proposals are not so easy as he may think.’
Ramon spread his hands. ‘What could be easier? You control much of the flow of poppy into Yuros. Pater merely wishes to remind you that such of these goods that enter his lands must also be subject to his tariffs.’
Giordano looked mournful. ‘The sad truth is that they do not pass through his lands, amici. They pass over his lands.’ He made an expansive gesture to the skies, mimicking the flight of a windship. ‘So no tariff.’
‘The sadder truth,’ Ramon replied, ‘is that my Pater has intercepted two consignments passing by land through Retia this year. Both shipments were sourced from Pontus, and bore your sigil.’
Giordano pulled a disappointed face. ‘These must have been resold shipments. I do not convey by land through Retia. I have given my word to your Pater.’ He glanced at his daughter. ‘Bring more wine, Regina. The Brician.’
If that wasn’t a code-phrase, I’m losing my touch. ‘She will stay.’ Ramon raised a hand. ‘She has a sweet face,’ he lied. He looked at Kip.
Giordano narrowed his eyes. ‘Signor Sensini, I honour my agreements. A businessman must do this or all trust is lost, and without trust what do we have?’
‘What indeed?’ Ramon replied. ‘Pater Retiari feels that his honour has been impugned by this disregard for his territorial rights. He feels that the only way he may be reconciled is to take a share in your enterprise.’ He showed Giordano his palm, tapped it. ‘Pater Retiari feels that delivery to him directly would allow greater volume and more profit for both you and him.’
Giordano grimaced. ‘There is no margin.’
Ramon laughed. ‘This is the poppy: there is plenty of margin.’ He eyeballed Giordano with all his impudence. Even Kip, who couldn’t understand the words, could feel the tension rise.
‘Pater, I will handle this,’ Regina said suddenly, turning on Ramon and reaching out, clenching her fist with an abrupt gesture. For an instant, Ramon felt a tightening in his chest, his throat constricting and his eyes blurring. Behind him he heard a sudden grunt, the rasp of steel on steel, and a body thudding to the ground.
Then his eyes cleared as he exerted his own powers to destroy the attack. With one hand he reached out towards the girl, and with the other towards Giordano. He stole the breath from their mouths with Air-gnosis. Giordano’s face went purple and the girl’s eyes went round as her father fell to his knees. Her shields wavered, Ramon hammered a bolt of light through them and she shrieked and collapsed. Giordano gave a choking cry, tried to crawl towards her, then fell onto his face.
Ramon released the gnosis and glanced behind him. Kip was standing over Giordano’s guard, who was flat on his back. His eyes were glassy. Kip was rubbing his knuckles and examining a rent in his shirt. Steel glinted beneath. ‘Little bastard tried to knife me,’ the Schlessen complained.
‘You didn’t kill him, I hope?’
‘Neyn,’ Kip grumped. ‘He can’t take a punch for shit.’ He peered outside. ‘All clear.’
Ramon grinned. ‘If he wakes up, hit him again.’ He bent over Giordano and revived him with a flow of Air-gnosis. ‘Get up,’ he told Giordano as he blinked to life.
Giordano went to curse, then saw the knife Ramon was holding to Regina’s throat. ‘Stregone?’ Giordano asked, stating the obvious.
‘Si,’ Ramon replied, ‘I am stregone, like your daughter. You are not the only one with a mage at your disposal. Pater Retiari has me.’ He nudged the unconscious girl. ‘She is your flesh and blood, though. You must value her.’
‘Do not harm her, please.’
‘Of course not.’ Ramon broke the cord about Regina’s neck and dangled her periapt. ‘Listen, Giordano, I will make this offer only once. You will direct all of your poppy to Retia, and my Pater will give you a fair price – or else I will chain-rune your mage-daughter. You understand what I mean? She will be unable to use her gnosis, leaving you helpless against all the people you’ve pissed off.’ He raised his hand over the girl. ‘Choose.’
Giordano’s gaze flashed from him to his daughter. ‘If I go down, others will rise. I’m the only one who ships to Rimoni: all my rivals ship to Bricia.’
‘I know this,’ Ramon replied. ‘My Pater wants a partnership with a countryman. My visit here demonstrates that he is in earnest, and has the power to back up his plans.’
A bead of sweat ran down Giordano’s face. ‘What plans?’
Ram
on smiled. ‘We do not reveal such things to men who are not partners of my paterfamilias.’ He met Giordano’s eyes. ‘Are you a partner?’
Regina groaned and opened her eyes. She stiffened as she registered the knife at her jugular. ‘Pater?’
Giordano bowed his head. ‘Please, release her. I grant you Liberta: no one of my family will assail you again, I swear.’ He swallowed. ‘She is my life.’
Ramon assessed the man. In a world of lies, vows had to be honoured or no business could be transacted. A man who reneged on a pledge of Liberta demonstrated that no one could ever trust him, and all of his partnerships and business contracts would be void. He dropped Regina’s periapt into her cleavage, winked at her and stood. ‘I accept your pledge of Liberta.’
He helped the girl to her feet and offered her his wine. She glared sourly at him, took a sip and spat. ‘Pater, you are unharmed?’
Giordano nodded, patting his chest. ‘I am whole.’ He indicated the seats. ‘Please, Stregone, sit once more, in friendship.’
Regina eyed Ramon with considerable wariness. He guessed that she’d had little or no formal gnostic training. ‘I trained at Turm Zauberin,’ he said, to mollify her.
Her eyes became intent. ‘Could you teach me?’
‘I leave tomorrow.’
‘Are you married?’ she asked in a businesslike voice.
He grinned. ‘I am not. But Pater Retiari will choose my bride.’
She smiled slyly. ‘You have one night left here in Pontus?’ She straightened, and pushed out her ample bosom.
‘Daughter,’ Giordano admonished.
‘He is stregone, Papa,’ Regina pouted, ‘and of our people.’ She swayed to a seat, crossed her legs and looked Ramon in the face. ‘I like him. Later we will do business of our own.’
Ramon coloured and looked at Giordano, who raised his cup. ‘To business, Signor Sensini.’
*
The following evening, Ramon, Kip and Prenton were sipping the brandy they’d been gifted by Giordano while Kip gave Prenton a lurid account of Regina’s looks, deportment and bust size. Ramon neither confirmed nor denied a thing. The idea that he might have just fathered a child was vaguely troubling, especially when he’d been half-afraid the girl was only using their ‘transaction’ as an opportunity to turn the tables on him for humiliating her. But the encounter had been fun in the end, and far more equal than the odd relationship he had had with his maid in Retia. The girl had appeared to regard sharing his bed as part of her duties, and after several weeks of refusing her, he’d finally just got on with it. There was some chance he’d sired a child on her too, no doubt as Pater Retiari intended. Some magi have dozens of bastards, he reminded himself.
‘So assault is a Rimoni seduction technique,’ Prenton observed drily, finishing his brandy. Then they all stiffened as Duprey’s voice carried to them. ‘The legate is back from the allotments,’ Prenton exclaimed, swiftly secreting the bottle. Ramon and Kip finished their thimbles and were hiding them in their pockets just as Duprey strode in, gesticulating towards them.
‘These are your fellow magi,’ he called over his shoulder to the six figures following in his wake. All were clad in embroidered velvet cloaks of scarlet and black. ‘Where are Coulder and Fenn? Dicing, no doubt. Prenton, Sensini, Kippenegger: on your feet!’
Prenton swept to his feet with an immaculate bow, a movement well beyond Kip, who didn’t even try. Ramon improvised: Rimoni and Silacia had been civilised longer even than the Rondians. Duprey turned back to the newcomers, who were all huddling into their hoods as if they’d really rather not be identified. The legate looked pleased, as if he’d had a good day’s fishing. ‘These are our new magi from the allotments,’ he said grandly. He indicated the tallest. ‘This is Renn Bondeau.’
Ramon stifled a groan as a surly, baby-faced young mage who’d been on his flight to Pontus emerged from beneath a hood, scowling as he took in Ramon and Kip. He flicked a half-bow, without extending a hand, but Prenton didn’t allow him to get away with this.
He seized Bondeau’s hand and pumping it enthusiastically, crying, ‘Welcome to the Thirteenth, old chap.’
Bondeau forced a smile.
Duprey turned to the second figure. ‘Our new Farseer: Severine Tiseme.’ A pretty, curvy young woman was revealed when she reluctantly lowered her hood. She too ran her eyes disdainfully over Ramon and Kip.
Baltus Prenton made a courtly bow. ‘Milady Tiseme, we are honoured.’
Severine looked at him with faint surprise and smiled. ‘Thank you,’ she said with sudden brightness. ‘Magister—?’
‘Baltus Prenton, Windmaster,’ Prenton said, with a most winning smile.
Duprey swept a hand over three figures clustered together: ‘These are Hugh Gerant, Evan Hale and Rhys Lewen of Andressea,’ he announced, not bothering to hide a slight twinge of annoyance; Andressans were notoriously fickle and troublesome. All wore their hair in long curls down their backs and affected trim moustaches and goatees and each had a bow slung over one shoulder; on the plus side, Andressans were also renowned archers. The tallest, Gerant, grunted something unintelligible. ‘Unfortunately, none of them speak Rondian,’ Duprey noted in a resigned voice.
Prenton promptly greeted them in Andressan, eliciting a little surprise but no friendliness from the trio.
‘And finally, some excellent news,’ Duprey said, sounding utterly disbelieving of his own negotiating skills or good fortune. ‘I’ve managed to secure a pure-blood mage for the legion – I believe this is a sign that the Thirteenth is finally going to be given some respect.’ He raised a hand and the final mage lowered his hood slowly, revealing a pale, good-looking young man with a weak chin, swept-back blond hair and an uncertain expression. ‘Gentlemen – and lady – meet Seth Korion, the son of General Kaltus Korion himself.’
Ramon clapped a hand over his mouth to keep his laughter in. Sol et Lune, it’s the Lesser Son! Memories of years of bullying and abuse leapt to the fore, escaping from where he’d buried them. Malevorn Andevarion, Francis Dorobon and Seth Korion, perpetrators of his worst experiences growing up: their names were branded on his soul. Seth Korion in a punishment legion – what the rukking Hel is going on? Then he thought about Duke Echor being in charge of the Crusade, and he had to stop himself laughing out loud again. Rukka mio! Has he got Kaltus digging latrines?
Seth Korion’s eyes went straight to Ramon and then away, as if he could not decide whether to pretend he didn’t know him or not. After seven years at Turm Zauberin, you better rukking well acknowledge me. Ramon licked his lips and found his composure. ‘Seth Korion,’ he drawled with absolute relish. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
7
The Krak
Hadishah
I would name them animals, but they are less than that; if they are dogs, they are rabid dogs. Your precious jackals have destroyed another hospice of the Ordo Justinia, this one in Falukhabad. These are women trained in medicine and midwifery, Sultan! Every day they save the lives of your subjects, yet they are preyed upon by these killers! Why will you not protect my sisters?
SOURCE: JUSTINA MEIROS,
LETTER TO SULTAN SALIM KABARAKHI I OF KESH, 907
It is the jackal that cleans the carrion from the desert. Think of these Rondians as carrion. Only the strongest in faith have the will to do what is required by nature. It is easy to mouth platitudes and make promises of shihad, but where was the sultan when Betillon was raping children in Hebusalim?
SOURCE: HADISHAH PAMPHLET, 907
Galataz, Kesh, Antiopia
Shaban (Augeite) 928
2nd month of the Moontide
‘Kazim Makani, my young pilot!’ exclaimed a vaguely familiar voice.
Kazim turned, and then his face split into his first genuine smile in months. A roughly dressed man in desert garb strode towards him, his scarred and whiskery face alight with welcome.
‘Molmar!’ He embraced the man, kissed both his cheeks. ‘Sal’Ahm!’
‘Sal’Ahm,’ Molmar responded, his eyes bright, though he frowned a little as he looked at Kazim more closely.
He can see what I am, Kazim thought sadly.
But the Hadishah skiff-pilot hid the moment quickly. ‘Are you ready for some flying, my friend?’
Kazim found himself nodding enthusiastically. ‘I can’t wait.’
When he’d first learned that there were Keshi magi, he’d been shocked, and the breeding-houses of the Hadishah magi still sounded hideous to him. But flying in Molmar’s windskiff earlier that year had been wonderful. Soaring above the desert, seeing for miles, he’d felt free and all-powerful. It gave him hope that his own gnosis might not be a demonic power of Shaitan, but something that could be turned to good.
They were in Galataz. He, Jamil and Haroun had ridden nearly four hundred miles in the two weeks since they’d been given their assignment. Jamil was his friend, but Haroun was another matter; there was now a history of mistrust between them, but Rashid had assigned him as translator.
Jamil and Molmar greeted each other as old friends, and Haroun too: they’d all crossed Kesh together with Kazim. Then the door of the Dom al’Ahm opened again and more men entered, armed and booted, despite the strictures against weapons and shoes, that neither should be worn in a place of worship. The newcomers were led by a big scar-faced brute introduced as Gatoz. Jamil kissed Gatoz’s cheeks formally, then Gatoz turned to Kazim. No embrace was offered. ‘Kazim Makani,’ Gatoz said in a gravelly voice. ‘The emir bids me accept your presence.’
And evidently you don’t want it. Kazim bowed stonily.
‘I pray you accept my leadership and give your all for Ahm,’ Gatoz stated.
‘Kazim is a good lad,’ Molmar stated defensively.
Gatoz met Jamil’s eyes and Kazim sensed silent communication passing between them; afterwards, Gatoz looked somewhat appeased. More introductions were made; two more magi, Talid and Yadri, both part-Dhassan. They looked like boys, younger even than Kazim himself, with fluffy little beards and fervent eyes. There were also half a dozen Hadishah, ordinary men trained to kill. They were clearly overawed by the magi; they gave reverential bows, murmuring names Kazim quickly forgot.