by David Hair
Their mystic communion ended as suddenly as it had began. Mesuda raised her hand. ‘Speak, Hypollo. What is your verdict?’
Hypollo studied Alaron, his giant reptile head cradled on one fist. ‘Eat him. He is a danger to the people.’
If I go right, and jump, I might stand a chance …
Mesuda bobbed her head. ‘Kekropius?’
‘I believe in my wife’s visions,’ he said, as Alaron had hoped – no, prayed.
‘Reku?’
Reku clasped her hands together, measuring Alaron with beady eyes. ‘Gut him slowly, to bring out the juices, then strangle him with his intestines to seal in the flavour. Cook him with apple and cloves.’
Kore’s blood! He glanced over his left shoulder. There was a cleft there too, but he suspected it went straight down to the pool. No, I should go right.
All eyes went to Mesuda. The crone bowed her head. ‘Then my vote is the casting one. Hear me! The first rule of we lamiae is that no outsiders shall ever know of us and live. In times of doubt we must revert to the core tenets of our people.’ She looked sadly at Alaron. ‘I am sorry child, but I concur with my fellow elders. You must die.’
Alaron stared in disbelief. These people had rescued him from certain capture, torture and death. That they now would dismiss him with so little consideration, and decide to eat him – to eat him – was more than he could take in. His senses were flooded with stunned, meaningless detail, even as his reflexes bade him move, to flee or to fight.
‘No!’ he shouted, ‘no, you can’t! I’ve got to find Cym!’ He threw his head about wildly, seeking an escape. ‘I’ve got to help her make it to—’
A heavy hand fell on his shoulder and bent him over backwards. Kessa’s mouth opened above him, twin fangs erupting from her upper mouth. She wrenched him to her and bit, her teeth puncturing his throat like knives of ice. He stared up at her as she released him, looking down at him with softly dilating eyes. He slid down her body, his cheeks brushing her breasts and belly as if he were spending his last moments of life in some idiot attempt to seduce her. Then the ground rose up and smacked him in the face – and all the while, his mouth tried inanely to finish his last sentence—
‘—Hebu … salim … !’
His hearing and sight faded until the world dissolved softly into a vague blur of nothing.
9
A Dream of Escape
Magi Longevity
One of the benefits of the gnosis is longevity. Partly this is derived from active and conscious exercise of the gnosis: use of Healing and Shape-mastery are particularly efficacious, as is the darker art of Necromancy. Just being magi seems to impart greater resistance to illness and harm. The Ascendants lived four or five times the normal span. Pure-bloods can expect to live two centuries, and notable benefits are also enjoyed by lesser magi. Of course, they are also in the front line of the military, so the perils are often great also.
ORDO COSTRUO COLLEGIATE, PONTUS
Brochena, Javon, Antiopia
Shaban (Augeite) 928
2nd month of the Moontide
Molmar put the skiff down several miles southwest of Brochena in an uninhabited bit of desert where empty ditches and mounded earth spoke of failed irrigation programmes. By dawn they were installed in a safe house in the slums of Brochena. Kazim and Jamil sat with their fellow assassins on a verandah before a paved courtyard where Gatoz and Magister Sindon were talking to a man with a smoothly shaven skull and an urbane manner. He was Jhafi, but apparently known to the Hadishah; he was introduced as ‘Zan’, and he welcomed them to the city.
‘It will take days to arrange the attack,’ Gatoz told the group. ‘Magister Sindon and Zan-saheeb will arrange this, while we keep to ourselves. We must stay hidden.’ He glanced at Zan, gesturing for him to speak.
‘The information we have,’ Zan said, ‘is that there are secret passages in the central keep. A sharp-eyed agent of mine detected Gurvon Gyle emerging from such a passage, thinking himself unseen. He appears to be in contact with Cera Nesti, the Javon Queen.’ The man sounded pained by this revelation, as though he had something invested in this queen, an attachment that had been betrayed. ‘My people have not made any move, knowing such a mage to be beyond us. Instead, we contacted your masters.’
‘Tell us about Gurvon Gyle,’ Gatoz said.
Zan licked his lips. ‘He is a Rondian mage who was hired by King Olfuss to protect him and his family. He betrayed that trust and the king died. However, one of Gyle’s agents, a woman named Elena Anborn, apparently betrayed Gyle, protected the king’s children, Cera and Timori Nesti, and helped restore Nesti rule. I say “apparently” as it now appears that Gyle, though hidden, is again working with Elena Anborn.’
‘Is this Anborn woman a target also?’ Jamil asked.
Gatoz broke in, ‘Certainly. She is a Rondian mage. But Gyle is the main target.’
‘What about the Nesti queen?’ Molmar asked, his voice indifferent.
Zan responded, ‘Cera Nesti was fervently in favour of the shihad. I believe Gyle has used his gnosis to gain a hold over her. If we kill the snake, his venom will drain away.’ He looked about him for more questions, and when there were none, went on, ‘The Nesti in Brochena are mustering for war, and many Jhafi are joining them, for love of the queen. They are due to march north in a week or so. Their target is Hytel, a northern city.’
‘If we can find Gyle, we will kill him before they march,’ Gatoz put in.
‘How will we find him?’ Jamil asked.
‘I will find him,’ Magister Sindon put in, his usually mild voice vehement. ‘I know Gyle, believe me. I have used his services before, and he trusts me.’
There was more, but it was mostly detail. Kazim neither knew nor cared about Gurvon Gyle or Cera Nesti; he found his attention wandering and wondered instead where Ramita was. It hurt to be estranged from her, but increasingly he could see no future for them. The world was pulling them apart.
If the children belong to Meiros, then she will hate me doubly – but if they are mine, they too will be Souldrinkers. Better that they drown at birth.
Slowly, the light that was his love for Ramita was going out, the taint of what he had done, and what he was, tarnishing all that had once been so bright. It was so wrong, to have loved her for so long, only to have it all come down to this numbness. For the first time he asked himself: if you were offered her back, would you take her, knowing the distress it would cause her?
To his shock, the answer was – he really didn’t know. And that hurt.
*
Brochena, what little they saw, was a strange place to Kazim. It reminded him a little of Hebusalim, the way the architecture had traces of both east and west, but here it was the Rimoni influences he noted most, in the straight lines and columns, and the sun and moon faces adorning the largest buildings. He saw no Rimoni in person, though. Master Zan told them that the Yuros immigrants mostly dwelt closer to the palace. ‘They have the money,’ he said simply, his tone more neutral than Kazim might have expected. Zan looked rich himself, or at least the child of privilege.
The next three days were a strange, surreal dreamscape of boredom and nervous tension. They could not go out, nor could they train, in case the noise drew attention. They were shown no plans, given no briefings; the only order was a terse, ‘Not today,’ from Gatoz every midday. The Nesti soldiers were mustering and drilling west of the city, and many Jhafi were going to march as well, in support of this mini-shihad to Hytel.
‘Why is Gyle here?’ Kazim emerged from his misery enough to ask Jamil.
‘I’ve no idea,’ was all Jamil could answer.
What Kazim couldn’t bring himself to ask was whether Jamil knew what Gatoz had done at the Krak. He felt himself sinking further into a kind of despair, in which innocents would be slain until he turned into precisely the sort of monster Rashid and Sabele wanted him to be. His only consolation was that as he’d not used the gnosis since that incident, his well was full, an
d he did not suffer from that gnawing hunger. Time dragged by in iron chains while he bottled his fury. The noise of the city outside barely penetrated their walls; inside, hours were frittered away on dice, cards and sleep.
*
Finally the day came, though there was nothing about it to distinguish it from any other. Kazim woke late, having lain on his pallet wondering where Jai was. And Keita, the girl his brother – if Jai could still be called that – had taken south. She was pregnant too, like his Ramita. Plump, needy Keita, who snared my soft Lakh brother. He hoped they were faring well.
They were all mooching about the courtyard when Gatoz walked in and clapped his hands, calling them to attention. They expected to be stood down again, but instead he said simply, ‘Tonight.’
That one word shook their minds awake.
After that, all was preparation: oiling bowstrings and sharpening blades, daubing their faces with wet soot so they would better blend with the shadows, festooning themselves with weapons, then limbering up gently, in readiness for action. Jamil tried once again to tell him how to enhance his blade or his arrows so that they could better penetrate a gnosis-shield. Though he barely listened, the words were seeping into his subconscious; he could feel them there, churning around, as he tried to determine which made him more guilty: to use his power or to not use it.
Just before dusk, Haroun led the whole group in prayer, choosing verses from the Kalistham that reminded them that the greatest goal of every warrior of Ahm had to be to give his life for his brothers. ‘Only you, Ahm, are constant, in this shifting, changing world. Only you are real. We are but the dream you dream. How can a man know what is truth without you, for you are the only truth.’
‘There is only Ahm,’ the men responded, over and again.
Haroun finished and blessed them, his palms held high to heaven. ‘Ahm be with you.’
Then the Hadishah blended with the night and went seeking their prey.
*
Cera and Timori Nesti looked out over the city as it heaved with activity. Even up here on the balcony she could hear the clang of the hammers in the smithies, the calls of the traders, the rattle of the wagons and the tramp of the soldiers. The balcony faced north, overlooking parade grounds where ten thousand Nesti soldiers were readying for the march north. Two days, she thought, frightened and strangely empty. She clutched Timi’s shoulder as her eyes became wet and unfocused.
It was all coming to an end, the odyssey that had begun when Elena Anborn had saved Timori and her from Gurvon Gyle. For a time she’d held her courage and with Elena had reclaimed the kingdom. But that had been just an illusion. Look how quickly Gyle had stolen back into her palace, unseen and untouchable, and shown her just how easily he could destroy them if he wished. She, Timi and everyone they loved would be killed unless she did as he demanded. All she had to do to end this, he’d told her, was to betray Elena.
But he’d lied: that was just the beginning.
A ruler must make hard choices, without loyalty or malice. Elena herself had taught her this lesson when tutoring her on politics, so she’d done just that. But she couldn’t live with that choice now. It ate at her guts and accused her every time she looked in the mirror. Now only one betrayal remained. Gyle had promised it would be bloodless: an encounter with the Dorobon, an honourable surrender, and after that, her brother could live in peace, subservient to the Dorobon but still alive.
‘When do you march?’ Timi asked eagerly. Like everyone else, he believed that they were marching to an easy victory.
‘In two days, darling,’ she told her little brother – not so little anymore; he was eight now, and thought himself a warrior. They’d even made him a sword, and armour, with a helmet to fit his little head, to keep it safe. He thought he was so grown up.
‘We’re going to win,’ the boy-king said fiercely.
‘Of course, she said, trying not to cry.
She turned her eyes to the east, where Mount Tigrat shone in eternal snow, high above the deserts. The peak was far away, on the edge of sight, a white gleam amidst the shadowy line of the mountains. The distances were deceptive: it looked near, walking distance perhaps, but in truth it was almost fifty miles away across the plains. One of the old tales of Javon was that the old pagan gods, predating the coming of Ahm, dwelt on the peak. Another story had the mountain hollow, housing a city of afreet. She wished she were a mage and could conjure a host of afreet to fight for her, like in the fairy tales. But only Shaitan-spawned Rondians had such powers in this world: evil white men and women with devious minds and cruel hearts.
‘Majesty?’ a voice called. Tarita, her maid. The young Jhafi girl had been Elena’s maid, but now Elena didn’t have one. Because she’s not really Elena anymore. Cera had taken Tarita in so that she would not be thrown onto the streets, or worse. ‘Majesty, it is time for the king’s bath.’ She had Timi’s nanny, Borsa, with her.
Timi pulled a face. ‘I don’t need a bath,’ he declared. He looked up at Cera and noticed her tears. ‘Cera, why are you crying?’
Cera wiped her eyes. ‘I was just thinking of Mother and Father,’ she lied. I should have been: I think of them too little. ‘Go and bathe, dearest.’
Borsa led the boy-king away, promising him a treat afterwards, and the banal conversation filled Cera with longing for simpler times. But they never were so simple. There were always enemies and plots and dangers; I was just too young and blind to see them.
‘Madam?’ Tarita still waited on her.
‘Go on ahead, Tarita. I shan’t need you until I change for dinner.’ She waited until the maid had gone, then stood, waiting for the inevitable sound behind her.
‘Cera,’ Gurvon Gyle said softly from the shadows, impossibly close.
She tried not to show that he could still frighten her by mere stealth. ‘What do you want?’
‘To see you,’ Gyle responded.
She screwed up her nose. He’d taken to teasing her like this, telling her that she was intelligent and comely, as if kind words from him meant anything. He was trying to give her confidence for what was to come, she knew, but praise means nothing when you know it for lies. ‘You’ve seen me. Go away.’
Gyle tutted softly. ‘Be calm, Cera. We’ve not far to go now. A march north, a parley, and it will all be over.’ He stepped to her side, still partly in shadow. ‘You’ve done well. Your councillors suspect nothing.’
‘I don’t want your praise.’
‘You’ve earned it.’
‘Deception is not praiseworthy.’
He snorted softly, gazing across the desert as the westering sun carved long shadows across the sands, and the alleys of the city filled up with darkness. ‘I need Elena this evening,’ he told her.
‘She is no longer Elena,’ Cera said automatically. Because of my betrayal.
‘No, she is not,’ Gyle agreed. ‘But I need her, nevertheless.’
‘Why?’ she asked, not expecting a reply.
‘A meeting. Nothing more.’ He touched her arm. ‘Another will be watching you,’ he said. ‘Someone who can reach out and touch you as easily as I do now.’
She shuddered from his touch on her skin but didn’t move. He stroked her upper arm and stared at her profile. His eyes and fingers gave her a creepy sensation, as if she was a bird and he a cat. ‘Please, I need to be alone,’ she said at last.
He stroked her cheek. ‘You’re going to need a protector, Cera,’ he told her. ‘Someone to remind Francis Dorobon that you cooperated in all ways and are no longer a threat.’
She swallowed, while her skin prickled and her blood ran cold.
‘I admire you, Cera,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You rallied your people at the moment of need. You fooled Elena, which I seldom managed. You know how to lead, and you understand the power of knowledge. You made a fine queen – you would have made a fine mage.’
‘The last thing I would want is to be one of you,’ she said bitterly, knowing she was lying.
‘I
could get you into Dorobon’s bed – he’s an arrogant boy who thinks himself cultured and sophisticated, but he has no depth. Not like us. Work with me on this and you will still be Queen in the end. You can still have all you dream of.’
‘You don’t know what I dream,’ she whispered hoarsely.
‘I think I do,’ he replied. ‘You dream of power. I, and only I, can give it to you.’
You murdered my father, you bastard …
‘Gurvon,’ said a rasping female voice from within the room behind. Not-Elena – Rutt Sordell – was there, glowering sourly. ‘It’s time to go.’
Gyle nodded, his eyes still on Cera. ‘Think on it, Princessa,’ he said softly. ‘You need a protector. You need me.’
She turned away in stony silence so that he wouldn’t see her face.
*
Gurvon Gyle strode confidently along the secret passage, the gnosis-light from his sapphire ring illuminating the way. Elena–Rutt came after him. Elena would have kept up easily, but in these few weeks of possession, Sordell had been destroying his host’s physical fitness; Elena looked puff-faced and pudgy about her belly and hips. Her hair was greasy and unwashed, another lapse the real Elena would never have allowed. The real Elena exuded health and energy. Sordell was ruining her.
Elena must be hating that …
‘Keep up, we’re late,’ he growled.
‘You’re the one who wanted to see the little princessa,’ Sordell reminded him. ‘Are you fucking her?’
‘It was necessary to see her,’ Gyle replied tersely. He bounded down more stairs, feeling a grim satisfaction when Sordell struggled to catch up. ‘And no, I’m not.’
‘You should,’ Sordell rasped. His throat wound was still agonisingly painful, or so he said. Sordell had always been a whiner. ‘It would utterly piss Elena off.’
‘Giving you shit, is she?’ Gyle asked unsympathetically.
‘You’ve no idea,’ Sordell panted. ‘Damn it, Gurvon, this has gone on too long. Find me another body. A male one.’