by David Hair
Kekropius patted Alaron’s shoulder before following, leaving the young magi alone.
Cym looked at him. ‘So, oh mighty hero, what’s a “Milkson”?’
He went utterly scarlet, stammered a few incoherent words, and fled.
It was a long time until he got to sleep. He had to ward the Scytale in case someone tried to scry it, though he was fairly sure it had its own wards. Then he had to report to the Elders. Fortunately, there was no sign of pursuit. The last lamia to leave had reported that the unconscious Sydian magi had been tied up and left on the hillside above the camp. Order had eventually been restored among the tribesfolk and they had decamped before dawn and headed north. There had been some deaths when the tribesfolk had panicked – not many, but Alaron regretted even those who had died so he could rescue one woman from unwanted marriage. He wouldn’t hesitate to do the same again tomorrow, but it was a good reminder that in any fight, there would always be losers.
‘So, you now have your woman and this thing you sought,’ Mesuda creaked. ‘You will hold to your promise now and show us to the Promised Land?’ The other Elders leaned in, watching him closely.
Alaron bowed. ‘It will be my honour.’
I’ve got the Scytale back. I’ve rescued Cym. This is the most perfect moment of my life.
20
Tangled Webs
Noros
Argundians go to war for land and honour; Schlessens, for plunder and honour; Rondians, for power and honour; Rimoni, for passion and honour. Only a Noroman goes to war over contract law. They are a nation of shopkeepers and lawyers and they deserve all they will get when the Revolt is quashed.
PHILIPPE L’ORLEI, PALLAS 906
We are men of principle, and a principle holds true whether writ large or scrawled in a margin. Our word is our bond. If a man cannot be trusted, he is no man.
GENERAL LEROI ROBLER, NOROSTEIN, 907
Brochena, Javon, Antiopia
Shawwal (Octen) 928
4th month of the Moontide
‘How fare my king and his sister, Magister Gyle?’ the shaven-headed Jhafi asked softly. Harshal ali Assam was a Nesti man, here in Brochena in strictest secrecy: he wasn’t talking about Francis and Olivia.
Gurvon Gyle, clad in a shapeless Jhafi kirta and wearing a loose turban, glanced about the little pipe-house. The beguiling smoke coiled about the ceiling, but he was close to the only window, and a lifeline of clean air. The other man seemed immune to the stuff; he’d probably grown up smoking it. They were sharing arak and a mezze of dried fruits and roasted nuts.
‘They are both well,’ he said, equally softly. ‘She is in the keep. He is in a safe-house.’
‘Where?’
Gyle smiled. ‘I’ll need more from you before I divulge that, Harshal.’ He paused, then risked letting a secret slip. ‘Have you heard from Elena?’
Harshal’s pupils narrowed as he took that in. So, no then. Good. He’d assumed Elena would go straight to the Nesti, but perhaps not – as they believed that she’d sold Cera out, not the other way round, that was understandable. Letting slip that he didn’t know her whereabouts had been a shot in the dark. And I missed.
‘We have heard she is no longer at the palace,’ Harshal admitted. ‘Have you and she fallen out again?’
Gyle shrugged. Let him think that. ‘If you find her, kill her swiftly, before she persuades you of anything,’ he advised. ‘The woman has a poison tongue.’
Harshal showed no emotion. ‘Why did you ask to meet me?’
Gyle sipped his milky arak. ‘The Dorobon are better in theory than actuality,’ he remarked drily.
‘Debtors rarely enjoy the company of their creditors,’ Harshal remarked, running a hand over his smooth skull. He was an urbane man in his thirties from old Jhafi nobility, well-travelled, and with a considerable personal fortune. He was a connoisseur of wine and olive oil, and a practitioner of Ja’arathi, the milder form of Amteh. His ties to the Nesti were strong, he was well known amongst both Jhafi and Rimoni, and he walked easily among the Harkun nomads. He was a man of many talents, but his first loyalty was to the Jhafi.
‘It looks like you Javonesi have been shocked into submission by the suddenness of the Dorobon strike. No one has retaliated. Are your leaders paralysed by the threat to Cera and Timori?’
Harshal gestured noncommittally. ‘Wars take time to arrange,’ he noted. ‘But we are many, and the Dorobon remain shut in Brochena. The capital is not well blessed with resources. The people leave in their droves to avoid starving. Time is on our side.’
This was all true. The Dorobon appeared to be blind to the possibilities. The refugee columns were growing by the day, and the Dorobon, not understanding that food in this land came from provincial strongholds like Lybis and Forensa, obviously thought letting the commoners go would weaken their enemies, burdening them with extra mouths to feed. But the refugees were no burden to the Aranio and the Nesti: they were fresh manpower.
‘How long will this unofficial truce hold?’
‘For a time,’ Harshal replied, ‘but not for ever. You must remember that we elect our kings here in Javon. If one falls, we will unite behind another. It is a sad truth that very soon we will have elected a new king and Timori and Cera Nesti will no longer be so important. Already we note that the Dorobon are fewer than we feared. Our scouts report only two legions. Your windships have flown away. This truce will not hold for long.’
Gyle nodded slowly, uncomfortably aware that the Javonesi understood the situation quite as well as he did. ‘Listen, Harshal, I am trying my damnedest to keep your prince and princessa alive.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the Dorobon are a disaster waiting to happen. Cera understands this place. Give the situation time. It may all unravel without the need for open battle.’ Good lies should be plausible and contain as much truth as possible – though in truth, he wasn’t sure it was a lie at all. ‘Give it time, Harshal. Tell your masters not to be hasty.’
It was Harshal’s turn to look noncommittal. ‘We hear rumours of some kind of marriage.’
‘They are true,’ Gyle confirmed. ‘I am working to arrange it, to secure Cera’s safety.’
Harshal’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Why?’
‘To secure peace. War is ruinous, man. Believe me, I’ve seen a few and I know.’
‘What does Cera say to this?’
‘She is against it, of course, but she will go through with it for the sake of Javon.’
‘And Francis?’
‘He is lukewarm, and his mother is vehemently opposed. She wants Cera and Timori executed.’
‘The people would be outraged. That would trigger the uprising.’
Gyle spread his hands and assumed his most moderate, reasonable visage. ‘That’s what I tell them.’
Harshal steepled his fingers. ‘Are the Dorobon to be reinforced?’
Gyle smiled and shook his head. ‘Perhaps. How long can you give me before the Jhafi abandon Cera and Timori to their fates?’
‘Maybe three months. Until year’s-end.’
Gyle contemplated that. ‘I can promise you the Dorobon will not be reinforced before then,’ he said carefully. As far as I know they’re not to be reinforced at all. But if I can stall any uprising until I can get reinforcements of my own, I can win this game. Me, not Octa Dorobon, nor anyone else. ‘Hold off any action, please. Let me try to save your king and princessa.’
‘What’s in it for you?’ Harshal enquired. ‘You had King Olfuss murdered. The Nesti are not going to change their minds about you, Gurvon Gyle.’
‘Mater-Imperia Lucia ordered that strike, not me. Elena disobeyed my orders.’
Harshal cocked his head at that. ‘That is not what Elena told me.’
‘She was under orders to reveal the truth to no one,’ Gyle replied smoothly. He couldn’t tell if Harshal believed him or not; the man was too capable a player. ‘I want amnesty, not forgiveness. Lucia is looking for excuses to betray me. I’m ri
cher than her son the emperor and I’ll happily spread it round to escape her clutches.’
He saw that Harshal remained unconvinced but attentive. The hint of money could achieve things that virtue and fidelity could not.
*
Octa Dorobon looked like a constipated toad, squatting on her throne with a look of concentrated agony on her face. Gathered about her were her adherents, the retinue of any great magi house: cousins, nieces and nephews; men and woman who’d married in, seeking advancement; favoured protégés: a gaggle of whining, complaining bitterness with the combined gnostic firepower to level a fortress.
That most of their hatred was focused at him did not trouble Gurvon Gyle, for now at least. It was not beyond possibility that Lucia had ordered his assassination, but he’d taken measures. And in the open light of day, he was careful to walk the line between ruling over them and consulting.
They were gathered in the Small Chamber, which had been Cera’s council room. The Dorobon didn’t do meetings; they sat on thrones and issued decrees they’d decided upon without consulting anyone, least of all him. But his new title meant nothing could happen without his approval. As the only way to relieve him of the title was to let Francis be crowned, and with her son becoming less controllable by the day, this was a cleft stick that was clearly driving Octa mad.
The room was now festooned with shields and busts and pennants of the Dorobon, and a cluster of thrones had been positioned at the far end. The central one was for Francis, once he’d been crowned; for now, it was Gyle’s, seated between mother and son. There was one for Olivia, but it was never used; the daughter of the house had no interest in politics. The council table was gone and there were no other chairs, leaving the advisors standing around the walls, chipping into conversations if they dared.
‘Mother, I have said that I agree with Imperial Envoy Gyle,’ Francis complained into the uncomfortable silence. ‘I want to be crowned under Javonesi protocols.’ So he could marry multiple wives. The boy was positively fixated with the idea of spending his nights surrounded by a bevy of beautiful, exotic women.
‘You are a mage of the Kore, Francis. You will marry Leticia de Gallia or Felice d’Aruelle, or whichever royal pure-blood that I choose for you.’ Octa’s piggy eyes went to Gyle. ‘Magister Gyle will renounce his obscene suggestion.’
Her senior advisor, Fenys Rhodium, the widower of Octa’s dead sister, stepped forward. ‘Only a priest of the Kore may marry your son, milady,’ he said. His pronouncement drew murmurs of agreement.
Gyle ignored him. His own position was strengthening as days passed. He’d made a deal with the Aranio family of Riban to bring in badly needed supplies of fresh food, making sure it was distributed in his name. Despite Octa’s posturing, everyone here knew they needed him. Octa had used Rhodium to try to create her own spy network, but Gyle had quickly set his people onto them, killing a dozen of Octa’s greenbuds in short order. She might suspect he was behind the slaughter of her new agents, but she could prove nothing. His people had long experience in foreign lands, and Rhodium’s Pallas-bred intriguers were no match for experienced killers like himself or Mara Secordin, no matter how pure-blood they might be. And Rutt Sordell was back in a male body – a captured Dorobon agent – and was feeding them whatever misinformation Gyle thought might be helpful.
He turned his attention back to the matter at hand. ‘Milady, let me say it again: there are provisions in the local laws for the king to marry a multitude of women, if he so chooses. It is a way of tying an unsettled realm together. If your enemies have children in line for the throne, would they still be enemies?’ Gyle saw Francis nodding at his words. The young king-to-be saw him as a true friend now, much to his mother’s horror.
‘Doubly so,’ Octa retorted. ‘I have seen brother kill brother for less.’
‘They would have a claim to legitimacy,’ Rhodium agreed, ‘which would make them doubly dangerous.’
‘But you would have those children as hostages,’ Gyle replied evenly.
‘I will not legitimise any child born to my son outside of a Kore-sanctioned marriage,’ Octa boomed.
Francis pouted. ‘I don’t want Leticia or Felice,’ he complained. ‘They’re ugly and dull.’
‘You’ll marry who I tell you to,’ Octa told him. They glared at each other, and Gyle could almost hear the mental conversation: I’m king – I’m your mother – whine, complain – bellow, shriek. He suppressed a smile.
‘Lord Francis,’ Sir Terus Grandienne, the Dorobon household’s most senior knight, interrupted, ‘my men are chafing. When will you let us march on Riban?’ The attempted change of subject was quite deliberate; Sir Terus was one of Octa’s people. She despised the younger knights, Francis’ playmates, who sided with him.
Francis refused to be diverted. ‘I am the king! I want a crown!’ he pouted like a petulant twelve-year-old. The older men tried to hide their scorn while the younger clamoured their agreement. Eyes were cast about, looking for someone to blame, and most went to those kneeling patiently at the far end of the room: Francesco Perdonello and a flock of his Grey Crows, the city’s bureaucrats, laden with law texts for reference. Perdonello was the only remaining member of Cera’s old Inner Council; most had fled to Forensa or died in the north.
Perdonello coughed discreetly. ‘Majesty, until the reconstruction of the constitution to legitimise—’
Francis whirled and flashed his hand as if slapping the air, and thirty feet away, Perdonello reeled at the unseen blow. His Grey Crows cringed behind him.
‘This is my legitimacy!’ Francis shouted, making his periapt glow. ‘I want a crown!’
Gyle watched Perdonello pick himself up. His face was expressionless, despite the fresh welt on his cheek. The head of the Grey Crows was not a man to show emotion, even in dire straits. Ironically, Perdonello had become even more influential since the dissolution of the Inner Council: it was supposed to have put all the power into Octa’s hands, but what the Dorobon did not see, they could not control.
‘The bills are almost completed, sire,’ Perdonello said gravely, as if nothing had happened. ‘Arrangements are being made apace. Next month, sire.’
‘It’s taking too long,’ Francis complained. ‘Everything here takes too long.’
‘The Nesti burned your father’s constitution, sire,’ Perdonello explained. ‘The traditional Javon constitution requires an elected monarch. We are altering the clauses as swiftly as we can, but thought must be given to so many contingencies, and then reviewed by lawmakers before being submitted for your warrant. The process—’
‘Shut up, man! You go on and on! You bore me!’ Francis glowered about him. ‘I’m bored with everything! Damned country: there’s not even anything to hunt here!’
Octa’s mouth pursed in irritation. ‘Francis, grow up. There is more to being a king than feasts and hunts.’
Francis Dorobon clearly didn’t agree. He jabbed a finger at Perdonello. ‘Finish writing your laws this week, man. Send them to me.’ He turned and looked defiantly at his mother. ‘And retain the clauses about polygamy if you want to keep your fingers.’
Perdonello bowed awkwardly from his kneeling position as Francis flounced down from his throne.
‘And Mother, what an excellent suggestion: I want a feast. And something to hunt!’
‘There are mountain lions in the hills to the west,’ Gyle put in.
‘Lions!’ Francis spun towards him. ‘Excellent! I want to hunt lions.’ Gyle half-bowed in acknowledgement as he added, ‘Come, tell me of these great cats.’ He started walking towards the door, but his mother interrupted him.
‘Magister Gyle will join you later,’ she said firmly. ‘We need his … wisdom … on a few more details.’
Francis’ mouth contorted. ‘Kings do not do details. Join me later, Gyle.’ He swaggered out of the room, taking his coterie with him to start the evening’s carousing.
Once they were gone, Octa clapped her hands and barked, ‘Out!’ at
Perdonello and his Crows.
Gyle carefully did not meet Perdonello’s eye as he watched them leave. He wanted to give no hint of the relationship they had been forging of late.
‘Magister Gyle,’ Octa started, once the room was completely empty of all but her own people.
He turned to face her, carefully neutral in his stance. ‘Milady Dorobon.’
The Nesti murdered her husband, he reminded himself, and half her friends.
‘I do not like the way you seek to ingratiate yourself with my son. He is still naïve enough to believe that a man like you might actually wish him well.’
What you’re really worried about is that I might retain his friendship even after I have to give up my role as Envoy, he thought wryly. ‘I won him a throne, milady.’
‘Dorobon force of arms won the throne,’ Sir Terus Grandienne responded coldly. ‘We could have destroyed any army they sent against us.’
‘Well spoken, Sir Terus. We owe you nothing, Gyle.’
‘What use is he, then?’ Rhodium sniffed rhetorically. ‘Apart from entertaining young Francis, that is. Perhaps we should make him the Court Jester?’ A low laugh ran about the room.
‘He knows how to speak with mudskins,’ snickered a niece of Octa’s, a middle-aged battle-mage with double chins and a florid face. ‘Perhaps that’s all he’s good for.’
‘Yes indeed,’ Octa agreed. ‘Let me state plainly: you are not welcome here, Gyle. The Crown may have made you Envoy, but you have outstayed your welcome. Even men of such importance as Imperial Envoys can have accidents. I think perhaps it best that you tender your resignation and leave, before something unfortunate happens.’
Typical Octa: as subtle as an Estellayne bull. He stood and descended from his throne. ‘I will gladly relinquish my role: when your son is crowned, and not before.’ He looked about him, thinking about the three magi in his pay currently watching from spy holes around the room, as well as Rutt Sordell in the young mage right behind Rhodium. ‘I believe I have a hunt to arrange. This session of the court is over.’