Empress of the Fall

by David Hair

  ‘Go and find food and drink,’ he said, to give her some respite, and as she fled, he sat beside his mother and dribbled water between her cracked lips. Up close, her face and neck were a frightening mesh of black, bulging veins.

  Then her head whipped around. ‘Have you got more?’ she croaked.

  His heart had leaped to his mouth but he gasped, ‘Ai, just here.’ He pulled a glass phial from his belt-purse and put it in her hand.

  ‘Thank Ahm for a dutiful son!’ Sakita tried to grasp it, but couldn’t. ‘You’ll need to feed it to me.’ She was getting worse: yesterday she’d got the stopper off herself.

  The first morning after the attack, she’d awakened as soon as they were alone and recited a recipe, saying, ‘Ormutz won’t listen, but I know what I need.’

  The recipe was odd and it took some potion-skill, but he’d always been a diligent student. He couldn’t blame Ormutz for his doubts: with allium, argentum and bismuth, it was more poison than elixir – but Sakita insisted it was the only thing that could save her. ‘Tell no one,’ she’d whispered in his ear before going back to raving about snakes crawling through her skin. On the few occasions she’d been lucid enough to tell him what had happened, she’d been deliberately vague – to ‘protect me’, no doubt . . . Mother, I hope you know what you’re doing.

  He hid the potion as Nakti returned with food and the chief healer, a man in his forties with a bald head and giant moustaches. She deposited her tray and cowered, while Ormutz sat beside Sakita. He examined her eyes, muttering.

  ‘She’s getting worse,’ Waqar accused him. ‘What are you doing to save her?’

  ‘We’re going to try leeches to get the poison from her veins,’ Ormutz replied.

  ‘But the blood-loss might kill her!’

  ‘Not in the volume I propose. I’m confident it will help. Why don’t you go and get some rest, Prince Waqar? Your mother is in good hands.’

  ‘With respect, I’ll stay,’ Waqar replied, thinking, Dear Ahm, he’ll make her worse.

  ‘You are a true inspiration, Prince Waqar,’ Ormutz smarmed, then he added, ‘Please ensure she consumes nothing unless I personally have prescribed it, Prince. Foreign substances could jeopardise her recovery.’

  ‘Of course,’ Waqar replied. Does he know about the elixir? No, if he did, he’d say something.

  ‘Then I wish you goodnight.’ The healer left, clicking his fingers at Nakti to follow.

  Waqar wondered if Jehana knew what had happened, and when the Ordo Costruo would send their healers, even whether Sakita’s elixir was helping or harming her. His thoughts went around and around, leaving him disorientated and afraid and unable to do anything except grip her hand, his eyes fixed on her dark-veined, ravaged face as she slept.

  I’m going to save you, Mother, he promised silently. I swear I will.

  *

  ‘Well, Nephew?’ Rashid Mubarak enquired. ‘How does my sister fare?’ The leech-treatment had been going for two days now, but Waqar had seen no improvement.

  ‘She’s not good. Ormutz is a fool, and nothing he does helps.’

  ‘But he tells me she’s stabilising?’

  Waqar couldn’t believe how indifferent his uncle sounded. But she was the family embarrassment, he reminded himself. Does he even want her to recover? Then he chided himself for having such a thought. My uncle is holding Kesh together in the wake of a horrific murder – he’s under more pressure than anyone.

  ‘Shouldn’t she be improving? When will the Ordo Costruo come? Does Jehana know what’s happened?’

  ‘We’ve sent messages to Hebusalim; I await their arrival, as you do.’ Rashid rubbed his eyes – he looked like he’d been awake for days. ‘How goes your investigation, Nephew?’

  Waqar had made little progress, but he had some thoughts: ‘As you said, Uncle, the official answer, that it was the Ordo Costruo, doesn’t make sense. I believe the killers were very powerful magi, maybe even able to use all sixteen Gnostic Studies.’

  ‘The Merozain Bhaicara?’ Rashid raised an eyebrow. ‘I have no love of them, but murder isn’t their style. And they supported Salim’s pacifism. Why do you think they’re involved?’

  ‘I didn’t say I did. What I found were strange gnostic traces, all identical, even those of spells I’m sure were cast by different magi – but that’s impossible, isn’t it?’

  Rashid’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Are you certain?’

  Waqar had been going over that same question, knowing that the traces were deteriorating by the hour. ‘Perhaps some kind of masking spell? A technique we don’t know?’

  ‘I suppose it’s possible,’ Rashid sighed. ‘I admire your persistence, Nephew: but time is marching. Tend to your mother, and once she recovers, report back to me. I have a new task awaiting you.’

  A new task. That should have enlivened him, but Waqar was exhausted, and all he wanted was to get back to his mother’s side. ‘Yes, Uncle,’ he said, and hurried back to his rooms to fetch another draught of the elixir before returning to his mother’s room. It was after meal-time and the wards were dimly lit, the patients settled for sleep. He made his way quietly, not wishing to disturb the sleeping – then he saw his mother’s door was ajar, and a shadow was moving inside. He padded silently forward and looked inside, and his heart thudded: a black robed figure was bent over Sakita’s withered frame.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, pulling out his dagger.

  19

  The Wronged Man

  The Mage-Knights

  As the magi developed their skills in gnostic combat, it was natural that an elite would form, one restricted as much by wealth and attitude as mage-blood, one that prized martial prowess above all. They became the first mage-knights, obsessed with personal glory, too proud to serve as legion battle-magi, but deadly in single combat. For better or worse, they remain a potent part of the empire’s military might.

  PRIOR SHARDEN, KORE HISTORIAN, 698

  Finostarre, Rondelmar, Yuros

  Aprafor 935

  If the point of being an Incognito was to be anonymous, the ploy had completely failed. When Ril and the Wronged Man entered the lists for the final bout that afternoon, the roar that went up was unmistakable.

  ‘TAKWYTH! TAKWYTH!’ echoed primarily from the Corani ranks, the men for whom Solon Takwyth had been a talisman for victory in the constant border skirmishes against Argundy and Hollenia. Although he was a pure-blood mage-noble, they’d always seen him as one of them: a career soldier. That Ril was now Master-General and Knight-Commander of Coraine hadn’t eclipsed their affection for their former commander.

  But what did surprise Ril was the response that rose from the Pallacian commoners, who were shouting, ‘ENDARION!’ and ‘PRINCE OF THE SPEAR!’. The various chants swirled about the arena. Legion red was dominant, but there were purple pennants aplenty too: deep splashes of colour amid the sea of faces.

  Pearl was in fine fettle, briskly prancing and showing no sign of fear of Takwyth’s venator; the standard legion mount might be much bigger than a pegasus, but it was ungainly and far slower, especially on the ground, where it waddled like a duck – although Takwyth somehow contrived to ride it with grace.

  Ril noticed Takwyth raising his hand to the legion men crying his name. His expression was hidden by the helm, but this had to mean much to him: a redemption, of sorts.

  ‘They’ve got short memories,’ Ril called. ‘You’re a disgraced exile.’

  ‘They know why I left, and most would’ve done the same,’ Takwyth replied. ‘They can sense that your brief ascent is foundering, Endarion. Unrest is spreading through the provinces and vassal-states. You’re blind to it in Pallas, but the people know; they want someone they trust to make things right.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ Ril replied, ‘we’re not foundering. Lyra’s with child, and this tournament will reinforce our reign – especially after I flatten you this afternoon!’

  ‘That won’t happen,’ Takwyth said, his voice devoid of doubt
. ‘You imagine you’re in charge, but you’re just a figurehead – a bad jest. You should hear how they laugh at your name in the provinces.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know; I don’t go to the provinces. I’m too busy here, married to the woman who turned you down.’

  Takwyth turned to face him, his voice suddenly earnest. ‘Listen, Endarion, I never gave you the seniority you thought you merited, and perhaps I erred there. But there’s a crisis coming – this riverreek epidemic, the confidence in Garod Sacrecour’s demeanour, the unrest sweeping through the south – surely even you can feel enemies closing in?’

  ‘Aye, and I’m looking at one right now—’

  ‘Damn you, Ril; I’m not your enemy. I’m a sworn Corani – I want to serve my queen!’

  Ril’s temper flared. ‘Go back into exile, Takwyth. Better yet, go to Hel!’

  Trumpets brayed and as they turned from each other, Ril was angry, knowing he’d let Takwyth win the mind games. They reached the parade ground before the Royal Box and he looked up, focusing on Lyra’s pale face. Beside her, Medelie Aventour was distant and watchful, her eyes flashing between him and Takwyth. Basia was a comforting presence, but when he looked for Jenet, she was missing again. Perhaps her riverreek has worsened? he thought. The gnosis helped, but magi could still get ill.

  If she’d come to my door before Lyra . . . I came so close to falling . . .

  ‘The man whose eye strays has already committed the sin,’ Takwyth murmured as they approached the thrones and dropped to their knees. Ril shot him a venomous – and worried – look. What does he know about it?

  He scarcely heard Lyra recite the rote words about bravery and honour, but he did listen as Medelie, as Regna d’Amore, exhorted them to fight with ‘chivalric prowess’. She ended, ‘May the best man prevail!’ and as they parted, Takwyth’s voice reached him, half sound, half sending: ‘If you can see my lance, it can reach your eye-slit . . .’

  Before Ril could retort, the ‘Wronged Man’ spurred his venator towards his end of the arena.

  Ril was still fuming as he cantered away, and Pearl had caught his skittishness. ‘That prick thinks he can come back and everyone will just fall down at his feet,’ he snapped as he re-joined his friends.

  ‘Then beat him to his knees,’ Gryff replied. ‘But first: take a deep breath.’ He linked minds with Pearl, using the gnosis to settle her.

  ‘Whatever you want to say to Takky,’ Larik added, ‘you can say with a lance.’

  Ril told himself that his friends were right, that he had to clear his head or he was going to end up severely embarrassed, badly injured or dead. And I’ve never beaten him before.

  ‘What do we know about his previous bouts?’

  ‘Well, luckily, one of us has watched them,’ Larik replied drily. ‘His style hasn’t changed: he likes to come in low and drive upwards: velocity by—’

  ‘By weight by cock-size,’ Ril finished irritably. ‘I know the drill—’

  ‘He’s only got a venator,’ Gryfflon put in. ‘They’re slow and can’t manoeuvre. Go in fast and jagged, hit him square while putting him off his blow and it’ll be Brylion all over.’

  Kore’s Blood, I hope so . . .

  They fiddled with his gear while he tried to imagine that it was all over, that he was being acclaimed champion and Takwyth was stretched on the ground. All the while his jitters grew; he barely heard the calls of encouragement. Other days he’d bantered with the crowd, but today he couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  If you can see my lance, it can reach your eye-slit . . .

  Then the marshalls signalled, the crowd exploded, and suddenly there was no more time for words or thoughts. The world shrank from complexity and confusion to a funnel of air and a target he must hit at the end of it. He climbed back into the saddle, patted Pearl and then spurred her into motion . . .

  *

  Cordan Sacrecour looked out through the barred window of their prison-suite, wishing he was four miles away in Finostarre. I just want to be at the tourney, he brooded. Just to watch—

  ‘Cordan, are you ready?’ Coramore called. All her clothes were packed into one of the two canvas saddlebags, but she kept adding trinkets and tokens, cheap girlish nothings that weighed the bag down ridiculously. His just had a few basics and was already strapped closed.

  When I’m emperor, there will be tournaments in Pallas all the time—

  ‘Cordan – someone’s coming!’

  Her words wrenched his mind back to the here and now and he took his sister’s hand as the door wards flared, a key turned and the door opened. The Mutthead stood there, the sword in his right hand dripping blood.

  Coramore squeaked in fear, as Jenet Brunlye appeared behind the giant knight, gesturing for the children to come. ‘Abraxas,’ she said, her odd password. She and Lamgren were both pale as ice, their eyeballs so bloodshot they almost glowed. Jenet held a knife that ran as thick with blood as Mutthead’s blade.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Cordan asked tremulously.

  ‘Shh,’ Jenet hissed. ‘Gather your bags and come, children.’

  But the two children were frozen by the naked ferocity on the faces of their ‘rescuers’: not just the blank, bloody stares and bared teeth, but the uniformity of their expressions, as if they were puppets painted by the same artist.

  Suddenly this room felt like a sanctuary.

  But even had they wanted, there was no turning back now. Jenet thrust Coramore’s bags into her hands, so Cordan hefted his own. Then Sir Bruss Lamgren hauled something into the room: a body, one of the guardsman, who’d been stabbed at least a dozen times.

  Cordan looked at Coramore. I don’t think this is a good idea any more, her eyes were saying.

  ‘Come,’ Jenet rasped, her face feverish. ‘Come!’ She grabbed Coramore’s arm and yanked her towards the door.

  Cordan started to protest, then Bruss Lamgren’s brutish visage turned his way. ‘Move,’ the knight boomed, looking at the boy like he was meat, and Cordan’s protests died in his mouth.

  The halls outside were empty but for the blood on the floor. Cordan glimpsed the maids’ quarters through a half-open door: a pool of ruby-coloured fluid was soaking into a white dress and splattering a pale leg, toes down. They’ve murdered the servants too, those who weren’t given time off to attend the tourney . . .

  He grabbed Coramore’s hand and held on tight as Jenet led them down the back stairs. There were no guards at the back door, but there were more streaks of blood on one wall. A carriage was waiting, and Jenet pushed them inside and shut the door. A figure in a black cloak and hood, wearing a Lantric mask of Jest was already sitting there.

  ‘Who . . . who are you?’ Cordan managed to bleat.

  ‘A friend,’ Jest replied, his voice melodious. ‘One who can make you emperor.’

  *

  At the top of his run, Ril slammed his visor down, blanking an unwanted image of a lance-head punching through the grille. I will prevail, he told himself, over and over. Then the ribbon dropped, both jousters jammed their heels into the flanks of their steeds and Pearl began to pump her wings and pick up speed. Half a mile away, Takwyth’s venator did the same.

  Right, here we go . . .

  But Takwyth was late to the first mark and they had to reset their approach. Ril doubted it was nerves, more likely a ploy to give him more time to worry. But the second time the red flare flashed across the sky, the crowd howled and Ril sent Pearl spiralling down towards the approach circle. He burst through the ring, perfectly aligned, and saw a big shape sweeping towards him.

  Takwyth’s lance was set high.

  He’s going to take my head off.

  The stands on either side became a tunnel of darkness as they blurred towards each other, but at the last moment Ril remembered that damned phrase about lances finding visors and committed the cardinal sin—

  —he flinched, pulled slightly right and unbalanced Pearl.

  Takwyth’s lance slammed into his targ
et, a perfect hit, hammering Ril sideways, throwing them into a spin; but his harness held and they righted themselves a few feet above the nets and shot along the arena and climbed again. A marshall on a venator swooped in to see how he fared.

  Rukka! He waved the man away. The first point went to Takwyth – but he was still on his steed, and still in the game. He took Pearl round and landed, seeking water, playing for time to regain his composure.

  ‘The bastard!’ he railed as Gryff grabbed Pearl and soothed her again. ‘New cinches – new harness,’ he shouted unnecessarily. ‘Something almost gave!’

  Yes, me! I flinched. It was the worst thing he could have done, and on the most important pass of his life. He ground his teeth, silently berating himself. Larik was babbling encouragement, but he wasn’t listening; he just wanted to get back into the saddle and rectify this. He snatched the reins from Gryff, snapped something brusque at Larik and swung back onto Pearl’s back. ‘Not your fault, pooty-girl. You did well. It was me. My fault.’

  This time, he goes down!

  The second pass came around fast, the five minutes between vanishing – and that suited Ril fine – he didn’t want to dwell on that last run. As the brazier lit, Pearl swirled and dropped, they ripped through the approach in the fastest dive he could remember, too fast to try and manoeuvre. But he was solid, and this time he didn’t waver as the lances struck. The power of Takwyth’s blow almost tore him from the saddle, but it was countered in the same instant by his own lance. Both poles broke as they thundered by, and he screamed in relief.

  The crowd shrilled in appreciation, and he felt such a burst of relief and exhilaration he reeled in the saddle . . . but it wasn’t enough: he was a full point behind. If he failed to unseat Takwyth in the final pass, he would lose.

  I refuse to lose . . .

  ‘Keep low, drive in on him,’ Larik kept telling him. Gryff just slapped his shoulder greaves and yelled, ‘Come on!’ in his face. He barely noticed: the world had shrunk and all he could focus on was Takwyth now. Only this mattered. The interval was gone in a blink, and then he was stroking Pearl’s flank, three hundred yards above the ground, and whispering, ‘Come on, pooty-girl, you can do it.’