by David Hair
Then a wagon rolled by, an open-framed animal cage on the back, stuffed with another dozen or more infected men, women and children, all shaking, pale and red-eyed with streaming noses and bloodshot eyes. Ril held his breath as they passed, and shuddered as a young boy with pleading eyes reached out towards him through the bars: an impotent, useless gesture.
‘Riverreek was never this bad,’ Basia muttered.
Setallius nudged Ril. ‘Let’s go somewhere we can talk.’
They found a near-deserted tavern, the only other person present the old woman behind the bar. Her hands shook as she poured for them; her nose was streaming and she kept wiping her hands through the trail of mucus – by the time she’d brought their drinks, not even Larik and Gryff wanted a drop.
‘What do we do?’ Ril asked.
‘The way I see it, we have two options,’ Setallius replied. ‘We go in soft or we go in hard. We could do it subtly, creep in and look around, but the problem with that is that if we’re noticed, messages will be swiftly passed and the children hidden again. The quarantine area is a mile long and half as wide; it’s a veritable maze of ramshackle buildings wedged together. The chances of just the four of us finding anyone there is minimal – but if I bring in the Guard, whoever’s got them will get plenty of warning.’ He sighed heavily, and looked around the table. ‘Any thoughts?’
‘I still have a couple of Cordan’s old periapts, enough for one more scrying attempt,’ Basia offered. ‘The trouble is, we don’t know where to start from. So I can’t do my “snail-trail” trick; whatever I do will be a short, sharp jab, just to try and punch through any wards and scry him.’
‘The longer we go without finding them, the more chance we never will, in my view,’ Ril said. ‘If we’ve only got one shot, then let’s try it now.’
‘I agree with that,’ Singolo said. ‘We have to move fast: scry the boy, locate him, even roughly, then flood the area with men and tear it apart.’
‘One chance . . .’ Setallius mused. ‘It’s a lot to place on one spell, but I think I agree.’ He leaned in. ‘Listen. Here’s what we’ll do . . .’
*
Setallius and Singolo left to set up arrangements and Gryff and Larik went for a look around, leaving Ril and Basia alone with a bottle of wine which had arrived corked and waxed, so they could trust the contents. Ril looked at Basia admiringly. For someone who’d lost all that she had, and missed out on so much more, she constantly amazed him. ‘You, Singolo – you’re not ordinary people, are you?’
‘Dirk recruits among the overlooked,’ Basia replied. ‘Ordinary magi end up as knights, battle-magi, clergymen or scholars. It’s misfits like me who join the Volsai.’
‘I don’t know any other Volsai,’ Ril replied, ‘but I’ll take your word for it.’
‘You might be surprised who you know,’ Basia said with a smile. ‘One of Lyra’s ladies; one of your personal guard, a few servants – most of our people aren’t magi, just ordinary people who supplement their pay by passing on information.’
‘What, secrets and the like? Who’s screwing whom?’ Ril wrinkled his nose. He despised tattlers and sneaks.
‘They risk their lives for your safety, O Mighty Prince,’ Basia replied. ‘But actually, it’s mostly just statistics: the number of travellers through the city gates, a few names if they’re prominent citizens – so that Dirk can see the patterns. We’d love to know more, but we don’t have the resources.’
They sipped the wine – it was very average – then Ril asked softly, ‘Do you still dream about the well?’
Basia exhaled heavily. ‘I used to, but Dirk used mystic-gnosis to filter the memories. Before that, I’d wake up screaming every night.’
‘I couldn’t stand enclosed spaces, not for years,’ Ril admitted. ‘No closed curtains – I had to be able to see the sky, every second. I still won’t go underground.’
Basia looked at him, her eyes filled with empathy. ‘What a pair we are.’ She unstrapped her legs and rubbed the joints through her breeches, wincing and sighing at the pain-pleasure. ‘By evening, I’m a wreck,’ she said.
‘And healing, morphic-gnosis, still can’t do anything more?’ Ril asked. ‘There’s nothing new come up?’
‘We’ve tried everything – every trick in the book, and a few more besides – but the truth is, the energy needed to make something from nothing is so unbelievably massive, and the pain is excruciating. Even trying to extend my thigh-bones a little – I just couldn’t do it. I accepted what I am a long time ago, and now I just make the best of it. Dirk taught me how to do that. He was very gentle with me.’
Gentleness wasn’t something Ril associated with Setallius. ‘Do you love him?’ He’d never dared ask that before, but this felt like the right moment.
‘Of course – but not in the way you mean. He’s twice my age, Ril, and his passion is his work. And I’ve come to terms with living without that sort of thing, you know that. Look, can we talk about something else?’
‘Holy Kore, Fantoche,’ he sighed. ‘One day things will be better.’
Other patrons came in from time to time while they chatted, but not enough for a small tavern to survive on. Then Setallius and Singolo reappeared, wraithlike in the mists that rolled in late in the afternoon. ‘It’s nearly dusk, and I’ve got three centuries of City Guard moving into position outside the quarantine zone,’ Setallius told them. ‘They’ll be ready in an hour, when the second night-bell rings. A few minutes before that, Basia will cast her scrying so we can get a sense of where they need to be, then we’ll get them inside as swiftly as possible.’
‘What if there’s resistance?’ Singolo wondered.
‘I’ve told the centurions I want no casualties, but if swords are drawn against them, they must protect themselves.’ He stood up. ‘There’s a church on the edge of the quarantined area; the steeple overlooks the whole place: we’ll cast the spell there so Basia has a chance of aligning her scrying with visible landmarks.’
They took to the streets, six cloaked figures wrapped up against the night. There were guardsmen on patrol but few others out, as if there was an undeclared curfew. Saint Chalfon’s Church was built into a block of shops, barely distinguishable except for the religious icons over the door and the steeple above. Setallius opened the doors with a spell and they stole inside, shivering at the dank air. There was a crossed-keys-and-tree motif on a bronze plaque before the altar, Ril noticed in passing, and grilled openings in the floor partially illuminated the catacombs below. He wondered where he’d be buried, then banished that morbid thought and followed the others up the bell-tower stairs.
At the top, there was just room for them all to sit, legs dangling into the belfry, facing a heavy bronze bell. Moonlight shone down through the slates, carving bars in the darkness. The sea of roofs stretched north and south; the dimly lit bulk of Emtori Heights blocked out the west. Eastwards, the Bastion and Celestium cast glowing reflections into the turbulent Aerflus. Pallas looked positively Imperial tonight: a prize worth defending.
‘There have always been close ties between Emtori and the Celestium,’ Setallius commented. ‘Argundians take their religion seriously. During the Canonical Crisis of 818, the grand prelate preached against Emperor Voscarus and demanded Scripture-based laws for the entire empire. Voscarus regarded this as an attempted coup and blockaded the Celestium, trying to starve the clergy into submission. Many in Emtori supported the Celestium and at night they ran the blockade from here in Surrid. The clergy held out for nine months, by which time there wasn’t a rat or toad left in Fenreach Swamp. Then Voscarus seized the Surrid and Aerside docks and arrested a number of families, and that finally broke the smugglers.’
Setallius didn’t give history lessons for nothing. ‘Where are you going with this?’
‘Well, if I were a grand prelate who’d never forgiven the Corani for stealing both the royal children and Lyra Vereinen from under my nose, recovering the children and restoring them might be something
I wanted to do. But the Celestium is a cesspit of treachery, and Wurther knows I have many agents there. So in many ways, hiding them in Emtori until he’s prepared the ground for a coup makes sense.’
‘And,’ Basia added, ‘the prelates are gathering in Synod at the end of Junesse, less than two months away.’
Ril ran his fingers through his hair. Could this be true? Church versus Crown? The looks on Setallius and Basia’s faces told him they believed it possible.
Basia pulled out the last of Cordan’s failed periapts. It was time to cast her spell. She conjured a swirl of light, cupped it in her hands and began muttering – not magical words, as the ignorant thought, just a litany of reminders to engage all her senses. Moments crawled by; a difficult scrying was never an instant thing. While Gryff and Larik kept watch, Ril, Dirklan and Mort held their breath, waiting.
Then a small lance of light shot away south; Basia threw her hand out in the same direction and kept it extended. ‘That way; perhaps half a mile,’ she panted, then the light fizzled away in a cloud of tiny sparks and she sagged against Ril, who was staring in the direction she’d pointed.
‘There . . . see that tall building among the roofs? There!’
‘I know the place,’ Setallius said, conjuring light of his own now. A face appeared: a helmed man. ‘Centurion, seal off the blocks either side of the Shipping Inspector’s Offices on Washgate Road.’ He dismissed the image and already heading for the stairs, conjured another. ‘Washgate Road,’ he cried, ‘move in!’
*
By dawn, it was apparent that Setallius and his men weren’t going to find the children easily. Ril had carried Basia down to a pew and watched over her as she drowsed until eventually he slept too, so that when the cleaners arrived in the predawn gloom to prepare for the sunrise mass, they were startled to find their Prince-Consort asleep with a strange woman.
More fuel for the gossips, Ril sighed as he and Basia left to meet the spymaster at the northern gates.
‘Nothing,’ Setallius told them. ‘We’ve found nothing.’
Ril cursed silently. ‘Was there any trouble?’
‘None. The Kirkegarde stood aside and let us in. The people inside – Kore’s Blood, it’s pitiful in there. We need to get many more healer-magi in here. These quarantines are being woefully neglected, and that was never the intention.’
‘So what now?’ Basia asked.
‘We keep looking. We’re still uncovering cellars and below-ground basements that even the homeowners claim to have been unaware of, so something could still turn up. But for now, you two might as well return to the Bastion.’
It felt like a defeat, to return to Lyra and admit that the axe was still hanging over their heads.
*
‘Did they come close?’ Angelstar asked in his flat, menacing voice.
Ostevan, masked as Jest, wasn’t alone in the Vertonius chapel; Jenet Brunlye and Bruss Lamgren were lurking like statues in the shadows. It was too risky for them to be seen abroad, but he still had uses for them. His fellow Masks were just projected images. ‘They came close,’ he admitted.
‘I was near enough to Cordan to sense the scrying,’ Lady Tear said pensively. ‘I have no idea how a scrying could penetrate the combination of wards and solid stone, but someone did – I took the children deeper and sealed the tunnel behind me. No subsequent attempt was made.’
‘Something personal to the prince?’ Twoface suggested.
‘Possibly,’ Tear agreed, ‘but the crisis is over. We still have our prizes, and the day we strike approaches.’
Ostevan had theories about his fellow conspirators’ identities and motivations, but in truth, he wasn’t certain of any of his guesses. Angelstar was clearly a knight, and he was only interested in the Celestium, so a Kirkegarde man, then, or Inquisition. Twoface also had the bearing of a knight, but his personality seemed uneven, as if he were conflicted within. Twofaced indeed. And Tear was a puzzle: definitely a Corani, like himself, but very much against Lyra – someone of ambition who saw herself as wife of an emperor, perhaps? He thought she was young, maybe thirty or so, but that might be illusion; what was clear was her shrewd callousness.
‘Let’s talk about that day,’ he suggested.
‘Yes,’ said Twoface, ‘we know the plan, but some details are unresolved.’
‘Very well’ – Tear spoke tersely – ‘on the first day of Darkmoon, the last week of Junesse, we’ll strike at both Bastion and Celestium. Our “Reekers” will create disorder and keep the Guard busy. Queen Lyra will be taken and sent to the Master. The senior Corani supporting her will be slain, and those we control installed in their place. Cordan will be presented to Garod Sacrecour at dawn when he arrives to restore order.’ She paused, then said, ‘I have my own plans for Coramore.’
‘She’s yours,’ Angelstar said. ‘Only Cordan matters.’
‘The time has come to choose our roles,’ Twoface said. ‘There are two targets, and four of us: two of us need to be in the Bastion, and two in the Celestium. Both are formidable objectives – we can’t favour one over the other.’
‘My place is in the Bastion,’ Tear said. ‘I’m indifferent to the Celestium.’
‘As I am to the Bastion,’ Angelstar replied. ‘Once Wurther is deposed, I will secure the Rymfort.’ That aligned with Ostevan’s suspicions about his identity. ‘What of you, friend Jest?’
Behind his mask, Ostevan bit his lip. He’d been delaying his choice, seeking a sign – not an actual ‘sign’, of course; he wasn’t a Sydian shaman! – but some small event that would tilt his decision. His bitterness towards Dominius Wurther had drawn him back to Pallas, and that hadn’t faded. But Lyra Vereinen intrigued him: she mattered, and he was increasingly sure she could be of immense value to him. The rapport he’d cultivated with her made him ideally placed to be the one who took her.
But to be Grand Prelate is why I started on this path in the first place . . .
He glanced at Twoface, who was also undeclared. ‘You first?’
‘The Bastion,’ Twoface said shortly.
‘Then I shall take the Celestium,’ Ostevan decided, wondering if there was some way of fulfilling both desires. ‘Brothers, Sister: I strongly believe Queen Lyra should be captured intact, not infected.’
Tear rounded on him. ‘My understanding is that the Master insists she be infected that night, and she shall be.’ The malice in her voice conveyed very personal feelings toward Lyra Vereinen.
Twoface remained silent.
‘But if she is, as we suspect, a dwymancer, infecting her may destroy her ability to use the dwyma—’
‘We don’t know that,’ Tear interrupted. ‘We will proceed as the Master desires.’
Ostevan bowed his head, feigning concession. ‘You’re right, of course. Let’s get busy then. The chosen date is approaching swiftly and we have much to prepare.’
‘Where are we with the prelates?’ Angelstar asked.
‘I have “persuaded” fourteen to join us. You?’
‘I have eleven, and the rest will be thinking our way, come the time. Wurther will stand alone.’
Soon after the meeting broke up, but Ostevan left his awareness lingering in the aether, just on a suspicion . . . and sure enough, another presence duly reformed.
Twoface turned his genial half-face towards him. ‘Brother Jest, why should the queen matter to you?’ he asked. ‘I thought your goals were aligned to the Holy City?’
Ostevan considered, then carefully asked, ‘Have you noted that in all our dealings, the Master has never shown the slightest fear of anything or anyone – except the dwyma. And here we have someone who could be the first dwymancer in five hundred years and he wants her enslaved and potentially ruined.’
Twoface’s mask seemed to smile more floridly still. ‘And you worry that one day, when we have won the world for our Master, that he might not feel so benignly toward those who won him his throne? So you desire a weapon against him?’
Ostevan was
impressed. ‘I’ve underrated you, Brother Twoface.’
‘Brother Jest, when you win us the Celestium, you’ll control access to the heart of dwyma on Urte: the Shrine of Saint Eloy. I will ensure that it is I who takes the queen, not Tear. After that, I believe we may find much in common.’ He half bowed his head and departed, and Ostevan returned his awareness to the darkened chapel.
He removed the Jest mask and basked in the unfolding of a new dream: Emperor-Pontifex, with daemonic powers in one hand and a dwymancer queen beside me . . . a partnership none could withstand . . .
28
Spirit-Caller
Hermetic: Animism
It may sound trite to say that becoming a beast for a while changes you, but it does: you’re never the same after you’ve eaten grass or raw flesh or flown or run or crawled with limbs that are not human. Your whole perspective of life changes. What did it teach me? That we are, all of us, both predator and prey.
HERARD RAMOSEZ, ESTELLAN BATTLE-MAGE, 901
Mollachia, Yuros
Maicin 935
Sacrista Delestre drifted through churned snow and charred timbers, prodding at the bodies of men whose faces she vaguely recognised. The scout who’d found them said he’d heard fighting and seen the flames, but the fray was over before he could intervene. She doubted he’d tried too hard.
He heard them chant ‘Sarkany’ – so Kyrik, or Valdyr?
There had been similar raids all over the kingdom, men appearing like phantoms around dusk and killing savagely, but this was the first time they’d killed a battle-mage. Of course, few of the battle-magi even went on patrols – they were far more likely to be found anywhere the drink flowed and the fires were warm, depleting her brother’s wine cellar and making whores of the daughters of Hegikaro. No one wanted to be out on frozen nights like this – it was supposed to be spring, but it felt more like winter. What a Kore-bedamned place!