by David Hair
Capolio replied the next day.
She had no sooner broken the contact when another contact came, an unexpected one. Waqar Mubarak said urgently,
She remembered Capolio’s warning.
He went silent, and she was about to wish him goodnight, when he added,
she promised, then broke the connection.
*
‘What do you think of this?’ Odessa D’Ark asked, gesturing down the rows of marble statuary and ornamental walls that ran out of sight into the dark. Tarita felt like a child beside the statuesque beauty, and somewhat overawed: according to Gianna, Odessa had also been a Hadishah prisoner, bearing a son to Rashid Mubarak’s younger brother Narukhan – whom she’d killed before escaping the breeding-house.
Outside, it was early evening, and had it not been for Odessa’s invitation, Tarita would have already left Hebusalim. But her request to see Jehana had resulted in this meeting in the Cryptorium.
‘Honestly, Magister?’ Tarita replied, ‘I find it barbaric.’
Odessa looked taken aback. ‘But it’s the most beautiful Cryptorium in the world.’
‘I think it’s morbid. I’m from Javon – we have both Western and Eastern customs. The Eastern way is best: fire is purity, burning away the flesh and letting the soul fly free. Gnostic teachings about the soul support this. And necromancy wouldn’t be so dangerous if people didn’t leave bodies all over the place.’
‘Returning bodies to the earth is important—’
‘—for worms, maybe,’ Tarita quipped, then, ‘Look at this: marble busts, silver gates on the tombs, and behind every seal someone rotting – yeurck! It’s creepy. The Gatti kings used to build whole cities of the dead while their people starved – who’s more important, the living or the dead?’
Odessa looked amused. ‘Having a place to come to talk to the departed is healing.’
‘Perhaps . . . But why are we here, Lady Odessa? Not to talk to the dead, I hope.’
‘It’s about your request to meet with Jehana Mubarak,’ Odessa replied.
A thought struck Tarita. ‘She’s not in here, is she?’
Odessa answered with a question of her own. ‘Why do you wish to see her?’
Suddenly there was a tension in the air. Tarita measured her reply. ‘While investigating the death of Sultan Salim, I befriended Prince Waqar. He’s been unable to reach his sister, and he asked that I make enquiries.’
Odessa looked at her, considering. ‘So Waqar knows she is in Hebusalim?’
‘He assumes she is,’ Tarita replied, unsure why this conversation felt like a duel.
‘Mmm,’ Odessa murmured, turning a corner and walking down a row of gloomy sarcophagi, a globe of conjured light revealing relief statuary of heraldic beasts and the images of the dead. They might be underground, but the large chambers were well ventilated. ‘These crypts date to the Ordo Costruo’s first arrival here in Dhassa,’ the Magister commented, then she stopped. ‘Tarita, the Order have placed Jehana in protective custody since the death of her mother, Sakita. Did you know that?’
‘No. I presume Prince Waqar doesn’t know either.’
‘Naturally. He refused to join us, you know, even though his mother invited him personally.’
Tarita didn’t know that, and filed the information away. ‘Then I suppose you’re not going to let me see her.’
Odessa threw her a measuring glance. ‘If it were up to me . . . but it isn’t.’ She turned and asked, ‘Did you unmask Salim’s killer?’
Tarita recalled Capolio’s instructions. ‘No, Magister.’
Odessa studied her face. ‘You’re lying, Tarita.’
Tarita began to calculate distances. The Ordo Costruo woman wasn’t armed and neither was she, but that hardly mattered: Odessa D’Ark was renowned as a formidable battle-mage.
‘I d-don’t un-understand,’ she stammered, feigning distress to mislead the other woman, while preparing to move fast.
‘Tarita . . . or Nakti, or whatever your real name is,’ Odessa drawled, ‘I can read any face on Urte and know if they speak the truth. I know you’re lying.’
Tarita’s spine crawled. I only used ‘Nakti’ when tending Sakita.
‘You’ve identified the man you sought, haven’t you?’ Odessa said, stalking towards her as Tarita backed away. ‘I’d have burned those records if I could have. Capolio used your findings to deduce the name, didn’t he?’
“If I could have?” Tarita backed away. Does that mean Odessa couldn’t persuade the Order to destroy the records . . or she couldn’t access them . . . is this really Odessa? And how does she know about Capolio . . .?
‘People who learn such names must die, “Nakti”,’ Odessa said. She twisted her wrists and conjured purple fire in both hands: necromantic-gnosis. ‘And if you don’t know where Jehana is, you’re no use to me.’
A virulent bolt of violet energy shot towards Tarita, one that should have turned her to a skeletal husk where she stood, but her shield did enough – just – although the spill of unlife that did get through was enough to kill every layer of skin on her left cheek as it passed, splitting it open in a bloodless tear, like an old scar. The sheer power took Tarita’s breath away – but she was Merozain-trained and an Ascendant, one of the few who could stand up to it.
First though, she needed space to ward – and to think. She darted sideways and shot along a narrow passage, using Air-gnosis and kinesis to fly a foot above ground. She was just a blur in the shadows – but Odessa was already blasting at her again, and as she spun up and away, the livid bolt lit up the massive chamber. Odessa flashed towards her as if space and time meant nothing and Tarita dodged again, furious at letting herself be drawn into this trap. She fired back, a livid blue mage-light that burst on Odessa’s shields, lighting up her face – and Tarita saw that she’d put on a Lantric mask, one Tarita had seen in Salim’s palace at Sagostabad.
Heartface.
Tarita threw herself away from a counter-blast of white-hot flames and shot down a side-aisle like a darting sparrow, making for a distant glimmer of light – an exit – but even as she spotted it, the lid of a sarcophagus thirty yards ahead slipped aside and shattered in a great crash of stone, sending chunks of rock flying.
A woman rose from the uncovered tomb, a silhouette against the darkness, and stepped into her path. Tarita skidded to a frantic halt as the figure rasped, ‘Nakti . . .’ Her voice was chillingly familiar.
32
Common Ground
Magi and Battlefield Supremacy
The Blessed Three Hundred, the Chosen of Kore, against the Rimoni Empire. There is a romance to it, of legends created and prophecies fulfilled: a small band of brethren, empowered by their god to overthrow a tyranny.
In reality, the Rimoni Empire never stood a chance. Without archery, cavalry and ballistae, the legions that tried to stand against the Ascendant Magi were incinerated from the safety of the air, destroyed without mercy or risk. It was nothing less than mass murder.
ORDO COSTRUO ARCANUM, HEBUSALIM, 542
Lake Jegto, Mollachia
Junesse 935
Drums rolled and thundered, a cacophony that boiled up into the skies over Jegto. The clouds over the valley were like an inverted dish; lightning flashed sporadically in the north and drizzle hung in the air as if too light to fall, clinging to the hides and
furs and hair of the gathered Sydian riders swarming around the men of the Vitezai Sarkanum as they readied themselves for the march through the press to the chieftain’s tent.
Like the rest of the Mollachs, Valdyr was clad in the only clothes he owned – but at least they were now clean, however inadvertently. He was feeling shaky still, shocked at the anger that had burst loose inside him and almost killed the brother he loved. That anger was getting harder to restrain, as if the tethers were becoming increasingly worn.
When I was locked up in chains, I had no choice but to hold it in. It’s when I have choices that I lose control: that’s a disturbing thought. But tonight of all nights, the formal presentation of the Vitezai to the tribe – delayed by his fight at the lake – meant he had to rein himself in.
Kyrik walked out in front of his men. His wounds, like Valdyr’s, had been healed by Hajya’s healing-gnosis, the bruising smoothed away. It was disturbing to feel a twinge of envy for his brother, for his formidable wife, Hajya of the Vlpa. But at the same time, the revulsion he felt for brown skin wouldn’t go, and he sensed that Hajya knew that. Oddly, he was ashamed; her unspoken opinion shouldn’t matter, but it did.
Kyrik stepped to the front of the Vitezai and his voice rang out. ‘Embrace the strangeness, lads! Few outsiders are privileged to see what you will. You’ll tell your children’s children of this night. But please – please – be calm, be coolheaded, and don’t do anything foolish. Indeed, do nothing at all! There is drink – be restrained! Some of these men have egos as big as you lot: don’t let them provoke you. You’re bigger and stronger than them and you don’t need to prove anything. Remember, these are our allies, and if we want our lands back, we need them.’
Dragan Zhagy, speaking for his men, replied, ‘My lord, we’re not legionaries or mercenaries but an ancient order who have been persecuted down the years. We’ve had to hold our tongues while being slandered, imprisoned and tortured. We’re not just chosen for prowess as fighters, but for character. We know what’s at stake.’
There was a murmur of assent in the circle of men and Kyrik looked pleased. Then he made a point of coming up to Valdyr. ‘Brother, I know you don’t want to know these people, but you’re my brother and they’re kin by marriage now. Can you do this for me, please?’
Valdyr nodded mutely and let Kyrik hug him. The views of the Vitezai were closer to his own than Kyrik’s – his brother’s ideas sounded too much like one of his Noorie priest’s sermons – but if he showed support, it might help them accept. ‘I’m with you,’ he reassured Kyrik. ‘It’ll be fine.’
Their bond might be shaky, but it was holding. It was time to go. Kyrik led them between the thickly packed warriors, each with a fox-sigil painted in the centre of their forehead, like a brand on a horse. I am Vlpa, it said, and they wore it with pride. But for allies, there was a lot of blank hostility, too.
‘They stand tall for runts,’ Larin muttered.
‘Shut it,’ Dragan drawled, but winked to show he appreciated the spirit of defiance.
Valdyr, the tallest man here, fixed his eyes on the back of Kyrik’s head as they made their way down the narrow channel towards a line of fox banners, until they emerged into an open space before the Sydian leaders.
Brazko, his muscular torso bared to the chilly wind, was impossible to miss: a younger, fitter version of his father, Thraan, the nacelnik. His long hair and beard were braided, and he exuded a belligerent uncertainty, as if this were the biggest thing he’d ever done without his father’s presence. I hope he’s not the sort to overreact under pressure . . .
Hajya was a somewhat comforting presence on Brazko’s left – not that she looked at Valdyr with any friendship. Her weathered face was stern, the Sfera markings rendering her as alien as the rest. To her left stood seven other Sfera, younger men and women.
Then suddenly the drums thudded, fire-dust burst on either side and as the Mollachs stiffened, a near-naked man in a fox-mask bounded into the space before them, ululating an impossibly long cry which made Valdyr’s skin crawl. He started yowling, and others joined him as the warriors clapped rhythmically. More like him appeared, barking, and went down on their haunches, creeping forward like spiders.
Kyrik kept insisting these people were more civilised than he credited, but he couldn’t see it. The Vitezai men just stared, and Valdyr thought, They’re just animals.
‘These are the shaman’s people,’ Kyrik called. ‘Face it, respect it. It’s a challenge: they’re warning us of their power.’
You don’t scare me, Valdyr thought, facing the dancers. You make me laugh.
But all the same, there was something unnerving about this ‘fox dance’, the way they snarled and spat as though possessed, and the display reached a crescendo amidst a thunder of drums – which suddenly fell silent. The dancers slapped their thighs with the palms of their hands thrice, yellow teeth bared and each pair of eyes locked on one of the Vitezai, utterly still, until the lead dancer lifted his hand.
Valdyr wasn’t the only one to sway as his senses adjusted. There was a collective intake of breath as the dancers backed away and the first one straightened and took his place on Brazko’s right, opposite Hajya.
‘Missef,’ Kyrik murmured in Valdyr’s direction. ‘The shaman.’
The triumvirate of Sydian authority now stood before them; the chieftain’s son, the shaman and the Sfera. ‘Kirol Kyrik,’ Brazko called, ‘Clan Vlpa greets you, and welcomes your people! Please, bring them forward.’
‘Prince Brazko, I thank you, and pay you host-homage,’ Kyrik replied loudly. He dropped to his right knee, gesturing for the Vitezai to do the same. Valdyr was last to comply, but loyalty to Kyrik held. Looking up, he saw Hajya nodding at him faintly. That she thought her approval mattered annoyed him.
‘Rise, be welcome,’ Brazko said, his voice loud, formal. He stepped forward and embraced Kyrik, then said, ‘Where is your brother?’ All eyes went to Valdyr. As he advanced, he reminded himself of all he’d been through, taking heart from that. He embraced the strongly built Sydian, then allowed him to steer him towards Hajya. ‘Come, meet your new sister.’
The weathered face of the Sfera leader twisted into a wry smile as she stepped forward and let him awkwardly kiss her cheeks. ‘Greetings, Brother,’ Hajya whispered. ‘Take better care of my husband, ysh?’ Then she stepped back, every step a little masterpiece of grace.
The senior Vitezai were introduced, Dragan first, after which the formality of the occasion subtly dissolved and Brazko, after a glance at Hajya, said, ‘Come, let us speak together.’
The leaders, Vitezai and Vlpa, made their way into his pavilion and sat, Sydian-style, on large cushioned seats made from saddlebags stuffed with cloth. Food was laid out before them on shields covered in cloth; the only utensils were knives.
The men outside were also being served food and drink and Valdyr hoped there’d be no serious violence – a few fights were inevitable, given the nature of warriors, but as long as no blood was shed, they might just get through this intact.
Valdyr sat beside Kyrik, Dragan and half a dozen senior Vitezai. Opposite them sat Brazko, who looked a little intimidated, his eyes going constantly to the periapts the Sarkany brothers wore; beside him were Missef, Hajya, and a clutch of older Vlpa clansmen. There was some small talk as they drank and ate, then they set to the real business of the night. Brazko, as host, opened the discussion. ‘So, Kirol Kyrik, what are your plans?’
Kyrik outlined his scheme to take the Vlpa down the Magas Gorge. ‘So far, we’ve seen no indication that the Imperial Legion encamped around Lapisz is actually going to aid the Delestre legion – if we concentrate on defeating Robear, it’s possible the Imperials will just leave. But our first priority is forage for your mounts.’
‘Where will we find that?’ Hajya asked, her voice a throaty purr. ‘In a few months the rest of the clan will come with all our herds.’
Dragan produced a map. ‘Here, in the Domhalott, there’s good grazing, Kir
olyna.’
Hajya glanced at Kyrik. ‘What is this “Kirolyna”?’
‘Queen,’ Kyrik replied, with a faint smile.
The Sfera woman coloured slightly. ‘Oh.’ She looked hard at Dragan, then said, ‘Very well. Tell me more.’
Dragan inclined his head. ‘The Domhalott borders forest land that is rich in game. Other stores can be traded for. The lands up here, around Lake Jegto, will quickly become untenable.’
‘Then we must ride soon, to secure the pastures and bring the Rondians to battle,’ Brazko declared. ‘We came to fight, not graze cattle!’
He’s never fought a Rondian legion, Valdyr realised. No one talked big when they knew the realities of that.
‘Once you’re in the Domhalott, they’ll have no choice but to come to us,’ Rothgar said. ‘Otherwise we could raid the river-trade with impunity. Getting there is the problem: in Magas Gorge we’ll be strung out below high cliffs – we can’t afford to be caught there.’
Brazko studied the map, then grunted his agreement. ‘We must move quickly, as you say. How long to reach these lowland pastures?’
‘The gorge is a hard path even on foot; for riders or cattle, it’s very slow,’ Rothgar answered. ‘You’ll do well to traverse it in less than seven days. We’re about to enter the week of the waning moon – I’d hope to reach the Domhalott during Darkmoon.’
‘The Vitezai will secure the line of march,’ Dragan said, ‘and half of us will guide your riders through the gorge and help with the trickiest of the river crossings. I’ll take the rest through the Rahnti Mines, to secure the uplands overlooking the gorge and keep any Rondian patrols away.’
That agreed, they moved on to where and when to seek open battle, and how to win, which proved more contentious. ‘My people do not fight in enclosed spaces, Kirol Kyrik,’ Brazko said in a troubled voice. ‘We must meet them on the plains.’