Later, dog teams began dragging the cultists - a bizarre train of magicians - along the coastline, the army of the undead jogging along to the rear, all heading now for the northern shores. There they would venture out across the ice.
To the possibility of new worlds.
THIRTY-TWO
The garuda flight lieutenant collapsed on the tiled floor of one of the highest-level rooms in Balmacara, a misshapen heap of ruffled feathers and shattered armour. Blood speckled his white facial plumage, and his arms quivered as he tried to regain an upright position. Today, Chancellor Urtica couldn't be bothered with such drama.
'What's your news, flight lieutenant?' Urtica resumed his meal of oysters and mussels as he regarded the sprawling form of the bird-soldier dispassionately.
The garuda crawled a little nearer to the fire, leaned up against the wall of the hearth so that the flame cast quick-moving shadows across his sharp features. Urtica looked up again.
Forgive me, chancellor, the soldier began in hand-talk. It has been a long flight from the war zone.
'Get on with it.' Urtica motioned with his fork for the soldier to continue.
Chancellor, I fear I bring bad news. The garuda's gaze darted about with fear.
'Well, I assume our occupation of Varltung has not been easy then?'
The garuda made a strange sound. Our forces never found the opportunity to advance by longship as planned. It appears that our invasion force was defeated by the ice. The army therefore had to progress by foot, but the ice was too weak to support them, sir, it collapsed under their weight. Many of them died during the night in the freezing waters. After that, local tribesmen came light-footed from across the island of Varltung, but our commanders would not accept their aid.
Although inwardly fuming at this devastating news, Chancellor Urtica managed to maintain an air of calm. 'Tell me of these losses.'
We have only a few hundred men left from an initial force of four thousand.
'Only a few hundred,' Urtica mumbled, finally rising from his chair. This was an embarrassment beyond belief. He approached the hearth and reached for a metal poker, began to slash at the fire, sending sparks showering upwards. As the overseer of military assignments, this was an extreme and personal humiliation. Men could easily be replaced, couldn't they, but such a failure would haunt his reputation eternally.
'Well, we must take that island no matter what,' the chancellor said. 'I will not have the Jamur Empire suffer defeat. I will not allow it. Whatever it takes, it must be ours, d'you hear?'
He wafted the poker around the garuda's head as he spoke, but he wondered why he bothered to lecture a dumb, valueless soldier. He wondered then of what message the Council would have to issue to the people. He could see what to put on the news pamphlets: a Varltung massacre of our brave fighters in the ice, a vicious terrorist atrocity, savage barbarism on our democratic collection of nations . . . Such sentiments, he realized, would even provide an excuse for an all-out campaign to control more resources during the Freeze.
'Get some rest, flight lieutenant,' Urtica ordered, resuming an illusion of calm. 'Soon I'll be expecting you and your fellows to fly out from the city with instructions for reorganizing every soldier we can spare. Soon, everyone available will be marching eastwards for a concerted attack on those Varltung bastard tribes. There'll be no prisoners taken - I want every adult male on that island killed, every boy decapitated. Towns to be burned to the ground. So go rest now. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day for you.'
Yes, chancellor. The bird-soldier pushed himself fully upright, then staggered out of the room.
As soon as he had gone Urtica hurled the poker across the chamber. Two servants came in to investigate, but Urtica dismissed them with insults.
This military loss was almost as embarrassing as losing Imperial territory. What would people think of him - and of the Empire he now piloted?
Just at that moment, in the midst of his paranoia, Councillor Delboitta entered the room. In her skinny old hands was a document that might at least relieve his stress temporarily. He studied her gaunt features, those prominent cheekbones, highlighted by the fire light. A few strands of grey hair tinged her otherwise black hair.
'Chancellor Urtica.' She spoke in a crisp, precise way, a woman who made you listen carefully to every syllable. She had heaved the Quercus wood door shut behind her, leaving the two of them in total privacy. 'Magus Urtica - may I call you so here?'
'Yes, but only quietly,' Urtica said. 'Even the walls have ears - this is a government building after all . . .'
She was a handsome woman of nearly fifty years whose husband, also an Ovinist, had died three years ago.
'What d'you have for me, then?' He guided her to the table. 'Some oysters?'
'Thank you, but I've just eaten.' She unrolled the parchment well away from the food, then held it in place with a couple of wine glasses. They both leaned in close, little telltale suggestions in their breathing. So he hoped.
She indicated first the ancient runework inscribed on the document, and the correct stamps to indicate the authenticity of it. It was an order, ultimately, that would confirm the ascension of Urtica to Emperor. It made Rika out to be a mass murderer. This would then be delivered to the starving refugees in the form of largesse. They would hopefully die in large numbers, and cease to be a damn burden. All traces of Imperial failures: gone.
'Perfect,' Urtica breathed, allowing his gaze to drift down the ancient letter-craft, the runes and seals so true to the Villjamur standard legal documents that it seemed impossible to know it was forged.
'When will you get their names on this?' Councillor Delboitta looked up at him wide-eyed, as if she worshipped him and would do anything for him - or at least he liked to believe that.
Urtica wanted as few people as possible knowing he would forge the signature himself, but she was Ovinist. She was on his side. 'I'll add their signatures on this before the sun sets tomorrow. I've been spending some time studying their handwriting, so it shouldn't take too long. Then I'll present it to the Council.' Urtica's pride swelled at his own ingenuity.
'And you're sure the Council will accept such a claim?' Delboitta's eyes positively glistened as she gazed intently into his face.
He knew of the secret numbers of Ovinists in influential positions. There were enough politicians who were promised positions of power, enough men and women seduced by rewards to commit to his schemes; guards were under his influence, Inquisition officers freely accepted his coin, and where cash hadn't done the trick, he'd lined up plenty of Caveside gangs to intimidate anyone who might get in his way and give them something to think about. Everything was in place.
After taking supreme office he would initiate his schemes, an inchoation for more aggressive politics. Control over the means of production would be given to only the most profitable landowners. Slavery would be extended for greater productivity. Those at the very top would be rewarded handsomely. The Empire's wealth would flourish.
'I have made more than enough preparations . . .' He trailed off, remembering his military defeat. He would divulge that in time, and ascertain a way to blame it on the Empress's strategies. 'And then we'll arrest them, the Empress and her sister,' he said. 'Perhaps best at the Snow Ball, so that every gossiping bitch and bastard inside this building will immediately start spreading the news. I want her deposed quickly and . . . well, I see myself as a likely elected candidate to replace her, don't you think?'
Delboitta grinned her agreement with impeccable teeth. She then reached up, caressing his cheek, followed her hands with her lips. 'Does this mean,' she whispered, moving her palm to his groin, 'that you'll let me please you, Emperor Urtica?'
For a moment he couldn't work out which was the bigger turn-on: her suggestion, or his future title.
THIRTY-THREE
'Who are you, really?' Eir whispered, her hands on Randur's hips.
They were rehearsing a slow dance that evening, the Yunduk, and the only co
mmunication so far between them had been Randur whispering softly in her ear to correct her posture. No music this evening to accompany them, but they now understood the rhythms by heart, a liquid grace in every step. They were practising in one of the many unused corners of Balmacara, a disused chamber long forgotten by most of the inquisitive courtiers.
The more reticent he was, the more she wanted to know, the more she needed to understand him. After years spent in isolation among Imperial tutors and the urgent whispers of guardsmen, this islander had burst into her existence and already shown her more of life than she had ever known. Even his most casual comments suggested an exotic origin, his very presence spoke of some other place, a region perhaps physical or possibly mental, it didn't matter, just that it was somewhere not bound by stone and ice like her childhood environment.
And she had seen beneath the veneer of his arrogance.
'I thought we'd been through this stuff already.'
Her fingers tightened, gripping his waist. 'We have, and yet we haven't. I want to know who you actually are, Randur Estevu.'
'You'd only be disappointed,' he suggested dismissively.
'I'm not so sure I could be. I find your efforts on behalf of your mother are very honourable.'
'I'd rather not talk about that.'
'Tell me,' Eir changed the subject, 'instead of just sleeping around, have you ever actually been in love?'
He stared down at her, and by his hesitation she knew that he was surprised.
She continued, 'What I mean is, in love with anyone other than yourself.'
He laughed, drew their bodies even closer so that they were touching at the waist for the next dance sequence. Their steps flowed smoothly, beginning to be expressive of new depths, and wherever his feet went she was there with him, in unison, in perfect time.
'No,' he replied. 'Being in love hasn't really been my style. I never really cared much for the girls on Folke anyway. To begin with, they were all a little unclean for my liking.'
'You've very high standards for someone coming from such a poor region.'
'Wasn't always like that,' he grunted, and she felt a sudden guilt that she had labelled him in such a way.
After a moment's consideration she said, 'I thought as much. Your manners are far too good, for one thing. You eat well. And I've noticed how you always let a lady step in front of you when proceeding down corridors.'
'That's not always for their benefit,' he smirked.
'Randur, come on, be serious.'
'Sorry.' He grinned. 'We were once a very wealthy family, before the Empire really took a grip on our island. The one thing I've learned is that opportunity is linked to wealth in Jamur territories. Whoever owns the most resources has the most power and influence and opportunity, and that's just not how life should be. You - you can do anything you could think of in these halls. But back then we once had servants and all that, then we lost our land - my mother never really told me how, but we lost it anyway. Everything was gone; but she brought me up well. She brought me up rather strictly, perhaps. My father, you see, died before I ever got to know him, and I had a couple of sisters, but we were never that close. So everything was up to my mother.' After a pause, he added, 'I owe her a lot.'
'From all you've told me, you shouldn't blame yourself for what happened with her. You're a good man, Randur Estevu.'
He shook his head, self-consciously, as if only just beginning to comprehend himself. 'Not really. I'm a liar, a thief, a womanizer, and I get in too many fights - a good deal because of the way I dress. I try not to hurt anyone unnecessarily in the process, though.'
'But it's what you are attempting to do that carries real honour. This is an age with no great battles to speak of, no heroes for future stories. I think it's intensely honourable that a son should want to give his mother the chance to live a while longer.'
He said, 'It's not as easy as that.'
'Talk, Randur,' she urged, dancing a thin line between mockery and seriousness. What would it take for her to get this man to really open up?
'Have you ever come to feel so indebted to someone that, on reflection, everything you've ever done merely seems to have let them down?'
She said, 'Is this your way of freeing yourself from that guilt then? If you can employ a cultist to add years to her life, then you feel you have redeemed yourself?'
'Think you know so much about me?' he bristled.
'I find you fascinating, that's all,' she said, wanting to add, in ways you'll never quite know, at this rate.
'Well, if I'm that much of an open book, you certainly don't need to try to get me to talk further.' He then steered her into another sequence of moves, where the woman did the leading. She wasn't quite managing it properly, forcing herself into awkward body-shapes, so he had to keep repeating those same steps until she could do them without thinking.
Eir suddenly felt the need to be more honest about how she herself felt. 'Randur, I find you're quite different from other men about Balmacara. You never try to impress me, and you don't compliment me for every little thing I do. Quite the opposite, in fact, because you're downright rude to me at times, and so flippant, and . . . Well, whatever in Astrid's name you're doing, it makes me more interested in you.'
'Makes sense, I suppose, what with my dashing good looks.'
'You know, I've also worked out that you only joke because you're uncomfortable with being honest.'
'Crap, my lady,' he muttered.
'Followed by rudeness when you're obviously wrong about something.'
Silence for a while, their feet moving with precision across the stone floor.
'One thing more,' Eir finally said. 'Given your certain, shall we say, moral indiscipline . . .'
'Yes?'
'Why haven't you tried it on with me?'
'Because I value my life for one thing. I don't fancy being castrated and my manhood hurled over the city walls. Also, your position, you've got official channels, as it were, in which you must operate.'
'So, would you otherwise? I mean to say, if I wasn't the Empress's sister?'
'Well, you've got a great little behind, Lady Eir, a cute smile and more than a handful of the right things in exactly all the right places. Sure, why not.'
Something about his directness, the obvious fact that he didn't care what he was saying, was so refreshing. And she liked that. She wanted to possess the ability to whisper dirty and loving things to him in return. 'Officially, you have my permission to make a move.'
'Fair enough.' He shrugged. 'That would be the easy thing to do, wouldn't it? But I'm not that predictable.'
She stepped back. 'Randur Estevu . . . you infuriate me at times!'
'Hey, relax. I was only joking.'
After she had calmed, they resumed the dance steps and kicks and flourishes. He placed his body against hers, the palms of his hands resting on her shoulder blades. 'I know you like me, Eir. This isn't cultist science we're talking about, just a guy and a girl, and it's all a bit inevitable. You're a handsome woman, I'm a pretty man. Anyway, the day you offered to pay my debts, that was a decent indication of your feelings.'
'Well, why haven't you reacted?'
He leaned in close to her ear, the space between the two of them becoming charged. 'Because, Stewardess, we must think only of the dance and for success there are certain tensions that must be maintained. You do want to be seen as the best at the Snow Ball, don't you?'
She was so stunned by his serious response she did not know how to reply. Instead she blurted her response. 'So even if I offered myself naked, you still wouldn't want to . . .' She wanted to use his words, but couldn't. 'Take me?'
'I couldn't because I respect you too much for that.'
'Oh. Right.' She could not resist taking advantage of this closeness, because, to hell with the dance, to hell with etiquette of the court, she wanted him right there and then. His cocksure brashness had reduced her confidence, and now she wanted to impose upon him her Imperial stam
p.
She slid her hands further up his lissom body, gripped him, angled her head, kissing his neck, and as she tasted his skin he gave a sigh. His heart pulsed against her breasts. His arms had fallen uselessly to his sides, but soon he took hold of her head, drew her lips closer to his own. A slight groan, more rapid breathing.
She moved away slightly to regard him, and all he did was stare at her in confusion, struggling to read her. Surely this inveterate romancer would know better how to react at a moment like this?
He tried vaguely to say something, but she pressed a finger to his lips. It took all the strength of will she had to turn away, to move across to a wall tapestry. She pulled it aside to reveal a window through which a wind blew from across the city. She waited for him to come to her, determined she would not turn back to face him, the spires and bridges meaningless and empty under her gaze.
But he didn't come near, and she was driven to ask, 'Has the great Randur Estevu finally been silenced?'
She heard his footsteps approach, felt his words brush against the back of her neck: 'I don't know what to do now.'
'You're no amateur, from what I've seen.'
'Those women . . . they didn't matter. It's just that I'm not sure what I feel right now. I mean, ever since you offered to help me . . . well, I'm just not sure what it is that's going on in my head. I don't want you to think you've bought my attention.'
'Perhaps you have genuine feelings after all?' she said, expecting some witty response from him which was calculated to anger her.
Instead he said, 'I know I'll end up hurting you and I don't want to do that. Like I said, I feel I'm in your debt.'
'There are ways of clearing such debts.'
'Wouldn't that simply make me a man-whore?'
Nights of Villjamur Page 33