Vespera

by Anselm Audley

  ‘Does family mean only family, or can it be a metaphor for civil war?’ Leonata went on.

  ‘The Furies only avenged murder of blood relatives,’ Daganos said. ‘But I suppose it could be a metaphor.’

  ‘You found something,’ she said, after a few more questions designed to ensure he’d settled into the right frame of mind. ‘When you were writing your history, something that a person or people had tried to cover up, during the Anarchy. What was it?’

  He looked at her abruptly, terror rising in his face again.

  ‘Daganos, once enough people know what happened, you’re safe,’ she said. ‘You’re a guest of Clan Barca, who weren’t even here in the Anarchy.’

  That had been important, and the reason she’d asked Hasdrubal for such a favour. He and his family had returned to Taneth after the Crusade’s defeat, his father intending to wrest control of the city back from the Domain. Hasdrubal hadn’t come back to Thetia until twelve years later. He probably owed his commercial asecndancy as much to being demonstrably untouched by what had happened as his financial acumen. Clan Barca bore no grudges, had caused no deaths.

  ‘I’m safe, as long as I stay in hiding for ever,’ he said.

  ‘No. Clan Jharissa know more than you do, and they’ve made it very clear they’re going to tell everyone what happened.’ Once all the objects of their vendetta were dead, she didn’t add.

  It took a little more coaxing, helped by cups of coffee Himilco brought in, but eventually Daganos reached down and extracted a sheaf of papers from a laundry bag. Not a bad place to have hidden them, given how old, disreputable and – more importantly – water-stained it looked.

  ‘How much do you know of what happened in the Anarchy?’ he asked, his historian’s voice returning. He even straightened his glasses on his nose.

  ‘Enough. Explain in as much length as you need to make your conclusions clear.’

  ‘Now that’s something you should never say to a historian,’ he said. ‘We can go on into increasingly obscure and tedious detail until everyone else falls asleep. Of course, Kornigis doesn’t need tedious details, he could make the end of the world sound boring.’

  ‘You’re not Kornigis,’ she said, wondering if Kornigis had been one of the pair she’d met in the Museion corridor. ‘Summarise.’

  ‘Just to give you an idea, then,’ he said, ‘How many people are there in your clan? Including families?’

  What an odd way to start! ‘With families, two thousand eight hundred and forty, give or take a few. We’re not a very big clan.’

  ‘Fewer than I thought,’ Daganos said.

  ‘We don’t manufacture, and we deal in things like spices, medicines, coffee, none of which need a lot of labour.’

  ‘I found the census for the last year of Palatine II’s reign,’ Daganos said, more than a little pride in his voice, then clutched frantically at his papers as a wind from the garden threatened to blow them onto the floor.

  He was right to be proud. A great many things had been lost from the archives in the chaos at the end of the reign. More so than in the Anarchy, in fact, since Vespera had escaped without being sacked and burned.

  ‘Normally I leave censuses for Kornigis and his ilk, if you read them too long you start to sound like a census yourself. But I used it to get a true impression of how strong each clan was, so I wouldn’t blindly repeat all these wild distortions about how Ruthelo Azrian had gathered thirty thousand former Crusaders to his banner.

  ‘Allowing for the usual fictional numbers of marines and sailors, the six largest clans all had over fifteen thousand people sworn to their banners,’ Daganos said. ‘Canteni, Salassa, Decaris, Azrian, Eirillia, Scartaris. Theleris was only a little smaller. Quite a few others were fairly big, and then eventually you get down to Estarrin. I think you only had about fifteen hundred. Now, two years in but before the Anarchy proper, after a lot of fighting which we can skip over because it didn’t accomplish much, most clans still survived, and most still had about the same number of people.’

  ‘They’d recruited more marines and sailors, and lost people in the fighting,’ Leonata said.

  ‘Not simply that. Azrian, Eirillia, and Theleris had been recruiting in secret before the fighting began, for what everyone assumes was Ruthelo’s attempt to seize power. We all know he and his allies built themselves a substantial force in the last years of Palatine’s reign and under the Republic. So they were even bigger. But a year later, seventeen clans were gone. Completely,’ Daganos said, ruffling his notes. ‘At least ninety-two thousand people, gone as if they’d never existed. All on Ruthelo’s side. The others lost quite a lot, but I don’t have the figures. And Ruthelo had a lot of people fighting for him who weren’t clan at all.’

  ‘What happened?’

  He laced his fingers together tightly in front of him. ‘That’s what I wanted to know,’ Daganos said. ‘The last big battles Ruthelo fought were manta battles, and they don’t involve so very many people. So I started looking at that part of the war. The main rebel clans held together very well, all things considering, until the battles at Artighli and Faraon. And Faraon wasn’t a very destructive battle, except that Ruthelo Azrian and Ormos Theleris were both killed, and that was the end. A lot of rebel ships managed to get away, and Sethe Eirillia was still alive. But after that, nothing. No trace of any of them.’

  ‘Did you find out?’

  ‘Only a little,’ he said. ‘That was when I went to find out if anyone had written on this before, and discovered that two scholars had, but both had been murdered. The librarians must have paid to report anyone looking up their work. All I got was that around the time Gian Ulithi took Corala, a ‘large and ragged fleet’ was seen sailing northwards off the eastern tip of Magravane Island. The timing’s too unclear to tell whether it was before or after the city fell.’

  Corala, a few miles from the Jharissa settlement on Saphir Island, had been Ruthelo’s last stronghold, and his base of operations for a great deal of the war.

  ‘And then someone approached you and threatened you if you went any further. How long ago was this?’

  ‘About three years,’ Daganos said. ‘I revived it earlier this year, I thought I could be more discreet and go about it another way, but then they found out, and said they wouldn’t tolerate any more attempts.’

  ‘And the other deaths?’

  ‘Nineteen years ago, and eight.’

  Leonata paused. Nineteen was tricky, long before Jharissa had put in an appearance, but if there had been sleeper agents in Thetia before that, they might have been watching.

  Could Azrian and the other clans have managed to escape, and make their way north? No-one in their right mind would choose to go that way, but they’d been cornered in north-eastern Thetia, their way out in any other direction barred by hostile forces.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked Daganos. Next door, a child’s voice rose and was abruptly cut off. Daganos’s wife reminding her children to keep quiet.

  ‘If it weren’t for that report about the fleet off Magravane,’ he said, unhappily, ‘I’d think the Empire killed most, and the others dispersed, made new lives for themselves. You hear about it all the time, in the New Empire, people suddenly finding out their neighbour had been a captain in the Azrian fleet or something.’

  Leonata had, as a matter of fact, and as she tended to avoid travelling to the New Empire, she’d never been sure if those cases were genuine, or if the accusation was simply a convenient excuse for the New Empire to dispose of people it didn’t like. Either way, it was as good as a death sentence.

  So much bloodshed, so much death, and for what? What had they gained in these forty years? Ruthelo’s pride had so much to answer for, but equally so did the fanaticism of those who’d opposed him, and couldn’t let it rest even now.

  Maybe Aesonia and her allies were justified, if they’d known all along that a significant proportion of their opponents had managed to escape. They’d claimed an absolute victory
because it suited them – and, after all, there was no-one left to deny it. Except now it was proved the Empire’s vaunted victory was nothing of the sort, and the children of those they’d defeated were coming back for revenge.

  ‘Thank you, Daganos,’ Leonata said.

  She leant back in her chair, and smiled as she realised her suspicion of Petroz had been unfounded, and a much bigger weight was lifted from her heart. If his sister and her children had escaped, Petroz wanted Leonata’s help in finding them, not covering up his own part in their deaths. What was happening all around her was bad enough, but that it had caused her to suspect a decades-old friend of such a crime was still worse.

  Most tellingly, if Petroz had been the guilty party, he would have died last night, not Rainardo. Petroz had begun the Anarchy as a supporter of the New Empire, but for some reason he’d split from them a year or so in, and hadn’t spoken directly to Aesonia in over thirty years.

  ‘Is that all?’ Daganos asked. Downstairs someone had begun to hammer. More of the workmen whose presence was concealing the fact that Hasdrubal was operating a temporary safe-house here.

  ‘All for now,’ Leonata said. ‘I’d be interested when this is over to hear how misleading the conventional accounts are, but is any of it relevant?’

  ‘There are a few odd inconsistencies earlier on,’ Daganos said. ‘The pattern of what Ruthelo was doing and what people claimed he was doing don’t quite fit.’

  ‘Look into, it, then, if you have all the materials here,’ Leonata said. ‘If not, give your hosts a list and I’ll ask Hasdrubal to provide – discreetly, of course.’

  ‘I haven’t got anything else to do,’ Daganos said, his bitterness returning.

  ‘It’s not for long, I promise,’ Leonata said. ‘Soon, and partly thanks to you, this will all be in the open, and you can resume your work at the Museion and the stimulating company of Kornigis and his colleagues. If you can bear them talking about you as if you were a roof-timber of doubtful provenance.’

  Even in his state of self-pity, Daganos winced. ‘They think I’m not sound,’ he said.

  ‘Or if you prefer,’ she said, ‘I believe the Clan might afford a stipend for a promising historian. It’s the least I can do.’

  Daganos brightened up.

  ‘Now,’ Leonata said. ‘Before I go, you can introduce me to your long-suffering family, who’ve had to put up with the consequences of your curiosity.’

  She could afford some kindness to Daganos’s family, after what she’d put them through, and since her husband had partially solved the mystery.

  Now all she needed to know was why Iolani had first threatened to kill Daganos, and then sent Leonata after him.

  And, perhaps more pertinently, exactly who Iolani Jharissa was.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ Valentine said, as Gian closed the door. Gian raised his eyebrows wearily, clearly surprised to see Valentine in such a calm frame of mind.

  ‘Jackals,’ Gian said savagely, sinking into a chair, only his eyes betraying his grief. ‘Thetis, I hate them. I hate them all.’

  ‘I had a visitor, and an idea,’ Valentine said. The idea he’d have to run past Aesonia, so she could tighten it up and attend to the political side. Raphael’s plan he’d already approved, and as he sketched it to Gian, he saw some of the light return to Gian’s eyes.

  ‘Maybe the nephew will prove his worth after all,’ Gian said. ‘You still need to rub some of the edges off him.’

  Valentine frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘His costume last night was pushing the bounds of taste,’ Gian said. ‘I thought they’d told you.’

  ‘What did he come as?’

  ‘He was the tall one in the lion mask, in russet,’ Gian said.

  Valentine suppressed his momentary flash of rage, but his earlier misgivings returned with a vengeance. The russet lion was the king of beasts on the Continents, the symbol of rule and power for a great many Equatorian dynasties. That was bad enough, but russet had also been the colour of Clan Azrian.

  ‘I’ll bring him to heel when he gets back,’ he said.

  ‘Be careful. Let him know his place, but don’t humiliate him unless you can find a good reason to do so.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ On the other hand, if Raphael’s mission was successful, Valentine would have to wait. He could live with that, given what he might in the meantime have gained. And Raphael would be sure to put another foot wrong soon enough.

  ‘What’s your idea?’ Gian asked. ‘Revenge?’ He didn’t sit down, though, he could tell Valentine wouldn’t be here for long.

  ‘Your witless Council has given me the opening I needed,’ Valentine said. Gian was a High Thalassarch, but his loyalty had always been to Valentine. Which was why he’d endured a lifetime as one among equals in Vespera rather than the position of high authority within the Empire he deserved.

  ‘I’m surprised it took them this long,’ Gian said, but there was a hunger in his eyes. He wanted the prize Catiline had promised him decades ago, appointment as Prefect of the City, and long enough to enjoy it before he died. And, more urgently, he wanted a way to avenge Rainardo.

  ‘Your years of waiting are over, old friend. I promise you, you’ll have the satisfaction of seeing the Council broken, and it’ll be Rainardo’s last gift to you,’ Valentine said. ‘Now, we need my mother, Silvanos, Abbess Hesphaere, and a private space. And, most importantly, some of Rainardo’s maps. North-eastern Thetia. And make sure we have some old maps as well, I want to see what was there before the Anarchy.’

  ‘I think that can be arranged,’ Gian said. ‘Would you like me to clear your schedule?’

  ‘I’m mourning Rainardo,’ Valentine said. ‘Nobody needs to know exactly how I’m going to honour his memory, do they? Our victory will be his memorial, and when this is over I’ll give you the site of Jharissa Palace to build a new temple to Thetis Victrix in honour of him. Would you believe, the City doesn’t have one?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Gian said. ‘I knew you wouldn’t desert him.’

  It wouldn’t bring Rainardo back, it wouldn’t give Valentine the chance to spend more evenings in the old man’s quarters with his fellow-officers and some bottles of good red wine. It wouldn’t bring that mind back, the mind which could solve the most penetrating strategical or tactical problems at a glance. But now Rainardo was gone, it was all he could do.

  ‘Then to work,’ Valentine said.

  ‘I said it’s possible,’ Leonata said. ‘I can’t promise, because I don’t know any more.’

  Petroz closed his eyes and stopped, one hand resting on the snout of a scowling dragon carved on the pillar beside him. The cloister garden was the quietest place in Estarrin Palace, possibly in the whole of Triton, tucked away almost as an afterthought out of the glare of the sun, hardly overlooked by any of the surrounding buildings.

  Leonata would have liked a bigger garden with more greenery, such as the palaces in Galatea boasted, but there was no space on Triton; the Estarrin villa on its own island, fifty miles from Vespera, had that luxury. Instead, she had found the best gardeners she could and transformed the little stone courtyard with its cloister colonnade into a shaded oasis of greenery and running water, a little world of its own in the heart of Vespera. Except on rare occasions when she needed the privacy, as now, any of the Clan could use it provided they were quiet.

  ‘She wouldn’t have given me the ring if she were still alive,’ Petroz said. ‘It was too precious to her. But one of the children might have sent it . . .’

  ‘How old were they?’

  ‘If they were still alive,’ Petroz said, ‘Ithien would be forty-eight, Chaula forty-six. No, forty-seven, her birthday was in Jurinia.’ His face creased with silent pain again, and Leonata laid a hand on the old Prince’s arm. She’d worried about whether to bring the news. It offered hope that some of his family were still alive. Hope could be false, but to conceal it from him would be no kinder, not when he might be able to piece to
gether parts of the puzzle she’d missed.

  ‘They were children,’ Petroz said, on the verge of tears. ‘It was forty years ago.’

  ‘I know,’ said Leonata, but she didn’t. She had been an only child, without nephews or nieces, but the thought of losing her own children that long, seeing them as children of eight or nine, and then as adults of almost fifty . . . it would be heartbreaking.

  ‘Who could they be?’ Petroz said, looking up again. ‘I should have known them, if they’d been nearby all these years, surely. Surely they’d have found me, or I’d have recognised them.’

  ‘They change,’ Leonata said. ‘Think of Anthemia.’ Who had been fair, and one of the clumsiest children Leonata ever knew, and was now as dark as Leonata herself, and aware of her own body and strength in a way few people ever were.

  ‘How could I forget her?’ Petroz said. He’d spoiled both her daughters shamelessly on his visits to Vespera, an honorary uncle even from the start.

  ‘And,’ Leonata said, wondering how best to put this, ‘they could have children of their own, and it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility they could be in their early thirties by now.’

  She could see Petroz doing the maths in his head, and decided to save him the trouble. ‘Yes, they’d have to have been very young, seventeen or eighteen, but the north isn’t a kind place, and it happens.’

  It happened more in those parts of the Continents where women were simply vessels for bearing children, married off as soon as they were old enough to some convenient relative. Thetia was long past that kind of barbarism, if indeed it had ever happened here, but circumstances in the far north were very different, and it might have been forced on the rebel survivors.

  ‘Iolani?’ Petroz said.

  ‘It’s possible,’ Leonata said. ‘She’s pushing the edge of how old an Azrian grandchild could be, though.’

  ‘Ruthelo was fair,’ Petroz said. ‘No, I don’t want to do this.’