by David Hair
‘We’ll be as long as we like,’ Jelaska disagreed. ‘Rukk off, General.’
Seth stumbled back out, tripped on a tent-peg and ended up on his arse. A sentry peered over at the commotion, then looked away as Seth stood, dusted himself off and went looking for fresh air.
Ten minutes later, Prenton and Jelaska found him at the riverbank. Both were still flushed from their exertions, and maybe a little embarrassment. They were both wearing Dhassan long-shirts and leggings.
‘Morning sir,’ Prenton grinned sheepishly, saluting. He was a career battle-mage and liked to keep things at least a little military.
Not so Jelaska, who regarded all this saluting and the like as nothing more than men stoking each other’s egos. ‘What’s so important you just barge into someone’s tent?’ she demanded.
Most considered Prenton a brave man when he’d started what Seth euphemistically termed ‘seeing’ Jelaska – for Jelaska’s partners had an unfortunate tendency to die, so much so that she considered herself cursed, even though curses didn’t actually exist; the gnosis didn’t work that way. But belief in curses was as old as belief in gods, and Jelaska didn’t get many suitors, though she was not unattractive, despite being gaunt and severe-looking; her world-weary face was shrouded in a tangle of softly ruffled grey hair. Her voice was husky, with a sultry timbre and for all her age, she had an enviable lust for life and living, which was ironic, considering she was a renowned Necromancer. Baltus Prenton, though, had a blithe confidence in himself, and he too enjoyed life to the full. If anyone was going to disprove the curse . . .
‘We need to open up negotiations with the commander of the Vida garrison,’ Seth told them. ‘They’re ignoring gnostic communication, so it’ll have to be face to face.’
‘Sure,’ Prenton said brightly. ‘Who’s going to talk to them?’
‘I am,’ Seth replied firmly.
‘Why you?’ Jelaska asked bluntly. She was a pure-blood too, and regarded herself as matriarch of the army.
‘Because I’m the one person we can send who the garrison commander won’t dare to arrest.’
Prenton scowled. ‘Unless Siburnius has got to him. That rukking Inquisitor . . .’ His voice trailed off and Seth tried to hide his shudder at the thought of Ullyn Siburnius, Commandant of the Twenty-Third Fist of the Inquisition, and his tame Souldrinker Delta; what they’d been doing to the Keshi and Dhassans they’d captured was both astounding and disturbing. And Siburnius had fled directly to Vida.
‘That’s a risk we’ll have to take,’ he acknowledged. ‘We need to find out what’s happening – we’ve had no news for nine months, not since Shaliyah.’
‘I’d like to know where your father is in all this,’ Jelaska agreed.
‘Exactly.’
‘I’ll come too.’
‘No – you’re our strongest battle-mage. I want you here, with Ramon. I’m leaving him in charge.’
Jelaska grunted in a most unladylike way. ‘Has Severine pushed out the baby yet?’
Seth grinned. ‘A girl: Julietta.’
‘Good. Hopefully that’ll help keep him focused on getting us all home.’ She laid a proprietary hand on Prenton’s shoulder. ‘Make sure you bring my man back, General. Or you’ll have me to answer to.’
*
Wind rushed through Seth’s hair as the skiff banked a hundred feet above the river and the walls of Vida. It was an hour past dawn, the best time of the day, and the walls were bathed in golden light. He sat in the fore-deck of the skiff, concentrating on the nearest tower where he could see a small cluster of men, mostly clad in red or black-and-white; legion or Church. Seth focused his sending on a tall man in the purple of senior Imperial service.
They circled again, Prenton using Air-gnosis to keep wind in his sails.
Finally the aether crackled.
Imperial Revenue? What are they doing here? An arch-legate was someone even his father would be wary of. They only got to such lofty ranks through purity of blood and absolute loyalty to the emperor.
But by belittling Seth, Milius was belittling Seth’s men.
There was a vexed pause, then Milius replied tersely,
This seemed as much aimed at those with him as Seth himself. I bet Siburnius is down there, urging him to have me locked up.
Prenton took the windcraft down with practised ease, clearing the walls and dropping into a slate-stone courtyard. Seth climbed briskly from the hull and faced the trio who came to meet him. Introductions were made: Ullyn Siburnius was indeed present, together with the garrison commander, a half-blood noble named Bann Herbreux, who was promptly ignored. Here, only Arch-Legate Milius mattered.
Milius was a tall and impressive-looking man with a flowing grey beard and shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair. He was clearly cultivating a look of eternal wisdom. ‘General Seth Korion, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,’ he boomed, striding forward and offering his hand: a conciliatory gesture as if among equals, even if Seth’s claim to general’s rank was flimsy – ‘by acclamation’ was still legal, but it hadn’t happened since the First Argundian War.
‘Arch-Legate,’ Seth replied evenly, reminding himself that he had twelve thousand men and three thousand camp followers relying on him. ‘You’re far from Pallas.’
‘The needs of the empire are many,’ Milius replied. ‘I’m told you’ve led your men out of Shaliyah? A great feat, worthy of your illustrious name.’
So, flattery first . . . ‘It was a team effort, Arch-Legate. We all pulled together. But we aren’t safe yet.’ He indicated the river, invisible beyond the buttress walls behind him. ‘We had thought to cross here, but we find the bridges down.’
‘The orders to retreat behind the Tigrates and destroy the bridges came some time ago. The timing is unfortunate, but I’m sure we can ferry your magi and officers across before any enemy arrive.’
While my rankers and their women can rot in Hel, eh? ‘I have fifteen thousand souls in my care, Arch-Legate. I will see them all safe, not just those of rank.’
Milius clearly regarded this as noble tosh. ‘Our windborne scouts report that the Keshi are less than thirty miles from here. You will likely see their mounted advance guard by tomorrow evening, if the weather holds. I doubt there is time to bring everyone across.’
Kore’s Blood, are they that close? ‘Then my request that the bridge be repaired is all the more urgent. You should have sufficient timber and wood for the Earth- and sylvan-magi to work with. We can cross where the pillars stood and proceed to a staging ground south of the city.’
Milius looked into the sky, as if studying the movement of the clouds for omens. ‘It might be possible,’ he acknowledged, ‘but we’ve insufficient stores to feed your soldiers, and much less can we accommodate your camp followers.’ His clear eyes met Seth’s briefly. ‘You must leave your Noorie whores behind, General.’
‘Wives,’ Seth replied. ‘They are wives.’ Well, mostly. The ceremonies had been performed by his chaplain, Gerdhart, a priest of Kore, which made them legitimate. ‘We don’t leave our people behind.’
Milius looked down his nose, but dropped the subject. He turned to face Seth fully, as if to emphasise the importance of his next words. ‘You have a battle-mage: one Ramon Sensini. I have a warrant for his arrest. Hand him over, and we can prepare an evacuation of your men to this side of the river.’ He thrust some papers at Seth, who took the sheath of parchment.
He wasn’
t really surprised; it was Ramon who’d been investigating whatever Siburnius was up to, and if he was right, it was ghastly – so of course Siburnius would want him silenced. And he’s got an Arch-Legate to help him . . . But why someone from the Imperial Revenue?
The papers were indeed an arrest warrant, and carried the right seals. What surprised him was that they all related to fraud, impersonating a Treasury official or issuing false Imperial debt papers. It was bizarre, especially when put up against what Siburnius and his cronies were doing. I’d have suspected Sensini of a lot of things, but this? Slow anger kindled in his gut, the same anger he’d felt two weeks ago when he drove Siburnius from the refugee camp. Rukk you. Sensini might be a damned nuisance, but he’s one of us.
He threw a cold look at the Inquisitor, standing there all relaxed and confident. ‘Sensini has been with the legions since the Moontide began. Are you sure he’s the right man?’
Milius looked at him gravely. ‘The evidence is clear. Battle-mage Sensini has misused Imperial documentation in his role as Logisticalus of the Thirteenth Pallacios to create illegal promissory notes.’
‘So what if he has?’ Seth replied. ‘His tactical skills have saved the army several times, and he has unearthed an Inquisition plot that violates the laws of Kore. I refuse to put that aside for a few piffling promissory notes.’
Milius cocked an eyebrow, then quite deliberately dropped his voice. The air suddenly crackled around them as he shielded their words from being overheard, even by Siburnius, just a few feet away. ‘Seth – may I call you that? I think you fail to understand the extent of the issue. Ramon Sensini and his criminal confederates have fooled a group of investors into pouring money into the Crusade in unprecedented levels, in return for monopoly control of opium out of South Dhassa. Opium, Seth: a killer of families, the ruination of lives. The level of investment has contributed to severe inflation in Yuros, pushing basic commodities beyond the price of most men. People are starving in Yuros, Seth! Bread is now seventeen foli in Bricia! Seventeen!’ His face was aghast, as if he were revealing signs of Kore’s Purge and the Day of Returning, not the price of a loaf.
Seth had understood about one word in three. ‘There is no opium in our column. Never has been.’ He turned his thoughts away from the rumour that Ramon had saved them all at Shaliyah by dumping opium powder in the path of the enemy and setting it alight. ‘As for the promissory notes: what proof is there?’
Hestan Milius looked like a parent forced to explain something complicated to a child. ‘It is commendable that you defend your underlings, General, but his guilt is clear. Your only responsibility in this matter is to surrender him to justice, so that we can concentrate on the more urgent matter: the safety of your army.’
Seth searched his memory of law classes from college, which he’d always enjoyed. Yes, that’s what I need! ‘To issue a warrant of arrest, someone must have submitted proof to the issuing Justiciar.’ He looked at the papers again. ‘That’s you. I’d like to see that proof. Otherwise I must suspect that Commandant Siburnius has misled you to protect himself.’
‘The integrity of a servant of the Inquisition isn’t for even a general to question,’ Milius said heavily. ‘Your youth excuses you in part, Seth, but you must learn to trust the institutions you serve.’ Any pretence of friendliness was gone. Seth could feel Prenton twitching nervously; he might not be able to hear, but the anger on the Arch-Legate’s face was easy to read.
‘I want to see proof,’ he repeated firmly. ‘For my own peace of mind.’ He wondered if he might have to fight his way out. I’d get about two feet.
Milius sighed, reached into a pocket and produced another piece of paper. ‘Here, General.’
It was an Imperial Promissory of the sort that Seth had seen floating about the legion, especially in the early months, usually in lieu of cash when settling gambling debts. They were mostly used by the logisticalus of each legion to facilitate transfer of supplies. He focused on the signature: illegible, but familiar. ‘It’s not Sensini’s signature.’ But it’s his handwriting, I’ll give you that. The seal wasn’t actually of the Imperial Treasury either: it was a heraldic crest of the sort the noble Houses used in Pallas. He recognised it, too; who wouldn’t?
‘Do you recognise the crest?’ Milius asked.
Seth nodded mutely. ‘Is it . . . genuine?’
‘Of course not! He got hold of it somehow – stolen, most likely. We’ll recover it when we arrest him.’ He held out his hand for the papers and the promissory note. ‘Now, can we agree to this, General, and get on with saving your men?’
Seth bit his lip, looking about him without focusing on anything. My father boasts of never leaving a man behind, but then he’s never lost a battle, so it’s probably never come up . . . And Ramon, the little shit, has been the one who got us out of Shaliyah, and into and out of Ardijah . . . I can’t just hand him over on their say-so. I saw that death-camp too . . .
But he had fifteen thousand lives to protect.
Damn this . . .
Southern Kesh, on the continent of Antiopia
Rami (Septinon) 929
15th month of the Moontide
Cymbellea di Regia was curled up in a foetal position when the ground began to tremble. The vibrations shook her back to awareness, though she’d not really been asleep. Part of her was amazed that she still lived and breathed. She’d been helpless in the care of these women for days, too ill and weak from blood-loss to move, her heart torn in two and her brain too numb to grasp the weak straws of consciousness that flowed past.
She looked up at a wizened face so deeply brown it was almost black, one of several women who’d been shielding her from the clamour of the camp. Bunima, a widow from South Dhassa, had held her down, hugged her and whispered calm into her ears while the others pierced her womb and scraped out her unborn child. They’d protected her since, though she was not just of Yuros but a mage; she’d been sure they would just cast her outside the women’s camp to where the circling men were calling for her death. Stones had been hurled into the cluster of women, an indiscriminate rain of rock that had taken lives and broken bones, but the men had not actually dared to enter the women’s camp – she didn’t know why, and she didn’t know why the women were shielding her either. But Bunima with her smattering of Rondian had become her protector and carer, though they couldn’t hold more than a basic conversation.
Only one man had entered: Zaqri, the father of her child. Her dead child. She could still hear his anguished cry as he realised what she’d done: the wail of a sinner cast into Hel. She’d seen him just once since, when he’d told her that he would wait for her recovery, then they would continue their hunt for the Scytale of Corineus. She wondered if he was still holding to that promise. Aborting a child among her people was not unusual; it carried little stigma – but here, it was a deadly sin, though of course it still happened. She knew her action had wounded Zaqri deeply, just as she’d also intended – but there was another reason, equally as pressing: their child was half Dokken, and no one knew what it might have been.
Pater Sol! Mater Lune! Tell me I’ve done the right thing . . .
But as always, there was no answer. Silence is the Voice of God, she’d once heard a priest say.
The old woman said a few words, of which Cym picked out ‘soldiers’ and ‘sultan’ and ‘here’. She did understand that she was in danger if she stayed.
Irrationally, she just wanted to see Zaqri again. The Dokken packleader had saved her, protected her, loved her, and in her mind’s eye he still shone like a god among mortals – but he was a Souldrinker: a cursed demon, and he’d killed her mother. Even though it had been in combat, Rimoni law demanded retribution: she’d killed his child so she wouldn’t have to kill him. It had felt right and just at the time, but now she couldn’t move without feeling the wounds inside her body and her soul.
Pater Sol, Mater Lune, why did you make me want him so?
Her father would have told her t
hat done is done. Life must go on. Clinging to that thought, she rolled into a sitting position, then tried to stand. She was still clad in her bloodstained chemise, with a thin blanket draped about her. She staggered, but a dozen hands caught her and she clung to them gratefully until she got her balance and could stand on her own two feet.
Bunima was right: there were mounted soldiers coming down the long slope to the east, columns and columns of them, all wearing the pointed steel helmet of the Keshi. They had lances and circular shields, and bows in sheaths lashed to their legs. The man at the head of the column rode bare-headed, his thick black hair oiled and gleaming in the afternoon sun: a prince of men. He rode with lordly grace to greet a group of ragged men from the male camp to the south. She watched with a vague feeling of concern. They’ll take me to their breeding-camps and rape me and force me to bear mage-children until I die . . .
Even that thought couldn’t shake the lethargy from her limbs. She was too ill and exhausted to care.
Then she saw him: blond hair and beard catching the light, his huge frame towering above the Ahmedhassans as he shouldered his way through the men and into the women’s camp. He exchanged words with one of Bunima’s colleagues and then he was before her, like a hero of legend come to her rescue. Even after all that had passed between them, all the ugliness and deception, it was to the tender moments that her mind always returned.
I wish I could just reach out and erase the blood that lies between us . . .
Impossible, of course.
Zaqri allowed her a moment, despite the urgency, to say farewell to those who’d tended her. Bunima and the other women pressed about her, a sea of faces and outstretched hands, work-hardened, but gentle on her face. It made her feel almost like she was home in her father’s caravan, wrapped in a cocoon of love.
‘Bunima, thank you—’
‘Cym must go. Hurry now. Soldiers come.’ Bunima kissed her cheeks with chapped lips. She smelled of sun-bleached bones. ‘Go now. Sal’Ahm, Cym.’
‘Why help me?’ Cym whispered.