Moontide 04 - Ascendant's Rite

by David Hair

  ‘All right, Tomas: suppose I take half of what you send south and pass the rest through?’

  ‘Half? No way – you’re feeding five legions; Korion has twenty or more.’

  ‘He’s got other sources.’

  ‘You can keep a tenth,’ Betillon offered brusquely.

  ‘A quarter. I’ve got to keep my men strong, and I’ve a populace to pacify.’

  ‘As have I. A fifth.’

  He frowned, glanced at Rutt and then agreed, ‘Very well, one fifth I keep, the rest passes through. Your men may escort the caravans all the way south to Kesh; I give them safe passage.’

  Betillon laughed. ‘No, they’ll be handing over the caravans at the crossroads south of here. I’m not depleting my forces any more than they are. You’ll provide the guards for the caravans into the Zhassi.’

  ‘Half each,’ Gurvon offered. ‘No magi.’

  ‘Done,’ Betillon said. ‘The first caravan will be here inside a week.’

  They regarded each other distrustfully, then the governor nudged his horse closer, pulled out a metal hipflask and took a swig, wincing at the strength of the liquor. ‘Local piss,’ he grunted, tossing Gurvon the flask. ‘Tastes like lamp-oil. Got a sting, though.’

  Gurvon caught the flask, examined it briefly with the gnosis, then took a swallow. It was every bit as bad as he’d expected, but he’d live. He grimaced and tossed it back. ‘Did you act on my tip?’

  ‘The windship?’ Betillon snorted. ‘What do you think?’

  Gurvon groaned inwardly. ‘You’ll regret letting them through. The Nesti have got their king back. I’d move on Forensa if I were you, as soon as the weather cools enough to permit a march.’

  Betillon mopped his brow. ‘When’s that, eh? This Hel-hole never cools down!’

  ‘Not so: the weather in Javon cools to bearable in Noveleve, and stays that way for three whole months. Noveleve is five weeks away.’ He stopped the flask and threw it back to Betillon. ‘I hear you killed Mustaq al’Madhi.’

  ‘I hanged him and all his male kin, then fucked his women to death. You were too tolerant, Gyle. A ruler must be feared, and by Kore, the Noories fear me now.’

  ‘And hate you too. Do you think Mustaq was the only man with a gang of thugs? There are dozens of gangs in Brochena who previously had no reason to care whether Dorobon or Javonesi ruled. They were pacified when I held Brochena, knowing that I turned a blind eye to their petty crimes as long as they stayed out of my way. You’ve united them now: against you.’

  ‘Like I care. They’re just mudskins. Do you know how many raids on Imperial possessions there have been in Brochena since I hung Mustaq? None. They’re cowed, Gyle. Believe me, I know how to use fear. You should remember that.’

  Oh, I remember, he thought. I remember the Noros Revolt. I remember Knebb.

  His own sources said that the Brochena criminal fraternity had gone quiet since al’Madhi’s death because they were reorganising, annulling feuds and agreeing a path forward. He had this from Harshal ali-Assam, whom he’d met just a few days ago. Harshal had told him something else too, about a certain maid and her daring escape. Should he? Oh, what the Hel . . .

  ‘Tarita Alhani,’ he said in a low voice, his eyes fixed on Betillon’s face.

  ‘You have good sources,’ the governor replied stonily.

  Gurvon smiled blandly. ‘I take it she remains unfound?’

  ‘What do you know of her?’

  ‘She used to be Elena’s maid, and then passed to Cera Nesti. She’s an orphan, and during Cera Nesti’s house arrest she was the queen’s underworld contact. But she wasn’t any threat; it was better I knew exactly who Cera’s sources were than to break them and run the risk of not discovering who they were replaced by.’

  ‘You do take an inordinate interest in these Noorie women,’ Betillon said sourly. ‘Were you rukking this maid?’

  ‘I don’t share your tastes, Tomas. She escaped your own chamber, I hear. A resourceful little bint; perhaps I’ll recruit her.’

  Betillon snorted with laughter. ‘No Gyle, you’ll not get a rise out of me. The little bitch got lucky, but no one escapes me in the long run. If you’d not been so soft, the Nesti children would be dead and so would Elena Anborn. You’ve had chances aplenty to kill them all and not taken them – too many complicated scams when you needed to keep it simple and ruthless.’

  ‘You know it wasn’t like that, Tomas. If I’d acted as you are now, we’d already be swimming in a sea of blood.’

  ‘Noorie blood, Gyle, as we will be anyway in a few weeks.’ Betillon straightened in the saddle. ‘If you’re so worried about Forensa, help me take it. I’ll send a legion, you send a legion. We can divide up the spoils afterwards.’

  Gurvon considered that. It might be a trap, but he knew he could outmanoeuvre Betillon, and he was a little more worried about Forensa than he wanted to admit.

  I need to see Elena’s head on a pole before I’ll rest easy.

  ‘If I were to agree to that, you’d let Lucia know that I’m cooperating?’

  ‘I could do that. If I attack Forensa in late Noveleve, could you get a force there?’

  I’ll keep Staria at the Rift Forts, and send in Hans Frikter . . . ‘Sure.’

  Betillon considered him suspiciously, then grimaced. ‘Very well. I’ll report what we’ve agreed to Lucia. You’d better hold to it. I warn you: she’s this close to unleashing the Volsai on you.’

  She probably is. The last thing I need . . .

  They each raised a hand in farewell, and trotted away. As soon as it was dignified to do so, Gurvon kicked his horse into a gallop and went thundering down the causeway – just in case the parley really was a trap and an attack was about to be unleashed. After a few minutes he began to feel foolish, and pulled up a little. Rutt slowed gratefully, wincing with each thud of his arse on the saddle. He’d never been much of a rider. After that they trotted on in silence while Gurvon replayed the whole conversation in his mind.

  Yes, this is the right thing to do . . . Betillon doesn’t acknowledge it, but with the Nesti children and Elena in Forensa, Javon is a lot more dangerous.

  Forensa, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia

  Shawwal (Octen) 929

  16th month of the Moontide

  Elena Anborn rode through the crowds trying to see every potential danger, but it was hopeless: the city folk had engulfed the procession as it wound into Forensa. The faces looking up at them were so joyous, so enraptured, that it scared her. Men and women, Jhafi mostly, but plenty of Rimoni too, were awed and exhilarated, weeping openly, chanting, hands reaching out to touch them. Their king had returned from captivity. Their queen-regent had risen from the dead. Amteh and Sollan alike, they all believed that their gods had spoken. Even she, a Rondian mage-woman, wasn’t spared this excess of rapture. They clutched her hands and legs, kissed her feet and the hems of her clothes.

  Since they reached the gates they’d been crawling through the streets at less than walking pace. Elena no longer had the reins of her mount in her hands; she had no control over where she was going or how fast. Her clothes, simple riding leathers, were dyed by the coloured powders being hurled everywhere in celebration. The whole crowd was stained red and pink and orange, the colours of joy. The sounds were deafening, drums and chanting and song filling the air. The air was so hot and close she was dripping in sweat and positively lightheaded. Behind her, Kazim was similarly bound, helplessly murmuring in her mind about just how badly he wanted to get out of this. But these people deserved the chance to finally celebrate something. This was part of binding their kingdom back together.

  Some twenty paces ahead, engulfed in weeping women, Cera Nesti was being led through the press. Her white supplicant robes were now a rainbow of colour, her hair caked in the dyes, her face like a weeping jester. Every so often there was a ripple through the crowd like a wave on the ocean, mashing people together and sending dozens to their knees. There had been broken bones already, and E
lena prayed there would be no deaths.

  Timori was visibly overwhelmed, but somehow all the training of his childhood was keeping him upright, calm and smiling. If they didn’t get a respite soon though, she was afraid he’d collapse. She sought among the soldiers for a face she knew, finding the young knight leading Cera’s horse. She shouted aloud and into his mind, pitching her mental voice so that the man would think he’d simply heard her normally through the press.

  The knight gave an obedient nod and thankfully the pace picked up. It was still another half an hour before they finally got through the gates of the Nesti palace. It was here that Cera had first addressed the people, in the wake of the murder of her family: just over two years ago, Elena realised with a shock. Two tumultuous years. As she swung from her saddle and darted through the press to Cera’s side she saw Nesti retainers she’d not set eyes on for a long time; noticing how they looked at her, uncertain but wanting to believe she could be trusted as before. That hurt, for it was not her loyalty that had ever wavered.

  Nevertheless, when Pita Rosco was the first to embrace her in welcome, tears of relief stung her eyes.

  ‘Donna Elena!’ The portly Keeper of the Purse beamed, kissing her cheeks as if she were a badly missed daughter. ‘Welcome! Welcome home!’

  Her throat seized up as she let him crush her against him. Home. Yes, this is home.

  He touched her wet cheeks. ‘Si, si! It is good to cry.’ He winked at her. ‘Let them all see your tears. Let them all see how much you care.’

  Then it was the turn of Luigi Ginovisi, the House Nesti Master of Revenues and Pita Rosco’s dour shadow, less fulsome in his welcome, suspending judgement. So too Comte Piero Inveglio.

  They were all cautiously fascinated by Kazim, though. All the Nesti knew that Elena had been enamoured of Lorenzo di Kestria; despite the stigma, a mage in the family would have been a potent addition to the Kestrian line. The Rimoni looked more than a little put out that she now had a Keshi lover, and what it said about her loyalties, even though Lorenzo was long-dead.

  Apart from those three old friends, the rest of the noblemen were comparative strangers, newcomers to the Nesti ruling council, which hammered home to her that Luca Conte and Emir Ilan Tamadhi were dead. Paolo Castellini was a Gorgio captive, along with half the Nesti army. So many to avenge.

  ‘Where is Harshal ali-Assam?’ she asked Inveglio.

  ‘Who knows?’ he responded. ‘He goes here and there, returns with information when it suits him. Some trust him, others . . .’ He spread his hands doubtfully.

  ‘Harshal may appear to play both sides, but he is Javonesi,’ Elena replied confidently. ‘He and I have been in contact and shared information. We can trust him.’

  Comte Inveglio took that in without undue enthusiasm. He took Elena to meet some of the new men, including the Sollan drui and Amteh Scriptualist assigned to the royal family.

  ‘Although their influence isn’t what it was here,’ he confided. ‘The people know that both the Sollan and Amteh clergy condemned Cera to die; and that men who had shared table with us were part of that. They know that the clergy fought her will when she held her Beggars’ Court.’ He paused. ‘They want a similar court here. Do you think that wise?’

  Elena didn’t, not right now. ‘We’ve a war to fight, Piero. Let us tend to that first.’

  The Comte’s eyes warmed a little. ‘It is good to have you back, Donna Elena.’

  ‘So long as I agree with you on all matters?’

  Inveglio laughed. ‘Si, of course. But even so, for I don’t trust that to last.’

  *

  Love: that was what Cera Nesti felt as she listened to the Jhafi prayer, the Mantra of Family, naming all present as family and therefore able to speak freely. Once it was completed, she and Elena, the only women present, were permitted to lower the hoods of their bekira-shrouds and debate freely with the men.

  This is what I loved so much: not just being part of these meetings but making the decisions that guide this land.

  For years she’d wondered if there was something wrong with her: women were supposed to think only of men and babies and jewellery and clothes and making a perfect home. Her mother had been like that, and so had her sister Solinde.

  But I desire women, and I like to rule kingdoms.

  She sometimes wondered if the two things were linked, but that didn’t ring true to her: if men were supposed to be hunters, she knew herself to be different: she wanted to be hunted, couldn’t imagine doing the hunting herself. And history did speak of women rulers, strong rulers, who were nevertheless wives and mothers of renown.

  I’m different to them all. I’m unique.

  ‘Welcome, dearest brothers and sisters,’ she greeted her fellow council members. As head of the Nesti family, senior member of the family of the Crown Prince, she was entitled to lead this group, and these men had welcomed her back on that basis, which made her proud. ‘Twice welcome and thrice welcome, my friends, to this first reconvening of the Regency Council of Javon. It is with great joy that I greet you.’

  The men chorused greetings, she thanked them and they sat. She was immensely aware that Elena was back at her right hand, completing her dreams.

  Please Ella, trust me as you used to – I swear I’ll never let you down again!

  There were a dozen men around the table, not all of them familiar, but Comte Inveglio was beside her, with Pita Rosco and Luigi Ginovisi, and Harshal ali-Assam had just returned from spying in Brochena itself. Beside him was the Keshi, Kazim Makani, whose slightly intimidating presence Elena had insisted upon. The young man was huge, and quietly sure of himself, even among the nobles of Javon.

  She tapped the pile of papers before her. ‘We’ve much to discuss, my friends. But first, I have some things to report.’

  They all went still, and their eyes bored into her.

  ‘As you know, I was condemned to death for the murder of King Francis Dorobon, and acts of immorality. I state here and now, categorically, that I was not guilty on either count. Another murdered Francis, and made it appear that it was me.’ That caused a murmur, but she raised her hand for silence. ‘Furthermore, nothing immoral has ever occurred between myself and any other woman.’

  There was love, and pleasure, and I hold neither to be immoral, but natural and beautiful, and if it wasn’t suicidal to do so, I’d say it aloud.

  ‘I am a woman, like any other, desirous of marriage and children,’ she said emphatically. ‘Furthermore, I have heard rumours that I now have an overweening taste for power, that I am plotting to seize the throne in my own name and push my beloved brother aside! I hear that I am a new Mater-Imperia Lucia in the making! I refute this entirely, and you will see my words proven when, at the end of this war, I wed Sultan Salim and retire to his harem, as I have pledged.’

  This reminder of her betrothal to Salim of Kesh, sealed before the Dorobon invasion and unpopular among her advisors, caused an unhappy mutter on all sides, but she didn’t acknowledge it.

  ‘Further, it is said by some that my marriage to Francis Dorobon was an act of betrayal. I accepted that marriage to protect my brother and enable me to work for Javon from within the Dorobon court. I give you the Beggars’ Court as evidence of this.’

  This was greeted with grimaces and small nods of approval. Her marriage had severely tested her friends, she knew; it might not have been as purely motivated as she pretended – fear had played a big part – but she’d survived.

  ‘Finally, I have a confession. I fell into doubt, in the days prior to the Dorobon invasion, and I turned my back on that one person whom I should have trusted implicitly. I ignored the advice of Elena Anborn, and left us vulnerable.’

  In fact I did far, far worse than that . . . But I pray that no one here will ever know the full extent of my betrayal.

  Cera turned to Elena. ‘I therefore beg her full forgiveness.’ She fell to her knees on the cold marble before the
Rondian mage, knowing that she was leaving Elena no dignified way of refusing her apology, but she could see no other way of lancing this boil, not when Elena continued to refuse to see her privately.

  The silence in the room was total, and remained frozen for a long, awkward moment, while Elena whispered into her mind.

  Aloud, Elena said, in a voice that was pitched perfectly between relief and regret, ‘That’s gone, Princessa. There is nothing to forgive.’ She reached down and pulled Cera to her feet.

  The men looked on, excluded suddenly, wanting to react in appreciation but unsure why the tension remained. Cera bridged the moment by kissing Elena’s cheeks. Elena’s lips on her own cheek were cold, but she feigned a smile.

  ‘Let us work together as we used to, dearest Ella,’ Cera said solemnly.

  ‘For Javon,’ Elena replied, forcing warmth into her voice.

  Someone clapped, and then all the men applauded, and the smell of relief was tangible. Cera carefully avoided looking at Elena again, peering down the table where Kazim was smiling fixedly, as if he’d sensed what passed and liked none of it.

  ‘In token of Elena’s service,’ Cera announced, ‘the king has given me leave to gift her a piece of land – a monastery on the slopes of Mount Tigrat where she made her home for a time.’ The men frowned a little at this, but none raised any objection, probably because the land wasn’t productive.

  Then it was down to business.

  They began with the status of the military. Seir Ionus Mardium, the new knight-commander, spoke first. ‘We lost thousands when the Dorobon ambushed us at Fishil Wadi,’ he reminded them. ‘A thousand in battle, four thousand to the Gorgio slave-mines – that was half our strength, in terms of regular soldiers. But we’ve recruited heavily and replaced our losses with reserves. Also, sixteen thousand men of Loctis have marched south, mostly Jhafi, but many Kestrian Rimoni; and eighteen thousand men are under arms in Riban, also mostly Jhafi.’

  ‘We have more men to send,’ young Justiano di Kestria reported. He was representing his elder brother, the Lord of Loctis. ‘But we must also ensure our home is safe.’