by David Hair
Magi like Rene Cardien had stormed about decrying her loose morality – so-called ‘liberal’ magi who hated that she lived with all the freedom they idealised yet feared. Antonin Meiros had called her ‘that slattern’, but all he’d done was drive his own daughter into her web.
Rashid had once asked her why she’d betrayed the Ordo Costruo, but the answer was simple: Because I could. The game meant so much more to her than the reasons why she played. Let others agonise over ideology and ethics. All I want is the joy of victory – and the pleasures that come with it.
She smiled to herself at the thought, and returned her attention to what she was doing: powdering her face ready for another night of intrigue. Her blonde hair was plaited into ornate patterns with pearls woven through the shining tresses. A ballgown of cloth-of-silver clung to her curvaceous body, even though she would have to endure a bekira-shroud over it while on public display. Tonight she planned to fascinate and entice, although hints were all anyone would be getting from her. That was the price for breathing these heady airs: the court of Salim was full of intrigue, but not hedonism, for Salim prized his own morality. Alyssa was accepted here as Rashid’s woman, and because she was Ordo Costruo, but a scandal now would be harmful. She was already a ready target for the mealy-mouthed Godspeakers and jealous Hadishah.
Her maid tinkled the bell outside her tent. Let tonight’s games begin.
‘Yes, Lesharri?’
Lesharri scuttled inside and fell to her knees at Alyssa’s feet. She was part-Hebb, and Alyssa’s half-sister, her late father’s bastard child. Alyssa had been bringing her under her control for years, reducing the girl’s sense of self until she was merely an extension of her own will. Lesharri’s only joy now was to do exactly as Alyssa bid. Would that I had more like you, dear sister. Of course, such mind-conditioning was illegal, and if the Ordo Costruo had ever realised, they both would have been executed.
How terribly short-sighted of them, she thought.
‘Lady, the Dokken Lord’s woman is here.’
‘Prandello’s whore?’ That was a strand of her web that seldom quivered. Alyssa admired the glittering creature in her mirror, the goddess she became on nights like these. ‘Bring her in.’
Lesharri bobbed her head eagerly and showed in the woman. She took her cloak, then settled in the corner, poised to act if there was any threat – for Lesharri was still a fully functioning mage.
The Dokken clan-leader’s woman settled in the guest seat, clearly in awe.
Yes, I’m truly this beautiful. Alyssa cast about for her name . . . Maddeoni: a Vereloni human, stolen by Prandello during the Second Crusade. More than a dozen years as Prandello’s broodmare, and it shows. The mother of two boys she adores, but she longs to escape. Prandello is kind to her now, but she hates him still.
A little sympathy had been all it took. While Prandello was away scouting during the siege of Ardijah, Alyssa had sought out his lonely concubine. ‘Yes, it was awful what was done to you. If the chance comes, I may be able to help you, my dear.’
Tonight, perhaps that time had come. Alyssa loathed the Dokken, and would welcome the chance to strike against them, even if it weakened the army. They were by far the older enemy, after all.
‘Maddeoni, how are you this lovely evening?’
The woman tugged her bekira-hood down, her big eyes filling with tears. She was fading joylessly into middle-age, her face lined, her temples grey and the dark circles under her eyes turning to sagging pouches. Her voice was bitter as she announced, ‘The clan is preparing to leave, Lady.’
Most of Alyssa’s visitors told her snippets like this, things they thought important. Most were ill-informed or misinterpreted; she had learned to be patient, to encourage the giving, and examine each morsel thoroughly. ‘The whole army is about to march, Maddeoni,’ she said lightly.
‘This is different. They’re leaving the shihad.’
Opportunity chimed. ‘Are they really? Tell me more.’
‘They are going to forsake the shihad during the confusion of the march.’ Maddeoni laughed drily. ‘The fools thought me asleep as they discussed their plans, their routes. Prandello forgets I exist,’ she added in a low, vindictive voice. ‘They’re taking us women and the children into the wilds to hide, and then the men are going off somewhere. He sits half the night drinking and planning with his closest people, and the stranger.’
Alyssa took the woman’s hands in hers. ‘They pledged to join the shihad, Maddy. To leave like this is wrong; it will make many people terribly angry. You’ve done well in telling me.’
Maddeoni’s eyes narrowed. ‘Will they be . . . chastised?’
‘Quite possibly,’ Alyssa said, affecting worry. ‘Unless we can prevent them from doing anything foolish.’
‘No, I want them to be foolish. I want them to be punished,’ the Vereloni woman hissed. Then her face clouded. ‘As long as my children are safe.’
Alyssa gripped the woman’s hands, projecting fervent sincerity. ‘Of course they will be safe, dearest. Children are so precious – even Dokken children. After all, if they never gain the gnosis, they are just like ordinary boys and girls, are they not?’ She hugged Maddeoni to her gently. ‘I’ll see you safe, Maddy.’ She kissed her cheek. ‘Now, tell me about this stranger.’
*
‘Tell me truly, brother, why can’t your pack help us?’ Prandello asked. ‘I have only fifty Brethren after our losses at Ardijah. The rest of our kin went north to aid Rashid Mubarak – we need as many men as we can to search an area so vast.’
‘I don’t believe this thing will be able to be kept secret for long,’ Zaqri replied, evading the question of his pack. ‘It will come to light, I’m sure.’
‘But who will hear of it first? Information wins wars: do you even know who we seek?’
‘I do: a Rondian male and a Lakh female, both young. We’ll find a way: they won’t be able to stay hidden long.’ He sighed. ‘If only all of our Brethren could join the hunt! We all stand to gain from it. If we could work together, I’m sure we would find them first.’
‘You are no intriguer, Zaqri. Whenever our people gather there is feuding, not unity. But if we do find this thing, they’ll come at our call, I’m sure of it.’ Prandello finished his liquor and called for another bottle. His human wife scuttled out, surprising Zaqri, who had forgotten she was there. She produced the required bottle then fled again into the shadows. Prandello poured him another and they shared it in silence.
There was another revelation Zaqri needed to make, and he judged this as good a time as any. ‘Prandello, there is another thing. I have a woman, waiting near here for me.’
‘Of course you do.’ The clan-master chuckled.
‘The thing about this girl . . . she is magi.’
Prandello’s eyes bulged, and for a time he was speechless, then his expression became calculating. ‘What is it you hope to achieve, Zaqri of Metia. Another Nasette? If so, then that isn’t the way.’
‘I know. But what does happen when one of them bears our seed? What nature will the child have? Do we know?’ He shrugged, affecting callous disregard. ‘I’m curious. There’s been one miscarriage so far, but I plough her during her fertile period and hope for issue. Her time is approaching now.’
Prandello frowned, considering the presence of a mage-woman among his clan, then shrugged. ‘As long as my clan can see that you rule her and not the other way around, there should not be problems.’
They parted soon after and Zaqri had just reached his tent when he was surprised to feel Cym’s mental touch, seeking him. Despite the danger, his heart leapt and he slipped from camp to find her, then led her back through the sea of tents to his own. Inside they writhed together wordlessly, not speaking a word until they were done, they lay panting and sweating, inhaling each other’s scent.
‘I was about to summon you,’ he whispered. ‘The army is marching in the morning and we’ll be splitting from them en route and going east. Prandello’s
been told about you; he says you’ll have his protection.’
She laid her head on his chest, looked at him from inches away with big, nervous eyes. ‘Can you trust him?’
‘I believe so.’
‘I almost didn’t come,’ she told him. ‘My premonition is getting worse. I don’t care about the Scytale any more – chasing it will kill us, my love. Please, let’s just leave.’ Her face was tired, her eyes red-rimmed, as if she’d not slept in his absence.
He stroked her hair. ‘Cym, no one will harm you, I promise. But I must do this. It’s for my people.’
‘Please! I’ll marry you and bear your children. Only let us leave, now!’
‘I can’t.’
For a moment he thought she would depart – he could see that she was contemplating it – and to forestall her he rolled onto her and took her again, as if he might nail her to the earth and prevent her going. It seemed to work, or maybe he’d just exhausted her, for afterwards she sighed as if contented, and closed her eyes.
She was deeply asleep within moments. He extricated himself and went to empty his bladder, stumbling through the slumbering camp to the waste trenches, peeing into a foetid ditch, then turning to go back to his tent.
He froze.
There was a white woman standing some fifteen yards from him, her features lit by the moon. She wore a loose bekira-shroud, parted at the front to reveal a silver dress that barely contained her curvaceous form. Her blonde hair was caught up with pearls and her wide-lipped face had a sensuous, greedy look. There was a periapt of gleaming amethyst at her throat and a crystal-tipped wooden rod in her hand, the sort that amplified certain enchantments. She brandished it lazily. ‘Zaqri of Metia, I believe?’
Behind her, dark shadows were stealing into the Dokken camp and lamps were winking out. The guards had vanished. He opened his mouth to bellow a warning when the crystal rod in her hand pulsed.
A hideous feeling gripped his insides, as if a demon with acid-tipped talons were ripping its way from his belly and he staggered, tried to fight it, but the blow was already struck. A bout of weakness rippled through him, sending him to his knees, and then his face hit the sand.
Dimly, he heard the screams begin, but they were drowned out by the crunch of her feet beside his ears. She said something, a deafening whisper that contained words he should know, but the agony inside him was too great. Even as men appeared behind her, shrouded in black and carrying blades, the next wave of pain swept him under and away.
*
‘Lady Alyssa,’ Lesharri simpered, ‘the Dokken wakes.’
Alyssa was watching the Hadishah bind Zaqri of Metia. She’d Chained his gnosis herself as he lay unconscious in the mud that surrounded the waste ditches. The stench was rather nauseating, but the night had otherwise been perfect. ‘Take him to my tent,’ she directed the Hadishah men, then sent Lesharri to ensure they left him unharmed while she went to Prandello’s tent.
The attack had been all she could have hoped. The Dokken had some powerful gnosis-wielders, but at this time of the night they were either drunk, asleep or both, and most died without ever waking. Those few that resisted had surrendered when their mates or children were threatened – and then they’d died anyway, because a monster will always be a monster.
Killing the women and children came next. They couldn’t risk that the women might not be pregnant, nor that the children grow to become enemies. Maddeoni lay in a heap, stabbed to death while trying to protect her sons. They lay beneath her in a circle of churned and bloody sand. Alyssa barely glanced at the woman she had sworn to protect.
It is these unpleasant decisions that set leaders apart, she told herself, pleased at her own decisiveness.
She found Prandello lying on a carpet, clutching his right arm, which had been slashed to the bone. One of the Hadishah captains, Pashil, had Chain-runed him. Pashil was not someone she trusted, but he need not know that. As she greeted him, Salim entered – or maybe one of his impersonators; they all knew how to shield their minds, and she’d still not quite worked out who was who.
‘Sal’Ahm, Great Sultan,’ she breathed, prostrating herself. Beside her Pashil did the same.
‘Have you achieved what was required?’
‘We have, Great Sultan,’ Pashil answered. He looked like a middle-aged scholar, mild of face, with grey peppering his hair. ‘They are purged. Only this one lives.’
Then he doesn’t know I have this Zaqri, Alyssa noted. Nor Cymbellea di Regia. ‘Prandello must be questioned, Great Sultan,’ she said. ‘He was plotting against us.’
‘Plotting what, Lady Alyssa?’ the sultan asked.
‘That is still to be learned,’ she replied, internally quivering at the full import of what Maddeoni had overheard. ‘But extricating his secrets will require great skill.’
‘My torturers have great skill,’ Salim noted. The sultan regarded himself a man of culture and honour and disliked torture, but he wasn’t above using it when needed.
‘These are matters of the gnosis,’ she countered. ‘I can extract his plots more humanely than a torturer.’
She watched the sultan’s innate squeamishness settle the matter. ‘Then you may question him, Lady.’
Pashil scowled. ‘I will supervise personally, Great Sultan, and report the findings to you directly.’
Think you’re clever, Pashil? Then perhaps I won’t ask Prandello the right questions . . . I’ll save those for Zaqri of Metia . . . For if Zaqri of Metia had information concerning the artefact Maddeoni had spoken of, then she and she alone had to extract it. And if this is all true, then Rashid and I will be the heads of a new Ascendancy . . .
Tremble, Urte . . .
*
‘Wake up, girl!’
Cym had been drowsing, vaguely conscious that Zaqri had gone, but not far; she could still sense him. She had never sensed the attack, though, not until it was too late, when men had slashed their way into the tent and pinned her down and a sharp knife of pain that she couldn’t fight stabbed through her mind. Her mental scream died stillborn, her last sight a blockish woman’s face inches from hers, her eyes blasting through her. Then came the Chain-rune, the twisting agony of it binding her, like being wrapped in thorns, and she’d lost consciousness.
Now she was waking again, terrified for him, and for herself. She quivered in sudden fright as a woman spoke, right beside her. She went rigid, afraid to open her eyes.
‘Oh, come now,’ a woman purred. ‘I’m not going to hurt you, Cymbellea.’
Hearing her name startled Cym’s eyes into opening. A lush blonde woman with a seraphic face was sitting beside her pallet. She was dressed in a bekira-shroud, but it was carelessly worn, revealing her shimmering silver gown. ‘Cymbellea Meiros, don’t you remember me?’
Cym stared. ‘No . . .’ She knows my mother’s name?
‘Fie! I held you, newborn and screaming, you were. So angry to be born!’ The woman sighed. ‘I was upset when Justina gave you away. I’d have kept you myself if I’d been allowed, but Justina was my best friend, so I had to support her. It was I who gave you to Mercellus when he reappeared.’
What? ‘Who are you?’
‘Has your mother never said?’ The blonde woman looked hurt. ‘I’m Alyssa Dulayne, of the Ordo Costruo: your mother’s closest friend.’
Cym’s throat went dry. ‘My mother is . . .’
‘I know, she’s dead,’ Alyssa interrupted. Her face hardened. ‘And I know who killed her. I’ve been inside his head.’
Her words reopened old wounds in Cym’s heart: the hatred she’d carried so long for Zaqri, the conflict that had poisoned their love. She’d resolved it, in her own mind, but what would this woman think?
‘Do you have Zaqri?’ she asked timorously.
Alyssa’s eyes narrowed. ‘I do.’
‘Please, let him go.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Alyssa replied. ‘He’s a Dokken. And he killed the best friend I ever had. And he has information about somet
hing I need. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.’
Her hope began to wither. Zaqri had told her about the Scytale. They said every man broke under torture. It was just a case of how long it took. ‘If you’ve . . .’ she began, struggling to articulate her horror.
Alyssa’s face was curious. ‘Why would you care about him, Cymbellea?’
This woman is a reptile. She’s lying. Mater Luna, save us . . .
‘I’ll tell you everything, voluntarily, if you just let him go.’
‘But you intrigue me, dear girl. A Dokken and a mage together? You’ve fornicated with him, haven’t you? Are you another Nasette in the making?’ She leaned forward. ‘I must keep you with me so I can unravel these mysteries. For your mother’s sake . . .’
‘The Scytale—’
‘Yes, the Scytale . . . I’ll return it to the Ordo Costruo, as I’m sure your mother would have wanted.’ Alyssa stretched out her hand languidly and patted her. ‘There is no reason you and I cannot work together . . .’
She stared mutely, wondering if she could somehow fool this Rondian bitch.
Alyssa Dulayne let loose a tinkling laugh. ‘Oh my dear, you’re so transparent. I’ve been a piece on the tabula board of power all my life. I’ve risen from pawn to queen and I know all the moves, darling girl. I’m not fooled by the likes of you. Caught up in the flush of first love, all you can think of is him-him-him. That won’t do.’ She stood. ‘You will both accompany me. You will remain Chained. You will each cooperate, or the other will suffer.’ She gestured, and the leather thongs binding Cym to the bed tightened.
‘For now, you just rest, my dear,’ Alyssa told her, her angelic smile not touching her frosty eyes.
*
Seth Korion was given time he never expected to prepare his defences on the banks of the Tigrates River. Baltus Prenton, observing the Keshi from the air, reported great disruptions in the sultan’s army, with the result that they didn’t advance on the Lost Legions’ riverside position for another two weeks.