Moontide 04 - Ascendant's Rite

by David Hair

  At last, Salim thought, some advice that rings true!

  ‘Well spoken, my friend. They cannot attack for fear of our archers so we will starve them out, until their magi slip away across the river and they capitulate. We’re needed elsewhere.’ He made some calculations. ‘I will keep thirty thousand here to hold them – I will leave an impersonator here, and General Darhus. Then we will march the bulk of our army north and cross the river.’

  ‘As you command, Great Sultan.’ Dashimel touched his fist to his heart.

  Salim looked again at the Rondian camp, shrouded in cooking-fire smoke, legion banners flying defiantly overhead. Seth Korion and I could solve this over a glass of wine . . . but that is not the way of the world. Instead, men must die.

  13

  Persuasion

  Lanti a’Khomi

  The greatest beauty of all time was Lanti a’Khomi, a daughter of the Mirobez royal family. It is said that her smile could stop a man’s heart. Her beauty brought her no happiness, however. When she refused to marry the man he had chosen for her, the Sultan of Mirobez had his daughter suffocated and embalmed in crystal to preserve her beauty for ever. It is said that she lies perfectly preserved in a shrine within the Royal Catacombs in Mirobez.

  ORDO COSTRUO, HEBUSALIM, 794

  Southern Kesh, on the continent of Antiopia

  Zulqeda (Noveleve) 929

  17th month of the Moontide

  Alyssa Dulayne stretched luxuriantly across the divan, cascading her blonde hair over her shoulder as she savoured the wine sliding down her throat. War is so stressful, she thought. It’s good to get away from it. She offered her empty cup to the young Hadishah girl serving her tonight, and she refilled it silently. Sadly, the girl was a blockhead with no conversation, so this would be just another boring evening in the middle of nowhere.

  For three weeks her party of twenty-seven Hadishah mage-assassins had journeyed hundreds of miles on an eastward trajectory, spread over eight windcraft, one a large dhou carrying a dozen passengers, and the other seven bearing three warriors in each. Though her own people were poor company, the two prisoners had intriguing stories.

  Zaqri of Metia hadn’t told his tale willingly, of course. But Alyssa could get the most unwilling man to talk without so much as touching him. She was skilled enough at Mesmerism and Illusion to leave someone so confused that they leaked their secrets without realising. Zaqri was like a pomegranate, with so many glorious seeds of truth inside him.

  The Scytale of Corineus is loose in the world. The Inquisition know, and are hunting it. The Dokken know, and are just as desperate to find it, for they see it as their salvation!

  The people involved intrigued her: Ramita Ankesharan, who’d been snatched from her by Justina in the first months of the Moontide. She remembered the girl, a stubborn but naïve bint – no threat then, though she’d have the gnosis now. And this Zaqri, the handsome Souldrinker with a foolish heart who was in love with Cymbellea, Justina’s daughter – there was a ballad to wring tears from the stoniest eyes! And Alaron Mercer . . . who was he – and more importantly, where?

  Without firm news to guide her, Alyssa’s search had been slow. They’d been taking their time and stopping often to question locals and scry for their quarry. She’d heard little that was pertinent to her quest, but she could be patient, and she was certain that the Scytale would reveal itself.

  Everything bends to my will eventually.

  They’d commandeered a rural mansion in southern Kesh for this evening, comfortable enough by local standards. She planned to spend the time drowning a very specific regret in whatever wine was to hand.

  She’d felt genuine sadness when she’d learned of the death of Antonin Meiros’ daughter Justina. We shared so much. They’d become the closest possible friends, two secret rebels in the close confines of the Ordo Costruo and all their sanctimonious moralising. They’d delighted in breaking taboos and offending those prissy scholars – disrupting classes, sneaking out at night to steal, trying alcohol, and learning all about what boys really wanted. No one hurt them because they were magi and could do much worse than any thug who might try to take them on. And over the years they’d laughed and cried together, shared lovers and beds – in fact, they shared everything but ambition. She could picture Justina effortlessly: the cold, brittle face she showed the world, and the softer, vulnerable woman beneath.

  I miss you, my dear friend.

  It saddened her that they’d parted in anger – she’d been transporting Ramita Ankesharan to confinement in Halli’kut when Justina had appeared and taken the girl. She could have killed me, but I meant too much to her. And now she’s dead. Alyssa wiped her eyes and took another swallow of wine.

  Zaqri of Metia killed her. Once she was sure she’d gleaned every last morsel of information from him, she was going to punish that crime.

  Thinking of Justina led naturally to the other prisoner: Cymbellea di Regia, Justina’s errant daughter. She was not yet an ally, but she was softening; of that Alyssa was sure. A patient, subtle Mesmerist could turn most heads eventually; it just took time, and a starting point: something upon which to build trust. Most magi thought only in terms of battering minds into submission, but the best Mesmerists persuaded. They seduced.

  Though Cym wasn’t quite ripe for seduction yet.

  Rashid would make putty of her, but she’s not ready for more exotic pleasures . . . A pity . . .

  Alyssa looked speculatively at the Hadishah girl serving her but immediately dismissed her as beneath notice; Tegeda was not just drab, with her dull skin and great heavy eyebrows, but she was too muscular to be feminine. She was one of the newest generation of Hadishah from the breeding-houses; her body had been shaped by a daily regime of strength-building exercises, her mind moulded into an aggressive, fanatical mentality. Ugly ugly ugly. Girls should be pretty and feminine. The breeding-houses were hideous places, though she conceded that Rashid was right: they needed them.

  If I asked Tegeda what the best thing in life is, she’d say ‘Slaying Enemies of the Faith’ or ‘Praying’ or something equally dismal. Alyssa shuddered. What kind of life is that?

  She drained her goblet again, wishing that Rashid was here to distract her mind and transport her body, but he was far away. Then someone knocked at the door and pulled her mind back to the present. Tegeda admitted Satravim, a young pilot-mage, one of those Alyssa had sent ahead hunting for news of their quarry. She sat up and flicked a finger to dismiss Tegeda as Satravim fell to his knees before her.

  He was interesting, this one, though low-blooded; he was permanently angry at life for the hideous wounds that had ruined his face, a rage he channelled into his gnosis and his faith. She’d shown him a little kindness, enough to turn his contempt of her skin colour to something more worshipful.

  ‘You may rise, Satravim,’ she said, holding out a hand to him and putting on her ‘elder sister’ face. She poured him some water, he mumbled his gratitude and fell a little more in love with her. ‘You went to Ullakesh, yes?’ she said. ‘So, what did you learn?’

  Moments later she was storming through the palace, rousing the sleepers and sending them into a frenzy of preparation for flight as she cried, ‘We’re going to Teshwallabad! Ramita is in Teshwallabad!’

  *

  ‘Get up, Slugskin!’

  A boot-toe slammed into his stomach and Zaqri was torn from a nightmare of fire and blank faces into harrowing reality – or so it seemed; since the blonde woman had begun questioning him, there was little he could trust. The most ghastly tortures could be revealed as tricks, blending with dreams of rescue, or making love to Cym – and all lies. Whole lucid conversations that felt so real he became immersed in them . . . only to discover not a word had been said. No one could be trusted; nothing could be relied upon.

  The cloaked figure standing over him kicked again, harder. ‘Get up!’

  It felt real – but then, everything did, every delusional moment . . . In his delirium he had told
Alyssa Dulayne everything – of that he was almost certain. She’d unpicked him so deftly and easily it was humiliating. Every weakness had been turned on him, all his illusions of courage stripped away.

  He expected to die now, for what further use could they have for him? But he didn’t want to, not without seeing Cym again. He knew she was also aboard this craft, shut up in the hold; he could sense her, even through the Chain-rune; he would be able to find her anywhere. For her to be so close, but out of reach, was maddening beyond endurance.

  Likely Alyssa was merely kindling hope in him for the pleasure of snuffing it out, but he couldn’t help dreaming that the two of them might somehow break free.

  Alyssa Dulayne. The golden-haired witch. He was going to rip her throat out; he just needed to live long enough to get the chance.

  ‘Get up!’ the Hadishah snapped, hoisting him with kinesis. ‘We’re moving.’

  He caught his balance, his ankle chains clanking. His hands were free, but his feet were manacled so closely together so that he could only shuffle. The assassin shoved him to the latrine and stood over him while he peed, then escorted him outside. It was still early evening, but they were on the move again, only a few hours since they’d arrived here – wherever here was; he had no idea, but the architecture suggested southern Kesh or the eastern part of Khotri. He staggered up the gang-plank and was locked to the railing in his usual place while the Hadishah settled around him. The craft rose, the large triangular sails unfurling about the two masts. The dhou was smaller than the Rondian warbird he’d seen, but much larger than the two skiffs that rose alongside them; the three craft swung southeast together, the wind rose at the pilot’s call and the wind-dhou surged away, bathed in moonlight. He could feel the renewed energy among the Hadishah and his heart sank as he guessed why.

  They’ve got news of the Scytale.

  Teshwallabad, Lakh, on the continent of Antiopia

  Zulqeda (Noveleve) 929

  17th month of the Moontide

  Alyssa stared down at the blood-spattered, alien face and caught the monk’s final thoughts as he faded, his body shuddering into stillness.

  Zains, she thought. Impotent, pathetic Zains . . .

  If there was one thing she despised more than scholars, it was clergy: men who couldn’t deal with the real world disappearing into a fantasy one, preaching love of imaginary beings to hide their in-ability to love real ones, all the while telling their congregations to give freely, to them. Kore priests, Amteh Scriptualists, Lakh pandits, Zain monks and all the myriad fringe sects . . . what was the point of any of them? Nothing more than balm for the emotionally needy. If she had her way they’d be eradicated like the parasites they were.

  So this afternoon had been a rare treat.

  Lesharri stood behind her, distressed. She didn’t like blood, but there were buckets of it here, staining the steps and draining into the river. They’d arrived at night, trapping seventeen Zain monks, forty-two acolytes and twenty-six beggars they were feeding in a badly timed act of charity. Only the dead man at her feet had known anything useful, but the rest had to die for the crime of seeing her face and hearing her questions. She didn’t want the word ‘Scytale’ being bandied about, not even here in Lakh.

  The Hadishah agents at court had met her on her arrival in Teshwallabad, but they knew little of what had happened in Septinon, three whole months ago. They were unaware Ramita Ankesharan had been here – with a Rondian mage! All they knew was that there had been an attempt on the life of Tariq-Srinarayan Kishan-ji, his Sacred Majesty the Mughal of Lakh, and that Vizier Hanook and his son were dead.

  Three months ago – what incompetent fools!

  Ramita was long gone, though she’d stayed at this monastery for several nights after the mysterious tunnel collapse and the death of the vizier. They’d departed for a monastery in Lokistan and now she knew its name. I’m closing in on you, Ramita.

  She could guess at the purpose Ramita had in coming here: she was Lakh, and a mage in her own right; the mughal would surely crave a mage-bride, to bring the gnosis into the Lakh royal family. Intolerable.

  There’s much more to learn here, but I don’t have time to get to the mughal, spoiled little brat that he is. I need to find Ramita, before she moves again. She sighed at the thought of another long and arduous trip, to Lokistan this time.

  Am I fated to traverse the whole of Ahmedhassa looking for this damned artefact?

  She looked about her, spotted Satravim hovering in the hope of being of value and rewarded him with a smile. ‘Dear Satravim, my sister Lesharri is feeling unwell. Please, take her back to the dhou and see to her comfort.’

  The young Hadishah almost swooned in delight as he led Lesharri off.

  Next she sought Megradh, the Hadishah captain. He was quite the ugliest, most brutal-looking man she’d met, with a blockish skull and the heavy jowls of a savage, barely covered by a patchy and unkempt beard. He quite clearly loathed her, but still couldn’t keep his eyes off her body.

  ‘Take the maps, burn the bodies and prepare to leave,’ she ordered. ‘We have far to go.’ She indicated a pair of his warriors, unconscious on the ground. ‘What happened to them?’

  Megradh scowled. ‘These monks and their staves . . . We’ve not fought such a weapon before.’

  ‘It’s a stick,’ she sneered. I sometimes think Rashid places too much confidence in these people. ‘I’ve half a mind to leave them behind, but perhaps they’ll have learned from the experience.’

  ‘What of the prisoner Zaqri?’ Megradh asked. ‘He weighs down the ship and he stinks. Fucking beast-man. What use is he any more?’

  The captain has a point . . . but much about the Dokken that intrigued her. There was something in his memories relating to the old fairytale about Nasette – if there was any truth to that legend, it might be something worth knowing. And while he was alive, she could use his safety to control Cymbellea. But he had slain Justina, and for that he deserved to die.

  Let’s see how the mood takes me . . .

  ‘We keep him for now.’ She clapped her hands briskly. ‘Enough – we go!’

  *

  Cymbellea groaned, and blinked her way back to consciousness. They put poppy in my food again . . .

  ‘I know you’re awake,’ Alyssa Dulayne drawled. ‘How are you, darling girl?’

  Cym tried to sit up, groaning at the deep ache inside her skull, until Alyssa put her fingers to her temple and the pain eased enough for her to open her eyes. They were in a broken-down chamber, looking at the desert wilderness outside through the hole left by a missing wall. A large triangular-sailed windship rested on its landing struts on the flat space outside.

  She was lying on a rough pallet, dressed only in a thin cotton nightgown. There was no sign of her few personal effects. The only other person present was a dumpling of a woman with the placid composure of a nun. She resembled a softer Alyssa, so it was no surprise when she said, ‘You remember my half-sister, Lesharri?’

  ‘You’re among friends, dearie,’ Lesharri burbled brightly. She was dowdily dressed, and her face was oddly vacant. But it was Alyssa who filled Cym’s sight. The blonde Rondian was studying her carefully.

  A friend wouldn’t imprison me, or drug me . . .

  ‘Where’s Zaqri?’ she managed to ask at last, her throat rusty with lack of use.

  ‘Not far away,’ Alyssa said. ‘We’ve travelled a long way, my dear, and you’ve been a handful, so we’ve had to sedate you, entirely for your own good, of course.’

  Cym tried to reach her gnosis, but she found nothing. ‘What—?’

  ‘Just a Chain-rune,’ Alyssa replied airily, ‘only to prevent you from doing something foolish.’ Her face was all concern, but her eyes were predatory. ‘My dear girl, you are so like my poor Justina, aren’t you? Your mouth, your eyes . . . so beautiful.’

  It’s like having a lioness describe how succulent you smell. Cym fought to hide her revulsion, but Alyssa saw it and gave a heavy sigh. Sh
e turned to her sister. ‘Lesharri, help Cymbellea sit up, would you.’

  Cym brushed Lesharri’s hand aside and pulled herself upright. I’d like to rip your face off . . .

  The blonde woman tutted sadly. ‘So much anger and resentment. It’s what happens when mothers abandon their children: you see it in the streets of Hebusalim all the time, the damage of broken families. You’re a lost soul, aren’t you?’

  ‘A lost soul,’ Lesharri agreed.

  ‘Worse than that, really,’ Alyssa went on. ‘A damned soul. Zaqri’s told me everything about you and him.’ She turned to Lesharri. ‘Leave us, sister, for I fear this may become unpleasant. Send Megradh in.’

  The dumpy little woman looked pained, but she scampered away, leaving Cym alone and afraid. Alyssa leaned towards her and her voice dropped to a hiss. ‘You’ve been rukking that Souldrinker animal, you dirty little slut. And he killed your poor mother! Justina was my dearest friend . . . and you’ve made love to her murderer. Sweet Kore, child! Have you no morals?’

  ‘You don’t understand. It wasn’t like that!’ Her drug-addled mind swirled.

  ‘Of course I don’t understand! I find your behaviour utterly in-comprehensible!’

  ‘Who are you to judge me? You’re rukking that emir who murdered my grandfather!’

  ‘Ignorant girl! Rashid Mubarak represents the ideals of the Ordo Costruo more truly than Antonin Meiros did in the end! Meiros chose to stand aside from a war he helped create, not just once, but thrice! It split the Order, and I have to tell you that Rashid was right to take a stand. He had the courage to face that old despot when no others would, and I’m proud to be his concubine and share in his glory!’