Moontide 04 - Ascendant's Rite

by David Hair

  ‘Well?’ she asked coolly, though her heart was pounding.

  Rene puffed himself up a little, and said, ‘Lady Elena, we of the Ordo Costruo agree to the terms offered by the Regent of Javon.’

  ‘We’ll fight for our right to exist,’ Odessa put in darkly. ‘Even alongside the likes of you and your Dokken.’

  I guess we’re not going to be blood-sisters after all, Elena reflected.

  ‘The former Crusaders will not be joining us,’ Cardien went on. ‘Sir Beglyn, Valdyr and the rest wish to seek the Rondian Army. But we Ordo Costruo will accompany you to Javon.’

  Elena closed her eyes and thanked whoever was listening.

  Hold on, Cera. We’re coming as fast as we can.

  18

  Crocodiles

  Rivers of Urte

  Like the oceans, the rivers of Urte are subject to tidal change, but the effects are far less dramatic, as the moon’s influence is not so marked on smaller bodies of water. It is upon rivers and lakes that man has learned to float and to sail, and indeed, riverboats have provided the model for windships. Rivers have been the arteries of trade on Urte for centuries, and more goods are shipped on any major river than all of the windfleets together.

  ORDO COSTRUO COLLEGIATE, PONTUS, 896

  Riverdown, near Vida, southern Kesh, on the continent of Antiopia

  Zulhijja (Decore) 929

  18th month of the Moontide

  Ramon stared blearily across the Tigrates River. Half the army was in the water swimming, and he was on crocodile-watch. The giant reptiles, realising there was meat in the water all the time here now, were hovering on the fringes. Anyone with a touch of Animagery had to take their turn on duty, day and night, to keep them at bay. They’d lost three men before realising the danger; since then they’d killed about two dozen of the beasts, enough to deter most of them . . . but sometimes one got desperate.

  Crocodile meat fell somewhere between fish and chicken, with – in Ramon’s opinion – the better points of neither. But fresh meat was hard to come by at the moment so no one was complaining.

  He yawned, wondering how long until he’d be relieved. He’d been up most of the last few nights, using Baltus’ repaired windskiff to scout upriver, seeking some way out of this trap, but the problem with night-flights was that one really couldn’t see very much. He yawned again, and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘Buongiorno,’ Lanna drawled in a really bad Rimoni accent, settling beside him.

  ‘Shh,’ he replied, touching his temple to show he was concentrating. ‘They like to sneak in underwater. They’re tricky bastards, crocodiles.’

  ‘Really? Are they Silacian crocodiles?’

  He laughed and threw up his hands. ‘Rukka mio! How can I concentrate?’ They shared a look. He’d been helping in the infirmary a lot recently, in exchange for a cot in the corner, as Severine had made it plain she didn’t want him around. It was awkward and embarrassing, and none of the other magi knew how to talk about it. He and Lanna weren’t precisely friends yet, but he’d proven himself willing and able to help out when he could, and she seemed to be thawing a little.

  ‘How was last night?’ he asked. The flow of wounded had slowed to a trickle, but the long-term cases and the usual mishaps of army life kept Lanna and Carmina busy.

  ‘Dull. Seven more dysentry cases, and a dozen afflicitons I can’t even name. And an Estellan archer was brought in at midnight, too far gone to save. A scorpion bite, we think. We need to warn the men about checking their boots again.’

  ‘It never ends, does it?’

  ‘That’s the lot of the healer-mage: on duty all the time, performing miracles as a matter of course, and given the blame if the soldier dies, even if it wasn’t our fault. Oh, and we get half the pay of a battle-mage.’

  ‘Not in this army.’

  ‘Really? Who put you in charge of pay?’

  ‘I mean it: you’ll get the same, or more. I’m going to make sure of that.’

  ‘Mmm. I’m told you’ve got all sorts of gold and treasure secreted away somewhere?’

  He tapped his nose. ‘Don’t tell the rankers. They’ll be paid too, but I don’t want a riot before then.’

  ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’ She studied him, frowning. ‘You know, this is the first Crusade where I’ve actually felt valued by the battle-magi. Duprey took me completely for granted, right down to the usual sordid approaches.’

  Ramon wrinkled his nose. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I kind of liked Duprey.’

  ‘He was an arsehole. Most people are.’ She looked away gloomily.

  The Keshi attacks might have ended three weeks ago, but they were still pinned in Riverdown, supplies were beginning to run low and the far bank was still patrolled by Kirkegarde. The Keshi were dug in around them, having erected their own earthworks and fences to keep them penned inside. Morale was holding up though, buoyed by their successful defence.

  ‘How’s Jelaska?’ Ramon asked, dropping his voice.

  ‘She’s not taking it well.’

  Jelaska had been in decline since Baltus Prenton’s death; she’d been sleeping badly and was oozing gnostic power in her sleep, calling ghosts from the aether while unconscious. They’d had to start sedating her, but Lanna’s stores of those particular herbs were running low.

  ‘She’s a tough old bird,’ Ramon replied, ‘and I’m sure she doesn’t believe in curses any more than we do.’

  ‘Perhaps. I know she’s tired of losing people. She just wants to go home, like the rest of us. Except me, of course. I like it here. I’m thinking of staying: I’d put my villa on this rise, and the dock for my luxury barge just here.’

  ‘You wouldn’t want to go downstream any further. This army has poisoned the river for decades to come.’ He grinned. ‘So, you’re going to capitalise on our popularity in these parts, are you?’

  ‘Mmm. The Keshi love us so much they won’t let us leave,’ she said drily.

  Suddenly Lanna was hurled twenty yards into the river, landing with a violent splash. The roar of kinetic gnosis slammed Ramon sideways and he rolled to his feet, utterly bewildered, as Lanna came up out of the water, spluttering with outrage.

  Severine Tiseme was stamping towards him, her little round face livid. ‘I’m sick of seeing you and that raddled harlot together!’ she shrieked, storming to the water’s edge and slamming more kinetic energy at Lanna. This time Lanna shielded, but Sevvie’s blood was far stronger and she slammed the healer over backwards and under again. ‘Keep away from my man, you ancient whore!’

  All along the foreshore the rankers had stopped swimming and were staring, caught between amusement and fear of being caught in the middle of a mage-duel. Severine was fully shielding as Lanna came up again, her thin smock clinging to her in a way that had the men whistling. Her normally placid face was set with anger. She stalked out of the river, holding her head up. ‘I will not make a spectacle of myself with the likes of you,’ she said to Severine.

  ‘That’s because you only know how to go behind people’s backs,’ Severine declared loudly.

  Lanna’s face went red and she poked a finger at Severine. ‘Don’t make an enemy of me, princess.’

  ‘You don’t frighten me. You’ve got wrinkly old-woman hands,’ she added spitefully.

  Lanna’s face burned a deeper scarlet, but she had little skill in offensive gnosis, and weaker blood than Severine. She backed a step, looked at Ramon with a withering look that said Thanks for your help, and walked away, her back straight.

  Ramon saw Severine contemplate shoving the healer in the back and intervened with a touch of the gnosis that disrupted her control. She whirled on him, her eyes blazing. ‘As for you, you slimy rodent – I know all about you!’

  ‘What? I haven’t—’

  ‘Lying rat!’ She stomped away, leaving him with about a thousand gawking soldiers grinning from ear to ear.

  For a minute he just stood there, torn between trying to fix his reputation with either woman,
and staying put to look out for crocodiles . . . and to wait for one particular contact.

  In the end he just sat down, ignored the smirking soldiers and sulked, the pleasure gone from the day.

  The contact he’d been expecting didn’t come for another hour, but at last there was a gentle touch in his mind. He responded immediately. he sent in Rimoni.

  The sender, a mage-agent named Silvio Anturo, sounded uncharacteristically edgy for a familioso enforcer, but then, he wasn’t usually enforcing Inquisitors. He wasn’t a Retiari man, but an agent of the Petrossi, a rival gang the Retiari were currently cooperating with. He and Ramon had been in contact sporadically for several days now, and Ramon was a little surprised it had taken the man this long to find him.

  Anturo sent.

 

  The relief that exploded through Anturo’s brain was palpable.

  Ramon lied.

  Anturo sniffed.

  Though when it came down to it, Ramon didn’t want to leave the legion behind. They were his boys, and the other magi were friends now. His daughter was here. And Sevvie, for what that was worth at the moment.

  Anturo replied.

  Ramon baited his hook.

  The link went silent. Ramon could almost hear the other man’s brain cranking through the possibilities until he whispered, a little unnecessarily,

 

 

 

  Another pause then, as Anturo struggled to take this in. His loyalties clearly went deeper than Ramon’s, but then, Isabella Petrossi was his aunt. She’d purchased a week with a Rondian half-blood for her sister, and Anturo was the progeny of that union. But for many familioso agents, time in service bred cynicism.

 

  Ramon affected a sneer.

 

  He winced at his own words, but the conviction in his voice never wavered as he reeled Silvio in.

  Silvio Anturo was silent for a long time, then spoke in just the way Ramon had wanted; with indecision, heavily tinged with greed.

  If he’d leaped at the offer, Ramon would have smelled a rat. Dio mio, I’m plausible sometimes . . .

  Anturo fell silent again.

  *

  Other people weren’t so keen on the way Ramon thought. He went looking for Severine as night fell, finding her as usual in the women’s camp, cooking while watching over a sleeping Julietta. She looked wretched, her face tear-stained and grimy, her ringlets limp and dull. She smelled like she hadn’t washed in weeks. There were moths swirling in clouds about the lamps and flies crawling over the uncooked food, but she wasn’t even mustering the gnostic energy to drive them away.

  There was no welcome in her eyes when he hunkered down beside her. And he was still angry at her for that scene beside the river, angry enough not to care if this was it between them. ‘What was all that about?’ he demanded. ‘Lanna and I have done nothing.’

  ‘Oh please! You’re sleeping in the healers’ tent! The whole damned legion knows it! It’s humiliating!’

  ‘I’m helping out, Sevvie! And I have to sleep somewhere!’ He gestured futilely. ‘I’m not sleeping with her, I swear it – although why you care, I don’t know. You don’t want me – you never have. All you wanted was a child, and now you’ve got one.’

  ‘She’s yours too,’ she snapped. ‘Not that you care.’

  ‘Of course I care! I see her every moment I can!’

  Severine snorted, looked away. ‘Why the healer? She’s thirty! She’s plain.’ They glared at each other, then her face softened. ‘Don’t you abandon me, Ramon Sensini. I’m a Tiseme: no one leaves me!’

  ‘Then why don’t you do the leaving,’ he snapped. ‘Go ahead, if your pride is all you care about! Go ahead!’ He spun and stamped away.

  *

  The parley flag came as a surprise, after weeks in which the enemy did no more than pen them in; they’d stopped bothering with even sporadic archery. But one afternoon a white flag was waved by a skinny Keshi boy trotting towards their lines: a well-dressed lad in embroidered silks and wearing a dapper red turban – a sheik’s son, maybe. He brought a message for Seth, written on white scented parchment, requesting an audience. It bore the insignia of Salim I of Kesh.

  Seth found he couldn’t think straight after reading it.

  General Seth Korion,

  I send my greetings, and request a parley, between our lines, tomorrow.

  I wish to discuss the situation of your army, and seek a resolution to this impasse.

  Salim of Kesh

  ‘It’s not him,’ Ramon maintained. The Silacian had been very subdued for the past few days; there’d been some massive argument with Severine about Lanna Jureigh. Seth had considered weighing in, then decided not to get caught in the middle; he was disappointed in all of them.

  Most of the Keshi had left the enemy camp and marched north, taking most of the royal banners with them. But there was still one large pavilion across the way, and the sultan’s personal flag flew over it. They’d decided it was worth hearing what the sultan, or more likely one of his impersonators, wanted.

  The meeting was arranged for the middle ground between the armies, in a pavilion the Keshi built then abandoned so that the Rondians could inspect it before agreeing the meeting. The tent was a big, airy affair in white and gold. The Keshi had set up two low divans with a table between, laid with platters of fruit and set with wine goblets. Chaplain Gerdhart had checked earlier for poisons and hidden dangers and found all in order.

  Seth Korion walked into the pavilion in trepidation. He sat, helped himself to a grape, then stood up again and paced until the flap on the opposite side of the pavilion opened and a man in his late twenties stepped through.

  Seth caught his breath. ‘Latif?’

  He had to look closer to ensure it was indeed the man they’d held prisoner in Ardijah for two months, during which time he’d become someone Seth considered a friend: someone with whom he could talk poetry and music, someone who shared his se
nse of humour, and who was blessed with a bewitchingly exotic face.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Latif smiled, embracing him, kissing his lips briefly in the Keshi way, patting the small of his back. As ever, his Rondian was perfect. ‘I have many impersonators, after all.’ He winked drolly.

  Seth held him at arm’s length, drank in every detail. ‘Of course I’m sure. Though it must be confusing for your people to have Salim apparently here and also away in the north?’

  Latif’s eyes twinkled. ‘News crawls here, my friend. You magi speak across the miles, but most news takes months to travel a few miles, during which time it is garbled beyond comprehension. “Salim is here, Salim is there”: this is normal. All of the impersonators speak with one voice. To all intents and purposes, we’re all Salim.’

  ‘I can’t imagine Emperor Constant ruling that way.’ Seth laughed. ‘Well, “Salim”, to what do I owe this pleasure?’

  ‘Affairs of state, I’m afraid.’ Latif waved a genial hand about the pavilion. ‘I’m sorry I cannot welcome you to my court and show you how a true ruler hosts a guest.’ He raised his eyebrows ironically, in clear reference to his own incarceration in Ardijah at Seth’s hands.

  ‘We were trapped in a little town – come to Bricia and I’ll show you how a Rondian noble lives!

  ‘Would that I could.’ Latif shrugged eloquently. ‘But we must make do, must we not? Look, here there is good wine – from Bricia! Plunder from your army at Shaliyah. It’s a vernierre, and cooled in the river upstream: you’re favourite, is it not?’

  They poured goblets, clinked them together and took seats opposite each other, still exchanging small talk, with the slightest tension that came of having to leave much unsaid. The impersonator looked rested and full of energy. Seth knew that he himself didn’t: he felt ground down by the tension and cares of command.

  If I were alone, I’d just lie down on this divan and close my eyes . . .

  ‘So, what’s this matter of state?’ he asked, sipping the cool, cleansing wine, a treat for his parched senses.