by David Hair
‘We’re proud to serve the House of Sacrecour,’ Vult smarmed.
‘And we’re very grateful to you both. So is my son.’
‘He’s fortunate to have your guidance,’ Gurvon said tactfully, not adding, Without you he’d last about three minutes.
Lucia smiled gracefully, with just the hint of knowingness. ‘The Rimoni Emperors used to have a slave whose role was to murmur “hominem te memento” in their ears once an hour: Remember that you are only a man. The first mage-Emperor abolished the custom, of course, because we are now more than men. I sometimes think that we should reinstate it.’
‘Needless, when our emperor has you, Gracious Lady,’ Vult replied, which was undoubtedly meant as a compliment, but Gurvon found other meanings in his words. Lucia caught his eye; so had she. It was strangely chilling, to share a moment of understanding and intimacy with the most frightening woman on Urte.
I think Corinea herself would run if she saw Lucia Sacrecour coming, he thought, followed immediately and inexplicably by the thought, I wonder what it would be like to bed her.
She looked at him sideways, the faintest hint of a knowing glance, then a dismissive smile.
I guess I’ll never know.
‘So, gentlemen,’ she said, disengaging from them coolly. ‘You know I’m something of a Diviner, and it came to me unbidden during the meeting today that in three years time, when the Moontide is over, those of us who see this through will be enshrined as leaders of a New Era. One empire, spanning the whole of Urte.’
Gurvon accepted a goblet from a servant with a tray. ‘I’ll drink to that, Holiness.’ He did, savouring the taste and the soothing jolt of the alcohol. I needed that.
‘Look around you,’ Lucia said. ‘Those you see in this room are the men you will rule Urte with . . . and my son, of course,’ she added as if in afterthought. ‘Cultivate them, for they will be your peers.’ She nodded farewell, her eyes locking with Gurvon’s one last time.
He bowed wordlessly.
When she was gone, he and Belonius exhaled wordlessly, then clinked goblets.
Belonius raised the toast. ‘Gurvon, we Diviners believe that the unbidden vision is more trustworthy than a planned seeing. I believe she’s right: in three years time, we will all be immortal.’
22
A Minor Setback
Sorcery: Divination
Can I see the future? Of course: I can see thousands of futures! It’s trying to pick the right one that drives you to drink!
CYRILLA SETTERBERG, ARGUNDIAN DIVINER AND BREWER, 866
Near Forensa, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Safar (Febreux) 930
20th month of the Moontide
Gurvon Gyle was in a reflective mood, thinking about Belonius Vult and his parting toast that day in Pallas, almost three years ago, when they’d presented their plan. So you thought you’d be immortal, Belonius . . .
Vult had been hated by many and loved by none. Though his plan really was coming to fruition, he himself was gone, beyond praise or blame – Gurvon had learned of his death some time ago, with little sadness.
Of more moment now were Mater-Imperia Lucia’s final, silent words that evening: Magister Gyle, Betillon will suffer for his impertinence. Mark the moment when it comes and learn. It made him wonder just how powerful a Diviner Lucia was, because here they were, he and Betillon, three days after the battle for Forensa, and Betillon’s pleas for reinforcements were falling on fallow ground. Lucia’s revenge had begun.
Gurvon’s camp was six miles east of Riban. He was with the remnants of Hans Frikter’s Argundians, but there was no word of Hans himself, and only six of his eighteen battle-magi had got out alive after Elena’s allies had turned up and focused on the mercenary magi with deadly precision. According to his spies, the Dorobon legion, now stationed somewhere to the north of Riban, was in even worse shape. Sir Roland Heale still led them, but they’d left half their number behind, dead or captured. The Harkun who’d taken part in the attack on Forensa had retreated with them, professing loyalty, but they’d been raiding Jhafi villages for food, leaving slaughter in their wake.
What a rukking mess.
To salvage the situation, he’d burned out a dozen relay-staves calling in favours all over the kingdom. So it was no surprise when the alarm sounded and a Rondian warbird appeared low in the west. He’d known it was coming for hours, but as it settled in the air above, furling sails and dropping anchor, an Argundian muttered aloud, ‘If that had been here four days ago, maybe we wouldn’t’ve been nailed.’
‘Betillon didn’t think we’d need it here,’ Gurvon told the man, so that at least some of the blame for Forensa would be cast Betillon’s way.
Though I know they’re all blaming me.
He could scarcely deny that it was he who’d convinced Hans that there’d be easy pickings. But somehow Elena had engineered their defeat, and the Argundian commander was missing.
I wouldn’t trust me either. But setbacks happen; it’s how you recover that marks you out as a winner or a loser . . .
He closed his ears to their grumbling and went to greet the warbird as it landed, sagging onto the landing stanchions which extended like a spider’s legs beneath the hull. A pair of escorting Kirkegarde knights mounted on venators landed alongside, the giant reptiles hissing and snapping at the watching men.
Tomas Betillon’s grizzled face appeared above the hull of the windship, his eyes narrowing to slits. It was their first meeting since the débâcle: Gurvon had run out of relay-staves and Betillon had made no effort to contact him. The Butcher of Knebb levitated from the windship’s decks to the ground and strode towards Gurvon, his fingers curled into fists.
‘Well met, my Lord Governor!’ Gurvon called heartily, silently adding,
‘Please, come to the pavilion for refreshment, my Lord. The officers are waiting,’ Gurvon replied aloud, then adding softly, ‘We’ll talk frankly away from the rankers.’
‘You bet we fucking will,’ Betillon whispered, allowing himself to be drawn to the command pavilion. Frikter’s magi were inside, along with Gurvon’s own people – Rutt Sordell of course, and now also Sylas, Brossian, Drexel and Veritia, all newly arrived, plus seven apprentices waiting out the back. They were all who were left of his senior Grey Foxes, recalled from missions in Yuros to shore up things here. Staria Canestos was with him too, and Leopollo, her adopted son and presumptive heir.
Betillon had brought his own seconds; Grandmaster Lann Wilfort of the Kirkegarde, with six of his knights, and a brutal-looking Pallacian called Kinnaught who was his spymaster. The introductions were terse, they swilled some ale – there was no wine – and then the servants were sent away.
Betillon cut loose. ‘You failed us, Gyle – this is all your fault! You’re the so-called mastermind, so how in Hel did they blindside you?’
‘Because the inexplicable happened,’ Gurvon retorted, matching Betillon’s tones. ‘Ordo Costruo who were supposedly dead or prisoners of the Hadishah turned up to fight in Javon! Who could predict that?’ He jabbed a finger at Kinnaught. ‘Your man didn’t fucking know either! Kore Himself couldn’t have known!’
‘So you say,’ Betillon shouted, ‘but Elena Anborn bloody well did!’
‘And I don’t know how!’
‘Do you not?’
‘No! She’s my enemy! To say otherwise – when she is ruining me – is ridiculous!’
‘Is it?’ Betillon drew a piece of parchment from his coat. ‘I have an Imperial Warrant for your arrest, Gyle, authorised by Emperor Constant himself.’ He gestured, and the blades came out on his side of the pavilion. ‘The empe
ror thinks you’ve become superfluous to this war.’
Gurvon’s people also drew steel, but no one was advancing on either side. He took heart from that. ‘You know I’m not superfluous here, Tomas,’ he replied. ‘If we don’t work together, we’ll fall separately. Forensa has shown that! I presume that warrant is Constant’s idea, because Lucia wouldn’t do something so stupid.’
Betillon put the warrant down and picked up a cup of ale. ‘Yes, it’s Constant’s order. He’s the emperor and it’s my duty to carry it out.’ He shrugged. ‘For the record: I’d have done it months ago.’
‘If we fight, the only people who win are Elena and the Nesti.’
‘Who said anything about a fight? I’m going to execute you, and any who try to protect you.’
Gurvon cast a glance either side of him. He didn’t know the seven Kirkegarde, apart from Wilfort, but it was a fair bet their Grandmaster owned their souls. At his back, he could trust Sylas, Drexel, Veritia, Sordell and Brossian, but he had considerable doubts about Staria and Leopollo – and who knew whether Frikter’s men would stand with him? Twelve against eight, ostensibly, but the better fighters were undoubtedly on Betillon’s side of the tent.
If anyone’s double-dealing me here, this is going to be a mess, and I’ll be in the middle of it . . .
‘You should rip up that warrant, Tomas. We can’t afford this disunity.’
‘I wholly agree,’ Betillon drawled. ‘Look at us: two Yurosian armies divided by your ambitions. Remove you and the whole situation becomes crystal-clear: we become a united Imperial army with a Noorie revolt to crush.’
Gurvon took a deep breath. ‘Last chance to back down, Tomas,’ he said firmly, but when the other man made no reply, he went on. ‘I am sure you’re familiar with Mystic Writing, Tomas – the opening up of one’s mind so that another may write through you? An hour ago I had Veritia link minds with Mater-Imperia Lucia herself.’ He took a rolled-up piece of paper from his sleeve. ‘Here’s what the Living Saint wrote. It’s a warrant for your arrest, authorised by Mater-Imperia herself.’ He unrolled the warrant and laid it over Betillon’s. ‘I believe this trumps yours.’
Betillon’s eyes bulged as he looked down. ‘A trick! This is a forgery – there’s no seal! Prove it’s real!’
‘That’s been done already. Those who needed to know have already been contacted by Lucia herself.’ He gave a small nod to the man behind Betillon’s shoulder and Grandmaster Wilfort plunged his blade into the back of Betillon’s left thigh, where the shielding was weak.
The Governor of Hebusalim bellowed in shock as he staggered and clutched at the table. Another Kirkegarde man, to show his enthusiasm, hacked at Betillon’s arm, cleaving through the shielding wards and breaking it at the elbow. The Butcher of Knebb fell onto his side, curling up like a child, trying to cover his vital organs as blood splattered the carpets.
Gurvon bent over him.
Betillon gasped for air, cradling his left arm and fighting the pain, gathering his gnostic energy to do something. Before he became a threat, Gurvon lifted his foot, then slammed it down on the broken arm. Betillon screamed and his spell-energies dissipated.
‘Have you anything to say, Butcher?’
‘I’ve done nothing I wasn’t ordered to do,’ Betillon gasped.
‘Exactly, Tomas: too little initiative, and too much ambition. That’s never going to be enough to satisfy the throne.’
The Butcher of Knebb’s wide-eyed stare said he didn’t understand, so Gurvon took it upon himself to clarify.
He drove the dagger into Betillon’s skull and the most hated man in Noros and Hebusalim fell sideways with a soft deflation, his eyes rolled backward and the tent filled with the sudden stench of voided bowels.
You always were full of shit, Betillon. Gurvon wiped his blade on the governor’s velvet doublet, then looked around, nodding thanks to his people, then proffered a hand to Grandmaster Wilfort. ‘Thank you, Lann. A pleasure to meet you.’
The scar-faced knight clasped hands slowly, measuring him. They’d not known they were to align with each other until an hour before, when Lucia and Wurther had contacted them both, personally. ‘You appear to be in high favour, Gurvon,’ Wilfort commented. ‘I have no idea how, or why.’
‘Don’t fret, Grandmaster, it’s not so mysterious. After Forensa, it was clear that we had to pull together. The problem is, my people were not about to rally behind Betillon at any price, whereas you and the Dorobon are happy to do as Lucia wishes. So there was only one real candidate.’
He’d also had to waive the last part of his fee, but that was going to be paid in Treasury promissory notes anyway, and he doubted they’d be worth the paper they were written on.
‘You’re aware that my first loyalty is to the Holy Church?’ Wilfort asked coolly.
‘Of course.’ Gurvon smiled. ‘I go to church on Holy Days myself, when I can. I understand you’re to be inducted as Prelate of Javon? I look forward to a long association between us.’
They shared a brief moment reflecting on their newfound destiny while studying Tomas Betillon’s corpse.
Ah well, another ‘immortal’ gone . . . Gurvon turned to the rest of the gathering. ‘Shall we thrash out the details, yes? Oh, and can someone get rid of this damned carcase littering the place?’
A low chuckle lifted the tension a little, and minutes later they were all focused on the tasks at hand, like the well-seasoned conspirators they were.
There were sticking points, of course, because Wilfort and his Kirkegarde could barely conceal their disgust of Staria’s people. Gurvon compromised by agreeing that Staria’s legions would be stationed at the Rift for another two years, which angered Staria, but she wasn’t in any position to refuse. And he had to request an amnesty for Drexel, who’d once assassinated an Inquistor. Then the rest of the Argundian battle-magi were brought in. They’d already been shown Betillon’s corpse and there was no dissent amongst them; the rest of the meeting was purposeful and united.
‘The next time we take on the Javonesi, it’ll be different,’ he declared. ‘We’ll have one command tent, not two. It’ll be on ground of our choosing, and we’ll be the ones throwing the surprise punches. Forensa was a minor setback. We’re going to win, I promise you.’
‘You promise, Gurvon?’ Staria Canestos raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s uncharacteristically bold of you.’
‘But I do promise,’ he told the room, ‘because we’re going to abandon the Rift. I’m going to bring the whole Harkun nation up here. We’ll let the nomads loose on their own kind.’
He saw Staria stifle a shocked gasp, and watched her carefully as she shared a look with Leopollo.
‘Much good they did us in Forensa,’ Wilfort commented.
‘On the contrary, they gave us the men we needed to run a battle of attrition. We almost won, because of the Harkun. We lost because of the Ordo Costruo.’
Staria spoke up. ‘Gurvon, these Harkun are savages – they’ll be a bigger problem than the Jhafi.’
‘Then we’ll deal with them in their turn.’ He met her eyes, forestalled her retort.
He stared at her coolly, then turned back to the room. ‘All right, let’s get down to business. We’ve got an army to pull together, and a war to win.’
Forensa, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Safar (Febreux) to Awwal (Martrois) 930
20th and 21st months of the Moontide
Kazim wants us to have a child. Elena hadn’t known what to reply. His desire enfolded her – the need to have something other than death in his life. And when he said the words out loud, a part of her that had never before spoken suddenly sang, a ringing tone of pure love that brought tears to her eyes. It felt right, when it never had with any other man.
But then the doubts began. She wasn’t even sure that she could bear children any more: some months she barely bled, and a mage-woman struggled to conceive at all times, but especially out of her twenties. And he was a Dokken; she had no idea what kind of child a mage and Dokken would create – or what it would do to her. Would she suddenly become like him? Would their unique Mage-and-Dokken bond disintegrate? And could he even father children himself? Perhaps he was almost sterile, the way high-blooded magi were? They’d been consciously avoiding conception thus far, so none of this had been put to the test.
What if I did conceive, tonight? The Moontide still had more than four months to run, during which time she’d be suffering morning sickness, and then she’d begin to bulge . . . She tried to picture the remainder of the Crusade spent in the background, unable to fully contribute. Perhaps it would be more prudent to wait until the Moontide was over?
Except the Moontide might not be the end of this fight. The Rondians were in Javon to stay this time; the war didn’t have an end date. And what if I lose him? That was the thought that froze her mind. She couldn’t imagine separation, or how she’d endure it. It’d be like an amputation.