by David Hair
And my most vulnerable one.
He wandered into the guest suite where he’d installed a map-table and examined the tabula pieces he’d placed there: a visual reminder of how things stood. In western Javon there were six legions of Rondian rankers, fully supported by their battle-magi, with four warbirds and a dozen skiffs – thirty thousand men. Plus he had at least ten thousand surviving Harkun. His forces were the white pieces, of course.
A cluster of black tabula pieces were gathered on the right-hand side of the map: the Javonesi armies. An estimated twenty thousand Rimoni and twice that of Jhafi, feudal soldiery of their nobility. Sixty thousand men, perhaps – but the truth was, he had no real idea. In Forensa the ordinary citizens had fought like lions, but he doubted they would be a factor away from their home city.
He stroked the white pieces, calculating. The situation wasn’t as rosy as these pieces inferred either: Hans Frikter’s Argundian legion was wrecked, less than a third-strength, with broken morale, barely a fighting force at all. The Dorobon were not quite so badly damaged, but they were certainly weakened. The Kirkegarde were in fair shape, but only Endus Rykjard and Staria Canestos had intact legions.
He moved Rykjard’s piece closer to Brochena, then fingered the two pieces representing Staria and her people stationed at the Rift: the ten thousand under her command. What’s she up to? he wondered. For three weeks all he’d had were delays and excuses. The paths beneath the Forts had been sabotaged by Elena, apparently, so they could not reinforce the Harkun as required. He’d talked to Staria through the relay-staves and she’d played it down. She’s stalling; I can feel it. But she’s over there and I’m here and the Nesti forces lie between us.
He clenched his fists, staring at the map.
I lost her when I brought in the Harkun. She’s trying to stay neutral now, and side with the winner, whoever that will be – she’ll probably have made overtures to Elena as well . . . The galling thing was, there was damn all he could do about it from here. He’d happily have sent the Harkun to assail the forts, but he doubted they’d succeed, and anyway, he needed them to protect Brochena.
I need to change the game, before it turns against me even more . . .
It had occurred to him that he’d not been playing to his strengths of late. Open warfare was all very well, but his specialty had always been in more shadowy manoeuvres. Rutt had been reminding him of that; he’d even proposed a plan . . . one he’d been reluctant to initiate, but this news of Staria was tipping his hand. And as Rutt had pointed out, his plan had only a short window of opportunity.
Before I lose Rutt too . . . for other reasons.
He closed his eyes and sent a call.
Inside a minute the men he’d summoned had ghosted into his map-room, carefully avoiding getting too close to each other.
‘Boss?’ Rutt Sordell asked deferentially, eyeing Mayten Drexel coldly. The younger man had been Elena’s apprentice for a year and had habitually taken her side during her frequent clashes with Rutt.
‘Sit, both you.’ He indicated the decanter of Jhafi arak. Rutt shook his head – he didn’t like Antiopian liquor – but Gurvon knew Drexel had acquired a taste for it.
Mayten Drexel moved like what he was: an assassin – Elena’s understudy once, but he’d been operating independently in Yuros ever since Elena had been assigned to Javon in 924. He was barely memorable, with thinning red hair, a patchy beard and pockmarked cheeks, a man of slight build, and easily ignored – no bad thing for a killer. His affinities were ideal for his role: Animagery and Morphism, Fire- and Air-gnosis, perfect for disguise and vicious strikes. So far he’d not failed on a mission, and in the short time he’d been in Javon, he’d adapted quickly. Gurvon had introduced him to his own underground contacts, bequeathing him most of his spies – he’d realised he couldn’t be his own spymaster and still rule effectively. He needed to delegate, and for now, Drexel appeared to be both competent and trustworthy.
For now. They all betray me in the end, except Rutt, who hasn’t the imagination.
‘Mayten, do you think you could get into Forensa and reach the Nesti children?’
‘Of course – but there will be guards crawling all over the Nesti palace, and Elena will be right beside them.’ Drexel’s voice hinted at uncertainty over taking on his former mentor – but it also betrayed his eagerness to try.
‘Perhaps, but you’ve gone into tighter holes, and got out again too. We’ve been focusing too much on the strategic situation, and losing touch with what got us here in the first place: good old-fashioned political murder. Before the Dorobon came, the Rimoni here were rivals – they might have had a democratic kingship, but they never had any deep love for one another. Remove their rallying points – Timori and Cera Nesti – and their alliance will fracture. When men like Stefan di Aranio realise that we can reach out and kill anyone we like, he’ll distance himself, and the rest will seek to make peace. We don’t have to rely on actual battle to achieve our aims.’
Gurvon saw Drexel smile grimly; this was why he’d joined the Grey Foxes in the first place: for the chance to indulge his addiction to killing. He was competent enough in open battle, but that was a waste of his real value.
‘When do I leave?’
‘Get some sleep first. Leave tomorrow. I want Timori dead before the Nesti march. Then we’ll see how firm their alliance holds.’
Drexel stroked the old silver Kore medallion he wore about his neck. ‘I have a skiff: I’ll be ready at sunrise. Who else would you like me to kill while I’m there?’
‘Anyone of value,’ Gurvon said, ‘but don’t jeopardise the chance to strike at the Nesti children by getting too ambitious.’ He wants to kill Elena . . . he’s always wanted to, just to show her who’s best.
‘I won’t let you down.’
Of course you won’t . . . not after tonight . . . ‘By the way,’ he said, as if in afterthought, ‘I’ve had Rutt here working on a special weapon which will be of some help to you. Ready your skiff, then report to Rutt’s laboratory in two hours’ time.’
‘Of course.’ Drexel looked sceptical; he clearly didn’t feel Rutt could add anything of value, but accepted the order stiffly. He half-bowed in thanks to Gurvon, then hurried out, closing the door behind him.
Gurvon turned to Rutt. ‘Are you sure he can’t do this on his own?’
The Argundian shook his head. ‘His chances are very low. He’d get close, but Elena knows his gnostic touch, and mine too. Something different is required; and my plan provides that. And we both know he’s ambitious; his instincts for self-preservation will tell him he can’t get out alive, which means he’ll under-commit to going in. He can’t do it otherwise; I’m certain.’
‘Then you still mean to go through with your plan?’
Rutt nodded gravely. ‘Gurvon, you know what I am now: a Death Scarab – a beetle living inside another man’s brain. Even using a pure-blood’s body isn’t sustainable for long – the scarab’s very presence rots the brain. I can’t survive indefinitely. But it’s more than that . . . I’m sick of this existence – my perceptions are dimmed, taste and sound and all other sensations. I’m diminished . . . and I hate it.’
Gurvon scowled. He had always relied heavily on Rutt, even if the Argundian was devoid of personality. Planning for a future without him was disorienting. ‘I really wish you didn’t feel this way,’ he said, completely honestly.
‘It is what it is. Most men would have died when Elena collapsed that tower with me in it. I’m grateful to have been able to aid you despite that, but my time is nearly over. If I can take down Elena, and the Nesti too, then it will be a worthy sacrifice.’
A sacrifice . . . How on Urte did I engender this much loyalty in him? Gurvon wondered. Though I suppose he is a born Number Two; he would have always latched onto someone more decisive than himself.
‘Then do what must be done, and good luck.’
*
Rutt Sordell
was already waiting in his laboratory when Mayten Drexel walked in. Rutt poured a brandy each, and they toasted each other watchfully, though Drexel was careful to make sure Rutt drank first before he gulped down his own shot greedily; brandy had always been his favourite tipple.
‘So,’ he asked, ‘what’s the plan? Where’s this secret weapon? What is it?’
Rutt tapped his own chest. ‘It’s me.’
Drexel looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean.’
Rutt didn’t reply, just held the other man’s eye, keeping his face expressionless despite what was happening inside his body.
The poison struck them both at the same time.
It was a venom, a fast-acting one, the strong taste disguised by the brandy that contained a pain-agent that would scramble all thought but leave no lasting damage. It wasn’t fatal, but would paralyse for about an hour.
They both clutched their throats, but for Rutt the feeling was muted by the distance between this body and his intellect housed in the scarab. For Drexel there was no such buffer; he went down in agony. They staggered apart, then collapsed. Drexel tried to scream, tried to fight the venom, but he hadn’t the affinities.
Nor did Rutt, but then, he didn’t need to fight; he had prepared another option.
They were both on the floor when he detached his awareness from the mind of his host body; through the eyes of the scarab he saw Drexel’s own eyes grow huge in horror as he saw what emerged from Rutt’s mouth, drop from his face to the floor . . .
. . . and crawl across the stone towards him.
An hour later, the venom quite dissipated, Rutt sat up and began to explore his new body and the mind it housed and engage with all the fresh options it gave him.
One final mission for Gurvon, inside the body of Mayten Drexel: a sacrifice to ensure that his mentor, his master – his friend – would be victorious.
He didn’t spare even a glance for the other body on the floor . . . it had never been his own anyway.
*
The next evening, Gurvon raised a hand in farewell as he watched the skiff rise into the dusk from the battlements and peel away towards the east, towards Forensa. Rutt Sordell had been his most loyal and reliable colleague for more than two decades – he’d saved his life more than once – and yet he was almost instantly forgettable. And in a different body . . . well, it was difficult to think of the man who’d just left as Rutt at all.
Nevertheless, Rutt-in-Drexel had almost wept as he hugged Gurvon goodbye, possibly the first time in his life he’d ever done such a thing. It had been oddly touching.
As the skiff passed out of sight, a frightened young Dorobon page approached. ‘My lord,’ he squeaked.
‘What is it?’
‘My Lord, a man from Hytel has arrived – he says he is a son of Alfredo Gorgio.’
The late Alfredo . . . one of his bastards, no doubt. ‘Ah. Bring him to me here.’
Gurvon had decided to abandon the Gorgio stronghold in the north to his allies: the Kirkegarde garrison was largely wasted there, and the Gorgio could be counted upon to support his rule, for they had tied their star to Rondelmar decades ago. He’d been keeping one eye on the power struggle that’d been going on among the Gorgio at Hytel for the past few months as Alfredo Gorgio’s bastards fought for pre-eminence. One of Alfredo Gorgio’s several illegitimate sons had seized Portia Tolidi and her Dorobon son and was claiming to be acting as the child’s regent until he was old enough to claim his throne: as king of all Javon.
Like Hel that’s going to happen.
Gurvon pictured Portia Tolidi, a vision of feminine perfection, her slender and exquisitely proportioned body and porcelain-skinned face framed by a curtain of radiant golden-red curls. Francis Dorobon had been besotted with her, never knowing that Portia had been bedding her sister-wife behind the young king’s back. Gurvon presumed that only he and Cera and Portia now knew that. And her child was indeed the Dorobon heir, by Imperial calculations.
But not my calculations.
A young man in Gorgio red and black quarters climbed to the battlements and joined him. He was lean, with a lady-lure face.
‘Who are you?’ Gurvon demanded.
‘Ricardo Gorgio-Sintro,’ the young man replied, with a bow. ‘I’m the younger brother of Gabrien Gorgio-Sintro, rightful heir to Alfredo.’
‘A bastard line?’
The young man shrugged. ‘Si; Alfredo had no legitimate sons – but my brother is reducing that number every day. He has secured the safety of Portia Tolidi and her son and pledged to marry her and adopt the Dorobon heir – for their protection.’
‘And to bring the gnosis into his line,’ Gurvon observed. ‘Your brother has acted swiftly.’
‘He’s a man of action,’ young Ricardo replied smugly. ‘But there are rebels – other bastards, mostly. Alfredo, my father, was prolific.’ He smirked in a way that suggested he had inherited the characteristic.
‘What brings you to Brochena?’
‘I come to ask your aid. You have Kirkegarde stationed in the north who could render us great help. But now I hear they are to withdraw.’
‘You’ve heard correctly.’
‘But it is in your interest to support us. The other bastard lines have their own adherents. My father even has a part-Jhafi son gaining some support among the Noorie peasantry.’
Gurvon raised his eyebrows. The Gorgio disgust for dark skin was well-known. That Alfredo had screwed some Jhafi whore was in itself somewhat surprising. ‘Is there some danger of a Jhafi coup?’
‘Of course not – his Noorie bastard was by a maid, and even Jhafi will not follow one of servant stock. Emilio, his name is; he calls himself Gorgio but he is just a Noorie stronzo.’ Ricardo smirked again. ‘We’ve all been curious about Noorie purses at times, si?’
Gurvon shrugged noncommittally. ‘Why should my men back your brother?’
‘Because we’re going to win. We control the Gorgio knights and the mines; the others have the dregs.’
‘But you need our help?’
‘To speed our victory, and yours,’ Ricardo smarmed. ‘My brother will aid you against the Nesti queen, si?’
Gurvon considered, then nodded. ‘Very well, I will instruct the Kirkegarde in Hytel to provide support to your brother – but I warn you, the situation here in the south will take priority. They will be marching south in three weeks’ time, and I will expect your brother to follow them.’
Ricardo’s smile faltered. ‘But, my lord – only three weeks to secure Hytel is not enough time, and it is two hundred miles away.’
‘You rode, yes?’
‘In four days, using relay horses. But men cannot march at such a rate!’
‘It’s ten days for cavalry, twenty for footmen: that’s just over three weeks. I can relay an order instantly with the gnosis, telling my Kirkegarde to give you two weeks to force battle, but then they will march south.’
‘But that would leave us only a few to hold the north—’
‘If we fail here, Ricardo, you’ll be facing all of Javon on your own. We must unite to succeed. So you must send your men here. You can retake Hytel afterwards. There is no other option!’
Ricardo bowed, his face now sorely troubled. He began to clasp his hands together in supplication, then realised he was wasting his time. ‘Si, we will come to your aid when we can.’
Gurvon waved him away, thinking, I’ll believe that when I see it.
24
Assassin’s Reach
Boundaries
The Gnostic Codes were written by certain mage-bureaucrats to create boundaries and curb the powers of those with more initiative and courage in the pursuit of knowledge. I contend that such boundaries are needless fetters which do not make the Empire stronger, but weaker. How many opportunities to advance the might of Rondelmar have been lost because our brightest minds are constrained by the Gnostic Codes?
ERVYN NAXIUS, PAMPHLET, 884
Forensa, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Awwal (Martrois) 930
21st month of the Moontide
If you listen, Kore will speak to you. Rutt Sordell had always known this. Few thought of him as religious, and he seldom spoke of his beliefs, for they might be considered heretical by some. He’d come to his particular faith after studying the universe.
The Kore that Rutt Sordell worshipped was not a rule-maker or a judge. He was a force of nature, without judgement or morality. Kore simply was. All souls were part of His soul, and at death all returned to Him. Kore did not care for virtue or sin; He was simply aware. If you meditated on Him, you also became aware.
This revelation had come to him over years of killing, and using his affinity for Necromancy to blur the barriers between life and death. Men died, men lived; their deeds mattered little in isolation, and few were truly remembered. Seeking the immortality that monuments or tales brought was wasted effort; neither availed you anything in the afterlife. Success was the only true legacy: imposing your shape on the world so that your deeds changed it in the way that you desired.
His desire was for Gurvon to rule Javon: that would be his legacy.
His melding with Drexel’s body was almost complete; his experience in subduing previous bodies was accelerating the process. And Drexel’s skills were well worth mastering – martial and gnostic skills Rutt had never used before, plus a body that knew how to fight. He’d never quite managed to break Elena’s mental resistance when he’d inhabited her body, but he’d had a lot more experience since then so he broke Drexel’s easily, quickly opening up his neural paths. He could function as Drexel and as himself, for a time at least. Best of all, he was seeing in colour and could taste again, as Drexel’s senses had not yet begun to atrophy. He’d have a little time to enjoy a fuller sensory palate, for a while.