Moontide 04 - Ascendant's Rite

by David Hair

  Long enough to complete this mission . . .

  And right below him was Elena Anborn, just fifty yards away, and completely oblivious . . .

  Elena was practising in the training yards with her Noorie lover. Rutt watched her surreptitiously as he laboured among a group of Rimoni and Jhafi. He was plastering a wall, just another anonymous worker, but his attention was on Drexel’s former mentor . . . and thanks to Drexel’s martial skills, he could see the way she was favouring her left leg . . .

  He was careful not to focus on her too hard, though. Elena had always had a sensitive mind. And the Noorie with her . . . Rutt had to force himself not to stare as gnostic sight revealed a tangled blur of shifting colours about the pair of them, as if they were one creature. Mage and Souldrinker . . . an interesting abomination . . .

  Rutt had arrived in Forensa four days ago, during the week of the waning moon, and set about blending in, which wasn’t difficult in the aftermath of battle. He’d barely had to use the gnosis at all – every willing labourer was welcomed. Simple disguise techniques, learned by drawing on Drexel’s memories, had darkened his skin and hair, leaving him looking native enough to pass muster. His story was of a Rimoni widower, a refugee from Brochena who’d stumbled into one of the refugee camps and was helping to rebuild the shattered city for three meals a day. At night he crept about, learning the shape of the Krak al-Farada, the Nesti stronghold. Elena’s wards – he recognised her touch – served to identify where his targets were. He was certain his and Drexel’s combined skills would suffice. Nowhere large was entirely secure against a skilled assassin, but confined spaces were another matter: a careful protector like Elena would be ensuring that the royal children went only to a small number of rooms that would be well-warded and guarded. He wouldn’t have long, once inside, so his strike needed to be as simple and sudden as he could contrive – the more intricate the plan, the greater the chance of failure.

  It didn’t trouble him, knowing that he would not even try to escape. If he was to die, why not do it with the blood of the Nesti on his hands, knowing he had advanced Gurvon’s cause?

  After Elena finished her bout and limped away, he returned all his attention to the task at hand and finished the plastering, then left with the Jhafi labourers, silent among the chattering men. No one took much interest in him – subtle use of the gnosis ensured that. He detached himself from the group and went into the less destroyed areas, seeking the Rimoni taverns where the guardsmen drank. All evening he watched them until he’d settled on a loner of his own, and he followed him to a brothel and waited outside until he’d finished. Then he trapped the man with mesmeric-gnosis and led him, as if supporting a drunk friend, into a ruined house near the canals.

  He used Drexel’s Mesmerism to gain access to the man’s memories, and when he was certain he’d learned all he could, including the man’s distinctive mannerisms, he cut his throat. He used Drexel’s other prime affinity, morphic-gnosis, to change his own appearance; when he stood up ten minutes later, he had become Benirio, a Rimoni guard. He dressed in Benirio’s uniform, weighed down the body with stones and threw it into a blocked drain, then walked back to the palace.

  Getting into the barracks was easy: men came and went constantly, coming on and off duty all the time in a haze of tiredness, drunkenness and boredom. ‘Benirio’ was off-duty until dawn, but he knew men who were routinely assigned to the royal suite. He’d pillaged Benirio’s dying mind so he knew the names of those who might speak to him; he could improvise the rest. Some luck was always required, but Rutt had the gnosis, the ultimate luck-maker.

  Morphic-gnosis was hard to sustain, but he made sure they all got a good look at him as he entered, then wrapped himself quickly in a blanket, yawning ostentatiously, fielded some ribald comments about where he’d been, then pretended to sleep. It didn’t take him long to scan the minds of everyone else in the room, until he’d discovered who was part of the royal guard, and who was on duty the following night. He targeted one guard in particular, a rough-spoken man called Tello.

  Rutt waited until most were asleep, then crept through the darkness and laid a hand on the man’s forehead, implanting the notion that they’d swapped duties, then crept back to his cot.

  See, Elena? It’s that easy . . .

  There would be additional layers of security to penetrate, of course. But they didn’t overly concern him – they would be less effective against a killer who didn’t care if he got out alive.

  Which one do I target . . . Timori or Cera . . . ?

  He closed his eyes to meditate on that, to listen to Kore.

  *

  Her name was Drus, and she hated working alone. Yes, it was an honour to be selected as poor Tarita’s replacement as Queen Cera’s maid – and yes, Queen Cera was touched by Ahm, blessed above ordinary women – but Drus loved company. A friendly ear to chatter into wasn’t so much to ask for, was it?

  She’d had to be examined by Alhana, Cera’s terrifying protector, before she was permitted to enter the royal suite for the first time. That had been a strange sensation, her memories shuffling past her inner eye like a hundred dreams replaying in rapid succession, after which the blonde Rondian women had said ‘She’s harmless’ to Cera, and it was decided.

  Harmless! Drus wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Her young husband, who’d once slapped her and been struck back twice as hard, wouldn’t have agreed. They’d reached agreement after that: he could pretend he was boss and she would pretend it wasn’t otherwise. I am not harmless . . .

  She’d just finished making the queen’s bed when there was a click at the doorway and a pair of guards peered inside. One was the regular, Jerid – a creep in her view. The other she didn’t really know, a rough fellow with thin hair and a slightly brutish face. ‘Who’s he?’ she demanded of Jerid. ‘Where’s Tello?’

  ‘He’s Benirio,’ Jerid replied. He looked a little hazy, as if he’d been drinking.

  ‘Tello swapped with me,’ Benirio said. ‘Everything all right in here?’

  ‘Why wasn’t I told?’ Drus demanded. ‘I’m supposed to know whoever is on duty outside the Queen’s door.’ She peered past them to the open door opposite, the entrance to the king’s room, and glimpsed his nurse, Borsa, readying the boy’s bed for him. The second night-bell had sounded and Timori would be finishing his meal soon. The Queen would be later; she always had meetings in the evening, readying for the march west.

  ‘The serjant was supposed to tell someone,’ Benirio said with a shrug.

  Useless men! ‘Guards aren’t allowed inside the rooms,’ she reminded them. ‘And remember, I’m supposed to be told in advance if the roster changes, got it?’ She waggled her finger at them. ‘Now, get outside.’

  ‘Sure, you’re the boss,’ Benirio sniffed. They closed the door again, leaving her alone.

  Drus clicked her tongue angrily. The usual routines were all messed up since the battle. She could understand it: everything had been on the verge of collapse, and sometimes when so much was happening the little details got lost, but she believed in details. You had to, as a maid. It was the small slips that got you dismissed.

  She fussed about the room until she was happy that all was spotless, then slipped outside. That damned guard – Benirio, yes? – had vanished again, and she was alone on the top-floor landing. Then she heard movement in her own room, to her right. She stiffened, then heard a grunt and her temper flashed.

  If that Benirio is in my room, I’ll give him what for!

  She flung open the door, and froze.

  Jerid was slumped on the bed with a red flower of blood blooming at his throat, and a strange man in Benirio’s uniform was standing over him, bloodied knife in hand. Her mind refused to engage as the stranger turned and his eyes locked on hers. She tried to fight the feeling that she was being engulfed in darkness, but swiftly the only light she could see was his eyes.

  ‘Little girl,’ the man whispered, ‘harmless little girl . . .’


  *

  Cera Nesti caught Timori yawning out of the corner of her eye, and in the contagious way of yawns, she was soon doing the same, trying to hide it so the guests wouldn’t think her bored. It was yet another evening of trying to smooth ruffled feathers over her plans to confiscate produce that did not come to market at a preset price. Piero Inveglio had been flooding her evenings with rural nobles, mostly Rimoni, who owned olive orchards and vineyards and vast wheat-fields and were in a tither over what it would mean for them. It was all she could do not to slap them.

  I should be confiscating their damned estates!

  But progress was being made: the mere threat of fixed-price markets had seen them frantically donating and distributing produce in an effort to be seen visibly helping the cause, to stave off public opprobrium. Every concession helped, whether willingly given or not.

  ‘Timi,’ she said softly, ‘I think it’s time for you to go upstairs.’ She raised a hand in apology to the nobles who were trying to charm her into easing her war-time economy measures, then linked her fingers with her little brother’s and squeezed. She turned to Elena. ‘Timi wants to go up. Can you take him?’

  ‘I want Kaz to take me!’ Timori exclaimed, his face coming alive.

  Elena smiled at Kazim; the giant Keshi had become Timori’s personal favourite of late. The young king was desperate to emulate Kazim’s energetic, masculine enthusiasm for riding, running, fighting and all the things that young boys dream of. Timi would be ten soon, and his training in martial skills was about to accelerate.

  Cera found herself sharing that smile with Elena, and that made her heart just a little lighter. Things were still awkward between them, but the growing friendship between Timori and Kazim was helping to bring them closer together again.

  ‘In a few months, you’ll be old enough to stay for the council meetings,’ she reminded him.

  Timori pulled a face. ‘Boring.’

  ‘I know. But Father would want you to stay and listen and learn.’

  The little boy pulled a dutiful face. ‘Yes, Cera,’ he intoned, yawning again. It wasn’t really fair to invoke their dead parents, but it usually worked. ‘Can I go now?’

  She looked at him fondly. ‘Sometimes I don’t think you want to grow up at all.’

  ‘Yes I do! I’m going to be a giant warrior like Kazim, and chase the Crusaders back to Yuros!’

  I don’t think you’ll ever be a giant, little brother. He’d always been small for his age: a narrow-shouldered, bony child with an angelic face. But everyone will love you. ‘You’ll be king, darling, and you’ll have whole armies to fight for you.’

  Timori grinned, then paused. ‘What will you do when I’m king, Cera?’

  ‘I’ll be living in Kesh, having babies, I imagine,’ she told him, her light-heartedness evaporating at the thought.

  Timi’s eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t want to, do you?’

  Her smile froze, more at his perceptiveness than anything else. ‘I’ll do my duty, as a woman must.’

  ‘When I’m king, I’ll summon you home, and you can do all my council meetings for me, so I can do fun things,’ he told her magnanimously. ‘Kings should only have fun, and you enjoy boring things.’

  She raised her eyebrows showily. ‘Do I just?’

  ‘Yes! You think dull things are interesting and fun things are dull!’ He gave her a hug. ‘What will happen if I fall in battle?’ he asked solemnly. He knew they were about to march, and in his imagination, he was going to fight in the front line beside Kazim. Comte Inveglio gifting him a suit of armour and a new sword hadn’t helped her moderate that fantasy.

  She didn’t tell him that he wouldn’t get within a mile of the fighting unless things were going disastrously. Instead she went down on her haunches and looked him in the eye. ‘Nothing will ever happen to you, my darling. Kazim and Elena would never allow it, and nor would I.’

  ‘You’d be the last Nesti,’ he noted, determined to see this morbid line of thought through.

  ‘Yes, I would, but I’m only a girl, so when I marry, the family’s wealth and titles would revert to the Vernio-Nesti, our cousins at the Northern Rift Fort.’

  ‘I don’t like them,’ Timori said. ‘They sweat a lot and don’t wash.’

  Which was about what Cera thought too. ‘So you see, you can’t die, Timi! Think how smelly Forensa would be if they were in charge!’

  He wrinkled his nose and giggled. ‘Then I won’t die in battle. I promise I’ll be very careful and use my shield a lot.’

  ‘You do that, little man.’ She stood and nodded to Kazim, who lunged in playfully, grabbed Timori and lifted him onto his shoulders, which was not at all seemly for a king-in-waiting, but Timori still had a few weeks left of being able to be treated as a child, so Cera let him enjoy it. As they swept out of the room, she stared after them.

  Everything I’m doing, I’m doing for you, darling boy. You’re the last male of our line, the last chance of the Nesti name passing unbroken into the future. Don’t you dare die. She glanced upwards, invoking the gods. Pater Sol, watch over him. He is everything.

  She put to one side the nagging thought that she wanted to be exactly where she was, at the hub of the decision-making, for the rest of her life.

  Then Pita Rosco said something about tariff rates that just would not do, so she had to rejoin the conversation and correct her garrulous treasurer without undermining him, and the evening’s duel of wits began anew.

  *

  Rutt Sordell wiped the blood from his dagger with one of the little maid’s rags, then sheathed it and dumped her limp body beside Jerid’s. He’d have loved to have reanimated them, but that took time and created gnostic echoes that would alert any mage within the castle, so he reluctantly let them lie. He did seal them in a protective circle to contain the stench of death. Then he went outside and shut the door.

  Now comes the real test . . .

  He carefully rebuilt Benirio’s face over his own, and replaced the mask of the guardsman’s surface thoughts as he resumed his position at the top of the stairs.

  For a few minutes he was carried back, through old memories of childhood in Argundy, of the Noros Revolt, and discoveries in the fields of Necromancy and Divination, the solitary triumphs of his lonely life. There had never love, not from his cold magi parents consumed with social elevation in Argundy, and women had always been sinister, secretive creatures to him, witches who latched onto the weak. Sex had proved joyless and disappointing; he had never understood why people craved it. Only wine had truly stimulated his senses, but even that pleasure had been stripped from him when Elena collapsed his tower and destroyed his body. Since then, everything had been a slow descent into sensory deprivation: a fall that would end tonight.

  Then sounds came from the foot of the stairwell: a boy’s happy crowing, and a deep masculine laugh. He banished the memories and focused his mind as the sound of boots on marble echoed, getting louder and louder. Then the big Keshi, Kazim Makani, appeared, carrying a tired but exuberant Timori Nesti on his shoulders. The Keshi glanced at him, and paused.

  ‘Who are you? Where are Jerid and Tello?’

  ‘I’m Benirio – I’m standing in for Tello tonight – and Jerid’s off having a piss. He won’t be long.’

  Kazim frowned. Clearly two guards were expected to be on duty at all times, and familiar faces at that. But Timori was bouncing on his shoulders and then the nursery door opened and a plump Jhafi woman waddled out.

  Timori greeted her cheerily, ‘Borsa!’

  The nurse exchanged a torrent of Noorie speech with Kazim as they all entered Timori’s suite and closed the door behind them, amidst much shouting and laughter from the boy-king.

  Rutt watched them, his eyes narrowed in thought as he made some hurried recalculations. He’d been expecting Elena, but it wasn’t altogether surprising – she must be guarding Cera while Kazim took responsibility for Timori. If he waited until Cera arrived, he risked facing both magi, and Elena woul
d probably be more wary than Kazim Makani; she would certainly demand sight of two guards, not one. In theory, if he was still unmasked by then, he’d have all night; but he doubted it would be that easy. His mind teetered one way, then the other, in an agony of indecision. How could he lure in and kill all four of his quarry?

  I must listen to Kore . . .

  As he thought, the path became clearer: killing both Nesti children together was highly unlikely tonight, not with both doors warded. And Gurvon had said that Kazim Makani’s gnosis was very, very strong, in which case his wards would likely be beyond him to penetrate, at least in the time-frame available. And though the rapport between Elena and Kazim was their great apparent strength, Rutt could see a way of turning it into their greatest weakness. With one down, how would the other fare?

  And what would be more likely to bring Cera Nesti to me, than the screams of her little brother?

  The decision taken, he gripped Benirio’s spear and walked towards the nursery door.

  *

  ‘I don’t think you quite understand our position,’ Piero Inveglio was saying, resuming the discussion interrupted when Timori left. The little coterie of rural Rimoni nobility had left their seats and were filing into a lounge where drinks would be served. ‘We have no desire to profiteer from the warfare ravaging Javon. But we are custodians of a legacy. Our Houses trace their lineage to senatorial families of old Rimoni, transplanted in foreign soils to preserve them. We live and breathe the history of an empire! We all have treasures of that ancient time in our custody, in safekeeping for future generations. Our estates are museums, gateways to the past! That is surely worth treasuring!’

  ‘So you are overcharging for your grain to preserve marble statues from Rym and Becchio?’ Cera asked coolly.

  The whole room winced, and everyone began to protest.

  Except for Elena, who gave a sudden weak gasp and clutched her belly.

  Cera stared, suddenly deaf to every other voice, as her protector began to double over, all colour draining from her face as she began to wobble. Her mouth worked soundlessly, while someone made a thoughtless remark about women and their inability to deal with alcohol, then someone else squeaked, ‘Is she . . . poisoned . . . ?’