by David Hair
‘When do we march, sir?’ Pilus Lukaz asked after Ramon had accepted a thimble of the liquor that Ilwyn brewed, which travelled down his throat like a liquid fireball.
‘In about a week. We’re trying to talk to Papa Kaltus by relay-stave to clarify orders, but even Seth has to go through the protocols, apparently.’ He raised his voice to encompass the whole cohort. ‘Don’t you lads worry about food: we’ll be back in the Imperial supply network soon. Standard issue: beans and hardtack. I bet you’ve missed that, si?’
The men laughed. ‘Don’t think I c’n stand food that en’t cooked in Noorie spices any more,’ Vidran remarked. ‘Gonna get me a Dhassan wife, one that can cook eastern grub.’
This elicited a chorus of comments about the relative merits of Yurosian and Antiopian food; soldiers could be relied upon to go on for ever about food. Then, as men will, they turned to the merits of Dhassan woman – soft bodies, good cooks, compared to Keshi women – slim, passionate, but devoutly Amteh; and Khotri women, who were earthy, bony creatures who offered few creature comforts but were fiercely loyal. Ramon shook a few hands and drifted on, leaving them to it.
He found his maniple’s tribune, Storn, sitting inside one of the wagons containing the gold, ticking off supply-rosters and shaking his head. He looked up in alarm when he heard movement, then relaxed when he identified Ramon. ‘Evening, sir.’
‘Evening, Storn. Any problems?’
Storn could have given him an hour-long recital of problems, but they both knew what he meant. ‘No one knows but me and the other logisticali. That’s two dozen, who’ve proved they know how to stay mum,’ he assured Ramon.
The twenty-five bullion wagons all had false floors, beneath which they were lined with one-pound ingots of pure gold, melted down en route from all the coin they’d accumulated. If Tomasi Fuldo was right, the latest spike in the gold price meant that it was now worth close to one million auros, a mind-boggling sum. A pound-ingot was the size of his hand and half as thick, and they had six thousand of them, about eight thousand per wagon. It didn’t look like a lot, but each ingot represented approximately the lifetime earnings of an ordinary farmer in Yuros. With gold now so rare, they were potentially carrying enough to mint about a fifth of the coins in circulation in the empire.
‘The horses must be struggling with the weight?’
‘No more than the other wagons – gold is heavy, obviously, but we’ve balanced the bullion loads with lightweight material to fill the wagons,’ Storn answered. ‘The water wagons are actually far heavier when full. But I’ve been wondering what’s next, sir? When do we divest of this weight?’
Ramon leaned in close. ‘For now, we stay silent. And I want you to find some smelting equipment. First place we stop, start minting coins – take a mould from a Rondian auros, use tin and copper to make the coins, then dip them in liquid gold. Make sure it’s the requisite amount: I want our boys to be able to use these coins in the West, si?’
‘I’ll be happier when we’ve distributed the bulk to the boys, sir,’ Storn confessed.
‘That can’t happen until we’re safe,’ Ramon replied. He patted Storn’s shoulder. ‘You’re doing well, Tribune. We’ll be home soon, and you’ll be a rich man.’ He saluted, and moved on.
*
Seth Korion stared around his tent at those of his magi who’d joined him. The appointed hour was almost here, and he found his hands were beginning to shake. Tonight I’m going to talk with Father . . . He didn’t feel at all ready.
Beside him Jelaska was chatting with Evan Hale about the merits of Keshi versus Yurosian bows. Hale, like all Brevians, used a longbow, but the Keshi used recurved shortbows. Hale was a taciturn man who seldom spoke, but he played the lute and sang sad Andressan laments beautifully.
Chaplain Gerdhart was also present, because Seth wanted a priest at hand – not for any logical reason, but Father might expect it. And Fridryk Kippenegger was here when he’d not been invited, having wandered in and poured himself a drink and now Seth didn’t know how to ask him to leave. Kip was muttering about something to Ramon, who was still subdued after Severine Tisseme’s desertion.
I wonder where she went? I hope she’s safe – and little Julietta too.
On the table before him was a metal platter of water and various powders heating over some candle-stumps, slowly steaming to create a billowing cloud in which the scrying image would emerge. As the hour-bells rang, they all lapsed into silence, and their eyes drifted back to Seth.
‘General, surely you would prefer to speak with your father alone?’ Chaplain Gerdhart asked.
Heavens, no. Seth wanted the conversation to be civil, businesslike, and as formal as possible. If I talk to Father in private it’ll be hideous. ‘This is a conference between ranking generals of the Rondian Army,’ he said, ‘not father and son.’
They all exchanged looks, not fooled at all.
He’d made contact using the army’s open network of gnostic communication and had his request passed north to his father, together with a few details of how many units he had brought across the river. He could have gone direct, using the relay-stave that Jelaska had painstakingly crafted, but he didn’t want to waste it – and anyway, he knew his father: proper protocol would have to be followed.
The contact arrived, the steam above the dish flashing with colour then forming a foggy image of Kaltus Korion. The hawk-faced visage of his father was somewhat distorted, but his voice came through clearly. ‘This is Korion.’
‘Father . . . er . . . Sir: this is Seth Korion, Commander of the Second Army, reporting from north of Vida.’
‘I know who you are, Seth,’ Kaltus replied with bored irony. ‘Are you alone?’
‘No sir, I’m with my command group. I’ve linked them to this contact so that you can hear their voices and—’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Kaltus interrupted. ‘I don’t wish to talk to them. I wish to talk to you, alone.’
‘Sir, perhaps after we’ve reported our posi—’
‘Now. I have a million things to do and no time to waste on a ragtag of low-bloods.’
Seth shuddered. The tone of voice, the manner . . . childhood and all its misery came flooding back. It was worse than charging towards the ballistae at Ardijah . . .
No it isn’t! I could have died then; this is just a bloody chat!
Anger fuelled his reply. ‘My magi are the men and women who have guided the survivors out of Shaliyah and back to Rondian lines. They are heroes, and entitled to hear what is happening in the wider Crusade, so that we can formulate our strategies.’
The hazy image in the steam was clear enough to see Kaltus Korion’s expression: dismissive and irritated. ‘All right, let’s have this conversation in front of your juniors. Firstly, you’ve taken the title “Commander of the Second Army”. You don’t have the right. You are a battle-mage of Pallacios Thirteen. There is no “Second Army”, since that débâcle at Shaliyah.’
Seth’s mouth went dry while his brow dripped perspiration. He glanced around the tent; Evan Hale was making an obscene gesture at the image, Jelaska and Gerdhart were exchanging looks, Kippenegger was rolling his eyes, and Ramon was tapping his fingers idly as if bored.
‘Sir, I have eleven thousand survivors of the Second Army and we are very much intact! Furthermore, when the commander falls in the field, the ranking officers must choose from among the survivors a new commander: that’s what the manual says. That’s what we did. I can give account for our—’
‘I’m not interested in your account, boy. The Courts Martial will hear it.’
The Courts Martial?
‘What am I charged with?’ he asked incredulously.
‘Desertion. I’ve read and heard the reports from Shaliyah. Those who fought, died. Those who escaped, ran: they are deserters, and will be treated as such.’
Seth looked wide-eyed around the pavilion at the fury of the other magi. They all went to speak – to yell, shriek, bellow – at once, an
d he raised his hand.
‘We held the line until the very end, Father!’ Seth protested indignantly. ‘We fought until it was hopeless! Since then, my men have marched and fought for every step home.’ When his father barely reacted, his anger rose another notch. ‘You don’t know what we’ve been through! We’ve stormed castles, held barricades against overwhelming odds, and regained the safety of our lines intact!’
‘Don’t call me Father, Seth. I’m not your father.’
Seth felt a wrenching in his stomach. ‘What?’
‘For some time it has been apparent to me that you are not my natural son. The failures at college – your weakness and lack of spirit. I confronted your mother, and she confessed to an extramarital affair just prior to your conception. I have had the marriage annulled and you are disinherited.’ Kaltus leaned forward, eyes fixed. ‘You are no longer my son. You never were.’
If the ground had been sucked into a sudden vortex, swallowing everything around him, Seth couldn’t have been more stunned. It’s not true. I’m a Korion. It’s not true. I’m a Korion.
‘You are ordered to hold your position,’ Kaltus went on. ‘In three days’ time, a detachment from Peroz will reach your camp. They will include Kirkegarde and Inquisitors from Vida, who will accept your surrender. You and your magi will submit to the justice of the Courts Martial, or face the disgrace of all of your Houses.’ Kaltus looked away, as if someone had just addressed him, waved a hand dismissively at Seth. ‘This interview is over.’
His image vanished.
For a moment everything was utterly silent as they all stared at Seth, trying to think what to say. Then everyone spoke at once. Evan Hale was inchoate with rage, hurling abuse at the brazier as if Korion could somehow still hear him. Jelaska was seething, snarling that they could just try to arrest her and see where it got them. Gerdhart was beseeching Kore, Kippenegger was shouting in guttural Schlessen, while Ramon Sensini was laughing as if this were just a joke.
Seth couldn’t even cling to that illusion: his father had never made a joke within his hearing. Perhaps he was hilarious among his friends, who knew?
‘I really am his son,’ he said, aware it sounded like bleating.
‘Of course you are,’ Ramon snickered, still treating this as a huge joke. ‘The man couldn’t be that much of an arsehole without being related to you somehow.’
Seth glared at him. ‘This is no jesting matter!’
‘Who’s joking?’ Ramon winked and Seth stood, ready to punch him.
Gerdhart interposed, saying, ‘Please, sirs! We need to talk civilly about this! The Courts Martial—’
‘—can go fuck themselves,’ Jelaska snapped. ‘I’m not to be judged by a bunch of inbred Pallacians. I’m going back to Argundy and they can come and fetch me if they can.’ She cracked her knuckles and glowered about her.
‘The Argundian maniples must stick together,’ Gerdhart declared. ‘We’ll fight our way across the Bridge if necessary—’
‘I’m going to make a run for it,’ Evan Hale declared. ‘We all should – if we fan out, they won’t catch us all – I’m not dying on a rope!’
‘Yar, nor me,’ Kippenegger muttered. ‘Verdamnt Rondian shizen.’
‘We’re not guilty – there’s no evidence,’ Seth found himself babbling.
‘A Court Martial can prove whatever it bloody wants,’ Hale replied. ‘Ask my people! Andressea has been made scapegoat for every military disaster since—’
‘Wait!’ Ramon Sensini said, standing up. ‘This is ridiculous. We’ve got eleven thousand men. The safest place we can be is right where we are.’
‘Right where the Inquisition can find us,’ Gerdhart moaned.
‘And with enough men to tell them to piss off,’ Ramon countered. ‘Listen, we got out of Shaliyah and Ardijah and Riverdown. We can get out of this.’
‘We can’t ask the men to protect us,’ Seth protested. ‘They don’t share our crimes – they’ll be allowed home!’
‘Crimes? What fucking crimes? We’re not deserters!’ Hale railed.
‘Tell that to the Quizzies,’ Jelaska sneered. ‘The bastards will brand the whole army.’
‘They wouldn’t dare,’ Gerdhart retorted. ‘It’s just us they want.’
‘Yar, the ones who know what really happened at Shaliyah,’ Kip said.
‘Exactly!’ Jelaska jabbed a finger at the big Schlessen. ‘Kippenegger’s right, for once: they sent the Second Army in to die and now they’re cleaning up afterwards.’
‘I agree,’ Ramon said. ‘You heard what Papa Korion said: those who escaped Shaliyah were executed. Any who weren’t his spies, I warrant.’
Seth felt ill. Everyone here, and everyone in the camp outside, has given everything for this army, and now they’re considered traitors? And my father – he is my father, damn him – is pretending I’m not his. I have his blood! He was trembling with rage. What are we going to do?
His eyes went to Ramon Sensini. The little Silacian had fallen silent while the rest continued to rant, his gaze faraway. As the talk petered out, he looked up, blinked and said, ‘If you think I have a plan, I don’t. Not yet. But I do have some thoughts.’ He raised a finger. ‘First thing: we have roughly two legions. Korion has roughly twenty legions, but they’re spread all over Kesh and Dhassa – about half must be on garrison duty or protecting the supply-lines; the rest will be with him in the north. All he’s got near here is the garrison at Vida, and they’re pulling out.
‘Two: our men aren’t going to submit to being branded as deserters – physically branded, remember – after what they’ve been through. And I’m not either.
‘Three: what happened at Shaliyah is – if those in Yuros can come to believe it – enough to incite widespread rebellion. Not in Rondelmar maybe, but in Argundy and Estellayne and Noros and elsewhere. Remember that Constant didn’t just betray an army, but the magi in that army, and that’s what the magi of those vassal-states will see. So we need to tell them.’ He stood. ‘So here’s what I think. We don’t ask Kaltus Korion’s permission any more. We make our own plans.’
‘But that’s desertion,’ Gerdhart said.
‘We’re being treated that way anyway,’ Ramon replied. ‘To get home, we’ve to cross Dhassa and the Leviathan Bridge by the end of Junesse. The empire will try and stop us. Are we prepared to let them?’
‘No,’ Seth blurted, although he was frightened the others wouldn’t back him.
Kippenegger growled his agreement, and so did the two Argundians, who if nothing else were pledged to see their own countrymen home. Evan Hale, the Andressan, seemed to be teetering, but when he saw the others resolve to stay, he amended his thinking. ‘All right. But you heard Kaltus Korion: the Inquisition are on their way.’
‘Indeed,’ Ramon said confidently. He pointed to the map. ‘We’re upriver from Vida and downriver from Peroz. The Inquisition are supposed to be here in three days, right? And we can’t outrun them. So I think we owe them a very special reception.’
They looked at each other as the enormity of it all sunk in. Seth found himself wondering if it wasn’t better to surrender after all. At least then the men would only be decimated, not wiped out.
But he doubted anyone here would accept that.
Sweet Kore, we’re going to war against our own people.
27
Speaking with God
The Argundian Grand Prelate
Only one non-Pallacian has been elected as Grand Prelate of the Church of Kore: Goetfreyd of Delph, a compromise candidate elected during peace talks between Rondelmar and Argundy in 722. His reign was short-lived; he appeared for morning service a few months later, drooling and babbling of having spoken to Corineus himself. It was found that he’d fallen prey to a daemon and become possessed, barely surviving the experience. The daemon was exorcised, but he was now tainted and had to be formally deposed. He lived out his remaining months in solitary confinement before taking his own life.
PALLAS ARCANUM,
839
‘Bahil! I give you all I am! Bahil, Father of All!’
THE FINAL WORDS OF GOETFREYD OF DELPH, GRAND PRELATE OF THE KORE, 723
Mandira Khojana, Lokistan, on the continent of Antiopia
Safar (Febreux) to Awwal (Martrois) 930
20th and 21st months of the Moontide
Alaron Mercer watched the sunset in the Garden of Bones, as had become his habit of late. Sometimes others joined him, but mostly he came alone.
‘The thaw’s coming, Cym,’ he whispered to the carved stone in one corner of the garden. It was newly hewn, only a month old. Cymbellea di Regia-Meiros, it read, Beloved daughter of Mercellus and Justina. Janune Y930. It was a Yurosian conceit, to have a grave-marker. None of the Zain monks already buried here had them, not even the masters, but he needed to have his friend’s passing marked, and Master Puravai had given his consent.
‘The clouds are higher today, and the river below is finally melting – just a trickle, so far. The frozen river is amazing, like a mad sculpture by the Queen of Winter.’ It had frozen entirely for two weeks at the end of Janune. ‘Just like in Noros.’ He wiped at the tears that always came when he talked to her. ‘I wish we’d all stayed at home.’
The silence was her reply.
Four weeks had passed, twenty-four days, since the Hadishah attack. The funerals were all done, the pyres lit and the ashes interred. There were nine prisoners, all Chain-runed; Alyssa Dulayne was still unconscious most of the time, her healing far from complete. Ramita had torn up her back, face and scalp so badly it was doubtful she’d ever move properly again, nor regain her looks. They had recovered four small windskiffs and a larger warbird, and now that the midwinter storms were beginning to pass they could begin learning to use them. The outward damage of the attack was repaired, but the inner hurts were still raw and bleeding.
Eleven of the thirty novices had died, and seven more had been invalided, recovering from wounds that would most likely have been fatal without the healing-gnosis – three were still bedridden, which meant only sixteen of the new Zain Ascendants were currently training.