by David Hair
Damn this. Realising he was wide awake and unlikely to sleep again that night, he clambered off his pallet, still the same fold-up cot he’d been issued as a junior tribune all those years ago – all part of the myth he cultivated, that he was just a common soldier at heart. The men liked it, and it was a small enough discomfort. He found a flask of strong Brician brandy and went looking for someone to share the vigil. There was light in the officers’ mess, and inside he found Arch-Legate Hestan Milius of the Imperial Treasury, writing. The Arch-Legate looked up. ‘Ah, General Korion. You too cannot sleep?’
The arch-legate wasn’t the company Kaltus would have chosen, but he poured a couple of measures and sat with him. Milius looked as wise as Kore and he knew all the court gossip; perhaps he’d let something useful slip.
‘So, Arch-Legate,’ he began, ‘what’s going on inside the Treasury? And what’s Dubrayle’s bastard got to do with it?’
Milius took a sip of the brandy and purred, ‘General, Lord Dubrayle is angry that his bastard is involved, like you are yourself. He is revoking his acknowledgment of the little ingrate, and is relying on you to be rid of him more permanently.’
‘I want to see both bastards eliminated and forgotten, I assure you.’
‘Then we’re of one mind on that matter, at the least.’
‘The harder question will be the alleged bullion,’ Kaltus said carefully. ‘It seems to me that whoever gains it will hold great power when this promissory note scandal collapses half the noble Houses, pushing them into penury.’ He topped up Milius’ cup. ‘I have Inquisitors and Treasury-men hovering like vultures.’
‘Many Inquisitors, perhaps,’ Milius replied, ‘but I’m the only Treasury-man who matters.’
‘Hmm. Where does the Church sit in this matter? Would they use the bullion to stabilise the empire, or to shift its control from the palace to the prelature?’
‘I rather think you can guess.’ Milius raised his cup. ‘This is good brandy, Kaltus.’
‘I only deal in the best. And I think only of the empire’s safety, which I feel is threatened most if the Church gains this bullion. Grand Prelate Wurther is an ignoble creature, and canonical rule would hurt us all.’
Milius stroked his white beard. ‘The army is the Treasury’s preferred partner. We would use this wealth to stabilise the empire, and ensure the Imperial Legions continue to be funded.’
I think I could work with this man, if not Dubrayle. I need allies in the Treasury, at the least. ‘Do you speak for Lord Dubrayle in this?’
‘Of course, as in all things.’
‘He places great trust in you.’
‘Rightly.’ Milius looked mildly affronted. ‘I’m an extremely loyal person.’
While it remains profitable, no doubt. ‘It’s my intention to hold the Inquisition Fists in reserve,’ Kaltus said. ‘My own men will be first into the deserters’ baggage area. There’s no guarantee that’s where this mythic gold is though; we must react first once we know.’ He fixed Milius with a firm eye. ‘I know all there is to know about winning in battle, but I am not a money man. You are. Can we work together on this?’
Milius returned his gaze steadily. ‘I believe we can.’
They toasted the agreement with more brandy, while outside dawn approached and the first stirrings of the army began. The cavalrymen were rising to ready their steeds: khurnes needed as much tending as any horse, and their heightened intellect meant they could be temperamental if neglected. Kaltus went to the flap of the tent and looked outside, savouring the pre-battle tension like the bouquet of a fine chardo.
It was still an hour till sunrise, and Luna was in the western skies. Staring up at her face always brought out the pagan in him, reminding him that Kore had once been a northern incarnation of the Sollan god, Pater Sol, before the rise of the magi, though Mater Lune had never been brought into the Rondian religion. There was something stirring about gazing up at that cratered, broken face, every shape on it alive in some myth or other. He toasted her silently.
Then the night shivered, and he heard a low, eerie sound. All over the camp, the warhounds began to bay, the khurnes whinnied and reared and the venators began to keen, as if every construct-beast in the army had suddenly woken and scented blood.
Pallas, Rondelmar, on the continent of Yuros
Aprafor 930
22nd month of the Moontide
One of the oldest rites of the Church of Kore was that of Absolution: the supplicant brought a coin for every sin they wished absolved, and then confessed it privately to the priest. The means of depositing the coin varied from region to region, from discreetly sliding it through the grille of the curtained booth, to placing it ostentatiously on the altar or into the font in the atrium. However, the need was universal: to lift the burden of guilt, and purify one’s soul anew.
It was also an excellent source of revenue for the Church. But it came with responsibilities, and one of those was the very delicate matter of dealing with the Absolution of the noble House of Sacrecour. The role of Imperial Confessor was one of the duties of the Grand Prelate of the Kore, and on it hung the delicate relationship between Church and Throne. Grand Prelate Dominius Wurther had risen to the Arch-Prelature in early 921, just in time to marry young Constant Sacrecour to his ill-fated wife, Tarya, who’d borne him two children, then died. It had been a heady start to his tenure, but he’d enjoyed a long career in the Church prior to that; one didn’t simply fall into the Arch-Prelature! One plotted and backstabbed and bribed, and whatever else it took. The struggle didn’t stop then, either: it became a rearguard action against jealous rivals and the march of time.
The relationship with the Imperial Palace was the most decisive front on which Wurther fought. The Royal House and the Church were locked in an eternal struggle for the hearts and minds of the common people, but they had to maintain a front of unity, lest faith in either be shaken. So his mind was sharply focused as Lucia Sacrecour entered the Absolution Chamber in the Imperial Chapel at the appointed hour and knelt before the grille.
She slid a copper through the slats. ‘Good morning, Grand Prelate!’ she said cheerily. ‘Or is it Arch-Prelate in this role? I can never remember the nuances.’
‘Either title is perfectly acceptable,’ he said, smiling. ‘The Grand Prelate is the title of the foremost – and therefore “arch” – prelate in the land; I have almost as many titles as you, Sainted Lady.’ They laughed together amiably. ‘But what brings you here, dear Lucia? As a Saint it is theologically impossible for you to sin, so what need have you of a Confessor?’
‘To abstain from Absolution would be the sin of Pride, would it not?’
‘Holiness, you are Sancta Lucia. You are no longer burdened by the need to eat or drink or perform any other bodily function. That you choose to do so is a blessing upon those acts, done not out of need but choice.’
‘So I shit because I wish to bless shitting?’
‘Defecation is a very necessary thing for we lesser beings, Lady. That you choose to bless it no doubt eases the act for millions of grateful worshippers.’
‘Dominius, you are funny,’ Lucia chuckled. ‘I do love you.’
‘Then my soul is content, Holiness. But is yours? Why should a Living Saint seek out a lowly priest this day?’ He drew his silk and velvet robes closer about him and listened with every fibre of his being.
Reading Lucia was an art form, one of the most delicate and rewarding, but beset with pitfalls. Some days she jested over serious things, sometimes it was the other way around. She could be in deadly earnest about matters she’d professed disinterest in just minutes ago. Cherished friends could become hated rivals overnight. Nothing was ever simple with Lucia Sacrecour.
‘There is disturbing news from the Crusade, dear Dominius,’ she said, her voice becoming serious.
‘What news is this, Holiness?’
‘Kaltus left Bergium in charge in the north and the old fool has got himself killed.’
Wurther
knew this already; his own contacts said the First Army was falling apart, and if Kaltus Korion didn’t get himself back into the north soon, they would collapse into a rabble and start fleeing for the Bridge . . . and into the mouth of the planned deluge.
‘General Kaltus will reassert himself,’ he said confidently, concealing his hope that he would fail to do so.
‘Kaltus took his elite soldiers south to deal with deserters. You’ve heard the gossip, I take it: that the deserters are led by Korion’s disavowed son, Seth? And this Seth is aided by an acknowledged bastard of Dubrayle’s? That can’t be coincidence!’
‘Holiness, the Great Houses are small, and our connections are many. I warrant you could look at the magi of any army and see a thousand conspiracies just by joining the family lines. Poorly connected and out-of-favour battle-magi always end up in one of a handful of punishment legions. It may well just be coincidence or opportunism on their part.’ Wurther waited to see how she reacted to that. He liked to pretend to see only the bright side, then he would ‘allow himself’ to be convinced of conspiracies. It fit with his favoured persona: that of fat, trusting Dominius Wurther, a man whom no one need fear.
‘You may be right, Dominius,’ Lucia said, proving she wasn’t immune. ‘But my spies tell me Dubrayle’s bastard might have been acting for Dubrayle. The promissory notes scandal can be traced to him – and no one could have escaped Shaliyah unless they were pre-warned. Who but Kaltus or Calan could have warned them?’
‘I’m told this Seth Korion destroyed a force sent by Kaltus to arrest him, near Vida,’ Wurther argued. ‘That doesn’t sound like collusion to me.’
‘Among those slain was an Inquisition Fist,’ she reminded him. ‘Perhaps that was something father and son contrived to be rid of your own people, Dominius?’
It’s not impossible . . . . But it didn’t sound quite right. ‘I have plenty of other Inquisitors still in Korion’s army. But if Seth and Kaltus Korion are working together, why doesn’t Seth simply hand Kaltus the money?’
‘A charade,’ Lucia replied instantly. ‘At this point, we could still strand them both in Antiopia. But once the land-bridge is reformed and Kaltus is back in Yuros with the stolen gold, he is well positioned for a coup.’
Wurther sat up, considering. Could that happen? Kaltus Korion is someone men flock to. He’d be a stronger ruler than Constant . . . and less pliable. He’s never hidden his contempt for the Church, either.
‘Surely Korion knows he could never supplant your son in the hearts of the people,’ he declared loyally, sure the opposite was true.
‘Of course not – but if he tried, he could ruin us all,’ Lucia replied darkly. ‘If he lured Dubrayle in with the promise of more autonomy and a share of the gold, anything could happen. Some arrangement will be reached, mark my words. You and I will never see that gold – until it shows up in Korion’s hands as he marches on Pallas. I understand Kaltus will destroy the deserters tomorrow. This plot will unfold swiftly after that.’
It was frighteningly plausible. My task is to make sure I come out of this on the right side of the ledger. The Church too, if I can manage it. ‘I see your fears, Holiness,’ Wurther said gravely. ‘These are difficult and perilous times, and we must stand together, as we always have: Throne and Mitre.’
‘Thank you, Dominius. I knew I could count on you.’ Lucia sat back, and her voice became clinical again. ‘We’ll accelerate our plans. Tomorrow, Constant and I will take windships to Pontus. I’m going to destroy the Leviathan Bridge as soon as possible. The Keepers stationed at the Bridge report that the solarus crystals in the towers are almost at full capacity – we’ll have all the power we need.’
‘Must you attend yourself, Holiness? Pallas sleeps better with you in its bed.’
‘Of course I’m going! For one thing, this will be my son’s great triumph over Antonin Meiros. Constant must be there, and so must I. Secondly, and this is purely selfish: I wouldn’t miss such a sight for love nor money! It will be the spectacle of the age!’ She laughed and pushed another copper through the grille. ‘There: it must be that sin of selfishness I’m here to absolve!’
And not a thought for the millions of Noories and Pontic Yurosians who will die . . . But then, she’s hardly going to hand me a million coppers, is she?
‘Is there aught else that troubles you, Holiness?’ he asked.
She’d been on the point of rising, then she stopped and knelt back down. Sounding unwontedly anxious, she said, ‘Actually, Dominius, as a matter of fact there is. I know this might sound morbid of me . . . but should anything untoward happen, I charge you to do two things. Firstly, protect and raise my grandchildren, Cordan and Coramore. When we fly east, I will leave them in your care.’
I will control the royal heirs . . . He struggled to keep his voice solemn. ‘Of course, Holiness. They will be safe with me.’ Inside his heart, birds began singing joyously.
‘There’s no one I trust more than you,’ Lucia replied, perhaps truthfully. ‘Secondly, you must execute the prisoner at Saint Agnetta’s.’
Ahhh. Wurther’s heart now chorused. Saint Agnetta’s was an abbey in the countryside where politically sensitive female prisoners were held, in secret: those too dangerous to let free but too damaging to execute. In particular it was where Natia Sacrecour, the emperor’s elder half-sister, had been imprisoned since she was fifteen. She was now thirty-six. Wurther’s people had been forbidden access in all that time, despite the abbey being legally his possession.
I’ll have both the heirs of Constant, and their chief rival, in my grasp.
How he kept his demeanour humble he had no idea. ‘Have no fear, Holiness,’ he reassured Lucia. ‘And I am sure that naught will happen at the Bridge, other than the destruction you intend. Pallas will rejoice at your triumphant return, with the throne stronger than ever, exactly as we’ve all planned.’
She pressed her face to the grille. ‘Do you remember that meeting, Dominius, three years ago? Gyle’s plan is still unfolding, despite all the twists and turns along the way! In a month, we’ll destroy the Bridge and open up all of Antiopia to our rule.’
‘It is fated, because we made it so.’
‘It feels like such a long time ago now,’ Lucia mused. ‘Vult and Betillon are dead. Gyle has betrayed us, and Korion and Dubrayle are in the act of doing so. Only you have remained true.’
He bowed his head, not wanting to ruin such a perfect moment with words.
‘I wonder whether I should move on Dubrayle tonight,’ Lucia said softly.
Wurther shook his head. He still had investments that would need to be extricated. ‘It would destabilise the empire at a crucial moment. But have your knives ready.’ He stroked his smooth jowls, craving a cup of wine. This had been a most magnificent conversation, a pinnacle of his rule, in many ways.
It is almost a shame that Constant and Lucia will return from the Bridge hale and hearty as ever . . . Would it not better serve Mother Church best of all to have those two children in my power, to groom in the love and reverence of the Church? And Natia Sacrecour as an alternative, to raise up if they prove unruly . . .?
Suddenly the possibilities seemed endless.
Bassaz crossroads, Kesh, on the continent of Antiopia
Thani (Aprafor) 930
22nd month of the Moontide
Ramon kept the skiff moving in a slow circle high above the Bassaz crossroads. The shape of the land was hidden by shadow, the armies marked only by a faint twinkling from the largest fires. Mater Luna gazed down on them all from the western horizon, waning as the month passed. He shivered, not so much from the cold, or even the pre-battle tension, as from the immense power flowing from Delta. Possibly the magi far below could feel it too now: like a slowly exploding ball of fire.
This is it: Delta might save us all . . . but if he fails, or it’s just not possible, we’ll be annihilated.
The previous day Delta claimed that he and his fellow Souldrinkers shared a bond, a mental link
that even magi didn’t have, with which they all – unless they chose to shut each other out – could feel each other’s emotions and surface thoughts.
Ramon had pondered that awhile, then asked, ‘So could you reach the Dokken within the Inquisition in Korion’s army?’
‘I could try,’ Delta had replied. ‘Their minds aren’t freed, like mine, but they’re not Chained, as they need to be able to use the gnosis.’
‘So if you could reach them . . . could you destroy the bindings on them?’
Delta had drawn out his solarus crystal and held it up. ‘This crystal is very strong – it’s used to trap souls, but it can also channel great power. Using it in such a way would be fatal, though, like a life-draining spell.’
‘But you could . . .’ Ramon was already hating the question, but he forced himself to ask, ‘Would you . . . ?’
‘To free my kindred?’ Delta clarified. ‘And wreak revenge on the Inquisition? Yes, indeed.’ His lugubrious face had brightened. ‘If I succeed, we would have unfettered control over these solarus crystals, and so many hated enemies about us we’d scarcely know where to strike first.’
37
Drawing Steel on the King
Drakken
The greatest beast of northern pagan mythology is the fire-breathing lizard known as the drakken. Some posit that they were dreamed up after early civilisations found the bones of giant reptiles, like those displayed in the Pallas Beastarium. The Animagi have been obsessed with the creature ever since, and have made literally hundreds of attempts to create them.
ORDO COSTRUO ARCANUM, PONTUS, 927
Kesh, on the continent of Antiopia
Thani (Aprafor) 930
22nd month of the Moontide
The old adage was that if you drew steel on the king, you got only one thrust. This was that blow; if it failed, the retaliation would be brutal. There would be no mere decimation of the Lost Legions; there would be a massacre.