by David Hair
‘We’ve got to make ten miles a day without rest,’ he reminded Jelaska, ‘and even that won’t get us to Northpoint Tower before the last day of the bloody Moontide! We’ve got no room for mischance.’
‘I know. Don’t fret, we can do this. We’ve got the supplies, and we’re used to marching. We’ve got a solid road with no bumps, and the weather’s good. We’ll make it with days to spare.’
Seth grimaced and fell silent. Together they watched as their first riders trotted down the ramp, leaving the stupendous coastal wall, and took to the Bridge. The lead man – Coll, one of Sensini’s scouts – waved cheerily, then kicked his horse into a trot, and his mounted cohort pounded ahead, then onto the Bridge marched Fridryk Kippenegger’s Bullheads. The giant Schlessen was resplendent in a bull’s-horn helm, and a sultry, long-haired Dhassan woman was mounted behind him in the saddle, wrapped in a cloak and clinging to his back.
‘Who the Hel’s she?’ Seth asked.
‘I gather she’s the first Dhassan whore he had when we arrived in Hebusalim. When we got back he went looking, threw her over his shoulder and brought her back to camp. Her pimp was furious, but what do you do when a seven-foot Schlessen wants your girl?’
‘Is she willing?’
Jelaska shrugged. ‘I did confront him on that question. Now the soldiers are leaving, her prospects are dismal, to say the least: she’ll be stoned by her own people, while the pimp flees with all the gold she and her fellow whores earned him. She certainly hasn’t tried to run away – quite the opposite, if you’re unfortunate enough to be trying to sleep near his tent.’
‘This war . . . life . . the morality of it – it’s too complicated. I’ll never make sense of it all.’
‘You think too much, Seth.’ Jelaska peered down to the arches that decorated the entrance to the Bridge. ‘What’s going on down there?’ She pointed at Ramon Sensini, who was standing beside the bridge entrance, shaking hands with every ranker, admonishing each one over something, then passing on to the next.
‘Something Ramon’s cooked up,’ he replied tiredly. ‘He says he’s congratulating the men, but who knows? I’ve got too much else to do to worry about him.’
Jelaska grunted. ‘So have I.’ She threw Seth a casual salute. ‘Best I get my maniple moving, General.’ She began to move off, then turned and smiled. ‘Well done, Seth. I didn’t honestly think you’d last the distance, but blood will out, yar?’
‘Not blood,’ Seth told her. ‘Never that.’
He watched the sorceress ride off, then dragged his mind back to the present. The men were cheering and whooping like children. The Leviathan Bridge, the greatest construction in the history of the Urte, extended straight as a spear towards the horizon. The seas were churning some two hundred yards below it, but in just thirty days’ time, the high tide would be crashing over it, drowning the structure as it sank a mile below the surface for the next decade. They had some hard days ahead if they were to avoid being washed from its surface and into the ocean.
Above them all stood Southpoint Tower: hundreds of feet high, gleaming white with a bulbous turret at the pinnacle, glowing even in daylight. Solarus crystals: thousands of energy reservoirs like the one Delta had worn, gathering the power required to hold the Bridge together beneath the waves. It took Seth’s breath away, but it made him fearful, too. There were magi up there, everyone knew that: Imperial Keepers, there to make sure the captive Ordo Costruo did their tasks and preserved the Bridge. They hadn’t responded when he and Jelaska had knocked on their door.
He wished Alaron Mercer was here: somehow, he felt that Alaron might have been able to make even the Keepers take notice. He just oozed capability and certainty now, but without the arrogance that most magi had – and what he’d glimpsed of his gnosis now was extraordinary. Despite this, he was still humble and optimistic, as if he refused to be disappointed in the world around him. I’d like to be his friend, Seth decided, though they’d not heard from Alaron since he left.
He let his mind drift as unit after unit descended the ramp to the beat of the drums and the call-and-response chants that echoed over the cliffs, almost drowned by the crashing of the waves below. It was a still day and the spray was minimal, but it was still a frightening sight, especially for the Khotri and Dhassan women in the baggage train. They were singing too, their beautiful eastern songs with strange cadences, to keep their spirits up in the face of such strangeness.
Perhaps I should have married a Dhassan girl: someone obedient and quiet.
All that they were leaving behind came back to him. Bathed in a nostalgic glow, it was glorious: crossing the Leviathan, the escape from Shaliyah, the battles at Ardijah and Riverdown, and that terrifying night at the crossroads at Bassaz. But what I’ll remember most are days like this . . . the wonderful strangeness of it all. Different songs and languages. Haunting faces and landscapes. Conversations around the evening fires. The sight of Rondian rankers and Khotri civilians working in harmony. Reading eastern poetry with Latif.
For half a gilden I’d turn around and do it all again.
*
The march across the Bridge slid into tedious routine, just as it had on the journey south two years ago. The land vanished within a day and then all was sea and one straight road, roughly three wagons in breadth. The march to Antiopia had been very different, though: then they’d been marching alongside giant hulkas hauling the wagons, and everyone had been full of brisk vigour, confident in their invincibility. Faces came back to Seth of those gone or left behind: rough-spoken Jonti Duprey, fire-breathing Rufus Marle, poor dear Tyron Frand, laughing Baltus Prenton, peppy Severine Tisseme, surly Renn Bondeau and the rest, marching into glory, or so they thought. Look at us now. They had mostly lost their uniforms, their faces were burned and hair sun-bleached, boots and sword-hilts were worn down to virtually nothing, and they were pulling a rag-tag baggage train filled with dusky Noorie women. And worse: they were deserters, according to the empire, with none of the promises of fame and fortune kept.
Well, of fortune, anyway. Of fame – perhaps we’ll rate a song, one day?
He smiled at that. A ballad about a bunch of deserters destroying the empire’s most powerful army while trafficking ill-gotten gold across the deserts would most likely earn the singer a noose.
A week slid by and now they were marching through sea-mists and the air was growing steadily colder. Still there was no news from Alaron Mercer, nor of what awaited them. Occasional windskiffs skimmed by, high above and aloof, and the feeling that they were under scrutiny grew. Sudden squalls lashed them, greeted with wonder at first by the Ahmedhassan women, but then with resigned misery as the cold and damp bit into them. Seth could see the beginnings of homesickness and felt sorry for them and the hard emotional journey they were on. His feeling of responsibility for the well-being of all of his small, battered army was growing.
Did you feel this too, Father? This overwhelming responsibility for everyone? Or did you only see the personal glory accruing? Were your men people to you, or just tools?
He suspected it had always been the latter. Regret that he’d never had one final parley with his father – that he’d never even found the body – gnawed at him, along with his own uncertain future. Mater-Imperia might be cowed into granting the promised pardons, but would he, the disowned commander of a renegade force, ever find a home again?
He spent his evenings wandering around, not quite sure what he was doing until he saw a woman in the sky-blue robes of a healer, leaning against the railing staring at the sea. He looked about and saw that no one was paying attention, then pretended he’d coincidentally decided to enjoy the view here too.
‘Good evening, General,’ the woman said, lowering her hood. It wasn’t Lanna Jureigh, as he’d expected, but Carmina Phyl, the dour healer who was never seen except in the healing tents or on her knees praying in the chapel tent. He couldn’t remember exchanging more than a greeting with her, and he’d spent more time helping in the healin
g tents than most.
‘Lovely evening,’ he said awkwardly. He peered at the railing before her, where she’d planted a candle and was shielding it from the wind. Lighting a birthday candle was a Brician tradition. ‘Is it your birthday?’
Carmina ducked her head shyly. ‘Twenty-third.’
His eyebrows shot up. Everyone assumed Carmina was forty-odd.
‘I know,’ she said placidly as if she had read his mind. ‘Some girls are pretty. Some aren’t.’ She looked away. ‘Only pretty boys care what their girls look like.’
Seth didn’t know what to say to that. Carmina’s olive-skinned face – he understood her to be at least part-Estellan – was lined, her hair was already going grey and her hands were aged from constant washing. She always looked worn-out and world-weary. Who’d have guessed she was so young?
‘Um,’ he started, ‘so, you’re from Bricia too?’
She pulled a somewhat exasperated face. ‘Seth Korion, I grew up on your family’s estates in Jenterholt.’
‘Oh.’ He was willing to swear he’d never seen her before in his life, not until this march. But then, Jenterholt had been for hunting and riding and the other ‘manly pastimes’ his father had loved and he loathed. ‘Who’s your family?’
‘My father is Pastor Teodorus Phyl: he was an Estellan pastor who married a Brician and preached at the Kore Church in Jenterholt for thirty years.’ She laughed wryly. ‘I was born on a pew.’
Seth couldn’t remember the church she spoke of, but she told him she remembered him riding through with his family on the way to the hunting lodge – ‘you were a very serious young man, riding a fine white horse’ – and they swapped a few reminiscences about Bres.
Carmina cast an eye back to the wagon she and Lanna shared. A lantern had just gone out. ‘Ah, there’s the signal.’ When he frowned she explained, ‘When Ramon’s gone, Lanna lights the lamp, so I know it’s safe to return.’
Seth coloured. ‘Um, that’s . . . I’ll have a word with him . . .’
Carmina pulled a face. ‘There’s no point. They’re both sinners: good people, but sinners.’ She blew out her birthday candle and prized the wax base from the stone railing. ‘It’s just hard, when you love someone, to see them with another.’
Oh dear Kore, she’s not enraptured with the little sneak too, is she?
‘Well, goodnight,’ he offered, and moped off towards his tent.
*
The following morning, Seth was trotting his horse down the column, calling out encouragement to those he passed, taking their salutes and cheers. The warmth of the men seemed genuine, which perpetually surprised and humbled him. If they knew what a mess I am they’d jeer me. It felt good, though, just to have some unshaven ranker call out a banal greeting. Perhaps it’s this sense of belonging I’ll miss most?
‘Sir,’ an aide called, ‘the scouts are back! They’ve spotted the Midpoint beacon.’
‘Thank Kore,’ Seth called. He peered through the mists and saw it too: a faintest glimmer in the northwest quadrant. He understood the beacon was visible from forty miles away, so they were still a few days out: making steady progress, but still cutting it too close for comfort. He scryed ahead, on the Bridge and in the skies above . . .
. . . and found more than he expected.
What in Hel?
He kicked his heels to his horse’s flanks and went seeking advice.
Such was his urgency, he entered the healers’ wagon without warning those inside, which was a mistake, for Lanna was playing tabula with Ramon on the rear pallet – and both were naked. Lanna gave him a reproving stare, but appeared in little hurry to redeem her modesty, glancing at him sideways as she pulled up a blanket that barely covered her.
‘A timely interruption!’ Ramon indicated the tabula board. ‘It’s going poorly.’
Seth averted his eyes from Lanna’s breasts with some difficulty. He’d never really seen breasts before, and hers were full and creamy, with big pink nipples. But the matter at hand was more pressing. ‘Ramon, we’re three days from Midpoint and there’s a fleet of Imperial windships hovering above it. What are we going to do?’
Ramon stopped smiling. ‘We’ve got no choice: we have to go on.’
‘But what if they try to stop us?’
‘Then, Lesser Son, we’ll have to come up with something, won’t we?’ the Silacian said irritably. He scowled and brushed the tabula board clear. ‘Rukking Empire! The only thing you can trust is that they’ll lie to you!’
Brochena, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Akhira (Junesse) 930
24th and final month of the Moontide
Cera Nesti was almost disappointed that the old palace in Brochena hadn’t been stormed, looted and burned to the ground. Looking up at those towers brought a pang of anxiety; too many associations – those halls were where she’d had to grow up, and been forced to deal with far too much. Her father had been murdered here, and so had her sister Solinde. It was here she’d betrayed Elena, been forced into marriage to Francis Dorobon and found fleeting love with Portia Tolidi.
So many ghosts, it must be haunted.
But she forced a smile and waved to the crowds. Her people, the citizens of Brochena especially, deserved that from her, not this moroseness. The city was divided, with the Dorobon immigrants barricaded into one district, under siege in the houses they’d seized – although you’d never know that from the packed Jhafi and Rimoni crowding the streets and plazas on her route. There were only friends here, screaming in joy at the victory and the return of La Scrittoretta.
She’d ridden through such crowds before, when the Gorgio had been driven out back before the Moontide even began, but this was different: the enemies weren’t simply gone, they were destroyed. Javon had faced its greatest test and endured. This was a carnival with no restraint. The wall of sound, the cacophony of voices and feet and music and drums, was a solid thing, a wind that shook her. She had been riding her placid mare at walking pace, unwilling to have the soldiers around her deny the people the chance to see her. Grown men and women were weeping as they reached out, and she tried to grip as many of their hands as she could. It was hugely moving, and queasily addictive.
Cera knew that this adulation of her worried the nobles. Stefan di Aranio had a stony smile on his face; Justiano di Kestria looked a little scared. Emilio Gorgio was playing up to the crowd, trying to compensate for the hatred his family had earned on their previous visits to the capital. And Theo Vernio-Nesti was parading in Nesti violet and full armour, as if he’d been at the battles that had gained him his new status.
For now, everyone was an ally, at least nominally. But they knew, as she knew, that very soon it would all end for her. Already Salim’s ambassadors had been in contact; he would soon take her south: she would marry and live and die in a foreign land. And these men would renew the old rivalries of the Rimoni Houses.
It was late afternoon by the time she reached the steps of the palace. She made a point of firmly embracing Don Perdonello, the head of the bureaucracy, and kissing his cheeks, for she knew that many regarded him and his Grey Crows as traitors for the work they’d been forced to do by the Dorobon. She knew better; Dorobon secrets had flowed ceaselessly from the palace through his people, while legislation was cleverly skewed and delayed. These were thankless, dangerous tasks appreciated only by those who couldn’t acknowledge their efforts until now.
She was thankful that such was her prestige now, when she kissed his cheeks, he would be accepted again.
‘Have the windships arrived?’ she asked him. Kazim Makani had been shipped here, as had Tarita, along with the Ordo Costruo healers.
‘Si; the patients are already housed in the healers’ suite.’
‘There are other magi coming from Kesh,’ she told him. ‘They are kin of Kazim Makani.’ Well, sort of. ‘Perhaps they can do something.’ She looked at him beseechingly. ‘In the meantime, Francesco, if I cannot use a chamber-pot, I swear that something inside
me will rupture.’
Perdonello’s eyes twinkled. ‘Then let us go inside.’
There was a fraught banquet in the evening, with prayers for the fallen and toasts to all the Houses. Even the Gorgio were cheered. Emir Mekmud of Lybis had ridden to the capital when he heard of the victory, and the lords of Intemsa and Baroz also: every great lord of the realm was present. They each gave a speech, congratulating her on the victory and looking forward to a time when normality was restored. She knew what that meant: a king on the throne and women returned to the boudoirs.
Nevertheless, as outgoing Autarch, it was still permitted that she speak, and she had no intention of passing up the chance for a few final words. ‘My Lords, we are victorious. We give thanks, to Ahm and to the Sol et Lune, for our survival. Javon is free!’ The court cheered this easy, obvious stuff. ‘We have all lost so many. My whole family lie entombed, and only my dear cousin Theo can prevent the name of Nesti from being consigned to the history books—!’
‘Never, Lady! You are immortal!’ one of the Jhafi princes shouted, which didn’t please the Rimoni lords at all.
‘We have been victorious,’ she went on, ‘because when it mattered, on the streets of Forensa when we were set to be crushed, and again at Jekuar, when our army stood in peril, we Javonesi pulled together and became a whole nation: Jhafi and Rimoni, knight and militia, man and woman, human and magi, all set aside our differences and even our traditional roles to fight as one. Against cruelty we deployed courage; faced with might we were resourceful and tenacious. Faced with difficulties and complexities, we were persistent, diligent and tireless. In crisis we did not splinter, but sacrificed for each other. That is Javon as I wish her to be.’