by David Hair
More applause, which she indulged while collecting herself for the next salvo.
‘Javon has endured because we embraced friendship where it was offered. We’ve fought side by side, rival Houses in alliance, feuds put aside! We’ve been aided by Rondian magi, though our own priests reviled them! We’ve fought shoulder to shoulder with Hadishah, lamiae and foreign mercenaries. They fought at our side, because Javon offered them friendship and inclusion, and we must continue to do so, for we are still at war!’
There was confusion at these words, so she pressed on, ‘Yes, my lords, we’re still at war: against the consequences of this ruinous conflict. The Yurosian enemy has gone, but others enemies remain: Hunger. Disease. Poverty. Ruined homes and workplaces. Burnt-out and abandoned farms. Religious conflict. Racial divides. These will tear us apart, unless we rise above them and seek out the same allies who fought with us in wartime: we must enlist them to help us win the peace! Enlightenment and tolerance is required for such unity: it makes us strong!’ She raised her goblet, challenged them. ‘Please pledge with me: to winning the peace!’
They were silent for a second, until those at the back with the least to lose and the most to gain by showing solidarity with her stood and raised their goblets. It shamed the lords at the front, who were calculating what they were gaining and losing, into rising too.
‘To winning the peace!’
She drained her cup, applauded them all, making sure the lords at the front knew the words were marked, then walked out of the hall, head throbbing and limbs shaking. I’m so tired of this stress. She hurried to her room and slammed the door.
An hour later, she was in her armchair, sipping wine and half-dozing, when there was a knock at her door, and it opened a fraction. Elena Anborn’s scratchy voice called through the crack. ‘Cera? I know you’re awake.’
She sat up, rubbed her eyes and stood. ‘What is it?’
‘You have visitors.’
She groaned internally, splashed rosewater from her basin on her face and turned to the door, wondering what was happening. Elena had barely come near her since their arrival in Brochena. What’s happening?
The small cluster of men who entered her reception room did little to allay her nerves. They were a mix of Rimoni and Jhafi, men she knew well and some she didn’t. Emir Mekmud of Lybis was foremost, his hard, scarred face set in determination but his eyes flickering nervously. The head of the Crown bureaucracy, Don Francesco Perdonello was behind the emir, alongside Pita Rosco and Piero Inveglio. Saarif Jelmud, the young Jhafi prince who’d distinguished himself at Forensa, was among them, and a handful of armed guards. All were cloaked and only lowered their hoods once the door was closed behind them. Elena remained at the door, but the tingle of light at her fingers showed that she was kindling wards to lock the door and prevent scrying of the room.
Sol et Lune! A conspiracy . . . ? Her heart thumped as she confronted them. ‘My Lords, what is it?’
Emir Mekmud spoke up. ‘Lady Cera, we are here without the knowledge of the Lords of Loctis, Hytel and Riban. We wish to speak with you on a most urgent matter.’ He gestured at Don Perdonello, who stepped forward.
She went utterly still, feeling as if she knew exactly what was about to be said already. ‘Lady Cera, the constitution of Javon permits only men of land and wealth to vote for the king. The wealth of Javon lies in the Great Houses of Jhafi and Rimoni, in Forensa, Loctis, Hytel and Riban. Their votes will determine which of them will become our new king. The law does not permit a woman to put herself forward, nor would the men of wealth vote for one if the law permitted it. This is certain.’
‘But we do not wish one of those men to rule us, Lady,’ Saarif Jelmud burst out. ‘We want you.’
Cera’s skin went prickly, and her heart thumped. She had to fight not to go weak at the knees. ‘I’m flattered,’ she said hesitantly, ‘but the law is the law.’
‘A law that denies the people the ruler they crave is not a just law,’ Piero Inveglio declared steadily. ‘It is an impediment to justice. You have won this victory. You have guided us through these terrible Moontide years intact, and you are adored by the people. Surely their will should also be heard?’
That Inveglio, who she was certain had been quietly profiteering from the conflict behind her back, would say such things made her eyes sting. They were all nodding, adding their own emphatic endorsements.
‘We are not saying the elective kingship should be abandoned, Cera,’ Pita Rosco said. ‘Just that the process must be changed.’
‘But such a change can only be voted upon by those entitled to vote for the king, and thus it will never happen,’ Perdonello added. ‘Sometimes good laws require a nudge.’
A nudge. By which they mean a palace coup.
‘We have more than enough men in place, Lady,’ the emir told her. ‘And the people will support you. They remember your Beggars’ Court, and how you returned from the dead. Your victories at Forensa and Jekuar have made your legend eternal. You are our queen in all but name.’
‘The Aranio, Kestria and Gorgio soldiers are encamped outside the city,’ Piero Inveglio added. ‘If we seize their leaders, they won’t press the assault. The Ordo Costruo have intimated that they will stand aside. The loss of life will be minimal, I promise you.’
All of their eyes burned into hers, willing her, demanding she give assent. For a moment it was impossible to breathe. I fought to preserve the Javon that is . . . But her knees almost rebelled as the possibilities opened up. She could install the Ordo Costruo in the Krak, and defy Salim to claim her. The Keshi would quickly grasp the new reality and in a post-Crusade world, there would be no trade blockade. They desperately needed the grain she would control – they would make a deal with Shaitan himself to feed themselves. Meanwhile the imprisoned lords would be hostages against insurrection in their cities – things would be tense, but they would settle down; she could likely release them in a few years without fuss or fear of retaliation. Yes, she would be seizing power illegally, and there would be fighting, but she’d win. Then she could have her people make her actions retrospectively legal, and if she left the existing mechanism of elective monarchy in place, merely tweaked to widen the vote and permit women to hold the throne: she’d have done a great thing, and the Great Houses would fall into line with the new reality.
And I’d be queen . . . for life.
She swallowed again, looked at Elena, beside the door. The mage-woman’s face was still expressionless, but neutral, withholding judgement.
Yes, oh yes, it is what I want . . .
The old Rimoni saying played in her head: You cannot turn a rock into a statue without taking a hammer and chisel to it. These men would be her hammer . . .
But . . . what if it spiralled out of control, into another war . . . ?
She looked away from her protector, looked upwards instead, so she wouldn’t have to meet their eyes.
‘My lords,’ she said, as levelly as she could, ‘please hear me. I am flattered – beyond expression. Never has a woman been so honoured as I am.’ She swallowed, thought about the future that could be, and the deeds that such a future would require. Her hands were trembling so much she had to bunch them at her midriff. She had to be stern now, had to be . . . regal.
‘My lords, I have spoken many times of the Javon I fight for: a place of togetherness and freedom, where just laws are agreed in honour. A military coup has no place in that Javon, even for the best of reasons. So I must decline your offer, well-intentioned though it is. Please, go now, and never speak of this again, lest you draw the wrath of the Great Houses down upon you.’
The room fell utterly silent, and the crushing disappointment on the faces of Mekmud, Saarif, Piero and Pita and the rest, was painful to see. A couple of the men swallowed anger, but she stared at
them until they all bowed their heads. Inside a minute they had all slunk away.
Elena stood at the door, saying nothing, and then she too was gone, without even an inkling of whether she approved.
Cera let her knees give way, collapsed to the rug and cried for all that she could have had.
*
The voice was familiar, nagging at Kazim Makani’s awareness. It seemed to have been calling him for some time, and when he recognised the voice, he was taken back not moments but years, to rooftops on balmy nights in Aruna Nagar, when life was innocent and he was in love with a dark little girl with worldly eyes: his last days of innocence. It was as real as if he was really there.
Perhaps I can stay in this dream for ever, and never go on.
But then he’d miss out on all the terror and triumph that had followed, the great and awful moments that had marked him, changed him, and left him here . . .
And he’d miss out on Elena . . .
‘Alhana?’
His voice was thin, so weak it scared him, so he immediately spoke again. ‘Alhana?’
But when his eyes flickered open, the light was too blinding to see, and the hard little hand wasn’t hers but the other’s, the rooftop girl, and a name resurfaced from the sea of memory. ‘Ramita?’
It really was her, his first real love, holding his hand and weeping tears that she blinked at furiously. ‘O Kazim! Namaste, namaste . . .’ She hugged him, her head on his chest, weeping, but he couldn’t really see her, just dark shapes and blurred light.
Then she spoke. ‘Kaz! Thank every god—!’ And his Alhana was there with him, nudging Ramita aside and filling his nostrils and his ears, holding and shaking him, and then other things came back: ‘The assassin . . . Timori—?’
Elena clutched him and sent soothing energies into him to soften her awful news. ‘Timori is dead,’ she whispered, ‘but so is Sordell, and you saved Cera, and you so nearly saved Timi too. You’re the hero of the kingdom.’
He moved weakly, not really caring about that bok. His happy-sad little prince was dead. For a few minutes all he could think of was that. Only Elena’s arms kept his heart from ripping in half.
Then the rest of what had just happened finally struck him. ‘Ramita? Is that really you?’ I killed her husband . . . ‘I’m so sorry, Mita. I’m so sorry!’
He couldn’t see her expression – perhaps that was a good thing – but her tough little hands gripped his and squeezed. ‘You did what you believed right, Kazim,’ she said. ‘I can forgive you now.’
His vision blurred, and for a long time all he could do was weep. When he finally remembered how to think and speak, he asked, ‘Where have you been, Mita?’
She took a couple of goes to reply, and then all she said was, ‘I have been very busy.’
*
Alaron Mercer had to remind himself of all that he’d been doing recently: becoming an Ascendant mage, defeating an insane Malevorn Andevarion and his daemons, marrying Antonin Meiros’ widow. Those were things to draw confidence from. It made it easier to face the intense, judgmental grey eyes of the woman on the stone bench opposite: his Aunty Elena.
‘How did the Lakh girl wake him?’ Elena asked. The silent addendum to that question was clear: how did Ramita, who Kazim supposedly no longer loved, wake him, when Elena couldn’t?’
‘Ramita is stronger even than an Ascendant. It took that to reach him.’
Elena swallowed tightly. ‘Then I’m grateful.’ Her eyes narrowed again. ‘You have the Scytale of Corineus?’ Elena’s flat tones didn’t quite convey the scepticism on her face.
He pulled it out and showed her. She stared, then slowly took it from him, turning it over in her hands. ‘And you’ve used it?’ He responded by conjuring his aura so that she could measure his strength and see just what his affinities were: everything. Her mouth dropped open. ‘What the Hel? Are you even Alaron any more? And you’re dressed as a Zain. Why?’
It took some telling, the hunt for the Scytale, and the trek from Yuros to Antiopia, how he’d met Ramita, the formation of the Merozain Brotherhood, all the people he’d found and lost. Master Puravai’s revolutionary gnostic training methods took a lot of explanation, and demonstration too, before she could take it all in.
‘And you’re married to the Lakh girl? Do Vann and Tesla know?’
He bit his lip. ‘Aunty Ella, I’m really sorry . . . Mum’s dead.’
Comforting his tough, quicksilver aunty was perhaps the most alien part of the whole evening.
They were still holding hands and trading reminiscences when a servant scurried up. ‘Lady Ramita asks you to attend on her and Lord Kazim immediately,’ he said breathlessly.
Elena looked put out to be interrupted, but Alaron knew Ramita didn’t summon him through servants frivolously. They hurried to the infirmary to find Kazim lying propped up in bed, and Ramita holding his hands. Alaron had to quell a moment of jealousy, recalling that these two had history that predated him, but Ramita’s face was all concern.
‘Al’Rhon, Alhana – Kazim has remembered something!’
They all looked at the young Keshi Souldrinker, who spoke in a dazed manner, as if he didn’t quite trust his recollection. ‘During the fight . . . the assassin linked minds with me, while trying to break my mental defences . . . I read something in his thoughts, a memory of a conversation . . .’ He grabbed Elena’s hands. ‘Alhana – Gurvon Gyle . . . the emperor . . . they’re going to destroy the Leviathan Bridge!’
40
Changing Loyalties
House Fasterius
The House of Fasterius married into the Sacrecour Dynasty in what was the culmination of a multi-generational campaign. It reached its fulfilment in Lucia, who risked spinsterhood in her unwavering focus on winning the prized hand of Emperor Magnus. Lucia had been regarded as a prodigy, someone who could advance our understanding of the gnosis in unknowable ways, but she abandoned study for court intrigues, and was lauded for doing so.
What hope is there for female emancipation when she is our shining example of womanhood?
JUSTINA MEIROS, ORDO COSTRUO COLLEGIATE, HEBUSALIM, 909
Midpoint, Leviathan Bridge, in the Pontic Sea
Akhira (Junesse) 930
24th and final month of the Moontide
Gurvon Gyle had not tasted failure since the Noros Revolt, and even that defeat had not been this bitter.
I lost, in a game even Cera Nesti played better than I. It was galling, and no matter how often he promised himself that he would exact revenge in time, the stink of defeat lingered.
Since escaping Jekuar and recovering his gold from Brochena, he’d been flying west, stopping where he’d laid his bolt-holes against potential disaster. He’d stayed in each for a week, enough to replenish supplies, pick up a few items and most of all, to think. This latest hidey-hole was a cave east of the Krak di Condotiori. It reeked of dead game, but it sufficed, for now, while he thought things through.
Only when he felt he was truly ready did he pick up a relay-stave and reach out. It was morning, and Veritia, who had escaped Jekuar and was now his eyes and ears in Pontus, said the Imperial Fleet was nearby. He kindled the gnosis and reached with his mind . . .
. . . Mater-Imperia Lucia looked as if she’d been interrupted while dressing. Her hair was down, and she had on no make-up. It made her look strange, unfocused and imperfect: matching him, in a way. Her eyes had a slightly alarmed, scared look, as if she too were unravelling.
he offered, not wanting to speak with her if she was angry.
She scowled, but her eyes were flickering nervously. She hunched towards him.
She didn’t smile.
He didn’t bother to deny any of that.
Her eyes narrowed.
He ignored that as the posturing of a trader.
Lucia didn’t break the connection, though. He could sense her mind calculating, indeed, grasping at this offer with more alacrity than he had anticipated. Veritia had advised that the empire’s monetary crisis ran deeper than he could imagine. He pressed on.
Her eyebrows shot up.
Even the fact that she was considering his words told him that she must be more than a little desperate. Veritia had told him that Kaltus Korion was missing or dead, and a deserter army was marching on Pontus, led by Korion’s bastard, with Dhassa falling into chaos as the legions retreated across the Bridge. The details were sketchy, but he guessed that Lucia was feeling incredibly insecure.
She came to a decision: