by David Hair
Bare feet slapped on stone and another man dropped to his knees behind and to his left and made obeisance to Ahm. Salim let him finish, staying on his knees patiently in this vast place, which when full could hold twenty thousand but today held two.
‘Sal’Ahm, Great Sultan,’ Rashid Mubarak greeted him respectfully when his prayer was done.
‘Sal’Ahm, Emir Rashid. Walk with me.’ Salim got to his feet and together they went towards the fountain in the northward corner. They trod in silence until Salim asked, ‘Who is your lord, Rashid?’
‘You, Great Sultan,’ Rashid responded instantly.
‘Yet you keep secrets from me.’
‘It seemed necessary, Great Sultan. If I have erred, I beg forgiveness.’
Salim regarded the other man: perfection in a male form, from his lean but muscular body to his haughty face with their piercing green eyes and perfectly styled hair and beard. A mage, a master swordsman and a ruler: the true architect of the shihad, in the eyes of most.
Who sent his lover off to find the Scytale of Corineus and hasn’t spoken of it since.
‘Where is Alyssa Dulayne?’
‘I don’t know. None of those with her have come back. There has been no contact, and I cannot find her through scrying. The last report from her, she was flying towards Lokistan, seeking a monastery.’ Rashid sounded apprehensive. ‘The same monastery that the “Merozain Bhaicara” appear to originate from.’ He pulled a face. ‘They have hinted that she is their prisoner.’
‘And they have this “Sk’thali” also?’
‘I believe so,’ Rashid admitted, his worries even more clear now. ‘But we don’t know the purpose of these Merozains yet.’
‘Ramita Ankesharan leads them, with a Rondian husband,’ Salim reminded him. ‘She has no reason to love you, Rashid, or our faith.’ Rashid bowed his head at these indisputable facts. They reached the fountain and Salim sat on the edge and trailed his fingers in the pond. He didn’t want to alienate Rashid; he needed him. ‘Tell me of the oath you swore – and broke – to the Ordo Costruo.’
The emir’s face became puzzled. ‘I swore to place myself in service of the Order, who in turn were pledged to serve peace, and to build a better world for all.’
Salim nodded slowly, thinking of an idealistic dreamer with a predilection for poetry and wine who would’ve approved of the oath. ‘If I asked you to create such an order – an Ahmedhassan order – dedicated to rebuilding our cities and towns, would you do so for me?’
‘Of course . . .’ Rashid licked his lips. ‘But this is a time of huge opportunity, Great Sultan – the Rondians have been mortally wounded! If we moved agents into Sydia, inside ten years we would have friendly enclaves, ready to support a new shihad: the invasion of Yuros itself!’
‘We do not need a new shihad, Rashid Mubarak. We need buildings and aqueducts and irrigation – we need roads and bridges! That is our need!’
Rashid bowed in reluctant acquiescence. ‘As my Sultan commands.’
‘Then I leave the formation of this order in your hands, but I desire close oversight. Your magi have been trained to kill and destroy; retrain them in the arts of healing and building.’
‘As my Lord commands.’
‘And Rashid: we will not put to death our Rondian prisoners. They will be a labour force for the rebuilding of Dhassa and Kesh – not slaves, but bonded workers. When the next Moontide comes they will be free to leave. I will keep a roster of them, and the fate of each will be accounted for.’
Rashid’s eyes flashed. ‘They are invaders!’
‘They are men who followed orders.’ Salim waited until Rashid bowed again. ‘And what of my new bride?’
‘Cera Nesti?’ Rashid shrugged. ‘Her value is less than it was, but she is still a strategic alliance. Place her in the zenana and plough her when her Moon is risen.’
‘On that at least we agree.’ Salim stood. ‘Come, we must meet these “Merozain” magi and find out if they’re any different to the other breeds.’
*
Alaron heaved a sigh of relief, and leaned on his elbows on the balcony. Beside him, Ramita held Dasra, showing him the newly risen moon. Nasatya remained elusive, and she had a resigned heaviness to her expression, the realisation that perhaps he would never be found.
‘I’m sick of banquets,’ Alaron said, watching the guests leave through the courtyard below. The evening had been spent with the Sultan of Kesh, a smooth and charming man who spoke of peace with apparent yearning.
‘So am I,’ Ramita replied. ‘I want to go home, Al’Rhon, to Aruna Nagar. I want to see my parents and my brothers and sisters. I want to show them my husband and my son. Can we please, please, go home?’
He shared her longing, but his home was thousands of miles in the other direction. His father was at Pontus. Apparently Elena had taken to her own skiff an hour after he and Ramita had left Brochena and had fished Father and Ramon from the mess at Midpoint Tower. He was so grateful he couldn’t think how he could ever repay her. Not that she’d wanted to have that conversation anyway.
‘There’s so much to do.’ Alaron sighed wearily. ‘We have to work out what to do with the Scytale. We’ve got to find Nasatya. We’ve got to make sure the Bridge has enough energy to survive being underwater. We’ve got to make arrangements for Corinea, and we have to work something out with the Ordo Costruo – and this new order Rashid Mubarak is creating.’
Ramita glowered. ‘I don’t trust that snake.’
‘Me neither.’
‘Then let it all wait!’ She took his hand, put it to her lips then her heart. ‘Please, come to Baranasi. We’ll marry under Omali rites: you will ride a white horse into my parents’ yard to claim me, we’ll walk thrice around the fire and exchange garlands, and be one in the eyes of the Gods.’
And it will mean everything to me, her eyes added. Everything in the world.
Brochena, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Rajab (Julsep) 930
One month after the end of the Moontide
The Scriptualist invoked the Ritual of Family, then the women present – Cera Nesti, Elena Anborn and Staria Canestos – unwound their scarves and removed their bekira-shrouds while the men looked on warily.
Cera concealed a smile. What, too many girls in the room for you, boys?
Cera surveyed them: the lords of Javon: Emir Mekmud of Lybis, Stefan di Aranio of Riban, Justiano di Kestria of Loctis in proxy for his elder brother Massimo, and Emilio Gorgio of Hytel. The highest-ranking Jhafi nobles of Intemsa and Baroz were here too, and of course her own Nesti men. Posing on her left was Theo Vernio-Nesti, trying to pick up some reflected glory through kinship to her.
‘My Lords, welcome,’ she greeted them.
‘Good morning, Autarch,’ they murmured, clearly just wanting this over so they could get on with the voting for a new king. The day had come – her last council meeting. Outside, the ambassadors from Kesh were waiting, and these men would soon be rid of her again. And rid of Elena too, her role as her bodyguard over. Despite all that the magi had done for Javon, and Elena in particular, they feared the powers they could never attain.
‘My Lords, the ninety days of my emergency leadership are now behind us – by several weeks, in truth – but finally we are assembled together and can formalise my stepping down. It is with joy that I do so, knowing that I am passing the rule of Javon back into the hands of men born to rule.’ She hoped her inner sarcasm didn’t come through in her voice. She let her eyes drift around the room, looking at Stefan di Aranio, Justiano di Kestria and Emilio Gorgio as they fidgeted impatiently, keen for the real meeting to begin once she was gone. At Mekmud of Lybis, Saarif Jelmud and the other would-be conspirators, still seeing the disappointment and frustration they felt with her and what was to them an inexplicable decision. And finally she looked at Theo Vernio-Nesti, a pallid shadow of her father, or the man her brother could have been. ‘May the gods smile upon your decisions.’
After tha
t she couldn’t get out fast enough, but she still had to endure a vote of thanks. Then there was nothing for it but to leave, Elena at her back, and hear the door close behind her. She’d put her last days as ruler to good use, working from dawn until midnight: ratifying land for the lamiae and restoring the legal code to what it had been before the Dorobon came – a secular code, administered collectively by the nobles and bureaucrats, with appeal to the Crown. Undoing the work of two years of Dorobon misrule, approving appeals for injustices perpetrated under their reign, and approving a rebuilding plan that would not be able to easily be cancelled by whoever became king. It had left her worn down and exhausted. She stumbled and paused, gripped the rail, breathing heavily and trying to pretend it was just tiredness, not the depression she could feel closing in on her.
How will I ever endure being nobody again . . . ?
‘Cera,’ Elena murmured, ‘are you all right?’
‘I don’t know.’ She blinked back tears. ‘Did I do right? I could have been queen.’
‘But you chose not to be. Do you regret that now?’
‘No . . . and yes. I was afraid it would lead to civil war. So soon after the Moontide – it could have broken us.’ She met the Noros woman’s gaze. ‘But all the things I could have done – good things, right things! Of course there are regrets.’
Elena’s face softened a little. ‘For what it’s worth, I believe you did the right thing. Few people can resist such an opportunity, but you would have started a war that might have sent Javon spiralling into destruction. Sometimes change has to be gradual, even if that prolongs the suffering of those who should be protected. The reforms you would have passed would have alienated many, and made you a target for more than just hostile words.’
‘Than perhaps it’s a good thing I’m going to live the rest of my days in a box in Kesh,’ Cera replied bitterly. She looked wearily up the stairs. ‘Where are the ambassadors?’
‘In the state rooms, waiting for me,’ Elena said softly. ‘They asked to see me while they await the Royal Election.’
Cera raised an eyebrow. ‘Why?’
‘I’m not sure. Maybe they just enjoyed my company last time they were here?’
*
While Cera trudged up to pack her bags, Elena strode through Brochena Palace to meet with the ambassadors in their guest rooms. They’d arrived the previous night and been banqueted and entertained with musical performances and dancers and a dozen courses of Jhafi delicacies conjured from the remains of war by some kitchen mage. Their mission here was to greet the new Javon king, whoever that might be, then tomorrow, their windship would take them and Cera south.
For some reason, they urgently wanted to speak to the dreaded Elena Anborn first.
She found them seated on cushioned stone benches in a viewing cupola overlooking the northern side of the city and the salt lake, idly studying the ceiling frescoes. They were guarded by young men in dark robes – clearly Hadishah – who despite their role were clearly reluctant to pat her down for weapons. She made it easy for them by handing them her blades before approaching the ambassadors. They exchanged the traditional greetings and reverences, then sat. A servant scuttled in, poured sharbat, offered the mezze platter around, then scurried away.
Salim of Kesh had sent the same pair of ambassadors he’d sent in 928, two years ago: the portly Faroukh of Maal, Salim’s uncle, and the iron-bearded Godspeaker Barra Xuok. Then, Cera had been a young woman on a besieged throne and desperate for allies, enough to agree to wed one of her nation’s traditional foes in exchange for guarantees about autonomy during the Moontide. She’d conceded a permanent Keshi embassy, with the ambassador permitted a seat on the Regency Council, and given herself in marriage so that Javon could keep its manpower and self-rule during the shihad. It was a poor deal, made at a time when her bargaining position was weak.
But now that young woman was a widow, after a not-quite forced marriage to a Rondian mage, as well as being a convicted murderess, smeared as a safian, and no longer the senior family member of her House.
The phrase ‘damaged goods’ barely covers it, Elena reflected.
‘The world has changed greatly,’ Faroukh said, to open discussions.
Godspeaker Barra Xuok lifted both hands skywards. ‘Ahm has been generous in His blessings this Moontide. We have seen great victories, at Shaliyah and Ebensar, and here in Ja’afar also. The Rondians are gone, and we pray that the Third Crusade will be the last.’
‘I hope so too.’
The Godspeaker’s stony face softened just a little in remembrance. ‘When last we talked, Lady, we had many – I think understandable – suspicions concerning you and your role here. But you have sacrificed much for your young protégé, fought long and well in the service of the Nesti and Ja’afar, and found love with a young man of the East. You have won our trust. Sultan Salim has hopes that you will continue to play a role in Ja’afar, even after the Princessa joins his court in Sagostabad.’
‘Even after my freeing of the Ordo Costruo from the Hadishah?’ she asked, arching an eyebrow.
‘The Sultan regrets the loss of life, obviously, and Emir Rashid is not enamoured of the act. But Salim understands why a request for aid was not made to him first.’
‘The Hadishah have raised documents of condemnation against both Kazim and me.’
‘They will be asked to revoke them,’ Faroukh replied soothingly. ‘Salim rejoices that the Ordo Costruo have returned to society, and looks forward to welcoming their embassies to his court.’
‘I suppose the status of magi in Keshi and Dhassan society will change somewhat, now that Salim and Rashid have them openly at court?’
‘Indeed, Lady. As it has already in Ja’afar.’
‘We do have more acceptance,’ she agreed. ‘And of course, the Ordo Costruo have agreed to help protect Javon by becoming custodians of the Krak di Condotiori.’ So you can’t invade, even if you wanted to.
‘This is known, Lady,’ Godspeaker Barra replied. ‘And what of yourself?’
Elena glanced down at her stomach, now noticeably expanded. ‘My future here in Brochena is uncertain at this stage. As you can see, I am with child. At the very least, I will be retiring from public life until I have recovered from the birthing.’
‘We offer you our sincerest congratulations, Lady,’ Faroukh said. ‘A unique child, I am told.’
That’s true. ‘Every child is unique.’ Not wanting to discuss it further, she changed the subject. ‘Surely the sultan is concerned about Cera’s changed circumstances?’
The two ambassadors glanced at each other, then nodded carefully. Barra Xuok spoke first. ‘It is fair to say that a young virgin with some small experience in statecraft agreed to this betrothal; but Cera Nesti is no longer that girl. We have heard reports of a contentious woman administering mob justice from the zenana, convicted of regicide and perversion. The former charge is uncertain, perhaps, and the latter is denied, but we are given to understand that she has extended protection to the infamous Sacro Arcoyris Estellan, which does nothing to quell rumours about her . . .’
‘Indeed: Staria’s people have agreed to remain in the Rift Forts in return for autonomy from certain laws.’
‘We will be watching them closely, Lady,’ Godspeaker Xuok said dourly.
I bet you will. ‘Staria’s people aided the fight for freedom in Javon. All here know and are grateful.’
‘But their predilections—’
‘—did not prevent them from contributing nobly.’ Elena met the Godspeaker’s eyes steadily, until he waved a hand, letting the issue go. She took that as a sign that other concessions might be possible, but that Cera’s reputation worried them.
What would Kesh make of a woman revered as a Saint in Javon? Especially one with a reputation for being independent of mind and tainted by all these associations? How does Salim really feel about it?
‘Gentlemen, my understanding is that a sultan’s betrothal is completely binding?’
> Godspeaker Xuok nodded stiffly. ‘The reason such alliances are made is to bind two nations in peace, so legally only a state of war can be invoked to break it. Of course, no such war is desired, but the history of Javon and Kesh is not peaceful, and Salim’s honour does not permit him to allow any slight upon his name. Whether she fully understood that or not, Cera Nesti gave her vow irrevocably. Nor can Ja’afar easily ignore the snub if Salim breaks the betrothal: what that would say is that Ja’afar is beneath his notice. It would isolate your people in a hostile world.’
‘So, will the old traditions of kidnapping the bride have to be resurrected?’ Faroukh added drily.
‘Cera understands her duty,’ Elena replied. ‘But there are some things you need to know first.’
*
The first act of Massimo di Kestria – now King Massimo I of Javon – was to welcome the Keshi ambassadors formally to his court and accept their congratulations. The election had been tight, but Emilio Gorgio and Theo Vernio-Nesti had swung in behind Massimo on the third ballot, leaving previous front-runner Stefan di Aranio gnashing his teeth in frustration. The crowning would be tomorrow, but for now, another matter took precedence: the formal claiming of a bride.
‘The world has changed,’ Faroukh of Maal proclaimed before the court, in reply to King Massimo’s welcome. ‘War came, and our Great Sultan was at the forefront of the struggle. Our losses were shocking, the destruction immense. Yet we have prevailed, here, as in Kesh and Dhassa.’ He bowed to Cera. ‘Ahm smiles upon your intended, Lady Cera.’
‘I am blessed,’ Cera replied dully. This feast would be her last taste of public life of Javon, or most likely anywhere else, bar her wedding in Kesh. She was struggling to hold back tears, but this moment was of her own making, so she had to bear it.
Better this than civil war . . . She looked at Elena, but the Noros woman would not return her glance. She was clinging to Kazim’s arm; both were recovering steadily from their wounds.
Faroukh raised his booming voice still further. ‘Salim, mightiest pillar of our nation, lion of the deserts, has devoted himself to the crushing of his enemies! Yet now his sword is sheathed and the time for healing has come. Kesh will take years to banish the ghoulish visages of plague, famine and death that blight our sacred soil—’