by David Hair
He put the thought aside for now; there was too much else to do.
*
Arranging the parley took an hour, with lots of waving white pennants and Storn shouting in Keshi from a point on the causeway about one hundred yards from the gatehouse. Initially they were dealing with guardsmen, then an immense and luridly dressed man arrived, surrounded by men in dark cloaks. Ramon fed Storn his lines and the tribune dutifully translated – which turned out to be not as easy as he’d hoped, for the Khotri dialect differed somewhat from Keshi.
‘Who’s the big guy?’ Ramon asked Storn as they awaited a reply to their last request.
‘He says he’s Vizier to the Caliph of Ardijah.’
‘Caliph?’
‘The ruling nobleman.’ Storn frowned. ‘I don’t think they mean to make a deal, sir. I think they know the Keshi are coming too; I reckon they’re planning to just delay us.’
‘Offer them gold.’
Storn’s eyebrow’s shot up. ‘Gold? Our gold?’
‘Indeed. We’ve got rather a lot of it.’
‘But—’
‘Seriously, Storn! We’ve got most of the Southern Expedition’s gold in our wagons, have we not? But we won’t have it for long if the Keshi catch us outside those walls.’ He considered for a moment, then said decisively, ‘Offer them fifty thousand.’
Storn’s eyes bulged. ‘That’s more than the annual wages of the army! You can’t give that away, not just for a talk!’
‘Of course not – but I can dangle it, can’t I? At worst it’ll make them want to extract it from us so the Keshi don’t get it.’ He pointed to the vizier in the distance. ‘Ask.’
Storn muttered and looked rebellious, but after a moment he shouted out a few phrases, all the while waving his arms about in expansive gestures – presumably to convey the magnitude of the offer, Ramon thought.
There was a startled yelp from the vizier, then he and the cloaked men went into a huddle. It took them a full minute to reply, but even in an unknown tongue, Ramon could hear the studied eagerness of the conman who thought he’d found an easy mark.
‘They say they’ll talk,’ Storn told him sulkily. ‘Four on each side, no weapons, and no more than one mage in our group. They propose sunset.’
‘And waste another half a day? Not rukking likely! Tell them we’ll parlay right now … and tell them I want to speak to the caliph himself as well as his vizier.’
There was a further rapid exchange, and this time Ramon could see when the Khotri agreement was reached. He looked over his shoulder to where the other magi were watching from the small rise above the beginning of the causeway. He closed his eyes, clutched his periapt and sent a mental greeting to Seth.
The general’s son sounded startled at the contact.
Seth replied snottily.
A sigh, then,
He closed down the link and turned to the tribune. ‘It’s on, Storn. Ten minutes.’
Time passed quickly as they brought up the men he’d chosen for the task: big, bluff Vidran, and the flankman Kel Harmon, a lean young man with fashionably long flaxen hair and a very high opinion of himself. He’d picked them specifically; they were Pilus Lukaz’s men, the best fighters in the cohort.
Ramon looked at Vidran. ‘Where are you from, Legionary?’
‘Midrea, sir, but I’m part Schlessen.’ Vidran took off his helmet and ran his fingers through his lank black hair. ‘That’s where the muscle comes from,’ he added with a grin.
‘Half-barbarian,’ Harmon sniffed.
‘And you are—?’ Ramon asked.
‘Pallas born and bred, sir,’ the flankman replied. ‘Tockburn District – best people anywhere.’
Vidran grunted, ‘Thieves and cut-throats!’
But as Ramon turned to scan the gate for activity he could see Vidran and Harmon exchanging wry smiles and hear the low banter.
‘When’s the enemy going to reach here, sir?’ Vidran asked, his voice relaxed.
‘Probably the day after tomorrow.’
Harmon grunted. ‘I’d have thought they’d all be back in Shally-wotsit, getting lammy.’
Ramon raised an eyebrow. ‘Lammy?’
‘Y’know. Lammy – pissed.’
‘Drunk?’
‘Aye, that. Lammy.’ Harmon laughed drily. ‘That’s if the Noories drink. Do they, Vid?’
‘The ones that ain’t Amteh fanatics do,’ Vidran replied, his eyes darting about. The big ranker was constantly watchful, Ramon noticed. ‘That’s most of them, I guess. Man’s gotta drink, yar?’
Harmon chuckled. ‘Too bloody right.’ Then the set of his muscles altered and the slightly nonchalant look on his face was replaced by something altogether grimmer. ‘Here they come, sir.’
Ramon whispered a silent prayer to Papa Sol as trumpets blared and the gates rumbled open to allow out an open palanquin bearing a man and woman, he in colourful Khotri robes, she in a black bekira-shroud, borne on the shoulders of four big men, naked to the waist and impressively muscled. They were trailed by the waddling vizier and one of the dark-cloaked advisors.
Ramon warily watched them approaching, his eyes constantly scanning them for signs of threat while Harmon and Vidran studied the walls. He got the impression that the vizier was sick with fear, but the caliph and his woman looked composed, almost smugly at ease.
Which one’s the mage? Ramon wondered. He glanced at Storn. ‘Tell them that the bearers can come no further.’
Storn relayed the message, and to his relief the palanquin was gently lowered and the caliph rose to his feet. He was a big, lean man with dark, tanned skin and a face that might have been chiselled from granite. His head was shaven, apart from a black topknot, and he had an almost barbarous vitality to him, not at all what Ramon was expecting of the ruler of a small town.
The woman with him cast back the hood of her bekira-shroud, revealing a stunning face, wide-mouthed and red-lipped, with big bewitching eyes and a sultry, almost mocking expression on her face. Her copper hair rippled in the faint breeze. She didn’t look right either: all the Antiopian women Ramon had seen were meek and shrouded things, seldom seen in public. He began to feel his apprehension rise.
The third man kept his hood up, and just the hint of a vulturine nose distinguished him. Ramon stared at them, his unease turning to alarm. Their skin was surprising: none of them had the the natural darkness of an Easterner but the burnished hue of a tanned Yurosian. But it was their auras that made him catch his breath: every one of the three was all oily film and roiling tentacles.
These people weren’t just magi: they were Souldrinkers. The enemy’s beaten us here.
The stone-faced man spoke first. ‘I am Yorj Arkanus, Leader of the Brethren. This is my wife, Hecatta, and my colleague, Zsdryk.’ He indicated the hooded man with the hatchet-nose, then waved a loose hand towards the vizier. ‘And … whoever he is.’
The vizier cringed. His eyes met Ramon’s, pleading for help so plainly he could have been shrieking it from the rooftops. His clothing was absolutely sodden with sweat, with huge wet stains under his armpits, around his belly and down his back as well: not too much sun, but too much fear.
So this parley was a sham, a delaying tactic to keep them busy while Salim’s army came up behind them. It was a traditional hammer-and-anvil scenario – and they were caught in the middle. And here they had three gnosis-users against just him.
Ramon gave a half-bow, as if all if this were totally expected, trying to appear unflappably cool, though his heart was thudding painfully hard. He made his own introductions, then turned to the vizier. �
�I trust the real caliph and calipha are well?’
‘He and his wife are completely irrelevant,’ Arkanus interjected. ‘This whole emirate will soon belong to me.’ He chuckled. ‘We’ve been watching you from afar, magus – I arrived in Ardijah a week ago. The caliph and his family are my prisoners.’ He sneered. ‘Perhaps you’d like to join them and sit out the coming battle?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I am as strong as one of your pure-bloods,’ Arkanus boasted, ‘and so is my wife and so is Zsdryk. I have thirty Fire-magi with me and a dozen Earth-magi, all of our Brethren. A thirty-strong pack of animagi accompany the army – more than enough to deal with you and yours.’
Ramon filed the numbers away. Sol et Lune, we are in trouble. ‘Is there a point to this parley?’ he asked calmly.
‘You asked for it,’ Arkanus growled. ‘I believe there was a question of gold?’
‘That seems irrelevant now.’
Arkanus smirked. ‘It does rather, seeing as we’ll be taking it off you anyway.’
‘Then I think we are finished.’
‘Perhaps we will simply kill you, right here, to send a message to your commander?’ Arkanus suggested mildly.
‘Your honour is justly renowned,’ Ramon replied sarcastically, while his pulse throbbed.
‘Do not speak to me of honour, mage,’ he spat. ‘In the name of your god you have murdered and tortured my kindred for centuries. There has been no tool you have not employed to entrap and destroy us.’ Arkanus stalked towards him, tapped him on the chest. ‘But I will allow you to return to your commander. I wish him to know who awaits him in Ardijah. Get you gone, and pray for an easy death tomorrow.’
The hooded man, Zsdryk, snarled something in a guttural voice; the intonations were Sydian. His mouth was full of long yellowed teeth, like an old wolf.
Harmon and Vidran took an involuntary step back; Storn took three.
Ramon motioned to them to back away whil he kept his eyes locked on the three Dokken. Arkanus watched him every step of the way, while Hecatta whispered in his ear and Zsdryk just stared. The vizier looked like his knees were wobbling so hard beneath his robes that standing was almost beyond him.
Ramon murmured a command and they turned and walked away, all the while their backs tingling in fear of a ballista shot or arrow from the wall.
Now what do we do?
Vidran put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Sir?’ His voice was calm as his eyes.
His hand steadied Ramon somehow. ‘Thank you, Vidran.’
‘What’s the plan, sir?’
*
Seth Korion waited on the hill as Ramon Sensini climbed towards him. He’d never seen the little Silacian look so angry. ‘What happened? Can we enter?’
‘The Dokken are already here. The parley was a sham.’
The magi all groaned aloud.
‘I told you it was stupid,’ Renn Bondeau said.
Ramon glared at the Pallacian until Jelaska put a restraining hand on his shoulder and whispered something in his ear.
Seth felt like breaking down. They had fled across the desert, exhausting themselves to get here, and all the time they had just been running into the enemy’s arms. ‘What … what do we do?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice firm. ‘Move on?’
Ramon looked at him contemptuously. ‘Well, General, we’ve almost run out of stores and I rather suspect that if we travel a few miles further west, we may well run into another army.’ The Silacian ran his fingers through his hair. It looked like he was thinking furiously. ‘No,’ he said distractedly, ‘we need to think this through.’
Renn Bondeau slapped his thigh impatiently. ‘Think, think! Thinking gets us nowhere! We must attack, now!’
‘We should emblazon that on your gravestone,’ Jelaska drawled.
Sigurd Vaas stepped in front of Bondeau and tapped his breastplate. ‘You will be silent now.’
Bondeau straightened and for a moment it looked like he was about to start a brawl. But Vaas had a hard reputation … They settled for glaring at each other until one of Bondeau’s Brevian friends pulled him away.
Seth watched helplessly, wishing he could come up with a plan, but his brain refused to suggest anything. The Silacian huddled with his confederates, Jelaska, Vaas, Baltus and Kippenegger, as if only their opinions mattered. It was humiliating, having to wait like this, but he could think of nothing useful to contribute.
Finally Ramon Sensini turned back to the group. He looked like he’d recovered a little of his usual obnoxious spirit – his grin wasn’t as forced this time. ‘Listen, thanks to their boasting leader, we know that there are forty Souldrinkers inside Ardijah – but the soldiers are all Khotri, and I don’t think they’re happy. Remember, these are Dokken: everyone hates them, even here. What if that Khotri army on the far side aren’t here to block us, but to keep the Souldrinkers penned inside?’
Bondeau went to say something, then shut his mouth when Vaas met his eye.
Ramon pointed at the sun. ‘It’s almost midday. I think we do need to attack, but not in the way we’re expected to.’ He jabbed a finger at the Windmaster. ‘Ready your skiff to take Storn and me across the river: I want to talk to the Khotri on the far side. We’ll need to circle out of sight so Arkanus doesn’t work out what we’re up to. Jelaska, these Dokken are all Thaumaturges and animagi. Sorcery is their weakness, and you’re our best. You need to prepare something to support our assault. Bondeau, take all our cavalry and go find some enemy to kill on our back trail. We need you to slow Salim down and buy us time – but you need to get out alive.’ He looked about the group. ‘Who’s our best sylvanic mage?’
Wilbrecht, one of Bondeau’s Brevian friends, put up a hand.
‘How many wagons do you think you can convert into boats in the space of an afternoon?’
Wilbrecht blinked. ‘To seal the timbers so that they are water-tight? That is simple, at least to hold for a short time. But they will barely be able to be steered.’
‘We have Water-mages for that,’ Ramon replied. ‘Get onto it.’ He looked at Sigurd. ‘There are three pure-blood equivalents among the Dokken, but they don’t use periapts and I’m guessing they don’t have anything like our Arcanum-style training. Can we take them down?’
‘If we know their weaknesses.’
‘You’ve heard them. We’ll need to use Sorcery and Theurgy, attack their minds.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Anyone else got something to contribute?’ He looked at Bondeau as if expecting an objection.
‘I’m fine with my role,’ the Pallacian muttered. ‘At last, some actual fighting.’
‘Who will lead the frontal attack?’ Kip asked.
‘I will,’ Seth replied quickly, firmly, though he felt like he’d just declared an intention to slit his own wrists.
Everyone looked at him sceptically.
‘It’s my duty,’ he said firmly, as his face drained of colour.
18
Unmasked
The Death of Emperor Magnus
909 saw the most recent transition of power in Pallas, from Emperor Magnus to Constant, his son-in-law. Though Constant was legally the heir, it was nevertheless a bloody transition. Some doubts remain about whether Magnus died naturally, and a large number of supporters of the older sister, Natia, died amidst violent unrest, including her husband. Natia herself has been imprisoned. Much of the violence was was directed towards Constant’s mother, Lucia Fasterius, seen as a malign influence by most of those who died.
ORDO COSTRUO, HEBUSALIM CHAPTER
Northern Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Jumada (Maicin) 929
11th month of the Moontide
Elena Anborn slipped into the opium den, anonymous beneath a bekira-shroud. The town was called Mentazi, near the city of Riban, the Aranio family’s stronghold. It had taken her three nights to fly there. Kazim had taken the skiff off on another errand elsewhere, which meant she had no way to get out fast, but the Dorobon presence here was weak
, and she was pretty sure Gurvon was still hunting her along the Hytel Road, not here.
The rich, smoky haze of the den was barely filtered by the gauze over her face. Only her hands and the bridge of her nose were uncovered, but she was sunburned brown enough that it would take a discerning eye to pick her out from a similarly attired Jhafi woman. Any woman in here would be taken for a whore, but most of the hashish addicts were too far gone for lust, so she passed untroubled. Elena had never been tempted, not even in her lowest moments, to use the drug: opium and hashish were for fools or the hopeless, and she’d never had a moment in which hope did not offer solace far greater than the poppy-milk.
Though most lower-class Jhafi condemned the drug-traders, too many of the wealthy – both Rimoni and Jhafi – were ensnared by the stuff. As well as the measure of protection given by wealthy users, the trade was far too lucrative to stamp out, so those who needed the drug had no problem finding a den in most larger towns and cities. The rooms here were dimly lit, and figures sprawled on divans, either puffing from hookahs or bone pipes, or already comatose. They were all men, though some had naked Jhafi girls draped over them.
She found the man she sought in a room upstairs. The window had been flung wide and the fresh air was a welcome relief. He rose and bowed formally, smiling politely though his eyes were wary. ‘Sal’Ahm, Elena.’
‘Sal’Ahm, Harshal.’ She unmasked, glancing about her. ‘This is secure?’
‘The Dorobon do not come here.’ Harshal ali Assam kissed her cheeks formally and she returned the gesture, catching a whiff of expensive scent. His shaven skull gleamed in the lamplight as he sat and smoothed his expensive robes. He was the younger brother of the Emir of Forensa, with many ties to the Nesti – but he was much more than a pampered Jhafi princeling. He was the most well-informed man in Javon, in many ways the Jhafi equivalent to Gurvon, except that his loyalty to his people was unswerving and complete – and he was neither a mage nor an assassin.
‘I hate these places,’ she told him. ‘Mind, the taverns in some parts of Yuros are just as bad. We all need our drugs, I suppose.’