Moontide 03 - Unholy War

by David Hair

  Harshal waved an arm. ‘Then I apologise for choosing this venue, but such dens remain the most private of public places. Please, be seated.’

  Elena looked about her, using her gnostic senses to detect any listeners, and when she found none she sat opposite Harshal. He lifted the silver-chased flagon from the low table between them and poured the clear fluid, then added iced water, turning the arak cloudy. He made a show of drinking first, to demonstrate that it was safe, and ate a few nuts and a date from the small platter of dried fruits and nuts, for the same reason. They waited in silence until it was clear there was no poison in either.

  ‘It is sad that it has come to this, my friend,’ she said at last.

  ‘You must forgive me, Elena, but first we heard the rumour that you had betrayed us to your former lover, and now you are hunting Dorobon magi and the price on your head doubles every week. We have been confused. And you have not made contact until now.’

  ‘I never betrayed the Nesti.’ She fixed him with a firm stare. ‘The tale is hard to believe, for a non-mage, but I think you are one who will understand it.’ She proceeded to tell him as much as she dared of her capture and possession by Gurvon and his minion, that night almost a year ago, just before the Moontide began. She left out Cera’s part in her capture; she did not wish that story to circulate among the Jhafi, not at this stage, at least.

  ‘My purpose now is to harry the Dorobon,’ she concluded. ‘I wish to make travel outside Brochena untenable for them, unless they move in force. Ultimately, I would see them thrown out of Javon and the country returned to self-rule.’

  Harshal listened in silence. His expression had become strained when she was describing her possession by Rutt Sordell, but she knew that he’d spoken to Lorenzo di Kestria, who had seen Sordell’s scarab first-hand. And his religion included the possibility of daemonic possession too, by spirits they called ‘afreet’.

  When she finished, Harshal asked a few probing questions, then fell silent, contemplating her words.

  ‘Donna Elena, I believe you,’ he said finally. He touched his forehead and then his heart in a flowing gesture. ‘I am not a mage, but I can recognise truth when I hear it. But why would you – a foreigner – care about Javon?’

  ‘All kinds of reasons,’ she said honestly. ‘I like it here – or at least, I did when Olfuss ruled. I swore to protect the Nesti family, and I meant it. Just before he died, Olfuss offered to buy me from Gurvon’s service, and I intended to accept. I like the warmth here, and I like the people. Also, there’s nowhere else that would have me! And Gurvon Gyle is here and I very much want to see his head on a spike. So it’s a mixture of the personal and the pragmatic.’

  He accepted that with a wry smile, then asked, ‘How may we aid you? Do you require sanctuary amongst us? Will you return with me to Forensa? They say the Dorobon will move against us soon.’

  ‘It’s best I stay in the shadows for now, Harshal. If Gurvon knows where I am, he can contain me. I can do more damage operating independently, for now at least.’

  Harshal nodded regretfully. ‘You are undoubtedly right, Donna Elena, but I had to ask. Is it true that you have an ally, a mage of Jhafi blood?’

  ‘Best I say nothing of that.’

  ‘Then I ask again: how can we help you?’

  ‘With information. It’s hard to stay abreast of events while hiding in the wild. Tell me about the Royal Convocation. I’ve heard nothing. Do you have a new king yet?’

  ‘We do not,’ he replied, sighing heavily. ‘Elena, it was not a good meeting. The Rimoni houses cannot rally behind a single candidate. Each house promotes itself – or doesn’t even attend. And many Jhafi with the requisite blood have withdrawn, claiming that the Nesti soldiers stood by at Fishil Wadi and watched the massacre. The Convocation was a disaster, and no candidate gained the required majority.’ He hung his head. ‘Anyone who opened his mouth was cut down to size, me included, and I do not even have the blood to be a candidate. I despair for Javon.’

  It’s worse than I thought … but at least Timori still has value to Gurvon. ‘So they still hope for Timori’s release?’

  ‘For now.’ Harshal dropped his voice. ‘They also noted that Cera is causing great disruption and division by taking civil cases in her Beggars’ Court. It has divided the clergy, and many speak against her.’

  Elena felt a surge of tangled emotions rise in her: unexpected pride in her princessa’s courage and resourcefulness warred with the bitter memory of her betrayal. It was several moments before she trusted herself to speak. ‘Is this Beggars’ Court so divisive?’

  Harshal leaned forwards. ‘For the most part she is supporting those who would otherwise be condemned by the clergy – usually women. The clergy feel threatened – they claim she is Gyle’s pawn – and many Godsingers have been arrested for rabble-rousing against her. Gyle has arrested many clergy, which fuels the rumours that the two collude. Brochena is a very dangerous place these days, filled with Rondian settlers and many more soldiers.’

  ‘Then it is good that the Convocation chose not to elect a new king,’ Elena said slowly, still working through the ramifications of Harshal’s news.

  ‘Perhaps so,’ he said. ‘Portia Tolidi is pregnant and has been sent to Hytel. She will give birth in a few months. But Cera’s womb remains empty. They say the king loathes her and no longer beds her.’

  Elena scratched her nose. ‘All the better,’ she decided. ‘I think that if she fell pregnant, the people would turn against her.’

  ‘I think that also. Tell me, is it really true that Staria Canestos’ legion are all frocio – what is your Rondian expression? Ah yes, mooners?’

  ‘Most of them – but don’t think that makes them soft, Harshal. They fight like demons.’

  Harshal said slowly, ‘We will be wary. Very well: I will report to the Regency Council, such as it is.’ He looked up, then voiced something that had clearly been preying on his mind. ‘Donna Elena, can you tell me what happened that night when Solinde died in the tower?’ Harshal had been a suitor for Solinde’s hand.

  ‘One day, perhaps, I can tell you,’ she said, ‘but not yet.’ Especially as it wasn’t Solinde anyway. She sought a more comfortable subject: ‘How do the Nesti feel about Cera now?’

  ‘They still revere her, Elena. They forgive her marriage, for they see it as a selfless act to protect her brother. All believe that she remains true to her family. Her maid Tarita is an important source of information for us.’ He stroked his goatee. ‘All speak fondly of the days when she sat as Regent with you at her side. Were she to somehow be spirited back to us and you to reappear once again at her side, I believe all would rejoice.’

  She could hear the hope in his voice. Could I ever work with her again? I don’t know … ‘The queens are very heavily guarded, Harshal. I’m not so keen to die attempting a rescue.’

  ‘I understand, Elena,’ he said regretfully.

  ‘Our heads must rule our hearts,’ she told him.

  ‘That would be sensible.’ After a moment he asked, ‘And how is your heart, Donna Elena? Does your mystery man care for you?’

  Elena felt a smile spread across her face, enough of an answer to a sharp man like Harshal. ‘He looks after all my needs.’

  ‘I am pleased for you, truly. You have a glow to you, Ella. War and love clearly suit you.’

  ‘That’s a very backhanded compliment!’ They laughed, regarding each other with a certain understanding. In another time and place, Harshal ali Assam might have been closer to her than most. ‘What about you? Isn’t it well past time you married?’

  He pulled a face. ‘I’d as soon not be tied to one alliance at this moment. The political situation is shifting constantly and my marriage is a tabula move I must play carefully.’

  ‘You old romantic, you!’ She chuckled, then leaned forward. ‘What else can you tell me of the situation in Brochena, and the Dorobon troop movements?’ The Hytel Road was becoming dangerous now, and she needed to kno
w where else she might best operate.

  He raised a finger. ‘We do have some news: King Francis is moving men toward Lybis. It is an isolated place, and Emir Mekmud is fiercely independent, as you may recall. He is reputedly on the brink of open rebellion, something none of the other lords dare at this point.’

  Elena pictured Mekmud, Emir of Lybis: not someone to relax around. ‘Perhaps I should shift my activities as well, to shake things up. The caravans on the Hytel Road are well-guarded now.’ She looked up, smiled warily at Harshal. ‘Have we gained anything from this meeting, Harshal?’

  ‘Greater understanding of what moves us. Some news. The joy of seeing your face. All these things are worthwhile, Donna Ella.’

  ‘Flatterer.’ She touched her forehead. ‘Sal’Ahm, Harshal. Please, convey my greetings to the Regency Council.’

  ‘I shall. Sal’Ahm, Ella. May He watch over you.’

  *

  Kazim Makani hauled in the sails and let the skiff drift groundwards as energy bled from the keel. He guided it to the ground beside another, this one with the distinctive Keshi triangular sails.

  While Elena was in Brochena, meeting with a political contact, he had a different mission. Someone had triggered the wards Elena had set at the monastery on the slopes of Mount Tigrat. He’d been under orders only to observe, and he’d had no intention of disobeying – until he had recognised the skiff below.

  It was night-time, but his gnostic sight needed no light. There was no one on watch and the only signs of life were on the far side of the deserted monastery, where a fire burned.

  He slipped along the familiar corridors, feeling the place take shape around him. This was where his life had changed, where he’d been pulled back from the abyss of fanaticism and turned into someone new: he’d awakened in the hands of an enemy and come to learn that she was something far different to everything he’d ever believed.

  And this was also the place where he’d killed his blood-brothers to save her – from them.

  As he stole down the hall leading to the stone gardens where the fire burned, he heard a man’s voice chanting funerary prayers. Then he saw him, kneeling beside the pyre, his arms raised to heaven while the bones cracked in the heat of the dancing flames.

  ‘Ahm who is mercy, take these unto you. Ahm who is healing, restore them to life.’

  Kazim scanned the garden, but it was otherwise empty. He waited respectfully until the prayers were finished before standing up and calling out, ‘Sal’Ahm, Molmar!’

  The man whirled, his sword flashing into his right hand and his left bunching as if holding unseen forces. The Dhassan mage peered about him, his eyes still dazzled by the firelight. He was an older man, grizzled and grey, but a dangerous warrior nevertheless. ‘Who is there?’ he called, as shields kindled about him.

  ‘It is Kazim Makani. I come in peace,’ he added, because he knew the skiff-pilot would fear the worst.

  ‘Kazim?’ Molmar replied hoarsely. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to see you.’ Actually, Elena told me to observe only, and if it had been anyone else but you, that’s what I’d still be doing …

  Molmar took a deep breath. ‘They say in Halli’kut that Kazim Makani has sipped from forbidden cups and is no longer our brother.’

  Molmar had not been among those who had been here in Decore, when Gatoz had beaten and attempted to rape Elena. Kazim had killed Gatoz, and many others with whom he’d sworn brotherhood, including, most painfully, his friend Jamil. But the skiff-pilots present that day had escaped to carry the tale of his sin to the rest of the Hadishah.

  ‘Will you let me explain?’ he asked, afraid Molmar would refuse.

  Molmar considered for a long time, while the fire spat and crackled behind him. At last he said, ‘Very well, Kazim Makani, explain to me. Why did you kill your sworn commander Gatoz, your blood-brother Jamil, the Scriptualist Haroun, who was your close friend, and all these others? Those who escaped said you betrayed us for a woman – and not just a woman, but an infidel mage accursed by Ahm? So yes, by all means, explain!’

  Kazim exhaled in relief. He sat, to reduce the threat he posed, while Molmar leaned watchfully against a pillar. ‘Please, Molmar, for the sake of what we have shared, believe me: I swear on Ahm Himself that all I say is true.’ He paused to collect himself, then related how he’d awakened as the captive of Elena Anborn – how he’d seen her disgorge from her mouth an insect-creature that had apparently been possessing her; how he had gradually come to understand that far from being an enemy of the shihad, she too wished to fight against the Dorobon. He told Molmar of the understanding she and he had reached – it helped that Molmar himself was also a mage; he understood how the gnosis could be used. ‘Then Gatoz came, and he thought only of humiliating her, then sending her to the breeding pits.’

  Molmar himself had been born in a secret Hadishah breeding house, a place where captured magi were bred to serve the shihad. ‘Were you fornicating with this infidel woman?’ he asked bluntly.

  ‘No,’ Kazim insisted, ‘though Gatoz and Jamil and everyone else thought I was. They thought I was a stupid boy being led around by my balls – but I swear to you it was not true.’

  ‘ “Was not”. So you are with her now?’

  ‘Yes.’ He lifted his chin. ‘As a man, having made an adult’s choice.’

  Molmar said slowly, ‘There are rumours, that she and another are plaguing the Dorobon.’

  ‘We are. She and I, together.’

  ‘Is one of her worth more than Gatoz, Jamil and all the others?’

  ‘Such equations did not enter my head; what Gatoz was going to do was evil.’

  ‘If you still measure a matter of such import in such a way, then you are still a boy.’

  ‘No,’ Kazim said simply, ‘I am not. I use different scales to judge such matters, that is all.’

  ‘The loss of so many has been a catastrophe for the Brotherhood,’ Molmar told him. ‘Our ability to operate in Javon has been severely compromised.’

  ‘Then blame Gatoz. He could have embraced Elena Anborn as a comrade in arms; instead he chose abuse and subjugation. The world is better without him.’

  ‘Gatoz was a hard man, and—’

  ‘Call him what he was!’ Kazim said angrily. ‘Gatoz was a sadistic bully allowed to run amok!’

  ‘War makes heroes of such men,’ Molmar admitted. ‘That is our world. I am not proud of everything I have done.’ His face became reflective. ‘But we do what we must in service of a higher cause.’

  ‘And I have not betrayed that cause, Molmar – what I have done has helped that cause, that I swear. The Javonesi want the Dorobon gone, and Elena Anborn has become Javonesi. She speaks their tongue, and ours. She understands the shihad; she has shed blood in its service.’

  ‘So you say – but can I believe it?’ Molmar looked at Kazim sadly. ‘What would your father say if he knew?’

  ‘I believe that he would be proud of my choices and my actions,’ Kazim told him firmly.

  ‘I don’t know, Kazim … I want to believe you, but you have caused so much damage. The survivors who fled said you were burning like an afreet, that you slaughtered our brothers without pity.’

  ‘I did nothing without pity,’ Kazim countered. He raised both hands, palms outwards, and stood. ‘Molmar, I want to be able to talk with you freely, to fly together, as we once did. I want to be able to work with the Brotherhood in future, to fight side by side. But there is one factor that prevents Elena and me from moving more openly among the Jhafi, and that is the fear of reprisals. I am here tonight to ask you, please, to tell your captains that we wish to work together.’

  Molmar stood too. ‘Kazim, I will report everything you have said. That is all I can promise.’

  There was no brotherly farewell, no hearty embrace. Wariness hung in the air between them. But there was hope, Kazim thought, and for now, that had to be enough.

  ‘May I contact you again?’ he asked just before he wal
ked away.

  Molmar paused, then nodded.

  *

  Two days later he and Elena trapped and killed another cohort of Dorobon soldiers on the Hytel Road, hoping to mislead their hunters into believing that they were staying in that area. Then they flew southwest, towards Lybis.

  *

  Cera Nesti wasn’t sure why the idea hadn’t occurred to her before. Probably some hope I’d be able to use them again myself one day, she admitted to herself. But telling Francis about the secret passages that riddled the palace had worked: he had been appalled, and his clever friend Craith Margham had immediately resolved to use them himself, but Roland Heale had stepped in and curtailed that idea, instead insisting they were all blocked up.

  Gurvon Gyle had first denied all knowledge of them, and then been forced to admit that he’d known all along. All in all, it had been quite amusing. More importantly, it now meant Cera could enjoy the solitude of her room without fearing she was being directly spied upon – though a mage could still scry her.

  The Kore had a rite called Confiterium: any sin confessed to a priest by a true believer could be absolved after some form of penance. Confiterium was said to bring closure and release. Revealing the secret passages to Francis had felt that way to her.

  I spent too much of my life sneaking around, she reflected. Perhaps I should confess that to a Kore priest.

  Apparently her act of cooperation had started a train of thought in the king’s mind, because a week later, shortly before she was to leave for the Beggars’ Court, Francis entered her chambers unannounced, not something he did often. Cera, dressed in violet, was perched on a stool ready for Tarita to pin up her hair and do her make-up. She regarded him in the mirror with some surprise. He had lost a little weight he didn’t need anyway, and his brow was becoming lined and his eyes dark from lack of sleep. He was clearly worried, perhaps even frightened, but he sought to conceal it behind his usual bluster.

  ‘What exactly can an Imperial Legate do?’ he asked, trying to act as if he really didn’t care about the answer, but was vaguely curious.