Moontide 03 - Unholy War

by David Hair

  ‘Everything.’ Coin choked on the words. ‘You … Me.’

  If I get this wrong she’ll jump. ‘What people say about you doesn’t matter, Coin.’

  The shapeshifter ignored her. ‘Gyle told her that I was becoming a liability.’

  ‘Gyle lies all the time.’

  ‘And my mother …’ Coin started sobbing again, a heart-wrenching sound. ‘She s-s-said, “S-s-she’s always been a l-l-liability.” ’

  Cera winced. Sol et Lune. Just when she thought Gyle and his cronies had reached the bottom of their heartlessness, they revealed new depths. ‘Coin, your mother might have been trying to hide her true feelings from Gyle – if they move in the same circles, personal ties are dangerous.’

  ‘N-n-no one moves in the same circles as m-m-my m-m-m-mother.’

  Cera blinked. Who in Hel is her mother? It was becoming more and more imperative that she get the shapeshifter down. She was only a lunge away, but she doubted she could hold on if Coin did decide to jump. It was going to have to be Coin’s decision.

  ‘She still might not have meant what she said.’

  Coin glanced back miserably. ‘I s-s-suppose.’

  With that acknowledgment, a tiny amount of immediate peril drained from the tableau.

  Cera stared at the shapeshifter, unable to not do so. Coin’s body-shape was all wrong, even obscured as it was by the nightshirt. The shoulders were too wide and the legs too muscular for womanhood, but the shape was still more feminine than masculine. Her forehead was long, her chin weak and her hair thin, and her expression was utterly miserable.

  ‘If you do this, Gyle wins, not you.’

  Coin sagged a little. ‘Do you want to see how repulsive I am in my real form?’

  ‘We are what we are,’ Cera replied, unable to think of anything more profound.

  ‘You have no idea what you’re saying.’

  Cera forced herself to be dispassionate. ‘As I understand it, you can look like anyone.’

  ‘Yes, for a while – but I’m still me, underneath.’ The self-loathing rose again in her voice. ‘A monster not even my mother can love.’

  ‘If your mother cannot see through the body to what is inside, then she is the one who is the monster.’

  ‘My soul is as warped as my body,’ Coin went on. ‘I’m a murderer. I’ve killed people, just to please Mother. Or Gurvon.’

  I know – including Portia’s brother … The temptation to walk away returned, but Cera stayed. ‘You thought you were doing the right thing. Now you know better.’ She reached out slowly. ‘Killing yourself won’t make it right, you know.’

  ‘Only one person has ever treated me as a human and not been repulsed by what I am.’ Coin looked at Cera with anguished eyes. ‘Your sister.’

  Oh, Solinde. You really did love all the world. Cera blinked back tears. ‘Solinde was an angel. But killing yourself won’t bring her back, or make it right.’

  ‘Nothing can.’ Coin looked away, out over the city. ‘My life is worthless.’

  ‘Never! Coin – Symone – whatever your name is, don’t do this! My father used to say that we all have some great act in us, a moment when we can make a difference to the world. If you jump now, you’ll miss that moment.’

  ‘I’ve had mine,’ Coin said flatly. ‘I killed a good person, and then another and another, and I’ve never stopped.’

  ‘Then perhaps your moment is still to come.’ Cera dared to step closer. ‘Please?’

  The shapeshifter looked down at her, then at the ground below, and her resolution drained away. ‘My name is Yvette,’ she sobbed, and collapsed into Cera’s arms.

  *

  Cera led the trembling hermaphrodite back inside to a sofa, wrapped her in a cloak, poured some brandy from a decanter and forced Coin – no, Yvette – to drink it, holding her in her arms. When the first glass was gone, she gulped one down herself, then poured another. All the while she was conscious of the loathing and pity she felt.

  She can’t help what she is, but she’s used it to kill innocent people … including Portia’s brother …

  ‘Yvette, you can tell me whatever you want, or nothing at all,’ she said at last. ‘It’s up to you.’

  Cera wasn’t sure what tale she expected, it was certainly wasn’t the harrowing litany of parental rejection and emotional torture she heard – or the jaw-dropping revelation that Yvette was Mater-Imperia Lucia Fasterius’ disowned child.

  Sol et Lune, she’s in line for the Imperial throne … if such a one could ever claim it.

  ‘Officially, I don’t exist,’ Coin mumbled, ‘but to those few who knew that she’d given birth to a monster, she and her husband put it about that I was the child of incest, and that was why I was deformed.’ Yvette started crying again. ‘She would rather have people think that she fucked her brother than that her imperial cunt could ever produce a freak like me.’

  ‘I sure no one believed that.’

  ‘Oh yes, they did! It’s exactly the sort of thing people love to believe! Even your friend Elena thought it; I could see it on her face when she stripped me in that tower room last year.’

  ‘Sometimes when a lie is spoken often enough, even good people can believe it.’

  ‘Your Elena wasn’t a good person. She almost killed me. Gurvon brought me back from death.’ Tears welled up in her eyes. ‘He put me back together again from almost nothing. I fell utterly in love with him for that.’ Her shoulders heaved. ‘But he knows what I am and he can’t stand being near me either.’

  Cera gritted her teeth. ‘Yvette, Gurvon Gyle is a pezzi di merda who would sell his own children for a copper.’

  ‘But he understood me …’

  ‘I thought that too, once.’ And he twisted everything so that black was white. ‘Then I realised what sort of man he is – and now you do too. He’s leading everyone here around by the nose, and something has to be done to stop him.’

  Their eyes met. Yvette’s lips were still trembling, but she tried desperately to force the faintest of smile of recognition. ‘He really is a piece of shit, isn’t he?’ she whispered timidly.

  The shapeshifter was like a child, like her little brother. I can make a game of this, make her laugh …

  ‘Gurvon Gyle is a camel’s turd,’ Cera told her.

  ‘A donkey’s pizzle.’

  ‘A puddle of toad’s piss.’

  Coin giggled childishly. ‘A pus-drinking dung-beetle.’

  ‘A cock-sucking gullet-worm.’

  Yvette wrinkled her nose. ‘Eewww.’ Then she burst into semi-hysterical laughter, and Cera laughed too, in sheer relief. She’s not going to kill herself. Thank you, Mater Luna! She found herself trembling as much as the shapechanger.

  There were more tears, and then a slow, awkward peeling apart. There was something desperately needy about Yvette Sacrecour, a yearning for affection that was so palpable it was almost more repellent than anything in her appearance. Her whole being was wrapped up in the need for someone to cling to. Cera moved away a little on the sofa, trying to re-establish some kind of distance, because she could see exactly what was going to happen next: all of the shapeshifter’s obsessive yearning was going to be redirected at her.

  ‘Yvette, there is something I need to say. Are you listening?’

  Yvette’s eyes were already far too bright and intense as she looked at her. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I want us to be friends.’

  ‘Yes, yes, so do I.’ Yvette’s whole body was bent towards her.

  ‘But only friends. My heart is already claimed by another.’

  She watched her words wound, and could see the next downwards cycle forming. She moved to cut it off. ‘A true friend does not lead the other on with false promises.’

  ‘You think I’m ugly too.’

  ‘In all honesty … your body is hard to get used to, but that’s not what is important. What’s important is that despite everything you’ve been through, you want to be a better person. And because of that
, I truly believe you will find happiness, if you give life a chance to provide. Maybe even love: why not? That person won’t be me: because my heart is already given. But I wish us to be true friends.’

  Yvette’s face vacillated back into uncertainty. ‘Truly? I’ve done awful things—’

  ‘But you won’t from now on. I’m sure of that.’ Cera held out her hands. ‘Friends?’

  For a long time her words hung there, until the shapechanger took a forced breath, and wiped her face. ‘All right. Friends.’

  They hugged, the blanket between them, for a long, long time, then Cera took Yvette’s hands in hers and asked the question that had been burning inside her brain for ever. ‘Do you know where they’re holding my brother?’

  Yvette nodded.

  *

  Now that she knew where Timori was, Cera could finally made plans to run. There would be four of them: Cera, Timori, Tarita and Yvette. Her plan required two things: first, simultaneously extricating herself, Tarita, Yvette and Timori; then they had to get to Mustaq al’Madhi and hope the crime-lord could get them to Forensa. Just one slip would see a formidable band of magi come down on them; death after that would be a kindness.

  In the two weeks after Cera had saved Yvette’s life, the shapeshifter was fawning in her devotion, to the point that Cera had to keep reminding her to remain hostile in public. More than that, she’d had to persuade Yvette to make peace with Gyle. Though for the shapechanger it was a humiliating back-down, it was necessary so that Yvette could play her part. It appeared to have worked, as she was restored to her duties, most importantly she was again permitted a part in guarding Timori.

  They set a date: they would make their run in the last week of Jumada – Maicin – during the Darkmoon. The week before, they met in Cera’s suite, ostensibly for tea. Yvette, disguised as Symone, warded the room against scrying. Cera had told Tarita that Symone was allied to Elena – she could think of no other story that might persuade Tarita to trust the shapeshifter. She was painfully aware that Coin had killed Fernando Tolidi – Portia’s brother, Tarita’s lover – a secret that would destroy their fragile conspiracy. How I’ll unravel all this in the end I don’t know.

  ‘What word from Mustaq?’ Cera asked now, at their final preparatory meeting. She didn’t like dealing with the crime-lord, but he was a vital part of the resistance to Dorobon rule.

  Tarita was proud to be the centre of attention. ‘Mustaq has scouted the building where the prince is being held and confirmed that there are Rondians there.’ She turned to ‘Symone’. ‘You were right.’

  ‘Of course,’ ‘Symone’ said impatiently. ‘Madeline Parlow looks after him; I’m only sent there occasionally. There’s no pattern to it. There are three other guards, but none are magi. Maddy is sweet on one of them.’

  ‘Can you defeat her?’ Cera asked.

  ‘Of course – Maddy’s nothing. She used to be a nun.’

  Cera was genuinely surprised. ‘Really? How did she end up in Gyle’s group?’

  ‘She’s from Noros – during the Noros Revolt she left her nunnery and joined the Grey Foxes, out of patriotism. After the war she couldn’t settle back into the convent. She’d never enjoyed it; she likes comfort and good things too much.’ Coin’s face twisted disdainfully. ‘She is greedy and weak.’

  Cera would have liked to form her own opinions, as she doubted Coin’s maturity was sufficient to read an older person, but she had never met Parlow. ‘Will you be able to kill her quickly?’

  ‘Easily. Trust me in this.’

  The more confident she sounds, the less I like it. Cera frowned, but they were in Coin’s hands in this matter. ‘Well, while you free Timori, Tarita and I must get out of the palace.’ She turned to Tarita. ‘You know a way?’

  ‘Yes, Majesty. The secret passages were all closed when you told King Francis about them, but they did not find them all. There is still a tunnel to the outside from the old female servants’ quarters.’

  ‘How does no one know of this one?’ Cera asked doubtfully.

  ‘The early Rimoni kings wouldn’t allow Amteh Scriptualists to bless the servants,’ Tarita replied. ‘So the men dug a tunnel and smuggled in someone to bless us on holy days. The cellar where the tunnel begins is now just a storage area.’

  ‘Who else knows?’

  ‘Since the servants were murdered last year it’s just me – and I have told no one.’ Tarita now lived in a tiny cell outside Cera’s quarters. ‘The only difficulty is reaching it unseen, because you’ve got to go through the scullery. But that’s empty during the middle part of the night.’

  ‘Is it easily passable?’

  Tarita nodded vigorously. ‘It is. I tested it just last week, when I went to speak to Mustaq al’Madhi. It emerges in a disused part of the stables behind the Sollan Church in the square outside. There are spiders and rats, though.’

  Cera shuddered. ‘I hate rats.’

  ‘No one likes rats,’ Symone said, taking the opportunity to put her hand over Cera’s. ‘But they won’t hurt you.’

  Extricating her hand without upsetting the fragile balance of Coin’s mind was a delicate operation, so she let it stay, despite the warning look Tarita gave her. They moved to the timings, and she went to get writing paper from her desk, using the opportunity to free herself. As Coin couldn’t predict when next she’d be asked to relieve Madeline Parlow, they had to set a date and time in advance and work to that. They decided on ten days’ time, when Cera would be bleeding again, so she wouldn’t be expected to appear in public. After midnight they would slip out through the tunnel, while Symone and some of Mustaq’s men snatched Timori, and they would rendezvous at one of Mustaq’s safe houses.

  ‘Can we trust Mustaq?’ Symone asked nervously.

  ‘Mustaq is a bad man,’ Tarita said, ‘but he hates the Rondians even more than he loves money.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Cera said, ‘because we’re going to be entirely in his hands.’

  19

  Leading the Attack

  The Emirate of Khotri

  The Emirate of Khotri, based around the city of Khotriawal, has long been a thorn in the side of both Kesh and Lakh. It is strong enough to act independently and shrewd enough to play off the two nations against each other. Their greatest coup was the seizure of the Lakh throne in the ninth century.

  ORDO COSTRUO, HEBUSALIM

  Small kingdoms are the grit in the sandals of larger ones

  AMISAL BHANGULI, OMALI PANDIT, DILI 862

  Ardijah, Emirate of Khotri, on the continent of Antiopia

  Akhira (Junesse) 929

  12th month of the Moontide

  Leading an army into battle was the stuff boyhood dreams were made of, especially for the sons of magi, caught up in their invincible youth. For most of his life it was what Seth Korion had aspired to, but this moment had arrived too late: he had seen too much and felt his own mortality too keenly to be anything other than petrified.

  ‘Fearlessness is an illusion,’ Ramon Sensini had told him. ‘Real courage is being afraid and acting anyway.’

  Well, I’m going to do it … but I’m so scared I could vomit.

  Arranging the joint assault on the city hadn’t been as quick as they’d hoped. It had taken Sensini time to convince the Khotri commander that there was something to be gained by reaching an accommodation with an enemy, and while the aggravating little Silacian was away, Seth had stewed in his own fear, his hands trembling and his mind fixated on the morbid conviction that he was going to die, here in this Hel-hole. He’d doubted any deal could be done – but it was, and ironically the groundwork had been laid by Antonin Meiros and the Ordo Costruo. They’d apparently taken a keen interest in Khotri, and that included building the causeway and bridge here at Ardijah, among several other engineering feats within Khotriawal, the capital city itself. It helped that the Khotri were Ja’arathi Amteh, the less extreme variant of the faith, who didn’t automatically hold all magi to be demons.

  It als
o helped that they had mutual enemies: Yorj Arkanus was intent on seizing the emir’s kingdom, and he was backed by dozens of Dokken and had hundreds of Keshi soldiers already inside Ardijah. Ramon was offering Rondian help in getting rid of Arkanus, then leaving Khotri as soon as they’d resupplied – for which he was offering to pay. Seth had to take the skiff across the river and shake the Khotri general’s hand personally to seal the deal, but by then it was a formality.

  After that it was all logistics and planning: the attack had to happen fast, before Salim’s forces arrived. Seth needed to prepare the attack while not appearing to, which was harder than it sounded, while his magi readied the wagons for the floating attack. Little things kept cropping up, tiny delays that set the attack back, until finally he was able to give the go-ahead for the fourth night-bell.

  Which should be soon …

  Right on cue, the distant time-bells of Ardijah rang out, loud and clear – Clang!, Clang!, Clang!, Clang! – and before the echoes of the fourth chime had even faded away the signal lights flashed from upstream and across the river and with a massive roll on the drums and to the blaring of bugles, the foot-soldiers of the Sixth Maniple of Pallacios Thirteen started slowly onto the causeway. They were illuminated by a trail of torches that sprang to light all along the bridge, leading them into the teeth of the enemy archers and ballistae crews. Seth joined Sigurd Vaas at the head of the column, trying hard to believe that this was in some way as heroic as it might sound at a banquet, years from now.

  His head was pounding and his senses overloading with the mundane: the clip-clopping hooves and marching boots; the rumbling drums. The clangour of alarms inside the fortress carried clearly over the rush of the waters surrounding and beneath them.

  Seth trotted forward, keeping his head up, trying to conceal his absolute terror.

  This is only a feint. We just have to keep enemy eyes forward.

  It might be nothing but a ruse, but it promised to be deadly for all that.

  While they were providing a slow and deliberate assault to draw Arkanus’ attention, the wagons would be floating downstream, bearing the best of the battle-magi and their guard cohorts. But even that wasn’t the real surprise: that would be the attack from the rear by thousands of Khotri hidden on the southern isle – which would also be the signal for the Khotri inside, stationed on both islands, to turn on the Souldrinkers.