Moontide 03 - Unholy War

by David Hair

  Arkanus and Hecatta had not been silent prisoners; indeed, they had held nothing back. Fastened to the walls, powerless, they had crowed like fighting cocks about their successful ‘hunts’, telling him willingly about the magi they had trapped to empower other Dokken, from Schlessen through Sydia and into Dhassa. They revelled in the details of kidnapping mage-children and raising them until they attained the gnosis, then butchering them to strengthen their own brood. There was not one iota of regret: they expected to die, and wanted the tale of their infamy to be told. They wanted to die as legends.

  ‘Hand us over to the priest,’ Arkanus had exhorted him. ‘Let him hear our confessions! I want my deeds known!’

  That was not to say they had not offered him gold and treasure beyond compare to free them, and other delights, should he wish to avail himself of Hecatta’s lush, willing body.

  After all she claimed to have done, Ramon would rather have cut his own manhood off than sink it into her.

  ‘So what do we tell little Korion?’ Kip asked him.

  Ramon had been sent by Seth to make a recommendation as to whether clemency might be extended, or he should bend to Kore Law and hand them over for execution. He hadn’t yet made up his mind. ‘I don’t know.’

  They lapsed into silence until Arkanus whispered, ‘Silacian. Come here.’

  Ramon knew he shouldn’t. But he did. ‘What?’

  ‘Closer,’ the Dokken lord whispered hoarsely. ‘I have something to say, for your ears alone.’

  Ramon looked at the man, sickened to be so close. Warily, he used the gnosis to pin the man’s head to the wall, lest this was some ruse to try and bite him, as he’d attempted before. Up close, the stink of faeces and sweat was overpowering.

  Arkanus tilted his head sideways and spoke softly in Rimoni, a dialect he knew Ramon understood and Kip didn’t. ‘We can make you one of us.’

  Ramon recoiled, stared. ‘What, like Nasette?’ he said doubtfully.

  ‘Nasette’s tale was real. It can be done.’

  Ramon stared, trying to determine if this was a lie or the truth. But the man sounded as if he truly believed what he was saying. ‘Why would I ever want to be one of you?’

  ‘Because for us, there are no limits, Silacian. You are – what? A quarter-blood at best? Would you like to have the power of a pure-blood? To live for centuries, beyond the power of all laws? If you were one of us you could just reach out and take it all. Like we have.’

  Ramon met the man’s eyes. ‘How?’

  ‘Tempted, are you? Clean us, feed us, and I will tell you more.’

  Ramon stepped back. ‘No. I have no desire to be like you, not ever.’

  Yorj Arkanus glowered at him. ‘Then you are a fool. What hope is there for you? You will never be anything other than low-bred scum in their eyes. You will never be what they are, those shining pure-bloods! They keep the real power for themselves – they always have.’

  Ramon stayed silent.

  ‘You know I’m not lying. Free me, and I will transform you – I will give you Hecatta’s soul: she’s as strong as a pure-blood. Instant power, boy! With your Arcanum training, you could be great amongst us. What loyalty do you owe these Rondian churchmen and generals? After what they’ve done to your people, how can you even wear their badge?’

  Ramon swallowed, overcome suddenly by childhood memories of being bullied and picked on for his size and foreign blood and bastardry. Then the gnosis came – his mother had not even realised his blood, because she’d been had by every Rondian in the valley. Suddenly, their lives were transformed: the familioso stepped in and Pater Retiari himself made him his ward and dared to petition his real father, the only mage his mother had rukked. His mage-father had bought her silence with money and funded his education: all for Pater Retiari’s benefit.

  He tried to picture himself as a mighty, pure-blood-fuelled Dokken. Of course he would be forced to hide from real magi, to leave this life for ever. But he would be doing that anyway once he returned to Silacia.

  To be like a pure-blood … To take Arkanus’ place in their society. To live in a Keshi palace … Who gives a rukk about the damned Crusade anyway?

  He looked at Arkanus, and then at Hecatta.

  Arkanus would sell his wife’s soul for his own safety …

  That’s what made up his mind, in the end: that this monster would bargain away his own mate, and he had no doubt she would have done the same.

  Sevvie has my child inside her. Whatever else could I need?

  Apart from getting Mother free of Pater Retiari, of course …

  He wondered whether Chaplain Gerdhart would turn down such an offer. He wasn’t impressed with the man. Would Bondeau refuse? Even Baltus? He turned to Kip, sent a silent opinion.

  Kip’s bluff, good-natured face hardened. ‘What did he say to you?’

  ‘Enough to convince me that a quick death would be the right course.’

  Arkanus’ face widened in shock and he threw a look of utter hatred at Ramon, then looked at Kip. ‘Neyn, Kamerad! Neyn!’ Guttural Schlessen tumbled from his mouth in pleading tones, clearly the same offer.

  ‘Like you?’ Kip spat. ‘Unheilich Ungeheuer!’ He looked at Ramon. ‘He offered you this also, yar?’

  Ramon nodded disgustedly.

  Kip’s blade flashed in a silver arc that almost severed Arkanus’ neck. The man’s final panicked look remained as his head fell sideways, blood fountaining up like an overflowing sewer to pour down his body. His face went slack, his eyes wide and staring. His choked cry roused Hecatta, who gave a wailing, bereft cry and turned to Ramon, her eyes suddenly frantic, as she babbled words in every tongue at once, offering herself in any way he wanted her, pleading, begging.

  Ramon pushed his stiletto through her ribs and into her heart and made himself watch her die.

  Then he turned around and vomited.

  Kip laid a hand on his shoulder when he straightened, his face pale. ‘These Ungeheuer are better dead and gone! Better than someone believing their lies, yar?’

  ‘They might not have been lies,’ Ramon panted.

  Kip snorted softly. ‘Now you tell me.’

  Ramon looked at him, somewhat aghast. The Schlessen laughed. ‘Ha! Got you!’ He roared with laughter and slapped Ramon on the shoulder. ‘Come on, mein freund, let’s go get drunk.’

  First I’ve got to explain this to Baby Korion.

  He thought about that. No, I’ll tell him later.

  ‘Si, amici, let’s do exactly that.’

  23

  Escape

  The Greatest of Sins

  To deny the husband his rights to her womb is one of the greatest sins a wife can commit. She kills his heirs and the future of his line. There is no place for such women in society.

  GMARDIUS SIXTUS, PONTIFEX, RYM, 278

  I fear I love thee too greatly, but I cannot stay away. What is life without the solace of love?

  SISTER INGRETTA, IN A LETTER TO LADY FELICE GANTARIUS OF BRES, 823

  Brochena, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia

  Rajab (Julsep) 929

  13th month of the Moontide

  Nothing ever goes entirely to plan. Elena had repeated that many times. There are always variables, she’d said: it’s how you adapt to them that makes the difference. It’s how you improvise. Cera tried to keep that in mind as she huddled in the sitting room of the Blood-tower, listening to Francis Dorobon prattle.

  The night of our escape and he chooses it to visit me for the first time since we argued! What are the odds?

  Francis would have interupted her in the act of packing had Tarita not been vigilant; as it was, the maid had diverted him to a waiting room until Cera had changed back into her blood-purdah robes and gone to join him.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ Francis had said, sidling into the women’s suite. It might be forbidden to all men, but no one was going to try and tell their king that. As she rose to her feet to remonstrate, he’d hung his head and mumbled, ‘I
need your advice. I can’t think straight.’

  You can’t think at all. I bet Gyle is dancing rings around you. But it was almost touching. ‘My lord, I am on blood-purdah. Men aren’t supposed to come here.’

  ‘I lose more blood if I get cut while practising with my sword,’ he whined. ‘Women in Yuros don’t hide away; they carry on as normal.’

  Yeurch. She wrinkled her nose. ‘We’re not in Yuros, my lord. “A moon-soiled woman must stay aloof, lest their pollution spread”,’ she quoted. ‘That’s in the Kalistham.’

  He waved a hand dismissively. ‘I’ve just had four days of being pulled every which way by Gyle. Perdonello is presenting the new constitution and Gyle keeps objecting to it all. I can’t think on my feet …’ He looked at her plaintively. ‘I need you there, in the room. You know about these things.’

  Yes, I do … but I’m getting out of here! Tonight! Please, just go away! But Francis was clearly not going to be put off. ‘Just summon me into the council, if you want to. You have the right, Francis: you’re the king!’

  ‘But you’re not allowed in councils: you’re only a woman.’

  ‘Mater-Imperia Lucia is in your emperor’s council. I’m told she virtually runs it.’

  ‘That’s just rumour,’ he said sullenly. ‘But you do run the Beggars’ Court …’

  I know, and leaving it behind is the only thing I regret. But please, just rukk off!

  She tried again, ‘Francis, I’m on blood- purdah! I’ve got a headache. My stomach is bloated and my bowels are loose. Need I go on? All I want to do is sleep.’

  He all but put his hands over his ears as he rose and backed away. ‘I can summon you, you say?’

  ‘Next week, when I’m out of the Blood-tower.’ She forced a yawn. ‘Francis, it’s late. We can talk again tomorrow.’

  She supposed he must be truly desperate to come to her like this – desperate enough to swallow all that pride. ‘I’m sorry, you are right,’ he said meekly. ‘But … we must seek reconciliation, wife. This charade isn’t right.’

  ‘No couple should have to pretend like this,’ she agreed. That’s why this kingdom should permit marriages to be dissolved, across all classes. Something for Timori when he’s king. ‘Goodnight, my lord.’

  She let him kiss her hand, something which awakened a puppy-dog expression on his face as he left.

  Then she forgot him the moment he was gone.

  ‘Tarita, are we ready?’

  The maid slipped into the room, her impish face caught up with the excitement of the conspiracy. ‘The midnight bell will ring in half an hour or so, Madam.’

  Cera, who had always been a serious girl, responded with a matching grin as the excitement of the escape finally hit her.

  ‘Then go, Tarita. I’ll meet you in the kitchens just after it rings.’ She kissed the girl’s cheeks, squeezed her hands as if they were sisters or dear friends, not lady and servant. If she was a warrior I would knight her. There was no such custom for women, but perhaps she could arrange an advantageous marriage once they were all safe in Forensa.

  She returned to her packing and changed into her travelling attire: male salwar and plain long-shirt, then a hooded robe over the top. She put a knife into her belt, then stuffed into her pack a change of clothing and her most precious possessions: a few items of jewellery from her parents and her small ceremonial circlet. Finally she put on her Nesti signet.

  Then all there was to do was to wait. And pray.

  *

  Gurvon Gyle was sipping imported red wine, a fine Brician merlo, savouring a lingering plum finish and trying to decide where to hide his money. His long-awaited bullion from Jusst and Holsen, payment for his part in the emperor’s plot, was arriving in two weeks’ time. But Calan Dubrayle’s warnings about the Crusader notes had made him nervous of putting the money into any local bank, because the Dorobon financiers were holding so many such notes it scared him. The Rimoni bankers had been more cautious, but he wasn’t going to go to deposit money with likely enemies. I’d be safer to bury it all than hand it to them.

  Apart from that, everything appeared to be going well. Francis Dorobon had been sidelined and was ineffectually stewing over some joust he’d lost with Cera Nesti. The whole court knew he’d been banished from her bedchamber, and the streets knew too. We’ll move on him soon … it’ll appear to be a tragic accident. He’d not yet decided Cera’s eventual fate. Six months ago he’d have thought her irrelevant, but the Beggars’ Court had made her an important hostage again, perhaps more useful than the boy-king Timori. Even if the Javonesi elected a new king, Cera would continue to matter. So he was happy to let her continue to play her parlour games.

  Which just leaves the question of Yvette … There had been signs that she was coming to her senses. She’d come to him and begged forgiveness, after which she’d performed adequately in her duties, including a convincing performance as Olivia Dorobon at the last state function. Lucia Sacrecour still wanted her dead, but Mater-Imperia’s agents – there were at least two amongst the Oldchurch settlers – had not yet worked out that Olivia was Coin, at least as far as he could see. I can still use her. I’m too short-handed to just toss her aside.

  A ward prickled at his mind, one set in the corridor outside, then a second later someone knocked at his door. ‘My Lord Gyle? Are you there?’

  ‘Wait!’ Frowning, he rose and went to the door and scryed the far side using the brass plate as a conduit. It showed him the evening’s guard commander, a Dorobon soldier called Elissen. There was no sign of anything untoward and he opened the door. ‘What is it, Elissen?’

  The guardsman bowed apologetically. ‘It may be nothing, my lord, but an urgent courier came for the king from Hebusalim, but we can’t rouse him.’

  Gurvon wavered. It could just be that Francis had passed out drunk, but there were worse explanations. ‘I’ll come.’

  He followed Elissen to the top levels, where Francis was housed in the old king’s suite and Olivia in the queen’s. Cera Nesti and Portia Tolidi had been kept on the lower level, in the former nursery. The only other suite, Octa Dorobon’s old one, was empty.

  There were two doormen stationed outside the king’s rooms at all times, and they were waiting anxiously when he and Elissen arrived. ‘Has anyone been in or out this evening apart from the king?’ Gurvon asked them.

  ‘Just the Noorie Queen,’ one of the doormen sniggered. ‘We get to pat the bint down before she goes in and gets herself nailed.’ He finally noticed the coldness in Gurvon’s eyes and blanched. ‘Sorry, my lord. I meant no disrespect.’

  ‘Give me the keys to this level,’ Gurvon said coldly. Isn’t Cera in the Blood-tower this week? ‘Is the queen still within?’

  ‘No, my lord,’ the other doorman replied.

  Gurvon extended his senses, but came up against wards … Francis’ own. The king should have been aware of such a probe, but there was no reaction.

  There could be a simple and entirely non-threatening reason for all this, but he’d not survived so long assuming the best of people. A skilled mage could slip past a human guard easily enough, one way or the other. It might not even have been the queen they admitted. The thought drew his eyes to the opposite door, to Olivia’s suite.

  ‘Wait here.’ He took the keys and went to Olivia’s door, knocked softly, but there was no response, and when he looked, he realised that there were no wards either. Magi did not leave wards in places they did not intend to return to. Increasingly apprehensive, he unlocked the door and entered.

  It was not immediately clear whether Coin had ever occupied the room. The shapechanger owned little of a personal nature. She didn’t use weaponry or armour and wore only whatever clothes suited her current form. The cushion on the sofa was cold, but the dregs at the bottom of the sole wine glass were still liquid. But something, instinct perhaps, told him she was gone.

  To scry her would be to alert her that her absence had been noted. So he stopped, sat, and tried to work out ex
actly how much shit he was in.

  Why would she leave? Who would she go to – or with?

  He returned to the king’s door. The wards and locks were of pure-blood strength, so he was forced to summon Rutt Sordell, in the body of Guy Lassaigne. The diviner scurried up the stairs minutes later, his pasty face anxious. ‘Hello? Is something going on here? I was just calling on the king for a nightcap,’ he added quickly, maintaining the fiction of his assumed identity with commendable presence of mind.

  ‘Ah, Sir Guy,’ Gurvon replied, playing along. ‘We’re a little worried for the king.’

  Sordell looked at him anxiously, then went forward and examined the wards. Thanks to his efforts to master his new pure-blood form, he broke them in a minute. By then a small crowd was gathering: curious servants, a mix of the Dorobon and mercenary magi, and courtiers. Craith Margham arrived, puffing, his beady eyes everywhere as he questioned the doormen.

  Damn this. Whatever we find is going to be common knowledge by dawn …

  Sordell drew his sword. ‘Please wait here, my lord.’ He entered the room cautiously, while Margham joined Gyle.

  ‘What’s happening, Gurvon?’ he drawled. Margham liked to treat everyone with familiarity.

  ‘A disturbance, and no response from the king. He might just be drunk, but …’

  Margham’s mouth twitched apprehensively. ‘Franny?’ he called aloud. He pushed past, following ‘Lassaigne’ into the king’s rooms.

  Gurvon paused and sent his mind questing outwards. He checked his office, in case Coin was in there, but there was no sign of her, or anyone else, and no disturbance of his wards. Then he tried Cera Nesti’s suite, recalling Coin’s threats to kill the girl – the last thing I need right now – and again got nothing, before remembering that Cera was in the Blood-tower, where he’d never been, so could not easily scry. So he re-focused his search onto the queen herself.

  He almost missed her, his gnostic eyes hampered by the stonework and the unexpected position of the target. Because Cera Nesti was not in the Blood-tower: she was clad in travelling clothes and descending into the depths of the keep … He stopped, his mind racing: She’d only run if Timori was safe … Then it all fell into place, just as Rutt Sordell burst out of the king’s suite, his jaded face preternaturally pale.