by David Hair
‘You know, I sometimes think Silacians are people too,’ Severine observed mildly.
Ramon ruffled her hair: things weren’t too bad between them just now, partly because everyone knew what Renn Bondeau was doing in the calipha’s suite every night. It was no secret that Ardijah’s new ruler had decided that a mage-child would be a fine addition to her lineage, and the Amteh Godspeakers could whinge in the Dom-al’Ahm all day and all night for all she cared.
Ramon couldn’t decide if Amiza was reckless or courageous, but time would tell, no doubt. He had to admit – if only in the privacy of his own mind – that her decisive lust for life was oddly magnetic.
‘I hear the calipha bled as normal last week,’ Baltus observed with a smirk. ‘She must be disappointed.’
‘I imagine sharing a bed with Bondeau is full of disappointments,’ Ramon observed.
Severine chuckled. ‘It was for me.’
Ramon eyed her disapprovingly. ‘I have to say that before you met me, you had no taste in men at all.’
Severine laughed. ‘Some would say I still don’t. Anyway, I have it on good authority that she retired to the Blood-tower by habit only – she has been heard complaining of an upset stomach,’ she added in a gossipy voice. ‘So maybe Renn has hit the target after all.’
‘I doubt I’ll ever have a child,’ Jelaska said heavily. ‘Every lover I have ever taken is dead. Poor Sigurd is only the latest of a long line of corpses I’ve left behind.’ She swept back her grey mane and shrugged. ‘I’ve come to regard myself as cursed.’
Baltus waved a hand airily. ‘Curses are a superstition, Lady. The only real magic is the gnosis.’
Jelaska threw him an appraising look. ‘I am willing to test the courage of your convictions, Windmaster.’
‘I say, my lady, is that a proposition?’
‘I am a plainspoken Argundian, Magister Prenton. My door is open to you.’
Ramon shared a look with Severine. ‘Romantic, these Argundians, aren’t they?’
‘Terribly.’
Kip guffawed and swigged more ale. ‘I miss Schlessen girls. Blonde hair in braids and big, soft bodies. The woman here are too small and skinny. They need to be fed better. Beef, that is the answer.’
‘A simple man with simple tastes,’ Baltus commented.
‘A Schlessen, in other words,’ said Jelaska, and the two of them laughed, not very surreptitiously looking each other over.
Kip burped and waved them away. ‘I care not what you think. I know what’s true.’
‘He could be right, you know,’ Ramon put in. ‘Why is it that a whole race of people can be smaller and thinner than another? It can only be what they eat, si? Antiopians eat almost entirely vegetables and spices and very little meat. But their noblemen eat meat – you saw see how fat that damned caliph was? It took eight men to lift his corpse!’
‘It’s the spices that stunt them,’ Jelaska muttered. ‘Evil stuff, gives you the shits.’
‘No, it’s the lack of meat,’ Ramon said firmly, ‘mark my words.’
‘Anyway,’ Baltus said, still looking Jelaska over; she was a handsome woman, no doubt, but twice his age, Ramon suspected. Still, how much did that actually matter?
He turned his attention back to the matter at hand. ‘The thing is, if we don’t move, our position is going to deteriorate. The Emir of Khotri has shifted some forty thousand men to camps south of us and Salim has thirty thousand soldiers on the north bank. In the middle of all this there’s us: just twelve thousand men divided over three camps – this northern Bridge-tower, the southern Bridge-tower, and the southern causeway.
‘And some mighty women,’ Jelaska added, toasting Severine.
‘Yes, also stuck in the middle,’ Baltus smirked. ‘I’m with Ramon on this: Salim and the emir are talking to each other – I’ve seen skiffs shuttling between them. What if they find common cause?’
Ramon sat up. ‘I understand they hate each other, but you’re right: that doesn’t mean they can’t work together at all.’ For the past week, he’d also been meeting with the Emir of Khotri’s representatives, trying to iron out a deal so the legion could march downstream on the Khotri side of the river to the next fords, then leave the emirate. For it to work they needed two things: to be able to trust the emir, and to give Salim the slip.
‘I rather think that convenience can outweigh all manner of normal politics and prejudices,’ Severine said, without irony, causing Baltus to wink at Ramon mockingly.
Si, I’m her convenient partner, regardless of normal prejudices. Ramon flicked a rude sign at the Brevian. Aloud, he said, ‘You’re right. Maintaining an army here is inconvenient to both the emir and the sultan. Salim wants to go north, where the real fighting is, and the emir dearly wants him to go. Moving us on would solve both problems.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘The real question is; can we trust the emir and the calipha not to sell us out to Salim?’ He stared out over the darkening landscape. Tiny bats were circling the tower like moths around the lamps. The campfires of the Keshi army were a galaxy of yellow stars. ‘I don’t know that we can.’
‘Then we’re in trouble,’ Jelaska said. ‘We’re like walnuts between the hammer and the anvil.’
Kip cocked his head. ‘Eh?’
‘They’ve got us by the nuts,’ Ramon clarified.
*
Seth Korion lounged in his armchair and gazed admiringly at Latif. The Keshi was picking deftly at the lute, a chord progression that seemed to capture the very essence of the desert: the space, the golden vistas and the heat, brought to vivid life by fifteen strings, played with wonderful mastery. ‘All of my brothers play,’ Latif said offhandedly as he finished another tune. ‘I’m not the best of us.’
‘I can’t imagine anyone better than you,’ Seth told him. ‘How can a ruler find time to perfect such technique?’
‘I am just an imposter, remember. I’m not real.’
‘Don’t say that. I only like you because I think you are a sultan.’
Latif smiled slyly. ‘I don’t believe you. I think you like me because I am a talented and altogether brilliant individual who happens to excel at pretending to be someone else. I could just as easily play you.’
Seth burst out laughing. ‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’
‘No, see! I colour my hair and shave my beard and suddenly I am the great General Korion, conqueror of Kesh.’ He leapt to his feet, struck a declamatory pose. ‘I order an advance! No, a retreat! Oh, what the Hel, I’ll just have another drink!’ And he swigged from an imaginary flask.
‘No, no! I am never drunk!’
‘So you say, but everyone knows the men of Yuros drink too much.’
Seth waved a dismissive hand. ‘True enough. It is our greatest vice.’ He looked fondly at Latif. ‘But really, you could never pretend to be me. Because of this.’
He kindled blue fire on the fingers of his right hand.
Latif stiffened at the sight of it. ‘I have some familiarity with your gnosis,’ he said, his eyes suddenly hungry. ‘Rashid Mubarak frequented the court in secret for many years. We took great precautions to ensure that he did not take control of us.’
‘Are you sure he didn’t?’
Latif frowned. ‘That is the question we always fear to ask ourselves,’ he said seriously.
Seth doused his gnosis-fire, regretful that he’d killed the mood. ‘The gnosis does set us apart,’ he admitted, ‘especially us pure-blooded magi. It is a trust, bequeathed to us from Kore Himself. We perpetuate that blessing to our heirs.’
‘And what is it like, to bear your god’s gift?’
‘It is a great responsibility. I mean, as children we are the same as anyone else, with no powers, but we’re raised knowing what will be. Then when you’re only twelve or thirteen, you suddenly gain the power to crush buildings, burn men alive, fly, summon spirits – whatever your affinities allow. Your slightest tantrum can destroy things or hurt people. So they send us to off to Arcanum – the mage-coll
eges – where tutors teach us and shape us, and when we emerge we have been taught to fight and kill, to protect others, and to serve the empire.’
‘So you are a brotherhood, dedicated to your emperor?’
‘Hardly,’ he snorted. ‘We are brought up to be fiercely competitive – we all know that there’s a world of difference between the best and worst, even if we have equal blood-strength. The Arcanum is a place where the best begin their dominance of those around them. We make alliances with those who might be useful to us in the future, but true friendships are rare and rivals are put firmly in their place. In truth, I feared my friends.’
‘I am told that your colleague – the devious one, Sensini – was also at your college?’
Seth blinked. ‘Who told you that?’
‘You are not my only visitor. The healer Lanna comes to check my wellbeing, your chaplain Gerdhart tries to convert me to your church and the old woman, Jelaska, plays tabula with me, formidably well. They speak of this and that.’ He waved a hand. ‘I am easy to talk to.’
The thought of others spending time here rankled somewhat. ‘Sensini is of low blood and low morals,’ Seth said crossly. ‘He only graduated because he was bonded to the legions.’
‘Yet he is clever. They tell me he is your strategist?’
Seth went to argue, then remembered, belatedly, that this charming man was still an enemy, and discussing the politics of the command tent was not a good idea. ‘He contributes. But I command.’
Latif inclined his head enigmatically, then gave him a thoughtful look. ‘So you magi are a people apart. Superior – God’s chosen. You are better than we mere men, yes?’
Seth coloured slightly because he’d expressed that sentiment himself many times, and always with utter sincerity. But when Latif said it, it felt like a slight. Nevertheless, he felt compelled to defend his kind. ‘When a person can do what we can, it makes us natural leaders – those with such a gift should control the world.’
‘Should they? For whose benefit?’
‘I don’t see what you are asking. When we magi are strong, the empire is strong and all is well.’
‘For whom?’
Seth threw up his hands. ‘Why, for the empire, of course! For everyone!’
‘Really? What benefit do your common people take from having magi rule them?’
Seth sat up, irritated now. ‘Not being conquered. Peace and security. Windships. Incredible buildings. Public works. Animagery-constructs. The list is endless. You don’t know what you are asking.’
Latif stroked his goatee. ‘Do your Earth-magi build for the poor? Do they create aqueducts to bring water to dry lands? Do your windships transport people for free? Are there gnosis-lamps in every street? Do your Healer-magi cure the illnesses of the poor without charge?’
‘The world doesn’t work like that,’ Seth started, but Latif waved his answer away.
‘The Ordo Costruo did as much, and more.’
‘They were idealistic fools and they’re all dead now – or fighting in your shihad!’
‘It appears to me that those who benefit from having magi present in your society are those magi themselves,’ Latif said. ‘The mighty, enriching themselves further.’
‘Don’t you talk,’ Seth snapped. ‘I’ve seen how your nobility live in their marble palaces, with beggars scrabbling for alms in the dust outside! You’re no better than us!’
Latif raised his palm as if to calm him. ‘No better, my friend, but no worse, perhaps?’
His words stopped Seth in his tracks and suddenly he felt angry at himself for arguing with his only friend in this whole miserable continent. ‘Maybe,’ he said, then added, ‘I can’t help what I am. Let’s talk about something else.’
Latif smiled softly, his brilliant eyes shining, but he wouldn’t let the matter go. ‘We each are given gifts, Seth Korion, to do our best with. For myself, I do not believe that your gnosis comes from Kore or Shaitan. I cannot afford to believe either, when I have both allies and enemies with your gift. I am’ – he grinned ruefully – ‘by which, of course, I mean “the sultan is” – at loggerheads with the Godspeakers because men and women they condemn as devils are aiding the shihad. Rashid Mubarak tells us that the gnosis comes not from divine beings but from man ourselves, and this gives me hope. Perhaps one day every man will have the gnosis, as naturally as breathing – and where would your Rondian superiority be then? You would have to treat us all as equals.’
Seth looked away. Such a vision of the world sounded positively threatening. Equality was just a dream, a muse for poets. Then he coloured, because all his heroes were poets. ‘You give me a lot to think about.’ He looked up at Latif slyly. ‘You did say “I”. Have I caught you out? Are you really Salim after all?’
‘All of us brother-impersonators are taught to say “I” so that we do not refer to another man as Salim when impersonating him.’
‘You must live closely with the sultan then?’
‘We share everything.’
Seth raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you even share Salim’s wives?’
Latif laughed. ‘That, no! That is the one restriction, that the wives must be for the true ruler only.’
‘Ha! So tell me about your wives!’
‘I cannot, for they are not mine. I do have a woman, though. Her name is Imuz, and she is skinny with buck teeth. We impersonators are always given the least pretty ones,’ he laughed.
‘Do you love her?’
‘Love her? No! What is there to love? She has no interests except in producing children and wearing clothes. She has no conversation, sings like a strangled parrot and eats too much. You can’t talk to her, not as we do.’
‘Do you have a mistress then?’
Latif shook his head. ‘Women do not interest me,’ he said airily. ‘Noble girls are boring. They have no education; all they learn is how to groom themselves, and how to gossip and plot about trivial things, like who will sit where at banquets. They’re dull, dull, dull.’
‘They sound like our women. Pure-blood magi girls are brought up to breed, preferably sons. They get enough gnosis-training to prevent them from damaging themselves, then they’re farmed out for marriage.’
‘Exactly my point. Have you ever had a conversation such as we have every day with a woman?’ Latif raised his wine goblet. ‘Every day I thank Ahm that I am a man.’
‘Ha! So do I.’ They drank to that thought, though it made Seth a little sad. ‘You know, there are always a few woman-magi who devote themselves to the gnosis, like Jelaska and Lanna. They say they have to work twice as hard as a man to be considered half as good. I sometimes wonder how much talent and skill we miss out on by treating them that way.’
‘You think educating women makes the nation stronger?’ Latif frowned. ‘Now, see, you have given me something to think on also.’
Seth smiled. Then at last he remembered the main reason for today’s visit. ‘Latif, we are going to move the army.’
‘Where to? How? You are trapped here.’
Seth shook his head. ‘Sensini has come up with something devious.’
‘Ah.’
‘Yes, I know, Sensini again. The thing is, do we take you with us?’
Latif’s smile drained away. He got up and walked to the little brazier. ‘Or what?’ He looked back over his shoulder. ‘I am told that Arkanus and Hecatta were executed.’
Seth put his cup down, and stood up. ‘We are not going to execute you! Kore’s Blood, man, you’re a hostage! We’re not barbarians!’
‘The two Dokken were also hostages.’
‘They were creatures condemned by Scripture. You’re a political hostage – that’s completely different. And you’re not even you.’
Latif bowed ironically. ‘Then of what value am I?’
‘We learn from you, just as you learn from us.’ He walked to Latif’s side, patted his upper arm. ‘Since we captured you, your army doesn’t attack.’
‘The causeway is a slaughte
rhouse: I am sure that is the reason for the lack of attacks, not me.’
Up close, Latif’s eyes were like gems. Seth found the courage to meet his gaze. ‘Latif, we’re not invaders, not any more. We’re just trying to get home. To reach home we must leave here and cross the Tigrates River and march back to Dhassa. If we can, you’ll not see us again.’
‘What has this to do with me?’
He gripped Latif’s left arm. ‘My friend, I want you to return to your court and speak to Salim. Explain our goal – tell him we just want to go home. Surely the sooner we are gone, the sooner you can go north and fight the real war against my father’s army.
‘I could speak for you,’ Latif said after a moment. ‘Salim would listen.’
‘If we set a date by which we pledged to cross the river, then you would know our sincerity. Pursue if you must, attack us if we fail to meet that pledge.’
Latif searched his face. His own right hand was clasping Seth’s upper arm as they unconsciously mirrored each other’s posture. ‘There are bridges over the Tigrates at Vida, about five weeks’ march from here.’
‘We can make it, as long as we can escape from Ardijah.’
‘I doubt Salim could control his men enough to let you leave via the northern causeway,’ Latif warned. ‘Any troop movement would be seen as an attack.’
‘We’re planning to leave in the night. We’ll travel on the Khotri side of the Efratis – our windskiff pilot found a ford lower down. We could leave you there, with a horse.’
Latif said slowly, ‘If you can manage all that, then I will willingly be your ambassador to Salim.’
*
Ramon stood on a balcony of the inner gatehouse of the northern isle of Ardijah, overlooking the bridge where two columns of men were marching past each other. His rankers were marching out of the keep while a line of Khotri soldiers marched in, and as they passed every Rondian swapped his red cloak for the white cloak the opposite man held as they passed: a crude but effective disguise from a distance. Sometimes it is the simple plans that work best.
Beside him stood a slender woman wrapped in a jewel-encrusted bekira-shroud. The Calipha Amiza al’Ardijah’s big eyes took in everything, her shrewish mouth pursed as she assessed all she saw. They had just returned from the cellars, where a third of the army’s gold had been left in payment for the supplies and equipment the calipha had arranged via the Emir of Khotri.