by David Hair
‘Never stake that which you can’t afford to lose,’ Ostevan quipped.
‘It’s the ruling dynasty of Yuros you’re gambling, my Lord Pontifex,’ Margentius reminded him. ‘We can’t protect the column unless we find that damned girl. We’ve left drugged food in the cemetery in case she’s still hiding in that underground warren, although so far it’s only yielded a mass of vermin and a few orphaned children. We’ve posted rewards and we’re scrying relentlessly, but there’s no trace of her. Perhaps she’s dead?’
‘She’d better not be,’ Ostevan replied, ‘because if we don’t find her in the next few days, Lyra’s going to destroy Garod’s armies and there won’t be a Sacrecour cause to rally to. Now, please give Brylion and me a moment alone.’
Once Margentius was gone, Brylion’s eyes turned black. ‘Why don’t we just mass-infect the rukking army? They’ll be impervious to the weather.’
Ostevan shook his head. ‘The moment we begin, someone will see what’s happening and the people will rally against us. It might work in a sparsely populated region like Rimoni, where communities are small and widespread, but up here it’d be noticed instantly. The army is only a tenth of the populace at best and infected men are vulnerable now everyone knows about the silver and the sunlight weaknesses. Reeker Night only worked because it was a surprise.’ He shook his head firmly. ‘No, the ichor works best as a means of power, infiltration and control. We do this secretly and use our hidden edge to ensure victory.’
Brylion glared at the broken old man on the floor, but he nodded grudgingly. ‘Aye, I can see that. You just make sure you catch that chit, because I tell you this: I might have a spawn in my chest, but I’m still a Sacrecour and I will not see us fail again.’
Coraine, Northern Rondelmar
Solon Takwyth took his place beside Duke Torun’s throne in the ducal hall. The court was almost empty, only a few of the Corani mage-nobles present. The duke was nervous, his bland features flushed, his brow sweaty.
He’s lucky he’s got me to think for him, Solon mused. He shifted his gaze to the supplicant before him and scowled. Because there’s no way Torun could find this capitano’s price.
The capitano in question swaggered up the carpet, a small entourage at his back: two older knights, if knights they were, four guards and an eye-catching copper-skinned woman with a horse-like face and a mane of black hair – an Ahmedhassan, incredibly.
He dares bring Noories to a Rondian ducal court during a Shihad invasion? That’s confidence.
‘Capitano Endus Rykjard of the Hollenian Freeblades,’ the herald boomed.
Rykjard had the characteristic square, snub-nosed Hollenian face, though he was deeply tanned and his sandy hair had been bleached by the sun. He was rated the most able mercenary commander in Hollenia, having served in Javon during the Third Crusade, escaping that disaster with a handful of aides and a war-chest of gold, enough to re-establish himself in Damstadt on his return. He brought with him five legions, all battle-hardened – but he came with a hefty price tag.
Rykjard knelt nimbly, the two commanders at his back doing likewise, while the Ahmedhassan woman made a graceful Eastern curtsey, her frank eyes flashing around the room. She wore a periapt, Solon noticed, though he doubted she was high-blooded, given her Eastern heritage.
‘Your Grace Duke Torun, Lord Takwyth; may I introduce my senior legates, Laada and Vanyorin, and this is my chief wife, Atafee.’
‘Your ch—um . . . chief wife?’ Duke Torun stammered.
‘I have four,’ Rykjard said easily.
Takwyth supressed a smile.
‘But . . . the Church . . .’
‘I married them under Amteh law,’ the Hollenian drawled, without a hint of repentance.
Solon already knew all this; apparently the man had become obsessed with Eastern cunni during the Crusade and had since indulged his addiction to the hilt. A weakness, perhaps, but no one questioned the man’s ability in the field. His fidelity was the real issue: the Damstadt mercenary guilds were notorious for duplicity.
‘But the Shihad—’ Torun began.
‘A stupid, secular invasion by a greedy sultan, who’s paid with his life,’ Rykjard sniffed. ‘Who the Hel did Rashid think he was, invading Yuros? But inconvenient for you, because it took Sulpeter’s legions off the table,’ he added. ‘Or conveniently, I don’t know. Whose side is Lord Sulpeter actually on?’
‘My father supports us, of course,’ young Nestor Sulpeter blurted from among Solon’s retinue.
‘Then it’s a shame for you he’s a thousand miles or more away,’ Rykjard noted amiably. ‘But good for me, because it’ll add to my price, I feel.’
‘You will sign then?’ Torun asked anxiously, when he should have shut up. Solon grimaced; his mother had sheltered him, taking too much on herself and leaving her son as an empty glove.
Rykjard’s eyes lit up as the price went up yet again. ‘I’ve yet to assess your chances, Milord. I try to sign only to winning causes.’
‘There’s no doubt as to this outcome,’ Solon said firmly.
‘That’s what I was told in Javon during the Crusade,’ the Hollenian replied in a noncommittal voice. ‘The cleverest man I ever knew told me that, but we still got right royally rukked over. So if you’ll forgive me, I’ll make up my own mind.’
At Solon’s gesture, the duke rose and led the delegation to the next room, where tables had been set with wine. For the next hour, while dinner was readied, Solon explained the military capacity of his Corani – inflating it, in case Rykjard was talking to his rivals – and making derogatory assessments of both the Imperial and Sacrecour forces.
‘Garod’s forces are crippled and rumours of the queen’s heresy are spreading,’ he concluded. ‘The people don’t want a dwymancer on the throne. Rebellion already stalks the Pallas streets.’
‘Damn their souls,’ Torun blurted. ‘That blasted Pallas Mob – I’ll deal with them as they should be dealt with!’
‘Mmm,’ Rykjard said, as if puzzled. ‘I heard they want to vote in their rulers, abolish tithing and taxes, enjoy equality of justice . . . that sort of thing. Ridiculous, obviously, but shouldn’t you be courting them if you want the gates opened for you without a fight?’
‘We don’t deal with rebels,’ Roland de Farenbrette grunted. ‘Once we’re in control, we’ll smash them.’
‘No doubt.’ Rykjard gave a wry smile. ‘Back to this “heresy”: is it true that the queen can summon devastating storms which weather-magi can neither detect nor counter? Didn’t she destroy half the Sacrecour forces in a blizzard?’
The room fell silent until Solon replied, ‘That’s true: but we know the queen. She refuses to wage real war upon the rebels in her own city because she thinks of them as “her people”. We, the Corani, are also “her people”. Even if she could do such a feat again – and her grip on that power is uncertain – she won’t do so. We’ll be on her doorstep before she gathers the nerve.’
‘So if you march with us, you’ll be safe,’ Roland added. ‘The Sacrecours can’t offer that.’
‘So you say, but a cornered vixen is unpredictable,’ Rykjard pointed out. ‘And afterwards, what then? This is a three-way fight – and Argundy may also invade. That makes for a messy battlefield – the worst sort of fight.’
‘Are you saying you won’t sign?’ Torun blurted, making Solon wince.
Every time Torun opens his rukking mouth, the price goes up.
‘I’m just saying that the terms will have to cover the additional risk,’ Rykjard said.
‘Milord Torun,’ Solon put in, ‘I think perhaps we should enjoy dinner and reconvene in the morning to discuss business. That will give us all time to collect our thoughts.’
Torun went to object, then saw the look in Solon’s eyes and stammered, ‘R-right, yes, of course . . .’
*
Solon took care to have Rykjard seated beside him for the meal, with his exotic wife on the Hollenian’s other side. She picked at h
er food – no doubt it was too bland for her taste – but listened attentively. Solon struggled with seeing her angular, copper-dark features at a civilised dinner table, especially as her silks were finer than any Rondian woman could afford, and she sported more jewellery than he’d ever seen, even on the queen.
‘Your wife is a mage?’ Solon asked, as the platters were removed.
‘Through pregnancy manifestation, whilst bearing our first child,’ the mercenary responded. ‘Atafee is therefore a quarter-blood – not strong, but she is skilled and diligent.’
‘Did you convert to the Amteh, to be permitted to marry four times?’ Solon asked, still a little troubled at allying their cause with a Noorie-lover when the empire was at war with the East.
‘I went through the motions, but my motives weren’t religious, I can assure you,’ Rykjard smirked. ‘Once you’ve had an Eastern woman, you don’t go back. My wives are trained in arts of the bedroom that Yurosi women could never imagine – anyway, Kore is a dull sort of fellow. I wasn’t sorry to let him go. Like any real man, the only god I acknowledge hangs between my legs.’ He winked at Solon. ‘Women are made for pleasure, mm? Even queens.’
Solon coloured slightly. Even so gentle a reminder of Lyra’s faithlessness rankled. ‘Lyra gave me her heart – it was the bastards whispering in her ear who tore us apart.’
‘Of course,’ Rykjard said lightly. ‘What woman could voluntarily set aside the great Solon Takwyth, eh?’
I could take a serious dislike to you, Hollenian, Solon thought sourly. ‘Have the Sacrecours approached you?’ he asked, knowing they must have. Mercenary armies of Rykjard’s strength had to factor in to Garod’s equations.
‘Of course, with a heavy purse. But I’ve heard Garod call Hollenia a “worm-infested marsh of godless turncoats”,’ Rykjard replied, mimicking the Duke of Dupenium’s voice. ‘So I’m not in any rush to sign with him.’
Solon wasn’t sure if he trusted that, but it was increasingly clear that he had to have the Hollenian Freeblades in their column, if only so that he knew precisely where they were.
*
Solon entered the House of Lantris some hours later, surprised at a surge of renewed vigour. ‘Good evening, Milord,’ the woman in the Heartface mask greeted him. ‘I’m so glad to see you again. The Blue Room awaits, just as you asked. The girl won’t let you down this time.’
She didn’t either, the lesson well learned, and when he lowered her to the rug and penetrated her, she breathed, ‘Oh my Lord, yes—’ in just the right tones and he could almost believe it was real. He took her hard, twice in succession, crying out ‘Lyra—’ as he came, and she moaned his name with what sounded like genuine release.
As they lay on the rug afterwards, he rolled onto his side and pulled the blonde wig from her head, curious to see her natural colouring. She flinched, and so did he when he saw that her head had been completely shaved to permit the wig to sit properly.
‘Now it’s you who’s spoiled the illusion, Milord,’ she scolded.
He caught her chin in his hand and studied her face – she had pleasing looks, with full lips and high cheekbones. Strange how changing the hair changes the woman, Solon thought, stroking her smooth scalp. It felt alien, and oddly attractive, as if the naked skull revealed inner layers of beauty.
‘You have borne a child,’ he stated – that much was clear from her body. ‘Who’s the father of your child?’
‘I don’t know. The barrenroot failed. That happens sometimes.’ Her eyes went wet. ‘I wanted to keep her, but I couldn’t . . . She was taken away and I don’t even know what happened to her.’
Suddenly she was sobbing, leaving him utterly at a loss.
This isn’t what I paid for . . .
But that aspect of chivalry concerning the protection of women had always spoken loudly to him, so he cradled her wordlessly. The lives of ordinary people felt strange to him – he’d only ever known the life of a mage-noble: courts and legions, practise-yards and jousting lists – and this story of ill luck and bad choices felt repugnant. But he could hear genuine affection for her lost child and that moved him.
‘Find a good man and get out of this life,’ he advised her. ‘For your daughter’s sake.’
She looked up at him and blurted, ‘You’re a good man.’
Am I? I no longer know . . .
He knew she wouldn’t take his advice – she probably couldn’t. Brothels, even high-class salons, owned their girls and he doubted she had anywhere else to go.
Don’t get involved, he reminded himself. She’s just a whore.
He sat up. ‘We’re done,’ he said abruptly. ‘Pour me a whiskey before you leave.’
‘Did I displease you, Milord?’ she asked meekly.
He remembered the consequences for her and tempered his reply. ‘No, you did well. I’ll return.’
She’s not Lyra . . . but she’ll do for now.
Pallas
‘Good evening, Majesty,’ Dirklan called to Lyra as she returned from her garden, where she’d been listening to the dwyma’s silence. There had been nothing from Valdyr, but another fleeting brush with the girl who might be Coramore left her wringing her hands, wondering what to do.
‘Good evening, Father,’ she said, putting the matter aside as she joined him. It was only late afternoon, but the clouds darkening the sky promised rain, though not snow. The temperatures were a little milder this week, hinting that winter would not last for ever. ‘Is there news?’
‘Lots,’ the spymaster said grimly, flicking the silver curtain of hair from his left side and scratching under his eyepatch. ‘Duke Torun – or perhaps we should say Solon Takwyth – has just hired the Hollenian Freeblades. They’ll be riding south by the end of tomorrow. We expect to be invaded from the north by early Martrois.’
‘So two weeks. Well, we knew that was coming.’
‘Aye, and the first Sacrecour legions are being loaded onto barges at Beckford on the Bruin. They’ll be joined by four more from Fauvion so we’ll be facing the entire Sacrecour army, twelve legions in all.’
Lyra clasped both hands to her chest. ‘Then it’s begun,’ she said, reeling a little. Discussing civil war was one thing; seeing it become reality was another. ‘I suppose our only consolation is that they’re not allied.’
‘True, but either one of them still outnumbers our own forces.’ Dirklan hesitated, then added, ‘Lyra, I don’t think you should go to this rendezvous tonight. I’m smelling treachery.’
He’d progressed her request to meet Ari Frankel swiftly, though not fast enough to prevent more destruction in the city, with dissent now spreading through the poorer areas. Across the river in Pallas-Sud, emboldened by Dominius Wurther’s own depleted manpower, Fenreach and Southside were also in a state of revolt. At Lyra’s last public appearance, a traditional alms-giving in the Place d’Accord, right before the Bastion gates, there had been abuse and cat-calls.
When someone shouted vindictively, ‘Takky’s coming for you!’ the words had struck her to the core.
‘I must meet Frankel,’ Lyra insisted. She’d felt a connection with the man and admired his passion for a better world. If I can persuade him that his cause is better served by peaceful means, perhaps he’ll support us? It was a naïve hope, maybe, but she clung to it.
‘Then you’d better get ready,’ Dirklan said. ‘It’s almost time to go.’
*
Basia de Sirou finished strapping on her shin-greaves – wooden limbs still needed armour – and stood, teetering a little before muscle memory took hold. She made her way to a shadowy room at the back of the Bastion. From a window overlooking the courtyard, she could see an unmarked carriage waiting. The air was freezing, but the clouds had thinned, allowing the full moon to flood the place. The brisk wind was unpleasant and Basia huddled into her cloak, but Exilium Excelsior didn’t keep her waiting. His helm was tucked under his arm, revealing his perfectly coiffed jet-black hair. His mechanical gait was becoming familiar to he
r, as was the way his head moved as he took in his surroundings, constantly readjusting. She approved of that – a good trait in a bodyguard – although he never let it lapse, even off-duty.
‘Is the queen ready?’ Exilium asked.
‘She’s just getting a last-minute briefing from Dirk,’ Basia replied.
Exilium peered at the carriage. ‘Wouldn’t anyone wanting to follow us simply presume any unmarked carriage is the queen’s?’ he asked.
‘We’ve despatched six in the last half-hour,’ Basia replied. ‘This is the last – and we’ll not be in this one either.’
‘Then how are we travelling?’
‘We’re walking.’
Exilium’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows shot up. ‘Queens don’t walk.’
‘Tell that to Lyra. Anyway, no one will expect it, and it’s not far: there’s another carriage waiting below the Heights. Another of Dirk’s little tricks.’
The door opened in the Bastion wall again and a trio of figures emerged: Dirklan and the queen were followed by the hulking shape of Mort Singolo, axes slung over his shoulders.
‘Disguising our approach is irrelevant if they know the rendezvous point,’ Exilium muttered.
‘True, but we’ve other plans for that,’ Basia answered, as they walked over to Lyra. ‘Are you sure you want to do this, Milady?’ she asked. She too thought this meeting foolish.
‘My mind’s made up,’ Lyra snapped, exhaling a steamy gust of air. She turned back to Dirklan. ‘I know you fear treachery, but my honour is at stake. We, at least, will deal fairly.’
‘We’ll deal honestly if they do,’ he replied, before turning to Basia and Exilium. ‘You know what to do.’
‘We protect the queen,’ Basia replied.
‘With our lives,’ Exilium added fervently.
‘At the first sign of trouble, we’re getting you out, Milady,’ Basia finished.
‘I believe Master Frankel will keep his word,’ Lyra said irritably.
‘And I believe Tad Kaden won’t,’ Dirklan answered. ‘The Kaden Rats have decades of crime under their belts and in all those years, we’ve only ever hanged eight of them. We must be vigilant, take nothing on trust.’