Mother of Daemons

by David Hair

  Such things could make me believe in Fate, Tarita thought.

  Her own Fate lay elsewhere, though. She strapped on her sword-belt and hefted her small pack – and as an afterthought, packed the Cadearvo mask. Then she went to find somewhere else to sleep.

  *

  She found space in a building on the opposite side of the square, a tiny storeroom above a refugee dormitory full of frightened camp women and their infant children, She’d barely settled herself when a Noroman runner found her – so someone was obviously watching her movements.

  ‘General Korion requests your presence, Lady Merozain,’ the man said formally.

  She hesitated, almost went to decline, then decided she needed to keep busy, so replied in fluent Rondian, ‘When would he like to see me?’

  ‘Now is ideal, the general said.’

  She sighed and followed him back across Ringwald Square, where thousands of Shihadi were now encamped, around a central space lined with a handful of remaining Rondian windships and the remaining half-dozen rocs, to the Governor’s Mansion. Waqar had told her hundreds of Keshi windships were still manning the supply-lines back to Ahmedhassa, but it was hard to forget that vast windfleet she’d seen crossing the ocean. She was still reflecting on the devastating losses this war had inflicted on her own people when she was shown into General Korion’s offices. The Noroman guards were looking at her warily, but she also sensed that her presence offered them hope. That made her uncomfortable, that they thought she was here representing Alaron Mercer and the Merozains. But they’re wrong.

  Inside were most of the important leaders of both sides – all men, she noted – discussing the situation of the city over steaming pots of coffee. They fell silent when she entered.

  ‘Good morning, Magister Tarita,’ Seth Korion greeted her. His blond hair was newly trimmed, but his eyes looked tired.

  That she, a dirt-caste upstart, could be honoured with the title of ‘Magister’ by a Rondian general still amused her.

  She was served coffee by the general’s aide, an earnest man called Andwine Delton, and as she took a seat, Korion introduced the Rondians – the clever-faced Ramon Sensini; the terribly serious Royal Guard commander Era Hyson; some legion commanders whose names she didn’t catch, and two civilians, a Justiciar called Vorn Detabrey and some kind of representative of the people, Vannaton Mercer, who turned out to be the father of Alaron Mercer, although he wasn’t a mage. Mistress Alhana’s brother-in-law, she realised, giving him a reverent curtsey.

  Opposite them sat Latif, still clad in his mock-finery, with Admiral Valphath, now Senapati of the Shihad forces inside the city, some junior officers hastily promoted in the field, and a young kalfas named Chanadhan, who was acting as translator. The last member of the Eastern entourage was Godspeaker Zaar, the only clergymen present.

  Tarita tried the coffee. It was weak, badly roasted and someone had ruined it with milk – clearly Yurosi knew nothing about real coffee – but it helped, despite its inadequacies.

  ‘Thank you for joining us,’ Seth Korion addressed the room, before adding in Keshi, ‘Sal’Ahm, sadiqaa,’ while touching his right hand to head, then heart in greeting.

  Tarita was sure that for a mere general to speak ahead of a sultan or a prince – even if he was a titled nobleman – was a dreadful breach of etiquette – but then, their side of the table was nominally headed by a man they all knew to be an impersonator. It’d take a specialist in the harbadab to work out that riddle, and personally I don’t give a shit, as long as they don’t steal our supplies then hang us out for Xoredh to slaughter.

  ‘Sultan,’ Seth Korion began, pointedly using Latif’s false title, ‘how are your men settling in? Have there been any fresh incidents?’ He spoke in Rondian; Latif and Tarita were both fluent and the scribe Chanadhan rapidly translated for those Keshi without the tongue.

  Latif glanced sideways at Admiral Valphath before replying, ‘I’m told there have been seventeen separate brawls, a stabbing over a woman, numerous instances of theft and complaints – but Admiral Valphath tells me this is normal, no worse than when a Dhassan warband shares camp with Keshis.’

  Tarita thought of Latif when she’d met him in Sagostabad, the night his family was slaughtered. She’d lost him in the confusion and presumed him dead, but somehow he’d endured and now here he was, back at the centre of things. Clearly, Salim had trained him well, because he spoke before this potentially fractious gathering with ease and authority.

  ‘It’s just as bad when a Rondian legion encounters Argundian soldiers,’ Seth observed. ‘I think it’s going well: both sides are respecting the new alliance, we’re getting everyone fed and there’s been no open fighting. But if we’re to hold the city, we must integrate our forces.’

  ‘The example must be set from above, General,’ Latif replied. ‘Our officers must walk together and act as one to clamp down on indiscipline. You and I must inspect every unit. Only by displays of unity can we become one fighting force.’

  Tarita saw the various legates and hazarapatis pull faces, but Korion was immediately supportive. ‘Yes, exactly: we here must set the example, starting with you and me. It must be our highest priority.’

  Tarita recognised that a genuine friendship existed between Latif and Seth Korion, but Latif wasn’t letting that undermine his position: he knew when to be firm or conciliatory, and he had a sound grasp of the necessities of leadership. This is a man Waqar needs to learn from, she thought, wondering how she could bring that about.

  ‘General Korion,’ Latif responded, ‘clearly your men understand the defensive positions inside this tier of your city and we don’t. If we’re to share the burden, your officers must brief ours and let us take control of some of the walls.’ Then he added with a disarming smile, ‘Not that we don’t appreciate the rest.’

  This was an understatement: the Shihad soldiers had been starving, frozen and exhausted; almost all their stores had been used for the riotous celebrations of Xoredh’s coronation, leaving little for the future.

  Because Xoredh knew they wouldn’t need food, Tarita reflected grimly.

  Latif’s words were conciliatory, but the matter of trust was a major sticking point. Tarita heard Valphath muttering something to an aide before grumbling, ‘When will you show faith in us?’ in Keshi. Korion was not the only Rondian to understand his words.

  ‘I am sure it’s not a question of trust,’ Latif replied sharply. It was the diplomatic thing to say, but they all knew he meant the opposite. This was all about trust – and could anyone blame the Rondians, for the Shihad had invaded their lands and killed thousands upon thousands of people, and displaced or enslaved many more . . .

  The argument went round in circles, the Rondian commanders questioning the Shihadis’ readiness while the Keshi commanders played their own games. Some, like Valphath, wanted to be given responsibilities, while others were quite happy for the Rondians to take all the risks. Tarita fancied a few still looked to a future when, having defended the city successfully, they might seize control of it.

  Don’t they realise the Shihad is over? We stand or fall with these Yurosi now.

  She quietly fumed, until Ramon Sensini looked at her pointedly and asked, ‘Are we boring you, Magister?’

  Her temper flared at being singled out. ‘Ai, you are. I am bored because you talk in spirals and do not say what you mean.’ She jabbed a finger at the Rondians. ‘You think we are a shambles who will run when the enemy attack, or even help them.’ Then she turned on her own kind. ‘And you – you are either vainglorious or hoping to let others fight while you wait to pick up the pieces. Only two men here truly mean well: Seth Korion and Latif. You others should piss off if you’re not ready to work together.’

  Eyebrows shot up and almost every man in the room looked offended – except for Sensini. The fleeting smirk on his face told her she’d said exactly what he’d wanted her to – and amused him along the way.

  If his intent was to unite them all, it w
orked, because they all rounded on her, men of both sides, demanding to know what right she had to be there and what she knew about anything anyway.

  ‘I am the pupil of Elena Anborn and I could wipe my feet on any of you,’ she shouted, coming to her feet.

  ‘Just because you drank a potion and didn’t die doesn’t make you a fighting man, Merozain,’ a Noroman named Sir Tonald Grace sneered. ‘What do you know about command? Have you even drawn blood in a fight?’

  ‘You want to find out?’ she shot back, and the knight went pale.

  Sensini lightly touched her shoulder and she calmed a little. No one liked Tonald Grace, she realised.

  Seth and Latif were telling everyone to sit down and be silent and abruptly she felt silly and out of her depth.

  It was Sensini, having provoked her, who picked up on her points. ‘Frankly, I’m with Lady Tarita. We must agree what part the Shihad will play in the defence of Norostein – now.’

  Tarita gave him a hard stare. Cunning matachod, she thought. And as for ‘Lady’ . . . she smiled despite herself and found herself wondering if he was single. I really am faithless, she decided unrepentantly, but I do like a man with strut.

  Finally, things started happening. Korion agreed that Ahmedhassan units would start rotating onto the walls; Latif told his people they would cooperate or be replaced. The meeting broke up with a pledge that every Shihad officer would have toured the walls by evening and their men would be assigned defence positions in the event of attack.

  Her interest in Sensini terminated almost immediately after the meeting, when a skinny woman with a deep desert look clad in Khotri silks swept up and took his right arm imperiously.

  Probably just as well, she thought, feeling somewhat morose as she drifted back to her new hidey-hole. She found a broom and spent the afternoon trying to make it more homely. She was bored and edgy and wondering when she had last smiled. I wish Ogre was here, she thought suddenly. He’d make me laugh.

  *

  Announcing that Latif’s suggestion – which they’d already agreed privately – would be implemented immediately, Seth and the sultan led their commanders and hazarapatis on a tour of the defences that very afternoon, from Ringwald Gate down through the length and breadth of Copperleaf. Their respective escorts mixed uneasily, Rondian battle-magi and Hadishah, sworn enemies, forced to cooperate. The horses were made skittish by the miasma of smoke and death clinging to the smouldering buildings, which were being picked over by squads of soldiers, white and dark-skinned alike, faces wrapped in scarves.

  Whenever they passed his men, they stopped to thump their chests and call ‘A Korion, a Korion!’ his old family war-cry; and not to be outdone, the Easterners turned to face their sultan and went down in a waves of genuflections, hands to hearts.

  Then one Keshi looked at Seth and called, ‘Sal-Ahm alaykum, Senapati Korion.’

  Seth knew the Ahm gesture, the rippling movement of the hand from heart, to forehead to the palm-up extension of the right hand, and managed it passably, while asking Latif, ‘How do I respond?’

  ‘What do you want to say?’ the impersonator asked.

  ‘That I thank them, and wish them well.’

  Latif fed him a string of words and Seth rattled them off, eliciting first a hesitant response of ‘Ahm Akbar,’ and then scattered laughter and touches to the forehead. ‘What did I say?’ Seth asked Latif suspiciously.

  ‘You told them they are beasts in battle and you tremble to see them.’

  ‘Good on me,’ Seth snorted, throwing a general salute about him then urging his mount on, Latif keeping pace effortlessly. ‘Really, I’m glad to have them with us. No one shoots like an Ahmedhassan.’

  ‘And no one defends a rampart like a Rondian legionary,’ Latif responded graciously.

  Their eyes met, thinking of a place called Riverdown almost seven years ago. Both shuddered.

  Seth subtly pulled a flask from his belt-pouch and showed Latif. ‘Have you ever tried Brevian whiskey? It’s like smoke and honey.’

  ‘A good Amteh man does not drink alcoholic beverages, Effendi.’

  ‘That’s not how I remember you.’

  ‘I never said I was a good man,’ Latif said, with a wry grin. ‘But when I was your captive, none of my people could see my transgressions. Here I am the sultan and must set the example for all my men.’ He looked away, then winked at Seth sideways. ‘So best no one sees.’

  ‘In an hour, in the governor’s lounge?’ Seth suggested, suppressing a grin.

  It took longer than that, of course, for Seth had to take reports from all sectors and deal with the usual array of complaints, decisions and delegations before he could leave the legion commanders to guard the walls. Once he’d managed to get away, he disarmed and retired to the governor’s private lounge, where Latif was studying the room. He had good cause: as an exercise in conspicuous consumption it was second to none. The room was panelled in polished Bunavian holzetta wood marbled with gleaming amber and hung with heavy velvet drapes, with a ruinously expensive Rimoni-style mosaic on the floor. Oil paintings filled the walls and statues of ivory and ebony stood in every corner. It was a sumptuous place of relaxation for the office of the man who’d been the real power in Noros for more than two decades.

  Seth poured them generous measures of the Brevian and settled into one of the armchairs in front of the fire. The mock-sultan sipped the whiskey, winced a little, then nodded. ‘An acquired taste, friend Seth, but one I may become used to.’ He raised a toast. ‘May we hold, and our men become true brothers in arms.’

  ‘The Copperleaf walls are a strong bastion,’ Seth commented. ‘In the Noros Revolt of 909–910, this city held out for months against a Rondian army led by my father. It didn’t surrender until all hope had passed. Mind, Father always said he’d been told to take the city intact.’ He pushed aside the painful memory of Kaltus Korion and asked, ‘So, Latif – I’ve been dying to know but we’re never alone: how on Urte did you end up here?’

  Latif’s tale amazed him: masked assassins, murdered family, an involuntary conscription and a trek across half of Yuros, all the time hiding his identity and biding his time. ‘But I was right there as Rashid died,’ Latif concluded. ‘After all I’d been through, I heard from his own lips what he’d done before I watched him die.’

  ‘He sold his own son into daemonic possession,’ Seth breathed, shaking his head.

  ‘Who could do such a thing?’ Latif asked, just as dismayed.

  ‘My father would have, I don’t doubt,’ Seth answered. ‘To him, I was only ever a disappointing footnote to his illustrious career. He was going to disinherit me, but died before it could be effected.’

  ‘I never knew my parents,’ Latif reflected. ‘I was an orphan until the sultan’s people saw that I resembled Salim, then my life changed utterly. Education, luxury, even a wife . . . and a son.’

  Whom the Masks slew in cold blood, Seth thought. ‘Naxius has much to answer for.’

  ‘Ai, he must be ended. But what of you?’

  ‘I have a wife, Camilla Phyl – she was a healer in my legion during the Third Crusade. We have two daughters.’

  ‘I remember her – the shy one, pale hair, ai? She used to visit to make sure I didn’t fall ill, royal hostages being rather precious. So you seduced one of your staff, Effendi? Or was it the other way round?’

  Seth coloured. ‘It was more . . . um . . . organic than that. On the journey home, we rather fell into each other, and it turned out we were near neighbours. My mother was appalled that I’d marry any but a pure-blood.’

  ‘But it was love, ai?’ Latif chuckled, toasting him again.

  Was it love? Seth wondered. ‘I suppose. We’re comfortable together . . .’ He fell into an awkward silence, then picked up his tale. ‘Despite my father’s plan, I inherited his titles and became Earl of Bres – the highest nobleman in Bricia – but like Noros, we’re ruled by a governor, appointed by her Majesty in Pallas.’

  ‘I en
vy you your happiness.’ Latif looked down at his brocaded coat and sighed. ‘I don’t know how long we can retain this fiction. Salim’s reign was backed by Rashid, a man all revered. With him gone and Xoredh exposed for what he is, there will be war in Kesh, regardless of whether any of us return there alive after this débâcle.’

  ‘What of Waqar Mubarak?’

  ‘An obvious candidate, but he is second in rank to Rashid’s younger brother Teileman, who leads the northern army. Neither have the experience – or in Teileman’s case, the personality – to unite an empire. And any exertion right now could kill Waqar.’ He looked at Seth. ‘What of your empress? I hear nothing but contempt for her – and I’m told your own empire is falling apart?’

  Seth thought about Lyra Vereinen. ‘I’ve only met her once. She spoke well and she seemed to be a decent person. But her allies are deserting her and the old Sacrecour dynasty will probably regain power.’

  ‘How will that effect you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Seth sighed. ‘The empire is likely to break up – our army split in half because I was the only one prepared to defend Norostein. The Rondians and Argundians were happy to see Rashid come here unopposed.’

  Latif whistled softly. ‘Your retreat here doomed the Shihad, Effendi. So many men died because of your decision to come here.’

  ‘We didn’t invade’ – Seth raised a placating hand – ‘this time. But we have been the aggressors and some would say we richly deserve your retribution. Honour demands vengeance.’

  ‘Ai. Honour does . . . But we need peace more than we need honour. War is mass-murder, my friend, and no one wins. It’s peace we both badly need.’ He pushed his glass away and rose, a little unsteadily. Seth rose too and they took a couple of quick steps together and embraced. ‘You and I need to set an example, my friend,’ Latif told him. ‘While we can.’

  He kissed Seth’s cheek and for a moment they inhaled the same air. Seth felt a gentle chime, a thought that this was how things should be: enemies embracing as brothers.

  *