Mother of Daemons

by David Hair

  Lyra Vereinen put on a red rose and

  claimed to be one of us. She promised

  reforms and elections of public officials.

  She asked us to rally to her.

  But when Solon Takwyth manoeuvred

  in behind her at Finostarre,

  she forgot her promises.

  Who rules us now? Who rules her?

  Rise up, Pallas!

  They are going to steal your every hard-won freedom.

  Rise up!

  Beneath the words was a woodcut of himself screwing Lyra from behind – pretty much what he’d been doing all night – Except it’s only Brunelda . . .

  He snorted and showed Roland. ‘A good likeness, you think?’ he chuckled.

  ‘Of her, maybe – you aren’t so fat,’ Roland laughed, handing it back.

  ‘It’s Frankel, obviously,’ Solon declared. ‘“Rise up” – that’s high treason. I want him publicly hanged, drawn and quartered – and no trial, either; he had his day in court.’ He turned to the officers and waved the parchment – no doubt they’d read it already. ‘Bring me Frankel alive. Break or burn every barricade in your way.’

  ‘There are women and old folk on those barriers, Milord,’ a centurion noted.

  ‘No, there are only rebels and traitors,’ he snapped. ‘Anyone taking a soldier’s part gets treated as such.’

  ‘There’ll be blood,’ that same man muttered.

  ‘Name?’ Solon asked icily.

  The centurion, a balding man in his forties, solid and competent-looking, flushed at his tone. ‘Renco, sir, Fifth Century, Third Maniple—’

  ‘This is your only warning, Renco,’ Solon interrupted. ‘All of you, take heed: we’re at war still. You think because Garod’s in chains, the struggle is over? We’ve got Argundy on our borders and a mass secession to unwind, so unless we get our house in order damned fast, the enemies of Rondelmar will descend on us like wolves. If that means a few stupid people have to be dealt with, so be it. You hear me?’

  ‘Aye,’ they all chorused, including Centurion Renco.

  They just need someone to think for them, he reminded himself. He saluted, then took Roland aside, muttering, ‘If that man says anything else against this, deal with him.’

  The Blacksmith grinned savagely. ‘I’ll see to it.’

  *

  Ari Frankel emerged from the doors of the tavern where he’d been concealed, Lazar’s thugs closing around him. His hood was raised against the windskiffs roaming the air above Tockburn and the docklands; they’d been circling ever since Takwyth occupied the city.

  ‘Morning, Counsellor,’ said a ragged man bent over a small blaze of twigs and dried dung, before adding with a bitter chuckle, ‘You even still a counsellor now, heh heh? Takky sent for you yet?’

  No, but he’s put a price on my head.

  Others recognised him as they scurried by, ordinary folk setting up their stalls in the squares. Small cooking fires blazed, roasting nuts, vegetables and thin strips of meat from creatures best left unidentified. Shopkeepers scraped ice from their shutters, while criers hollered the latest rumours. He could taste the smoke and anxiety filling the air of Tockburn.

  Lazar joined him as they waited at a corner for a Guard patrol to move on. ‘Takwyth sent a maniple of the Twelfth into Kenside last night,’ he snarled. ‘Seven dead – two was women.’

  Ari, like most of the city, torn between anger and fear, asked, ‘Any word of the queen?’

  ‘Takky’s parading some blonde bint, but she’s only ever seen from a distance and ne’er speaks,’ Lazar growls. ‘Can’t be the real Lyra, cos she never shut up. An’ that Volsai bint with the stick-legs insists the real queen’s in hiding.’ He scratched his stubbled chin and spat. ‘Can’t see it matters. Takky’s emp’ror in all but name.’

  ‘This is a city of a million people and he’s got just a few legions,’ Ari replied. ‘A few thousand men.’

  ‘That’s all he needs,’ Lazar growled. ‘Folks was fine with marchin’ an’ all when they thought Lyra might listen, but they know Takky won’t: with him, it’s going to be cracked skulls and blood.’

  ‘We need this republic,’ Ari insisted.

  ‘Do we? Old empire got us by. Daresay even a broken-up empire’ll still work.’

  Ari was struck by the flatness in Lazar’s eyes. His cold monotone never changed, but his gaze no longer harboured purpose. He’s given up. He’s killed a few people, lined his pockets and now he’ll slink away . . .

  Ari hung his head. Since Finostarre, it’d been too dangerous to speak publicly and without his words to breathe air into the lungs of change, no one was going to fight for the concessions they’d won from Lyra.

  I don’t think any kind of speech can help us . . . Words like ‘freedom’ and ‘representation’ and ‘suffragium’ are too insubstantial in a world of blood and steel. There were warrants out for him, offering a large reward. Sooner or later someone would be tempted – maybe even Lazar, this morning . . .

  The moment I speak in front of any kind of gathering, the magi will be told where I am, and this time there’ll be no escape. Tad Kaden won’t act, because he still thinks his sister will be released. The only people who might help us are penned up in the Celestium.

  He sagged wearily, denied the only things that truly energised him: a crowd and a platform.

  The word came down – the patrol had moved on – so they stole across the small plaza. A few more blocks took them to the Tockburn docks, where masses of men, women and even children were labouring to unload and distribute the supplies that were still arriving by ferry from across the Aerflus, brought in from the countryside west of Pallas, from crofters who’d sided with Ari’s rebels.

  ‘This way,’ Lazar muttered, pulling Ari to some steps leading to an open balcony after making sure their cowls were raised and the bandanas covering their lower faces hadn’t slipped. Faces turned their way and a few waved and cheered hoarsely, but the tension reduced even that to a low buzz.

  He pointed away north to the edge of the open space. They had a narrow view down the street to the edge of the distribution point, where a barricade of broken furniture and old bricks and broken chunks of masonry had been erected. Behind it, lines of redcloaks were forming up. Ari shuddered at the sight of the legionaries’ serried ranks and locked shields.

  ‘They broke up the barricade three blocks onwards, at the edge of Tockburn,’ Lazar said tersely. ‘They’re preparing to rush this one now.’

  ‘We’re all Rondians,’ Ari said weakly.

  ‘That’s Takwyth’s Corani out there. They don’t give a shit ’bout anyone else.’

  Rough-clad men on the barricade armed with bows and crossbows were peering out at the soldiers, lining up their shots, but they’d barely slow any determined attack. Ari could hear orders being barked above the buzz of the people in the square. People here were desperate for food to eat and the orderly queues of the past month were breaking down as everyone tried to grab what they could and get out before the soldiers attacked.

  ‘I need to be down there,’ Ari told Lazar. ‘I need to calm them. People are getting hurt.’

  Lazar snorted. ‘You don’t calm people, Frankel. You rile ’em up.’

  ‘But if those soldiers attack—’

  ‘Then there’ll be a shit-storm. Folks’ll see what Takwyth’s really made of.’

  ‘I pray nothing happens,’ Ari gulped, ‘but I must go down there.’

  ‘We can’t protect you down there, Frankel. Don’t be a rukkin’ martyr.’

  A martyr . . . Dear Kore, I’m no martyr. Ari remembered that day he’d railed at the queen herself, staring down death in the most horrific manner but so fired up that he didn’t care – and it’d been Lyra who blinked first.

  But Takwyth won’t blink. ‘I must go,’ he said thickly. I got everyone into this. Abruptly, he clasped Lazar’s cold hand, then turned and pounded down the stairs. He threw back his cowl and almost instantly, the crowd st
irred to life, people murmuring, ‘Ari Frankel,’ with respect and even awe. Hands extended, some patting his shoulders, others clasping his. One woman stinking of sweat and fish even seized and hugged him as a low chant went up: ‘Frankel, Frankel . . .’

  ‘We must stay calm,’ he told them. ‘They won’t kill defenceless people – we’re just feeding ourselves. Stay in line. There’s enough for all.’

  Incredibly, it worked. People visibly calmed down and someone called, ‘Counsellor Frankel, can you get us more food?’ as if he had some sway with Takwyth.

  ‘Speak to the queen for us,’ a few exhorted. ‘Tell her to remember us.’

  Can I tell them that it’s not the queen up there? What will that do – harden their resolve or break it? He decided that piece of information was too volatile, too unpredictable.

  He was surprised to find that he’d travelled sixty yards into the press and was near the supply wagons. People were pulling him forward, calling, ‘Speak, speak—’ with the same hunger he felt. Crowds fed him – and he fed the crowds. ‘Ari, what’s going to happen?’ they asked. ‘Tell us what to do.’

  He glanced back at the balcony and saw that Lazar was still watching him, his cowl falling back from his face as he gave Ari an ironic wave – and then he half-turned and made a sign towards the barricade, to Ari’s left.

  At once, someone over there roared, ‘Fire—’ and a dozen burning pots were hurled over the barricade towards the legionaries.

  Ari’s jaw dropped and he stared in disbelief at Lazar. The rebel saluted him again, then raised his cowl and vanished inside. Trumpets blared beyond the barricade and moments later the redcloaks started climbing up the other side. Lazar’s archers fired two rounds, then scattered. A man cried out in fear, a woman screamed and the crowd recoiled, but the alleys were narrow and already jammed.

  Then the barricade went up in flames with a hideous whoosh, black smoke and oil and roaring orange flames threw a wave of heat across the square. Ari saw the legionaries on the burning wall reel in shock, leaping away just in time, and he thanked Kore that none of them looked to have been caught in the sudden inferno.

  ‘Stay calm,’ he shouted, ‘hold steady and keep together—’

  But he was just one voice in the din of frightened, trapped people. The shrieking became ear-splitting as some lost balance, went under and were trampled in the panic. A windskiff swooped overhead and an archer in the foredeck fired at a man on a roof, who dodged and shot back.

  Then a massive blast of gnostic energy punched open the barricade, hurling burning wood and broken bricks into the press behind. Ari was slammed painfully to his knees as the crowd shoved from all sides. He put his arms up to protect his head as something hammered into his side, then a body fell on him, an old man, wheezing for breath. For a moment there was no air, then Ari struggled upwards like a drowning man, pushing for the surface in desperation, rising alongside a terrified woman clutching a screaming child in one hand and clinging to a young man in a butcher’s apron with the other.

  ‘Here they come,’ someone shouted in his ear. ‘Kore save us all . . .’

  Ari threw a look towards the broken barricade, where redcloaks were swarming through and forming up on this side, shields locked and spears projecting through, butt-first. The alleys were disgorging yet more soldiers, pinning in the thousands of people in the square. Realising their danger, the crowd had started backing away as best they could towards the supply wagons and the shoreline.

  This was well planned, Ari thought. They’ve got us trapped.

  A knight rode through the smouldering barricade, a young blond man with a glowing periapt on his chest. ‘Silence, rabble,’ he shouted, his voice amplified by the gnosis so that it rang off the buildings.

  Ari looked around and saw that Lazar’s men had either escaped, or dropped their weapons and faded into the crowd. The balcony was empty. Lazar does want a martyr . . . me.

  ‘I am Nestor Sulpeter,’ the young mage-noble brayed, ‘and I am commanded by your ruler, Solon Takwyth, to seize these illegally imported goods and break up this gathering. Resist, and . . .’ He glared about, the threat implicit.

  More trumpets rang out, more boots thumped on cobbles, more people were trampled underfoot as they fell. Ari’s thoughts raced through words he knew wouldn’t sway this young knight, nor the hard-eyed centurions behind him.

  One youth tried to dash through the cordon, but a ranker smashed a spear-butt into his face and he collapsed bonelessly. A young woman screamed and fell onto him, howling up at the soldier, ‘Get away from him, you northern bastard!’

  The ranker blanched but roared something back. Complete chaos was a heartbeat away.

  ‘Hold together,’ Ari shouted, and those around him took it literally, grabbing each other, family and friends, complete strangers, all linking arms so that no one else would fall.

  ‘Hold together,’ others called. ‘Hold together—’

  ‘Together we are strong,’ Ari shouted. ‘Together we are Tockburn.’

  Men and women around him took up the chant. ‘We are Tockburn – we are Tockburn—’

  The roar became deafening as Nestor Sulpeter screamed for silence, turning red in the face. He raised a hand and blasted kinesis into the faces of those before him – the whole crowd recoiled, but their locked arms held, for the most part, and they raged back.

  ‘Get out of Tockburn—’

  ‘—rukk off, you Corani cock—’

  ‘Piss off back north . . .’

  Kore’s Balls, the moment one of Lazar’s lot fire another shaft, there’ll be a massacre, Ari thought wildly. ‘No weapons,’ he shrilled. ‘Don’t attack, just hold together . . .’

  ‘Centurion, seize those wagons,’ Sir Nestor ordered, and one hundred men marched forward, spears high, trying to ram their way through the mass of Tockers – but they held together grimly. Ari could barely see what was happening through the constantly shifting press, but he could hear fishwives and dockers alike shouting, ‘Our children must eat—’

  Nestor tossed back his head and screamed, ‘Break them!’

  The centurion shouted, the soldiers reacted and people started going down as spear-butts were rammed into faces and chests and bellies. The soldiers hammered forward and the crowd tried in vain to scatter. A grey-haired blacksmith went down, pole-axed; the young woman clutching his arm launched herself at his assailant – and another ranker panicked and stabbed his shortsword into her chest, so hard it protruded from her back. The soldier holding the sword, seeing what he’d done, started wailing and let the weapon go. Someone scooped up the girl, then a burly fishwife wrenched out the sword and thrust it through the ranker’s chest. As he fell wordlessly, the woman took two spearheads in the chest. Similar fights were breaking out all over the square.

  Finally the crowd burst apart as those at the back started hurling themselves into the river. The pressure eased and the crowd found themselves swept inexorably along, past the wagons and down to the docks. Ari fell, tried to rise and was knocked down, then a man hauled him to his feet and wrenched him through an opening in the lines to the edge of the wharf. Ari chanced a glance back to see Sir Nestor, encased in flashing shields, was waving his sword around ineffectually while his men cleared the square of the few left standing.

  Smoke and noise filled the air. Blood splattered the stones. And hundreds were down, injured or dead, he couldn’t say.

  Ari found he was weeping – had been for some time – and he was not alone. He hugged the man who’d got him out of the square, then staggered away, his brain whirling.

  This is my fault: I encouraged them to dream . . .

  Nestor Sulpeter was leading some House Corani cheer, pumping his fist aloft as if this was some great victory.

  I hate you, Ari thought furiously, impotently. You are everything I despise.

  But he was no mage and his thoughts couldn’t kill, however much he prayed they would. The Corani soldiers stood in a ragged line facing down the slop
e, many wide-eyed in shock. A few were yelling, ‘Thieves, traitors—’ as if trying to justify their own actions, Ari sensed, but gradually they pulled apart, leaving new hatreds freshly bred to add to the centuries-old feuds already festering in the city.

  ‘We just wanted food,’ a stolid fishwife was wailing, alone on her knees a few yards before the line of men. ‘My children are hungry – we’ve nothing to eat . . .’

  Nestor Sulpeter nudged his horse through the lines of men and strutted arrogantly towards her. His lip curling, he spat, ‘You’ve never been hungry in your life, you fat cow. You’re nothing but a greedy traitor. If you truly have children, I doubt you know their fathers’ names.’ He raised his sword to those Tockers still milling about on the wharf and cried, ‘Begone, rabble.’

  A few shouted abuse back, but not many, and those who did ran as soon as they’d spoken.

  Dear Kore, strike him down, Ari prayed fervently.

  But Sir Nestor wasn’t struck down, just went right on preening and shouting encouragement to his men.

  There was an escape route now, along the bank of the Lower Bruin. Ari pulled up his cowl again and let the crowd sweep him along. He tried to find words to express his rage, but all he could see were the shocked faces of the girl who’d been stabbed and the soldier who’d killed her, the hate and fury and the stupidity of it all.

  He wept at the futility of trying to change the way the world was run. I believed in you, Lyra Vereinen – where are you?

  *

  ‘Where’s the queen?’ Rolven Sulpeter murmured, standing with Solon as the throne hall filled with courtiers, some grave, others triumphant. ‘She should be here. It looks wrong to have her absent, Milord.’

  No, it doesn’t, Solon thought. What looks wrong is me leaving that throne empty.

  ‘You know why my pet whore can’t be here,’ he whispered. ‘Find me the real queen and I’ll consider it.’

  He wasn’t going to sit in the Prince-Consort’s throne, the one Ril Endarion used, placed on the right hand of Lyra’s imperial throne. Using it is demeaning: Endarion was nothing compared to me. So, as the trumpets rang out and a herald declared the Imperial Court of the Rondian Empire to be in session, Solon boldly rose and took Lyra’s throne.