Gloriana's Masque

by Eleanor Burns

  “Liquidation, sir?” she asked, with only the faintest hint of disgust. “On a diplomatic mission? Well, I’m no foreign affairs expert, but mightn’t that make the rest of the nations think twice before letting any of our ambassadors stay the night.”

  “The Senate was hoping that we … that you might find some way to make it look as accidental as possible, or to pin it on the Brythons,” he explained, while squirming a little in his seat.

  “I’ve not specialised in that … skill area. You know that, Lord Citizen.”

  “No, but you have trained in it. Every delator has: it’s part of your basic induction. Anyway, we’ll take as long as we need to, err, ‘case the joint?’ To gather all of the information we can, if there is any; to get the measure of this Gloriana and her forces; then we’ll make our report. The Senate will evaluate it, and decide on our next step,” which does at least mean that I don’t have to give the order, thank Alyssa.

  “As you say, sir,” intoned Maradith, emotionlessly but with her eyes radiating aversion. “If that’s how you want it, it’s not for me to question.”

  Do I want it? Part of me would love to throttle her myself. I put my career on the line time and time again to win justice for her people, then she comes along and screws it all up, stealing the spotlight, pretending to be some magic cure-all for the Alvere’s grievances, and the idiots listen, and some of them even believe it. Murder is a terrible thing, but in her case …

  “What I want is irrelevant,” he snapped, giving his head a quick shake in the hope of dispelling the disturbing reflections. “The Senate will decide. But bear this in mind, Delator: this Gloriana could well turn out to be the worst thing that ever happened to the Republic, and to the Alvere. If there is any other way, of course, we’ll take it, but if not … we have a clear duty.”

  Maradith gave a curt bow of obedience, but said nothing. Not much more to be said, really. Five minutes later, the ageing steam diligence finally clattered into motion down the Linear Centralys to Wynnadunn Terminus, almost a day’s travel away, not that either of its most prominent passengers were at all eager to commence their journey.

  CHAPTER THREE – THE CONVOCATION

  A day never passed when Lord Lycon did not at some point recall his first meeting with Gloriana. It was not the sort of thing easily forgotten …

  It had been a typically poor month’s piracy for the Third Fleet, scouring the waters to the north-west of Lucinia in the hope of catching small-time smugglers from the New Arkady colonies. By taking a long northern detour these disreputable traders hoped to evade the Republican revenue officers in Cullensport, which did at least mean that when they fell foul of the Brython raiding ships, even their own people couldn’t give a damn when they were killed or enthralled. Such, sadly, was not the case with the large merchant vessels, every one of which was now accompanied by a convoy of at least two ironclad frigates. Even if one such convoy could be defeated and its rich spoils taken, it would be a short moment of glory for that crew: they would then have to live with the responsibility of having given Lucinia a pressing reason to wipe Brythenedd off the map. It might cost the Republic dearly, but if push came to shove they had the men and the might to do it.

  And what do we have? Lycon had thought, bitterly, while standing at the prow of his flagship and surveying the distant coast. Antiquated ships and weapons, to say nothing of my fellow sealords. They badly need to wake up and smell the piss in their own drawers. More than half our crews now made up of press-ganged thralls, while our young freemen and nobles sail away in droves to become mercenaries in Daevastan and Rykagerd. Who can blame them? To think I should live this long … should have outlived Marcia, just to see my people – not so long ago a byword for terror and awe – go out in such a pathetic whimper.

  At which moment he caught sight of the vessel: a small cutter with a narrow, sinuous hull of silverwood; black sails; and no identifying flag, although Lycon needed no such assistance to recognise an Alvere boat on sight. Few Lucinians were desperate or stupid enough to fish off this particular stretch of coast, but many Alvere had little other option but starve, so encountering them was common and uninteresting enough. What was interesting, however, was the fact that the boat appeared to be heading directly towards their flagship, which either suggested a blind or a suicidal pilot, or that something decidedly strange was afoot. Could be adrift, maybe? Or an old hulk packed with explosives, worse luck. Looking through his spyglass, Lycon could see several figures moving about on the cutter’s deck, although none seemed to be in a state of panic or preparing for battle, and that seemed to rule out his floating bomb theory. Ah well, a bit of mystery to liven up the day. Let’s be thankful for small mercies. By this time, the watchman had finally spotted the vessel and given the call to arms. Lycon made a mental note to have him flogged for laziness, then gave orders to have the crew of the Alvere boat searched, disarmed – if indeed they had any arms – and put in irons, with the exception of their leader.

  “Bring him to my cabin, under guard,” he ordered his first lieutenant. “I’m willing to dare hope there might be something interesting in all this.”

  Although Lycon was completely off-target in the mental image he had formed of the Alvere captain, his hopes were otherwise fully justified. His meeting turned out to be far more interesting than he had dared to imagine it would and, given his earlier gloomy reflections on the state of his nation, it was almost enough to give him faith in divine providence. Well, let’s not go that far. There may be an opportunity here, but only a fool grabs a chimera by the tail.

  “Your proposition is … intriguing, to say the least,” he said, sincerely but cautiously, to the fully cloaked and hooded figure standing at the other side of his desk. “I do feel I must raise the issue of practicalities, however. You know that we are not a resource-rich people. What makes you believe you can deliver the goods on this … ambitious scheme of yours?”

  “I didn’t say it would be cheap,” she replied, her voice slightly muffled by the concealing hood, but proud and strong nonetheless. A voice with potential. “Still, as long as you have wood and metal, and the men to work them, I can manage the details. I have the other necessary components with me, and only I have the skill to work them … not that I doubt your honour, Milord, but one can never be too careful.”

  No fool, this one. Just as well. I never enjoy having to betray people I’ve grown to like. With his elbows on the desk and a guarded half-smile playing about his lips, Lycon leaned closer, not that this improved his view of his shadowy guest.

  “I believe this might be something I could put before the Convocation,” he announced, and noticed a slight shift in the woman’s posture, as if a great tension had been relieved. “In the meantime, you and your crew will be released – under guard, of course – and will accompany us back to Blackwyk Harbour. I should warn you to be ready for a stormy crossing, especially in that little tub of yours. If you’d prefer to berth in my cabin for the duration, I don’t mind moving in with my first lieutenant. That arrangement might be a little less nauseating for you.”

  “Thank you, Milord, but unless you have spare cabins for all of us, I’d rather share the discomfort with the rest of my people.”

  “As you wish,” he replied, with heightened respect. “I’ll let you bear them the good tidings then … after one more thing, though.”

  “Milord?”

  “I don’t like making deals with faceless men, or women, come to that. Call me a paranoid old seadog, but I need to look a person in the eyes. Lower your hood, if you please.”

  “I … Milord, please,” she almost stammered, with fear in her voice for the first time. “I am … not a pleasant sight.”

  “Do I look like I scare easily?” asked Lycon, unmoved and unimpressed. Women and their damn airs. How typical, and disappointing. “So you’ve had the redpox and you’ve got a few scars. Or maybe you haven’t, but your face is on wanted posters from here to Khurassa and I could turn you in for a co
lossal bounty. Whatever the case, I need to know, and if this proposition is worth more to you than your vanity, then you’ll–”

  His words had stung, to judge from the furious way in which she suddenly grasped the hem of her cowl and yanked it back in one swift, careless motion: careless because the force of it broke the silver clasp around her neck, and along with the momentum caused the entire cloak to go slithering to the deck, which was probably not what she had intended. Still, that was … dramatic. Even without it, she was in a certain sense still fully covered, although the effect of the black silk tights that enveloped her from neck, to feet, to fingertips was frankly no more ‘decent’ than if a particularly dark shadow had fallen across her slender but shapely body. Although I daresay she’d rather it fell across her face, thought Lycon, after the few stunned seconds it took for him to overcome the distraction. Well, I certainly must look like a right callous ass.

  The left side of her face was a complete diligence wreck, there was no denying, and the black crystal eye did it no favours. Nevertheless, it was the other eye that held Lycon’s attention: a deep, reddish brown, scintillating as a ruby and even more so for the tears that moistened it, yet still proud and defiant. Almost like Marcia’s … Other than the tears, the only sign she showed of embarrassment was to clench and unclench her silk-gloved fists in anger and frustration. Aside from that she stood rigidly to attention, staring him down with that single dazzling, undefeated eye. Embarrassed in spite of himself, Lycon conceded her the victory and lowered his gaze.

  “Does this satisfy you, Milord?” she asked, her tone a little strained from emotion, but still hard and icy.

  Not really, and did you have to put it like that? To be satisfied I would have to tear off the rest of those not-very-purposeful clothes and take you right now over this desk … but this is not exactly helpful, he thought, inwardly reproaching himself. Stay focused, for Thalassa’s sake. There’s a kingdom to be won here, I can damn well taste it. Silently, he rose from his chair, walked around the desk, picked up the cloak, and draped it around his guest’s shoulders.

  “Thank you,” she said, quietly and graciously, although still with more than a hint of vexation, for which he could hardly blame her.

  “My pleasure. Can I assume your scarring is the work of the Lucinians?” he asked, his voice devoid of pity.

  “Them and their lackeys.”

  “Then let them remember it the next time you meet them.” That suggestion, he recalled, had improved her mood considerably …

  A rapping on the door of his office disturbed Lycon’s reverie, for which he was grateful. Relations with Gloriana had been more distant than usual of late, and although he had done his best to conceal it, the fact that she had shown such particular favour towards Ensign Ashbyrn had displeased him immensely. Just as well the little git didn’t know his own good fortune. Hardly a suitable match for the queen she will be. He gave the call to enter, and the door opened to admit Lieutenant Ceolwyn.

  “Milord. I came at once,” the young officer announced himself, enigmatically but with the unmistakable note of urgency. “Lord Corin has summoned the Convocation … I do not believe he meant to tell you.”

  “When and where?” asked Lycon, ably concealing his frustration under a mask of efficiency.

  “Ten minutes, at the Prince’s Lodge. He’ll be heading there now. Lord Olfrud’s there already. He’s been up there hunting since this morning.”

  Hunting for what? Lice in his bedclothes? Silly old sod. Prince Rowan’s old hunting lodge, situated on a woody slope to the east of Kadar Ydril, was as well suited for sneakily confidential meetings as it was for pursuing such hardy game as the mountains afforded, like horned centicores and snow pards. The First Sealord, however, though deft enough with bow, spear, and musket back in his prime, was currently eighty-six, with weak, rheumy eyes, and swollen, gouty legs. It’s a proud national tradition: pretending we’ve still got what it takes, thought Lycon, cynically, as he gathered up his long cloak and his ridged silver helmet, then led the way out of the office.

  They left the palace by a side door, which offered quicker access to the temporary stables the thralls had erected. The palace’s own stables had suffered a glancing shot from a pyronade, which meant that they could still be barely distinguished by the blackened stumps of their main columns. Lycon’s horse was already saddled and waiting, and he wasted no time in mounting up and riding into the town. It was a rough course – even the streets that had not been scarred by the pyronades or strewn with fallen masonry were crudely-made at best, with little in the way of paving or proper drainage – but at least no passers-by obstructed him. All of the Alvere he saw quickly stepped aside, giving him no trouble other than suspicious looks. Still, the mood in the streets was improving day by day, he thought, even if the Brythons themselves remained an unpopular presence, and Thalassa knows, we’ve never prioritised being everyone’s best mates.

  Prince Rowan, for his part, had been an even more unpopular presence except among his courtiers and mercenaries, although the latter had abandoned him quickly enough when the fires starting raining down. One of Gloriana’s first acts upon deposing him had been to break open the palace storehouses and to distribute hundreds of tons of embezzled aid supplies among the population, although the Brythons had of course taken their share of the loot. Still, it had done a lot to shift the people’s opinion in her favour, and when the Alvere priests threw their support behind her, the deal was more or less sealed. Now, as he looked around him, Lycon could see well-fed albeit mostly naked children playing energetically amongst the ruins, Alvere in their elegant if revealing attire bartering at fully-provisioned market stalls, and Gloriana’s guards mingling jovially with the populace in a way that would have been inconceivable with the cowardly, psychotic rabble Prince Rowan had preferred for his personal security.

  Yes indeed. What heroes we all are, thought Lycon, with intense derision and just a touch of sadness, as a young Alvere girl, catching sight of him, immediately dropped her carefree expression and scuttled off to hide in a gutted house. That lass is no fool. The Alvere had their queen now, but the Brythons were no liberators. They had signed up to this enterprise, maybe not with an absolutely clear picture of what they were getting out of it, but definitely with thoughts of plunder and wealth that had been nowhere near satisfied by the meagre spoils of this impoverished, mismanaged territory. Between those who were now just eager to return home and those who felt they would be better off slitting the Queen’s throat and ruling the place themselves as a raiding base, there was at least a sizeable minority who could see the merits in hanging around and playing a longer game, but that was fundamentally not the Brython way and the heat was rising all the time.

  Today could be the flash point, he thought, as he rode out of the new town gates: a primitive yet appealing structure of woven branches. The Alvere were rebuilding Kadar Ydril in traditional styles that had been suppressed under Prince Rowan’s ‘modernising’ regime, although in reality effective modernity had been limited to the palace facilities and the repeating muskets that his mercenaries had been the proud owners of. Lycon followed the main ‘road,’ in all of its dusty, gravelly glory, for about a minute before turning north, up an even narrower and steeper track. It was a treacherous ascent that meandered around crags, trees, and boulders; and crossed turbulent creeks and waterfalls via slippery, moss-covered stones, but he barely slowed his pace. I can think of worse ways to go than a broken neck, and no-one more likely to arrange them than that son-of-a-thrall Corin.

  After a few minutes, the narrow path levelled out onto a wide shelf that commanded a spectacular view of the town and the valley. A long, rustic cabin with many smaller outbuildings had been erected here. When Lycon saw the two figures emerging from the stables, he was happy to have risked his neck in his haste to arrive. Just a few minutes, and I might only have got here in time to see them signing and sealing her death warrant … The elder of the two, Lord Staakys – well into his s
ixties and with jowls to spare, but with the same shrewd and piercing eyes that had once intimidated crews and enemies alike – nodded respectfully, and gave no indication that he had not been expecting Lycon’s arrival. I somehow doubt it, but what the heck? he thought, returning the gesture. From Lord Corin, however, there were no such pleasantries. The Fourth Sealord was only forty-three: a very young age to ascend to the highest rank of the Navy, but his appointment had been highly popular, which just goes to show how much the people know. Screw democracy, Lycon mentally added.

  The Brython Navy had only started to professionalise in the last few years, after centuries of free-for-all mayhem that was simply no longer producing results. In spite of that, such modern notions as standardised uniforms, formal ranks, and systematised training even for thrall cannon-fodder made many Brythons cringe in disgust, and yearn for the old, heroic ways. To such people, Lord Corin was a breath of fresh air. Many held him to be the last great berserker his nation had produced, having famously shunned a career in the Navy to sail his dreki down the Vlacrima River in Rykagerd. There, he had spent many years plundering and terrorising the rich towns of the plain, in open defiance of local and Autokracy forces. Would that he had stayed there. He seemed to be enjoying himself … Unfortunately, he had sailed back home at exactly the time the Convocation needed to appoint a replacement for the late Lord Kymbril.

  Off the top of his head, Lycon could not have thought of a worse possible candidate, but his rational objections had been outweighed by the alluring combination of Corin’s celebrity status and the hugely substantial ‘tributes’ he was able to offer from his spoils, although Thalassa knows why we can’t call a bribe a bribe. In spite of being a sealord, Corin did not wear the grey uniform, which even Lord Staakys – a fierce enough warrior in his distant youth – now deigned to squeeze into. Instead, he dressed like the homicidal maniac he was, in loose, dun-coloured combat fatigues charmingly accessorised with animal skins, throwing axes, ammunition pouches, and miscellaneous ‘trophies’ of varying levels of gruesomeness. He had made a point of remembering that Lycon had been the only member of the Convocation who voted against his appointment, and judging from his expression as Lycon rode up to the lodge, that memory was not looking any closer to fading.