Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (63 page)

‘Good luck,’ she offered.

‘Thank you.’ Elena stood and bowed stiffly, clearly wanting to bring this discussion to an end. ‘Good night, Cera.’

After she was gone, Cera sat alone a while, then went to change for the evening’s court. She stayed with Timori through the evening meal; he needed the experience of speaking with older, more experienced men. After she’d put him to bed, she visited Tarita again, reading a tale from
The
Book of Before
, a collection of folktales from northern Ahmedhassa, filled with afreet and djinn and princesses with magical powers. The girl listened with big moist eyes, and fell asleep halfway through, but Cera kept reading anyway, finding some kind of release from the day’s stresses in the familiar words.

Poor Tarita slept three-quarters of the day, the healer-nurses said.
Perhaps death would have been kinder . . .

The fourth night-bell had rung by the time she got back to her rooms and changed into her nightdress, but instead of getting into bed, she lit the lamp on her desk and went back to the ever-present paperwork that was her burden and her release.

Brochena, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia

Awwal (Martrois) 930

21
^st
month of the Moontide

Gurvon Gyle prowled the upper storey of Brochena Palace, the only person on the whole floor. He’d taken the royal suite, the very bed where Francis Dorobon had been murdered. He’d publically blamed that murder on Cera Nesti, which was feeling like an error now: the credit for that death far outweighed the truth of her sexual deviancy. The Jhafi of Forensa had greeted her return with reverence, and during the defence of her city she’d been an inspirational figure, by all reports. Increasingly, she was beginning to feel like his most dangerous enemy.

And my most vulnerable one.

He wandered into the guest suite where he’d installed a map-table and examined the tabula pieces he’d placed there: a visual reminder of how things stood. In western Javon there were six legions of Rondian rankers, fully supported by their battle-magi, with four warbirds and a dozen skiffs – thirty thousand men. Plus he had at least ten thousand surviving Harkun. His forces were the white pieces, of course.

A cluster of black tabula pieces were gathered on the right-hand side of the map: the Javonesi armies. An estimated twenty thousand Rimoni and twice that of Jhafi, feudal soldiery of their nobility. Sixty thousand men, perhaps – but the truth was, he had no real idea. In Forensa the ordinary citizens had fought like lions, but he doubted they would be a factor away from their home city.

He stroked the white pieces, calculating. The situation wasn’t as rosy as these pieces inferred either: Hans Frikter’s Argundian legion was wrecked, less than a third-strength, with broken morale, barely a fighting force at all. The Dorobon were not quite so badly damaged, but they were certainly weakened. The Kirkegarde were in fair shape, but only Endus Rykjard and Staria Canestos had intact legions
.

He moved Rykjard’s piece closer to Brochena, then fingered the two pieces representing Staria and her people stationed at the Rift: the ten thousand under her command.
What’s she up to?
he wondered.
For three weeks all he’d had were delays and excuses. The paths beneath the Forts had been sabotaged by Elena, apparently, so they could not reinforce the Harkun as required. He’d talked to Staria through the relay-staves and she’d played it down.
She’s stalling; I can feel it. But she’s over there and I’m here and the Nesti forces lie between us.

He clenched his fists, staring at the map.

I lost her when I brought in the Harkun. She’s trying to stay neutral now, and side with the winner, whoever that will be – she’ll probably have made overtures to Elena as well . . .
The galling thing was, there was damn all he could do about it from here. He’d happily have sent the Harkun to assail the forts, but he doubted they’d succeed, and anyway, he needed them to protect Brochena.

I need to change the game, before it turns against me even more . . .

It had occurred to him that he’d not been playing to his strengths of late. Open warfare was all very well, but his specialty had always been in more shadowy manoeuvres. Rutt had been reminding him of that; he’d even proposed a plan . . . one he’d been reluctant to initiate, but this news of Staria was tipping his hand. And as Rutt had pointed out, his plan had only a short window of opportunity.

Before I lose Rutt too . . . for other reasons.

He closed his eyes and sent a call.

Inside a minute the men he’d summoned had ghosted into his map-room, carefully avoiding getting too close to each other.

‘Boss?’ Rutt Sordell asked deferentially, eyeing Mayten Drexel coldly. The younger man had been Elena’s apprentice for a year and had habitually taken her side during her frequent clashes with Rutt.

‘Sit, both you.’ He indicated the decanter of Jhafi arak. Rutt shook his head – he didn’t like Antiopian liquor – but Gurvon knew Drexel had acquired a taste for it.

Mayten Drexel moved like what he was: an assassin – Elena’s understudy once, but he’d been operating independently in Yuros ever since Elena had been assigned to Javon in 924. He was barely memorable, with thinning red hair, a patchy beard and pockmarked cheeks, a man of slight build, and easily ignored – no bad thing for a killer. His affinities were ideal for his role: Animagery and Morphism, Fire- and Air-gnosis, perfect for disguise and vicious strikes. So far he’d not failed on a mission, and in the short time he’d been in Javon, he’d adapted quickly. Gurvon had introduced him to his own underground contacts, bequeathing him most of his spies – he’d realised he couldn’t be his own spymaster and still rule effectively. He needed to delegate, and for now, Drexel appeared to be both competent and trustworthy.

For now.
They all betray me in the end, except Rutt, who hasn’t the imagination.

‘Mayten, do you think you could get into Forensa and reach the Nesti children?’

‘Of course – but there will be guards crawling all over the Nesti palace, and Elena will be right beside them.’ Drexel’s voice hinted at uncertainty over taking on his former mentor – but it also betrayed his eagerness to try.

‘Perhaps, but you’ve gone into tighter holes, and got out again too. We’ve been focusing too much on the strategic situation, and losing touch with what got us here in the first place: good old-fashioned political murder. Before the Dorobon came, the Rimoni here were rivals – they might have had a democratic kingship, but they never had any deep love for one another. Remove their rallying points – Timori and Cera Nesti – and their alliance will fracture. When men like Stefan di Aranio realise that we can reach out and kill anyone we like, he’ll distance himself, and the rest will seek to make peace. We don’t have to rely on actual battle to achieve our aims.’

Gurvon saw Drexel smile grimly; this was why he’d joined the Grey Foxes in the first place: for the chance to indulge his addiction to killing. He was competent enough in open battle, but that was a waste of his real value.

‘When do I leave?’

‘Get some sleep first. Leave tomorrow. I want Timori dead before the Nesti march. Then we’ll see how firm their alliance holds.’

Drexel stroked the old silver Kore medallion he wore about his neck. ‘I have a skiff: I’ll be ready at sunrise. Who else would you like me to kill while I’m there?’

‘Anyone of value,’ Gurvon said, ‘but don’t jeopardise the chance to strike at the Nesti children by getting too ambitious.’
He wants to kill Elena . . . he’s always wanted to, just to show her who’s best.

‘I won’t let you down.’

Of course you won’t . . . not after tonight . . .
‘By the way,’ he said, as if in afterthought, ‘I’ve had Rutt here working on a special weapon which will be of some help to you. Ready your skiff, then report to Rutt’s laboratory in two hours’ time.’

‘Of course.’ Drexel looked sceptical; he clearly didn’t feel Rutt could add anything of value, but accepted the order stiffly. He half-bowed in thanks to Gurvon, then hurried out, closing the door behind him.

Gurvon turned to Rutt. ‘Are you sure he can’t do this on his own?’

The Argundian shook his head. ‘His chances are very low. He’d get close, but Elena knows his gnostic touch, and mine too. Something different is required; and my plan provides that. And we both know he’s ambitious; his instincts for self-preservation will tell him he can’t get out alive, which means he’ll under-commit to going in. He can’t do it otherwise; I’m certain.’

‘Then you still mean to go through with your plan?’

Rutt nodded gravely. ‘Gurvon, you know what I am now: a Death Scarab – a beetle living inside another man’s brain. Even using a pure-blood’s body isn’t sustainable for long – the scarab’s very presence rots the brain. I can’t survive indefinitely. But it’s more than that . . . I’m
sick
of this existence – my perceptions are dimmed, taste and sound and all other sensations. I’m
diminished
 . . . and I hate it.’

Gurvon scowled. He had always relied heavily on Rutt, even if the Argundian was devoid of personality. Planning for a future without him was disorienting. ‘I really wish you didn’t feel this way,’ he said, completely honestly.

‘It is what it is. Most men would have died when Elena collapsed that tower with me in it. I’m grateful to have been able to aid you despite that, but my time is nearly over. If I can take down Elena, and the Nesti too, then it will be a worthy sacrifice.’

A sacrifice . . . How on Urte did I engender this much loyalty in him?
Gurvon wondered.
Though I suppose he is a born Number Two; he would have always latched onto someone more decisive than himself.

‘Then do what must be done, and good luck.’

*

Rutt Sordell was already waiting in his laboratory when Mayten Drexel walked in. Rutt poured a brandy each, and they toasted each other watchfully, though Drexel was careful to make sure Rutt drank first before he gulped down his own shot greedily; brandy had always been his favourite tipple.

‘So,’ he asked, ‘what’s the plan? Where’s this secret weapon? What is it?’

Rutt tapped his own chest. ‘It’s me.’

Drexel looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean.’

Rutt didn’t reply, just held the other man’s eye, keeping his face expressionless despite what was happening inside his body.

The poison struck them both at the same time.

It was a venom, a fast-acting one, the strong taste disguised by the brandy that contained a pain-agent that would scramble all thought but leave no lasting damage. It wasn’t fatal, but would paralyse for about an hour.

They both clutched their throats, but for Rutt the feeling was muted by the distance between this body and his intellect housed in the scarab. For Drexel there was no such buffer; he went down in agony. They staggered apart, then collapsed. Drexel tried to scream, tried to fight the venom, but he hadn’t the affinities.

Nor did Rutt, but then, he didn’t need to fight; he had prepared another option.

They were both on the floor when he detached his awareness from the mind of his host body; through the eyes of the scarab he saw Drexel’s own eyes grow huge in horror as he saw what emerged from Rutt’s mouth, drop from his face to the floor . . .

. . . and crawl across the stone towards him.

An hour later, the venom quite dissipated, Rutt sat up and began to explore his new body and the mind it housed and engage with all the fresh options it gave him.

One final mission for Gurvon, inside the body of Mayten Drexel: a sacrifice to ensure that his mentor, his master – his friend – would be victorious.

He didn’t spare even a glance for the other body on the floor . . . it had never been his own anyway.

*

The next evening, Gurvon raised a hand in farewell as he watched the skiff rise into the dusk from the battlements and peel away towards the east, towards Forensa. Rutt Sordell had been his most loyal and reliable colleague for more than two decades – he’d saved his life more than once – and yet he was almost instantly forgettable. And in a different body . . . well, it was difficult to think of the man who’d just left as Rutt at all.

Nevertheless, Rutt-in-Drexel had almost wept as he hugged Gurvon goodbye, possibly the first time in his life he’d ever done such a thing. It had been oddly touching.

As the skiff passed out of sight, a frightened young Dorobon page approached. ‘My lord,’ he squeaked.

‘What is it?’

‘My Lord, a man from Hytel has arrived – he says he is a son of Alfredo Gorgio.’

The late Alfredo . . . one of his bastards, no doubt
. ‘Ah. Bring him to me here.’

Gurvon had decided to abandon the Gorgio stronghold in the north to his allies: the Kirkegarde garrison was largely wasted there, and the Gorgio could be counted upon to support his rule, for they had tied their star to Rondelmar decades ago. He’d been keeping one eye on the power struggle that’d been going on among the Gorgio at Hytel for the past few months as Alfredo Gorgio’s bastards fought for pre-eminence. One of Alfredo Gorgio’s several illegitimate sons had seized Portia Tolidi and her Dorobon son and was claiming to be acting as the child’s regent until he was old enough to claim his throne: as king of all Javon.

Like Hel that’s going to happen.

Gurvon pictured Portia Tolidi, a vision of feminine perfection, her slender and exquisitely proportioned body and porcelain-skinned face framed by a curtain of radiant golden-red curls. Francis Dorobon had been besotted with her, never knowing that Portia had been bedding her sister-wife behind the young king’s back. Gurvon presumed that only he and Cera and Portia now knew that. And her child was indeed the Dorobon heir, by Imperial calculations.

But not my calculations.