Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (64 page)

A young man in Gorgio red and black quarters climbed to the battlements and joined him. He was lean, with a lady-lure face.

‘Who are you?’ Gurvon demanded.

‘Ricardo Gorgio-Sintro,’ the young man replied, with a bow. ‘I’m the younger brother of Gabrien Gorgio-Sintro, rightful heir to Alfredo.’

‘A bastard line?’

The young man shrugged. ‘Si; Alfredo had no legitimate sons – but my brother is reducing that number every day. He has secured the safety of Portia Tolidi and her son and pledged to marry her and adopt the Dorobon heir – for their protection.’

‘And to bring the gnosis into his line,’ Gurvon observed. ‘Your brother has acted swiftly.’

‘He’s a man of action,’ young Ricardo replied smugly. ‘But there are rebels – other bastards, mostly. Alfredo, my father, was prolific.’ He smirked in a way that suggested he had inherited the characteristic.

‘What brings you to Brochena?’

‘I come to ask your aid. You have Kirkegarde stationed in the north who could render us great help. But now I hear they are to withdraw.’

‘You’ve heard correctly.’

‘But it is in your interest to support us. The other bastard lines have their own adherents. My father even has a part-Jhafi son gaining some support among the Noorie peasantry.’

Gurvon raised his eyebrows. The Gorgio disgust for dark skin was well-known. That Alfredo had screwed some Jhafi whore was in itself somewhat surprising. ‘Is there some danger of a Jhafi coup?’

‘Of course not – his Noorie bastard was by a maid, and even Jhafi will not follow one of servant stock. Emilio, his name is; he calls himself Gorgio but he is just a Noorie stronzo.’ Ricardo smirked again. ‘We’ve all been curious about Noorie purses at times, si?’

Gurvon shrugged noncommittally. ‘Why should my men back your brother?’

‘Because we’re going to win. We control the Gorgio knights and the mines; the others have the dregs.’

‘But you need our help?’

‘To speed our victory, and yours,’ Ricardo smarmed. ‘My brother will aid you against the Nesti queen, si?’

Gurvon considered, then nodded. ‘Very well, I will instruct the Kirkegarde in Hytel to provide support to your brother – but I warn you, the situation here in the south will take priority. They will be marching south in three weeks’ time, and I will expect your brother to follow them.’

Ricardo’s smile faltered. ‘But, my lord – only three weeks to secure Hytel is not enough time, and it is two hundred miles away.’

‘You rode, yes?’

‘In four days, using relay horses. But men cannot march at such a rate!’

‘It’s ten days for cavalry, twenty for footmen: that’s just over three weeks. I can relay an order instantly with the gnosis, telling my Kirkegarde to give you two weeks to force battle, but then they will march south.’

‘But that would leave us only a few to hold the north—’

‘If we fail here, Ricardo, you’ll be facing all of Javon on your own. We must unite to succeed. So you must send your men here. You can retake Hytel afterwards. There is no other option!’

Ricardo bowed, his face now sorely troubled. He began to clasp his hands together in supplication, then realised he was wasting his time. ‘Si, we will come to your aid when we can.’

Gurvon waved him away, thinking,
I’ll believe that when I see it.

24

Assassin’s Reach

Boundaries

The Gnostic Codes were written by certain mage-bureaucrats to create boundaries and curb the powers of those with more initiative and courage in the pursuit of knowledge. I contend that such boundaries are needless fetters which do not make the Empire stronger, but weaker. How many opportunities to advance the might of Rondelmar have been lost because our brightest minds are constrained by the Gnostic Codes?

E
RVYN
N
AXIUS, PAMPHLET, 884

Forensa, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia

Awwal (Martrois) 930

21
^st
month of the Moontide

If you listen, Kore will speak to you.
Rutt Sordell
had always known this. Few thought of him as religious, and he seldom spoke of his beliefs, for they might be considered heretical by some. He’d come to his particular faith after studying the universe.

The Kore that Rutt Sordell worshipped was not a rule-maker or a judge. He was a force of nature, without judgement or morality. Kore simply
was
. All souls were part of His soul, and at death all returned to Him. Kore did not care for virtue or sin; He was simply aware. If you meditated on Him, you also became aware.

This revelation had come to him over years of killing, and using his affinity for Necromancy to blur the barriers between life and death. Men died, men lived; their deeds mattered little in isolation, and few were truly remembered. Seeking the immortality that monuments or tales brought was wasted effort; neither availed you anything in the afterlife. Success was the only true legacy: imposing your shape on the world so that your deeds changed it in the way that you desired.

His desire was for Gurvon to rule Javon:
that
would be his legacy.

His melding with Drexel’s body was almost complete; his experience in subduing previous bodies was accelerating the process. And Drexel’s skills were well worth mastering – martial and gnostic skills Rutt had never used before, plus a body that knew how to fight. He’d never quite managed to break Elena’s mental resistance when he’d inhabited her body, but he’d had a lot more experience since then so he broke Drexel’s easily, quickly opening up his neural paths. He could function as Drexel and as himself, for a time at least. Best of all, he was seeing in colour and could taste again, as Drexel’s senses had not yet begun to atrophy. He’d have a little time to enjoy a fuller sensory palate, for a while.

Long enough to complete this mission . . .

And right below him was Elena Anborn, just fifty yards away, and completely oblivious . . .

Elena was practising in the training yards with her Noorie lover. Rutt watched her surreptitiously as he laboured among a group of Rimoni and Jhafi. He was plastering a wall, just another anonymous worker, but his attention was on Drexel’s former mentor . . . and thanks to Drexel’s martial skills, he could see the way she was favouring her left leg . . .

He was careful not to focus on her too hard, though. Elena had always had a sensitive mind. And the Noorie with her . . . Rutt had to force himself not to stare as gnostic sight revealed a tangled blur of shifting colours about the pair of them, as if they were one creature.
Mage and Souldrinker . . . an interesting abomination . . .

Rutt had arrived in Forensa four days ago, during the week of the waning moon, and set about blending in, which wasn’t difficult in the aftermath of battle. He’d barely had to use the gnosis at all – every willing labourer was welcomed. Simple disguise techniques, learned by drawing on Drexel’s memories, had darkened his skin and hair, leaving him looking native enough to pass muster. His story was of a Rimoni widower, a refugee from Brochena who’d stumbled into one of the refugee camps and was helping to rebuild the shattered city for three meals a day. At night he crept about, learning the shape of the Krak al-Farada, the Nesti stronghold. Elena’s wards – he recognised her touch – served to identify where his targets were. He was certain his and Drexel’s combined skills would suffice. Nowhere large was entirely secure against a skilled assassin, but confined spaces were another matter: a careful protector like Elena would be ensuring that the royal children went only to a small number of rooms that would be well-warded and guarded. He wouldn’t have long, once inside, so his strike needed to be as simple and sudden as he could contrive – the more intricate the plan, the greater the chance of failure.

It didn’t trouble him, knowing that he would not even try to escape. If he was to die, why not do it with the blood of the Nesti on his hands, knowing he had advanced Gurvon’s cause?

After Elena finished her bout and
limped
away, he returned all his attention to the task at hand and finished the plastering, then left with the Jhafi labourers, silent among the chattering men. No one took much interest in him – subtle use of the gnosis ensured that. He detached himself from the group and went into the less destroyed areas, seeking the Rimoni taverns where the guardsmen drank. All evening he watched them until he’d settled on a loner of his own, and he followed him to a brothel and waited outside until he’d finished. Then he trapped the man with mesmeric-gnosis and led him, as if supporting a drunk friend, into a ruined house near the canals.

He used Drexel’s Mesmerism to gain access to the man’s memories, and when he was certain he’d learned all he could, including the man’s distinctive mannerisms, he cut his throat. He used Drexel’s other prime affinity, morphic-gnosis, to change his own appearance; when he stood up ten minutes later, he had become Benirio, a Rimoni guard. He dressed in Benirio’s uniform, weighed down the body with stones and threw it into a blocked drain, then walked back to the palace.

Getting into the barracks was easy: men came and went constantly, coming on and off duty all the time in a haze of tiredness, drunkenness and boredom. ‘Benirio’ was off-duty until dawn, but he knew men who were routinely assigned to the royal suite. He’d pillaged Benirio’s dying mind so he knew the names of those who might speak to him; he could improvise the rest. Some luck was always required, but Rutt had the gnosis, the ultimate luck-maker.

Morphic-gnosis was hard to sustain, but he made sure they all got a good look at him as he entered, then wrapped himself quickly in a blanket, yawning ostentatiously, fielded some ribald comments about where he’d been, then pretended to sleep. It didn’t take him long to scan the minds of everyone else in the room, until he’d discovered who was part of the royal guard, and who was on duty the following night. He targeted one guard in particular, a rough-spoken man called Tello.

Rutt waited until most were asleep, then crept through the darkness and laid a hand on the man’s forehead, implanting the notion that they’d swapped duties, then crept back to his cot.

See, Elena? It’s that easy . . .

There would be additional layers of security to penetrate, of course. But they didn’t overly concern him – they would be less effective against a killer who didn’t care if he got out alive.

Which one do I target . . . Timori or Cera . . . ?

He closed his eyes to meditate on that, to listen to Kore.

*

Her name was Drus, and she hated working alone. Yes, it was an honour to be selected as poor Tarita’s replacement as Queen Cera’s maid – and yes, Queen Cera was touched by Ahm, blessed above ordinary women – but Drus loved company. A friendly ear to chatter into wasn’t so much to ask for, was it?

She’d had to be examined by Alhana, Cera’s terrifying protector, before she was permitted to enter the royal suite for the first time. That had been a strange sensation, her memories shuffling past her inner eye like a hundred dreams replaying in rapid succession, after which the blonde Rondian women had said ‘She’s harmless’ to Cera, and it was decided.

Harmless!
Drus wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Her young husband, who’d once slapped her and been struck back twice as hard, wouldn’t have agreed. They’d reached agreement after that: he could pretend he was boss and she would pretend it wasn’t otherwise.
I am not harmless . . .

She’d just finished making the queen’s bed when there was a click at the doorway and a pair of guards peered inside. One was the regular, Jerid – a creep in her view. The other she didn’t really know, a rough fellow with thin hair and a slightly brutish face. ‘Who’s he?’ she demanded of Jerid. ‘Where’s Tello?’

‘He’s Benirio,’ Jerid replied. He looked a little hazy, as if he’d been drinking.

‘Tello swapped with me,’ Benirio said. ‘Everything all right in here?’

‘Why wasn’t I told?’ Drus demanded. ‘I’m supposed to know whoever is on duty outside the Queen’s door.’ She peered past them to the open door opposite, the entrance to the king’s room, and glimpsed his nurse, Borsa, readying the boy’s bed for him. The second night-bell had sounded and Timori would be finishing his meal soon. The Queen would be later; she always had meetings in the evening, readying for the march west.

‘The serjant was supposed to tell someone,’ Benirio said with a shrug.

Useless men!
‘Guards aren’t allowed inside the rooms,’ she reminded them. ‘And remember, I’m supposed to be told in advance if the roster changes, got it?’ She waggled her finger at them. ‘Now, get outside.’

‘Sure, you’re the boss,’ Benirio sniffed. They closed the door again, leaving her alone.

Drus clicked her tongue angrily. The usual routines were all messed up since the battle. She could understand it: everything had been on the verge of collapse, and sometimes when so much was happening the little details got lost, but she believed in details. You had to, as a maid. It was the small slips that got you dismissed.

She fussed about the room until she was happy that all was spotless, then slipped outside. That damned guard – Benirio, yes? – had vanished again, and she was alone on the top-floor landing. Then she heard movement in her own room, to her right. She stiffened, then heard a grunt and her temper flashed.

If that Benirio is in my room, I’ll give him what for!

She flung open the door, and froze.

Jerid was slumped on the bed with a red flower of blood blooming at his throat, and a strange man in Benirio’s uniform was standing over him, bloodied knife in hand. Her mind refused to engage as the stranger turned and his eyes locked on hers. She tried to fight the feeling that she was being engulfed in darkness, but swiftly the only light she could see was his eyes.