Mage's Blood (28 page)

More restrained applause rippled about the room. Alaron wondered whether it was because people remembered Korion from the Revolt, or whether they just knew that Seth was a little prig with no backbone.
It would be nice to think it was the latter
,
if unlikely
, he admitted to himself.

Gavius fussed over Seth for a while, but his words were more hollow than those bestowed upon Malevorn and Francis. He noted that General Korion couldn’t make his own son’s graduation, due to the same need that had summoned the governor away. ‘It must be something big,’ Alaron heard someone mutter. Seth looked stiff and pale as he bowed before the Grand-Magister, receiving his gold star.

You shouldn’t have even passed, Korion
, Alaron thought grimly, remembering the boy’s breakdown at the weaponry test.
I wonder who the exalted Marshal bribed to ensure his son wasn’t failed
.

The three graduates stood alongside the throne, not looking at each other. Alaron wondered how they really got on. Egos that size always bump, his father said whenever he saw powerful men together. But Gavius was graduating Boron Funt, who was of course joining the Church. Gron Koll was next, smirking all the while as if he had just played a tremendous joke on everyone there – but none of his ‘friends’ shook his hand now that they were parting ways. He gave no sign of caring.

Gavius then called for attention. ‘Lords and Ladies, I call Alaron Mercer.’

Alaron’s heart lurched. He walked forward, feeling as if the air were turning to treacle. He saw faces turn curiously to see the next candidate, politely clapping. He bowed to the king as if in a dream and stood expectantly before Gavius, just wanting to get this over with.
Keep your head down, play it cool
. He caught his father’s eye, and he nodded encouragingly.

‘Lords and Ladies, the candidate Alaron Mercer, Mage of the Third Rank, has earned a bronze star for his efforts in the examinations.’
Phew!
He allowed himself to smile, as Gavius continued, ‘But there is another test our students must pass.’ He had adopted a sombre tone. ‘That is the test of
character
. In the case of Alaron Mercer, we have found a young man whose ill-temper, insolent bearing, atheist leanings and violent manner are ill-fitted to bear the periapt and serve the empire. We therefore withhold the periapt and declare Alaron Mercer a failed magi. He is forbidden to practise the gnosis or to bear a periapt henceforth, at the pleasure of the Crown.’

The whole crowd stared, utterly stunned. Alaron felt his knees wobble. Only the conviction that he was hallucinating kept him from falling to the floor. But Gavius looked solid and real as he drew himself up, pointed condemningly and thundered the renunciation: ‘Alaron Mercer, the Kore and the empire reject you! Get you gone from this place!’

The room was utterly silent. Every eye was upon him. No one had been failed for years, and certainly never on these sort of grounds. He felt as if the ground was gone, that he was both floating and falling, for ever hanging before all the judging eyes. Malevorn’s face was alight with pure pleasure. Francis Dorobon was beaming, his features twisted into gloating joy. Seth Korion stared at him wide-eyed, like someone who has just seen a dead man sit up.

Then his father was shouting, ‘Gavius you fat shit – you can’t do this! You show me your Charter! You show me what gives you the right! I challenge you, you bloated sot –
show me!
’ Other voices were raised, but Alaron couldn’t tell what they were saying. His ears were ringing, and the words meant nothing. He stared blankly at the fleshy face of the headmaster, and then at the confused and impotent
face of the king. Besko was grinning gleefully, pointing a finger at the door. Hands clamped onto his shoulders as sudden fury made him lunge forward, but the guards had him firmly and dragged him out of the hall into the vast emptiness of the reception hall. He saw his father being pulled along behind him, not struggling but shouting, ‘I’ll see you fired, Gavius!’

I’ve been failed. This can’t be real. This
can’t
be real
.

The guards released them at the top of the stairs. His father put his arm around Alaron’s shoulders. ‘We’re going to fight this, son, I promise you. They can’t do this – not on a
character assessment
. I’m going to take this all the way to the governor if I need to.’ He squeezed Alaron tightly.

Alaron had a sinking feeling in his stomach. The faces of the Pure floated before him, Besko’s face and Gavius’ smirk. He thought about Governor Vult, as pure-blood as they come. What would he care of an injustice done to a quarter-blood merchant’s boy?
They’ll never let me pass
.

Vann Mercer fought hard for his son, but Lucien Gavius refused to see him and the council stalled him at every turn. His own work suffered while he wasted hours trying to see council members. The Weber family disappeared from his social circle, and so did all the other magi families he knew, to his pain and surprise. He had thought many genuine friends.

Ramon had gained the minimal pass allowable, conditional upon his joining a legion in time for the Crusades and serving for four years. He stayed with Alaron almost every minute. It didn’t occur to Alaron until later that it was to ensure he didn’t harm himself, as almost every failed mage tried to do. But even Ramon couldn’t stay for ever; he needed to return to his village in Silacia, to see to his mother and arrange his affairs before his legion duties commenced.

‘I will be married before my feet touch ground,’ Ramon joked before he left, but that just reminded Alaron that the Webers had broken off negotiations. He could not even bring himself to wave goodbye.

The festival of the Birth of Corineus passed him by. His father bought presents on Alaron’s behalf, because his son didn’t have the courage to leave the house. There was no love for failed magi out there; they were easy targets for every bully in the neighbourhood, with no protection from the authorities.

When Vann Mercer finally cornered the Mayor, he was told to stop wasting council time and to desist from his harassment of city officials. He stalked out, vowing to see the governor himself when he returned from the Winter Court. But Alaron curled up into a ball beneath his rug beside the fireplace and closed his eyes. He lay there for hours and let the fire go out.

The powers of the magi come from Shaitan himself
.

T
HE
K
ALISTHAM
, H
OLY
B
OOK OF
A
MTEH

Forensa, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Octen/Noveleve 927
9–8 months until the Moontide

Elena saw Cera change day by day as responsibility was thrust upon her. She helped where she could, but there were so many new challenges, decisions and crises that Cera was forced to cope with. Borsa became a substitute mother, wiping away tears of grief and frustration and fury, and she kept Timori sheltered and happy and away from Cera when she needed to focus on the tasks at hand. She had a knack for knowing when seeing her little brother, hugging him close and reassuring him, was just what Cera needed too. That reassurance was becoming harder and harder as the silence out of Brochena stretched into weeks.

The succession laws meant Timori was legitimately king, with his
elder sisters legally regents until he turned sixteen – but laws needed swords to enforce them, and a good portion of the Nesti Army had been left in Brochena with Olfuss. In the meantime, Paolo Castellini was charged with readying the Nesti for war. He threw himself with smouldering intensity into drilling the men. He had all the archery targets painted in Gorgio colours; the soldiers liked that.

Lorenzo recovered swiftly, thanks to Elena’s healing-gnosis. She was pleased at his recovery, but worried that he saw the shared ordeal as something that bound them together. She did not let him kiss her again – though he didn’t stop trying. She didn’t quite know why she resisted, especially when she thought of Gurvon and Vedya together, but she resisted the temptation. It would be an ill use of Lorenzo’s affections.

At his request, Harshal ali-Assam became their liaison with the Jhafi. When the Rimoni families quarrelled, the Jhafi were usually happy to watch the fracas and align themselves with the winners afterwards. ‘This is different,’ he told Cera, rubbing his smooth scalp anxiously, and outlined a proposal to bring the Jhafi properly into the Nesti fold. ‘The Gorgio won’t expect that.’ The Gorgio detested the Jhafi, prizing their own ‘racial purity’ – even if that made them ineligible for the elected kingship. ‘There will be a price,’ Harshal warned. ‘If I can get you Jhafi aid, it won’t come free.’ He vanished into the desert next day, with Cera’s approval.

‘Let us learn who our friends are, if Brochena is now hostile,’ said Cera, and despatched messengers not just to Brochena but to Loctis and Baroz and even Krak di Condotiori. The couriers were hand-picked by Paolo, and Elena scryed them, following their progress gnostically until distance swallowed them. They were beaten home by a crowd of refugees, including high-ranking Nesti officials with tales of regicide and invasion. The Nesti soldiers had been surprised and overwhelmed in the small hours by a Gorgio army they’d never even suspected of being there. The survivors were chained and sent north to the Gorgio mines.

The refugees confirmed the fate of the king: Olfuss Nesti was dead, and Alfredo Gorgio was in Brochena, surrounded by his soldiers and
supporters. He had told the court that Cera and Timori were also dead, and that news had paralysed the people. Fear kept the peace, for now, and the presence of Gurvon Gyle, Rutt Sordell and other magi he’d brought in reinforced that fear.

Solinde was alive, to their relief, though the traders told her the princessa was aligning herself publicly to the new regime. ‘She is whoring herself to the Gorgio,’ they muttered darkly, telling tales of Solinde dancing with Fernando Tolidi at court, and the handsome Gorgio knight emerging from her bedroom every morning.

Elena tried to reassure Cera. ‘There are dozens of ways the gnosis can be used to seduce someone, Cera. You must believe in her.’ She could see Cera’s faith in her sister wavering. Solinde was legally a regent too; the Gorgio could use her to give their presence the semblance of legitimacy.

Cera created a new Regency Council. Elena was appointed to it, as were Paolo and Harshal ali-Assam, and Lorenzo, Cera’s newly appointed chief of her personal guard. They met in the meeting room of Krak di Faradi, though the noise of reconstruction after Samir’s rampage was audible through the walls. Elena and Cera let the men settle first before entering. Elena’s cheeks were smeared with two bloody lip-prints, which drew first curious and then understanding eyes from those already present.

Several Nesti nobles who had escaped Brochena after the coup were also there: Pita Rosco, the balding and cheery Master of the Purse; sour-faced Luigi Ginovisi, the Master of Revenues, a counter-point to Rosco’s optimism; Comte Piero Inveglio, a well-moneyed merchant-prince with wide experience and sound judgement, and Seir Luca Conti, a grizzled knight, representing the landed nobles. He’d brought many of the Nesti men-at-arms safe out of Brochena with him. Signor Ivan Prato, a young intellectual Sollan drui, sat opposite the suspicious and pricklish Godspeaker Acmed al-Istan. They were still hoping to hear from other Jhafi, from Riban and Lybis, but that would depend on Harshal, who had just returned, looking tired but satisfied.

The Amteh had a ceremony, used for public meetings when Jhafi women were present: the Mantra of Family. By naming all present
as family before Ahm, the women were allowed to bare their faces. Cera gestured to Scriptualist Acmed, who spoke the words in Jhafi and Rimoni, then Elena and Cera lowered their cowls and Cera brought them to order.

‘My lords, you have all heard the news: my father is dead and his head has been placed on a pike on the walls of Brochena Palace.’ Her voice quivered with outrage. ‘Alfredo Gorgio has come south with his soldiers and occupied the city. Half our soldiers were slain or made captive. There are hundreds of new widows, and I hear the wailing of the women day and night. My sister has become the plaything of Fernando Tolidi. If he marries her, Tolidi could claim to be rightful regent.’

Comte Inveglio leaned forward. ‘Permit me, Princessa: were you yourself to wed, even such a union as proposed by the Tolidi to Solinde becomes irrelevant.’ Inveglio had a young and eligible son. ‘Your husband would be Pater-Familia, and therefore regent, until Timori is of age. If she weds, then so too should you.’ A graceful gesture encompassed those about the table. ‘
Simplicio!
’

‘I assume you would propose one of your sons, Piero?’ remarked Luigi Ginovisi, provoking a storm of comments from all sides.

Cera raised a hand and tried to get silence, but got none until she slapped the table.

‘Gentlemen! You can disagree all you like, but I will have quiet, as my father would!’ She glared, and the men mumbled sheepish apologies. ‘“Do not marry or war in haste”,’ she quoted. ‘So said my father, and so say I. I do not need to wed: I am Solinde’s elder, and she is not yet of age. Without my approval her marriage is illegal. And since Alfredo Gorgio is telling the people that the real Cera and Timori Nesti are dead, that we are imposters, even if I did marry, it wouldn’t sway anyone.’

Everyone acknowledged the truth of her point.

‘What we need to do is retake Brochena. There are Gorgio in the Royal Palace, and that is a gauntlet thrown in our faces.
That
is what concerns me: my father cut down the Dorobon banner six years ago! Do you want to see it raised again?’