Moontide 02 - The Scarlet Tides (31 page)

He ran the blade over his hand and blood flowed, more than he’d intended. The cut stung, and the sight of the blood made his knees wobble. He said the words, and she repeated them.

They clasped hands, then each kissed their own palm, wetting their lips with shared blood. She stepped close. She was much shorter than him, more than six inches. ‘You’re a big bastard, aren’t you, “brother”?’ she remarked ironically. She went up on tiptoes. ‘Bend down, damn it.’

This was the last chance to strike at her. He let it pass, kissed her cheek, leaving a bloody imprint. She returned the gesture.

‘Sealed,’ she said, with grim satisfaction. ‘Sal’Ahm, Kazim Makani.’

‘Sal’Ahm alaykum, Elena Anborn.’

*

He means it
, Elena decided.
Not happily, but he’ll hold to it.
She watched the young Keshi from the corner of her eyes as he finished his water. Her bloody lip-print was vivid on his cheek and she remembered similar marks on her own cheeks, left there by Cera Nesti.

I was true to my vow, Cera, but you weren’t.

‘There are baths below,’ she told the young Hadishah. ‘They’re clean, and I’ve had the furnaces going for an hour or two: the water should have warmed somewhat.’ He was an impressive specimen, she decided. He’d moved well during the fight in Brochena, so he was well-trained, though not in the nuances that experience brings. And though he’d shown nothing of his gnosis, she’d got the impression of considerable raw energy.

Badly trained, but potent: bastard of a half-blood, maybe?

‘Please don’t leave the complex,’ she said to his back as he stood.

He turned and faced her. ‘The name of Makani is one of honour,’ he said with offended dignity. ‘I have sworn. I will honour the spirit, not just the letter.’ He looked away, wincing as if remembering something that he took no pride in. She wondered about his background. The
temptation to rummage through his brain while he’d been in a coma had been immense, but in the end a combination of decency and pragmatism had decided the issue: alive and sane he might be useful, and if not, she could always change her mind.

‘As will I, Brother,’ she said gravely. She studied his face: thick black hair, and a beard and moustache that gave him a dangerous air. His face combined strength and natural beauty.
I bet the girls sigh over you, Kazim Makani
. She knew his physique from nursing him: a beast of a body, with muscles cording his stomach, biceps too big to encompass with both hands, and a deep, powerful chest. There was something dark inside him, though, something that was eating at him. It emerged whenever he looked reflective.

I guess you grew up being told the magi were spawn of Shaitan, and then found you’re one of us. That’d screw anyone’s head.
She could tell she offended his all sensibilities.
Hel, I’m a woman, I’m white, I’m a warrior and I’m magi. Take your pick!

‘It’s midday,’ she told him. ‘I’m going to do some exercise.’ She indicated the stove. ‘It’s your turn to cook.’

‘Men do not cook,
Sister
,’ he said, wrinkling his nose with distaste.

Amteh men: bless ’em
. ‘Sure you do,
Brother
. Better learn fast.’

*

The old garden was now overgrown with vines and wild camellia, all brown and dead at this time of the year. Here in Antiopia most things bloomed in winter. Stone bridges crossed empty ponds, the water pipes having been destroyed. The garden was open to the sky, but had no views over the plains below. She’d cleaned enough space in it that there was room to practise. She’d been both dreading and looking forward to this moment.

Okay, let’s see just how badly Sordell treated my body.

The answer, she soon learnt, was not well. It was appalling how much condition she’d lost. Within minutes she was perspiring in bucket-loads. Her tunic and trousers were soon soaked in sweat as first she jogged what should have been gentle circuits before commencing a basic weapons-drill on the central bridge.

Inside ten minutes she was almost dizzy. After fifteen she had to
stop to immerse her head in the one pond that still had some water in it. Ten minutes more and she was almost prostrate, but still she forced herself to go on: cut, thrust, spin, block. Dance forward, give ground. She’d brought practice blades here on a previous visit, but today she used her steel; she still wasn’t sure that she trusted Kazim entirely.
I’m a Shaitan-spawned jadugara. He’ll rationalise easily enough that an oath to me need not be honoured.

After an hour she stopped, utterly exhausted, and looked up. Kazim was watching her from a window above the courtyard, his face a mix of fascination and revulsion. As soon as he saw her staring, he vanished. She looked down at herself, picturing what he’d seen.

A white witch, with her clothes so wet and sticky he can practically see my nipples. Not to mention bare calves and wet arse-crack. Charming.
She shrugged.
Well, rukk him, anyway. He’ll just have to get used to me.

*

Kazim slapped the plate of boiled roots in front of the jadugara woman, and poured water. She raised a mocking eyebrow and he glared at her. He put the other plate in front of himself, spooned a mouthful between his lips, chewed.

Chod!
He spat. The roots were half-cooked and the spices he’d chosen utterly wrong. He gulped water to rinse his mouth out. He caught a half-smile on Elena’s thin lips. ‘Women cook,’ he snapped. ‘Not men.’

At least she’d bathed and now wore decent clothing – a proper salwar kameez – though the smock-dress was low-cut at the front, finishing just above her breasts. He coloured as he remembered the way Elena’s sweat-drenched clothes had clung to her body as she practised.
Not that it stirred me
, he told himself.

Elena waggled her fingers, radiating a slow wave of wet heat into the vegetables on her plate and they visibly cooked before her. Then she ate them, wincing at each mouthful but clearly too hungry to pass up even his meagre efforts. She washed it down with water and stood. ‘Luckily for both of us, it’s my turn tomorrow, Brother.’ She took her plate to the basin beside the stove and rinsed it, then left without another word.

He went without; the undercooked food tasted dreadful.
She’s the woman, she should damn well cook
. He went to bed hungry.

That night he lay awake most of the night, daring himself to run away, oath or not. Jamil and Gatoz might be looking for him. He could go to the nearest village, get his bearings, then make for Brochena. He was sure he could remember how to find the house they’d been kept in. Perhaps Sindon was still alive too. Haroun hadn’t even been with the attackers; surely he was alive somewhere in the city.

But I swore on the Kalistham …

It crossed his mind that she was a Rondian jadugara, that her own oath was worthless. But his was not. She might be a born liar, but he was not. The fact that if he ran she could probably find him in seconds also ran through his mind.

He rolled over and went to sleep, and by the time he woke up, the debate was over. He would stay.

Next morning she made Yuros-food: an oat dish with heated milk that she called ‘porrij’. It was not as bad as it looked, once sweetened with fruit. ‘Where is the milk from?’ he asked curiously.

‘There is a vat of goat-milk, preserved by spells,’ she replied as if this were commonplace.

After they ate she went back to her training, ignoring him completely. To avoid having to watch, he went off to seek somewhere away from her eyes where he could do the same. He was a Souldrinker and the killer of Antonin Meiros, so staying away from her seemed like a wise thing to do. All morning long he drove himself to train hard, and harder before collapsing into the baths.

That night he bowed to the inevitable. As she prepared the meal, he swallowed his pride and joined her beside the stove. ‘Show me, Blood-sister.’

She surprised him with a warm smile of approval.

Pontus

Rondians brag of Pallas, and Argundians of Delph. The ruins of Rym still take the breath away. The Hebb chant prayers to Hebusalim and think her a deity in her own right, though this angers the Godspeakers. But no city contains a wonder greater than Pontus, where all the world comes to stare in awe at the Leviathan Bridge rising from the sea.

O
RDO
C
OSTRUO
C
OLLEGIATE
, P
ONTUS

The damned Bridge is open only two years in twelve. For the remainder of the time Pontus is as dull and forsaken as a tavern after closing time, frequented by the odd drunken customer lolling in the spillage the rest of the patrons left before buggering off home.

M
YRON
J
EMSON
, A
RGUNDIAN, IN
J
OURNEYS
E
ASTWARDS
, 901

The Leviathan Bridge
Shaban (Augeite) 928
2
^nd
month of the Moontide

Ramon stared down the ramp which curved elegantly between two huge open sluice-gates and onto the Bridge. He sent calming emotions to his new mount, a mare he’d named Lucia, Lu for short.

Of course he didn’t believe his own bullshit: this damned Bridge was going to collapse the moment he set foot on it.

He’d been totally unprepared for how frightening it was to actually step from the earth onto manmade stone over the ravenous seas. The cliffs stood two hundred feet or more above the pounding waves, that
shattered against the land in massive clouds of spume. The ocean below was relatively calm, they were telling him, but still it pitched and heaved in troughs that could swallow a Silacian village whole. Everything was in motion except the ribbon of stone that extended from where he stood for as far as the eye could see.

Antonin Meiros’ Bridge
. A few days ago they’d learned that the old mage had been murdered, his body torn limb from limb in his own home by a vengeful mob of Hebb poor. He wouldn’t have cared, except that he knew Cym was searching for her mother, Justina Meiros, his daughter. Cym had likely been counting on Antonin Meiros to receive and use the Scytale of Corineus – so what would she do now? Was Justina even still alive?

Not my problem
, he told himself.
I can’t afford to get drawn back into that. I’ve got my own war to fight
.

He glanced at Kip, who looked ridiculous on a gelding no bigger than Lu. The Schlessen had never ridden in his life before five days ago, and his attempts to learn had not gone well. If it had not been for the legion healer he’d probably be on a stretcher heading back to Pontus already.

‘You ready?’ he asked cheerily.

Kip looked at him with mute dread and slowly shook his head.

Ramon’s eyes went to Seth Korion. The general’s son was sitting on the back of a roan khurne; its sharp, faintly curved horn erupted from its forehead. Alone of the horses it was standing placidly. It had arrived the previous day, sent by Korion’s illustrious father, apparently, and the other horses were skittish around it. Most of the other magi were green with envy, but Ramon found the creature’s intelligence unnerving.

‘Well, lads, here we are,’ Baltus Prenton exclaimed, trotting up to join them. ‘What a spectacle, eh?’

It certainly is that.
Five thousand men moved about them, bawled on by their unit commanders, as Pallacios XIII prepared to join the exodus. They would need to cover twenty-five miles a day; it was a two-week journey to the far shore. Hulkas-drawn wagons would haul most of the baggage, and they would camp on the bridge. Most of the
soldiers looked as nervy as he felt, even the veterans. Crossing the Bridge had become a rite of passage for Yuros legionaries. Today they would all join that brotherhood.

About him the other magi of the Thirteenth waited. Their Legate, Jonti Duprey, was conferring with his tribunes, who commanded the ten maniples. The tribunes were all veterans, and in the case of the Thirteenth, that meant ex-mutineers, bitter men who visibly resented the magi. The rankers didn’t show much in the way of reverence for their gnosis-wielding ‘protectors’ either, apart from their clear respect and affection for the Healer, a solemn, middle-aged Rondian woman named Lanna Jureigh. She’d been responsible for putting Kip back together after each fall. Right now she was riding alongside the chaplain, a bland mage-priest named Tyron Frand who only came alive when talking about poetry and books.

The magi had established their little cliques by now, except for the commanders, who stayed aloof. Tyron Frand and Lanna Jureigh could usually be found together, and Prenton, Ramon and Kip had teamed up, though the affable Prenton had the enviable ability to get on with anyone. Seth Korion, Renn Bondeau and Severine Tiseme clearly felt themselves above the rest; Renn and Severine were openly flirting by now. The three Andressans, Gerant, Hale and Lewen, remained taciturn and inseparable, while Coulder and Fenn spoke to no one on any topic other than gambling. At least no one was isolated. Ramon was pleased to have a friend in Kip: the Schlessen might be a gnostic lightweight, but he had a warm nature once you got past the chest-beating and posturing.

The legion’s Secundus, Rufus Marle, commander of the First Maniple as well as Duprey’s second-in-command, had a palpable scent of violence about him, and was perpetually on the verge of lashing out. He and Duprey were close, and the other magi, even Bondeau, were frightened of him. He’d been taking the magi through riding and fighting drills all week; only Lanna, Tyron and Severine, their Farseer, had been spared.

Now Duprey raised a hand, the drums rolled, the tribunes saluted and hurried to the head of their columns. Marle glared about him.
‘All right, you fannies,’ he roared, ‘let’s get moving.’

The trumpets blew, and a ragged cheer went up.

‘
Forwaaaard … MARCH!
’

Ramon lifted his eyes skywards. ‘Papa Sol, Mater Luna, watch over us.’ He dug his heels into Lu’s flanks and trotted down onto the Leviathan Bridge.

The first thing that struck him was how hollow the sound of his horse’s hoofbeats were. Then came the sense of exposure: there were no trees, no overhanging hills, nothing but the Bridge and the sea beneath him and the sky above. Within a few hundred yards it was as if the land had ceased to be. The spray from the waves beating against the cliffs cast up such a mist that the land had vanished behind them into a shapeless darkness, and the only thing clearly visible was Northpoint Tower’s beacon – and that was already frighteningly distant. When he reached down and brushed his fingers against the parapet he realised the Bridge itself was vibrating. Lu, like the other horses, was skittish, but they seemed to take comfort from the mindless plodding of the hulkas and that calm gradually spread among the men too.

The Bridge was surprisingly narrow at only forty yards wide, and once off the ramp, the shell- and mica-flecked stone was dead flat. They had studied the Bridge at the Arcanum, of course. Even though it was maintained by Earth-gnosis augmented by the giant sun-soaking crystals on the five towers, it could only withstand the pressures of the seas because it was anchored to an underwater ridge that ran from Pontus to Dhassa – and even then it could be no more than nine hundred feet from the sea floor. That was why the Bridge was above sea-level for only two years in twelve, when the tides were at their lowest. That was a damn good thing, in Ramon’s opinion, or there would be one permanent Crusade.

Overhead, gulls dipped and shrieked, and even higher, windships followed the line of the Bridge southeast. No doubt there were Pallas Air-mages manipulating the weather to aid the crossing.
Better filthy weather elsewhere than storms here
, Ramon thought thankfully.

At night, they slept in bedrolls under the vast moon which gleamed
almost bright as day. The legionaries were carefully respectful in their interactions with the magi, but Ramon felt nothing but suspicion emanating from them, especially towards those like him and Kip, from outside the empire.

On the third evening, Korion, Bondeau and Frand, the serious-faced chaplain, gathered at the parapet, peering down at the waves and occasionally firing mage-bolts at passing birds. Dozens had already been sent plummeting into the waves. Severine was laughing gaily and applauding the best shots. The rankers ignored them.

‘She is pretty, yar?’ Kip observed from his bedroll, where he was sitting uncomfortably, massaging his buttocks.

Ramon ran his eye over the young woman. She was short and curvy, with a narrow waist and a cloud of curly brown hair artfully piled about her cherubic face. She had a squealing laugh and a way of clapping her hands excitedly that looked profoundly affected to Ramon. ‘Repulsively cute.’

‘Oh, bravo!’ she exclaimed as Bondeau blasted a gull into charred feather and bone. The three men crowed and slapped each other’s back. ‘Come on, Master Frand, your turn! You’ve not hit one yet!’

‘Too much drink!’ Korion laughed, his face flushed. The high-bloods had got hold of some wine and were drinking eagerly, bored already by the endless Bridge. ‘Tyron’s drunk as a shepherd!’

Frand bowed in a wobbly way, swigged again, then took aim at a passing gull. He missed by at least ten yards, causing another gale of laughter. The chaplain abruptly reeled away from the group and sauntered in their direction. ‘Hey, you two?’ he cried, his voice slurred. ‘Do you braff?’

Ramon raised an eyebrow. ‘Do we what?’

‘Braff: shoot birds, you know?’ The chaplain raised the bottle again. ‘I’m completely lammy, you know,’ he added unnecessarily. He leant against the rails. ‘I wonder, if we all leant against this side, would we tip the Bridge over?’

‘Hey, Frand, don’t talk to those foreign shits,’ Korion called.

Bondeau swaggered towards them. ‘No, we should get to know our fellow magi,’ he said, a cruel smile lighting his face, and in a
few seconds, Ramon and Kip found themselves ringed by cold-eyed Rondians. It reminded Ramon horribly of college; he and Alaron had been in the same situation dozens of times, when Korion had been joined by Malevorn Andevarion, Francis Dorobon, Boron Funt and Gron Koll. It had invariably ended in pain and humiliation. The little area about them fell silent, the soldiers nearby eying them warily while pretending not to have noticed anything.

Bondeau stepped forward, almost within touching distance. He was nowhere near as tall as Kip, but still he eyed him disdainfully. ‘I am descended of Hanicius of the Blessed Three Hundred. What is your lineage, fellow magi? Do you even know?’

‘They probably don’t even know their fathers’ names,’ Korion put in. His bravado felt forced, as if he’d just as soon not interact with Ramon at all.

We all knew who your daddy is, Seth – but where was he when you got this job?

‘Provincial sluts don’t ask about lineage when they see a mage,’ Bondeau snickered. ‘They just spread their legs and pray for children – like that Turniphead in Coldany on the way south,’ he chortled. ‘Remember her?’

Ramon felt Kip begin to smoulder. ‘Turniphead’ was slang for Schlessen.

While Bondeau postured, Ramon carefully did nothing. He’d had his fill of bullying high-bloods. Kip was clearly finding restraint harder.
Keep calm
, he silently urged his friend.

‘Seth says you were at Turm Zauberin, runt. How could you afford that?’ Bondeau asked Ramon abruptly.

‘My familioso sent money,’ Ramon replied levelly. The word ‘familioso’ – the Rimoni family clans whose specialty was smuggling and murder – brought a slight pause to the proceedings, and Ramon began to hope they might get out of it.

Then Bondeau spat at his feet. ‘You think I give a fuck about your criminal family?’ he sneered. ‘I could wipe out your whole damned village if I wished and not take a scratch.’ He made a small gesture and the front of Ramon’s shirt bunched, as if held by an invisible
fist. Slowly he lifted him into the air. Kip grabbed his shoulder, then found himself also lifted effortlessly by the collar.

‘Shall I toss them over the edge?’ Bondeau asked Severine, whose pretty face was now tense with worry. Her eyes were on the commanders who were distracted some fifty yards away.

‘Renn, put them down,’ she said.

Instead Bondeau gestured, and Ramon found himself hurled out into empty air, the parapet now yards away and the roaring sea far below. A gasp went up amongst the soldiery as Kip followed him, the gnosis holding him fast by the front of his shirt. He was struggling uselessly.

‘Put us down,’ Ramon choked.

‘Down? You want to go swimming?’ Bondeau feigned dropping them both, then caught them again effortlessly.

‘Back on the bridge,’ Ramon gritted.
One day I’m going to be above all this, I swear it …

‘Say “please”, familioso scum,’ Bondeau called.

Kip swore, but Ramon had been bullied enough not to argue. ‘Please.’

With a flick of the finger, he found himself flung back over the rail and dropped sprawling in a heap before a line of hard-faced rankers. Bondeau didn’t even look at him. ‘Now you, Turniphead.’

Kip glowered. ‘Neyn.’

Bondeau smiled. ‘Well then … perhaps your Air-gnosis will save you? Though I rather got the impression you’re an Earth-mage, so I doubt being out there will agree with you.’ He twisted his hand, turning Kip upside down.

The girl, Severine, quickly plucked at his sleeve. ‘Renn, don’t.’ She was looking increasingly worried, although more about causing a scene than Kip’s safety.

‘He’s learnt his lesson,’ Frand slurred.

‘He hasn’t begged,’ Bondeau said stubbornly.

Suddenly Rufus Marle was there, cantering into their midst. He gestured, and Kip flew through the air and landed beside Ramon, who barely rolled aside in time. The Schlessen cracked his knee and
rolled about, wincing. Bondeau laughed gaily, then shut up as he saw the livid expression on Marle’s face.

‘I was only playing, sir – it was just a jest—’

Marle scowled. ‘Do it again and you’ll be the one going over the edge, Bondeau. Show some respect for your station, man: you are blood of the Blessed.’ He turned and glowered down at Ramon and Kip. ‘As are you two. Pick yourselves up.’ His eyes smouldered. ‘We’re marching to war. The next sign of division in our ranks will be rewarded with a thrashing.’ He spurred his horse away and clattered back to Legate Duprey’s side. The watching legionaries looked carefully away.