Moontide 02 - The Scarlet Tides (34 page)

‘It’ll take time,’ he warned.

‘But it will be worth it, I deem,’ Kekropius replied. ‘We are all tired. This is a good place to rest and regain our strength.

So Alaron and the lamiae spent Septinon on Phaestos, hunting, fishing and repairing the skiff. It was a community project; to Alaron’s amazement, everyone wanted to contribute, and show off their burgeoning skills. The more Arcanum training he passed on, the more they learnt, and they used his skiff as a means to compete, as well as to give something back. Raw materials were plentiful, and so was their enthusiasm. Wards of all sorts were worked into the timber. They added a bowsprit with a snake-haired head that could twist and turn like a real snake and spat fire or lightning at the pilot’s command, using the gnosis reservoir in the hull. They made new sails with animal hides, and bound them with spells he taught them to prevent them shredding, and to catch the air better.

The repairs all hinged on the keel though: unless it could be re-bonded as good as new, the Air-gnosis needed to lift the craft would not be trapped, and it would be unable to stay aloft. Anyone with sylvan-gnosis worked on it constantly, regrowing the broken timber into a whole. Alaron watched the snake-creatures chant over it day and night for weeks, and it gradually fused again.

Those who didn’t aid the repairs scoured the island, but there were few other signs of Cym’s passing; just a couple of camping sites that might have been hers near the northern coast. It was tempting to
stay here – indeed, some suggested it – but it wasn’t safe; windships passed overhead most days, and Imperial couriers riding winged constructs too. So they worked and rested and readied themselves for the journey onwards.

All Alaron had to do was direct their efforts. It was strange to be in charge of something, to have these people taking his orders and listening attentively to his advice, but he was the only trained mage, so he had to step forward. Though his knowledge of many Studies was limited, he soon found that if he could explain the theory of a spell to them, they could invariably work out how to make it real.

When his skiff was finally ready, the lamiae celebrated with a feast of fish and birds held in the lee of the volcano slopes. They danced their eerie, snaky dances and played alien, strangely haunting flute music. Alaron flew the skiff about the glade to demonstrate, and they all shrilled out cries of triumph. He managed to avoid crashing into any buildings too, he noted wryly to himself.

‘What is its name?’ Kekropius asked him after he landed.

Alaron blinked. He’d never named the craft, as it had been built to sell. His first instinct was to call it after Cym, but he suspected that would annoy her. ‘Seeker,’ he said, eventually.

‘A good name,’ he said. Next morning, the name was emblazoned on the stern.

They left Phaestos near the end of Septinon, as the moon waned. Alaron flew and his companions swam. He sensed some worry among the lamiae, that he might fly off on his own, but he owed them. They hit the coast of Verelon near the falls of the powerful Maeglin River, west of Cypinos during the Darkmoon. Sometimes they saw scavenger folk, but not many; the cliffs on this side of the Gulf of Silium did not have the same tidelands as the western shore. The greater risk was the Imperial road, which at times passed within a few miles of the coast, but they were careful.

Alaron stayed close to the lamiae and flew only at night. During the day, when not sleeping, he would continue scrying. Ildena grew more and more proficient and more confident. Fydro lost some of his wariness after he got her with child, and as her belly bulged, it took
away some of her delicate grace. The lamiae’s gestation was rapid, and he was vaguely horrified to realise that they gave birth to proto-eggs, though the eggs remained outside the body for only a few days, allowing the newborn to form properly outside the confines of the womb before breaking free.

But that was all still to come for Ildena, who continued to scry with him. They made some progress, beginning to pick up vague traces that teased him back to a conviction that Cym was alive after all, just out of reach. Scrying the Scytale gave him nothing: he’d barely seen it, and it was probably heavily warded. But as hope grew, his main war was with loneliness. He missed Ramon and Cym and sometimes daydreamed of Anise, the way her lips had tasted, but she was a vague memory and he struggled to recollect her face.

The new moon of Octen rose as they skirted the islands east of Thantis, the last major city in Verelon before the South Sydian plains. Without Alaron to slow them down the lamiae moved swiftly, and they had traversed Verelon swiftly, covering more than a thousand miles in two months.
Seeker
proved fast and resilient; with its armoury of spells woven into it, it felt like he was flying a tiny warbird. Ramon would have drooled over it.

The breakthrough came as the full moon rose on what was becoming an increasingly rare clear night. The days were shortening, autumn hues were tinting the leaves and the wind was increasingly from the colder north. Alaron was scrying with three lamiae whilst the clan breakfasted at sunset, before the day’s travel. Ildena was glowing with pride: she had reached the point where she could scry the ways ahead and help them avoid danger. Two other females, fierce Nia and sharp-tongued Vyressa, jealous of Ildena, had demanded the same training. No one questioned why he was seeking this girl, but ‘Cymbellea and Alaron’ had become a romantic tale for the fireside and they were willing helpers.

Working together, holding Aggi between them, their scrying range was enhanced. They sent their mind’s eyes out, seeking the spirits and ghosts, the myriad eyes of the otherness that saw so much more than human eyes ever could. They noted the windships and
wagon-trains and cavalry patrols that were near, and guided the clan by ways unseen. They mapped paths to pass the coastal farms and scavenger villages. They saw the campfires of the Sydian horse clans, bringing the new yearlings to the cavalry buyers near the Imperial Road.

And one night they found her.

Black hair framed a finely chiselled face. Dancing eyes were wistful as she sat beside a fire, whittling at a piece of wood, carving it into a doll just like the one they held. Alaron’s heart almost burst with wonder, and his eyes welled up. The lamiae women shrieked, ‘It is her!’

Alaron’s eyes were still upon the tiny image in the water. She was wrapped in wards, but they were not well-set. He found a gap and sent a single word into her mind.

Her eyes jerked about, her expression going from panic to hope.

The connection snapped. But it didn’t matter. She was alive, and he knew where she was.

*

‘
Got her,
’ Boron Funt beamed. He reached for a sweetbread.

Malevorn stared. It had been weeks, and he’d almost given up. Their room was strewn with food and drink. The rest of the Fist were dining in the main hall, and outside the venators were swarming about two steer carcases like a flock of gulls. ‘You’ve found the gypsy girl?’

Boron stabbed a greasy finger at the map. ‘Somewhere here, northeast of Thantis, near the coast.’ He swallowed noisily. ‘Mercer has found her: it was his scrying that led me to her. I was able to lock onto his scrying and follow what he saw.’

‘Kore’s Blood, we’re hundreds of miles away! Do you have a fix on Mercer?’

Boron shook his head. ‘I don’t know, exactly. You can’t follow a competent scryer back to their position, and it appears he’s somehow become vaguely proficient. She was shielded too, but the spell locking her down was poor, otherwise neither Mercer
or I would have found her.’ He frowned. ‘Mercer’s search was surprisingly strong. There were other presences, with strange mental signatures. He has help.’

‘I have to hand it to you, my friend,’ Malevorn said with grudging respect. It was easy to forget that beneath the gross exterior, Boron Funt was no fool. ‘We couldn’t have done it without you.’

It was true. Boron might not be able to walk one hundred paces without losing his breath, but he could work with his mind for hours on end. He’d been hunting the aether for weeks. A skilled mage could follow the mental traces of any other magi in his range, and Funt was undoubtedly skilled. Most magi in the empire had gone east, so if someone was out here scrying, Funt reasoned it was probably Mercer. It’d taken time, but he’d come though.

Malevorn peered at the map. ‘She’s more than a thousand miles away,’ he breathed. The windship could make around twenty miles an hour with good winds, so two days’ travel to where Boron had made the connection. Malevorn patted Funt on the shoulder. ‘Well done, my friend. I’ll go and tell the Crozier.’

He found Adamus in his office, speaking in a low voice to beautiful Virgina. When he went to leave again, Adamus waved him inside. ‘Later,’ he told Virgina. She wouldn’t meet Malevorn’s eyes as she left, leaving Malevorn wondering exactly what he’d interrupted.

The Crozier regarded him with hooded eyes. ‘So, my young Acolyte,’ he said into the ensuing silence.

Malevorn found his voice. ‘Your Worship, Boron has found the girl Mercer is hunting.’

Adamus came alive. ‘He has? Excellent! Tell me.’

Malevorn reported as swiftly as he could, his words running together as the eagerness took over. When he was done, Adamus stared into space, then stabbed a finger at the chair on the other side of his desk. ‘Sit.’

Malevorn sat warily. ‘Your Worship?’

‘Master Andevarion, I like you. I think we share a dedication to the empire and an unwillingness to tolerate fools.’ He poured two cups of wine and offered one to Malevorn. ‘We must find an understanding.’

Malevorn took the cup, his mind racing. ‘What understanding, my lord?’

Adamus Crozier cocked his head. ‘Do you know what it is we seek, Malevorn?’

‘Alaron Mercer, lord.’

‘You are a warrior. Your skills do not lend themselves to conspiracy.’ The Crozier looked at him with reptilian eyes. ‘Do not lie to me again.’

Malevorn swallowed and decided that honesty was the only policy here. ‘There is an artefact involved.’

‘Do not name it.’ Adamus sipped his wine, then smiled. ‘Good, we understand each other. He who finds this thing has the opportunity to become great, but that requires knowledge. The artefact is a key; it is not the treasure. Those able to make full use of this thing are few, and clearly Mercer does not have access to such a person, for all he does is run and hide.’

Mercer is a cretin. I’m going to roast him alive.

‘Vordan knows about the artefact, but he and I do not see eye to eye. He wishes this thing to be returned to the Church, when his loyalty should be to the emperor.’

‘Commandant Vordan is a renowned warrior,’ Malevorn commented cautiously.

‘He is. But I chose the Eighteenth Fist for this mission because you and Elath Dranid know Norostein, not because I wanted to work with Lanfyr Vordan. And your Fist was selected before we realised that this Mercer boy might be crucial. It feels like fate: I sense Kore’s hand upon us. So it is important that we are allies in this matter. In my eyes you are a future Commandant, perhaps even more.’

The Crozier needs my help.
He felt a surge of pride.
But who says I couldn’t work the Scytale out myself? I can swing a sword and use the gnosis, yes; but I can also think.
‘Dranid and Vordan are skilled swordsmen and more senior than me.’

‘Indeed – Elath Dranid is the best swordsman in the Fist, I’m led to believe.’ His voice left a trailing question. ‘But I think they have peaked. You are still on the rise.’ The Crozier toasted him with his goblet. ‘When the time comes, this artefact will lead to conflict.
Vordan will want it for his faction and I for mine. Already they see you as being aligned to me.’

No doubt why you’ve been sliming around me in the first place.
‘I see.’
Sometimes you just have to pick a side
. ‘In this, my lord Crozier, I’m your man.’ He took a first sip of the wine. Brician chardo, like nectar. He smiled slowly.

Adamus lifted his wine cup. ‘Excellent. See that your friends Funt and Brother Dominic know which way the wind is blowing.’ He frowned. ‘We must get to this Alaron Mercer first.’

Theurgy: Illusion

Men surround themselves with illusions. Most find reality just too hard. Only the great are prepared to deal with what truly is.

S
ERTAIN
, A
SCENDANT MAGE AND FIRST
E
MPEROR
OF
R
ONDELMAR
, P
ALLAS
421

North Javon, Antiopia
Rami (Septinon) 928
3
^rd
month of the Moontide

‘Come in, Magister,’ boomed Octa Dorobon, and Gurvon Gyle winced at the sheer loudness of the woman.
How does she keep any secrets at all, when she is audible across half a city?
But he kept his expression composed as he entered the Dorobon suite at this latest palace on the road to Brochena. Apparently Cera had stayed here on her way north. Now she was locked in a dungeon below. Instead, Octa, her son Francis and daughter Olivia shared the main suite. All three were arrayed before him now. But they were not to whom he bowed first.

In the centre of the darkened room, the transparent image of a woman’s head and shoulders floated above a bowl of scented bubbling water, the image formed of steam, light and the gnosis. Lucia Fasterius, Mater-Imperia of Rondelmar. ‘Your Holiness,’ he greeted his patron, while his mind leapt through the implications of her gnostic presence.

‘Magister Gyle, welcome.’ Lucia greeted him with a warm smile, her image rotating to face him. Her voice echoed from the relaystaves.
‘My favourite Noroman. Again you have come through for us.’ Kind words, but at the back of her eyes lingered the memory of their last conversation, when he had brazenly demanded more money, having supposedly slain Fraxis Targon.

‘The plan worked perfectly, Holiness,’ he responded cautiously. He sat in an empty seat beside Francis Dorobon. Both son and daughter looked awestruck to be in Lucia’s ethereal presence.

‘A pleasing change,’ Lucia replied with the faint hint of sarcasm. ‘My good friends the Dorobon are now free to occupy Brochena and bring Javon to heel. You may return to Pallas and collect your many rewards.’

Ah, so that’s what this is about.

‘Would that I could in good conscience, Holiness,’ he replied, feigning regret. ‘But the job is only half-done.’

Octa Dorobon’s florid face coloured, a puce colour that in most people would signify fury but in her meant only mild irritation. ‘My people can take this from here,’ she rumbled.

Gyle leant forward, splitting his words between Octa and the phantasm of Lucia. ‘Mater-Imperia, Milady Dorobon, with utmost respect, you have ten thousand men and twenty-five magi or thereabouts. The windship flotilla has already left for Hebusalim. This is a nation of at least six million souls, and that’s not counting the Harkun nomads. Only Hytel sympathises with your cause, and militarily they are broken.’

‘So are the Nesti,’ Francis Dorobon boasted. ‘And the Jhafi.’

‘That Nesti contingent was less than half their strength. Forensa is still fortified and on its own outnumbers you. As for the Jhafi, twenty thousand men slain or scattered is but a drop in the ocean. Without windships, your men will not have the freedom of the battlefield. You cannot expect another Fishil Wadi next time you fight.’

Francis listened, pouting a little, but he didn’t interrupt or contradict.

Perhaps he isn’t entirely stupid
.

Lucia frowned. ‘I would have thought you eager to return home, Magister Gyle.’

And face your anger, with nothing to hold over you? I think not.
‘I never leave a job half-done, Holiness.’

‘I see no need for your services any longer,’ Octa belched.

He didn’t flinch as he met her gaze. ‘Then you have the logistical problems of how to bivouac your troops in Brochena managed, milady? You know where to deploy them, to deter reprisals, and whom to contact among the provincial nobility to secure truces while you settle in? You know the state of the finances and the familial ties that can be used to manipulate the noble families? You already have your agents deployed in the field, and are aware of the Harkun concentration below the Rift? And you have hostages secured to paralyse your chief rivals?’

Octa glowered at him while Francis blinked owlishly and his sister licked her lips in surprise. He saw the siblings exchange a look.
Never seen Mummy spoken back to? Welcome to the new world
.

Lucia’s voice cut across the silence. ‘Are you angling for more money, Gyle?’ she asked, the hint of whimsy in her voice making the enquiry a jest, which it most certainly wasn’t.

‘Not at all, Holiness. I merely wish to ensure that all that we have worked towards is not lost through a hasty transition.’ He faced her fully. ‘Though the delay will give you time to ship the agreed amounts to my bankers at Jusst and Holsen.’

Mater-Imperia tilted her head curiously, a half-smile brushing her lips. Once the bullion was with his bankers they would issue promissory notes redeemable by the Dorobon themselves and he would not need to return to Pallas at all. ‘You have no official status, Gyle. It will be up to Octa whether she listens to you or not.’

‘Actually your Holiness, it will be up to the king, technically,’ Gyle reminded the room. He watched Francis blink at this thought.
Yes, boy: you’re going to be given higher rank than Mummy …

‘My son is not king yet,’ Octa bellowed. ‘You’ll do what I—’

‘You said I was,’ Francis interrupted her, his voice caught between indignation, fear and daring. ‘You said so last night. “My little king”, you called me. And I’m of age.’ His sister looked like she’d just wet herself with excitement.

‘It was a term of endearment, child,’ Octa replied. ‘And you are not king until crowned.’

‘Octa darling,’ Lucia put in smoothly, her expression thoughtful, ‘in the end, we all have to let go. It is painful, but eventually our sons become men.’

‘But he is still so young,’ Octa wobbled, her knuckles white on the arms of her throne, clinging on fixedly. ‘He is barely out of the Arcanum.’

‘Transitions are painful, my dear,’ Lucia told her, ‘but nothing lasts forever. We must emerge from periods of change still bound together in love.’

Gyle wondered why this conversation was happening in front of him. Lucia did nothing on a whim.
Perhaps she’s disciplining Octa, reminding her that she might have a new kingdom to play in, but she remains her servant
.
Perhaps she already has her claws into Francis? Kore knows he’s more tractable than Octa.

Octa Dorobon bowed her head. ‘My son will be crowned as soon as it is practical.’

‘Excellent. And he must also be wed,’ Lucia told her.

‘I have several brides in mind amongst the young women of Pallas,’ Octa replied, fixing her eye on her son.

‘And do you have a favourite?’ Lucia asked, her image spinning to face Francis.

Francis ducked his head. His sister Olivia leant forward, her eyes bright. ‘Franny’s been meeting the locals,’ she chortled, then remembered herself. ‘Erm, your Holiness.’

The faint warmth on Lucia’s face drained a little. ‘Who?’ Her image floated towards Francis. ‘Who, boy?’

‘Portia Tolidi,’ Francis mumbled.

‘I see,’ Lucia said, musingly. Octa went to make an angry comment, but she cut her off. ‘Tell me of her, young Francis. Is she pretty?’

Francis glanced at Octa. ‘She is the most beautiful woman in the world,’ he replied earnestly.

‘How lovely. She is Rimoni, yes?’

‘Pure Rimoni, Ma’am,’ Francis replied eagerly, his face lit by young
lust. ‘She is of old senatorial stock among the Rimoni, and so fair-skinned she is almost white. Her hair is red-brown, like a rippling waterfall of bronze, flecked by gold as it catches the light.’

Lucia laughed. ‘You are a poet, young Francis.’ Gyle could see the brittle anger behind her amiable façade. ‘Is she willing?’

Francis blinked, his eyes going to his mother’s face. Octa scowled, as if to say,
This is your problem
. ‘Your Holiness?’

‘I asked: is she willing? Does the degenerate slut spread herself for you willingly, or do you prefer rape?’

Francis went scarlet. ‘Uh … uh … I
love
her, your Holiness.’

Olivia dissolved into giggles. Octa all but spat.

‘Of what value is this Rimoni whore?’ Lucia asked coldly. ‘Her family are broken, and I am told she is the last survivor of one of Alfredo’s cousin’s lines, with little or no influence. And far from a virgin even before you began rutting with her, I’ve no doubt.’

Francis went the same puce as his mother. ‘She is a vision of loveliness.’

‘Of course she is,’ Lucia sneered. ‘We’ve all felt that way once, boy. But your mother knows what you need, and it isn’t some Rimoni quim latching on to you. You are a Dorobon, descended of the Blessed Three Hundred. Father bastards all you like, but you will marry pure.’

Francis hung his head resentfully.

‘I thought you versed in politics, Francis,’ Lucia scolded, while Octa glowed. ‘You think to be king, but to me you are behaving like any callow boy who’s just discovered what the tool between his legs is for.’

That’s pretty much the sum of it
, Gyle thought. But it was time to rescue the young man, and win a friend. ‘With respect, Mater-Imperia, I believe that Francis has been playing his hand very well indeed.’

Lucia’s image turned to him, her face measuring. ‘How so, Magister?’

Gyle bowed to acknowledge that she had allowed him to voice a contrary opinion. ‘Holiness, Francis has known all his life that he is to rule Javon. He has studied the land from afar.’ His eyes strayed to
Francis; he was listening intently, nodding to himself as if to say, ‘Yes, this is so’. ‘Francis knows that to win hearts, he must show manliness and mastery. What better way to do so than to take the most beautiful woman in Javon to his bed? In doing so, he shows that he is willing to be a part of this land, but also that he will rule it, as he rules her. And though the Gorgio are reduced, they will recover. They have mining wealth, and many new slaves. They will rise again, and they will remember that Francis favours one of their own.’

Lucia regarded him steadily. ‘Go on.’

‘Francis knows that his love for the girl is transitory.’ He met the young man’s eyes, fixed them firmly.
Yes, boy: all love passes
. ‘But what better way to learn the arts of love than with as magnificent a creature as the Tolidi girl? He will take others to his bed also, to show mastery and favour. Great kings have many mistresses.’

‘My son will marry a Rondian mage,’ bellowed Octa.

He ignored her. ‘Francis has studied Javonesi law. He knows already that as King of Javon he may take as many wives as he likes.’
Well, he knows now.

Octa’s eyes bulged. So did Francis’, but in a different way. Olivia’s jaw flopped open.

‘It is true, Holiness,’ Gyle told Lucia. ‘This is a Rimoni and Jhafi land: under al-Shaar, the law of the Prophet, a man may take many wives. This is enshrined in the throne of Javon, as under their constitution the king is of both faiths. There are even Rimoni kings who have taken both a Rimoni and Jhafi wife.’

‘My son is here to overthrow the Javon kingship, not adopt it,’ Octa shouted, half-rising before the effort of supporting her own weight became too much and she sagged back into her throne.

‘My dear Octa is quite correct,’ Lucia said, her eyes glittering dangerously. ‘We are not going to perpetuate their pagan vices.’

‘Holiness, I would contend that were Francis to take wives from among the Javonesi as well as contenders of his mother’s choice, it would strengthen his hold on power.’

‘How so?’ Lucia asked, before the purple-faced Octa could vent her invective.

‘As I have already said, our forces here are badly outnumbered. Once the Crusade is over, Imperial ability to support this monarchy reduces even further. To establish the Dorobon here with any chance of longevity, some degree of assimilation is required. Hostages are needed to pacify the great families, and wives make excellent hostages. So do young sons as pages. Men whose heirs are hostages, but have hope of some title and influence when they are grown, are less inclined to rebel. Show a willingness to meet the ways of the people and you blunt their blades.’

He glanced sideways at Francis. He was gazing into space, his mind clearly taking in the thought of having as many wives as he wanted.
Bait taken
. He smiled inwardly.

‘To compromise is to show weakness,’ Octa snarled.

‘Not so. Compromise is a show of strength,’ Gyle countered. ‘The brittle blade breaks. Good steel bends and springs back.’

Lucia studied him, while her tongue slid about her lips. ‘You have the Nesti girl in your custody, do you not?’ she said, turning to Octa.

Octa scowled. ‘She will be executed publicly when we reach Brochena.’

‘I also hold her younger brother, the previous king-elect, Timori,’ Gyle put in.

‘And refuses to hand him over,’ Octa snarled.

Lucia released a small chuckle, showing her perfect teeth. ‘Regard this man, Octa dear. He is a snake, but a most useful one. Do you remember the old Sollan fable of Empress Delfa and her viper? The one who killed all her husband’s enemies, then turned on her when she would not give it her only child to eat? I sometimes wonder when I shall have to deal with him as Delfa dealt with her pet.’

Gyle went to one knee. ‘You know I am your servant, Holiness.’

‘Give the young king to Octa.’

‘I will surrender him,’ Gyle agreed. ‘When Francis is crowned … and has married Cera Nesti.’

‘Vermin,’ Octa snarled. ‘Lucia, allow me to have him beheaded.’

Gyle stayed on one knee, watching Lucia’s image.

The Emperor’s mother considered. ‘And no doubt have this Timori
slip through our fingers and the kingdom also?’ Her face loomed larger and floated towards Gyle. ‘Magister, I do not appreciate your manipulations.’

‘Holiness, a viper has no legs. His belly is always to the ground. He can move only by coiling and twisting. It is his nature. But he has his uses.’ He met her eyes. ‘I assure you that unless Francis can bind the Javonesi to him, with hostages and marriages, this kingdom will rise against him en masse, and he will need ten legions, not two, if his head is not to end up on a spike.’