Moontide 02 - The Scarlet Tides (41 page)

Gul-Vlk turned to the wolf-headed shaman and growled something in his own tongue. ‘Call the Gods,’ echoed Myrlla behind her in a quick whisper, startling her.

The shaman turned and held both arms aloft. He bellowed over the masses, ‘
Slunzi i mezich, slunzi i mezich!
’

‘He calls the Sun and Moon to witness,’ Myrlla whispered as the gathered tribe repeated his words, over and over.

The voice, though oddly distorted by the wolf’s head, wasn’t Drzkir’s, Cym realised dimly.

A bright golden light grew on the eastern hillside, and from the west a white light answered. The crowds hushed. ‘The Sfera create light to call Papa-Sol and Mater-Luna,’ Myrlla whispered reverently. ‘We Sfera are the hands of the gods.’

The lights grew brighter and the clan began to sing a hymn in praise of the Sollan gods. Cym found she knew the tune, though not the words, and she sang along softly in Rimoni as tears began to run down her cheeks. Her hands clasped and unclasped almost of their own volition as an uncontrollable shiver ran down her spine.

I wonder if they will ever let me have my gnosis back?
Maybe after the fifth child in five years, when she was too bloated and weak to run even if she wanted to. She stared into the orange glow of the nearest torch and seriously considered trying to reach it, to somehow immolate herself—

Suddenly the lights on both sides of the camp went out, accompanied by a chorus of distant screams that almost immediately fell ominously silent. An almost palpable uncertainty ran through the gathering as darkness closed in. The hymn faltered, and a murmur of fear rippled among the tribesfolk like wind through barley. As one, they turned to the shaman, who stood with his arms still raised over them, but his voice was now silent. The torches began to wink out one by one and the darkness closed in. Even without her gnosis, Cym
could feel that this was not natural. She reached up and wrenched off her headdress, and her husband-to-be flinched at the sight of her face, making a sign to ward off bad luck.

I think you might have more bad luck to worry about than just seeing your bride too soon
, she thought with an exultant sense of anticipation.

Gul-Vlk hissed at the shaman, ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Myrlla translated automatically, her voice fearful.

‘THE GODS ARE NOT PLEASED!’ the shaman roared aloud, and Cym went rigid in shock.

The words were in Rondian.

Suddenly dark shapes taller than any man had a right to be emerged from the surrounding night, shrieking unearthly cries and panicking the tribesfolk.

‘Sudicki!’ someone screamed.

‘Demon!’ Myrlla gasped.

Hyr-Vlk went to grab Cym, but the shaman thrust out a hand and the Sydian warrior flew backwards off the stage and crashed to earth among his people.

Gul-Vlk started to shout for calm, but before he could finish he too was hurled into the crowd below.

The shaman’s wolf-head loomed over Cym and an excited but familiar voice said, ‘Shall we go?’

*

Alaron had never had so much fun in his life. The Sydians had been caught totally unaware. Most were unarmed, for it was bad luck to bear weapons to a marriage ceremony, so no one was shooting arrows or waving swords. A few daggers flashed, but the warriors turned out to be almost superstitiously terrified of magi and did not come close.

The pregnant woman who’d been translating for Cym backed away, holding her belly protectively, and Alaron stood back and let her go.

All around him, the lamiae poured into the camp, baring teeth and wielding spears and the gnosis. Fire blossomed in the dark, and mage-bolts blazed at any warrior foolish enough to stand his ground, but there was little resistance. The Sydian magi were low-blooded
and badly trained, with little control over their gnosis; they were no match for the lamiae. And the sheer inhuman aspect of the lamia warriors now pouring into the camp was enough to break the tribe’s fighting men before they even raised their weapons. Naugri led the attack, crowing excitedly and followed by a rush of whooping serpentmen. After years of running and hiding, they were delighted to be able to strike openly.

Fydro and Hypollo had carried
Seeker
on their shoulders and now Alaron turned to Cym, who was still shaking with cold and shock and gaping wordlessly. He threw off the wolfskin and draped it about her shivering body, then ordered, ‘Naugri, help her.’

The lamia swept Cym into his arms and slithered back to the skiff. He lowered her in gently while Alaron leapt to the tiller.

‘Have you heard from Kekropius?’ he asked.

Naugri licked his lips with his thick, reptilian tongue, then said, ‘He has your artefact.’ He looked Cym over, then bowed his head and rippled away.

Cym, still speechless, stared after him in stunned amazement.

Alaron kissed her forehead, drinking her in with his eyes. He hoped the tattoo was something that could be easily removed. His own arms and chin were merely inked, copied from a shaman they had captured earlier. ‘I can’t believe I’ve found you,’ he whispered.

She smiled bravely. ‘Neither can I – you, of all people.’ She peered at the lamiae as they crowded around, so alien a sight that she cowered against his chest, even guessing they meant her no harm. ‘Who are your new friends?’ she asked timorously.

‘Lamia – snake-people,’ he said with a grin.

She blinked. ‘Like in the Lantric myths?’

‘Constructs, made to mirror the legends. I’ll explain once we’re in the air – but right now we’d better go.’ He waved the serpent-folk back, then powered up the keel.
Seeker
lifted willingly and he turned the bow towards the south. ‘We’ve got to get back to our caves before dawn.’

They talked while they flew. Cym pressed against him as he worked the sails and tiller until she’d stopped shaking, then she edged away,
to his regret, though she continued to listen avidly, intrigued, as he explained who the lamiae were and what he’d promised them. She was moved by their plight, and Alaron was reminded that the Rimoni themselves too often found themselves fugitives in the land they had once ruled.

She quickly told him her own tale – the crash on Phaestos, the long months on the road and her ignominious capture – and he thought she sounded more vulnerable than he’d ever seen her. He couldn’t believe they’d managed to reach her exactly at the moment of her enforced marriage – it felt like fate, not coincidence. It was almost enough to make him believe in a higher power again.

But then it was his turn again, and his awful duty to report not just the death of Jeris Muhren, but the probable death of her father and his caravan. At first she didn’t seem to hear him, then she refused to believe him, until finally she howled in despair and collapsed in the bottom of the hull, screaming and wrenching at her hair, a harrowing sound that twisted Alaron’s own gut. He couldn’t leave the tiller, so all he could do was murmur weak sympathies as tears ran down his own cheeks.

Eventually she subsided, but when they landed, she stayed curled in a foetal position, refusing to speak or to move, until a group of young female lamiae crowded about her, murmuring and stroking her. To Alaron’s surprise, Cym let them take her away. He guessed it was some kind of female thing, but whatever it was, he was grateful.

*

The lamia war party arrived back just before dawn. Kekropius came straight to him, his eyes shining. ‘I am proud, Milkson. Your plan was a success, and not a single one of our people was injured. You led us well.’

Alaron felt himself blush. He’d not had a lot of praise in his life and he still found it hard to know how to react to it. ‘Thanks,’ he mumbled.

Kekropius pressed a cylindrical leather case into Alaron’s hands. ‘This is what you sought?’ he asked with a note of anxiety in his voice.

Alaron removed the cylinder cap and tipped the greatest treasure
of the empire into his hands. He’d glimpsed it only briefly in Norostein, back in Junesse, a lifetime ago. It looked the same, as far as he could tell. ‘Yes, this it,’ he said, and Kekropius beamed proudly. He turned it over in his hands disbelievingly.

‘It was right where the tattooed man said,’ Kekropius told him.

‘Well done,’ Alaron praised, and the lamiae about him hollered triumphantly. At that moment it was easy to believe that they really were all so young in years.

They were currently based in a limestone hill riddled with tunnels south of the Imperial Road. Before resting, he and Kekropius went to find Cym, to make sure she was all right. They found her staring into space in the small chamber they’d prepared for her. Alaron wasn’t sure whether she’d be in tears, but to his surprise she was sitting wrapped in a blanket, hugging her knees, pale, but otherwise calm. She looked Kekropius over curiously, but it looked like she had adapted to the reality of the lamiae with remarkable equanimity.

‘I always believed the Lantric myths were real,’ she said simply. ‘I was right.’

‘But they’re constru—’

She put a finger to his lips. ‘Real.’

Kekropius took in her words with an odd look, then bowed from the waist. ‘Lady Cymbellea, all we have is yours.’

Cym smiled slowly. ‘That, Alaron, is proper manners.’

Alaron rolled his eyes. Then he pulled out the leather cylinder. It was about a foot long, a rod of wood plated with curved bone panels onto which were etched all manner of Runic symbols. Thanks to Turm Zauberin, Alaron was familiar with some of them. Attached to one end were eight two-foot-long leather straps, each tipped with a coloured bead.

‘This is the emperor’s treasure?’ Kekropius mused. ‘A strange thing. Do you understand it?’

‘A little,’ Alaron said slowly. ‘A scytale is an encryption device – they were invented by the Rimoni legions to send coded messages. But no one uses them any more. We only learned about them at college because of this one.’ He pointed. ‘Look: they used to wrap
these cords about the rod in different configurations so you knew how to match certain letters with others. That way, so long as the sender and receiver knew the configuration, you could write a short note that would be nothing but nonsense to anyone else.’

‘Impressive,’ said Kekropius, wonderingly.

‘Not really, not once you know the secret – they were already obsolete by the time Corineus came along. I guess they were too easy to decipher. I wonder why Baramitius used one at all? It seems an odd choice.’ He twisted one end thoughtfully, just to see if it would move, then gasped as it clicked and the runes on the shaft changed. ‘Look!’ he cried, ‘these runes are only visible through holes in the outer bone shell – if you twist it, you get different runes.’ He whistled softly. ‘This isn’t so simple after all.’

Kessa slithered from a cavern and came up to him. She touched her left breast and then his lips. ‘Milkson,’ she said without any visible emotion.

Alaron’s fingers went to his lips. By Kessa’s standards, she’d practically danced a jig.

She peered at Cym curiously. ‘Your woman is well?’

‘I’m not his woman,’ Cym said quickly, to Alaron’s discomfort, but Kessa merely blinked and left again, moving with sinuous grace.

Kekropius patted Alaron’s shoulder before following, leaving the young magi alone.

Cym looked at him. ‘So, oh mighty hero, what’s a “Milkson”?’

He went utterly scarlet, stammered a few incoherent words, and fled.

It was a long time until he got to sleep. He had to ward the Scytale in case someone tried to scry it, though he was fairly sure it had its own wards. Then he had to report to the Elders. Fortunately, there was no sign of pursuit. The last lamia to leave had reported that the unconscious Sydian magi had been tied up and left on the hillside above the camp. Order had eventually been restored among the tribesfolk and they had decamped before dawn and headed north. There had been some deaths when the tribesfolk had panicked – not many, but Alaron regretted even those who had died so he could
rescue one woman from unwanted marriage. He wouldn’t hesitate to do the same again tomorrow, but it was a good reminder that in any fight, there would always be losers.

‘So, you now have your woman and this thing you sought,’ Mesuda creaked. ‘You will hold to your promise now and show us to the Promised Land?’ The other Elders leaned in, watching him closely.

Alaron bowed. ‘It will be my honour.’

I’ve got the Scytale back. I’ve rescued Cym. This is the most perfect moment of my life.

Noros

Argundians go to war for land and honour; Schlessens, for plunder and honour; Rondians, for power and honour; Rimoni, for passion and honour. Only a Noroman goes to war over contract law. They are a nation of shopkeepers and lawyers and they deserve all they will get when the Revolt is quashed.

P
HILIPPE L
’O
RLEI
, P
ALLAS
906

We are men of principle, and a principle holds true whether writ large or scrawled in a margin. Our word is our bond. If a man cannot be trusted, he is no man.

G
ENERAL
L
EROI
R
OBLER
, N
OROSTEIN
, 907

Brochena, Javon, Antiopia
Shawwal (Octen) 928
4
^th
month of the Moontide

‘How fare my king and his sister, Magister Gyle?’ the shaven-headed Jhafi asked softly. Harshal ali Assam was a Nesti man, here in Brochena in strictest secrecy: he wasn’t talking about Francis and Olivia.

Gurvon Gyle, clad in a shapeless Jhafi kirta and wearing a loose turban, glanced about the little pipe-house. The beguiling smoke coiled about the ceiling, but he was close to the only window, and a lifeline of clean air. The other man seemed immune to the stuff; he’d probably grown up smoking it. They were sharing arak and a mezze of dried fruits and roasted nuts.

‘They are both well,’ he said, equally softly. ‘She is in the keep. He is in a safe-house.’

‘Where?’

Gyle smiled. ‘I’ll need more from you before I divulge that, Harshal.’ He paused, then risked letting a secret slip. ‘Have you heard from Elena?’

Harshal’s pupils narrowed as he took that in.
So, no then. Good
. He’d assumed Elena would go straight to the Nesti, but perhaps not – as they believed that she’d sold Cera out, not the other way round, that was understandable. Letting slip that he didn’t know her whereabouts had been a shot in the dark.
And I missed
.

‘We have heard she is no longer at the palace,’ Harshal admitted. ‘Have you and she fallen out again?’

Gyle shrugged.
Let him think that
. ‘If you find her, kill her swiftly, before she persuades you of anything,’ he advised. ‘The woman has a poison tongue.’

Harshal showed no emotion. ‘Why did you ask to meet me?’

Gyle sipped his milky arak. ‘The Dorobon are better in theory than actuality,’ he remarked drily.

‘Debtors rarely enjoy the company of their creditors,’ Harshal remarked, running a hand over his smooth skull. He was an urbane man in his thirties from old Jhafi nobility, well-travelled, and with a considerable personal fortune. He was a connoisseur of wine and olive oil, and a practitioner of Ja’arathi, the milder form of Amteh. His ties to the Nesti were strong, he was well known amongst both Jhafi and Rimoni, and he walked easily among the Harkun nomads. He was a man of many talents, but his first loyalty was to the Jhafi.

‘It looks like you Javonesi have been shocked into submission by the suddenness of the Dorobon strike. No one has retaliated. Are your leaders paralysed by the threat to Cera and Timori?’

Harshal gestured noncommittally. ‘Wars take time to arrange,’ he noted. ‘But we are many, and the Dorobon remain shut in Brochena. The capital is not well blessed with resources. The people leave in their droves to avoid starving. Time is on our side.’

This was all true. The Dorobon appeared to be blind to the
possibilities. The refugee columns were growing by the day, and the Dorobon, not understanding that food in this land came from provincial strongholds like Lybis and Forensa, obviously thought letting the commoners go would weaken their enemies, burdening them with extra mouths to feed. But the refugees were no burden to the Aranio and the Nesti: they were fresh manpower.

‘How long will this unofficial truce hold?’

‘For a time,’ Harshal replied, ‘but not for ever. You must remember that we
elect
our kings here in Javon. If one falls, we will unite behind another. It is a sad truth that very soon we will have elected a new king and Timori and Cera Nesti will no longer be so important. Already we note that the Dorobon are fewer than we feared. Our scouts report only two legions. Your windships have flown away. This truce will not hold for long.’

Gyle nodded slowly, uncomfortably aware that the Javonesi understood the situation quite as well as he did. ‘Listen, Harshal, I am trying my damnedest to keep your prince and princessa alive.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the Dorobon are a disaster waiting to happen. Cera understands this place. Give the situation time. It may all unravel without the need for open battle.’ Good lies should be plausible and contain as much truth as possible – though in truth, he wasn’t sure it was a lie at all. ‘Give it time, Harshal. Tell your masters not to be hasty.’

It was Harshal’s turn to look noncommittal. ‘We hear rumours of some kind of marriage.’

‘They are true,’ Gyle confirmed. ‘I am working to arrange it, to secure Cera’s safety.’

Harshal’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Why?’

‘To secure peace. War is ruinous, man. Believe me, I’ve seen a few and I know.’

‘What does Cera say to this?’

‘She is against it, of course, but she will go through with it for the sake of Javon.’

‘And Francis?’

‘He is lukewarm, and his mother is vehemently opposed. She wants Cera and Timori executed.’

‘The people would be outraged. That would trigger the uprising.’

Gyle spread his hands and assumed his most moderate,
reasonable
visage. ‘That’s what I tell them.’

Harshal steepled his fingers. ‘Are the Dorobon to be reinforced?’

Gyle smiled and shook his head. ‘Perhaps. How long can you give me before the Jhafi abandon Cera and Timori to their fates?’

‘Maybe three months. Until year’s-end.’

Gyle contemplated that. ‘I can promise you the Dorobon will not be reinforced before then,’ he said carefully.
As far as I know they’re not to be reinforced at all. But if I can stall any uprising until I can get reinforcements of my own, I can win this game
.
Me, not Octa Dorobon, nor anyone else.
‘Hold off any action, please. Let me try to save your king and princessa.’

‘What’s in it for you?’ Harshal enquired. ‘You had King Olfuss murdered. The Nesti are not going to change their minds about you, Gurvon Gyle.’

‘Mater-Imperia Lucia ordered that strike, not me. Elena disobeyed my orders.’

Harshal cocked his head at that. ‘That is not what Elena told me.’

‘She was under orders to reveal the truth to no one,’ Gyle replied smoothly. He couldn’t tell if Harshal believed him or not; the man was too capable a player. ‘I want amnesty, not forgiveness. Lucia is looking for excuses to betray me. I’m richer than her son the emperor and I’ll happily spread it round to escape her clutches.’

He saw that Harshal remained unconvinced but attentive. The hint of money could achieve things that virtue and fidelity could not.

*

Octa Dorobon looked like a constipated toad, squatting on her throne with a look of concentrated agony on her face. Gathered about her were her adherents, the retinue of any great magi house: cousins, nieces and nephews; men and woman who’d married in, seeking advancement; favoured protégés: a gaggle of whining, complaining bitterness with the combined gnostic firepower to level a fortress.

That most of their hatred was focused at him did not trouble Gurvon Gyle, for now at least. It was not beyond possibility that Lucia had ordered his assassination, but he’d taken measures. And in the open light of day, he was careful to walk the line between ruling over them and consulting.

They were gathered in the Small Chamber, which had been Cera’s council room. The Dorobon didn’t do meetings; they sat on thrones and issued decrees they’d decided upon without consulting anyone, least of all him. But his new title meant nothing could happen without his approval. As the only way to relieve him of the title was to let Francis be crowned, and with her son becoming less controllable by the day, this was a cleft stick that was clearly driving Octa mad.

The room was now festooned with shields and busts and pennants of the Dorobon, and a cluster of thrones had been positioned at the far end. The central one was for Francis, once he’d been crowned; for now, it was Gyle’s, seated between mother and son. There was one for Olivia, but it was never used; the daughter of the house had no interest in politics. The council table was gone and there were no other chairs, leaving the advisors standing around the walls, chipping into conversations if they dared.

‘Mother, I have said that I agree with
Imperial Envoy
Gyle,’ Francis complained into the uncomfortable silence. ‘I want to be crowned under Javonesi protocols.’ So he could marry multiple wives. The boy was positively fixated with the idea of spending his nights surrounded by a bevy of beautiful, exotic women.

‘You are a mage of the Kore, Francis. You will marry Leticia de Gallia or Felice d’Aruelle, or whichever royal pure-blood that I choose for you.’ Octa’s piggy eyes went to Gyle. ‘Magister Gyle will renounce his obscene suggestion.’

Her senior advisor, Fenys Rhodium, the widower of Octa’s dead sister, stepped forward. ‘Only a priest of the Kore may marry your son, milady,’ he said. His pronouncement drew murmurs of agreement.

Gyle ignored him. His own position was strengthening as days passed. He’d made a deal with the Aranio family of Riban to bring in badly needed supplies of fresh food, making sure it was distributed in
his name. Despite Octa’s posturing, everyone here knew they needed him. Octa had used Rhodium to try to create her own spy network, but Gyle had quickly set his people onto them, killing a dozen of Octa’s greenbuds in short order. She might suspect he was behind the slaughter of her new agents, but she could prove nothing. His people had long experience in foreign lands, and Rhodium’s Pallas-bred intriguers were no match for experienced killers like himself or Mara Secordin, no matter how pure-blood they might be. And Rutt Sordell was back in a male body – a captured Dorobon agent – and was feeding them whatever misinformation Gyle thought might be
helpful
.

He turned his attention back to the matter at hand. ‘Milady, let me say it again: there are provisions in the local laws for the king to marry a multitude of women, if he so chooses. It is a way of tying an unsettled realm together. If your enemies have children in line for the throne, would they still be enemies?’ Gyle saw Francis nodding at his words. The young king-to-be saw him as a true friend now, much to his mother’s horror.

‘Doubly so,’ Octa retorted. ‘I have seen brother kill brother for less.’

‘They would have a claim to legitimacy,’ Rhodium agreed, ‘which would make them doubly dangerous.’

‘But you would have those children as hostages,’ Gyle replied evenly.

‘I will not legitimise any child born to my son outside of a Kore-sanctioned marriage,’ Octa boomed.

Francis pouted. ‘I don’t want Leticia or Felice,’ he complained. ‘They’re ugly and dull.’

‘You’ll marry who I tell you to,’ Octa told him. They glared at each other, and Gyle could almost hear the mental conversation:
I’m king – I’m your mother – whine, complain – bellow, shriek
. He suppressed a smile.

‘Lord Francis,’ Sir Terus Grandienne, the Dorobon household’s most senior knight, interrupted, ‘my men are chafing. When will you let us march on Riban?’ The attempted change of subject was quite deliberate; Sir Terus was one of Octa’s people. She despised the younger knights, Francis’ playmates, who sided with him.

Francis refused to be diverted. ‘I am the king! I want a crown!’ he pouted like a petulant twelve-year-old. The older men tried to hide their scorn while the younger clamoured their agreement. Eyes were cast about, looking for someone to blame, and most went to those kneeling patiently at the far end of the room: Francesco Perdonello and a flock of his Grey Crows, the city’s bureaucrats, laden with law texts for reference. Perdonello was the only remaining member of Cera’s old Inner Council; most had fled to Forensa or died in the north.

Perdonello coughed discreetly. ‘Majesty, until the reconstruction of the constitution to legitimise—’

Francis whirled and flashed his hand as if slapping the air, and thirty feet away, Perdonello reeled at the unseen blow. His Grey Crows cringed behind him.

‘
This
is my legitimacy!’ Francis shouted, making his periapt glow. ‘I want a crown!’

Gyle watched Perdonello pick himself up. His face was expressionless, despite the fresh welt on his cheek. The head of the Grey Crows was not a man to show emotion, even in dire straits. Ironically, Perdonello had become even more influential since the dissolution of the Inner Council: it was supposed to have put all the power into Octa’s hands, but what the Dorobon did not see, they could not control.

‘The bills are almost completed, sire,’ Perdonello said gravely, as if nothing had happened. ‘Arrangements are being made apace. Next month, sire.’

‘It’s taking too long,’ Francis complained. ‘Everything here takes too long.’

‘The Nesti burned your father’s constitution, sire,’ Perdonello explained. ‘The traditional Javon constitution requires an elected monarch. We are altering the clauses as swiftly as we can, but thought must be given to so many contingencies, and then reviewed by lawmakers before being submitted for your warrant. The process—’

‘Shut up, man! You go on and on! You bore me!’ Francis glowered about him. ‘I’m bored with everything! Damned country: there’s not even anything to hunt here!’

Octa’s mouth pursed in irritation. ‘Francis, grow up. There is more to being a king than feasts and hunts.’

Francis Dorobon clearly didn’t agree. He jabbed a finger at Perdonello. ‘Finish writing your laws this week, man. Send them to me.’ He turned and looked defiantly at his mother. ‘And retain the clauses about polygamy if you want to keep your fingers.’

Perdonello bowed awkwardly from his kneeling position as Francis flounced down from his throne.