Moontide 02 - The Scarlet Tides (44 page)

He couldn’t afford to think too much of that, though. He needed to secure himself, before Lucia sent her Inquisitors.

His final appointment that day was down a secluded alley near the lake, the smell of the salt water sharp and unpleasant. There was an old house there which had been commandeered by Endus Rykjard, the mercenary commander, a Hollenian half-blood mage. He knocked and entered quietly.

Rykjard was sitting on a shaded balcony overlooking the lake, his unruly hair bleached to straw by the sun. A little Jhafi woman clad only in a loincloth was kneeling at his feet. ‘Gurvon, my friend, this is the way to live, eh?’ The commander cupped one of the girl’s breasts and squeezed it, then said quickly in Keshi, ‘Run along, my sweet. Bring arak and water, and a mezze.’ As she scurried away, Rykjard’s eyes followed her appreciably. ‘Tiny, the women here, but they have such juicy purses. Do you have one?’ He grinned, his eyes and teeth startlingly white against his tanned skin; Hollenians tended to tan very darkly even as their hair bleached. Gyle had met him on the Second Crusade, during the sacking of a town somewhere southwest of Hebusalim. They’d cut a deal over the plunder, and stayed in touch ever since.

‘None I use regularly,’ Gyle said, sitting. He really didn’t want to discuss women. ‘How does your legion fare, Endus?’

Rykjard grunted. ‘We’re spread from the mountains south of Tigrat to the borders of Forensa, keeping up a screen against the Aranio and the Nesti.’ He spat. ‘Why doesn’t the king let us attack?’

‘He wants the plunder from Riban and Forensa for himself. And he won’t leave the capital until he feels secure.’

‘So never, then,’ Rykjard grumbled. His girl returned with a flask and two glass tumblers of arak and a jug of iced water, and a platter of nibbles, then left. Gyle added water and sipped the milky-white drink and sighed, enjoying the cool aniseed sweetness.

Rykjard watered his own drink and swilled half of it in one gulp. ‘Ten thousand men to nail down a land this large is far too few, Gurvon.’

‘The emperor deemed it enough.’

‘The emperor …’ Rykjard trailed off mockingly. ‘So, Gurvon, what did you want to see me about?’

Gyle lifted his arak, took another sip. This was the dangerous moment, the plunge into darker waters where the sharks lurked, the part of the conversation which could be used against him. ‘I wanted to run a hypothetical situation past you.’

Rykjard knew the game as well as he did. ‘Say on,’ he invited. ‘What harm can speculation do, eh?’

‘Imagine that at the end of this Crusade, the Inquisitors go from camp to camp, confiscating all the plunder in the name of Kore. They arrest any who try to withhold their loot, leaving nothing more than a paltry token to bribe the commanders. And here in Javon, the Dorobon send your legion home empty-handed.’

Rykjard scowled. ‘In other words, much the same as what happened after the Second Crusade?’

Gyle nodded. ‘Exactly.’

Rykjard pursed his lips and spat over the balcony. ‘They wouldn’t dare.’

‘Wouldn’t they?’

‘Echor commands this Crusade, and he wants the vassal-states to support him. He’ll make sure we’re paid.’

‘Echor
thinks
he’s commanding the Crusade. Do you suppose Lucia and Constant are just going to let him stroll back into Yuros in two years’ time with all the gold and all the glory? And anyway, that’s
not going to help
you
, Endus, is it? You’re stuck here on a three-year contract, no matter what happens.’

Rykjard downed the rest of his glass and poured another. ‘I’m hearing you, Gurvon.’

Gyle licked his lips. ‘How do you like it here, Endus?’

Rykjard’s eyes narrowed speculatively. ‘This place? Too hot. Filthy. Seasons are all wrong. Surrounded by heathen bastards who’ll knife you the second you turn your back.’ He chuckled. ‘Apart from that, what’s not to like?’

‘Lots of wet-pursed girls. And Rondian coin goes a long way here. The Rimoni have settled; why not your boys?’

Rykjard squinted at him. Clearly the idea had already occurred to him. ‘We’re mercenaries. We’ve no ties. We bring our women with us, or we fuck the locals. None of us own land at home – we wouldn’t know what to do if we had any.’ Whilst retiring legionaries were traditionally supposed to be allotted land, most of it ended up in the hands of the magi-nobles. ‘But it’s damned hot here.’

‘I’d rather be warmer than colder, my friend.’

‘There is something to be said for that.’ He took another sip of arak. ‘I could get used to this place. But the Dorobon intend to send us home at the end of our three years.’

‘They might not be in charge come the end of three years,’ Gyle suggested quietly.

‘Might they not?’ Rykjard mused. ‘You know, I’ve spent some time with their battle-magi. They’re all pussies. My own magi may be lesser-bloods but they’re hard as nails; they could take those high-blood cunni down easy. And my rankers are tough bastards too; they’ve been fighting border skirmishes in Argundy and Schlessen all their lives, not like these softcock Dorobon town boys. Though of course,’ Rykjard went on thoughtfully, ‘if the legions were to turn on each other, the Javonesi would be at our throats like a pack of jackals.’

‘You’re right,’ Gyle agreed. ‘Any change in ruler would have to happen fast enough that it would be over and done before the Javonesi even glimpse an opportunity. Might need some outside help for that.’

They were silent for a minute while Rykjard cogitated. ‘Adi Paavus would come if I asked,’ he said eventually. ‘Probably Hans Frikter too. And the Estellayne woman, the one who runs the Free Swords – what’s her name—?’

‘Staria Canestos,’ Gyle supplied. ‘Toughest bitch I’ve ever met, and that includes Elena!’

‘Staria, that’s right – I swear she was the origin of the vagina-dentata legend!’ Rykjard chuckled. ‘So with four legions – one here, and one each in Forensa, Hytel and Riban – we could carve this place up and rule it.’ He topped up their drinks. ‘Where is Elena, anyway?’

There was a faint possibility that Elena might have run to Rykjard when she escaped Sindon’s assassins, in which case Rykjard was toying with him – but he doubted it. In the circumstances, he opted for honesty. ‘I don’t know. We’ve had a falling-out.’

‘A shame. I always liked Elena. She called a spade a spade.’

No, you only thought she did
. ‘If you see her, let me know. I’ve a few things to settle with her. There’s money in it.’

‘Of course, my friend.’ Rykjard put the matter aside lightly. ‘So the way I see it is that the issue of the spoils won’t come up until the Moontide is well past low tide, so, what – Junesse of next year?’

‘Most likely. But there will be early signs: plunder caravans returning from the east towards the Bridge will be delayed, told they need more papers, et cetera. You know the drill: anything that ties up the goods somewhere the Imperial Guard can reach.’

Rykjard spat sourly. ‘How will I even know, stuck up here?’

‘I have eyes down there; I’ll keep you informed.’ He slapped the table and rose to his feet. ‘It’s always good to see you, Endus. Always good to talk.’

Rykjard grinned broadly and waved a hand over the arak. ‘Stay, have another drink. Let’s make a night of it.’

‘I’d love to, but sadly, I’ve got to be back in the palace for the evening banquet.’

‘Ha! Listen to the mighty Envoy.’ Rykjard stood and they shook hands. ‘Another time, Gurvon. You let me know if your hypothetical situation looks like becoming a reality, yes?’

‘I certainly will.’

As he left, he glanced down at the little bare-breasted Jhafi girl. She looked horribly young, but all the locals were short of stature and dark of skin, which made it hard to guess accurately. Her eyes were a lot older than her body, and without a hint of warmth. He wondered how her own people were treating her, now she was the property of a Rondian. Not well, he guessed.

Don’t fall asleep after rukking her, Endus; I doubt you’ll wake up.

Outside, the late afternoon heat closed in. He sighed at the thought of another endless evening of dining and acidic conversation, and then the fleshy pleasures of Olivia Dorobon’s body. Or maybe not; he was boring of pasty white skin and rolls of fat. Cera Nesti had been flirting; he was sure of it … He wondered how amenable she might be if he knocked on her door—

No, not yet. Francis will cave in and make her his queen, I am sure of it. Best she remain untouched, for now.

Instead, he took himself to the hidden chamber within the secret part of the dungeons deep below the keep where Coin lay, regrowing her body.

Pale eyes rolled to face him, catching the light as he opened the door and Coin –
Yvette
– bared her teeth, a grimace or smile, her breath hissing. ‘Where have you been?’ she asked painfully. ‘It’s been
days
.’

‘Why, Yvette, I didn’t know you cared,’ he said cheerily, lighting the lamp with a gesture, though he made sure to keep the light low. Coin’s healing-gnosis worked best in the dark – she needed no distractions while she was trying to visualise what she needed herself to be. He pasted a welcoming smile on his face and hoped she would not notice as he swallowed the rising bile.

It had taken several weeks for her to make the eyes her own and fully functioning, but the skin about them had still not yet completely bonded, making her look goggle-eyed, like a fish. On his last visit he’d brought her the skin of a young Jhafi boy fresh from the morgue slab. The boy had been an orphan, with no family, but it had still cost plenty to persuade the mortician to commit such sacrilege. In the
end, money had overcome religious scruples, as it usually did, and he’d collected the flesh flayed from the still-warm corpse and soaked it in brine to keep it supple before bringing it down here and laying it over Coin’s skeletal body.

Today the sewn seams were still puckered and weeping and the new skin was mottled, almost translucent in places, revealing the musculature and sinews beneath like some horrific biology lesson. But there was no smell of rot, so the skin graft had obviously taken, fused by Coin’s own gnosis.

‘What do you think?’ she asked coyly.

You look like a horror from a taxidermist’s nightmares
. ‘You’ve come a long way,’ he said diplomatically.

But he didn’t fool her. ‘Revolted, aren’t you?’ she said, pulling her lips into a rictus grin. ‘But I’ll be back to normal soon – maybe six weeks – and then you’ll not even be able to tell it ever happened.’ She sounded excited for once.

‘Does it still hurt?’

‘A little. But look!’ As he watched with bated breath a change crawled across her face. Painfully slowly her tangled hair lightened and her face widened until it hardened into a painfully familiar shape.

Elena
. A mutilated scar-ravaged Elena.

‘Don’t do that,’ he rasped. His belly churned.

‘I could be her for you,’ she said earnestly.

Every time he visited, Yvette offered a little more of herself, and it hadn’t taken him long to realise that no one had ever paid her this much attention, not since childhood – and perhaps not even then. Yvette was becoming his – but she wanted something in return, and he was not willing to give that, especially not while she looked like a failed necromancy experiment.

‘Not Elena, not ever.’ He backed away a step.

‘Don’t go!’ she said quickly. ‘I’m sorry, I only meant to tease you.’

He stopped and said kindly, ‘Yvette, I have told you: you don’t have to be anyone else with me.’

‘But how will anyone like me if I’m not someone else?’ she asked
sadly. She sounded like she genuinely didn’t understand.

‘You are a person in your own right, Yvette,’ he said, wondering if the shapeshifter was capable of accepting what he was saying.

She didn’t answer for a long while, and when she did, it was to change the subject. ‘I want to go outside. I’m bored here. It’s not healthy, to be locked away from the sun.’

‘Not until you’re fully recovered.’

‘Please, let me out.’ Her Elena-face melted away, revealing the plain, weak-chinned face she’d been born with. Tufty ginger hair sprouted from her scalp, and her new eyes had turned her own pale blue. She looked revolting, with the stolen skin of the orphaned Jhafi child weeping pus and blood where it had been stitched together.

‘Not when you’re like this, Yvette.’

When she bared her teeth the insane child inside her was plain to see. Then she sagged morosely. ‘When?’ she asked, her tone somewhere between slyness and desperation, and he could feel the question beneath the question, the one that had been building between them for the long hours they’d spent together as he’d cleaned her, fed her and given her what she needed to heal herself, listening to her tale and giving her sympathy. All her life she’d been adrift, seen as repugnant by all who knew what she was.

She wants to be loved, or at least what she thinks love is, in all her naïve, innocent immaturity, and in return, she will give her very soul.

Playing with souls was part of the game. Though unreasoning devotion, whether to a king or a god or another human being, repelled him, it was ironic that he could engender such devotion so easily in so many.

she whispered into his mind.

He had fooled wiser women than her.

He reached down and squeezed her fingers gently, knowing that in her imagination that simple gesture meant so much more. And all the while he thought about Cera Nesti, with her clever, seasoned mind and her virginal body.

*

‘Should we steal the knives?’ Portia whispered, making Cera suppress a giggle. They were seated alone at the noblewomen’s table as usual; thankfully, Octa and Olivia generally ate in their rooms, except for important occasions.

The normal commotions of the high table went on around them. Cera stole a glance at Gyle, seated on the other side of the room. He noticed, raised his glass faintly, and she forced herself to return the gesture before looking away.

‘He’s fascinated by you,’ Portia said softly into her own glass. They hardly looked at each other, except for the occasional disdainful glances to maintain the fiction that they hated each other. ‘But there is another on his mind. He is torn.’