Unholy War (66 page)

Huriya Makani stalked the backstreets of her old hometown, seeking an elusive scent. Males of the pack flanked her, now and then uttering low growls to drive off the stray dogs that haunted the streets. They’d left their horses at the fringes of the city with Kenner guarding them. Huriya was wrapped in a thick cloak to conceal her gauzy red silks. Night had long fallen, and away from the market stalls that sold food and drink to the passersby, the city was silent. Families had retreated to their tiny homes, packed together cheek and jowl in hovels like badly stacked crates, oblivious to the passing shapeshifters.

The scent she sought could not be found anywhere from Aruna Nagar to the river. It didn’t linger in the former home of the Ankesharan family – they were long gone, and a new family roosted there. Huriya snapped a command to her escort and they padded onward. Ramita’s family might have left, but surely others remained who knew where they’d gone? And she knew exactly the right place to start looking.

The house she sought was just as she recalled it, grimy on the outside but solid – but that was normal here, where the close-packed life made exteriors public property. She used her gnosis to float to the first-floor balcony. The doors were open to the night air and oil lamps shone inside, making the polished slate floor glow and the sequins in the wall-tapestries shimmer. It was only the home of a trader, but he was a prince among merchants: Vikash Nooradin – Ispal Ankesharan’s friend.

Laughter, the clink of goblets and the low buzz of conversation reached her from the dining room. She shed her cloak and slipped into the lounge, her hands trailing over fine fabric furniture coverings and decorative artefacts. Rose and poppy candles scented the air. A gauzy veil was draped over the back of a seat and she wound herself in it for the sheer pleasure of feeling the texture against her skin. Then she extended her senses and listened in on the conversation in the next room.

Vikash Nooradin and his wife had guests, but it wasn’t Ispal Ankesharan and his family, or anyone else she could recognise by their voices.
But perhaps they’ll know where Ispal is if Vikash doesn’t?

She stepped out of the shadows and into the dining room whilst pulling her gnosis into readiness about her. The voice of Sabele whispered in her ear, as it had ever since that day on the Isle of Glass when she had swallowed the old woman’s soul. It still had the power to chill her: Sabele was inside her, intact and waiting. Sometimes she found it very hard to work out where she ended and where the hag whose powers she’d stolen began.

I am me. You are just a ghost.

Sabele laughed.
You think you’re my first, girlie? I’ve had more lives than you dare dream. Shall I show you?

Shut up, old hag. You’re nothing but a piece of my memory.

No, girlie. That’s what you’re on the way to becoming.

Her sudden rage made her power flare and every head in the dining room turned towards her.

To them it looked like a beautiful and near-naked young woman simply appeared out of thin air – an Apsara or a Rakas – then Vikash Nooradin’s eyes bulged with recognition. ‘
Huriya Makani?
’

‘Hello, Uncle Vikash. It’s lovely to see you again.’

*

Her pack filled the house. Jackal-headed men and women humped on the sofas and rugs. Giant wolves and cats lolled around, tearing at the remains of the servants and dinner guests. Once stripped of the flesh, the bloodied bones were chewed over: their gnostic hunger might be satisfied, but their bellies wanted more.

Only Vikash Nooradin was still alive, and that would not be for much longer.

Vikash didn’t know where Ispal Ankesharan and his family were, and neither did his fat, pretentious wife. It had given Huriya enormous pleasure to cut
that
cow’s throat. There remained the question of whether there was anything at all she could learn from Vikash before she let her followers loose on him for the last time.

He was past words now. The past four hours had reduced the clever, urbane merchant into a piteous ruin. But she didn’t need words from him; not now her mind was buried deep inside his and she was turning over his memories of his last moments with Ispal Ankesharan. What she was doing would have left Vikash a drooling vegetable for the rest of his life, but he was fatally harmed anyway.

The Ankesharans had left Baranasi three months after Ramita, telling no one their destination. Soldiers had loaded the wagons, unmarked with any kind of symbols or sigils; they left nothing behind except a parting gift of two lak – years of income for a small trader – as a thank-you to Vikash. They were missed, but no word came.

Huriya scowled, sulking as the trader’s consciousness slipped away fruitlessly.
Where are you, Ispal?

‘You’re going to need a Necromancer if he doesn’t talk soon,’ Malevorn said in a flat, dispassionate voice. He’d taken in the torture without emotion; indeed, he’d offered suggestions. He was clad in the garb of a Keshi mercenary, and with his face now tanned and his black hair and whiskers grown out, he looked almost Dhassan.

‘He knows nothing,’ she replied, certain of it. ‘Kill him.’ She pulled out her small eating knife, honed the edge with a waft of the gnosis and handed it handle-first to the Inquisitor. He met her eyes, knew she was testing him.

Try to turn that knife on me and I’ll crush you.

The Inquisitor, his gnosis still Chained, was not so stupid: with slow precision, Malevorn showed Vikash the blade, then pushed it slowly through his eye and into his brain. The trader cried out wordlessly, disbelieving until the very last that his life would end this way. Then he deflated and was gone.

Huriya studied Malevorn, oddly excited by his ruthlessness.

We of the Brethren are a broad church. I think there is room for a former Inquisitor …

Malevorn wiped the blade clean on a tablecloth and returned it. She smiled approvingly. ‘Did you learn where the Ankesharan family went?’ he asked.

She had indeed seen something: the glimpse of a face. Vikash had seen it at a distance only, and it wasn’t much, but Sabele had recognised the stamp of the features because she had seen an older version of it. ‘I saw a face, I think, of the son of someone known to me. Do you know the name Hanook?’

He shook his head.

‘Hanook is the Vizier of Lakh. I think perhaps he has whisked Ramita’s family away somewhere, which means we must go to Teshwallabad and have a serious word with him.’

29

The Slave Trade

R
ASAIYAH
, C
ALIPHA OF
B
ASSAZ, 840

A
NTONIN
M
EIROS, 843

Cymbellea lay on the rock beside the lion, thankful to take the weight off her legs, and gazed out over the valley below. They’d been trailing a column of men, women and children trudging northwards with heads bowed, since they’d stumbled across them the previous day, after three weeks of travelling eastwards through southern Kesh. Red-cloaked legionaries flanked the column, the lowering sun glinting off their steel helms. More menacing yet were the riders alongside: the Sacred Heart was emblazoned on their tabards and they were borne by horned steeds.
Inquisitors.

Beside her the lion’s hackles rose again and a low rumble escaped his throat. The great cat was shaggy and rough-looking from weeks on the road. He was lying on his belly, head raised as he scanned, whiskers twitching.

he asked, his warm, rough presence touching her mind.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, but it’s hard to be certain.’

Zaqri snarled,
.>

‘Usually it’s ordinary legions who collect slaves, not Inquisitors.’

Zaqri’s brow furrowed

It felt like a long shot to Cym, but what other options did they have? ‘How?’

They trailed the column north to a new campsite a mile on, and as the sun set and the air cooled, they crept closer and found a perch from which to observe. The Inquisitors were in hostile territory and they knew it, judging by the wards set about the camp. The people they were herding were a mixture of Dhassan and Keshi from the borderlands, men and women, old and young, even children and infants at the breast. They had been allowed to bring food and bedrolls – presumably to make the march easier for the Inquisitors to manage. There was little use of whips or chains; it was obvious fear was quite enough to cow the people.

Then they noticed the eleventh rider.

He wasn’t an Inquisitor, yet he rode a khurne. He was wearing a bekira-shroud, and yet Cym and Zaqri were both sure he was a man. And when they looked at him using gnostic sight, there was something that pricked Zaqri’s interest. It was too far away to tell for sure, but Zaqri thought he might be of his kind.

He surveyed the landscape, then scanned the skies.

They backed away into the gloom. Once line of sight was broken, Zaqri rose onto two legs, changing shape fluidly, and they jogged through the twilight, back to the place where they had left their possessions, then set up camp for the night. Zaqri had caught a desert hare that afternoon and they had stripped a clump of berry bushes they had passed earlier, wolfing handfuls of the fruit, relishing the rich red juices filling their mouths. Partway through, Cym realised that he was surreptitiously watching her, but she was used to his regard by now; she found it oddly flattering. They’d been living so intimately for so long that desire was an unspoken facet of their complex dance.

They hadn’t mated again, though – and she really disliked the word: ‘mated’ had implications of animal coupling driven by monthly cycles. Despite her antipathy for the notion, however, she felt incredibly in touch with the rhythms of her body, from these months of living so close to nature. As her fertile period approached, she could feel a warm heaviness in her loins at nights, eroding her fortitude, her desire to be aloof and hostile. She knew Zaqri sensed it too, but his discipline was iron-hard, as it had been since he met her. It was a strange feeling: she could not forgive, but sustaining hatred was so hard.

Some nights she knew he could not sleep until he’d gone off and purged his own needs. This would be one of those nights; she could feel it in his heat and his eyes. She had nights like that too, but she was careful to control herself, ashamed that she had such urges at all around him.

That night she faced away from him, trying to ignore his eyes on her back, until finally she had to roll over. He was loosely wrapped in a blanket, lying on his back with his head propped on his bundle of spare clothing, his chest and shoulders bare. In the moonlight he looked carved from ivory, a magnificent physical specimen. And his beauty was not merely skin-deep, despite his condition. He carried his hungers with the dignity of an alpha predator.

One of her best friends among the Rimoni had been married off to a man she didn’t desire, in a different caravan, and whenever the two caravans happened to meet, she would confide a little of her married life to Cym. Last time they met up, her friend had two children, though there was no pretence of love. ‘Don’t worry about love,’ she’d told Cym once. ‘You can make babies with a man you don’t like – you can even enjoy the bedding. Love is not necessary.’

Love is not necessary.

She could feel unbearable liquid heat and heaviness between her thighs, right at the core of her, the empty part that wanted to be filled again. She remembered their one time, and how frighteningly complete it had made her, to feel him inside her. She’d tried to pretend it wasn’t there, when oh, but it was …

Love mightn’t be necessary, but I need this …

Trembling slightly, she shook herself free of her blanket and crawled towards him. He sucked in his breath, as if scared to exhale the moment away. He just lay there, passive, but not entirely so, because she could see the shape of his erection beneath the blanket. She pulled the fabric away and laid her head on his belly. The stiff member lay against his groin, staring at her one-eyed, and she reached out and gently touched it.

He groaned.

She stroked a finger from root to tip, and he tried not to move, though she could feel him vibrating like an overstrung bow. She gripped his shaft, feeling it thick and heavy in her grasp, and began to massage it. At last his hands moved, stroking her shoulders, combing through her hair. His stomach muscles quivered beneath her head. She moved slowly and tentatively, listening to the rhythms of his body, trying to determine what worked. Tentatively she slid down him a little, then opened her mouth and enclosed him, first licking, then sucking him until his whole body stiffened. It pleased her to administer this torment, so she kept doing it, making him twitch and writhe, felt herself become wetter as she did so, scenting the damp heat that filled her nostrils.

When it became too much to wait, she swung herself astride him and started rocking her hips, sliding her cleft along the underside of his shaft, something she’d spied a married couple of the caravan doing one night when they thought they were alone. The sensation of it made her catch her breath.

She looked down at him, feeling all the longing and all the conflicted emotions resolving. She’d been alone with him too long not to feel this, not to do this. It didn’t mean forgiveness. It was just lust. It meant nothing.

He gripped her hips, holding her in just the right place. The contact shivered right through her. She’d been playing with him so far, but now it was about them together. She spread herself a little more, reached down and pulled the head of him to her opening, groaned at the teasing almost-penetration, then gasped as he slid inside, filling her completely. Her arms and hips almost gave way, but she forced herself upright.

His face swam before her, disbelief and studied concentration on his face.

She looked down at him apologetically, whispered, ‘That’s as far as my experience goes.’

He gave a slight smile. ‘I can help. Continue to do this.’ He pushed her up slightly so she had to tilt her hips, and as he let her down again she found the rhythm, grinding her pleasure bud against him while enjoying the length of him inside her. For a moment his eyes closed in bliss, then he opened them again and gazed into hers. ‘Rub against me; take as long as you like.’

It was different from what she’d expected, more intimate and sweaty and human than her imagination, with more grunting and itchy, uncomfortable bits than other girls had reported. It felt like Zaqri was not doing much, then he would move, a subtle lift of his hips that made his stomach muscles tense and ripple appealingly, then he was moving more and more, until it was him doing all the work, pushing up and into her as she collapsed onto his chest, the sensations in her loins too intense to focus. She held onto him, moaning, as her body climaxed, the sensation sustained by his final vigorous expending of himself inside her.

She buried her head in his nape and shook.
I’m sorry, Mother, but I couldn’t resist him any longer.

He reached for her face, but she turned it away. ‘No kisses,’ she said, breathing heavily.

He frowned at that, but let her pull herself from him and drape his blanket over them both. Mater Luna stared down at her. Rimoni legend had it that the two largest craters were her eyes. They seemed very focused that night, looking right at her.

‘Why now?’ His voice was low and content. His arm came around her shoulders, cradling her.

‘Why not?’ She put on a rational voice. ‘It’s distracting, to have this
thing
between us and not deal with it.’

‘So I am not forgiven, then?’

‘No.’

They fell silent, just staring up at the moon as she floated overhead. She’d never felt comfortable before beneath the open night sky, except during Darkmoon when Luna hid her face. The moon always looked too massive to float above. It always felt like it was about to fall. But tonight she felt safe.

‘So you were a virgin until me,’ he remarked eventually.

‘Only just. My father kept coming between me and whichever boy I fancied – sometimes only just in time.’

‘It must have been hard for you both.’

‘I was a trial.’ She took a swig of water from her bottle. ‘But he was no saint. He never took a wife, but he seldom slept alone. All the widows used to compete for his attention.’ She sighed at the memory. ‘Rimoni widows are allowed to court the single men. They have more freedom than anyone else in the caravan. I always wanted to be one of them when I was young – they had the most fun.’

‘There is no joy in losing your wife or husband.’

‘I know that now.’ She twisted her head so that she could see his face. ‘How long were you married to Ghila?’

‘Twenty-three years.’

‘Sol et Lune, that’s older than I am!’

‘Like the magi, those of us with strong gnosis live longer.’

‘You must miss her.’

‘I do. But life continues. If we don’t move with it, we atrophy and die.’ He looked at her meaningfully. ‘Life is full of perils, especially this life. I believe in seizing the moment, not in looking back.’

‘You don’t sound like a real Rimoni when you say that. We are always looking back to when we ruled Yuros.’

He chuckled dryly. ‘I know. In my home village we used to spend all our spare time and money on restoring old monuments and artefacts from the Rimoni Empire – villas, mosaics, columns and temples. Families went without meals so that some old idol could be recovered.’

‘The Rondians spend all their money on churches and palaces.’

‘I certainly wasn’t saying they are better than us.’ He ran fingers through her hair. ‘You are very beautiful, Cymbellea. A classic Rimoni, with a chin and nose like the statues we dug from the ground.’

‘Like a horse, you mean.’

He laughed. ‘Not a bit. I am not attracted to horses at all.’

‘Just lionesses?’ she asked archly.

‘Ha! I do not mate in animal form. It sheds a layer of humanity I do not wish to lose.’

‘I suppose … I wouldn’t know.’

He shifted abruptly, rolled over and onto her in one movement that stole her breath, his face silhouetted against the moon. ‘I think we will find enough pleasure in these bodies to satisfy us.’

She looked up at him, suddenly a little bit afraid. She’d not intended to allow him to initiate anything, but now she found she wanted him again. Tentatively she spread herself, lifting her hips to meet him, all the while careful to avert her mouth from his.

The night passed in a series of long and intense bouts of climbing desire and convulsive release.

*

They followed the Rondian column north, the trail so clear they didn’t need to keep it in sight. Cym had lost all track of time, but Zaqri, studying the stars, told her it was Augeite, under a waning moon: eight months since Alaron and Ramita had vanished; four since the Noose. They’d lost the trail of the Scytale long ago, and sometimes it felt like she only went on because she didn’t know what she would do if they stopped.

However, the riddle of the eleventh rider drew them on still. Though not a prisoner, he was always under the eye of the Inquisitors, as if he were their prized guest. Zaqri was still certain that he was Dokken, but he couldn’t say who, as they never saw him without his hood. At night they coupled until exhaustion took them down into dreamless sleep.
Mated
. There was no kissing, though she often wanted to. She didn’t bleed during the week she should have. They had rukked throughout the week of her fertility without too much thought for the consequences. She didn’t tell him, instead slicing her own skin so that she smelled of blood and praying to Mater Luna for guidance. She didn’t think he suspected.