Ascendant's Rite (The Moontide Quartet) (18 page)

O
RDO
C
OSTRUO
C
OLLEGIATE,
H
EBUSALIM

Near Brochena, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia

Shawwal (Octen) 929

16
^th
month of the Moontide

Gurvon Gyle, drably clad in browns and cowled against the sun, nudged his horse forward. Rutt Sordell, similarly attired, followed close behind as they made their way along the causeway through rice paddies southwest of Brochena. Canals carried all the fertile filth of the city to these growing fields, and the verdant lushness here was a stark contrast to the arid dust and rock that bordered the heavily irrigated paddies, making them look garish and overripe, almost diseased. Many were dried out though, through lack of manpower, as so many farmers had fled the area.

‘Boss, here they come,’ Rutt said, his voice tense.

Gurvon squinted against the glare of the sun at the two riders trotting toward them. As they drew near he could see both were richly attired in Imperial purple and sweating heavily in the Rondian clothes, woven for far colder climes than this. ‘Perhaps if we keep them talking for long enough they’ll faint from the heat,’ he remarked.

As usual, Rutt took the jest seriously. ‘I doubt it – they’ll use gnosis to regulate their body-heat if it becomes—’

‘I know that, Rutt,’ Gurvon sighed. ‘Never mind.’ He looked the newcomers up and down, assessing their threat. Both wore their empty scabbards ostentatiously, but that meant little; there were plenty of places for hidden weapons, which was to be expected – he had one himself. And both were magi: weapons in human form. It just came down to caution: don’t give the other party reason to think they could get away with treachery.

I really do just want to talk today.

‘Magister Gyle,’ rumbled Governor Tomas Betillon as he reined in forty yards away. He glanced at Rutt appraisingly, then introduced his companion, a grey-bearded Kirkegarde knight with the usual humourless face and steely eyes. ‘This is Blan Remikson, Seer of the Fourth Kirkegarde Legion.’

Gyle vaguely knew the name; Remikson was a half-blood, which was what Betillon had promised, a balance for the mage’s blood in this parley. They all assessed each other silently for a few moments, then he said, ‘So, Tomas, I hear Kaltus Korion wouldn’t send you any reinforcements.’

Betillon pulled a face. ‘He’s spread thin. No thanks to you stealing three of his legions.’

‘And you “borrowing” another two. But that’s old news.’

Betillon ran fingers through his curling grey mane. ‘Indeed. Listen, Mater-Imperia is concerned that supplies aren’t getting to Korion in the quantities required. We both know why. I’ve got Hytel and Brochena, so I’ve got the supplies, but you control the road south through the Krak. I can ship by air, but we both know windships can’t carry near so much as a wagon, and windships . . . well,’ he added with a wry smile, ‘they don’t grow on trees.’

‘That’s also old news.’

‘Gyle,’ Betillon began, then he peered at Rutt. ‘Does your man know about the plan?’

‘He does.’

‘Well then, perhaps he can give you better counsel! You know what’s coming: when that Bridge comes down, there’s going to be chaos. Lucia thinks it will all be clean-cut and surgical, but it won’t. Earthquakes are unpredictable, and this will be the greatest ever known. It’s going to be a
mess
. But if we work together, and keep Lucia off our backs until the hammer falls, we can carve up Javon between us afterwards like roast pork.’

‘Lucia can’t touch us,’ Gurvon stated. ‘She doesn’t have the manpower to intervene, not without stripping the vassal-states of their garrisons.’

‘Oh yes, she can,’ Betillon scoffed. ‘The empire has clandestine resources beyond even yours, Gurvon Gyle. How’d you like to have Volsai assassins on your tail, or a few Keepers? You know how the empire rewards the faithful: with the ambrosia. Those old bastards like to involve themselves if they feel the Crown is threatened.’

‘She won’t send Keepers: she’s as scared of them as you or I.’ Gurvon had a theory about Keepers: when they gained the Ascendancy, they faced a new test of loyalty: how many began to wonder why they weren’t emperor themselves.

Betillon waved a hand dismissively. ‘There are plenty of loyal Keepers, and she can unleash them any time.’

Perhaps he was right; only the most loyal magi were permitted the ambrosia and Ascension.
No emperor’s going to be stupid enough to create his own usurper, not even Constant,
he thought. Keepers were usually only made once they could barely walk, giving them maybe an extra decade or two of life, in a decrepit body. It was really just a ceremony of recognition, the culmination of a glorious career in service of the emperor, not the creation of a new power in the realm.

‘There have been no new Ascendants in decades,’ Gurvon reminded Betillon. ‘The Scytale hasn’t been publically displayed in all that time.’

‘But everyone knows it’s there, waiting: House Sacrecour’s ultimate reward for loyalty,’ Betillon responded. ‘And those who have been granted that reward are Lucia’s most fanatical supporters.’

So no doubt there are a few strong enough to do as said Gurvon suggests.
He waved the threat aside. ‘Scaring me with legends isn’t going to change anything, Tomas. I’ve got five legions, you’ve got three. You’ve got the supplies and I control the roads. And I really don’t give a shit whether Kaltus Korion makes it out of this or not. I need a better reason to cooperate.’

‘Then how about self-preservation?’ Betillon growled. ‘Gyle, listen: if we appear to be cooperating, Lucia’s going to leave us be. Her only concern is that Kaltus is there in Kesh when the Bridge is destroyed, to hold the gains until he can be reinforced and the sultan brought to heel. With Echor of Argundy dead, her son has never been more secure. She doesn’t care who’s supplying Kaltus; she’ll reward whoever it is – so let it be both of us, and afterwards, we’ll both be in favour.’

Gurvon doubted it would be so simple, but even so, Betillon was making sense. Already his own mercenary legions were beginning to feel the pinch as they bled dry the regions they controlled, while the Jhafi migrated east to Forensa and the Nesti.
Who appear to have plenty of supplies
. The east of Javon was the food-bowl of the land: they would have to move against it soon – but that couldn’t happen if he and Betillon were at loggerheads.

‘All right, Tomas: suppose I take half of what you send south and pass the rest through?’

‘
Half?
No way – you’re feeding five legions; Korion has twenty or more.’

‘He’s got other sources.’

‘You can keep a tenth,’ Betillon offered brusquely.

‘A quarter. I’ve got to keep my men strong, and I’ve a populace to pacify.’

‘As have I. A fifth.’

He frowned, glanced at Rutt and then agreed, ‘Very well, one fifth I keep, the rest passes through. Your men may escort the caravans all the way south to Kesh; I give them safe passage.’

Betillon laughed. ‘No, they’ll be handing over the caravans at the crossroads south of here. I’m not depleting my forces any more than they are. You’ll provide the guards for the caravans into the Zhassi.’

‘Half each,’ Gurvon offered. ‘No magi.’

‘Done,’ Betillon said. ‘The first caravan will be here inside a week.’

They regarded each other distrustfully, then the governor nudged his horse closer, pulled out a metal hipflask and took a swig, wincing at the strength of the liquor. ‘Local piss,’ he grunted, tossing Gurvon the flask. ‘Tastes like lamp-oil. Got a sting, though.’

Gurvon caught the flask, examined it briefly with the gnosis, then took a swallow. It was every bit as bad as he’d expected, but he’d live. He grimaced and tossed it back. ‘Did you act on my tip?’

‘The windship?’ Betillon snorted. ‘What do you think?’

Gurvon groaned inwardly. ‘You’ll regret letting them through. The Nesti have got their king back. I’d move on Forensa if I were you, as soon as the weather cools enough to permit a march.’

Betillon mopped his brow. ‘When’s that, eh? This Hel-hole never cools down!’

‘Not so: the weather in Javon cools to bearable in Noveleve, and stays that way for three whole months. Noveleve is five weeks away.’ He stopped the flask and threw it back to Betillon. ‘I hear you killed Mustaq al’Madhi.’

‘I hanged him and all his male kin, then fucked his women to death. You were too tolerant, Gyle. A ruler must be feared, and by Kore, the Noories fear me now.’

‘And hate you too. Do you think Mustaq was the only man with a gang of thugs? There are dozens of gangs in Brochena who previously had no reason to care whether Dorobon or Javonesi ruled. They were pacified when I held Brochena, knowing that I turned a blind eye to their petty crimes as long as they stayed out of my way. You’ve united them now: against you.’

‘Like I care. They’re just mudskins. Do you know how many raids on Imperial possessions there have been in Brochena since I hung Mustaq?
None.
They’re cowed, Gyle. Believe me, I know how to use fear. You should remember that.’

Oh, I remember,
he thought
. I remember the Noros Revolt. I remember Knebb.

His own sources said that the Brochena criminal fraternity had gone quiet since al’Madhi’s death because they were reorganising, annulling feuds and agreeing a path forward. He had this from Harshal ali-Assam, whom he’d met just a few days ago. Harshal had told him something else too, about a certain maid and her daring escape. Should he?
Oh, what the Hel . . .

‘Tarita Alhani,’ he said in a low voice, his eyes fixed on Betillon’s face.

‘You have good sources,’ the governor replied stonily.

Gurvon smiled blandly. ‘I take it she remains unfound?’

‘What do you know of her?’

‘She used to be Elena’s maid, and then passed to Cera Nesti. She’s an orphan, and during Cera Nesti’s house arrest she was the queen’s underworld contact. But she wasn’t any threat; it was better I knew exactly who Cera’s sources were than to break them and run the risk of not discovering who they were replaced by.’

‘You do take an inordinate interest in these Noorie women,’ Betillon said sourly. ‘Were you rukking this maid?’

‘I don’t share your tastes, Tomas. She escaped your own chamber, I hear. A resourceful little bint; perhaps I’ll recruit her.’

Betillon snorted with laughter. ‘No Gyle, you’ll not get a rise out of me. The little bitch got lucky, but no one escapes me in the long run. If you’d not been so soft, the Nesti children would be dead and so would Elena Anborn. You’ve had chances aplenty to kill them all and not taken them – too many complicated scams when you needed to keep it simple and ruthless.’

‘You know it wasn’t like that, Tomas. If I’d acted as you are now, we’d already be swimming in a sea of blood.’

‘Noorie blood, Gyle, as we will be anyway in a few weeks.’ Betillon straightened in the saddle. ‘If you’re so worried about Forensa, help me take it. I’ll send a legion, you send a legion. We can divide up the spoils afterwards.’

Gurvon considered that. It might be a trap, but he knew he could outmanoeuvre Betillon, and he was a little more worried about Forensa than he wanted to admit.

I need to see Elena’s head on a pole before I’ll rest easy.

‘If I were to agree to that, you’d let Lucia know that I’m cooperating?’

‘I could do that. If I attack Forensa in late Noveleve, could you get a force there?’

I’ll keep Staria at the Rift Forts, and send in Hans Frikter . . .
‘Sure.’

Betillon considered him suspiciously, then grimaced. ‘Very well. I’ll report what we’ve agreed to Lucia. You’d better hold to it. I warn you: she’s
this close
to unleashing the Volsai on you.’

She probably is. The last thing I need . . .

They each raised a hand in farewell, and trotted away. As soon as it was dignified to do so, Gurvon kicked his horse into a gallop and went thundering down the causeway – just in case the parley really was a trap and an attack was about to be unleashed. After a few minutes he began to feel foolish, and pulled up a little. Rutt slowed gratefully, wincing with each thud of his arse on the saddle. He’d never been much of a rider. After that they trotted on in silence while Gurvon replayed the whole conversation in his mind.

Yes, this is the right thing to do . . . Betillon doesn’t acknowledge it, but with the Nesti children and Elena in Forensa, Javon is a lot more dangerous.

Forensa, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia

Shawwal (Octen) 929

16
^th
month of the Moontide

Elena Anborn rode through the crowds trying to see every potential danger, but it was hopeless: the city folk had engulfed the procession as it wound into Forensa. The faces looking up at them were so joyous, so enraptured, that it scared her. Men and women, Jhafi mostly, but plenty of Rimoni too, were awed and exhilarated, weeping openly, chanting, hands reaching out to touch them. Their king had returned from captivity. Their queen-regent had risen from the dead. Amteh and Sollan alike, they all believed that their gods had spoken. Even she, a Rondian mage-woman, wasn’t spared this excess of rapture. They clutched her hands and legs, kissed her feet and the hems of her clothes.

Since they reached the gates they’d been crawling through the streets at less than walking pace. Elena no longer had the reins of her mount in her hands; she had no control over where she was going or how fast. Her clothes, simple riding leathers, were dyed by the coloured powders being hurled everywhere in celebration. The whole crowd was stained red and pink and orange, the colours of joy. The sounds were deafening, drums and chanting and song filling the air. The air was so hot and close she was dripping in sweat and positively lightheaded. Behind her, Kazim was similarly bound, helplessly murmuring in her mind about just how badly he wanted to get out of this. But these people deserved the chance to finally celebrate
something
. This was part of binding their kingdom back together.