Dark Empress (21 page)

“Sir, Ma’ahd didn’t have ships before the invasion and the only coastline he controls is M’Dahz. It’s common knowledge that M’Dahz has been abandoned; nobody raised an eyebrow when he invaded us, and there’s virtually no trade traffic at the port these days, so he has no real need to defend his territory. Besides, sir, these waters don’t even belong to M’Dahz.”

He swallowed.

“Also, Ma’ahd is not popular with the Pelasian God-King. He had to send offerings to mollify him after invading M’Dahz, so it’s very unlikely this incursion is supported by the Pelasian government. Then there’s the fact that this is a brand new ship. That means, since Ma’ahd has no other coastline, that he’s set up a military shipyard in M’Dahz. If he just wanted to protect the port itself, he’d have bought second hand ships off one of the other satraps.”

Sater was nodding to himself as he listened. Ghassan rattled on.

“Sir, Ma’ahd is almost unstoppably greedy, conniving and treacherous. He is by now aware that M’Dahz is hardly the prize he expected and is probably already deciding which tower of Calphoris would look best with his banner hanging from it.”

Sater frowned. “I understand what you’re saying, lad, but why then send just one vessel into our waters? It’s not a tactically sound move.”

Ghassan fell silent. He honestly didn’t have an answer to that, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the closing black sail meant grave danger. The quiet was broken by the captain; Ghassan hadn’t even been aware that the man had joined them.

“It’s quite simple when you think about it. If the boy’s right and Ma’ahd is building a fleet with the intent of conquest, then he can’t make a play for somewhere as important as Calphoris without his God-King’s backing. If he’s unpopular, then he needs an excuse; a reason for invasion to take to his God-King.”

Sater shook his head in amazement.

“He’s expecting us to attack them. They’ll fight us off and then run away. Then we’ll have initiated combat and he’ll have his excuse. Then we must sail on by. We can’t attack them, sir.”

The captain’s face was a mask of doubt and Ghassan realised he had reached a crucial moment.

“With respect, sir, all that may well be true, but I know how Ma’ahd works. If you don’t attack him, they’ll have the advantage on you and we’ll never leave here to tell the tale. He won’t want word of their presence leaking out, or his plan falls through.”

Both Sater and the captain were nodding now. The marine officer narrowed his eyes.

“Permission to have my lads stand to and load the artillery, captain?”

The captain frowned for a moment and then nodded.

“Very well. We can’t stand down or they may just sink us without a fight. And we certainly can’t let them get away if we do fight. So, quite simply we have to win, and we have to sink them.”

He turned to the others around him.

“Have the men stand to and everything made ready, but do it carefully, subtly and quietly. Don’t let them know we’re preparing.”

Ghassan felt the grip on his arms disappear.

“You,” the captain said, pointing at him. “You have an uncanny insight into this. Get aloft in the rigging and keep your eyes open.”

Ghassan saluted and, as he ran off, he heard the captain ordering someone else to the rudder. Things were looking up.

As he ran past the midship fortification, he saw the artillery master loading the giant crossbows and the catapult and, most impressive of all, rolling the massive inflammable ball of wadding onto the firing mechanism while a man stood to with a lit taper.

He scrambled with a recently-practiced expertise up the rigging to the spar at the top where the current lookout, an older boy nearing active service age, nodded a greeting.

“What’s up?”

Ghassan pointed at the ever-nearing ship.

“Seen anything odd yet?”

“Not really” the other boy shrugged.

“Where are the marines then?” Ghassan asked with a grin. “That’s a military vessel about to meet a potential enemy in open sea. The marines should be on deck.”

As the lookout blinked in surprise and nodded, Ghassan’s smile widened.

“We’ve got them by the balls!”

Without offering any further explanation and leaving the lookout with a blank expression, Ghassan jumped down from the spar and slid down the ropes as fast as he could go. Dropping the last ten feet to the deck, he went into a roll and came up running until he reached the artillery master with his crew among the wooden battlements amidships.

“Sir?”

The officer turned and frowned at the grinning boy.

“What?”

“We can end this in minutes, sir.”

He noted the doubt on the man’s face and pointed back at the Pelasian ship.

“No sign of their marines, sir, but a ship like that should be ready with them on the deck. That means they’re hiding ready to board, sir, and they can’t be below deck, ‘cause they wouldn’t have time. That means they have to be crouched down among the upper deck oar seats along the edge.”

The artilleryman frowned.

“You sure about this? If you’re wrong, we could be in real trouble.”

Ghassan grinned.

“I’m not wrong. Aim the catapults and the fire-thrower along the gunwales and we’ll take out most of their marines in two shots. After that she should be easy, sir.”

The officer frowned for a moment and then nodded.

“You’d better be bloody right, lad.”

Ghassan, his grin still wide, saluted and, tuning, ran to climb the rigging once more. He was right. He knew, beyond certainty, that he was right. He also knew that the captain was watching him with interest, and that any minute now, and because of him, they would sink the first ship satrap Ma’ahd had sent to the east.

First blood, Ma’ahd. This one was for his mother and all of those who died on the walls of M’Dahz that terrible day.

In which five years have passed

Asima sat back against the red velvet cushion and examined her nails critically. No matter how much time she spent on them they never quite seemed to look right. Tetchily, she reached around for the goblet of rich, sweet palm wine and took a less than ladylike gulp.

She also noted with a strange mix of irritation and nostalgia the slightly crooked angle of the index finger on her left hand as she buffed. A smile crept across her face as she remembered that time three years ago when she had been among the girls taken to the great temple for the choosing. She had, and this had really surprised her, been entirely unaware of the conspiracy of hatred that had grown among the other girls during those two years of preparation. She hadn’t realised just how petty, angry, and even subtle, the others had been.

The morning before the ceremony, while the festival was in full swing outside, the girls had been allocated five hours to prepare themselves and Asima had discovered with growing impatience that everything she needed to help her get ready had been vandalised or disposed of.

The fight that had ensued had ended satisfactorily for Asima in most respects. She had managed to acquire everything she would need from the four girls she knew to be behind the worst of the activities. She had fought hard but had been clever, keeping her blows to areas that would not show and would be hard to prove. The only permanent mark she had received had been her own fault: a broken and now slightly-misaligned finger from a badly-aimed blow that she would need to keep hidden for a time. The others, however, had fought like wildcats, randomly and angrily. Their blows had been aimed for maximum discomfort instead and Asima had smiled through her painful split lip as she returned to her room.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

At the mirror, she had examined the mess the girls had made of her. Reaching down with the brush, she had been about to apply the concealing makeup over the already blackening eye, but had smiled, wiped the blood from her lip, and tended instead to her hair.

Once they were ready, the twenty six girls had been taken to the gate of the harem where the witch had examined the ranks critically. She had moved down the two lines nodding with satisfaction until she reached Asima. Her eyes had bulged so dangerously that Asima had been afraid she was going to have some sort of attack but, instead, she had merely shaken her head in despair as she noted the bruises and the red weal on Asima’s forehead. The mistress had long since given up any hope of impressing her will on this one.

And then the guards had escorted the girls across the paths and between the lawns to the private gate that led from the palace grounds directly into the precinct of the great temple without having to enter the public square. Asima had smiled to herself once again as they mounted the steps and entered the narthex, keeping to one side and out of sight of the closed doors into the temple proper.

There they had rested for several minutes, awaiting their cue. Asima had been aware of the girls glaring at her and had given them a surreptitious wave and a sweet smile that had reopened the lip and send a slow trickle of blood across her teeth.

A huge gong had announced that the ceremonies had reached the appropriate point and two of the lesser priests had opened the gate as the royal guard lined the narthex along either side. They couldn’t enter the church under arms at any time and were here merely as an escort. But the girls hardly needed them. Two years of training had prepared them thoroughly for this moment.

As the doors swung wide, the two lines of girls, side by side, had entered the great domed temple, walking slowly and solemnly down the open walkway between the rows of seated nobility, priests and wealthy citizens.

The God-King, still in plain robes, yet oozing a commanding presence, stood on the dais to one side of the altar, attended by three priests and his nephew, the prince Ashar. Asima sighed as she looked around the rows of so many people as subtly as possible. Yasmin’s hopes of becoming Ashar’s princess had been dashed last year. She had carefully worked everything out and deliberately failed to appeal to the God-King.

When she, along with the other girls, had been presented to the nobles the month after she missed the God-King’s selection, she had positioned herself and pouted just enough to attract the prince’s attention and Ashar had chosen her for the first dance. Asima, watching from the gallery where the younger girls were to observe the events of a state occasion, had initially been pleased for her friend, but Yasmin’s hopes had been shattered a moment later. She had smiled up at the prince and slowly, as passionately as she could, she had pursed her lips and leaned in to kiss the prince.

Ashar had pulled back ever so gently. He had not made it obvious, for fear of embarrassing her, but had clearly rejected her. Even from the gallery, Asima had seen the look of confusion and dismay in Yasmin’s eyes. The prince had leaned forward and whispered something to her.

Six days later, Yasmin had entered the harem to collect her things and follow her new husband-to-be, the satrap Khelid, and Asima had stopped her.

“I’m sorry about Ashar” she had confided, “but, you know, many of the noblemen’s preferences lie in… another direction.”

Yasmin had smiled sadly.

“Not Ashar, Asima, but he put me straight. He doesn’t like the court or these occasions. He’d only been there because the God-King asked him, and he said quite clearly that he was not looking for a wife for many years yet. I had the distinct feeling he was already pining for someone else.”

The witch had appeared then and hurried Yasmin along to the satrap who waited patiently outside the harem for her.

And after all that time, here was Yasmin once again in the great temple watching events unfold for Asima and standing at the side of Khelid, not far from the dais. Asima had been pleased to see what appeared to be a genuine smile on her friend’s face. Khelid was a handsome enough man and, as he had turned and looked down at Yasmin, there was adoration in his gaze. Asima had smiled as the lines approached the dais.

Slowly, in time with the quiet beat of the drums, the girls had stepped into position and then turned, bowing from the waist to the assembled crowds, before returning to face the God-King, the prince and the priests.

The high priest had rattled on with an incantation and then a speech that Asima only half heard. She wasn’t a follower of any God, let alone the Pelasian maker. Patiently she had waited, aware at all times of the warm, gentle trickle of blood into her mouth.

The speech had finished and finally the God-King had stepped forward.

“Here goes” Asima had said to herself and held her breath, only to discover that the God-King had begun to make a speech now too. She’d sagged slightly and then, remembering where she was, had straightened. Slowly, finally, the speeches had come to an end and a fanfare blared. Asima had found her patience ebbing and hoped this would be it, finally.

The God-King had taken one more step and reached the end of the front line of girls. Slowly, he had moved along the row, casting his gaze over them. The rear line, in which Asima had been disgruntled to find herself, had been spaced so that they were fully visible between the front girls. Asima, determined, had smiled, but with an air of insolence. Given her condition, a meek, wet grin would hardly give the right effect.

The God-King had nodded and whispered things in his nephew’s ear. Ashar had shrugged a couple of times and whispered back; clearly the God-King valued Ashar’s opinion highly. With a nod, they had come on ponderously. This was no mere ceremony for the God-King; the decisions he made here would affect his personal life for at least the next year. More nods and consultation and then…