Moontide 02 - The Scarlet Tides (27 page)

Sweet Parvasi, where did the day go?

Justina’s mouth twitched. ‘So, Ramita, tell me a few things.’ She then proceeded to bombard her with the strangest and hardest questions Ramita had ever had to answer. None of them appeared to have a right answer, and none of them related to magic: what did she dream about? (Baranasi, even when people from Hebusalim were in the dream.) What colours did she prefer? (Natural hues, with a splash of brightness.) What was more important, a deed or an intention? (A deed, of course!) There were many others, often variations on a theme, and some embarassingly personal. All the while Justina shifted the red glass stones around, adding some here, removing them from there.

Finally she stopped as if she too had just discovered how tired she was.

‘So, Ramita Ankesharan,’ she started, ‘this is not definitive, but by my reckoning, your prime affinities are Earth- and Hermetic-gnosis.’ She sounded engaged, more than Ramita had ever heard her – almost likeable, or maybe, more that for the first time Ramita could begin to see why someone might like her, if they were so inclined and hadn’t already been thoroughly alienated …

Ramita blinked. ‘I thought the Fire—?’

Justina shook her head. ‘That’s your secondary elemental affinity. You did well with it, but you were wary. Your weakness is Air. I’m not surprised, you were scared shitless during our flight here.’

‘Oh.’ Ramita reappraised herself. ‘What is “Hermetic”?’

‘It is a physical branch of the gnosis, concerned with the make-up of the world – plants, animals, the human form. I imagine you are a very tactile person, someone who likes working with your hands, and with animals. You’re not terribly imaginative,’ she added, a little disdainfully. ‘You only believe in what is proven. You have no interest in concepts or philosophy.’

‘Why should I? It’s just a load of dung spouted by underemployed priests.’

Justina smiled wryly. ‘My point exactly.’ She tapped the board. ‘This will guide us. Most magi have years of training, so you’ve a lot to make up, and who knows how little time in which to do it. We may have only a few days to teach you how to defend yourself.’

It was a frightening thought. Ramita leaned forward. ‘What do these stones show?’

Justina quickly ran her fingers over the board. ‘Down this side are arrayed the elemental symbols: this one here represents Fire. This is Water, these Earth and Air. Now, down this side are the symbols for Hermetic, Thaumaturgy, Sorcery and Theurgy. See where the stones are piled highest? Those are your strengths. Where there are no stones at all, you are weak.’

Ramita looked at the stones, read the words in each square. There were sixteen of them. ‘Sylvanic? Animagery?’

Justina nodded. ‘You are strongest as a plant and nature mage: what you did with that seed was impressive, especially for a first attempt. Wood and plant material are everywhere, and they are highly versatile. And as I said before: you’ll learn how to make animals do whatever you want. You’ll even be able to take their shape.’

Ramita swallowed.
Me? Take animal shape? Impossible!
The mere idea belonged in fables, not reality. But then:
Why not?
She found herself smiling. ‘What else?’

‘Fire and Earth obviously, especially Earth. You’ll be able to shape stone like it was clay, once I’ve shown you how. I’ve seen strong Earth-magi walk through walls – and punch like the kick of a mule.’

Ramita felt giddy at all these possibilities. ‘What am I weak at?’ she asked, to sober herself up.

Justina pointed at the empty squares. ‘See? Nothing in Clairvoyance or Divination – in fact, there’s little in the Sorcery Studies at all. They’ll be a closed book to you – although Necromancy is linked to Earth-gnosis so you might be able to conjure a dead man’s spirit.’

Ramita screwed up her nose.

‘And see here,’ Justina went on, ‘Theurgy – mind-work – will also
elude you. You’ll have a profound weakness to Illusion – that means you’ll basically believe whatever illusion is conjured is real, unless you’re especially vigilant. And you’ll not be able to leave your body.’

‘Ugh. Why would I want to?’

‘Exactly: your mind rebels at the thought. The gnosis is an extension of who we are. Think about it: none of this is a surprise to you, is it? You’re a self-aware young woman, well-grounded in your reality. The mage you will be is an extension of who you are.’ Justina’s voice had none of her usual sarcasm, just honest assessment.

‘What about you?’

Justina grunted diffidently. ‘Me? I am an Air-mage with a little Sorcery. You and I are very different, girl – in fact, we’re almost diametrically opposite.’

That’s no surprise.
‘What happens next?’

Justina yawned. ‘Next? I teach you the basics: how to use the raw gnosis.’ She yawned again. ‘Starting tomorrow. I’m hungry.’ She looked at Ramita meaningfully.

‘Perhaps it is your turn to cook,’ Ramita grumped. ‘I’m the one who has been working, not you.’

‘Girl, you don’t want my cooking.’

‘You do nothing here. I cook, I clean, I wash, I dust. You sleep and drink.’

Her mouth twitched in amused bitterness. ‘It’s good that we stick to what we’re best at.’

Ramita stood up so that she could have the rare opportunity to look down on this stuck-up jadugara, who might not be without hope, based on this today’s glimpses of a nicer self, but was still an irritating and pricklish cow. ‘Perhaps I will now look after only myself.’

Justina’s eyes took on a dangerous light. ‘We are not equals, girl.’

Ramita sniffed. ‘No. Apparently we are “diametrically opposed”. You can still do your own cooking.’

*

The pack gathered in the old palace throne room for a cooked dinner Huriya was made to prepare. Many of Zaqri’s pack still walked
naked. Huriya could see the animal inside still reigned over some of them, who tore at the meat with claws and teeth, then mated in the corners. All exuded that primaeval hunger she was beginning to see as the defining mark of a Souldrinker. The constant need to replenish consumed gnosis was beginning to change her too.
It frightened Kazim, but I’m not afraid …

The older ones had more control of their desires however; after eating they gathered about Sabele. There were four such seniors, Zaqri and another male named Perno, and their women, dark-skinned sisters from Lokistan called Ghila and Hessaz. They had a fierce, primal vitality. All wore loose kirtas and nothing else. The two women were jackal-lean and smelled strongly of musk and heat. Neither spoke Rondian, so the conversation switched to Keshi.

‘Join us,’ Sabele told Huriya when she’d served the others. The Lokistani sisters grudgingly made a place for her, possessively stroking their mates’ arms. Their eyes were still amber and black, the eyes of beasts. She glared back defiantly and pushed out her chest, far more bountiful than the skinny bosoms of either beastwoman.

Perno grinned. ‘She has some fire, this Makani girl.’

Hessaz growled something in his ear and as he whispered something back, they were all openly measuring Huriya. Their eyes made her quiver. ‘Did you know my father?’ she asked Zaqri in a bid to conceal the flush building about her neck.

‘I did,’ Zaqri replied. He glanced questioningly at Sabele, who nodded. ‘He rejected our ways. It hurt us all.’

‘After he was burned by the Crusaders he went south to Lakh. My mother was already pregnant.’ Huriya stopped then, deciding all of a sudden to wait and see before revealing Kazim’s existence. She saw Sabele nod appreciatively.

‘So you are twenty-two?’ mused Zaqri, accepting her words at face value. ‘You look younger.’ Then he frowned. ‘You spoke of your father in the past tense. Is he dead, then?’

‘Last year, in Baranasi.’

Zaqri looked surprised. ‘How did you come north then?’

‘I found her,’ Sabele put in, her lie sounding like truth. ‘I brought
her north.’ Clearly some secrets were not for telling, however much respect she might give these others. Her voice made it clear that the subject of Huriya’s past was now closed.

‘What new task do you have for us?’ Perno asked.

Sabele glanced at Huriya. ‘I seek a former companion of Huriya. She too has the gnosis, but she is hiding from us. We need a different set of eyes. Her name is Ramita Ankesharan. Huriya will show her to you, mind to mind. Then we must find her. There is much at stake.’

Huriya presumed that it was Ramita’s unborn children that Sabele wanted. Well, whatever it was, she looked forward to communicating with Zaqri, mind-to-mind, and in other ways …

Zaqri bowed his head. ‘We will find her for you, Seeress.’

‘I have every confidence in you, dearest grandchild,’ Sabele purred, glancing about at the room, settling upon an energetic couple a few yards away. ‘I wish I had the vigour of youth still,’ she cackled lasciviously.

‘You are young where it matters,’ Perno told her.

‘Flatterer,’ Sabele replied dismissively. ‘Go and play, all of you. I need to think.’

She made a disgruntled Huriya clear away the food and plates while the Dokken pack drank and fought and mated on the rugs scattered about the floor. After she’d finished her tasks, Huriya slunk away. She feared the pack when they were in this mood; it was almost as if they were one organism, sharing their minds and bodies, and outsiders were detested. As she returned to her room, she glimpsed Ghila and Zaqri together. The Lokistani woman was skeletal, her ribs clearly visible beneath her black skin, but Zaqri looked lost in her eyes as he tangled his limbs with hers. Huriya stopped, hungering for him as he took one of Ghila’s small but engorged nipples in his mouth; his majestic body was coiled above his woman, his immense prong engorged, and Huriya felt her mouth go dry as she watched. Then he looked up and saw her, and Ghila turned her head too. Zaqri growled, and Huriya fled.

The Dorobon Monarchy

One powerful Rimoni clan in Javon, the Gorgio, refused to be a party to the Javon Settlement, as they wouldn’t intermarry with the Jhafi. They retained voting privileges, but were constitutionally ineligible for the succession. Consequently, despite the hatred most Rimoni harbour for both Rondians and magi, the Gorgio supported the Rondian invasion, and that aid was vital in securing the kingship of Javon for the Dorobon family, kin to Emperor Constant.

The Dorobon reign lasted until after the Second Crusade when, weakened by insurrection and rebellion, they succumbed to the Nesti-led Javonesi. Neither the Dorobon nor the Gorgio have ever recovered.

S
OURCE
: O
RDO
C
OSTRUO
C
OLLEGIATE
, P
ONTUS
.

You do not graft a sick branch onto a healthy tree

P
ROVERBS
, T
HE
K
ALISTHAM

Brochena, Javon, Antiopia
Shaban (Augeite) 928
2
^nd
month of the Moontide

Gurvon Gyle stole into the tiny whitewashed cell and sat beside the bed. Mercifully, the sole occupant, a thin shape with fire-blackened skin, was asleep. There was almost no flesh on the face of the burn victim at all, and the entire front of the body was charred, but the gnosis – and sheer bloody-minded tenacity – had kept the victim clinging to life.

Gyle whispered into her mind – he thought of Coin as
‘she’, though ‘she’ had no fixed gender. Her given name seemed to calm her, to remind her who she used to be, though her body stank of burned meat and bodily waste and the bedclothes were wet and soiled around her buttocks. He stared – it was hard not to – at the flaccid penis lying sideways, with no scrotum beneath but a vagina instead. The physical abomination fascinated him in a queasy kind of way.

Her body didn’t stir, but Coin’s mind woke.

Her mental voice was high, sexless – and pained.

It was cruel to keep the burned shapeshifter alive, but he didn’t care, nor did he care whether she was suffering or not, unless it impaired her recovery. Coin was an asset, and when he’d discovered that she was still clinging to life he’d contrived to save her. In truth, though, it was Coin’s own tenacity that had preserved her; Gyle had mostly just hidden her away while he tended her, then, once she was out of immediate danger, buried another in her place. Coin had been caught in a fire-blast – Gyle still didn’t know why; she must have moved in the wrong direction when Inquisitor Targon had attacked Elena. He couldn’t work out how Elena had killed Targon, either – but he’d taken credit for it when reporting to Mater-Imperia Lucia, Coin’s mother.

he told her, truthfully. The clean flesh at the edges of the burns was fighting a slow war of attrition against the burned tissue. Any normal person would be dead, and most magi too, but whatever else she was, Coin was a pure-blood magi with power to burn.

she asked. Her eyes had been burned away.

he lied, eyeing the clawed appendage, its shiny pink scar tissue stretched across the tendons and bones like canvas over a tent-frame.

she protested.

he told her, appealing to her determined side. The Imperial line could never admit such a taint as
hers, so she’d been hidden from public view all her life, treated as a monster. Her mother had declared her a still-born, so her name had not been entered into the records – but she’d grown, and become a player nevertheless. That was down to her willpower.

she replied morosely.

He touched her hand and sent her empathy. He really did admire her courage in going on. That she’d risen above her state to become the most feared shapeshifter in the underworld of the magi was to her immense credit. She was a strange thing: a malformed personality with an utterly malleable body, like a child in many ways.
An abused child
.

she asked.

he lied. In fact, he’d told Lucia that her child was dead, and the Living Saint had not been displeased. He peeled a banana from the bowl beside her bed. Coin protested she was not hungry, but she let him feed it to her through the remnants of her lips. He gave her sips of water afterwards, slowly and patiently. One didn’t waste an asset like Coin, someone who could turn herself into anyone, and maintain the disguise under duress that would break most magi. He’d gone to some lengths to conceal the fact that she still lived, even from his own team.

Not that I’ve much of a team left right now
. Sindon’s attack had cost him three: Drumm and Nevis were dead, and Elena had vanished. Rutt Sordell had come scuttling back to him and the scarab was currently in his pocket, trying to persuade him to let him have Coin’s body once it was healed. Mara was unharmed, and he’d summoned others from their assignments in Hebusalim to replace Nevis and Drumm, but their position felt precarious. The thought of Elena, alive and in control of her own body again, made him more nervous than he had been for months. His resources here were spread dangerously thin, and at such a crucial time. Tomorrow, the Nesti marched north.

<
What is the matter?>
Coin asked, surprising him with her perception.

he lied. <
You must try more shifting, using all of your body.
Shapeshifting is only one step away from healing. You must alter your flesh to prevent the scar tissue from becoming permanent.>

she groaned.

he told her, instilling certainty into his voice.

he added. He fished out a jar of liquid in which floated two human eyes, trailing white tissue. They looked like the thin tentacles of the freshwater jellyfish found up in Lantris. He hooked one out and slowly fed it into her eye socket.

Coin’s mouth fell open and a gurgle emerged from around her blackened stump of tongue.

He put the other in place and could immediately feel her gnosis working the connections of the eyes, fitting them to her own burned-out sockets. It wasn’t going to be easy, and it would take days, but if she got it right, it would be a giant step towards her rehabilitation.

she sent fervently.

She didn’t ask where the eyes had come from.

He touched her hand, the half-healed one.

he promised, and she flooded him with gratitude, with
worship
.

he whispered, squeezing her hand gently. She twisted her blackened, peeling lips into a semblance of a smile, then sank into a trance, already engrossed with assimilating the new eyes. Mara was even now devouring the beggar-girl who had donated them; after all, waste not, want not. There was never any shortage of beggars.

He busied himself with cleaning Coin’s tortured body, applying what little healing-gnosis he had. For the hundredth time he missed Elena, who would have had Coin halfway to recovery by now.

Afterwards, he climbed the stairs and, after checking for silence, pulled a catch and slid open an opening into a cobwebby cellar filled with debris. Another stair took him into the web of tiny passages that riddled Brochena Palace. It was late evening and the upper levels were quiet. Finally he wriggled into the secret space adjoining Cera’s room.

A grey shape huddled beside a small candle turned to face him as
he approached. The watcher was a bony woman with an enormous nose pierced by a large gold ring that hung down to her upper lip. Her grey-black hair was pulled away from her face. Her name was Hesta Mafagliou; she was a Lantric quarter-blood about fifty years old. He didn’t know if he could fully trust her, even though he’d known her for a decade or more, but she’d been posing credibly as a Rimoni in the city since she’d arrived a few weeks ago, and her primarily Sorcery-based affinities were useful.

‘How is our princessa?’ he whispered in Hesta’s ear. She smelled stale and bookish, as if she spent most of her time in abandoned libraries.

‘Writing at her desk,’ Hesta whispered back. Her breath was laced with coffee and tobacco. Her big eyes loomed like moons in the dim hidey-hole. ‘She’s a homely thing,’ she added cattily. Hesta’s desire for other women was the weakness that had driven her from society and into Gyle’s circle of agents. She might have been attractive when she was younger, but these days her sagging breasts and paunch meant she’d have to use her strong Mesmerism affinity if she wanted to seduce anyone.

‘Fancy her, do you?’ he asked.

Hesta shrugged. ‘There are prettier women here.’

‘You’re here undercover,’ he reminded her. ‘You will touch no one until I allow it.’

‘There will never be anyone for me again,’ Hesta said softly, her eyes briefly distant. Her safian lover had reneged on their relationship when it became public and had somehow managed to escape the total ruin that had enveloped Hesta’s family, all because of her ‘unnatural’ desires.
There is only ever one true love in anyone’s lives
, she’d told him once.
All the others dwell in its shadow
. It had made him think uncomfortably of Elena.

He nudged Hesta aside and stared into the room. Cera was visible in profile, her long, serious face mostly hidden behind her curtain of black hair. She wore a heavy velvet robe over her nightgown and was signing sheet after sheet of paper, all minor orders and authorisations. The bureaucrats had overloaded her with last-minute matters.

‘Has she had any visitors?’ he asked.

Hesta shook her head. ‘Only the little maid.’

‘Tarita? What do you make of her?’

‘Observant. Spirited. Loyal to Cera.’

‘Is she an informant?’

‘Possibly. She has the nerve for it, I deem.’ Hesta glanced sideways at him. ‘Would you like me to find out?’ Her tone suggested exactly how she’d ‘investigate’ Tarita.

He shook his head. ‘She will go north with Cera and you will not. I want you here to secure Timori. You’ll have Mathieu Fillon with you.’

Hesta sniffed. ‘Fillon is just a boy.’

‘He is a Fire-mage of some talent.’

‘He refuses to take orders from women.’

‘He will do as I tell him, and I will tell him that you are in charge.’

‘What about Sordell?’

Gyle’s mouth twitched. ‘Without a body he is useless for now.’

‘Put him into Fillon’s body.’

‘Rutt let me down. He does not deserve another chance so swiftly. And you would find him even less biddable than Fillon.’ He patted the woman’s shoulder. ‘I’m relying on you and Fillon to secure Timori. Do not fail me.’ He could feel Sordell’s anger at his words but didn’t care.
Learn, Rutt
.

Hesta’s yellowed teeth glinted between parted lips. ‘I’ll do my part, boss.’

He stared through the spy-hole and decided Cera needed a little reminder of who controlled her. He touched a latch, opened the panel and slipped into the room, masking the noise with gnosis. He was within a few feet of Cera when she looked up abruptly and almost screamed.

‘Hush, Princessa,’ he told her. ‘It is only me.’

‘Wh-what do you want?’ Her eyes flew about the room, then came back to him.

He reached down and caught her chin, watching how she flinched at the contact.
They say she is passionless, but I don’t believe that. They just mistake her passions: her drives are led by the mind. As are mine
. He was
surprised to realise that she stirred him, but he shook off that urge. Francis Dorobon would expect her to be a virgin. But he did wonder if one day she might, despite everything, become a true ally. He liked her rational manner; he saw elements of himself in her.

‘Cera, during the march my people will be near you at all times. Nothing you do will be unknown to me.’ It wasn’t quite true, thanks to the loss of Elena, but he needed her to be afraid.

She looked away. ‘You’ve told me this.’

‘Breathe a word of doubt to anyone and I will have their throats cut. Then the Dorobon forces will be unleashed upon your people, and your family and all their retainers will simply cease to exist.’

She swallowed visibly.

‘You must exude confidence at all times. You must project
belief
that your forces will crush the Dorobon.’

She nodded mutely.

‘And remember: my people here will have Timori at their mercy.’

‘I know,’ she whispered.

He seized her shoulders, his hands gentle, and pulled her upright, tilted his head and made her meet his eyes. Again, he was surprised by the urge to have her – then he realised why:
she is the closest thing to Elena I have
. The thought quelled his latent desire.

‘Cera,’ he said, ‘I …’ For a moment he lost track of what he’d meant to say, then recalled himself. ‘Cera, you remember our earlier conversation? I have suggested to Francis Dorobon that he keep you as a hostage. He is young and lusty and I will urge him to bed you, to show himself your master. You could gain a mage-child and introduce the gnosis into your family, if you are willing.’

Her eyes filled, but he could feel the desire for power warring with revulsion, not just at the thought of Francis Dorobon, but also at the idea of doing something that he, Gurvon Gyle, wanted her to do. He watched dispassionately as a tear rolled down her cheek.