Moontide 02 - The Scarlet Tides (54 page)

‘Then what do you suggest?’

‘We take the lamiae to Javon, then you and I take
Seeker
to Hebusalim. Once we’re closer, it will be easier to find her. I’ve got some ideas.’

‘You always do,’ she said fondly. ‘You’re nothing if not tenacious.’ She turned aside, as if complimenting him made her uncomfortable. She jabbed a thumb towards the human crewmen. Four of them were sleeping fitfully, but the other two were talking to a small cluster of lamiae, demonstrating knot-tying techniques. The men were so petrified of their captors that they obeyed all commands instantly with glassy-eyed obedience. ‘What’s going to happen to them?’

Alaron shrugged uncomfortably. ‘I don’t know. They want to go home, obviously. But I don’t think we could survive a storm without their experience, so we have to keep them with us for now.’ He gestured at Mesuda and Reku, huddled beneath the masts, watching the humans with glinting eyes. ‘Ask them.’

‘I did earlier,’ Cym replied. ‘The Elders won’t risk news of their existence getting out. ‘ She shuddered. ‘I think they mean to kill them once we reach safety.’

Probably
. Alaron felt helpless. ‘I suppose you can’t blame them. The lamiae had human souls grafted into specially grown lizard bodies:
they were created to be slaves. They were penned up and bred like animals; they were experimented on. They are what the Pallas magi made them.’

‘I know.’ Cym dropped her voice. ‘I understand all that – I’m Rimoni, I know what it is like to be an outcast. But these sailors are just men who were in the wrong place. They’re not even in the Inquisition. They’re just windshipmen whose ship got requisitioned.’

‘My Da says the Inquisition only uses fanatics.’

‘For soldiers, maybe – but look at them: they’re petrified, but when they talk about sailing the skies, their eyes light up, just like yours did. If they’re fanatical about anything, it’s flying.’

Alaron swallowed, watching the animated expression on the face of the sailor speaking to the listening lamiae. ‘I suppose. It’s not my decision.’

‘But you have influence.’

He exhaled. ‘All right, I’ll talk to Mesuda.’

Cym rubbed at the ridged lines on her brow. ‘Thank you.’ She forced a smile. ‘You’re more like a man every day. It’s unnerving.’

Alaron grinned. ‘Just don’t tell me I’m like my Da.’

‘Your father is a good man,’ Cym said seriously. ‘Where is he, do you think?’

‘Somewhere in Dhassa? Safe, I hope. Da’s pretty smart.’

‘He and Papa were such good friends,’ Cym said sadly. Her eyes misted over and she turned away, wordlessly.

Alaron knew to let her go.

*

Malevorn knelt with what was left of his fellow Acolytes. They were just five now: Dranid, Raine, Virgina, Dominic and himself. Commandant Vordan knelt a few paces before them as Adamus lit the pyre to burn the gnawed remains of Brother Filius, Boron Funt and the windship pilot-mage.

All of them had been slaughtered and half-eaten. The windship was gone, including the crew – live meat for these beasts, no doubt. There were five dead venators, leaving only four. All of their personal possessions were gone.

Their collective fury hung about the glade like a red mist.

‘Father Kore, take the souls of these your servants,’ Adamus Crozier prayed. ‘Forgive them their failing, and accept them in your service in the hereafter. This we pray.’

‘Forgive them their failing,’ they echoed. Any Inquisitor who died at the hands of the enemy –
any
enemy – was deemed a failure.

Fuck that.
Malevorn glared sourly at the pyre.
They lost our windship! I hope demons bugger them for eternity in Hel.

This defeat was an outrage not known to the Order since the Noros Revolt. They all felt it, the shame. He glanced sideways at Dranid’s stony face, at Virgina’s shocked pallor, at Dominic’s disbelief and Raine’s simmering fury. He related most closely to her reaction, he noted. Beneath their utterly different exteriors, he was coming to realise that they were the most alike here. They were both driven, and neither cared who or what perished, so long as they got their way. She had no airs and graces, just earthy, animal desires. They’d screwed again whilst on patrol, and he believed she might be coming round to Adamus’ faction.

He glowered at Vordan’s sickly grey face. The disgrace lay heaviest on the Commandant himself, something Adamus Crozier had not been slow to emphasise. It was Vordan who’d ordered them to widen the search, leaving their windship so weakly guarded.

We knew from that creature we tortured that there were more than forty adult snake-men, all with gnostic powers and some intellect. They’ve eluded the Inquisition for twenty years or more, yet you treated them like mindless savages. You’re a fool, Vordan. What happened was your fault.

The funeral rite ended with the bloodied bones of the three dead magi ablaze. Adamus Crozier swung around to face them and thrust a stiff finger at Commandant Vordan. ‘By the power vested in me by the Church of Kore, I name you, Lanfyr Vordan, unfit for command. You have lost four of your Fist, and two auxiliary magi. You have failed in the mission set you by the Holy Church. I arrest you in the name of Corineus, and bind you over to the Courts of Piety in Pallas.’

Vordan’s already ashen face drained of all remaining colour. The Courts of Piety had the power to utterly destroy a family, even
if one person had transgressed, and they rarely showed clemency. The Vordan family would be utterly impoverished and forever dishonoured. Malevorn found his own gut tightening: not from sympathy, but in remembrance that this fate had almost been his own. When his father, Jaes Andevarion, was disgraced in the Noros Revolt, only his suicide had prevented the Courts from taking such retribution on the family.

‘My lord Crozier,’ Vordan croaked, ‘this command was yours, not mine.’ A hush filled the glade, as if even the rushing waters below had faded into silence.

Adamus gripped his crozier and lifted his head contemptuously. ‘We’ve all heard you claim eminence over me in the field, Commandant. Mine the guidance, yours the command: you’ve said so in hearing of us all. You cannot hide behind another, and it shames you to try.’

Vordan looked about him: at Elath Dranid, his friend and champion for twenty years. Dranid showed no emotion. His eyes went to his lover Raine, who slowly and deliberately stroked Malevorn’s arm. Any hope the Commandant still might have harboured winked out.

Adamus spoke again. ‘Lanfyr Vordan, I discharge you from command, and appoint Elath Dranid in your place.’

Malevorn hid his disappointment. Dranid was always going to be appointed; he had the seniority. Any other outcome was unrealistic.
My time will come …

Vordan’s eyes glassed over as Adamus ripped the badge of command from his tunic and handed it to Dranid.

The new Commandant kissed the Crozier’s ring, then growled, ‘Fist, to me,’ as he came to his feet. He lifted his fist to his breast, and thumped it once. ‘Farewell your former Commandant.’

The Acolytes made the salute as Vordan drew his sword, kissed the hilt, then held it out for Dranid. The former Second took the Commandant’s blade, kissed it also, and replaced his own blade, which he sent spinning over the edge of the cliffs into the maelstrom below.

As Vordan drew his personal dagger, his family blade, Adamus Crozier stretched out his hand for the weapon. Malevorn held his breath. This was Vordan’s last chance to redeem himself – to save his family from the powers of the Courts by taking the same path as Jaes Andevarion.

Death or dishonour.

Vordan reversed the blade and rammed it into his own heart.

Raine sucked in her breath, her eyes eager as her lover swayed, blood blooming around the blade’s hilt. Dominic gasped girlishly. Virgina and Dranid remained stony-faced. So did Malevorn, though the moment had been oddly chilling.

This is how powerful men lose.

Adamus Crozier smiled as the iron-faced Commandant crumpled at his feet. He bent and made a gesture that only a mage would recognise, burning away Vordan’s soul so that there was nothing left to pass on to Kore’s hands. There would be neither Paradise nor Hel for Lanfyr Vordan.

Then he looked up and met Dranid’s cold eyes. ‘Commandant Dranid, ready your Fist. We have heretics to hunt.’

Safia

Safia was a poetess of the ancient world during the reign of Fustius II, the 7th Rimoni Emperor. She was renowned for her beauty and her talent, and was the first woman to be appointed as Poeta di Laurelae to the Imperial Court. However, her residence there ended in scandal when she was found in the bed of the empress. The term ‘safian’ has been applied ever since to women who desire other women. Though Safia was banished, it is said that the empress visited her often in her luxurious ‘prison’, a villa near Taphe, only ten miles from the Summer Court in Pallas.

A
NNALS OF
P
ALLAS

Brochena, Javon, Antiopia
Zulqeda (Noveleve) to Zulhijja (Decore) 928
5
^th
and 6
^th
months of the Moontide

Gurvon Gyle waited in the bell tower of the Sollan chapel that overlooked Piazza Giannini, the place where the Dorobon made their public pronouncements. The piazza had been the city’s olive oil market, but now it was hung with blue and white Dorobon flags and pennants. Soldiers paraded in formation before the steps of the chapel, keeping away any but those Dorobon and Gorgio adherents invited for the occasion. Trumpeters and drummers were standing at attention, awaiting the signal to proclaim the coronation of the king.

Gyle glanced at Hesta Mafagliou, who was gazing down at the piazza, her eyes unfocused, her lips moving constantly, in communion with a dozen or so spirits stationed about the surrounding buildings.
She’d spent all night conjuring daemons and placing them into the bodies of birds to be her eyes and ears.

So far, nothing untoward had happened. The Jhafi were simply ignoring the ceremony, not rioting, as Octa Dorobon had feared.

Gyle went back inside the chapel, to the little balcony overlooking the inner sanctum. Bronze Sol et Lune faces still gazed out from the walls, but the Sacred Heart of the Kore had been placed upon the altar and a Kore Crozier now presided over the chapel. The man had been sent by Pallas to convert the Javonesi to the Kore.
Good luck with that
, he thought drily. Others had tried before him; they had all failed utterly.

‘By the holy power of Corineus, who intercedes on our behalf with almighty Kore, I invoke the Sacred Heart,’ cried the Crozier, whose chosen name was Eternalus. ‘I call upon the Blessed Three Hundred to witness this great moment. I convey the sanction and approval of Emperor Constant Sacrecour and his Sainted Mother to this coronation.’

His words echoed about the small chapel. Gyle could see Octa Dorobon, her face displaying every feeling as she watched, torn between distaste at the humble setting and grim satisfaction at the importance of the moment. This was her triumph: the coronation of her son to replace the husband she’d lost on the throne her family had won and lost and won again. Of course, it was also the moment when legally she gave up control of her son, and her conflicted feelings were also writ large across her visage.

Poor bastard, to have to call her ‘Mother’
, Gyle thought, turning his attention to the son.

Francis Dorobon was clad all in gold, gold thread embroidered onto gold silk, with only a blue and white quartered shield on his breast interrupting the radiance of his garb. His hair was immaculate, his face composed and filled with pride. His sword glowed with gnosis-light. In the darkened chapel, he shone like one of Kore’s own Angels.

‘Behold, the symbol of royal supremacy in this kingdom,’ Eternalus Crozier intoned, displaying the Javon crown. He then swept into a recitation of Francis’ lineage. Gyle ignored Olivia Dorobon’s
discreet wave and focused on Cera Nesti instead. Something in the girl’s demeanour had been troubling him these past few days. There was a lightness in her step that had not been there since her father the king was murdered.

Her skin looks healthier. Her eyes have a new radiance. She treads lightly where before she trudged.

There was no news from the outside world that might have lifted the girl’s spirits. So he was left with one thing.
Fool
, he told himself scornfully as he studied the way her lips were parted in a secret smile.

Fool is too mild a description for what I am.

She had let him kiss her.

*

He hadn’t meant any such thing to occur. He had meant only to brief her about the coronation and the ceremony that would follow. ‘They will use your presence to show their power over you,’ he warned. ‘Do not be provoked, no matter what they do or say. It’s not worth it.’

‘I’m not stupid, Magister,’ she’d reminded him, flashing a faint smile that confused him. He’d been puzzled why she was so cheery about all this.

‘Cera, this is important. Octa wants you dead. She does not want Francis to proceed with his marriage to you or Portia Tolidi. She’s afraid she’s losing control of her son, and she will lash out at you.’

‘You’ll look after me,’ she’d said, cocking her head just so, in the way that showed her to best advantage. Had she been practising in a mirror? Somehow it had made his throat catch. ‘I know you will.’

He’d not often been truly lonely in his life. Normally he dealt with solitude easily, but very occasionally, it bit him hard. The first time that had happened had been during the Noros Revolt, in the months before the massacre at Knebb. That loneliness had been born of the war and the loss of his lover, a period of utter desolation that had ended the night Elena Anborn had come to his tent.

His second period of aching emptiness – that was right now.

He liked to portray himself as a man who walked alone, a man who needed no one else – but that wasn’t true, and he wasn’t one to lie to himself. He needed someone, not so much to bed – though that
was certainly part of it – but to talk to. That had been Elena’s magic, the thing that bound them so close together. Sex was like eating, he did it because at times he needed to, but it was that meeting of minds he really craved.

And right now, the only person with the wit, intelligence and perception he needed was this young woman, Elena’s protégé. The irony was part of the allure, he was sure of it, but that didn’t make it less real. Only a fool did not acknowledge his own needs and desires.

His manipulations meant Cera still mistrusted him, but over recent week he thought the barriers had been coming down, as much on her side as his. She was drawn to him, by their kindred souls, he knew it – and he wanted her. If that meant betraying Francis Dorobon, he would do it: to protect her, and bind her to him. He could feel his body beginning to yearn for hers. It didn’t matter that she was not as beautiful as Vedya or Portia; her mind was the stairway to her soul.

‘I will look after you,’ he’d promised her. ‘We are both under threat here. We need each other.’

She’d shivered when she met his eyes. Had that been fear, or the acknowledgment of desire?

‘Magister—’

Her voice had brought him back in the room. ‘Call me Gurvon, Cera.’

She’d smiled shyly and slowly flicked a tress of hair from her face in a motion so graceful it froze him. ‘Why do you risk yourself to protect me?’ she’d asked – and that she spoke of state affairs and not of passion only enflamed him further. She was truly a woman with a heart and mind like his own.

‘One must always keep options open,’ he’d told her seriously.

‘So I am just a long-odds bet, in case the leading horse falls?’

‘No. I find the Dorobon repulsive,’ he had said, his voice a whisper that would not carry to where Hesta might be watching. ‘It is only politics that has me aiding them at all. There are far worthier causes.’

She’d taken his cue. ‘Alliances can change,’ she’d breathed. ‘Gurvon.’

He’d thrilled at the sound of his name on her lips, and it had
encouraged him to continue, ‘How can I go back to Yuros after this? The emperor does not welcome those he owes. Far better if I had a sanctuary here.’

She’d stared up at him, so close to him he could smell the flowery, musky scent of her body. ‘Would you truly betray the Dorobon? For me?’

I could betray anyone, but the reasons would always be dictated by logic.
‘For you, perhaps.’ He’d reached out, caught her chin, tilted her face upwards, and covered her mouth with his.

Her lips were achingly sweet, and she hadn’t pulled away. Only iron discipline and the nagging suspicion that Hesta might be watching had kept him from more – that, and the fact that she still must go to Francis’ bed as a virgin.

*

‘All is well,’ Hesta whispered in his ear, bringing him back to the coronation. He hid his surprise that she’d got so close to him without his knowledge.

She is dangerous in her own way. I should be more wary of her
.

He lifted a hand in acknowledgement. Mara and Sordell were with Endus Rykjard, laying plans. Hesta was his only experienced back-up here in Brochena. Young Mathieu Fillon was strong, but he was young and as yet unblooded, and Madeline Parlow was useless in a fight. He had to rely on Hesta more than he liked, but so far she’d risen well to the task. She shouldn’t be here, though, and she shouldn’t be speaking aloud. Gyle thought she looked tired from the constant drain on her gnosis caused by so many active spirit-bindings – but that’s what he was paying her to do.

He answered her mentally, letting his irritation show,

Hesta sniffed. <
The only threats are already inside
.> She indicated Octa and her faction.

The Lantrian pulled a sly face.

<
She was Queen-Regent, child or no. She is intelligent, and values intelligence in other people. She’s waking up, becoming a woman. I wonder if Francis will appreciate her?>

Gyle scowled.

Hesta winked impudently.

she smirked and sashayed away.

As Gyle silently fumed, his eyes went back to Cera. It certainly rankled to see the girl wed to another, but marriages weren’t for ever, whatever the vows said. And he still had several cards to play, including Timori, whose whereabouts he’d been careful to keep from anyone else in his team.

Francis was now kneeling before Eternalus Crozier, who was raising the crown over his head. ‘Francis Louis Dorobon, rightful Marquis of Sendon and Verussy, by the power vested in me, I crown you King of Javon.’ He lowered the crown, newly remade to fit snugly, onto the head of the young man.

Nineteen. That’s ludicrously young for such a delicate role.

Francis was the same age as Cera, of course – but she had been twice the ruler Dorobon would ever be. His eyes strayed back to her: standing alone at the end of the third pew, isolated, vulnerable, her eyes glassing over. She would be remembering her father and mother, thinking of her sister and brother. He found himself wanting to shield her from this, for nothing more than the gratitude in her eyes.

If the Dorobon turn on me, I could raise this whole land against them, if it was in her name.

He watched only her as those present cheered their new king, then filed forward to kiss his ring. They made her do it too, in her plain violet dress that made her look more like a servant than a princess. They hadn’t let her wear her coronet, nor any jewellery; nothing but a bridal veil. Portia Tolidi was similarly attired. They awaited the second ceremony to come; the wedding, which would be conducted in private because of Octa’s fury that it was to happen at all.

Now the moment was come, he wasn’t truly sure he wanted it either.

Only a fool did not acknowledge his own desires.

*

It was raining …

Travellers had told her it rained all the time in Yuros, but Cera had only ever lived in Javon, where it rained just twice a year, in Noveleve and Febreux: once going into winter and again coming out. At those times torrential downpours filled the lakes and flooded the plains. The Keshi called it the Yagmur; in Lakh it was the Monsoon.

Traditionally, the Yagmur was a cause of celebration. Even under Dorobon occupation and after the loss of so many men, those celebrations went ahead.

She could hear the drums pulsing through the city where the Jhafi thronged, white-clad men in some of the squares, brightly clad women in others. It was one of only two festivals where the women could shed their bekira-shrouds in public, and only then as long as no men were present. She remembered her mother taking her and Solinde dancing some years, whenever duty permitted. Those had been some of the happiest times of her life.

This year, she could only listen from her darkened room and yearn.

She stifled a yawn and stared down at the rain-lashed city, wishing she could take Portia and dance with her amidst all the other women. She had risen at dawn to pray in the little masjid attached to the palace, the same one her mother used to take them to, to pray to Ahm. The palace was silent, in contrast to the streets outside.
The dreary Rondians cannot compete with our vitality
, she thought with a smile.

There would be no official duties until evening; there was nowhere she needed to be. She missed the meetings, the intense discussions that shaped the kingdom. Now she was nothing, just a bargaining chip – or a broodmare. She pulled her left hand from under the covers and stared at the heavy, uncomfortable ring on her left hand. The Dorobon crest marked her as Francis’ possession. Immediately after the Dorobon’s coronation, she and Portia had been taken to a small Sollan chapel where drui Prato had married them both to Francis under the Javon protocols. She’d pretended in her mind that she was marrying Portia instead.

Then Francis had taken them both to his suite, and while Portia
watched, he had taken her maidenhood. Portia’s presence had made it bearable, despite the pain and humiliation of being made to kneel and be taken from behind like a cow. But at least she hadn’t had to look at him, his repulsive face and pallid, fleshy skin. It had hurt, but not so much, and he’d apparently mistaken her grunts of discomfort for pleasure. He’d been pleased with her bloodied loins and had taken the stained sheet to the door to show those waiting. Then he’d banished her, so that he could have his way with Portia. There’d be no bloodied sheets there.